The Case of the Missing Raven

This is nothing to do with me. All Arthur Conan Doyle and Edgar Allen Poe. I receive no money. This is a work of fan-fiction. It is SH/JW SLASH. I tried to keep as much of Poe intact as made sense and suited my purposes. This is shorter than the original- only twelve instead of seventeen stanzas. I did do all seventeen, but liked these first twelve the best. You don't even want to know how much time and coffee this represents. If you do want to drive yourself completely mad, I highly recommend rewriting Poe's poetry as slash.


The Case of the Missing Raven

Once upon a sleepless Sunday, how I paced awaiting Monday,
crossing endless unforgiving miles of well-known, worn, wooden floor,
At a sound my head was cocking, toward the door I hated locking,
There came then just a gentle knocking, knocking at my bedroom door.
"Do enter Watson! There's a fellow, welcome ever as before.
Don't stand there gawking at my door!"

How clearly I'm recalling the rain, that frightful night, appalling.
Instead I watched his footsteps falling heavily across the floor,
and placed him in his solitary mood forlorn, still missing Mary,
amid the shreds of life that follow hollow loss of all before.
I went at once into my bureau, found the flask worth searching for-
"Require some courage?" "Never more!"

The flask was passed. Fingers brushing promptly sent my cheeks to flushing.
The blame inflamed was not as crushing, not as shameful as before.
Now, to still the blood a-pounding in my heart, I stood expounding,
"What we need is some confounding- a twisted puzzle to explore,
A rather complicated case to occupy us as before.
This is the matter, nothing more."

As my words poured out unbuffered seemed to add to all he suffered,
"I did not mean- dear Watson, truly, your forgiveness I implore.
I wish that I knew how to be this comfort that you are to me.
While I may see through mystery, I can not solve what others see.
I dare not hope to puzzle out lost love or human hearts explore-
all darkness there, and nothing more."

Deep into those dark eyes peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
doubting, dreaming dreams no good man ever dared to dream before.
Heavy silence hung unbroken. Then a word I scarce heard spoken,
and the only word there spoken the softly whispered word, "Amour!"
Softly he whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Amour?"
This I murmured, nothing more.

Back toward my cold bed turning, all the blood within me burning,
Dreaded hope within me yearning for all I'd never had before,
Thinking surely I had heard wrong, or the word named some French love song,
Let me see? What threat was muttered save a mystery to explore?
Let my heart be still a moment, my whole uncluttered mind explore,
"Is it a song and nothing more?"

His hand burned on my shoulder. I turned to see him looking older,
What manners lower, colder, not to offer him a seat before?
"No point in standing there; please Watson, have my bed- or take the chair."
He preferred instead the chair but took my bed- eyes upon the floor.
My mind explored a notion- should I open, leave open my door?
I sat beside him, nothing more.

Then this honest man beguiling my misgivings into smiling,
By his grave and stiff decorum and the countenance he wore,
"As you know I take to pacing. Without sleep, it is most bracing.
I find your visits gracing, fine distraction from that nightly chore.
Do you find your nights at Baker Street more lonely than before?"
My Watson answered, "Never more."

Much I marvelled fear ungainly when I heard his discourse plainly,
Although his answer little meaning, little relevancy bore.
For we cannot help agreeing every living human being
Ever blessed with eyes for seeing sees meaning where there is no more.
So what if my beloved friend arrived here at my bedroom door,
far more than lonely, never more?

But poor Watson, sitting lonely on my feather bed, spoke only,
Two tiny words, as if his soul in those two words he did outpour.
With nothing further said, he sat in perfect silence on my bed till
I scarcely more than muttered "You mustn't ask of me for more.
We both know one day you will leave me, just as you have fled before."
My Watson promised, "Never more."

Startled at his stillness broken, by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless am I then, John Watson. Your very words are stock and store."
Thoughts of lurid schoolboy bendings, heavy hands, the messy endings
Followed fast and followed faster until his gift those burdens bore -
Until the lift of my own hopes those melancholy burdens bore
He took my hand and nothing more.

So my dear friend still persuading, once more sent my fears to fading,
"Holmes, tonight may I remain here with you- just to sleep! An hour or two?"
Soon into the linen sinking, I betook myself to linking
Arms about the other like those sleeping brothers in arms of yore.
More practiced arts await the challenge of finding my own heart's core-
Tout est mystere dans l'Amour(1).

(1) All is mystery in love, a quote from the 18th century writer Jean de la Fontaine.


...thanks for reading! All comments transform sidewalk glass into diamonds, oilslicks into rainbows, and my cat into, well, my cat! No, he didn't eat the raven!