i’m so sad to finish the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. In fact, I may be finished with the book by the time this post goes live. You see, I’ve enjoyed reading it, but I’ve enjoyed reading about it even more. Each night, after I turned off the Kindle, I drift away to a world where I am Watson, and Sherlock and I are solving intricate mysteries. There’s such a sense of calm about them, though. They’re not troublesome mysteries.
I can’t remember what I dreamed about in the morning. I only recall the vague ambiance of the dreams themselves. I don’t even think we’ve solved a mystery yet, but my slumbertime travel to and travails in London is fantastic. I rarely have dreams that feel like interesting adventures rather than worrisome chases. My anxiety is no more lenient on me during my sleeping hours than it is during my waking ones.
I’m afraid to leave the world of Holmes and Watson when my eyes are open and when they’re closed. There is something about this world that I love so much, and it’s something due to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s writing. I’ve seen the movie. I’ve watched multiple shows (Elementary is turning out to be quite interesting!), but neither of them leave me quite so smitten and breathless.
I had no idea the effect the words on the screen would have on me. It’s so rare that I am so taken with anything or anyone. I think I may understand how Irene Adler felt to be Sherlocked.