"QUICK! GET IN HERE!" the good Carter exploded from the other side of the door.
Hurrying into the house, I rounded the corner into the living room to see Stephen Moffat on TV with an award in his hand.
So that glued my butt to the chair for the next hour.
And the name Freeman came up. And the name Cumberbatch came up.
And as much as a part of me really wanted to jump up and go, "F@*K YEAH!" and then do an endzone display of unsportsmanlike conduct that would get an NFL player heavily fined, the larger part of me just gave a slight nod, the way one acknowledges the sun coming up in the morning, or that gravity pulls something to the ground.
I mean, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. And the great Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson of our time, at that. And the Arthur Conan Doyle of our time.
Too much? Too lavish praise? Tell it to a little lady named Emmy.
And Emmy is even late to the party. I can think of hundreds of pretty ladies who got there years before her, first witnessed back when that first 221B Con in Atlanta took my breath away. It's been an amazing ride for Sherlockians since Sherlock first aired, and my only regret is that they couldn't squeeze a special Emmy for Mark Gatiss in there somewhere. Well, and one for Sue Vertue, Rupert Graves, Una Stubbs, Conan Doyle, Katherine Parkinson, Louise Coles, Kevin Horsewood . . . just go to IMDB.com and track down everybody who had anything to do with that show. It's a good, good thing they've done.
So happy they get a night to celebrate!