Title: The Enunciation of Truth
Character: Gregory Lestrade
Genre: Gen, Drabble
Author Note: Sequel to You Can't Kill an Idea
The first time Greg had seen the graffiti, he had almost gotten himself fired.
Then again, he hardly cared anymore. He had been demoted so far down the chain of command after Sherlock's death that his last twenty five years of hard work on the force were rendered meaningless in an instant. The only reason he hadn't been fired outright was that if they had fired every senior officer who had consulted with Sherlock, there wouldn't be any Scotland Yard left at all. Greg had been made an example of though, and as such he felt little love for the Yard at the moment. Especially for Anderson, the smug git. He had been strutting around the Yard like a cat who'd learned to use a tin opener, and his extremely vocal scorn at the spray-painted message had caused Greg to finally crack.
I may be old and disgraced, he thought to himself ruefully as he rubbed his knuckles, but at least I can still throw a good left hook.
Things only got worse for Greg every time a new tag would appear near one of their crime scenes. It was if the Yarders were trying to make up for years of insults all at once, but without the proper target for their anger at hand, the demoted detective was the next best option. No matter how hard he tried to keep his head down and focus on his job, any mention of Sherlock or a sighting of the rapidly spreading graffiti would result in a flood of insults for his continued belief in his friend. Even after everything that had happened and the seemingly conclusive proof that the man he had trusted so much was a fraud, Greg simply could not shake the feeling that Sherlock had been telling the truth. It just didn't add up, but every time he tried to raise a protest he had been shouted down by everyone in the vicinity. And now that the tags were spreading, he was suspect. He began to dread the sight of the graffiti because of the inevitable barrage of abuse he would receive, but at the same time a small part of him cheered that he was not alone.
Soon, the graffiti was unavoidable. New tags appeared every day, accompanied by signs and posters shouting their defiance to the disbelieving world. The speed with which the message spread was startling, and Greg had to admire the efficiency of whoever was behind the movement. They organized their campaign like a true military strategist, hitting high profile targets in quick succession and never allowing the message to be out of the media spotlight for long. He had his suspicions of course, but he had avoided the subject every time he spoke to John out of sympathy for the poor man. For as much as Greg was suffering after losing Sherlock, he knew that John suffered far worse, and felt it far more deeply. So no matter how much he wanted to ask John if he had anything to do with the messages, he kept quiet and let it be.
Finally, after one particularly brutal day at the station that had involved abuse from a man nearly twenty years his junior, Greg had had enough. He was tired of not being able to voice his opinions without fear of retribution, he was tired of feeling utterly alone in a city of millions, and most of all he was tired of being forced to mourn his friend in secret. Greg had been forbidden to even attend Sherlock's funeral on the express orders of the chief superintendant (who would never forgive the former inspector for the humiliation he had suffered at the hands of Sherlock and John), and any mention of the man from him earned sideways looks from his coworkers as if he too were suspected in the great hoax. It was constant, it was maddening, and it had finally driven Greg to the edge.
And that was how Gregory Lestrade, former Detective Inspector and champion of the law, found himself in a darkened alleyway at midnight with a hoodie covering his face and can of spray-paint in his hand. He had never dreamed that he would deface a building like this or rebel against any sort of system, but he knew deep down that he was right. He knew with a copper's intuition that the words he wrote were true and that the message needed to be spread. He knew that even if he were finally fired for this or even thrown in jail, he wouldn't care in the slightest. After all, he had lost nearly everything already, so what did it matter if he lost a little more for telling the truth? He had spent his entire life searching for the truth, and now more than ever it needed defending.
MORIARTY WAS REAL.
I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES.