It was going to be so epic. Sherlock had planned it all out: he was going to make a scene, maybe pretend to be a waiter or something, get on his knees — it’d be hilarious. Best of all John would stop pretending to not be all gay for him and Sherlock would have a new reason to feel special. John was easy, it wasn’t going to be hard. It was going to be so hilarious. Sherlock was so into his brilliant plans (because only the most brilliant mind of the century could think this shit up) that while he was walking down the street contemplating his glorious return in which he would prove for all time to have become a robot, he bumped into some people. He was taken aback. It was John! Looking quite happy and content, and with some… woman (ew! Sherlock was definitely not gay (definitely) but women were just the worst)! Oh, John, the poor deluded bastard. Well, Sherlock was back now, so John would be fine. “John! Did you miss me?” John blinked once, and then twice, and then he scowled. The woman looked confused. “Why am I not surprised?” John groaned. The woman gasped as she understood what was happening. “Sherlock Holmes, you piece of shit!” She punctuated the profanity with a summary kick to Sherlock’s brilliant groin. As Sherlock doubled over, he gasped. “John, I’m back! Stop this insane woman, I’ve come back! I only hope you can forgive me.” John was expressionless. “Well, I guess you are back. I only hope I can forgive you too. Fortunately for me, I’ve figured out not to rely on hope, and instead more useful things. Like action.” And then with a great grunt John Watson crushed the brilliant nethers of the brilliant Sherlock Holmes. As Sherlock lay twitching on the ground, John swept the woman, his new wife, off the ground, because he was John Watson and she was Mary Morstan and what the fuck do you want. John walked them past, and Mary lay her head on his shoulder. “You were right, John, he is a total douche.” “I told you. He seemed convinced I wanted to suck his dick or something. I don’t think he understood the concept of flatmates, you know?” “Clearly. Well, at least now we can be sure he’ll never raise any equally robotic children.” “I love you, Mary.” “I love you too, John.” Sherlock cried big fat baby tears, even with a heart two sizes two small and also probably mouldy. ———— Sherlock woke up. Disoriented, he took a moment to remember where he was. Right, he was in Amsterdam. He wasn’t going to go back to London for three days. Right. Right. London, god. He was going to have to face John. Was his dream about John? About — yeah, it was. He reeled as he remembered what had happened in the dream. Well, he certainly wasn’t going to do any of that, he resolved, neither what his dream self had planned nor what had actually happened. He was going to apologize, like a goddamned adult. It was the very, very least he could do, for the best friend he had ever had.
why doesn’t hamlet break down more often during “o that this too too solid/sullied flesh would melt”
why doesn’t hamlet sit alone with an expressionless face as everyone leaves and as soon as the stage is empty - why doesn’t he quietly and wearily stand up and look around and his labored breathing is the first evidence of the imminent breakdown before his body finally crumbles and he collapses to the floor and starts to drag his hands over the flesh on his arms and face and chest as sobs are ripped from his throat and tears stream down his cheeks and his body shudders and twitches and then is eerily still before he takes his hands from his face and chest and looks up at the audience with hollow eyes that ask why, why, why as he delivers that line, that first line of that soliloquy; like it’s taking all his strength just to breathe, to speak, to exist in a world where his father is gone and his mother is married to his uncle and he is alone in his grief like nothing ever happened, like no one ever died
grief and depression are horrible and physical and a deadpan delivery of this soliloquy angers me so much
reginalds asks the right fuckin questions