That otp that calls each other by any other name but their first names
And then one of them gets hurt.
You know what really tickles me??
In The Devils Foot Holmes basically says ‘I don’t fall in love but if I were hypothetically to love someone and they were killed then hypothetically I’d probably kill their murderer’ and then
AND THEN when Watson is shot by Winters in Three Garridebs Holmes literally fucking tells Winters in the presence of Watson that ‘If you had killed Watson, you would have not got out of this room alive.’
Hypothetically.
Your thought of how different the Sherlock characters are from the ACD. Holmes and Watson were cuddly, openly loved (friendly) each other, and most of all, WEREN’T ASHAMED. I want the show to bring some of this w/o it being another fucking gay joke.
I know, right?
I mean, it’s not like there isn’t pages and pages and pages of material to work with that they can tweak to modernize their relationship. And so much of it can translate smoothly into our time. They just choose not to.
Holmes wasn’t a broken, tortured character that suffered from taunts from other people. He was an impish, flamboyant, sassy, flirtatious little shit that read cheap paperback novels, and recited Shakespeare. He twinkled, and danced about, and walked around with his arm tucked into Watson’s elbow.
Watson wasn’t some defensive, deeply closeted man that would roll countless women through his bed in an effort to distract himself from Holmes, never quite realisinng that the women were becoming more and more like the brilliant detective as time went on. He had his faults, many of them. He drank, gambled, was a grouch when he was hungry. But he admired handsome men, attended bath houses, and spends an unrealistic amount of time describing Holmes’ face, and whipcord lean body. And long, sensitive fingers. The way the cords of muscles stood out on his neck. How his lips looked pursed into a tight line of concentration. The flush that would mantle his cheeks. The mischievous look he would get in his eyes when they were alone in a private train car, resting his hands on Watson’s knees, asking to be shown his heavy, serviceable weapon.
They were fucking.
