Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. Happy Birthday, Old Ping Hai, my dear! I know, I know, it's not a new story, but...you wanted to see this published, and the weather is so hot I'm not feeling inspired, so. Hope this is an acceptable compromise! Many, many happy returns!

Nomen Omen

Chapter One: GOSH

"Are you going to ask me to share a flat, then?" John asked, grinning.

Sherlock's whole body went rigid, and he scowled murderously at the other man before turning dismissively and striding away.

John suppressed a groan. Okay, it was a stupid joke, but how had he managed to earn such hatred in five minutes?

He wasn't even out looking for a relationship, today. If he had been, he wouldn't have gone to the GOSH. (He loved how ridiculous the acronym of the Great Ormond Street Hospital sounded; hopefully its patients got a laugh out of it, too.) He just had a semi-appointment with Misha, an old friend. He was the cheeriest person John knew, despite working with severely ill children. Maybe because of that, actually; God knew that his friend's patients didn't need any further sternness.

All John had wanted was to share a coffee and a brief chat, and maybe gain some ideas for his future, since his own promising career as an army surgeon had been shattered by a Taliban bullet. By accident—though considering the twinkling in Misha's eyes, when he apologised, John wouldn't be so sure of that—their own planned chat had overlapped with a much more serious conversation.

"Oh, hello, John!" his friend had greeted him, smiling. "Sorry about the mishap, this is Mr. Holmes, he's been interviewing me about the results of our latest research into helping the mental health of young epileptic patients for—" He paused, frowning.

"I'm a freelance at the moment, but I don't doubt that many newspapers, on and offline, will be interested in such an article," Holmes said smoothly, waving Misha's confusion away.

John wouldn't be ashamed to admit he stared…just a little. If someone had crafted a man according to his preferences, after all, the gorgeous creature in front of him would have been the result. Long legs, lean body, and light eyes, specifically, a cloudy grey that hinted at secret depths. He caught himself in seconds, though, and mumbled, "I'll just go, then."

"Don't," Holmes replied, "I'm almost finished anyway—and I can mail you any further questions if necessary, I hope, Mr. Welland? I assume that you'd rather spend your precious time outside of the ward with an old friend and colleague just back from the field in Iraq, or possibly Afghanistan, than talking about work. Far be it from me to deny or even delay a chance at a support network to one of our veterans."

John blinked. He'd met a lot of quirky people, but none who read him like an actual book. With no idea of how to react, he defaulted to irony. "Misha said Holmes, didn't he? Would your first name be Sherlock, by any chance?"

"Yes." It was a jest, it had to be, but a weary sigh accompanied the word.

That should have been John's cue to cut it out, but he couldn't resist. The universe—and this man going along with the joke—had set up things too perfectly for him to pass up the chance. He said, "My last name is Watson, you know. John Watson, just back from Afghanistan, exactly like you deduced." And then he added that last quip, which had the other man running off without so much as swearing at him. Fuck. John was swearing at himself, just to pick up the slack. He stared forlornly at the door.

"His name is actually Sherlock Holmes, you know," Misha interjected, interrupting his self-loathing.

John whipped around, an eyebrow lifting almost to his hairline. Seriously?

"Yeah, I don't know what his parents were thinking either. Being obviously named after a fictional character…the poor bloke must have heard all the jokes you did and more. Off to apologise, go on. I'll still be here when you're done. Otherwise, you know where to find me," the paediatrician said.

John looked for any sign that Misha was having him on. No one would be insane enough to burden a kid with the name Sherlock Holmes, would they? Then he remembered one evening in Afghanistan, when the conversation turned to names, and how some people seemed to set out to make their children's lives painful from their baptism. A bloke from the Italian contingent told him about a kid he came across…named after a one-hit-wonder duo of singers.

"I've heard his mum call him with these very ears! And slurring the name, too!" Antonio had protested vehemently, faced with John's incredulity.

John ran. There was no trace of Sherlock in the corridor. No wonder; with those legs and how quick he was walking the man could be outside the hospital right now. Still, he refused to leave the journalist believing he was just another mocking arsehole. He hoped that Sherlock would be vulnerable to the main flaw of his job—curiosity. Especially since the interview had been cut short by his own untimely appearance.

Finding his way to the research centre was easy—and spotting his new acquaintance too. With his height and striking features, Sherlock (he still couldn't wrap his mind around that) certainly didn't have an easy time slipping by. Immediately, John blundered again. He knew better than anyone that just grabbing someone's arm wasn't always a good idea, but he wanted to avoid the other fleeing before he could apologise. He just didn't expect the instinctive attempt to bring him down with…was that some sort of judo move? Military training kicked in before he could think the answer, and John strictly avoided being caught. That seemed only to incense the other, and John went from the pursuer to the pursued. How did they go from an attempt at normal conversation to a mini scuffle right in the middle of the ward's corridor? To his surprise, restraining the madman wasn't as easy as it should have been. Other people looked at them with various levels of fear and disapproval. Damn.

"Wait, wait," John huffed, when he had a second's pause from trying not to land arse first on the floor. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

Sherlock stilled, looked down at him like he was a particularly ugly parasite, and sneered, "You have an odd way to demonstrate that."

John rubbed the nape of his neck, but refused to let his eyes lower. "You're free not to believe that, but I am here to say sorry. I thought you were playing along. I mean, my name is John freaking Watson, I should have figured out that you weren't joking simply by how fed up you were. I've heard all the stupid quips and then some, what with being an army doctor, too. I just didn't think—"

"No, you didn't" Sherlock cut in, "then again, nobody ever does."

"You can't hold against the world that not everyone is as amazing as you are." A grin split John's face when the other blushed.

"You're not joking." It wasn't a question.

"Nope, why would I? It's evident, if you ask me. Now, please give me your phone."

Sherlock obeyed. He seemed almost dazed after his previous sharpness. John punched in his number and memorized it, before handing it back.

"Why would I need it?" the journalist asked, staring at it.

"Well, how can we agree on when to go for a coffee otherwise? Unless you want to go immediately. But even in that case, I have a feeling I'll want to see you again."

"Coffee?" Sherlock sounded like he'd been offered a mysterious brew from Alpha Centauri. Or as if the idea of going for a coffee was an unprecedented event in the history of mankind.

"Or tea. Chamomile. Anything you like, but to be honest, you sound like you need a coffee, and I want to apologise properly. And chat more with you, I'll be upfront." John gave him his most winsome smile.

The journalist frowned. "Why?"

"Because you're fascinating, why else? And I don't just mean handsome—though that doesn't hurt—you're brilliant, and I'd like to have at least another chance to show you that I'm not a maddening idiot. Not on my best days, at least. In fact, I've been told that I can be entertaining." In many, many ways. But there was no need to go into detail.Not yet.

"No." Sherlock ran away. Again. And this time his sentence didn't even make sense. Was he denying his own charm? The fact that John could ever be tolerable, much less pleasurable to be around? Damn. This was why the former soldier tried to seize him. Trying to have a conversation with the man was like trying to chat with a finch. Both flew away at a moment's notice, no matter how non-threatening you thought you were.

Once again, John followed, but this time Sherlock didn't have any advantage but that of his crane-like legs. He wouldn't be left behind again. "No what? You can definitely refuse my offer, though really it isn't that much of a commitment. But I've said a lot of things after that, and none of them were false. I'd really like to be able to prove them to you."

"You're not serious." The journalist didn't stop, but he wasn't rushing anymore.

"About wanting coffee? About you being amazing?" Oh, there—the blush was back. Lovely. John caught himself smiling reflexively. "About my wanting to spend more time with you, and doing my best to make it enjoyable for you, too? Deadly serious. So help me God."

Sherlock shook his head, wavy hair flailing about. John thought that he looked considerably like a wet dog attempting to dry itself. For once, he wisely kept his mouth shut.

"Anyway, I can see you're not in the mood. Fair warning though, I'll text you sometime. I'm keen on earning a second chance." At worst he'd receive a fuck you back, and then stop bothering the man. One single open-mouth-insert-foot shouldn't be enough grounds to hate someone. Especially someone with whom you had so much in common. Decades of jokes had to count for something!