The Adventures Of Sherlock Holmes

To have a slight measure of the pleasant chills that race up and down your spine when you delve into a meaty Holmes mystery, do read the introduction passage by Mark Gatiss (co-creator of BBC Entertainment’s Sherlock). Amidst a host of admirable emotions, Gatiss’ one nostalgic paragraph captured my fancy. It goes thusly,

“I’d never read any of the original stories until one fateful Saturday when, recovering from German measles, I was given a treat : a trip to WH Smith, and the purchase of any book I wanted. There, nestling amongst all the possible contenders for my shiny fifty-pence piece was a gorgeous, plump, purple Pan paperback, with a colour-tinted Sidney Paget illustration on the cover: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Everything about it promised the thrill of mystery and the faintly queasy allure of Victoriana with which I was already and headily in love. But first came the introduction. I can’t remember much about it now, except that it ended with the moving sentiment: I wish I were reading these stories for the first time.“

*I wish I were reading these stories for the first time*

Never has a statement so effectively captured the sheer bliss of nose-diving into an old and much cherished spot of literature. What prompted me to revisit the series was BBC Entertainment’s hugely popular and marvellously brilliant show : *SHERLOCK*. A fellow fan, sharp reviewer and possessor of the prodigious talent to pick the perfect book (Yes, Mith....I am talking about you) and yours truly were jamming up our Tumblr dashboards with the magnificence of a certain Mr. Benedict Cumberbatch. Said Cumberbatch has done a splendid job of yanking Mr.Holmes into modern day London and playing him with aplomb....... It doesn’t hurt that he’s very easy on the eyes too.

Ergo, when Cumberbatch (he of the cupid curls, vertiginous cheekbones and manic eye-glint) with his trusty bro-mate, Watson (Martin Freeman) graced the cover of yet another Sherlock edition, I had to lay my hands on it. All the foaming-at-the-mouth fans (and I mean that in the nicest way possible since I unashamedly head the pack) can be forgiven for labouring under the misconception that this book here, is a TV Series adaptation. It’s not.

Sadly...well, not really (because, *KNOCK KNOCK*, it’s Sherlock Holmes, the O.R.I.G.I.N.A.L.)...the book is a reprint of the twelve original mysteries as written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

So when Holmes is not marvelling over the cleverness of Irene Adler, he’s scratching his head over the sudden collapse of the Red-Haired League. Whether it’s the trivial case of the Blue Carbuncle or the horrifying finale of the Speckled Band, Holmes is striding about with a befuddled Watson in tow. Dignities are being restored....genteel ladies are being chivalrously rescued.....and pages are being fraught with drama, deceit and old-fashioned danger. In short, everything that you would expect from the most famous detective of all fictional times.

What could I write in my review that would add anything new to the reams that have been dedicated to the snarkiest sleuth of them all? How do I delve into a character that’s a delightful blend of humility and egotism? How do I gush and fawn over a mind that could dissect an individual down to the tiniest speck of dust on the tip of his frock-coat?

From the moment a knock falls at the door of 221B Baker Street, you know that you are in for a treat. From the pithy to the sensational, no case escaped the interest of Holmes and his partner in crime-solving, Dr.Watson. Holmes would settle down before the roaring fireplace, light his pipe, give the despairing individual a clinical onceover, draw his (almost always correct)conclusions and then just as quickly, proceed to unravel mysteries on the strength of observation, infallible logic and that essential spark of genius cloaked in eccentricities.

In the times of darkly dreaming Dexter and stiletto wearing Detective Kate Beckett, Holmes may pale in comparison. And then again....maybe he won’t. In the cold of Victorian London, amidst the ladies who sniffed into their lacy kerchiefs and the gentleman who blustered around in their breeches, Holmes cut a dashing figure. With his dry wit and baffling disguises, he plundered the murky underbelly (ah, how I love my clichés) of crime, and almost always got his man/woman/murderous cult.

Yes, we love our modern day detective-dramas and high-octane police chases. We love the forensics lab with it’s meticulously laid out tools. We love the fact that a well-worded Google search might just catch that horrendous serial killer by the end of the one hour episode.

But, as Steven Moffat (co-creator of BBC Entertainment’s Sherlock) puts it:

"Conan Doyle's stories were never about frock coats and gas light; they're about brilliant detection, dreadful villains and blood-curdling crimes – and frankly, to hell with the crinoline. Other detectives have cases, Sherlock Holmes has adventures, and that's what matters."