What Is Love Anyway?
Sherlock has long held romance to be an embellishment or distortion of the truth. When The Sign of Three begins, Sherlock is about to realize his error too late.
Fine-grain analysis of
The Sign of Three:
Sherlock has always called John a romantic: he romanticizes his blog entries, he tells him. John focuses on entirely the wrong thing. What about the facts? That’s what’s important.
When Sherlock returns in
The Empty Hearse, one of his deductions of Mary is that she is a romantic. We then see Sherlock begin to fixate this episode on all the things John must dislike about him and it makes him try to be a softer person — soft for Sherlock, anyway. Things work out at the end of
The Empty Hearse, but as Sherlock says to John, “Unlike the nicely embellished fictions on your blog, John, real life is rarely so neat.”
The Empty Hearse was about Sherlock coming to understand friendship. But Sherlock doesn’t understand love, and what love is at its core is the idea resolved in
The Sign of Three.
You couldn’t blame Sherlock for equating love with irrationality, especially given his line of work. He sees people lie to each other constantly, or make terrible decisions based on sentiment. And indeed, even someone who isn’t Sherlock Holmes can observe that romance is often a collaborative exaggeration on the part of people who want to feel it.
In
The Sign of Three, we get some foreshadowing that perhaps John’s relationship with Mary is, while meaningful and sincere and functional, a bit of a puffed up projection of two romantics and that John might not know Mary as well as he thinks. Both Molly and Mrs. Hudson are shown to be involved with, or have been involved with, people they don’t truly connect with purely because of the physical angle. Both are shown rushing into marriage, and when John proposed to Mary he admitted it might seem soon. Mrs. Hudson’s marriage ended because she didn’t know her husband at all, and while it remains to be seen for Molly and Tom, Tom clearly isn’t everything Molly wants in a man. But in the face of Mrs. Hudson’s story, John says — and appears to believe — that he’s certain Mary is the one, that they definitely have that special connection.
He then goes upstairs to Sherlock and posits that it’s reasonable a married man would steal identities from the obituaries to have a single night of connecting with someone even if there wasn’t sex involved — a single night like he just had with Sherlock the night before. Sherlock, trusting John in all matters of romance, just assumes John is right, and abandons his idea that all the women in his mind palace were employed by the same person.
Except it turns out John was wrong, and Sherlock’s initial line of inquiry was right.
Of course John was wrong. A big reason Sherlock took the case was that the lack of sex in Tessa’s story made it seem like it wasn’t about mere adultery. And Sherlock had strong reason to believe they had all signed non-disclosure agreements for an employer, he just couldn’t get them to talk. But in that moment, John’s mindset was tellingly unusual.
John seems happy enough with Mary, certainly. John can probably have a functional, decent relationship with plenty of people. But before Sherlock returned, we also read on John’s blog that he used his relationship with Mary as a crutch to get over Sherlock — John even consciously states as much, in some respects — and that it wasn’t even entirely effective.
And other cracks are starting to show: Sherlock hands Mary a whole list of people, presumably John’s guests, that hate her. At the wedding we find that John is still attending therapy — although that can be read ambiguously as his just not being as opposed to it as he was in the first episode of series one.
But hey: John is human, and it’s healthy to move on. What else was he supposed to do? It’s not like Sherlock could have feelings for him, or anyone.
Indeed, Sherlock’s stance on romance is unambiguous in his best man’s speech:
All emotions, in particular love, stand opposed to the pure cold reason I hold above all things. A wedding is, in my considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world. Today we honour the death watch beetle that is the doom of our society and in time, one feels certain, our entire species.
Sherlock doesn’t only think emotion is irrational, it’s harmful to the point of being the sole cause of suffering in the world. In its way, it’s almost sweet: Sherlock doesn’t like emotion because it’s destructive.
Accordingly, Sherlock is not going to embellish his speech with platitudes. He cannot do that, it would be wrong. He’s sticking to the facts:
But anyway, let’s talk about John. If I burden myself with a little helpmate during my adventures, this is not out of sentiment or caprice. It is that he has many fine qualities of his own that he has overlooked in his obsession with me. Indeed, any reputation I have for mental acuity and sharpness comes, in truth, from the extraordinary contrast John so selflessly provides. It is a fact, I believe, that brides tend to favour exceptionally plain bridesmaids for their big day. There is a certain analogy there, I feel, and contrast is, after all, god’s own plan to enhance the beauty of his creation. Or it would be, if god were not a ludicrous fantasy designed to provide a career opportunity for the family idiot.
The point I’m trying to make is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant, and all around obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. I am dismissive of the virtuous, unaware of the beautiful, and uncomprehending in the face of the happy. So if I didn’t understand I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody’s best friend, and certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing.
John, I am a ridiculous man, redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship. But as I am apparently your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion.
Actually, now I can.
Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. John, you have endured war, and injury, and tragic loss. So sorry again about that last one. So know this: Today, you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved — in short, the two people who love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that.
And in the face of this airtight, logical argument, the entire room, including John, is moved to tears. Sherlock blinks, baffled and disturbed, and asks, “John, did I do it wrong?”
Sherlock doesn’t realize he read a love letter aloud. He was, after all, merely stating the obvious. Facts are not moving. He might recognize truth is the most beautiful, romantic thing of all, though, if these facts about his feelings for John all lined up in the right configuration — if there were only some way for him to see that it’s simply a logical, unavoidable conclusion that he’s in love with John Watson.
But Sherlock has never been able to force his epiphanies — unless, as Mary later tells us, he’s pressed for time and it matters. So Sherlock simply continues on, these thoughts rattling in the back of his mind, unconnected:
Now on to some funny stories about John. So for funny stories one has to look no further than John’s blog, the record of our time together. Of course he does tend to romanticize things a bit — but then, you know, he’s a romantic.
We’ve tackled some strange cases. “The Hollow Client.” “The Poison Giant.” We’ve had some frustrating cases. Touching cases. And of course I have to mention “The Elephant in the Room.” But we want something very particular for this special day, don’t we? “The Bloody Guardsman.”
Private Bainbridge had just come off guard duty. He’d stood there for hours, plenty of people watching, nothing apparently wrong. He came off duty and, within minutes, was nearly dead from a wound in his stomach, but there was no weapon. Where did it go?
Ladies and gentleman, I invite you to consider this. A murderer who can walk through walls. A weapon that can vanish. But in all of this there is only one element which can be said to be truly remarkable. Would anyone like to make a guess?
We see the ideas swirling in Sherlock’s subconscious while he gives his speech via his own words, and flashbacks.
These ideas start building up here: romanticism; the elephant in the room; someone invisible infiltrating a place no one ought to have been able to get in, stabbing someone, and that person not realizing it until they were long gone; bleeding out.
From the sequence of the case itself: inklings of jealous feelings toward Sholto; uniform fetishist, “all the girls like a soldier”; red uniforms; more jealousy toward Sholto — why has he suddenly taken interest in another human being?; trying on the hat and walking the walk, just like these other men do, sneaking into their world; looking in on a room full of soldiers as an outsider, not knowing exactly what he’s looking for; an incredibly attractive naked man lying on the floor, and tentatively touching him (never done this before, John, tell me what to do — “press here hard”); Captain John Watson, in control, everything will be okay; John calling Sherlock his “nurse.”
From Tom: a stabbing with a “meat dagger.”
Sherlock continues:
There was one feature and only one feature of interest in the whole of this baffling case, and quite frankly, it was the usual. John Watson, who, while I was trying to solve a murder, instead saved a life.
There are mysteries worth solving and stories worth telling. The best and bravest man I know and on top of that, he actually knows how to do stuff. Except wedding planning and serviettes. He’s rubbish at those. The case itself remains the most ingenious and brilliantly planned murder, or attempted murder, I have ever had the pleasure to encounter. The most perfect locked room mystery of which I am aware.
More ideas accumulate, still unconnected: a perfect locked room mystery; John is the only one who can stop the bleeding; the most perfect case Sherlock has ever encountered, but it’s John that strikes him most; it’s an afterthought that he couldn’t even solve it (John: more important than everything).
However, I’m not just here to praise John, I’m also here to embarrass him. Embarrassment leads me on to the stag night. Of course there’s hours of material here, but I’ve cut it down to the really good bits.
Sherlock’s subconscious gets flooded during the stag night.
From the stag night sequence: “we’re having quite a lot of sex;” John’s face on the Vitruvian Man (why is he ideally beautiful to me?); the incredibly suggestive lyrics of the background songs; lying beside John on the stairs; John saying “rub them up the wrong way” and laughing like that; gender confusion about the king/queen; John in his face, in his space; John kneeling between his legs, touching the inside of his knee (Irene touched me, kind of like this); ”I don’t mind” (me too (minded Irene, had snapped to and asked, “Where’s John?”)); is John a woman? (yes (no he’s not)); is John pretty?; “beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood influences, impressions, and role models” (you look like my dad, is all; your physical ratios are ideal; tedious); when pressed to evaluate, “I don’t know, I don’t know who you’re supposed to be” (I just picked something everyone else would, I don’t get this (we’re friends, aren’t we? (I don’t know who you are when you’re kneeling between my legs, right in front of my face, right beneath my nose))); John pursing his lips; “I’m you, aren’t I?” (don’t know who I am without you)
Then: a nurse (wasn’t I a nurse?) who says, “I don’t date all that much. He seemed… nice. You know? We seemed to automatically connect. We had one night. Dinner. Such interesting conversation. It was lovely. To be honest, I’d love to have gone further —” (? what am I…? no) “— but I thought no, this is special. Let’s take it slowly.” (mm-hm) ”Maybe he wasn’t quite as keen as I was…? But… I just thought…” (hmm?) "… at least he’d call to say that we were finished." (that’s sad! … is that sad? why’s that sad?); this kind of thing is always so “Boring boring boring— NO! Fascinating.” (something… take a closer look, there’s something to this); “I apologize about my, my…” (what is he to me again?); John snapping to, saying, “I’m there if you want it.”
From the drunken deduction scene: feeling absolutely out of his depth and off-kilter; everything having blurry double and triple meanings that everyone expects him to have figured out; “I’m just gonna whip this out,” getting down on all fours with his ass in the air facing John because he’s got to examine this really closely, even if he doesn’t know where to start, he’s got to look for clues; next thing he knows he’s ended up on his knees, wiping his mouth, utterly caught off-guard; he’s spilled his guts (surprise, uncontrollable, unbidden), he’s compromised the integrity of the crime scene, he didn’t mean to do that.
The next morning: what’s so great about Sholto? (don’t let John see); a room full of women, so few worth examining; what people look for in romance; “Nothing happened. It was just… very romantic.”; “He must have something special.” “He listened.” “He was very charming.” “He was sweet.”
Woman in a red uniform (red uniform? pay attention): short stature, short blonde hair, different personality than the rest (like John). She begins, “He had a lovely—” John interrupts ("Hello, John.") “—manner.”
Then Sherlock’s subconscious gathers a ton of data very quickly:
Sherlock: “Describe him.”
Immediate response: ”Short blond hair.” (like John)
Woman in red: ”Couldn’t tell. He had a mask on.” (was hiding the entire time (like John))
Sherlock explains the man was stealing identities from the obituaries. All the woman are horrified except the woman in red (the woman like John), who looks impressed Sherlock figured it out and says, “Clever!” (like John)
Sherlock says, “Meanwhile, back to business. No one wants to use a dead man’s home.” The woman in red shrugs meaningfully — morbid stuff doesn’t bother her that much (like John) — and Sherlock casts her a quick look. Something about her keeps grabbing his attention.
Sherlock says, “He disguises himself. Steals the man’s home. Steals the man’s identity.” (“You’re my best friend.” I’m your best… friend?; I don’t even know what that means [to be Sherlock Holmes]. I have an international reputation, but I don’t even remember what for. I’m you, aren’t I?)
John shows up in Sherlock’s mind palace, just pops in without his noticing. Sherlock doesn’t mind much, a far cry from Baskerville.
Sherlock deduces the women must all work for the same person, and now they all wear the uniforms of their occupation, including the woman who was in red. She’s a maid (looks after someone domestically (like John)). And she still keeps grabbing Sherlock’s attention.
"Ideal night out?" The answers come in, all boring, until…
The maid smirks: “Dungeon.” (dominating (like Irene (like John)))
The maid’s make-up is “whatever’s cheap” and not a brand name. (not overly concerned with shallow things (like John)) The maid wears a different perfume than all the others. (still ordinary, but different (like John))
"Ideal man?" All the women offer things that are not Sherlock at all: George Clooney, home-loving, he’d have to like cuddling, caring. Then the maid starts in on a list of things that are even more specific to Sherlock: someone who isn’t competitive with other men, someone who isn’t constantly trying to define himself by his masculinity. Sherlock instantly shuts her up with a chauvinistic hand gesture. (wouldn’t want me at all (like John)) (I don’t understand women, nor do I care to)
Sherlock asks if they have a secret they’ve never told anyone, and they all say “no” immediately. John, suddenly in Sherlock’s mind palace again, immediately asks, “What do you mean?” The women all begin to leave, but the maid (like John) says, "Sorry sexy. Some secrets have to stay secret."
"Have fun at the wedding," Tessa adds. Sherlock sighs in frustration and holds out his hand, then lowers it. He’d almost figured something out.
"You’re missing the obvious, mate," John says.
"Am I?" Sherlock asks.
"He’s a man," John replies.
"Why did he change his identity?" Sherlock asks.
"Maybe he’s married," John says.
Married. Obvious really. Our Mayfly Man was trying to escape the suffocating chains of domesticity, and instead of endless nights in watching the telly or going to barbecues with awful, dreadful, boring people he couldn’t stand, he used his wits, cleverness, and powers of disguise to play the field. He was…
On second thought, I probably should have told you about “The Elephant in the Room.”
However it does help to further illustrate how invaluable John is to me. I can read a crime scene the way he can understand a human being. I used to think that’s what made me special. Quite frankly, I still do. But a word to the wise. Should any of you require the services of either of us, I will solve your murder, but it takes John Watson to save your life. Trust me on that, I should know. He saved mine so many times and in so many ways.
This blog is the story of two men and their frankly ridiculous adventures. Of murder, mystery, and mayhem. But from now on there’s a new story. A bigger adventure. Ladies and gentleman, pray charge your glasses and be upstanding. Today begins the adventures of Mary Elizabeth Watson and John Hamish Watson. The two reasons why every single one of us is —
Overloaded with data from the stag night, the epiphany has all it needs to rev up:
Sherlock stares the literal Mayfly Man in the face as literal flashbulbs go off. In his subconscious, he’s staring the metaphorical Mayfly Man in the face as metaphorical flashbulbs go off: a man who was there the whole time, disguised as someone else; a man who found his way into a metaphorical locked room, metaphorically stabbed him without his noticing, and slipped away. (now it’s too late — who was supposed to stop the bleeding?)
It’s…
Everything collides in Sherlock’s mind at once, transporting him back to the subconscious of his mind palace. The connections are made, he just has to consciously register them.
"What did you say?" he asks Tessa. "You said John Hamish Watson.” Something is coming together in his mind. ”Sherlock Holmes and his partner John Hamish Watson,” Tessa says in Sherlock’s memory.
He remembers obsessing over John’s middle name.
"The Woman knew." Sherlock remembers the scene. (John was so jealous (she told John we were a couple)) ”God knows where she is.” (haven’t kept up with her) Irene stands there naked, like the first time Sherlock ever saw her, and boldly touches his face. (forward, dominating (like John)) “Out of my head, I’m busy.” (she’s not what I’m looking for)
"For one person to be in both groups…" Sherlock says aloud.
"Oh Sherlock," Mycroft says, condescending. "What do we say about coincidences?" He talks Sherlock through the fact that someone lied about being in two groups, and that it was planned and intentional. More puzzle pieces slot into place, and Sherlock’s glass hits the ground.
"The Mayfly Man," Sherlock says. "The Mayfly Man is here today.”
(Mycroft’s speech is actually doing quadruple-duty, in different parts: literal on the level of walking Sherlock through the literal murder case; the obvious psychological level of having Sherlock embrace sentiment over the cold rationality Mycroft has long instilled in him (Mycroft as superego); subtext as Sherlock stumbles upon romantic feelings for John; and finally, subtext as a direct entreaty to the audience. Neat.)
Sherlock leaps over the table and begins to talk himself through it, like he does all epiphanies. He distractedly yammers about John’s good qualities as he scans the room for the Mayfly Man. Neither John, nor the literal Mayfly Man — the photographer, whose first name is also John — are in the running, because Sherlock doesn’t see it yet.
Typical people have their sexual identity crisis earlier in their lives. It takes them years to go through puberty and sort out a stream of conflicting data from their environment, and hone in on what it is they’re looking for.
Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand, has never been typical. He goes to John Watson’s wedding still a child, and talks himself through puberty within minutes in front of all the guests. He’s solving the perfect locked room mystery: his own heart.
It’s rather a lot of disconnected bits for one emotionally stunted man to handle at once, even if he is a genius. But genius needs an audience, and it’s a good thing he has such a big one today, because he’s going to need their participation for this one.
He spins in a circle, clutching his head. ”Too many too many TOO MANY!” Sherlock shouts.
Sherlock is automatically summoned back to his subconscious by Mycroft to help sort this out. Mycroft directs his attention to the literal case, as Mycroft tends to do. (“Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.” (Alone is what I have, alone protects me.) ”Don’t get involved, Sherlock.”)
“Murder,” Sherlock says aloud, to the guests. ”Sorry, did I say murder? I meant to say marriage.” Both are spinning around in his head. They’re… connected in some way he hasn’t sorted it out. Look a lot alike, lot of similar pieces. Confusing, these two things going on…
Murder. Right. Focus: murder.
Sherlock abruptly jumps to a male guest and declares him “acceptably hot” and offers him up to the bridesmaid. He’s been evaluating and dismissing men all day.
He uses it for cover to text Lestrade behind his back. ”Geoff,” he says, “the gents.” Lestrade stares at him. ”Greg,” he corrects, irked. (who cares what some guy’s first name is? (took me years to find out John’s middle name))
Lestrade leaves, and Sherlock gives John their secret code: vatican cameos.
"Narrow it down," Mycroft instructs. (This isn’t working, Mycroft.) "Narrow it down. Narrow it down.”
"No!" Sherlock viciously slaps himself across the face. Twice. There’s something important here and Mycroft is getting in the way of it. "No! Not you!" Sherlock says. "Not you!"
A huge piece clicks into place.
"You," Sherlock says, his eyes clearing. He moves toward John with complete certainty, as if physically pulled. "It’s always you. You keep me right, John Watson."
John immediately stands at attention, ready to do his bidding. ”What do I do?”
Sherlock’s not entirely got it worked out just yet, and puts John on standby: “save the life.”
Sherlock has just metaphorically grown up, having both rejected Mycroft in favor of thinking for himself, and for having subconsciously chosen John romantically, even though he doesn’t realize it’s a romantic choice just yet. He’s got to keep working through his epiphany to get there.
Sherlock talks about having planned the murder of people he knows as a mental exercise. He says he’d poison John, because it would be easy. Most people would find that morbid, but John just nods, considering it. (like the maid (maid is like John))
Sherlock continues, saying he’s got a pair of keys to Mycroft’s house, and he could easily break in an strangle him, which he enthusiastically mimes. ”He’s pissed, isn’t he?” Tom whispers. (livid towards Mycroft right now, not sure… why…)
Sherlock, having narrowed down the important choice to John, has most of his attention back to focus on the literal murder. His mind is rather like a computer in that regard: can only run so many processes at once. He quickly works out that the target is Sholto.
But the question remains: who’s the literal Mayfly Man? Now an adult, Sherlock turns and gives Archie his full attention when he professes to have an idea. (no one ever listened when I tried to tell them about Carl Powers) And sure enough, Archie has the piece Sherlock needs: ”The invisible man could do it!”
The Mayfly Man and the Invisible Man are the same person.
The connection hits Sherlock visibly hard. He shuts his eyes and tries to make sense of it for several seconds. It’s significant. Hugely so, but… how?
It’s enough for the moment. He tells John he doesn’t quite know how, or by whom, but Major Sholto is going to be murdered.
John, having been finally given the word by Sherlock, kisses his wife goodbye and runs off with him. (We notably never see John kiss her hello, so to speak, on their own wedding day.)
Mary comes along anyway, and they rush to Sholto’s door. Sholto, refusing to leave the room, goads Sherlock to solve the case, and Mary backs him up. Sherlock is irritated by this: ”I couldn’t solve it before, how could I solve it now?” Mary says, “Because it matters now.”
Something is building up and making Sherlock edgy. ”Get your wife under control!” he barks at John. ”She’s right,” John says. ”Oh, you’ve changed,” Sherlock says. (it’s already starting; you used to fawn all over me (oh but you care so much about Sholto (why???))
“No, she is,” John says, taking on his domineering tone. (speechless in the face of this) "Shut up. You are NOT a puzzle solver, you never have been. You’re a drama queen." (king/queen; gender) ”Now there is a man in there about to die, the game is on, SOLVE IT.”
Sherlock, dominated, helplessly tries to do exactly as John has demanded. And…
There it all is, isn’t it? Sherlock sees the solution: an incrediblyattractive soldier in red undressing; the male caterer Sherlock earlier evaluated and dismissed pulling his probe from a piece of hot meat, the juice dribbling out; the belt coming off; the juice dribbling out; the incredibly attractive soldier, wet and naked and bleeding out all over the floor.
Of course!
Sherlock kisses Mary on the head, saying, “Though in fairness, [John] is a drama queen too.” He addresses Sholto through the door, explaining the mechanism of the belt. ”Delayed action stabbing,” Sherlock says. ”All the time in the world to create an alibi.” (“All the time in the world to create an alibi.” (“The two people in this world I love most: Mary Morstan, and you.”) (“I don’t mind.”) (“I’m there if you want it.”))
"So I’m to be killed by my own uniform," Sholto says. "How appropriate." Sherlock’s uniform is his coat. It represents him as a famous detective. (“I consider myself married to my work.”) ”I’m not even supposed to have this anymore, they gave me special dispensation to keep it.” (“Welcome back, Mr. Holmes.”) “I couldn’t imagine life out of this uniform, and I suppose, given the circumstances, I don’t have to.” (“I don’t even know what that means [to be Sherlock Holmes].”)
Sholto says he’s not going to try to stop it. John yells at him not to do it.
"Mister Holmes, you and I are similar, I think," Sholto continues. John gets a look on his face and lets Sherlock take over.
"Yes, I think we are," Sherlock answers. (yes… I think we are. (looking in on a bunch of soldiers as an outsider; all the girls like a soldier; uniform fetishist; attractive, naked soldier; I’ve never done this before, John, tell me what to do — “Press here hard.” (John never mentioned him to me — “He mentions him all the time to me,” Mary had said.) (“All the time in the world to create an alibi.”) (“I consider myself married to my work.”))
Oh. Oh.
Oh god. Of all the times to make an unexpected extra deduction. How…
"There’s a proper time to die, isn’t there," Sholto says.
"Of course there is." That would be wonderful.(watching the bomb blast come at me, in an empty carriage, in an empty tunnel; alone, and waiting; alone) But… (waiting.)
"One should embrace it, when it comes," Sholto says. "Like a soldier."
"Of course one should," Sherlock agrees, pained, "but not at John’s wedding! We wouldn’t do that, would we? You, and me?" Sholto says nothing. "We would never do that to John Watson."
Sholto shuts his eyes in pain, but remains silent.
John says he’s going to break the door down, but Mary — Mary, who sees right through Sherlock and John and Sholto — (“Oh Sherlock, neither of us were the first, you know,” she’d said — she said that, of course) — says John won’t have to. And Mary is right.
John saves the life in the end. As expected.
Sherlock keeps up a happy facade. He dances with Janine. He loves dancing, always has; he can try to focus on things like that. He executes a solo dance move, a pirouette, watching himself in the mirror through the doorway. Janine laughs, and says, “I wish you weren’t…”
John steps into the door frame, covering Sherlock’s reflection in the mirror.
"…whatever it is you are," she finishes.
"I know," Sherlock says.
And he does know.
"Well," John says, "glad to see you’ve pulled, Sherlock." He slaps Sherlock quickly on the back, removing his hand immediately.
Lestrade brings the photographer in. Sherlock slaps handcuffs on him, and then explains the case. ”Do you always carry handcuffs?” Janine asks. ”Down girl,” Sherlock mildly responds. He knows exactly what he wants now. He’s not alarmed by it. But it’s not her, and he’s not going to get it.
Sherlock plays the violin for John and Mary’s dance. He taught John that dance, so he could do it with Mary, and here it is. It’s okay. Sherlock can always be there for him. John said nothing would change. He still has his friend. There will still be cases.
He tosses the bridesmaid his boutonniere; no big deal. Time to make his vow.
"I’ve never made a vow in my life, and after tonight, I never will again, so." (There’s no one else for me.) ”Here in front of you all, my first, and last, vow: Mary, and John. Whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there. Always. For all three of you—”
Oh… god.
Sherlock fumbles through and encourages everyone to dance. He keeps smiling. He approaches John and Mary and explains the pregnancy deduction.
"How did he notice before me?" John asks.
"Don’t panic," Sherlock says. "There’s absolutely no reason to panic." (No reason to panic.) They’re going to be good parents and Sherlock knows it: “Well you’re hardly going to need me around when you’ve got a real baby on the way.”
John, happy and nervous, claps his hand on he back of Sherlock’s neck, and they smile at each other. He shifts his attention back and forth between Sherlock and Mary.
Then something sad passes between him and Sherlock. It’s more knowing on Sherlock’s side. Sherlock urges them on to dance.
Mary smiles, but gets choked up. She rubs Sherlock’s arm. ”But what about you?” she asks.
"We can’t all three dance," they agree. John and Mary back into the crowd, John laughing nervously and saying Sherlock taught him to waltz and Mrs. Hudson walked in on it. "Don’t know how those rumors got started."
Sherlock gives a small nod to Mary. He stands there a moment, dazed, then snaps to.
All around him are couples dancing. It’s fine. He loves dancing. He should focus on that. He was supposed to dance with Janine, wasn’t he? But… right. Comics and sci-fi nerd. Good then. There’s Molly… but… right.
It’s hard to keep smiling, but… no dancing. So. Don’t be awkward. Just pack your things up quietly, and get out of the way.
The lyrics accompany him on his way out:
As I recall it ended much too soon
Oh what a night!
Why’d it take so long to see the light?
Seemed so wrong but now it seems so right
As she has before, Molly observes him looking sad when he thinks no one can see. She would help him if she could, but she heard his speech today — really heard it. She saw John’s face on the Vitruvian Man, and she knows what that means. More importantly, she knows what that feels like, and having a replacement companion doesn’t help. She makes herself focus on dancing with Tom, and tries to smile.
Sherlock puts his coat collar up against the cold, and goes off alone.
Love was not what Sherlock Holmes had expected. He thought it was something constructed. He didn’t think it could be like this.
At the beginning of the episode, Sherlock said two people living together and continuing to do so is not a big thing. But love doesn’t have to look like a big thing.
His time with John by the fireplace wasn’t an exaggerated, charged moment with dramatic dialogue, tense emotions, flashy angles and low lighting. Anxiety. No: it wasn’t like with Irene. He had never trusted her.
Love can be like John’s stag night: simple, and happy, and relaxed.
He and John never had a fancy ceremony that took months to plan. He didn’t have to look things up on YouTube. They didn’t have to rehearse anything. They didn’t need witnesses; they preferred their own company over others’. They never did dance in front of other people.
They never even said anything.
It had been there, nevertheless, the whole time. But when Sherlock got up to give his best man’s speech, Sherlock had been unaware of the beautiful.
He knows now that love can be an undeniable, unassailable truth. Sherlock never expected to deduce himself into it — and he never thought it could be something he couldn’t reason himself out of. That’s the thing about cold, hard facts.
But it’s John who saves lives, and Sherlock who solves cases. And this is the one case he hadn’t solved in time.
