Part of me feels a bit guilty posting a Love Letter to another man as today marks Kevin’s return home from his backpacking trip. But a much, much larger part of me thinks that he’s the one who abandoned me for an adventurous romp through Colombia in the first place so whatever, I’m doing it.
PS. I am fond of you, Kevin. If you need a reminder please click here.
Now, without further ado I bring to you, dear reader, A Tale of Two Loves.
Dear Sherlock Holmes (Benedict Cumberbatch),
I find myself inexplicably fascinated and, dare I say it, a little bit in love with you.
My love is inexplicable because you are a know-it-all jerk who is completely asexual, cruel, and lacking in any empathy or even a basic understanding of human emotion.
But still, there it is.
Now, I am no stranger to awkward men. My past loves include Sheldon Cooper and … Well, that’s about as awkward as it gets. But you are something completely different.
I find your deductive skills superhuman and attractive beyond belief while your intense stare causes me to lean forward inching closer to the TV screen every time it appears. And your cheekbones! I mean, damn! I have never really been one for cheekbones but yours, wow.
The way you wear that scarf gives me chills, so sexy and refined, so put together and aloof, so … British. And don’t even get me started on the coat.
I think it helps that my love of you hasn’t suffered from overexposure. Instead I am granted a tantalizing taste of three feature length episodes every year or so, never allowing me to get too close while still keeping you in my mind.
Still, I suffer no illusions that our love is meant to be. Instead it is just a brief flame in the night, burning bright in my mind and then snuffing out like those murders you love so much. (That last bit got weird … Right? Yeah, I thought so too.)
Alas, I can’t help but be thankful for the fact that you are indeed fiction. Being in love with you as a real person would likely irk me to no end.
Dear Benedict Cumberbatch (not as Sherlock),
My love for you as a person rather than you as Sherlock Holmes is far more understandable.
From my obsessive internet perusing (perusing sounds so much better than stalking) I have discovered what an incredible gentleman you are, kind, caring, conscientious, and more than a little sexy (we’ve all read that Violin quote, haven’t we?).
You recently got engaged which is cool by me. I mean, you are blonde in real life which instantly excluded you from my marriage fantasies anyway. Now, if you’d kept your hair in Sherlock style for the duration of our relationship I may have been persuaded but I suppose the point is now moot.
Still, I really believe we could have had something real, even though it would never have lasted.
I pictured afternoons drinking tea while reading books in the study. I pictured breakfasts on the porch, a slight chill in the air as we enjoyed our Eggs Benedict, you smiling lovingly as I once again giggled over the hilarity of it all, never tiring of my puns. We would have enjoyed evenings out with Martin Freeman, Amanda Abbington, and that guy who plays Lestrade.
It would have been glorious.
I even day dreamed about the day that you would introduce me to Steven Moffat and I would both slap him for what he did to Amy and Rory and beg him for spoilers about the next season. Moffat would find me charming (the slap forgiven as being well deserved) and perhaps I would even land myself a guest starring role as a one-shot companion who would inevitably become so popular I would be brought on for a full season on Doctor Who, just like Donna.
But alas, now these are all just dreams.
(Didn’t someone once say that dreams are just goals you aren’t working for? … No? Well, they should have.)
Still, I will carry this love with me at least for a little while.
With all my heart (or at least a small portion of it),