Dr. John Watson is a troubled man. He dreams of both the battles and men he’s lost, and they’re not nice dreams. You might even say he’s like a hobbit, unable to forget the giant spiders who chase him still. Oh, be quiet. You knew I was going to have to make a hobbit joke eventually. Just be glad it was in the very first paragraph.
Anyway, even though John Watson (Martin Freeman, future Bilbo, no relation to Morgan or Gordon) is home from the war, he’s still on the front lines in his shattered psyche. We see him jerk awake from his nightmares, dissolving into tears, trapped in the bloody past. The man’s a right mess, is what I’m saying. He lives alone in a tiny apartment with nothing for company but his cane (for his war injury) and his pistol (for his inevitable messy suicide). His therapist is trying to help him out of the abyss, encouraging him to start a blog so he can write down what happens to him to make some kind of sense of it. He stares at her with dead, dead eyes. “Nothing ever happens to me,” he says flatly. And thus begins the best damn Sherlock Holmes adaptation evah. Suck it, Robert and Jude! You too, Rathbone, you hack. Continue reading