The one thing. That one awful, awful thing.

 Browsing through pastiches a couple months ago after getting a gift card for a place that has a whole lot of such, I was reminded what a finely crafted thing a Sherlock Holmes fiction has to be for me at this point. Holmes is the exact opposite of vampires for me -- I can read a really bad vampire novel and have a great time while all the while aware that it's not top quality. But Sherlock Holmes?

That gets personal.

It didn't used to be -- in college I read pastiches that even the book's own authors later ceased to love, and had a great time. But over the years I found out where my limits were, and often those limits always tended to revolve around one bad moment, one little action that crossed a line and made me go, "NOPE! Not Sherlock!" And while I would like to use my vengeful zodiac sign and its supposed traits as my excuse, I tend to hold on to those little injustices to the character like the writer gunned down my dog. Down goes the book, into the pile to pass to other Sherlockians who may not have the same pastiche triggers as I.

And while those books did not meet the fate of a certain issue of The Amazing Spiderman or a particular adventure novel that both got walked straight to the garbage can for their unforgivable moments, I ashamedly have to admit, second chances are very hard to come by from this particular reader.

I began this blog post back during Holmes's "season of forgiveness," thinking that maybe I should start forgiving a few writers, perhaps giving them a second chance. The "friends discount," as it were, as I will always finish a short story written by a Sherlockian friend . . . ah, but novels. Why does it always have to be novels? We all know that Sherlock Holmes was at his least successful, even when written by Conan Doyle, in novel form. (The Hound of the Baskervilles is a horror novel with Sherlock Holmes stories at either end. C'mon!)

At this point, I really wish I could do back to my college years, happily reading every single Sherlock Holmes novel that came my way and enjoying them all. (Except, sadly, for The Adventure of the Peerless Peer by Philip José Farmer, which I always kept to myself, since he founded the local scion society and was a grand human whose company, and other books, I enjoyed. But that book . . .) These days, however, I approach those rare novel-length pastiches I do pick up like a bomb-disposal expert approaching a land mine. Waiting and watching for the one thing that will trigger an explosion.

Of course, leaning into that metaphor, I'm the actual powder keg, the brick of C-4, the bundle of dynamite sticks. Those un-Sherlock-y pastiche moments are just the spark. Perhaps one day, when I'm fully retired and mellowing out on edibles, I might be able to go back into the world of pastiche without reacting so strongly to a sour note in the familiar tune. But those days are still many years away.

For now, though, it seems like that one thing, whatever that one thing turns out to be in a given book, will always see me fleeing another faux 221B.  Perhaps I should take a course of short stories to desensitize myself over the course of this year.