The Problem with Sign Names Chap. 2
Moving in with a Deaf (1) man was always going to be a weird experience; John thought he'd simply have to get used to the dog and alarms that lit up rather than buzzed.
Otherwise the flat would be pretty normal.
If John had ever been wrong, he was most certainly wrong now.
The flat was a mess. Already the windows were half filled with handwritten notes and dog-eared journals, at risk of damp. And the books.
Don't get John started on the books. Books filled the shelves, balanced precariously on top of boxes, presumably filled with more books; they balanced in piles up to a meter high beside the fireplace.
The low coffee table was already seemingly buckling under the weight of reams of hand-written notes and photocopies of typewritten ones. A box balanced on an old, brown chair was filled with vinyl records, all classical by the looks of it. Pictures hung from the walls, ranging from artsy graphic prints of skulls to the types of paintings that were most likely to be found hanging in a charity shop.
A lamp perched on an end table between the sofa and the armchair, looking strangely modern with its chic shade and mirrored base. It contrasted with strange obviousness that John was unused to. Like finding a Mac in Victorian London (there was a laptop, open on the writing desk, but this wasn't, quite, Victorian London, although one could be forgiven for mistaking it so to be.)
The kitchen had been transformed into a lab, glassware filled with various chemicals and a pipette balanced precariously over a beaker that appeared to be full of, and John could only pray he was wrong, hydrogen peroxide if the label on the beaker was anything to go by, littered the dining table. The kitchen looked like it had come straight out of the 40's, ivy coloured tiling, stained parquet flooring covered in a grubby rag-rug. A long, fluorescent light hung over the table, providing the perfect light. A clotheshorse was propped up at the back of the room unexplainably.
"It's nice, very nice," he trailed of, giving a limp thumbs up. Sherlock smirked at his attempt at signing, but nodded in response nonetheless.
"Messy," he added.
The other man's mouth formed a small "o" and John was sure if he were the type to blush, then he would have. He darted around the room, brushing loose sheets of paper in messy piles, stabbing an ornate letter opener through the mail into the soft wood of the fireplace mantel.
John noted the skull for the first time, up until now it had been lost amidst the rest of the bizarre knick-knacks that the brunette possessed.
"Skull," John said as soon as the man had turned back to face him. He thrust his arm out, gesturing to it as if Sherlock would think he was referring to something else.
The man only laughed, nodding.
He paused, watching John very carefully, eyes boring into the doctor. John shifted uncomfortably under the strength of his gaze, turning on his heel to fuss around with a box that looked very close to the point of tipping off the stool.
"Friend."
The voice was low, baritone in quality, slightly husky from lack of use. His 'r' went unpronounced and 'd' was over-enunciated. But it was understandable.
"You speak?" John asked, whipping back around to watch the man who looked even more embarrassed than he did earlier, awkward and, almost, shy.
"Obviously. One must fit in with the 'normal' people. You understand, I hope?" he asked, tentatively, almost scared that John would mock how he spoke. Throughout this his hands still moved, although not as fluidly, just the occasional sign scattered in.
"Yes, yes. Your speech is fine," John lied. It was understandable, but it was slurred and some of the words didn't form correctly. Like someone of a foreign tongue reading an English book out loud for their first time, but in a hurry. John cringed inwardly as he realised how much mocking the man would get for speech like that from most of the population.
Sherlock just scoffed in response, but looked slightly proud. Or maybe John was just imaging that.
"My family insisted that I learn to speak. I didn't want to, I was happy being Deaf," he went on to explain. "Years of speech therapy. I loathed it. The syntax irritated me as a child. Very different from sign language, you see."
"Did your family sign?"
"Yes, except my father. All the household staff were Level 1 in BSL. They used to call me," here he bought his hand to his forehead in the sign that John recognised as Devil Horns sign from rock concerts as a university student, "when they thought I was too irksome. It means 'devil'. They thought I was too noisy," he huffed out a humourless laugh.
John just smiled politely, unsure what to say.
The room fell into an awkward stillness.
"The records?" John asked lamely, pointing over to the nestled in the chair.
"My mother's. Sometimes I can feel the music, if the bass is very loud. She used to try to get me to feel it as a child. Gave them to me when I left for university," he smiled, as if reminiscing upon fond childhood memories.
John was reminded of his own childhood, where Harry had tried to learn how to play the drums and failed miserably, leaving the Watson family low on paracetamol. His own mother had encouraged John to learn how to play clarinet in secondary school, although John had admittedly been more tempted by the pretty flutist then his mother's pleas.
Sherlock must have a drastically different upbringing.
There was a deaf boy in John's class, back when he was about 10. He never signed; John didn't know if he could.
He spoke poorly and both students and teachers had struggled to understand what he said. John's best friend at the time, Henry, had tried befriending the boy but after several failed attempts at communication had resorted to teasing and mocking the child. The rest of his classmates had joined in, and after 3 months the boy had been pulled out of the school in order to be home-schooled. It had bothered John at the time, but he didn't want to be seen with The Idiot Deaf Boy. Thinking back on it now, John was filled with guilt and remorse.
The sound of a phone vibrating shook John out of his shameful memories, and he eyes darted over to Sherlock who was fishing in his back pocket before pulling out a smart looking iPhone.
He read the text quickly, tapping out a quick reply with dexterous fingers.
"My brother is here," he said, looking back over at John.
Before John could ever come up with a somewhat decent response a man appeared at the doorway, umbrella hooked in the crook of his elbow, hands already darting about in that strange, fluid movement that still amazed John.
This bizarre dance of the hands continued for a few more seconds before the man turned to study John closely.
"You don't sign, Sherlock tells me," he said, looking irritatingly smug as he did. His hands never once relented in their movement, despite him having to change his normal speech pacing to fit around it.
"Urm, no, no I don't," John answered. The man seemingly interpreted this information back to Sherlock.
"I hope you don't mind me interpreting for you, John. Lip-reading is hardly an accurate science and it's rather exhausting," said the man, glancing briefly over at his brother who's gaze was flickering between the man and John, eyes alight and curious. (2)
"Um, no, no, that's fine. Tell him I'm sorry," John responded, awkward in such a situation.
The man laughed, short and harsh.
"My, my, you're not used to this are you John? You can tell Sherlock you're sorry yourself, it is considered rude otherwise."
"Oh, right, yeah, of course. Sorry Sherlock, this can't be easy, I suppose," John apologised, turning around to face Sherlock who seemed amused.
Sherlock's hands started moving in a mess of shapes that John wasn't sure could ever make words or sentences, never mind statements and speeches.
"He finds you amusing, and I have to say I agree. My name is Mycroft, by the way. I am Sherlock's elder brother."
"Yes, he mentioned. That you were his older brother, that is."
"Of course. He'd probably refer to me as," Mycroft crooked his two index fingers, curving upwards, placing his right fist over his left before moving it upwards, "It was the name he gave me soon after he started university. It means 'umbrella'. I'm sure he has far more…unsatisfactory terms for me now."
Sherlock smirked over at the man, cupping a hand over his forehead and moving outwards, almost like he was demonstrating the concept of a unicorn horn. Mycroft glared over at him.
"It does not mean unicorn, John," he informed the doctor, and John could tell from his interpretation that unicorn did indeed end up with a closed fist, "I'm sure your imagination can provide you with an answer, or Sherlock could tell you. Dare I ask John, has Sherlock told you of his name?"
John nodded, hesitantly imitating the sign that the curly-haired man had shown him earlier.
Mycroft looked on in distaste, turning on his heel back to his brother. Words were momentarily forgotten for Mycroft's agitated signing and Sherlock's languid, yet somehow still irritated, responses.
"Are you aware of how a sign name works, John?"
"No, not really. It's a nickname, of sorts, I think."
"Yes, I suppose it is of sorts. Every type of sign language will have different rules regarding sign names, as far as I am aware in ASL the sign name must be an initial and area of which you are from. (3) Much like how the name "Leonardo di Vinci" means "Leonardo from Vinci". In BSL the sign name is more creative, based on a certain trait or obvious characteristic. They change throughout the years, Sherlock insisted on using the sign for 'fat'," Mycroft puffed out his cheeks, thumbs pointing out from his sternum before going around to his side as if imitating a large pot-belly "regarding me as a child. We called him 'curly'," he curved all his fingers inwards into a claw shape and put both palms to either side of his head moving downwards in wiggling, wavy movement, "in regards to his hair. Tell me, John, have you any idea what his current sign name that he uses for himself means?"
John shook his head.
Mycroft nodded, looking mildly smug. He always seemed to look smug, even in a language so expressive. Like the cat that had gotten the metaphorical cream.
"It means 'freak', he acquired it in university. Still, it is better than some other names he had," he ended with distaste.
Sherlock looked irritated now, curving his forefinger, fisting the rest of his fingers; he dug his finger into his inner forearm, sliding upwards slightly.
Almost as if he was shooting up.
Mycroft recoiled slightly and John couldn't miss the slight pleasure that Sherlock seemed to take in upsetting his brother.
"Yes, Sherlock, that is exactly what I meant and you know it," he muttered.
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1) A capital 'D' in 'deaf' means that the person is a member of the deaf community. Basically they sign. I didn't just take a fancy.
2) Lip-reading is tiring work, far from an exact science. The most experienced lip-reader can only ever pick up about 30% of the conversation so a lot of it is based of context.
3) I'm not 100% certain about the ASL name thing. That what I remember being told a while ago. Also that only deaf people can give you your name.
If anyone has any questions then please PM me.
Out of interest, did anyone watch Switched at Birth recently? It may be in ASL, but I kinda like it.
Huge thank you for reading and please review because this story is going a bit haywire and people criticising it would be a fantastic help.
The next chapter will be up very soon, for once!