Here's one time we need less Hope.

"See here, Captain Croker, we'll do this in due form of law. You are the prisoner. Watson, you are a British jury, and I never met a man who was more eminently fitted to represent one."

 -- Sherlock Holmes, "The Adventure of the Abbey Grange"

The denizens of social media seem to enjoy rallying lynch mobs almost as sport of late, which gives one pause to reflect up the jury system of passing judgement. Like any system, it can have its flaws, but the intentions behind it are excellent: That no one man or woman is objective enough, observant enough, or wise enough to consider the facts of a case alone.

We go to great trouble to select juries, hopefully with both sides of the question getting to weigh in on who gets to be on said jury, along with a judge, again . . . hopefully . . . to keep it at its most fair and impartial. In the matter of the crime at Abbey Grange, Sherlock Holmes declared himself judge, decided that Watson could replace an entire jury, and acquitted the accused without involving the actual legal system.

And in "Abbey Grange," we usually go along with Holmes.

But recall A Study in Scarlet, and Jefferson Hope.

"I knew of their guilt though, and I determined that I should be judge, jury, and executioner all rolled into one," Hope declared. Do we go along with him as well?

Watson, appointed as jury in "Abbey Grange," had no emotional ties to anyone in the case. And while he was just one man, he still had "Judge Holmes" to keep him honest. Jefferson Hope was a twisted mess of a man who spent more time and energy on vengeance than he did trying to stop his adopted daughter's final fate. Much of his motivation stemmed from his own guilt in the tragedy as his sense of honest justice.

"It is of the first importance not to allow your judgement to be biased by personal qualities," Holmes once said, speaking of being biased by other people's looks. But it's harder still not to be biased by the personal qualities within ourselves, as Jefferson Hope did. In the end, he was no judge and jury.

Jefferson Hope was just a one-man lynch mob.

We live in complex times, with complex questions being raised. And we can choose to be like Sherlock Holmes and John H. Watson, or we can let ourselves follow a path like that of Jefferson Hope. And there's a key thing to remember when you're making that decision:

Sherlock Holmes and John H. Watson have been lead characters in sixty tales that have lived well over a century. Jefferson Hope was done in one, and most of us don't really enjoy reading the prequel part of his tale at that.

Don't be Jefferson Hope.

What if boys had created "slash" fan fiction?

One could say that the male-dominated publishing industry was doing its own fan fictions long before amateur presses, and eventually the internet, blew up the field. Robin Hood fan fiction. Hercules fan fiction. Oog Oog Gruh fan fiction told round the place where someone would put fire once it was invented. But the field we know today as "slash" fan fiction, is one I would venture to say was created and dominated by non-male genders.

Love, romance, sex, hurt/comfort . . . the themes of slash are what were traditionally seen as the province of said non-male genders. And while testosterone has come into the picture as the sex oft got a little more intense, it's not testosterone evidenced in the way males typically seem to prefer it to be displayed.

This came to mind tonight, as I chanced upon that old video game movie Mortal Kombat, and wondered why no one had ever transported Sherlock Holmes and John H. Watson to Shang Tsung's island to battle in the tournament that would prevent the invasion of Earth. No mystery. No detection. Let's just make Sherlock and John fight people!

If the testosterone club had gotten to putting the slash in "Kirk/Spock" before those who did, it surely would have signified the sort of battle that the TV boys gave us when Spock did go into his mating frenzy, instead of any actual love-making. "Watson/Sholto" would be a Kill Bill level dual between two trained warriors. (Of course, maybe Mycroft/Mary might be more in that line.)

Since fan fiction is the black market of non-Canonical wish fulfillment, maybe such a genre would have even filled the void of fights that started, but did not get finished in the Canon. That Holmes/Roylott set of challenges was worthy of a TV wrestling promo. Sherlock Holmes/Killer Evans, had that bullet gone a slightly different direction in "Three Garridebs." Watson

And what about the "rare pairs" of fightin' slash? Wiggins/Tonga. Kitty Winter/Birdy Edwards. Sahara King/Cyanea Capillata. It's not that the Holmesian Canon doesn't contain enough fiesty characters . . . it's that they just aren't often shown in the act of their battles.

Holmes fending off street thugs with a stick. Victor Hatherly dealing with an axe-wielding maniac. Angry dog versus monkey-man. All of these things happen within the Canon, just mostly off-stage. So one could make a case that there's fighty-fiction aplenty in Watson's records, yet Holmes turns it all into more cerebral material. Not a lot of play-by-play fight scenes.

Yet romance, in all its forms, is even less frequent, so one can see why that industry has sprung up around Holmes and Watson . . . especially once they became young and good-looking after decades of being elder gentlemen (yes, yes, there can be hot elderly guys, but they aren't the primary romance market).

Of course, if manly all-fighting fan fic had sprung up at some point, it might have depended upon a younger Sherlock and John as well . . . .

A particular "What if . . . ?" that came up today

There are possibilities out there that nobody likes to consider. Questions that some say should never be raised, and if raised, should never be answered. But when one has a blog that gets posted multiple times a week, certain hesitations do fall away. So let's ask one of those questions:

What if the Sherlock Holmes Birthday Weekend in New York did not have the BSI dinner any more?

Or even just for one year. What if it just didn't happen one year?

Would people not go to New York on an agreed upon weekend, and go to everything else, see their friends, chat about matters Sherlockian, etc., etc.?  Would we hear nothing of interest from those who make it to New York and social media fall silent? Would we have to consider that Sherlock Holmes's birthday happened upon another day, just to make up for the loss with another celebration?

What does that most ancient of traditional gatherings bring to the table that could not happen anyway?

Well, there's the awarding of the B.S.I. investitures and the exclusive invitations that allow new people that thrill of getting in somewhere not everyone gets into. But really, are those doing the Sherlockian community as a whole any good these days? Sure, Sherlockians from previous generations get to check off one more box on their bucket list, but what do those shillings inspire, other than maybe driving a few more articles to The Baker Street Journal from the hopeful?

Yes, yes, I may be asking what some would consider offensive questions here, and I'm not really trying to offend. Provoke, perhaps, if considering such questions provokes thoughtful answers other than "It's all wonderful, I love it, shut up!" (Which is more knee-jerk than thoughtful, really.)

Most traditions have their roots in good purposeful things, but the purposes sometimes get confused as years pass. People forget what the original intent was, or skew it to their own purposes. And sometimes, things that seem so very obvious to one generation, like the importance of a certain musical group or motion picture, is completely mystifying to those who come after. So traditions have to be given hard looks . . . which is why things like "the true meaning of Christmas" get attention year after year.

What is the true meaning of the annual Baker Street Irregulars dinner at this point, and how would the world lose out if it just didn't occur . . . which it doesn't, for many of us. For me, it's been all of fifteen years at this point, which could be one reason that I'm asking these questions. Even if I was to invest in a return trip to New York City, tolerate the current conditions of our airlines, etc., what would be the attraction of that dinner among so many other festivities that are also being held, most with the very same people in attendance?

Come this January, perhaps I'll get to hear some answers. But it's July now, and a good time for "What if . . . ? day-dreams on hot days.

Before I go back to bed

A monkey dressed like Sherlock Holmes walks into a bar.

It's 4 AM and you couldn't get back to sleep anyway. Whether it's the funny tasting tap water from the new pipes or the touch of tendinitis reminding your of Watson's shoulder wound, you're up. And the first issue of Justice League Dark is just sitting there, with Bobo the Detective Chimp on the cover.

And Bobo, it turns out, is in this magical bar.

Which then reminds you, hey, you used to hang out in a sort-of magical bar. The main magic was that it was actually always 1895 in the bar and that there were some real characters showing up in the place. And, as such places do, that thought leads to remembering all of the other characters who have graced your life. The partners, team-mates, loves, and bastards. And the fictional characters, too, the ones that nobody really knows about.

It's 4AM and those are the kind of thoughts you have, because, I guess, you should be dreaming at such an hour and the ol' brain is kinda loose and playful the way it would be if it were dreaming. And if you're very lucky, none of the daytime thoughts of responsibilities and chores are around to bother you.

The tale of the monkey in the bar is pretty vague and ominous, the way a lot of comics have been of late. Trying to tell big new tales of bigger than ever cosmic forces nobody ever heard of before. But you probably enjoyed the new tale of the spider guy better, because he's back to being a loser again, which was always his strong suit. Because most of us can relate to the guy who everything goes wrong for. Water pipes get leaky and need replacing, you wake up at four in the morning for no reason, and the "ghosts of how things used to be different" drop by to make you laugh, instead of rattling chains like Jacob Marley.

And somehow it all winds up being about Sherlock Holmes, but you just don't want to tell anybody about it just yet. But there it is.

The Reigate Squee

There are many different kinds of Sherlock Holmes groups. The annual banquet group, the online community, the local scion society, and many a mix-and-match flavor in between. And when you're in the midst of a good one, it's a very fun thing.

We've had a full-fledged Sherlockian society in Peoria, with banquets, events, and guest speakers, but the little library discussion group we have now -- The Sherlock Holmes Story Society -- had been having a great run. One of the complaints I remember about the old group was that too many times it was about the social evening more than Sherlock Holmes. Many a member or guest came not caring about the story of the evening or even attempting to read it -- the food and friendship made for a fine night out. But with our library group we never fail to close in on the finer points of Watson's records themselves . . . with some great results.

Tonight, for example, we got into "The Reigate Squire/Squires/Puzzle," a tale that used to be nowhere close to my top ten. But with the help of Kathy, Ruth, Viv, Gary, Melissa, Amanda, and Mary, I think that "Reigate" just shot up to my top five.

It's an abbreviated tale, which was my biggest gripe with it. Conan Doyle/Watson seems to have blazed through the writing of it leaving many details unexplained and whole characters wasted. But when you start to plumb its depths as we did, this tale of burglary, blackmail, and murder (a veritable trifecta of crime!) has some amazing stuff in it. I think it actually altered my presentation for "Holmes in the Heartland" coming this August.

And that wasn't the best thing to come out of it -- we got into the story so much that there was some pretty serious talk of adapting it into a play, with some of the tale's hanging details getting a much clearer focus. Was there true value in some of the items stolen? What was Annie Morrison's dark secret and why was her face (seen only in an off-stage part of the story) so very familiar? And just how into oranges was Watson? ("But, Inspector, ORANGES!")

We wondered about the lineage of the note illustrations in our various printings of the tale, one of which seemed on the verge of a comic sans/zapf chancery depiction of dual hand-writing. We were transported to other cases and other stormy petrels. And trying to guess what a Sherlock Holmes fifteen-hour workday consisted of just kept eluding us.

Coming together over a single Sherlock Holmes story with our little Peoria group always rewards me with insights and inspirations that I would never have, were I just sitting at home with a book, and it helps keep those Holmes fires burning brightly. We're at the year-and-a-half mark now, and it took us a little while to really find our pace, but we were definitely there tonight.

Hope your own Sherlockings are going just as well, and if not, hold on to hope . . . Sherlock Holmes has ways of surprising you, even when you're as worn as he was at Hotel Dulong.

The famous Sherlock Holmes sandwich

Perhaps it's the summer doldrums, but yesterday's hottest Sherlockian news came from the Montreal Gazette: a recipe for "Six O'Clock Solution: Steak sandwiches from Sherlock Holmes's pantry!"

Sherlock likes his beef. "Some cold beef and a glass of beer" are the only arrangements he needs in "A Scandal in Bohemia." And even Dr. Watson saw it as an excellent prescription, as he did in "Engineer's Thumb when he diagnosed "he looks as if a little good Berkshire beef would do him no harm."

But the Montreal Gazette, via a cookbook called A Literary Tea Party, cites "Beryl Coronet" and my favorite Sherlock Holmes culinary moment: Sherlock Holmes making a "rude meal" that he stuffs in his pocket from "two rounds of bread" and a slice of room temperature beef.

For me, this always seemed a Sherlockian excuse to hit the Arby's drive-thru, but the recipe from a food blogger named Alison Walsh adds a custom horseradish spread to Sherlock's Canonical recipe to give it a little flair.

Yes, you read that right . . . the "Beryl Coronet," when you come right down to it, has an actual recipe in it. It only has two ingredients, but it's Sherlock's own, and far preferable to that other recipe he explained involving seven-per-cent of something.

So . . . now the best news for Sherlockian vegans, but like I said. Summer doldrums.

Current resident of the Baker Street Irregulars TM universe

Ah, the Mandela effect, that lovely new phenomenon when people blame shifting universes rather than admit their memories might just be a tad faulty. Now that we're all connected by cyber-umbilicals to the great Avatar tree of digital consciousness, we often discover that "Hey! We're all making the same mistake!" and therefore it somehow feels like it's not a mistake. (Insert political comment here.)

What does this have to do with things Sherlockian?

Well, the Baker Street Irregulars just came out with an official website at long last, and I realized that I had always thought the club's official name was "The Baker Street Irregulars of New York." I was certain of it, sure that it was referred to that way all over the place, no doubt about it.

But the website, with its logo seen below, very plainly stops at the "TM," and that same "TM" makes the official statement that, yes, "The Baker Street Irregulars" is the official name of the club.

Now, if I were an insistent fellow, I might cry out "Mandela effect!" and make the supposition that I was once in a universe where the club's official name was "The Baker Street Irregulars of New York," and then somehow side-slipped, as Mandela effect believers sometimes claim, into the parallel universe of "The Baker Street Irregulars" period, done.

This would be an exciting thought, if I could also pick up a copy of the Canon and find a few stories there that I didn't remember reading before, or find a new, surprisingly different ending to "The Final Problem" or "A Scandal in Bohemia." But, alas, I fear that my having developed a headcanon about the Irregulars that diverges from the group's official paperwork is not going to yield any some remarkable benefits.

Dealing with reality isn't always fun, but it's a muscle we are really going to build up as we see more folks trying to believe their own wish-fulfillment or dodging guilt of late. And it probably has to start with the little things.

I just kind of wish it was still "the Baker Street Irregulars of New York," though, just in case a very, very old former Victorian lad named "Wiggins" ever shows up and tries to make a few more shillings, only to find himself sued and having to use "Former Street Urchin of Baker Street" at his con appearances. But I suppose there might be an exception made for him if he does.

Unless Disney buys the trademark at some point . . . but that's another discussion. Back to reality.

This one, anyway.