Spoilers: Up to end of S2
A/N: Unbetaed. More poetry than prose. Lack of capitalisation is stylistic. Heavily references/inspired by the Sherlock meme #ibelieveinsherlockholmes.
we are not the walls. we are the whispers on the breeze, the rumours to really listen to.
we are the chalk that is ground into dust, powder for the plot, but we are not the walls the message is committed to. it is not over our colours say in solvent yellow and dripping white and squeaky black. sometimes we are silent as we pass but we are always brilliant and stark of presence where we touch the stone, in colour or darkness alike, a splash of genius cast over London and further further still. the web draws close and the web spreads far, and we go hungry, for we are not the walls, we live and breathe. we yearn for what is right like the rivers run from the source, curiousity trickling down and around us, onto the plains, flooding the cities far and wide with questions.
we are not strong and proud and accepting authoritarians over Justice. we are simple and effective and hidden to each other. we move and we draw closer, we draw larger and bolder to the Truth. we cover every inch we can find free, claiming it in a name, because we are not sated yet and there is always more more awaiting the world if only they would open eyes to see.
we listen and we hear the pulse behind it all. we grow. we cast no shadows though, we only seek to illuminate the picture, a light along the street at dusk. we are not the walls and we do not have a faith, blinded by a star. we have gravity. we show. we present the facts others should face.
i believe in sherlock holmes is the tattoo upon the buildings everywhere you might look. the walls that cannot bleed bear the pain from the fall.
they cut down the trees, sliced and inked, but those words are transient, fleeting. the papers sag in rain and rot on the ground and ultimately they fade, where our walls will carry on. the walls must stand so the missive will too.
richard brook is a fraud. the walls stand where people cannot.
moriarty was real. the walls stand against people we cannot.
for all that we cannot do, we twist your attention, we smile at your double take as you read it. we ask accusingly, do you believe in sherlock holmes? or do you believe your lies? do you? really?
and we wait. john watson's warriors the paint proclaims one day on a stout pillar in Manchester under a clear blue sky and it is simply an expression of what we have known for weeks. we are not the walls but we are ready, built up brick by brick, poised behind it all. we were taught to observe, to want to solve the mysteries – to be like him, them - and we have the best one in the country to court and carol. why did the detective die?
the walls still stand like the lies still stand and we are grateful that means at least the facts do too. that they see, graffitied warnings. we are what they don't see. we are a secret force of man. we are a quiet unconsidered army, of soldiers who think.