Sherlock, S1 Ep3 – The Great Game

Minsk, Belarus.  Benedict Cumberbatch sounds like Alan Rickman, dispenses grammar advice.

Sherlock’s bored, so he swans about in his pajamas, shooting the wall (not a euphemism).  In the books, he shoots out ‘VR’ for Victoria Regina, but nobody cares about the Queen anymore, so he just shoots a smiley face.  Watson has been around a lot of crazy people with guns, so he just takes it away and pulls out the magazine, all the while passive-aggressiving.  Multi-tasker, John Watson.  He does have a small point about the decapitated head in the fridge.

Watson’s been writing about cases on his blog and Sherlock is angry that Watson’s revealed his astronomical ignorance.  That was one of my favorite parts of the books— when Watson listed all the things Holmes was rubbish at:

1. Knowledge of Literature.–Nil.
2.              Philosophy.–Nil.
3.              Astronomy.–Nil.
4.              Politics.–Feeble.
5.              Botany.–Variable.  Well up in belladonna,
opium, and poisons generally.
Knows nothing of practical gardening.
6.              Geology.–Practical, but limited.
Tells at a glance different soils
from each other.  After walks has
shown me splashes upon his trousers,
and told me by their colour and
consistence in what part of London
he had received them.
7.              Chemistry.–Profound.
8.              Anatomy.–Accurate, but unsystematic.
9.              Sensational Literature.–Immense.  He appears
to know every detail of every horror
perpetrated in the century.
10. Plays the violin well.
11. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman.
12. Has a good practical knowledge of British law.

So basically, he’s good at boxing, swords, and watches Court TV.  You know he was glued to the Casey Anthony trial, shouting “Why are you so stupid?” at Nancy Grace.  Also:  singlestick player.  Discuss.

Your mum goes around the sun and so's YOUR FACE.

John’s had about enough of Sherlock’s temper tantrums, so he goes out for some air instead of arguing because he is an adorable little otter martyr in a stripey shirt, and Mrs. Hudson comes in to ask if they’ve had a domestic (that’s British for “why are you wearing a silk nightie and staring longingly out the window as Watson waddles away in a huff?”). He complains about how boring life is without any murders. Totally feel you, man. Then a bomb explodes. It’s been a while since I saw this episode and I forgot about the explosion, so I have my sound turned up, and now there’s rice all over my computer.

Watson’s spent the night at Sarah’s house— on the couch, so she can come out and turn the television on and Watson can see the destruction of 221b Baker St.  I feel like someone would have called him, probably, but this way he’ll feel guilty and maybe he’ll stop sighing meaningfully and looking patient.  Upstairs, Mycroft tries to pitch a case to Sherlock (the Bruce-Partington Plans case), while Sherlock plucks at his violin and says no no, couldn’t possibly, extremely busy and PS, Mycroft is fat so there.  Sherlock won’t do whatever it is Mycroft wants, so they both turn to making fun of John for being stuck on the sofa.