He almost felt guilty. Almost. But the reason he was going to do it made it seem all worthwhile, even if he was faced with yet another ASBO. If he was, though, at least it would be for something he actually did do. And that almost made him feel a little bit better. Almost.
But he ignored his head, for once, and listened to his gut. He shook the can in his hands up and down and up and down as he stared at the brick wall in front of him, hidden away in some alley just off Baker Street. He knew what to write and didn't at the same time, even when his mind settled on the only thing he could possibly write. The only thing he's been thinking about for weeks.
I Believe In Sherlock Holmes.
His right hand felt jittery rather than his left as he wrote the words, the yellow paint coating the rough bricks in a thick layer as his inexpert hands let the sprayer linger for too long. The paint dripped down from the letters in scattered places, but as he stepped back and let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, he thought it looked pretty good. It was big, bright, and the truest thing he knew.