As a youngster, I was an avid reader of the adventures of Sherlock Holmes and his ever present companion, Doctor Watson. I devoured the novels , the short stories; I laughed kindly at poor Inspector Lestrade, clucked along with Mrs. Hudson, and despised Professor Moriarty – and Irene Adler, and adored The Hound of the Baskervilles without being spoiled by the Basil Rathbone film version. I have never embraced any of the handful of television adaptations of the denizens of 221b Baker Street – until now.
Set in present day London, the BBC One television series, Sherlock, which debuted in 2010 starring Benedict Cumberbatch as the cerebral detective and Martin Freeman as his friend and confidante John Watson, captures the essence of the intelligence, the aloofness, and the fragility of Conan Doyle’s Sherlock. While remaining true to the cold and calculating genius of Holmes, the expanded role of Watson brings a humanity and pathos to the pair without capitulating to sentimentality or sensationalism (and heaven help me, without the blatant ratings vehicle of having a fetching female Watson). Created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss – both familiar to Doctor Who fans – Sherlock, having completed two series of three 90 minute episodes each (with a third series in the works), remains consistent in being intelligently written, immaculately performed, universally adored, and a worthy addition to the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle legacy. This Sherlock Holmes fan is completely and thoroughly hooked.