Since I didn't move off the couch for about two days, I watched a lot of Sherlock.
[If you have never watched Sherlock, go watch it. This post will contain spoilers, and I refuse to apologize for that because you should have watched Sherlock at least a dozen times by now]
A Scandal in Belgravia is my favorite episode. But as I was watching it, I caught something I'd missed before.
When the Holmes brothers are standing in the morgue after Sherlock identifies Irene Adler's dead body, Mycroft offers Sherlock a cigarette. Sherlock accepts. After Sherlock leaves, Mycroft calls John Watson who is back at their flat.
Mycroft: He's on his way. Have you found anything?
Watson: No. Did he take the cigarette?
Mycroft: Yes.
Watson: Shit. [to Mrs. Hudson] He's coming. Ten minutes.
Mrs. Hudson: There's nothing in the bedroom.
Watson: Looks like he's clean. We've tried all the usual places. Are you sure tonight's a danger night?
Mycroft: No. But then I never am. You have to stay with him, John.
I rewound.
Danger night?
I had to pause the show so I could do some research. Did I really hear that? I read through several fan theories and that's when I found this:
"Sherlock’s exit gives Mycroft a chance to call John. Everyone’s panicking: the offered cigarette was a test, and that Sherlock (an ex-smoker and clean drug addict) took it indicates his fragile state. John and Mrs. Hudson have both been searching the flat for anything that might help him be unsafe. John asks Mycroft if he’s sure tonight’s a “danger night,” and instantly the gaps between series, between episodes, are filled in. Sherlock has periods where he tries to harm himself; perhaps he succeeds. So John isn’t just his friend—sometimes he’s also a carer."
I re-watched the scene, and it stabbed me through the heart. It wasn't just something familiar or recognizable. I've lived and breathed and walked through this scene. I have the steps and lines memorized, but it still hurts to watch.
John's face when Mycroft says "danger night." He doesn't have to ask. He already knows. They've had this conversation before.
John waiting for Sherlock to come home, pretending to read. Pretending he's not worried.
This look. This look on Sherlock's face when he walks in and immediately knows that John and Mrs. Hudson have searched the apartment. The moment when he knows that they know he would probably try to harm himself. That they have already acted to prevent that from happening.
In that knowing, there is so much shame. Disgust. Humiliation. You were certain that this was the bottom, this pain, this heartache, this despair. Then, an act of kindness. A demonstration of love. And all you feel is anger. You're just angry. You hate them for hiding anything sharp. For tossing the pills. For searching through your things, trying to find whatever you are trying to hide. And you suddenly realize that you still have so much further to fall.
His snippy line about his socks. Because it's easier to focus on the fact that someone invaded your privacy and went through your personal belongings. Don't think about how weak and pathetic you must be to require a caretaker. Don't think about how fucked up you must be to lose the simple right to have privacy.
And John. Poor John who just looks so tired and worried. Because in real life there is nothing funny, nothing easy about loving someone with a mental illness.
The looks, the conversations that happen around you. The worry that hovers at the ceiling like a heavy, heavy cloud. The questions spoken and unspoken.
Of which, you are always painfully aware.
I feel as though I will forever be caught in this endless circle of being honest until I can't take the worry, then lying about being better, then falling to pieces under the pressure of acting like I've got my shit together, then being honest, then lying, then falling to pieces...
It goes on and on and on, and I honestly don't know if there is a way to make it stop.
...
It is Thanksgiving Day here in the U.S. An arguably questionable historical holiday, but a day of thanks nonetheless.
And I am thankful. For so many things.
Such as my beautiful Christmas tree:
And, of course, for all of you.
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