I remember it as if it were yesterday. I was awaiting The X-Files reunion panel at San Diego Comic-Con, thinking nothing of the proceeding panels. My intention had been to arrive and plant it for however many hours were required, unknowing of what was in store for my pained heart which was still pining for the sophistication and endearing characters said show had brought me for so many years. By the time I was aware that Ballroom 20 was at capacity, your creators, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, and producer Sue Vertue, took the stage. As the hour went on, I was intrigued by the cleverness of the show, the interaction the creators had with their fandom, and the little videos created by show stars Benedict and Martin. And then, a clip was shown (from the episode I now know as “The Sign of Three”). The comedy, the quirkiness, the eyeball in the tea . . . you had me, you minx of a miniseries.
Off to the land of Netflix I went, where I pored over your finite hours of joy. “A Study in Pink” was a study of my heart, disarming my senses with wit, charm, and flair. Benedict Cumberbatch made your title role his own, dressed in what only could be considered London’s uniform, with a mop top that would put Frodo's to shame. His introduction into my life was beating a corpse senseless with a riding crop. I wish I was that riding crop. Paired with an alluring Watson, not stocky and unassuming as portrayed in the past, Martin Freeman stepped into the part with an honesty and trepidation (and a limp, but he got over that quickly). And, off this dynamic duo went, Sherlock lessening the blow of our small, pedantic minds with the anesthetic that is his soothing monotone. Watson projecting our own awe at the magnificent “Mind Palace.”
But, the allure does not stop with Freebatch (or Cumberman?). Talent stopping at the lead roles? For amateurs. "Nay," said you, you sweet enchantress. With a flick of your wrist, you’ve delivered an amazing ensemble that feeds your beautiful storytelling. From love-sick Molly, to the frenetic Mrs. Hudson, the list goes on. But, it ends with Mycroft. Sweet, delicious, amazing, umbrella-toting Mycroft. For him I have written the following haiku:
My eyes shall no more
Behold something more lovely
Mycroft on Treadmill
I ate it all up and yearned for more. But, alas, all good things must come to a standby. Soon after my love-binge, you have become a superstar. Your merchandise at Hot Topic rivals shelf space with My Little Pony. Your stars are no longer our little secret but celebrities in their own right, reaching critical acclaim on the big screen, as much as the small. So, now I wait. Like Sherlock Holmes awaiting texts from “The Woman,” I scour the entertainment blogs for any news on a US season premiere date. For a date it will be. I will cook dinner, make tea, and invite you into my living room. And, I know, sweet Sherlock, you will show me a good time, with gloomy skies and fast-paced eloquence. 'Till then, #sherlocklives . . . in my dreams, with a side of Mycroft.
Your 221B Baker Street Bae,