#and i know i know bbc sherlock is a self-proclaimed sociopath but he is *not* a sociopath. he's wrong or lying.

[merrilark]

i am quietly begging people to stop throwing around the term "sociopath" for any character who holds others at an arm's length or appears emotionally closed off.

nine outta ten times it's trauma and self-preservation, not sociopathy.

[frostandflamesfanfic]

The Last Three Years (Sherlock x Reader) - Prologue

Prologue: Year Zero

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes (BBC) x Watson!Reader

Word Count: 1.5k+

Warnings: Reichenbach. Enough said.

Summary: Takes place from Pre-Reichenbach Fall (S02 E03) to The Final Problem (S04 E03) -- WILL CONTAIN SPOILERS! You had found the love of your life in the most unlikely companion: self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. When he was taken from you much too soon by the clever Jim Moriarty, your whole life is flipped upside down. Old habits die hard, memories of past mistakes come flooding back. What happens when it all becomes too much? Will you ever find happiness again?

Note: This story will be as close to canon as I can make it, but it mainly focuses on the lives of fan-made characters, including the reader (John’s younger sibling) and Elora Holmes (Mycroft and Sherlock’s younger sister, Eurus’ elder). Following the typical trope, the reader and Elora live in 221A — the flat just below the infamous 221B.

“What are you doing?” 

“This phone call – it’s, er ... it’s my note.” 

There was a moment of hesitation.   

“It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?” 

“Sherlock, no. There has to be another way.” 

“Goodbye...darling.” 

“Sherlock!!” 

Your breath caught as you watched a figure make its way into your field of vision. It couldn’t end like this. After everything the two of you had been through, this was not how your story was supposed to end. Your heart sank to your feet as his body made contact with the concrete down below. Even though it was impossible from your location, you could practically hear the snap of his bones. 

He was gone. 

And there was nothing you could do about it. 

It was like an out-of-body experience. The scream of agony. You and John racing through the street to get to him.

“Sherlock!” you felt your voice cry out, as you neared the increasingly busy scene. People were gathering around the body- his body- taking pictures and murmuring amongst themselves.

“Is that Sherlock Holmes?” 

“He’s dead? Guess he couldn’t handle the pressure.” 

“Accepted he’s been exposed, the bugger.”  

“Riley did a bang-up job in her article. Really showed his true colours.” 

You couldn’t take it. “Shut up,” your voice spoke for you. “Shut up and step away! Let me through.” Pushing past people, you made your way to the body on the concrete, gripping his hand. 

It was cold. It was whiter than usual. It was very much lifeless. The blood pooled around him and streaked across his forehead. You lifted a trembling hand to wipe it clean and close his eyes. It would kill you to see them open. Usually, you would find yourself getting lost in the blue-ish green hues, but you couldn’t bear to take in the dead stare. 

Your brother trailed in shortly after. “Let me through,” he protested. “I’m a doctor and he’s my...he’s my friend.” You heard him clear his throat through tears. “He’s my friend. ”

You glanced up at the top of the building. You knew what awaited you up there, but you couldn’t let yourself think about it. Telling your best friend what happened would kill you even more than the sight currently in front of you. Gripping his hand tightly once again, you let the tears start to stream down your face. 

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

The funeral procession was small. He didn’t have many friends, but those who mattered were there. They made the time to come not because they wanted to come, but because they knew they owed it to him. To many, Sherlock Holmes was a disagreeable man. His prickly exterior made it difficult for others to get close. Alone was what he had. It was what protected him. 

He may have been strange, but if someone took the time to get to know him, they would see the truth: as much as Sherlock Holmes himself would have hated to admit it, he cared for others. Sometimes, a little too much. You knew that. Hell, you even saw it firsthand. 

Every time you would even try to get close to him, he would just shut you down. His younger sister (your best friend) told you it was because he did care, but you could never shake the feeling that you weren’t enough. Try as you might, he would never see you as you saw him. There wasn’t a chance he would want what you did, anyway. “It wasn’t his area,” he’d say. Relationships were futile. Destined to be over within a week. One could easily find the proof in her brother’s past relationships. A new woman every week. You could never keep up.

That wasn’t what you wanted, though. You wanted something real; you wanted to be able to feel something. The last time you dared give your heart away, it came with unsatisfactory results that sent you packing. You were left to start over, picking up the shattered pieces while telling yourself it was okay. 

Your thoughts drifted to Sherlock’s sister, Elora. That day, you had found her lying unconscious on the rooftop, leg covered and sticky with blood. Apparently, she had gotten shot at some point during the showdown. Ever since, Elora had never been the same. She was more closed off. Other than what was necessary, she would barely talk to anyone. When she did, it was humming and talking to herself.

John had tried to convince you to take her to the hospital, but every time you refused. On the day of his death, you made a promise to look out for Elora. Come what may, you were going to be there to support her. Even if you didn’t know how to at first. 

As the casket was gently placed in the ground, you reached over to squeeze Elora’s hand. No response. 

In an attempt to hold it together, you cleared your throat and stared at the casket. It had a rich dark mahogany exterior with gold accents-- no doubt the best Mycroft could afford. You hadn’t heard much from the eldest brother, besides for the funeral arrangement. The headstone was rather simple. Just a name, no birthdate or death date. John had questioned it in the beginning, but it just felt right. 

Why give the world more information than they need? He had done his service to it, but how did they repay him? They took his name and raked it through the mud. Any tidbit of information sent the media into a spiral. Whatever they could get their hands on, they would use to tarnish the good he’s done. He didn’t deserve that. The world needed to see what you saw; the man behind the stiff and emotionless mask. 

How you wished the coffin would be empty. You wished it was just a dream; a dream where you could just wake up and he’d be there. He’d let out some quick-witted response about how your appearance indicated you would go to bed alone or end up eating chilli. You didn’t care how berating his comments were. As long as it meant he was there - alive- you’d be happy. You just missed him .

Heaving a sigh, you were about to move your hand when you felt the sensation of a faint squeeze. “He loved you,” Elora’s faint voice said. “He didn’t show it, but he did.”

Three little words. That’s all it took to break a person. You closed your eyes to slow the tears before they came rushing out. Elora could never know, neither could John. It was a secret you’d take to both of their graves...because you knew it wasn’t true. 

John had been on the phone for a while now. Every so often, he would remove the mobile from his ear and stare up at the rooftop. The rooftop where he was standing. “Alright, stop it,” he shouted. “Stop it now!” His eyes closed for a brief moment. There was a period of silence before he glanced in your direction. “I’m not the one you want to talk to, am I?” 

Another period of silence.  

A second later, John’s phone was thrust in front of you. You gave your brother a confused look, but when you didn’t receive a response, you shrugged and lifted it to your ear. “Hello?” 

“Darling, whatever happens next,” Sherlock’s voice said in your ear, “I want you to know it’ll be okay. Just keep your eyes fixed on me,” You could hear him attempting to keep it steady. “Please, will you do this for me?” 

“Do what?” you remember asking. “What’s going on, Sherlock?” 

“This phone call – it’s, er ... it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?” 

The mobile phone in your hand almost slipped to the ground. “Leave a no-note when?”  

“I-,” he started. You could have sworn you heard a sniffle. “I’m truly sorry. All of it was a lie. Every single thing I said since we’ve met has been a lie.”  

"What are you talking about?” 

“I’m a fake. Nothing but a fraud.” 

"Bullocks.” You clenched your hands into fists, angered by what you were hearing. “Don’t think I’ll believe any of that for one second. How else would you know about the debt?” You lowered your voice. “Or-or the scars?” 

“The internet. I used Elora’s computer to hack into your records. I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. I- I just wanted to impress you. Nobody could be that clever.” 

“No one except for you.” 

“It’s a trick, Watson,” his voice was breaking now. “ Just a magic trick.” 

You couldn’t take much more. The tears were already flowing and you didn’t bother stopping them. You couldn’t lose another person close to you. Not again. Even if he treated you like utter rubbish sometimes, you couldn’t lose him. “Sherlock, no. There has to be another way.” 

“Goodbye, darling.” 

“Sherlock!!” 

Just before the line disconnected, you detected a hesitation. He never hesitated. Then, out of nowhere, came the words you never once expected to hear. They were so faint, you still swear you only imagined them. Maybe you did. Maybe it was all in your head. However, you can still hear his deep voice whisper to you – sharing a secret only the two of you would know...  “I...I love you.” 

Then, he jumped...and left you alone all over again.

“W hat are you doing?” 

“This phone call – it’s, er ... it’s my note.” 

There was a moment of hesitation.   

“It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?” 

“Sherlock, no. There has to be another way.” 

“Goodbye...darling.” 

“Sherlock!!” 

Your breath caught as you watched a figure make its way into your field of vision. It couldn’t end like this. After everything the two of you had been through, this was not how your story was supposed to end. Your heart sank to your feet as his body made contact with the concrete down below. Even though it was impossible from your location, you could practically hear the snap of his bones. 

He was gone. 

And there was nothing you could do about it. 

It was like an out-of-body experience. The scream of agony. You and John racing through the street to get to him.

“Sherlock!” you felt your voice cry out, as you neared the increasingly busy scene. People were gathering around the body- his body- taking pictures and murmuring amongst themselves.

“Is that Sherlock Holmes?” 

“He’s dead? Guess he couldn’t handle the pressure.” 

“Accepted he’s been exposed, the bugger.”  

“Riley did a bang-up job in her article. Really showed his true colours.” 

You couldn’t take it. “Shut up,” your voice spoke for you. “Shut up and step away! Let me through.” Pushing past people, you made your way to the body on the concrete, gripping his hand. 

It was cold. It was whiter than usual. It was very much lifeless. The blood pooled around him and streaked across his forehead. You lifted a trembling hand to wipe it clean and close his eyes. It would kill you to see them open. Usually, you would find yourself getting lost in the blue-ish green hues, but you couldn’t bear to take in the dead stare. 

Your brother trailed in shortly after. “Let me through,” he protested. “I’m a doctor and he’s my...he’s my friend.” You heard him clear his throat through tears. “He’s my friend. ”

You glanced up at the top of the building. You knew what awaited you up there, but you couldn’t let yourself think about it. Telling your best friend what happened would kill you even more than the sight currently in front of you. Gripping his hand tightly once again, you let the tears start to stream down your face. 

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

The funeral procession was small. He didn’t have many friends, but those who mattered were there. They made the time to come not because they wanted to come, but because they knew they owed it to him. To many, Sherlock Holmes was a disagreeable man. His prickly exterior made it difficult for others to get close. Alone was what he had. It was what protected him. 

He may have been strange, but if someone took the time to get to know him, they would see the truth: as much as Sherlock Holmes himself would have hated to admit it, he cared for others. Sometimes, a little too much. You knew that. Hell, you even saw it firsthand. 

Every time you would even try to get close to him, he would just shut you down. His younger sister (your best friend) told you it was because he did care, but you could never shake the feeling that you weren’t enough. Try as you might, he would never see you as you saw him. There wasn’t a chance he would want what you did, anyway. “It wasn’t his area,” he’d say. Relationships were futile. Destined to be over within a week. One could easily find the proof in her brother’s past relationships. A new woman every week. You could never keep up.

That wasn’t what you wanted, though. You wanted something real; you wanted to be able to feel something. The last time you dared give your heart away, it came with unsatisfactory results that sent you packing. You were left to start over, picking up the shattered pieces while telling yourself it was okay. 

Your thoughts drifted to Sherlock’s sister, Elora. That day, you had found her lying unconscious on the rooftop, leg covered and sticky with blood. Apparently, she had gotten shot at some point during the showdown. Ever since, Elora had never been the same. She was more closed off. Other than what was necessary, she would barely talk to anyone. When she did, it was humming and talking to herself.

John had tried to convince you to take her to the hospital, but every time you refused. On the day of his death, you made a promise to look out for Elora. Come what may, you were going to be there to support her. Even if you didn’t know how to at first. 

As the casket was gently placed in the ground, you reached over to squeeze Elora’s hand. No response. 

In an attempt to hold it together, you cleared your throat and stared at the casket. It had a rich dark mahogany exterior with gold accents-- no doubt the best Mycroft could afford. You hadn’t heard much from the eldest brother, besides for the funeral arrangement. The headstone was rather simple. Just a name, no birthdate or death date. John had questioned it in the beginning, but it just felt right. 

Why give the world more information than they need? He had done his service to it, but how did they repay him? They took his name and raked it through the mud. Any tidbit of information sent the media into a spiral. Whatever they could get their hands on, they would use to tarnish the good he’s done. He didn’t deserve that. The world needed to see what you saw; the man behind the stiff and emotionless mask. 

How you wished the coffin would be empty. You wished it was just a dream; a dream where you could just wake up and he’d be there. He’d let out some quick-witted response about how your appearance indicated you would go to bed alone or end up eating chilli. You didn’t care how berating his comments were. As long as it meant he was there - alive- you’d be happy. You just missed him .

Heaving a sigh, you were about to move your hand when you felt the sensation of a faint squeeze. “He loved you,” Elora’s faint voice said. “He didn’t show it, but he did.”

Three little words. That’s all it took to break a person. You closed your eyes to slow the tears before they came rushing out. Elora could never know, neither could John. It was a secret you’d take to both of their graves...because you knew it wasn’t true. 

John had been on the phone for a while now. Every so often, he would remove the mobile from his ear and stare up at the rooftop. The rooftop where he was standing. “Alright, stop it,” he shouted. “Stop it now!” His eyes closed for a brief moment. There was a period of silence before he glanced in your direction. “I’m not the one you want to talk to, am I?” 

Another period of silence.  

A second later, John’s phone was thrust in front of you. You gave your brother a confused look, but when you didn’t receive a response, you shrugged and lifted it to your ear. “Hello?” 

“Darling, whatever happens next,” Sherlock’s voice said in your ear, “I want you to know it’ll be okay. Just keep your eyes fixed on me,” You could hear him attempting to keep it steady. “Please, will you do this for me?” 

“Do what?” you remember asking. “What’s going on, Sherlock?” 

“This phone call – it’s, er ... it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?” 

The mobile phone in your hand almost slipped to the ground. “Leave a no-note when?”  

“I-,” he started. You could have sworn you heard a sniffle. “I’m truly sorry. All of it was a lie. Every single thing I said since we’ve met has been a lie.”  

"What are you talking about?” 

“I’m a fake. Nothing but a fraud.” 

"Bullocks.” You clenched your hands into fists, angered by what you were hearing. “Don’t think I’ll believe any of that for one second. How else would you know about the debt?” You lowered your voice. “Or-or the scars?” 

“The internet. I used Elora’s computer to hack into your records. I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. I- I just wanted to impress you. Nobody could be that clever.” 

“No one except for you.” 

“It’s a trick, Watson,” his voice was breaking now. “ Just a magic trick.” 

You couldn’t take much more. The tears were already flowing and you didn’t bother stopping them. You couldn’t lose another person close to you. Not again. Even if he treated you like utter rubbish sometimes, you couldn’t lose him. “Sherlock, no. There has to be another way.” 

“Goodbye, darling.” 

“Sherlock!!” 

Just before the line disconnected, you detected a hesitation. He never hesitated. Then, out of nowhere, came the words you never once expected to hear. They were so faint, you still swear you only imagined them. Maybe you did. Maybe it was all in your head. However, you can still hear his deep voice whisper to you – sharing a secret only the two of you would know...  “I...I love you.” 

Then, he jumped...and left you alone all over again.

------------------------------------------------

Author's Note: Hey there, this project has been an ongoing experiment for me about a year now. The idea came to mind after long conversations with a good friend (and fellow Sherlockian) of mine when we did our first watch-through of the series. We wondered what life would be like during the hiatus between TRF and TEH (something we saw in the mini-sode on YouTube: Many Happy Returns). I do promise that all Trigger Warnings, if applicable, will be at the beginning of every chapter, as to allow for maximum comfort and enjoyment for everyone. BBC Sherlock will hold a special spot in my heart and I really hope to do the characters justice!

I also want to provide a thank you to Ariane DeVere on LiveJournal for putting up the episode transcripts for the entire Sherlock series, which has made my writing process a little bit easier to manage. Don’t forget to leave a heart, comment, and a reblog if you want to see more of this story! :)

[companionjones]

Depression Shower

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Summary: After weeks of you and Sherlock not taking care of yourselves, you decide to finally change that. Sherlock is not a fan.

Warnings: Depression, Nudity but no smut, It’s not called so, but Sherlock self harms in this

*******

    A lot of things were bugging Sherlock. To start with, it was summer, so he couldn’t wear any of his coats. He never admitted it aloud, but the clothing was always sort of an armor to Sherlock. It was something for him to subtly hide in when stimuli from the outside world would would get too much for Sherlock to be comfortable.

    Adding to the shittiness of the weather, it wasn’t only hot, it was that sticky sort of hot that barely anyone could stand. It seemed not even murderers could bare to go outside to carry out their work.

    That resulted in what was bugging Sherlock most of all: No case. Absolutely nothing was available for Sherlock to distract himself with, and he had gotten so bored that he couldn’t even come up with an experiment to take his mind off the horrid mundane that was suffocating him.

    So, Sherlock sat, laid back in his chair; his only movement being him repeatedly hitting his head on the back of the piece of furniture. The motion was slowly, very slowly becoming more harsh until--

    “When was the last time we showered?”

    When the silence in the room broke, Sherlock stopped hitting his head, but he didn’t respond.

    “‘Cause I know we haven’t showered in the past two days, ‘cause we’ve done absolutely nothing in the past two days, but has it been longer than that?” Your tone had such casualness to it. “We had the Arnett case, so we wouldn’t have had time...”

    Sherlock turned his head to you. He was mildly annoyed. Were you going to turn into just another thing bugging him that day? “Why the hell are you thinking so hard about the last time we showered?”

    “Because showering is important and hygiene dictates that we need to do it regularly.”

    The consulting detective groaned, turned away from you, and tucked his whole body into his chair. “Who cares?”

    “One of us has to,” you softly proclaimed. Sherlock then heard you sigh, and get up from the couch. “And it looks like it’s gonna have to be me.”

    You had officially moved into 221B about a month prior. That was after about 5 months dating the self-proclaimed sociopath.

    Sherlock never liked using the word ‘partner’ in that sense, but he knew there were no other word for you anymore. Not after months of the two of you being in each other’s company, and those few occasions Sherlock had kissed you because you had discovered a sudden break in a case, or you had found each other again after a particularly life-threatening event.

    Yes, Sherlock knew that his great enemy sentiment had won out when it came to you, but that didn’t mean that he would turn to you when you called out to him in that moment.

    “Sherlock, come on, we need to get in the shower.”

    He simply would not respond to you.

    Again, you sighed. You crossed to the front of his chair, then sat criss-cross on the floor facing him. Calmly, you informed Sherlock, “It’s been two weeks. We have have to.”

    He still didn’t agree that he had to do anything, but something in your voice made Sherlock sit up to face you. Both of his ankles were brushing up against your knees.

    For a moment, the two of you just looked at each other.

    You held out your left hand.

    Sherlock glanced at it, then back to your eyes. After a couple seconds more of contemplation, he gave you his right hand.

    Smiling with tired eyes, you kissed the back of his hand, then softly caressed it with your thumb. “Come on,” you said again as you got up. You lead him to the bathroom and started the shower.

    Sherlock watched as you stripped off your clothes. You have him a suggestive look when you turned around and caught his eyes on you, but he knew you were just teasing. As per Sherlock’s request, your relationship with him had never been physical in that way. Sherlock was assured that you didn’t have any problem with that.

    “You need to shower too, Sherlock,” you told him, and you started unbuttoning his shirt. Eventually, you slid it off his shoulders.

    Sherlock didn’t move at all.

    “Are you really going to be this difficult?” You quirked an eyebrow at him.

    Only slightly gritting his teeth, Sherlock unbuttoned and pulled down his pants.

    “Thank you.” You smiled as you turned your back on him and stepped into the shower.

    It not being the first time you saw each other naked, Sherlock had no problem getting in the shower with you.

    “Come here.” You directed him under the water, and put some shampoo on your hands. You then proceeded to wash Sherlock’s hair with the two of you standing there in comfortable silence.

    After you ran conditioner as well through his hair, you went back for the shampoo, but Sherlock beat you to it. Again, you quirked your eyebrow at him.

    Sherlock explained, “It only seems fair that I wash your hair.” He couldn’t help a smirk forming on his lips to reflect yours. Sherlock knew you just as well as he did that the Great Sherlock Holmes was very rarely interested in making anything fair for anyone.

    You grinned when he started. Your head lulled back when he began massaging your scalp. Then, you leaned into Sherlock as his fingers made their way to the back of your head.

    Most of the process was repeated with conditioner, and a faint smile was covering your lips the whole time. You kissed Sherlock’s cheek once he was done and your hair was clean.

    Next up was body wash. Both of you washed yourselves, with the exception of each other’s backs. Once that was finished, you turned off the water, and Sherlock saw your head fall forward to lean against the wall above the water knobs.

    The two of you got out of the shower, dried off, and put on clean clothes. You finished first. While Sherlock was sitting on his bed and buttoning up his shirt, you kissed his forehead before leaving the room.

    “Where are you going?” Sherlock wondered before you shut the bedroom door behind you.

    You turned back to him and smiled softly. “We haven’t eaten in almost 32 hours. I’m going to go make us something.”

    Sherlock practically huffed as you closed the door. If John still lived at Baker Street, he’d be complaining about how many symptoms of depression Sherlock was showing--with not sleeping, eating or showering--and how Sherlock wasn’t talking about it. But that was just how Sherlock functioned. You understood that. You made sure Sherlock did those ‘basic health’ things without making a big deal out of anything. You even did them with him.

    Only then did it occur to Sherlock. He wanted to bash his head in for not noticing it sooner.

    You weren’t holding off doing medial tasks for Sherlock’s sake. That was absolutely arrogant for Sherlock to assume that. You had just as much issue doing them as Sherlock did. You had depression.

    Well, if he was ready to admit that, there was really nothing in the way from saying the same thing about himself. He was taking things one step at a time, however. And you were always put before Sherlock on his personal list of priorities, anyway.

    Sherlock joined you in the kitchen. There, he found you brewing up some tea and scrambling some eggs.

    “I thought you didn’t like eggs,” he wondered aloud as he approached.

    You shrugged. “They’re not that bad with ketchup, and they’re easy, you know--oh.”

    Sherlock had spun you around and kissed you as he pressed you against the counter next to the stove. When he parted from you, you wore a faint smile on your lips and your eyebrows were furrowed. Sherlock knew you were expressing your surprise at the display of his rare passion.

    His gaze got caught on your lips. “Thank you,” he whispered, then met your eyes, “For taking care of us.”

    Your lips curled further into a knowing smile, and you replied in your soft, wise voice, “I love you, too.”

    You kissed Sherlock before he could respond.

*******

Author’s Note: Thank you so much for reading! Fill up that heart and reblog if you liked it. I would also really appreciate a comment, if you have the time. If you would like to read more, I have more fics on BBC Sherlock over on my page. You should check it out. Thank you again! Have a nice day, night, or whatever time it is for you! <3 <3 <3

[twistedtummies2]

Ele-May-ntary - Number 5

Welcome to Ele-May-ntary! All throughout the month of May, I’ve been counting down my Top 31 Favorite Portrayals of Sherlock Holmes from movies, television, radio, and even video games! We’ve moved into the Top 5 of the countdown! And today’s topic has been a LONG time coming. Number 5 is…Benedict Cumberbatch.

All throughout this month, I’ve mentioned BBC’s “Sherlock” a LOT of times. It’s tied at second or third with the Guy Ritchie movies as my favorite overall take on the Sherlock Holmes canon ever done. I find this amusing, because I was actually late to the party with Sherlock. The series premiered in 2010, but I didn’t get to see it till I think 2013 – by which point, the first (and best) two seasons were already completed. Somehow, in the couple of years up to that point, the show COMPLETELY slipped under my radar: I literally didn’t even KNOW about it. Thankfully, a friend of mine (who shall remain nameless; if you’re reading this, you know who you are) introduced me to the show, and I fell in love at once. For most people nowadays, Benedict Cumberbatch simply IS Sherlock Holmes. It’s the role people identify him for the most, and for many people, he and this series are what they first think of when they think of Sherlock Holmes. This is hardly a bad thing: for its first two seasons, “Sherlock” is a near-perfect show, presenting a truly remarkable modernization of the Holmes canon that is faithful to the original stories while also ensuring nothing is sacred. The third season isn’t half bad, either, and I personally think “The Abominable Bride” is one of my favorite…THINGS I’ve ever seen that is Holmes-related, despite its own niggling flaws. Then the fourth season comes around and ruins everyone’s day, but we won’t talk about that here. Cumberbatch’s Holmes brings so much of what makes the character fantastic to life in a modern setting. Sure, he uses nicotine patches, watches television, texts people, and so on, but the core of the character remains intact. A self-proclaimed “high-functioning sociopath,” he is arrogant, immature, explosive, and often seems just as volatile as the criminals he tracks down. He has no grand heroic delusions, and sees most attachments and sentimentalities as a weakness. With other takes on Holmes, if Moriarty points out how similar he and Holmes are, it just feels like “Classic Villain Talk,” so to speak, but when this take on Moriarty says, “We’re just alike, you and I,” he’s actually completely right. For all the walls he puts up, however, Cumberbatch’s Holmes is still human, with more weaknesses than he likes to let on. One of my favorite moments – one which not only shows the terrifying power of the villain in question, but also I think demonstrates in a solid nutshell what makes this Holmes great – is a scene in the episode “His Last Vow.” When the main antagonist of that story, Charles Augustus Magnussen (the Master Blackmailer, based on the literary character Charles Augustus Milverton), first encounters Sherlock, it’s revealed that he, like Holmes, has deductive abilities that rival Sherlock’s own. Holmes can look at any crime scene and, in nanoseconds, figure out what’s going on like a human supercomputer. Magnussen is able to do something similar to people. When Magnussen “scans” Sherlock, he picks out about a BAJILLION different weak spots – physical, mental, AND emotional – that he can use to exploit Holmes. All this happens while Cumberbatch’s Sherlock is standing perfectly still and seemingly impassive. One of the reasons I love “The Abominable Bride” so much is that, above all else, it TRULY shows just how fantastic Cumberbatch is as Holmes. In that film, for those who don’t know, the story keeps flip-flopping between the modern-day setting and an imaginary Victorian-age setting of a more traditional Holmes. Cumberbatch plays the character in both time periods, and proves just as capable and believable in a top hat and tails as he is in a trenchcoat and scarf. He brings just enough of a different edge to his performance to make it work, while still doing precious little to change the depiction of the character the audience has gotten used to. As a result, in the scenes where the time periods clash, transitioning between the two worlds and cases going on, it’s truly a spectacle to see how the characters shift, and how good ol’ Smaug here is able to adjust with the times. As the definitive Holmes of a whole new generation, and one who proves the strength of the character in any time period…I think it’s fair to say Benedict Cumberbatch easily earns his spot in the Top 5. The countdown continues tomorrow! We’re getting closer to the end. Who will be next? Check in and find out!