#hope street bbc

[bodhrancomedy]

Guess who's on TV!

(Well, iPlayer until the 15th, that's when it airs on BBC One)

Hope Street episode 3.11, let's go!

First of all, I'd say they did me dirty with this picture, but my university ID was exponentially worse.

Onto the spoilers!

Our boy Matthew has arrived in Port Devine, looking a little concerned.

For good reason when he's suddenly confronted by this lad, Dara.

Ah, a fight which Matthew escapes by slipping out of his coat. (Pretty sure this is the take where we ripped it practically in two...)

Dara's questioned, he claims he's never met Matthew in his life. Hmm.

Police do some investigating (and some character stuff) before Dara makes his way to Matthew's mother (Louise)'s house to have a wee showdown.

They both in a gang and Matthew's stolen a gun. Dara needs to get it back...

Matthew's nay having it. "This is my way out. If they want the gun back, they have to let me go."

Another fight. The gun goes off! (Poor Pete and I were convinced after take one to put some padding on. My arm looks bulky because I'm strapped up with squishy stuff and allergic to plasters so it has to be in a sock)

Thank fuck no one was hurt. Dara gets the hell out of dodge -

Leaving Matthew to contemplate his mortality. And other people's, but mostly his own.

"Oh fuck, my bosses are gonna find me and murder me, oh shit. I'm far too young and pretty to die!"

Time for Matthew and Louise to follow Dara's example and get the fuck out of here.

The police are now on the Halbridges' trail, but they discover the phone tracking them and leave it in a field.

Meanwhile, Dara's been arrested for drug dealing. He refuses to talk, clearly nervous.

Ah, what's this on Dara's phone? So Matthew and Dara have been in a relationship for over a year now.

(The poor intimacy coordinator having to walk me through my just about second kiss in my entire life. And the third. And the fourth. And the fifth... Pete is a very sweet person. Made it all funny.) ("Relax your hand, Bodh. Just relax it. Open - open your fingers, just let me position your hand.")

They're both working for the same gang. Matthew was given the gun to hold onto by their bosses' and freaked out, running away with the weapon. His plan was to trade his freedom for the gun, but Dara was sent to get it back for the Brazier Brothers, notorious drug runners and gang leaders.

These guys.

Unfortunately, now Dara's had to tell the Brazier Brothers that Matthew is refusing. They're going to kill Matthew and then Dara. Oh no.

But Dara has an idea where they might be hiding.

At the caravan there's a standoff between the police and Halbridges. But when the Braizer Brothers are arrested, they're convinced to come out.

(Side note, my favourite picture of me, ever.)

Oh no, the Halbridges are going to jail and Matthew's regretting his life choices.

Matthew walked off to his new life inside a jail cell.

The end.

(This is where Niall Wright accidently sublexed my shoulder. To be fair to the man, I'd never mentioned it and he took his finger sliding in-between bone like a champ)

Look, it's me!! I was on TV! Bit sad they cut pretty much all the uses of SSE (weren't allowed BSL because we still had to speak the lines), but I got to be queer and Deaf so that's pretty nice.

[nothingofpracticalgardening]

20 Versions of Sherlock Holmes Ranked from Most to Least Likely to Set a Building on Fire in a Fit of Rage

[duchessofostergotlands]

As you may know I have been trying to work my way through every British crime show ever made but, running out of options, I decided to watch a police drama called Hope Street. Turns out it is possibly the worst TV show I've ever seen. It's essentially a soap opera where some of the characters happen to wear police uniforms. To illustrate, this is the synopsis for two episodes in the most recent season:

I know the synopsis isn't always accurate to the show blah blah blah but every single episode the characters find out some kind of insane secret from someone else which is then instantly forgotten to make room for the new insane secret they've found out.

[viir-tanadhal]

why did i have to like the music duo composed of two romantics

[lopsidedtreetrunks]

In light of series 5 finally airing, I thought I'd finally share something I've been meaning to since uhhh *checks watch* about a year ago

It's my Ghosts OC! Warning for very rough pen sketches lol

I named her Mhairi (pronounced varry) after my late auntie. I'll put her story under the cut.

I made her because I wanted a character who has the culture and roots of my homeplace, and I've always loved the kingdom of Northumbria; how we had our own identity and language seperate from rest of the UK before the Romans invaded. I was struck with inspiration last night to revive her and do a couple of doodles because of that one promo image of Robin sitting under a tree looking sad 😭.

Mhairi is a Northumbrian Celt who was captured by the Romans after they invaded her village during the time they came up north to build Hadrian's Wall (so around the 110s-20s AD). They took her down south, but she managed to escape. While trying to fend for herself in the woods, she ate some poison berries and died. She stayed with her body for about a week before finally deciding to venture further into her environment. There she bumped into Robin, who didn't have a great grasp on English yet, since there wasn't any permanent settlement on the land yet. He taught her about being a ghost while she taught him northumbrian English. They both had to learn old, middle, and modern English from new villages and eventually the occupants of Button House together. They're good friends and talk philosophy when they get a chance. NOT romantic though!!! Just wanna make that clear lol. I also like to think she'd be nicer than the other ghosts to Humphrey (which I think is a common throughline between literally everyone's oc's in this fandom bdbdj).

[my-past-disgusts-me]

Brother I love Detective Yaoi

[talesofascottishspoonie]

Chapters: 7/? Fandom: Hope Street (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Rape/Non-Con Relationships: Finn O’Hare/Leila Hussain Characters: Leila Hussain, Finn O’Hare, Marlene Pettigrew, calum McCarthy, Shay O’Hare, Niamh O’Hare, Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character(s) Summary:

A year after she left Port Devine Leila needs Finn’s help protecting a witness.

[galerymod]

Well, who doesn't believe Sir Richard Attenborough, we certainly do.

mod

Sir Richard Attenborough is a multi-award-winning producer, director and actor who has appeared in over 70 films during his career. His directorial work on Gandhi, for which he was awarded two Oscars, is particularly noteworthy. In addition, his work on the maga morons of america is highly regarded in professional circles.

As the slogan has already been used by Ronald R., as always the orange hair guy didn't come up with anything of his own.

In historical perspective, the slogan will raise a certain irony because it and everything associated with it as a measure to divide society in America will make China great.

Kind of like pissing against the wind in the end it goes in your pants.

mod

Let's all keep our fingers crossed that common sense prevails over stupidity if not good night Marie.

Well, the rich don't care in the end, the main thing is not to pay any more taxes. What would also be cool would be to privatize the whole state. Only state services in exchange for coins.

Fucking Monopoly I'm buying the environmental agency, the supreme court and the judiciary.... all normal citizens go to jail or pay for the freedom to be left alone.

Well, then you are once again protecting values that never really were values. A mixture of pure capitalism paired with a god state, of course, for the good people. The rest will just have to deal with it. Why don't you go to Mexico, you woke philanthropists with your overrated science?

2:31 YouTube video. Hysterically sharp whit.

[alessiathepirate]

Sherlock (BBC)

CROWN JEWELS: Jim Moriarty x fem!reader

Summary: Be careful what you say - especially around a man like Jim Moriarty.

Notes: English isn't my first language. I apologize for any mistake I may have made while I wrote this short story.

I have been working on this since summer and now that it's finally done I think I'm ready to share it with you guys. I really enjoyed writing it and I hope you'll enjoy reading it.

Also a silent thank you for my friend who told me to keep going even after writer's block hit me hard. <3

Warnings: swearing

•••

Jim Moriarty likes to leave a lasting impression.

That was her first thought about him ever since she first met him - ever since she first heard him talk and saw his body language. The man talks with his whole body - especially when he's in an angry or mischievious mood -, expresses himself with his arms' and shoulders' movements and with his many different gestures. The words he uses and the way he builds up sentence after sentence makes one to stop and listen. And he can make all of that look elegant and strangely enough, gentleman-like.

No matter what he does or talks about, how many times you have already met him, he's someone who you can never get fully used to and that alone always burries that lasting impression. It causes many different feelings and thoughts about the man, making the brain work and think about him and his every little gesture and word long after he's left.

But how long can that impression last?

Long enough for her to remember their first meeting weeks after it had occurred. Long enough for her to build up a whole complicated characterization and profile of him. Long enough for her to be able to quote his words exactly as he had said them.

As she sat in her own armchair in 221B Baker Street, watching the news on the telly about Jim Moriarty himself; the remains of that well known charm of his being slowly built up the memories of their first meeting.

She was in the exact same position, sitting in her own armchair - what Sherlock and John thought she finally deserved, so she won't have to sit on the chouch or on the 'chair of shame' (as she liked to call that) when they have a case to solve -; but instead of watching the telly, she was reading, falling head first into the world of the book, enjoying the peace and quiet which occurred pretty rarely in 221B. But despite the fact that she was way too interested in whatever she was reading, she still noticed the noise of a door opening downstairs, followed by the noise of someone coming up the stairs.

She looked up from the book, picking up her bookmark as she listened to the quiet tapping as someone's shoes met with the steps. She has spent enough time in 221B to be able to differ everyone's steps: Sherlock's, John's, Mrs. Hudson's, even Lestrade's and potential clients' - but these steps didn't sound like any of those.

Sherlock was always quick as he came up, too excited about the cases he had to solve and way too happy to be free from boredom. John was either slow when he came up, looking through the letters they've got or quick and angry, done with Sherlock's new case or with the certain experiments he was doing in the flat. Mrs. Hudson's were always high pitched, Lestrade's quick and heavy as he ran upstairs and the clients' were slow, reluctant and quiet.

These steps were slow, that was true, but there was something unusual about them, about the sound when they met with the wooden staircase. These were slow and quiet, but confident and elegant - these were something new and not usual and boring.

She put her book down and looked at the door what was wide open - because no matter how many times either she or John closed it, Sherlock always left it open. They gave up pretty soon, accepting the fact that their only protection against a robbery is Mrs. Hudson and the door downstairs.

The stranger was soon standing in the doorway, looking around the flat so calmly it looked like he owned the place and he most definitely didn't even think about knocking.

He didn't look like a client. He was way too calm and confident, way too elegant to be one. No, he was something new and unique, someone who you immediately notice even in a room full of people because of the lingering elegance and confidence - because even the air changes when he steps in the room.

After looking around the flat his gaze stopped and he looked directly at her for the very first time. She held his gaze, not giving in on the sudden game, but her stomach tightened in fear, a fear she only felt when she was in a room with Sherlock Holmes, knowing he'll deduce her and know about the things she doesn't want him to know.

"Hi..." The greeting was so short and simple for a person like him, that she tilted her head a little in confusion. His voice was also slightly high pitched when he pronounced the 'I', but she quickly realized it was intentional.

"Sherlock isn't home... if he is who you are looking for." she said to him, thinking there was no way this man didn't come here to see Sherlock Holmes.

"I know. That's why I'm here."

For a moment she thought about telling him that John isn't home either, but then decided against it. He clearly isn't here to talk to John Watson. He's here to talk to her...

"I see." she looked away for a moment to think about what to do with him, but no idea came to mind. "Well then please have a seat. Although I wasn't expecting guests."

He accepted the invitation, taking a seat in Sherlock's armchair, while she tried to figure out who he was and what he wanted. Meanwhile the stranger leaned back and made himself comfortable, enjoying the situation and the fact that he is sitting in Sherlock's armchair.

He knows whose armchair he's sitting in - the realization hit her, only making the 'who is he' more interesting.

"Yes, you were." he spoke up so suddenly she had to shake her head a little.

"Excuse me?"

"You were expecting one guest or you were counting on one specific guest at least."

She looked at him again, pressuring her mind to think. He is someone important and he knows that as well. That was obvious. But important for who? Not for John. John wouldn't tolerate him at all - but Sherlock would. Sherlock would even appreciate all this act.

She tilted her head a little in realization.

"Moriarty? Good to know that now that name has a face." she noticed how his expression didn't change, even if he smiled at her realization - he was expecting it, for her to realize who he is. "May I know why you wanted to see me?"

"Just wanted to meet the ordinary people Sherlock keeps around."

"Ordinary?" she laughed. "You think ordinary people could live with Sherlock Holmes?"

"That doesn't make you less boring."

"Nor does it make you less annoying." she quickly answered, leaving the annoyance out of her voice. "Playing around with Sherlock, coming here uninvited. Next time send a message at least so I can prepare some tea."

His eyes shined up for a second as if for a short amount of time he was looking at something more interesting.

"Doesn't he annoy you? Keeping you from living on your boring, ordinary little life."

"Not really. I'm never bored at least. He keeps the boredom away."

"So loyal. Ordinary people can be so amusing, I should get myself one."

She just smiled at that.

"You really like to get under people's skin, don't you?"

"Of course I do, I mean that's the funniest part, isn't it?"

That's when she first noticed how he uses his body language when he's having fun - how his arms and shoulders are moving with him.

"I guess you're right. That can be funny, you should try it out more with Sherlock. It's enough if you play one note wrong on the violin."

But that wasn't his only memorable visit. No, all of his visits were more than memorable if she wanted to be honest. She could tell all of them apart, she could tell in which month they had accured...

He visited her many times, but he always sent her a message beforehand. A short one. Something like: 'I'm a street away dear.' or 'I hope the tea is ready.' But later on they became something more: 'I'd like to see you today.', 'I have a gift for you.' or 'You'll be out tonight.' She didn't dare to ask how he knows her number, how he knows so much about her - where she'll be, what she likes. It would've been unnecessary words and she wouldn't have gotten an answer.

So she kept her questions to herself - and she also kept their meetings for themselves. Even if Sherlock noticed the change in her behaviour and happily pointed it out, causing John to ask who she's meeting up with. Even if Mycroft pointed out that she had been out at night. Even if Mrs. Hudson nearly jumped out of her skin in happiness when both brothers accused her of dating someone.

But the most interesting one--

... the most interesting conversion they've ever had was special. Oh so very special.

He came without telling her about it beforehand, just like the first time they'd met. She was sitting in her armchair with her laptop in her lap, going through a victim's personal data to make a profile while Sherlock was too busy working on a much more interesting case. Apparently a triple suicide in one place isn't that interesting, at all.

She didn't hear him come in, but she noticed him standing in the doorway - because the door was once again, wide open. He just stood there in his Westwood suit, gloating in the fact that he had the element of surprise.

She looked up at him as she raised an eyebrow.

"You didn't call this time."

"I had business around here. I just decided to come in."

"Liar." she accused as she put the laptop aside and offered him Sherlock's armchair. "You knew they went out on a case, otherwise you wouldn't have come here. You enjoy working behind his back too much."

He took the offered seat and after he leaned back, he started to talk:

"Remember what I told you when we first met? About the loyal ordinary people?"

"Of course I do." she answered, half-offended that he thought so little of her. "You wanted to get yourself one."

"Yes, well you see dear, I changed my mind." once again, his body moved with his mood. "Maybe I shouldn't get myself an ordinary one, I mean they would bore me so easily. I think I'd be perfectly fine with a not so ordinary one."

She looked at him, trying to read him like she did so many times before that, but this time other than that smirk, she couldn't find out anything else. So she turned to examine his words, that's what was also interesting about Jim Moriarty, what he said and how he said it.

A not so ordinary one. How on Earth will he get one?

And then she realized that for Jim Moriarty, the hierarchy of the world is about ordinary and extraordinary people - and in that momemt he added the not so ordinary ones to the mix too. Even if he didn't like Sherlock, he accepted that he was like him - too clever, extraordinary. John was only, simply ordinary. Nothing more, maybe less. But he talked to her a lot. A whole lot without getting bored, without thinking about speaking to Sherlock directly so he could annoy him instead of her. He didn't gloat that he knew her and talked to her daily. For him she was middle class, she was that not so ordinary person.

She chuckled and stood up, deciding that she couldn't sit that through without moving.

"Oh no, you can't possibly think that I'd leave Sherlock for you." she shook her head in disbelief. "I mean I wouldn't be loyal, would I? What happened with loyality?"

"Ordinary people are loyal and loyality is boring." he leaned forward to pour some tea for himself, not really caring that Mrs. Hudson prepared that for John and Sherlock, and most definitely not him.

"Well then I must be really boring, because I won't just leave Baker Street."

"You don't have to leave to show you aren't loyal, darling, we've been talking for months without you telling about it to them." he leaned back again and took a sip from the tea.

"Yeah, well it's still a no thank you very much." she said as her chest rose and fell rapidly, her brain working as she thought about what he just said.

"No?"

"No. I mean why would I?" the question was left unanswered. "I'd only consider it if I'd-- own the fucking Crown Jewels."

She tried to think about something unrealistic to say, to show that her decision is unbreakable. But looking at him, she clearly chose the wrong thing.

Moriarty looked pleased instead of angry - and that grounded her into reality. She said something wrong. She could basically hear the cogs turn in his head.

"Well, in that case," he said as he got ready to leave. "I'll see you around, darling."

She was left there angry and sad, but the thing she didn't think about?

That a few days later she'd get a letter.

•••

"Goddamn it Sherlock, I told you to put the microscope away! I almost knocked it down and that's the only one we own!" she shouted as she put the said thing aside, saving it from a disaster.

"He's not home!" came the answer from John, who was sitting in his armchair watching the telly - or rather trying to find a channel worth watching.

"He's not?" she asked in disbelief. "And he went without either of us?"

"You know him. Once he wants to go somewhere he goes there with or without us."

She opened one of the cupboards to find two clean cups - the kind which hadn't met with blood, eyeballs or some kind of acid beforehand - and once she found some, she began to make some tea.

"Is the forest fruit one okay? We ran out of black tea."

"Yes, thank you."

"You owe me." she threatened jokingly. "Anything worth watching? We could watch some crime show now that Sherlock isn't here to spoil it." she offered.

"Good idea." came John's answer - she enjoyed watching shows and movies with him since he was the only normal person in the flat - him and maybe Mrs. Hudson, but even Mrs. Hudson's life was extraordinary. "One'll begin after the news."

"Fantastic." she said as she finished preparing the tea and walked into the living room with a silver tray.

And then John turned the news on - and she almost dropped the tray.

There he was. On the screen, in handcuffs as the officers took him away and he was smiling - more like grinning. It only took her a second to realize where he was - the Tower of London, where the damn Crown Jewels were kept.

God damn him. Both of them. Both Moriarty and Sherlock -- even John and Mycroft. All of them had to mess up her life and make it more exciting and interesting instead of boring. God damn her that she liked it.

The Crown Jewels. What did she say to him the last time they met? 'I'd only consider it if I'd own the fucking Crown Jewels.'

John looked surprised too. Not as much as she was, he didn't know she had been talking with the enemy. He didn't notice her shock thankfully and even if he did he must've thought it was a normal reaction.

"Moriarty-- that's Moriarty." he explained.

"I know." she said without thinking.

Before John could ask her how, she heard Mrs. Hudson call out her name from downstairs. She put the tray down quicker than usual, some tea was even spilt, and she was out of the flat in a heartbeat. She ran down the stairs, her heart beating fast.

"What is it, Mrs. Hudson? Did something happen?" she asked.

"Oh, not at all dear, it's just my hips. John was kind enough to give me some painkillers, but I couldn't really walk up the stairs right now." the woman explained with the usual enthusiasm. "But a letter arrived for you a few seconds ago. The postman must've forgotten about it in the morning."

And there it was, in Mrs. Hudson's hand. An envelope, a beige coloured one - the very elegant kind.

She took it from her quickly and just by the envelope itself she knew who sent it. The penmanship was perfect. Her name was written on it in black ink, the letters were slim and long.

"Who is it from dear?"

She tore it open, her fingers ripping the paper and she took the folded letter out. With uneven heartbeat, she began to read it:

'My dear,

I hope you'll enjoy the show I put on in the Tower, I know I'll most certainly do.

The diamonds in the envelope are from the Crown Jewels, forgive for not being able to give you the whole thing, but otherwise the police would be knocking on your door. Still, now you own parts of them. Nine diamonds to be exact, I sincerly hope all of them are in the envelope - otherwise I'll have to skin someone after my trial.

A promise is a promise. Now consider my offer. I'll pick you up at 7 p.m. as soon as I'm out.

- J. M.

P.S.: I hope I'll see you in court.'

John shouted her name from upstairs, wondering why she ran. She ignored him and looked inside the envelope.

Nine diamonds. Nine of them, some bigger than the others, were shining in it.

Mrs. Hudson saw them too and she gasped in surprise.

"Oh my, you didn't tell me you had found yourself a man dear."

"I didn't know it up until now either, Mrs. Hudson."

"What is it?" John was standing on top of the staircase, looking at them with confusion.

"She has a boyfriend." Mrs. Hudson said happily, clapping her hands together.

"She has a what?"

"I don't have a boyfriend." she argued, her eyes still on the diamonds.

"What is it then?"

She didn't know how to feel or what to feel.

Deep down she felt like a real woman. A woman someone, a very special someone, wants to court. A woman who's looked at as someone interesting, important and worth stealing for. She was flattered. Truly.

On the other hand she felt scared and confused. Jim Moriarty was still Jim Moriarty, and she was still the girl from Baker Street. With him she'll never feel completely at ease or safe, there'll always be a wall standing between them what they'll never be able to cross.

But still...

He was so interesting.

She looked up at John as she put the envelope in her pocket.

"I have a date."

Mrs. Hudson laughed in happiness.

She turned towards the stairs, her brain completely blocking John's voice out as it worked and worked, trying to figure Jim out.

Jim. He was already Jim in her head.

Then a strange question appeared in big letters in her mind like a neon sign:

Why nine?

[thinkingaboutfilm11]

can you share some interesting facts or things you think most people don't know about ayrton? i find him real fascinating, and as a newer fan that also isn't brazilian i guess it can be a bit harder to find these things!

heya Anon!

I'm not brazilian either- Im from london (rraaaaaa what the fuck is a sunny day) so dont let your nationality hold you back from research! If you are interested, there are many places you can find out about Classic/Retro F1 online, or if you are also English, the national archives in London and on the BBC have many articles and old clips with lots of information. But I am lucky to live in a country thats so dilligent with safeguarding histroy.

But here are some of my more niche Ayrton facts:

-He was left handed

-He barely EVER drank so he was a complete lightweight

-He was a terrible sleeper, and would chase the peacoks in his garden for waking him up early with a gun

-His favourite food was pasta and he'd often ditch the Mclaren catering and steal food from Ferrari

-He was a skilled chess player (or maybe other people got too distracted by his good looks and lost- either way he won many of his matches)

-Ayrton actually lived in some pretty rough ereas in England for a bit while he waited for his career to take off. To this day there is a street named after him in Reading (which is near me so of course I have pilgramidged to see it)

-Ayrton was an absolute NERD and loved building and flying minature planes (him and my dad could have had a shared hobby there lmao)

-Ayrton had Bell's Palsey, which caused half of his face to paralyse when he was younger. Brazilian doctors told him it was uncurable, but Ayrton, stubburn git that he was, hired a specialist from (i think) Europe and worked for countless hours every day and did what was thought in the 80's to be medically impossible and reversed his symptoms

most of these may be common knowledge in the classic F1 community idk, but to someone new these may be interesting!!! Hope you enjoyed anon

[bodhrancomedy]

I have a Look and it is neither smart nor competent.

[saraakpotter]

do you suppose we could have a platonic bbc sherlock onehsot where the reader lives in the flat to the right and after knowing each other for a few months, tells him “I love you.” for the first time? again, platonically.

please and thank you

okay, i love this request. sorry this took a little long but i hope it's how you imagined it❤️

the most extraordinary way

warning: none :) genre: fluff

The walls of 221B Baker Street had always been thin, a fact that you became acutely aware of not long after moving into the flat to the right. The muffled strains of a violin would often seep through the brickwork, accompanied by the occasional emphatic "Interesting!" or "John, come here!" It was an odd comfort, a reminder that life buzzed on the other side, filled with its own peculiar rhythms.

the first time you met Sherlock, you were at the Scotland yard reading some files and he came to give the answer to a case they have been working on. he found you interesting and now you are constantly at 221b.

today, you came home from Scotland yard tired and angry. let's just say it wasn't your best week. before you enter the flat you saw a small note, hanging next to the door handle. it was from Sherlock:

i have noticed you have interest in classic music. I extend an invitation to you for an evening of musical reprieve. I shall be playing a selection of pieces that, I believe, might be to your liking. Consider it a respite for both our minds.join me at 7:00 pm.

you couldn't help but smile at the note. as the clock hit 7:00 you knocked the door of 221b.

after a few seconds,Sherlock opened the door. his hair was a little messy and he looked excited or maybe happy.

"y\n, glad you came." Sherlock said opening the door.

"thanks for inviting me! i haven't had the best week in Scotland yard" you said with a smile walking in the flat.

Sherlock started playing the violin for a long time and you love it. it really meant to you how he knew all your favorite songs.

you completely forgot about your though week for some time.

after the music stopped you looked at Sherlock and stopped before clapping your hands for him

"Sherlock, that was really incredible! it really changed my mood, in a good way. thank you!" you said

"it was nothing" he said with a small smile but he was secretly really happy\satisfied that he could cheer you up.

after the music, you and Sherlock decided to read books together instead of leaving. and by together i mean you read your own book and he reads his.

you were really happy. you liked Sherlock, he was a really great friend even if some say the opposite. you looked up from your book and looked at him with a small smile.

"what?" Sherlock asked not looking up from his book.

"i love you, Sherlock"

this was the love of a friend for a friend, the love for two people who had become an unexpected part of each others life.

the words made Sherlock look up from his book and at you. even if it was just as a friend, it really meant to him. you know, he really doesn't hear that a lot.

Sherlock had stilled, his back to you, and for a moment, you'd worried you'd crossed an unseen line. But then he'd turned and smiled.

"i know" he teased and then turned serious, still smiling "and i, you, in the most extraordinary way"

you both went back to your books afterwards, but none of you could stop thinking about it.

@sleeplessdreamer14

[noforkingclue]

Could I request BBC Sherlock with a “proper genius” artist reader. They’re smart but not obvious. Reader comes to Baker Street 221C for a flat and is able to deduce why the flat hasn’t been for sale and Sherlock overhears.

Snippet I wrote: (Feel free to ignore)

-I take a step inside and take a breath. The smell of mold, mildew, and fungi... as well as... blood.

-“How long has it been?”

-“Since what?”

-“Since the murder.” The music stops.

-She sighs, “5 years, not a tenant since then.”

-“If I take this flat... would you mind if I renovated it a bit?” Footsteps from upstairs.

-“Dearie, if you take this flat I’ll give you a discount.” She states. Stops at the bottom.

Thank you for the request :D

I didn't include what you wrote exactly but I more took inspiration from it. Hope that's ok and you like the fic!

Title: Mysteries

Everything tag list: @greenrevolutionary, @byebyebreezywrites spngingerbread21,  @layazul,  @lov3vivian, @simonsbluee

You looked around the flat and raised your eyebrows. For a flat with such low rent to be on the market for this long there must’ve been something wrong with it. You pursed your lips as you walked around, your potential landlady hovering by the door. You ventured into the living room Mrs Hudson following closely. Above you, you heard floorboards creak and the sound of a violin.

So thin floorboards. You could see why that might put some people off. Still, not enough of a reason to still be on the market.

“And how long has it been empty?” you asked

“Five years,” Mrs Hudson said, “I’ll give it a proper airing before you move in. If,” she added quickly, “you decide to take it.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the hopeful tone in her voice. Still, it bothered you that it hadn’t been rented out for so long. Maybe there was an issue with neighbours? Or maybe there were structural issues? Or-

You paused at a wall. You cocked your head and raised a hand at the flaking plaster.

“Yes,” Mrs Hudson said, “I am aware of that. I know it doesn’t give the best impression but I assure you-”

“So someone was killed here.”

You certainly weren’t giving the best impression of being a possible tenant by interrupting but now you were curious. You looked over your shoulder and smiled at Mrs Hudson who didn’t even try to hide her shocked expression.

“How did you work that out?” she asked

“Well when I was at uni I shared a flat with someone who was studying forensics. I was studying fine art but I was curious so listened in while she ranted about her course. She even let me read her course books although she was surprised. Just because I’m an artist doesn’t mean that I can’t appreciate, and be interested in, other subjects.”

You shrugged and continued to walk about the room.

“You’d be surprised what you can pick up just by listening. I may not have attended any of the lectures but I got a decent understanding of what she was studying. Which included the effects that blood can have on its surroundings if it isn’t properly cleaned up. Which includes plaster.”

You gestured to the wall and smiled.

“Even after five years you can tell.”

You frowned when you realised that something had stopped. Mrs Hudson had stopped speaking a while back but it wasn’t that. You looked up and smirked when you realised that the violin had stopped.

“So can I have it?” you sked with a small smile

“My dear,” Mrs Hudson placed a hand on your shoulder, “of course. I’ll start getting the paperwork ready.”

“And, err, one other thing.”

“Yes?”

“I am still an artist and I would love to be able to paint the walls. I know it’s an unusual request…”

You trailed off and Mrs Hudson pursed her lips.

“Usually I’d say no,” she said, “but because of what you did earlier I’ll give it some consideration.”

You smiled and nodded. To be honest, that was the reaction you were expecting. The two of you headed towards the door and you heard someone thumping down the stairs. Ah, this must be  your new neighbour.

“Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson beamed, “I thought I heard you playing. Don’t you have a case on at the moment?”

Sherlock stared at you for a moment before turning his attention to Mrs Hudson.

“I do and I was working on it.” he asked sharply

“Sounded like you were playing the violin.” you said

“It helps me think,” he replied, “And who are you?”

“Y/n L/n,” you held out a hand, “your new neighbour. Nice to meet you!”

Sherlock looked down at your hand and grunted and didn’t take it. You lowered it slowly as he glanced towards your future flat.

“I know what you must be thinking-” you started

“I doubt that.” interrupted Sherlock

“Why would someone want to move into a flat where a murder took place.”

Sherlock looked over at you sharply and you couldn’t help but smile. Looked like you caught him out.

“Well,” you followed Mrs Hudson who was beckoning you away, “looks like you have another mystery to solve.”

[sobeautifullyobsessed]

Happy Christmas, Mr. Holmes

Sherlock Holmes x OC, established relationship, some fluff, some romance, humor, and sweet holiday feels🎄❤️🎄 four chapters, complete

Christmas comes to Baker Street in a form Sherlock Holmes had never envisioned. There's a sweetness in seeing the holiday through someone else's eyes, and there are lessons in holiday spirit and the nature of giving--as well as how Love makes the season even brighter--to be learned.

(One of my oldest fics, this is also one of my favorites ~ for it was motivated not only by my love for BBC Sherlock, but even more so by my love of Christmas. I put a lot of my heart into this one, and if you should give it a read, I hope you find it pleasing, and in keeping with the season! Excerpt under the cut.)

Somehow, without even meaning to, Sherlock's path had taken him here: Notting Hill, Saint Mary of the Angels Church. He certainly had not intended to end up here, not as he left the shoppe (its final customer of the day), his hot food wrapped up to be consumed along the way. Had he been woolgathering so much that he'd moved without thinking to the place he knew Tessa to be? Or, he asked himself truthfully, had he intended to get here all along, knowing that his heart really did long for the comfort of community which the brightly lit church represented, the warmth that seemed to flow out with the strains of music coming from within? The thought of Tessa inside, joined in prayer and song with others of her faith--was that the magnet that drew him here? A man who stood outside of everything this building represented, yet now wanted nothing more than to do as he was doing--opening the door to feel the tide of shared and simple Christmas gladness wash over him.

Sherlock allowed himself to enter the vestibule, but stopped there, feeling it was enough for now. He knew, not just from what he could hear (and remembering similar services he had attended as a boy), but from the time itself, that the service was almost over. It was quite enough to imagine her inside, singing joyfully, and most likely wishing he was there to share it with her. He felt a sense of peace that had eluded him all day long, a sense of belonging that had for so many years been out of reach. He thought of those who had made it possible for him to feel he finally fit in somewhere--of John and Mrs. Hudson, of Lestrade and Molly, and of his Tessa, who had worked a minor miracle of sorts; they had gotten him to this marvelous threshold, and she had managed to carry him across it at last. Sherlock felt such a swell of love for all of them, that he was grateful to be alone, fearing the light of it would shine so obviously upon his face that he might be taken, by strangers, for a fool...

tagging: @strangedreamings (who may have seen this a few times before😉) @ben-locked (putting the 'ship' aside, just for the Christmas feels?) @mousedetective @darsynia (because you 'get me' enough to appreciate this fic) @aphroditesdilemma @hithertoundreamtof23 (dunno if you like Sherlock, but I'm betting you like Christmas stories) @aeterna-auroral-avenger (for the Faith we share & which makes you a Christmas person 365 days a year)

[ersatz-ostrich]

On the Scene

RK900 x gn!Detective!Reader

Lt. Hank Anderson and Det. Connor Anderson are on the scene of a grisly murder. They have some investigating to do, and not just into the scene of the homicide that you and Richard were first called to inspect.

A/N: phew! first real post in a while. DBH has a chokehold on me and I have no idea how it happened (I haven't even gotten the game yet—I'm waiting for it to go on sale). That being said, hope this isn't too OOC! I was inspired to write this by the one scene in A Study in Pink from BBC's Sherlock. I messed around with the scene so the dialogue isn't a carbon copy, though.

Yes, I settled on calling Nines Richard (I'm indecisive). Hank calls him Nines as a nickname of sorts.

warnings: implied sexual references, sorely lacking in beta reading

read here on ao3

Cold, damp nights like these were not entirely uncommon in Detroit. If anything, they were a part of the city’s branding. 

After all of his years in the God-forsaken city, Lieutenant Hank Anderson knew at least that much. 

His CD player blasting heavy metal, he slowed his aging car to a stop on the side of a residential street in a more tasteful stretch of Detroit. Police cruisers and personnel crowded the street already narrowed with cars parked beside the curb on each side. The house in question was cast in the blue and red light of the cruisers’ beacons, an adequate welcome for those who chose to step inside. 

Hank eased himself out of the driver’s seat and into the chilly air, groaning as his joints protested. His partner Connor, ever so enthusiastic when it came to work, exited from the other side and followed Hank with quick, precise strides until they reached the yellow holographic police tape set up around the crime scene. 

“Hello, Lieutenant, Detective.” The duo was greeted by the stoic face of Richard, the DPD’s RK900 investigator android, who was just about as close to a brother that Connor, the RK800, had. His fair complexion was bathed in the flashing lights of the squad cars and spotlights that had been set up around the scene, but he seemed to pay no mind to the glare.

“Nines.” Hank grunted. “We’re here to see Detective L/N.” Richard raised a perfect brow, his expression set with feigned intrigue. 

“Why?” Hank chuckled.

“We were invited, why else?”

“Is that so?” A grin inched its way onto Hank’s grizzled face.

“I think they want us to take a look at some evidence. Think it might be related to our red ice case. That’s why you made the call, didn’t ya?” Richard cracked a small half-smile. 

“Right as always, Lieutenant. It seems like your investigative skills have stayed sharp after all these years.” Hank barked out a laugh as he and Connor crossed through the holographic boundary. Just as they passed by the RK900, Hank stopped abruptly, wrinkling his nose. 

“Lieutenant?” Connor inquired from beside him. 

“It’s nothin’, son.” It didn’t sound like nothing to Connor—not that he voiced that notion, anyways. From behind their turned backs, Richard’s LED flashed red momentarily. 

They were making their way up the front porch steps when you appeared in the doorway in your CSI jumpsuit and PPE, fiddling with your gloves. 

“Hey, Anderson, so nice of you to finally come.” You greeted the pair with a smile. “Careful with the evidence back there, don’t want to get it contaminated with Sumo’s fur or something. Richard thinks it might be of some help with your red ice case.” 

“You didn’t make it home last night, did ‘ya?” The smile disappeared from your face. That wasn’t the response you had been expecting.

“I’m sorry?”

“Tell me, L/N, did ‘ya at least get someone to feed your cats?” He watched your expression, brows raised with skepticism. “C’mon. You can do a little better than hiding that hickey under your PPE.” He gestured loosely at the collar of your jumpsuit. Your hand instinctively went to the bruise that you knew was blooming underneath the fabric. 

“What—”

“And you, Nines!” Hank called out to Richard, who was just crossing the front yard to join the conversation.

“Is there something you wanted to tell me, Lieutenant?” Richard’s expression and composure were practically free of tics and tells—one of the benefits of being an android, deviant or not, Hank supposed. Richard tilted his head with bemusement.

“Oh, don’t play dumb. Say, are ‘ya trying out some new scent for androids? Smells a lot like L/N’s deodorant if you ask me.”

“Y/N and I spent the night at the precinct,” Richard answered quickly. “We were looking over evidence early this morning when the homicide was called in. They offered me their coat when it began to rain because—”

“Yeah, ‘cause androids don’t like getting their clothes wet after just getting ‘em from the Cyberlife dry cleaners,” he drawled. “Funny that the knees of your slacks are so banged up, Nines. Maybe you should bring ‘em back.”

“Hank, whatever you’re trying to imply—”

“I know, kid, I know. Also, you two are on a first name basis now? Geez, did I miss something while I was on holiday?”

“Hank...” Your voice dripped with exasperation. “Just inspect the damn crime scene, will you?”

“Alright, alright,” Hank waved you off and stepped into the house. “But I’m expecting a wedding invitation by next spring, y’hear?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[A/N]: So, yeah, I don't know jack about DBH or BBC's Sherlock...well, reading the BBC's Sherlock manga counts as interacting with the source material, right?

Hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading x

[cazzyf1]

James Hunt with his budgie collection

An article about it under the cut

Last weekend, I found myself at the World Budgerigar Championships, held at Doncaster race course. My guide was James Hunt, world motor racing champion for the 1976 season and of late an ardent breeder of budgerigars: greens, grey- greens, sky blues, dominant pieds and the like. In return for carrying my share of his nine chosen birds in and out of the hall he would transport me from Flood Street to Doncaster and back again. We put our budgies under wraps in the Estate boot and drove north. As we drove, James ex- plained budgies, their infinite variety and perfections of type. Looking straight at a show budgie one should not be able to see the eyes; broad- ness of head is commendable, as is a steep lift to the plumage, a long straight back, sleek body and proud tail. The spots under the neck merit special attention. Usually there are six forming a broken ring but false spot feathers can emerge and these have to be tweezered out. Another area of concern is the head plumage, which can develop waxy quill feathers and blood specks.

Budgies moult in October. Doncaster, the most prestigious show of them all, is held annually in early November. It is therefore a race to bring them back into good condition. Ten days before James had visited a couple of top breeders and found their birds in a shocking state. He doubted that they would be ready in time. I commiserated with him on their behalf. We then moved on to the question of breeding. James only shows birds he has bred himself. His prize accolade so far is second place in the Beginner Breeder class at Blackpool, almost as big an event as the one we were heading for. Pairing takes place in late November, so he was absorbed with the permutations. After this season, his second in the budgie world, he intends to put it all on a computer prog- rammed by an acquaintance in the blood stock industry.

`It's like breeding racehorses, only cheaper,' he explained; 'a good budgie can sell for a thousand pounds, more to a German or Swede, not that I pay anything like that. The most so far is a hundred pounds.' James, like many self-made millionaires, is prouder of his caution about money than its possession. If he gets his pairings right this year, the basis will be laid for a first-class stud. Cock it up and he's back at square one.

The action takes place in his back garden, an acre and a half just off Wimbledon Common. As he travels heavily for the BBC during the motor racing season he has a curator, the correct word, of budgerigars. Indoor and outdoor flight pens give his birds the freedom and communion which he believes are essential to their development. Not all breeders agree, holding that show budgies are as far removed from their cousins who flock in the Australian out- back as those dying generations are to Yeat's artifice of hammered gold and gold enamelling. It was not a simile I tried on James as I wanted him to concentrate on the road.

`Under your feet are some supplies for the journey.' I had already heard the odd crackle and rustle. Sure enough, there were packets of crisps and chocolate, all now washed in a litre of orange juice that had spilt from its plastic bottle and in- formed the road map. I apologised for my ineptness, but there was worse to come. Throughout the journey, which was nearing completion in the Doncaster one-way system, James had fretted about his feather-pulling tweezers, hoping they were buried deep in a trouser pocket. This proved not to be the case. They had fallen between his seat and the doings of the German hydraulic system. His hand could not reach them with ease. I volunteered mine as being slimmer. He warned me that if the tweezers fell any further they would be unsalvageable, lost forever. In went my hand, down went the tweezers. 'That's very naughty, Napier. I told you to be careful and what do you do? Charge at it without any thought.' So my first task on reaching the Danum Hotel, Doncaster, was to ask the lady receptionist — still agog at matching her booking name of J.S.W. Hunt to the reality — for tweezers without which our budgies might as well stay in the boot. Thank God for Allens the all-night chemist and their range of broad-, slant-, and curved-headed tweezers at £1.29p a shot.

By the time I returned, James and the budgies were in my bathroom — smaller than his, so less problematic if one escaped. Two needed their heads washed free of quill wax and blood specks. A sky-blue cock had developed an extra spot feather. The tweezers were presented and found adequate. Deftly he probed to the base of the feather and pulled. Out it came and we both felt relieved. Washed and petted, the budgies, each in a black- enamelled portable showcase, looked their full importance. It was time for us to take them to the show where they would spend the night, be judged in the morning and thereafter open to public view.

A night on the town in Doncaster. In our second pub there was a fight. Three girls, about 18, fell to the ground, two tugging at hair while their friend inevitably paid the higher price for interfering. No one else made the same mistake. A pause for breath and acrimony, then back into the routine. The moment they decided that no man was worth such punishment the bouncers moved in and swept them out. Later in the evening we saw the three of them together enjoying a joke. The pub and club centre of Doncaster is small enough to walk round. We kept on seeing the same faces circling and finally asking for James's autograph with lines like 'I know who you are, at least my father does'. In London he barely incurs a glance. But at the night club, Rotters, we found our entrance barred by a further charm of bouncers. `Where do you come from, please, gentlemen? London? What, may I ask, are you doing in Doncaster?'

`We're up for the budgie show.' The door was flung open. Budgies are great levellers.

Next day, James admitted what I had already begun to suspect, that exhibiting budgies was far more exciting than winning a Grand Prix. 'After the first third of a race you usually know you can win, barring mechanical failure. With budgies the adre- nalin is there right up to the moment you walk in and see how you have done.' We walked in. Stretching the length of the Doncaster Race Hall were showcases in three tiered lines, nearly 6,000 entries in 392 classes. It took adrenalin-pumped minutes to find any class James had entered. The world became a clearer place, full of stewards in purple badges, men last seen in our hotel lift, now turned into awesome judges, serious punters in cloth caps with a jaunty budgie feather. The floor was covered in brown seed, scuffed by the birds out of their cages. We passed the cages of successful champions, surrounded by plush velvet boards and trios with red, blue and green rosettes on them and sometimes extra awards from provincial bodies affiliated to the Budgerigar Society. We passed classes with names like 'Recessive Pied Breeder Hens' and swatches of colour the like of which Scott Crolla only dreams. We overheard snatches of conversation: `That's a big bird, champion,' Not enough feather on the little blighter,' and men rattling bars to get the birds onto their perches for a better look or photograph.

At the far left of the hall we reached the Beginner Breeder section and the end of our quest was bitter disappointment. A fourth, a fifth, and two sixth places. Not one rosette to show for it all, let alone the Best Beginner Breeder trophy that had seemed possible.

`Bad luck, James, it's a bloody high- standard show. Nice looking birds, I must say. Wouldn't swop your one for anything but the winner.'

The commiserations in broad and know- ledgeable Yorkshire were far more effective than my plaintive twittering. James took his disappointment well: 'It's all good experience. I now know how good one's birds have to be, so good that there's no dispute.'

`So you'll be coming back then, James?'

`Certainly.'