I never noticed the change in color tones before!
JW/SH- Dark warm tones and fire= Intimate, cozy, home. John feels comfortable here and so does the viewer. It also has a yellowish/goldish feel which tells us that they are being open with each other. They trust each other and are not keeping secrets here. They are both happy and content in this scene.
MH/SH- Neutral tones no fire= shows the state of their relationship. Neither warm nor cold. Closest to reality, lack of emotion.
IA/SH- Rich red tones and fire= seductive, intimate, danger. Irene is playing with Sherlock’s emotions, trying to seduce him. The viewer is intended to be seduced along with Sherlock yet the bright white light from the lamp on Sherlock’s side might suggest he’s staying pure from her advances. The red also helps represent the sexual implications behind their conversation.
SH/JM- Green tones, no fire= They’ve switched Sherlock into John’s chair, they are making Moriarty the dominant one. Green commonly represents growth, which could be describing Sherlock’s growth in knowledge about Moriarty’s plans. Green also represents evil and greed, I think you can figure out why that’s important here. The viewer is supposed to feel the fact that this situation is wrong wrong wrong! Going with the growth idea this could signify the start of something new: The Fall.
JW- Cold, very blue no fire= Death, plain and simple. Shows the coldness of the home without Sherlock and John’s grief. Blue is thought to be a calming color but this shade suggests death rather than therapy. It’s almost like the tone is corpse, which has lost it’s color due to blood loss. 221B has lost it’s life and has turned colorless. Blue also shows trust, which could be a representation of John’s loyalty to Sherlock. This is the first time we see blue tones in 221B.
I have a a lot of color feels now. Just another genius part of this show, how they use camera angles and color tones to show us exactly what we’re meant to be feeling. cries.
If Sherlock was an animated show.
I took random screencaps from A Scandal in Belgravia and redrew them as cartoons.
![dramatis-echo:
feyuca:
there’s no remedy for memory
COEY + feyuca sketch collab
DE - This picture is too angsty to ignore… I have to write a sad ficlet.
- - - - -[John’s Lament]
It was the only piece of him he had left.
He’d cherished it, unconditionally prizing it above nearly all of his other possessions. He kept it close, even wearing it on a few occasions in the winter; tucked beneath the safety of his coat, resting against his chest. Over his heart. If those that had known the pair - Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, or Mycroft - caught sight of the familiar blue fabric peeking out from beneath the front of John’s coat – they didn’t speak on it.
He remembered dog-sitting for Harry one day. Few months ago, now. He’d come up from doing laundry to find her ill-mannered pet shaking and gnawing on Sherlock’s scarf like it was a toy. John had nearly flown off the handle, and had struggled (as if his life depended on it) to get the scarf free from the dog’s mouth. When Harry picked up her stupid mutt, he’d given her an earful about it. He could still hear her words fluttering about in the back of his head…
“It’s just a scarf, John…”
She’s said it with such disdain; as if he were pathetic for treasuring it so. John had spent the rest of the evening hand washing the scarf to remove the dog’s saliva and hair, and then sewed up a couple small canine-shaped holes that had resulted from the tug of war. John held it close afterward. He’d pressed the fabric up against his nose and lips and inhaled for a few minutes. But Sherlock’s scent had long since faded away. Only in certain spots could John detect a hint of his companion…
He’d ended up crying again.
Six months should have been enough time to start getting over Sherlock Holmes. But for John, the wound still felt as fresh as it did the day his friend jumped.
The day he lost him.
“Well, it’s a bit different from my day…”
He would stare at the beam more and more with each passing day. A simple piece of wood, part of the structure of their flat; right at the junction between the kitchen and the sitting room. He could recall Sherlock hanging a dummy from it by a noose. It should be strong enough to support his weight. He’d lost quite a bit.
“Mike can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”
John stood up from the couch and made his way into the kitchen to retrieve the step stool. The scarf was draped around his neck.
“Ah… here. Use mine.”
He set the stood down beneath the support beam he’d been eyeing for the past three weeks. This was not an idle or snap decision. Suicide never really was, despite what people might say. There was a great deal of debate, of internal suffering; of pure endurance. Trying to live day to day, trying to present yourself to everyone as just another hard-working citizen. As someone with a balanced life. As someone who could cope. As someone who didn’t feel like crawling right out of his skin every five minutes with the realization, and constant reminder, that he would never be as happy as he’d been when Sherlock Holmes was alive.
“Oh. Thank you.”
But he wasn’t coming back. And after months of trying to get on with his life… John was simply exhausted. He didn’t- no, couldn’t do this anymore. He stood on the stool, just barely able to loop the scarf around the beam, and tie it into a secure knot. He tugged and pulled on it as hard as he could. John even held onto it and hung in the air for a moment; lifting his body weight off the step stool so he could be sure it would support him.
“This is an old friend of mine. John Watson.”
His fingers trembled as he tied the other end of the scarf off into his ‘noose’.
He was so bloody tired. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through the night. Each dream always ended the same; regardless of setting, regardless of mood, regardless of those involved… he would always see Sherlock jump. It would replay, over and over in his head like a skipping record – rendering John incapable of getting a full night’s sleep.
What was even worse was when it had started happening in the day, two months ago. A quick flash behind his eyes; there was Sherlock, lying motionless on the pavement; blood stark in it’s contrast against his pale skin and icy blue eyes. Dark hair matted and wet…
John would always gasp, and jump back as if the image were real… and he would shake his head, and attempt to continue on with the interrupted activity. Blinking to erase his waking nightmare.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?”
The question. The question… that had initially sparked his obsessive infatuation with all that Sherlock Holmes was. He’d had John’s number from the moment they met. John was entranced, and didn’t see a ‘freak’, but a misunderstood genius. A great man. And the best friend he’d ever had.
He was trembling now, but it didn’t seem to matter much. He was on the stool, the makeshift scarf-noose was in place and around his neck, and the flat was quiet. How he hated the quiet.
John closed his eyes and tried to ignore how itchy his face felt from the tears that had streamed down - that he hadn’t even bothered to wipe away. With his head low and his shoulders slumped forward in defeat… John took one final breath, and leaned forward, and then back on the stool – so it would lurch out from under him.
But just as the stool tumbled forward, he heard the familiar chirp of his mobile. A new message.
John’s eyes snapped open, surprised at the sound, just as his feet lost their support.
He began to suffocate.
Eventually… he stopped struggling.
Eventually… his body stopped swaying back and forth.
[1] New Message, UnreadAugust 15th 2013, 2:21amI’m home. SH](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m7nov6uubB1qdk5jbo1_500.png)
there’s no remedy for memoryDE - This picture is too angsty to ignore… I have to write a sad ficlet.
- - - - -
[John’s Lament]It was the only piece of him he had left.
He’d cherished it, unconditionally prizing it above nearly all of his other possessions. He kept it close, even wearing it on a few occasions in the winter; tucked beneath the safety of his coat, resting against his chest. Over his heart. If those that had known the pair - Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, or Mycroft - caught sight of the familiar blue fabric peeking out from beneath the front of John’s coat – they didn’t speak on it.
He remembered dog-sitting for Harry one day. Few months ago, now. He’d come up from doing laundry to find her ill-mannered pet shaking and gnawing on Sherlock’s scarf like it was a toy. John had nearly flown off the handle, and had struggled (as if his life depended on it) to get the scarf free from the dog’s mouth. When Harry picked up her stupid mutt, he’d given her an earful about it. He could still hear her words fluttering about in the back of his head…
“It’s just a scarf, John…”
She’s said it with such disdain; as if he were pathetic for treasuring it so. John had spent the rest of the evening hand washing the scarf to remove the dog’s saliva and hair, and then sewed up a couple small canine-shaped holes that had resulted from the tug of war. John held it close afterward. He’d pressed the fabric up against his nose and lips and inhaled for a few minutes. But Sherlock’s scent had long since faded away. Only in certain spots could John detect a hint of his companion…
He’d ended up crying again.
Six months should have been enough time to start getting over Sherlock Holmes. But for John, the wound still felt as fresh as it did the day his friend jumped.
The day he lost him.
“Well, it’s a bit different from my day…”
He would stare at the beam more and more with each passing day. A simple piece of wood, part of the structure of their flat; right at the junction between the kitchen and the sitting room. He could recall Sherlock hanging a dummy from it by a noose. It should be strong enough to support his weight. He’d lost quite a bit.
“Mike can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”
John stood up from the couch and made his way into the kitchen to retrieve the step stool. The scarf was draped around his neck.
“Ah… here. Use mine.”
He set the stood down beneath the support beam he’d been eyeing for the past three weeks. This was not an idle or snap decision. Suicide never really was, despite what people might say. There was a great deal of debate, of internal suffering; of pure endurance. Trying to live day to day, trying to present yourself to everyone as just another hard-working citizen. As someone with a balanced life. As someone who could cope. As someone who didn’t feel like crawling right out of his skin every five minutes with the realization, and constant reminder, that he would never be as happy as he’d been when Sherlock Holmes was alive.
“Oh. Thank you.”
But he wasn’t coming back. And after months of trying to get on with his life… John was simply exhausted. He didn’t- no, couldn’t do this anymore. He stood on the stool, just barely able to loop the scarf around the beam, and tie it into a secure knot. He tugged and pulled on it as hard as he could. John even held onto it and hung in the air for a moment; lifting his body weight off the step stool so he could be sure it would support him.
“This is an old friend of mine. John Watson.”
His fingers trembled as he tied the other end of the scarf off into his ‘noose’.
He was so bloody tired. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through the night. Each dream always ended the same; regardless of setting, regardless of mood, regardless of those involved… he would always see Sherlock jump. It would replay, over and over in his head like a skipping record – rendering John incapable of getting a full night’s sleep.
What was even worse was when it had started happening in the day, two months ago. A quick flash behind his eyes; there was Sherlock, lying motionless on the pavement; blood stark in it’s contrast against his pale skin and icy blue eyes. Dark hair matted and wet…
John would always gasp, and jump back as if the image were real… and he would shake his head, and attempt to continue on with the interrupted activity. Blinking to erase his waking nightmare.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?”
The question. The question… that had initially sparked his obsessive infatuation with all that Sherlock Holmes was. He’d had John’s number from the moment they met. John was entranced, and didn’t see a ‘freak’, but a misunderstood genius. A great man. And the best friend he’d ever had.
He was trembling now, but it didn’t seem to matter much. He was on the stool, the makeshift scarf-noose was in place and around his neck, and the flat was quiet. How he hated the quiet.
John closed his eyes and tried to ignore how itchy his face felt from the tears that had streamed down - that he hadn’t even bothered to wipe away. With his head low and his shoulders slumped forward in defeat… John took one final breath, and leaned forward, and then back on the stool – so it would lurch out from under him.
But just as the stool tumbled forward, he heard the familiar chirp of his mobile. A new message.
John’s eyes snapped open, surprised at the sound, just as his feet lost their support.
He began to suffocate.
Eventually… he stopped struggling.
Eventually… his body stopped swaying back and forth.
[1] New Message, Unread
August 15th 2013, 2:21am
I’m home. SH
POST-REICHENBACH→ John can’t sleep and he’s thinking about Sherlock’s laptop, that he could left him there some clue about Moriarty. He’s trying to guess the password and suddenly an idea came to his mind.
i actually started crying ok whoever made this is a genius
/casually vomits because no, nope, nope, stop that’s a really unhealthy attitude to have
/casually vomits because you don’t understand
Many of us were excluded, lonely and depressed before we joined any fandoms. We found refuge in the stories and comfort in the characters. We found people with similar interests and gained friends who understood and sympathized with us. When the stories hurt us we found solace in the fact that we are not alone in feeling this way. In many ways to many people these stories saved our lives. Some might have been pointing towards suicide, but maybe the Doctor and his story stopped some. That’s what matters, because we owe these stories our life. We owe it to the Doctor, the Winchesters, the Avengers and whatever fandom you might be in. They’re always there and always will be even when all others abandon us. I can honestly say that I was in deep depression before I started watching Doctor Who and the story very much pulled me from that place and changed who I am, made me who I am today. The 14,000 notes on this post show that I am not alone and none of us are.
Unhealthy is to reblog skinny and tanned girls like it’s a religion
Unhealthyis think depressed people have no reasons to be like that because they’re not starving
Unhealthyis to make people think they are not worth it because they’re either too fat or to skinny, or because they don’t dress fashionably so therefore they’re considered “ugly”
Unhealthy is to go through this unbelievably hard life without a single person caring about you
Unhealthyis to make fun of other people choices
Unhealthyis someone commenting on something they don’t understand, and worse, something they don’t want to understand
So next time think about what you’re doing before you open your mouth to say something so ignorant like that.
HEAR HEAR
If I’ve gone overboard, then I’m begging you to forgive me in my haste..
then and now
This is very clever.
Oh well done!
gallifreyan-consulting-detective:
Amy’s last scene with the music from Sherlock’s suicide scene.
I don’t think I should have made this
It looks like he is getting up the nerve to ask him out.
John: Sherlock, I can’t afford to buy a new pair of pants every time you feel like stealing them!
Sherlock: … Take my card.
THIS ISNT OKAY
WOULD YOU
STOOOOOP
RIPPING OUT MY HEART AND SACRIFICING IT TO SATAN
I am a Fandom and Humor Blog.
The Fandoms I post about are Harry Potter, Merlin, Doctor Who, Sherlock, Supernatural, & Manga/Animes.
I have too many ships to count, so msg me if you want a list. I do not support shipping wars, so if you do not ship the same pairings as I do, you're safe here.
Warning for Occasional NSFW posts~
