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“The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down of the big lake they called ‘Gitchee Gumee.’ The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead when the skies of November turn gloomy,” she sings. Her head feels pleasantly light and she has to fight the urge to sing “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.&rdquo She suspects that he drugged her (and Sherlock-was Sherlock there or not?) when he served her tea. A nagging voice at the back of her head does keep informing her that The Great Korkowski, a man not exactly in tune with reality as we know it, could seriously hurt or kill her. She’s more amazed that she’s found herself in this odd predicament than afraid. While Joan is well aware that being a sober companion is more than a 9-to-5 job, she never expected to spend a Saturday night locked in what seems to be a magician’s trunk. If there’s one thing she knows about Sherlock after eight or nine days (looking at her phone, she determines it has been nine days) is that he always, always has to be right Sherlock likes to casually toss off facts and statistics to prove a point but after-hours Googling on her part has proven that almost a third of the time he’s apparently made up the statistic on the fly. “Research has demonstrated that if one owns socks of a singular and memorable nature, one is significantly less likely to lose said socks.&rdquo Her eyes happen to land on his socks, bold multicolored stripes with baby blue toes and gold heels. On the eighth or ninth morning, just before they’re about to leave to meet Captain Gregson at a murder scene (just eight or nine days in and she’s already almost jaded about finding dead bodies in various stages of decay-life with Sherlock can be frustrating to the extreme but she’ll never say that it’s boring), Sherlock sits down to lace up his oxfords. Somehow, Sherlock manages to blend into the background of wherever he is and stand out at the same time, not a bad thing for a self-professed consulting detective Most of the colors of his clothes are muted-black, slate gray, navy blue, olive green. And then a black and red checked wool scarf (that looks to Joan as if it should smell like cigars and maybe something like port or Madeira) is tossed over the whole lot with an insouciance that no American man of her acquaintance has ever been able to achieve. A gray wool cardigan with an unraveling right sleeve and patches on the elbows. A baggy and faded tee shirt is paired with ancient tweed trousers that surely once belonged to a minor baronet of some sort. Instead, he appears to carefully curate his wardrobe as if it’s a small, but important, art museum tucked away in a back street in London. Sherlock doesn’t seem to shop for and wear clothes like other men she has known. Joan isn’t sure why she notices Sherlock’s socks, of all things, or this particular pair of socks on this particular day. Multicolored Stripes with Gold Heels and Baby Blue Toes Joan is only able to see something of the real Sherlock after she notices his socks. And then she took a step or two back and watched the dots transform into a woman with a flower on her hat, a monkey gamboling at her feet.
Elementary sherlock voice change series#
Up close, all she could make out was a series of seemingly random dots of paints on canvas. Surgical residency cured her of squirming for lifeĪt first, being in Sherlock’s company is like the time she stood too close to Seurat’s painting A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte at the Art Institute of Chicago. Joan straightens her spine and stares back. She has the fight the urge to squirm under their intensity.
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He turns around and his two gray eyes focus on her face. Instead, that first morning she finds a shirtless and tattooed man standing in the front room of an unintentionally shabby chic brownstone and staring at several televisions, each blaring a different channel. When she agrees to take on Sherlock Holmes as a client, she figures he’ll be like most of her other clients-fragile, grinding his teeth with early sobriety, eager to embrace the clean life but also afraid of it.