“My mind is like a racing engine, tearing itself to pieces because it is not connected up with the work for which it was built. Life is commonplace; the papers are sterile; audacity and romance seem to have passed forever from the criminal world. Can you ask me, then, whether I am ready to look into any new problem, however trivial it may prove?”
Sherlock : Are you OK?
John : [laughs] What, am I…? No, no, I’m not OK. I’m never going to be OK. And we’ll just have to accept that. It is what it is, and what it is is… shit.
Mary : John, do better.
John : You didn’t kill Mary. Mary died saving your life. It was her choice, no-one made her do it. No-one could ever make her do anything. The point is, you did not kill her.
Sherlock : In saving my life, she conferred a value on it. It is a currency I do not know how to spend.
John : It is what it is. I’m tomorrow, six till ten. I’ll see you then.
Sherlock : Looking forward to it.
John : Yeah.
Agatha : The things I said yesterday… I put too much pressure on you.
Sherlock : You made some good points.
Agatha : Not enough to sway you though.
Sherlock : You were right. I am… remarkable. That’s precisely why I can’t help you.
Agatha : What does you being amazing have to do…
Sherlock : No, no, no. I didn’t say I was “amazing.” I said I was “remarkable.” The things that I do, the things that you care about, um… you think that I do them ’cause I’m a good person. I do them ’cause it would hurt too much not to.
Agatha : Because you’re a good person.
Sherlock : No, it hurts, Agatha. All this. Everything I see, everything I hear, touch, smell. The conclusions that I’m able to draw. The things that are revealed to me. The ugliness. My work focuses me. It helps. You say that I’m using my gifts. I say I’m just treating them. So I cannot, in good conscience, pass all of that on to someone else. Sorry.
Holmes : We have spilled much ink, you and I, in our discussion of human connection …and we’re no closer to understanding than we were when the correspondence began. I often feel as if I’m standing on one side of a wide chasm, shouting across, and wondering if the response I hear comes from you, or if it is my own voice echoing back to me. It seems to me, on my side of the canyon, that the search for unity with another is the font of much of the world’s unhappiness. I watch as Watson, eager as ever to extract some meaning from the prevailing social conventions, endures a series of curated mating rituals. It seems to me that she’s incrementally less content each time she returns from one. I conduct myself as though I’m above matters of the heart, chiefly because I have seen them corrode people I respect. But in my candid moments, I sometimes wonder if I take the stance I do because love, for lack of a better word, is a game I fail to understand, and so I opt not to play. After all, if I truly had the purity of all my convictions, I wouldn’t regret so many of the things I’ve done. Nor would I persist, against so many of my better instincts, in this correspondence. I find you a challenge, one that, in spite of all that you’ve done, continues to stimulate. And so the conversation, futile though it may finally be, continues, and we are left to wonder: have we simply failed to find the answers to the questions that preoccupy us… or can they not be answered at all? Fortunately for both of us, the world always presents the next diversion… the next elaborate distraction from the problems that vex.