NOMINO (R), Chapter 10 [final]
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: Okay, I'm pretty nervous about this...there has been so much great speculation about Sherlock's name, I just hope people aren't too disappointed! 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 | ch 10
CHAPTER 10
John was scribbling a prescription for Mrs. Toddlin’s asthma when he heard a commotion coming from the waiting room. “Excuse me,” he said, putting down the prescription pad. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
“Take your time, dear,” the elderly lady said cheerfully, her nose buried in the latest issue of GQ. John pushed open the door and strode quickly in the direction of the noise.
“I’m sorry sir, but you’ll have to make an appointment. Dr. Watson’s all booked for today,” the bubble-headed young nurse Carrie was insisting.
“For God’s sake woman!” The male voice sounded harassed and vaguely familiar. “I don’t want an appointment, I just need to see him! Look, I’m with New Scotland Yard-”
John winced, pausing just around the corner from the waiting room. Just what he needed, Dimmock barging in at work and announcing in front of all his regulars (not to mention the most gossipy nurse in the clinic) that he needed John. For something at Scotland Yard. Lovely.
“John, what’s going on?” Sarah had come up behind him whilst he’d been skulking.
“Eh, it’s someone from the Yard looking for me,” John said, wrinkling his forehead apologetically. Sarah sighed.
“It’s Sherlock, isn’t it?”
“Is it ever anything else?” John drawled sarcastically. He was pleased when that teased out a smile. Things were still a little awkward between the two of them; it would be nice if they could remain friends.
The moment they stepped into the waiting room, Carrie launched herself at Sarah. “Dr. Sawyer!” she moaned, “this man” (glare at Dimmock) “has been asking for Dr. Watson, but he doesn’t have an appointment, and he’s being disruptive, and-”
“It’s fine, Carrie, don’t worry,” Sarah said firmly, putting a placatory hand on the nurse’s shoulder. “Now don’t leave the desk unattended, look, there are some patients waiting.” She chivvied the nurse back towards the waiting area with a practiced air John couldn’t help but admire. Carrie went without complaint, though she sent the detective another hair-raising glare on her way.
“Detective Inspector,” John called, and Dimmock looked up with relief. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he added, stressing the final word slightly to emphasize his displeasure.
“Didn’t have a choice,” Dimmock responded grimly, drawing closer to John. “I need you now. There’s been a kidnapping and we’ve contacted Sherlock, but he won’t go anywhere without you.”
John sighed. “I’m in the middle of work…”
“Please.” The detective looked strained.
“Just go, John.” Sarah rolled her eyes with exasperation. “Lord knows it won’t be the first time.”
John’s lips quirked in a rueful smile. “Thanks, Sarah.”
Dimmock started and his eyes widened for a moment. Then he seemed to catch himself and straightened quickly, a little life returning to his tired eyes. He put his hand forward. “Excuse me, I don’t think we’ve met. Miss-?”
“It’s doctor, actually,” Sarah returned with a bit of spark. “Doctor Sarah Sawyer. And you are?”
“Sorry, it’s DI Dimmock. John Dimmock,” he added hastily, smiling at her. He held her hand just a few moments too long, and she let him. John looked back and forth between the two of them, and had to cover a smile.
That evening, John was humming as he reheated three-day-old pasta for his and Sherlock’s supper.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him from his perch on the kitchen table. “You seem to be in an unusually good mood. Generally, kidnappings make you tetchy.”
John frowned. “Kidnappings are terrible. Thank God we got there in time.” The microwave beeped. He pulled the dish out, stirred it a few times, then returned it for another minute. “That’s not why I’m in a good mood.”
“Why then?”
John couldn’t help a little nudge. “Can’t you deduce it?”
Sherlock grimaced, crossing his arms. “Just tell me,” he ordered. John took that as code for “No.”
He shrugged. “I guess it’s nice to have a reminder that there are such things as happy endings, sometimes.”
Sherlock grumbled something about “cryptic,” and slouched off to the sitting room, probably to sulk on the sofa. John hummed happily as he piled the pasta into two clean bowls, then topped Sherlock’s with a bit of nutritional yeast. Just in case.
<><><><><>
They met in one of those stuffy little cafés, the kind where the waiters ignore you because they think it’s more French. John arrived a bit late, a bit damp, and alone.
“No Sherlock?”
“Sorry, said he couldn’t leave his experiment.”
Harry arched a knowing eyebrow at him. “I can tell when you’re lying, you know. He thinks that I’m being an idiot, doesn’t he?”
John shrugged out of his wet jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. “He said that there are more than 1.3 billion people in China and that the likelihood of locating your name’s match in that communist sinkhole is about nil.”
Harry sat back, crossing her arms. John swallowed a sigh. He’d known her for nearly forty years, and he still couldn’t tell if that smile was real or pasted on. “Sorry, but you wanted the truth…”
“Don’t be an arse John, I’m not upset,” Harry replied, and she actually wasn’t. “You know what they say about the Watsons.”
“That we’re stubborn bastards?”
“That we never give up.” She leaned forward and plucked one of the fancy menus off the table. “You order the strawberry Martini with an orange twist. I want a sip.”
<><><><><>
It happened one scorching Sunday in July. There was a heat wave, and the air was hot and still in the flat, despite opening every window and door in hopes of a cross breeze. John had finally capitulated to Sherlock’s endless moaning and bought a fan. The two of them spent the day sprawled on the sofa, as close to the fan as they could physically get. Both were stripped to the waist, John in shorts. Even so, it was hot. Sherlock’s thick locks were soaked with perspiration and stuck to his forehead in a most unflattering manner. He kept trying to brush them off with quick, irritated swipes of his fingers, to no avail. John simply lolled against the sofa, trying to ignore the sticky, itchy feeling of sweat trickling down his arm and into his hand wrap.
“We’re out of tea.”
John groaned and scratched at the leather wrap. “Sherlock, why would anyone want tea in this weather?”
Sherlock paused. “Iced tea, then.”
“Get it yourself.”
Sherlock grunted and fell silent, staring out the window. He was probably trying to work out the best way to trick John into making a trip to Tesco. John let him think he had a chance.
He wriggled one finger under the edge of his hand wrap, scratching. It didn’t help. John sighed. He never thought he’d miss his army glove, but at least the microfiber was breathable and sweat-wicking. The leather just sat there, wet and uncomfortable against his palm. Fuck it, John thought. It’s not like he hasn’t seen it before.
He reached down and unbuttoned the wrap, letting it slip to the floor. John nearly moaned with relief as the cool air from the fan hit his hand. He let his eyes slide shut. Ahh, it was glorious.
“John, I was think-” Sherlock stopped abruptly.
John cracked open an eyelid. Sherlock was staring at him-no, Sherlock was staring at his hand, lying palm up and naked on the sofa between them. John fought the instinct to flip it over. There was no point in hiding it now.
“It’s not like you haven’t seen it before,” he said, a tad defensively. “And it’s too hot for leather.”
Sherlock pulled his eyes away from John’s hand so slowly he seemed almost reluctant. “Is it?” he murmured thoughtfully.
They had never spoken about names, not after that night. It was one of those taboo subjects that friends always accrue after a while, things you know will press the other person’s buttons and vice versa. John was okay with that, he really was. He didn’t need to talk about every little thing. He was English, after all.
Sherlock stretched beside him, and John tried not to stare as lean muscles shifted beneath the damp, pallid skin. Sherlock paused for one second, arms still outstretched-and then, in one fluid movement, he pulled off his gloves.
John had to work very hard not to let his jaw drop.
“What?” If he hadn’t known the man better, he would’ve said Sherlock was nervous. “It’s too hot for leather, you said so yourself.”
John nodded dumbly, swallowing. It wasn’t that Sherlock’s hands were strange. They were actually quite pretty: long, slender fingers and slightly knobby knuckles, the skin even paler than the rest of him from lack of sunlight. His nails were perfect ovals, and John found himself wondering rather hysterically if Sherlock had ever gotten them manicured. “Nothing,” he said finally. “It’s fine.”
Sherlock let his hands fall to his lap, where they rested lightly on his trouser-clad thighs, palms down. “You want to see them,” Sherlock stated, watching his face.
“See what?”
“My names,” Sherlock replied.
Names?
Before John could respond, Sherlock flipped his hands over. John’s eyes fell instantly upon the writing instantly.
There were two. Names, that is-if they could be called names. On the left, in black letters so sharp and clear they might have been printed, was the word “NO.” On the right, in matching font, was “NOMI.”
John felt confusion and disappointment uncurl in his gut, followed immediately by annoyance. He’s known they didn’t match already, why was he reacting like this? He licked his lips, hoping desperately that his feelings hadn’t shown on his face. “I’ve never seen-I mean, it’s unusual…”
Sherlock let out a long breath, and John suddenly realized he’d been holding it. “You’re disappointed.”
John winced. “I’m not. Really,” he added, catching Sherlock’s disbelieving look. “They’re nice. Nice, um…handwriting.”
“Block capitals?” Sherlock sounded amused.
“Well. They’re very legible, aren’t they?”
Sherlock chuckled. John looked up at him, relieved, but the smile was already fading from the detective’s face, and he looked pensively back down at his hands. “I meant what I said, before. You are disappointed.” His fingers curled in on themselves, not quite enough to cover the words. “You expected something different.”
John paused, but he owed Sherlock the truth-or at least, a version of it. “I’d thought…perhaps, Molly…” he admitted, rubbing his own hand along the top of his knee.
Sherlock snorted. “Molly? Surely not.”
Molly. Yet another topic they didn’t talk about. John frowned, anger nipping at the surface of his thoughts. “Why not? She was lovely. And she did so much for you.”
Thankfully, Sherlock didn’t roll his eyes, but his exasperation showed. “I get it,” he said in a bored tone. “She had my name, and people do things for you because they have a name match. You’ve said.”
“No, you idiot.” John stared at him. “People do things for you because they love you.”
Sherlock shut his mouth with an audible click.
“And Molly,” John continued, his eyes locked on Sherlock, “definitely loved you.”
Sherlock stared back at him, unblinking, with an intensity only matched by the focus he applied to crime scenes and dead bodies. John felt a shiver pass through the hair on the back of his neck, despite the heat. He gritted his teeth and ploughed ahead. “Love is…well, it’s complicated. People usually fall in love with their name matches. Not always, but often enough that it’s expected. But they don’t fall in love because they’re name matches, you know? It’s just that it turns out that way, most of the time.” John rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, struggling to find the right words. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that people fall in love, name match or not,” he shrugged inarticulately. “Matching someone and loving them aren’t the same thing.”
Sherlock was still watching him, but his expression had changed. It wasn’t softer, per se, but perhaps more vulnerable-as if the jagged edges of his thoughts, normally coated in a layer of sneering arrogance, had been laid bare and delicate before John. When Sherlock next spoke, the words cut the air like broken glass. “Could you love someone who isn’t your match, John?”
John opened his mouth, but there seemed to be nothing in his lungs to use for speaking. It occurred to him that it really wouldn’t take much movement at all for them to kiss.
But neither of them moved, and for a few minutes the only sound in the flat was the incessant whirring of the fan and the ticking of the clock on the bookcase. Then Sherlock shifted on the sofa, bringing his right hand up to wipe his fringe off his face, and the moment seemed to pass.
John bit his lip, the sudden desire to get up and do something warring with a general feeling of heat-induced sloth. Perhaps iced tea wasn’t such a bad idea after all. He was about suggest something of the kind, when Sherlock spoke again.
“No one could figure out what they mean.”
“What?” John said blankly.
“My names,” Sherlock replied, his gaze fixed on the wall opposite. His hands twitched open again on his lap, as though daring John to take another look. He frowned down at the letters. No nomi…
“As you know, having two names is abnormal,” Sherlock continued tensely. His hands rose from his lap to punctuate his speech with sharp, spiky gestures. “Let alone two unidentifiable, potentially foreign, words. Some of the specialists just thought they were simply nonsense words, indicating retardation, but Mummy didn’t like that. She thought they were Italian. No nomi means ‘no names’ in Italian-”
The sound of the words spoken aloud in Sherlock’s deep voice stirred something in John’s memory. His eyes widened in realization.
“Sherlock.”
“-which would fit my overall profile of a sociopath.”
“Sherlock.”
“Alternatively, they could be Japanese, but then there’s the question of why they’re not in kanji…”
“Sherlock!”
John grabbed Sherlock’s windmilling hands and crossed them, palms up, right over left. Sherlock stared down in stunned silence. John thanked god (for the first and probably last time in his life) for those Latin classes he’d been tricked into taking during secondary school.
Sherlock swallowed, glancing at John. “John,” he called softly, like a question.
“Yes, exactly,” John answered, and kissed him.
NOMINO | nōmĭno (v.) from NOMINARE
I. to call by name, to name, to give a name to
Fin.
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: Okay, I'm pretty nervous about this...there has been so much great speculation about Sherlock's name, I just hope people aren't too disappointed! 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 | ch 10
CHAPTER 10
John was scribbling a prescription for Mrs. Toddlin’s asthma when he heard a commotion coming from the waiting room. “Excuse me,” he said, putting down the prescription pad. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
“Take your time, dear,” the elderly lady said cheerfully, her nose buried in the latest issue of GQ. John pushed open the door and strode quickly in the direction of the noise.
“I’m sorry sir, but you’ll have to make an appointment. Dr. Watson’s all booked for today,” the bubble-headed young nurse Carrie was insisting.
“For God’s sake woman!” The male voice sounded harassed and vaguely familiar. “I don’t want an appointment, I just need to see him! Look, I’m with New Scotland Yard-”
John winced, pausing just around the corner from the waiting room. Just what he needed, Dimmock barging in at work and announcing in front of all his regulars (not to mention the most gossipy nurse in the clinic) that he needed John. For something at Scotland Yard. Lovely.
“John, what’s going on?” Sarah had come up behind him whilst he’d been skulking.
“Eh, it’s someone from the Yard looking for me,” John said, wrinkling his forehead apologetically. Sarah sighed.
“It’s Sherlock, isn’t it?”
“Is it ever anything else?” John drawled sarcastically. He was pleased when that teased out a smile. Things were still a little awkward between the two of them; it would be nice if they could remain friends.
The moment they stepped into the waiting room, Carrie launched herself at Sarah. “Dr. Sawyer!” she moaned, “this man” (glare at Dimmock) “has been asking for Dr. Watson, but he doesn’t have an appointment, and he’s being disruptive, and-”
“It’s fine, Carrie, don’t worry,” Sarah said firmly, putting a placatory hand on the nurse’s shoulder. “Now don’t leave the desk unattended, look, there are some patients waiting.” She chivvied the nurse back towards the waiting area with a practiced air John couldn’t help but admire. Carrie went without complaint, though she sent the detective another hair-raising glare on her way.
“Detective Inspector,” John called, and Dimmock looked up with relief. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he added, stressing the final word slightly to emphasize his displeasure.
“Didn’t have a choice,” Dimmock responded grimly, drawing closer to John. “I need you now. There’s been a kidnapping and we’ve contacted Sherlock, but he won’t go anywhere without you.”
John sighed. “I’m in the middle of work…”
“Please.” The detective looked strained.
“Just go, John.” Sarah rolled her eyes with exasperation. “Lord knows it won’t be the first time.”
John’s lips quirked in a rueful smile. “Thanks, Sarah.”
Dimmock started and his eyes widened for a moment. Then he seemed to catch himself and straightened quickly, a little life returning to his tired eyes. He put his hand forward. “Excuse me, I don’t think we’ve met. Miss-?”
“It’s doctor, actually,” Sarah returned with a bit of spark. “Doctor Sarah Sawyer. And you are?”
“Sorry, it’s DI Dimmock. John Dimmock,” he added hastily, smiling at her. He held her hand just a few moments too long, and she let him. John looked back and forth between the two of them, and had to cover a smile.
That evening, John was humming as he reheated three-day-old pasta for his and Sherlock’s supper.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him from his perch on the kitchen table. “You seem to be in an unusually good mood. Generally, kidnappings make you tetchy.”
John frowned. “Kidnappings are terrible. Thank God we got there in time.” The microwave beeped. He pulled the dish out, stirred it a few times, then returned it for another minute. “That’s not why I’m in a good mood.”
“Why then?”
John couldn’t help a little nudge. “Can’t you deduce it?”
Sherlock grimaced, crossing his arms. “Just tell me,” he ordered. John took that as code for “No.”
He shrugged. “I guess it’s nice to have a reminder that there are such things as happy endings, sometimes.”
Sherlock grumbled something about “cryptic,” and slouched off to the sitting room, probably to sulk on the sofa. John hummed happily as he piled the pasta into two clean bowls, then topped Sherlock’s with a bit of nutritional yeast. Just in case.
<><><><><>
They met in one of those stuffy little cafés, the kind where the waiters ignore you because they think it’s more French. John arrived a bit late, a bit damp, and alone.
“No Sherlock?”
“Sorry, said he couldn’t leave his experiment.”
Harry arched a knowing eyebrow at him. “I can tell when you’re lying, you know. He thinks that I’m being an idiot, doesn’t he?”
John shrugged out of his wet jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. “He said that there are more than 1.3 billion people in China and that the likelihood of locating your name’s match in that communist sinkhole is about nil.”
Harry sat back, crossing her arms. John swallowed a sigh. He’d known her for nearly forty years, and he still couldn’t tell if that smile was real or pasted on. “Sorry, but you wanted the truth…”
“Don’t be an arse John, I’m not upset,” Harry replied, and she actually wasn’t. “You know what they say about the Watsons.”
“That we’re stubborn bastards?”
“That we never give up.” She leaned forward and plucked one of the fancy menus off the table. “You order the strawberry Martini with an orange twist. I want a sip.”
<><><><><>
It happened one scorching Sunday in July. There was a heat wave, and the air was hot and still in the flat, despite opening every window and door in hopes of a cross breeze. John had finally capitulated to Sherlock’s endless moaning and bought a fan. The two of them spent the day sprawled on the sofa, as close to the fan as they could physically get. Both were stripped to the waist, John in shorts. Even so, it was hot. Sherlock’s thick locks were soaked with perspiration and stuck to his forehead in a most unflattering manner. He kept trying to brush them off with quick, irritated swipes of his fingers, to no avail. John simply lolled against the sofa, trying to ignore the sticky, itchy feeling of sweat trickling down his arm and into his hand wrap.
“We’re out of tea.”
John groaned and scratched at the leather wrap. “Sherlock, why would anyone want tea in this weather?”
Sherlock paused. “Iced tea, then.”
“Get it yourself.”
Sherlock grunted and fell silent, staring out the window. He was probably trying to work out the best way to trick John into making a trip to Tesco. John let him think he had a chance.
He wriggled one finger under the edge of his hand wrap, scratching. It didn’t help. John sighed. He never thought he’d miss his army glove, but at least the microfiber was breathable and sweat-wicking. The leather just sat there, wet and uncomfortable against his palm. Fuck it, John thought. It’s not like he hasn’t seen it before.
He reached down and unbuttoned the wrap, letting it slip to the floor. John nearly moaned with relief as the cool air from the fan hit his hand. He let his eyes slide shut. Ahh, it was glorious.
“John, I was think-” Sherlock stopped abruptly.
John cracked open an eyelid. Sherlock was staring at him-no, Sherlock was staring at his hand, lying palm up and naked on the sofa between them. John fought the instinct to flip it over. There was no point in hiding it now.
“It’s not like you haven’t seen it before,” he said, a tad defensively. “And it’s too hot for leather.”
Sherlock pulled his eyes away from John’s hand so slowly he seemed almost reluctant. “Is it?” he murmured thoughtfully.
They had never spoken about names, not after that night. It was one of those taboo subjects that friends always accrue after a while, things you know will press the other person’s buttons and vice versa. John was okay with that, he really was. He didn’t need to talk about every little thing. He was English, after all.
Sherlock stretched beside him, and John tried not to stare as lean muscles shifted beneath the damp, pallid skin. Sherlock paused for one second, arms still outstretched-and then, in one fluid movement, he pulled off his gloves.
John had to work very hard not to let his jaw drop.
“What?” If he hadn’t known the man better, he would’ve said Sherlock was nervous. “It’s too hot for leather, you said so yourself.”
John nodded dumbly, swallowing. It wasn’t that Sherlock’s hands were strange. They were actually quite pretty: long, slender fingers and slightly knobby knuckles, the skin even paler than the rest of him from lack of sunlight. His nails were perfect ovals, and John found himself wondering rather hysterically if Sherlock had ever gotten them manicured. “Nothing,” he said finally. “It’s fine.”
Sherlock let his hands fall to his lap, where they rested lightly on his trouser-clad thighs, palms down. “You want to see them,” Sherlock stated, watching his face.
“See what?”
“My names,” Sherlock replied.
Names?
Before John could respond, Sherlock flipped his hands over. John’s eyes fell instantly upon the writing instantly.
There were two. Names, that is-if they could be called names. On the left, in black letters so sharp and clear they might have been printed, was the word “NO.” On the right, in matching font, was “NOMI.”
John felt confusion and disappointment uncurl in his gut, followed immediately by annoyance. He’s known they didn’t match already, why was he reacting like this? He licked his lips, hoping desperately that his feelings hadn’t shown on his face. “I’ve never seen-I mean, it’s unusual…”
Sherlock let out a long breath, and John suddenly realized he’d been holding it. “You’re disappointed.”
John winced. “I’m not. Really,” he added, catching Sherlock’s disbelieving look. “They’re nice. Nice, um…handwriting.”
“Block capitals?” Sherlock sounded amused.
“Well. They’re very legible, aren’t they?”
Sherlock chuckled. John looked up at him, relieved, but the smile was already fading from the detective’s face, and he looked pensively back down at his hands. “I meant what I said, before. You are disappointed.” His fingers curled in on themselves, not quite enough to cover the words. “You expected something different.”
John paused, but he owed Sherlock the truth-or at least, a version of it. “I’d thought…perhaps, Molly…” he admitted, rubbing his own hand along the top of his knee.
Sherlock snorted. “Molly? Surely not.”
Molly. Yet another topic they didn’t talk about. John frowned, anger nipping at the surface of his thoughts. “Why not? She was lovely. And she did so much for you.”
Thankfully, Sherlock didn’t roll his eyes, but his exasperation showed. “I get it,” he said in a bored tone. “She had my name, and people do things for you because they have a name match. You’ve said.”
“No, you idiot.” John stared at him. “People do things for you because they love you.”
Sherlock shut his mouth with an audible click.
“And Molly,” John continued, his eyes locked on Sherlock, “definitely loved you.”
Sherlock stared back at him, unblinking, with an intensity only matched by the focus he applied to crime scenes and dead bodies. John felt a shiver pass through the hair on the back of his neck, despite the heat. He gritted his teeth and ploughed ahead. “Love is…well, it’s complicated. People usually fall in love with their name matches. Not always, but often enough that it’s expected. But they don’t fall in love because they’re name matches, you know? It’s just that it turns out that way, most of the time.” John rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, struggling to find the right words. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that people fall in love, name match or not,” he shrugged inarticulately. “Matching someone and loving them aren’t the same thing.”
Sherlock was still watching him, but his expression had changed. It wasn’t softer, per se, but perhaps more vulnerable-as if the jagged edges of his thoughts, normally coated in a layer of sneering arrogance, had been laid bare and delicate before John. When Sherlock next spoke, the words cut the air like broken glass. “Could you love someone who isn’t your match, John?”
John opened his mouth, but there seemed to be nothing in his lungs to use for speaking. It occurred to him that it really wouldn’t take much movement at all for them to kiss.
But neither of them moved, and for a few minutes the only sound in the flat was the incessant whirring of the fan and the ticking of the clock on the bookcase. Then Sherlock shifted on the sofa, bringing his right hand up to wipe his fringe off his face, and the moment seemed to pass.
John bit his lip, the sudden desire to get up and do something warring with a general feeling of heat-induced sloth. Perhaps iced tea wasn’t such a bad idea after all. He was about suggest something of the kind, when Sherlock spoke again.
“No one could figure out what they mean.”
“What?” John said blankly.
“My names,” Sherlock replied, his gaze fixed on the wall opposite. His hands twitched open again on his lap, as though daring John to take another look. He frowned down at the letters. No nomi…
“As you know, having two names is abnormal,” Sherlock continued tensely. His hands rose from his lap to punctuate his speech with sharp, spiky gestures. “Let alone two unidentifiable, potentially foreign, words. Some of the specialists just thought they were simply nonsense words, indicating retardation, but Mummy didn’t like that. She thought they were Italian. No nomi means ‘no names’ in Italian-”
The sound of the words spoken aloud in Sherlock’s deep voice stirred something in John’s memory. His eyes widened in realization.
“Sherlock.”
“-which would fit my overall profile of a sociopath.”
“Sherlock.”
“Alternatively, they could be Japanese, but then there’s the question of why they’re not in kanji…”
“Sherlock!”
John grabbed Sherlock’s windmilling hands and crossed them, palms up, right over left. Sherlock stared down in stunned silence. John thanked god (for the first and probably last time in his life) for those Latin classes he’d been tricked into taking during secondary school.
Sherlock swallowed, glancing at John. “John,” he called softly, like a question.
“Yes, exactly,” John answered, and kissed him.
NOMINO | nōmĭno (v.) from NOMINARE
I. to call by name, to name, to give a name to
Fin.