bbc sherlock
I love Sherlock Holmes. I love him so, so very much. I love Watson too, but he always comes in a distant, distant second to my love for Sherlock. I love Sherlock in every incarnation I've seen him. In the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle stories that I've read over and over, in the Basil Rathbone/Nigel Bruce episodes from the '40s, the Jeremy Brett series from Granada in the '80s and '90s, that stupid yet endearing film "Young Sherlock Holmes" from Spielberg in 1985, the Guy Ritchie films in the late 2000s. Even in stories that weren't written by Doyle, or feature Sherlock in a somewhat different way than normal, like the Lovecraftian "A Study In Emerald" by Neil Gaiman. I love absolutely everything about Sherlock Holmes in just about every incarnation I've ever seen him in, from his brilliance and scientific curiosity to his somewhat affected attitude of sociopathy tempered by a strong sense of justice and a deep and abiding love for his close friends. Even the Guy Ritchie films' somewhat graphic novelish approach to his character still resounds with me. But what happened to him in the finale of the second series of BBC Sherlock is far and away the worst thing that I've ever seen happen to that character. It hurt so, so much to see what Moriarty did to him, and to hear the things he felt he had to say to John. For Sherlock Holmes to be discredited like that and declared a fraud--Sherlock Fucking Holmes!!! And to die in that way, in disgrace, in front of John specifically so John would be the one to check his pulse and determine his death. As I said, I've read the books, I knew Sherlock wasn't dead, but it still hit so hard. And then John's words to Sherlock at the gravesite, I can't even really verbalize how painful it was to listen to them. I cry when I read the end John Watson's journal account of Reichenbach in the original stories, but this was somehow so much worse. I think it was probably having all literary affectation and distance stripped away, just hearing the words delivered in such a powerful way by Martin Freeman. It was excellent writing that I will never be able to forgive them for until next season when Watson knows Sherlock is alive again and Sherlock's good name is fucking restored. Sherlock Holmes, a fraud! It made my blood boil like nothing I have experienced in a long time. I perhaps live too vicariously through fiction and don't take my own life seriously enough, but that's a discussion for another time. For now, I'm pretty much going to be grinding my sodding teeth down to stubs until the next series comes out.