The Tradition
It was a cold, rainy day in June in London. In what appeared an ordinary though fittingly damp, dark flat a small, blonde man lay comfortably digesting the Times on the tattered settee, which had occasional acid stains form his flatmates many "experiments". He lay there happily reading the sport which he shamefully was more interested in than politics or crime (though who did you think he was a Holmes?) and muttering something incomprehensible possibly like "S'posed to be summer. You'd never believe it - would you?"
In fact, John was rather enjoying the dull, normal mood as he enjoyed his tea, the beautiful British weather and the normality (which he assumed would be deemed - God forbid - BORING by his brilliant though at the same time infantile flat mate). You see John knew that these beautiful moments of normality were made more beautiful by their rarity and so he enjoyed them when they came.
However, peace was to be broken by the size 13 feet marching up the 17 steps to the flat. Slamming the door open and muttering under his breath about: "Bloody postmen. All I wanted to know was whether I could measure his feet to see the correlation between walking long distances and its effect. Honestly some people are so rude…" and other such nonsense, the 6ft man was the epitome of anger and irritation.
John decided to ignore this comment knowing if he did he would be in for a lecture on the issues with the postal system today because his flat-mate was in one of those moods.
Sherlock, realising John was not taking the bait, began searching through the mail. Red nail paint on letter. Upper class firm with an evidently bored secretary. White envelope for John. Official stamp. Bill from a company wishing to seem caring and not too formal. Must be a building society. Little envelope so an invite. No outer evidence. Must be off Mycroft. Ooh my name on means I can open it after our "NEEDED" flatmate, personal space discussion with John. I say discussion. More like lecture.
Sherlock quickly opened the envelope and groaned. Now John's interest truly and completely piqued asked:
"What's Mycroft done now? Not another knighthood, I hope?"
Sherlock sneered "No. Much worse. He's asked - no demanded - that I be godfather to his daughter."
Incredulous John asked, "HIS daughter. You mean he's not, well not … well a" John searched for the best way of putting it, "A permanent bachelor like you"
Confusion clouded the taller man's bright blue eyes. "What do you mean a permanent bachelor like me? I'm not a bachelor. I'm your boyfrie-." Looking at John's raised eyebrow, Sherlock finally realised. "When you say permanent bachelor do you mean an euphemism for being gay?"
When John hit his forehead with his left hand, Sherlock decided that the answer was yes. My, he evidently had much to learn about his own language.
John, politely observing the facial expression which meant he would probably not get a word out his -well you may as well know now- boyfriend for an age otherwise, decided to break the awkward silence.
"What's her name?"
"O Faith." The dark haired man suddenly began to snigger. "Trust Mycroft to stick to that. He always was a stickler for tradition."
It was now John's eyes turn to be clouded over with confusion - and a little, just a little you understand- interest. "What tradition?"
"Oh there's an old tradition in the Holmes family. Children are always named after an ancestor. Probably maintaining our good family status." His last words were sneered at much like the reaction he has to a certain forensic scientist.
Ignoring the elephant in the room, the good doctor asked the obvious question: "So who are you named after?"
"Oh some relative who lived in London around the turn of the century. He was a bit of a black sheep by all accounts. He was a detective I think. Didn't go down well. He should have had a governmental job like his brother was the general consensus. Oh! My dear John, why have you dropped that mug? I liked that mug!"
Indeed in the five minutes since the conversation had started, John had begun the necessary but deadly operation called by those fools who don't understand its perils "Washing-up". Watson and Holmes knew it as "the curse" or "not me". But after hearing the words from Sherlock's mouth, John had just let his fingers slip in shock and disbelief.
"Sherlock do be serious you cannot be on about THE Sherlock Holmes. You know world's only consultant detective? 22B Baker Street? Violin at 3am? Drug habit? … Actually you must be related. There aren't that many nutters in the world. It's just I always thought he was fictitious. S'pose not the first time I've been wrong is it?"
The tall man gracefully manoeuvred the table and putting his arms around the good doctor, rested his head on his shoulder and gently kissed his cheek. Then gently nuzzling his boyfriend's blonde hair replied,
"Nor hopefully the last. But how did you know about my namesake? I only found out through my Nana May and she only told me because she thought it best to warn me from taking that improper path. How did you know?"
Chuckling John replied "I told you, you had to read my book collection. In order mind you. Study in Scarlet first!"
A few hours later, when Sherlock had devoured the novels in interest and successfully avoided answering Mycroft's invitation, John just looked at him with a look of interest and then an amused smile.
"Whatever have I done now? Look it's not my fault I didn't know the difference between the Smiths and Queen. I didn't realise I was being tested did I?"
"I still can't believe you've never heard "Charming Man" or "Good Old Fashioned Loverboy". Both describe you well you know. But that's not why I'm smiling."
"Then what is it?"
Gesturing to the book in Sherlock's hand, John smiled and said:
"I wonder if my family had a similar tradition?"