#the circle sh

[jesuis-assez]

↠ Tim & Lucy ↳ 2x10 - The Dark Side

[holmesxwatson]

“Education never ends, Watson. It is a series of lessons, with the greatest for the last.”

[fogdraws]

A Softening of The Brain

A Sherlock Holmes fanfiction based in "The Valley of Fear"

“John.” The sound of my first name stopped me on my tracks; Holmes never used it, as did the costume go. “Would you be afraid,” he whispered, “to sleep in the same bed of a lunatic, a man with a softening of the brain, an idiot whose mind has lost its grip?” This could have so many implications, so many ways to interpret it, but no matter what sense I made of it, there was only one answer. “Not in the least,” I said with some difficulty, regaining the breath I had lost before. “Sherlock, I'd never leave you.” That, I turned to regret just after it came out of my lips — too revealing. Or... what if that scene from the canon had another meaning? One that's more... romantic.

Or... Read it down here! vvvv

It were odd times, the days I'd passed at Birlstone, investigating the murdering of Mr. Douglas. Odd would not suffice; I had witnessed some things that I would really rather not.

Now the moon was high and I laid down in a double-bed — the best we could find in this small thing they call town — with a book resting on my lap, its words stubborn to be read. My mind, nevertheless, was still racing, taking every chance to turn to Holmes’ being: what would the man be doing right now?

It is of Holmes' doing, this disappear-first-explain-after situation that keeps doing numbers to my heart, as much as it is of my doing to let myself worry about him. How could I be tranquil when I don't know of his well-being?

The detective had gone out after saying something very sparse about the case — mysterious and dramatic, just like always. Maybe he'd come back today, maybe tomorrow, maybe a week from now. No one knows; sometimes I think that neither does he.

I had just put the book onto the bedside table when I heard Holmes’ shoes hit the ground: slow and light, much like he does when he knows I’m supposed to be asleep. Of course, he knows I’m not. He knows pretty much everything — lying is not an option really, but you can make do with omitting half of the facts and hoping he’ll buy it.

Accepting the false as truth for your own self, sometimes, serves as a better lie than conjuring anything new. Protecting it, controlling yourself where you can, and letting yourself when it’s convenient to do so. That, I should say, I have acquired quite the ability to do since I’ve come to live with Holmes.

The old door clicks open and Holmes’ face pops out of the slit of light that comes out of it. His thin aquiline nose is beautifully contoured by the dim illumination, making his face look absolutely otherworldly against the brute finishing of the inn’s walls; I ended up staring for more than would be adequate. The world was still hazy from my tiredness, and the words, hard on my tongue.

“Hey, Holmes”, I started, “have you found anything out yet?” His tall, lean figure turned away for a second, sending my mind into a rush, longing for his gaze: I hadn’t seen him enough, observed him enough. The excuse I created then was that I worried only for his well-being, that I’d felt the need to look over for any wounds as is the first instinct of a proper doctor. That would be set to be a doubtful truth for me and for the world.

My eyes are startled as a dim candle is lighted by those delicate, though strong, fingers of Holmes’, sending me flinching slightly, the sleep still washing out my mind and senses. All of the sudden, he is coming closer to me; I sit up.

Now, I’m wide awake — his head is so close to mine that I can feel his controlled breathing. Holmes certainly doesn’t feel mine, for it had stopped completely at some unknown point, out of some feeling I couldn’t acknowledge without it becoming too evident.

I take in his face, his smell, his heat: no one would look at him from a distance and think Holmes a man of such comforting ways. As little as his sole presence was enough so that you could relax and feel like yourself again. This man really is majestic.

“John.” The sound of my first name stopped me on my tracks; Holmes never used it, as did the costume go. “Would you be afraid,” he whispered, “to sleep in the same bed of a lunatic, a man with a softening of the brain, an idiot whose mind has lost its grip?”

This could have so many implications, so many ways to interpret it, but no matter what sense I made of it, there was only one answer. “Not in the least,” I said with some difficulty, regaining the breath I had lost before. “Sherlock, I'd never leave you.” That, I turned to regret just after it came out of my lips — too revealing.

“Ah, that's lucky,” was the last thing any one of us uttered that night. Maybe both of us were afraid of what could come out of further conversation. I, certainly, was.

In the most absolute silence — Holmes had this kind of disturbing ability to do little to no noise — and in almost pure darkness, he started undressing himself slowly, until only the boxers remained. This inn of ours, see, had the worst bathrooms any of us had ever seen (and that says a lot, considering that we both had our fair share of doubtful stayings), which made changing inside them virtually impossible.

That meant we had to change in the room, something that wasn’t really a problem before, since we made the effort to be alone while doing so. But now, I deduced, it was too late at night. And we were tired. And we weren’t seeing much because of the darkness. And we were friends, for god’s sake! Two men, just that. Partners, only at work.

A nightgown was put over his long body. I turned my face towards the wall: allowing myself to such temptation was not an option. To Holmes, probably, this was an act done with no ulterior motives, but to me, oh, to me, it was torture! A display of everything I could never dream to have, right in front of my nose. Sherlock seemed embarrassed too; the whole ordeal was done quickly, and I am grateful, for if it was to go on for longer still, I would bear it no more.

The bed was a double one, but still rather small. I’d suggested that I sleep on the floor, but Holmes refused, claiming that the hard floor would cause my shoulder to hurt. Then, he said he’d do it instead, but I also didn’t let him. We had stared at each other for some seconds, before going back to whatever we had been doing before; the decision was made, and there was little to do but accept it.

The candle was unlit: we were now in complete darkness.

A newly-familiar weight settled just beside me on the bed, moving the covers until they covered us nicely. The atmosphere was cold, but in this old small place — full of cracks and pests and whatnot, the air dusty with misuse — I felt more than sufficiently warm. Comfortable. Cosy. Holmes' knees gently touched my sides, and somehow his hand ended up close to my arm, knuckles barely touching my bare skin; I dared not to move.

When I woke up, Holmes was closer, much like we gravitated towards each other during the night: just enough that I could feel his breath on my shoulder, his hand laying limp on my chest and moving with the rise and fall of it. It was impossible to say which one of us did it. Maybe both.

Laying very still, should I wake him up, I admired the mess of strands that was Holmes' hair. Dark and flowy, they framed his face nicely as if each one of them were just meant to be there.

I dared to push a loc off of his eyes. At that, they opened, causing me great panic — which I would not dare to show — grey irises barely visible before closing again in a lazy motion. Holmes' slumber is light, I should've remembered. The palm of his hand stiffened and was swiftly removed from where it laid.

Minutes later, the detective jumped off the bed and went on to his day, like nothing ever happened this last night. I accompanied him, as I always do, and it was a great day with great discoveries, as it always is with him. But I would not let it be.

I got in the room first; Holmes had gone on another errand I'd never hear the resolution. Sat upon the bedsheets, I awaited his presence in uncontained anxiety, mind trying to make sense of what I had heard yesterday. What had he meant with it? My thoughts kept turning to improbable possibilities, which I quickly shut down, only for them to arise, once again, minutes later — things that were but figments of my fierce imagination. Images of bare shoulders, parted lips and thin hands aroused my mindscape at every opportunity; this man, Holmes, tested all and every one of my limits without even knowing he was doing so.

After what seemed an eternity, Holmes' figure entered the room with an unprecedented heaviness. Living with the detective had its advantages: since staying at Baker Street, I had become more observant, and did as much as picking up some skills from him. As my heart raced, I looked up and saw his face go through a plethora of emotions when spotting me, like his did the very same. “Are we not discussing what you said yesterday? At night.” I said, words hard to find in an aching throat.

Holmes gave a violent start. “I did not mean anything by it, for I didn't think before talking.” The detective finished his point with the clink of metal on wood, putting down the candle he held with force. It almost went out. “It's best you forget it ever happened, Watson.”

“No, we are not letting this pass. Holmes, hear me. No one says something like this with no end in mind. You must be aware I'm here for you. Always. Forever.”

“Do not press your head to this matter, Watson. It isn't worth your time.”

“Was it about the way I write your character in The Strand? I do not think you of any bad. I am not leaving you, no matter which kind of insane you must think you are. What would be so dire that it’d make me flee?”

“Please, John.”

“It's only for the public! You know that. You've said it yourself: I romanticise everything, see facts that aren't there; make up thoughts I didn’t have. Omit the ones I have, even!”

There was a pause; silence. Silence, only in words, for his mind seemed ever so active, and he made it as to go away, exit the room more than once, never going through the action of fully turning around. Holmes’ lips parted a few times before he was able to direct his speech at me again.

“It's not that, Watson.” A pause. “It is that I am no normal person. Should anyone see me as myself, I would be promptly dead, and my reputation, ruined. You needn't have any more preoccupation than what you already have with this case.” At that, Holmes turned his head around to face anything but me.

“Then I don't know what to think anymore. Is this what you want of me? Confusion?” My voice cracked in distress. I didn't notice when I had gotten up, nor when I’d placed myself so close to Holmes’ figure. The candle flickered, encasing him in periods of light and shadow; but never taking away those eyes, that mouth, that nose, all features as though they were sculpted by the most skillful of artists.

“No! It is, John, that you matter so much to me, that you make me sick of the heart, of the brain and of the body.” That forced a breath out of my ribcage; my mind raced with no ending line.

“I… what?”

Holmes seemed physically struck with the realisation of what he had really professed, the gravity of his words. For a man whose whole ordeal was calculating the possibilities — the words — before doing — saying — anything, he sure did look surprised by his own self, eyes darting all over me in a panicked frenzy: deducing what I would say or do next. Holmes had told me, before, that I was one of the few people he couldn’t read all that easily. That made me interesting, according to him.

What I would say next was, indeed, a good question. I, myself, had no idea what to think. Blood pumped through my veins quickly, and I felt hot all over — had Holmes meant what I thought he did? I took one, two steps closer to Holmes' figure; our hands brushed slightly, sending chills down my spine. “Sherlock.”

Holmes backed away slightly from me. “This is wrong,” he warned in a sorrowful tone, much like he mourned something that could never be his. Something I also did for the longest while, since meeting the detective; discovering we both felt the same agony, over the same problem, was positively soothing.

I glanced at Holmes lips — thin, but almost welcoming, as if they were meant to meet mine. “I know.”

“You're staying?”

I placed both hands on Holmes’ clothed chest; it rose and fell erratically, almost in synchrony with the beating of the heart that lay inside it. Mine must’ve been doing the same.

“Only if you want me to.”

Holmes’ lithe hands moved to cover my own, holding them tight. We were close, closer than we had ever been, as the detective inched forward and did what I had yearned for so long: our lips met and gave way to a chaste kiss, leaving me breathless and desperate for more.

“Oh, I surely do,” Holmes answered before pressing his lips against me again, this time more passionate. I let mine part, allowing his tongue to slip inside, and kissed back. It was better than anything I could ever imagine, heat surging deep in my body as we moved in unison.

That night, we went to bed early, but not to sleep.

[shayne6790]

me !

[itsmewahoo]

she doesnt get it :(

[stupidrant]

I personally really enjoyed Heimdall as an antogonist, he was pretty funny too. And the fact that his final battle with Kratos felt like a father beating the shit out of his son's bully made it even funnier.

Although, at the beginning I kinda expected the final fight to be between Heimdall and Atreus during Ragnarok, just like in the myths , because Heimdall is said to symbolise order while Loki is an agent of chaos (he literally called him "chaos in an archer suit"). But it's also understandable that it didn't happen. Atreus still has a long way to go before defeating an actual god by himself (Modi doesn't count, he was unable to fight back at that moment)

Anyway, back to Heimdall, I've read some theories that said that even if he survived Ragnarok, redeeming him would be impossible because he's under a spell. Odin is seen using a spell on the Einherjar when they arrive at Asgard to help them remember who they were in life, but we're talking about Odin, so he isn't very trustworthy. What if it's actually an obedience spell? The spell give the Einherjar purple glowing eyes, just like Heimdall's. It would also make sense for Odin to do that to make sure one of his most OP sons won't betray him like Tyr did. So post!Ragnarok Heimdall would still want to kill us like the remaining Einherjar.

But that's just a theory.

As hateable as Heimdall can be, he's a very interesting character. Still, I can't take the people that woobify him seriously... But everyone has their own taste, who am I to judge?🤷🏽‍♀️

like i said before, im quite neutral on heimdall tbh. I always thought he's secretly suffering with the fact he sees things before it happens and can never have genuine relationships because of it and maybe him being an asshole is him sort of hiding it or to cope with it?? probably a unpopular opinion but i do think heimdall and baldur are better villains than odin tbh lol

[dandyshucks]

blinks tiredly. i decide "hm maybe i should try to expand my circle and step outside of it a little, lets go look at the main community tags" and im just greeted with a bunch of edgelords who think saying "fiction doesn't affect reality, don't like don't read" is peak activism and "fighting censorship". head in my hands. this is partially why i do not ever go into the community tags, my nervous system cannot handle blocking fifty weirdos every single day just so i can have a normal experience in the community tags hfdsjkl

[toestalucia]

would u like to talk about main story

[jareauwalker]

girls when they're spiralling and have nothing to distract themselves with so they're just in it™️ <33333

[enhypendata]

© 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐘𝟐 do not edit/crop logo

[tiredassmage]

dav thoughts misc. edition

(if you will)

there's a few other assorted things that fuck me up about having played my canon/first run of veilguard through as tyr that i don't think i have the full ability to word properly atm and i'm not sure when or if i will, so i'll suffice with a shorter(? we'll see how bad i ramble) list.

for one, the recurrent themes of grief and change and regret are just. delicious. and exactly the kind of shit tyr's baked out of or into or however you wanna say it in his ~original media presence (swtor), so it's absolutely incredible to watch it come up so often in veilguard. i figured he'd fit really well and naturally into rook's role and i wasn't disappointed. one day i could probably make a screenshot dialogue collection of it all, but i also know my own motivation for that kinda thing, so that's. a fairly big project i just don't think i'll ever actually complete but it lives in my mind.

the second is that it is massively fucked up after the twist in the end that his dragon age verse tag is a line of varric's from inquisition and i am still crying and sniffling about it intermittently because there's no way i could've known about that. and god it works painfully well. there better be a damn good punchline, varric says. hold my beer and watch this, said veilguard.

neve and him still drive me up a wall (positive). i want to chew on electric cables or something about it. she's incredible and i love her. and it's incredible the kind of... parallels if you will that are in her and tyr's relationship and to some of the relationships he's had elsewhere (shara jenn, anyone? yeah. i'm still not over my watcher two feelies and neither is tyr). the only explanation i can think of for why i didn't predict how down bad i'd (and... tyr, tbh) be for her is because i didn't dig a whole lot into the material immediately before release bc i just wanted to have fun when i got my hands on the game. they have similarities to each other, and neve's own struggle draws out a really interesting Thing tyr does about... where his love and beliefs sorta come together. honestly, part of why he falls so fucking hard for her is because she's on the edge of letting him jump off the i love you cliff, uncertain if she should let either of them take the risk of actually saying it. i think a lot of it is exactly that neve gallus knows the kind of loyalty that's in that man. she wants to believe him when he says they'll figure it out, but they're up against impossible odds, and he is trouble, for her, because she knows the kind of lengths someone like him is willing to go to. he'll see this through to the end, whatever it takes, because that was a promise. and he'll apply that same level of dedication to whatever it is he feels for her. [inhales] god they're so fucking good, brent.

i'm probably forgetting other things but. again. short rambly list just to kind of get it out of my skull and remember to share it because i want to even if all the words won't word completely how i kinda know they are in my head, lol.

i also have developing feelings about rook #2 (welcome back theo, the man the myth the legend most of you probably haven't met but i love him) and it's doing really interesting things about family and performance pressure and fitting in with him that, again, brain refuses to fully articulate atm. but they're in there. gnawing on what it's doing to the crow background for me w/him.

bites the keyboard etc etc.

[caged-dreamland]

Happy Birthday, Bonnie!! 🎉

I drew this up so fast because I needed these two in the same frame, and also it's their birthday, so I speed ran this. Nightingale and Bonnie are celebrating with way too many energy drinks and a cake she made that is off-screen.

Bonnie belongs to @dollycvnt 💕💕

[fogdraws]

Just finished The Valley of Fear and it was great but I gotta confess that the McMurdo story was so long that I started to forget what was the main story

[tal-vez-o-quizas]

Are they f*cking with us?

Some Bylers have used Dawson's Creek as a Byler reference and inspo many times, even mentioning how The Duffers love it and they pulled this crap?

Watch them post something about One Tree Hill, another show Bylers have used as Byler reference and for parallels, lol.

[koushirouizumi]

{R.E.B.O.R.N} - T H E O R I Z I N G ~ P A R A L L E L Worlds + Y A M A M O T O & B Y A K U R A N + G E N K I S H I S Death + TYL!Y A M A M O T O

Inheritance Ceremony!Y A M A M O T O -> T.Y.L

"T H I S Will D e c i d e {It}."

B O N U S:

"{T S U N A}, Why don't you T a k e a l i t t l e B r e a k?"

"THIS will D e c i d e I t..."

"If I can get {t h e m} with {T H I S} IT'S--" "{G A M E} & {S e t}!!" A.K.A. C o n c e p t s For S t o r i e s I'll N e v e r? -- Be Able to W r i t e...?!

{Cap'd by Me} (A S K to Use)

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

do i find it more distressing when i see op is a minor, or when i see they're over eighteen and still in these circles