Performance In a Leading Role (8/20)
Title: Performance in a Leading Role
Author: MadLori
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 8000 (this chapter)
Genre: AU, romance
Warnings: None
Rating: NC-17 please note rating change
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 -- Chapter 7
Author’s Note: I have made a bit of an alteration to John’s timeline. In chapter 2 John says that he was in Altman’s Short Cuts. Unfortunately that film was made in 1993, which is too early in John’s personal timeline to be realistic, so I’ve changed the Altman film that John appeared in to Gosford Park which has the additional advantage of having a nearly all-British cast.
Chapter 8
John stared out the window of the cab as it bore him back to his hotel, barely registering his surroundings. He was floating and euphoric and he felt like a teenager. He lifted his fingers to his mouth, still feeling the ghosts of Sherlock’s lips, the grip of his arms around him. He smiled to himself, his heart full to bursting, because it was a rare and precious thing when something worked out exactly as you’d hoped.
He got out his mobile. He couldn’t forget to text Harry, to whom he owed quite a debt for having helped to make this possible.
One hell of a good first snog.
She texted back a few minutes later. Text me when it’s the first shag.
He laughed. The driver dropped him at the Savoy and John bounded out, trotted through the lobby and up to his room.
Sherlock had watched him clean the makeup off his face. “You’ve got a bit on your suit, too, but I don’t suppose that can be helped,” he’d said.
“Nobody will notice. Anyhow, I’m just going back to the hotel.”
“You may as well check out. Bring your bags back to my flat.”
John had eyed him, one eyebrow raised. “Oh, yes?”
“John, if you think I’m going to let you sleep somewhere that I am not, you’re mad.”
So now he tossed his clothes back into his suitcase, gathered up his belongings as fast as possible and took a quick look round before running out again. He didn’t know why he was hurrying. Sherlock would no doubt be at least a couple of hours, there was no rush. But he was so keyed up that he didn’t think he could have been casual about anything just now.
He stopped by the front desk and checked out, then ran outside and hailed a cab. “Where to?” the cabbie asked.
John couldn’t stop smiling. “221B Baker Street, please.”
By the time Sally got back from helping John make his escape, Sherlock had removed his makeup and was changing out of his costume. “Saw him off, then,” she said. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Well? How did it go?”
“You’ll have to be more specific,” he said, eyeing her reflection in the mirror, but his eyes had that aren’t-I-a-devil expression that she knew and dreaded.
“Sherlock, I swear to God…”
“I don’t know if this is relevant to whatever you’re asking about, but you might be interested to know that I think it might now be said that John and I are -- more than friends.”
She smiled. “Thank God. It’s about damned time.”
“I’m sure I don’t have to impress on you the need for discretion.”
“Of course not.”
“How many at the stage door tonight?”
“Couple of dozen. Make it quick, we’ll be off to the after party.”
Sherlock tied his tie and straightened up, brushing off his jacket. “I intensely don’t want to do this. John will be waiting for me at my flat. I’d much rather be there with him.”
“I’ve phoned down to Sussex to have the caretaker open up the house and get it ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“Don’t be coy. Are you or are you not going to take John out to country for a bit?”
Sherlock sighed. “The thought had occurred.”
“Then you’ll be wanting the house prepared.”
“What would I do without you, Sally?” Sherlock handed her his coat and bag. “All right. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can leave.”
Sherlock’s building was a tall column of flats, Victorian and posh, right round the corner from Regent’s Park. John took a cautious look up and down the street, hating that he had to, but it wouldn’t do for some random photographer to snap him going into Sherlock’s building, let alone with a suitcase.. He didn’t see anyone. He paid the cabbie, got out and hurried across the pavement. A doorman appeared out of nowhere and opened the door for him, ushering him into the lobby. “Are you Mr. Watson?” he asked.
John blinked, surprised. “Um, yes, I am.”
“Mr. Holmes phoned ahead that you were expected.” He pointed across the elaborate parquet floor to a lift. “He’s on the second floor, then. Up you go.”
“Thank you,” John said. He boarded the lift. There were five flats, apparently, A through E. He pushed the button for B.
The lift doors opened directly into the flat. John stepped out, dragging his suitcase, his mouth hanging open. The flat was large and expansive, taking up the entire second floor of the building with one massive room. Carved wooden columns two feet thick broke up the space. He’d have thought that someone as meticulous as Sherlock would have an immaculate flat with everything just so, but it was cozily Bohemian, full of squashy furniture and oddball prints on the exposed brick walls and tattered Persian rugs. Books were everywhere, and a large flat-screen telly was shoved into the corner like an afterthought. There was a tidy, darkened kitchen in one corner and half-walls in another sectioning off a bedroom.
John wandered in and sat down on a couch that seemed to be Sherlock’s favorite place to sit, based on the amount of notebooks and scripts and empty teacups that were nearby. He leaned back and smiled, relaxing for the first time all evening. The high ceilings, exposed beams and ducts, and the dim lighting made the flat feel like a womb, a haven.
This is where he lives and breathes and sleeps and showers and reads and works, John thought. This is the home of my…um, my…
He didn’t know how to refer to Sherlock in his own mind now. He’d been sticking grimly to the friend-colleague-mate genera of tags, but now his mind was rocketing off down the boyfriend-lover-partner branches of the linguistic tree. Redefining his terms wasn’t all his mind was up to, giddy in its new freedom to indulge its late-night imaginings. Every mundane fantasy he’d ever had about Sherlock was running rampant over his thoughts now that he could let them all loose. Fantasies about Sunday mornings in bed and trips abroad and dinners with friends and trading scripts back and forth. He’d imagined a thousand ordinary, day-to-day things he could do with Sherlock and had suppressed every one of them, and the idea that now he didn’t have to do that anymore was making him a little light-headed. Just the idea of being here in this flat with him, watching telly, cooking dinner, shaving side by side at the mirror - these banal activities seemed seductive and intoxicating when he pictured doing them with Sherlock.
Go ahead and imagine it now, John. Imagine everything, because now it can happen. It can all happen. So he sat there in the dip that Sherlock’s body had worn into this couch, cradled by the shape that he’d left behind, and imagined. He imagined bashing about Paris with Sherlock. He imagined taking him to meet his family. He imagined all sorts of everyday things, all the while still shying away from the thing that most wanted to be imagined.
Imagining sex with Sherlock was something he’d tried very hard to avoid, not entirely successfully. John wasn’t a total stranger to men’s bodies. He’d been in the Army, where sometimes the blokes gave each other a hand, and then spent most of his adult life in the film industry, where men of both orientations were often willing, even eager, to broaden their horizons for a lark. But his experience was limited to oral and manual contact with men, and none of it had been in the context of a romance. He’d just never felt that way toward another man before.
Come to think of it, he’d barely felt that way toward a woman. He’d been single most of his life, although there had been a few relationships now and again, none had lasted more than a year. He’d put it down to the demands of his business (none of the women he’d dated had been actresses, by design), but the truth was that he hadn’t been all that heartbroken to see those relationships end.
Another truth that he’d have to face, and now was as good a time as any to do so, was that he’d never felt about anyone how he felt about Sherlock. And it was puzzling, in the extreme.
Why? Why him, why me? Why now?
They hadn’t had the most auspicious beginning, but from the night he’d confronted Sherlock about the dailies and they’d had it out, something had just clicked. They’d fit together like it was someone’s idea of a cosmic joke to take two men, so different in so many ways, chisel out a piece of each one’s heart and hide it inside the other, so that when they met, they’d be stuck without knowing why.
He knew it was ridiculous. He knew it was more than just putting the cart before the horse, he was putting the cart out before he’d even gotten to the stable. But he also knew that this wasn’t casual. It wasn’t a fling, or an experiment, or a temporary showmance. This was real, and that excited him and terrified him all at once.
He wasn’t afraid of being physical with a man. He wasn’t even afraid of having to adjust his ideas about his own sexuality. But he was afraid of what it meant, for his career and for Sherlock’s, and what it would mean for them both if it got out. The media attention would be horrific, and people’s lives and relationships had been torn apart by less. He wasn’t afraid of being with Sherlock. He was afraid of everything around them.
He got up and dragged his suitcase into the bedroom. He got out some clean clothes and stripped off his makeup-smeared suit.
Hmm. Shower.
He went into the adjoining bathroom, which had an attached walk-in closet. As much as the rest of the flat was in homey disarray, the closet was military-neat. The hangars were spaced one inch apart, Sherlock’s suits hanging in regimented rows, his shoes in tidy ranks, his ties hung up on a rotating rack. John smiled, reaching out to touch one of the suitjackets, then went to find a towel.
If he’d hoped to put sexual thoughts out of his head, the shower had been a bad idea. Standing here in the stall, where he knew Sherlock had stood many times, the water running over his nude body just as it ran down John’s now, was absurdly but undeniably arousing. John was tempted to have a wank right here, but decided against it.
He dried off and dressed in jeans and a soft t-shirt, putting his dirty clothes in his wash bag.
Now what?
He wanted to have a look round the flat, perhaps even have the snoop that he’d threatened Sherlock he’d have, but honestly, the bed looked too inviting. He was abruptly aware of how tired he was. He’d barely slept the night before, wired from his trip and the prospect of seeing Sherlock, and since then he’d been going on adrenaline. His purpose here achieved and things between them moving forward, the adrenaline was fading, leaving him more than a bit woozy.
The large bed was neatly made. He climbed onto it and stretched out, a groan of near-orgasmic pleasure escaping him at its comfort. He turned on his side and burrowed his head into a pillow.
I’ll just lie here for a moment. Then I’ll get up and make some tea and dig up some food for when Sherlock gets home.
Sherlock Holmes had never faced a more difficult acting challenge in his life than that of the task before him; namely, to navigate a wrap party full of actors and contributors and patrons and directors and maintain his civil demeanor while simultaneously wishing fervently that all of them would drop dead so he could leave.
Politeness was not something he valued or was particularly inclined to practice, but it was something he’d learned to emulate out of necessity. He’d been forced to accept, early in his career, that his ability to find interesting work was severely curtailed if he did not at least cast a passing glance to cordiality to his colleagues. No one would ever nominate him for the congeniality award, but he’d learned to put forth a reasonable facsimile when necessary.
After the contracts were signed, that was when all bets were off.
He wished he could just say sod it all and leave, but he couldn’t. There were at least a dozen people in the room whose good graces he wished to maintain, and a dozen more whose good graces were currently in need of a little remedial work on his part. If only one could act in a vacuum, but one could not. It required co-stars and producers and writers and directors and bloody best boy grips. He could not burn his bridges.
Especially not now. Not when the writing was on the wall, his own bloody wall, and looking down the road he knew with grim resignation that he’d soon be needing allies in the business. Not just for his own sake, but for John’s.
John.
He went to the bar for another whiskey sour, taking the few moments’ respite to shut his eyes and imagine John in his flat. Was he sitting on the couch? Making tea in the kitchen? Reading a book, or watching telly? The thought of John there, doing any of these very ordinary things, was surprisingly potent. It was comforting and made him feel warm from his stomach out to his fingertips.
John in his home. John in his life.
He just wanted to be there with him and sit next to him on that couch, or drink the tea he’d made, or watch telly with him. Even if that was all there was to it. His presence worked like a salve on Sherlock’s mind, calming and steadying it, and it was something he’d come to crave in Toronto and had been missing ever since. It had come flowing back at the first sight of John in his dressing room, smiling at him. It was a wave of peace that washed over Sherlock’s entire body and soothed the raw places where the world chafed him.
Armed with his fresh drink, he waded back into the sea of people who represented nothing but a barrier between him and a taxi.
Soon. You’ll be there with him soon. Think of it as a test of your concentration.
Oh, dear. That was a very unhelpful thought. His irritatingly obstinate mind relished nothing more than a challenge, so the moment he framed it as such, it began throwing up more and more distracting thoughts and images to test his concentration even more.
John waiting for me. John in my bathroom, perhaps taking a shower. Oh God, John naked in the shower. John in my bed. John (naked) in my bed. John greeting me at the door with a kiss. John greeting me (naked) at the door with a kiss.
It didn’t stop. It ran on a loop through his mind while he conducted a conversation with a formidable dowager who’d donated a truly staggering amount of money to the National Theater. After she moved on to someone else, he couldn’t have told you what they’d discussed if his life had depended on it, but she had seemed oblivious to his preoccupation.
I am the greatest actor in the world.
“Sherlock!”
He turned around, mustering another passably-pleasant expression, but when he saw who it was, the expression became more genuine. “Thea, how are you?”
They exchanged cheek-kisses. “What’s your schedule like for next summer?” she asked, without preamble.
“I’m holding off for now. Why?”
She shrugged, smiling coyly. “How would you feel about doing some good old deconstructed Shakespeare?”
“I’m intrigued.”
“I thought I might had better mention it now. I’m hearing that you could be very busy come, oh, March or thereabouts.”
“Is that so?”
“Don’t be coy. That film’s being talked up one side and down the other.”
“I rather wish it weren’t. You know how it works with advance buzz. If it gets too histrionic, then all the film can do is fail to live up to its expectations.”
“You going back to the States for publicity?”
“Not until November.”
“I heard you and John got along like a house on fire during the shoot. I imagine it’ll be nice to see him again.”
I could be seeing John again right now if all you people could manage to let me escape. “We got on rather well, yes.”
“Good. That’s good.” Thea gave him an understanding smile. “Well, you know the theaters here will always welcome you,” she said. “If you start to get bored of Hollywood.”
Sherlock watched her face, his brain tracking at least a half dozen chains of word of mouth that led from her back to the set of To a Stranger. He swallowed hard, looking down at his shoes. “Thea…”
“The play was stunning,” she said, cutting him off. “You were fantastic.”
“Thanks.”
She took a step closer. “I was in Byron’s office when Sally snuck John out the staff door,” she murmured. “What are you still doing here?”
Sherlock took a drink. “Right now, I have no idea.”
“You’ve put in enough time. I’ll cover for you.”
He stared at her, overcome with an abrupt and sudden urge that he couldn’t explain. “Thea, I think - I think I want to hug you.”
She laughed. “Save your hugs for John.” She reached out and plucked the glass from his fingers. “Go. I’ll make your excuses.”
Sherlock seized her shoulders and planted a big, smacking kiss on her cheek. “I’ll call you later, we’ll talk about next summer.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked with purpose to the doors. Sally, through whatever mental telepathy she insisted she did not possess despite all evidence to the contrary, was already there with his coat and bag.
“I’ll hang about for a bit in case people ask after you,” she muttered to him.
“Go talk to Thea so you two aren’t giving different stories as to why I’m gone.”
She patted his arm. “Get some for me.”
“Sorry, Sally. I don’t share.” He winked at her and was out the door.
The cab ride home had never seemed so long. Sherlock drummed his fingers against his knee as the driver navigated the streets. Naturally, they hit every red light and paused for interminable road-crossings by pedestrians. Sherlock knew in his rational mind that this cab ride was no longer nor any more vexing than any other, but the presence of such a long-desired reward at the end of the route made the time stretch in a way surely not allowable by the laws of physics.
Finally there, Sherlock tossed some money at the cabbie and darted inside. He waved to his doorman and got into the lift.
He composed himself during the short ride to his flat. It wouldn’t do to burst in like he’d been shot out of a cannon. It might alarm John, and give the impression that Sherlock was not in control of his faculties right now. He gave himself a shake and took a deep breath, calming his face and straightening his posture.
The lift stopped and he walked into the flat. It was quiet. In fact, it looked as it always looked, but there was a difference. It didn’t feel empty. Logically, he knew that there was no sensory apparatus he possessed that could allow him to sense the presence of another person if he could not see, hear or smell him, therefore the feeling was an illusion based on his previous knowledge that someone was here. Yet the sensation remained, and remained powerful. This flat was not vacant. This flat contained a John.
But where was he?
Sherlock could detect the faint odor of shower soap and the slight tinge of humidity in the air. So John had taken a shower. He glanced into the kitchen, which was dark and deserted. John had obviously sat for a brief time on his couch; several of his papers were disturbed. But he was not there now, nor did Sherlock see his suitcase anywhere.
He walked toward the bathroom, wondering if John were shaving or perhaps in the tub. Such ideas forced certain new and interesting thoughts into his mind.
Thoughts that were abruptly cut off the moment that Sherlock saw John, asleep on his bed.
He was on his side, knees pulled up, one hand curled on the pillow near his cheek. His breathing was even, his face slack and peaceful, and the sight of him tugged at something behind Sherlock’s gut.
Sherlock walked quietly over to the bed and leaned over him. He’d changed into jeans and a t-shirt. His hair was damp and he smelled of Sherlock’s shower soap. His feet were bare. He looked like he belonged here, as if this were his home as well; it was clear that he felt safe here, enough so to let his guard down and sleep in a bed in a flat he’d never set foot in before tonight. Sherlock sat gently on the edge of the bed, hitching his knee up and looking down at this man who was now his - what, exactly? Boyfriend? Lover? Significant other? He didn’t know the appropriate language to describe what they were to each other. This would have to be an item on the agenda. Definition of terms.
Whatever term was correct, its application to his own life was a new and jarring sensation. He’d never had an [insert-term-here], just casual lovers and short affairs that inevitably ended because the other person was too insufferably boring to be tolerated any longer - or because his own failings inevitably outweighed their desire for his secondhand fame, intellectual companionship or physical person. He didn’t know why John seemed to be exempt from any and all previously enacted ordinances regarding suitable partners, but he was. Perhaps all the objections to his previously-attempted partners boiled down to one single objection: not John. He couldn’t be faulted for not recognizing the nature of their inadequacy. He hadn’t known that he was waiting for John. But here he was, at last.
He reached out to touch his shoulder, then hesitated. His hand hovered in midair. He pondered whether it wouldn’t be more considerate to let him sleep. He was probably tired from his trip. Would that not be the nice thing to do, the act of a concerned boyfriend? Then again, he couldn’t speak for John, but he suspected that he had been waiting for this as long as Sherlock had, and he might not look too kindly upon being allowed to sleep through their first night together.
His hand moved again, one finger extending to brush through the fringe over John’s forehead. “John,” he murmured. He let the finger trail down John’s cheek. He felt some tension come into John’s relaxed body and knew that he was waking. “John?”
John sighed, a long susurrus of breath. He shifted on the bed and made a little growly waking-up noise that had an odd effect on Sherlock’s stomach. He blinked and opened his eyes. He looked up at Sherlock and a slow smile spread over his lips. “Hi,” he said, the word draw out to impossible lengths.
“Hello,” Sherlock said, smiling back. “You look comfortable.”
John just looked at him for a moment, then his eyes widened. “Oh God, what time is it?”
“It’s just after midnight.”
“Oh, hang it. I only meant to lie down for a moment,” he said, sitting up.
“It’s all right. You must be tired.”
“No, I wanted to make tea and get some food together for when you got home, and I just fell asleep…” He shook his head, as though he’d ruined everything.
“John, I do not require tea or food. Think nothing of it.”
He yawned and stretched, his t-shirt riding up to expose a strip of pale stomach. He ran a hand through his mussed, still-damp hair. “How was the after party?”
“Dreadful. Thank goodness for Thea, she covered for me as I made my escape.”
“She directed you in ‘Hedda Gabler,’ right?”
“Yes.” Sherlock held John’s eyes. “I never enjoy socializing in that sort of context, but tonight it was unbearable. Knowing that you were here waiting for me.”
John leaned forward, biting his lower lip. “I really like your flat.”
“Hmm. I’m not here all that often. My condo in LA is much blander, but unfortunately I’m there most of the time.”
“It feels like you here.” John reached up and put a finger under Sherlock’s chin, drawing him closer.
“I always thought it was missing something,” Sherlock whispered.
“What?” The word was barely a puff of air. John was staring at Sherlock’s lips.
“I don’t know, but I think you may have brought it with you.” He closed the distance and sealed his mouth over John’s, sliding forward on the bed to pull him close. John melted against him and wound his arms around Sherlock’s neck, kissing back with still-sleepy warmth. They shimmied and shifted until they were both sitting on the bed, interlocked like puzzle pieces, learning the shape of each other’s mouths. John filled his arms perfectly; the pleasing weight of him, firm but comfortable, was an anchor that would hold Sherlock here in this moment when his brain would usually have flown away on a dozen different trains of thought.
John drew back a little and pushed Sherlock’s jacket off his shoulders. “Take off your coat and stay awhile,” he said with a wry smile, tossing the jacket onto a nearby chair. He kissed Sherlock’s lips again, twice, then paused and just sat still for a moment, his eyes roaming from Sherlock’s forehead down to his chin. “God, your face,” he murmured. “I could stare at it for hours.”
Sherlock shifted a bit under his scrutiny. “John, I - I think I ought to warn you.”
“Uh oh. This sounds dire.”
“I really have no idea what I’m doing, or how to do any of this.”
“Well, I give you full marks for kiss technique.”
He looked at John’s face, and the thought of disappointing him was a cold lead ball sitting in his stomach. “I’m not known for my skill with relationships.”
“Neither am I.”
“But you get along with people, you’re an easy person to like. I’m - difficult.”
“Are you implying that I am not a man up for a challenge?”
Sherlock sighed. “John, please. I’m trying to have an actual conversation with you about us. Isn’t that what one does?”
John sobered and sat back a little. “All right. I’m sorry.”
“People who’ve tried - this - in the past with me have eventually found me unpleasant.”
“Perhaps they weren’t the right people.”
“Perhaps not. But I find that the mere idea of you coming to a similar conclusion is making me come over a bit wobbly.”
John took hold of his hands. “Sherlock, these other people. Did you care about them?”
“Enough to accept their company.”
“Did you have this conversation with any of them?”
“No. I assumed they knew what they were getting into.”
“Do you…” He saw John swallow hard. “Did you feel about them how you do about me?”
“Not remotely,” he said, trapped in place by John’s gaze.
“And do you think that maybe that’s why it didn’t work out? Not only did they probably sense that you didn’t care bugger-all about them, but the relationships weren’t important enough for you to make an effort. And it’s always an effort, Sherlock. I’m not a shining prince of perfection, either. We’ll both be stumbling about in the dark and trying to muddle through.” He sighed. “If we do this, will it be important? Will it be a priority? Will you put in the effort to make it work?”
“I’ll do whatever is necessary.”
John smiled. “Then who bloody cares what happened with other people? I heard someone say once that every relationship you’ll ever have will fail, until one doesn’t. I know we’ve only been together for, oh…” He checked his watch. “A whole four hours now, but this isn’t trivial to me.”
“Nor I.”
“I think we have a shot.”
Sherlock looked into his eyes, impossibly deep blue and full of something he’d never seen before, not directed at him - not when a camera wasn’t rolling. “So do I.”
“Then stop worrying. It’s a bit soon to be looking for reasons this couldn’t possibly work.”
“Agreed.”
“And, well - it’s not exactly the most romantic topic for our first night together, is it?” Sherlock checked John’s expression, but he didn’t look irritated, just bemused.
“I thought it best to be honest and direct. Isn’t that always preferred?”
“Yes, generally. But look, Sherlock - I know you. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes. Better than anyone.”
“I know how you are. I’m not asking you to be different for me. I know you can’t, and I wouldn’t want you to. So as long as I’ve got leave to get bloody irritated with you sometimes, you’ve got leave to continue being difficult.”
Hope was rising in Sherlock’s chest, hope for something he hadn’t ever entertained as a realistic possibility: finding someone who accepted him as he was. “I only want you to make an informed decision.”
“The only information I need is that it fucking gutted me to watch you walk away in Toronto, it gutted me some more to be away from you all summer, and right now I’m so bloody chuffed just to be here with you that if you asked me to chuck it all and faff off with you to Iceland, all I’d say is ‘when do we leave?’”
Sherlock smirked. “Iceland?”
“Anywhere. Iceland, Madagascar, Antarctica, Cleveland -- you name it.”
“Please, John. Don’t be ridiculous. I’d never ask anyone to accompany me to Cleveland.”
John giggled, delighted trills of mirth, and Sherlock thought that if he could only make John giggle like that every day of their lives then he’d be doing all right. He lunged forward and pressed John back into the mattress, kissing the laughter out of his mouth. John wrapped his arms around him and twined their legs together, returning Sherlock’s kisses with enthusiasm. He grabbed at Sherlock’s shirt and yanked it out of his trousers, then Sherlock felt his hands, hot and soft, on the bare skin of his back. He growled into John’s mouth and their kisses tipped over from tender and languid to urgent and heated.
The part of Sherlock’s brain that had no interest in such activities floated away, observing with interested detachment how most of his rational centers clicked over into standby and the testosterone-driven male core of him, normally browbeaten into dormancy, surged forward and asserted itself. It watched from a safe distance, fascinated by the potency of the response, of that primitive rutting instinct that took over. It did not seem to matter that the gene-driven urge to couple was irrelevant here, all that mattered was that he had his chosen mate spread beneath him and he wanted to have at him until they both lost consciousness.
John arched up into him and Sherlock could feel his erection beneath his jeans, his own straining against his trousers. He pressed his hips down into John and rocked against him. “Oh God, Sherlock,” John groaned, hitching his leg higher up around Sherlock’s hip.
Sherlock knelt up and pulled John upright with him; they scrabbled at each other’s shirts before giving up and each stripping off their own. John grabbed him and pulled him back down and his warm skin was everywhere. He kissed his way down John’s neck, his lips seeking out the hard throb of John’s pulse. He felt John’s hands slide down his back and quite deliberately grab two handfuls of his arse. He chuckled against John’s throat. “Grabby, are we?”
“You have the most spectacular arse on either side of the pond,” John said. “I have been mad to get my hands on it. God, it feels even better than it looks.” He nudged his face against Sherlock’s until their mouths met again. “If only these fucking trousers weren’t in the way.”
“If you wish them gone, do something about it,” Sherlock murmured, the words snuck in between kisses and gropes. He worked one hand underneath John’s hip and got his own handful of arse. “I certainly intend to.”
John chuckled and moved his hands around to Sherlock’s zipper. Within a few moments they both had each other’s flies undone. John didn’t bother with the rest of it, he just plunged his hand inside and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s cock. For a moment Sherlock’s vision went a bit white, like a bright flash had gone off, and he bit his lip. “John, dear God, have pity,” he gasped.
“No pity. Nor do I expect any from you.”
“Good.” Sherlock got John’s jeans open and shifted off him a bit so they could both reach each other. He buried his face in John’s shoulder as he stroked him, his own hips rolling in unconscious thrusts into John’s hand. “John…yes, John…”
“Harder,” John groaned. “Sherlock, God…I want to see you come…”
A strangled sort of moan came from Sherlock’s throat, John’s voice setting off a sympathetic resonance in his spine. He brought his hand to his face and licked the palm, then returned it to John’s cock, pulling it in smooth, long strokes, flicking his thumb over the head and relishing each shudder he felt course through John’s body. “You first,” he growled.
John cried out and his body went taut, then he was spilling over Sherlock’s hand. The sound of his orgasm and the motion of his hand, still working on Sherlock, sent him over the edge as well. Sherlock pressed his mouth to John’s shoulder, his teeth set in the ridge of muscle there, and rode out his own climax with John’s name on his lips, spoken into warm flesh of his throat.
They lay there panting for a moment. “Jesus Christ,” John said, his voice breathy. “We just came in our pants like teenagers.”
“I don’t believe I remember this part of being a teenager,” Sherlock said, not moving from his comfy spot, half on top of John.
John chuckled. “I suppose we are starting a bit from the beginning. Might as well have been in the back seat of my mum’s Ford Anglia.”
Sherlock lifted his head and drew his hand out of John’s pants, surreptitiously wiping it on them as he did. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t what you were expecting,” he said, that knot of anxiety returning.
“Oh God, no! Stop that. Look, I’m rather new at this, too. I’ve gotten off with a few blokes, but…” He sighed and laid his hand on Sherlock’s cheek. “Never really been with one, when it meant something. Never had a lover like this, like you. There’s no rush, is there?”
“None at all.”
“Then let’s not worry. We’ll work up to it. Surely you didn’t think we’d dive in and be rogering each other on the kitchen floor the first time round, did you?’
Sherlock grinned. “Well, I was thinking that the rug in the living room would be more comfortable, but just as you like.”
John laughed out loud. “Come on, you. Let’s get ourselves sorted and perhaps get under the covers.”
They adjourned to the bathroom for a quick wash-up. Sherlock changed into pajama pants, John just put on clean boxers. They went back into the bedroom, hands grasping at each other and lips meeting in small, casual kisses, and climbed in. Sherlock settled against the pillows with a deep sigh. “John, I hope this isn’t too disappointing, but - I’m well knackered.”
“Oh, thank God,” John said, in a rush. “So am I. Jet lag, and I’ve barely slept since I got here. Let’s just get some sleep.” He turned on his side, hands tucked beneath his cheek, and smiled at Sherlock. “You know, just sleeping next to you is pretty brilliant.”
Sherlock lifted a hand and skimmed one finger down John’s cheek. “I usually dislike sleeping. A necessary evil that just keeps me from my work. It might be almost pleasant now, though. I’ll have something to look forward to.”
“What’s that, then? Good dreams?”
“No. When I wake up, you’ll be here.”
John’s face did something unclear that looked like a sort-of smile but also the beginnings of tears. The end result was neither, just a soft expression that made Sherlock’s breath hitch a bit. “Yes. I’ll be here.” He slid closer and kissed him, his hand resting over Sherlock’s heart. Sherlock covered it with his own and kissed back. “Goodnight,” John whispered.
“Goodnight, John.”
John settled against the pillows, turning a few times and tucking the duvet up around his shoulders, and within a few minutes his breathing slowed and deepened, and Sherlock knew he was asleep. He just laid there, staring at the back of John’s head for a moment, marveling that such a thing as John Watson in his bed could possibly happen.
John snapped awake at seven a.m. He was impossibly warm and comfortable, and he did not wish to be awake, except that if he weren’t, he’d be missing out on the quite extraordinary sensation of Sherlock Holmes snuggled up to him, curled around his back with his arm tucked around John’s waist. He sighed and burrowed back into him a bit. Sherlock’s arm tightened around him and John felt him press his face into the back of John’s neck, then the soft imprints of his lips there. John twined their fingers together on his stomach and turned his head a bit to nuzzle at Sherlock’s face.
Sherlock’s lips worked their way around to the side, then the front of his neck, then John was tipping over onto his back to kiss him properly, both of them exhaling sleepy breaths as their tongues wound around each other, bodies interlacing with far less clothing in the way than they’d had to contend with the night before.
John rolled Sherlock onto his back and kissed down his neck to his chest. His skin was smooth and pale over his leanly-muscled torso; it fluttered under John’s lips as he moved down in the bed. He slipped Sherlock’s pajama pants down and took him in his mouth. He heard Sherlock suck in a sharp breath, then felt his fingers thread through John’s hair, not pulling, just holding. He urged Sherlock’s legs apart and settled his chest between them, lifting one of his legs and hoisting it over his shoulder. Sherlock still said nothing, but a low moaning sound was coming from his throat. John risked a glance upward and saw Sherlock with eyes closed and neck arched, biting that delicious lower lip of his, and the sight was just about enough to make him come without even a hand to himself.
He rolled his hips against the mattress as he worked his mouth up and down Sherlock’s shaft, on and off, alternating open-mouth kisses and long pulls. He had done this before, a few times, but not after sharing a bed with the man in question, waking up with him after a night filled with dreams of him.
Sherlock’s hips bucked and he grunted as he came into John’s mouth; he swallowed him down, a leftover practice from the Army where the lack of a mess had been a priority. Sherlock collapsed, his chest heaving, and John crawled back up his body to press kisses into his throat. He was already drifting off again, which John had expected. Sherlock didn’t like to sleep much while he was working, and he knew that his usual closing-night routine would have involved tipping into bed and not coming out for a few days. He didn’t expect Sherlock to sleep that much this time, but he’d need at least a few more hours. John himself was wide awake. “Go back to sleep,” he whispered in Sherlock’s ear.
“Mmm,” he said, his lips forming a vague kissing motion in John’s general direction. John tucked the duvet back around him and ran a hand through his sleep-mussed curls. He kissed his cheek, spared him one last fond look, then climbed out of bed.
He put on flannel pants and a t-shirt and ambled out to the kitchen. He found it well-stocked and tidy, no doubt thanks to Sally. He put on a pot of coffee; while it brewed, he had a better look round than he’d gotten last night.
Sherlock had what seemed like every book ever written. They were jammed haphazardly into bookshelves, some of which were ornate and carved, others of which looked handmade from slabs of particle board. He had a few framed film posters, one of Hitchcock’s The Lady Vanishes, and one of Sherlock’s own film Out of Noise, the film that had earned his first Oscar nomination and made him an international star, dragging him out of the semi-obscurity of British theater and BBC films.
John had seen it at a preview screening in London. He’d gone with Clive, they’d been filming Gosford Park at the time. He’d sat in the theater and watched the film unfold in stunned astonishment. “Who is that kid?” he’d asked Clive. “I don’t know him.”
“Name’s Sherlock Holmes. I saw him do Hamlet in Stratford last summer. Knocked me on my arse,” Clive had said. “Watch him. He’s going to be huge.”
Sherlock had played no less than a dozen characters in Out of Noise, although only one of them was real, and that one never uttered a line of dialogue. It was the story of a bored thirtysomething office worker who passes the same street violinist every day on her way to work. She becomes fascinated with his beautiful playing, and in her mind imagines many different lives and histories for him, fixating on him to the point that it jeopardizes her marriage and her job. Her imaginings played out in the film in short mini-stories, and in each one Sherlock had to play a slightly different version of his actual character. It was a bravura performance, shaded and nuanced, and the film world had sat up and taken notice. His first nomination for Best Actor had been a foregone conclusion, and many still believed he ought to have won. John smiled, wondering what his ten-years-ago self would have thought if someone had told him that in ten years he’d be giving that young man a morning blowjob.
John moved over to the fireplace, a grand river-stone affair with a hammered tin chimney sticking out of the top of it and snaking up through the ceiling. There was a pocketknife stuck through a stack of letters on the mantel next to a skull. John picked it up. “Poor Yorick,” he muttered, laughing at himself for pulling out the very hoariest of hoary old jokes. He put the skull back.
Then he saw it. There on the mantel, behind an oil lantern, stuck in an inconspicuous spot. Sherlock’s Oscar, the one he’d won for Kanisza. John stared at it for a moment before picking it up. It didn’t seem real, like perhaps it was a prop or one of those novelty gag gifts. It was real, of course. John had watched Sherlock accept it. He put it back, gingerly, wondering if Sherlock would acquire a new one this year.
Even daring to wonder if he might get one of his own, dangerous as such thoughts were.
The coffee done, John made some toast and set himself up at the breakfast bar. He snuck into the bedroom, checking that Sherlock was still asleep, and retrieved his laptop. He booted up and loaded in a few scripts Mike had emailed him, figuring he might as well get some work done.
He was so engrossed that he didn’t realize Sherlock was awake until he felt a pair of arms slide around his shoulders. “Reading those gossip sites again? It’ll rot your brain,” Sherlock said, his voice gravelly with sleep. He kissed the side of John’s neck.
“I’m reading scripts, thank you very much.”
“Anything good?”
“Maybe, yeah. Mike says that the buzz off To a Stranger is strong enough that he’s getting some interest in serious roles for me. Have you been getting the same?”
“I haven’t been looking at new projects. I wanted to concentrate on the play.” John watched as Sherlock walked over to the coffeepot to pour a cup. Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder at him. “Are you staring at my arse?”
John jerked his eyes upwards, barely aware that he had, indeed, been staring at his arse. “Well, I can’t help it, it’s right there.”
Sherlock came back around the breakfast bar and leaned over to kiss John again, on the lips this time. He drew back just a inch or so. “How long can you stay?” he asked.
John sighed. “I’m not sure. I think I’ve got at least a few days.”
“Or even - a week?”
“You’d want me to stay that long?”
“John, if it were up to me, you’d stay forever.”
John smiled, feeling absurdly goofy and warm. “A week is possible.”
“And how do you feel about Sussex?”
“I don’t think I have any strong feelings about Sussex one way or another. Why?”
“I have a house there. It’s not a palace, just a country house, but it’s private. There’s a charming village where one goes for tea and bread and such. I was thinking that we might - well, pop down. Spend some time.”
John just stared. “You - you want me to go away with you? To your country house in Sussex?”
“Yes?” Sherlock said, one eyebrow arching. “You’ve already said you’d go to Antarctica with me, so I didn’t really suspect that Sussex would be right out.”
“No, it’s just - what would we do?”
“Talk? Read? Go for walks? Watch films? Have disgustingly late lie-ins? I don’t know, what do people do on these sorts of holidays?”
“Have as much sex as humanly possible?”
Sherlock blushed and smiled, a bit shyly. “I didn’t want to be the one to suggest it, but I’d be in favor of that, yes.”
John grinned. “That sounds perfect. When can we leave?”
“Whenever we like. Sally will bring my car over when we’re ready to go. I’ll need to pack.”
“Go pack, then! Let’s get the hell out of this town.” The notion of going somewhere that there wouldn’t be photographers lurking around every hedgerow was immensely appealing, and John’s imagination was already showing him enticing images of a cozy country getaway with Sherlock, of whole days spent in bed, of hikes and outdoor sex and the charming local pub.
“Oh, there is something you could do while I pack,” Sherlock said, turning back halfway to the bedroom.
“What’s that?”
“Get those DVDs together. We don’t want to forget the complete works of John Watson for our vacation movie marathon, do we?”
John gasped and threw a sofa pillow at him. “I will murder you where you stand,” he said. Sherlock danced away, snickering. John shook his head, going back to his laptop. “Cheeky bastard.”
And Sherlock was a cheeky bastard, among other less charming things, but John was starting to suspect that he might just be in love with that cheeky bastard.
You may have noticed that the total chapter count for this fic has gone up to 12. I had intended to write a single chapter that began in London and carried on into Sussex, but I’d gotten 2500 words into this chapter and hadn’t even gotten Sherlock home from the after party, so the chapter had to be split. I didn’t think anyone would object to more happy sexytimes.
MetaNotes for Chapter 8
1. I’ve kept Sherlock’s address as 221B Baker Street, but obviously I have presented a very different flat than the one in canon. I thought given the AU nature of the fic that I could get away with it, and that Actor!Sherlock would have a different sort of flat than our consulting detective.
2. Thea is Thea Sharrock, a theater director probably most famous for staging the revival of “Equus” that starred Daniel Radcliffe. She also directed Benedict in “After the Dance.”
3. The quote about all relationships failing until one doesn’t is courtesy of American sex advice columnist Dan Savage.
4. Clive is Clive Owen. Who actually did star in Gosford Park, unlike John Watson.
Next Chapter
Author: MadLori
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 8000 (this chapter)
Genre: AU, romance
Warnings: None
Rating: NC-17 please note rating change
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 -- Chapter 7
Author’s Note: I have made a bit of an alteration to John’s timeline. In chapter 2 John says that he was in Altman’s Short Cuts. Unfortunately that film was made in 1993, which is too early in John’s personal timeline to be realistic, so I’ve changed the Altman film that John appeared in to Gosford Park which has the additional advantage of having a nearly all-British cast.
Chapter 8
John stared out the window of the cab as it bore him back to his hotel, barely registering his surroundings. He was floating and euphoric and he felt like a teenager. He lifted his fingers to his mouth, still feeling the ghosts of Sherlock’s lips, the grip of his arms around him. He smiled to himself, his heart full to bursting, because it was a rare and precious thing when something worked out exactly as you’d hoped.
He got out his mobile. He couldn’t forget to text Harry, to whom he owed quite a debt for having helped to make this possible.
One hell of a good first snog.
She texted back a few minutes later. Text me when it’s the first shag.
He laughed. The driver dropped him at the Savoy and John bounded out, trotted through the lobby and up to his room.
Sherlock had watched him clean the makeup off his face. “You’ve got a bit on your suit, too, but I don’t suppose that can be helped,” he’d said.
“Nobody will notice. Anyhow, I’m just going back to the hotel.”
“You may as well check out. Bring your bags back to my flat.”
John had eyed him, one eyebrow raised. “Oh, yes?”
“John, if you think I’m going to let you sleep somewhere that I am not, you’re mad.”
So now he tossed his clothes back into his suitcase, gathered up his belongings as fast as possible and took a quick look round before running out again. He didn’t know why he was hurrying. Sherlock would no doubt be at least a couple of hours, there was no rush. But he was so keyed up that he didn’t think he could have been casual about anything just now.
He stopped by the front desk and checked out, then ran outside and hailed a cab. “Where to?” the cabbie asked.
John couldn’t stop smiling. “221B Baker Street, please.”
By the time Sally got back from helping John make his escape, Sherlock had removed his makeup and was changing out of his costume. “Saw him off, then,” she said. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Well? How did it go?”
“You’ll have to be more specific,” he said, eyeing her reflection in the mirror, but his eyes had that aren’t-I-a-devil expression that she knew and dreaded.
“Sherlock, I swear to God…”
“I don’t know if this is relevant to whatever you’re asking about, but you might be interested to know that I think it might now be said that John and I are -- more than friends.”
She smiled. “Thank God. It’s about damned time.”
“I’m sure I don’t have to impress on you the need for discretion.”
“Of course not.”
“How many at the stage door tonight?”
“Couple of dozen. Make it quick, we’ll be off to the after party.”
Sherlock tied his tie and straightened up, brushing off his jacket. “I intensely don’t want to do this. John will be waiting for me at my flat. I’d much rather be there with him.”
“I’ve phoned down to Sussex to have the caretaker open up the house and get it ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“Don’t be coy. Are you or are you not going to take John out to country for a bit?”
Sherlock sighed. “The thought had occurred.”
“Then you’ll be wanting the house prepared.”
“What would I do without you, Sally?” Sherlock handed her his coat and bag. “All right. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can leave.”
Sherlock’s building was a tall column of flats, Victorian and posh, right round the corner from Regent’s Park. John took a cautious look up and down the street, hating that he had to, but it wouldn’t do for some random photographer to snap him going into Sherlock’s building, let alone with a suitcase.. He didn’t see anyone. He paid the cabbie, got out and hurried across the pavement. A doorman appeared out of nowhere and opened the door for him, ushering him into the lobby. “Are you Mr. Watson?” he asked.
John blinked, surprised. “Um, yes, I am.”
“Mr. Holmes phoned ahead that you were expected.” He pointed across the elaborate parquet floor to a lift. “He’s on the second floor, then. Up you go.”
“Thank you,” John said. He boarded the lift. There were five flats, apparently, A through E. He pushed the button for B.
The lift doors opened directly into the flat. John stepped out, dragging his suitcase, his mouth hanging open. The flat was large and expansive, taking up the entire second floor of the building with one massive room. Carved wooden columns two feet thick broke up the space. He’d have thought that someone as meticulous as Sherlock would have an immaculate flat with everything just so, but it was cozily Bohemian, full of squashy furniture and oddball prints on the exposed brick walls and tattered Persian rugs. Books were everywhere, and a large flat-screen telly was shoved into the corner like an afterthought. There was a tidy, darkened kitchen in one corner and half-walls in another sectioning off a bedroom.
John wandered in and sat down on a couch that seemed to be Sherlock’s favorite place to sit, based on the amount of notebooks and scripts and empty teacups that were nearby. He leaned back and smiled, relaxing for the first time all evening. The high ceilings, exposed beams and ducts, and the dim lighting made the flat feel like a womb, a haven.
This is where he lives and breathes and sleeps and showers and reads and works, John thought. This is the home of my…um, my…
He didn’t know how to refer to Sherlock in his own mind now. He’d been sticking grimly to the friend-colleague-mate genera of tags, but now his mind was rocketing off down the boyfriend-lover-partner branches of the linguistic tree. Redefining his terms wasn’t all his mind was up to, giddy in its new freedom to indulge its late-night imaginings. Every mundane fantasy he’d ever had about Sherlock was running rampant over his thoughts now that he could let them all loose. Fantasies about Sunday mornings in bed and trips abroad and dinners with friends and trading scripts back and forth. He’d imagined a thousand ordinary, day-to-day things he could do with Sherlock and had suppressed every one of them, and the idea that now he didn’t have to do that anymore was making him a little light-headed. Just the idea of being here in this flat with him, watching telly, cooking dinner, shaving side by side at the mirror - these banal activities seemed seductive and intoxicating when he pictured doing them with Sherlock.
Go ahead and imagine it now, John. Imagine everything, because now it can happen. It can all happen. So he sat there in the dip that Sherlock’s body had worn into this couch, cradled by the shape that he’d left behind, and imagined. He imagined bashing about Paris with Sherlock. He imagined taking him to meet his family. He imagined all sorts of everyday things, all the while still shying away from the thing that most wanted to be imagined.
Imagining sex with Sherlock was something he’d tried very hard to avoid, not entirely successfully. John wasn’t a total stranger to men’s bodies. He’d been in the Army, where sometimes the blokes gave each other a hand, and then spent most of his adult life in the film industry, where men of both orientations were often willing, even eager, to broaden their horizons for a lark. But his experience was limited to oral and manual contact with men, and none of it had been in the context of a romance. He’d just never felt that way toward another man before.
Come to think of it, he’d barely felt that way toward a woman. He’d been single most of his life, although there had been a few relationships now and again, none had lasted more than a year. He’d put it down to the demands of his business (none of the women he’d dated had been actresses, by design), but the truth was that he hadn’t been all that heartbroken to see those relationships end.
Another truth that he’d have to face, and now was as good a time as any to do so, was that he’d never felt about anyone how he felt about Sherlock. And it was puzzling, in the extreme.
Why? Why him, why me? Why now?
They hadn’t had the most auspicious beginning, but from the night he’d confronted Sherlock about the dailies and they’d had it out, something had just clicked. They’d fit together like it was someone’s idea of a cosmic joke to take two men, so different in so many ways, chisel out a piece of each one’s heart and hide it inside the other, so that when they met, they’d be stuck without knowing why.
He knew it was ridiculous. He knew it was more than just putting the cart before the horse, he was putting the cart out before he’d even gotten to the stable. But he also knew that this wasn’t casual. It wasn’t a fling, or an experiment, or a temporary showmance. This was real, and that excited him and terrified him all at once.
He wasn’t afraid of being physical with a man. He wasn’t even afraid of having to adjust his ideas about his own sexuality. But he was afraid of what it meant, for his career and for Sherlock’s, and what it would mean for them both if it got out. The media attention would be horrific, and people’s lives and relationships had been torn apart by less. He wasn’t afraid of being with Sherlock. He was afraid of everything around them.
He got up and dragged his suitcase into the bedroom. He got out some clean clothes and stripped off his makeup-smeared suit.
Hmm. Shower.
He went into the adjoining bathroom, which had an attached walk-in closet. As much as the rest of the flat was in homey disarray, the closet was military-neat. The hangars were spaced one inch apart, Sherlock’s suits hanging in regimented rows, his shoes in tidy ranks, his ties hung up on a rotating rack. John smiled, reaching out to touch one of the suitjackets, then went to find a towel.
If he’d hoped to put sexual thoughts out of his head, the shower had been a bad idea. Standing here in the stall, where he knew Sherlock had stood many times, the water running over his nude body just as it ran down John’s now, was absurdly but undeniably arousing. John was tempted to have a wank right here, but decided against it.
He dried off and dressed in jeans and a soft t-shirt, putting his dirty clothes in his wash bag.
Now what?
He wanted to have a look round the flat, perhaps even have the snoop that he’d threatened Sherlock he’d have, but honestly, the bed looked too inviting. He was abruptly aware of how tired he was. He’d barely slept the night before, wired from his trip and the prospect of seeing Sherlock, and since then he’d been going on adrenaline. His purpose here achieved and things between them moving forward, the adrenaline was fading, leaving him more than a bit woozy.
The large bed was neatly made. He climbed onto it and stretched out, a groan of near-orgasmic pleasure escaping him at its comfort. He turned on his side and burrowed his head into a pillow.
I’ll just lie here for a moment. Then I’ll get up and make some tea and dig up some food for when Sherlock gets home.
Sherlock Holmes had never faced a more difficult acting challenge in his life than that of the task before him; namely, to navigate a wrap party full of actors and contributors and patrons and directors and maintain his civil demeanor while simultaneously wishing fervently that all of them would drop dead so he could leave.
Politeness was not something he valued or was particularly inclined to practice, but it was something he’d learned to emulate out of necessity. He’d been forced to accept, early in his career, that his ability to find interesting work was severely curtailed if he did not at least cast a passing glance to cordiality to his colleagues. No one would ever nominate him for the congeniality award, but he’d learned to put forth a reasonable facsimile when necessary.
After the contracts were signed, that was when all bets were off.
He wished he could just say sod it all and leave, but he couldn’t. There were at least a dozen people in the room whose good graces he wished to maintain, and a dozen more whose good graces were currently in need of a little remedial work on his part. If only one could act in a vacuum, but one could not. It required co-stars and producers and writers and directors and bloody best boy grips. He could not burn his bridges.
Especially not now. Not when the writing was on the wall, his own bloody wall, and looking down the road he knew with grim resignation that he’d soon be needing allies in the business. Not just for his own sake, but for John’s.
John.
He went to the bar for another whiskey sour, taking the few moments’ respite to shut his eyes and imagine John in his flat. Was he sitting on the couch? Making tea in the kitchen? Reading a book, or watching telly? The thought of John there, doing any of these very ordinary things, was surprisingly potent. It was comforting and made him feel warm from his stomach out to his fingertips.
John in his home. John in his life.
He just wanted to be there with him and sit next to him on that couch, or drink the tea he’d made, or watch telly with him. Even if that was all there was to it. His presence worked like a salve on Sherlock’s mind, calming and steadying it, and it was something he’d come to crave in Toronto and had been missing ever since. It had come flowing back at the first sight of John in his dressing room, smiling at him. It was a wave of peace that washed over Sherlock’s entire body and soothed the raw places where the world chafed him.
Armed with his fresh drink, he waded back into the sea of people who represented nothing but a barrier between him and a taxi.
Soon. You’ll be there with him soon. Think of it as a test of your concentration.
Oh, dear. That was a very unhelpful thought. His irritatingly obstinate mind relished nothing more than a challenge, so the moment he framed it as such, it began throwing up more and more distracting thoughts and images to test his concentration even more.
John waiting for me. John in my bathroom, perhaps taking a shower. Oh God, John naked in the shower. John in my bed. John (naked) in my bed. John greeting me at the door with a kiss. John greeting me (naked) at the door with a kiss.
It didn’t stop. It ran on a loop through his mind while he conducted a conversation with a formidable dowager who’d donated a truly staggering amount of money to the National Theater. After she moved on to someone else, he couldn’t have told you what they’d discussed if his life had depended on it, but she had seemed oblivious to his preoccupation.
I am the greatest actor in the world.
“Sherlock!”
He turned around, mustering another passably-pleasant expression, but when he saw who it was, the expression became more genuine. “Thea, how are you?”
They exchanged cheek-kisses. “What’s your schedule like for next summer?” she asked, without preamble.
“I’m holding off for now. Why?”
She shrugged, smiling coyly. “How would you feel about doing some good old deconstructed Shakespeare?”
“I’m intrigued.”
“I thought I might had better mention it now. I’m hearing that you could be very busy come, oh, March or thereabouts.”
“Is that so?”
“Don’t be coy. That film’s being talked up one side and down the other.”
“I rather wish it weren’t. You know how it works with advance buzz. If it gets too histrionic, then all the film can do is fail to live up to its expectations.”
“You going back to the States for publicity?”
“Not until November.”
“I heard you and John got along like a house on fire during the shoot. I imagine it’ll be nice to see him again.”
I could be seeing John again right now if all you people could manage to let me escape. “We got on rather well, yes.”
“Good. That’s good.” Thea gave him an understanding smile. “Well, you know the theaters here will always welcome you,” she said. “If you start to get bored of Hollywood.”
Sherlock watched her face, his brain tracking at least a half dozen chains of word of mouth that led from her back to the set of To a Stranger. He swallowed hard, looking down at his shoes. “Thea…”
“The play was stunning,” she said, cutting him off. “You were fantastic.”
“Thanks.”
She took a step closer. “I was in Byron’s office when Sally snuck John out the staff door,” she murmured. “What are you still doing here?”
Sherlock took a drink. “Right now, I have no idea.”
“You’ve put in enough time. I’ll cover for you.”
He stared at her, overcome with an abrupt and sudden urge that he couldn’t explain. “Thea, I think - I think I want to hug you.”
She laughed. “Save your hugs for John.” She reached out and plucked the glass from his fingers. “Go. I’ll make your excuses.”
Sherlock seized her shoulders and planted a big, smacking kiss on her cheek. “I’ll call you later, we’ll talk about next summer.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked with purpose to the doors. Sally, through whatever mental telepathy she insisted she did not possess despite all evidence to the contrary, was already there with his coat and bag.
“I’ll hang about for a bit in case people ask after you,” she muttered to him.
“Go talk to Thea so you two aren’t giving different stories as to why I’m gone.”
She patted his arm. “Get some for me.”
“Sorry, Sally. I don’t share.” He winked at her and was out the door.
The cab ride home had never seemed so long. Sherlock drummed his fingers against his knee as the driver navigated the streets. Naturally, they hit every red light and paused for interminable road-crossings by pedestrians. Sherlock knew in his rational mind that this cab ride was no longer nor any more vexing than any other, but the presence of such a long-desired reward at the end of the route made the time stretch in a way surely not allowable by the laws of physics.
Finally there, Sherlock tossed some money at the cabbie and darted inside. He waved to his doorman and got into the lift.
He composed himself during the short ride to his flat. It wouldn’t do to burst in like he’d been shot out of a cannon. It might alarm John, and give the impression that Sherlock was not in control of his faculties right now. He gave himself a shake and took a deep breath, calming his face and straightening his posture.
The lift stopped and he walked into the flat. It was quiet. In fact, it looked as it always looked, but there was a difference. It didn’t feel empty. Logically, he knew that there was no sensory apparatus he possessed that could allow him to sense the presence of another person if he could not see, hear or smell him, therefore the feeling was an illusion based on his previous knowledge that someone was here. Yet the sensation remained, and remained powerful. This flat was not vacant. This flat contained a John.
But where was he?
Sherlock could detect the faint odor of shower soap and the slight tinge of humidity in the air. So John had taken a shower. He glanced into the kitchen, which was dark and deserted. John had obviously sat for a brief time on his couch; several of his papers were disturbed. But he was not there now, nor did Sherlock see his suitcase anywhere.
He walked toward the bathroom, wondering if John were shaving or perhaps in the tub. Such ideas forced certain new and interesting thoughts into his mind.
Thoughts that were abruptly cut off the moment that Sherlock saw John, asleep on his bed.
He was on his side, knees pulled up, one hand curled on the pillow near his cheek. His breathing was even, his face slack and peaceful, and the sight of him tugged at something behind Sherlock’s gut.
Sherlock walked quietly over to the bed and leaned over him. He’d changed into jeans and a t-shirt. His hair was damp and he smelled of Sherlock’s shower soap. His feet were bare. He looked like he belonged here, as if this were his home as well; it was clear that he felt safe here, enough so to let his guard down and sleep in a bed in a flat he’d never set foot in before tonight. Sherlock sat gently on the edge of the bed, hitching his knee up and looking down at this man who was now his - what, exactly? Boyfriend? Lover? Significant other? He didn’t know the appropriate language to describe what they were to each other. This would have to be an item on the agenda. Definition of terms.
Whatever term was correct, its application to his own life was a new and jarring sensation. He’d never had an [insert-term-here], just casual lovers and short affairs that inevitably ended because the other person was too insufferably boring to be tolerated any longer - or because his own failings inevitably outweighed their desire for his secondhand fame, intellectual companionship or physical person. He didn’t know why John seemed to be exempt from any and all previously enacted ordinances regarding suitable partners, but he was. Perhaps all the objections to his previously-attempted partners boiled down to one single objection: not John. He couldn’t be faulted for not recognizing the nature of their inadequacy. He hadn’t known that he was waiting for John. But here he was, at last.
He reached out to touch his shoulder, then hesitated. His hand hovered in midair. He pondered whether it wouldn’t be more considerate to let him sleep. He was probably tired from his trip. Would that not be the nice thing to do, the act of a concerned boyfriend? Then again, he couldn’t speak for John, but he suspected that he had been waiting for this as long as Sherlock had, and he might not look too kindly upon being allowed to sleep through their first night together.
His hand moved again, one finger extending to brush through the fringe over John’s forehead. “John,” he murmured. He let the finger trail down John’s cheek. He felt some tension come into John’s relaxed body and knew that he was waking. “John?”
John sighed, a long susurrus of breath. He shifted on the bed and made a little growly waking-up noise that had an odd effect on Sherlock’s stomach. He blinked and opened his eyes. He looked up at Sherlock and a slow smile spread over his lips. “Hi,” he said, the word draw out to impossible lengths.
“Hello,” Sherlock said, smiling back. “You look comfortable.”
John just looked at him for a moment, then his eyes widened. “Oh God, what time is it?”
“It’s just after midnight.”
“Oh, hang it. I only meant to lie down for a moment,” he said, sitting up.
“It’s all right. You must be tired.”
“No, I wanted to make tea and get some food together for when you got home, and I just fell asleep…” He shook his head, as though he’d ruined everything.
“John, I do not require tea or food. Think nothing of it.”
He yawned and stretched, his t-shirt riding up to expose a strip of pale stomach. He ran a hand through his mussed, still-damp hair. “How was the after party?”
“Dreadful. Thank goodness for Thea, she covered for me as I made my escape.”
“She directed you in ‘Hedda Gabler,’ right?”
“Yes.” Sherlock held John’s eyes. “I never enjoy socializing in that sort of context, but tonight it was unbearable. Knowing that you were here waiting for me.”
John leaned forward, biting his lower lip. “I really like your flat.”
“Hmm. I’m not here all that often. My condo in LA is much blander, but unfortunately I’m there most of the time.”
“It feels like you here.” John reached up and put a finger under Sherlock’s chin, drawing him closer.
“I always thought it was missing something,” Sherlock whispered.
“What?” The word was barely a puff of air. John was staring at Sherlock’s lips.
“I don’t know, but I think you may have brought it with you.” He closed the distance and sealed his mouth over John’s, sliding forward on the bed to pull him close. John melted against him and wound his arms around Sherlock’s neck, kissing back with still-sleepy warmth. They shimmied and shifted until they were both sitting on the bed, interlocked like puzzle pieces, learning the shape of each other’s mouths. John filled his arms perfectly; the pleasing weight of him, firm but comfortable, was an anchor that would hold Sherlock here in this moment when his brain would usually have flown away on a dozen different trains of thought.
John drew back a little and pushed Sherlock’s jacket off his shoulders. “Take off your coat and stay awhile,” he said with a wry smile, tossing the jacket onto a nearby chair. He kissed Sherlock’s lips again, twice, then paused and just sat still for a moment, his eyes roaming from Sherlock’s forehead down to his chin. “God, your face,” he murmured. “I could stare at it for hours.”
Sherlock shifted a bit under his scrutiny. “John, I - I think I ought to warn you.”
“Uh oh. This sounds dire.”
“I really have no idea what I’m doing, or how to do any of this.”
“Well, I give you full marks for kiss technique.”
He looked at John’s face, and the thought of disappointing him was a cold lead ball sitting in his stomach. “I’m not known for my skill with relationships.”
“Neither am I.”
“But you get along with people, you’re an easy person to like. I’m - difficult.”
“Are you implying that I am not a man up for a challenge?”
Sherlock sighed. “John, please. I’m trying to have an actual conversation with you about us. Isn’t that what one does?”
John sobered and sat back a little. “All right. I’m sorry.”
“People who’ve tried - this - in the past with me have eventually found me unpleasant.”
“Perhaps they weren’t the right people.”
“Perhaps not. But I find that the mere idea of you coming to a similar conclusion is making me come over a bit wobbly.”
John took hold of his hands. “Sherlock, these other people. Did you care about them?”
“Enough to accept their company.”
“Did you have this conversation with any of them?”
“No. I assumed they knew what they were getting into.”
“Do you…” He saw John swallow hard. “Did you feel about them how you do about me?”
“Not remotely,” he said, trapped in place by John’s gaze.
“And do you think that maybe that’s why it didn’t work out? Not only did they probably sense that you didn’t care bugger-all about them, but the relationships weren’t important enough for you to make an effort. And it’s always an effort, Sherlock. I’m not a shining prince of perfection, either. We’ll both be stumbling about in the dark and trying to muddle through.” He sighed. “If we do this, will it be important? Will it be a priority? Will you put in the effort to make it work?”
“I’ll do whatever is necessary.”
John smiled. “Then who bloody cares what happened with other people? I heard someone say once that every relationship you’ll ever have will fail, until one doesn’t. I know we’ve only been together for, oh…” He checked his watch. “A whole four hours now, but this isn’t trivial to me.”
“Nor I.”
“I think we have a shot.”
Sherlock looked into his eyes, impossibly deep blue and full of something he’d never seen before, not directed at him - not when a camera wasn’t rolling. “So do I.”
“Then stop worrying. It’s a bit soon to be looking for reasons this couldn’t possibly work.”
“Agreed.”
“And, well - it’s not exactly the most romantic topic for our first night together, is it?” Sherlock checked John’s expression, but he didn’t look irritated, just bemused.
“I thought it best to be honest and direct. Isn’t that always preferred?”
“Yes, generally. But look, Sherlock - I know you. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes. Better than anyone.”
“I know how you are. I’m not asking you to be different for me. I know you can’t, and I wouldn’t want you to. So as long as I’ve got leave to get bloody irritated with you sometimes, you’ve got leave to continue being difficult.”
Hope was rising in Sherlock’s chest, hope for something he hadn’t ever entertained as a realistic possibility: finding someone who accepted him as he was. “I only want you to make an informed decision.”
“The only information I need is that it fucking gutted me to watch you walk away in Toronto, it gutted me some more to be away from you all summer, and right now I’m so bloody chuffed just to be here with you that if you asked me to chuck it all and faff off with you to Iceland, all I’d say is ‘when do we leave?’”
Sherlock smirked. “Iceland?”
“Anywhere. Iceland, Madagascar, Antarctica, Cleveland -- you name it.”
“Please, John. Don’t be ridiculous. I’d never ask anyone to accompany me to Cleveland.”
John giggled, delighted trills of mirth, and Sherlock thought that if he could only make John giggle like that every day of their lives then he’d be doing all right. He lunged forward and pressed John back into the mattress, kissing the laughter out of his mouth. John wrapped his arms around him and twined their legs together, returning Sherlock’s kisses with enthusiasm. He grabbed at Sherlock’s shirt and yanked it out of his trousers, then Sherlock felt his hands, hot and soft, on the bare skin of his back. He growled into John’s mouth and their kisses tipped over from tender and languid to urgent and heated.
The part of Sherlock’s brain that had no interest in such activities floated away, observing with interested detachment how most of his rational centers clicked over into standby and the testosterone-driven male core of him, normally browbeaten into dormancy, surged forward and asserted itself. It watched from a safe distance, fascinated by the potency of the response, of that primitive rutting instinct that took over. It did not seem to matter that the gene-driven urge to couple was irrelevant here, all that mattered was that he had his chosen mate spread beneath him and he wanted to have at him until they both lost consciousness.
John arched up into him and Sherlock could feel his erection beneath his jeans, his own straining against his trousers. He pressed his hips down into John and rocked against him. “Oh God, Sherlock,” John groaned, hitching his leg higher up around Sherlock’s hip.
Sherlock knelt up and pulled John upright with him; they scrabbled at each other’s shirts before giving up and each stripping off their own. John grabbed him and pulled him back down and his warm skin was everywhere. He kissed his way down John’s neck, his lips seeking out the hard throb of John’s pulse. He felt John’s hands slide down his back and quite deliberately grab two handfuls of his arse. He chuckled against John’s throat. “Grabby, are we?”
“You have the most spectacular arse on either side of the pond,” John said. “I have been mad to get my hands on it. God, it feels even better than it looks.” He nudged his face against Sherlock’s until their mouths met again. “If only these fucking trousers weren’t in the way.”
“If you wish them gone, do something about it,” Sherlock murmured, the words snuck in between kisses and gropes. He worked one hand underneath John’s hip and got his own handful of arse. “I certainly intend to.”
John chuckled and moved his hands around to Sherlock’s zipper. Within a few moments they both had each other’s flies undone. John didn’t bother with the rest of it, he just plunged his hand inside and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s cock. For a moment Sherlock’s vision went a bit white, like a bright flash had gone off, and he bit his lip. “John, dear God, have pity,” he gasped.
“No pity. Nor do I expect any from you.”
“Good.” Sherlock got John’s jeans open and shifted off him a bit so they could both reach each other. He buried his face in John’s shoulder as he stroked him, his own hips rolling in unconscious thrusts into John’s hand. “John…yes, John…”
“Harder,” John groaned. “Sherlock, God…I want to see you come…”
A strangled sort of moan came from Sherlock’s throat, John’s voice setting off a sympathetic resonance in his spine. He brought his hand to his face and licked the palm, then returned it to John’s cock, pulling it in smooth, long strokes, flicking his thumb over the head and relishing each shudder he felt course through John’s body. “You first,” he growled.
John cried out and his body went taut, then he was spilling over Sherlock’s hand. The sound of his orgasm and the motion of his hand, still working on Sherlock, sent him over the edge as well. Sherlock pressed his mouth to John’s shoulder, his teeth set in the ridge of muscle there, and rode out his own climax with John’s name on his lips, spoken into warm flesh of his throat.
They lay there panting for a moment. “Jesus Christ,” John said, his voice breathy. “We just came in our pants like teenagers.”
“I don’t believe I remember this part of being a teenager,” Sherlock said, not moving from his comfy spot, half on top of John.
John chuckled. “I suppose we are starting a bit from the beginning. Might as well have been in the back seat of my mum’s Ford Anglia.”
Sherlock lifted his head and drew his hand out of John’s pants, surreptitiously wiping it on them as he did. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t what you were expecting,” he said, that knot of anxiety returning.
“Oh God, no! Stop that. Look, I’m rather new at this, too. I’ve gotten off with a few blokes, but…” He sighed and laid his hand on Sherlock’s cheek. “Never really been with one, when it meant something. Never had a lover like this, like you. There’s no rush, is there?”
“None at all.”
“Then let’s not worry. We’ll work up to it. Surely you didn’t think we’d dive in and be rogering each other on the kitchen floor the first time round, did you?’
Sherlock grinned. “Well, I was thinking that the rug in the living room would be more comfortable, but just as you like.”
John laughed out loud. “Come on, you. Let’s get ourselves sorted and perhaps get under the covers.”
They adjourned to the bathroom for a quick wash-up. Sherlock changed into pajama pants, John just put on clean boxers. They went back into the bedroom, hands grasping at each other and lips meeting in small, casual kisses, and climbed in. Sherlock settled against the pillows with a deep sigh. “John, I hope this isn’t too disappointing, but - I’m well knackered.”
“Oh, thank God,” John said, in a rush. “So am I. Jet lag, and I’ve barely slept since I got here. Let’s just get some sleep.” He turned on his side, hands tucked beneath his cheek, and smiled at Sherlock. “You know, just sleeping next to you is pretty brilliant.”
Sherlock lifted a hand and skimmed one finger down John’s cheek. “I usually dislike sleeping. A necessary evil that just keeps me from my work. It might be almost pleasant now, though. I’ll have something to look forward to.”
“What’s that, then? Good dreams?”
“No. When I wake up, you’ll be here.”
John’s face did something unclear that looked like a sort-of smile but also the beginnings of tears. The end result was neither, just a soft expression that made Sherlock’s breath hitch a bit. “Yes. I’ll be here.” He slid closer and kissed him, his hand resting over Sherlock’s heart. Sherlock covered it with his own and kissed back. “Goodnight,” John whispered.
“Goodnight, John.”
John settled against the pillows, turning a few times and tucking the duvet up around his shoulders, and within a few minutes his breathing slowed and deepened, and Sherlock knew he was asleep. He just laid there, staring at the back of John’s head for a moment, marveling that such a thing as John Watson in his bed could possibly happen.
John snapped awake at seven a.m. He was impossibly warm and comfortable, and he did not wish to be awake, except that if he weren’t, he’d be missing out on the quite extraordinary sensation of Sherlock Holmes snuggled up to him, curled around his back with his arm tucked around John’s waist. He sighed and burrowed back into him a bit. Sherlock’s arm tightened around him and John felt him press his face into the back of John’s neck, then the soft imprints of his lips there. John twined their fingers together on his stomach and turned his head a bit to nuzzle at Sherlock’s face.
Sherlock’s lips worked their way around to the side, then the front of his neck, then John was tipping over onto his back to kiss him properly, both of them exhaling sleepy breaths as their tongues wound around each other, bodies interlacing with far less clothing in the way than they’d had to contend with the night before.
John rolled Sherlock onto his back and kissed down his neck to his chest. His skin was smooth and pale over his leanly-muscled torso; it fluttered under John’s lips as he moved down in the bed. He slipped Sherlock’s pajama pants down and took him in his mouth. He heard Sherlock suck in a sharp breath, then felt his fingers thread through John’s hair, not pulling, just holding. He urged Sherlock’s legs apart and settled his chest between them, lifting one of his legs and hoisting it over his shoulder. Sherlock still said nothing, but a low moaning sound was coming from his throat. John risked a glance upward and saw Sherlock with eyes closed and neck arched, biting that delicious lower lip of his, and the sight was just about enough to make him come without even a hand to himself.
He rolled his hips against the mattress as he worked his mouth up and down Sherlock’s shaft, on and off, alternating open-mouth kisses and long pulls. He had done this before, a few times, but not after sharing a bed with the man in question, waking up with him after a night filled with dreams of him.
Sherlock’s hips bucked and he grunted as he came into John’s mouth; he swallowed him down, a leftover practice from the Army where the lack of a mess had been a priority. Sherlock collapsed, his chest heaving, and John crawled back up his body to press kisses into his throat. He was already drifting off again, which John had expected. Sherlock didn’t like to sleep much while he was working, and he knew that his usual closing-night routine would have involved tipping into bed and not coming out for a few days. He didn’t expect Sherlock to sleep that much this time, but he’d need at least a few more hours. John himself was wide awake. “Go back to sleep,” he whispered in Sherlock’s ear.
“Mmm,” he said, his lips forming a vague kissing motion in John’s general direction. John tucked the duvet back around him and ran a hand through his sleep-mussed curls. He kissed his cheek, spared him one last fond look, then climbed out of bed.
He put on flannel pants and a t-shirt and ambled out to the kitchen. He found it well-stocked and tidy, no doubt thanks to Sally. He put on a pot of coffee; while it brewed, he had a better look round than he’d gotten last night.
Sherlock had what seemed like every book ever written. They were jammed haphazardly into bookshelves, some of which were ornate and carved, others of which looked handmade from slabs of particle board. He had a few framed film posters, one of Hitchcock’s The Lady Vanishes, and one of Sherlock’s own film Out of Noise, the film that had earned his first Oscar nomination and made him an international star, dragging him out of the semi-obscurity of British theater and BBC films.
John had seen it at a preview screening in London. He’d gone with Clive, they’d been filming Gosford Park at the time. He’d sat in the theater and watched the film unfold in stunned astonishment. “Who is that kid?” he’d asked Clive. “I don’t know him.”
“Name’s Sherlock Holmes. I saw him do Hamlet in Stratford last summer. Knocked me on my arse,” Clive had said. “Watch him. He’s going to be huge.”
Sherlock had played no less than a dozen characters in Out of Noise, although only one of them was real, and that one never uttered a line of dialogue. It was the story of a bored thirtysomething office worker who passes the same street violinist every day on her way to work. She becomes fascinated with his beautiful playing, and in her mind imagines many different lives and histories for him, fixating on him to the point that it jeopardizes her marriage and her job. Her imaginings played out in the film in short mini-stories, and in each one Sherlock had to play a slightly different version of his actual character. It was a bravura performance, shaded and nuanced, and the film world had sat up and taken notice. His first nomination for Best Actor had been a foregone conclusion, and many still believed he ought to have won. John smiled, wondering what his ten-years-ago self would have thought if someone had told him that in ten years he’d be giving that young man a morning blowjob.
John moved over to the fireplace, a grand river-stone affair with a hammered tin chimney sticking out of the top of it and snaking up through the ceiling. There was a pocketknife stuck through a stack of letters on the mantel next to a skull. John picked it up. “Poor Yorick,” he muttered, laughing at himself for pulling out the very hoariest of hoary old jokes. He put the skull back.
Then he saw it. There on the mantel, behind an oil lantern, stuck in an inconspicuous spot. Sherlock’s Oscar, the one he’d won for Kanisza. John stared at it for a moment before picking it up. It didn’t seem real, like perhaps it was a prop or one of those novelty gag gifts. It was real, of course. John had watched Sherlock accept it. He put it back, gingerly, wondering if Sherlock would acquire a new one this year.
Even daring to wonder if he might get one of his own, dangerous as such thoughts were.
The coffee done, John made some toast and set himself up at the breakfast bar. He snuck into the bedroom, checking that Sherlock was still asleep, and retrieved his laptop. He booted up and loaded in a few scripts Mike had emailed him, figuring he might as well get some work done.
He was so engrossed that he didn’t realize Sherlock was awake until he felt a pair of arms slide around his shoulders. “Reading those gossip sites again? It’ll rot your brain,” Sherlock said, his voice gravelly with sleep. He kissed the side of John’s neck.
“I’m reading scripts, thank you very much.”
“Anything good?”
“Maybe, yeah. Mike says that the buzz off To a Stranger is strong enough that he’s getting some interest in serious roles for me. Have you been getting the same?”
“I haven’t been looking at new projects. I wanted to concentrate on the play.” John watched as Sherlock walked over to the coffeepot to pour a cup. Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder at him. “Are you staring at my arse?”
John jerked his eyes upwards, barely aware that he had, indeed, been staring at his arse. “Well, I can’t help it, it’s right there.”
Sherlock came back around the breakfast bar and leaned over to kiss John again, on the lips this time. He drew back just a inch or so. “How long can you stay?” he asked.
John sighed. “I’m not sure. I think I’ve got at least a few days.”
“Or even - a week?”
“You’d want me to stay that long?”
“John, if it were up to me, you’d stay forever.”
John smiled, feeling absurdly goofy and warm. “A week is possible.”
“And how do you feel about Sussex?”
“I don’t think I have any strong feelings about Sussex one way or another. Why?”
“I have a house there. It’s not a palace, just a country house, but it’s private. There’s a charming village where one goes for tea and bread and such. I was thinking that we might - well, pop down. Spend some time.”
John just stared. “You - you want me to go away with you? To your country house in Sussex?”
“Yes?” Sherlock said, one eyebrow arching. “You’ve already said you’d go to Antarctica with me, so I didn’t really suspect that Sussex would be right out.”
“No, it’s just - what would we do?”
“Talk? Read? Go for walks? Watch films? Have disgustingly late lie-ins? I don’t know, what do people do on these sorts of holidays?”
“Have as much sex as humanly possible?”
Sherlock blushed and smiled, a bit shyly. “I didn’t want to be the one to suggest it, but I’d be in favor of that, yes.”
John grinned. “That sounds perfect. When can we leave?”
“Whenever we like. Sally will bring my car over when we’re ready to go. I’ll need to pack.”
“Go pack, then! Let’s get the hell out of this town.” The notion of going somewhere that there wouldn’t be photographers lurking around every hedgerow was immensely appealing, and John’s imagination was already showing him enticing images of a cozy country getaway with Sherlock, of whole days spent in bed, of hikes and outdoor sex and the charming local pub.
“Oh, there is something you could do while I pack,” Sherlock said, turning back halfway to the bedroom.
“What’s that?”
“Get those DVDs together. We don’t want to forget the complete works of John Watson for our vacation movie marathon, do we?”
John gasped and threw a sofa pillow at him. “I will murder you where you stand,” he said. Sherlock danced away, snickering. John shook his head, going back to his laptop. “Cheeky bastard.”
And Sherlock was a cheeky bastard, among other less charming things, but John was starting to suspect that he might just be in love with that cheeky bastard.
You may have noticed that the total chapter count for this fic has gone up to 12. I had intended to write a single chapter that began in London and carried on into Sussex, but I’d gotten 2500 words into this chapter and hadn’t even gotten Sherlock home from the after party, so the chapter had to be split. I didn’t think anyone would object to more happy sexytimes.
MetaNotes for Chapter 8
1. I’ve kept Sherlock’s address as 221B Baker Street, but obviously I have presented a very different flat than the one in canon. I thought given the AU nature of the fic that I could get away with it, and that Actor!Sherlock would have a different sort of flat than our consulting detective.
2. Thea is Thea Sharrock, a theater director probably most famous for staging the revival of “Equus” that starred Daniel Radcliffe. She also directed Benedict in “After the Dance.”
3. The quote about all relationships failing until one doesn’t is courtesy of American sex advice columnist Dan Savage.
4. Clive is Clive Owen. Who actually did star in Gosford Park, unlike John Watson.
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