Call Me Slim

Alright, this one is a little fluffy. And very short. In fact, you might even consider it to be pure fluff. I mean, I like fluff as much as I do most fanfiction, but that's just my opinion, I guess. Both are a pretty pathetic lunch.

"The name of a man is a numbing blow from which he never recovers." - Marshall McLuhan


What a cruel, ill-bequeathed thing is a name.

A name is a title. A designation. A label. A name is a way for people to say "hey, you" in a language that only you can understand.

While most people would agree that it is not outrageous in the least for me, specifically, to bring up this argument, that abomination scribbled on my birth certificate is not the sole source of my complaint. (Though I'm sure I speak for all the Sherlocks and Jeremiahs and Archibalds in the world, among far too many others.)

A name is something bestowed upon us at birth. Birth. Do we not grow? Do we not change? Do we not learn?

I do not mean to suggest that I am against the use of names in the first place, for what could result from that but utter chaos? But names should be things that adapt to us—that suit us and change with us—but instead they are discordant burdens that are outgrown like a pair of socks.

Take the Native American Salish tribe, for example. In their tradition, a name is given to an infant that expresses a certain quality which the parents hope their child will come to have. This given name is kept only until adolescence, when a ritual takes place during which the tribal leader bestows a new name upon the child which, again, recognizes some characteristic or gift for which the child is known. Others may digress, but were I to undergo this ceremony, I should much prefer to use the latter as my criteria for choosing a title. Personally, I find Ezhno, which translates into "solitary" in our language, to be much more flattering than Waquini, or "hook nose."

But I ramble far above and beyond that which I meant to touch upon. Nonetheless, it was a topic that had most annoyingly been buzzing around my mind like an angry mosquito in the weeks following my first encounter with Victor Trevor, especially on this particular day when I found myself shambling off to class far too early for the sole purpose of having nothing else to do. As for Trevor, I had very readily slipped into the practice of simply calling him Victor. What a mistake that was! Not that I am (or was) so cold and distant as to regret forming this personable habit, but indeed, I admit I began to think twice after he took the initiative to follow my trend and return the favor.

Honestly, every time anybody uses that God-awful name of mine, whether it be a doctor, a client, or even (God help me) my brother, it's like receiving a pinprick: quick and harmless, but somewhat painful and never failing to evoke a cringe. Of course, one gets accustomed to pinpricks when one is subjected to them nearly every day, (and no, I do not mean that kind of pinprick), but they never cease to remind how I could have been James or David or Robert, which, as bland as they are, do not turn heads whenever their bearers are addressed in public.

"Wait up, Sherlock. Do you expect me to run halfway across campus to catch up with you?"

I winced. Trevor was only a few strides in back of me yet, but that was loud.

"Well, I'm sorry if I don't have eyes in the back of my head, Victor."

"Are you going to Anatomy now?"

"Yes."

"Me, too."

"What? I thought you switched out of Anatomy last week?"

"I did. I mean, the diagrams in the textbook alone are disgusting, but it just got to be too much when they actually started hacking things apart."

"It is not 'hacking things apart,' it's called 'dissection,' and... Hold on a moment. If you hate Anatomy so much, then why the deuce did you transfer back in?"

"I couldn't stay awake during Physics. Even if Anatomy is morbidly revolting, at the very least, it is quite difficult not to pay attention during class. Besides, if I do faint, then I have an excuse to fall asleep. And the student consultant will be furious, of course, if he sees me in his office once more this week."

"You must have led a very sheltered life before striking off on your own, Victor," I could not help but snicker.

"I don't know about your family, Sherlock, but my parents didn't need to tell me to keep away from dead things as a child."

I broke my gaze as the smirk vanished.

I can't take this anymore.

"Something wrong?" a somewhat concerned Victor Trevor turned to me.

He'll probably take this the wrong way. I suppose it would be wise to exercise a bit of tact, for once.

"Call me Holmes."

He fell silent, blinking several times.

"Oh."

Tactful, indeed.

I glanced sidelong to gauge his reaction as he turned away from me. His face, in fact, seemed to be devoid of any expression at all, as set and stolid as chiseled stone. Finally, I half-heartedly deemed it fit to break the silence.

"It's nothing to take personally, Victor, really."

"I-I just thought that... Well, since you—"

"I started it, Victor, I know. But to be perfectly fair, your name is not 'Sherlock.'"

Trevor's head whipped in my direction, his lips parting silently.

"Oh!"

At last, his eyes lit with understanding, and he shook his head as a relieved laugh escaped him.

"Stupid me. But it's not such a bad name, really."

"Speak for yourself."

"Oh, come on Sh—Holmes, you're the one always complaining to me about how 'commonplace,' as you put it, the world and everything in it seems to be. I should say I certainly don't know of any other men by that name."

"There's a reason for that."

"Well, I think it suits you," he declared with a satisfied nod.

"You evidently don't know its meaning," I sighed.

"Can't say that I do. What is it?"

I braced myself for the inevitable ridicule that was to follow my explanation. And surely enough, I was correct in my assumption that Trevor was just the type to openly burst out into laughter when I informed him that "Sherlock" means "blonde-haired."

"Oh, God, you're serious, aren't you? And here I've been tormenting you for almost three weeks."

"Quite serious, unfortunately, and yes."

"Was somebody colorblind?"

"I'm beside myself with laughter, Victor."

"I'm sorry. So, I take it back; it doesn't suit you at all. But that doesn't mean you should be ashamed of it."

"Well you have a normal name!"

"You mean a boring name," Trevor shook his head.

"I mean, think about it: Victor. Trevor. Or, even worse: Mister Victor Trevor. It's practically the apotheosis of redundancy."

I could not resist smiling at that, for it was true, insofar as assonances go. It cannot help but call to mind, however, how differently Victor Armitage would have sounded, for that, technically, was his real name. Neither of us were aware of it at the time, obviously, but...

"Oh, God. It reeks of formaldehyde in here."

"You are so paranoid. It does not."

"It does so!"

I took a purposeful whiff of the place, searching for any trace of the chemical. Oddly enough, Trevor had been right. The room did smell of formaldehyde.

"You're right."

"What did I tell you? Paranoid, indeed."

"Well, it does not reek of it as you described."

"It's stronger over here."

I stepped over to where Trevor was standing, very close to the professor's desk. The musky, persisting odor was emanating from one particular spot. Not coincidentally, there on the floor was a somewhat large area of moist, stained wood. Trevor's eyes bulged.

"You don't suppose..."

"I wouldn't be surprised in the least," I confirmed his unspoken question. Indeed, poor Professor Hope had probably lost one of his specimens via some sort of accident or other that resulted in its jar crash-landing on the floor.

"Oh, God," Trevor repeated for the second time.

"Will you please relax? Any and every trace of the jar's former occupant has been quite removed as you can see."

"What time is it?"

"A quarter to nine," I answered, withdrawing my pocket watch.

"And when does this class start?"

"Nine fifteen."

"Oh, God! Why did you drag me in here so early?"

"I certainly did not drag you in here! You followed me!"

"Well, why do you bother coming so early? No one's even here!"

"So?"

"I...need some air. Now. This class starts at nine fifteen, you said?"

"Yes."

"Then that's when I'll be back," he said curtly, departing from the room rather hastily and without another word, which was eerily contrary to his customary polite and refined manner.

And I could do nothing but stand there bewildered and wonder what had disturbed him so, for he clearly did not desire my company.

Well, that certainly was a strange performance, whatever it was.

"That is all, gentlemen."

I was yanked rather abruptly out of my fixed, engaged reverie as the professor concluded his lecture. Snapping my textbook shut, I looked to my right over at Trevor.

Or, rather, where he should have been sitting. Baffled, I scanned the room just in time to catch sight of the back of his head disappearing rapidly out the door.

I sighed, contempt beginning to mingle with my concern. Honestly, I could see where any weak-stomached man would have a difficult time with that class, but being uncomfortable and throwing every shred of one's composure to the wind were two entirely separate matters altogether. So, rolling my eyes as I stood, I grabbed the book and set off to trace my borderline-hysterical friend's movements. After making my path through a crowded hallway and watching him dodge fellow students (along with disapproving glances), I finally found him outside.

"Victor."

I received no response or even acknowledgment. In fact, I think he advanced his pace even more once he realized I was behind him.

"Victor!"

This time, he so conveniently chose the perfect moment to stop dead in his tracks altogether, such that I collided right into him. That was the final straw.

"I've about had it with your theatrics, you know," I found myself hissing into his ear. He mumbled something and turned to me, and for the first time I realized that his face was as pale as death.

"What?"

"Chunger," he said, (or, that's what it sounded like.)

"...Huh?"

"I have to—"

With that, he broke off, ran to the closest bush, and promptly lost his breakfast as I looked on, mortified and lost between trying to be of assistance and walking in the other direction.

Two of our classmates (among others) happened to notice, as well, and they stopped when they saw my current predicament.

"I take it your friend doesn't appreciate the finer points of the structure of the cerebral cortex?" one of them quipped.

"No, and I don't appreciate gawkers."

I don't know whether or not they left, for I finally turned to Trevor, who was now down to heavy breathing and had a handkerchief pressed over his mouth. Tentatively, I approached him and placed a hand on his quivering shoulder.

"Are you alright, Victor?"

"Leave me alone."

As long as I live, I shall never forget this response or my reaction to it. It left me completely shell-shocked for several moments, after which he made yet another abrupt exit without so much as looking at me. This time, I did not pursue.

I laid down my pen and closed the journal when I heard the tapping on my door. Of course I already knew who it was, but what was he doing here at half-past eleven?

I opened the door to find that not only had Trevor's color failed to improve any, but dark rings now hung under his eyes, which, in all probability, spoke of nightmares. However, he managed to conjure up a smile.

"Hi."

"Um... Hello. Do... Are you feeling any better?"

"Considerably, yes," he nodded, and I stepped aside and motioned for them to enter. As he passed me, I noted that he was not empty-handed; in his arms were two books, the bottom one being significantly weightier than the first.

"What're those?" I asked as he took a seat on the vacant bed adjacent to my chair. He tapped the cover of the first volume and opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn't make it out of his mouth.

"Wait," he said, directing his gaze at me once more.

"I'm sorry for the way I acted today."

"Don't apologize. You did nothing to me. But what ever upset you so?"

"Well," he began, shifting uncomfortably, "you would probably be surprised to learn that I'm not all that squeamish. No, really!" he hastened to reassure me when I gave a doubtful smirk.

"Alright. Continue."

"Truly, I don't fear blood or gore. It's just that... It's the idea that that brain once belonged to some poor chap, and now it's sitting on some teacher's desk in a jar of God-knows-what for everyone to stare at. It just seems so wrong."

"Well, that brain did once belong to some poor chap, there's no denying it, but you must remember that he had no use for it by the time it was taken from him."

At that, Trevor only shuttered and fell silent.

"There's more to it than that, isn't there?"

"Well... I didn't really plan on... That is, I don't—"

"Please, you needn't tell me anything about it if you don't wish to."

His eyes were haunted as they locked with mine, but he nodded gratefully.

"The books?" I changed the subject. (Even I can be tactful when I want to.)

"Ah, yes! Well, this one," he tapped the cover once more, "I have absolutely no idea what it is."

He tossed said book to the side, clearly satisfied at having successfully roused my curiosity as I looked on.

"For I only borrowed it, you see, so no one would see me walking around with this one," he continued, holding the second volume upright for me to see, but its front cover still facing him.

"Which would be...?"

He flashed me an all-out Cheshire grin as he flipped the volume around.

"A compiled list of the worst names in the English language."

"What! Don't couples who are, um... expecting buy these things?"

"Yes."

"Well, I can see why you took out the second book, but you do realize that no one is out walking around at this hour, anyway?"

"Now, now," Trevor admonished me with a wagging finger, "one must be discreet about these things, Holmes. Can't have people going around thinking you're pregnant, now, can we?"

"Victor!"

In a rush of heat, I felt my face tinge a hundred shades of scarlet.

Another defect of the aristocracy: they say whatever they please whenever it pleases them.

"I was going to recommend that you switch back out of Anatomy, but on second thought, it appears as though there are several key points regarding the male body which you have yet to learn," I retorted, reluctantly allowing a snicker to escape after biting and releasing my lower lip.

"Gender distortions aside, I have decided to remain in Anatomy."

"You what! Why?"

"To hopefully drown that... 'paranoia' of mine, as you called it."

"Well... Noble though your intentions may be, do you really think school is the right place to do it?"

"Why not? I've practically been handed the opportunity on a silver platter. I might not have it again."

"Yes, but could you keep your grade up high enough? I saw you, you know, sitting there as white as a sheet today. I don't doubt your intelligence, dear fellow, but how are you possibly going to manage?"

"I just will. There's nothing more to it. You must realize, Holmes, that there is nothing you can possibly say which I have not thought of already. I'm into survival and all that," he joked, playfully punching me on the arm as I sat once more.

"It's your choice, at any rate," I shrugged dismissively as he flicked open the cover to the first page.

"Well?"

"Let's see. Ah... Abbot."

"Mmh."

"Abelard... Agamemnon! Who in their right mind names their child 'Agamemnon?'"

"Someone who has taken a fancy to mythology which borders on obsessive, I should imagine."

"What else...? Algernon."

"Ugh!"

"Angus."

"Always hated that one."

"Ashley? Why the deuce is that listed under boys' names?"

"No, no, I have met men by that name."

"Eugh. I would never do that to my child. Let's go onto 'B's. Balthasar."

"Horrible."

"Bardolph... Barnabus, Baruch, Beuchamp."

"Also horrible."

"Bonaventure."

"Sounds like a character from one of those brainless shipwreck novels or something."

"Boniface."

"What? Is that even a name?"

"Apparently so. Oh, God, here's one: Brick."

"'Brick?' As in, the material this building is made from?"

"The definition reads 'from the bridge,' so I suppose one can only assume..."

He trailed off as we both broke down into mirth.

"It looks like that one's English in origin, too. I'd like to think we aren't such a sadistic bunch as that."

"Nimrod! I did not even know that was a name!"

"Perhaps it would be best if no one else did, either."

"Obedience."

"A bit domineering, that one."

"Ogden, Orrick, Orsen, Oswald... There are just too many to count," Trevor said, checking his watch. Up until that point, I had no idea that the hour was going on one o'clock.

"But I hope you realize now that it could have been a lot worse than 'Sherlock.'"

"Yes, yes, you've made your point, Victor. Is that the sole reason you came here to-night?"

"Aside from banishing the lingering visions of that brain-in-a-jar? Yes."

"I take it you've read Miss Shelly's Frankenstein?"

"I have. But if you did, you would know that the doctor's creature was not, as many believe it to have been, constructed from dead body parts."

"Really?"

"Indeed. He only tells us that even he found restoring life to dead components to be impossible, and he was forced to create the monster much larger than a normal man because of how difficult the smaller parts of the human body would have been to construct."

"Fantastic claptrap," I snickered, silently cursing the woman for her paranoid butchering of the scientific method.

"What the devil did he make it out of, then?"

"Who knows? Papier-mâché and string, perhaps?"

"I don't see why not. Makes perfect sense."

"Never had a name, either, that thing."

"He should be grateful."

So, perhaps an embarrassing name will not be my ruination. I should just have to make it fashionable by my own merit, shouldn't I?

A/N: Know an awful name? Please share.

Oh, and P.S. : If your name is Archibald, Jeremiah, Abbot, Abelard, Agamemnon, Algernon, Angus, Balthasar, Bardolph, Barnabus, Baruch, Beauchamp, Brick, Nimrod, Obedience, Ogden, Orrick, Orsen, or Oswald... Sorry. If not, then stop complaining.

Another P.S. : Every time you don't review, a kitten bursts into flames. So please, think of the kittens.

Are my endings awful, or what?