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This is a poem I wrote for inclusion in the Sherlock Holmes fanwork book "The Art of Deduction", due out in August. It revolves around the similarities between Dr Watson and Colonel Moran...

Not So Different

We're not so different, he and I,
One a soldier, one a spy,
One an assassin, a hunter by trade,
The other a doctor, deliverer of aid.

Both in the service of country and Queen,
Sent home by a bullet and scandal unseen,
Both returned home with wounded pride,
Seeking new purpose, this Jekyll and Hyde.

He made an aquaintance, a man of repute,
Whose intelligent workings I cannot dispute.
They made an alliance, unlikely yet strong,
At his side he had hope of a place to belong.

My sharp shooting talents had not been ignored,
Soldier turned mercenary, trust my reward.
A chance at a glimpse into London's great mind,
This criminal genius, this one of a kind.

A shadowy game between the two,
Schemes were plotted and foiled anew,
And all the while we lay in wait,
To clean up the mess they were bound to create.

Miles were travelled to lead us to here,
This wide open landscape, this valley of fear.
We watched as he sauntered so devil-may-care,
But each of us sensed there was death in the air.

I was ordered to wait, concealed in a nook,
So there I remained above that rich brook,
But the doctor retreated, still kept in the dark,
Denied the duty of playing his part.

Thoughts of our failure never entered my head,
As I witnessed them fall, my gut filled with dread,
Then to see that wretch crawl up from the edge,
My blood did boil and I swore this pledge:

For as long as I lived I would track this man down,
Not a care for his talents or worthy renown,
Then I saw as he fled the dear doctor's return,
And was struck by his sorrow, a sickening burn.

I wondered right then, if he were me,
The lengths he would go to, to make the pain flee.
Would he punish the villain and undo the good?
In seeing his grief, I believe that he would.
The pain that feels is akin to my own,
But the tears that he sheds are but his alone.

Both in the shadows of two great men,
One armed with a rifle, the other a pen,
Tools to avenge the ones they once served,
Yet only the one is justly deserved.

We're not so different, he and I,
Both are mourners, one is a lie.

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Catherine

August 2012

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