#mysherlock

Like... Why is Sherlock angry? Why does he wreak the coffin? I can’t tell if it’s because he’s furious that Eurus has manipulated him into a vulnerable moment, or angry that she made him ‘play’ with Molly again.

He’s been trying to be good to and for Molly since the fall. Almost like he swore to never lie to her again, but that reaction seemed to suggest fury at the breaking of his own promise. (”Look what you did to her.”)

Don’t get me wrong, I’m down with Sherlolly like the rest of us. I do believe Sherlock genuinely loves her, but I also believe he would never allow/commit/entertain a relationship with her because I think he believes he isn’t good/right for her. Either that or his love for her is only platonic which is still a possibility.

And placing the lid on the coffin... it’s very ‘final nail’ sort of stuff. Like there’s no coming back from this moment with Molly, like he knows that they’re friendship is irreparably broken.

I WANT him to love her romantically of course, but the mood of the scene seemed too bleak and final for it to seem as though that is true.

The only inkling I got that Sherlock was finally realising his love for her is when she refuses to say the words. “Please, just say it.” “I can’t.” He very briefly looks distraught. As though maybe she doesn’t love him any more and he’s missed his chance. (Whether to save her or otherwise.) And then again when he actually says it, all soft and beautiful like and when he begs her to say it back.

Side note that it’s interesting that he seems hesitant to say it either when she asks him. (Almost as though it’s trrrruu. *bawls*)

I sort of feel like the ily is actually also for Eurus. She’s almost living vicariously through Molly in that moment. But the scene seems ambigious and I’m not sure which is true and which is sleight of hand in this case.

He is half-way through the automatic gesture—taking the cup—when the phrasing dawns on both of them and John freezes, his fingertips touching Sherlock’s around the ceramic circumference that is suddenly, maddeningly, too small. John doesn’t ever think of this; the uncanny ability they usually have, despite years of occupying the same cramped spaces, to avoid touching. John doesn’t ever think of this; his own uncanny ability to remember, acutely and without trying, every single time that they actually have: The average human memory is only sixty-two percent accurate on recall are you alright punch me in the face we’re going to need to cooperate let me by he’s my friend.

There’s nothing for it; you’ll need to learn how to dance.

To the best of times, John.