Performance In a Leading Role (5/20)
Title: Performance in a Leading Role
Author: MadLori
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 6600 (this chapter)
Genre: AU, romance
Warnings: None
Rating: PG for now, may go up to NC-17 later
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is an Oscar winner in the midst of a career slump. John Watson is an Everyman actor trapped in the rom-com ghetto. When they are cast as a gay couple in a new independent drama, will they surprise each other? Will their on-screen romance make its way into the real world?
Chapter 1 -- Chapter 2 -- Chapter 3 -- Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Film Shoot: Week Four
“That’s lunch, people!” Clara yelled. John got up from his seat at the conference table and stretched his back. Sodding talky scenes, always seemed to take forever. “John, you’re wrapped for the day. Sherlock, costume change.”
Sherlock replied with a distracted nod. He had his dog-eared, marked-up script in his hands and was scribbling something in the margins. John meandered over. “Big afternoon.”
“Mmm. No more than usual.”
“You’ve got that scene with Mark’s mother and then the hospital administrator.”
“Confrontational scenes are easier to play. Heightened emotions always lend themselves to cinematic presentation. It’s the subtler interplay of less exaggerated expression that presents a challenge.”
John sighed. “Why must you always sound like you’re talking to James Lipton?”
“Who’s James Lipton?”
“James Lipton, Sherlock! You know - that chap at the New School who…” Sherlock just looked at him, blankly. “Of course you don’t know.” He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. “I’m off, then.”
“Grand plans for your brief liberty?”
“Oh, yes. I thought I’d read a book and take a kip.”
Sherlock smirked. “Ah, the wild life of a movie star.”
“Let it never be said that John Watson doesn’t know how to throw a proper knees-up.” He smiled and started off.
“John?”
He turned back. “What?”
“See you later, then?” Sherlock was affecting a casual, nonchalant tone, but John wasn’t fooled. He needn’t have worried. John couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do than spend time with Sherlock, a fact that was beginning to worry him a little.
“You bet, mate.”
Sherlock nodded and walked off towards the costume trailer. John went to his chair and pulled his mobile out of his jacket pocket. He had a text message from Sarah. Ring me when you have some time.
Uh-oh. That didn’t sound good. Harry appeared at his elbow just as he was lifting his head to look round for her. “How do you do that?” he said.
“I’m good at my job. Back to the flat?”
“Yeah.”
“Mind if I stay here?”
John smirked at her. “Hoping to chat up Clara some more?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’ve had it on good authority that she fancies you a bit, too.”
“Huh. And would this ‘good authority’ by any chance be a tall, dark-haired wanker with a fondness for sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Get in the car, you bloody tosser.”
Sherlock was manhandled back into the makeup trailer to have himself retouched after his costume change. He smiled when he saw who was sitting in the other chair. “Oh, do come here, darling. Give us a kiss,” Emma Hudson trilled, pulling him down.
He kissed her cheek. “How are you, shrubs?”
“I’d be fine but I’ve barely got to exchange two words with you since I got here, I’ve had all my scenes with John. He is so lovely, dear, and so talented. I must say I was a little bit…” She trailed off, troubled.
“Surprised?” Sherlock said, smiling. “Don’t distress yourself, we all were.”
“I must say it’s a relief not to be playing the same tottery old mum all the time. At least this bird’s got some spine to her.”
“Tottery old mum? Was it you, or was it not you, who played a hired killer last year?”
“Oh, great fun, that was. I got to shoot guns and pretend I knew kung fu.”
“Ah, yes. Emma Hudson, License to Kill.”
“You watch yourself, young man, or I’ll show you my kung fu grip.”
Sherlock chuckled. There weren’t many actors whose company he enjoyed, but Emma Hudson was one of them. She’d played his mother three times and once, memorably, his lover. He’d lobbied for her to be cast in the role of Mark’s mother. It was a difficult role, even an unsympathetic one. Most of the conflict between Benjamin and Mark arose from the fact that Mark’s family blamed Benjamin for James’s death. Emma came across like everyone’s dotty aunt with her antimacassars and tea cozies, but she was a sharp, seasoned RSC mainstay who had once turned in a jaw-dropping performance as Queen Lear in their memorable gender-swapped production. Theatergoers still spoke of it with reverence.
“Just hold onto that fearsome rage for our scene,” Sherlock said.
Emma was looking at him, her gaze analytical. “Something’s different about you, luv. I noticed it the first day I came on set.”
“I am as I ever was, Emma. Unchanging as Gibraltar.”
“Ah, but Gibraltar changes constantly. Rock seems so solid but the water wears it away. All it takes is time.” She cocked her head. “You’re spending a lot of time with John.”
“We’ve become - friendly. We’re working well together. It’s a relief to have a partner in this endeavor rather than someone whose company I’m merely enduring.”
“He’s very different from you. As an actor, I mean. You might learn something.”
“Dear Lord. Why is everyone suddenly so keen for me to learn from him? Has it ever occurred to anyone that he might learn something from me? I’m the one…” He stopped himself, realizing what a git he’d been about to sound like. “Well.”
“You’re the one with the Oscar, right?” Emma said. “That’s what you were going to say.”
“Well, what if I was? It’s true.”
“You do have an Oscar. And you were brilliant in that role. But you created that performance doing exactly what you’ve always done.”
“Why is that bad?”
“It isn’t. It’s just that - it might not be enough. Not for this. Not with him.”
Sherlock huffed out an impatient breath. “It’s ironic that John Watson has managed to redefine this entire production, right down to my acting habits, with one scene in which he defied expectations. Why should everything be different because it’s John bloody Watson?”
“I don’t know, luv. You tell me.”
He looked at her patient, open face and some of the irritation left him. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and rubbed his hands through his hair. “I don’t know either, Emma. I don’t know why it’s different, but it is.”
John tossed his bag to the chair and got out his mobile, dialing Sarah with one hand while he made himself a drink with the other.
“Hello?”
“Sarah, it’s John.”
“Oh, hello. Thanks for getting back so quick.”
“I’ve got the afternoon off.”
“How’s it going up there?”
“Fantastic, actually. But I don’t want to jinx it.”
“There’s talking come off that set. One might even characterize it as ‘buzz.’”
“What sort of buzz?”
“About you, mostly. About your unsuspected acting brilliance.”
John snorted. “Nobody will believe that.”
“I believe it, John. Then again, I don’t have to. I know what you’re capable of.”
“I shouldn’t be hearing this.”
“Why not?”
“Because no actor can perform well if he thinks he’s brilliant. He has to secretly believe he’s horrible.” He hesitated. “Although I may be acting with the exception to that rule.”
“Sherlock? How is he? A nightmare?”
“Oh, he’s arrogant, all right. And rude and demanding.”
“But?”
“I don’t know. He’s charismatic. And once you get past all the bluster he’s actually rather sweet. Or can be, when the mood suits him.”
“You’re getting along, then?”
“Actually - and don’t faint with shock - we’ve gotten to be rather close mates.”
“Really?”
“Really. I think I managed to impress him, somehow, so I’ve been judged worthy company. And since I’m the only one who has been, he’s spending all his time with me.”
“Doesn’t sound like you object to that very much.”
“No. I like him. We’re doing some good work.”
“Oh, is that so? What sort of - work?”
“Stop it,” John scolded her, feeling heat creep up from his collar. “From your insinuations to the pages of ‘Entertainment Weekly.’”
“That wasn’t a denial!”
“Sarah, I am not having an affair with my insufferable co-star. All right?”
“All right, if you insist.”
“But I doubt you called to talk about my tawdry off-screen love life, or lack thereof.”
“No.” He heard her sigh. “John - Anthea and I have been talking, and I think it’s time we engineered our release.”
He nodded. He’d seen this coming. “I thought that might be it. You’ve spoken to your publicist?”
“Yes. He pitched a fit, then he got over it and started planning the spin control. Is this okay with you?”
“Sarah, I got into this to help you. It’s been convenient for me, too, but I can handle being single. I’ll just take lots of jobs with far-flung location shoots.” He hesitated. “I’ll always be your friend. But you have a family. Anthea and the baby should be your top priority now. Everything else can go rot.”
He heard Sarah sniffle a little. “Thank you, John. I knew you’d understand.”
“What’s the party line going to be, then?”
“We’ll blame it on the usual reasons. Conflicting schedules, no time together, want different things, et cetera.”
“What’ll happen when you come out? You can’t tell everyone that you’ve been with Anthea for five years. And then the baby…”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. Part of me just wants to say fuck all of them and tell the goddamned truth. That you and I faked it so that I could have a career because Hollywood is just that fucked up. But I won’t. It’s tempting.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I wouldn’t put you in that position. Everyone would assume that you’re gay, too.”
“I don’t care fuck-all about their assumptions.”
“But John, with the film you’re doing now - it’s not the right time. This film could redefine you. I can’t put that in jeopardy. You and I will make a quiet announcement through our publicists. I will just as quietly resume my life with Anthea, make whatever efforts we can to keep our lives private, and let them all talk. I’ll go public when she and I decide it’s the right time. What you say about our relationship is up to you. I’ll just say that you’re my good friend, then and now, and that you helped me through a hard time.”
John felt himself getting a bit choked up. “Oh, Sarah, luv - I hate this. I hate that it was ever necessary.”
“Anthea is worth it. Our baby is worth it.”
“Good. Just stay focused on that.”
“I’m going to wait until after your shoot is over to break the news. I don’t want the press hounding you while you’re up there trying to work.”
“I appreciate that.”
“And I wasn’t lying about the buzz. I’m surprised Mike hasn’t been calling you.”
“Well, he has. I can’t put much stock in any interest that’s generated before anyone’s seen this bloody film.”
“It’s happened before. Ed Norton got such strong buzz off the set of Primal Fear that he’d booked two more jobs before the film was even released.”
“I don’t want to book anything else right now. I’m actually hoping to take some time off once we wrap.”
“When do they want to release?”
“They’re hoping for December. Holidays, awards season, you know.”
“Blimey, that’s a fast turnaround. You and Sherlock will barely have time to breathe before you’re doing ADR and press.”
“He’s doing a play in London right after we wrap, too. Three months run of a revival of Closer at the National.”
Sarah was quiet for a moment. “You really like him, don’t you? I can hear it in your voice.”
“I do, yeah. He’s certainly the most challenging friend I’ve ever had.”
“Is that all?”
John opened his mouth to say that yes, of course that was all, what else could there possibly be, because he is him and I am me and neither the twain shall meet, and by the way I am a Hollywood leading man and must therefore be attached only to attractive women, and this is a film shoot and anything extra is pure dramatic adrenaline so if I ignore it, it’ll go away, but sometimes I look at him and realize that I’m smiling a bit too grandly and I’ve got that little nervous knot that you get when you’re around somebody you fancy and I ought to be able to handle this, for fuck’s sake, because I am an enlightened modern man and if I can’t tell my lesbian girlfriend that I might be falling for my male co-star then I can’t tell anybody.
All that came out was “I don’t know. Maybe not.”
“He is a beautiful man, John.”
“Yes.” There was nothing more to say.
“Be careful, okay? I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
John chuckled. “Then maybe you’d best just keep your eyes shut.”
Sherlock’s footsteps weren’t hard to follow, given that he was stomping around like a toddler having a tantrum. John trotted along behind, ignoring the averted glances of the crew, all the way to Sherlock’s trailer. He caught the door just as Sherlock tried to slam it in his face. “Oh, no you bloody don’t,” he said, following him inside. “You don’t get to pull this shit on me, not now.”
“Sod off. I’m entitled to a bit of a sulk.”
“You are not combating your reputation as a difficult diva when you storm off the set in a huff.”
“Who says I want to combat it? If people worry that I’ll pitch a fit at the slightest provocation, they’re more likely to acquiesce.”
“I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear that. I will not have you get yourself sacked from this picture, do you hear me? Not after all the work we’ve put in.”
“I’m not going to get sacked, don’t be ridiculous.”
“Ang didn’t look too thrilled, and you’re bodging up the schedule! I don’t want to put in a fourteen-hour day because of you and neither does anyone else.”
“I just…” Sherlock sighed. “I need a moment.”
“To do what?”
“Regroup.”
“Regroup? That isn’t what you need.”
“Oh, then please do inform me what it is that I do need, Oh Great Oracle of Watson!”
“You need to bloody let it go, already! The Holmesian School of Acting is not cutting it for this scene! Ang keeps telling you to let go and you keep sticking to your preordained series of eyeblinks or whatever else you’ve planned out in insane detail.”
“That is what I do, John. It has never failed me before.”
“It isn’t exactly failing you now, Sherlock. You’re brilliant, you are always brilliant, but you can’t be what you always have been. Not for this.”
“Oh, of course! I should just abandon every technique I’ve ever cultivated over my fifteen year career and toss my craft to the wind, because all I’ve really got to do is feel, right?”
“No, that’s not bloody all, and oversimplifying it to make it sound stupid isn’t going to win you any points, either.” He sighed. “All right, Holmes. First day of acting school. What’s an actor’s greatest enemy?”
“Fear.”
“Fear of what?”
“Fear of being seen.”
“And what does that really mean?”
Sherlock frowned. “That’s not a question.”
“Not one they asked you in drama school. It’s my question. So what does it really mean to be afraid of being seen?”
“I feel sure you’re about to tell me.”
“It’s the fear of being honest, Sherlock. We carve out personas for ourselves to be presented to the world, and it’s human nature to hide reality. We cover our faces when we cry, we glance around in embarrassment when we trip on the street, we seek isolation when we feel our deepest emotions. As actors we must do the exact opposite, and the hardest part about what we do is short-circuiting our innate human fear of showing our inner selves to others. But you never did that, did you? You found a workaround. When we see you onscreen in tears, or in anger, or in shame or sex or anything else that we fear to show, we are seeing not you in that state but a very close-fitting imitation that you’ve stretched over your skin. Oh, it’s a brilliant imitation, to be sure. It’s affecting and it feels real. But it isn’t.”
“Is it ever real? When you cry onscreen, do you really feel the sorrow?”
“Sometimes. But I have to take my own sorrow and use it as a seed crystal, so that I can grow my character’s sorrow.”
Sherlock said nothing. “I work the way I work, John.”
“Why are you afraid to stretch? You are brilliant now, Sherlock. But if you took that last step, you could - my God, you could be like nothing anyone’s ever seen. You could be the world’s greatest living actor.”
His head snapped up. “And I should listen to you, why? Oh, that’s right, because you are John Watson, Surprise Acting Prodigy, whose fearsome dramatic gifts can be seen on glorious display in such fine cinematic masterpieces as Shave and a Haircut!”
“Oh, you liked that one, did you? One of my favorites! I particularly enjoyed the scene when I had to go down a fucking waterslide in a clown suit!” John took a deep breath. “Attacking me isn’t going to help, Sherlock. And I know you’re only doing it because you’re a bloody child who can’t handle his real emotions!”
“And he’s also a psychologist!” Sherlock exclaimed, tossing his hands into the air in a sort of ‘hallelujah’ gesture. “How fortunate I am to have such a multitalented co-star to sort me out!”
John grit his teeth. “God, I was really, really not wrong when I predicted that you’d be hard work, was I?”
“Feel free to bugger off, then.”
“And leave you here to sulk? Not bloody likely. It’s my film, too. Like it or not, we are in this together.”
He stood there near the door to Sherlock’s trailer and watched while his co-star paced in tight, short zigzags. He could all but see the pique oozing from Sherlock’s pores.
Several minutes passed. Sherlock stopped pacing and stood with his back to John, then his shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry, John.”
“It’s all right.”
He turned around, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I didn’t - that is, what I - I didn’t mean…”
“I know.”
“You know what I think of you.”
“Stop apologizing, it’s giving me the willies.”
Sherlock smirked. “So what do I do?”
“I don’t know. I can’t tell you how to access your inner self. Have you ever tried? Has anyone else ever tried?”
“No,” Sherlock said, a note of wonderment in his voice, like this had just occurred to him. “No one’s wanted to.”
They weren’t talking about acting anymore. “How is that possible? How is it that no one’s ever gotten close?”
Sherlock met his eyes. “I made sure they didn’t want to try.”
John held his breath. “Well, it isn’t working on me.”
“I haven’t wanted it to.”
They held each other’s gaze for a few long beats, then John looked away and ruffled a hand through his hair. “So, this scene.”
“Right,” Sherlock said, clearing his throat.
“We’ve been over it a hundred times.”
“God, yes.”
“You trust me?”
Sherlock looked up at the unexpected question, but his answer was immediate. “Yes.”
“Okay. And I trust you. Because this is in you, and in me. We just have to really be there for each other in the scene. Got it?”
He nodded. “I was afraid you were about to go for one of those hoary old drama-school exercises. Have us play each other’s parts, or improvise new lines or some such nonsense.”
John smirked. “Even if I were, I’d wager that drama school was the last time you let yourself be led in unexpected directions. Wouldn’t kill you revisit that experience.”
“After this shoot wraps, I’ll be sure to sign up for some of those night courses you took.”
“Not all good acting happens at RADA, you know.”
Sherlock nodded. “As I have daily proof.”
Warmed by the indirect praise, John dropped his hands. “Come on. Let’s try this again.”
“Very well.”
He turned and opened the trailer door, unsurprised to find Clara standing there, arms crossed, tapping her foot. “You chaps ready to get back to work?” she asked.
“We’re ready.”
John followed Sherlock back to the set. Benjamin’s apartment, a real apartment in northeast Toronto. To his shock, Sherlock apologized to Ang and the crew for the disruption, and asked to continue the shoot. John glanced around; everyone looked mollified.
He shut his eyes for a moment and thought about his own character. Mark had to be fearful and angry in this scene. He’d been cut off at the knees, he felt betrayed, and he was afraid that Benjamin only loved him because he looked like James. And how could he love a man who might have contributed to his brother’s death?
Sherlock took his mark. The cameras rolled. John had the first line. He delivered it, and Sherlock replied. But then, John let the pause between lines roll out for longer than he ever had. Sherlock met his eyes and John held him there.
We’re in this together. I am here with you.
Sherlock didn’t look away. There was no question in his eyes, no doubt about why John was not speaking. He stayed there with him in the quiet, in the men they were playing, and when John finally did speak, he could tell immediately that it was different. The long pause had undercut the scene with new tension.
As the scene unspooled, he saw it start to happen. He saw the layers of careful construction peel away from Sherlock in raggedy strips, an incomplete exposure, but it was exciting. He waited to hear “cut,” for Ang to want to change camera angles, but he didn’t. He kept going, buoyed by the manic energy in Sherlock’s body, restless and moving around, Mark’s urgency taking over John’s own limbs.
The high point of the scene approached. Benjamin met Mark’s eyes and for a split second John saw Sherlock looking back at him.
Let go. I’m with you.
John went to Sherlock’s trailer after scrubbing off his makeup, glad to be back in his jeans and his favorite cardigan. Ang was there, talking quietly with his lead actor (or one of, anyway). Sherlock was slouched in a chair, his legs stretched out in front of him with ankles crossed, looking up at Ang and nodding. His face was relaxed, a slight smile lingering on his lips.
Ang turned when John entered. “Oh, sorry,” John said. “I can come back.”
“No. Finished.” Ang put a hand on John’s shoulder. “Excellent today. Very good.”
“Thanks.” Ang left. John turned back to Sherlock. “Well. Don’t you look pleased with yourself.”
“I feel like I’ve gotten the worst of the back end of a bus.”
“Well, you ought to feel like a bloke who just blew the doors off that scene.”
“It wasn’t much different.”
“Not much. Sometimes the smallest change makes the biggest difference.”
Sherlock stared off into space. “Just the other day I was telling Emma how odd I found it that everyone’s been speaking of my learning from you, rather than the other way round. Tell me, John. Has it always been so evident to everyone else that I had so much to learn, and I’m the last to know?”
John sat down facing him. “What makes you think I haven’t been learning from you all this time? I’ve done nothing else since we started this shoot. It isn’t that they all think you have a lot to learn and I don’t, Sherlock. It’s that I know that I have a lot to learn.”
“And I might need reminding.”
“You don’t exactly give off a vibe of humble receptiveness.”
Sherlock laughed, a short, sharp sound. “I don’t suppose I do.”
John chuckled, and they just sat there for a moment in comfortable silence. “I’ve got an idea.”
“Oh, dear.”
“No, you’ll love it.”
“Dazzle me.”
“We’ve got tomorrow off. Let’s go sightseeing.”
Sherlock frowned. “Sightseeing?”
“Yes! You know. Go and - see the sights.”
“The sights of Toronto?”
“There are sights! I’ve seen them!”
“Then why would you wish to see them again?”
John didn’t have a good answer for that. “It’ll be fun. The weather’s supposed to be lovely tomorrow. We can walk around and eat food that’s bad for us. It’ll do us good to get out, get some air, some exercise.” He grinned, putting on his most eager face.
Sherlock looked at him for a moment, then heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Oh, very well. If it’ll make you happy.”
He’d given in to please John - his way of thanking him for the tiny leg-up he’d given him in their scene the day before - but by midafternoon, Sherlock was forced to admit that he was enjoying himself. As promised, the weather was lovely. Cool enough for jackets, clear blue skies, and a light breeze that bore the promise of spring.
He and John took a boat tour of the islands in the morning, refreshingly bereft of tourists given that it was both the off-season and a weekday. Sherlock half-expected them to be recognized and asked for photos or autographs, but no one seemed to pay them much mind. At another time he might have been secretly annoyed by this, but today he was glad to be left alone.
Alone with John.
They had lunch in a restaurant on Queen Street that served nothing but crepes. “Something of an arbitrary restriction, isn’t it?” Sherlock murmured as they got in line.
“But it’s brilliant. Everything’s good in a crepe. Ooh, I want Nutella in mine.”
“John. That’s hardly an appropriate lunch choice. Get something with some protein in it.”
“Anytime is a good time for Nutella.”
After lunch, carbed up on crepes, they walked up University Avenue through Queen’s Park and past the Royal Ontario Museum. “I’ve been here a dozen times but I’ve never gone in there,” Sherlock commented, as they walked by.
“It’s a nice museum. We can go in another time. I want to go to Casa Loma.”
It was a long walk to Casa Loma, but they had time and it was a nice day. They didn’t talk much en route. Sherlock found himself quite content just to be at John’s side. He was a calming presence, moving through the world as if he knew its innermost workings and nothing and no one in it held any mystery for him. Sherlock, who often found the behavior of other people and the ways of society incomprehensible, felt like he had a translator at his side. A buffer between him and the rest of the world that chafed and irritated.
Sherlock had known that Casa Loma was a castle-like edifice sitting on a hill overlooking Toronto, popular as a film set, but he’d never been there. As he and John stood at the base of the long staircase leading them up to the building, he looked up at its facade and was begrudgingly impressed. “Interesting,” he said.
“Oooh, this merits an ‘interesting!’” John teased. “I wonder what Windsor Castle would get out of you.”
“I’ve been there. I favored it with ‘fascinating.’”
John laughed as they started up the steps. They paid their admission and walked through the house. The interior looked very familiar, which wasn’t surprising after Sherlock saw the multiple signs hung about listing the many films that had been shot here. “Have you ever filmed here?” he asked.
“No,” John said. “I’ve never been in a film grand enough to merit using this place.”
Unfortunately, the anonymity they’d enjoyed so far chose that moment to expire. “Oh my gosh!” said a voice, the tone and inflection disappointingly familiar as that of Fan On the Street. “You’re John Watson!”
They turned toward the speaker, a twentysomething young woman with two friends, all three of them staring. John gave them his neutral meet-the-public smile. “Yes, hello.”
Sherlock stood there, expectantly, but remained unacknowledged. “I have to tell you, Mr. Watson, that my family watches Holiday, With Nuts every Christmas. It’s our favorite movie. It makes us feel normal in comparison.”
John grinned. “Well, it’s good to know I’m contributing to family unity in some small way.”
“I had such a crush on you when I was sixteen!”
John shot Sherlock an amused glance. “Well, thank goodness you grew out of it,” John teased her.
She flushed bright red. “Oh, damn - that’s not - I mean, I still sort of have a crush on you,” she stammered.
Sherlock sighed. He supposed it was too much to ask that some sorority girls who favored holiday films of the wacky-hijinks variety had seen Rotisserie. One of the Watson fan’s friends was looking at him, though. Suddenly her face went slack and her eyes went wide. “Holy shit!” she exclaimed, then slapped a hand theatrically over her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry, excuse my language, but you’re Sherlock Holmes!”
“Yes,” he said.
“Who?” said the third of the trio.
“You know! He was in that movie, in Australia! We watched it last year in Philosophy class.” Sherlock frowned. A philosophy class was watching Kanisza? What sort of university showed theatrical films as part of their curriculum? “That movie changed my life,” the young woman gushed. “You were so amazing in it!”
“Thank you, that’s kind of you to say,” Sherlock said.
John was signing something for the first young woman. “So are you two, like, here together?” she asked, her eyes flicking from one to the other.
“We’re just sightseeing,” John said. “We’re in town shooting a film.”
“Really? Both of you in the same film? That’s fantastic!”
“I think it’ll be a good film,” John said, dropping Sherlock a barely-perceptible wink.
“Can I have your autograph, Mr. Holmes?” the philosophy girl asked, holding out a notebook and a pen.
“All right,” he said.
“My name is Cathy, with a C,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him. She was quite pretty. And she was definitely flirting with him. The stray thought struck Sherlock that if he were so inclined, he could probably take this girl somewhere right now and have sex with her. The strangeness of his profession never ceased to fascinate him, that it could put any person in such a position. He knew plenty of his fellows in the business took rabid advantage of it. He never had. No one who’d ever offered herself (or himself, and there had been plenty of each) had ever piqued his interest.
Sherlock wrote “To Cathy, Sherlock Holmes” in her notebook. He noted that John was adding a more personal note to his autographs, such as “best wishes” or what have you. He never knew what to write, unless someone asked him to write “happy birthday” or the like.
Predictably, the girls asked for a photo. A passing guard was conscripted, and the photo was taken. Sherlock wondered how haggard he looked. He always seemed to appear haggard in candid photos. John would no doubt look like the very picture of robust good health.
The girls thanked them and waved goodbye, then continued on their way. “I told you we would be recognized,” Sherlock muttered as they walked through to the garden.
“Oh, that was pretty inoffensive as encounters with the public go. They were polite, they were nice.”
“They were attractive. Your holiday fan would probably have had you off right there in the hallway.”
“Oh, as if Ms. I Love Philosophy wouldn’t have wrestled you to the ground in a heartbeat,” John joked.
Sherlock sniffed. “I think I could have emerged victorious in a wrestling match against a twenty year old girl, John.”
“I’m sorry, how dare I besmirch your hand-to-hand combat skills?” John was grinning, as if he were having the best time of his life. That couldn’t be possible, as no one would ever count spending the day with Sherlock as among their top ten most-cherished activities, but at least he didn’t seem bored.
They walked through the gardens, not very impressive in their late-spring condition, and back out to the street. Tired from their walk up, they hopped a trolley down to Kensington market in search of dinner. After passing many stalls and vendors, they came up to an intersection and were faced with a rather ramshackle restaurant called “The Hungary Thai.”
“Hmm,” he said. “Is it Hungarian, or is it Thai?”
“Maybe it’s both. We have to eat here.”
“If you like.”
They went inside, and John was delighted to discover that indeed, the restaurant was a Hungarian/Thai establishment. The juxtaposition was exceedingly confusing, but Sherlock decided not to question it. He ordered some pad thai (John ordered paprikash) and they sat down in the nearly-deserted dining room.
He cleared his throat. “I’m glad you suggested this,” he said. “The sightseeing, I mean.”
John looked up. “Really?”
“Yes. I’ve enjoyed it. I rarely explore the cities where I film. I’m afraid I tend towards the hermit while I’m working.”
“So do I, but I fight it. You need something else in your life besides the work. If you immerse yourself in this business too deeply, you forget that the rest of the world exists.”
His words made Sherlock remember a point of John’s history. “What was it like being in the Army?”
John thought a moment. “It was comforting.”
“That strikes me as an odd description.”
“No doubt. I don’t know how many others would agree with it. But for me, it was dependable meals and a place to sleep. And I never had to worry about what to do or where to go, because someone was always right there to tell me. Usually at a shout.”
“You could have gone career if you hadn’t been shot. In the thigh, am I right? You came very close to bleeding out. You could have re-enlisted after you recovered, but you’d started school and decided to stick with it.”
John nodded. “Correct on all counts.”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
“Sherlock, your ability to immediately know everything about me at a glance stopped surprising me weeks ago.” He smiled. “In fact, I’ve rather been waiting for you to ask me about Sarah. I’m sure you knew it almost as soon as I did.”
“For once, I opted to hold my tongue. I thought you’d tell me yourself if you wanted to.”
“We’ll be announcing our breakup once this shoot wraps.”
“Hmm. Is it possible to break up with someone you were never dating?”
“I know. It’s ridiculous. Bit of a sock puppet theater.”
“It served a practical purpose, inane though that purpose might be. She was able to remain closeted, and you had a relationship that made no demands on you.”
“Didn’t have the perks of a real relationship, either.”
“Oh, John. Don’t tell me that you couldn’t have gone out and found casual sex apart from your ‘relationship’ with Sarah if you’d wished to do so.”
He sighed. “I suppose you’re right. I don’t know why, but it always just seems like so much bother.”
“On that we are in complete agreement.”
Their food arrived and they ate in silence for a few moments. John swallowed and took a swig of his beer. “So, what made you decide to become an actor? I don’t think I’ve ever heard. You’re so brilliant, you could have been anything. A scientist or a writer, or some sort of walking think tank. The way you deduce things, did you ever think of being - I don’t know, a detective of some kind?”
“Oh, yes. In fact I might have been, had things been different.”
“What happened?”
Sherlock hesitated. This wasn’t something he shared readily. Not even Sally knew about this. And yet, the decision to tell John was not difficult. “When I was a child, twelve or so years old, a young man died in a pool. Carl Powers was his name. He came for a swimming competition and drowned, out of nowhere. I thought it was suspicious. I had my reasons. None of the police ever paid me the slightest mind. Just a kid with an overactive imagination. I kept bothering the detective on the case and finally he just had at me. Told me to find another hobby, join the drama club or something.” He shook his head. “Like it was a passing fancy. Well, the next day I went to the library to research how Carl might have come to drown. I passed a sign in the hall that pointed to where a drama club was in fact meeting, just then. It caught my attention. I suppose I was just feeling contrary and wanted to see how ridiculous a notion it was, me in a drama club. So I went to the meeting, more or less to prove that it wasn’t for me. And to my shock, I found myself entranced by it.”
John nodded sagely. “Fate intervened.”
“I don’t believe in fate. But sometimes I wonder where I’d be today if I hadn’t seen the sign, or decided to ignore it.”
“Well, you’d not be here with me, that’s for certain.”
Sherlock looked across the table at his friend, and the thought of having missed his company was surprisingly upsetting. “Then perhaps things turned out for the best.”
John beamed at him. “I think they have. For both of us.”
MetaNotes for Chapter 5:
1. James Lipton is the host of a popular show, “Inside the Actor’s Studio,” hosted at the New School in New York. It’s an hour-long show in which he brings out one actor and they have an in-depth discussion about their background and career. He’s a wee bit pretentious.
2. RSC = Royal Shakespeare Company
3. The story about Ed Norton is true. The talk about his performance in Primal Fear was so enthusiastic that before the film opened, he’d been cast in Everyone Says I Love You and The People Vs. Larry Flynt.
4. John and Sherlock’s tour of Toronto incorporates real-life places (though I was last there three years ago, I can’t guarantee everything’s still there). “The Hungary Thai” was previously featured by me in my Criminal Minds fic “How to Fight Loneliness” although I transplanted it to DC, so I couldn’t resist using it here since this story is taking place in its actual location.
Next Chapter
Author: MadLori
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 6600 (this chapter)
Genre: AU, romance
Warnings: None
Rating: PG for now, may go up to NC-17 later
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is an Oscar winner in the midst of a career slump. John Watson is an Everyman actor trapped in the rom-com ghetto. When they are cast as a gay couple in a new independent drama, will they surprise each other? Will their on-screen romance make its way into the real world?
Chapter 1 -- Chapter 2 -- Chapter 3 -- Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Film Shoot: Week Four
“That’s lunch, people!” Clara yelled. John got up from his seat at the conference table and stretched his back. Sodding talky scenes, always seemed to take forever. “John, you’re wrapped for the day. Sherlock, costume change.”
Sherlock replied with a distracted nod. He had his dog-eared, marked-up script in his hands and was scribbling something in the margins. John meandered over. “Big afternoon.”
“Mmm. No more than usual.”
“You’ve got that scene with Mark’s mother and then the hospital administrator.”
“Confrontational scenes are easier to play. Heightened emotions always lend themselves to cinematic presentation. It’s the subtler interplay of less exaggerated expression that presents a challenge.”
John sighed. “Why must you always sound like you’re talking to James Lipton?”
“Who’s James Lipton?”
“James Lipton, Sherlock! You know - that chap at the New School who…” Sherlock just looked at him, blankly. “Of course you don’t know.” He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. “I’m off, then.”
“Grand plans for your brief liberty?”
“Oh, yes. I thought I’d read a book and take a kip.”
Sherlock smirked. “Ah, the wild life of a movie star.”
“Let it never be said that John Watson doesn’t know how to throw a proper knees-up.” He smiled and started off.
“John?”
He turned back. “What?”
“See you later, then?” Sherlock was affecting a casual, nonchalant tone, but John wasn’t fooled. He needn’t have worried. John couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do than spend time with Sherlock, a fact that was beginning to worry him a little.
“You bet, mate.”
Sherlock nodded and walked off towards the costume trailer. John went to his chair and pulled his mobile out of his jacket pocket. He had a text message from Sarah. Ring me when you have some time.
Uh-oh. That didn’t sound good. Harry appeared at his elbow just as he was lifting his head to look round for her. “How do you do that?” he said.
“I’m good at my job. Back to the flat?”
“Yeah.”
“Mind if I stay here?”
John smirked at her. “Hoping to chat up Clara some more?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’ve had it on good authority that she fancies you a bit, too.”
“Huh. And would this ‘good authority’ by any chance be a tall, dark-haired wanker with a fondness for sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Get in the car, you bloody tosser.”
Sherlock was manhandled back into the makeup trailer to have himself retouched after his costume change. He smiled when he saw who was sitting in the other chair. “Oh, do come here, darling. Give us a kiss,” Emma Hudson trilled, pulling him down.
He kissed her cheek. “How are you, shrubs?”
“I’d be fine but I’ve barely got to exchange two words with you since I got here, I’ve had all my scenes with John. He is so lovely, dear, and so talented. I must say I was a little bit…” She trailed off, troubled.
“Surprised?” Sherlock said, smiling. “Don’t distress yourself, we all were.”
“I must say it’s a relief not to be playing the same tottery old mum all the time. At least this bird’s got some spine to her.”
“Tottery old mum? Was it you, or was it not you, who played a hired killer last year?”
“Oh, great fun, that was. I got to shoot guns and pretend I knew kung fu.”
“Ah, yes. Emma Hudson, License to Kill.”
“You watch yourself, young man, or I’ll show you my kung fu grip.”
Sherlock chuckled. There weren’t many actors whose company he enjoyed, but Emma Hudson was one of them. She’d played his mother three times and once, memorably, his lover. He’d lobbied for her to be cast in the role of Mark’s mother. It was a difficult role, even an unsympathetic one. Most of the conflict between Benjamin and Mark arose from the fact that Mark’s family blamed Benjamin for James’s death. Emma came across like everyone’s dotty aunt with her antimacassars and tea cozies, but she was a sharp, seasoned RSC mainstay who had once turned in a jaw-dropping performance as Queen Lear in their memorable gender-swapped production. Theatergoers still spoke of it with reverence.
“Just hold onto that fearsome rage for our scene,” Sherlock said.
Emma was looking at him, her gaze analytical. “Something’s different about you, luv. I noticed it the first day I came on set.”
“I am as I ever was, Emma. Unchanging as Gibraltar.”
“Ah, but Gibraltar changes constantly. Rock seems so solid but the water wears it away. All it takes is time.” She cocked her head. “You’re spending a lot of time with John.”
“We’ve become - friendly. We’re working well together. It’s a relief to have a partner in this endeavor rather than someone whose company I’m merely enduring.”
“He’s very different from you. As an actor, I mean. You might learn something.”
“Dear Lord. Why is everyone suddenly so keen for me to learn from him? Has it ever occurred to anyone that he might learn something from me? I’m the one…” He stopped himself, realizing what a git he’d been about to sound like. “Well.”
“You’re the one with the Oscar, right?” Emma said. “That’s what you were going to say.”
“Well, what if I was? It’s true.”
“You do have an Oscar. And you were brilliant in that role. But you created that performance doing exactly what you’ve always done.”
“Why is that bad?”
“It isn’t. It’s just that - it might not be enough. Not for this. Not with him.”
Sherlock huffed out an impatient breath. “It’s ironic that John Watson has managed to redefine this entire production, right down to my acting habits, with one scene in which he defied expectations. Why should everything be different because it’s John bloody Watson?”
“I don’t know, luv. You tell me.”
He looked at her patient, open face and some of the irritation left him. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and rubbed his hands through his hair. “I don’t know either, Emma. I don’t know why it’s different, but it is.”
John tossed his bag to the chair and got out his mobile, dialing Sarah with one hand while he made himself a drink with the other.
“Hello?”
“Sarah, it’s John.”
“Oh, hello. Thanks for getting back so quick.”
“I’ve got the afternoon off.”
“How’s it going up there?”
“Fantastic, actually. But I don’t want to jinx it.”
“There’s talking come off that set. One might even characterize it as ‘buzz.’”
“What sort of buzz?”
“About you, mostly. About your unsuspected acting brilliance.”
John snorted. “Nobody will believe that.”
“I believe it, John. Then again, I don’t have to. I know what you’re capable of.”
“I shouldn’t be hearing this.”
“Why not?”
“Because no actor can perform well if he thinks he’s brilliant. He has to secretly believe he’s horrible.” He hesitated. “Although I may be acting with the exception to that rule.”
“Sherlock? How is he? A nightmare?”
“Oh, he’s arrogant, all right. And rude and demanding.”
“But?”
“I don’t know. He’s charismatic. And once you get past all the bluster he’s actually rather sweet. Or can be, when the mood suits him.”
“You’re getting along, then?”
“Actually - and don’t faint with shock - we’ve gotten to be rather close mates.”
“Really?”
“Really. I think I managed to impress him, somehow, so I’ve been judged worthy company. And since I’m the only one who has been, he’s spending all his time with me.”
“Doesn’t sound like you object to that very much.”
“No. I like him. We’re doing some good work.”
“Oh, is that so? What sort of - work?”
“Stop it,” John scolded her, feeling heat creep up from his collar. “From your insinuations to the pages of ‘Entertainment Weekly.’”
“That wasn’t a denial!”
“Sarah, I am not having an affair with my insufferable co-star. All right?”
“All right, if you insist.”
“But I doubt you called to talk about my tawdry off-screen love life, or lack thereof.”
“No.” He heard her sigh. “John - Anthea and I have been talking, and I think it’s time we engineered our release.”
He nodded. He’d seen this coming. “I thought that might be it. You’ve spoken to your publicist?”
“Yes. He pitched a fit, then he got over it and started planning the spin control. Is this okay with you?”
“Sarah, I got into this to help you. It’s been convenient for me, too, but I can handle being single. I’ll just take lots of jobs with far-flung location shoots.” He hesitated. “I’ll always be your friend. But you have a family. Anthea and the baby should be your top priority now. Everything else can go rot.”
He heard Sarah sniffle a little. “Thank you, John. I knew you’d understand.”
“What’s the party line going to be, then?”
“We’ll blame it on the usual reasons. Conflicting schedules, no time together, want different things, et cetera.”
“What’ll happen when you come out? You can’t tell everyone that you’ve been with Anthea for five years. And then the baby…”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. Part of me just wants to say fuck all of them and tell the goddamned truth. That you and I faked it so that I could have a career because Hollywood is just that fucked up. But I won’t. It’s tempting.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I wouldn’t put you in that position. Everyone would assume that you’re gay, too.”
“I don’t care fuck-all about their assumptions.”
“But John, with the film you’re doing now - it’s not the right time. This film could redefine you. I can’t put that in jeopardy. You and I will make a quiet announcement through our publicists. I will just as quietly resume my life with Anthea, make whatever efforts we can to keep our lives private, and let them all talk. I’ll go public when she and I decide it’s the right time. What you say about our relationship is up to you. I’ll just say that you’re my good friend, then and now, and that you helped me through a hard time.”
John felt himself getting a bit choked up. “Oh, Sarah, luv - I hate this. I hate that it was ever necessary.”
“Anthea is worth it. Our baby is worth it.”
“Good. Just stay focused on that.”
“I’m going to wait until after your shoot is over to break the news. I don’t want the press hounding you while you’re up there trying to work.”
“I appreciate that.”
“And I wasn’t lying about the buzz. I’m surprised Mike hasn’t been calling you.”
“Well, he has. I can’t put much stock in any interest that’s generated before anyone’s seen this bloody film.”
“It’s happened before. Ed Norton got such strong buzz off the set of Primal Fear that he’d booked two more jobs before the film was even released.”
“I don’t want to book anything else right now. I’m actually hoping to take some time off once we wrap.”
“When do they want to release?”
“They’re hoping for December. Holidays, awards season, you know.”
“Blimey, that’s a fast turnaround. You and Sherlock will barely have time to breathe before you’re doing ADR and press.”
“He’s doing a play in London right after we wrap, too. Three months run of a revival of Closer at the National.”
Sarah was quiet for a moment. “You really like him, don’t you? I can hear it in your voice.”
“I do, yeah. He’s certainly the most challenging friend I’ve ever had.”
“Is that all?”
John opened his mouth to say that yes, of course that was all, what else could there possibly be, because he is him and I am me and neither the twain shall meet, and by the way I am a Hollywood leading man and must therefore be attached only to attractive women, and this is a film shoot and anything extra is pure dramatic adrenaline so if I ignore it, it’ll go away, but sometimes I look at him and realize that I’m smiling a bit too grandly and I’ve got that little nervous knot that you get when you’re around somebody you fancy and I ought to be able to handle this, for fuck’s sake, because I am an enlightened modern man and if I can’t tell my lesbian girlfriend that I might be falling for my male co-star then I can’t tell anybody.
All that came out was “I don’t know. Maybe not.”
“He is a beautiful man, John.”
“Yes.” There was nothing more to say.
“Be careful, okay? I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
John chuckled. “Then maybe you’d best just keep your eyes shut.”
Sherlock’s footsteps weren’t hard to follow, given that he was stomping around like a toddler having a tantrum. John trotted along behind, ignoring the averted glances of the crew, all the way to Sherlock’s trailer. He caught the door just as Sherlock tried to slam it in his face. “Oh, no you bloody don’t,” he said, following him inside. “You don’t get to pull this shit on me, not now.”
“Sod off. I’m entitled to a bit of a sulk.”
“You are not combating your reputation as a difficult diva when you storm off the set in a huff.”
“Who says I want to combat it? If people worry that I’ll pitch a fit at the slightest provocation, they’re more likely to acquiesce.”
“I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear that. I will not have you get yourself sacked from this picture, do you hear me? Not after all the work we’ve put in.”
“I’m not going to get sacked, don’t be ridiculous.”
“Ang didn’t look too thrilled, and you’re bodging up the schedule! I don’t want to put in a fourteen-hour day because of you and neither does anyone else.”
“I just…” Sherlock sighed. “I need a moment.”
“To do what?”
“Regroup.”
“Regroup? That isn’t what you need.”
“Oh, then please do inform me what it is that I do need, Oh Great Oracle of Watson!”
“You need to bloody let it go, already! The Holmesian School of Acting is not cutting it for this scene! Ang keeps telling you to let go and you keep sticking to your preordained series of eyeblinks or whatever else you’ve planned out in insane detail.”
“That is what I do, John. It has never failed me before.”
“It isn’t exactly failing you now, Sherlock. You’re brilliant, you are always brilliant, but you can’t be what you always have been. Not for this.”
“Oh, of course! I should just abandon every technique I’ve ever cultivated over my fifteen year career and toss my craft to the wind, because all I’ve really got to do is feel, right?”
“No, that’s not bloody all, and oversimplifying it to make it sound stupid isn’t going to win you any points, either.” He sighed. “All right, Holmes. First day of acting school. What’s an actor’s greatest enemy?”
“Fear.”
“Fear of what?”
“Fear of being seen.”
“And what does that really mean?”
Sherlock frowned. “That’s not a question.”
“Not one they asked you in drama school. It’s my question. So what does it really mean to be afraid of being seen?”
“I feel sure you’re about to tell me.”
“It’s the fear of being honest, Sherlock. We carve out personas for ourselves to be presented to the world, and it’s human nature to hide reality. We cover our faces when we cry, we glance around in embarrassment when we trip on the street, we seek isolation when we feel our deepest emotions. As actors we must do the exact opposite, and the hardest part about what we do is short-circuiting our innate human fear of showing our inner selves to others. But you never did that, did you? You found a workaround. When we see you onscreen in tears, or in anger, or in shame or sex or anything else that we fear to show, we are seeing not you in that state but a very close-fitting imitation that you’ve stretched over your skin. Oh, it’s a brilliant imitation, to be sure. It’s affecting and it feels real. But it isn’t.”
“Is it ever real? When you cry onscreen, do you really feel the sorrow?”
“Sometimes. But I have to take my own sorrow and use it as a seed crystal, so that I can grow my character’s sorrow.”
Sherlock said nothing. “I work the way I work, John.”
“Why are you afraid to stretch? You are brilliant now, Sherlock. But if you took that last step, you could - my God, you could be like nothing anyone’s ever seen. You could be the world’s greatest living actor.”
His head snapped up. “And I should listen to you, why? Oh, that’s right, because you are John Watson, Surprise Acting Prodigy, whose fearsome dramatic gifts can be seen on glorious display in such fine cinematic masterpieces as Shave and a Haircut!”
“Oh, you liked that one, did you? One of my favorites! I particularly enjoyed the scene when I had to go down a fucking waterslide in a clown suit!” John took a deep breath. “Attacking me isn’t going to help, Sherlock. And I know you’re only doing it because you’re a bloody child who can’t handle his real emotions!”
“And he’s also a psychologist!” Sherlock exclaimed, tossing his hands into the air in a sort of ‘hallelujah’ gesture. “How fortunate I am to have such a multitalented co-star to sort me out!”
John grit his teeth. “God, I was really, really not wrong when I predicted that you’d be hard work, was I?”
“Feel free to bugger off, then.”
“And leave you here to sulk? Not bloody likely. It’s my film, too. Like it or not, we are in this together.”
He stood there near the door to Sherlock’s trailer and watched while his co-star paced in tight, short zigzags. He could all but see the pique oozing from Sherlock’s pores.
Several minutes passed. Sherlock stopped pacing and stood with his back to John, then his shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry, John.”
“It’s all right.”
He turned around, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I didn’t - that is, what I - I didn’t mean…”
“I know.”
“You know what I think of you.”
“Stop apologizing, it’s giving me the willies.”
Sherlock smirked. “So what do I do?”
“I don’t know. I can’t tell you how to access your inner self. Have you ever tried? Has anyone else ever tried?”
“No,” Sherlock said, a note of wonderment in his voice, like this had just occurred to him. “No one’s wanted to.”
They weren’t talking about acting anymore. “How is that possible? How is it that no one’s ever gotten close?”
Sherlock met his eyes. “I made sure they didn’t want to try.”
John held his breath. “Well, it isn’t working on me.”
“I haven’t wanted it to.”
They held each other’s gaze for a few long beats, then John looked away and ruffled a hand through his hair. “So, this scene.”
“Right,” Sherlock said, clearing his throat.
“We’ve been over it a hundred times.”
“God, yes.”
“You trust me?”
Sherlock looked up at the unexpected question, but his answer was immediate. “Yes.”
“Okay. And I trust you. Because this is in you, and in me. We just have to really be there for each other in the scene. Got it?”
He nodded. “I was afraid you were about to go for one of those hoary old drama-school exercises. Have us play each other’s parts, or improvise new lines or some such nonsense.”
John smirked. “Even if I were, I’d wager that drama school was the last time you let yourself be led in unexpected directions. Wouldn’t kill you revisit that experience.”
“After this shoot wraps, I’ll be sure to sign up for some of those night courses you took.”
“Not all good acting happens at RADA, you know.”
Sherlock nodded. “As I have daily proof.”
Warmed by the indirect praise, John dropped his hands. “Come on. Let’s try this again.”
“Very well.”
He turned and opened the trailer door, unsurprised to find Clara standing there, arms crossed, tapping her foot. “You chaps ready to get back to work?” she asked.
“We’re ready.”
John followed Sherlock back to the set. Benjamin’s apartment, a real apartment in northeast Toronto. To his shock, Sherlock apologized to Ang and the crew for the disruption, and asked to continue the shoot. John glanced around; everyone looked mollified.
He shut his eyes for a moment and thought about his own character. Mark had to be fearful and angry in this scene. He’d been cut off at the knees, he felt betrayed, and he was afraid that Benjamin only loved him because he looked like James. And how could he love a man who might have contributed to his brother’s death?
Sherlock took his mark. The cameras rolled. John had the first line. He delivered it, and Sherlock replied. But then, John let the pause between lines roll out for longer than he ever had. Sherlock met his eyes and John held him there.
We’re in this together. I am here with you.
Sherlock didn’t look away. There was no question in his eyes, no doubt about why John was not speaking. He stayed there with him in the quiet, in the men they were playing, and when John finally did speak, he could tell immediately that it was different. The long pause had undercut the scene with new tension.
As the scene unspooled, he saw it start to happen. He saw the layers of careful construction peel away from Sherlock in raggedy strips, an incomplete exposure, but it was exciting. He waited to hear “cut,” for Ang to want to change camera angles, but he didn’t. He kept going, buoyed by the manic energy in Sherlock’s body, restless and moving around, Mark’s urgency taking over John’s own limbs.
The high point of the scene approached. Benjamin met Mark’s eyes and for a split second John saw Sherlock looking back at him.
Let go. I’m with you.
John went to Sherlock’s trailer after scrubbing off his makeup, glad to be back in his jeans and his favorite cardigan. Ang was there, talking quietly with his lead actor (or one of, anyway). Sherlock was slouched in a chair, his legs stretched out in front of him with ankles crossed, looking up at Ang and nodding. His face was relaxed, a slight smile lingering on his lips.
Ang turned when John entered. “Oh, sorry,” John said. “I can come back.”
“No. Finished.” Ang put a hand on John’s shoulder. “Excellent today. Very good.”
“Thanks.” Ang left. John turned back to Sherlock. “Well. Don’t you look pleased with yourself.”
“I feel like I’ve gotten the worst of the back end of a bus.”
“Well, you ought to feel like a bloke who just blew the doors off that scene.”
“It wasn’t much different.”
“Not much. Sometimes the smallest change makes the biggest difference.”
Sherlock stared off into space. “Just the other day I was telling Emma how odd I found it that everyone’s been speaking of my learning from you, rather than the other way round. Tell me, John. Has it always been so evident to everyone else that I had so much to learn, and I’m the last to know?”
John sat down facing him. “What makes you think I haven’t been learning from you all this time? I’ve done nothing else since we started this shoot. It isn’t that they all think you have a lot to learn and I don’t, Sherlock. It’s that I know that I have a lot to learn.”
“And I might need reminding.”
“You don’t exactly give off a vibe of humble receptiveness.”
Sherlock laughed, a short, sharp sound. “I don’t suppose I do.”
John chuckled, and they just sat there for a moment in comfortable silence. “I’ve got an idea.”
“Oh, dear.”
“No, you’ll love it.”
“Dazzle me.”
“We’ve got tomorrow off. Let’s go sightseeing.”
Sherlock frowned. “Sightseeing?”
“Yes! You know. Go and - see the sights.”
“The sights of Toronto?”
“There are sights! I’ve seen them!”
“Then why would you wish to see them again?”
John didn’t have a good answer for that. “It’ll be fun. The weather’s supposed to be lovely tomorrow. We can walk around and eat food that’s bad for us. It’ll do us good to get out, get some air, some exercise.” He grinned, putting on his most eager face.
Sherlock looked at him for a moment, then heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Oh, very well. If it’ll make you happy.”
He’d given in to please John - his way of thanking him for the tiny leg-up he’d given him in their scene the day before - but by midafternoon, Sherlock was forced to admit that he was enjoying himself. As promised, the weather was lovely. Cool enough for jackets, clear blue skies, and a light breeze that bore the promise of spring.
He and John took a boat tour of the islands in the morning, refreshingly bereft of tourists given that it was both the off-season and a weekday. Sherlock half-expected them to be recognized and asked for photos or autographs, but no one seemed to pay them much mind. At another time he might have been secretly annoyed by this, but today he was glad to be left alone.
Alone with John.
They had lunch in a restaurant on Queen Street that served nothing but crepes. “Something of an arbitrary restriction, isn’t it?” Sherlock murmured as they got in line.
“But it’s brilliant. Everything’s good in a crepe. Ooh, I want Nutella in mine.”
“John. That’s hardly an appropriate lunch choice. Get something with some protein in it.”
“Anytime is a good time for Nutella.”
After lunch, carbed up on crepes, they walked up University Avenue through Queen’s Park and past the Royal Ontario Museum. “I’ve been here a dozen times but I’ve never gone in there,” Sherlock commented, as they walked by.
“It’s a nice museum. We can go in another time. I want to go to Casa Loma.”
It was a long walk to Casa Loma, but they had time and it was a nice day. They didn’t talk much en route. Sherlock found himself quite content just to be at John’s side. He was a calming presence, moving through the world as if he knew its innermost workings and nothing and no one in it held any mystery for him. Sherlock, who often found the behavior of other people and the ways of society incomprehensible, felt like he had a translator at his side. A buffer between him and the rest of the world that chafed and irritated.
Sherlock had known that Casa Loma was a castle-like edifice sitting on a hill overlooking Toronto, popular as a film set, but he’d never been there. As he and John stood at the base of the long staircase leading them up to the building, he looked up at its facade and was begrudgingly impressed. “Interesting,” he said.
“Oooh, this merits an ‘interesting!’” John teased. “I wonder what Windsor Castle would get out of you.”
“I’ve been there. I favored it with ‘fascinating.’”
John laughed as they started up the steps. They paid their admission and walked through the house. The interior looked very familiar, which wasn’t surprising after Sherlock saw the multiple signs hung about listing the many films that had been shot here. “Have you ever filmed here?” he asked.
“No,” John said. “I’ve never been in a film grand enough to merit using this place.”
Unfortunately, the anonymity they’d enjoyed so far chose that moment to expire. “Oh my gosh!” said a voice, the tone and inflection disappointingly familiar as that of Fan On the Street. “You’re John Watson!”
They turned toward the speaker, a twentysomething young woman with two friends, all three of them staring. John gave them his neutral meet-the-public smile. “Yes, hello.”
Sherlock stood there, expectantly, but remained unacknowledged. “I have to tell you, Mr. Watson, that my family watches Holiday, With Nuts every Christmas. It’s our favorite movie. It makes us feel normal in comparison.”
John grinned. “Well, it’s good to know I’m contributing to family unity in some small way.”
“I had such a crush on you when I was sixteen!”
John shot Sherlock an amused glance. “Well, thank goodness you grew out of it,” John teased her.
She flushed bright red. “Oh, damn - that’s not - I mean, I still sort of have a crush on you,” she stammered.
Sherlock sighed. He supposed it was too much to ask that some sorority girls who favored holiday films of the wacky-hijinks variety had seen Rotisserie. One of the Watson fan’s friends was looking at him, though. Suddenly her face went slack and her eyes went wide. “Holy shit!” she exclaimed, then slapped a hand theatrically over her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry, excuse my language, but you’re Sherlock Holmes!”
“Yes,” he said.
“Who?” said the third of the trio.
“You know! He was in that movie, in Australia! We watched it last year in Philosophy class.” Sherlock frowned. A philosophy class was watching Kanisza? What sort of university showed theatrical films as part of their curriculum? “That movie changed my life,” the young woman gushed. “You were so amazing in it!”
“Thank you, that’s kind of you to say,” Sherlock said.
John was signing something for the first young woman. “So are you two, like, here together?” she asked, her eyes flicking from one to the other.
“We’re just sightseeing,” John said. “We’re in town shooting a film.”
“Really? Both of you in the same film? That’s fantastic!”
“I think it’ll be a good film,” John said, dropping Sherlock a barely-perceptible wink.
“Can I have your autograph, Mr. Holmes?” the philosophy girl asked, holding out a notebook and a pen.
“All right,” he said.
“My name is Cathy, with a C,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him. She was quite pretty. And she was definitely flirting with him. The stray thought struck Sherlock that if he were so inclined, he could probably take this girl somewhere right now and have sex with her. The strangeness of his profession never ceased to fascinate him, that it could put any person in such a position. He knew plenty of his fellows in the business took rabid advantage of it. He never had. No one who’d ever offered herself (or himself, and there had been plenty of each) had ever piqued his interest.
Sherlock wrote “To Cathy, Sherlock Holmes” in her notebook. He noted that John was adding a more personal note to his autographs, such as “best wishes” or what have you. He never knew what to write, unless someone asked him to write “happy birthday” or the like.
Predictably, the girls asked for a photo. A passing guard was conscripted, and the photo was taken. Sherlock wondered how haggard he looked. He always seemed to appear haggard in candid photos. John would no doubt look like the very picture of robust good health.
The girls thanked them and waved goodbye, then continued on their way. “I told you we would be recognized,” Sherlock muttered as they walked through to the garden.
“Oh, that was pretty inoffensive as encounters with the public go. They were polite, they were nice.”
“They were attractive. Your holiday fan would probably have had you off right there in the hallway.”
“Oh, as if Ms. I Love Philosophy wouldn’t have wrestled you to the ground in a heartbeat,” John joked.
Sherlock sniffed. “I think I could have emerged victorious in a wrestling match against a twenty year old girl, John.”
“I’m sorry, how dare I besmirch your hand-to-hand combat skills?” John was grinning, as if he were having the best time of his life. That couldn’t be possible, as no one would ever count spending the day with Sherlock as among their top ten most-cherished activities, but at least he didn’t seem bored.
They walked through the gardens, not very impressive in their late-spring condition, and back out to the street. Tired from their walk up, they hopped a trolley down to Kensington market in search of dinner. After passing many stalls and vendors, they came up to an intersection and were faced with a rather ramshackle restaurant called “The Hungary Thai.”
“Hmm,” he said. “Is it Hungarian, or is it Thai?”
“Maybe it’s both. We have to eat here.”
“If you like.”
They went inside, and John was delighted to discover that indeed, the restaurant was a Hungarian/Thai establishment. The juxtaposition was exceedingly confusing, but Sherlock decided not to question it. He ordered some pad thai (John ordered paprikash) and they sat down in the nearly-deserted dining room.
He cleared his throat. “I’m glad you suggested this,” he said. “The sightseeing, I mean.”
John looked up. “Really?”
“Yes. I’ve enjoyed it. I rarely explore the cities where I film. I’m afraid I tend towards the hermit while I’m working.”
“So do I, but I fight it. You need something else in your life besides the work. If you immerse yourself in this business too deeply, you forget that the rest of the world exists.”
His words made Sherlock remember a point of John’s history. “What was it like being in the Army?”
John thought a moment. “It was comforting.”
“That strikes me as an odd description.”
“No doubt. I don’t know how many others would agree with it. But for me, it was dependable meals and a place to sleep. And I never had to worry about what to do or where to go, because someone was always right there to tell me. Usually at a shout.”
“You could have gone career if you hadn’t been shot. In the thigh, am I right? You came very close to bleeding out. You could have re-enlisted after you recovered, but you’d started school and decided to stick with it.”
John nodded. “Correct on all counts.”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
“Sherlock, your ability to immediately know everything about me at a glance stopped surprising me weeks ago.” He smiled. “In fact, I’ve rather been waiting for you to ask me about Sarah. I’m sure you knew it almost as soon as I did.”
“For once, I opted to hold my tongue. I thought you’d tell me yourself if you wanted to.”
“We’ll be announcing our breakup once this shoot wraps.”
“Hmm. Is it possible to break up with someone you were never dating?”
“I know. It’s ridiculous. Bit of a sock puppet theater.”
“It served a practical purpose, inane though that purpose might be. She was able to remain closeted, and you had a relationship that made no demands on you.”
“Didn’t have the perks of a real relationship, either.”
“Oh, John. Don’t tell me that you couldn’t have gone out and found casual sex apart from your ‘relationship’ with Sarah if you’d wished to do so.”
He sighed. “I suppose you’re right. I don’t know why, but it always just seems like so much bother.”
“On that we are in complete agreement.”
Their food arrived and they ate in silence for a few moments. John swallowed and took a swig of his beer. “So, what made you decide to become an actor? I don’t think I’ve ever heard. You’re so brilliant, you could have been anything. A scientist or a writer, or some sort of walking think tank. The way you deduce things, did you ever think of being - I don’t know, a detective of some kind?”
“Oh, yes. In fact I might have been, had things been different.”
“What happened?”
Sherlock hesitated. This wasn’t something he shared readily. Not even Sally knew about this. And yet, the decision to tell John was not difficult. “When I was a child, twelve or so years old, a young man died in a pool. Carl Powers was his name. He came for a swimming competition and drowned, out of nowhere. I thought it was suspicious. I had my reasons. None of the police ever paid me the slightest mind. Just a kid with an overactive imagination. I kept bothering the detective on the case and finally he just had at me. Told me to find another hobby, join the drama club or something.” He shook his head. “Like it was a passing fancy. Well, the next day I went to the library to research how Carl might have come to drown. I passed a sign in the hall that pointed to where a drama club was in fact meeting, just then. It caught my attention. I suppose I was just feeling contrary and wanted to see how ridiculous a notion it was, me in a drama club. So I went to the meeting, more or less to prove that it wasn’t for me. And to my shock, I found myself entranced by it.”
John nodded sagely. “Fate intervened.”
“I don’t believe in fate. But sometimes I wonder where I’d be today if I hadn’t seen the sign, or decided to ignore it.”
“Well, you’d not be here with me, that’s for certain.”
Sherlock looked across the table at his friend, and the thought of having missed his company was surprisingly upsetting. “Then perhaps things turned out for the best.”
John beamed at him. “I think they have. For both of us.”
MetaNotes for Chapter 5:
1. James Lipton is the host of a popular show, “Inside the Actor’s Studio,” hosted at the New School in New York. It’s an hour-long show in which he brings out one actor and they have an in-depth discussion about their background and career. He’s a wee bit pretentious.
2. RSC = Royal Shakespeare Company
3. The story about Ed Norton is true. The talk about his performance in Primal Fear was so enthusiastic that before the film opened, he’d been cast in Everyone Says I Love You and The People Vs. Larry Flynt.
4. John and Sherlock’s tour of Toronto incorporates real-life places (though I was last there three years ago, I can’t guarantee everything’s still there). “The Hungary Thai” was previously featured by me in my Criminal Minds fic “How to Fight Loneliness” although I transplanted it to DC, so I couldn’t resist using it here since this story is taking place in its actual location.
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