Doyle students may see the final act telegraphed from a league away and heave a heavy sigh, or peck at the franchise’s signature obligatory plot convolutions and self-satisfied cleverness. Action purists should be entertained enough by the slick spectacles Ritchie chains together, set against as handsome a historical London as you’re bound to get from the movies. But focus on the heart of Holmes and there’s a well of emotions, attraction, and longing roiling beneath the natty threads, Downey-isms, and faux Victorian panache on display. The women of Sherlock hold their own, for the most part, but this is a romance for men — at least, it’s one for Holmes and Watson and Moriarty, who each discover that the dread, or triumph, of a world-changing event is no match for the heart-pounding pull of finding, or losing, the one person in the world to whom you’re indelibly, inextricably tied.