Never quite thought we could lose it all
daniel’s last words before he gets raped
o daniel you are certainly different
At least he said he loves his mommy c;
Then he turned into CockatooMan
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See, the small thing about Benedict is when he talks to you, you have his absolute full attention. It’s rather lovely really. Like this gif.
au meme → sherlock learnt to play piano as a child
(the song i imagine him playing [x])
As far as he can remember, Sherlock hasn’t sat on a piano’s bench for over ten years.
Since he left uni he hasn’t had access to a piano; the one he used to play was old but in good shape, always tuned and well maintained. It belonged to the university, of course, so when it was his time to leave, he had to leave it as well. Parting wasn’t as bittersweet as he imagined - leaving behind his violin, his instrument of preference, would have been more difficult than the piano. Still, to leave to live somewhere without a piano meant to go without playing one.
Ten years, and he’s seen plenty of pianos in houses of victims or suspects, but none as alluring as the one catching his attention from the corner of the room.
They were a rich family - the Hodgins’s, or something similar. Large estate, very clearly expensive, all five of them found dead in their respective rooms. Yes, a pity, such lovely people, so generous too - what was that about internal decapitation? Yes, plans will have to be made.
He and John have just been allowed access to the rest of the house, having previously only been allowed in the rooms of the victims and a few extraneous corridors that were required to gain access to said rooms. Fifteen minutes, Lestrade said, and Sherlock has at least thirteen to spare if he wants to finish on time.
Strolling across the room and making himself look busy - pressing a fingertip to the corner of a desk and lifting couch skirts with the toe of his shoe - Sherlock makes his way up to the piano. A rich family, indeed; it’s a Steinway & Sons grand, finished and polished and sparkling - no dust, music folders tucked away neatly, comfortable-looking bench. Sherlock runs a gloved finger over the surface like there’s evidence somewhere here, but all he can gather from it is that the daughter was a musician; there’d been a clarinet case in her room, but nothing of the sort in her brother’s.
Glancing over his shoulder at John, Sherlock allows himself to sidle onto the bench. The piano won’t lead him anywhere, he’s positive, so he removes his gloves and sets them aside, gently settling his fingertips against the immaculately clean keys.
The feeling in his chest is tugging and urging, fingers lifting and then falling again. He hasn’t played for ten years and he has no idea why he wants to now, but with a straightening of his posture, his hands begin of their own accord and start a melody that grows from the back of his mind.
Across the room, John stops his search through an oversized bookshelf and looks behind him at Sherlock. The song drifting and reverberating through the sparsely filled lounge is soft and almost hesitant, high and repetitive, and oh, it’s Sherlock. Sherlock plays piano.
John turns around and takes a quiet step forward, careful not to allow his shoes to echo on the hardwood floor. The melody grows and finally begins mixing in some lower register notes, and John feels a soaring sensation in his chest. He’s never heard Sherlock play something as gentle as this on his violin - the violin is his outlet, normally for anger, but this. Well, it’s music.
Head tilted in something akin to concentration, Sherlock’s hands almost float over the keys with how quickly and gently they travel. He’s enveloped - can’t even tell that John is practically just behind him as he plays. He knows that he has a time limit and that when this is finished he’ll only have three minutes left, but he’s already started, and now cannot stop.
He remembers his mother beginning to teach him this before she got sick; he kept the sheet music after she died, memorised it. His father used to have him play, sometimes, before he went away for secondary school. It’s coming to him easily, still stuffed away in nooks and crannies he never cleans out. His fingers sometimes hesitate, but he never falters. John doesn’t even seem to be able to drop his jaw in amazement. He just gazes at the man in awe.
As the melody begins to taper off and Sherlock’s hands come to a stop, John works his jaw for a moment before simply stating, “You never told me you could play.”
Sherlock smirks at the piano’s keys and absently plays a few chords. “You never asked.”
These are the heroes of our generation.
Is he blowing invisible bubbles? Way to keep your evil image, Satan.
aww satan u so cute
just think about this for a sec
no one in the history of humanity before now has ever thought or uttered the words “aww satan u so cute”
s a t a n
satan being cute
satan blowing imaginary bubbles and being cute
i think this says something meaningful about the people we’ve become
AU: Amy and Eleven as flatmates who engage in the usual shenanigans, bickering, and brawl that occurs between two people who live together. In other words, similar to an old married couple who bickers and argues, because SECRETLY MARRIED.
#ooh #says the man who thinks everyone is needed #says ‘in nine hundred years of time and space i’ve never met someone who wasn’t important before #loves everyone so completely has such faith in humanity #values life so so much #he’s met so many amazing people #seen so many amazing things #of course he values life #just not /his/