Frankie's Doodles

• Teacher: Why did you not study?
• Me: A year has 365 days for you to study. After taking away 52 Sundays, there are only 313 days left. There are 50 days in the summer that is way too hot to work so there are only 263 days left. We sleep 8 hours a day, in a year, that counts up to 122 days so now we're left with 141 days. If we fooled around for only 1 hour a day, 15 days are gone, so we are left with 126 days. We spend 2 hours eating each day, 30 days are used in this way in the year, and we are left with 96 days in our year. We spend 1 hour a day speaking to friends and family, that takes away 15 days more and we are left with 81 days. Exams and tests take up at least 35 days in your year, hence you are only left with 46 days. Taking off approximately 40 days of holidays, you are only left with 6 days. Say you are sick for a minimum of 3 days, you're left with 3 days in the year to study! Let's say you only go out for 2 days... You're left with 1 day. But that 1 day is your birthday.

curink:

☆

(via echoblossom123)

ladyavenal:

karlimeaghan:

You’ll thank us one day, normal people.

Bahahahaha!!!!

GOLD^^^^^^

(via ilovemyjawn)

letmartyhandlethis:

annagarny:

Sweet Odin on a pogo stick - MARTY THIS IS PERFECT.

Loki strode through the museum, smirking to himself, London was going to be the perfect place to start this entire production.

He rounded a corner and hoisted his staff, swinging it through fully two-hundred-and-seventy degrees to connect with the security guard’s face even as the man turned to question him, sending him flying. The body slid along the marble floor and came to a halt in the middle of the crowd - silence fell as he glared around at the men and women in evening wear.

Then someone screamed and the panic began.

Sherlock and John, at the back of the room, didn’t even have to look at each other.

“Should we-“
“Absolutely.” Sherlock cut his blogger off before catching John by one cuff and dragging him through the crowd, out a side door and almost slamming bodily into Dean Winchester, lurking in the shadows as usual.

“Do I even want to know what you’re doing here?”
“He bought me. Something about an event that I can help out with?” Dean jerked a thumb over his shoulder and Sherlock leaned to one side, biting back a groan as he spotted the man in the glasses and the brown pin-striped suit, sonic screwdriver hanging at his side as he observed the chaos with one eyebrow raised.
“Is that-” John began, but Sherlock cut him off, again.
“Yes, it is, now be quiet!”

 Lok strode through the crowd, allowing his outfit to morph from the suit-and-tie to his leather and metal Asgardian ensemble, complete with his massive horned helmet. He then proceeded to cast a half-dozen copies of himself around the square, herding the panicked crowd back into a confined space before slamming the staff onto the ground.

“Kneel before me.”

Lestrade, at the edge of the crowd, recognised the threat immediately and began shouting for people to obey.
“Do as he says!”
“KNEEL!” Loki shouted, not even acknowledging the D.I.’s attempts to get the rest of the humans present to do as he said.

Sherlock, just out of sight, poked his head around the edge of the building and his eyes widened in shock as he saw that the man who had just moments ago been in a rather dapper bespoke suit was now dressed in black leather and gold, holding a staff that emitted a strange blue light and raising his hands above the now-kneeling crowd, beginning a speech about how this was the natural state of humanity.

“Loki?” The Doctor’s eyebrows drew together as he recognised the green-eyed god, and Dean chuckled.

“Look at the guy’s helmet.”

“Do you really think now is the best time to joke, Dean?” Sherlock demanded, even as John tugged at his cuff, attempting to get his attention - there was a holographic copy of the god approaching the four of them, in the alley behind the museum. They were about to be caught.

“Sorry.” Dean muttered, just as the Loki-copy found them.

WELL SEND ME TO THE DEEPEST LEVEL OF HELL IF THIS AIN’T FREAKING BRILLIANT

BLESS YOU, MY DEAR

(via ilovemyjawn)

(via ilovemyjawn)

ilovemyjawn:

deebzy:

this is silly and has probably been done 18247893767830468 times

blahh i just sketched this up now lmao. ew.

Will lineart and flat colour soooon |D

wassamattawityucca:

reducto1:

Inspired by this post =D

Uncle Tony is not happy.

CHRIS E OH MY GOD SIT DOWN YOU BRAT. <3

(via born-like-coward)

echoblossom123:

ohgodIhavelikeonlyafewhourstofinishthis

omgomgomg I can’t wait to see this done! *A* its gon look sao awesome!

//flees to do mine

dasdeutschtard:

herm-anna37:

raelynnmarie:

kerriwho84:

This would be major heartfail!

oh god…I…I

It had been two years, nine months, four days, seven hours and thirty-three minutes since Sherlock Holmes had jumped off the roof of St. Bartholomew’s hospital to his supposed death.

Today had been like any other day. Sherlock burst into the flat, hair wet, jacket sopping, a faint fleck of some unknown substance on his face. John looked up at him and sighed, “Christ, Sherlock.”

“John, I am so sorry. I—“

“Sherlock, it doesn’t matter. It’s fine.” His friend’s voice was level, as though it had been only a day since they’d last seen each other, that he’d never jumped off that roof, that he’d never hidden himself away and forced his friend to endure unbearable amounts of pain.

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. He expected something, anything. Yelling, screaming, crying, punching, he wouldn’t even have put it past John Watson to throw the pocket knife lodged in the side table at him. He guided himself to the couch and sat down, the entire flat seeming as though it were made of eggshells, as though one wrong word, one wrong breath and the entire house of cards would come down around their ears.

He waited for him to say something, thinking that perhaps John had gone into shock and didn’t know how to react. Sherlock stared at him, two-day old shirt, cold tea, book he’d already read twice—no, three times—judging by the dog ears on the pages. He hadn’t slept well, the bags under his eyes looked worse than when he’d been kept up because of the blind banker.

“Sherlock,” John said, not looking up from his book, “you’ll mould the carpet and Mrs. Hudson will put it on our rent.”

He hadn’t even noticed the rain puddling around his feet, a dark ring etching itself against the fabric of the carpet. Of course. The jacket was placed on the coat rack, along with his scarf, and he went to make himself a cup of tea. Something about this situation was bothering him. He kept looking at the various things in the flat, doing his best to find something, anything that could tell him why John wasn’t reacting like he knew John Watson would have reacted.

But there was nothing. Nothing but a string of unanswered question marks that led right to his only friend.

______

“DAMN!” The shatter and loud outburst actually made Sherlock startle—something that hadn’t happened in longer than he could accurately remember. When he looked, he saw John cleaning up a beaker that he’d knocked over.

He hesitated. John was perfectly capable of cleaning up after himself, and something told him to stay away. “Are you alright in there?” he offered, much more quietly than his normal inquisitions.

“Yeah, fine, I just…damn burner. I wish you’d not leave them so near the edge of the table like that, Sherlock!” The sound of the rubbish bin opening , the glass tinkling in, and then silence. When Sherlock looked up from his work, he saw John standing, facing the sink stock still. His head was hung low and his shoulders were sagging. Sherlock felt a tugging in the center of his chest, and he couldn’t understand why. Again, he looked at the signs, observed everything, but all that lay on those slumped shoulders of his friend was another line of question marks.

This happened every once in a while. Something would break, John would drop something, or he would suddenly go quiet and stand in the kitchen as though a man possessed. Sherlock never assisted him, not unless he saw John in any immediate danger. And when he did, he made sure not to touch him.

Once, he had touched John as he helped clean a shattered teacup and spilt Ceylon tea. John had frozen solid for the faintest of moments, a dark colour flashed through his eyes. But he didn’t look at Sherlock. He took what Sherlock saw as calming breaths and continued cleaning it up.

Sherlock didn’t dare touch him again.

____

A particularly quiet day nearly a month after his return, Sherlock had been watching John write on his computer for the past two hours. “John…is everything…are you alright?”

“Yes…” John only locked eyes with his friend for a hair of a second before burying his nose back in the computer, “Yes, I’m…I’m fine.”

____

When John was at work one day, Sherlock had phoned Lestrade. He was going absolutely mental without anything to do. He’d gone far past bored, and he wasn’t about to let his mind go fallow.

One afternoon, a few days later, Lestrade came up to the flat. John made himself tea and offered some to the DI, who politely refused.

“I won’t be here long enough for tea,” he said, brushing past John and coming to stand in front of Sherlock, “I know you’ve been home long enough, but we’ve got a suicide that couldn’t possibly be a suicide. Large metal doors bolted from the inside and a man who couldn’t even open his hands to holda gun, let alone shoot it. Will you come?”

Sherlock looked from the Detective Inspector to John, and that tugging at his chest happened again.

John was paralyzed. The tea was slowly dribbling to the ground as his arms went to his sides of their own accord. His jaw was hanging slack.

Carefully, Sherlock stood and came towards him, “John, John are you alright?”

He didn’t answer him. “L-Lestrade…You can see him, too?” he whispered.

“Bloody hell….” Lestrade covered his mouth and scrubbed at his cheek with his hand as the situation sunk in around the two of them.

It …it couldn’t be. Why hadn’t he noticed? The question marks disappeared as Sherlock chanced a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder, “Oh, John….”

(via ilovemyjawn)