I’ve been waiting for twenty plus years to watch the Sign of Three and now it’s here.
Have you ever read The Sign of Four? If you haven’t, you should do it know, so you can see how lucky you are, that the Sign of Three exists already and you don’t have to wait twenty plus years, like it happened to me.
The toe of the Persian slipper still hides some tobacco, Harry Watson may not be dead but she drinks of course and she won’t come to her brother’s wedding, Sholto still lives in some place like Upper Norwood, Jones once again takes the credit.
The Woman still lingers in Sherlock’s mind.
The ending is terribly sad, every single time.
And the future was made so bright and therefore even more terrifying.
This is bliss and torture for the Sherlockian. What have you done Moffat and Gatiss, what have you done, now we’re all doomed.
You didn’t like it? You know nothing, go back to your Game of Thrones.
Of course a Victorian Holmes would have been able to dance. And maybe he could have even enjoyed it, the technique, the balance, the sense of clarity that comes with a well executed turn.
Or at least, today, with an awkward pirouette en dehors.
You know what Rumi said of the dervish.
We come spinning out of nothingness, scattering stars like dust
All of a sudden, I recall the adventure of the dancing men and I can see that Holmes’ name looks like a turn after all.
Sherlock Holmes Dances
A poem by Norman dukes
There was no other way
to get the evidence.
I danced near them
for hours in a crowd.
My pipe flew from my pocket
I lost buttons off my vest.
It was against my
every sense of things,
but I found adaptable muscles
and no end of partners:
sequined ladies, brocaded ladies,
sweatered ladies, blue-jeaned
ladies . . . and breasts,
so many breasts, appearing
the larger ones always
(I noted) a little behind
the direction the body took.
That principle I knew.
Eyes closed or turned up
or turned down were disappointed
when the music stopped.
What do they want, I thought,
but I kept going, I wore them out,
I had my couple to watch.
I was with a thin lady in yellow
and a little tired
when the Maid, a wild smile on her face,
her green eyes rolling,
pranced a circle around the Butler
and put a hand in his pocket
in a way obviously practiced
for months. I had them.
But God it was elementary.
Watson, it turned out
that they did it
and then, right there,
they did it.