They named him William.
It was his name for less than a year - even before his baby language began to approximate English (and grandmere's French, and da's classical Latin) - before it became apparent that nothing so pedestrian as Will or Bill, or even the whole of it, William, would do.
Sherlock had been an afterthought when he was born, a great uncle's name found inside an old box of books only a week before, added in partly for nostalgia and partly for the way it rolled off the tongue - but mostly to appease a seven year old saddled with Mycroft. But it fit.
William Sherlock Scott, mummy would tut when he tried, and very nearly succeeded, diving off his smart little changing table for the third time in one day. The middle name had just the right number of syllables and sibilants for that sort of tutting.
Sherrrrlo-ck, Mycroft would murmur, as he plied the curious child with toys and games - not approaching too closely, mind, lest there be a mess - fascinated by this developing mind, this small person, his own little brother. Sherlock, a name not entirely like his own, but similarly unlike any other. He looked up the meaning of the name - blond haired - and suspects his little brother is simply being contrary with his dark curls.
Sherl my boy, daddy would rumble, shuffling through his endless stacks of bedtime adventures. He's the one responsible for Mycroft, after all.
By the time they had any substantial interactions with other children their own age (and what a shock that was!) he was quite firmly Sherlock Holmes and no one else. Sherlock was the name on his grave stone, the name he walked away from for nearly three years… the name he'd finally, finally, finally come back to.
But they named him William, and all of a sudden it seemed strange that John didn't know.
And so: "William Sherlock Scott Holmes. That's the whole of it, if you were looking for baby names."
