I'm not sure if everyone in the world is like this, but I have a habit of falling really hard for something all of a sudden. Sometimes this passion is paired with a slow dissent from care into apathy.
It seems like Sherlock Holmes is a passion that I don't get tired of, no matter how many times the passion flares up in me over it. I am currently in the middle of a burning enthusiasm and delight over it.
I am an immense lover of the BBC series, Sherlock, justifying my adoration by the breathtakingly accurate character portrayal and development, and witty references to all 64 works of literature, for which I have the deepest level of patriotism and respect.
I think it is close to two years now that I've been close friends with Holmes and Watson. I can truthfully say that throughout my reading life, these two people have been some of the most, if not the most wonderful companions I've had. Through all 4 novels and 60 short stories, I have been a participator in one of the grandest adventures ever.
I decided, impulsively, romantically, to re-read the books. So last night at 10:30, with my electric blanket on the highest setting, I snuggled in to tiptoe back in through the front door of 221B Baker Street.
It was an incredible, almost surreal experience for me. To go back to the very beginning - where it all started for me, this glorious journey that teased new emotions from me, and made me laugh, cry, gasp, and shiver with fear and delight... It can be best described as actively reminiscing.
I was surprised to recall my original feelings at meeting Holmes for the first time. I remember it clearly. The time of day was almost exactly the same, and I remember laughing because I was instantly in love with him. Looking back at that first meeting, I'm so shocked at how little I knew of him then, what a mystery, how simple in comparison to the beautifully complex, vulnerable, and ingenuous being that I now know him to be, as one of his greatest friends. I feel like Watson. So much affection for him, so much wonder, and frustration with his selfish eccentricities.
I'm revelling in the loveliness of returning to the comparatively uncomplicated books after Sherlock. Sherlock gave us an emotional, vulnerable, heartfelt, gut-wrenching side of Holmes. Going back to the basics with all the knowledge from my deep relationship with him is exciting. I read it now with a new tone of voice in my head, new pauses and inflections; I visualise new expressions; that laugh and smile is so tangible.
The thrill of discovery and remembering motivates every breath in me.
The game is afoot, and I hope it will never end.