your hands are electric in the wound god gave me

jawdust:

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.

(via the--worldspins)