Moranthology by Caitlin Moran Page A

Watson with the nervous tremors because he misses active service, in Afghanistan, Watson with the gun.
    Sherlock is so packed with joy and treats, to list them means bordering on gabbling: Una Stubbs as secret dope-fiend landlady Mrs Hudson (“It was just a herbal remedy—for my hip!”), Mycroft Holmes’s mysterious, posh, texting, superlatively composed assistant, “Anthea.” The little nods to the possibility that Holmes might be gay. The insanely generous casting of Rupert Graves as DI Lestrade. The line “I love a serial killer—there’s always something to look forward to!” And the perfect placing of what is, presumably, the series arc: “Holmes is a great man. And I hope, one day, a good one, too.”
    â€œValue for money” isn’t even the start of it. Every detail of this Sherlock thrills. Given that it was written by Steven Moffat in the same year he knocked off the astonishing, elegant and high-powered re-booting of Doctor Who, at £142.50 , Moffat’s scripts alone are value for money.
    If the funding is ever called into question, I’ll pay it myself. In cash. Delivered to his front door step. With a beaming, hopefully non-stalkerish, “Thank you.”

 
    Then, two weeks later, it was all over: there were only three episodes in the first season. And I’d lost the bid on the deerstalker to someone in Leicester. I was gutted.
    S HERLOCK R EVIEW 2: T HE F RUMIOUS C UMBERBATCH
    â€œB ut why are there only three episodes?” Britain asked, scrabbling around in the listings, in case there was a Sherlock left they’d overlooked, at the bottom. “Only three? Why would you make only three Sherlocks ? Telly comes in SIX. SIX is the number of telly. Or TWELVE. Or, in America, TWENTY-SIX—because it is a bigger country. But you never have three of telly. Three of telly is NOT HOLY. WHY have they done this? IS THIS A GIGANTIC PUZZLE WE MUST DEDUCE—LIKE SHERLOCK HIMSELF?”
    But yes. On Sunday, Sherlock came to an end after a fleet, flashing run. Like some kind of Usain Bolt of TV, perhaps it finished so early, simply because it was faster than everyone else. Either way, it had left scorch marks on the track: in three weeks, it flipped everything around. Sunday nights became the best night of the week. Martin Freeman went from being “Martin Freeman—you know. Tim from The Office” to “Martin Freeman—you know. Watson from Sherlock.” Stephen Moffat had—extraordinarily—constructed a serious rival to his own Doctor Who as the most-loved and geekily-revered show in Britain. And Benedict Cumberbatch had, of course, gone from well-respected, BAFTA-nominated actor to pin-up, by-word, totty, avatar and fame: the frumious Cumberbatch.
    â€œThe Great Game” opened with Holmes—slumped in a chair, legs as long as the TV was wide—bored, shooting at the wall without even looking. Popping holes in that lovely 1970’s wallpaper at 221b Baker Street; lead-like with torpor.
    â€œWhat you need is a nice murder,” Una Stubbs’s Mrs Hudson clucked, sympathetically, in the hallway. “Cheer you up.”
    So when Moriarty came out to play, Holmes’s glee at the oncoming chaos was inglorious, but heartfelt. He received phonecalls from weeping innocents, parceled up with TNT. Moriarty told them what to say: they give Holmes a single, cryptic clue about an unsolved crime, and tell him he has twelve, ten, eight hours to solve it, or they will die.
    With increasing dazzle, Holmes busts each case. On the foreshore by Southwark Bridge, with London frosty and grey behind him, Holmes looks at the washed-up corpse in front of him, and in less than a minute concludes that because this man is dead, a newly-discovered Vermeer—going on exhibition tomorrow—must be a fake. His torrent of illation is extraordinary—his mind has anti-gravity boots; he bounces from realization to