Sorry. I can’t do it any more. I was going to attempt to mimic John’s style of writing for an entire blog post but life’s too short. And I say that as someone who died over two years ago.
I started reading this blog post and squealed with happiness and laughed. Then I read on and was reduced to a simple smile. And before I had finished even that had died.
Let’s have a look at that quote above. Before he writes that, Sherlock’s completely exaggerating John’s style, and mocking him. Okay. But are these words really meant for those few lines? He says he can’t do that anymore. Sounds ultimate, like he’s been doing it for a long(er) time and is now exhausted and fed up with it. If it was about John’s writing style, I would have expected him to say, “Sorry, I can’t do that,” as in, I tried, but I can’t continue like this, because it’s just terrible and ridiculous and whatever else Sherlock would call John’s style.
But no, he can’t do it anymore. This is not about the blog. This is about all that happiness, being nice, being sociable, being… not Sherlock. He tried so hard; it was his task as Best Man to make it a good day for John, a memorable. He wanted it to be, because he loves John, because he wants him to be happy. But it is still not Sherlock, it is not him. It puts a strain on him to act like this, pretend it’s all pink and fluffy and nice.
And of course we have to ask at that point – is it really just about him being Sherlock who had to do something un-Sherlock-y? Or is it more? We heard him say it. We heard him confess his love, in many words and phrases, but also right out, plain as day, for everyone to hear. Sherlock loves John. If he has ever known love, if he ever had any inclination of love, then it is what he feels for John. Something irrational maybe, a chemical defect. The same he sees in Mary when she looks at John. He compares himself to her (even does so in his speech) and seems to be sure – I’m the same. He’s experiencing just that defect and he realizes he can’t do anything about it.
But neither can he live with it. Because it hurts him. Because he sees happiness he can’t have. Love is a concept he’s not familiar with. He’s experiencing it, and he must know that usually it’s something great and beautiful and maybe, when he remembers how it was with John back before the Fall, he realizes that he had that. But he doesn’t have it anymore. It’s gone, John’s gone, John has Mary, John doesn’t need Sherlock anymore. And Sherlock stays back, his love he can’t do anything about it still inside him, but also unable to share it.
For all the niceties we saw Sherlock say and do in TSoT, his blog post can almost be called hostile.
“he talks about things and I phase out. She’s the same.”
“then they start talking and I wish I really had died”
“without their meaningless chatter distracting me from more important things”
He’s hurt. He’s cranky. He hates their happiness. And it’s painful. I don’t doubt that he wants them to be happy; but he doesn’t understand why he can’t be happy as well. Now that he is beginning to experience love. Now that walks first, tentative steps into this territory, after he’s been away for two years, all alone, and in that time probably realized how badly he needs someone, how badly he needs John, because John’s the one. Always John. Without John, he’s not a human being; he’s once again the crime solver, but not the life safer. He’s only half of what he learnt to be in those years with John; and he’s left behind with feelings John taught him, but he can’t yet handle, because he needs help to understand them. Only that the only person who will ever be able to make him understand, fully understand, isn’t around anymore.
John has happiness. And Sherlock has nothing. Not even attention, because no one wants to hear about the crime, or how he solved it. No one wants to hear about Sherlock’s brilliance. No one wants to hear his advices, not even Mary, who’s always been kind and accepting until now, but suddenly “screams” at him to shut up.
But most important, the one person who matters most, the one person the man who despises love allows himself to love, the one person who always listened, the one person who was always just there, isn’t anymore.
Sherlock says he died two years ago. But that was just his name and, for a while presumably, his body. This time, it’s his heart and soul.