Just His Bodyguard

712 notes

consultingspiderinwestwood: doomslock: “Sebastian, if you’re hearing this message then I won’t be coming home tonight. But that’s okay; I did what needed to be done, you understand that, eh? I guess I always knew the story would end this way. The villain isn’t allowed a happy ending. I just wanted to let you know that I, uh… Oh, it doesn’t matter. Goodbye, Seb.” Hardest phone call I’ve ever made. Sorry, Bas. -JM

consultingspiderinwestwood:

doomslock:

“Sebastian, if you’re hearing this message then I won’t be coming home tonight. But that’s okay; I did what needed to be done, you understand that, eh? I guess I always knew the story would end this way. The villain isn’t allowed a happy ending. I just wanted to let you know that I, uh… Oh, it doesn’t matter. Goodbye, Seb.”

Hardest phone call I’ve ever made. Sorry, Bas. -JM

(via theinvisiblesniper)

512 notes

taggianto: teafortrouble: phantomofthe221btardis: teafortrouble: s-quinn: THIS IS YOUR FRIENDLY REMINDER THAT SEBASTIAN MORAN IS PROBABLY STILL CHECKING HIS PHONE FOR ORDERS FROM MORIARTY, BUT THERE WON’T BE ANY.  THAT ISN’T FUCKING FRIENDLY! He would never admit it (to whom, exactly, would he make an admission, anyway?), but Sebastian had taken to leaving his mobile, volume as loud as it would go, on top of his clock radio when he went to sleep at night. He never looked at it. He never thought about it. He simply placed it on top of the device, face-up and equidistant from each edge with meticulous precision, and there it would lay, still and silent, ‘til morning when he retrieved it (no missed calls, never any missed calls) and went on with things.The clock survived exactly two months and nine days like this. Two months and nine days until he woke as suddenly as if he’d been slapped, to the jaunty strains of a painfully familiar piece of music: ‘Iiit’s not easy having yourself a good time..’His ringtone.His ringtone. By the time he accepted that his alarm clock had been the source of the music, it was no longer, strictly speaking, a clock. WHY WOULD YOU WRITE SOMETHING LIKE THAT?

taggianto:

teafortrouble:

phantomofthe221btardis:

teafortrouble:

s-quinn:

THIS IS YOUR FRIENDLY REMINDER THAT SEBASTIAN MORAN IS PROBABLY STILL CHECKING HIS PHONE FOR ORDERS FROM MORIARTY, BUT THERE WON’T BE ANY. 

THAT ISN’T FUCKING FRIENDLY!

He would never admit it (to whom, exactly, would he make an admission, anyway?), but Sebastian had taken to leaving his mobile, volume as loud as it would go, on top of his clock radio when he went to sleep at night. He never looked at it. He never thought about it. He simply placed it on top of the device, face-up and equidistant from each edge with meticulous precision, and there it would lay, still and silent, ‘til morning when he retrieved it (no missed calls, never any missed calls) and went on with things.

The clock survived exactly two months and nine days like this. Two months and nine days until he woke as suddenly as if he’d been slapped, to the jaunty strains of a painfully familiar piece of music: ‘Iiit’s not easy having yourself a good time..’

His ringtone.

His ringtone. 

By the time he accepted that his alarm clock had been the source of the music, it was no longer, strictly speaking, a clock.

WHY WOULD YOU WRITE SOMETHING LIKE THAT?

(Source: lu-belle, via acciosilver)