You look up,
It's the ceiling,
What's beneath it
Is what's worth believing
A broken door,
Fallen strand of hair
A small piece of paper
Behind the chair,
His mind works
At the speed of light
Not missing a thing,
That's ever been in his sight.
The smell of wonder
Lingers around,
His friends stay perplexed
At every small sound.
A voice that makes you shiver,
The cloak that makes you swoon
Is what makes Sherlock
Every criminals boon.