Summary: A short poem form John's point of view, recalling some things that he puts up with in exchange for love. Johnlock.
Rated: K+
Some issues in the middle, in my opinion. I normally don't write rhyming poetry, it isn't my style, but I gave it a go and...well, you see how well that worked out. Anyway, took me about five minutes to write, hope you like it nonetheless. Taken from the depths of my tumblr, someottersmarryhedgehogs.
There's mud on the carpet
from his manic pacing,
and bullets in the walls.
Papers littered every surface,
dirt speckled the halls.
There was a skull that watched them,
witnessed their every fight,
And there was a head in the fridge
just the other night.
These things he'd gotten used to,
accepted, even, because
what else could he do?
Sherlock Holmes was a great man.
An intelligent man.
A misunderstood, lonely man.
John would put up with it all:
the dirt, the skull, the body parts,
cold shoulders and words left unspoken,
if it meant that in his heart
Sherlock couldn't be broken.
To see the slight pull of his lips
was all John needed to breathe.
To watch the gentle sway of his hips,
and, in his heart, believe.
Believe in Sherlock Holmes, to look
between the insanity lines,
and know with every beat of his heart
that everything was fine.