The Problem with Sign Names Chap. 5
The taxi journey was somewhat uneventful.
Sherlock had turned out to be adept at texting demands, deft fingers swiftly typing out his chosen address, waving the mobile's screen in the face of the cabbie.
There was a brief moment where John was not sure that the dog was going to be allowed on, but Sherlock seemed almost used to such a response, simply rolling his eyes when the cabbie began to kick up a fuss, and bringing up a pre-typed message.
Eventually all three of them were bundled into the car, Conan curled up neatly at the foot of his master watching John with bored brown eyes.
Unlike the dog's, Sherlock's eyes never stilled in their constant quest to note everything.
At one point a pale hand flew to the car door, resting on the speaker. The radio continued to blare out Capital FM. Pale fingers moved up to the door frame, where the vibrations were more prominent, and rested there for a while before falling back into his lap to resume his fidgeting state.
It was somewhat awkward, John soon acknowledged, when their glances met, which was far too often due to Sherlock's almost frantic watching. John would smile politely, a mere tightening of the lips stretched over teeth perfected over years of work as a doctor, whilst Sherlock would smirk, nodding in amusement.
After this happened for the eighth time Sherlock's hands came back up to chest height, moving slowly for John's benefit. He smiled after his hands came to rest, tilting his head as John as if to enquire if the shorter man understood any of what he just tried to say..
John shook his head, shrugging and smiling apologetically.
The taller man cleared his throat, hands coming back up to chest height and moving again, only this time with audio.
"In Deaf culture. It is rude, to break eye contact," John managed to pick out this sign, he thought, of two v-shaped hand signals breaking parallel with each other (1) "not like this, of course. But when you sign. To break eye contact when signing is rude. Like you talking with your voice and-," Sherlock broke off here, to duck his head, covering his eyes and shaking it from side to side.
John laughed at the man's antics, at his kind attempts to make him feel more comfortable around this thing. This disability. Surely it should be the other way around?
Sherlock let out a quiet chuckle, before going back to his restless watching.
The crime scene was a quiet hub of people, all professional and none of them looking as lost as John felt, dressed in his porridge coloured knitted jumper. A sheep amongst a flock of uniformed professionals.
Sherlock, however, was as confident of his place there as much as the uniformed officers were, strutting in proudly, Conan trotting alongside him.
John hobbled precariously on his cane, wary of the wet pavement, cursing under his breath.
A young woman, pretty, John thought absentmindedly, eyed up Sherlock with no small amount of disdain from where she was stationed along a make-shift barrier of police tape.
She coped the sign name that John had been shown earlier ("It means freak", Mycroft had told him only a few hours ago), glaring daggers at him.
"Freak's here!" she cried over her shoulder, towards a group of people who groaned and swore in response, the majority turned carefully away from the consulting detective so he wouldn't be able to see their lips move.
Sherlock scowled at the woman, ducking under the police tape and holding it up for John.
A grouchy looking man dressed from head to toe in a light blue forensics suit stood in the doorway of the house where the activity was focused around. He beckoned Sherlock over with a jerk of his head, never once looking pleased.
Sherlock turned to John, spelling the letters A-N-D-E-R-S-O-N out slowly before pointing back towards the man. He then pointed between himself and the man again and interlocked two looped fingers, encircled together. With.
As soon as the two men were within 5 feet of each other hands began flailing, although admittedly in more precise movements than flailing.
Sherlock seemed to be getting more and more agitated, movements getting wider and facial expressions more exasperated. After several moments of this, and John inwardly hoping that his new flat-mate would not explode (because who would he split rent with then?) the consulting detective whirled around on the balls of his feet, turning to face the same glowering woman who had called out on his arrival earlier.
Sherlock stabbed a finger towards her then back towards the now bewildered Anderson before making an almost obscene gesture, his hand flat near his groin, circling around and his head thrown back in emphasized pleasure. (2)
It was fairly obvious what he meant, police officers looked away, embarrassed for their colleagues. The young woman blushed, shaking her head furiously, turning to her faux-oblivious colleagues, looking for back up.
Anderson was a dark red colour, more from anger than embarrassment if John was any judge, and he quickly resumed his now far more frantic signing, complete with aggressive slapping of the palms and fingers jabbed into Sherlock's chest, his face contorted into an expression of pure anger and resentment.
Lestrade chose this moment to appear, looking irritated and harassed, almost like one of the many tired mothers that passed through the clinic doors each day, John thought absently.
He tapped Sherlock smartly on his forearm, frowning at his conduct with Anderson before asking them both to follow him.
Sherlock paused to beckon John over, much to Lestrade's displeasure.
"For God's sake Sherlock, no! I can't bring him in. He'll have to wait outside with the dog," he said, exasperated. Sherlock's gaze flicked between his lips and Anderson's hands, which were translating his boss' spoken words.
Sherlock shook his head furiously, signing towards Anderson who translated in monotone to Lestrade, adding his own comment when he felt like his opinion was required.
"No, no, I need an assistant. He really doesn't, let's be honest. Anderson won't work with me! He's always so whiny, I'm working with him fine, especially considering he's such a bloody prick! I want John with me! Leave Anderson outside! Oh, that's nice. Great. At least he doesn't want the dog in this time. That was absurd!"
Sherlock only glared, not commenting, presumably used to his less than professional interpreter.
Lestrade heaved a long-suffering sigh.
"Fine! But in out, quick!"
The dark haired man beamed with manic glee, pulling John inside the building and tossing Conan's lead to a bewildered policeman stationed outside the door.
John cursed inwardly when he saw the tiling on the floor, tugging his arm out of Sherlock's iron grip. He limped cautiously behind the now far-too-excited man. Wet canes on tiles were always a bit of a nightmare, although the danger eased quickly after a few steps.
Sherlock paused, allowing John to get his bearings before bounding up the stairs, leaving John to haul himself up and trying not to notice the numerous other police people pushing past him.
John didn't think he'd ever get used to this cripple lark.
By the time he got up there, Sherlock was already busy working, crouched over the body of a lady suited in a frankly lurid shade of fuchsia pink.
He danced around her, hovering precariously above her, Anderson stood leaning against the door with his arms folded. If he wasn't a grown man John would have said he was pouting.
The consulting detective raised his head, beckoning John over.
As soon as the two men were eye-level Sherlock signed, both index and middle finger stretched out palms facing inwards before dropping down from shoulder height to stomach level simultaneously. He mouthed the word "DEAD", looking pointedly at the woman in case his meaning was not clear enough.
So this is why he asked John to join him.
The doctor bent over the young women, sniffing. Smell of vomit, certainly, but no smell of drink.
Her position, face down onto the hard, musty wooden floor indicated that asphyxiation was likely. She hadn't moved, she had vomited whilst unconscious. Choked on her own sick.
Drugs or seizure.
There was a brief moment of pride when John found himself able to sign "DRUGS" to his new flat mate, repeating the sign Mycroft has used earlier, assuming that was what Mycroft had meant. He stuck to finger-spelling S-E-I-Z-U-R-E. Sherlock smiled a little at John's pathetic attempts at communication. The expression of happiness seemed inappropriate, given the situation, but John was glad to see it all the same.
Anderson coughed, not being particularly subtle so John allowed him to interpret back to Sherlock what his beliefs were.
Sherlock abruptly straightened up, brushing down his plastic suit and began signing over to Anderson who once again took on the task of translating in monotone.
"Man, 5'7. You can tell by the footprints. She's married, unhappily, the ring is clean inside. He didn't even touch the goddamn ring, how does he know that? Victim in her early 30's, professional. Media, because of the colour her clothing. Travelled from Cardiff .No, wait, stop, stop. Why? How do you know?"
Sherlock paused in his movements to glare at the man, walking over to jut a phone, a weather app open on the screen, into his face, signing with his one free hand.
"Oh, it's raining in Cardiff, and windy. She has an umbrella," John recognized the sign for umbrella here, "so and didn't use it. Therefore windy. Collar is damp, she turned it up against the wind and it's only been windy and raining in Cardiff lately. Right…she's here for one night. Mud tracks down the back of her leg, small case. He wants to know where the pink case is, boss,' Anderson called over his shoulder to the grey haired man, slouched and staring at Sherlock with hidden relief.
"There is no case, tell him there is no case."
Sherlock pulled a face of utter contempt and despair at them, his hands never pausing.
"He says there must be. Something about it being pink…um. Oh, she's dressed in pink therefore the case must be pink. Yeah, sounds like sound logic to me," he finished off, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
Sherlock watched the scene with no small amount of increasing frustration.
When no one provided him with the details on the whereabouts of this assumed suitcase, he slapped a balled fist into his palm, a display of his anger at the Metropolitan's Police Force's incompetence and bounded out off the door, his coat tails swishing behind him.
Lestrade groaned and Anderson started bitching about having to act as a 'terp for the "bloody lunatic show-offy twat". They both left together.
That left John behind, perched unsteadily on his cane with the dull, familiar muscular ache creeping back into his thigh.
Bugger.
'Bloody stairs,' John cursed as he set off, alone, not forgetting to pick up the dog on his way out, ignoring the police officer's indignant cried about being left with it.
__________________________
(1) Sign language is a fairly…visual language, obviously. But something more than that. I like this sign because it's a great example of that. Each 'v' shaped is a pair of eyes and they mime out looking away from each other.
(2) I'm fairly sure you can guess what this sign means. It is the sign I use, at least, for 'giving head'. It's a fairly slang term so I don't know how widely used it is.
As always, reviews are so much appreciated!
I have been completely taken back by the enormous amount of positive feedback this has so far received! I do love everyone's opion and anecdotes!
I am trying to compile a simple list of websites to help anyone study BSL for free. PM me if you are interested
Unfortunately one of my favorite youtube channels for BSL has been taken down. It had been re-uploaded, with a few of the original 400+ videos (LeesBSLSongs), so if you all go and subscribe I think he'd really like and you'd all really, really like it!
I know a good few of you have asked questions but has eaten a good deal of messages. Please just ask again :D
And yes, I do have a Tumblr for those asking [http://a-black-car-has-pulled-up
-and.tumblr.com/]
Sherlock had turned out to be adept at texting demands, deft fingers swiftly typing out his chosen address, waving the mobile's screen in the face of the cabbie.
There was a brief moment where John was not sure that the dog was going to be allowed on, but Sherlock seemed almost used to such a response, simply rolling his eyes when the cabbie began to kick up a fuss, and bringing up a pre-typed message.
Eventually all three of them were bundled into the car, Conan curled up neatly at the foot of his master watching John with bored brown eyes.
Unlike the dog's, Sherlock's eyes never stilled in their constant quest to note everything.
At one point a pale hand flew to the car door, resting on the speaker. The radio continued to blare out Capital FM. Pale fingers moved up to the door frame, where the vibrations were more prominent, and rested there for a while before falling back into his lap to resume his fidgeting state.
It was somewhat awkward, John soon acknowledged, when their glances met, which was far too often due to Sherlock's almost frantic watching. John would smile politely, a mere tightening of the lips stretched over teeth perfected over years of work as a doctor, whilst Sherlock would smirk, nodding in amusement.
After this happened for the eighth time Sherlock's hands came back up to chest height, moving slowly for John's benefit. He smiled after his hands came to rest, tilting his head as John as if to enquire if the shorter man understood any of what he just tried to say..
John shook his head, shrugging and smiling apologetically.
The taller man cleared his throat, hands coming back up to chest height and moving again, only this time with audio.
"In Deaf culture. It is rude, to break eye contact," John managed to pick out this sign, he thought, of two v-shaped hand signals breaking parallel with each other (1) "not like this, of course. But when you sign. To break eye contact when signing is rude. Like you talking with your voice and-," Sherlock broke off here, to duck his head, covering his eyes and shaking it from side to side.
John laughed at the man's antics, at his kind attempts to make him feel more comfortable around this thing. This disability. Surely it should be the other way around?
Sherlock let out a quiet chuckle, before going back to his restless watching.
The crime scene was a quiet hub of people, all professional and none of them looking as lost as John felt, dressed in his porridge coloured knitted jumper. A sheep amongst a flock of uniformed professionals.
Sherlock, however, was as confident of his place there as much as the uniformed officers were, strutting in proudly, Conan trotting alongside him.
John hobbled precariously on his cane, wary of the wet pavement, cursing under his breath.
A young woman, pretty, John thought absentmindedly, eyed up Sherlock with no small amount of disdain from where she was stationed along a make-shift barrier of police tape.
She coped the sign name that John had been shown earlier ("It means freak", Mycroft had told him only a few hours ago), glaring daggers at him.
"Freak's here!" she cried over her shoulder, towards a group of people who groaned and swore in response, the majority turned carefully away from the consulting detective so he wouldn't be able to see their lips move.
Sherlock scowled at the woman, ducking under the police tape and holding it up for John.
A grouchy looking man dressed from head to toe in a light blue forensics suit stood in the doorway of the house where the activity was focused around. He beckoned Sherlock over with a jerk of his head, never once looking pleased.
Sherlock turned to John, spelling the letters A-N-D-E-R-S-O-N out slowly before pointing back towards the man. He then pointed between himself and the man again and interlocked two looped fingers, encircled together. With.
As soon as the two men were within 5 feet of each other hands began flailing, although admittedly in more precise movements than flailing.
Sherlock seemed to be getting more and more agitated, movements getting wider and facial expressions more exasperated. After several moments of this, and John inwardly hoping that his new flat-mate would not explode (because who would he split rent with then?) the consulting detective whirled around on the balls of his feet, turning to face the same glowering woman who had called out on his arrival earlier.
Sherlock stabbed a finger towards her then back towards the now bewildered Anderson before making an almost obscene gesture, his hand flat near his groin, circling around and his head thrown back in emphasized pleasure. (2)
It was fairly obvious what he meant, police officers looked away, embarrassed for their colleagues. The young woman blushed, shaking her head furiously, turning to her faux-oblivious colleagues, looking for back up.
Anderson was a dark red colour, more from anger than embarrassment if John was any judge, and he quickly resumed his now far more frantic signing, complete with aggressive slapping of the palms and fingers jabbed into Sherlock's chest, his face contorted into an expression of pure anger and resentment.
Lestrade chose this moment to appear, looking irritated and harassed, almost like one of the many tired mothers that passed through the clinic doors each day, John thought absently.
He tapped Sherlock smartly on his forearm, frowning at his conduct with Anderson before asking them both to follow him.
Sherlock paused to beckon John over, much to Lestrade's displeasure.
"For God's sake Sherlock, no! I can't bring him in. He'll have to wait outside with the dog," he said, exasperated. Sherlock's gaze flicked between his lips and Anderson's hands, which were translating his boss' spoken words.
Sherlock shook his head furiously, signing towards Anderson who translated in monotone to Lestrade, adding his own comment when he felt like his opinion was required.
"No, no, I need an assistant. He really doesn't, let's be honest. Anderson won't work with me! He's always so whiny, I'm working with him fine, especially considering he's such a bloody prick! I want John with me! Leave Anderson outside! Oh, that's nice. Great. At least he doesn't want the dog in this time. That was absurd!"
Sherlock only glared, not commenting, presumably used to his less than professional interpreter.
Lestrade heaved a long-suffering sigh.
"Fine! But in out, quick!"
The dark haired man beamed with manic glee, pulling John inside the building and tossing Conan's lead to a bewildered policeman stationed outside the door.
John cursed inwardly when he saw the tiling on the floor, tugging his arm out of Sherlock's iron grip. He limped cautiously behind the now far-too-excited man. Wet canes on tiles were always a bit of a nightmare, although the danger eased quickly after a few steps.
Sherlock paused, allowing John to get his bearings before bounding up the stairs, leaving John to haul himself up and trying not to notice the numerous other police people pushing past him.
John didn't think he'd ever get used to this cripple lark.
By the time he got up there, Sherlock was already busy working, crouched over the body of a lady suited in a frankly lurid shade of fuchsia pink.
He danced around her, hovering precariously above her, Anderson stood leaning against the door with his arms folded. If he wasn't a grown man John would have said he was pouting.
The consulting detective raised his head, beckoning John over.
As soon as the two men were eye-level Sherlock signed, both index and middle finger stretched out palms facing inwards before dropping down from shoulder height to stomach level simultaneously. He mouthed the word "DEAD", looking pointedly at the woman in case his meaning was not clear enough.
So this is why he asked John to join him.
The doctor bent over the young women, sniffing. Smell of vomit, certainly, but no smell of drink.
Her position, face down onto the hard, musty wooden floor indicated that asphyxiation was likely. She hadn't moved, she had vomited whilst unconscious. Choked on her own sick.
Drugs or seizure.
There was a brief moment of pride when John found himself able to sign "DRUGS" to his new flat mate, repeating the sign Mycroft has used earlier, assuming that was what Mycroft had meant. He stuck to finger-spelling S-E-I-Z-U-R-E. Sherlock smiled a little at John's pathetic attempts at communication. The expression of happiness seemed inappropriate, given the situation, but John was glad to see it all the same.
Anderson coughed, not being particularly subtle so John allowed him to interpret back to Sherlock what his beliefs were.
Sherlock abruptly straightened up, brushing down his plastic suit and began signing over to Anderson who once again took on the task of translating in monotone.
"Man, 5'7. You can tell by the footprints. She's married, unhappily, the ring is clean inside. He didn't even touch the goddamn ring, how does he know that? Victim in her early 30's, professional. Media, because of the colour her clothing. Travelled from Cardiff .No, wait, stop, stop. Why? How do you know?"
Sherlock paused in his movements to glare at the man, walking over to jut a phone, a weather app open on the screen, into his face, signing with his one free hand.
"Oh, it's raining in Cardiff, and windy. She has an umbrella," John recognized the sign for umbrella here, "so and didn't use it. Therefore windy. Collar is damp, she turned it up against the wind and it's only been windy and raining in Cardiff lately. Right…she's here for one night. Mud tracks down the back of her leg, small case. He wants to know where the pink case is, boss,' Anderson called over his shoulder to the grey haired man, slouched and staring at Sherlock with hidden relief.
"There is no case, tell him there is no case."
Sherlock pulled a face of utter contempt and despair at them, his hands never pausing.
"He says there must be. Something about it being pink…um. Oh, she's dressed in pink therefore the case must be pink. Yeah, sounds like sound logic to me," he finished off, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
Sherlock watched the scene with no small amount of increasing frustration.
When no one provided him with the details on the whereabouts of this assumed suitcase, he slapped a balled fist into his palm, a display of his anger at the Metropolitan's Police Force's incompetence and bounded out off the door, his coat tails swishing behind him.
Lestrade groaned and Anderson started bitching about having to act as a 'terp for the "bloody lunatic show-offy twat". They both left together.
That left John behind, perched unsteadily on his cane with the dull, familiar muscular ache creeping back into his thigh.
Bugger.
'Bloody stairs,' John cursed as he set off, alone, not forgetting to pick up the dog on his way out, ignoring the police officer's indignant cried about being left with it.
__________________________
(1) Sign language is a fairly…visual language, obviously. But something more than that. I like this sign because it's a great example of that. Each 'v' shaped is a pair of eyes and they mime out looking away from each other.
(2) I'm fairly sure you can guess what this sign means. It is the sign I use, at least, for 'giving head'. It's a fairly slang term so I don't know how widely used it is.
As always, reviews are so much appreciated!
I have been completely taken back by the enormous amount of positive feedback this has so far received! I do love everyone's opion and anecdotes!
I am trying to compile a simple list of websites to help anyone study BSL for free. PM me if you are interested
Unfortunately one of my favorite youtube channels for BSL has been taken down. It had been re-uploaded, with a few of the original 400+ videos (LeesBSLSongs), so if you all go and subscribe I think he'd really like and you'd all really, really like it!
I know a good few of you have asked questions but has eaten a good deal of messages. Please just ask again :D
And yes, I do have a Tumblr for those asking [http://a-black-car-has-pulled-up
-and.tumblr.com/]