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.