GAWD, THE FEELS.

I saw Smithfield Infirmary today. Know what that is?

IT'S THE BUILDING SHERLOCK JUMPED OFF OF. I stood under where he leapt from, I imagined John running and being pushed down and shouting, and I started to cry. Big, shuddery, snivelling sobs.

It's also the building where Sherlock and John met. Remembering this made me cry even harder.

But I know where to find Moriarty, guys. I saw him today. In retrospect, I probably should have tackled him or shouted "I've got your number, bastard," but I was a little stunned.

The bitch is working as a security guard in London Waterloo station. He's grown a beard (fairly short, maybe a month of growth, or two of careful trimming), but it's definitely him. Send help. We'll take him on. Together, with the force of the fandom assembled, we shall BRING HIM DOWN.

I also had a very good brie sandwich at Speedy's. And gawd, the productions stills. Benny and Martin. Steven. Mark. Andrew. The bomb rubble, the wrap party for season one, SO MUCH OF IT. And there were surprisingly few fangirls. But there were still a couple, and we bonded.

I'm going to curl up and cry for Jawn now. Adieu.