•.°Amor vincit omnia°.•

It ended, as it began, in a garden

(Fluffbruary, May 14, 2026)

John is still thinking it through. Sherlock can wait.

*

He didn’t like it.

Who knows why, it had its moments. But I can see that John’s disgruntled at the ending, and trying to put a good face on it—that’s so very John.

“Well. What’s the verdict?” I ask. I’ve learned to treat gently the things John really likes, even the trivial ones. And no matter how fanciful television can be—that Doctor Who series, good God—they contain clues about real emotional landscapes. Namely, his.

“Jury’s still out. It’s something to think over, maybe see again. I might understand it better, or differently, on a second viewing.”

So. Not like that one set in Ireland, with the priest and the publican. No room for ambiguity there, or ambivalence; Mrs Hudson and John were shattered when that one ended. A tragedy, the lovers and the viewers cheated of their long- and hard-fought-for happy ending.

Here at least there’s room for interpretation.

“Is it… the… um… theme of self-sacrifice? For the greater good?”

That one’s such a touchy topic I hesitate to raise it.

“Self-destruction, you mean?” His look is wry—he knows why I’m tiptoeing through the minefield.

But he pulls me tighter, wants me to understand he’s not gnawing at that old injury again. I lay my cheek on the top of his head, and feel his agitated breathing gradually ease, with the tension in his back and neck.

“Or is it something else?”

“It’s—everything else. But I don’t yet see it clearly in my mind, not enough to talk about it.”

I take the hint. I can wait. I use talking to clarify my thinking; he clarifies his thinking in order to talk. I’m just sorry to see him unhappy. I’ve learned that we both process our emotions indirectly, they’re mediated; what violin or opera is for me, these stories are for him. Whether I find them good or bad, they help him. Even when they hurt. 

I tighten my arm around his shoulders, and stroke his hand.

After a few moments he clears his throat.

“It was so anticipated. So many people were looking forward to it. There was no way they could have pleased everyone. Someone was bound to be disappointed. After all, it was kind of a field hospital rush job, so some scarring was inevitable. At least the patient lived.”

That too is so John, always ready to make light of his own disappointments. I wish he didn’t have to ever be disappointed, but that’s not realistic. Certainly not when it’s me he’s chosen to live with.

He shifts, stretches a bit. “Let’s turn in early. I might need some extra TLC.”

I’m ready. If nothing else, he can have one happy ending tonight: ours.

*

Chapter 45, Comfort Telly (a drabble), had established that GO was a staple in 221B.

The Fluffbruary prompts for May 14 were grow, shrub, and soil, with an image of a garden trowel filled with fertile dirt. Yesterday’s GO finale is sure to seed even more fic than meta: the consolation prize of disappointment, in fandom, is a wild profusion of beautiful fix-its.

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TERESA LISBON & PATRICK JANE ❤️

Sherlock (You're a Mad Man) - an album cover edit by helloliriels, a FTH gift 🎁for @chriscalledmesweetie's lyric madness, and ofc celebrating the 🎙️podfic sung by @ghostofnuggetspast (music madness!) !! I think the long and short of it is ... we're all mad here!!! 😂😊🫶 ROCK OUT WITH YOUR LOCK OUT, Vol. 27 (retro ViBeS, baby!)

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