Most people, when they break up, sort through their record collections, possibly chuck each other’s clothes onto the sidewalk, engage in soul-destroying coffee dates where they try to sort through the emotional debris, and then leave each other the fuck alone.

Clint and Natasha were never very good at acting like normal people, though, which is why they run a cafe together.

Merlin meets Morgana Le Fay at a support group for People With Freaky Unnatural Powers. Alright, it’s not technically called that, but it might as well be.

"Arthur wants you to pretend to be him so that he doesn’t have to get married to Princess Helena?"

“If she wants shoes she can come here and get them.”

"Robot," Owen mutters under his breath, mentally willing Ianto to say something that will give him an excuse to attack him.

There’s a photograph of Arthur throwing his copy of Superman onto the bonfire; headlines screaming 'Ten Thousand Comic Books Burned,' news cuttings pasted into albums his father won’t look at but is proud of nonetheless.

It is a full moon on the night of October thirty-first, nineteen eighty-one, and therefore Remus has the best Halloween costume in most of England.

Maybe he’s just used to it now, and whatever he does to himself, it’s nothing new (he’s been broken, bruised, grazed, scratched, blinded, bleeding, twisted, dislocated and split more times than he can remember), or maybe it’s just the way Sirius sits on the end of his bed, complimenting his scars and suggesting what they can do next full moon before this one’s even waned yet, enthusiasm in his eyes and his hands only shaking slightly as he turns to go.

They’re both suffering from Post Traumatic Stress disorder and therefore getting drunk and playing around with sensitive conversation topics is a fucking stupid idea.

In which Ariadne still isn’t sure how she got here, Eames has Issues with Colin Firth, Arthur isn’t as boring as he’s pretending to be, and the world is full of unimaginative people paying a fortune to get laid.

They never meet in public; not for fear of getting caught, but because they’re too aware of innocent bystanders.

Mentally describing a patient using words such as 'handsome', 'exquisite' and 'tempting' is not a good idea at all.

"Your blog only has one sentence on it," Sherlock tells him.

She’s not the mentally ill one here, really, and she still can’t eat custard, ten years later.

Irene sets out to reclaim her diamond. Only nothing’s ever that simple, is it?

"Watson, I have found a way to make myself invisible!"

But John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are not quite like other men. Mary knows this by now.

Watson has had to take a brutal course in being honest with himself so nothing Holmes says will ever be a surprise.