Season of mystery, fellow faithfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the deducing one;
Conspiring with him how to lead and chase
With clues the swines that round the city run;
To pack with clients the moss’d 221B,
And fill all case with ripeness to the core;
To please the crowd, and plump the prison cells
With the criminals; to set budding more,
And still more, later scours for Moriarty,
Until he thinks every day’s a party,
For Sherlock has o’er-screened and still sells.

Who hath not seen thee oft assisting the police?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a Hamlet piece,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the make-up kind;
Or by a half-split wall you would sleep,
Drows’d with the nicotine patches, while some crook
Earns Lestrade’s wrath and all his mood sours:
And sometimes like a shooter thou dost keep
Steady thy loaded hand across a nook;
Or with a spy homeless, with patient look,
Thou watchest the fast chasings hours by hours.

Where is the series four? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While tired crowds damn thy oft-tarrying way,
And soothe the troubled brain with Doctor Who;
When in a wailful choir the many fans mourn
Along comes Christmas special, bears Mycroft?
And there’s Mary – is the baby’s birth-day nigh?
To Ms Adler, or is ‘Sherl’ to Molly sworn;
Hudson still quips; calls now with treble soft
Moffat-Gatiss whistle from a seat aloft;
Fans’ gathering follows Twitter on the fly.

*with some help from John Keats.


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