If Benedict Cumberbatch (a man who used to say “Oh Crumpets!”) is now seeing how many swear words he can fit into one four-minute interview as well as pinching your arse and flipping you off in public, who, exactly, do you think is to blame for that, Martin?!?
I’m 827% positive that the reason Anderson doesn’t think Sherlock is dead is because Sherlock purposefully let Anderson see tiny glimpses of him the past several years, just to screw with his head. Appearing through Anderson’s window in the woods, standing across the street of his favorite coffee shop, leaving small traces of his presence in his office.
Because Sherlock’s a little shit like that.
"Pet," Loki calls sweetly as the pair of unnaturally blue eyes stares listless past him, "who owns you?"
"You do, my king.""Good," he caresses Thor’s tree-like arm, feeling unseen tendons ripple beneath a body forced still—a surviving echo of Thor’s consciousness struggling to endure the Scepter’s power and regain control. The promise of leisurely pounding down that stubborn, pesky, insufferable little nail later fills Loki with a novel sort of manic glee.
"I will enjoy owning you," he continues, "just as I will enjoy having you rain lightning upon Asgard until its ashes sting our eyes, and enjoy the darkening of Odin’s face right before the witless tool that was once his golden heir shatters it into a million crimson fragments. All this you will surely enjoy as well, as I will command you to.”
Thor’s massive hands twitch once, twice.
"But I find your silence and lack of sentiments the greatest enjoyment yet, brother.” Loki brandishes the familiar muzzle—an indignation partly soothed now that Thor’s band of Midgard insects are scattered stains on Midgard dirt. "Besides, we would find more use for that tender mouth of yours inside the bedchamber than out, yes?”
Thor’s breath is warm on his fingers as he fastens the apparatus, perhaps too tightly. Loki doesn’t even notice his own teeth sinking into his lip until he tastes blood in the back of his throat.