[warning--lots of spoilers ahead]
Between the series end of House and the season's end of Sherlock, I'm reminded of why I cry at the end of Winter's Tale. These tv shows are so playing to the fantasy of shirking death--as Watson stood at Sherlock's grave last night, begging at his headstone for him not to be dead anymore, and then the camera panned to Sherlock watching--well, there's the fantasy. I still occasionally have the thought (which Joan Didion so aptly identified as "magical thinking") that well, surely Aunt Julie will have been dead long enough, and will get to come back soon.
No real conclusions to draw here, just an observation from two nights of poignant tv.