Recent Poetry

[seiberwing]

Dr. John Watson, PhD

Lestrade was an idiot
Moriarty could barely measure up
And me?
I’m the biggest fool of all

I’m his chronicler
His close friend
His caretaker, his sidekick
But rarely his confidant and never his equal

He is a brilliance above men
Perfect, untouchable
It’s hard, sometimes, to remember he’s human, which makes his errors almost terrifying

He is a carrier for intellect
But he is not, unfortunately, contagious
My years with him have been fascinating but he has taught me little
Only shown me how blind and deaf and utterly, utterly stupid I am

He’s never trusted me to keep a secret.
He was dead to me at Reichenbach Falls
For ten years he was dead to me
But when he was resurrected
When before my eyes an old book collector was transmuted into my dearest comrade
How could I be angry?

I was never privileged to take up a disguise and join the hunt
Or to know the answer before the case was done, his sense of the dramatic refuses it
I’ve been lied to so many times that it rarely bothers me
Left in the dark until the very end
I can’t deny him his glee when he steps out of a filthy beggar or flower seller and surprises me for the umpteenth time.
It’s my own fault for not knowing to look.

I would never say that he cares nothing for me
He keeps me out of the most dangerous parts of his criminal capturing
Which is really part of the problem
I can’t be trusted with anything important

I can carry a gun by his side
And write accounts of his glories, triumphs, and on rare said occasions, his defeats
You’ve surely seen them in the Strand
I write things as I see them, but really, it’s his story.
I rarely have any true purpose, other than to watch
And occasionally follow the simplest of commands
As just another one of his tools, a magnifying glass with legs

No one would want to hear about boring old me
The shadow of the great Sherlock Holmes.