NOMINO (R), Chapter 5

Mar 31, 2012 17:44

Title: NOMINO
Characters: John, Sherlock, Molly
Rating: R (warnings for character death, suicidal ideation and some violence)
Length: ~22K total
Summary: In a world where everyone is born with a name inscribed on his or her hand, finding your soulmate should be easy. And for John, it sort of is. It's what happens after he finds Sherlock that causes all the problems.
Notes: Sorry folks--this isn't a real update, just moving some text around 'cause I felt that Chapter 4 was too long and out of sync with the others. Chapter 6 should be along soon! Originally posted in response to
casmomo's wonderful prompt on the meme. Click for disclaimer.

ch 1 |  ch 2 | ch 3 |  ch 4 |  ch 5 |  ch 6 |  ch 7 |  ch 8 |  ch 9


CHAPTER 5

By the time John and Sherlock returned to the flat, the sun had set at least twice, and it was dark yet again. John looked at the date on his watch. Still March 31st. He shook it and held it to his ear, whilst Sherlock watched him in amusement from the sofa.

“That doesn’t work on digital watches,” he commented, stretching his long frame luxuriously against the cushions. “And the date is correct. It only feels like three days since this morning.”

John sighed and collapsed into his armchair. “I can’t believe we were looking at Connie Prince less than twenty-four hours ago.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock steepled his fingers and drew his knees up to his chin. His “thinking” pose. John reached for the remote. He knew better than to try and pursue a conversation when Sherlock got that look.

There was nothing much on the telly. John flipped channels for a while before settling on a rerun of EastEnders. He’d seen it before, but it didn’t bother him. He was the kind of man who reread his favorite books and rewatched his favorite movies or television programmes constantly-despite his supposedly risk-seeking ways, he craved that kind of familiarity. Not that EastEnders was a favorite, or anything.

When he got back from making tea during one of the commercial breaks, he was surprised to find Sherlock had taken over his armchair and was staring at the television with hitherto unsuspected enthusiasm.

“No, no, no!” Sherlock yelled, punching the union jack pillow at his side in frustration. “He can’t be the boy’s father! Just look at the turn-ups on his jeans!”

John circled around the back of armchair to plop down in Sherlock’s usual place on the sofa. “Dangerous thing, getting you into crap telly,” he commented with a straight face.

“For a case,” Sherlock replied defensively. His eyes didn’t stray from the screen though, and John had to hide a smile.

“Admit it, you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock sniffed.

John returned his attention to the telly. Onscreen, a slightly chubby but overall attractive blonde was trying to prevent her unsympathetic husband from leaving. “But we’re each other’s match,” she sobbed, tugging on his shirt. “You can’t leave me!” John snorted into his tea. He’d forgotten how over-dramatic this part was.

Sherlock seemed to agree. “John, who writes this drivel? Star Battles-”

“Star Wars,” John muttered, but Sherlock was on a roll and didn’t notice.

“-was bad enough. How can they possibly sleep at night knowing they released this-this barbaric perversion into the world?” His lip curled, as if the words were barely enough to encapsulate the cultural devastation wreaked by the BBC.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s idiotic, trite, banal, and riddled with faulty reasoning.” Sherlock kneaded the union jack cushion in his hands energetically as he spoke, punctuating each adjective with a particularly vicious squeeze. “A better question might be what isn’t wrong with it.”

“Well. It’s not supposed to be clever, just entertaining.”

“John. Do you seriously expect me to believe people are entertained by this?” Sherlock jabbed at the telly.

“It’s kind of melodramatic, yeah,” John replied, watching as the blonde woman lay, prostrate and wailing, at the feet of the male protagonist. “But the sentiment’s good,” he added, trying to be fair. “She’s just found out she’s pregnant, she’s desperate. And the husband’s being a right wanker.”

Sherlock looked pained and closed his eyes in a dramatic bid for patience. John suspected (not for the first time) that Sherlock and EastEnders had more in common than the consulting detective would like to admit. “It’s the sentiment that’s the problem John,” He explained. “Look at her. Just look.” He grasped John’s right forearm with one pale hand and dragged him towards the telly.

“Okay, looking. Christ, Sherlock, there’s no need to be so grabby,” John complained, reclaiming his arm.

“Observe,” Sherlock began, reminding John so inexorably of his first year Chemistry tutor at university that he couldn’t help but grin. He watched, rather than listened, as Sherlock gesticulated wildly through his explanation, a warm feeling glowing in the pit of his stomach. This was what he lived for: the funny little moments that were purely his. Sherlock sleeping on the sofa, one arm wrapped around the skull like a teddy bear. Sherlock rushing out of the bathroom to complete an experiment, fully clothed (pity) but still with shampoo in his hair. Sherlock deducing the entire plot of a crime drama before the theme song even ended. Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, sunlight pouring across his face making his eyes gleam silver. John had built quite the collection.

“-not to mention the fact that her pink and utterly unflattering dress matches the stationary she used to write to her lover, an unsubtle reference to her complete inability to remain faithful for the space of a single episode. I think we can safely assume that the prop and costume designers should be added to the list of people to be rounded up and shot over the production of this travesty.”

John blinked. Sherlock was watching him like he expected some kind of reaction. “Right. Yeah,” he managed. “So the characters aren’t that likable, but you kind of root for them anyway. Everyone wants to see a name match work out, in the end.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John. There is absolutely no scientifically proven evidence that name matches are anything but a genetic fluke exploited by religious and political institutions in order to keep the majority of the population as docile and bovine as possible. A relatively easy task, if this programme is any evidence.”

John frowned. “I’m all in support of the right to choose, but I think name matching is a little more complicated than that. Science hasn’t figured out everything.”

“Because there’s nothing there to figure out,” Sherlock scoffed. “The whole concept is entirely ridiculous. I don’t get it.” He hit the power button and tossed the remote carelessly onto the floor.

“You don’t get it,” John echoed, barely registering Sherlock’s aggravation at the repetition. “You don’t understand names at all, do you.”

Sherlock scowled. “Of course I understand names, I just see no reason to obsess over them like everyone else. Dull.”

“It’s not an obsession to care about names, Sherlock, it’s human,” John growled. “God, why do you think M-why do you think people do things for you?”

Sherlock snorted. “If you’re talking about Molly, I am perfectly capable of apprehending her motivations.”

John went very cold, and then very hot. A fresh film of sweat gathered in his palms. “What do you mean by that?” The words came out crisp and detached through his clenched jaw, as close to Sherlockian as he was ever likely to get.

For once, Sherlock seemed blissfully unaware of the effect his words were having on his flatmate. Either that, or he just didn’t care. “She has my name on her right hand, probably along the side of the palm in brown, though I can’t be certain. She prefers to wear brown tones to work, possibly a premeditated choice as that is where she sees me most often, but more likely an unconscious connection. It’s obvious,” he concluded with an airy wave in John’s direction.

“Right. Obvious.” John fisted his hands in his pockets before standing abruptly. “I’m going to bed.”

“Already?” Sherlock asked, looking up at him. “It’s barely nine, John.”

“It’s been a long day,” John bit back tensely, stalking toward the staircase. He had his foot on the bottom step when he heard Sherlock groan and sit up straight.

“Oh John. Don’t be silly.” The patronizing tone stopped John dead in his tracks.

John turned, rounding on him. “Oh, I’m being silly,” he ground out forcefully, though with no idea as to the follow up.

“Yes, you are,” Sherlock replied. “As if I didn’t know from the beginning.”

“Know what?”

Sherlock gifted him with a pitying look. “John. Do you really want me to say it?”

John clenched his fists. “Since I’m obviously too stupid to read your mind,” he spat.

Sherlock sighed. “You are fairly conservative on the subject of name matches, which is surprising given your otherwise liberal stance on sexuality, politics, et cetera, suggesting that the source of your discomfort is of a personal nature. This is compounded by the fact that you take care never to remove your hand wrap around the house when I’m around, even in your own bedroom.”

“You never take yours off either,” John objected, grimacing at the thought of Sherlock sneaking into his room at night to find out whether John wore his glove while sleeping. Privacy was nothing in the face of Sherlock’s ruthless curiosity.

Sherlock continued as if the interruption hadn’t occurred. “On the subject of hand coverings, the day we met you were wearing nothing but bandages wrapped around your hand. While it is true you care little for appearances, bandaging is an inefficient covering-slips easily, prone to tearing and sticking to rough surfaces. Not your usual choice of hand covering, then. That kind of willful sloppiness indicates that you had given up on finding your match and just didn’t care. Yet within a few days of our meeting, you bought your current hand wrap. A great improvement, if you ask me.”

I didn’t, John thought, but the words stuck in his throat. He was frozen. He could see where this was going, had known, in fact, from the moment Sherlock had opened his big mouth and told him about Molly. They were hurtling towards an inevitable conclusion, but Sherlock was taking his time because he couldn’t resist a big reveal. It was strange, but even as John felt the knife twisting in his gut, he loved Sherlock in the midst of a deduction. He was beautiful with his eyes blazing and his face animated.

“And finally, there’s the fact that you always wank with your right hand, though you would clearly prefer your left-you abhor the idea of that name being involved in something so intimate and revealing. Also further evidence of repressed homosexual tendencies, though I could deduce that from other sources.”

A desperate giggle escaped from between John’s slightly parted lips. He wanked with his right hand. Of course Sherlock would know. Probably could tell from certain overdeveloped muscles in his non-dominant hand, or something.

“All of this points toward the obvious conclusion: I am your name’s match.” John’s hand twitched convulsively in his pocket as though responding to a call. “I would guess it’s somewhere on your lower palm in black, though that is mere conjecture,” Sherlock concluded breathlessly. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees as his eyes dissected John. “Well? Am I right?”

Emotions, John thought, are traitorous things. He’d been expecting anger, rage even, had been prepared for it-he was halfway across the room, his gun was out of reach-but strangely, it eluded him. Perhaps he was in shock, and the whole thing would hit him tomorrow like a bad hangover. For now, what he felt was-disappointment. And despair. Accompanied by the depressing sense that this had all been predestined somehow, like the moment they had met had set in motion a chain of events leading towards this inescapable collision of mind, and heart, and hand. John thought how ironic it would be if he took that hand, his hand, with Sherlock’s name, and punched the detective right in his beautiful, upturned face. But what he did instead was turn on his heel and walk out the door, not even bothering to close it behind him.

Around the corner from 221b, John paused to take a long breath. He leaned against the solid wall of the building behind him, the damp stone slimy under his fingers. He couldn’t go to Sarah’s, they’d been over for weeks now. Harry had her Mandarin class on Wednesdays.

He would go to the pub, kill a few hours, then go to Harry’s. John was about to move when he felt a prick of steel on the back of his neck. He didn’t even get his eyes open before the drugs kicked in.

NEXT >>

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