I had to stop 64 minutes and 19 seconds in the finale. (I admit, I started crying the minute John started trying to say Sherlock's name) You (figuratively) see this face? NOT AMUSED. "People like him… we watch them—" That's the last I saw. DAMN IT ALL! So I'm writing Sherlock's thoughts as he goes to find Molly.
Death. It had never bothered Sherlock. He could look at a cold, pallid shape on a metal slab and think "Oh, what fun!" from the tender age of four, when he'd brought a dead beetle home to dissect. And to be honest, the thought of himself dying never had scared him either. Everyone died. It wasn't a matter of luck, or brains, or skill. It was just a matter of time.
And Sherlock Holmes was a mortal human being with terrible health habits and a history of drug use. Somehow he'd doubted he'd live to see eighty. He did the calculations once. He'd die at seventy four, give or take a few months, if he practiced good eating, sleeping, and exercise habits after the age of forty.
Sure, of course, he'd considered a violent end. He did track down the truly brilliant criminals for a living—it came with the territory, even though he felt sure he could outsmart most of them—and infuriated the most powerful men (and women) in the land in the meantime.
He didn't care. Life was just the possibility of finding another puzzle. There was no sentiment attached to his continuing life. Perhaps, he reflected as the lights of London played across his face through the cab window, he'd never had anything to live for.
But that'd changed. Sherlock now divided his life into two parts: Before John, and During the Time of John. BJ and AA, Before John and Anno Amici, the year of the friend. And as he'd walked away from John (who'd thrown his hands up and stared after him, probably wondering the same thing everyone else was, Where on earth would Sherlock Holmes be going without his blogger?) in the street, he'd realised that life started being rather enjoyable with John about, instead of merely a space into which he could shove intrigue.
Because now, Sherlock didn't want to die. He'd stopped being mildly ambivalent about the subject and was now adamant. He didn't want any stretch of existence (even the lack thereof—he didn't believe in afterlife, don't be ridiculous) of his to not contain his only friend in the entire universe. And, as Moriarty's trap closed in on him and he finally realised he, Sherlock Holmes, was going to die, he decided that he'd rather not have John in that trap with him, even if he couldn't say goodbye to his friend, because any universe without Dr. John Hamish Watson in it (whether that universe still contained Sherlock Holmes or no) wasn't a universe worth existing.
He couldn't let John figure out what was coming. He couldn't let his foolish, brave doctor come running in and getting killed for his sake. He couldn't confide in John.
Mycroft was (Sherlock knew, of course he knew, he wasn't an idiot!) one of the reasons Sherlock was in this mess anyway. He couldn't know.
Lestrade—what had John called him? Greg?—couldn't be caught talking to a fugitive, and Sherlock owed him for all those interesting cases he'd been allowed in on, Sherlock wouldn't destroy his career. He couldn't know.
Mrs. Hudson was probably being watched by all sorts of people, and putting her in danger was deplorable. She could not, repeat could not, know.
Irene was obviously the worst choice, though he had to admit another intelligent person he genuinely got on with would be a relief to confide in. She couldn't know.
Wasn't there anyone?
Molly Hooper. She had always been so nice, so eager to impress him. To be honest, ever since John started in with that little shake of his head no, Sherlock, that's not very nice, rethink that… he'd been noticing how she alone treated him like a good person, a likeable person, a lovable person. Even John hadn't flirted at him so dedicatedly—his flatmate was as heterosexual as he claimed, or as far as Sherlock could tell (he really had no experience in the matter, but seeing as everyone thought John was homosexual, he was pretty sure that John Watson was heterosexual)—or put up so unfailingly with his moods. She'd even noticed before Sherlock himself that the world's only consulting detective was on borrowed time and couldn't tell his beloved friend.
It was this train of thought that led him to the darkened hospital, and to his surprise it was so easy to talk to her.
I am about to die, alone, at the hands of someone smarter than me, and the whole world will think I was a fraud and a liar and a criminal while possibly praising the world's most devious bastard for ridding the world of him. And I can't even tell John Watson that he's my best friend, my only friend, my heart, before I die.
It was hard to say what bothered him the most about all that, but despite his mind insisting what hurt was that Moriarty had beaten him, his aching heart seemed to cry out that dying alone without talking John was a fate worse than even the most creative death Moriarty could think up.
His steel eyes were burning as he spoke curtly, the strangely sentimental words sounding odd to his ears.
"I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you…"
Ugh. I know. Terrible. But I'm feeling the whole angst thing, my Prozac *checks clock* just kicked in and I haven't slept and I can't help wondering what I would do if I was going to die and Eva couldn't know. I'm off to watch the rest of the episode. :/