But okay listen: 7 years ago today, MILLIONS. LITERALLY MILLIONS. of Potterheads from all over the world were sitting with their brand-new copies of the Deathly Hallows and taking their final journey with Harry. It’s amazing when you think of the sheer scope of it-that many people in a sense united by this one book, riding the same emotional roller coaster simultaneously.
His hands shook. They weren’t supposed to do that. He wasn’t afraid. He could trust himself. He knew what he’d done. He knew why he’d done it. He was fine.
Until he looked in the mirror. Murderer.
Until he closed his eyes. Murderer.
Until the sound of gunfire wrestled beyond the looming case, a voice shouting at the top of its lungs MURDERER!MURDERER!MURDERER!
It had been a week since he’d shot Magnussen. A week of shaking, of barely catching words carelessly tossed in his direction. A week away from John, Mary, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. Mycroft could hardly look at him. He knew why. Murderer. He could see it in his eyes.
He should have ended up in jail. He should have been shot after he’d pulled the trigger. Mycroft had saved him again. Someone was always saving Sherlock Holmes.
Shooting Magnussen had been the right thing. He was sure of it. Mostly sure of it. Almost entirely certain.
But his hands shook and his face was pale and he kept washing his hands and wiping his face, as if he could clean the stain of guilt from his mind and the blood from his hands.
Magnussen was him. Magnussen was every time he’d used his deductions, his observation, his insight, to his advantage. He was the harmless flirting with Molly Hooper. He was the fear in the train station. He was a jump off a building to total silence for two years. He’d killed Magnussen for doing occasionally what he did every day.
His hands were raw. His cheeks tinged red and chapped under the harsh fluorescent light.
The word surrounds him. It chokes him and blinds him and for once he can see a deduction in the mirror.
He could scrub his hands until he bled, there would never be enough soap to wash the guilt from his hands.
His head jerked towards the sound. Molly Hooper. He’d requested to tell her good bye three days ago. Mycroft had been slow in getting her here. The cool calm refused to lock into place, a mask that shifted and fell from his face with a shatter.
Guilt. Endless guilt clawed up his neck and through the grinding of his teeth. He didn’t say it, he didn’t need to say it. He could see it in the fear in her eyes. Fear was in everyone’s eyes. They could all see it. Is this how it felt to be deduced? To be stripped down to words and phrases?
“Molly.” His voice is surprisingly smooth. He stuffs his shaking hands in his pockets. His tremors go unnoticed.
She squints into his face, mouth set in a grim line. He’s surprised by the crash of her petite body to his, by the strong and thin arms wrapping around his torso. He doesn’t return the affection but her warmth seeps through his chattering bones, through the fog of shock he’s walked in since the ringing of a bullet deafened his ears.
“If you die, Sherlock, you better haunt me.” She’s sniffling and messing up his jacket, and he’s quite aware they’re standing in the men’s room of a hotel. When she looks up at him, the chanting stops.
Molly Hooper doesn’t see a murderer.
Molly Hooper sees Sherlock Holmes.
“I don’t care if it’s six months or ten years or I never see you again, just don’t die.” He rests his hand on her shoulder, winces as the tightened skin pulls against itself.
“I’ll live, Molly.” It’s a lie. Mycroft has been clear that there is no way he can survive this mission. He could handle liar. Liar was nothing compared to Murderer.
McGonagall holding a Sorting Hat that has been duct-taped across the mouth and doing her own impression of the hat’s voice from behind her hand in the Great Hall.
James Potter HUFFLEPUFF
Remus Potter RAVENCLAW
Sirius Potter NOW THE GROUNDSKEEPER
No classes together ever goodbye
I am fire *pant pant*
I am death.
you ruined my life
you mean improved your life
Okay, but this movie wins the award for Best Use of Manpain, tho.
In any other movie, Raleigh would’ve spent 90 minutes being like MY PAIN IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR STUPID WAR, and instead, he snaps back into action as soon as he meets Mako. That’s awesome. But what floors me is that he uses his own grief to help Mako survive hers. He knows how awful it is to lose your family. He knows what she’s going through. And instead of whining or thinking his pain makes him entitled to opt out of his responsibilities, he empathizes with Mako, supports her, and encourages her.
Raleigh’s greatest strength is his compassion. And that’s the kind of male hero I’d like to see on my screen, please.
Plus, like, a bazillion more movies about Mako Mori.
I have a friend who thinks Pacific Rim is the best expression of true, non-toxic, GOOD masculinity in recent times.
And here he is before his haircut.
He is evolving…
Have you ever been so mad you learned how to walk