The literary reappearance of Sherlock Holmes, wherein John Watson swoons and is also undressed
All these new enticing thoughts about Sherlock lead me back to thinking on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's originals, and how much I loved them from the first and have never stopped. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson's adventures are not something you escape; even the most casual reader emerges a leeetle bit obsessed.
Sir Arthur in a letter to his mother: "I think of slaying Holmes ... and winding him up for good and all. He takes my mind from better things."
Sir Mother wisely replies: "You may do what you deem fit, but the crowds will not take this lightheartedly."
Even Conan Doyle could never escape: he killed Holmes off quite purposefully, needing to get away, wanting to work on other things, but the public outcry and campaigns (fandom has always been around) and general mayhem that occurred thereafter and yes of course the money finally made him provide for a mircaculous Sherlockian resurrection. Turns out, yeah, the crowds had not taken Sherlock's death lightheartedly.
If anyone wonders why there's long been subtextual speculation surrounding our favorite consulting detective and his live-in partner with the gun in his pocket, read on. The relationship is affectionate and effusive enough throughout the series, but upon Sherlock's return from being not-quite-dead I think Sir Arthur is rather responsible for their first slashy fade to black:
[Spoilers for The Return of Sherlock Holmes, "The Adventure of the Empty House" by an ingenious Victorian doctor who believed in fairies]
I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned again,
Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study table. I rose
to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and then
it appears that I must have fainted for the first and the last time
in my life. Certainly a gray mist swirled before my eyes, and when it
cleared I found my collar-ends undone and the tingling after-taste of
brandy upon my lips. Holmes was bending over my chair, his flask in his
hand.
"My dear Watson," said the well-remembered voice, "I owe you a thousand
apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected."
I gripped him by the arms.
"Holmes!" I cried. "Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you are
alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of that awful
abyss?"
"Wait a moment," said he. "Are you sure that you are really fit to
discuss things? I have given you a serious shock by my unnecessarily
dramatic reappearance."
"I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can hardly believe my eyes. Good
heavens! to think that you--you of all men--should be standing in my
study." Again I gripped him by the sleeve, and felt the thin, sinewy arm
beneath it. "Well, you're not a spirit anyhow," said I. "My dear chap,
I'm overjoyed to see you. Sit down, and tell me how you came alive out
of that dreadful chasm."
He sat opposite to me, and lit a cigarette in his old, nonchalant
manner. He was dressed in the seedy frockcoat of the book merchant, but
the rest of that individual lay in a pile of white hair and old books
upon the table. Holmes looked even thinner and keener than of old, but
there was a dead-white tinge in his aquiline face which told me that his
life recently had not been a healthy one.
"I am glad to stretch myself, Watson," said he. "It is no joke when a
tall man has to take a foot off his stature for several hours on end.
Now, my dear fellow, in the matter of these explanations, we have, if I
may ask for your cooperation, a hard and dangerous night's work in front
of us. Perhaps it would be better if I gave you an account of the whole
situation when that work is finished."
A hard and dangerous all-night's work ahead of them. And...scene.
Sir Arthur in a letter to his mother: "I think of slaying Holmes ... and winding him up for good and all. He takes my mind from better things."
Sir Mother wisely replies: "You may do what you deem fit, but the crowds will not take this lightheartedly."
Even Conan Doyle could never escape: he killed Holmes off quite purposefully, needing to get away, wanting to work on other things, but the public outcry and campaigns (fandom has always been around) and general mayhem that occurred thereafter and yes of course the money finally made him provide for a mircaculous Sherlockian resurrection. Turns out, yeah, the crowds had not taken Sherlock's death lightheartedly.
If anyone wonders why there's long been subtextual speculation surrounding our favorite consulting detective and his live-in partner with the gun in his pocket, read on. The relationship is affectionate and effusive enough throughout the series, but upon Sherlock's return from being not-quite-dead I think Sir Arthur is rather responsible for their first slashy fade to black:
[Spoilers for The Return of Sherlock Holmes, "The Adventure of the Empty House" by an ingenious Victorian doctor who believed in fairies]
I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned again,
Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study table. I rose
to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and then
it appears that I must have fainted for the first and the last time
in my life. Certainly a gray mist swirled before my eyes, and when it
cleared I found my collar-ends undone and the tingling after-taste of
brandy upon my lips. Holmes was bending over my chair, his flask in his
hand.
"My dear Watson," said the well-remembered voice, "I owe you a thousand
apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected."
I gripped him by the arms.
"Holmes!" I cried. "Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you are
alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of that awful
abyss?"
"Wait a moment," said he. "Are you sure that you are really fit to
discuss things? I have given you a serious shock by my unnecessarily
dramatic reappearance."
"I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can hardly believe my eyes. Good
heavens! to think that you--you of all men--should be standing in my
study." Again I gripped him by the sleeve, and felt the thin, sinewy arm
beneath it. "Well, you're not a spirit anyhow," said I. "My dear chap,
I'm overjoyed to see you. Sit down, and tell me how you came alive out
of that dreadful chasm."
He sat opposite to me, and lit a cigarette in his old, nonchalant
manner. He was dressed in the seedy frockcoat of the book merchant, but
the rest of that individual lay in a pile of white hair and old books
upon the table. Holmes looked even thinner and keener than of old, but
there was a dead-white tinge in his aquiline face which told me that his
life recently had not been a healthy one.
"I am glad to stretch myself, Watson," said he. "It is no joke when a
tall man has to take a foot off his stature for several hours on end.
Now, my dear fellow, in the matter of these explanations, we have, if I
may ask for your cooperation, a hard and dangerous night's work in front
of us. Perhaps it would be better if I gave you an account of the whole
situation when that work is finished."
A hard and dangerous all-night's work ahead of them. And...scene.