And It Is Always Eighteen Ninety-Five

I remember the very instant I fell in love with the show, I can point to the exact frame. At the swimming pool, after Jim leaves, Sherlock lowers his eyes on John. It’s an absent gaze, he’s still pointing the gun towards the door, then suddenly he realizes that John’s still wrapped in semtex. His eyes widen and then the scene from The Three Garridebs happens.

Then my friend’s wiry arms were round me, and he was leading me to a chair.

“You’re not hurt, Watson? For God’s sake, say that you are not hurt!”

It was worth a wound—it was worth many wounds—to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation.

“It’s nothing, Holmes. It’s a mere scratch.”

He had ripped up my trousers with his pocket-knife.

“You are right,” he cried with an immense sigh of relief. “It is quite superficial.”

Well it’s always very rewarding when the page becomes film in front of your eyes, but I actually fell for the missing part here, Sherlock’s point of view, as I was only familiar with John’s point of view of this scene. Not that I did not like the show before that. But we all know all too well I fell asleep the first time I saw A Study in Pink and Logan had to explain why John was no longer limping.

Here, though the world explode, these two survive,
And it is always eighteen ninety-five.

1895

 

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