Standard Disclaimer: I'm borrowing real historical people, and making up a few to fill things out. I own very little, but you are very welcome to sue me for my debt to my graduate school. In fact, save the lawyer costs, I'll give it to you for the asking.
Inspired by a myriad of things, but I would be remiss not to mention Ash10 and her stories which first prompted my thinking of Wyatt's use of Doc's given name. Also, I should mention that much of this idea first came to me when I (after learning of Doc's ability to play piano) listened to Billy Joel's "Piano Man" one too many times.
He Called Me John
By Rebel Yell
He called me John. Well, truthfully he had called me Johnny, a name which I had never tolerated being applied to my person and truly detested, but still, that was all it took. A man I'd known briefly in Texas - just long enough to aid, evidently, in his pursuit of Rudabaugh - and followed to Kansas on his descriptions of a town without dentist, and with plenty of gambling possibilities. Dodge City was a place I could make a living in, a solid living. Perhaps, I might even keep myself and Kate in true style. That was my thought, when we left Texas for a more northerly clime.
I'd purposefully encountered him on the streets, letting him know that I was in town, that Kate was with me, and that I'd be hanging out my shingle again. Figuratively, of course, as I had never had a literal 'shingle' to hang. He was friendly, remembering me well, and we sat to drinks. I have few friends here on the frontier, among these rough, hard men. I suppose I now have few friends in Georgia as well, having been absent from my native country so long. So, I took no small amount of pleasure in sharing his company more evenings than not, plying my trade in the Long Branch Saloon he so favored. I even tolerated the Yankee-minded little braggart Masterson who toted along behind him so often. Masterson was amusing, his pranks were truly entertaining, but I found his disdain for me both judgmental and aggravating. I haven't the smallest idea what I did to earn his dislike…ah, perhaps I have. But it is hardly my fault that the man wears the most ungainly of headwear, and does not take well to my commentary upon it. Yankees have little sense of style at any rate.
Wyatt Earp had become a friend, someone I looked forward to seeing daily. He had also become a patient - I did not lack them in Dodge for being the only dentist in town, most overlooked my occasional coughing bout. Necessity, after all, can make a man overlook much. We gambled together, joked together, and even occasionally kept the peace together, although that was his occupation and an accidental pastime for myself. So it was that when a fellow gambler had announced that Wyatt was leaving for the evening, I excused myself from the game currently in progress, and went to say my 'good evenings'. My mother, bless her, did insist on such proprieties and if I only remembered them when convenient, well at least I employed those manners on occasion.
Seeing that Wyatt was distracted by a gentleman speaking to him, I paused a moment at the doorway, and caught a glance of the man in the shadows, gun drawn and taking aim at my friend. Never one to allow such a rare luxury to be taken from me, I selfishly opted to preserve the life of Wyatt Earp. Announcing my presence, warning Wyatt, and my pistol brought to bear on the shadowed man solved the situation, and both men (evidently in league to murder the deputy marshal) were promptly arrested. Wyatt financed several drinks for me over the next few days, and I suppose he considered us friends from that point. He would later state that, for him, that incident in Dodge was the reason for our friendship at least.
For myself, it came several days later. Kate and I were having one of our periodic squabbles - the woman can be absolutely beyond all reason - and I took refuge in the Long Branch. This led to my placing some ill-considered wagers with various acquaintances there. Most notable amongst those was in a poker game dealt by Masterson, which cost me an evenings profit in order to amuse my companions with my piano-playing skills. That such skills were known to my fellow players at all I could blame solely on Wyatt, who had heard me play in Texas, and insisted that I wager my skills (as they were all somewhat poorer than I, we were not betting money that evening). I am familiar with the usual saloon fare, but rarely play it as I prefer the music I learned as a youth. Additionally, it serves to impress the ladies, and I do enjoy impressing the ladies. So, all in all, it was slightly embarrassing to be put on display in such a manner, but not a particularly unpleasant bet to lose. Mother insisted I play proficiently, and I learned much of it during her illness, as the music seemed to cheer her. I doubt she intended that I should use the skill to impress such citizens as surrounded me then, in a saloon in a Kansas cow-town. Ah, the vagaries of fate.
I digress, I suppose, and ought now to return to the essence of the tale. At any rate, I had played for some time, concentrating on the livelier tunes to fit the atmosphere, as several patrons had complained earlier when I began a nocturne. Early in my amateur concert, Masterson had erected a tip jar on the top of the piano, and the little Yankee kept dropping nickels and dimes in it, always with little comments that were probably meant to be jokes, but which I found increasingly patronizing and aggravating. It was tolerable mostly because other saloon patrons had been far more generous, and I finished the evening with a decent amount - no where near what a profitable night at the tables might bring, but still not a total loss. Wyatt himself even found a dollar to drop in the jar (after having professed, along with his fellow peace-keepers, to be broke hence the wagering of such ridiculous things as piano-playing), and it was then that he first spoke my name. Well, near enough I suppose, although I did later ask that he never again call me by the bastardization of my given name he then invoked.
" Play on, Johnny." He announced, having found out my Christian name by nefarious means - reading over my shoulder when the latest missive from my dear cousin arrived. Even Kate did not call me by my name, and it had been long years since I'd last heard it spoken aloud in my direction. At that moment, he was my friend. All it took, really, was his acknowledgement, however small, that I was not just 'Doc' - I had a name, a past, a life beyond the small reputation I'd garnered somewhat accidentally. Masterson, as always hanging about Wyatt, took it up, calling me Johnny a few times that evening mostly to aggravate me I'm sure, but soon reverting to 'Doc' as everyone else called me. Wyatt did as well, probably both because John was hardly an uncommon name and that I never used but my initials myself - I had left John Henry behind with my health, and the promise I had seen for a fine future as a dentist in Atlanta. Still, at a few choice times over the ensuing years and the mess that came with it, he would call me by my given name. His final words to me, in this life at least, were 'Goodbye, John'. It was enough.
He was the only one, the only one in New Mexico, in Arizona, in Colorado, who called me by my name. I was asked once, by Masterson in Colorado, why I did all that I did for Wyatt Earp. I simply replied that he was my friend - an answer that both satisfied and stumped the man. The truth was perhaps harder for anyone else to understand, so I kept it to myself - He called me John.
The End