Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in my stories. Rather, they belong to the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for birthing them, both Mark Gatiss and Steve Moffat for modernising them, and the various talented actors and actresses for giving them life. This story is not Brit-picked and so, non-British expressions are used here as well.
A/N: I'm no poet but the idea just came to me and I thought why not? Hope you fruitloops enjoy it!
Please leave a review to let me know what you think! I rarely get feedback on my writing so it'd make me really happy if you do so. Thanks.
A Strange Case of Identity
Two words.
Not. Dead.
No, don't flip me the bird.
I mean exactly what I said.
Once treated as an unfeeling specimen,
Other times, an 'extra' on the scene.
I was swept off by a certain gentleman
Who, I'm sure, you're very familiar with.
I was his ex-best friend, his only friend.
The only one privy to his deductions.
We used to go out on cases, even on weekends.
Without me, he would make a big production.
While I sat there listening,
He would think aloud, pacing back and forth.
At times, he can get annoying.
But I always smile at him with warmth.
Because no other can appreciate a genius such as he!
His prudent exaction of evidence from the crime scene
Though ruthless, it hardly compromises accuracy.
A brilliant mind and soul, but some call him a machine.
His landlady never minded me much.
In fact she liked my quiet manners.
Probably because I never needed lunch
And my flatmate never drove me bananas.
Those were the good times we had
I love him more than anyone knows
Although he is indeed a bit mad.
But then… it was another he chose.
Relegated back to the background
Once again, as a silent witness.
I can't help but pine like a hound
All I can feel is sadness.
I don't suppose the man noticed
He never cared for sentiment.
Now that the doctor is his closest,
In his heart, I'm no longer a resident.
It's sad to have the spotlight taken
By the Baker Street Boys.
In fact, I'm a tad shaken
But let's get real, I'm just a toy.
Oh right. I see you're confused.
No I'm not John. I have no sexuality.
Nay, I'm not the lover Sherlock refused.
Nice try, I'm not even Moriarty.
Who am I? And what's my name?
Why, I don't even know myself.
I've none that I can rightfully claim,
I'm just the skull sitting on the shelf.