Tuesday Jan 1 @ 09:13am“I’m comfortable with my body. It’s funny, actually, I’ve just been having a discussion with the guy who’s directing my new project It might have a bit of nudity and he said: ‘Just to let you know, if you’re getting naked, no landscaping of any kind. This is the 1940s and you’re playing a Jew.’ I was like, ‘Pretty much there anyway, mate! Not a huge amount of maintenance going on.’ I mean, there’s a little bit, obviously, for courtesy. This is way too much information, but I don’t like girls with nothing down there either. It freaks me out. You have to have something, otherwise it’s fucking creepy.”
Sherlockology’s summary of their time watching the Sherlock filming. (via doctorjohnholmes)
Monday Jan 1 @ 04:36pmhaving my life analyzed by Sherlock would be the most terrifying thing
“I can tell by the way you hold your hands that you spend hours each day either playing the piano or typing. Judging from the way your wrists bend - from a low angle to a high - you type, mainly, however your clothing and your age suggest it’s not something you do for work - a blogger, then, and a fanatical one at that. Your posture is warped from sitting in a chair for too long, and the way your social interactions are slightly stilted, your language and the frankly deranged way you laugh suggests you spend a lot of time on your own and conversing with people in capslock, riddled with ‘chat speak’ - oh my god, what is life, what is air - please, stop me if I’m wrong. No? Well, then. The way you keep looking between John and myself and the way you keep jerking your hands suggests you’re trying to contain your emotions and, taking into account the way you’re almost leering, blushing and the dilation of your pupils, I’d say you were imagining us in bed together, which means you’re not only a blogger, but a slash fangirl.”
#okay no #this moment hurt #Because John has no idea #He has absolutely no idea that that’s the last thing he’ll ever say to Sherlock Holmes face to face #But Sherlock does #He knows that and he knows John is right in what he says #He’s about to go out and give literally everything for his friends #for John Watson #But to protect John he has to hurt him first #has to make him leave #so he just sits there and takes it #Because friends protect you
Can we just. Can we just take a moment, to look at this.
Because everything I’ve seen so far has been sympathising with John, or Mrs Hudson, or Molly, or Moriarty, even Mycroft, but can we take a moment to think about how Sherlock felt here? This wasn’t a performance. This wasn’t ‘trying to make it look good’ for John, or the snipers. This was Sherlock breaking down. He had a plan, and he knew his friends would be safe, and he knew he’d live, but he wasn’t calm, or controlled. This isn’t Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective and Oscar Winning Actor. This is a single tear dripping from his chin because he’s saying goodbye to the only friend he ever knew. Sherlock doesn’t give a fuck about what the general public think about him - the only time he panicked in this episode was when he thought John doubted him. This isn’t about his career, or a game, or his reputation - this is about Sherlock having to break John’s heart. Because he was so alone too, and he has to say goodbye. He has to lose him. And he doesn’t have the closure of ‘death’, he doesn’t have a grave stone to visit, nor an excuse to mourn, or move on. He just has loss. An open wound constantly irritated by the knowledge that they’re both in the world, alone and hurt and broken, but some hideous trick of fate is keeping them apart. The injustice of it is gut wrenching.
It’s a glimpse, nothing more. A flash of dark hair and high cheekbones and pale eyes. And John knows it’s insane, knows it’s impossible, but it looked exactly like him.
Their eyes meet for a second, and the pair on the other side of the tinted taxi window show no signs of recognition. But not for a moment does John let himself believe it could be anyone else. He simple didn’t see him in the crowd, or did not have time to react between recognising him and the car drifting smoothly around the corner.
He must believe these things, because he must believe in who it was in that cab.
There was no-one else like him. No-one else it could have been.
It was Sherlock.
It is all John can do not to drop his bags as he races around the corner, breathing that name repeatedly under his breath. For the first time since Switzerland, he runs with no limp, he runs like he only ever did with Sherlock.
But even free from psychosomatic pain, he is not as fast as a car. He knows he will never catch it. “Sherlock… Sherlock…” he pants, even as he grinds to a halt in the middle of the road. He feels the name bubbling up inside him, becoming a shout as the car disappears.
“SHERLOCK!”
For several seconds, John just stands there, watching the point where the taxi disappeared. He is aware of people around looking at him, a car slowly pulling towards him, expecting him to move. He doesn’t care. It has just hit him, really, truly, that Sherlock Holmes is dead. He will never ride a London cab again, never look over the city with those cool, colourless eyes. No matter how hard John wishes, he will never come back.
The car behind him beeps its horn, and John limps away.
~
Sherlock turns and watches the figure, once he is sure it can no longer see his face. It runs after him, mouth forming his name over and over. As he watches, a burning desire grows, and he wants nothing more than to stop the taxi, jump out and gather the man in his arms. He never meant to hurt anyone. He never meant for this.
“You know that guy?” the cabbie asks, noticing what Sherlock is staring at. “You want me to stop for him?”
Sherlock turns around, catching the driver’s eye in the mirror. “No, it’s fine. Keep driving.”
He has whipped out his phone before he even knows what he’s doing.
Take care of him.
- SH
He has already sent the message before he taps out an afterthought.
Please.
- SH
Seconds later, his phone chimes.
Already picked him up. Have been following him since he left Baker Street.
- MH
And before he can even draw the breath to think of a reply, it seems that his brother also has more to say.
He’s crying. I don’t know what to do.
- MH
There is anger that message. And desperation. And remorse. And most of all—there is guilt. The words blur in his vision, and with trembling fingers, he wipes the tears that have dropped on the screen of his phone.
Neither do I.
- SH
He never sends that last message.
Sunday Nov 11 @ 07:53am“Coffee is symbolic for those two characters, no matter who brings the coffee, her or me,
it’s like this is our Good Morning Kiss - a way of saying without actually using words:
‘Good morning, my heart. How are you doing?’”
- Nathan Fillion
