Hello there! My name is Britany. 19. California. INFP. I love all things involving Harry Potter, Sherlock, The Vampire Diaries, Homestuck, The Hunger Games, The Avengers, True Blood, The Office, That '70s Show, Mulan, Stephen Colbert, Jon Stewart, fanfiction, and cats. Hope you enjoy :)
Pottermore: BloodHolly134

HUFFLEPUFF
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ohmycroft-holmes:

I still ship it

i ship the part that’s falling with the part that’s sinking 

Welcome to Tumblr: where we’ll actually ship sinking ships.

^REBLOGED JUST FOR THAT COMMENT

Most tragic of the otps

Just look at how they’re being ripped apart

And there’s nothing they or anyone else can do to stop it

It’s heartbreaking

That iceberg was such a cockblock.

It all happened so fast. One second we were together, happy as ever, gliding over the water without a care in the world. The next we were being ripped apart, probably never to see each other again. 

As the iceberg tore threw me I knew this would be the end; of the passengers, mine, and the love of my life…my other half’s, lives.

“Anic!” I called out, as our boards slowly fell apart, tearing us away from each other one by one.

“Yes, Tit,” she cried, desperately. I could hear in her voice that she was trying to be strong, but just as we were as a whole, she was crumbling herself. 
I felt myself being sucked into the water and I knew these would be our last words.

“I love you,” I whispered.

She couldn’t hear me over the screams and called out, asking me what I had said. But it was too late. I was going under.

I lost it at, “Yes, Tit.”

brightestbulb:

rosebouquetsfromhelena:

thechanceofsnow:

r3tros3xual:

loveis-unstoppable:

id-swim-the-ocean-for-youu:

These two were supposedly based on a real couple, who said they wouldn’t board a life boat as long as there were younger people still aboard the ship. They both went below deck, presumably to their room, and that’s the last time they were seen.

this part gets me every fucking time.

Ida & Isidor Straus, he was the co-owner of Macy’s department store. She wouldn’t get on the lifeboat without him. 

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be lucky enough to find someone to love to want to die with them.

This part and the part with the mother singing to her children gets to me more than when Jack dies. Because he dies and while that is tragic, Rose goes on and has a beautiful life. :/ Their story is an ultimately happy one.

;-; I hope I can find someone who is willing to stick with me through everything, even if it means we both go down together. 

So my Journalism teacher is a known Sherlockian 

tyllup:

reichenfeels:

and the following example sentence was just on our final exam:

“The tall man jumped off the hospital roof, but walked away with only a smile and a limp.”

I don’t even know how to feel about this.

I would have cried in the middle of that test. :l

Moffat "rules out" Jim's return 

madamephantom:

benedictfirecrotch:

DAMN YOU MOFFAT. DAMN YOUUUU!!!!!

mishas-wench:

“Why do I like angst so much?” I wailed as I voluntarily put my heart through a meat grinder over a fictional pairing.

asa-and-chloe:

My reactions when he said this:

motherfuckingmoriartyandme:

whitstableoyster:

crowleylaughingalonewithplants:

whitstableoyster:

king-of-napoleon-crime:

theravenclawwhofellfordrarry:

kalesgo:

theonlysanewoman:

That’s okay. I didn’t need to be happy today. Who needs happiness? That crap is overrated.

Oh yeah I don’t give a shit about the fact i’m choking on the bloody tears falling down my face. I’m dying I’m dying Gawsh leave me alone with my tears.

Shit I can’t help this. It hurts so much.

this was me when watching the video…. I was crying so hard. 

OOC: Instead of a WHY WOULD YOU POST SOMETHING LIKE THAT?!?!?!?!?!?! Gif, I want one that says WHY WOULD YOU FUCKING MAKE SOMETHING LIKE THIS TO FUCKING TORTURE EVERYONE IN THE FANDOM THAT HAS READ/SEEN/HEARD OF THIS FIC! FUCK 

I’ll love you for a thousand more.
Scuse me.
Need to cry. 

I read this fic

and cried like a baby

I still read it once a week or so. It’s perfectly written, really.

*sobbing* How many times have I seen this? About 1400, but every time I still sob like mad.

This fandom will be the death of me.

freecocaine:

ununpentium:

#during the three years that john thought sherlock was dead #holmes dyed his hair and became an actor #and came up with the most complicated name he could think of #benedict cumberbatch

John sees the actor Benedict Cumberbatch on television. He sees the posters for Frankenstein outside the National Theatre and it makes his heart stop. He rings Lestrade with his hands trembling, telling him to pull up an image of Benedict on his computer. He hears Lestrade sighing on the other end of the phone, Lestrade asks John how long this will continue. He suggests John makes another appointment with Ella.

John walks home in the rain with his head down.

On his way past HMV he sees the poster for Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. He purchases the DVD with his heart hammering in his chest, runs home and scrambles over the detritus scattered around the living room of 221b he did not have the energy to clear away. As he watches the film he does not notice the tears that fall steadily down his face. It’s Sherlock. He knows that now. It’s him. It’s okay that they can’t be together, not yet, because it’s enough that Sherlock’s alive.

screwtheprinceimtakingthehorse:

theofficegirl:

godtiss:

inspector-radio:

And my heart ached ;;;;

He manages to convince himself that it’s the right thing to do.

Three years to the day since the death of London’s greatest mind, since the death of the world’s only consulting detective, since the death of the great Sherlock Holmes.

Three years to the day since the death of John Watson’s best friend, and the pain of it has not been dulled by a single passing moment. He is tired. So, so tired.

He looks out over the rooftops, out over London. Below him, the world moves on, takes no notice the small figure standing on the ledge of Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital.

Three years, to the day. It’s oddly poetic, if he were inclined to such sentiments. He tells himself that he’s doing what’s best – he hasn’t been the same since Sherlock died, hasn’t laughed and hardly ever smiles. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson tried, at first. He’d invite John out for a pint, she’d bring him tea in the mornings.

Nothing helped. Eventually they got the message.

John moved out of Baker Street two months later. Found himself a small flat he was able to afford on his army pension and whatever money he managed to make at the surgery, on the days he decided to show up.

Sarah was understanding. She put up with him longer than he could have asked for.

Now he’s jobless. Nearly homeless. Living off of tea and crap telly to numb his mind. No one to miss him because he’s pushed everyone away and the only person who really mattered, John buried three years before.

He tells himself it’s the right thing to do. Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted him to, but Sherlock’s not there to tell him so. That’s the problem.

On the street below, no one takes notice of the man on the roof who spreads his arms wide, feeling the breeze telling of distant rain whisper against his exposed skin. He looks down – it doesn’t seem so far, I wonder if this is what he felt like, maybe I can ask him soon – takes a deep breath.

John Watson closes his eyes. Leans forward. Feels himself begin to fall-

-is violently snatched from behind, strong arms curling around his chest, yanking him back.

His savior doesn’t let go when they tumble backwards, landing hard on the building below them. John breathes deeply, evenly through his nose, does not open his eyes. The feel of those arms around his chest is oddly comforting, the scratch of wool on his cheek distracting, the scent of tea and unidentifiable chemicals familiar…

John opens his eyes, sees nothing but the sky thinly veiled by clouds. The arms around him remove themselves. His savior shifts.

Suddenly the sky is replaced by two pale eyes, half-lidded and grieving.

“You were going to jump after me,” Sherlock says. It’s the first time John can remember hearing the great detective say something so obvious.

OMG

Oh, for the love of—

realparadoxsocks:

theoncomingsulk:

saathi1013:

cocokat:

The first time John met Mary, it was four months after Sherlock’s suicide. She was visiting his clinic, complaining of odd pains. Mary instantly recognized him; she had been an avid reader of his blog. Apparently, Sherlock had solved the case of her missing father several years before John had met the man.

She told him quit honestly that she couldn’t believe that Sherlock had been lying about her father. She believed.

He prescribes her some painkillers and tells her to return if the pain is back.

—-

The second time John meets Mary, it is several weeks after he saw her first. The pain has returned, worse than before. But Mary is a strong woman, almost frustratingly stubborn in John’s opinion. Their meeting lasts longer than it should, due to John regaling her with a story of one of Sherlock’s exploits. The pain of the loss of one of the best men John has ever known is beginning to calm to a dull ache.

Mary leaves the clinic with a date in her calendar to have an ultrasound, and a date of an entirely different kind.

—-

John thinks he’s in love.

Mary thinks so too.

Mary also knows she has a tumor.

—-

They get married in the spring, almost a year after Sherlock’s death. Mary is a joy to be around, despite her illness. She’s strong. It’s because of Mary hat John decides to turn the cases he was on with Sherlock into full-blown novels. Mary helps him get them published.

Due to the media frenzy over the ‘fraudulent detective’, it’s no surprise that John’s stories are bestsellers in less than a year. He spends a lot of his money to tend to Mary. Eventually, he leaves his job at the clinic to care for her, the money arriving from his books more than enough to sustain them. 

Sometimes John hates being a doctor. He knows when it is impossible to survive a fall, how to check a pulse. He knows how to sew a man’s entrails back into his body.

He knows the survival rate of people with an advanced stage of stomach cancer.

—-

Mary passes away nearly three years after Sherlock. John has run out of tears.

For a month he wants to do nothing but lie in bed, silent, too scared to fall asleep and have the nightmares return.

Until one day, when he visits the graveyard where the two greatest people he had ever known lie. 

Suddenly, strong arms wrap around his neck from behind. He is too shocked to retaliate with his battle-bred instincts. And the feel of the wool, the smell of chemicals and something else he can’t quite place, is all too familiar, although the fact that they were shaking with what he believed was grief was fairly new.

“I am so very sorry, John.”

FUCK

godtiss:

alicexz:

You’re on the side of the angels…

I seriously pictured this when he got up on the ledge though. Through my tears, of course.

I may be on the side of the angels but don’t think for one second that I am one of them.

John doesn’t hear those words, spoken through clenched teeth on the roof of St. Barts. He’s in a cab, three minutes away – cursing the London traffic, cursing his own gullibility, cursing Sherlock because he knows that something is very, very wrong.

John doesn’t hear those words, but if he had, he would have strongly disagreed.

He’s always been able to see Sherlock’s wings – wide and vibrant, with feathers of pure gold faded into silver at the tips. They tower over him when Sherlock stands, angry or agitated or excited. They swoop low and drape over the both of them when they stand together in the rain at crime scenes. Sherlock’s wings envelop him when John can see his thoughts turned inwards, droop when he’s complaining about boredom.

John can’t imagine Sherlock without them, even while the rest of the world continues to turn uninterrupted, seems oblivious to the angel that walks among them.

He’s out of the cab as soon as it stops outside of the hospital. His phone rings.

“John.”

And Sherlock’s there, on the roof with his wings spread wide behind him, nearly swallowing his figure as the sun catches in the feathers and John has to wonder how anyone can’t see them for how bright they are.

He’s learned to read the set of Sherlock’s wings, knows what emotions plague that brilliant mind perhaps better than Sherlock himself knows. John can see the fear etched in the feathers and muscles and bones, can see the doubt, the grief, the quiet apology.

“Goodbye, John.” 

John had always been able to see Sherlock’s wings. He never saw Sherlock use them to fly.