Tags: sherlock holmes

cass, can you not

The adventure of Holmes needing a second career

In an strategically questionable but utterly predictable move, I binged the entirety of the Granada Holmes series. It was, mostly, delightful, but it also surprised me as, during its last seasons and episodes, it began veering into almost Twin Peaks-worthy passages and imagery (including complex prophetic dreams), a somewhat off Mycroft episode, and a literal final scene for the series where Holmes asks Watson, not in despair but not also with much trust in the Universe's answer, what the point of it all might be.

Another point of non-canon exploration is how (explicitly from an early non-recreational drug-induced surreal hallucination) Holmes is being portrayed as suffering something akin to PTSD after Reinchenbach, although mixed, at least the way he tells it, by how frustrated — that's too soft a word: starved? angry? — he is by the lack of worthy opponents after the death of Moriarty.

It's a rather interesting way for the series to go, particularly given the strongly realistic and generally cheerful way in which it began.
cass, can you not

The adventure of the shifting social context

Yesterday it occurred to me that I'm most likely underestimating the originality, or at least the salience, of Doyle's concept of the Diogenes Club. A club where talk is forbidden is — essentially and leaving for a moment gently aside (but not giving our backs to, ever) gender and class issues — a very posh and utterly quiet Starbucks where you're absolutely safe from being hit on — an inherently and self-evidently attractive concept, I would feel.

And yet I suspect, in the context of Doyle's writing, a "club for the unclubbable" is rather a paradox with airs of chimeric monstrosity (along the lines of a woman voting, etc).

(By the way, and inspired by the way ideas of moral heredity color Doyle's stories, both implicitly and explicitly (and by the other way, my god isn't Gibbons an homophobic, misogynistic, racist idiot, and doesn't that, one suspects with a certain bitter glee, account for a lot of his dubious competence as analytic historian), and thinking back to how a lot of British ideas about race and heredity were indeed prompted by, and a response to, The Whole India Thing... dunno. There's something about the way racism survives but more family-specific concepts of heredity don't that is, I guess, a faint and almost abstract reason for very long-term hope. Or maybe it's just that it's a more generationally segregated culture, and the median racist is as uncomfortable with their specific ancestors (pace more generic chauvinism) as they are with their contemporaries.)
cass, can you not

Logical Necessity

The house's door is open. The man sitting inside has enough enemies that active suicide would be redundant.

A young boy takes a still-filled syringe from the man and puts it away.

The man's eyes are closed, but his voice is neither surprised nor hesitant. Why?

Holmes needs a Watson, answers the boy, and prays silently to London for a crime.
cass, can you not

Fic: Of Uncomfrotable Dinners (PG13, Sherlock Holmes)

More tongue in check than otherwise...

Title: Of Uncomfortable Dinners
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Rating: PG13

Mary Morstan had reason enough to hate Holmes. It was his damnable blackmail what had turned her small role in a scam into the long sentence of being a Doctor's wife. Not being an admirer of the famous detective, it gave her no pleasure to be perhaps the only person who knew how far he would go to make sure his friend had a glad heart.

She often thought she should have chosen prison over the altar.