When they got back to the flat, Sherlock claimed the sofa, taking up its entire length with his wiry frame, and faced away from the room.
"Tea?"
"No, thanks," muttered into the cushions.
"Your, uh, skull used to help you think too, right? Before I was around?"
"Not the same thing, John. My... violin... is... Well, my violin has been with me since my childhood, as I said," rolling on his back.
"Thought for a moment you were going to say your violin is your best friend. Book a spot for you on Jeremy Kyle. 'My friend the skull is jealous of my friend the violin. I've known the violin for longer, but my skull sometimes helps me with my work. They seemed to get along just fine, until I brought the violin some chocolates for Valentine's Day and didn't bring the skull anything, because it wasn't really that type of friendship with the skull, but the violin had a certain...'"
Sherlock turned over and stared at him. It was the same expression he had had when Lestrade first searched the flat for drugs years ago. There was something there... and John knew he was being particularly obtuse. He locked eyes with Sherlock and began to sort through his confusion.
"Boys! A package!"
Sherlock jumped up as Mrs Hudson came up the stairs carrying a small, brown parcel. "It came with the regular post. No special van or anything, I made sure to check." She saw them stare, first at the packet and then at each other, placed it down on the table, apologised for the intrusion, and left quickly. John crossed to the table and eyed it without touching.
"G. Polendina, Sherlock. Should we have it x-rayed?"
"No. He wouldn't do that. Wouldn't play two games simultaneously. I highly doubt he would leave any clues on the paper, either." Sherlock walked over to the window, turning his entire body toward the street. "Go ahead and open it."
"It's a wi... it's a violin string. Why on earth would he...? We already know he's got it. He's treating it like a bloody hostage. Like he's mailing you a finger or something. Why...?"
Sherlock's voice was unnaturally strong and clear. "He is. Go ahead. Ask."
FILL 4a/? As Romeo to Juliet (Sherlock object sexual, Moriarty steals his beloved)
When they got back to the flat, Sherlock claimed the sofa, taking up its entire length with his wiry frame, and faced away from the room.
"Tea?"
"No, thanks," muttered into the cushions.
"Your, uh, skull used to help you think too, right? Before I was around?"
"Not the same thing, John. My... violin... is... Well, my violin has been with me since my childhood, as I said," rolling on his back.
"Thought for a moment you were going to say your violin is your best friend. Book a spot for you on Jeremy Kyle. 'My friend the skull is jealous of my friend the violin. I've known the violin for longer, but my skull sometimes helps me with my work. They seemed to get along just fine, until I brought the violin some chocolates for Valentine's Day and didn't bring the skull anything, because it wasn't really that type of friendship with the skull, but the violin had a certain...'"
Sherlock turned over and stared at him. It was the same expression he had had when Lestrade first searched the flat for drugs years ago. There was something there... and John knew he was being particularly obtuse. He locked eyes with Sherlock and began to sort through his confusion.
"Boys! A package!"
Sherlock jumped up as Mrs Hudson came up the stairs carrying a small, brown parcel. "It came with the regular post. No special van or anything, I made sure to check." She saw them stare, first at the packet and then at each other, placed it down on the table, apologised for the intrusion, and left quickly. John crossed to the table and eyed it without touching.
"G. Polendina, Sherlock. Should we have it x-rayed?"
"No. He wouldn't do that. Wouldn't play two games simultaneously. I highly doubt he would leave any clues on the paper, either." Sherlock walked over to the window, turning his entire body toward the street. "Go ahead and open it."
"It's a wi... it's a violin string. Why on earth would he...? We already know he's got it. He's treating it like a bloody hostage. Like he's mailing you a finger or something. Why...?"
Sherlock's voice was unnaturally strong and clear. "He is. Go ahead. Ask."