The Problem with Sign Names Chap. 4
Mycroft soon left, after making sure Sherlock was caring for Conan, the smart looking service dog John had met earlier, and ultimately not forgetting to feed the poor thing. (1)
That is, at least, how John had interpreted the entire event. After the customary introductions had been made and Mycroft had seemingly approved of John (why exactly was a reason that John had yet to figure out) he had seemed to lose all interest in the blonde haired man, instead reverting all of his attention back to his raven-haired sibling with a renewed vigor.
Their conversations took place through surprisingly loud communication. Sign language was a unexpectedly noisy form of communication, peacefulness accentuated by slapping of hands, smacking of lips and stamping feet. Try as he might, John struggled to keep up by only using facial expressions (although he had to suppress a laugh when Mycoft's previously serious face twisted into one of cynical, manic glee) and he instead chose to occupy himself by flicking through the piles of books that balanced precariously on each available surface, not all of which were flat, either.
Books on medicine that John remembered from his university days, books on forensic sciences, books written in languages that John barely recognized, dictionaries of BNZSL's (2) , books on history and science and art and geology. John eyes paused in their exploration as he noted, with slight confusion, two thin books of sheet music.
He slowly pulled one out of its niche, unsure if his apparent new roommate would be bothered by his nosiness.
The book seemed to be aimed at a child, a young child beginning to learn a new instrument. It was baby-blue in colour, with a cartoon drawing of an owl playing a fiddle on the front.
Flicking open to the first page he noticed the words "Sherlock Holmes" written in dark, inky, spidery script. The first few pages were covered in small penciled-in notes along the staves of music and tattered violin fingering charts.
The doctor was so engrossed in his new discovery he didn't notice the taller man creep up behind him.
A long, pale hand appeared on his elbow and John jerked back in shock.
Sherlock jerked back, as if he had been burnt, blushing awkwardly, a painfully apologetic expression on his face and his right fist making circular motions on his chest.
"Um, no, sorry. I'm just being nosy," John finished lamely, tapping the side of his nose as to emphasise what he meant.
He lifted one hand up, giving the 'okay' sign, smiling cautiously. He carefully cleared his throat before continuing orally.
"My brother, he's left," he croaked out.
"Oh, right, okay. Yeah. He seems…nice. Enough," John said, trying to turn his embarrassment into a bit of a joke.
Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards in amusement, his eyes drawn towards the book in John's hands.
The shy smile disappeared, replaced with a look of questioning and caution.
"It's yours?" John questioned, pushing the book towards him to illustrate his point.
A quick nod. No change in expression, just careful and precise analytical calculation.
"You play? Even though you're deaf?"
A shake of the head now, tossing those dark curls wildly.
"Right…" the doctor said, shoving the music book back amidst the shelf.
"I wasn't born deaf. I was hearing until I was three. I started violin lessons shortly before that," came the stuttering voice again.
"Oh, right, yes, of course. Do you mind me asking how? I mean, I get it if you don't, sorry, I'll shut up now. None of my business-"
"Meningitis with complications. My cochlear is dead, no implant. I was left with a nanny, inexperienced. I was a fussy child, she didn't notice a difference," he finished with a smirk, as if the whole thing was a bit funny, really, but you simply had to be there.
John hadn't been there.
This whole discussion was quickly brought to a halt.
"Sherlock!" a loud voice bellowed up the stairs.
Conan, the small cocker spaniel, now free of his burgundy coat, jumped up, bouncing over to Sherlock. He jumped onto the man, tapping a paw against the man's leg before rushing to the doorway, looking from Sherlock to the man approaching up the stairs with bright, intelligent eyes.
Sherlock darted across to the doorway, grinning widely when he saw who it was.
A silver-haired man appeared at the entrance, nodding quickly over at John before turning straight to Sherlock, who was watching with keen interest, positively vibrating with unseen energy.
The man made a short sign, somewhat similar to the shower-scene from the film Psycho. John half expected the infamous "eek-eek-eek" followed by a sign that, most likely, meant the number '3'.
Sherlock's grin was now capable of splitting his face into two.
The silver-haired man thrust forward a sheet of paper with handwritten notes, obviously aimed at Sherlock before turning to John, making a series of awkward gestures.
"What?"
"Oh, shit, sorry, I thought you were deaf," the grey-haired man bumbled, looking confused at this new turn on events.
"No, I'm not. Obviously. Somewhat. John, John Watson," he offered, extending his hand.
The man took it, giving it a brief, if firm, shake before dropping it.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade. Sherlock here is our best man, so I'm gonna have to steal him from you for a while," he said, throwing a look over his shoulder to Sherlock who had seemed to finish reading his note and was now donning a heavy, charcoal coloured coat.
Sherlock made an impatient gesture towards Lestrade and the DI simply rolled his eyes before dashing out of the building.
The taller man stood by the door, knotting his scarf around his neck when he looked over to John.
"I'm a detective. Consultant."
"Consultant?"
"Yes. They sign my name for the job. Invented it, only one in the world." (3)
"What is it, exactly?"
"The police are idiots. When they get stuck or botch up, which happens more often than you imaging, they come to me, for help."
"Couldn't you not just be, I dunno, a detective?"
"I'm deaf. They don't want deaf coppers."
"Oh," John faltered. He hadn't known this, although, he supposed, it made sense. The world wasn't always fair.
They both knew that.
Sherlock bent down to strap up Conan, wrapping him in the burgundy jacket again, the dog putting up no sign of a struggle.
"Later, John," he said, smiling awkwardly once again, before bounding nosily down the stairs and slamming the door behind him.
John threw himself down onto the worn out armchair, huffing out a long tired breath.
He felt exhausted already and he'd only been with the man a few hours.
He dated a French exchange student for a very brief amount of time, when he was taking his A-Levels. She had soon demoted them both to friendship, after declaring the language barrier was "just too much". To be quite crudely honest, John hadn't cared much for their chats and philosophical debates. Their relationship had meant a completely different thing to him.
But this was his flatmate, not some pretty foreign girl that he could satisfy with a kiss and a cuddle. Although that wouldn't be unbearab- John shook himself, as his unwatched thoughts took an unexpected twist in exactly the wrong direction.
He coughed awkwardly, as if to expel the thought from his mind, short fingers drumming against the threadbare arm of the chair, his other hand resuming it's almost automatic massage of his thigh, a vain attempt to dispel the twisted, hot pain that resided deep within the rectus femoris muscle.
The front door slammed again and John recognised Sherlock's heavy footsteps, echoed by a much lighter scattering of paws.
"John?" the man called, although it didn't quite have the same intonation as a question. Another skill the man hadn't quite mastered during his years of speech therapy.
John stood up, the pain in his leg temporarily forgotten in the presence of this new man.
The doctor nodded, quick and sharp.
"You've seen a lot of deaths, messy ones."
John wasn't sure if it was meant a statement or not, so he nodded, just to be sure.
"Yes, I have. Too many," John elaborated when Sherlock did not seem satisfied with his nod, tilting his head forward, eyebrows knitted. (4)
"Want to see more?"
For a split second John could only think of "no!", as images of deaths and pain and blood and wounds flooded his mind.
Then he saw this man, whose face seemed to express everything he ever thought yet still seemed strangely closed off, all traces of emotion wiped off in a millisecond.
This man, who was quite possibly a genius, if a bit mad (then again, weren't all genii supposedly mad?).
This man, this tall, eccentric, bundle of energy that at least mimicked a man, was asking him, John Watson, crippled an bitter and quite frankly lonely, was asking for his help.
So the heaved "Oh God, yes." That was emitted involuntarily from his lips was not altogether unjustified.
John Watson was, he thought with self-loathing as he trekked after the mad man and his dog, John Watson and his third metal leg, was easily flattered.
Far too easily flattered.
But what of it?
____________________
(1) This is kind of based upon he "phrase" for "dead dog". Which makes me laugh uncontrollably every time. Anyone that I have taught BSL to will know this. It is one of the first things I will show them.
(2) BNZL's is the language group to which BSl belongs to. It also includes Ausland(Australian Sign Language) and NZSL (New Zealand Sign Language). I think Auslan and BSL share 92% of it's vocabulary, or something like that.
(3) He's just that bloody cool.
(4) Interesting fact; if the signer tilts their head back with eyebrows raised it is either a rhetorical question or they only want a yes/no answer, and not your life story. If it's tilted forward with eyebrows knitted, they want more details.
As always reviews, I really do thrive of them. And questions. Yay for questions :D
Thank you all very much for reading and I hope you enjoyed it to a certain extent!
That is, at least, how John had interpreted the entire event. After the customary introductions had been made and Mycroft had seemingly approved of John (why exactly was a reason that John had yet to figure out) he had seemed to lose all interest in the blonde haired man, instead reverting all of his attention back to his raven-haired sibling with a renewed vigor.
Their conversations took place through surprisingly loud communication. Sign language was a unexpectedly noisy form of communication, peacefulness accentuated by slapping of hands, smacking of lips and stamping feet. Try as he might, John struggled to keep up by only using facial expressions (although he had to suppress a laugh when Mycoft's previously serious face twisted into one of cynical, manic glee) and he instead chose to occupy himself by flicking through the piles of books that balanced precariously on each available surface, not all of which were flat, either.
Books on medicine that John remembered from his university days, books on forensic sciences, books written in languages that John barely recognized, dictionaries of BNZSL's (2) , books on history and science and art and geology. John eyes paused in their exploration as he noted, with slight confusion, two thin books of sheet music.
He slowly pulled one out of its niche, unsure if his apparent new roommate would be bothered by his nosiness.
The book seemed to be aimed at a child, a young child beginning to learn a new instrument. It was baby-blue in colour, with a cartoon drawing of an owl playing a fiddle on the front.
Flicking open to the first page he noticed the words "Sherlock Holmes" written in dark, inky, spidery script. The first few pages were covered in small penciled-in notes along the staves of music and tattered violin fingering charts.
The doctor was so engrossed in his new discovery he didn't notice the taller man creep up behind him.
A long, pale hand appeared on his elbow and John jerked back in shock.
Sherlock jerked back, as if he had been burnt, blushing awkwardly, a painfully apologetic expression on his face and his right fist making circular motions on his chest.
"Um, no, sorry. I'm just being nosy," John finished lamely, tapping the side of his nose as to emphasise what he meant.
He lifted one hand up, giving the 'okay' sign, smiling cautiously. He carefully cleared his throat before continuing orally.
"My brother, he's left," he croaked out.
"Oh, right, okay. Yeah. He seems…nice. Enough," John said, trying to turn his embarrassment into a bit of a joke.
Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards in amusement, his eyes drawn towards the book in John's hands.
The shy smile disappeared, replaced with a look of questioning and caution.
"It's yours?" John questioned, pushing the book towards him to illustrate his point.
A quick nod. No change in expression, just careful and precise analytical calculation.
"You play? Even though you're deaf?"
A shake of the head now, tossing those dark curls wildly.
"Right…" the doctor said, shoving the music book back amidst the shelf.
"I wasn't born deaf. I was hearing until I was three. I started violin lessons shortly before that," came the stuttering voice again.
"Oh, right, yes, of course. Do you mind me asking how? I mean, I get it if you don't, sorry, I'll shut up now. None of my business-"
"Meningitis with complications. My cochlear is dead, no implant. I was left with a nanny, inexperienced. I was a fussy child, she didn't notice a difference," he finished with a smirk, as if the whole thing was a bit funny, really, but you simply had to be there.
John hadn't been there.
This whole discussion was quickly brought to a halt.
"Sherlock!" a loud voice bellowed up the stairs.
Conan, the small cocker spaniel, now free of his burgundy coat, jumped up, bouncing over to Sherlock. He jumped onto the man, tapping a paw against the man's leg before rushing to the doorway, looking from Sherlock to the man approaching up the stairs with bright, intelligent eyes.
Sherlock darted across to the doorway, grinning widely when he saw who it was.
A silver-haired man appeared at the entrance, nodding quickly over at John before turning straight to Sherlock, who was watching with keen interest, positively vibrating with unseen energy.
The man made a short sign, somewhat similar to the shower-scene from the film Psycho. John half expected the infamous "eek-eek-eek" followed by a sign that, most likely, meant the number '3'.
Sherlock's grin was now capable of splitting his face into two.
The silver-haired man thrust forward a sheet of paper with handwritten notes, obviously aimed at Sherlock before turning to John, making a series of awkward gestures.
"What?"
"Oh, shit, sorry, I thought you were deaf," the grey-haired man bumbled, looking confused at this new turn on events.
"No, I'm not. Obviously. Somewhat. John, John Watson," he offered, extending his hand.
The man took it, giving it a brief, if firm, shake before dropping it.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade. Sherlock here is our best man, so I'm gonna have to steal him from you for a while," he said, throwing a look over his shoulder to Sherlock who had seemed to finish reading his note and was now donning a heavy, charcoal coloured coat.
Sherlock made an impatient gesture towards Lestrade and the DI simply rolled his eyes before dashing out of the building.
The taller man stood by the door, knotting his scarf around his neck when he looked over to John.
"I'm a detective. Consultant."
"Consultant?"
"Yes. They sign my name for the job. Invented it, only one in the world." (3)
"What is it, exactly?"
"The police are idiots. When they get stuck or botch up, which happens more often than you imaging, they come to me, for help."
"Couldn't you not just be, I dunno, a detective?"
"I'm deaf. They don't want deaf coppers."
"Oh," John faltered. He hadn't known this, although, he supposed, it made sense. The world wasn't always fair.
They both knew that.
Sherlock bent down to strap up Conan, wrapping him in the burgundy jacket again, the dog putting up no sign of a struggle.
"Later, John," he said, smiling awkwardly once again, before bounding nosily down the stairs and slamming the door behind him.
John threw himself down onto the worn out armchair, huffing out a long tired breath.
He felt exhausted already and he'd only been with the man a few hours.
He dated a French exchange student for a very brief amount of time, when he was taking his A-Levels. She had soon demoted them both to friendship, after declaring the language barrier was "just too much". To be quite crudely honest, John hadn't cared much for their chats and philosophical debates. Their relationship had meant a completely different thing to him.
But this was his flatmate, not some pretty foreign girl that he could satisfy with a kiss and a cuddle. Although that wouldn't be unbearab- John shook himself, as his unwatched thoughts took an unexpected twist in exactly the wrong direction.
He coughed awkwardly, as if to expel the thought from his mind, short fingers drumming against the threadbare arm of the chair, his other hand resuming it's almost automatic massage of his thigh, a vain attempt to dispel the twisted, hot pain that resided deep within the rectus femoris muscle.
The front door slammed again and John recognised Sherlock's heavy footsteps, echoed by a much lighter scattering of paws.
"John?" the man called, although it didn't quite have the same intonation as a question. Another skill the man hadn't quite mastered during his years of speech therapy.
John stood up, the pain in his leg temporarily forgotten in the presence of this new man.
The doctor nodded, quick and sharp.
"You've seen a lot of deaths, messy ones."
John wasn't sure if it was meant a statement or not, so he nodded, just to be sure.
"Yes, I have. Too many," John elaborated when Sherlock did not seem satisfied with his nod, tilting his head forward, eyebrows knitted. (4)
"Want to see more?"
For a split second John could only think of "no!", as images of deaths and pain and blood and wounds flooded his mind.
Then he saw this man, whose face seemed to express everything he ever thought yet still seemed strangely closed off, all traces of emotion wiped off in a millisecond.
This man, who was quite possibly a genius, if a bit mad (then again, weren't all genii supposedly mad?).
This man, this tall, eccentric, bundle of energy that at least mimicked a man, was asking him, John Watson, crippled an bitter and quite frankly lonely, was asking for his help.
So the heaved "Oh God, yes." That was emitted involuntarily from his lips was not altogether unjustified.
John Watson was, he thought with self-loathing as he trekked after the mad man and his dog, John Watson and his third metal leg, was easily flattered.
Far too easily flattered.
But what of it?
____________________
(1) This is kind of based upon he "phrase" for "dead dog". Which makes me laugh uncontrollably every time. Anyone that I have taught BSL to will know this. It is one of the first things I will show them.
(2) BNZL's is the language group to which BSl belongs to. It also includes Ausland(Australian Sign Language) and NZSL (New Zealand Sign Language). I think Auslan and BSL share 92% of it's vocabulary, or something like that.
(3) He's just that bloody cool.
(4) Interesting fact; if the signer tilts their head back with eyebrows raised it is either a rhetorical question or they only want a yes/no answer, and not your life story. If it's tilted forward with eyebrows knitted, they want more details.
As always reviews, I really do thrive of them. And questions. Yay for questions :D
Thank you all very much for reading and I hope you enjoyed it to a certain extent!