A Scandal in Belgravia

'I've never begged for mercy in my life.' 

A Scandal in Belgravia has proudly taken its place among that very special breed of television. The kind which provokes in me a reaction which can’t be articulated, which is made entirely of violent gestures and high pitched noises. In fact, after finishing it I spent about half an hour randomly collapsing against the lounge, hugging a pillow to by head and making pained, sobbing sounds. I also wept quietly into a cupboard and yelled at some soup.
I don’t think I have ever hated Steven Moffat as much as I hated him then.

I used to wonder what it was that made a masterpiece. An ok painting and a (supposedly) really fucking amazing painting look pretty much the same on paper. Then I realised. In the flesh its rather a different matter. You can see the masterpiece the second you walk into the room. It’s the painting that, despite all the others, draws your gaze. That emblazes itself into your memory and, for a second, takes your breathe away.
Put simply Belgravia is a masterpiece, in the truest sense of the word.

It is very, very hard to tell you how the episode make me feel. Probably because it made me feel All The Things.

Reading the original stories was worth it. It was worth it just for the way I squealed when Sherlock said “Speckled Blonde”. The first fifteen minutes or so were basically just Moffat having his own little Conan Doyle fan convention in the corner. And it was rather lovely to have enough fandom knowledge to afford a ticket.

There were so many moments. Staying Alive. Shut up Mrs Hudson. Mrs Hudson. Molly and her present and the awful, awful tension of Sherlock’s rant. Sherlock in a sheet. The ashtray. Moriarty. And Mycroft. AND THE VIOLIN. And the moment when I was totally convinced that the people in the plane were merely awaiting the shipment of small lemon soaked paper napkins and would wake up shortly to be served tea and biscuits. Just everything. The only times I wasn’t giggling manically or squealing hysterically I was holding my breathe or resiting the urge force quit the whole exercise before me brain actually exploded.

The sexual tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. And a blunt one at that. Now I like sexual tension as much as the next person. I would actually be willing to hazard that I probably like it slightly more than the average next person. But when it reaches such a level that it is actually physically painful you should really take a moment to think about what it is you’re inflicting on your audience.

Come to that I CAN’T SHIP THAT MANY PEOPLE AT A TIME DAMMIT! I can’t. My brain is not physically, emotionally or mentally able to sustain it. The worst part is (with the possible exception of Sherlock/Molly) its all canon.  I’ve just finished reading the original stories and you can’t go through that without coming to ship John/Sherlock pretty fucking hard. Arthur Conan Doyle shipped John/Sherlock. This is undeniable fact. If anyone told me a week ago that Sherlock/Adler would come very, very close to beating that I would have said “HA!” and read them the passage from The Return of Sherlock Holmes where Holmes and Watson hold hands.
But Adler bought something of a trump card to the table- I actually wanted it to happen. I don’t really want John and Sherlock to leap into bed together. I’m honestly not sure what I would do if they did. But MY GOD YOU TWO. I don’t care if John’s sitting right there! He’s got his laptop and an internet connection right? He can amuse himself for a while. JUST FUCKING HAVE ALL THE SEX RIGHT NOW PLEASE.

Those who know me even marginally well are aware that this isn’t the sort of thing I make a habit of saying. Certainly not in capital letters. I’m usually a fan of the implied. But Moffat has broken my brain and now I can’t stop wondering what happened when Irene and Sherlock were stuck in the middle of the desert together for an undisclosed period of time.

Now if you’ll all excuse me I think I need to take a little bit more time to try and recover before whatever fresh hell they have planned for next week.

SPECULATION CORNER!
The second episode is written by Gatisis and based on Hound of the Baskervilles. Hound is almost certainly my favourite Holmes story. It had me utterly, totally baffled right up until the last moment. Because the only possible explanation was a really fucking big dog. And seeing as how there obviously couldn’t be a really fucking big dog there was no possible way to account for all the factors. The way the Conan Doyle did was brilliant. It blew me away. I am, needless to say, ridiculously excited to see how Gatisis is going to twist it. The beauty of Sherlock lies in its ability to surprise and delight those who haven’t read the stories AND those who know them back to front. There are almost no adaptations that can claim that. What makes the expectation rather more tense is the title-

The Hounds of Baskerville

Who would have thought that moving one little word and putting an S in the wrong place could be so totally intriguing. I am excite.