A poem for you

wow... its already almost sort of maybe not really the weekend.

um.

HEEEEY, I WROTE YOU A POEM/SONG

theres a funny one and a depressing one. which do you want? TOO BAD, YOU GET BOTH.
If you don't want to get depressed, just skip the second one.
don't hate, this was just about the only thing I did all week.

apart from turn my parents onto Sherlock.

That was fun.

our whole family is Cumberbitches now. :)

HERES THE FUNNY ONE:
Its not an original, but its just too awesome not to share
its a parody of Ke$ha's Tik Tok.

SHERTOK

WAKE UP IN THE MORNIN
feelin like John Watson
grab my jam, I'm out the door
I'm gonna shoot this cabbie
before I leave, drink some tea
"Damn my leg Mrs. Hudson,"
cuz when I leave with Sherlock
that cane ain't coming back.
I'm talkin Moriarty at the door, door,
Mycroft bein a bore, bore,
not knowing who that bomb is for, for,
OH WA OH

YEAH? YEAH? UH HUH? RIGHT?

ok, heres the depressing one: .3.

I'm trapped in a rainbow, but my monochrome is spilling through
I may not have roses hidden in my closet
anymore
but I have too many pictures
hidden in my drawer
and its taking everything I am
not to stare at them anymore
but the lust of that razor
hidden under my pillow
is looking better by the day
those pictures have yet to gather dust
but those roses are fading away.


*commence depressing feelings*


and finally: for my FIFs (Friends In Fandoms)

heres a exert of my favorite part of the ORIGIONAL Sherlock: (by Arthur Conan Doyle)

 

"You’re not hurt, Watson? For God’s sake, say that you are not hurt?”

It was worth a wound—it was worth many wounds—to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation.

“It’s nothing, Holmes. It’s a mere scratch.”

He had ripped up my trousers with his pocket-knife.

“You are right,” he cried, with an immense sigh of relief. “It is quite superficial.” His face set like flint as he glared at our prisoner, who was sitting up with a dazed face. “By the Lord, it is well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive. Now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?"

 

 

IT WAS LIKE HE KNEW ABOUT JOHNLOCK BEFORE IT HAPPENED.

 

Arthur Conan Doyle was physic.