We spend so much time reading fanfic and theorizing this show that we forget who Sherlock Holmes really is. He’s a man who picks on others’ sex lives as a way to joke around and fit in. He’s a man who - contrary to what he’d want everyone to believe - actually has friends he cares deeply about. He’s a man who knows he’s physically attractive. He’s a man who laughs deep and long, who hugs and kisses his landlady, who spends his life helping people and asking no payment in return. He’s a genius with a lot of baggage but he loves and feels deeper than most people do, which is why he thinks he needs to squash his emotions so often. He’s threatened by his sentiment because it IS a large, overbearing part of himself. He knows this, which is why he overcompensates by parading around as a sociopath who doesn’t understand sentiment at all so no one will ask him about it. Sherlock is the man who urged everyone at the wedding to cheer up because he made them unreasonably sad and didn’t want to see them cry. He’s the man who almost started crying along with a client who cried talking about her date that didn’t properly end things with her. He’s the man who held a client’s hand and offered comforting support as she explained the loss of the love of her life. He’s the man who urged a gay woman to come out of the closet to her family because love and happiness are what matter in the end. He isn’t afraid to touch John, kiss Molly’s cheek, or receive hugs. When John hugs him during his best man speech, Sherlock acts as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. He even keeps talking to the crowd while John’s arms are still around him! He was comfortable enough to carry on with John’s arm around him. Affection isn’t something scarce and foreign to Sherlock, and it certainly doesn’t frighten him. He’s afraid of pain, heartbreak, loss, death - the things Moriarty spit at him in his mind palace - which are common with getting too close to someone. Sherlock is a man with impulses and a porn preference, with friends and feelings. Sherlock is not a cold, calculating machine. Sherlock is not a brain without a heart. Sherlock is an ordinary man.
Honestly, as a German I can not quite understand the obsession of the English speaking world with the question whether a word exists or not. If you have to express something for which there is no word, you have to make a new one, preferably by combining well-known words, and in the very same moment it starts to exist. Agree?
Deutsche Freunde, could you please create for me a word for the extreme depression I feel when I bend down to pick up a piece of litter and discover two more pieces of litter?
um = around
die Welt = world
die Umwelt = environment
ver = prefix to indicate something difficult or negative, a change that leads to deterioration or even destruction that is difficult to reverse or to undo, or a strong negative change of the mental state of a person
der Müll = garbage, trash, rubbish, litter
-ung = -ing
die Vermüllung = littering
ver- = see before
zweifeln = to doubt
-ung = see before
die Verzweiflung = despair, exasperation, desperation
die Umweltvermüllungsverzweiflung = …
This is a german compound on the spot master class and I am LIVING
Brooklyn Nine Nine and Marvel crossovers are like MY DREAM
PLEASE
Oh my GOD. PLEASE PLEASE
OK NO BUT IMAGINE:
Captain Holt: Do you find your job consists of shepherding a variety of eccentric toddlers in the vague direction of justice?
Nick Fury: HELL yes.
Captain Holt: Then it’s agreed: our teams should never socialise. Pure policework, nothing else.
Nick Fury: [peering through a crack in the blinds as Jake takes a selfie with Hawkeye] That might prove difficult.
-
Rosa: So. Spill. What’s the coolest thing you ever used to kill a guy?
Black Widow: Well, this one time in Moscow, I -
Captain Holt: THERE WILL BE NO COLLUDING IN MY PRECINCT!
-
Thor: My friend, it doesn’t matter the strength in your muscles, though I’ll grant that they’re impressive. Only the worthy can lift Mjolnir.
Terry: Oh, I’m worthy! You wanna know how worthy I am? Hitchcock and Scully stole my last mango yoghurt, and I haven’t beaten them to death with a chair leg!
-
Amy: Not to alarm anyone, but I think Gina just dragged Tony Stark into a supply closet.
Rosa: Nice.
Captain Holt: Oh dear god in Heaven.
Nick Fury: Gina is… your secretary?
Captain Holt: Ostensibly, yes.
Nick Fury: The one who called me Eyepatch when we first came in, then asked if I’d ever considered managing a dance troop?
Captain Holt: That would be the one.
Nick Fury [stares at supply closet]: Assuming they make it out alive, I’ll trade you him for her.
Captain Holt: Back off, Eyepatch.
Nick Fury: Worth a shot.
-
Bruce: So, uh. You work here?
Amy: Yes.
Bruce: Voluntarily?
Amy: Yes.
Bruce [gesturing at the chaos of the precinct]: Like this?
Amy [sighing]: Yes.
Bruce: I know exactly what you mean.
Jake, yelling from off: HEY AMY, I JUST CHALLENGED THOR TO A JIMMY JABS LIGHTNING ROUND! WANNA COME CHEER ME ON?
Amy: Oh god.
Jake, still off: LIGHTNING ROUND, GET IT? BECAUSE HE’S THE GOD OF THUNDER?
Bruce: You, uh. Said something about some new binders?
Amy: Come this way. Walk fast, and don’t make eye contact.
-
Boyle [talking animatedly]: - and that’s my second favourite recipe for pannacotta, although I gotta say, sometimes it’s only my third because - are you sure you wanna hear this?
Hawkeye [with his hearing aids out, nodding cheerfully]: Please, continue!
A dating service where matching is based on people’s search history exists. You’re a serial killer. You go on a date with a writer.
Serial Killer: metaphorically, if you were to kill someone, how would you do it?
Writer: Air shot between the toes, it’ll look like a heart attack.
Serial Killer who is obviously in love already: *sucks in a breath* ok
Writer: how long would it take to die if you were to potentially stab someone in the guts
Serial killer: anywhere from 2 to 30 minutes
Writer, already bringing a ring out: *shaking* thanks
A++ addition
Writer: *shows the serial killer the murder scene they’re writing* babe, i’m not sure if this would actually work?
Serial killer: *kisses writer on the forehead and leaves, comes back later, a suspicious scent of blood coming off them* it works baby, you’re doing great
I LOVE THIS
Oh no, murder comedy is my jam
I love this, I love all of this, but quick question, does the author know? Like are they aware that their significant other is a serial killer or do they just think that they have a morbid sense of humor? It’d be even funnier if the author had no fucking clue, like how Aurthur Conan Doyle was apparently stupidly gullible, and on top of it they’re a horror or crime novelist. Like the serial killer works at a butcher shop or something so it’s completely normal for them to come home smelling like blood, no murders going on here, no sirey. Just my darling coming back home from a long day at work.
Now fast forward a bit and the author has managed to get their first book published, with loving support from the serial killer who helped them fine tune all the murder scenes, and it’s a big hit. Enough so that a detective with the local police department has noticed some disturbing similarities to several active cases, including details that were never released to the press. Obviously he brings this up to his superior and convinces him that there’s something to the theory, but it’s all circumstantial right now. He stakes out the author’s home and is super convinced that the author is the murderer, but they don’t seem to do anything??? Like they literally are at the house all day, that’s it. Most they do is leave for groceries.
So you get this dynamic of the serial killer mining the author for creative murder schemes, the author being lovingly encouraged by the serial killer, and finally the detective who is just so sure that the author is the killer and that if he sticks it out long enough he’ll FINALLY have proof.
This was George. He was a 9 year old Jack Russell who lived in the small town of Manaia, New Zealand. On April 29, 2007 he jumped into a losing fight with two Pit Bulls to protect two young children. According to witnesses he fought as hard as he could, but he never stood a chance and was severely mauled as the children were pulled to safety. George died from his wounds that afternoon at the vet.
