I will be going on hiatus from tumblr as of today. I was going to wait til the end of May, but I have exams coming up, that I need to study for, and the crap from yesterday effectively killed any desire I had left to be on tumblr. Hopefully, I’ll be back in September and no one will have unfollowed me.
so i was looking up stuff about birth control throughout history and
Please don’t delete the foreign notice,Thanks
Each morning, like clockwork, they board the subway, off to begin their daily routine amidst the hustle and bustle of the city.
But these aren’t just any daily commuters. These are stray dogs who live in the outskirts of Moscow Russia and commute on the underground trains to and from the city centre in search of food scraps.
Then after a hard day scavenging and begging on the streets, they hop back on the train and return to the suburbs where they spend the night.
Experts studying the dogs, who usually choose the quietest carriages at the front and back of the train, say they even work together to make sure they get off at the right stop – after learning to judge the length of time they need to spend on the train.
Scientists believe this phenomenon began after the Soviet Union collapsed in the 1990s, and Russia’s new capitalists moved industrial complexes from the city centre to the suburbs.
Dr Andrei Poiarkov, of the Moscow Ecology and Evolution Institute, said: “These complexes were used by homeless dogs as shelters, so the dogs had to move together with their houses. Because the best scavenging for food is in the city centre, the dogs had to learn how to travel on the subway – to get to the centre in the morning, then back home in the evening, just like people.”
Dr Poiarkov told how the dogs like to play during their daily commute. He said: “They jump on the train seconds before the doors shut, risking their tails getting jammed. They do it for fun. And sometimes they fall asleep and get off at the wrong stop.”
The dogs have also amazingly learned to use traffic lights to cross the road safely, said Dr Poiarkov. And they use cunning tactics to obtain tasty morsels of shawarma, a kebab-like snack popular in Moscow.
With children the dogs “play cute” by putting their heads on youngsters’ knees and staring pleadingly into their eyes to win sympathy – and scraps.
Dr Poiarkov added: “Dogs are surprisingly good psychologists.”
Wanna know what happened?
Someone went to the mic and said
“I have really loved seeing Dean grow more comfortable with himself this season. As a bisexual myself-“
and the crowd started booing.
ON WHAT PLANET IS IT APPROPRIATE TO BOO WHEN SOMEONE STATES THEIR SEXUALITY?
I see this and I instantly think that this is how Sherlock found John when he came home.
Now I want to write it…
Oooooh please do it! :D
Three years. Three years since The Fall. No one cared anymore. Sherlock Holmes had become a myth, a man of legend that only fools believed. The dark-haired detective hadn’t been in anyone’s thoughts for a while. Except for John’s. He plagued John’s thoughts, his dreams, his every word. The doctor saw him everywhere. He was getting worse, no matter what Ella said. Once you admit he’s dead, you’ll forget about him. Move from Baker Street and you will feel better again. Get out of London. Stop this. Stop that. Stop -
But he couldn’t stop. How could he stop believing in the one thing that was most…right in his life? Besides, it wasn’t as if he chose to be plagued by these hallucinations. If he had chosen to be haunted, he would have admitted he had a problem. He would have asked for a better therapist than the ebony woman who patronized him every week. She almost made John crave Donovan’s company instead. And that thought was the start, the start of his startling demise.
No one noticed, though. Like Sherlock, John had slipped through the cracks of people’s minds and thoughts and cares. So like Sherlock, when John disappeared, no one cared. Well, not no one. Everyone but Mrs. Hudson, of course. She cared. She checked. She chatted. But whenever she came up for tea or ‘sugar, dear?,’ he could see in her emerald green eyes that she was no longer sad about Sherlock. She was sad about John. Another chip in the iceberg.
Weeks went by after the thought of wanting Donovan’s company and of how Mrs. Hudson was the only one that cared. Weeks turned into months. Months turned into the fourth year. On the fourth anniversary of Sherlock’s death, John sent out one final text, his note, his goodbye.
Are you lost without your blogger, Sherlock? Don’t worry. I’m coming.
He turned off his mobile, tossed it into the rubbish bin, and sat down in his chair, one hand on his gun and the other holding a bottle of pills. Looking between the two, he had to decide which one would work best. The gun would alert the ‘married ones’ as Mrs. Hudson wasn’t home. The pills - the pills would take time but at least it was subtle. No one would notice. So he stood up and placed the gun next to the pile of letters with a knife stabbed through them in the mantle, layers and layers of dust decorating the thick paper and the metal knife. He gave a small smile as he remembered time upon time when Sherlock got angry and stabbed ‘mundane queries’ and bills he refused to pay. It was a happy thought for him, odd for most people but normal for him, and he decided to let it be his last thought.
After grabbing a glass of water from in the kitchen, he sat back down in his chair then changed his mind before standing up and hobbling over to Sherlock’s chair, leaving his cane by his, as he decided that this - this was right. He let the for-too-long-untouched leather cool him through his jumper and jeans which almost felt soothing to him as he popped a few pills into his mouth followed by a gulp of water then to repeat. When it became nearly a dozen pills, he stopped. He stopped and he waited. As he waited, he let memories flow through him, all about Sherlock, words ringing in his ears.
I’m supposed to be helping you pay the rent. What am I doing here?
This is more fun.
Colleague. (He regretted that ever since then.)
I don’t have friends. I’ve just got one.
Sherlock, no -
“Goodbye, Sherlock,” he whispered as he felt his lids grow heavy, a light smile tugging at the corners of his lips, and a faint smell of something earthy mixed with faded Rosin oils wafted over him. Sherlock. Yes, it was starting. He could already see the blurry outline of Sherlock, smell him, hear him.
“John!” The voice was very clear. He’d done it. He was dead. He was with Sherlock now and nothing mattered. But then very real, very solid fingers were clutching at his jaw and lips, checking his carotid pulse as the voice continued. Now he knew he was dead because the voice sounded frightened. Sherlock wasn’t frightened. Sherlock was never frightened but only twice. John didn’t try to open his eyes. It was too late.
Sherlock did not give up, however. Pulling John out of his chair onto the floor, he checked quickly for injuries and upon finding none, he plunged his first two fingers into John’s mouth, searching for his gag reflex.
“John Watson, you idiot,” he said fiercely, angrily, desperately as he pressed harder until the doctor gagged once. It wasn’t enough. Sherlock pressed again and felt John gag even harder underneath him. Turning the doctor onto his side, Sherlock pressed one last time before water and pills shot from John’s mouth just as he started convulsing. Sherlock could feel his knees getting wet and could smell the digesting pills on John’s breath and that scared him more than anything. More than the stab to his stomach in Dubai. More than being locked away and forgotten in the Americas. More than the text only moments ago with John’s goodbye. Because this was real. This was his real fear. “John, John, stop and listen to me,” he tried as John began to convulse again. Sherlock straddled him and held him down, the doctor’s arms above his head, as he reached into his own pocket for his mobile to dial 999.
“Sh’lock,” John murmured as he felt the very real, very heavy restraint on his body. “Sh’lock, wha’ h’ppening?”
“You idiot,” Sherlock growled, his voice broken in fear as he listened to the idiotic instructions the operator was giving him. “You’re not going to die on me, John Watson. Not after everything I’ve done.”
“But you’re dead,” John mumbled, struggling to try and open his eyes to see if the detective was real. Sherlock gave a small, harsh laugh.
“Not dead enough for you to die on me,” he said quietly. He lowered his forehead to John’s as he heard the sirens approaching. “I was lost without my blogger, John. Don’t make me lose you again.”
I LOVE IT!!
OKAY IM DOING A SCHOOL PROJECT ON GAY MARRIAGE AND I HAVE TO USE STATISTICS SO REBLOG IF YOU SUPPORT GAY MARRIAGE AND LIKE IF YOU DONT
That little headbutt in the second one gave me diabetes.
“Excuse me, human. I would like a petting, please. Yes, thank you.”
“Um, excuse me, human? Human? Ah yes, I’d like another petting please. Ah, thank you.”
Always reblog Polite Cat.
I want this cat.
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