silvertons:

Why do you keep doing that? Doing what? Worrying that I’m thinking about some other job. This is my job. This is what I do.

silvertons:

I’m proud of him, okay? You’re proud of a man that fired into a group of people? I mean, not him exactly. The work I did. The surgery you performed? The night he was shot, I dug two .38s out of his arm, another two out of his thigh. The fifth was in his chest, and his lungs were filling with blood. I got a tube in, but the place was a circus, so I almost missed the muffled heart tones, the distended vein in his neck. His pericardium was filling with blood, too. I mean, it happens to maybe 2% of patients, but even a hole the size of a pin prick can flood it. I remember inserting the needle into his chest. You go too deep, you risk puncturing the heart itself. But then I heard this pop when I got to the membrane, and then I started to draw the blood away. A few minutes later he was stable enough for surgery. I found the .38 lodged inside the wall of his bronchus. And that was that. I stitched him up, and ten days later he was transferred to a prison ward for recovery. Usually when I think back to those days, I don’t feel great. But seeing Shinwell yesterday, it made me feel good.

miladyofwar:

Sherlock has a vested interest in Joan’s wardrobe…

silvertons:

Yesterday you asked me why I held on to your apartment. You worry that I’m having second thoughts about your return here. I merely question your haste. The timing of it all. So I took steps to keep your options open. For your benefit. Do you want me living here or not? I do, I have never wavered on that. Even having you here the last few days has had a measurable benefit to our process. Then what is it? For a long time, I have argued that you should fully embrace the life of a detective. You’ve always had a valid rebuttal. I might not share your need for a more balanced existence, but I accept it. Now, abruptly, my words hold more truth for you. In your rush to shed the skin of your former self, you’re abandoning your belongings, as if leaving the site of a contamination. You think this is all about Andrew? How could it not be?

miladyofwar:

jumping to the worst possible conclusion