My underwear awaits.
That fact becomes painfully obvious at the end of the latest season of Sherlock. When the show first arrived, my initial reaction was "Another Sherlock Holmes adaptation? Take a number, buddy." And then it turned out to be pretty good, and I enjoy it, even though it's dedicated to the trope of "We must all like this insufferable man because he's a genius and the main character and he has nice hair."
Every strand of hair is an angel kiss. Or, you know, hair.
But the most recent season finale, which was a mad dash to ensure that Sherlock ended in a bigger way than any of the other seasons while still leaving stuff open for more, seemed baffling in its conception. The dudes who write this show have always been competent, even at their worst. They write female characters like they're trying to impress Jabba the Hutt, but their stories still feel like they're written by people who do this shit for a living. So I can't fully blame them when they release a hodgepodge of twists, forced emotion, and an unfulfilling conclusion for not just Sherlock, but every other character as well.
I also can't totally blame Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman, because C.R.E.A.M. get the money, dolla' dolla' bills, ya'll. They're making superhero cash with their new roles. They're making "Tear down the orphanage because hearing children play makes my scalp itch" cash. However, because for the last few years Sherlock has been a game of "Will this be the last season? Probably ... maybe ... I don't know," you have to make every season with the idea that it might need to be the finale that everyone's waited for, but still have it ready for another season.