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I don’t usually use any questionable language–the occasional “freaking”, sometimes, when I’m under stress–but this time…

Oh. My. Goodness.

You can probably tell what I’m thinking.

I just saw the finale of the third season of Sherlock. And since my dear friend Iris (who is as redoubtable and trustworthy–and as courageous and trouble-seeking–as Doctor John Watson himself. Unfortunately, she’s also as annoying as Sherlock.) is out of my clutches range, I’m just going to shout and scream and rant at the world in general. (Warning: here-on-after will have SPOILERZ. :-P)

Only Moffat/Gatiss could make one think that the show was over–for good–curtain down–permanently–and then save it thirty seconds later by (apparently) resurrecting a very, very dead villain. (HE SHOT HIMSELF THROUGH THE HEAD, FOR GOODNESS’ SAKE!) I’m still trying to guess how Moriarty survived. And they pulled it off, with style. Seriously?! How can anyone be that good?! And they had Sherlock basically sacrifice himself to save the Watsons’ marriage (and Mary Watson in particular.) I cried over that bit…

Yes, I’m in shock. And very, very much addicted to the show. For good.

Please, just ignore me. Or commiserate. Whatever. And I can’t seem to get over the feeling that this is going to be my life story for the rest of my life.

But I guess I’m actually kind of fine with that.

Sherlock lives.

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