Had we but Space enough, and Time...

(via clittyclittybangbang)

vaeltaa:

on the next episode of hannibal, dr. lecter will spend the entire 45 minutes reading us his favorite cannibal bedtime stories in his jammies in front of the fireplace that coincidentally has stuffed horned animal heads on display. gather round children, have a seat. let uncle lecter tell you a thing.

(via martindontforgetlusty)

cloudwatchingangels:

a-cuppa-t:

danniauttumns:

cloudwatchingangels:

fionapondwilliams:

prends-la-vie-comme-elle-vient:

Asylum Waiting Room of the Big Three.

it’s funny because it looks like the sherlock fandom are sane here

Sherlock bustled about the kitchen, throwing a cupboard door open and pushing aside a box of nicotine patches to retrieve two mismatched mugs. A kettle whistled plaintively in the background, like it had been trying to draw attention to itself for a while now. Setting the mugs aside, Sherlock absently pulled the kettle off the stove, poured tea into the two mugs, and carried them into the living room.

Doctor Who was sprawled over the same chair it had collapsed into last night, when it had appeared at the door muttering inanely about lost regenerations and knackered navigations systems. It made a whining noise as Sherlock tucked the shock blanket it had thrown off in the night back around its shoulders.

Supernatural was in similar straits, curled up on the floor with a throw pillow and a tattered trench coat around its shoulders and alternating between sobbing and muttering about domesticity potential.

A thudding on the stairs indicated the ruckus had finally awoke Merlin, who poked its head into the room, hair sticking up at all angels as it tied its scarf around its neck. Blinking blearily at the mess, it seemed to realize what had occurred when it picked up a discarded bow-tie from the floor, holding it between forefinger and thumb, “Is it that time already?”

“It was bad this year,” Sherlock whispered, trying not to exacerbate the already fragile fandoms under its care.

“I remember what that was like,” Merlin muttered, running a hand through its hair and pulling a cape off the nearby coat rack, “I’ll go to the store. We’re out of milk again. May as well pick up some fish fingers, custard, and salt.”

Supernatural gurgled something quietly.

“No, I won’t forget the pie.”

Hannibal will make you all pie, don’t worry.

That took a rapidly dark turn. Like, now all I’m doing is picturing Hannibal perched on a windowsill and grinning behind a creepy face mask.

It had taken Merlin a bit longer at the store than expected. Then again, caring for two ailing fellow fandoms required a good deal of supplies. It was also difficult to carry a six-pound bag of rocksalt, two cans of spray paint, a veritable tower of fish fingers, and enough custard that Sherlock would probably be able to experiment with the leftovers.

Taking the steps two at a time, Merlin juggled its shopping and opened the door carefully, “A hand, Sherlock?”

When Sherlock emerged, Merlin dumped the salt and spray paint on it and took the rest of the shopping to the kitchen to put away. On its way, it spotted the two mugs on the coffee table, “Did you seriously make tea for Supernatural?”

“No,” Sherlock said, stepping over a currently unconscious Supernatural to refill Doctor Who’s cup. After securing the shock blanket again, it picked up the second cup with the look of a war veteran, “This is for me. Supernatural got into your stash of mead half an hour ago.”

“Oh, well thank you so much for keeping an eye on my belongings.”

“Doctor Who was muttering about paradoxes and testing theories, it was the lesser of two evils. Where’s the pie?”

Merlin froze, eyes widening and fear sweeping over its features.

“You didn’t.”

After opening and closing its mouth several times, Merlin was blissfully saved from having to answer that by its phone going off. Quickly pulling it out, the fandom opened a text, blinking in surprise, eyebrows going up as it read, “It’s from Hannibal. It heard of our predicament and wanted to offer its help in any way possible.”

Sherlock got that delighted look on its face that was usually only triggered by complex cases or cocaine, “Excellent. Hannibal is a wonderful cook, is it not? Supernatural would likely respond best to homemade pie, given its… situation.”

“You can’t be serious!” Merlin hissed, “You know Hannibal-“

Whimpering in its sleep, Supernatural turned over and Sherlock and Merlin froze. Doctor Who fumbled a hand out of its shock blanket cocoon to reach out and clumsily pat its fellow fandom on the head.

Breathing a sigh of relief as Supernatural settled back down, Merlin glanced back down at its phone.

“Maybe if I just supervise the baking process…”

“Fantastic, I’ll put the kettle on for more tea.”

(via carryonmywaywardarchangel)