A Three Pipe Problem

The Doctor is not to disturb him.
Whistling, rustling, the lifting
of a corner of peonied tablecloth,
Mrs Hudson's breathing loops,
all these forbidden.

Cadaverous, cat eyes bright
above dark half moons. A twitch
in a cheek fold.

No wren is permitted
to twitter in the street; this
they seem to observe,
passing on the message
to sparrows, crows, the barrows
that squeak along Baker Street.

Salted, frozen, barks muted
as his temple furrows. His lips close
softly around the varnished oak
as the smoke races into him, hunting
for the fuse. Brows level,
jowls accented
by some fairy felt-tip,
he looks like a death-by-mull.

At once, though, yes!
He lunges, finger daggered
at the mantel. Yes!
A recruitment cry, a whirl of tweed,
and to a door slam,
the third pipe falls.