Hi, all. First, thanks to all who set up and participate in this forum. And advance apologies for any gaffes I may unwittingly commit, not to mention this lengthy intro.
 
I hail from across the Pond in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, USA. I’ve been a Sherlock Holmes fan, off and on, since I was almost 12 years old (circa 1969). Prior to discovering there were actual written stories, I thought the character was a Hollywood creation, that Basil Rathbone was the sole embodiment of the detective, and that Nigel Bruce’s blundering, comedic-foil portrayal of Watson was authentic.
 
Well, we live and learn, yes?
 
The first Holmes story I read was “The Adventure of the Three Garridebs,” and it achieved two things: 1) I learned that Doctor John H. Watson was no idiot; and 2) that story would become the impetus for my affinity for close male/male friendships (for a long time, platonic friendships, but that would change). Thus, it’s the inspiration for my forum signature. A few months after I discovered Holmes and Watson, I became a Star Trek fan—no need to elaborate on that famous fandom ship.
 
The friendship between the detective and the doctor wasn’t the only aspect that appealed to me in the stories. Conan Doyle’s wonderful prose, the moody Victorian plots, and the characters’ sheer domesticity (even when the boys weren't sharing a flat) drew me in. Honestly, doesn’t the idea of spending time with those two men in 221B (in any era) sound like a blast? You can imagine the Christmas dinners! It’s also the reason they’re still relevant and so beloved 126 years on.
 
Fast forward to 1984: I was channel surfing for something to watch on our local PBS TV station when I came across a show that was obviously period—a drop-dead gorgeous, aristocratic, dark-haired man in Victorian gentleman’s garb was sitting in front of a fireplace with his hands steepled in thought. I stopped channel surfing.
 
The dialogue progressed for a minute or two, and I kept thinking: “I know what this is. I’ve heard this before.” Yes, I’d heard it in my head while reading, although it had been a few years since I’d picked up my (first—I have five now) Sherlock Holmes anthology for a nice sit-down. The penny eventually dropped when the King of Bohemia stripped off his (silly) mask, uttered, “I am the King! Why should I attempt to conceal it?” and the dark-haired hottie sarcastically replied, “Why, indeed?”
 
Turns out that I’d stumbled across the first U.S. airing of the famed Granada Sherlock Holmes series episode, “A Scandal in Bohemia.” I also stumbled into a fannish love affair with the actor who IMO, to this day, embodies the finest Victorian era portrayal of Holmes—the late, beloved Jeremy Brett. If any of you out there have never seen Brett’s Holmes, do it. He has partly inspired Benedict’s portrayal—and—the scarf!
 
Fast forward to 2005: Temporarily out of work and surfing (the Internet, this time, not the airwaves) for diversions, I came across DVDs of the Granada series, ordered them, and re-immersed myself in the show. It was “The Musgrave Ritual” episode that made me realize how much homoerotic subtext Brett and both of his Watsons had imbued in their portrayals (whether intentionally or not). Up until then, I’d never been a proponent of slash fan fiction.
 
Like I said, we live and we learn.
 
Ever since, I have been involved in the fandom, and have written several lengthy slash fics. I wholeheartedly can accept Holmes and Watson in a platonic friendship—that’s how I viewed them for most of my life. But I have no qualms about stretching their brotherly love further. As for my pseudonym, it comes from canon—in "A Study in Scarlet," Watson tells us that Holmes played him Mendelsohn's "Lieder" at 221b.
 
Fast forward to 2007/2008: When I first heard about both the RDJ film and the BBC contemporary updated Sherlock TV show, I was convinced I would like neither one. That’s basically true of the RDJ films, although I do like Jude Law’s Watson. When I read the premise of BBC Sherlock, I thought it clever of the writers to have John Watson returning from the current Afghanistan war and that the ever-scientific Holmes would use current available technology, but that was the limit of my favorable opinion.
 
At the time, I staunchly believed that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson should firmly remain in the Victorian era from whence they sprung. I feared a modern update would be too similar to the Rathbone-Bruce, Nazi-fighting films. I vowed not to watch BBC's Sherlock. I knew I’d hate it.
 
I’ve never been happier to be wrong.
 
My first glimpse of the show was in late July, 2010 on a YouTube vid, and it was of John’s nightmare in A Study in Pink. I must credit Martin Freeman’s dramatic brilliance in barely restraining a sob for sparking sufficient interest and empathy in me to find a download of the entire episode. Hey, if the producers cared enough to find a capable actor to play Watson, maaaybe . . .
 
And now I’m here, three-and-a-half years later, awaiting with relish, trepidation, and no small amount of sadness and frustration, the airing of the last episode of Series 3. And I’ve joined a forum to talk about my obsession with and utter love for this great series and its wonderful cast.
 
I have issues with some of the choices Gatiss and Moffat have made (like Doyle, they aren’t infallible), but not so many as to curb my love for the show. I absolutely devour their many nods to and nuggets from Doyle’s canon (e.g., Vatican cameos, the matchbox, Baron Maupertius, The Navel Treatment), and, of course, the chemistry between Benedict and Martin is scintillating and warms my slashy heart.
 
And now to Benedict: I adored his portrayal of Sherlock almost from the first moment, but I didn’t fall for Himself until I watched his Creature in Frankenstein manage to so invest me emotionally (and without uttering a single word) that nothing the character did beyond the first 15 minutes could destroy my empathy. That. Is. Talent.
 
Since then, I’ve seen as many of Benedict’s interviews and performances as possible (just saw August: Osage County last night—of course, he was fantastic and made me weep). I’m easily old enough to be the man’s mother, but that doesn’t stop me from messily bubbling over with squee when I talk about him. My family and friends can barely tolerate me, and most try to Avoid. The. Subject. It’s thoroughly embarrassing and adolescent behavior, and I care not one whit about that. The sweet man deserves every single bit of praise and appreciation I can heap upon him.
 
So, sorry for the long rant, but it might help explain why I’m a lifer—in appreciation and excitement and (yes) obsession with both Sherlock Holmes and Benedict. If you’ve read this far, then obviously you’re as demented as me and I’m in a perfectly lovely place.