commission for flarechaser!
A poster for their bro because he loves Spock and Hawkeye
SPOCKEYE
Hawkeye really just looks like John on steroids 9_6
Sherlock ran away to become a Kilted Yaksman.
-L
because i posted at 3 am lol
oh sherlock you look so majestic
also this comic has me in stitches already
OUR COUNTRY REEKS OF TREES! *continues singing raucously*
OUR YAKS ARE REEEEEEALLY LARGE
AND THEY SMELL LIKE ROTTING BEEF CARCASSES~
And we have to clean up after them
And our saddle sores are the best
We proudly wear womens’ clothing
And searing sand blows up our skirts!!!!!!!!!
Ok, this is the commissioner who’s name I lost. If you ordered the christmas commission, please not me for the hi-res! Sorry about that ):
Christmas in August aww yeh
Aw, cute!
Suddenly Sherlock seems much more energetic.
-L
Click the blog for me and sweetlittlekitty’s roleplay~
Sherlock wut r u doin
commission for Trenchkamen based on their cyberpunk concept fanfiction here
god
just
fucking fuck
i spent way too much time on this
and i finished it in one sitting
i got too excited, sometimes i just get a commission and i go apeshit over it help
reblogging because i posted this at 3am ;_;
Commission for dashcommaslash!
“Smoking? Tisk, John….”
shhhh don’t mind me i’m just gonna write this thing really quick because of reasons.
John hasn’t smoked in years.Well, no. It feels like years. Perhaps it wasn’t so long ago that he was rolling the tobacco himself, staving off late nights in the Afghan deserts with a smoke. He knows, of course, that smoking is bad, that is can lead to lung cancer and all sorts of other horrid shite he should be concerned about. But there’s nothing quite like the first drag, the nicotine seeping its soothing way into the blood.
Maybe it has been years, he’s not sure now.
What he is sure of is that the night was gruesome, more than necessary. Gun shots and too much blood and too much everything. It left him shaken, just a little bit (maybe more than he anticipated.) Just the one, just to calm his nerves, just a bit.
He’s been thinking about it since they left the Yard. John has a pack, for emergencies, sitting in his bedside table. Unopened, still fresh, ready for use. Just in case, always just in case. So when he and Sherlock get back to the flat, the first thing he does is makes for his room. “I’m going to change—you know, not very…” He trails off, looks down to the smattering of someone else’s blood upon his clothing. Sherlock gives a non-committal hum in return and heads for his own room.
John strips down to his skivvies once safely shut in his room. He pulls out the drawer and—bless it, there they are. He takes the pack and rips through the cellophane, gives it a few hard taps to the heel of his hand before flipping open the box and pulling one long smoke from the twenty available. He snatches up the silver box lighter that had laid nestled beside it and headed for his window.
The air is chilled as he steps out onto the fire escape, but it’s relieving. Adrenaline has heated his body to something near sweltering and the cool breeze of the evening is glorious in comparison. He sets the filter between his lips and flips the lighter open—gives it a few strokes of his thumb before the wick catches and lights. And then, sweet, sweet relief as he drags the smoke down into his lungs. He coughs, just the once. It’s unfamiliar for the time being. But that’ll pass, it always does.
John gets lost in his own head. Memories of war, of university, of stars in the sky all come flooding to him with each drag. Like an old friend, come round after a decade of being gone. It’s a voice that drags him back, startles him into the present, a low baritone coming from below: “Smoking? Tsk, John.”
He peers down through the grates to find the pale figure of Sherlock Holmes below him. Momentarily, at any rate. He’s making for the ladder, clambering up half dressed himself and coming to rest right at the top. “I’d thought you may be crusading personally in the anti-smoking campaign.” Sherlock muses, and John realizes after a moment there’s a cigarette nestled behind his ear. Oh. “Everyone has a past.” John replies simply, flicks ashes over the side of the railing.
Sherlock nods, pulls the cigarette from his hair and sticks it loosely between his lips. He pats his trouser pockets, frowns, and looks up to John. “Mind giving me a light? Seem to have misplaced mine.” A little sheepish look peers out from those light eyes, and John gives a half smile in return. He flips his open once again, lights the wick and leans downward. Sherlock leans in, puffs as necessary as the end lights and cherries. And then they sit in silence, illuminated scarcely by the lamp glowing yellow in John’s room.
“You were doing well.” John notes, another flick of ash behind him.
“As were you, I imagine.” Sherlock replies, glancing to John with a smirk.
“Not my proudest moment.” John sighs, taking a gander at the half-smoked cigarette in hand.
“C’est la vie.” Sherlock says with an exhale, smoke billowing from his lips as he speaks.
Another silence passes over them, in which they take deep drags and tip their heads into the night to release. Upon finishing, John stubs his out against the metal railing and drops it to the ground below. Sherlock merely flicks the burning ember into the night. “Fresh start tomorrow, yeah?” John decides out loud, lifting himself from against the rail.
“Everyday is a new day and all that lark.” Sherlock agrees, lifting himself up properly to stand.
John nods, gestures for Sherlock to pass through the open window behind him. “Fancy a cuppa? Think I need one.” he says, following after the lankier figures back. Sherlock hums, a toneless sort of sound, and nods as he strides toward John’s door.
*piggy squeal*
Commisson for basherforhire!
Lol god i could not help myself it looks like a teenage scene girl shirt
CRIMINAL BOYFRIENDS
THE BULLET HOLES ARE SUPPOSED TO LOOK LIKE SPARKLES
This WOULD be the best teenage scene girl shirt. SERIOUSLY. Imagine it. I’d cry with laughter every time I’d wear it and no one would know why…
Commission for lorycannotsupinate!
Cop behaving badly.
Pass that shit.
i cannot conjure up the words to express how much i love this
