In films the good guys always are a little crazy.
George C. Scott (They Might Be Giants) chasing Moriarty
through the alleys and all-nights supermarkets,
the neon madness of America. As judge
he could condemn but never save;
as Sherlock Holmes he rescues souls, gathering
the oppressed, the stifled, from archive,
telephone exchange, asylum – here
the crime's sheer ignorance, the victim
mute, anonymous, until unmasked
and brought back to the world
as Valentino, long thought dead
and buried. 'You see,' says Holmes,
'it's elementary: a gentleman never speaks
until he is introduced.'

Well done, Holmes! Do you know
what you've deduced – how
the age itself permits no introduction, only
password, diagnosis, numbered file?
But knowledge does not solve. Restless, he maps
the city's subterranean soul,
pursuing evils a sane man overlooks.
He ends in light,
Watson, cured of doubt, at his side.

Together, against all odds, against
dark, faceless Reason,
they glean identity – not given, won.