sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXV

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Prompting Part XXXV

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The four hadn't helped all that much.

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."

John wanted to play dumb. To say "ask what?" But he knew damn well what he wanted to ask and Sherlock knew, too. Still, John remained silent.

"Oh come on. You... fine. Fine, I'll just tell you. Yes. Yes to what you are thinking and not asking. Yes, it is a relationship. It is a sexual relationship. Well, romantic, actually, but it can be more...sexual when I... I don't expect you to understand."

"Of course I understand. Lots of people have fetishes. It's not really particularly... well, it is unusual, but not that unusual."

"No, John, it's not really like that. It's not a fetish. A fetish is a substitute for a person. It makes you think of the person using it. A fetish is a supplement. This... is a relationship... not a thing to be used to conjure up something else. Objects having lifeforce is an ancient and, somewhat innate concept, which has inspired countless folktales over the centuries. It's in the collective consciousness. From Frosty the Snowman to Quasimodo and his bells." Sherlock continued to gaze into the street. "'He loved them, caressed them, talked to them, understood them. From the carillon in the steeple of the transept to the great bell over the doorway, they all shared his love. To give the great bell in marriage to Quasimodo was to give Juliet to Romeo.'"

John shook his head. "The man who knows nothing of the solar system is quoting Victor Hugo at me."

"I keep what is important. Understanding one's sexuality is extremely important."

"Oh God, Sherlock. I'm... I'm so sorry." John flushed crimson and went silent before attempting to make some sort of reparations with "I didn't think..." Sherlock's expression would have been a glare if it wasn't for the pain beneath the surface. "Yeah. That's pretty much it. I didn't think. And the referencing fairytales- Pinnochio, Pygmalion... so, he knew all along?"

"Most definitely."

"And he wanted you to... give him up," John swallowed. "So you wouldn't have to explain yourself to me?"

Sherlock looked down. "Yes. I think that was Moriarty's ideal outcome. Or, explain myself, keep him, and lose you." Sherlock turned away from the window to face John. "But it's not the first time he has underestimated Captain John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, is it?"

John bristled. "'H', please. Just because I was coerced into putting it on the bloody invitations doesn't mean I give anyone permission to use the damned thing! Does he have a name?"

"You mean my... no. No. I couldn't be positive of what it would be. And I wouldn't want to be wrong about that... if he even thinks in terms of names. So, no."

"We'll get him home, Sherlock." John said. His voice was confident and strong. John placed his hand on his shoulder. He leaned toward him just slightly, took a deep breath, then turned back to continue to gaze at the street.

_{OP here}

*squeals*

Yaaaaaaaaay, now John knows and he's okay with it and yayyyyy. (OP is no longer capable of coherent thought).

Honestly, this is fantastic. I love the connection you drew with the drugs bust. And even though it probably hurt Sherlock, what John said about the skull and the violin is incredibly hilarious. XD

'Loving this. I'm glad John is going to help him get his violin back. =)

Of course!
And thank you! I kept thinking how it was essentially the same kind of 'wait...you can't mean you...Oh..you do...?' kinda moment.

And this is where it slows down a bit...I only have one more chapter to put up (which I will do tonight) before I have to figure out how to do the rescue. I have an idea. And I've written the ending. It's just the middle I have yet to do. Hopefully it won't be too long :) Actual case-stuff is kinda new to me.( I usually just steal it from ACD canon).

Lestrade had (despite, as Sherlock was not the least bit hesitant in informing him, alarming incompetence) tracked down the newspaper employee who took the information for the ad, and she had vaguely described the man who came in to place it. Came in. Not phoned in. Sweatshirt, blue eyes and close-cut, dark hair. Seemed polite. Called her Miss even though she was certainly a Ma'am. She thought he was kind of cute. They even had a name and signature on a form, for Christ's sake. Vincent Spaulding. Here they were, concentrating on phone records and internet submissions, never expecting that someone would have went down to the office in person. He was inclined to agree with Sherlock's assessment of his department's skill, but, honestly, in person? They made a rough timeline, and Mycroft simply checked the CCTV and found him. Easy to identify, too. 'Vincent Spaulding' was John Clay, forger... apparently one of Jim Moriarty's newer friends, with an extensive criminal record in his own right. Mycroft followed his path from the newspaper back to an office building... easy peasy.

Lestrade wanted to know. Why was it so easy? Sherlock was hesitant to explain, muttered something about how it wasn't about making it difficult to stage a retrieval, that the master plan involved his relying on others to accomplish it. Lestrade didn't care if he had taken only a biro; he was going to do his best to make sure that biro got recovered. But he wasn't about to put anyone in harm's way over it. Least of all, Sherlock. It seemed like an obvious trap to him, though Sherlock insisted that it was not. It didn't make sense, but Lestrade was accustomed to things which involved Sherlock Holmes not making sense.

They had found the IT guy responsible for the earlier murder, and he still couldn't figure out how he had managed to profile him so accurately.

It was well past 3 a.m. when Sherlock received a text.

Beautiful craftsmanship. All you ever needed to do was respond to the advertisment, Darling. Then, I'd have had someone bring it down to the newspaper. I would love to see that tearful reunion. I bet the reporters there would, too. Everybody loves a love story. Jim Moriarty X

Sherlock ignored the text and attempted sleep. He showed it to John over breakfast... though he still felt uneasy about Lestrade. If Scotland Yard was involved, there would be no way to limit the publicity. In spite of his insistence that the people who really mattered in his life would understand, Sherlock refused to believe John. He had only to look as far as his older brother for confirmation.

"I doubt he does truly understand, Sherlock, but, you know we... we care about you. We... love you, and it doesn't matter."

Sherlock simply shook his head.

"How long ago was that, Sherlock? Has Mycroft said one word about it, ever? Even when he was sorting through that footage? Tracing Clay's steps? And he didn't even tell Lestrade what he found, so the decision could be made by you. Even though he probably considers your relationship, well, impossible, he's doing nothing to prevent it."

"I am well aware that the overwhelming majorityof people would consider a romantic relationship with an inanimate object impossible. I wouldn't waste my time trying to convince anyone that that is not the case."

"Which would imply that, you don't consider it impossible? Or that you don't consider it...him...an inanimate object?"

Sherlock cocked his head and smiled at the perceptiveness of the question.

"In Quantum Animism, everything is made up of energy... constantly moving, vibrating, spinning, acting and reacting... and energy is life. All things at that level, every system, has an inner life, a conscious center, from which it directs and observes its action. To be an Animist is to believe something "alive" that others would dismiss as "inanimate"... and a part of a greater, living biosphere. Universe, even. Objects are made of the same things that I am made of...though it's certainly true they communicate in different ways."

"So you do communicate. I...had wondered."

"It's not one-sided. And he doesn't much like Mycroft either." Sherlock permitted himself a quick smile.

"I'm not surprised, given the fact that all the times they've been in the same room, he has tended to be rather... discordant."

The smile grew. "Your observational skills are better than I had anticipated, John."

"But he likes Christmas? Just going by the brightness of the carols."

"More than I do. Happy memories."

"Memories?"

"Flashes of images. He is older than I. Victorian Christmases. Dickensian. Always gaslights and snow-covered streets."

"In England?"

"Mostly, yes." Sherlock examined John with an intensity generally reserved for experiments. "This. This conversation. Doesn't bother you?"

"Surprisingly, no."

Sherlock felt ridiculously happy. It was short-lived, though, as the reality of the situation came to the fore again. He fought to maintain his composure, eyes glassy.

"Moriarty doesn't want to kill me, John. I'd be safe if I just walked down to the newspaper office and got him. I've thought about it numerous times. There'd be photographs, but it'd be worth it. To have him safe. It might not affect the work as much as I think. I could just be viewed as...highly eccentric."

"We know where he is, Sherlock. We know Moriarty is intent on seeing your reunion. I say, let's not let him win this round. Let me bring him back to you."

******
Another late night text.

So, Galatea and I were wondering if your doctor will be considering a daring rescue. Bit of an extreme gesture to retrieve a Tottenham Road pawnshop purchase, no? Is it a bit like picking up take-away for you, or does he know just how special this particular dish is? Sorry, sweetheart. Only the owner can file a claim for lost items. D: Jim

_{OP here}

Jim is such an arse! *slaps him* (I say this and yet roleplay as him . . . xD)

Ahhhhh, I love this.

And I really like that you chose quantum animism instead of more of a folk 'genre' because of how Sherlock is, so science-oriented.

And his violin is as old as ACD!Sherlock! =D

(Mycroft says 1742. I say, no, Mycroft, 1895.)

Always 1895, Mycroft!
If I got any of the physics wrong please let me know. I never took it, but really, really should have, so I'm kinda playing catch-up. Jim is so fun to do, isn't he?
I hope to get the middle done this weekend.

[arrrgh...this part going remarkably slow! Posting in smaller bursts to keep it going...]

Already in position across from the newspaper office, Sherlock gave a terse nod to John before picking up the phone.

On my way. SH

Newsroom hallway. Second floor. I'll be there, with bells and brass knobs on. -Jim

No time to lose, then. He needed to be seen entering the building by any henchmen positioned on the outside, but not seen exiting, and he had to get there before Moriarty. He was counting on his adversary's need to make a late, more theatrical entrance, (after Sherlock would have been building up anxiety waiting). He was confident he wouldn't show until his men were in place, but perhaps they already were. He wore the most incongruous outfit (compared to his normal dress) that could still fit under his clothing... shorts and a tank top layered underneath his usual tailored shirt and trousers... a bright yellow head sweatband, trainers, gym socks and a full plastic water bottle shoved into his coat pockets. He was grateful he had long ago strategised a greatcoat as a sort of visual trademark which had a dual purpose of concealing all sorts of items.

In building. Good. He headed to the lift and pushed the button just shy of the top floor (there might be some of Moriarty's agents on the top, searching for roof access). He popped out a frosted plastic ceiling tile and discarded his current wardrobe within the lift, next to the light fixture, relying on people's natural hesitancy to look straight up, then donned the replacement footwear and band. He exited the lift and took the stairs back down at a run, wetting his hair slightly with the water bottle so he would look like any other sweaty jogger when he exited the building.

Once outside, he bent down to stretch his calves, then took a gulp of the water, holding the bottle at a high angle, close to his face. He stayed in place long enough for anyone observing from the roof to notice, and subsequently dismiss, him. Then he went to the Underground station across the street, drinking water as he walked, looking exhausted from his theoretical run.

At the station, he grabbed a newspaper, turned to Sport, and sat on a bench, waiting. He gave his bollocks a quick scratch for good measure, and concentrated on being as un-Sherlock Holmes as possible

When Jim entered the newspaper office, violin case in hand, he wasn't the least bit surprised to find John Watson leaning against the wall in the hallway, his arms crossed.

"I suggest you give me the case."

"Oh, Johnny. Or else? I already told Sherlock. This particular item needs to be hand-delivered," he sang the rest of the sentence, "with love, from me, to you."

"The streets have been blocked around this building. You can't just duck into a car and drive off. I will follow you right out of here and I will get what I came for. If I have to injure you fatally in the process, so be it."

"I always considered the possibility of a no-show. And I don't think you'd harm me. First off, because it is the middle of the afternoon in the heart of London, but, even more importantly, because you owe me. If I wasn't back on the scene, we both know your bestie's plane wouldn't have turned around and he would have toasted the new year with vodka in Siberia and you would have never seen him again." John broke eye contact. "So. You will let me out of this building unharmed. Just so you know, laser trackers are terribly difficult to see in the daylight, but we both know there's no good reason to take out the queen when the match has just started. This is just me having a little fun. I will walk to the Underground, and you will let me."

Moriarty headed out of the building as John trailed behind. When he had descended the steps, John didn't follow.

Sherlock watched as Moriarty and the case boarded train number 347 on the District Line, northbound. Once the car was in motion, he dropped the paper on the bench and headed outside.

On the train, Jim glanced toward the back of the car to be sure that Clay had followed him. Once confirmed, he ignored him. A dark-haired woman was going from car to car, frantically calling for a child named Marcus. Jim's man eyed her suspiciously until she returned, pulling what must have been Marcus by the arm. Jim scrutinised each person in the compartment; he didn't have Sherlock's level of skill, but he was able to spot someone armed easily enough. Finding no one, he relaxed.

Well, home then. He was sorely disappointed that all he met with was John Watson's pseudo bravery and stupid theatrics.

The train didn't leave the stop. Instead, the conductor announced that the car was being replaced, and all passengers should exit at this time. Jim Moriarty didn't move a muscle as the other passengers shuffled past. He sat, waited, and spoke out loud as they disembarked, like a stewardess thanking passengers for the flight. "I was only trying to get Sherlock to play. So much fuss over this." He tapped the case. "Honestly. I'm just trying to be helpful. Secrets can be so toxic to your friends and family. Sherlock needs to" he grinned broadly, "let it go."

Mycroft came into view and took the seat next to Jim. Clay sat across from the two.

"I believe you have something which belongs to my brother."

"Pleasure to see you again. Friends and family present and accounted for and very much aware. Just as well. I'm not really sure what to do with this old thing. Give him his love, would you?"

Eeep, I love his disguise! XD

And Mycroft? Eeep!

(Keep up the good work. 'Still lovin' this. =) )

Gotta admit..the disguise was fun! And it's nice to have a bit of big brother Mycroft (especially since he's been such a bad guy in my recent fics). Last chapter is up.

Just yay yay yay. =D

Thank you so much! :D

[It was a pleasure to write this awesome prompt and I very much appreciate the amazing support! Thank you! Going up on my AO3. Small, friendly surprise in store ;) ]

Sherlock was once again dressed in his usual attire. "He's safe." He'ssafehe'ssafe.

"I've checked the contents of the case. Everything is present and accounted for. I didn't touch anything inside, just a visual confirmation. The string, of course, is missing. Everything else appears to be... unharmed." Mycroft placed the case on the sofa. He held out a small paper bag. "New E-string. And new rosin. It was cracked."

Sherlock's hand moved slowly as he accepted the offering. He was about to speak when Mycroft nodded, turned and headed out the door. He stood there for a moment at the doorway before retreating to his chair.

"John, I... have not been forthright. I apologise for the deception. I was, perhaps, a bit more protective of myself than I needed to be. I'm... not attracted to the violin."

"I can see it in your eyes, Sherlock. It's all fine, you don't have to hide anything. I don't think I can truly relate, but, I can at least try to understand. I'm so sorry I mocked you before. And when I thought I understood, I really didn't. I sometimes run across similar situations at conferences." Sherlock frowned. "No, hear me out. In Dublin, they mentioned there were over 500 types of paraphilias, all seeing the world through whatever sexual lens, and nearly all of them are considered perfectly healthy. If it isn't a challenge to consent, it's all fine, and I mean that."

"I appreciate that, John, but, I'll show you. Would you hand me my violin?"

John paused a moment, puzzled, before opening the case and doing so.

Sherlock took it, and began an aggressive pizzicato, holding the violin like a small guitar. "Still trying to process. It does help me think."

He watched them together for a moment. It wasn't what he'd expected. If this was his lover, it sure didn't seem like it. Was he witnessing a quarrel?

He continued to play as he spoke. "I need to think about...what to say. I failed him. If I had used extra precautions, treated him differently than other valuable items in flat, I would have just drawn more attention to him. As it was, he still wasn't safe. The string...he came so close."

He carried the violin back to the case lying on the sofa. Still holding the violin in one hand, he opened it, and his hand seemed to shake slightly as he raised the top. He placed the violin in the case gently, and then crouched down on his knees, staring into the still-opened case. Bringing himself to eye level, with his bow.

It wasn't an expression he was used to seeing, the look on Sherlock's face as he lifted the clip which anchored him. Fear, remorse, gratitude. He ran a finger down the length of the wood and stopped. He meticulously examined the frog, then the tip, adjusted the ferrule, and when satisfied all appeared to be in working order, he glided his fingers as if he was touching each individual strand of hair, though he was careful not to make actual contact. John got the impression he might not like that type of touch, or ... maybe he wasn't ready for it yet? He was definitely intruding on this scene. As he turned away and ascended the stairs, he heard a quiet "Thank you, John." He chose not to respond.

On the way up, he heard music...tentative and uncertain. Then more confident. Flowing. Until finally it was smooth and harmonious and beautiful and... private. He went up to his room and closed the door.

hope I didn't annoy with the slight twist...was shooting for adorable ending OP had requested and I thought it made it more fun this way, (especially since OP was ok with object being any object)

Ohhhh, I love this so much. It is an excellent fill. On AO3 you say? Well then. *wanders off to find it and give you kudos and love*

AO3 works/1550864/chapters/3285761
Oh thank you.... You are awesome! I am cleaning up bits and pieces as I put it up.

_{OP here}

Awwww, so sweet! Thank you so much for writing this, I enjoyed it immensely. =)

OP, thank you so very much. I really enjoyed writing it, and your feedback really kept me going :)

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