#i've been lying in wait for years for someone to ask me to upload these sgjhsfks THEY'RE SO GOOD

[mostlyanything19]

do you still have the radio Sherlock Holmes? 🥺

Hello, I am so happy you ask, yes I do! Here they are:

Included are the 60 short stories originally written by Arthur Conan Doyle and adapted for Radio by the BBC, with Clive Merrison as Holmes and Michael Williams as Watson (in 64 episodes, bc the longer stories are split up into parts), and the 16 Further Adventures, this time with Andrew Sachs taking the role of Watson.

I hope you enjoy them, they're really well done and to this day rank among my favorite Holmes adaptations ever. Also, this is the only adaptation in history so far that has managed to do all 60 original ACD cases!

[allforyoumylovely]

emma, hiii. you're taking requests, like that's the best thing ever hihi. idk why but I've had this image in my head of sander resting against robbe's chest as he robbe reads to him, while he runs a hand through sander's hair. maybe sander is coming out of a bad episode or maybe they're just relaxing on a sunday, but yeah.... maybe something like that hihi. much love to you emma <333

Cille, this was an absolute dream prompt for me, my gosh 💘 📖  I went off on a few tangents but hopefully that’s okay sfhjg. Walk, shower, read. It’s their little routine 🧡  Thank you for sending me this. Love you! Btw let me know if I should upload these on ao3 or if they should just be little tumblr exclusives?

Sander always knows when he’s fading away, when he’s turning into a shell of himself. But he never knows when he’s going to fall asleep at the wheel. Until it’s too late, until he crashes. And that’s when he loses all sense of who he is, of what he enjoys or how he likes to dress or what his voice normally sounds like. Sometimes the only indication of time passing is his alarms that tell him to take his meds and eat at set times.

Although he doesn’t reach the point anymore where he wants to be physically erased – he knows that this seemingly perpetual state of sadness isn’t definitive no matter how much his brain tries to convince him otherwise – some days all he can drag himself out of bed for is a cup of coffee and a cigarette or a few slices of tangerine, the scent reminding him of his boy, his college boy. He’ll crack open a window in the living room and curl up against the cushions in the window-seat, the hood of his black hoodie over his head, and there he’ll try weaving his way through the weeds and the tangled neurons in his thunder-stained mind to anything resembling an actual thought with a pinch of substance.

For the days where he’s more clear-headed his mama puts up little post-its around the house with simple tasks for him to do to help him feel useful and necessary. And in the mornings whenever Robbe has spent the night, Sander finds little notes from him too; there’ll be an I love you on his pillow, an I’m so glad you exist placed on his desk and I’m bringing you flowers later <3 hanging on his door. The first time Sander doesn’t think Robbe actually means the one with the flowers, but when he buzzes him in later that afternoon, the first thing he sees is a bouquet of light pink lilies cradled in his arm against the autumn brown of his jacket, the hues so lovely and gentle, just like Robbe. It’s more than Sander’s frail mind can take, and Robbe wipes away the thin streams of warm tears with his sweater paws, and they laugh softly when it only makes it worse.

Since before Robbe, Sander has been figuring out what soothes him, what makes him feel more at ease, what helps him settle back into his body and bones when coming out of a bad episode, and he has slowly built up a list of things that assist in bringing the puzzle pieces of his mind back into place.

Walks

Sander’s aunt has a golden retriever, Bella, who goes on a little holiday at Sander’s when he’s down and spends most of his days at home. In the mornings she’ll pad over the hard-wood floor to his bed and nuzzle her nose against Sander’s face until he wakes up, waiting patiently for her walk. It’s easier for Sander to get out of bed knowing there’s someone relying on him for their needs and wellbeing. He’ll take her and himself on a walk in the fog-blue mornings when the morning traffic is yet to come, and then again in the early evening when it’s still light out but the streets are quieter, enough for him to give his brain some stimulation when it feels like it has slowed to a halt. The sound of his boots against the sidewalk reminds him that he’s still part of the world, that he hasn’t completely vanished after all.

Sometimes he goes by himself, just listening to and observing the city around him with pale eyes. Other times Robbe goes with him, sleepy-eyed and rosy-cheeked in the mornings, relaxed and loose-limbed at night. He doesn’t curl his hand around Sander’s but lets it hang by his side with their pinkies brushing, open and inviting, for Sander to take if and when he feels like it. Sander will thread their fingers together always, but he loves Robbe for giving him a choice and never forcing anything on him.

Often, they find a bench somewhere, in a park or at the river, a place that isn’t too crowded but still has plenty of things for Sander to rest his eyes on. It’s only the middle of September but some leaves are already falling, lying yellow and limp on the ground, and Robbe notices Sander’s wondering expression.

“It’s probably because the weather has been so dry; they’re shedding their leaves to conserve water and energy,” he says.

And Sander instinctively inches closer, a small smile on his lips. “Clever you.”

Bella sits by Sander’s legs with her head propped on his knee, her deep brown eyes alternatively scanning the place and glancing up at him, sensing his sadness. She’s calm and curious and cuddly, reminding him of a certain someone. When Sander tells him, Robbe breathes out a little giggle, making Sander gaze at him more deeply than he has in days, at the silky curls around his ears and the blinking hoop and the crescent dimples curved into his cheeks, and he’ll quietly rest his head on the slope of Robbe’s shoulder, a few tiny clearings of blue sky starting to appear in his overcast mind.

Showers

Back at home, he and Robbe linger in the hallway for a bit, their hair messy, the scent of fresh air in their clothes. When Robbe says that his green, sparkly eyes are coming back, Sander curls a few fingers in the front of Robbe’s shirt, feeling the firm plane of his stomach against his knuckles as he mumbles, “Shower.”

Some nights Sander can’t stand the mere idea of catching glimpses of himself in the mirror; hates the way he looks with his violet circles and dull, greasy hair. So Robbe will light a couple of candles, and they’ll undress in the dim orange glow and quietly get under the shower spray. And there, with Sander’s forehead resting against his own, Robbe will wash Sander’s hair and tell him that he looks beautiful in this light, while his fingers work in small, bone-melting circles. The near orgasmic pressure on his scalp helps reconnecting Sander’s mind and body, making him press up tightly against Robbe, finally diving back into the swirling, velvety heat that licks into every cell of his being.

“Thank you for… For staying with me,” he says between hushed breaths and light kisses. It falls clumsy from his lips, sounding graver than he intends it to, but Robbe, the angel soul that he is, moulds his answer into five words of pure reassurance that protectively wrap themselves around Sander’s heart.

“I’m going to marry you.”

Sander doesn’t cry. But he’s very damn close.

Reading

This one begins one night maybe a year into their relationship. While Robbe brushes his teeth, Sander wanders Robbe’s room, taking in the familiarity of it, running a hand over the forest green sweatshirt draped over his chair, trailing the edge of his desk with a few fingertips. When he reaches his set of shelves, he sees it wedged in between a plant and some school supplies: a book of bedtime stories filled with beautiful watercolour illustrations, the cover a painting of a dark blue night sky with a full moon reading for her stars over a little sleeping village. The spine is threadbare, seemingly from the countless times of being opened and closed. As he flicks through the crinkled pages, soft lips press against the nape of his neck and the back of his shoulder.

“Are you snooping around my room?” Robbe mumbles.

“Mhm,” Sander hums. “What’s this book?”

Twining his arms around Sander’s stomach from behind Robbe says, “When I was little my mama used to read these stories aloud for me at night. She was looking through some stuff the other day and found it again.” He hooks his chin over Sander’s shoulder. “It’s cute, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Very.” Sander glances back at Robbe with a squeezing feeling in his chest. “Did it make you fall asleep?”

Robbe smiles. “Every time.”

Sander drops his gaze back to the book, asking quietly, “Will you read for me?”

And Robbe brushes a “Sure” and a kiss behind his ear, tugging him along to the bed.

It’s something they do now: Robbe reading aloud for Sander whenever he feels low and doesn’t have many words to offer. Sander then tucks his head under Robbe’s chin, and Robbe tangles his fingers in his freshly washed and citrussy-smelling hair, scraping over his scalp in endless, soothing motions. Safe and sound, Sander listens to stories about naughty star-children, wizards flying about in rolled up rugs, and a Goodnight-ship with live stuffed animals as passengers. They flow over him like dripping streams of honey, Robbe’s voice lovely and wonderful and a little sleepy, and Sander tries so desperately to make his foggy brain hold onto the words.

Sometimes when the night air is cooling Sander’s room and Robbe feels a little cold, he’ll wear a thick hoodie to bed. Sander loves the scent and the comfy feel of the well-worn fabric under his palm, but sometimes he gets a little frowny and frustrated at having to fumble for his small waist; so Robbe pulls it off despite the goosebumps rising on his skin, and Sander presses his ear to his heart and tightens his hold around him, sharing his body heat his only job while he listens to stories from when Robbe was little. And Sander feels little too; but it’s something he allows himself. A few years ago, he didn’t dare dream that he’d ever have this with someone; didn’t think he even had this level of softness in himself.

But here he is. Here they are.

He has never wanted to be someone’s more than he does Robbe’s; it’s so clear that he belongs to him. And it’s crazy, Sander thinks. Because no matter how feeble and numb around the edges his body and mind feel, his love for Robbe is always right there in a molten pond at the core of him, and Sander could cry at the fact that his brain always lets him have that.

In the days following, when he finds that he has enough energy to send Robbe little dorky, flirty texts throughout the day, such as Bella woke me up with wet, sloppy kisses. Wish it was you or when you’re in the mood for a snack but you’re not there💔  with an attached photo of himself pouting at the open fridge, he knows that the darkness in his chest and brain is releasing its hold and taking flight.