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hudders-and-hiddles:

Can we just talk for a moment about how much Many Happy Returns fucking hurts?

There’s the way John says “Much better” when Greg asks how he’s been, like he knows that’s what he’s supposed to say but doesn’t really believe it.

There’s the way he swallows, fidgets, and purses his lips when Greg says the box is stuff of Sherlock’s.

There’s his tight, slanty little smile when he tells Greg it’s fine that he brought the box of stuff–a smile that says it’s very clearly not fine.

There’s the way he smiles and laughs a little when Greg gives him the DVD and explains what it is, but as he stares at it in his hands, the smile fades.

There’s the way he has to pour himself a drink to even contemplate putting the damn disc in the DVD player.

There’s John’s sad-as-all-motherfucking-hell theme playing in the background.

There’s the way he sits in the chair but after starting the DVD player moves to the couch, as if he needs to be fully facing this one little bit of Sherlock that he gets to hold on to.

There’s that little fucking flick of his eyebrows when Sherlock starts talking, when he first gets to hear that voice again.

There’s that restless thumb tapping on the arm of the couch.

There’s that tightening at the corner of his mouth when Sherlock says that all John’s friends hate him, trying not to smile at the kind of rude shit he would give to world to be able to hear Sherlock actually say again, and the way he does let himself actually laugh for just a second when Sherlock talks about writing it all down in an essay.

There’s that tiny, disapproving shake of his head when Sherlock talks about lying.

There’s John giving into his feelings that little bit and saying out loud that Sherlock could stop being dead.

And oh god, there’s that so fucking brief flash of impossible hope beyond all hope when Sherlock seemingly responds with, “Ok.”

There’s the way John’s breath comes harder then.

There’s that look of residual anger on John’s face–anger that Sherlock can’t come back, not from this.

There’s that second flash of hope when the doorbell rings, when John absolutely knows it isn’t Sherlock but for just a fraction of a second thinks it could be him anyway. 

And there’s the way that turns into irritation that someone is interrupting this one moment he gets to have with Sherlock, the only moment he’ll ever get to have with him again. And yes, the DVD will still be there, and he could watch it again, but you know he won’t. He’s going to bury it in that box in his closet and never look at it again if he can help it. Maybe he gets drunk one night and digs it out and stares at it, contemplates watching it again, but he won’t because it hurts too much to see that face on the screen, to hear that voice, and know that Sherlock is gone from the world and this is all that John has left of the man who changed his life, saved his life, became his life.