BBC One

What, in the name of the crucified Christ, was all that Hong Kong phooey shit about? Sherlock‘s second episode, the ching-chong themed The Blind Banker was eye wateringly poor and bafflingly so after such a great first episode. It looked like the show had been hijacked by Bonekickers, may as well have had Mister Wu from Deadwood narrating for all the sense it made and don’t get me started on the Inspector Clouseau vs Cato style wu-pong. Sherlock had 90 minutes to redeem itself Sunday night and The Great Game not only matched the opener but surpassed it with a taut, chilling and exhilarating climax that secured it a slamdunk second season, universal acclaim and the slutty boho underwear model of Beenadick Cumdumpsnatch‘s choice whenever he decides to take advantage of the nationwide oestrogen fuelled gal boner all but poking his eye out as we speak.

“The Great Game secured it a slam dunk second season, universal acclaim and the slutty boho underwear model of Beenadick Cumdumpsnatch’s choice whenever he decides to take advantage of the nationwide oestrogen fuelled gal boner all but poking his eye out as we speak.”

It all starts with that pious square Mycroft trying to get bruv to investigate the death of MI5 lollygagger Andrew “Westie” West, found with his skull caved in and a top-secret defence data flash drive missing. Take a hike, Myc – brother Sherlock has other things on his mind.   In any case, Baker Street is hit by a huge explosion which 221b survives while sustaining a fair few broken windows.  It looks like a gas leak but a strong box containing a package for Sherlock suggests this was no accident.  Game on, Detective.

Said package contains a mobile phone with a picture of 221c Baker Street, Holmes’s basement (coincidentally, Watson’s name for HIS ARSE).  Upon speeding to the basement Holmes discovers a pair of trainers neatly arranged for his inspection.  His mobile rings.  A terrified woman with a shitload of Semtex strapped to her tits reads out a message from a mystery tormentor.  Solve the riddle of the trainers or the skank is worm food, being the upshot.  You’ve got 12 hours old boy and Holmes is all “No problem at all – should be time for a spot of billiards after that, what-what?” as Watson sweats like Jonathan King at a Menudo gig

“Deep down she knows there’s about as much chance of Sherlock being wrong about something as Peaches Geldof being right about anything.”

Still, work to be done and quick-as-a-fish Holmes is dipping up the block to St. Bart’s laboratory to run some tests on the Trainers of Doom.  In an entirely unrelated and random happenstance lab bod Molly, who wants Holmes to put his cock in her, introduces her new borefriend Jim the lab technician who Holmes quickly surmises is a flaming gay because of his immaculate grooming and visible underwear. “Good golly” says Molly “He sure likes to ball” but deep down she knows there’s about as much chance of Sherlock being wrong about something as Peaches Geldof being right about anything.

After ruining her day Sherlock deduces that the trainers belong to Carl Powers, a schoolkid from 1989 whose death Sherlock always thought was suspicious.  He puts it to mystery turdmentor that Powers was poisoned by his asthma medication and  turdmentor rewards him by setting the exploding skank free but he’s far from finished with Holmes.  Three more riddles quickly follow and the same format applies.  Innocent salt-of-the-Earth strapped with TNT gets blown to a million tiny pieces if Sherlock doesn’t solve the case before the deadline.  Some geniuses would wilt under this pressure but Sherlock?  Can’t get enough of it.

“Securitard had his ticket punched by an assassin called The Golem (played by 7 foot 3 acturd John Lebar) and Watson and Holmes track him down just as he murders the professor who had also twigged the £30 million forgery – nice timing fuckheads.”

That’s right folks.  He loves them all. The broker who faked his own death to collect life insurance; the celebrity makeup artist Botoxed to death by her gay brother’s shagsack housekeeper and most of all the art gallery security guard murdered for rumbling a £30 million new Vermeer as a fake.

Securitard had his ticket punched by an assassin called The Golem (played by 7 foot 3 acturd John Lebar) and Watson and Holmes track him down just as he murders a professor who had also twigged the £30 million forgery – nice timing fuckheads.  They tussle with the gigantic goon in an icy set-to before the freak makes his escape.

“It is the MI5 lollygagger with the cracked skull and the missing flash drive his pain in the balls brother has been pissing in his ear about the entire episode.”

After that it’s back to the gallery where Holmes collars the curator on the fraud and gets Hostage of the Day (some infant fuck) off the hook with some lightning art criticism.  Unlike Holmes, the curator cracks under the pressure and gives them the name of a mysterious benefactor behind the forgery: Moriarty.  Make a note of it, tell your friends etc

But by Holmes’s reckoning (five pips message on the mobile phone in the strong box package indicating five cases) there is still one case for him to solve.  He laterally intuits it is the MI5 lollygagger with the cracked skull and the missing flash drive his pain in the balls brother has been pissing in his ear about the entire episode. Imagine!

Turns out Pestie ran his mouth in the pub, had his flash drive nicked by his girlfriend’s brother then got accidentally killed in confronting said brother. Ah well.  One oblique post to his website later and Holmes sets up a rendezvous with his mysterious nemesis in the swimming pool that Carl Powers died.

“Moriarty monologues about his own brilliance, the nature of good and evil and Sherlock’s lovely, lovely hair and it all ends with an intriguing cliffhanger with Sherlock and John about to be snipered out of existence and Sherlock about to shoot the explosives vest right into Moriarty.”

Greeting him there is Watson with a load of Semtex strapped to his tits, talking like a fag, with his shit all retarded.  For Watson has been got to by evil Professor Jim Moriarty (Andrew Scott) and get this: it’s only gay Jim from the laboratory!  Who saw that coming?  (Unusually for him, Aerial Telly did).¹

It turns out gay Jim not only isn’t a lab technician but isn’t gay and has been playing the mindfuck game with Sherlock to show him exactly how badass he is and to back the hell off all his future criminal spectaculars.  Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.  Moriarty monologues about his own brilliance, the nature of good and evil and Sherlock’s lovely, lovely hair and it all ends with an intriguing cliffhanger with Sherlock and John about to be snipered out of existence and Sherlock about to shoot the explosives vest right into Moriarty.  How you like them apples?

What a fantastic triumph for Gatiss after what many considered a below par Doctor Who Daleks episode.   Perhaps more impressively, he has been named the 38th most influential homosexual in Britain, though, if all the gay premiership footballers came out he would be relegated to around 538.  Still, with him and Steven Moffat running the show you feel the franchise is in safe hands.

The verdict on Sherlock finale: The Great Game: Excellent finish after the mid-season lull.

Marks out of 10: 9

¹ Aerial Telly, living embodiment of television, begotten not made of one being with the telly, is absolutely hopeless at guessing murderers, seeing twists coming and this despite having a four novels a week Agatha Christie habit as a teenager and being 10 times smarter than the smartest person you ever met.

Imagined: Tuesday, August 10, 2010