This isn't a detective show pretending to hunt vampires. It's a vampire show pretending to be a detective show, and it commits to the bit so hard that coherence becomes irrelevant. Three minutes at a time means you're never trapped long enough to resent the incoherence, and by episode six you've stopped asking what the plot is and started asking what happens next. The show exists in that perfect sweet spot where it's too committed to its own logic to be accidentally funny, but too broken to be taken seriously, which somehow makes it weirdly magnetic. It's the kind of cult experience that only works if you go in knowing it's supposed to be a disaster.
Sherlock Holmes runs a detective agency in Victorian London, but his actual specialty has nothing to do with solving crimes. Instead, he hunts vampires. When Scotland Yard quietly contacts him with supernatural cases the public can never know about, Holmes and his landlady Hudson become the city's secret line of defense against bloodsuckers operating in the shadows. What makes Holmes effective isn't brilliant deduction or forensic analysis. He's got something better: fangs of his own. As a vampire himself, he understands the creatures he pursues in ways ordinary detectives never could. Hudson proves equally useful, wielding the kind of practical know-how that keeps their operations running smoothly across London's fog-laden streets. Each bite-sized episode packs absurdist comedy into the detective mystery format, treating vampire hunting like just another day at the office. It's Sherlock Holmes stripped of his genius reputation and rebuilt as a creature-of-the-night action comedy, where the real mystery is how these two keep their supernatural cover intact while the Metropolitan Police sends increasingly bizarre cases their way.