"I’ve told you before, Molly Hooper. There is no place in this universe you can run that I will not be able to find you. After all you are mine, mine to cherish, mine to love, mine and MINE alone. Now come, the rest of my crew are waiting on us, and they wish to meet the woman who is their queen."
hey is it okay to imagine them as a married couple because of this picture? BECAUSE THEY REALLY LOOK LIKE A MARRIED COUPLE HERE I DONT KNOW WHY OR IS IT JUST ME
Thought of the day:
In much the same way that Sherlock and Molly’s relationship is usually always given as subtle back stories that are over shadowed by bigger issues -
- Finding out that Molly’s house is Sherlock’s bolthole just when people are more focused on the fact that Sherlock is missing
- Learning that Sherlock rambles to Molly about his life when she revealed that he is complaining about John going away for the holiday
- Sherlock saying sorry for probably the first time to anyone or at least in front of anyone (based on John’s double take) and it being immediately overshadowed by Irene’s moan and the embarrassing “it wasnt me, it was me” scene afterwards
-Of course, the “You do count, you’ve always counted” line which was of course, outweighed by the line “Molly, I think I am going to die”
- I think there is a chance that in the end, we will just be watching the series finale credits and are in the process of grieving the end when it suddenly hits us
"Wait…did they just subtly hint Sherlolly during…Oh.My.Gosh!"
And then we will all be scrambling for the remote and pushing the rewind button.
Seeing as there is a trend of leaving subtle Sherlolly hints that are somehow stratigically placed right after or before an even greater reveal that commands all viewers focus, I think this could totally happen.
First waiting for Beneloo pics like:
Cute little marshmallows
this makes me so happy
Wait. Is that big marshmallow licking that little marshmallow?
Is it a… cannibal?
I think it’s the marshmallow’s mom and it’s trying to comfort the little marshmallow
Maybe it’s a habit specific to the marshmallow species
There are lots of different types of teachers at St Bartholomew’s Primary School.There’s John Watson, the strict English teacher everyone secretly adores because at heart, he’s a softie. There’s Mary Morstan, the easily lovable art teacher who practically encourages her pupils to make as much mess as possible (she doesn’t mind cleaning up after them). There’s Molly Hooper, the maths teacher who does anything asked of her with a smile and a cheerful manner and looks after every pupil that comes through her doors.Then there’s Sherlock Holmes. The school’s resident science teacher, he skips his classes at least three times a week, constantly leaving Molly in charge of the young children he’s meant to be teaching. It doesn’t help that when he does deign to show up, he’s of course wonderful. Patient, he doesn’t patronize his pupils and encourages even the strangest of ideas. However, there’s only so much one woman to take. After encouragement from Mary and one too many skipped classes, Molly confronts her erratic colleague and provides him with a challenge: attend a month’s worth of classes, or face organizing that year’s nativity play.What follows is a funny, sometimes adorable, sometimes exasperating look at what it takes to really be a teacher.
He had never touched a woman’s skin before. Not in this way. Not with intent to raise her breath and race her heart and flutter her eyelashes closed. He’d never ran his hands over smooth skin and soft curves and sharp angles. The experience was unique. He’d never want to share it with anyone but her.
She blinked owlish brown eyes up at him, mouth pointed in a dreamy smile. All it took was one hand cupped over warm flesh, thumb dragging across a pebbled nipple, to make her breath catch. She’d agreed to his experiment without argument. Curiosity had plagued him all day until she’d shown up in his flat without a thread of cloth under her long jacket. The moment it was shucked off he touched.
She was warm. Warmer than he’d imagined she’d be. Before, the only times he’d touched her had been in the cold morgue. She certainly didn’t belong with death now. Pink dusted her cheeks, heavy breaths drifted across his forehead as he brought her breast into his mouth.
He allowed his hands to roam, noted every gasp and sigh as he rolled his tongue over tender flesh. It wasn’t until he found the prized pearl in the warm wetness between her thighs that he was rewarded with a sharp tug on his hair. Her reaction elicited his own moan against her skin. He broke away to kiss her, and found a much hungrier kiss than the one they’d started with.
He didn’t ease the rhythm of his fingers or the grip pulling her closer, even as she arched into his chest. Through fabric too thick he felt her hands clench, the taut line of her body stretched out like it would snap. With heavy lidded eyes he observed beauty in her moment.
“What are you doing Miss Hooper?” he mumbled against her cheek, his warm breath dancing against her face, lips mere inches from her parted lips. She did not know why she dared, did not know why she had settled into his lap so easily, her body warm, and the heat between her legs practically throbbing. “Why are you in my lap?” he continued when she did not answer, a finger playing with a button at her blouse, slowly undoing the button, then another and another.
“Professor, I -,” she whispered, feeling his lips press softly against hers, before his lips suddenly stilled against hers.
Molly drew back with an annoyed expression on her face. “Sherlock,” she said rolling her eyes. 'Oh not again,' she thought.
He frowned. “What kind of backstory do I have?”
Groaning she stepped out of his lap.
“It will hardly be believable if I don’t know more about this supposedly enigmatic professor!” he cried out, hearing the sound of their bedroom being slammed shut in the distance. Sherlock pulled at the tie around his throat, staring at it for a moment unblinkingly. He quickly decided that perhaps skipping foreplay would be more fun – character-wise. With renewed enthusiasm he headed towards their bedroom.
Ahem. So from Wikipedia:
“The Scandinavian näcken, näkki, nøkk, strömkarl, Grim or Fosse-Grim were male water spirits who played enchanted songs on the violin, luring women and children to drown in lakes or streams. However, not all of these spirits were necessarily malevolent; in fact, many stories exist that indicate at the very least that nøkken were entirely harmless to their audience and attracted not only women and children, but men as well with their sweet songs. Stories also exist where in the Fossegrim agreed to live with a human who had fallen in love with him, but many of these stories ended with the nøkken returning to his home, usually a nearby waterfall or brook…. Nøkken are said to grow despondent if they do not have free, regular contact with a water source.
Fossegrim and derivatives were almost always portrayed as especially beautiful young men, whose clothing (or lack there of) varied widely from story to story.”
Doesn’t that sound like an awfully interesting AU sherlolly prompt? Hmmmmmmmmm?
Too late to stop it, he ends up drenched. His revenge? Tickling for Penelope until she’s giggling so hard she can’t hold onto her water pistol. As for Molly…well, it’s tickling for her as well, but much later after Penelope’s gone to bed. ;P