Performance In a Leading Role (6/20)
Title: Performance in a Leading Role
Author: MadLori
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 6000 (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
Chapter 6
Film Shoot: Week Six
“Who’s got the limes?”
“Right here,” Anderson said, pulling out a carrier bag and handing it to Harry. She took it and got out a knife to carve them into handy gin-and-tonic sized wedges.
“You want some wine?” Sally asked her.
Harry did. She wanted some wine very, very badly. She glanced over at Clara, who was watching her with understanding, supportive eyes. “No,” she said, with a sigh. “I don’t drink. I’m in recovery.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. You didn’t know.” Clara smiled at her, then leaned over and kissed her neck. Harry blushed, still getting used to it. Just a week and she’d never been this smitten in her life.
Sally pulled the pizzas out of the oven. “God, I love take-and-bake,” she said. “I know it isn’t any better than delivery but it just feels like you might be cooking, after a fashion.”
“Do you cook at all?” Anderson asked.
“God, no. The extent of my culinary abilities extends to pouring cereal in a bowl and putting milk on it.”
“It’s a bit of a hobby of mine.”
“Cooking? Yeah?”
“When I’m not on a set. Which is hardly ever.” The four of them sat down at Clara’s table. She had the nicest flat, and this dinnertime confab had become a semi-regular occurrence.
“Is the set being closed for tomorrow?” Harry asked.
Clara nodded. “Absolutely. I’m afraid that’ll include you and Sally. Essential crew only.”
Sally waved a hand. “I’ve seen enough of Sherlock naked for a lifetime.”
“Is John nervous?” Clara asked.
Harry shrugged. “He doesn’t seem nervous. He’s done sex scenes before.”
“Not ones like this. All his have been soft-focus and romantic, without much nudity.”
“I suppose. Sherlock’s had a few that were pretty hard-core.”
“He is certainly not shy about being naked on film,” Anderson said.
“With a body like that, he shouldn’t be,” Clara said. “I just thought they might be more nervous than usual, because…” Everyone looked at her blankly. “You know.”
“Know what?” Anderson said.
Clara sighed. “I know there’s an unofficial agreement that nobody says it, but it’s just us here.”
Sally shook her head. “If nobody’s said it yet then I don’t think one of us ought to be the first.”
Harry nodded in agreement. “John’s my brother. I won’t share in speculation or betray his personal confidence. Not that there is any to betray, because he has told me nothing.”
“I understand what you guys are saying, but the crew’s all squirrelly about them shooting this scene with everybody knowing and nobody talking.”
“Everybody doesn’t know,” Anderson said, quietly.
“What do you mean?”
He looked up. “They don’t know. Or they don’t want to know.”
Everyone went silent for a moment, considering this. “My brother saved my life,” Harry said. “He saved our whole family. If it weren’t for him - I don’t know where I’d be, where any of us would be. I just want him to be happy. He deserves to be happy.”
“I’ve never seen Sherlock like this,” Sally said. “I’ve never seen him this - content. This excited about work, about sodding life. He’s always been a little out of context, like he didn’t quite fit. But not here. Not now.”
Clara sighed. “Listen, I’ve been an AD for a long time, and the first thing you learn is not to get all up in people’s business, especially the actors. But I’m telling you guys, just between us, that if we wrap this film and all go our separate ways and those two have not admitted that they are mad in love with each other, I cannot be held responsible for my actions.”
Walking around a film set in nothing but a flesh-colored thong, even with a dressing-gown over the top, is something John didn’t think anybody ever got used to. For one, it was a ridiculous thing to wear that didn’t hide a damned thing and more than once he’d thought that he’d just prefer to be totally naked. For another, the idea of preserving one’s modesty when you were about to writhe all over another man similarly (un)clothed was barmy at best.
To make matters worse, he and Sherlock had both spent the morning talking to the behind-the-scenes crew, stockpiling interview footage for the video release. He’d been asked yet again about filming sex scenes, was it awkward, this one’s with another man, what do you think about that, and so forth.
How could he explain that it wasn’t the fake sex that was awkward, it was the damned choreography?
If the interviewer had known the nature of the sex scene they were about to film, he’d no doubt have had more questions. This would be, bar none, the most explicit sex scene between two men ever filmed for a mainstream release. It wouldn’t earn them an NC-17 rating, but it was definitely edging into Basic Instinct territory. The point of it wasn’t prurience, but character. Benjamin and Mark had been through hell with each other by this point in the story. Benjamin’s professional life was in shambles, Mark was estranged from his family, and all they had left was each other, and even that was disintegrating. They knew it. It wouldn’t be enough, they wouldn’t be enough, and much as they loved each other, Mark was too raw from James’s death and Benjamin barely knew who he was anymore if his medical life was taken away. It wasn’t their time. And this was their last hurrah. It was first angry, then rough, then apologetic, then sorrowful, then comforting, then passionate in rapid succession. It was their whole relationship in a nutshell and it was a bridge from before to after.
People asked the strangest questions about sex scenes. Did men get erections? Well, he’d heard of it happening, but it had never happened to him. It was hard to get a stiffy when you were concentrating on about eight other things at once, namely where you were touching your co-star, what angle you were to the camera, where your light was, how this position of your leg was going to look, if you were giving the right emotion on your face, and if this moan or this noise was going to sound stupid.
John was thinking of all these things, but foremost in his mind right now was the fact that after they shot this scene, he wouldn’t see Sherlock for almost two weeks. They’d come to the point in the story where Benjamin and Mark separate for a year, with Benjamin taking a job in Africa at an aid hospital. Sherlock and a second unit crew would be flying there to do location shooting while John stayed here with the primary unit to shoot Mark’s scenes.
This morning, the actor who’d be playing Mark’s new boyfriend had arrived on set. John had met him just once, at the read-through. He was handsome and a bit geeky and quirky and he was definitely not Sherlock. Sherlock, who’d return to film their last scene together, a whopper of a ten-pager that would probably take two days to shoot.
And then they’d wrap this film and go on about their lives. John was trying not to think about that too much. He’d stay in touch with Sherlock, of course he would. They’d become - well, friends hardly described it anymore. And he’d probably see him at ADR, and when publicity started the nature of the film all but guaranteed that they’d be doing all their interviews together.
But it wouldn’t be the same. It would never be the same. He knew this from experience. He’d made close friends on film sets before, but the making of a film was a time of highly concentrated togetherness, of high emotions and grand surges of adrenaline, all of which served to bond you to people intensely while you were inside it. But the minute you left that cocoon, it all faded away. You’d promise to keep in touch, and sometimes you did, and it was always a joy to see those people at parties or premieres or awards shows, but that soul-deep connection hat came from the shared experience of creative work was gone, never to be reclaimed.
The thought of that happening to him and Sherlock made him feel vaguely ill, but he didn’t know how to stop it.
He could tell that Sherlock had walked up behind him, because he could feel the man’s body heat. “Once more unto the breach,” he said, the deep baritone slithering past John’s ear.
“Lead on, MacDuff.”
Sherlock chuckled. “It’ll be fine.”
“You’re the expert. This is a bit new to me.”
Clara came over. “We’re ready for you, guys.”
“Give us a minute?” Sherlock said.
“Sure.” She walked away again. The set had been closed, there were no more than a dozen people there. Ang, and the DP, the focus-puller, Clara, and a few other crew members. John stood just out of camera range, psyching himself up.
“Do you trust me, John?” Sherlock said.
“Yes.”
“I’ve got this trick. It’s worked before. Nothing untoward.”
“Go ahead.”
Sherlock’s hands pulled at John’s dressing-gown; he unbelted it and took it off, tossing it to a nearby chair. He could feel that Sherlock was already naked behind him. “Just stay still and relax.”
“Okay.”
And then - Sherlock hugged him. From behind, his arms around John’s chest, their bodies pressed together from shoulders to thighs. John gave a bit of a start, but then remembered he was supposed to relax. Sherlock didn’t move. John let himself calm down, let the tension bleed away with the warmth of Sherlock’s body.
After a few moments, he realized what this was. It was acclimatization. If they walked onto that set separately, it’d be an uphill slog, but if they connected in a chaste but physical way beforehand, they’d start the scene as a unit.
We’re in this together.
He lifted his hands and hung on to Sherlock’s forearms, and while his defenses were down, the thought came to him unbidden that he didn’t want Sherlock to leave, not tomorrow and not at the end of the shoot, he didn’t want him to leave, ever, not unless John could go with him.
Sally had packed his bags for him, so Sherlock spent the evening unpacking and repacking them. He heard John’s key in his door, but just kept on with what he was doing. Something to occupy his hands and his brain so he wouldn’t have to think about leaving was an absolute necessity right now.
“What are you doing? I thought Sally packed for you.” John leaned in the doorway, a bemused look on his face.
“Precisely why you see me occupied thusly, as she cannot properly back a bag to save her life. I don’t know why she insists on doing it when she knows I’m going to re-do it.”
“You are a mass of neuroses, aren’t you?”
“Says the man who alphabetizes his DVDs.”
“That’s not a neurosis, that’s just good organization.” John came in and sat on the end of the bed. “When’s your flight?”
“Seven in the morning.”
“Long trip.”
“Not looking forward to it.”
“Neither am I.”
Sherlock lifted his eyes and met John’s. What he saw there made him quickly return his attention to his suitcase. “Surely it’ll be a relief to be rid of me and all my self-important arrogance for two weeks.”
“No. It won’t.”
He sighed. “Come on, John. Work with me. I can’t maintain my flippant nonchalance if you insist on being all -- truthful.”
“Oh, sorry. Well, in that case, I certainly won’t miss your nicotine patches everywhere.”
“That’s better.” A thought struck him and he smirked. “Although, I will enjoy one tremendous benefit by being out of the country.”
“Dysentery?”
“I won’t have to look at or smell another sodding hydrangea for two whole weeks.”
John groaned. “Oh, you lucky bastard. You think Ang would buy it if I told him I’ve developed an allergy?”
“He’ll just tell you to take some Benadryl and square up.”
John chuckled, then went quiet. Sherlock carefully folded his shirts and tucked them into the case. “My new co-star came on set today.”
Sherlock nodded. “I saw him. Don’t think I’m familiar with him.”
“He’s on an American telly programme. Something funny, I haven’t seen it.”
“Ah.”
“Anyway, he seems like a nice enough chap. It’s going to be strange, though. I’m going to feel as though I’m cheating on you.”
“How dare you act with someone else? I thought we had something special, John.”
He laughed. “I promise I won’t feed him lines, all right? It’s just a job, it means nothing.”
And they were both laughing, and kidding each other while Sherlock packed, and it was horrible. Sherlock packed as slowly as humanly possible, as if time would slow down to match his pace and seven a.m. would never come.
John fidgeted a little on the bed. “This might sound gross, but I feel a bit - raw.”
“Well, six hours’ rubbing will do that to you. I had a co-star once called it ‘thrash rash.’”
“I’ve never had to deal with stubble-burn before,” he said, rubbing at his face. “And not just on my face.”
“There’s a cream, and there’s also this fantastic powder that…”
“I know, Harry got me some.” He looked up at him. “You were really something today. I don’t think you need any more lessons in intuitive acting from the Oracle of Watson here.”
“I owe it to you. I could only do it because I knew you were there in it with me.”
“Well, that was the intent, wasn’t it?”
Reluctantly, Sherlock shut his case and zipped it. He put his hands in his pockets with a sigh. “I’m beholden to you, John. I really am. You’ve enabled me to take some risks that I’d been avoiding, without knowing I was avoiding them.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” John said, softly. “You don’t know what it’s meant to me to act with you. Especially in this film. To get to tell this story, and to do it with someone like you…” He cleared his throat and cut his eyes away. “I’d given up on having a chance like this as an actor.”
Sherlock stared at John’s profile, knocked completely off his internal equilibrium by this man and his humility, his utter ignorance of how extraordinary he was. Sherlock wished he could find the words to tell him, every day, a hundred times a day, that not only was he a great actor but he was an amazing human being, something Sherlock had never been nor ever tried to be. But he might try now, if it would keep John at his side.
“Well,” he said. “Sally’s coming for me at five. It’s getting late.”
“I’ve got tomorrow off. Adam’s got some fittings and they’re shooting some of Emma’s scenes. I could…” John cut himself off. “No, it’s silly.’
“What?”
John looked up at him. “I could wait with you. We could watch some films, or play cards or something.”
Sherlock knew that he shouldn’t. He should try and get some rest. But would he be able to rest, knowing that on the other side of his dreams was a plane that would bear him far away from this man?
Oh, who was he kidding, anyway? Given a choice between sleep and more time with John, no choice was required. “All right, then,” he said. “You pick the first film.”
Armed with the largest latte they’d make her at the all-night coffee shop (eight shots, the barista had double and triple checked that order), Sally made her way to Sherlock’s flat, balancing the drink, her purse, and Sherlock’s travel kit with his key in her teeth. She got to the door, managed to get the key into the lock, and quietly opened it.
The light was still on. Oh God, the bastard hasn’t slept. He’ll be a delight on the plane. She set down the coffee and went into the lounge, preparing a diatribe against pre-trip all-nighters, but stopped short when she beheld the sight before her.
The TV was on, showing the DVD menu of There Will Be Blood, the sound muted. Sherlock and John were sitting on the couch, both asleep, leaning up against each other, the heads lolling back against the couch, tilted together. John’s legs were curled under him, Sherlock’s were stretched out and propped on an ottoman. A bowl of popcorn was in John’s lap. Sally couldn’t help but smile at the cuteness. They looked like a pair of little boys allowed to stay up past their bedtime but unable to wait for midnight.
She couldn’t resist. She got out her mobile and snapped a photo. Then she leaned in close and nudged them both. “Sherlock? John?”
John snapped awake at once, blinking in confusion. Sherlock’s eyes flickered open and he sat up. “Oh good Lord,” he muttered. “Is it five?”
“Yes. Time to go. Are you done re-packing your suitcase?”
“It’s in the bedroom.” He rubbed a hand through his hair. Sally went in and got his case. When she came back, John and Sherlock were both on their feet, stretching, studiously not looking at each other. “Are you ready to go? Do you want to change?” Sherlock was wearing slacks and a turtleneck, which wouldn’t be atypical travel attire for him, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask.
“No, I’m ready.” He turned to John. “Well, I’ll see you in a couple of weeks. Best of luck with your scenes.”
“You as well,” John said, shaking his hand. “I’ll look forward to the dailies. Try not to get dysentery.”
Sherlock smiled. “I’ll do my best to avoid it.” Sally watched them, eyes narrowed, as they exchanged what could only be called standard hey-we’re-mates farewells. “We’re off, then. See you soon.”
“Right you are. Safe trip.” John lifted a hand as they left Sherlock’s flat. Sherlock shut the door behind them and took a breath.
“You all right?” she said.
“Yes, of course I’m all right. Let’s go.” He took his suitcase handle from her and they headed off down the hall. Sally didn’t remark on it, but Sherlock had his hand stuffed in his pocket, his shoulders hunched like he was warding off a blow.
Oh, you men. You are all so stupid.
Film Shoot: Week Seven
John trudged to his trailer after the day’s filming wrapped. He hated the fact that some of the joy had gone out of this for him. It shouldn’t matter who was here and who wasn’t here, what mattered was the script and the story and his character, Mark, who was trying to move on after the twin devastations of his brother’s suicide and the loss of the man he’d fallen in love with. Helping him move on was the new man he met, Roland, who was considerate and handsome and just not Benjamin.
“John? John!”
He stopped and turned to find Adam, his new short-term co-star, jogging up to him. “Yes?”
“Can I ask you about tomorrow’s scene, in the coffee shop?”
“Sure. Come on in.” He went into his trailer and held the door for Adam, who was very nice and very talented and who he irrationally hated down to the core of his being. Not that Adam would ever know this, because John Watson was a good actor. He was just having to do more acting offscreen these days than was the norm.
He spent the next half hour discussing the scene, running a few lines, making a few jokes, because that’s what co-stars did. That’s what actors did when they were giving and generous to their fellows, and John Watson was nothing if not giving and generous, and none of this was Adam’s fault, he was just a man trying to do a job. He was an actor on a successful telly program who was taking a small part in this film for its profile and its director, and John respected that.
Four days. Four days until Sherlock comes back. He had to stop himself from thinking, until Sherlock comes home. This wasn’t home. It was a film crew. It was a production. An ephemeral gathering of people and circumstances to produce something that would exist only as light projected on a screen.
Home. I want him to come home. Home is with me.
“Well, thanks,” Adam said, closing up his battered script. “I appreciate the time.”
“No worries,” John said.
“I, uh - I’m sorry I’m not going to get to meet Sherlock.”
John looked up. Hearing the name come out of Adam’s mouth was inexplicably jarring. “Yeah, I guess he won’t be back until after you’ve wrapped.”
“What’s he like to work with? I’ve heard some stories, I don’t mind telling you.”
He’s transcendental. He’s transforming. He’s so consuming that I honestly can’t remember ever having worked with another actor, ever. They all become him in my memories. He’s every character in every novel and every script and every imagining. He’s my entire goddamned world and it’s ending in eight days. “He’s really amazing,” John said. “He’s demanding, but it’s worth it. I think we’ve both done some of our best work on this film.”
“I can’t wait to see the finished product.”
On that, John could agree. “I know. Neither can I.”
Film Shoot: Week Eight
John woke up on the second-to-last day of the shoot to find Sherlock making breakfast in his kitchen. His heart leapt at the sight of him, but all he could do was mutter a sleepy “Whatthefuck?”
“Ah! Good morning,” Sherlock said, smiling brightly. “Better hurry, we’re on-set in an hour.”
“When - when did you get back?”
“Oh, late last night.”
“Why didn’t you come wake me up?”
“I was rather catastrophically jet-lagged and barely made it past my couch. But never mind, all is mended with some coffee. Here,” he said, pushing a cup across the breakfast bar toward John.
He sat down and took it, rubbing his face. “You were supposed to be back yesterday,” he said, trying not to sound like a petulant child denied a favorite toy. In fact, the extra day had felt like punishment. Adam had wrapped all their scenes on schedule and Sherlock’s delay had pushed things back so John had spent an entire day doing pick-ups and inserts and worrying that something had gone wrong.
“I know. Some sort of bureaucratic snafu. Anderson sorted it. I have to admit, he is an irritating tosser but he gets things done.”
“Are you going to be all right to film? Aren’t you tired? This is a marathon of a scene.”
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” He finally stopped moving and leaned over the bar, looking right into John’s eyes. “It’s good to see you,” he said, a bit quieter.
John smiled, warmed all over. “I missed you,” he replied. Sherlock’s eyes twinkled a bit. “How was Africa? The dailies looked amazing.”
“Oh, you know. Everything takes three times as long. Almost two weeks for ten sodding scenes. But it’s going to look fantastic.” He came around the bar and took the coffee cup from John’s hand, pulled him off the chair and spun him around. “Go. Into the shower with you. I can’t wait to sink our collective teeth into this scene.”
The scene was hard. Easily the hardest scene John had ever played in his career. Benjamin reappearing on Mark’s doorstep after a full year away, the polite greetings, the suppressed emotions, the long exchanges of how’ve-you-been and what-have-you-been-doing, the gradual erosion of civility until it got down to the meat of it. Benjamin hoping for a second chance. Mark wanting to give it to him but involved with Roland. The still-raw edges of their wounds, the healing incomplete. Finally the surrender, the desperate kisses, the almost-sex and then the restraint, the withdrawal.
And then, the agreement. Someday. We will be together someday. When our time comes, and it will come, and we will live our lives until then and we’ll know when it’s time.
It was a lot of dialogue. It was a lot of body language. It was a lot of moving in the space, the space of Mark’s flat, Benjamin taking up too much literal and emotional real estate and Mark clinging to his fragile stability.
The schedule was for two full days, but as the work went on it became clear that they’d only need a day and a half, because John and Sherlock were blazing. Full conflagration. Everyone step back and just watch, because this is how it’s done. Cuts were rarely called for. There’d be a lot of long takes in this scene, and it would be something to behold. Ang had scheduled a Steadicam although it hadn’t been planned to be used in this scene; halfway through the first day he began to use it, shooting long, sweeping moving takes that moved between them, the camera operator dancing around them as they railed at each other, comforted each other, kissed and stalked and walked circles and tested each other.
This wasn’t the last scene of the film. The final shot would be of Benjamin alone, on a plane, on his way back to Africa, at peace with the closure he’d gotten with Mark and their promise to each other. That shot had already been filmed during Sherlock’s African location shoot. This was the final scene to be filmed for the production. John was absurdly pleased that he and Sherlock would wrap simultaneously, and neither would have to stay behind to shoot additional scenes.
On the morning of the final day of shooting, John and Sherlock had breakfast together in his trailer. Two more pages and they were finished. “When do you start rehearsals for the play?”
“Monday.”
“Oh, that soon?”
Sherlock nodded, then braced himself a little. “I’m flying out tonight.” He avoided John’s eyes as he said this.
John’s stomach dropped. “Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“But I thought…” John trailed off. What did you think, exactly? Did you think that you and Sherlock would have this last night to spend together, without the pressure of the shoot? That you’d go out on the town, have a nice dinner, maybe take a walk, and bare your souls to each other? That he’d turn to you and tell you that he wants you to come with him back to London? Or that he’s pulling out of the play so that he can stay here with you? Did you think that you’d have a cinematic moment of confession, where you’d finally find the perfect moment when the planets would align and it would somehow become okay for you to tell him the truth? Be realistic, John. Nothing like that was going to happen, no matter when he left the country.
He looked up and saw Sherlock’s eyes, his sad eyes, and he knew that not only was that exactly what he hoped was going to happen, but it was exactly what Sherlock had been hoping for, too.
“I thought you weren’t planning on leaving until tomorrow.”
“That was the plan, yes. Unfortunately my brother is rather insisting that I spend a few days at the family home. My mother’s been asking for me, apparently. So he changed my travel arrangements without consulting me.”
“Your brother? I didn’t know you had one.’
“It’s not a topic I care to visit with any regularity. Mycroft is seven years my senior and a colossal pain in my arse.”
“What’s he do, then?”
Sherlock sniffed derisively. “He’d say that he occupies a minor position in the British government. You’d be better off not knowing what he really does.”
“Well. That’s - I’m sorry to hear that. I was rather looking forward to - I don’t know. Having dinner or something. Last night and all that.”
“I know,” Sherlock said, sadly. “I was, too. I shall have to leave right from the set and got to the airport. Sally has my bags already in the car.”
John grit his teeth together, staring down at his hateful half-finished breakfast. “Dammit, Sherlock, I - I don’t know - there are things…”
“John. It’s all fine.”
He met Sherlock’s eyes again, and despite the man’s words, it wasn’t fine. It was far from fine.
Benjamin went to the door. He opened it and turned back, smiling at Mark with tears in his eyes. “Someday,” he said.
Mark nodded, his fists clenched. “Someday.” And then, Benjamin was gone.
Mark reached behind him and found a chair, folding into it as the breath left his body. He let his head drop into his hands and took a deep, shuddery breath, then tipped his head back into the light streaming in from the skylight, glinting off the wet streaks on his face. He smiled, then laughed.
“Cut.”
John sat up straight, shaking it off.
Clara looked at Ang, who gave her the nod. She came onto the set, beaming. “John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, finished on the film,” she called out. “And that is a wrap, ladies and gentlemen.”
Sherlock burst back into the flat, smiling. The whole crew was clapping and hollering and hooting. He didn’t look at them or acknowledge their cheers, he just strode straight for John and seized him in a tight hug. John hugged him back, his arms wrapped around that slender body, tears tickling the back of this throat.
He would have stood there forever, Sherlock in his arms, but the crew were swarming around them, wanting to shake their hands, congratulate them, and soon they were separated and John lost track of him. Ang came up to embrace him. “You will change lives,” he said, quietly. “And no one will see you the same again.”
John sighed. “I hope you’re right.”
The handshakes and hugs and exchanges of promises to keep in touch seemed to go on forever. “You’ll be seeing more of me, I think,” Clara said, winking at him.
“Oh, could you mean because you’re sleeping with my sister?” John said, grinning.
“If that’s all right with you.”
“I think it’s brilliant, and you’re brilliant, and everything is just - brilliant.” He was quite overcome with the outpouring of love and camaraderie, but his mind was still fixed on one thing.
Clara pulled him close and whispered in his ear. “Sally’s got their car down by the production vehicles. You’ve got about half an hour before they leave.” She pulled back and John saw in her eyes that she knew, and that probably everyone on the whole damn crew knew.
For the next twenty minutes, it was as if the world was conspiring to keep him away from Sherlock. Eager crew members wanted him to sign their books, various production staff needed things back from him, needed his signature, needed God knows what and he didn’t care, he just wanted to be left alone so he could run after Sherlock like any of the rom-com heroes he’d played over the last ten years.
When he finally broke away, he hurried toward the vehicles, craning his neck to look for Sherlock’s tall, dark-haired head. He didn’t see him anywhere. He knew where Sally would have parked their car, but when he got there, it was gone.
No. Oh, no. I can’t take this. If I get nothing else you’ve got to give me the chance to say...
“You didn’t think I’d leave without saying goodbye, did you?”
He whirled around, gasping, to find Sherlock standing behind him. “Holy fuck!”
He smirked. “Elegantly put as always. I had Sally move the car around to the corner so we wouldn’t get caught up in the mass exodus.”
John relaxed, smiling. “I thought you’d gone.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. As if I’d just up and leave.”
Now that he had him here, John didn’t know what to say. “Well - best of luck with the play. I’m sure you’ll be brilliant.”
Sherlock sighed. “It’ll be nice to be back in London. I never have gotten used to California. Dreadful place.”
“I miss London, too.”
“Perhaps…” Sherlock cleared his throat, looking away. “Perhaps you could come visit, if you’ve got time.”
“I’d like that. Time could be a problem. I’ve got a few days off and then it’s back to work. I’m doing a voice for a Pixar feature, and I’m shooting a few guest spots. I’m sure Mike will have me hopping.”
“Well, if nothing else, I’ll see you when the publicity starts.”
“It might be bearable if we tackle it together.”
“No offense, John, but not even your esteemed company could make publicity tours bearable.”
They laughed, and then silence fell. John stood there staring at Sherlock’s shoes. Say something. He looked up. Sherlock was waiting for him to start. Could he? It was a powerfully tall cliff with no bottom in sight.
“Well, break a leg,” he said, lamely.
Sherlock nodded, withdrawing slightly. “It’ll be a good production. Mostly sold out already, I hear. Good luck with the Sarah situation.”
“Oh, right,” John said. He’d all but forgotten about it, but soon they’d be announcing their break-up.
“Sherlock!” Sally called, from around the corner. She pointed at her watch.
Sherlock gave her a nod, then turned back to John. “I’d best be off.”
“All right.”
They just stood there staring at each other.
I can’t say it.
Neither can I.
It’s too scary.
I’m petrified.
It’ll go away. We’ll get over it.
We’ll work. A lot of work. It’ll pass.
I can’t do it. I’m sorry.
It’s not right. I’m sorry, too.
John held out his hand. “It’s been - really, an honor, Sherlock. One of the best acting experiences of my life. Thank you.”
Sherlock took his hand and shook it. “It’s been my privilege, John. Please keep in touch.”
“I will. You do the same.”
They hung on to each other’s hands for a beat, then released. John’s hand felt cold at once, as if the warmth of Sherlock’s grip had immediately become its new preferred state, and the absence of it was a bitter denial.
Sherlock turned and walked toward Sally, his shoulders hunching a bit.
Oh God, I can’t. “Sherlock!”
He stopped and turned.
And John opened his mouth, then shut it again, and could only raise a hand. Sherlock raised his in answer, then turned and kept walking. He disappeared around the corner with Sally.
John stood there until he saw their car disappear down the street. He slumped against the side of a nearby van, the strength gone out of his legs. Someone was talking to him but he didn’t care who it was, he didn’t hear them.
Sherlock stared out the window of the plane and watched Toronto diminish until the broke through the clouds and then he saw nothing but white. Sally was quiet in the seat next to him. He could hear her fingers on her BlackBerry, sending emails, making contacts, verifying things on his behalf.
Sherlock just stared. Stared out at the unrelenting whiteness, the blazing bright of the sky, the blue of it undimmed by moisture, blurry now with his own.
Sally touched his arm. He looked at her, one tear escaping to roll down his cheek. Her eyes were full of sympathy. “I know,” she whispered. “I know it hurts.”
He let his eyes fall shut. He slumped to the side and Sally caught him with one arm around his shoulders. She pulled his head down and was blessedly silent, saying nothing as a patch of wetness darkened her shirt beneath his face.
Next Chapter
Author: MadLori
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 6000 (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
Chapter 6
Film Shoot: Week Six
“Who’s got the limes?”
“Right here,” Anderson said, pulling out a carrier bag and handing it to Harry. She took it and got out a knife to carve them into handy gin-and-tonic sized wedges.
“You want some wine?” Sally asked her.
Harry did. She wanted some wine very, very badly. She glanced over at Clara, who was watching her with understanding, supportive eyes. “No,” she said, with a sigh. “I don’t drink. I’m in recovery.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. You didn’t know.” Clara smiled at her, then leaned over and kissed her neck. Harry blushed, still getting used to it. Just a week and she’d never been this smitten in her life.
Sally pulled the pizzas out of the oven. “God, I love take-and-bake,” she said. “I know it isn’t any better than delivery but it just feels like you might be cooking, after a fashion.”
“Do you cook at all?” Anderson asked.
“God, no. The extent of my culinary abilities extends to pouring cereal in a bowl and putting milk on it.”
“It’s a bit of a hobby of mine.”
“Cooking? Yeah?”
“When I’m not on a set. Which is hardly ever.” The four of them sat down at Clara’s table. She had the nicest flat, and this dinnertime confab had become a semi-regular occurrence.
“Is the set being closed for tomorrow?” Harry asked.
Clara nodded. “Absolutely. I’m afraid that’ll include you and Sally. Essential crew only.”
Sally waved a hand. “I’ve seen enough of Sherlock naked for a lifetime.”
“Is John nervous?” Clara asked.
Harry shrugged. “He doesn’t seem nervous. He’s done sex scenes before.”
“Not ones like this. All his have been soft-focus and romantic, without much nudity.”
“I suppose. Sherlock’s had a few that were pretty hard-core.”
“He is certainly not shy about being naked on film,” Anderson said.
“With a body like that, he shouldn’t be,” Clara said. “I just thought they might be more nervous than usual, because…” Everyone looked at her blankly. “You know.”
“Know what?” Anderson said.
Clara sighed. “I know there’s an unofficial agreement that nobody says it, but it’s just us here.”
Sally shook her head. “If nobody’s said it yet then I don’t think one of us ought to be the first.”
Harry nodded in agreement. “John’s my brother. I won’t share in speculation or betray his personal confidence. Not that there is any to betray, because he has told me nothing.”
“I understand what you guys are saying, but the crew’s all squirrelly about them shooting this scene with everybody knowing and nobody talking.”
“Everybody doesn’t know,” Anderson said, quietly.
“What do you mean?”
He looked up. “They don’t know. Or they don’t want to know.”
Everyone went silent for a moment, considering this. “My brother saved my life,” Harry said. “He saved our whole family. If it weren’t for him - I don’t know where I’d be, where any of us would be. I just want him to be happy. He deserves to be happy.”
“I’ve never seen Sherlock like this,” Sally said. “I’ve never seen him this - content. This excited about work, about sodding life. He’s always been a little out of context, like he didn’t quite fit. But not here. Not now.”
Clara sighed. “Listen, I’ve been an AD for a long time, and the first thing you learn is not to get all up in people’s business, especially the actors. But I’m telling you guys, just between us, that if we wrap this film and all go our separate ways and those two have not admitted that they are mad in love with each other, I cannot be held responsible for my actions.”
Walking around a film set in nothing but a flesh-colored thong, even with a dressing-gown over the top, is something John didn’t think anybody ever got used to. For one, it was a ridiculous thing to wear that didn’t hide a damned thing and more than once he’d thought that he’d just prefer to be totally naked. For another, the idea of preserving one’s modesty when you were about to writhe all over another man similarly (un)clothed was barmy at best.
To make matters worse, he and Sherlock had both spent the morning talking to the behind-the-scenes crew, stockpiling interview footage for the video release. He’d been asked yet again about filming sex scenes, was it awkward, this one’s with another man, what do you think about that, and so forth.
How could he explain that it wasn’t the fake sex that was awkward, it was the damned choreography?
If the interviewer had known the nature of the sex scene they were about to film, he’d no doubt have had more questions. This would be, bar none, the most explicit sex scene between two men ever filmed for a mainstream release. It wouldn’t earn them an NC-17 rating, but it was definitely edging into Basic Instinct territory. The point of it wasn’t prurience, but character. Benjamin and Mark had been through hell with each other by this point in the story. Benjamin’s professional life was in shambles, Mark was estranged from his family, and all they had left was each other, and even that was disintegrating. They knew it. It wouldn’t be enough, they wouldn’t be enough, and much as they loved each other, Mark was too raw from James’s death and Benjamin barely knew who he was anymore if his medical life was taken away. It wasn’t their time. And this was their last hurrah. It was first angry, then rough, then apologetic, then sorrowful, then comforting, then passionate in rapid succession. It was their whole relationship in a nutshell and it was a bridge from before to after.
People asked the strangest questions about sex scenes. Did men get erections? Well, he’d heard of it happening, but it had never happened to him. It was hard to get a stiffy when you were concentrating on about eight other things at once, namely where you were touching your co-star, what angle you were to the camera, where your light was, how this position of your leg was going to look, if you were giving the right emotion on your face, and if this moan or this noise was going to sound stupid.
John was thinking of all these things, but foremost in his mind right now was the fact that after they shot this scene, he wouldn’t see Sherlock for almost two weeks. They’d come to the point in the story where Benjamin and Mark separate for a year, with Benjamin taking a job in Africa at an aid hospital. Sherlock and a second unit crew would be flying there to do location shooting while John stayed here with the primary unit to shoot Mark’s scenes.
This morning, the actor who’d be playing Mark’s new boyfriend had arrived on set. John had met him just once, at the read-through. He was handsome and a bit geeky and quirky and he was definitely not Sherlock. Sherlock, who’d return to film their last scene together, a whopper of a ten-pager that would probably take two days to shoot.
And then they’d wrap this film and go on about their lives. John was trying not to think about that too much. He’d stay in touch with Sherlock, of course he would. They’d become - well, friends hardly described it anymore. And he’d probably see him at ADR, and when publicity started the nature of the film all but guaranteed that they’d be doing all their interviews together.
But it wouldn’t be the same. It would never be the same. He knew this from experience. He’d made close friends on film sets before, but the making of a film was a time of highly concentrated togetherness, of high emotions and grand surges of adrenaline, all of which served to bond you to people intensely while you were inside it. But the minute you left that cocoon, it all faded away. You’d promise to keep in touch, and sometimes you did, and it was always a joy to see those people at parties or premieres or awards shows, but that soul-deep connection hat came from the shared experience of creative work was gone, never to be reclaimed.
The thought of that happening to him and Sherlock made him feel vaguely ill, but he didn’t know how to stop it.
He could tell that Sherlock had walked up behind him, because he could feel the man’s body heat. “Once more unto the breach,” he said, the deep baritone slithering past John’s ear.
“Lead on, MacDuff.”
Sherlock chuckled. “It’ll be fine.”
“You’re the expert. This is a bit new to me.”
Clara came over. “We’re ready for you, guys.”
“Give us a minute?” Sherlock said.
“Sure.” She walked away again. The set had been closed, there were no more than a dozen people there. Ang, and the DP, the focus-puller, Clara, and a few other crew members. John stood just out of camera range, psyching himself up.
“Do you trust me, John?” Sherlock said.
“Yes.”
“I’ve got this trick. It’s worked before. Nothing untoward.”
“Go ahead.”
Sherlock’s hands pulled at John’s dressing-gown; he unbelted it and took it off, tossing it to a nearby chair. He could feel that Sherlock was already naked behind him. “Just stay still and relax.”
“Okay.”
And then - Sherlock hugged him. From behind, his arms around John’s chest, their bodies pressed together from shoulders to thighs. John gave a bit of a start, but then remembered he was supposed to relax. Sherlock didn’t move. John let himself calm down, let the tension bleed away with the warmth of Sherlock’s body.
After a few moments, he realized what this was. It was acclimatization. If they walked onto that set separately, it’d be an uphill slog, but if they connected in a chaste but physical way beforehand, they’d start the scene as a unit.
We’re in this together.
He lifted his hands and hung on to Sherlock’s forearms, and while his defenses were down, the thought came to him unbidden that he didn’t want Sherlock to leave, not tomorrow and not at the end of the shoot, he didn’t want him to leave, ever, not unless John could go with him.
Sally had packed his bags for him, so Sherlock spent the evening unpacking and repacking them. He heard John’s key in his door, but just kept on with what he was doing. Something to occupy his hands and his brain so he wouldn’t have to think about leaving was an absolute necessity right now.
“What are you doing? I thought Sally packed for you.” John leaned in the doorway, a bemused look on his face.
“Precisely why you see me occupied thusly, as she cannot properly back a bag to save her life. I don’t know why she insists on doing it when she knows I’m going to re-do it.”
“You are a mass of neuroses, aren’t you?”
“Says the man who alphabetizes his DVDs.”
“That’s not a neurosis, that’s just good organization.” John came in and sat on the end of the bed. “When’s your flight?”
“Seven in the morning.”
“Long trip.”
“Not looking forward to it.”
“Neither am I.”
Sherlock lifted his eyes and met John’s. What he saw there made him quickly return his attention to his suitcase. “Surely it’ll be a relief to be rid of me and all my self-important arrogance for two weeks.”
“No. It won’t.”
He sighed. “Come on, John. Work with me. I can’t maintain my flippant nonchalance if you insist on being all -- truthful.”
“Oh, sorry. Well, in that case, I certainly won’t miss your nicotine patches everywhere.”
“That’s better.” A thought struck him and he smirked. “Although, I will enjoy one tremendous benefit by being out of the country.”
“Dysentery?”
“I won’t have to look at or smell another sodding hydrangea for two whole weeks.”
John groaned. “Oh, you lucky bastard. You think Ang would buy it if I told him I’ve developed an allergy?”
“He’ll just tell you to take some Benadryl and square up.”
John chuckled, then went quiet. Sherlock carefully folded his shirts and tucked them into the case. “My new co-star came on set today.”
Sherlock nodded. “I saw him. Don’t think I’m familiar with him.”
“He’s on an American telly programme. Something funny, I haven’t seen it.”
“Ah.”
“Anyway, he seems like a nice enough chap. It’s going to be strange, though. I’m going to feel as though I’m cheating on you.”
“How dare you act with someone else? I thought we had something special, John.”
He laughed. “I promise I won’t feed him lines, all right? It’s just a job, it means nothing.”
And they were both laughing, and kidding each other while Sherlock packed, and it was horrible. Sherlock packed as slowly as humanly possible, as if time would slow down to match his pace and seven a.m. would never come.
John fidgeted a little on the bed. “This might sound gross, but I feel a bit - raw.”
“Well, six hours’ rubbing will do that to you. I had a co-star once called it ‘thrash rash.’”
“I’ve never had to deal with stubble-burn before,” he said, rubbing at his face. “And not just on my face.”
“There’s a cream, and there’s also this fantastic powder that…”
“I know, Harry got me some.” He looked up at him. “You were really something today. I don’t think you need any more lessons in intuitive acting from the Oracle of Watson here.”
“I owe it to you. I could only do it because I knew you were there in it with me.”
“Well, that was the intent, wasn’t it?”
Reluctantly, Sherlock shut his case and zipped it. He put his hands in his pockets with a sigh. “I’m beholden to you, John. I really am. You’ve enabled me to take some risks that I’d been avoiding, without knowing I was avoiding them.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” John said, softly. “You don’t know what it’s meant to me to act with you. Especially in this film. To get to tell this story, and to do it with someone like you…” He cleared his throat and cut his eyes away. “I’d given up on having a chance like this as an actor.”
Sherlock stared at John’s profile, knocked completely off his internal equilibrium by this man and his humility, his utter ignorance of how extraordinary he was. Sherlock wished he could find the words to tell him, every day, a hundred times a day, that not only was he a great actor but he was an amazing human being, something Sherlock had never been nor ever tried to be. But he might try now, if it would keep John at his side.
“Well,” he said. “Sally’s coming for me at five. It’s getting late.”
“I’ve got tomorrow off. Adam’s got some fittings and they’re shooting some of Emma’s scenes. I could…” John cut himself off. “No, it’s silly.’
“What?”
John looked up at him. “I could wait with you. We could watch some films, or play cards or something.”
Sherlock knew that he shouldn’t. He should try and get some rest. But would he be able to rest, knowing that on the other side of his dreams was a plane that would bear him far away from this man?
Oh, who was he kidding, anyway? Given a choice between sleep and more time with John, no choice was required. “All right, then,” he said. “You pick the first film.”
Armed with the largest latte they’d make her at the all-night coffee shop (eight shots, the barista had double and triple checked that order), Sally made her way to Sherlock’s flat, balancing the drink, her purse, and Sherlock’s travel kit with his key in her teeth. She got to the door, managed to get the key into the lock, and quietly opened it.
The light was still on. Oh God, the bastard hasn’t slept. He’ll be a delight on the plane. She set down the coffee and went into the lounge, preparing a diatribe against pre-trip all-nighters, but stopped short when she beheld the sight before her.
The TV was on, showing the DVD menu of There Will Be Blood, the sound muted. Sherlock and John were sitting on the couch, both asleep, leaning up against each other, the heads lolling back against the couch, tilted together. John’s legs were curled under him, Sherlock’s were stretched out and propped on an ottoman. A bowl of popcorn was in John’s lap. Sally couldn’t help but smile at the cuteness. They looked like a pair of little boys allowed to stay up past their bedtime but unable to wait for midnight.
She couldn’t resist. She got out her mobile and snapped a photo. Then she leaned in close and nudged them both. “Sherlock? John?”
John snapped awake at once, blinking in confusion. Sherlock’s eyes flickered open and he sat up. “Oh good Lord,” he muttered. “Is it five?”
“Yes. Time to go. Are you done re-packing your suitcase?”
“It’s in the bedroom.” He rubbed a hand through his hair. Sally went in and got his case. When she came back, John and Sherlock were both on their feet, stretching, studiously not looking at each other. “Are you ready to go? Do you want to change?” Sherlock was wearing slacks and a turtleneck, which wouldn’t be atypical travel attire for him, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask.
“No, I’m ready.” He turned to John. “Well, I’ll see you in a couple of weeks. Best of luck with your scenes.”
“You as well,” John said, shaking his hand. “I’ll look forward to the dailies. Try not to get dysentery.”
Sherlock smiled. “I’ll do my best to avoid it.” Sally watched them, eyes narrowed, as they exchanged what could only be called standard hey-we’re-mates farewells. “We’re off, then. See you soon.”
“Right you are. Safe trip.” John lifted a hand as they left Sherlock’s flat. Sherlock shut the door behind them and took a breath.
“You all right?” she said.
“Yes, of course I’m all right. Let’s go.” He took his suitcase handle from her and they headed off down the hall. Sally didn’t remark on it, but Sherlock had his hand stuffed in his pocket, his shoulders hunched like he was warding off a blow.
Oh, you men. You are all so stupid.
Film Shoot: Week Seven
John trudged to his trailer after the day’s filming wrapped. He hated the fact that some of the joy had gone out of this for him. It shouldn’t matter who was here and who wasn’t here, what mattered was the script and the story and his character, Mark, who was trying to move on after the twin devastations of his brother’s suicide and the loss of the man he’d fallen in love with. Helping him move on was the new man he met, Roland, who was considerate and handsome and just not Benjamin.
“John? John!”
He stopped and turned to find Adam, his new short-term co-star, jogging up to him. “Yes?”
“Can I ask you about tomorrow’s scene, in the coffee shop?”
“Sure. Come on in.” He went into his trailer and held the door for Adam, who was very nice and very talented and who he irrationally hated down to the core of his being. Not that Adam would ever know this, because John Watson was a good actor. He was just having to do more acting offscreen these days than was the norm.
He spent the next half hour discussing the scene, running a few lines, making a few jokes, because that’s what co-stars did. That’s what actors did when they were giving and generous to their fellows, and John Watson was nothing if not giving and generous, and none of this was Adam’s fault, he was just a man trying to do a job. He was an actor on a successful telly program who was taking a small part in this film for its profile and its director, and John respected that.
Four days. Four days until Sherlock comes back. He had to stop himself from thinking, until Sherlock comes home. This wasn’t home. It was a film crew. It was a production. An ephemeral gathering of people and circumstances to produce something that would exist only as light projected on a screen.
Home. I want him to come home. Home is with me.
“Well, thanks,” Adam said, closing up his battered script. “I appreciate the time.”
“No worries,” John said.
“I, uh - I’m sorry I’m not going to get to meet Sherlock.”
John looked up. Hearing the name come out of Adam’s mouth was inexplicably jarring. “Yeah, I guess he won’t be back until after you’ve wrapped.”
“What’s he like to work with? I’ve heard some stories, I don’t mind telling you.”
He’s transcendental. He’s transforming. He’s so consuming that I honestly can’t remember ever having worked with another actor, ever. They all become him in my memories. He’s every character in every novel and every script and every imagining. He’s my entire goddamned world and it’s ending in eight days. “He’s really amazing,” John said. “He’s demanding, but it’s worth it. I think we’ve both done some of our best work on this film.”
“I can’t wait to see the finished product.”
On that, John could agree. “I know. Neither can I.”
Film Shoot: Week Eight
John woke up on the second-to-last day of the shoot to find Sherlock making breakfast in his kitchen. His heart leapt at the sight of him, but all he could do was mutter a sleepy “Whatthefuck?”
“Ah! Good morning,” Sherlock said, smiling brightly. “Better hurry, we’re on-set in an hour.”
“When - when did you get back?”
“Oh, late last night.”
“Why didn’t you come wake me up?”
“I was rather catastrophically jet-lagged and barely made it past my couch. But never mind, all is mended with some coffee. Here,” he said, pushing a cup across the breakfast bar toward John.
He sat down and took it, rubbing his face. “You were supposed to be back yesterday,” he said, trying not to sound like a petulant child denied a favorite toy. In fact, the extra day had felt like punishment. Adam had wrapped all their scenes on schedule and Sherlock’s delay had pushed things back so John had spent an entire day doing pick-ups and inserts and worrying that something had gone wrong.
“I know. Some sort of bureaucratic snafu. Anderson sorted it. I have to admit, he is an irritating tosser but he gets things done.”
“Are you going to be all right to film? Aren’t you tired? This is a marathon of a scene.”
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” He finally stopped moving and leaned over the bar, looking right into John’s eyes. “It’s good to see you,” he said, a bit quieter.
John smiled, warmed all over. “I missed you,” he replied. Sherlock’s eyes twinkled a bit. “How was Africa? The dailies looked amazing.”
“Oh, you know. Everything takes three times as long. Almost two weeks for ten sodding scenes. But it’s going to look fantastic.” He came around the bar and took the coffee cup from John’s hand, pulled him off the chair and spun him around. “Go. Into the shower with you. I can’t wait to sink our collective teeth into this scene.”
The scene was hard. Easily the hardest scene John had ever played in his career. Benjamin reappearing on Mark’s doorstep after a full year away, the polite greetings, the suppressed emotions, the long exchanges of how’ve-you-been and what-have-you-been-doing, the gradual erosion of civility until it got down to the meat of it. Benjamin hoping for a second chance. Mark wanting to give it to him but involved with Roland. The still-raw edges of their wounds, the healing incomplete. Finally the surrender, the desperate kisses, the almost-sex and then the restraint, the withdrawal.
And then, the agreement. Someday. We will be together someday. When our time comes, and it will come, and we will live our lives until then and we’ll know when it’s time.
It was a lot of dialogue. It was a lot of body language. It was a lot of moving in the space, the space of Mark’s flat, Benjamin taking up too much literal and emotional real estate and Mark clinging to his fragile stability.
The schedule was for two full days, but as the work went on it became clear that they’d only need a day and a half, because John and Sherlock were blazing. Full conflagration. Everyone step back and just watch, because this is how it’s done. Cuts were rarely called for. There’d be a lot of long takes in this scene, and it would be something to behold. Ang had scheduled a Steadicam although it hadn’t been planned to be used in this scene; halfway through the first day he began to use it, shooting long, sweeping moving takes that moved between them, the camera operator dancing around them as they railed at each other, comforted each other, kissed and stalked and walked circles and tested each other.
This wasn’t the last scene of the film. The final shot would be of Benjamin alone, on a plane, on his way back to Africa, at peace with the closure he’d gotten with Mark and their promise to each other. That shot had already been filmed during Sherlock’s African location shoot. This was the final scene to be filmed for the production. John was absurdly pleased that he and Sherlock would wrap simultaneously, and neither would have to stay behind to shoot additional scenes.
On the morning of the final day of shooting, John and Sherlock had breakfast together in his trailer. Two more pages and they were finished. “When do you start rehearsals for the play?”
“Monday.”
“Oh, that soon?”
Sherlock nodded, then braced himself a little. “I’m flying out tonight.” He avoided John’s eyes as he said this.
John’s stomach dropped. “Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“But I thought…” John trailed off. What did you think, exactly? Did you think that you and Sherlock would have this last night to spend together, without the pressure of the shoot? That you’d go out on the town, have a nice dinner, maybe take a walk, and bare your souls to each other? That he’d turn to you and tell you that he wants you to come with him back to London? Or that he’s pulling out of the play so that he can stay here with you? Did you think that you’d have a cinematic moment of confession, where you’d finally find the perfect moment when the planets would align and it would somehow become okay for you to tell him the truth? Be realistic, John. Nothing like that was going to happen, no matter when he left the country.
He looked up and saw Sherlock’s eyes, his sad eyes, and he knew that not only was that exactly what he hoped was going to happen, but it was exactly what Sherlock had been hoping for, too.
“I thought you weren’t planning on leaving until tomorrow.”
“That was the plan, yes. Unfortunately my brother is rather insisting that I spend a few days at the family home. My mother’s been asking for me, apparently. So he changed my travel arrangements without consulting me.”
“Your brother? I didn’t know you had one.’
“It’s not a topic I care to visit with any regularity. Mycroft is seven years my senior and a colossal pain in my arse.”
“What’s he do, then?”
Sherlock sniffed derisively. “He’d say that he occupies a minor position in the British government. You’d be better off not knowing what he really does.”
“Well. That’s - I’m sorry to hear that. I was rather looking forward to - I don’t know. Having dinner or something. Last night and all that.”
“I know,” Sherlock said, sadly. “I was, too. I shall have to leave right from the set and got to the airport. Sally has my bags already in the car.”
John grit his teeth together, staring down at his hateful half-finished breakfast. “Dammit, Sherlock, I - I don’t know - there are things…”
“John. It’s all fine.”
He met Sherlock’s eyes again, and despite the man’s words, it wasn’t fine. It was far from fine.
Benjamin went to the door. He opened it and turned back, smiling at Mark with tears in his eyes. “Someday,” he said.
Mark nodded, his fists clenched. “Someday.” And then, Benjamin was gone.
Mark reached behind him and found a chair, folding into it as the breath left his body. He let his head drop into his hands and took a deep, shuddery breath, then tipped his head back into the light streaming in from the skylight, glinting off the wet streaks on his face. He smiled, then laughed.
“Cut.”
John sat up straight, shaking it off.
Clara looked at Ang, who gave her the nod. She came onto the set, beaming. “John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, finished on the film,” she called out. “And that is a wrap, ladies and gentlemen.”
Sherlock burst back into the flat, smiling. The whole crew was clapping and hollering and hooting. He didn’t look at them or acknowledge their cheers, he just strode straight for John and seized him in a tight hug. John hugged him back, his arms wrapped around that slender body, tears tickling the back of this throat.
He would have stood there forever, Sherlock in his arms, but the crew were swarming around them, wanting to shake their hands, congratulate them, and soon they were separated and John lost track of him. Ang came up to embrace him. “You will change lives,” he said, quietly. “And no one will see you the same again.”
John sighed. “I hope you’re right.”
The handshakes and hugs and exchanges of promises to keep in touch seemed to go on forever. “You’ll be seeing more of me, I think,” Clara said, winking at him.
“Oh, could you mean because you’re sleeping with my sister?” John said, grinning.
“If that’s all right with you.”
“I think it’s brilliant, and you’re brilliant, and everything is just - brilliant.” He was quite overcome with the outpouring of love and camaraderie, but his mind was still fixed on one thing.
Clara pulled him close and whispered in his ear. “Sally’s got their car down by the production vehicles. You’ve got about half an hour before they leave.” She pulled back and John saw in her eyes that she knew, and that probably everyone on the whole damn crew knew.
For the next twenty minutes, it was as if the world was conspiring to keep him away from Sherlock. Eager crew members wanted him to sign their books, various production staff needed things back from him, needed his signature, needed God knows what and he didn’t care, he just wanted to be left alone so he could run after Sherlock like any of the rom-com heroes he’d played over the last ten years.
When he finally broke away, he hurried toward the vehicles, craning his neck to look for Sherlock’s tall, dark-haired head. He didn’t see him anywhere. He knew where Sally would have parked their car, but when he got there, it was gone.
No. Oh, no. I can’t take this. If I get nothing else you’ve got to give me the chance to say...
“You didn’t think I’d leave without saying goodbye, did you?”
He whirled around, gasping, to find Sherlock standing behind him. “Holy fuck!”
He smirked. “Elegantly put as always. I had Sally move the car around to the corner so we wouldn’t get caught up in the mass exodus.”
John relaxed, smiling. “I thought you’d gone.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. As if I’d just up and leave.”
Now that he had him here, John didn’t know what to say. “Well - best of luck with the play. I’m sure you’ll be brilliant.”
Sherlock sighed. “It’ll be nice to be back in London. I never have gotten used to California. Dreadful place.”
“I miss London, too.”
“Perhaps…” Sherlock cleared his throat, looking away. “Perhaps you could come visit, if you’ve got time.”
“I’d like that. Time could be a problem. I’ve got a few days off and then it’s back to work. I’m doing a voice for a Pixar feature, and I’m shooting a few guest spots. I’m sure Mike will have me hopping.”
“Well, if nothing else, I’ll see you when the publicity starts.”
“It might be bearable if we tackle it together.”
“No offense, John, but not even your esteemed company could make publicity tours bearable.”
They laughed, and then silence fell. John stood there staring at Sherlock’s shoes. Say something. He looked up. Sherlock was waiting for him to start. Could he? It was a powerfully tall cliff with no bottom in sight.
“Well, break a leg,” he said, lamely.
Sherlock nodded, withdrawing slightly. “It’ll be a good production. Mostly sold out already, I hear. Good luck with the Sarah situation.”
“Oh, right,” John said. He’d all but forgotten about it, but soon they’d be announcing their break-up.
“Sherlock!” Sally called, from around the corner. She pointed at her watch.
Sherlock gave her a nod, then turned back to John. “I’d best be off.”
“All right.”
They just stood there staring at each other.
I can’t say it.
Neither can I.
It’s too scary.
I’m petrified.
It’ll go away. We’ll get over it.
We’ll work. A lot of work. It’ll pass.
I can’t do it. I’m sorry.
It’s not right. I’m sorry, too.
John held out his hand. “It’s been - really, an honor, Sherlock. One of the best acting experiences of my life. Thank you.”
Sherlock took his hand and shook it. “It’s been my privilege, John. Please keep in touch.”
“I will. You do the same.”
They hung on to each other’s hands for a beat, then released. John’s hand felt cold at once, as if the warmth of Sherlock’s grip had immediately become its new preferred state, and the absence of it was a bitter denial.
Sherlock turned and walked toward Sally, his shoulders hunching a bit.
Oh God, I can’t. “Sherlock!”
He stopped and turned.
And John opened his mouth, then shut it again, and could only raise a hand. Sherlock raised his in answer, then turned and kept walking. He disappeared around the corner with Sally.
John stood there until he saw their car disappear down the street. He slumped against the side of a nearby van, the strength gone out of his legs. Someone was talking to him but he didn’t care who it was, he didn’t hear them.
Sherlock stared out the window of the plane and watched Toronto diminish until the broke through the clouds and then he saw nothing but white. Sally was quiet in the seat next to him. He could hear her fingers on her BlackBerry, sending emails, making contacts, verifying things on his behalf.
Sherlock just stared. Stared out at the unrelenting whiteness, the blazing bright of the sky, the blue of it undimmed by moisture, blurry now with his own.
Sally touched his arm. He looked at her, one tear escaping to roll down his cheek. Her eyes were full of sympathy. “I know,” she whispered. “I know it hurts.”
He let his eyes fall shut. He slumped to the side and Sally caught him with one arm around his shoulders. She pulled his head down and was blessedly silent, saying nothing as a patch of wetness darkened her shirt beneath his face.
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