Sherlock Holmes about the love.
Let me just make some vague hand motions and hope you understand.
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Avoiding confrontation: Sherlock Holmes style
Consulting nine year old.
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BBC Sherlock —> Sherlock calls on Victor Trevor (Tom Hiddleston) to befriend John during his three year absence, as Victor and him were once close friends in university.
(The character of Victor Trevor can be found in the short story The Adventures of the Gloria Scott by Conan Doyle)
It was three weeks after the fall, Sherlock had been monitoring John’s movements in his spare moments when he wasn’t chasing a lead on Moran’s whereabouts. He tried to act under the front that he was looking out for him, should Moriarty’s henchmen carry out their original deed after the suicide of their master. But even he knew why he watched.
John was sad, more, broken? No deeper, he was empty. Sherlock watched as he left their regular grocery store, his automatic movements and the resonting echoes of his war limp indicating the hollowness residing in him. He knew he had to do act, fast, John was rotting, all exitement and intrigue removed from his life, all drive and companionship gone, John would rot. He was strong, he would live and move on, but Sherlock wanted him to do more than exist, he was the conductor of light, and his symphony was far from over.
Before he knew what he was doing Sherlock was in Norfolk, he was standing in a familiar estate, the memories of his university days creating a nostalgic tightness in his chest. He knew this was what must happen, he was aware that there was one man at least, who could give John the companionship he needed, the conversation, someone who he would not associate with Sherlock. He rang the bell again forcefully, casting his discerning eyes over the property, noticing foot marks and misplaced stones that were no doubt significant in betraying the proprietors habits, staff and even scandals.
The door was pulled open by a butler with sleek black hair and and a lofty manner. Sherlocks forthcoming request, led him with the butler, into a room adjacent to the grand but tasteful lobby, the room was dark with a single window, an office of sorts with a heavy air of study and reverie. There was a man sitting in a chair at the far to the left of the door, he turned as Sherlock entered and raised his eyebrows slightly, first with surprise and then his face settled into a nonchalant coldness.
“Victor.” muttered Sherlock, “I have a favour.”
Tom Hiddleston, get your magical British butt on Sherlock’s third series, now.
Because I need this thing in my life. We all need it.
“You know in another life you’d have made an excellent criminal.”
“And you sir, an excellent police man.”
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