Rating: PG

Written to celebrate National Poetry Day

Waxing Poetic

Here is Sherlock's effort, cannily glued to the verso of Greg's paperwork du jour.

He was felled by the Muse at the close of a rather tricky case, after a two-day round of catnaps and stopgap Weetabix. Which could explain why it took Greg fifty minutes and a little help from the Internet to get his point.

Sonnet

Though you are one of those who bombilate

In and out of bed, most infuriatingly,

And have, for reasons I will not adumbrate,

Offered to DYE YOUR HAIR and gild the lily,

—-

(Still, a venial sin when I recall Friday

And your preposterous offer post-

Case that we let "Andy" Anderson say

That direst of rites, the bridal toast,

—-

A term as passé in this day and age as insipid.)

And yet. Yesternight, while your Pandas shrilled

Past in constabulorious glory, and you stupid,

STUPID man, nursed that

Greg, you could have been killed

—-

I came to you from the shadow of a car,

Obscuring all my vows in there you are.

Once he did get the point, Greg rubbed his eyes and groped for a felt pen.

Rhymes could wait. Reason could wait. But this - this wouldn't wait.

Shut up, love, and

Hold me tight.

Even if you'd

Rather I didn't,

Let me say this

Once and for all.

Christ. How do I even…

'Kay. Three, two, one. Here goes.

—-

Home is you alive.

O is watching you.

Love is every He'll be back.

Mine is yours, and

Ever is a given,

Sunbeam. There we are.

Greg pressed the post-it to the shoulder of the long, sleepy form already bombilating in his bed. Then he pressed a kiss to it, bundled the duvet tighter around it, and padded back to the drawing-room.

The sun was already dawning.