text:  "Each friend represents a world in us,
  
   a world possibly not born until they arrive,
  
   and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born."
  
  —Anais Nin
  
  "I know something you don't know."
  
  I freeze mid-sentence, stare across the table at Imani, and deliberately avoid looking up at the encroaching singsong taunt-er, knowing full well I am the taunt-ee. You would think by now this would be an old routine for him, but apparently not. Thus, I force my eyes to remain staring straight ahead and reply, "Not possible," using my flattest-affect voice.
  
  "Nope, it's true." Jimmy takes a minute to smug up, then slides into the booth, kisses Imani hello, and turns back to me, where I am now rolling my eyes across the table. "There is a new Sherlock. One that I have watched and you," Jimmy pauses, takes a big theatrical sigh, which he follows by grabbing a handful of my fries and stuffing them in his mouth, before finally finishing, "have not."
  
  I stare at him, trying to decide how I am supposed to answer this quasi-dare. Do I want to be disdainful? Do I want to disregard? I mull my choices, biting the inside of my lip.
  
  The problem, my friends, is I know The Flynn too well. He knows something. Actually he knows two somethings. The first something is, he knows I love Sherlock.
  
  And I mean, I love Sherlock: Sherlock, Watson, Moriarty, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. You name it. I have my phone ring set to what I think is most likely a group of French horns because it feels so very Hound of the Baskervilles. It is also why I insist on using Baskerville as my default font rather than, oh, Arial or Times Roman or even some random impossible-to-read party font.
  
  And my love is all encompassing, up to and including the Benedict Cumberbatch adaptation. Honestly, I did not think anything would come close to the Robert Downey Jr./Jude Law version. Which is such an amazing feast of steampunk deliciousness, a buffet of gorgeous frame after gorgeous frame. And we all know how I feel about my punking-of-the-steam.
  
  Pause for a hand over heart moment.
  
  And you know, just to share an icing-on-the-cake tidbit (buffet cake, get it?) a woman designed that one. Sarah Greenwood. Which really makes me happy. And envious. And off topic.
  
  On topic, we can discuss the Jonny Lee Miller/Lucy Liu version. While it might not be my personal fav, come on, Lucy Liu as Watson? Whoa. We are talking serious eyeball ease. Of course we can also go old school and there's Basil Rathbone, Jeremy Brett, Peter Cushing, and even Vasily Livanov.
  
  Yeah, I know, if I've reached Vasily Livanov, I may as well concede. I have to know what The Flynn knows. I give a slight head bob.
  
  "Well, well, well, Ms. J-Pop, K-Pop, C-Pop." Jimmy smiles. Closed mouth, a bit patronizing. He takes a minute, stretches his arms out in front of him, fingers linked, and cracks his knuckles.
  
  This is going to be painful.
  
  "So I got home late from practice last night, and there's Mom sitting on the couch, watching some TV. Well, wouldn't you know, she motions me over to come sit with her while I eat. Needless to say, I was not thrilled."
  
  Quick pause to explain: Jimmy's mom is Japanese-American, born in Charleston to Japanese immigrant parents. In order to maintain her fluency, she watches Japanese movies and shows, and she raised Jimmy on them, so he would learn the language. When we were little kids, he had to go to Japanese class, but then he became a star quarterback, and that was one of the things that went away. I had to go to Hebrew school, but since I didn't become a star quarterback, it didn't go away. At least not until after the bat mitzvah. Just sayin'.
  
  But anyway, his mom still tries.
  
  "And then," Jimmy leans back, which I know means he is finally closing in on his point, "as I'm watching I realize Mom is actually watching Sherlock Holmes. Only," Jimmy pauses, looks at me and then turns conspiratorially to Imani, and continues his dramatic aside sotto voce, as though I am not there. "This Sherlock doesn't look like that Sherlock. How confounding. And it occurs to me, Sid Rubin shockingly does not know about this. Why?" And turning back to me, his smugness concludes, "Because she hasn't rambled on about it," pause for effect, "endlessly."
  
  By now I am glaring at him, stalling, while trying to read my racing mind. And then I have it! He was watching Japan's Miss Sherlock with Yuko Takeuchi and Shihori Kanjiya. Duh!
  
  Wowzerhole, he's right. And wrong. Wrong because I do know about it. Right because I forgot to track it down and become obsessed. I am going to blame our rather recent bout of LARPing for this lapse. Hey, it's a lot of work chasing a killer through a live action role-playing game!
  
  However, before I can decide how I am going to toss my retort, all of our phones ping at once. It's Ari.
  
  Vik. Melting down. Something about his stuff being gone. He's pissed. Presentation in two hours, needs to get ready, not listening. Need help.
  
  And with that, Sherlock will have to wait.
  
  We scramble to collect our stuff and head out when it occurs to me that, for the second time in one conversation, my spectacular wit and winning logology have failed me.
  
  I should have proclaimed, "The game's afoot." It was so easy.
  
  And I missed it.
  
  It's official. My brain has oxidized. My rust is showing.