has been invaded by a group of owls (or a parliament, as it's also called).
These absolutely gorgeous Hogwarts owls were designed by Sash-kash over at Deviantart!
Hedwig's also included in the collection (middle), but my Hedwig has already moved to a friend of mine.
Eleven's hour is over now...
Mini Book Haul.
The bookmarks that The Book Depository are sending out now are actually designed by their customers, and they're insanely cute and clever.
Hot and Hotter.
Hogwarts is here!
You are now able to enroll at Hogwarts, collect your textbooks and begin taking our 9-week courses online. You can now progress through all seven years of schooling and be assigned a professor, homework assignments, quizzes and more.
Meet other students online by joining a House dormitory, chat with others in the Common Room, browse and contribute to the Hogwarts Library, collect chocolate frog cards, earn galleons & house points and so much more."
The marks humans leave are too often scars.
Sherlock Series 3: Behind the Scenes.
BBC buys Never Wipe Tears Without Gloves.
Adventure Time with Cyr.
1D Tattoos With Tyler Oakley.
Talk Whovian to me.
(not the very beginning, because those episodes are positively stone age).
I started from The Parting of the Ways, which is where the doctor regenerates and Eccleston is replaced by
the first place. I find the series quite terrifying sometimes, and those who know me can confirm
TV-series Hannibal was a good idea in the first place...
I'm also prone to nightmares, so I'm sure I'll be sleeping with the lights on at least a couple of times this winter.
Maybe because I love him as a person and an actor.
My One True Love.
Picking up Troye Sivan.
Tyler Oakley and Caspar Lee livestream.
Dumbledore's man, through and through.
Jacksgap Twin Teleport Prank.
The new Doctor Who.
What's in my mouth?! Bertie Bott's edition!
Part 6: I did not die.
Sherlock was watching John from a distance. He was hiding behind the bush this time, so that it would be easier to sneak up on John if need be. He was frightened, because for the first time in his life, he could hear his heart speaking. It told him to reveal his presence at the graveyard, to let John know that he was alive, but his rational mind told him to wait a little longer, he still had some matters to tend to. He was also afraid that, however much John cried for him now, he'd be angered to know Sherlock had betrayed him like this, and Sherlock couldn't bear the thought of losing his friend again.
John was talking to his tombstone, and Sherlock tried to will the little old lady a few tombstones down to go away. John quickly solved that problem for him, though, by very loudly exclaiming "Oh bugger!" The lady gave him a weird look and waddled away. It was another headache that pained John. Sherlock knew that the same way he knew John was currently at the verge of tears. His stance and his right hand rubbing his temples told him everything. Sherlock took one step forward, but immediately regretted it and withdrew back into the shadows.
It seemed as if John was trying to gather up the courage to do something, it was fairly obvious. "What I'm trying to say, Sherlock, is that - is that..." His voice cracked. Sherlock waited patiently, eager to know what John knew within his heart.
"THAT I BLOODY LOVE YOU!" he cried. Sherlock's shoulders relaxed, and he whispered ever so quietly, "I know, my dear. I've known it all along." John sat down next to the tombstone, and Sherlock really had to restrain himself. He enjoyed watching John sit there, though. His mind was content with just seeing his old friend, but his heart yearned for something more, and he felt it within his bones that this was the final battle - the battle where his heart would win, once and for all.
It was almost sunset, and John Watson stood up to leave. Sherlock's heart leaped in his chest as he realised it was now or never. The perfect moment provided itself when John turned to face his tombstone one final time, and started reciting the old bereavement poem.
"Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I do not sleep" John's voice carried all of the pent-up emotions he'd cradled for three years now.
Sherlock seized the opportunity to step out behind the bush and approach John. His heart was beating loudly in his chest, his own body betraying him, but still he managed to keep his voice steady. "I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow."
"No, it's not possible..." John exclaimed. He sounded shell-shocked, and Sherlock didn't blame him.
He proceeded to take a few steps closer to John as he continued the poem, "I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain." He noticed John was fighting the urge to turn around, possibly afraid of what he might see if he did.
"You're dead, I saw you fall!" John's military posture was back in place, his shoulders tense, which indicated great emotional turmoil, judging by the anger so clearly noticeable in his voice. Again, Sherlock didn't blame him.
Still, didn't let it dishearten him, "When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uplifting rush." He knew John wouldn't reject him.
"Of quiet birds in circling flight, I am the soft starlight at night." John jumped slightly when Sherlock accidentally stepped on a few dried leaves left from last winter.
"I'm just imagining things again..." John sounded almost as if he wanted to believe it was just his imagination. Perhaps it had been easier to accept his death than it would be to accept that he was back.
Sherlock leaned in closer to John, after three years deprived of any contact with his friend, he needed the intimacy. "Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die." Sherlock heard the tiniest crack in his own voice, and he knew John had heard it too. John knew for certain that Sherlock was real now, and so he turned around.
John's proud moustache shocked Sherlock, he would later admit, but it was only natural that John would get a moustache. For weeks after Sherlock's death, John had been too numb to bother with mundane things like shaving, and after he'd finally snapped out of it, he'd wanted to show the world he was no longer the man he used to be. That he was scarred. That he was broken. That he was a thousand years older and wiser than before.
He wanted to make John realise that he'd never left, so he told him about the clues. Sherlock could see the cogs turning in John's head, and his expression of realisation as he finally seemed to understand everything. The morse code. The candle. Everything. There was nothing Sherlock could do but to hug John, as tightly as possible. He was so glad he didn't have to hide anymore, that he'd gotten his friend back and that he'd soon be working again. God he'd missed his work.
"I have one question though..." John asked thickly. Sherlock hugged him just a little bit tighter, because apparently that's what you do when your friend is worried or scared. "Yes?" he said.
"Are you coming home now?" Sherlock burst into a big grin, a genuine one, because yes, he was finally coming home again. "Yes!" he answered, without hesitation, laughing a relieved laugh.
They walked out of the graveyard hand in hand, since Sherlock could sense John still needed him as an anchor, to know that it wasn't just a dream, to know that he was really back for good now. While they walked, Sherlock told John about what he'd been up to during his three years of death. He told him that he'd sorted things out, that he was able to come back to the world of the living again. John didn't know how he'd done it, but apparently Sherlock had cleared his own name, all while being dead. They walked that way for a while, until they found a cab, which they quickly jumped into.
"221B Baker Street," Sherlock told the cabby. Then, in retrospect, he faced John and added, "I know you haven't been staying there, but you haven't actually moved out, have you?"
"I... I couldn't go back to the flat after you, um, you know... Too many memories, I was flooded by a tidal wave of emotions as soon as I got anywhere near that place. But technically, it's still ours, yes. And all of your things are still there, Mrs. Hudson wasn't able to donate them anywhere after all, because of their sentimental value."
"So neither of you have sold or donated anything?" Sherlock sounded happily shocked as he caught John's eyes, seeking confirmation. London was rushing by outside of the cab windows, but Sherlock didn't care. His world, right now, revolved around John Watson, Mrs. Hudson and his flat. Soon enough, it would expand to Lestrade, work and London.
"Not a single eyeball. Well, apart from your money. It was donated to some charity, I'm sure they were very thankful for the generous amount." John sounded a bit concerned, he barely had enough money to get by, and he had no idea how he'd make it if he had to feed Sherlock too. Not that he ate, anyway, but the man had other expensive habits. He was determined to make it work, though.
Sherlock laughed, "I didn't need that money anyway. I'm sure the British Heart Foundation will put it to good use. Besides, I don't think Mycroft will complain about lending me some money until I can start working again."
John's jaw was hanging open, "How did you?... nevermind. I'd almost forgotten how remarkable you are." He smiled a happy smile that, for the first time in three years, even managed to reach his eyes. "Oh, I almost forgot: I think you'll be pleased to know that Mrs. Hudson kept your skull."
Sherlock smiled an amused smile and shared a knowing look with John, "Really? Did she now?"