I’ve been a Sherlock Holmes geek since I first discovered Hound of the Baskervilles in the stacks of my junior high school library. After finishing, I eagerly devoured the whole Canon, up to and including the two-volume annotated set by W.S. Baring-Gould. I also tried to regale my junior high circle of friends with tales of Holmes and Watson. In retrospect, this was likely the first neon sign that I was a confirmed geek and not quite like my friends.
Even today, there are few things that make me geek out more than Sherlock Holmes.
At one point, I not only had the stories themselves memorized, I had the notes in the Baring-Gould volumes memorized. Are there two Mrs. Watsons? Was Watson wounded in the shoulder or the leg? Just what really happened to Holmes on his Great Hiatus? What did Holmes mean when he said his brother Mycroft sometimes “was the British government?” Was Holmes really in love with Irene Adler or simply appreciative or having been bested? And just how did that dancing men code work anyway?
And it’s not just Holmes I love. It’s Watson. I adore Watson. I love that he’s so stalwart, that he puts up with Holmes not because he likes being ridiculed but because he sees the inner Holmes, the one who is concerned about justice but is just this close to giving into his demons, particularly drug abuse. Watson is the kind of friend we’d all want to have. Even Holmes, despite his snide comments, knows that.