This is breaking my heart. This SCENE breaks my heart, because though the last few days have been intense and terrifying and strained, here they are on the other side. They’re in that place between cases where the danger’s over but Sherlock hasn’t had time to get bored; John’s having breakfast because he shot a monster, don’t you know, he deserves it, and Sherlock got coffee but properly this time. John will drink it in a minute, and there’ll be no sugar.
Everything’s slightly lavender and warm, and Sherlock is smiling at John as he tucks into his English breakfast, and John makes a joke about bowel movements that shouldn’t be funny but is, for some reason. And this really, is the peak for them, here outside this tiny inn in Dartmoor. Here John makes a joke and Sherlock smiles, not because the joke was funny, but because John made it, because they made it.
Here they are safe. “Good to get London out of your lungs” said Lestrade earlier, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, because why would he ever want to get London out of his lungs? But oh, Sherlock, soon you won’t be breathing London air at all. Not for a long time. Personally I think you know already how this is going to end— you knew there would be blood the moment that little red dot appeared on John’s chest. The curtain’s rising, and there’ll be blood on the boards before the last act is through.
John will finish his breakfast. You will go back to London. And then you will die, Sherlock. One way or another, you will die.
(Source: jaylocked)
