A/N: I don't own Sherlock.
Contains spoliers for Reichenbach.
If walls could talk,
The walls of 221B Baker Street would have many stories to tell.
Stories of the detective
And the doctor.
Of skulls
And schemes.
Of dates
And deductions.
Of explosions
And eyeballs in the microwave.
Of violins
And violence.
Of spray paint
And bullets.
(Though, to be honest,
The walls could do without those.)
Life was never boring within those walls,
No matter what Sherlock said.
But then came the day that John Watson
Walked through the door alone,
And suddenly,
The bullet holes that marred the painted smile
Became terribly appropriate.
And, if walls could talk,
They would have cried along with John.