Why ship Sherlolly?

 (Sherlock meta by drinkingcocoa)

[...]

Most importantly to me: Molly is strange. This is the priceless thing about her. She is smart, too; from her winces and eye-rolls during the best man’s speech in TSOT, we see that she’s far closer to Sherlock’s league than Lestrade’s and Tom’s. But it’s her strangeness that makes her such a blessing to Sherlock’s life. He’s patronizing to her, but he’s patronizing to everybody. She perceives things so differently from most people that even though he hurts her feelings, that’s not the only thing that’s important to her.

Their relationship turned in the lab scenes of The Reichenbach Fall when it transpired that she was the only one who could see him for his true self, at a time when even John was fooled. Sherlock pushed her away and tried to dismiss her or shut her out, but she persevered and got through to him. He turned and looked at her with completely new perceptions after that, trusted her with his life, and understood retroactively that he’d always trusted her. Besides, pushing people away is part of how Sherlock involuntarily tests people, so her ability to withstand that defense mechanism of his, dislike it but not give it more power than it deserves, and still be steadfast for him makes her just the kind of thing he needs in his life.

When Sherlock asks if Molly would still want to help him if he wasn’t everything she thought him to be, and everything he thought himself to be – and she said, “What do you need?” – that boils down, essentially, to “Do you love me or my genius?” and “I love you and believe in you whether or not you’re a genius.”

Meanwhile, ships can only benefit from character growth, so when Molly shows rising confidence in her interactions with him, like her deliberate teasing when she puts him on the spot by saying she and Tom have been having “quite a lot of sex,” that’s a good example of the kind of dynamic that makes for delicious fic.

Anyone who is the person who appears to Sherlock when he’s about to die and talks him through everything has got to have some great significance in his life.

The Virgin Genius and the Power of Molly’s Desire 

 (Sherlock meta by drinkingcocoa)

The first time I watched “A Scandal in Belgravia,” I was startled by Sherlock’s viciously personal putdowns of Molly Hooper. Who is he to comment on the size of her mouth and breasts? “Don’t make jokes, Molly”? It’s not as though dating or small talk are Sherlock’s forté, either.

Ah.

In a discussion on LiveJournal, dis_quiet commented about the Christmas party scene: “Sherlock got a little jealous, or in any case, left behind. He thought he could always rely on Molly, in a way she’d never know, but there she was, all dressed up, ready for a date. I think Sherlock felt, or wanted to think that there was a sort of kinship between him and Molly. How he loved emphasizing her awkwardness. All your future attempts at a relationship, Molly, should be nipped in the bud. For him she was that Other that he felt comfortable with as far as sexual inadequacies were concerned.”

This is one of the many instances of mirroring in Steven Moffat’s beautifully structured script. Having been bested, for the moment, by a far more sexually savvy opponent, the suddenly inadequate Sherlock is sensitized to Molly’s similar shortcomings. Sexual knowledge has been on Sherlock’s mind.

He learns so much from the ways in which Molly and Irene are doubles. Where Irene hides her heart behind a mirrored safe, elicits desire from people and reflects it back to them, Molly is the opposite: her Freudian slips and blunders are a constant betrayal of her desire. So that’s how desire looks when it’s real. The same red lipstick as Irene, the same small breasts, but with nothing hidden, from her bra straps to her stammers…and the same arousal at Sherlock’s touch.

Ah.

The wince of shame on Sherlock’s face when he realizes what he’s done to Molly at the party – it’s not unrelated to his shame when he’s disgraced in Mycroft’s office. His dismissal of the relevance of sexual knowledge has hurt people, perhaps destroyed them. Whether one reads this virginal Sherlock as sexual, asexual, or celibate, he has avoided sexual interaction at least in part because it involves interpersonal communication. That has always been a source of disconnection and torment for him, an area so fraught that it’s too stressful to bother.

And he thought himself detached from sex because the rest of the world had passed him by so long ago in this area, in all its irrational stupidity and mess, and none of this folly had anything to do with him…until it did. Molly’s desire implicates him and he hadn’t seen it and look how he brutalized her honest overture. She desired him as though he were…valid. A part of all this. She was inviting him into the dance. Whether he wanted the dance or not, he’d thought himself apart from it. And then he showed that we must not ever underestimate Sherlock Holmes; we must not think that just because sometimes he doesn’t understand sentiment, he is always incapable of it. He crossed over and apologized and kissed her. And if he overshot and the quality of that physical contact was more sexual than it should have been, well, he didn’t have much experience, did he? He didn’t know yet how it feels when the object of one’s fantasies comes close and touches lips to the face and speaks one’s name, close and low. He didn’t know he was being seductive. How was he to have known? He didn’t mean to be. He only felt dreadful, and sorry.

But he learns from Molly’s undone response to his inadvertent intimacy. He recalls it when he takes Irene’s pulse. He learns more, to his shame, when Irene kisses his left cheek as he spills state secrets. And in a glorious bit of actor improvisation, when it comes time to undo Irene, Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock comes close to her in the same way he kissed Molly, on the right cheek, which is more emotional for most people than the left. But this time, the proximity is completely intentional in its intimacy: dangerous, fully knowing. He has learned Irene’s game.

It was not Irene, then, but Molly whose desire pulled him into mortality and sexual knowledge.

In “The Reichenbach Fall,” Molly asks what he needs and his answer, “You,” is laden with portentous meaning, verging on sexual. Whether this was intentional or appropriate, the intimacy seemed to acknowledge the sexual content of every anguished slip Molly has made over two seasons about her desire for him, amplifying and dignifying that desire. Molly sees Sherlock at his worst, sees him more clearly even than John Watson does, and still loves him. She sees him not as an overgrown child, a virgin to mock, or an unfeeling genius, but as a romantically valid adult. Whatever illusions she has about the kind of lover he’d be…oh, would you look at that. She doesn’t have any. She knows him.

That is what Moriarty cannot imagine even though he has played at romance with Molly. Nobody could see the true Moriarty and love him. The kind of sexual desire that can know the whole person and grow only stronger: Moriarty cannot see that at all. But now, Sherlock can. It is Molly’s desire that brings about Sherlock’s fall into sexual awareness, a fall in the most classic apple-of-knowledge cast-out-of-paradise sense, never again to be an angel. Not that he will necessarily desire Molly in return or be physically involved, but now he knows the thrilling humility of having been known truly and truly desired, not only in spite of but because. He’s part of the mortal world now.

A toast. To Molly Hooper.

The Magnificent Decency of Detective Inspector Lestrade

 (Sherlock Meta from before S3 by drinkingcocoa)

[...]

There is a bastion of decency in BBC Sherlock, an indicator of trustworthiness, and his name is Lestrade.  His very presence conveys security.  His character judgments are sound because where people are concerned, Lestrade doesn’t just see; he observes.

In “A Study in Pink,” what is John to make of the potential flatmate?  Genius or madman?  Mrs. Hudson seems to like Sherlock, but for all John knows, she could be mad, too.  And then a heavy tread on the stair announces a man in a trenchcoat talking half telepathically with Sherlock:  This one did.  Will you come?  And Sherlock whirls away.

What just happened?

John opens the paper.  There.  Just below the fold.  “DI Lestrade:  In charge of the investigation.”  And everything changes with that photo.  It anchors reality.  Lestrade is proof:  Sherlock Holmes is real.

At the crime scene, Sergeant Donovan voices every doubt John might have.  “Psychopaths get bored,” she warns, and just as John is pondering this –

“DONOVAN!”

Donovan immediately turns to obey Lestrade.  She leaves John with “Stay away from Sherlock Holmes,” but her warning is too late:  Lestrade has anchored reality again.  If this Donovan heeds Lestrade, and Sherlock also heeds Lestrade, and Lestrade believes in Sherlock… then Sherlock must be real.  Lestrade’s approval is confirmation enough for John.

They believe in Lestrade at the Met.  Proud, defensive DI Dimmock is not above Lestrade’s mentoring.  Lestrade advises DI Carter on Sherlock (“try not to punch him”) with the manner of a man who knows this grizzled cop will listen to him.  The Chief Superintendent calls Lestrade “a bloody idiot,” but the show makes sure he gets chinned later.

In “The Great Game,” Sherlock spurns Mycroft’s entreaties for help, but the moment Lestrade calls, he says, “Of course.  How could I refuse?”  In “Hounds,” and probably long before, Mycroft calls on Lestrade to intercede with Sherlock.

Even Moriarty acknowledges Lestrade, whom he casts as King Arthur to Sherlock’s Sir Boast-a-lot.  In “The Great Game,” Moriarty’s mouthpiece says, “It’s okay that you’ve gone to the police.”  But Sherlock didn’t go to the police.  It was Moriarty who involved the police by leaving them something to give Sherlock.  Moriarty recognizes the significance of Lestrade’s role in Sherlock’s life before Sherlock does.

We see in “The Great Game” that Lestrade is a childhood dream come true for Sherlock, though perhaps Sherlock doesn’t know to appreciate this.  Moriarty does, though.  Moriarty has been keeping track of everything that happened once the Carl Powers case hit the papers:

“I made a fuss,” Sherlock tells John.  “I tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important.”  But now there is Lestrade, who comes personally when Sherlock requests “your least irritating officer,” who vouches for Sherlock with skeptical co-workers, who accepts Sherlock’s deductions with nothing more than “You sure about this?”  The Chief Superintendent points out that Sherlock’s been given access to all kinds of classified information.  Exactly.  Lestrade is aware that Sherlock has handled all of it flawlessly, confidentially, every single time.  There is no way Lestrade’s faith in Sherlock could waver; he has long-verified proof that Sherlock is real.

What makes Lestrade so certain?

He doesn’t just see; he observes.

Watch him in the “drugs bust” scene.  He’s focused almost entirely on Sherlock, and yet he’s simultaneously aware of every single person on the premises, so deftly in control that he can even afford humor (“No, Anderson’s my sniffer dog”):  he slots his interpersonal dealings according to priority without ever losing track.  He’s so attuned to people that he knows when it’s time to deviate from the script:  when he cuts off Sherlock’s resistance by revealing his own nicotine patch, we see a world of untold story about an authority figure who once, long ago, understood that the way to gain trust was to give something of himself.  How mercilessly Sherlock must once have deduced Lestrade’s nicotine addiction.  How little he must have expected that this surprising policeman would be secure enough to take it as invitation instead of attack.  Younger Sherlock probably loathed hypocrisy; Lestrade has none.

Once Lestrade has secured Sherlock’s participation, his eyes bear down intently on Sherlock.  His gaze flickers only when Sherlock asks why the dead woman would still be upset about a stillbirth:  Will the new man see Sherlock as a sociopath or as the rare treasure he is?  The camera cuts sharply to a close-up just of Lestrade’s eyes snapping to John, without his head moving.  He observes John, understands instantly who John and Sherlock will be to each other, then snaps his focus back to Sherlock.

With Sherlock’s permission, at Sherlock’s invitation, he’s plugging into Sherlock’s brain:  Sherlock is offering himself as a deducing machine for the two of them to use together, in partnership.  It’s incredibly intimate.  Especially considering the way Sherlock experiences revelation, Lestrade’s observation feels almost like watching for a mental orgasm, with a climax and an afterglow.  This accounts for Lestrade’s always slightly-too-interested demeanor, as we see at the Christmas party when Sherlock says “No, it was me” of the text alert.  But it accounts for Lestrade’s respectfulness as well, the measured but trusting dismissals when Sherlock goes his way.

By the time John asks Lestrade why he puts up with Sherlock, Lestrade has identified John as Lestrade’s ally for life.  His answer brings John fully up to speed.  Lestrade trusts in Sherlock for his job (“because I’m desperate”).  He treasures Sherlock for his gift, the same thing Sherlock values in himself (“a great man”).  And he is personally fond of Sherlock, invested in what becomes of him (“if we’re very lucky…a good one”).  This tells John:  yes, it’s okay to need Sherlock, admire him, and like him, too.  Lestrade does, and Lestrade’s judgment is sound.

Lestrade’s liking for people and his sensitivity for what makes them tick are the sources of his strength.  We see that he relies on these powers as securely as Sherlock relies on his deductions and perhaps, like Sherlock, he doesn’t fully understand what it’s like not to be himself:  he’s genuinely surprised that Donovan and Anderson can have seen Sherlock’s magic over the years and not believe that it is real.  This is part of the appeal of this character:  his innocence of his own gifts.

Perhaps, too, Lestrade’s powerful sense of humanity tells us why he missed when he shot at the hound in the fog.  The poison works with fear and stimulus to make people feel uncontrollably aggressive.  Sherlock sees the face of his fear:  Moriarty.  What did Lestrade see?  Perhaps he saw himself as a cop who has become jaded and brutal, violent, punitive.  It may be just as disorienting for Lestrade to lose touch with his decency as it is for Sherlock to be unable to trust the evidence of his senses.  Perhaps he felt so much unfamiliar aggression toward the menacing hound that his alarm interrupted his aim.  Of course, he could have just missed.  But he did see something he feared; they all did.

Moriarty’s attack in “The Reichenbach Fall” causes Sherlock, finally, to consider his relationship to Lestrade – to grow aware of Lestrade in a way reminiscent of a child maturing into new understanding of his parents.  Lestrade’s steadfastness, unblinking even when Sherlock tests him with a tap on the third eye, tells the whole story of his character.  The viewer knows, though Lestrade does not yet, that by the end of Series 2, Sherlock has become the good man that Lestrade always hoped he could be.  Lestrade’s comprehension of Sherlock’s goodness is one of the great pleasures to look forward to in Series 3.