A/N: My thanks to KCS for a fascinating writing prompt!

Seriously AU... or is it?

By Any Other Name

A biting Sunday evening in the closing days of 1888 found me back in my old rooms at Baker Street, seated before a blazing fire, enjoying a quiet, after-dinner pipe in the company of Mr Sherlock Holmes. With my wife away visiting friends and dismayed with the prospect of enduring yet another meal alone, I had been seized with the greatest desire to see my old friend again and revisit those bachelor days that had seen us embark on many an adventure.

His response to my unexpected appearance on his doorstep was somewhat muted, and any man less acquainted with his habits might have been discouraged. Knowing him as well as I did, however, I fancied he was glad to see me, if only because he immediately sang out for Mrs Hudson and informed her that there would be two for dinner.

With this most cursory of welcomes, we had fallen back into our familiar routine, and I had taken my old seat by the fireside with accustomed ease. Holmes's mood remained less than effusive, and this I took as a sign that his mind was on a case and my silence would be appreciated.

I buried myself in a medical journal and left him to his brown study. For a long time, I was aware of how keenly he stared into the dancing firelight, his thoughts a million miles from the sparks and burning embers. Only with the arrival of the late post did he rouse himself. No sooner had there come a banging on the door below than he had jumped from his chair and darted downstairs.

A few moments later, he returned with several letters in his hand. Evidently he had received what he had been expecting, for a smile slowly spread across his features until finally he let out a cry of satisfaction.

"I take it you have what you were hoping for?" I said, glancing across at him.

"The final piece in the puzzle, Watson," said he, brandishing the letter in triumph. "A few words to liberate or condemn a man to the gallows."

"Which is it in this case?"

"The latter. A commonplace little murder undertaken by a most uncommon criminal."

"You must tell me about it. It sounds most interesting."

"Not at all," said he dismissively. "But for this slight cold I am nursing, I should have gone out and had the answer in a matter of hours. As it is, I have been delayed by the lateness of the post and so Lestrade must wait until morning for the solution of this unsavoury business. Ah, here is one for you."

He held up a cream envelope.

" 'Dr John H. Watson Esquire'," he read out. "Clearly from an old acquaintance."

"Why on earth would you say that?"

Holmes glanced over at me without expression. "Because it has been sent here, my dear fellow. Since you have already informed your current subscriptions of your change of address, then this must surely come from an old friend whose name has slipped your mind. If you are that remiss in keeping this poor fellow informed as to your recent activities, it follows that you are no longer close, which would appear to be a great pity since he clearly values your former attachment enough to warrant using the best stationery at 3s. 2d. a packet."

"We shall see," said I, taking the letter from him to investigate the contents. I perused the note within and sighed. "You are quite correct, Holmes. It is from a fellow I knew at Netley."

He shrugged. "Well, it was no great feat of deduction. A matter of greater interest would be the correct identification of that intriguing initial between your Christian name and surname. I had hoped the occasion of your marriage would prove enlightening but at the crucial moment both the vicar, your charming wife and yourself were guilty of mumbling."

His brows had lifted in the attitude of curiosity, and I was well aware that he expected a response to this convoluted inquiry. I was equally adamant, however, that wild horses would not pry it from me. Sherlock Holmes is not so easily dissuaded once he has set his cap to the investigation of a particular matter of fascination, and I knew I would have to play him at his own game if I were to retain any shred of dignity.

"Well, what do you think it stands for?" I said lightly.

"Ah!" said he, gesturing in my direction with his pipe. "Now that is a very interesting response. When I consider the length of our acquaintance and the fact that I have been thus far unsuccessful in learning the significance of the mysterious 'H', coupled with your poor attempt now to divert my curiosity, I can only come to the obvious conclusion that your middle name must be in some way deeply embarrassing to you."

"Now there you are mistaken," I lied.

He shook his head. "No, no, that will not do. I know my Watson too well. On such a basis, therefore, I discount my first and natural choice."

"Which was?"

"Henry."

"That is in fact what it is."

"Watson, you are possessed of a most expressive countenance and have a regrettable habit of scratching your nose when you lie. Twice so far has your hand gone to your face – first, when you told me I was mistaken and second, not but a moment ago when I said your name was Henry. Therefore, you are attempting to deceive me. Therefore, I must look to more unusual choices."

I sighed and remembered the reason why I never played card games with Holmes.

"Let's see," he mused. "Horace, Hobart, Hubert, Hall, Hugh, Hugo… no, no, those won't do at all."

"I should hope not. Hubert, indeed!"

Holmes's eyes shone with the light of amusement. "A more unlikely candidate for such a name I could not hope to find. Well, my dear fellow, I see I must try again, and try harder. Heneage?"

"What of it?"

"Is that your middle name?"

"No, indeed it is not! Who on earth is called Heneage?"

Holmes drew deeply on his pipe and sent a blue cloud up to the haze that already drifted about his head. "I had a great uncle Heneage. Peculiar chap. In that respect, the name was quite in accord with his general character."

"I'm sure it was."

"You would be surprised how often that is the case. It is a subject of which I intend to make a study one of these days, as to whether a person grows to suit their name or vice versa. You, for example, I could not imagine as being anything other than a John. You are solid, dependable, and as unshakeable as an English oak, a regular John Bull if ever I saw one."

"I'm glad you think so, Holmes."

"So you really must oblige my interest in this matter and put me out of my misery. What is your middle name?"

I got up and poured myself a drink. I only succeeding in delaying the inevitable, however, for when I turned back, I found Holmes's unwavering stare fixed upon me in a manner that made my resolve weaken with every second that passed.

"I'd rather not," I insisted. "As you rightly deduced, it is a little unusual."

Holmes sighed wearily. "Watson, my ancestors excelled at the unusual. Let me assure you that whatever dark secret you are concealing is less likely to be a revelation to me than you think. Now, what is it? I can assure you it will not go beyond these four walls."

I hesitated, took another drink and finally relented. "Very well, Holmes, since you persist, my middle name is Heathcliff."

For a long moment, he struggled and failed to keep a straight face. He guffawed and fell about helpless with laughter. Less than impressed with his childish behaviour, I retook my seat and waited for this fit to pass.

"Oh, you must forgive me, my dear fellow," said he, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. "I will admit that was totally unexpected."

"Yes, well, my mother was particularly fond of 'Wuthering Heights'."

"And she hoped you would one day be a force of nature, striding across the moors and seeking out your very own Catherine Earnshaw? Dear me, what expectations do parents foist upon their young!" He cast me a deprecating glance. "Well, perhaps it is not entirely fanciful. It would account for the lamentable romantic lapses in your accounts of our adventures that I have frequently had cause to bring to your attention."

"All the same, if anyone asks –"

"Have no fear," said he, putting a finger to his lips. "They will not hear it from me."

"If they ask," I continued, "tell them it is Henry."

"As you wish," said he. "Heathcliff indeed."

"It is not so unusual," I retorted. "I dare say your own middle name is somewhat out of the ordinary."

Holmes sobered and his manner became evasive. "You would imagine so, except I do not have a middle name."

"By your own logic, Holmes, I am willing to say that you do indeed have a middle name, and your reticence now, just like mine earlier, is proof positive not only of its existence, but also of its uncommon nature."

"In that case, I must admit that I did have a middle name."

"You did have?" I queried. "What happened? Did you lose it?"

I had spoken in jest, but my companion's expression remained deadly serious.

"No," said he. "I reassigned it."

I laughed out loud until it slowly dawned on me what he meant. "Do you seriously mean that… that Sherlock is your middle name?"

He nodded. "Quite so."

"Then what is or rather was your Christian name?"

"The matter is unimportant, since I stopped using it many years ago. Now it is known only to myself, my solicitor and my brother."

"Holmes, I have been candid with you and have borne your amusement at my expense. The least you can do is to take me into your confidence over such insignificant a thing."

"If, as you say, it is insignificant, why are you interested?"

"Because I cannot for the life of me imagine what name would have been so terrible that you chose to forsake it for Sherlock."

He inhaled deeply and considered. "I shall adopt your own methods in this instance, Watson. What would you imagine it is?"

I threw my hands up in exasperation. "I wouldn't know where to begin. At least give me a clue. You had my initial; let me have yours."

"Very well. 'J', and it is one you will find in any Bible."

I turned over the possibilities in my mind. "Joseph would be too obvious," said I, "and I don't know anyone who would name their child Judas. It isn't Jeremiah, is it? That would fit with your dour demeanour."

A slight frown creased the lines of his forehead, and I took this to indicate that I should try again.

"Jonas, Jacob…" A smile came to my lips. "I do declare that I have it! Job. Am I right?"

Holmes's face assumed the expression of a man much tried by the world at large. "Do I look to you as though my name might be Job Holmes?" said he flatly.

"Well, I'm blessed if I can think of anything more outlandish than Job."

"That is where you made your first error. You assumed the worst. I never confirmed your hypothesis."

"Then what?"

Holmes took up a piece of paper, scrawled a word on it with a pencil and passed it across. I stared at the name he had written, and found myself to be utterly bemused.

"Never," said I. "Holmes, this is most unfair!"

"I promise you, Watson, that is my real Christian name."

" 'John'?"

"Yes, a depressing appellation, isn't it? Oh, present company excepted of course."

"But you don't look anything like a John."

"Now you see why I changed it. It has always been my contention that the naming of children is too important a task to be left to parents. My own mother, for instance, was a severely practical woman, who insisted on burdening her offspring with the most sensible, pedestrian names she could find and in so doing regulated her husband's wishes for a continuance of his family's ancestral names to second place. Our preference, however, lay contrary to her inclination. I believe she never reconciled herself to that fact. To her dying day, she always insisted on calling me John as surely as she called Mycroft James."

"He adopted his middle name too?"

"Naturally," said Holmes. "I maintain to this day that it was the wisest decision I ever took. Would my meagre practice have flourished had I had a mundane and instantly forgettable name? Would your readers have thrilled to stories about some po-faced fellow called John Holmes?"

He drew heavily on his pipe and his glance darted in my direction.

"Yet I look across at you, my dear fellow, and I see a man who wears the name of John as one would a glove. It fits you, Watson, as surely as it is ill-suited to my good self. Moreover, it inspires confidence. Exotic names speak of an excess of flamboyance which is most unbecoming in one's doctor."

"I take your point, Holmes," said I. "John isn't quite as dashing as Sherlock."

"And Sherlock pales by comparison with Heathcliff. Really, Watson, you are the dark horse. I never get your limits. You are a constant source of fascination, like some drab bird that suddenly surprises all and sundry by revealing exotic and colourful plumage. I, on the other hand, would appear to be very dull and mediocre."

"There is nothing wrong with John," said I in good humour. "It has served me well these many years."

"May it continue to do so for many more to come," said Holmes. "I do trust the same arrangement applies to my name as yours?"

I took a moment to refill my pipe. "It seems to me that neither of us has anything to gain by exposing the other's secret, except perhaps mutual embarrassment. Therefore, my lips are sealed upon the subject. Besides which, one John is quite enough under any roof."

"Then we are agreed." He threw his pipe aside and yawned. "Should any mysterious ladies come banging on my window in the dead of night begging to be let in, I will of course inform them that no one by the name of Heathcliff resides at this address and that they had better take their business elsewhere."

"As will I should anyone come asking for a Mr John Holmes, for I shall tell them that they would do far better to consult with Mr Sherlock Holmes instead, who, while being very similar in appearance, is vastly different in character."

"You do not agree with the Bard then who claimed 'that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet'?" said he, smiling as his eyelids slid lower and lower across his eyes.

"To an extent," I conceded. "Your essence would remain constant whatever your Christian name."

"My sweetness would remain though my petals be drab?" Holmes murmured sleepily. "Kind of you to say so, my dear Watson."

"Although I dare say when all is said and done, there is only one name that really matters to any person."

I spoke mostly for my own benefit for I knew he was beyond responding. I looked across at him, his closed eyes and regular breathing telling me he had already drifted into sleep.

"Yes, only one," said I, smiling to myself. "And that is the name of friend."

The End

Yes, Heneage is a real 18th century name (!) 'Wuthering Heights' was first published in 1847, so anything is possible...

Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson are the creations are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Characters and incidents mentioned in this work are entirely fictitious. This work of fan fiction has not been created for profit nor authorised by any official body.