I was driving up to the edge of a military base, and pulled over in the grassy ditch. It was getting dark from stormy clouds. I saw that a plane was dropping sharks onto the runway…. as in literal sharks, just slowly falling through the air, flailing. Apparently this was such a well-known thing of the military that it was a trope, because I later turned on my TV and saw a car dealership commercial featuring an escaped shark that got mistaken for Clay Aiken in a bar.
Dean Winchester of the 73rd had a knack for using his hands. Back home he could fix near enough any car that rolled though his way, so keeping him close to his flight squadron was like making sure you wore headdress during a salute: essential.
Dean’s magic fingers spread though more than just fixing things. His talent for capturing the imagination onto any flat surface made him more than desirable before the big flight. Girls were a popular choice, bombs that looked like sharks too, but on Sgt. Winchester’s own plane, he decided he needed an angel watching over him.
Obviously names can be one word, the
show is called Sherlock.
Jeff Hope yelling Moriarty!
Sherlock walks over and throws the gun in the Thames, a callback to John throwing his gun
in the Thames in ASIP/Pilot.
We see a gunshot and then the London
Aquarium. The aquarium where Mary died. Mary died by a gunshot in
front of sharks. Sherlock died in CAM’s tower; CAM is like a shark.
(Ever notice the plane flying over the
Sherlock then appears to be floating in
the sky on a ledge near water. This is a metaphorical reference to Sherlock’s death. Which also matches Moriarty’s deaths: TRF, TAB waterfall scene.
Why show the aquarium? Why bring up Mary’s death?
Like Moriarty, Mary is a facade. The facade has many names.
Anyone is one word. One word for Facade
rather have the facade.”
Faith/Love: “Your nicer than the
Mary: “Don’t think the facade is
going to save him, because there isn’t a facade.” “I’m dead,
remember. It’s important you remember.”
Culverton: “I need to kill someone.”
Culverton: “I don’t want to kill one
person, I want to kill the facade.” Sherlock is the serial
killer. Killing himself to kill the facade. “Taking your life.
Interesting expression. Taking it from who? It’s not you who will miss
Sherlock dies/John dies.
John: “Have you spoken to Mycroft,
Molly, uh, the facade?”
Mary: “You don’t want the facade
knowing you’re in therapy.” (“I need to know what to do about John”)
John: “The facade ever “opt” to
Mrs. Hudson: “You want to know what’s
bothering Sherlock? Easiest thing in the world, even the facade can
“If the facade stays here a minute
longer, they are admitting to me personally they don’t have a single
spark of human decency.”
Mary: John Watson never accepts help,
not from the facade. Not ever.
Mycroft: “It will certainly destroy
this flat and kill the facade in it.”
Mycroft: “The facade spent time with
her (Eurus/love) and was automatically compromised.”
Mycroft: “She (Eurus/love) won’t communicate with the facade in any way. She has
passed beyond our view. There are no words that can reach her now.” Translation: Love conquers all.
“You said your life turned on one word. That’s the impossible thing. Just that, right there.”
“This is a lie!”
life did change on one word. It wasn’t Jeff Hope yelling out Moriarty’s
Sherlock’s facade married John in
TSOT. Traditionally it’s “The Adventures
of Sherlock Holmes.” Mary is Sherlock.
introduced in TSOT.
Sherlock has a vision of him and
Redbeard during the same scene with Faith on the bridge. Redbeard is one
Redbeard is John. John is one word.
“One word to let me know you were alive.” Alive inside. “Flesh and blood. You must have feelings.”
Faith is one word. Faith is Sherlock and John. She’s love.
Summary: The Bughead Homecoming slow dance we didn’t get in 1x11
Song: The Safety Dance by Sleeping at Last (Men Without Hats Cover) (X)
Jughead scanned the perimeter of the gymnasium, looking past the overload of blue and gold streamers and balloons to watch his classmates step onto the dance floor, their smiles shining just as brightly as the decorations that Betty and her Homecoming committee had worked so hard to set up all afternoon.
“I’ve never seen so many sequined-lined dresses and uncomfortable-looking footwear in one room before,” Jughead muttered, glancing at a girl from his history class wearing much-too-high heels hobble her way to the opposite side of the room. “This is a new experience for me.”
“Yeah, well you clearly did not go to the Riverdale Riverdance Club’s annual dance recital in the first grade,” Betty told him, smoothing down the silky fabric of her dress with one hand and reaching out to regain her balance with the other as one of her classmates brushed past her on their way to the refreshments table. “Being backstage in that dressing room was an experience that I’ll never get out of my mind.”
“Well joke’s on you, Bets, because I was there,” Jughead informed her, meeting her eyes with a leveled stare and willing himself to keep a serious face.
“Really?” Betty’s heart skipped a beat, her mind traveling to the notion that had always lingered in the back of her thoughts, but never dared reach the surface - Jughead had always been there for her all along, supporting her in everything she did and waiting for her to come to her senses and -
“Yeah, I was the short one in the back row with two left feet and zero rhythm,” Jughead joked, his lips twitching up into an amused grin as he watched the realization of the joke form on her face.
“Ha ha, very funny,” Betty mumbled, pushing back Jughead’s shoulder and silently shaking off the thought she had just let cross her mind, cursing herself for her being so self-involved to think such things.
A crackle sounded from the speakers surrounding the stage, and soon the gymnasium was filled with echoes of pretty melodies and haunting vocals that caused Betty’s head to snap up in surprise. “Juggie,” she breathed, clutching his suit jacket with both hands, the fabric clenching between her fingers as she leaned into the touch. “I love this song.”
“This song?” Jughead gaped at her, his eyes widening and his lips turning up into a mocking smirk. “You love a song that was written as a message to bouncers to stop kicking dancers out of their clubs for pogoing on the dance floor to 80′s new wave music? That’s what we’re going with here?”
“In case you haven’t noticed by now, this particular version of the song is beautiful,” Betty defended the current song playing over the speakers, tugging on Jughead’s jacket sleeve and lightly pulling him towards the middle of the dance floor. “Dance with me?”
“Bets, I wasn’t kidding about that two left feet thing,” Jughead told her, a look of panic washing over his face as he watched the other couples swaying back and forth in time to the music all around him. “I nearly broke my cousin Etta’s big toe trying to waltz at my great aunt Mitsy’s wedding when I was seven. It was traumatic for both parties involved, but I was the one that ended up with the therapy.”
“Please, Juggie,” Betty begged, taking a step forward to close the gap between them, leaning in so that her nose barely brushed the tip of his. “Just this song.”
Jughead’s heart flipped in his chest at the way she was looking at him, all soft eyes and sincere smile, the qualities about her that she knew made him weak in the knees.
“You’re really hard to turn down when you do the fluttery thing with your eyelashes like that,” Jughead caved, finally letting himself be pulled completely into the crowd of swaying dancers just as the music began to pick up.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her hands sliding up his arms and snaking around his shoulders to rest comfortably there as he gently placed his own hands on either side of her waist.
“See?” she breathed as they began moving to the soft and steady beat of the music. “This isn’t so bad, is it?”
“Betty Cooper, I could be skydiving into a shark-infested pool with you and I’d think it was the most natural, life-fulfilling experience of my life,” Jughead admitted, his chin flicking downwards so that he could meet her gaze with warm eyes.
“Well there’s no way you’d find me anywhere near a pool of sharks or a tiny plane that could crash to its death at any moment so I think that we’d better stick with dancing,” Betty informed him. “I think it’s safer that way.”
Jughead raised a shocked eyebrow in her direction as the realization of the humorous timing she had just created with her use of the word “safe” sunk in. “Did you really just say that?”
“Yeah, I think I did,” Betty winced, shaking her head in disappointment at her own accidental pun. “I kind of hate myself for it too.”
“You should,” Jughead teased, his eyes dancing amusedly as he reached up to smooth down a flyaway strand of golden hair sticking to her forehead.
“You look happy, Jug,” Betty pointed out, her gaze focused on the genuine smile plastered on his face as they continued to sway to the beat. “Happy looks good on you.”
“Well I think I can safely say that you are very much a prime factor in the reasoning for that,” Jughead told her, not the least bit concerned with his own use of the word “safe” anymore. As the lyrics continued to pour from the speakers, Jughead realized that the word, and the song, and the dance, had struck a chord with him in a way that he didn’t think possible. “No matter what’s happening on the outside - Jason, Polly, my parents, your parents - I always feel safe, almost lighter somehow, whenever I’m with you. And in case this wasn’t clear, there have been very few times in my life where I have felt that way. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite like this before.”
“Neither have I,” Betty breathed, her gaze locked in on Jughead’s. The vulnerability that they were both feeling seemed to linger in the air for a few seconds before disappearing completely, and Jughead pulled Betty tightly to him, hoping that this moment could last much longer than a three minute slow dance.
“I wish this song could play forever,” Betty whispered into his ear, and Jughead smiled at her uncanny ability to read his thoughts like she always did.
“Well I don’t think I’m ever going to stop this moment from replaying in my head,” Jughead admitted, pulling back from their embrace to place a gentle hand on her smooth cheek. “So in a way, I think it will.”
Just as the last note rang out, lingering for a moment and then fading out completely, the crowd of dancing bodies dispersed all around the dance floor, knocking into each other as the next song began to fill the speakers. But even as the upbeat lyrics overtook the soft and gentle atmosphere that they had just blanketed the room, Jughead still held onto Betty, his forehead resting against hers and their eyes closed as they both continued dancing in their minds, never letting the song or the moment or the feeling of safety they felt with this slow dance, ever fade from their memory.
I was seventeen,” Jensen says, keeping his eyes fixed on the lump of cheddar that he’s slicing up. “And it wasn’t a fucking casting couch.”
Jensen glances up at him for just a split second through his tangled lashes, and then looks back down at the cheese and crackers. He sighs, and his shoulders slump a little. “I was – I hadn’t come out yet.” He chokes on a laugh. “Well, obviously, seeing as how this, now, is me coming out.” He winces. “I still haven’t talked to my parents. But what I mean is – I knew I was gay, and I’d even – I had this friend, Steve, and we’d done a little bit of, you know – we’d made out, basically. A bit of groping. Nothing major. But this other guy – he was a friend of my Dad’s, a guy we knew from church – well, he’d seen us. And he threatened to tell my Dad. So – well.” He shrugs. “So that was that, really. I did what he told me to, ‘cause I was too much of a pussy to tell him no, and I was scared to face my family with the truth. So - it happened a few times. I let it happen because I knew there were just a couple of weeks to go 'til graduation, then I’d be out of there.” He bites down on one of the crackers and chews for a moment or two, then shrugs again. “It seemed like the easiest way out. It was a crappy decision, but it was still my decision.”
He looks up from the plate and meets Jared’s eyes. “I’ve been realising, since all this kicked off, that I’m pretty much a gigantic coward. Which is funny, 'cause, you know, I play some pretty kick-ass heroes, and I do do lots of stupid stunts, and a lot of my own fight sequences. Physical threats I’m good with. Jumping out of 'planes, swimming with sharks, getting my ass handed to me by Jet Li, all that. But I’m still really chickenshit about - other stuff.” He looks away, suddenly reddening again. “Which I guess you know already. Sorry again. About the thing. With Jessica.”
And, yeah, okay, he may have a point – but Jared’s still too much in a Hulk Smash place just thinking about the fucker who did this to Jensen to start feeling indignant about the whole tip-the-waiter awkwardness from the last time he saw the guy. (And, hey, it wasn’t like he hadn’t known Jensen had a girlfriend. Which just made them both dicks.) “Jesus, Jen,” he says instead, and his voice is thick with all the things he isn’t saying. “You were seventeen. Of course you were scared. Jesus! That’s not – that really isn’t being chickenshit, dude. That’s a kid being taken advantage of by an adult in a position of trust.”
Jensen shakes his head. “I could have said no,” he says. “And it wasn’t – I mean, I did get off, you know? And when you’re a teenager, that’s pretty much your number one goal in life, right? He didn’t hurt me, or whatever. So it was okay, I guess. Not – not what I’d have chosen for my first time with a guy. But still – I was a teenager and I was getting regular sex. Which is pretty much all any teenage boy wants, when you get right down to it. Can’t complain, really.”
Jared stares at him. “Can’t – you – Jensen, you fucking idiot, yes you fucking can complain. None of this was okay. What you’re describing was not okay.
A final curtain before farewells,
The final chapter a story tells,
A miracle mischiefed by a tiny mite -
Who was naughty enough to put it right -
Comes to a close after one last pose,
The last hurrah of The Show of Shows.
No more confetti or birthday cake,
No more getting ready or rulers to break.
No more gloo, no more dye,
No more paper planes that fly,
No sharks or swings, or circus rings,
Or books, or blocks, or locks that ping.
So long to flights and dynamite,
To shiny scarves and spangly tights,
To chokeys and chocolate, and newts to pour,
To tellies, and tea, and “10’s” to score.
Goodbye to trophies and hammer-throwers,
Good bye to words and number-knowers,
To ribbons and braids, to hair that frays,
To parents who leave, and a teacher who stays.
Farewell balloons, and ears that stretch,
To Russian goons, a pitcher fetched,
To a genius with a magic stare,
A dance partner with a cockney air,
A librarian with an island flair,
And a brother splayed in an easy chair,
To dollhouses, desks, and discipline,
To the gym-drenched stench of rebellion.
Goodbye handshakes from a new best friend,
Farewell to the maggots a new friend defends,
There are no more spoons or spelling tests,
No more bullies left to best,
No more chalk, or coats for piling,
No leaping into arms while smiling,
No more jumping on the bed,
No more “spaseebah’s” to be said,
No shelves to climb, or doors to pound,
No more “each other’s” to be found.
“When I Grow Up” has come of age,
The time has come to turn the page,
To face the quiet we’re destined to feel,
Witnessing Matilda’s last cartwheel.
But her revolution will continue on
Long after the posters and playbills are gone,
If, when you need a hero
Even a little or a lot
You fight with the might
With which the tiny mite fought.
Then, even after ‘into the distance’ she has sped,
She’ll always be
'The sound of your heart in your head.’