On Returning to Sherlock Holmes As An Adult
Listen, I'm not proud of this either
Let’s start this off simply, why not?
Hi. My name’s Morgan. I’m twenty-one years old and recently got back into Sherlock Holmes stories.
(Here’s the part where you repeat that back to me.)
So yeah, at the precipice of adulthood, I have decided to once again, get invested in the Sherlock Holmes stories and mythology, originally written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (who would hate that I’m bringing his name up).
I really wish I could tell you that I have a good reason, or even that I have rediscovered that Sherlock Holmes is good, actually. But I don’t have a good reason and the stories are just kind of okay.
So what’s the problem with reading okay genre fiction? Well on the surface, nothing. The problem lies in the cringe factor and the lifelong shame I have about being a Sherlock Holmes fan.
When I was six years old, for Halloween, I dressed up as Basil Rathbone’s version of Holmes. Deerstalker cap, caplet, pipe, and all. I have no idea what possessed me to want to dress up as Sherlock Holmes for Halloween, as I doubt I would have seen Basil Rathbone’s films, but nevertheless, I went to school dressed as the fictional detective.
There are zero pictures of me in this costume, to my dismay, and that is because when I showed up at school for our costume parade, no one knew who I was. There is no greater shame to a first grader than no one recognizing your Halloween costume. I was so embarrassed and so uncomfortable that when I got home I demanded that my parents take me to a costume shop so I could buy a new costume.
I look back on this moment as a critical moment not just as the beginning of my history of obscure Halloween costumes, but also as the impotence of my shame around loving Sherlock Holmes. In all fairness, the original Doyle stories are a strange thing to introduce to a young child. The novels are meandering, full of digressions about history and war. The short stories are virtually plotless, with lots of Victorian language that still goes over my head to this day. Steeped into both, is of course, the at times blatant, homoeroticism between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Much like Holmes himself, the stories are an odd and hard thing to love.
I started reading Doyle’s original stories in tandem with the release of the third season of you guessed it, BBC’s Sherlock.
If those two words brought about an immense amount of flashbacks and long-buried trauma about things I will dare not rehash on Beyonce’s internet, congrats, you’re in the right place. BBC Sherlock is such an interesting phenomenon and cultural artifact. I could probably write 10,000 words about the history of the show and how strange it is that it caught on and became such a massive internet phenomenon.
But I won’t.
In this Sherlock Holmes-induced fever I have been experiencing recently, I’ve rewatched the show's first two series with a friend, and I am here to tell you, folks, this show isn’t good. It wears out its premise by the second special (which is shocking, modern Sherlock Holmes is a premise that should work), the mysteries are not at all clever, and at times it seems to get more validation out of messing with its viewers than making a compelling television show (*cough* “The Empty Hearse” *cough*). The only saving graces of the show are the performances of Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman as Holmes and Watson, respectively, and an incredibly young Andrew Scott (Fleabag) as Professor Moriarty. But, even these performances become tired by the end of the show. Reportedly, due to the production and the fanbase, by the end of the show, Cumberbatch and Freeman resented each other.
What upset me the most, upon returning to this show, is how sad it made me. I loved this show as a kid, and for better or worse, it was fundamental in my personhood growing up. To return to it again, almost ten years later, and to discover that the thing I had invested so much time into as a pre-teen was bad, actually, was upsetting.
I think there’s something called bad nostalgia.
I’ve written a lot about nostalgia and about how comforting and concerning nostalgic feelings can be. I don’t think I’ve even been confronted with nostalgic feelings quite like my feelings around Sherlock Holmes and all its related media. I still feel like the first grader who had to change her Halloween costume because no one understood it. I feel like I’m screaming into the world trying to get the world to see that Sherlock Holmes is good, and the world refuses to listen. Perhaps they shouldn’t listen! Maybe Sherlock Holmes is bad and I’ve been blinded by the nostalgia and comfort of The Hound of the Baskervilles.
There’s certainly something deeper here, and especially something deeper about my love and affection for Dr. John Watson, who is forever one of my favorite fictional characters ever put to page. I can’t quite put my finger on it. I’m still reading The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and I’m still tearing my hair out as I rewatch BBC Sherlock.
For now, I’ll leave you with a recommendation for Molly Knox Ostertag’s Substack In The Telling where she’s been writing and illustrating comics based on the Arthur Conan Doyle stories. It was Molly’s substack that reignited my love for Sherlock Holmes, and I’d highly recommend her work (especially if you are unfamiliar with the Doyle stories). She is currently making her way through illustrating all of The Hound of the Baskervilles, which is my favorite of the Doyle stories. Unlike most people who adapt the Sherlock Holmes canon, Molly understands that John Watson is the main character, not Holmes, and for that I’m eternally grateful.