Тред по Sherlock BBC. Здесь собираются, чтобы обсудить, поспорить и померяться чем угодно: сериал, каст, версии, теории, дедукцЫи, спойлеры, ОТП, РПС, пейринги, сценарии, арты, фики, видео... и даже сопутствующий оффтоп. Упорос наше всё, выдроежики наш талисман. Может быть опасно. Welcome!
Правила ШП
сообщество для побочных эффектов шерлокоправды
словарь мемов для новичков | рисовалка | склад голосовалок | копилка | выдроежики
Рекомендации шерлокофанфиков | Рекомендации мультифендомных фанфиков | Пост ориджиналов |
Обзоры фандома | Главсоо
словарь мемов для новичков | рисовалка | склад голосовалок | копилка | выдроежики
Рекомендации шерлокофанфиков | Рекомендации мультифендомных фанфиков | Пост ориджиналов |
Обзоры фандома | Главсоо
Предыдущие темы: 1-500, ..., 681, 682, 683.
Вопрос: Каст мечты с непоявившимися в сериале персами
| 1. Дядя Руди - вечно молодой Киану Ривз. Похож на братишек скулами и высоким ростом | 33 | (11.66%) | |
| 2. Моран - Майкл Фассбендер в роли сурового киллера. Бицепсы, интеллект и акулья улыбка прилагаются | 52 | (18.37%) | |
| 3. Взрослый Виктор Тревер - Том Хиддлстон. Друг в роли друга - искренняя дружеская химия обеспечена | 35 | (12.37%) | |
| 4. Настоящая Мэри Морстен - Марго Робби. Этой женщине не нужны стэки и пистолеты, только сердце военного врача и обручальное кольцо | 12 | (4.24%) | |
| 5. Еще один брат Холмс - Идрис Эльба, мамаша Холмс погуляла на славу | 25 | (8.83%) | |
| 6. Собака Баскервилей - мутант - Адам Драйвер. Играет без грима, пугает на весь гонорар | 17 | (6.01%) | |
| 7. Вайолет Хантер - Сью Верчью. Семейный бизнес нужно использовать на полную катушку. Сиськи в сериал, мужчины повышают рейтинг, не все же плюшки девушкам зрителям | 10 | (3.53%) | |
| 8. Бубенчик - Энди Серкис. Моушен от любимого актера для любимого персонажа | 29 | (10.25%) | |
| 9. Моффатобаба - Энди Редмейн. Стивен понял свои ошибки, принял критику и теперь новая моффатобаба - это моффатомужик | 37 | (13.07%) | |
| 10. Выдроежики кастуют мейнстримов и немейстримов | 33 | (11.66%) | |
| Всего: | 283 Всего проголосовало: 91 |
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28.02.2017 в 00:58Ага, спн я тоже курил. Что такое СТ и J2?
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28.02.2017 в 00:58Конечно табличка, я думал понятно.
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28.02.2017 в 00:58-
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28.02.2017 в 01:03Стартрек и Джейту
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28.02.2017 в 01:08-
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28.02.2017 в 01:08Новый? А то еще щикарный старый сериал есть. Доктора Кто пробовал?
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28.02.2017 в 01:12Ага
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28.02.2017 в 01:13Представила Аманду в роли Ирэн, погиенила
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28.02.2017 в 01:19-
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28.02.2017 в 01:32А как же Джек/10?
сериал смотрела, но фандом обходила стороной
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28.02.2017 в 01:33Мастер/Доктор - наше все.
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28.02.2017 в 01:38Мастер/Доктор - наше все.
ну и это тоже
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28.02.2017 в 01:39-
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28.02.2017 в 02:26-
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28.02.2017 в 02:51-
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28.02.2017 в 02:53-
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28.02.2017 в 02:57coub.com/view/s0k4f
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28.02.2017 в 03:03We just heard a rumour that Nicholas Hoult, Benedict Cumberbatch and Tom Holland are all visiting Peckham tomorrow... #reelingyouin
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28.02.2017 в 03:35For any local residents on #Cumberwatch tomorrow, we hear he'll be in close proximity to Peckham Rye station...
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28.02.2017 в 04:05-
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28.02.2017 в 05:23-
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28.02.2017 в 05:37-
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28.02.2017 в 07:13съемки же закончились
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28.02.2017 в 07:58кто сказал? еще снимают
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28.02.2017 в 08:05Моран
гей-эротика
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28.02.2017 в 09:22John wasn't going to let the opportunity pass though. How many times would he have Sherlock drunk and unable to control that mouth of his. It was time to get as much information as possible and pray to god he remembered it when he sobered up.
“Go on. We've got all night locked in here. Tell me something at least.” John slurred and sank a bit further down the wall of their holding cell, “Was there ever anyone...special?”
Sherlock sighed sleepily and mumbled, “Victor”
“Victor, who's Victor?”
Sherlock snapped his eyes open, “No. Shh. No.”
“Come on, tell me, who's...” John had to think through his drunken haze, “Victor?”
“None of your business.”
“Consider it a wedding present. Tell me.” The reluctance was clear on Sherlock's face when John gazed up to him. “It's that or I spend all night telling you about Mary.”
“That isn't a threat John, I know all about her.”
“Not through my eyes.” he smiled lopsidedly, “She has the cutest little dimple that you can only see when she really finds something funny. She gets these two little lines at her eyes and then the dimple comes out. When she -”
“Don't subject me to such torture.” Sherlock groaned.
“Then tell me about Victor.”
“I really don't see why it's so important.” The drunk detective steepled his fingers under his chin as he lay on the hard bench, “My most significant relationship was with a man named Victor Trevor. What more is there to know?”
John huffed in frustration. “Um, how did you meet? What was he like? How long were you together? The normal stuff, Sherlock.”
Sherlock closed his eyes and let his mind drift back to Victor, hoping the darkness of the holding cell would mask the smile creeping onto his lips. “He was handsome, intelligent...he had a certain charm that drew people to him yet he maintained a distance from most. We debated many things, discussions would last until exhaustion or something else broke them.” He could feel the blush reddening his cheeks as he remembered how most of the stimulating conversations ended. It was with Victor that Sherlock learnt that it didn't matter about winning such things in the end. Growing up with Mycroft had left him competitive and always wanting to prove himself to be equal in knowledge but with Victor the passion rose, took over and when lying post orgasmic in each other's arms, Sherlock found he no longer cared if he had 'won' or not.
“He was rather brilliant.” Sherlock continued, “Back when he was free of obligation, when life mattered more than career. We only had several months together before we moved on.”
Victor was in his final year at the university, having already earned his degree he had chosen to continue and gain his Masters. Sherlock had only been in his first year, a mockery to most in his courses and failing to see the point in being there until Victor came into his life. It was complete animosity at first, both men loathing the other and bickering about everything from science to politics and even who the Economics professor was cheating on his wife with. One night the exchange became heated to the point they found themselves locked in a kiss. The relationship grew but both men knew it wouldn't last, it wasn't plausible when life took over from university.
Being with Victor had taught Sherlock so much about himself. He never believed he'd fall in love, never considered a sexual relationship and had only lost his virginity as an experiment when he was sixteen. Victor showed him how to stop his selfish ways – temporarily though it may have been. He taught Sherlock that life was about much more than rebelling against his parents and experimenting for curiosity sake, he showed the younger man that his brain was not something to be wasted, that he should find something he enjoyed, that he loved, and use his intellect for that purpose. Victor helped Sherlock grow up and Sherlock helped him realise there was more to life than a future career and money. Sherlock brought joy to Victor's life, the fun and spontaneity that he lacked, Sherlock gave him and Victor was the better man for having him in his life.
“Have you seen him since?” John asked sleepily.
“Many times.” Sherlock held back the sigh, “But neither of us are the men we were then. He became the man he wanted to be. It's all very boring.”
There would always be that locked room in his mind palace devoted to Victor and their time together. Sherlock never wanted to forget it, it had meant too much to him at the time. John would never know the extent to which he loved Victor or how much that brilliant man had made him feel loved in return. It was all just a distant memory, at times he even wondered if it had occurred or if it was imagination fuelled by the experimentation with drugs in his university years (once Victor had left, of course. He would have never have allowed Sherlock to throw away his mental capacity on such stupidity as drugs). His conclusion had always been that it was real, it was just a different life for them both.
“I knew it,” John yawned, “All that talk of being a sociopath but you're just as human as the rest of us.”
“High functioning, John. High functioning.”
John thought about arguing his point but knew doing so with Sherlock was pointless enough, doing so while drunk would be a waste of breath. “Whatever you say, Sherlock.”
The two men chatted until both passed out in the darkness of their holding cell. The moment Greg Lestrade burst into the room in the cold light of day, the hangovers kicked in with full force. Each noise sounded as though it were amplified directly into their ears, the pain seared through their heads and the light irritated their eyes. The previous night was blurred yet both concurred it was an awful night out and not to be repeated.
“Jesus John, you're as white as a ghost. If you're going to throw up the toilet's over there.” Greg pointed in the direction of the gents.
John slowly made his way towards them,“I'm fine, I just need to throw some water on my face.”
Lestrade lead Sherlock to sign the necessary forms for their release, no charges where going to be brought for their drunken antics. “I'll be taking that back.” Greg snapped his warrant card from Sherlock's hand as he collected his personal affects from the police officer at the desk. “And is that your brother's?” he asked as he spotted a picture I.D card. The picture of Mycroft on the left side of the card was a disappointment to the detective inspector. He had expected a typical I.D photo, something embarrassing that he could laugh at, but the picture was the image of Mycroft's perfect, composed demeanour. “Mycroft Victor Trevor Holmes? Really?” Greg chuckled.
Sherlock simply rolled his eyes in response and groaned at the pain the movement caused in his hungover body. He took the card from Lestrade and placed it back in his wallet, hiding it before John's return.
“I really need a cup of tea. Can we go now?” John practically pleaded.
“Yea, Lightweights,” Greg smiled, “you're free to go.”
John could know about Victor, if he remembered any of the conversation, but he could never know the truth. Mycroft was so completely different when they were together that Sherlock couldn't think of the man he knew today as the one he had a relationship with. Long ago he had taken to calling the alter-ego “Victor” and he knew Mycroft referred to his first love as “William”. They never mentioned it any more, they never even acknowledged what had happened all those years ago but Sherlock would always remember Victor and their time together, he would always remember the love and he would always know that Mycroft loved him too.
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28.02.2017 в 09:27He doesn’t look for them to come to him, either. In fact, given the choice, he’d rather avoid them altogether, as it never turns out well for the other person and he has better things to be doing with his time. Despite all of this, however, he has three times already this year had to throw someone--quite literally--out of Baker Street. John hasn’t been home for any of the incidents, thank God, or Sherlock would never hear the end of it.
The last one had been a month back, and in the wake of his unfortunate opponent’s hasty escape through the kitchen window, a latch had been jostled out of place. If anything more than a stiff breeze comes by their flat, the window rattles. John, who sleeps upstairs, has yet to complain about it, and Sherlock has found that the rhythm of the tapping directly corresponds to the type of weather they’re experiencing. An even beat every two seconds is indicative of a steady breeze; beats in groups of three (Waltz No. 1 in E-flat, Grande Valse Brillante) is the head of a fast-moving front, the warning bell before a storm.
The five o’clock tap-tap-tap-rat-tap is a steady rain with the occasional gust of wind. It is just a shade uneven, and that is what pulls Sherlock from sleep on this particular morning--and also what keeps him from returning to unconsciousness. Irritated, he slides from his bed and pads into the kitchen, feet stinging against the cool floor. A quarter of an hour’s fruitless struggle with the window yields no results, and he soon gives up both on that and the idea of future sleep.
John is away this weekend at his sister’s; Lestrade is attempting yet another useless reconciliation with the soon-to-be ex-wife. Even Mrs Hudson has abandoned him, opting for a weekend in the country with a man Sherlock is sure is of dubious reputation, even though he has yet to find proof to back up this assumption.
Sherlock draws the thin dressing gown tighter around his shoulders as the swift morning breeze carries into the flat the heavy, sharp scent of rain. He goes back into his room and fetches his mobile, and spends a moment with his thumb poised hesitantly over the 1 as he contemplates dialing the number. It’s not often he feels so acutely his isolation, but on rare moments such as these, when everyone else has someone they go to and he cannot because of bloody Mycroft...
By mid-morning, the rain has solidified, and when Sherlock looks out of the windows in the main room he realises that he can distinguish the drops from one another, as opposed to just seeing a falling, transparent sheet of grey.
Snow.
The flakes are quick and wet, and when they hit the pavement they instantly turn to water once again. It’s the first snow of the season, which means that it can’t last.
It never does, Victor had said once. The world's not quite ready for it yet.
Sentiment, Sherlock had scoffed at the time, but what he wouldn’t give now for his lover to be home again, if only for a moment, sentiment and all.
They had traded a tentative kiss during a first snow years ago, Victor’s sure hands on Sherlock’s hips and his stubble grazing Sherlock’s upper lip. It had been momentous for no reason other than that it had been their first, for they had most certainly had better ones in the years since. There is no reason, in fact, for Sherlock to remember it at all.
He does anyway.
Victor fell out badly with his father not long after that wintry kiss, and to this day still has told Sherlock nothing about what transpired between them during that horrendous holiday. Sherlock can guess well enough what happened--that the elder Trevor, for all his affection towards his only child, could not see past who he chose to take to bed, and wrote Victor out of his life.
At nineteen, Sherlock had had nothing to offer Victor in the way of comfort, having never known his own father and unable to see why familial relations should mean more than those made by choice. But the difference between nineteen and twenty-nine is that Sherlock now has John, and a better grasp on situations he himself has never experienced.
Victor’s father’s love came with conditions.
Victor’s never did.
And so Sherlock finally pulls out his phone, and presses 1 for the man who is his entire life.
The line crackles and spits as it reaches out across the thousands of miles that separate them, and it is an age before Victor answers.
“Your father was an idiot,” Sherlock says by way of greeting.
“Or hello, as most people would say,” Victor says dryly.
“I’m not most people.”
“No, you certainly aren’t.” Victor gives a fond laugh. “God, it’s good to hear your voice. To what do I owe the pleasure, Sherlock?”
“It’s snowing here,” Sherlock says, as though it should be a satisfactory explanation. And, because this is Victor, it is.
“Is it?”
“Yes,” Sherlock replies absently, eyes tracking the path of one particular flake until it becomes indistinguishable from the rest as they float towards the ground.
“Oh, Will,” Victor sighs, sorrow in his voice. “I miss you, too.”
The endearment comes from Sherlock’s middle name--his father’s given one--and from a night they had spent together on Victor’s father’s estate, back when Victor’s world had been right and good. It had been uttered in a moment of bliss, and Victor had never quite managed to shake the habit--it was the only thing, in fact, that he held onto after the fight with his father. There is a Before and an After for Victor, and Sherlock is the only thing that exists in both places.
“He was an idiot,” Sherlock repeats.
“He’s dead now, Sher,” Victor says gently, “so what does it matter?”
“It will always matter,” Sherlock replies, and this time he speaks from experience. The only memory he has of his own father is the scratch of a beard against his tiny cheek as William Holmes bends to kiss him. He has countless more of his mother, his brother, his flatmate... and yet that one of his father has persisted throughout the years, even though twenty-six of them have passed since the day of his unexpected death.
His father will be with him always, shaping him, whether Sherlock wants him to or not.
I won't leave, he had promised Victor a decade ago, because for half his life, he had known his father simply as the man who made his mother cry.
To which Victor had replied, I know you won't.
“Tell me about the job,” Sherlock says at last when Victor says nothing in reply, desperate for the familiar sound of the deep, sandpaper voice. If he shuts his eyes when Victor is speaking, he can even pretend that they are in the same room.
“You know I can’t,” Victor says regretfully, and this is true. He is in Pakistan at the moment, working on God-knows-what for Mycroft, and because it is Mycroft behind it all, Sherlock can’t deduce anything about the job from what little contact he has with Victor. “And pleased as I am to hear from you, I’ve been gone for almost a year now. Never before today have you called me without purpose. So what’s wrong, Will?”
Sherlock shakes his head, his hand tightening on the mobile.
“Shall I give you the list chronologically, or alphabetically?” He sighs through his nose. “It’s snowing. You aren’t here. John is with his sister. You aren’t here. Lestrade is with his wife, there hasn’t been a decent case in weeks, and you aren’t here.” Sherlock worries a thread on the sleeve of his dressing gown and repeats, softer, “You aren’t here.”
Victor sighs over the line.
“I can’t do much about most of those things, I’m afraid. Much as I like to pretend otherwise. But perhaps... perhaps there is something I can do about one of them.”
“Do you control the weather now?” Sherlock snorts. Victor laughs.
“No. It’s still snowing. But...”
The door to the flat creaks in protest as it is opened, and Sherlock whirls on the spot. Victor is standing on the threshold, an overnight bag slung over his shoulder and flakes of snow clinging to the ends of his dark hair. He’s a little more lined, a little more grey, a little more worn at the edges, and the smudges of purple under his eyes tell Sherlock that he has not slept properly in days. But the smile he offers is as kind as Sherlock remembers, and his chocolate eyes brim with barely-concealed joy.
“But,” Victor says again, pocketing his mobile and grinning at Sherlock’s stupefaction, “I am here.”
I will be better than him, Victor had promised all those winters ago.
To which Sherlock had replied, You already are.
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28.02.2017 в 09:28Милашный Руп
Парентлок
Еще Бен с дитяме, разные фильмы
Танцующий Бен, разные фильмы/спектакли
Хорошего всем дня!
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28.02.2017 в 09:35Любви и весны тебе, дорогой!
Бен с детьми в преддверии корнишона актуален
Танцующий Бен, разные фильмы/спектакли
Что происходит на предпоследней гифке?
Шафер красивый
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28.02.2017 в 09:36А Корн 2 ещё не показался? * промороженый *