22drunkb:mpdrolet:Matilde ViegasHere’s #217, for elefantesdeagua.Seven months, two weeks, three days

22drunkb:mpdrolet:Matilde ViegasHere’s #217, for elefantesdeagua.Seven months, two weeks, three days. That’s how long Sherlock Holmes had been dead. Or, dead to the world, more accurately, because right now he was folded in half with his arms around his knees on Molly’s couch, staring up at the ceiling.“How much longer is this going to take, Sherlock?” Molly asked. She was fresh out of the shower, hair still wet, wearing her bathrobe and thick cotton socks. Comfortable. The sun was setting outside her window, casting a warm orange glow into her flat. Homey. It was homey and cozy except, with Sherlock here, it felt unfamiliar. It felt not hers anymore.Toby jumped up onto her lap and batted tentatively at her hair, then licked at the water droplets.Before she’d helped Sherlock stage his death, she’d dreamed of having him here in her apartment – cuddling on the couch, watching movies, eating take away. All the things he did with John. Boyfriend things. Then Jim had forced Sherlock to lie to everyone (but most importantly and most devastatingly, to John). Now, whenever he could make it back to London for a few hours respite from, well, whatever it was he was doing, her flat seemed different for having him in it. It was strange letting a dead man sleep on your couch. “Please tell John you’re back.”—CTCT I FUCKING LOVE THIS AND NO ONE WILL EVER CONVINCE ME IT’S NOT CANONWell okay Mofftiss might but it is DEEPLY HEADCANON AND I LOVE IT–MM -- source link

More pics about