A strong obsession with Sherlock Holmes runs in my family.
The obsession is similar to that of a vault in a bank, that’s how strong it is.
The thing is though, is that we’re all obsessed with the different portrayals of Sherlock Holmes. My Dad loved the films with Basil Rathbone (I recently bought him the DVD set – a step-up from the old VCR!), my stepmum liked Ian McKellen’s Mr. Holmes, my younger brother liked the novels by Anthony Horowitz (specifically Moriarty), and I worship the original Arthur Conan Doyle series. (I’m also completely fanatical about the BBC’s Sherlock, but we do not have the time nor the space for that!) Nonetheless however, we share a unity with our adoration for this pipe-smoking, ash-collecting, strange genius.
So today, when I found myself with a spare few hours in Baker Street, I decided to tick something off of my bucket list: The Sherlock Holmes Museum.
I visited 221b Baker Street.
And I loved.
I loved every damned second.