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secondgoddess:

So I did a thing for #holmesmoriarty week.

I know it’s silly, I just love to put wings on people.

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dynamics-of-an-asteroid:

Thank-you.

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Heaven sent you to me. To me, to me. 

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I’m not living. I’m just killing time.

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ghostbees:

Happy [sic] anniversary!

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kindlywhispernorbury:

shrlckhlms:

Happy Reichenbach Anniversary!

My contribution to Holmes & Moriarty Week!

“You have an appointment.”

His fingers slide deftly up either side of the silk stretch of fabric, twisting slightly in an imitation of the Mobius turn, and he wonders whether by some freak of physics any object can fall forever through the sky in perfect weightless balance.  At nine and change meters per second squared, there must be a moment between the roof and the ground where everything rests in equilibrium.  Who’s to say it can’t last?

“So do you.”

But instead of turning to return the favor, to preen Sherlock for death the way he’s being carefully smoothed into shape, Jim retains his position and stares into the mirror to watch his face flashed back at him twofold.  Nothing could matter less, after all, than how they’ll look - where  look  is defined by the way the light reflects off their surfaces and penetrates to the retina and then to the brain of some undeserving observer as they spin through the air to an ending no one else can understand.  There will be no observers. 

“Is that what you’re wearing?”

Sherlock scoffs, and Jim simply grins as the knot solidifies in the hollow of his throat, as sure and as strong as the crux of a noose.  As though he’d wear anything else.  The first time must mirror the last; the end must touch the beginning.  They’re one, not two, and their last, free-falling moments together will reflect the unitary circularity of time itself.  I am you and you are me and everything, everything is each of us.

“You’re ready.”

He is ready.  And when he stands on the roof and stretches out his hand - thank you, bless you - there is no suspense, no tension, no uncertainty in the grip that binds them.  They clasp hands and together run and take the flying leap off the rooftop, over the street, into the emptiness that only they can fill.  Somewhere between the sky and the grinding, sudden stop they find their peace, and in that instant the knot tightens, the strings of time and place cinch together, and they’re bound to a moment - a second, a day, a year - that will always be theirs, as long as there are calendars to mark the endless repetition of you and I and we.

May 4, 1891.

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one final act

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ceruleancheckeredcars:

The Kiss of Death

Reinterpretation of the Rooftop Scene, adapted from The Kiss by Gustav Klimt.

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jimswestwood:

asymptote (plural asymptotes)

1. (analysis) A straight line which a curve approaches arbitrarily closely, as they go to infinity. The limit of the curve, its tangent “at infinity”.

2. (by extension,figuratively) Anything which comes near to but never meets something else. 

In analytic geometry, an asymptote of a curve is a line such that the distance between the curve and the line approaches zero as they tend to infinity. In some contexts, such as algebraic geometry, an asymptote is defined as a line which is tangent to a curve at infinity.

The word asymptote is derived from the Greek ἀσύμπτωτος (asumptotos) which means “not falling together,” from ἀ priv. + σύν “together” + πτωτ-ός “fallen.” 

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theconsultantmagpie:

dynamics-of-an-asteroid:

#HE’S TOUCHING HIS COLLAR OMG #why didn’t they keep this #when would it have happened #i need to know #omg 

It looks funnier when you see the full original with all the cameras:

“PLEASE TOUCH EACH OTHER EROTICALLY FOR OUR VIEWING PLEASURE.”

#No really. Please touch each other erotically for our viewing pleasure. #He did say you can do anything you like with him. #You two should get started on that. #And then put it on the Internet so that I may watch it multiple times. #I’ll wait.