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lordkirk:

allofthesherlock:

That’s not the John Watson I know.

Yeah well, I’m not the John Watson-

This scene and many others rip my heart out for John. The amount of times John grimaces in the first two-thirds or so of the episode. Psychosomatic pain isn’t imaginary. The pain is real, the cause is uncertain. While dealing with all the rest of what’s going on with him (PTSD, uncertain future, etc) and trying to process the sheer what-the-hell of getting to know Sherlock, he’s also in almost constant pain… it’s the only reason he’s using a cane and John doesn’t seem the type to make a big deal of something like that. He’s not exactly looking for sympathy; the reverse. He’s embarrassed by it. The embarrassed attempt to hide his hand here. John’s embarrassment over his general situation (wounded, depressed, broke)- presumably he was a very different, much more confident person when Mike last saw him. When the two of them first arrive outside 221b. The able-bodied man rolls up in a cab, because he always takes cabs. The disabled one arrives on foot, having probably set out well in advance of the arranged meeting time (and who knows how far he had to walk?), because he can’t afford a cab. When John is stranded in Brixton later, why doesn’t he just call a cab from the crime scene to come and pick him up? Because he can’t afford one, and has to attempt to get home on foot as far as possible instead. The fact that by the time Mycroft calls him, heis trying to hail a cab, kind of implies he was in serious pain by then and had little other choice. He was so completely broken for two thirds of this episode, he didn’t even know whom he was anymore. And even if you don’t like Sherlock for being an ass or for other reasons, he fixed John. Saved him. And as John says in Reichenbach, “I owe you so much.” Sherlock might not think he’s an angel or a hero, but John does for that reason and that reason alone. 

(Source: mybatking)

butyoureyessaidyes:

Teen Wolf AU: After the wolves and hunters exhaust all their efforts to take down the darach, Stiles takes a swing at the problem. [x]

Stiles is armed with a baseball bat. It’s not even made from mountain ash or infused with wolfsbane or mistletoe or unicorn snot because the all-night supernatural sporting goods store is closed on account of not existing, and ordinary people prefer their bats to be made from maple, evidently. So, sucks for him. And for the fate of humanity because that is seriously his life right now.

"The boy who runs with wolves. The boy with no name." Ms. Blake gestures to his bat. “Come to play?"

Stiles closes his eyes and ignores her. He needs to get in the right headspace for this to work properly.

Ms. Blake’s brow furrows for a moment as she observes him. “The spark?” She whispers it like a secret. “You’re humanity’s salvation? You?”

When Stiles’ bat begins to crackle with energy, his eyes snap open to focus a dark look on his target. “Call me whatever you want,” he replies with a shrug of his shoulders. “All I know is you hurt my dad, and you hurt my friends. You’ve wreaked havoc on my home, and you’ve killed innocent people. It’s all gone on for way too long.” Stiles drags his bat along the grass and slowly begins to walk forward. Ms. Blake swallows, looks anxious because even though she can’t read Stiles, she can feel the power vibrating off the bat. And that power—that spark—came from Stiles.

"The boy who believes," Ms. Blake says, taking an involuntary step back.

Stiles rests the bat on his shoulder. “The boy who is tired of your shit,” he corrects as he prepares to swing.  ”Checkmate.”

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