I just had a nightmare about Benedict Cumberbatch living in my attic. It was a particularly vicious colony of Cumberbatch according to the pest control specialist. Cumberbatch’s green-tinted honey was beginning to leak through the ceiling, too, damaging the structural integrity.
I politely asked him and his scions to get out of my attic but he refused. What an asshole.
Sherlock and a chubby Natu.
#ah yes #it’s a seth #with a #seth
omg
 destinationtoast: How did you and Seth meet? How did Texts get started? | I’m pretty sure I’ve told the story of how Seth and I met before, but I can’t find it! The simplified version is that he commented on a story I wrote on LJ when we were both in the Black Butler fandom, and then I stalked his roleplay account and was like woah, this kid can write. We chatted a bit on LJ, but I didn’t roleplay—until I got so attached to the character he was writing that I swooped in with a character of my own to save him. The rest, as they say, is history. I think Texts got started because I was bored during one of my work shifts one day and IM’ed him asking, “Are there any good text-only ask blogs for Sherlock and John?” At that point, we’d been writing Sherlock and John together, privately, for a couple of months. Anyway, we looked, and there weren’t, so we made one. |
Capped this so I could have it on my blog for reference.
(As an addendum, I can only see Mycroft ending up in Slytherin, which I think would make Sherlock determined not to be sorted there.)
Seth: He claims there’s an Act 4, but like half of the cast is dead
Seth: Typical Rick
Chel: for a second i thought you were talking about homestuck
Seth: no
Chel: from all I can tell, “he claims there’s an act 4 but half the cast is dead” sounds like a summary of homestuck
Seth: Yes
“Hey, man, we’re sorry,” says the blonde one, the de facto leader of the group. He’s tall, strong, conventionally handsome, no older than 25, and wearing an ascot that must have been a gift from an older female. (Mother? Sister? Then again, it could be his girlfriend over there…) ”If we’d known about someone else investigating this place, we would’ve cut out a lot sooner.”
Sherlock just shrugs one shoulder—and suppresses a wince because it still hurts. ”I haven’t any interest in collaboration, but you weren’t completely underfoot.”
”What Sherlock means to say,” John adds (unhelpfully), “is that you saved our lives and we thank you for it.” He shoots a warm, relieved smile at Sherlock, which Sherlock has to appreciate a little bit. Just a little.
The blonde one laughs out loud, still shaky from the adrenaline rush of the past hour. Between giggles, he admits, “I wasn’t much of a help at all. You’d have to thank him for getting us out of that sticky situation.” He gestures with his thumb (a lifetime of playing American football, it looks like) at the group of twenty-somethings giving testimonies to Lestrade.
”Him” refers to the proud-looking Great Dane (purebreed) that’s busy sniffing around Lestrade’s feet. Against all odds, despite displaying abject cowardice earlier in the evening, that dog single-handedly prevented a deranged bootlegger from killing everyone. In retrospect, the entire sequence of events leading up to now almost seems cartoonish in its improbability. Sherlock still isn’t sure what happened actually did happen. Maybe John was right about that concussion.
”He’s saved our butts more times than I can count,” the blonde one is saying. ”We’re way used to it by now, trust me.”
