daftwithoneshoe:

The good people of Baker Street liked Christmas a lot,
But Sherlock, who lived in 221B, did NOT!
Sherlock hated Christmas! The whole Christmas season!
Now, please don’t ask why. No one quite knows the reason.
It could be that his head wasn’t screwed on just right.
It could be, perhaps, that his scarf was too tight.
But I think the most likely reason of all,
May have been that his caseload was two sizes too small.
Whenever the season arrived, without fail,
Sherlock would look at his empty inbox and let out a wail.
It seemed that the joy and goodwill that came with Christmas time,
Led people to cease to commit any manner of interesting crime.
He’d lay on his couch, he’d whine and he’d moan,
And wish with all his heart that Lestrade may decide to phone
And ask for his help with a case so puzzling
That normal people (idiots) would be left stuck and confuzzling.
He needed a case. Heck! Any would do!
He’d do anything for one, or even better, two!
“Christmas is coming,” he snarled with a sneer,
“This whole world has been struck with holiday cheer!
It’s disgusting! It’s rotten! It’s wretched! Repulsive!
What a terrible time to be a consulting detective!”
He grabbed John’s gun from it’s place in John’s drawer,
Shot at the wall and shouted “BORED! BORED! BORED! BORED!”

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