To B

To B,

I know how it feels

To be second, like you.

Sometimes I wonder if

We are just the same.

The one standing in front

Belongs to 221B Baker St.

And we are just like John.

You know how it's always

Him to be the part of stories

But you always forget that

221B is not a place but just

A number without you.

And I, I always forget

That it's okay to be second

As long as you find meaning

Out of your existence and

Work to bring it into reality.

You see, we all have freedom

To write our own stories

In which we are first.

And it doesn't matter where

You stand, for all that is true;

Backbenchers have more life

In their days, than the ones

Sitting on the front desks.

B, I've heard the whispers too.

I know what they talk about us,

Calling us a loner, not capable.

But they don't know what

Stories we are made of, and

What chapters are still to show.

No one really noticed that

Beautiful isn't beautiful without you.

And, how many times a Sherlock faked his death

For us to survive in this world.