Today I was asked, “Is there anything that isn’t Sherlock Holmes that you like?”
Naturally, I irrationally panicked.
What do I like?
There are other things?
What are my interests?
Eventually, after a mild panic attack, things began to flood into my consciousness.
Tennis, Sylvia Plath, lasagne, Jaques from As You Like It, Autumn, War Letters, sitting in a restaurant and creating stories for complete strangers
I like a lot of things. I also like Sherlock Holmes.
I joke and say that Sherlock Holmes will outlive us all, but, in a way, it has. It’s a constant. It can rest on its laurels with a cup of tea and a smug grin.
I then got thinking, is there anything wrong with only liking Sherlock Holmes? Or rather, is there anything wrong with it being the most important of things that you like?
Sherlock Holmes means different things to different people.
It’s a grandparent, with a tatty VHS, gazing at Rathbone, while the toddler plays in the corner.
It’s a parent, sighing with exasperation, reaching for the nearest book and willing their child to go to sleep.
It’s a sibling, investing hours and days, immersing themselves in a world that simply exists.
It’s a constant.
Sherlock Holmes is all of those things to me.
Right now, Sherlock Holmes is an escape.
It’s Jeremy Brett and Benedict Cumberbatch.
It’s willing for there to be a John Watson out there, somewhere, just for me.
It’s reading the canon over and over again because it’s just so-bloody-clever.
It’s what I’ll pass on.
It’s what I’ll be known for - “oh, she quite liked that detective bloke”
It’s what keeps me sane on days where everything seems impossible and out of my grasp.
It’s what turns the noisy number 15 bus into 1800s London.
It makes the world that bit quieter.
It makes my world better.
I like a lot of things. I do. I promise.
But, what I like the most is Sherlock Holmes.
And I think that’s okay.
