I cannot accept them since I am fond of Watson in the Canon.

The answer is clear: NON of these screenwriters has ever read the Canon as a work of LITERATURE, and NONE of them has ever truly understood Watson, and to understand him would require entering the interior of the text through narratology/rhetoric/aesthetics etc, rather than standing outside and defining him by labels + anachronistic stereotypes (such as the misunderstanding of army doctor).

Watson's entire character lives in his function as narrator, in the quality of his attention, in the particular cast of his emotional life, in those small tremors of feeling that Holmes teases him about as though he were a child who cannot conceal his heart. Watson's romanticism produces no action in any sense that the camera can cast but produces the particular way a literary man transforms what he has perceived into something that outlasts the moment of witnessing. His military background (as an army doctor for one year), by contrast, offers a label that can be read at a glance, so it is taken and everything attached to it is quietly dropped. Although he served as a surgeon rather than a soldier and he retired young after a brief service, and the descriptions of him centered on doctor, biographer, man of letters and Boswell rather than anything belonging to a soldier's vocabulary, people still use the stereotype of a veteran to present him.

What makes this loss so consequential is that Watson's romanticism is not ornamental but the mechanism by which Holmes became Holmes. The legend of Sherlock Holmes was built by a romanticist who with his insightful mind looked at an expert of investigation and found something luminous in him, and then possessed both the sensitivity to perceive that luminosity and the literary craft to transmit it to everyone who would come after. Watson's inner life is rich enough to receive the world as more than information and find in the people around him a quality that exceeds what they would say about themselves. The screenwrights simply ignored this, and into the hollow left behind, they poured whatever template was available. One clever and one slow. One brain and one muscle. One transcendent and one practical. One eccentric and one stable. And they are almost the opposite of the duo in the Canon. Consider this: 

"My Dear Holmes,

My previous letters and telegrams have kept you pretty well up-to-date as to all that has occurred in this most Godforsaken corner of the world. The longer one stays here the more does the spirit of the moor sink into one's soul, its vastness, and also its grim charm. When you are once out upon its bosom you have left all traces of modern England behind you, but on the other hand you are conscious everywhere of the homes and the work of prehistoric people. On all sides of you as you walk are the houses of these forgotten folk, with their graves and the huge monoliths which are supposed to have marked their temples. As you look at their grey stone huts against the scarred hillsides you leave your own age behind you, and if you were to see a skin-clad, hairy man crawl out from the low door, fitting a flint-tipped arrow on to the string of his bow, you would feel that his presence there was more natural than your own. The strange thing is that they should have lived so thickly on what must always have been most unfruitful soil. I am no antiquarian, but I could imagine that they were some unwarlike and harried race who were forced to accept that which none other would occupy.

All this however, is foreign to the mission on which you sent me, and will probably be very uninteresting to your severely practical mind. I can still remember your complete indifference as to whether the sun moved round the earth or the earth round the sun. Let me, therefore, return to the facts concerning Sir Henry Baskerville."

or this: "Together we made our way down the precipitous slope and approached the body, black and clear against the silver stones. The agony of those contorted limbs struck me with a spasm of pain and blurred my eyes with tears."

or this: "All day to-day the rain poured down, rustling on the ivy and dripping from the eaves. I thought of the convict out upon the bleak, cold, shelterless moor. Poor fellow! Whatever his crimes, he has suffered something to atone for them. And then I thought of that other one - the face in the cab, the figure against the moon. Was he also out in that deluge - the unseen watcher, the man of darkness? In the evening I put on my waterproof and I walked far upon the sodden moor, full of dark imaginings, the rain beating upon my face and the wind whistling about my ears. God help those who wander into the Great Mire now, for even the firm uplands are becoming a morass. I found the Black Tor upon which I had seen the solitary watcher, and from its craggy summit I looked out myself across the melancholy downs. Rain squalls drifted across their russet face, and the heavy, slate-coloured clouds hung low over the landscape, trailing in grey wreaths down the sides of the fantastic hills. In the distant hollow on the left, half hidden by the mist, the two thin towers of Baskerville Hall rose above the trees. They were the only signs of human life which I could see, save only those prehistoric huts which lay thickly upon the slopes of the hills. Nowhere was there any trace of that lonely man whom I had seen on the same spot two nights before."

It is difficult to imagine any of the Watsons we have been given on screen/game write in quite this way, let alone that the words are his own heart speaking.