It's infinitely more intriguing, I find. It's never going to be happy, but I don't think Sherlock can DO happiness anyway. (John probably can, although I can't hear him saying Han Solo's line to Sherlock-Leia. Not in a million years for either.)

But your Lestrade, getting semi-smashed to write his report and to muster the courage to look up Sherlock, is wonderful - and so is his fascination for the exotic bird that is Sherlock, all pale skin and long fingers and whip-fast brain and cleverness. I love that Lestrade likes his intelligence instead of being threatened by it, and that he realises how bony (and vulnerable) Sherlock is just when he touches his shoulder. That iteration was hot, hot, smokin' HOT.