fahye | (no subject)

Well, they fit a lot into that one, didn't they?

Things I loved: EVERYONE'S FACES. The idea of framing Sherlock for the cases he solves -- man, I was hoping that there'd be HEAPS MORE fairy-tale crimes and everything would keep pointing back to Sherlock, but the plot just sort of zoomed gleefully on past.

Everything with Sherlock and John was amazing amazing amazing and I kept clutching my face in sheer bittersweet joy. Happily, Tumblr is already gif-ing the shit out of it all.

I didn't catch on to what a gorgeously clever choice of music 'Sinner Man' was until I listened to the full song after watching the episode, and fuck. It was never about Moriarty at all.

Where you gonna run to?

The devil said: sinner man, step right in.

And MOLLY, HELL TO THE *YES*, as soon as Sherlock went back to see her I was like OH YEAH, THERE ARE GOING TO BE SOME EXCELLENT TRICKS WITH CORPSES GOING ON HERE. I can't believe we have to wait an age and a half to find out what the trick was, but no doubt fandom will come up with at least five plausible ideas in the meantime.

(Oh, fandom. I am looking forward to reading everyone's take on the inevitable reunion scene like you wouldn't believe.)

I haven't written anything for this fandom yet, despite the fact that its aesthetic slots into the way I write quite nicely. I've been waiting for ideas that I truly want to handle, that I don't just want to read, but want to spin words around.

And now of course I have not one but TWO such ideas.

Heeeeere we go.

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I am, no lie, ridiculously excited to see what you come up with for this canon. Just. Wheee.

(And oh god this, ep and their faces, and Molly, and I have ALL THE FEELINGS)

You'll need to act like you've never acted before, Sherlock said, and part of Molly wants to tell John that he's killing himself for nothing, or at least that Sherlock is just as lost, in his own special spinning-compass way, without John. But the part of her that painted Sherlock's walls the colour of John's favourite jumper, the part of her that pauses when she's applying her lipstick and remembers his savage glee as he tore the Christmas present from her hands -- that part says: John never made him apologise.

I have him, that part of her thinks now. You don't.

It hurts like glass in her gut. Like a riding crop. Like poison, like blood in the lungs, and yes, like a fall from a great height. It hurts like every wound that Sherlock has inspected in and inflicted upon her corpses.

She tugs her scarf more tightly around her neck and thinks what a revenge this is; she might have chosen it, if she had been clever enough to desire a revenge. Molly Hooper, pale and quiet, who offered herself up like a dead body to be bruised by his curiosity, is the only person in the world who knows that -- and how, and why -- Sherlock Holmes is alive.

...!

I. Oh. Yes, perfect. Oh, god, Molly. Yes, yes, yes, yes, perfect, and cold, and bitter, and still - always - hurting and yes.

("You decorate it," he ordered. "Whatever it is that -- that you like." He held out a credit card, stiff-armed, like it was a poisonous frog.

Molly took the card and burst out into laughter that bubbled thin and awful.

"What?" Sherlock demanded. "You're upset."

"It's nothing," she said. "You wouldn’t understand," she said.

Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper, playing house. Buy whatever you like, dear. Bring home some fabric samples and we'll pick curtains.

Except when Sherlock said you he meant people like you, and when he said that he meant: people as unlike me as it is possible to be.)

Sherlock Holmes lives in a flat with only cutlery in the cutlery drawers, and no body parts in the fridge, and a cheerful blue couch, and walls painted oatmeal beige through which violin music never floats. It would fool anyone who came sneaking around; she's fairly sure Sherlock thinks he means his brother, when he talks like this, but she's seen the way he fails to inhabit, fails to adjust, drifts around in socked feet and doesn't touch the walls for fear he might -- what? Stick? His new project -- well, apart from the Project -- is turning his fake life into something that even he can't read his true self in.

~

(the other one is going to be Mycroft and Moriarty, because I've been looking for my perfect Mycroft story and THAT IS IT)

I HAVE ALL THE FLAILINGS! And the laughter, because it's funny, in a very black way, Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper, playing house.

Poor Sherlock. Poor Molly.

I really do want more of it.

AND !!!! YES. PERFECT. EXCELLENT.

(also, I'm sorry for incoherenting, I still have ALL THE FEELINGS from the episode. Although, writerly, I really want to go and write Kitty the Reporter as really being the BBC Sebastian Moran, and her being a reporter in this case is just a much a front as Moriarty's Richard Brook, that really she's a kickass sniper and Moriarty's right-hand, the one who gets her hands dirty for the boss)

Edited 2012-01-16 12:01 (UTC)

OKAY LAST ONE, then bed. Which I should have been in ages ago. Oh well, I will drink lots of coffee and hopefully scribble all through the endless orientation talks tomorrow.

~

"I'm surprised," he says. "I didn't think it would be this bad."

She keeps her answer to herself, automatically, but then thinks -- why should she? What is he going to do, fire her?

"Oh, that's such rubbish," she says. Sherlock looks warningly right down his nose at her, and she doesn't care. "I was there, you know, I saw that you were crying."

He doesn't lie this time. He doesn't tell her that he was just acting. He lifts one scientific hand to his face and then sweeps it down again, impatient; Molly charges on.

"You cried because you had to kill yourself in his mind, and you knew exactly how much that was going to hurt him. So don't go waving that -- that lonely unloved genius act at me. It doesn't work for you anyway, you should stick to arrogance. And it's insulting, is what it is. It's insulting to the people who do love you, to suggest that they've never done enough to make you believe it."