okay, you know i want from cbs’s sherlock holmes, and am content to dream of if the opposite is all i’ll get?
holmes as bipolar, canonically bipolar, who never remembers to shave or eat or sleep when he’s up, doesn’t think either of those things matters when he’s down, who dresses in whatever’s on the floor, (even if it’s expensive because mycroft holmes has bought it all, he leaves it on the floor anyway), who rides the subway like an addiction and who loves new york with the passion you only feel for a lover lost, (because he can’t ever go back to london, he’s been run out of that town forever), who lives in a filthy apartment filled with books, genuinely filthy, too, not artistic, with tobacco ground into the carpet and rats he’s not allowed to shoot living in the walls, and he sits in there with his hands in his hair and those track-mark scars on his arms and listens to new york streets and he is the city. he is new york, no bones about it.
and watson, she wears thousand-dollar dresses left over from the days when she had money, and says, “no, put pants on,” when holmes tries to come to breakfast in his boxers, rolls her eyes at his creased clothes and his messy hair and his stupid accent, always thicker in the mornings, old-money english with new york fraying in around the edges, and yeah, she was a surgeon, but her daddy always took her to the gun range, and he took her hunting, too, and she can hit you from twenty, thirty feet without even blinking, took her to martial arts and fencing, too, and if you think joan watson can’t knock you the fuck off your feet you are very much mistaken, and she was a surgeon, she held life in her hands and that was a thrill she can’t replace, can’t replace until she meets the scruffy englishman who loves the words that spill from her lips, loves that she listens and how loyal she is and how she takes precisely none of his shit, and he’s her only friend and she’s his, and somewhere beneath their feet, the heart of new york beats and their feet move to that beat, him ahead, shouting, but only for a moment, because she can out-run him and out-fight him in a second and he knows it, loves it, but he’s shouting and all she can do is answer that call, slide the safety off, get ready for the thrill of the chase.
and i can always, er, write it, if it disappoints me, i suppose.
speaking of shit i want from elementary that i’m never going to get
joan watson’s a former surgeon; we know this. she left in disgrace; we know this. and i want it to be a fucking sexual harassment case that went the wrong way for her—i want it to be one of those fucked-up wrong awful situations where one of her superiors was hitting on her incessantly, assumed she wouldn’t tell anyone, hot young girl like that, how’d she even get into med school to begin with, c’mon baby loosen up a little, and she grit her teeth and ignored it until the day he laid a hand on her, squeezed her ass while she was scrubbing in or ran a finger up her leg under the table in a meeting. and she decided she was going to nail his fucking ass to the wall, because of course she did, because watson will be watson will be watson, that burned-deep sense of right and wrong, that fierce, unrelenting loyalty to doing what needs done, only she didn’t expect in this fucking day and age to get told she was making it up. she expected to be heard, or at very least acknowledge, not drummed out of medicine with a few well-placed lies and a lot of boys club bullshit, and she is so fucking angry that she sees stars, sometimes, just thinking about it.
and see, that’s the first thing about holmes that draws her—it’s not that he’s brilliant, though she’ll come to appreciate that, to rely on it, to trust it. no, the first thing about holmes that draws her is that he sees the work, first last and always; is that he abhors liars even though he is one half the time, not because of any moral reprehensibility but because they get in the way of him doing his job; is that there are no fucking politics. she knows holmes looks at her and sees what she’s capable of and nothing else, and after the living hell that was her last work environment that’s a breath of fresh air, even if it’s a breath of fresh air that comes along with the stench that makes the apartment unlivable sometimes.
i want joan watson to have trust issues, and i want joan watson to have a chip on her shoulder the size of all five boroughs, and i want joan watson to walk with her head held so high that her neck hurts at the end of the day. i want joan watson to have fought the system and lost, but come out swinging; i want joan watson to wake up every day and know she might have something to prove to the world, but she doesn’t have shit to prove to herself. i want joan watson to walk with sherlock holmes, not behind him, and i want joan watson to be fighting crime because she was saving lives, because she’s not going to be stopped doing the right thing just because some review board with an antiquated idea of what’s acceptable decided to turn a blind eye. i want the real story of a real woman who is dealing with the real shit so many woman go through every day and who isn’t cowed by it, not even close, who finds her lot thrown in with a brilliant, insane, unpredictable mess of a man and says i can work with this.