Performance In a Leading Role (11/20)
Title: Performance in a Leading Role
Author: MadLori
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 6800 (this chapter)
Genre: AU, romance
Warnings: None
Rating: NC-17
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 -- Chapter 8 -- Chapter 9 -- Chapter 10
Chapter 11
The flight from London to Los Angeles was eleven hours long, give or take half an hour. Sherlock had sat through it more times than he could count, and it was always a trial keeping himself occupied while trapped in a seat. Today the flight seemed even more interminable knowing that John was on the other end of it. Sherlock was about ready to jump out of his skin with eagerness to see him again, eagerness which was heightened by the fact that his arrival would be unexpected. He’d managed to rearrange his schedule to leave London two days earlier than he’d planned, but he hadn’t told John. Harry was helping him orchestrate the surprise, and he couldn’t wait to see the look on John’s face.
He tried to sleep and couldn’t. He tried to read, but he was too distracted. He toyed with the idea of getting drunk but he wanted to be alert and sober when he landed. Eventually he settled on listening to music on his iPod.
Slowly, agonizingly, the flight passed.
Sherlock gathered up his carry-on and his laptop bag. He only ever traveled with a small suitcase; he had plenty of clothes at his LA condo and it saved him having to stand at baggage claim and thus increase the chances of photographers deciding he was their catch of the day. He nodded to the flight crew and was off up the jetway.
Harry was waiting for him at security. She grinned and waved and Sherlock found himself grinning back. “Welcome home!” she said.
“God, it’s good to be off that bloody plane.”
“C’mon, let’s be off. I saw a camp of cameras down the terminal. We might sneak by.”
Sadly, they did not. The moment they emerged onto the concourse, two photographers spotted him. They snapped photos, flashes going off in Sherlock’s face as they barked his name, trying to get him to turn or acknowledge them. Some photographers were known to shout really terrible insults and abuse, just to get a shot of some celebrity looking angry or shouting back, but these two just stuck to his name. Nor did they pursue him all the way out, which was also known to happen. They snapped a few shots and then went back to their roost.
“Not so bad,” Harry muttered.
“I’ve had worse.”
They made it to Harry’s car without incident. Sherlock put his bag in the back seat and got in. Harry got behind the wheel; Sherlock waited for her to start the car, but she just sat there. “Harry?”
“Okay, I’ve got to get this out,” she said, half-turning toward him.
Oh God, it’s the don’t-hurt-my-brother speech. I suppose I’ll have to endure it eventually, might as well be now. “All right, then.” He sat quietly, waiting for his due.
She took a deep breath. “I’m not an emotional girl. I’m a snarky bitch, to be honest. But I love my brother more than anyone in the world. He’s the best man I know or ever expect to. It hurt my heart that he should be alone for so long, even if it was partially by choice. He deserves so much more, he deserves everything. So while I have you alone I just have to thank you.”
Sherlock looked at her, surprised. “Thank me?”
“Yes. For making John so happy. I’ve never seen him like this, it’s like someone finally found the light switch.” She smiled, and Sherlock was astonished to see tears in her eyes. “So thank you for not being afraid of it, for not running away from it.”
He sighed. “I was afraid. I still am. But your brother’s too much for me, Harry. I couldn’t turn away from him now if I wanted to.”
She patted his arm. “Probably not the speech you were expecting, was it?”
“I admit I assumed you were going to give me the ‘hurt him and I’ll murder you in your sleep’ speech.”
“Oh, Sherlock. We’re intelligent people. Surely you don’t need me to spell that out for you.” She started the car and they were off.
John lived in the Hollywood Hills. Sherlock had never been to his home, of course, as he and John had not become friends until the shoot in Toronto. He wasn’t sure what to expect. John wasn’t the sort to splash out for a glamorous house, although he surely could have afforded a mansion if he’d wanted one. He imagined it would be comfortable and practical, like John himself. Possibly a Colonial, even a sprawling ranch.
So when Harry turned into a steep semicircular drive onto a heavily wooded lot, Sherlock couldn’t help but stare in surprise at the house that sat at the top.
“Nice, isn’t it?” Harry said. He could hear her smile in her voice.
“It’s beautiful,” Sherlock said. It was a large lodge-style house, the exterior clad in timbers and river stones. It would not have look out of place in a pine forest on a mountaintop. Sherlock got out of the car, his admiration of the house cut short by the sight of John’s car in the drive and the abrupt knowledge that only a door separated them now.
“Come on,” Harry said, carrying his suitcase. “I’ll let you in, then I’ll faff off and leave you two alone.”
“Harry, I do appreciate your help with this.”
She smiled. “He’s going to be over the moon to see you.” She opened the front door and beckoned him inside, putting a “shh” finger to her lips.
Sherlock followed her in, and was immediately greeted by the smell of something delicious cooking. They’d barely gotten in the door before Sherlock heard John’s voice; just the sound of it made his stomach flip. “Harry?”
“Yeah, John, it’s me.”
“Did you bring the capers?”
“Yeah, I got them right here.” She handed Sherlock a jar of capers. “I brought you a surprise, too.”
“Oh?” he said, chuckling. “I hope it’s alcoholic. I’m hoping to pass out tonight and sleep until Friday.”
Harry nodded toward the sound of John’s voice. “He’s in the kitchen,” she whispered. “Go on,” she said, giving him a nudge. Harry retreated to the door, gave him a wave, and left.
Sherlock squared his shoulders and headed for the kitchen. It was large and well-appointed, but that was as much of it as he registered, because his attention was riveted by the sight of John at the stove, his back to the entryway.
He’d been well aware when he hatched this plan that he might catch John totally unprepared for his arrival, perhaps sweaty from exercise or dirty from gardening, or wearing his most bedraggled old nylon shorts and a tattered undershirt. But as far as he could tell, John looked perfect. He was wearing a rather snug t-shirt and well-worn jeans that fit him perfectly in all the right ways. Over this, he was wearing an apron. The endearing sight of John in an apron, cooking something that smelled of lemon and garlic, was almost enough to make Sherlock drop the capers.
He leaned in the doorway, just watching for a moment. “I’m afraid I’m not alcoholic,” he said. “But if you’d like to sleep until Friday I might be able to find a way to wear you out.”
John dropped his wooden spoon with a clatter and whirled around, eyes wide. His mouth fell open when he saw him. Sherlock grinned helplessly, his mouth straining to stretch even wider and coming up against the design limitations of his face. “Sherlock!”
“Surprise,” Sherlock said. John’s answering grin lit up everything it touched; he bounded across the room and then Sherlock’s arms were full of him, gorgeously full of John. “I was able…” was all he got out before John’s mouth was on his, insistent. He surrendered without hesitation and kissed back, their tongues tangling, Sherlock’s arms wrapped around John’s back and feeling that glorious heft of him, muscle and bone and breath and pounding heart. John’s arms twined around Sherlock’s shoulders, one hand wandering up into his hair so that he couldn’t draw back even if he’d so wished. John pressed kisses to the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his jaw, his neck, and then buried himself again in Sherlock’s embrace, pressing his face into Sherlock’s throat. “John,” was all Sherlock could think to say.
“I can’t believe you’re really here,” John said. There was a clogged quality to his voice.
Sherlock pulled back and looked at John’s face, his watery eyes. “John, are you crying?”
“No!” He sniffed. “Maybe a little,” he said, blushing. “I’m just happy to see you. How are you here? I thought Friday!”
“I was able to rearrange my schedule to fly over a few days early. I thought I’d surprise you.”
John laughed, his hands rubbing Sherlock’s arms. “You surprised me, all right. Best surprise I’ve ever gotten.”
“I couldn’t wait any more.” He met John’s eyes.
John nodded, holding his gaze. “Well, you’re here now. No more waiting.”
Sherlock cupped John’s face in his hands. “No. No more waiting.” He leaned in and kissed him again, taking his time about it. John hung onto his forearms for a moment, then stepped closer and slid his arms around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock turned them so John was against the wall; he pressed close, John giving it back as good as he was getting. John hooked one leg around Sherlock’s; Sherlock slid his hands down to John’s arse, seized him and lifted, bending his knees to scoop John’s hips up. John wound his legs around Sherlock’s waist, hitching himself higher with his arms round Sherlock’s shoulders. The changed angle shifted the tone, enabling John to press down and plunder Sherlock’s mouth. “Is this all right?” Sherlock managed to slip in.
“Doesn’t it feel all right?” John said, kissing Sherlock’s face.
“It isn’t - I don’t know. Emasculating?”
John’s tongue flickered out, wetting his lips. “Do I feel emasculated to you?” He gripped the back of Sherlock’s neck and bucked their hips together; Sherlock felt John’s erection rub against his own.
“Quite the opposite.”
“Good. You won’t be asking if I’m emasculated later, when I’m fucking you,” John growled into his ear.
Sherlock groaned and yanked John’s head back, baring his throat to Sherlock’s lips and teeth. He sucked on the pulse point and pulled on the neck of John’s t-shirt to get to his collarbone. John just hung on to his head, rocking their hips together while Sherlock braced his feet and pressed forward so he could support John’s weight. John dragged his face up again and kissed him, deep and thorough, his hands on Sherlock’s neck. He broke off to catch his breath and let his forehead rest against Sherlock’s; they stayed like that for a few moments, calming themselves. “God, I missed you,” Sherlock whispered.
“I missed you too, every second,” John breathed. He lowered his legs and slid back down to the floor. “I was cooking dinner for myself and Harry, but I’m guessing she’s scarpered. Are you hungry?”
“Yes, I think I am. What is that you’re making? It smells good.”
John flapped a hand. “Nothing specific. Just throwing some shrimp in with lemon and garlic and - say, where are those capers?”
Sherlock smiled and rescued the jar from where it was fallen and rolled under the cabinet. “Here you are.”
John took them, kissing Sherlock again as he did so. He moved back to the stove to stir the food. “Make yourself at home. You are, after all. Home, that is.”
Sherlock opened the fridge. “Shall we open this wine?”
“What’s that, the pinot grigio? Yes, please.”
Sherlock uncorked the bottle and took wineglasses from the rack. He poured two glasses and handed one to John, who clinked it against Sherlock’s. “Cheers.”
“To being home,” Sherlock said.
John nodded, looking at him with soft eyes. “Indeed.”
They talked about the flight and Sherlock’s moving plans as John cooked. Sherlock’s attention was rather diverted by watching him. There was efficiency in the way John moved around the kitchen, wasting no motion, never hesitating over anything. His t-shirt pulled against his body as he moved and Sherlock found himself captivated by his easy competence. “I didn’t know you could cook so well.”
He shrugged. “I’ve been cooking for myself most of my adult life. I got bored with standard fare right off, so I started experimenting. I’d throw together whatever struck my fancy, and sometimes it turned out and sometimes not. I got to know what went well with what, how to put things together.” He looked up to see Sherlock watching him. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked, smirking.
Sherlock harrumphed, looking away, a bit embarrassed to have been caught out. “I enjoy watching you cook. It’s - sexy.”
“Really?” John said, chuckling. “I’m not feeling terribly alluring just now, in this apron, with oil spatters on my shirt.” He stepped closer and kissed him quickly, tasting of the Pinot. “Although it is a bit brilliant, cooking for sexy boyfriend.” He went back to the stove. Within a few minutes he’d put the sauce aside to reduce and had pasta boiling. He took off the apron. “That’ll be ten minutes or so, let me show you around the house.” He picked up his wine and led Sherlock back out into the living room. “It’s rather a lot of house for one person, but I love it.”
“It’s very you. I couldn’t picture you in one of those ultra-modern glass-walled affairs that are so thick on the ground here.”
“God, no. I like wood and leather and green and comfort.” He walked Sherlock through the living room, the dining room, a den in the back, the huge wraparound porch, the screening room and the downstairs loo. “I’ve been getting things ready for you.”
“Ready? Does your house require Sherlock-proofing?”
John laughed. “I wanted you to have your own space. I cleared out one of the guest rooms upstairs for you.” He opened a door and Sherlock stepped through, blinking in surprise. “I thought you might use this as a den or an office.”
John had furnished the large room with rugs and leather furniture that reminded Sherlock of what he had in 221B. Bookshelves had been set up, along with a desk and a computer. “John,” he said. “I’m touched. You went to some trouble for this.”
“Don’t give me too much credit, I barely lifted a finger. I told Harry what I wanted and she made calls and then it happened.”
“But you thought of it. I confess I might not have done the same.”
“I know I need my own space, Sherlock. It’s reasonable that you might, too. We can’t be always in each other’s pockets, we’ll drive each other mad.”
“A logical assumption.” He turned to John and smiled. “But what if I want to spend as much time with you as possible?”
John grinned. “I have no problem with that. For now. But we’re - we’re living together. It’s exciting for now, but there’ll come a time that we’ll have to respect each other’s boundaries. We’ve both lived alone for a long time. It’s going to be an adjustment, and we ought to be realistic about that.” He must have seen something on Sherlock’s face, because he reached out and pulled him close by his hips. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not over the moon that you’re here,” he said.
Sherlock smiled down at him, then reached up and combed his fingers through John’s silky hair. “Time affects human visual memory on a logarithmic curve,” he said, pitching his voice low in a way he knew John found arousing. “Our recollections dim faster than the time passes since our last sighting of a familiar face.”
John looked a little bemused. “Which means what, exactly?”
“You’re even more bloody gorgeous than I remembered.”
John’s eyes went darker, his pupils dilating. “Why don’t I show you the bedroom?”
“You mean our bedroom?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.” John took his hand and led him down the hall to a large master suite. Sherlock barely glanced around before he had John in his arms again, lips slotting together and hands at each other’s clothing.
“John, the dinner.”
“Oh, fuck the dinner,” John growled, attacking him. He pulled Sherlock down onto the bed and rolled them over so Sherlock was on the bottom. John dragged his mouth down Sherlock’s neck, opening his shirt as he kissed his way down onto his chest. Sherlock’s head thrust against the mattress, his neck arching at the touch of John’s lips on his skin. He sighed. “I don’t deserve all this, you know.”
“Deserve it? It isn’t about deserving anything, you daft git. I want this to be your home, too. Why shouldn’t I do what I can to make you feel comfortable?”
Sherlock dragged him up so he could look into his face again “It isn’t the things you surround me with that’ll make me comfortable, John. It’s you.”
John smiled, his eyes twinkling. “So I should cancel the Jaguar I bought you?”
Sherlock cleared his throat, arching an eyebrow. “Well, let’s not be too hasty.” They kissed again, chuckling against each other’s mouths. Jaguar? Sherlock pulled back abruptly. “You are kidding about the Jaguar, aren’t you?”
John rolled his eyes. “Yes, Sherlock, I’m kidding. Buying you a couch and a desk is one thing, but a two hundred thousand dollar car is quite another.”
John woke the next morning at eight. The knot of excitement in his belly was still there, the one he’d had for the past week in anticipation of Sherlock’s arrival. Wait, did I dream that? He turned over and there was Sherlock, asleep next to him. He relaxed. Seemed his subconscious hadn’t yet gotten the memo that the wait was over.
He lifted a finger and skimmed it gently down Sherlock’s pale cheek. Seeing him standing there in the kitchen the night before had been a shock, the best kind of shock. He’d have to thank Harry later, surely she’d had a hand in arranging it. He and Sherlock had eaten dinner together in the breakfast nook after their impromptu bedroom romp. He had worried that once Sherlock was here, there would be awkwardness. Would they be able to talk? Would they be easy with each other? Granted, it was only the first night, but so far those fears seemed groundless. There had been no awkwardness, they had talked easily and freely, and when they’d retired to the den to watch “Project Runway,” teasing each other over the cliché, it felt like something they’d done a thousand times. Going up the stairs to bed together, fingers intertwined and anticipation flowing between them, John couldn’t help but feel that it was all fine, everything was fine, he had the man he loved in his house and in his bed.
Except it wasn’t fine, none of it was fine, and only the passage of time would reveal just now not fine it was going to be. But he didn’t want to think about that now. They’d have to face reality on Monday, when they’d start their ADR work on To a Stranger and likely come face to face with their colleagues for the first time since the shoot had wrapped. He was fully expecting a phone call from Jim Schamus, asking them in for a serious meeting to discuss The Situation. They knew. Of course they knew. They always knew everything. Sally had told them how Anderson had come looking for them while they were in Sussex. They’d heard nothing else since, but he supposed it was easy enough to ignore the issue while they were separated by an ocean. Now, with both of them in Los Angeles and living in the same bloody house, the studio would have concerns. They’d likely have demands. Worries about what they might ask, threaten or cajole plagued him. John knew actors who’d had to sign nondisclosure agreements that they would not reveal their sexuality or other aspects of their personal life. He didn’t know what he’d do if he and Sherlock were asked to sign such a document.
How can I ask him to do this? How can I ask him to hide? How can I ask it of myself? He’s happy, I’m happy, why does it all have to be so bloody fucked up?
It didn’t matter that they were happy. It was fucked up, no question, but that was the way of it.
He’d made good on his promise last night and had shagged Sherlock cross-eyed, the act sweetened by the knowledge that this was their bed now, their home, and fast though it may have been, it felt right, as if this house had been waiting for years to house another soul, the right soul, and its very beams and joists had sighed in fulfillment. The act had been new again in another way, as well. Over the last three weeks they’d both been re-tested and had swapped medical reports. They were both clear. So last night they’d come together without any barriers between them.
Poor Sherlock. He’d be jetlagged for a few days. He didn’t need much sleep, but right now he seemed to be out like a light. John slipped quietly out of bed, went to the loo and got his laptop. He booted up and read the trades while Sherlock slept on at his side. He skimmed through the usual news of people changing agencies and signing to new projects and books being optioned until he got to something that caught his eye; a review of For Which It Stands, the new Oliver Stone film that would open today. He read it with some trepidation.
The film is a stirring portrayal of the trials of veterans and the adjustment they face returning to civilian life. Breathtaking desert cinematography and sharp writing are well served by Stone, at his most intimate and emotional, but what elevates the film is the transcendent performance of James Moriarty in the central role of disabled Marine veteran Toby McTeague. Moriarty, sporting a pitch-perfect American accent and wholly inhabiting his character’s guilt, indignance and post-traumatic stress, is peeled like an onion throughout the film, revealing ever-deeper spheres of secrecy and shame. Moriarty is an absolute shoo-in for an Oscar nomination.
John sighed. That didn’t exactly fill him with joy. John was one hundred percent certain that Sherlock would also be nominated this year (he was less certain about himself, no matter what anyone said about it) and he didn’t relish having to listen to Sherlock rant about competing with Moriarty for the prize.
Sherlock stirred and rolled over, wriggling closer to John’s warmth. He shifted about until he was tucked against John’s side, his head resting on John’s bicep. John ducked his head and kissed his mussed curls. “Mmmph,” Sherlock said.
“Good morning.”
“What’re you reading?”
“Review of Moriarty’s new film.”
Sherlock lifted his head and peered blearily at the screen. “What’s it say?”
“That it’s - wait, I want to get this right - a triumph of modern American filmmaking, Moriarty is transcendent and a shoo-in for a nomination.”
Sherlock made a disgruntled noise. “Of course he is, that film is the most blatant Oscar bait I’ve ever seen in my life. I read the script. He’s got about four long, dramatic monologues in which he pounds desks and foams at the mouth, and that’s on top of the three sobbing-breakdown scenes. And all of this with a prosthetic limb. Tiresome.”
“Bad news for us. Our film is subtler.”
“This town has not forgiven Oliver Stone for - well, being Oliver Stone. They won’t rush to reward his pet project, especially when he’s bound to be accused of just rehashing Born on the Fourth of July. Which he is.”
“They might reward Moriarty, though.”
Sherlock took the laptop and shoved it away down the bed so he could burrow closer into John’s arms, tossing one leg and one arm across him. “Don’t want to think about him. You’re much cozier, and less annoying.”
John slid down in the bed a bit and wrapped him up, chuckling. “Why do you two hate each other so much?”
“He’s insufferable and a dreadful actor.”
“He’d probably say the same about you.”
“Yes, but he would be wrong and I am right.” Sherlock sighed. “We were at RADA together. He used to employ various means to advance his career that weren’t exactly cricket. I exposed him and cost him a role he badly wanted. We’ve been up for the same role three times. Once I got it, once he did, and once neither of us did. The role that he won out over me was that Russell picture, the one about the missionaries?”
“God, that was awful.”
“Yes. Somehow that’s my fault, too.”
“What was the role you won out over him?”
“It was Kanisza. And he’s still bitter.”
“He would not have been good in that, not like you were.”
“Terrence agreed. But we’re both on his little list, or so it seems.” Sherlock snaked a hand down to John’s crotch, his warm lips leaving footprints on John’s neck. “No more shop talk in bed. I seem to recall someone expressing a fondness for morning sex, or did I just imagine it?”
John was at the mirror shaving when Sherlock emerged from the shower. He sniffed the air. “Is that coffee I’m smelling?”
“I believe it is.”
“Is Harry here, then?”
John smiled, but it was a suspicious, I’ve-got-a-secret smile. “No. That isn’t Harry.”
They dressed and went downstairs. Sitting at the kitchen island was a sharply-dressed woman on a Blackberry, drinking coffee. “Making yourself at home, I see,” John said to her. Sherlock’s eyes ticked off observations of her and John’s reaction to her. Hollywood power broker, behind-the-scenes, married but keeps it a secret, native of the East Coast, possibly New York but more probably New Jersey.
My new manager and publicist, in other words.
“Well,” she said, dusting off her hands. “Look who decided to join us. The rest of us have been up getting shit done. Tell me, which of you is it that makes the really entertaining moose-mating-call noise when you’re coming?”
Sherlock just stood there, experiencing a heretofore unsuspected condition: speechlessness. John chuckled. “Sherlock, I’d like you to meet my -- our, that is, publicist and manager, Irene Adler.”
She got up and shook Sherlock’s hand, a two-pump professional handshake. “We’ve got a lot of work to do, gentlemen, so I thought we’d better get an early start.”
“May we at least have coffee first?” Sherlock said, arching one elegant eyebrow. “Your Majesty?”
She smirked. “I’ll allow it. Just this once.”
They reconvened at the table in the breakfast nook off the kitchen, John with coffee and toast, Sherlock with just coffee. Irene was typing on her Blackberry while hardly looking at the keys, a feat that was impressive even to Sherlock, himself an avid texter.
“All right,” she said. “First off, I think you guys are smart to consolidate your management. With all the maneuvering we’re going to be doing in the next six months, I would have spent half my life on the phone with your manager and your publicist, Sherlock. If I handle both your schedules and press, we’ll cut down on the chance that something will slip through the cracks and save me tons of time.”
Sherlock nodded. “That was our logic as well.”
“Second, you guys are also really stupid.”
John and Sherlock glanced at each other. “We’re smart and stupid?” John said.
“The two are not mutually exclusive. The decision to consolidate will have implications to those in the know. It’s a very coupleish arrangement. I may have a way around that. But I was actually referring to this.” She pulled out her iPad and showed them a photo of Sherlock at the airport the day before.
“Me at the airport.”
“Yes. You at the airport all over the Internet.”
“So?”
She sighed. “Who are you with, Sherlock?”
“Harry.”
“So you arrived in Los Angeles and were picked up by John Watson’s sister.”
John stared. “They know who Harry is?” Sherlock was kicking himself. Of course they knew who she was. He ought to have anticipated that.
“They know everything, John. Always assume that everyone knows absolutely everything. You’ll be safer that way. This is the kind of thing we can’t afford.” Irene folded her hands on the table and fixed them each in turn with a stern gaze. “If you’re serious about keeping your relationship under wraps until after the Oscars, I can do that. But you must do what I say, when I say it. I tell you to wear hipwaders, you ask what color. I’ll do what I can to make sure you can lead normal lives, but from now until March, this is your job. You got that?”
Sherlock’s hackles were rising in spite of himself. He recognized the necessity of Irene’s dictums, but he rebelled against being told what to do. It was just his nature. John grabbed his hand. “We’ve got it,” John said, forestalling Sherlock’s objections.
“Good. From now on, you two do not leave this house together. It’s bad enough that you’re living here, Sherlock, but if we’re lucky that won’t become common knowledge. You do not eat in public together, you don’t go for runs together, you don’t ride in the same car, you don’t go to the same parties. The only places you are allowed to go together are appointments and events related to the film where you’ll be expected to be together. Given the nature of this film, almost all of your publicity and press will be done as a pair. Aside from that, you are not to be seen together, at all, full stop. No grocery shopping, no outings to the beach, nothing. Your relationship is to stay within these four walls.”
Sherlock’s heart was sinking even further. He’d known that this was what would be required, but to hear Irene spell it out so starkly was depressing. He’d come here to be with the man he loved. Now it looked like they’d be kept apart like teenagers on a chaperoned date. John looked just as miserable. “What if we want to - get away?” he asked.
“That can be arranged. I will make the arrangements and you won’t question them. I’ll send you someplace private where you won’t be disturbed or observed. I’ll send you there as often as you like if it will help you carry out the rest of the plan, all right?” She sighed, and her face softened a little. “Listen, I understand how much it’s going to suck. I’ll try and help you through it. But my first priority is maintaining your secrecy until such time as you tell me you don’t want me to anymore.”
“I think the studio knows already,” Sherlock said.
“Of course they know. You can’t keep this from your colleagues, or from the journalists. Your only goal is to keep it from the public. The best I can do is promise you that no actual journalist will ever ask you about the rumors, and no one will ever print those rumors. I can’t control the paparazzi or any of these blogging yahoos who claim to be journalists, they’ll print what they want. But you know the rule of the Internet: pics or it didn’t happen. I’ve got one of my sneakiest assistants scouring every single vantage point from which you could conceivably see this house to check if anyone could ever get a telephoto shot. Anything he finds, we’ll block off.” She took a deep breath, then offered them a bit of a smile. “I don’t want to make things any harder for you than they have to be. I’m happy for you, honestly. I may sound like a ballbusting hardass, but I’m a romantic at heart.” She smiled. “My husband will back me up on that.”
John’s mouth dropped open. “I didn’t know you were married!” Sherlock kept his mouth shut. Irene had been John’s manager and publicist for five years. She was obviously skilled at hiding her own relationship, although she hadn’t fooled Sherlock. Few could.
“No, nor does anyone else. My husband and I prefer it that way. So when you wonder if I’m capable of engineering this façade for the two of you, remember that I’ve managed to keep anyone from knowing that I’ve been married for eight years.” She eyed them with a speculative expression. “What we really need is a girlfriend for Sherlock.”
Sherlock froze. John’s hand clamped down on his. “No. Absolutely not,” John said, an edge to his voice that Sherlock had rarely heard there. “Out of the question.”
“John, it would help deflect questions about him living here.”
“Why for me?” Sherlock asked.
“John’s too close to his breakup with Sarah. And he’s - well, to be frank, he’s known for being amiable and attractive to women. You’re not. If you got a girlfriend, people would be less likely to assume it was a casual thing, because you just don’t do that.”
John was shaking his head. “We could never get anyone on such short notice.”
“No. It’d have to be me.”
“You?” John exclaimed.
“Yes. That would also provide an explanation as to why he’s left his manager and his publicist and signed with me, one that doesn’t involve him sleeping with you.”
“But you’re married!”
“You didn’t know that until four minutes ago, and neither will anyone else.”
Sherlock was dubious. “You as my girlfriend? No one would accept it.”
“They’ll accept what I put before them, and they’ll like it.” She looked at them, and seemed to take pity. “We’ll deal with that later. You two are clear until Monday. You’re due at the ADR studio at nine a.m. and then Focus wants a meeting with you at five. I assume it’s about this,” she said, making a vague motion in the air in their direction. “I will be in the meeting as well, so try not to worry about it.”
John snorted. “Good luck.”
“I don’t need to tell you to stay in this weekend, do I?”
“No.”
“If you want to get out of town, call me and I can have it set up in an hour.” Irene looked at her watch. “I have got to be off. It looks like Entertainment Weekly wants to do a big story on the film, with you two on the cover. I’ll be setting up a joint interview and a photoshoot, probably for the end of September.”
John nodded. He looked numb. Sherlock could sympathize. They got up and walked with Irene to the door. “Thanks for all this, Irene,” John said. “I know it’s a huge pain in the arse.”
“John, this is why you pay me. It’s just business. It’s much worse for you, this is your life.” She looked from John’s face to Sherlock’s. “I admit, I hate that this is necessary. You both looked so happy when you came downstairs, and now - not so much.”
“As you say, the necessity is disheartening,” Sherlock said, taking John’s hand again. “We’ll manage.”
“All right. Call me if anything comes up, otherwise enjoy your weekend, and remember what I said. I’ll see you on Monday.” She let herself out.
They just stood there in the entryway for a moment. Sherlock let go of John’s hand and walked a few steps away, rubbing his face. The urge to slap on a few nicotine patches was strong, but he resisted. “John, I think - I need some time alone.”
“Me, too.”
“Is there a gym?”
John got out his wallet and handed Sherlock a membership card with his name on it. “Harry set you up at my gym. Take my car.”
“I’ll call a cab. I shouldn’t be seen driving your car.”
“God, they can’t possibly know my car.”
“They can and they do. Remember what Irene said? Assume everyone knows everything?” He even found himself wishing he were at a different gym than John’s.
“All right, then.” John turned and disappeared down the hall into the den.
Sherlock got his gym clothes together, called a cab, and within half an hour was on a treadmill, pounding out his frustrations with his iPod blaring the Beastie Boys into his ears, numbing him to the surroundings. He ran until his thighs burned, then he got off the treadmill and did two circuits of free weights until the sweat poured off him.
At one point the manager came over to welcome him. Sherlock glanced around and saw that all the other clients - all of them clearly well-to-do locals, including a few other actors he recognized - had been giving him the side-eye the whole time and he hadn’t noticed. He exchanged the required pleasantries with the manager and made his excuses, calling for a cab to pick him up in twenty minutes as he headed for the showers.
He returned to John’s (their) house feeling much more centered, ready to talk, ready to deal.
He barely had the door closed behind him when John called out to him. “Sherlock?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
Hurried footsteps, and then John appeared in the entry, looking excited. “They sent the first trailer.”
“Did you watch it?”
“No, I wanted to wait for you. Come on!” John turned and hurried back the way he’d come. Sherlock dropped his bag and followed along to John’s office. He leaned over John in his chair and watched the monitor as John queued up the trailer.
They both went entirely still. The Universal Studios, then Focus Features logos came and went.
There was no spoken dialogue. The score was a sparse guitar and violin; Sherlock didn’t recognize it, although it sounded like the work of Andrew Bird, the singer/songwriter who was composing the equally sparse musical score for the film. The cinematography was even more stunning than he’d hoped. Each shot was a masterwork of light and shadow, color-desaturated and stark. John’s face in each shot was a study in stillness, in subtle play of expression. His own face was angular and alien.
The story was teased in a series of very brief clips, five to ten seconds each. Benjamin and Mark meeting in the waiting room, at opposite ends of a couch. A phone call in a park. An embrace, a sleepy wake-up, an angry mother, a funeral. A startling splash of blood, surprisingly vivid on the wall.
Sherlock held his breath while the two minutes of film played. The title card at the end, all lower-case, floating near the bottom, then their two names drifting past each other in the opposite corner of the screen. December 2011.
The file ended. Without a word, John restarted it and they watched it again.
When it ended the second time, John just sat there. Sherlock turned and sat on the edge of the desk. John looked up at him, rawness in his eyes. “That is why we’re doing this, John,” Sherlock said.
He nodded. “We owe this film. We owe it everything.”
Sherlock reached out and took his hand. “This isn’t going to break us. We can do this.”
John leaned forward, both Sherlock’s hands in his now, his eyes on their clasped fingers. “Sherlock, I know you don’t want to hide. I know you’re doing it for me. I don’t know how to make it up to you, but I will make you a serious promise.” He looked up and met his eyes. “If it ever came down to keeping the secret or keeping you, that isn’t a choice for me. You come first. We come first. Always.”
Sherlock felt the knot inside him loosen just a little. “I know that, John.”
“Good. I just wanted you to hear me say it.”
“Thank you.”
John glanced at the monitor. “This film is going to be very special. I have to believe it’ll be worth it.”
Sherlock nodded. “It will be.”
John stood up and embraced him. “I love you,” he said into Sherlock’s ear.
Sherlock gripped him tightly. He wouldn’t let go, not for anything or anyone. “I love you too, John. More than I can say.” He hoped that didn’t sound trite; it was the literal truth. He could hold forth on just about any topic one could choose and articulate an eloquent explanation of a variety of opinions, phenomena and theories, but he found that he quite lacked the command of language he’d need to fully articulate how he felt about John Watson. His experience of life so far had not prepared him for this and he found himself often blown off-course by its intensity.
But Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not resourceful. If he could not tell John how he felt, he’d just have to conduct himself in such a way that John would know.
Next Chapter
Author: MadLori
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 6800 (this chapter)
Genre: AU, romance
Warnings: None
Rating: NC-17
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 -- Chapter 8 -- Chapter 9 -- Chapter 10
Chapter 11
The flight from London to Los Angeles was eleven hours long, give or take half an hour. Sherlock had sat through it more times than he could count, and it was always a trial keeping himself occupied while trapped in a seat. Today the flight seemed even more interminable knowing that John was on the other end of it. Sherlock was about ready to jump out of his skin with eagerness to see him again, eagerness which was heightened by the fact that his arrival would be unexpected. He’d managed to rearrange his schedule to leave London two days earlier than he’d planned, but he hadn’t told John. Harry was helping him orchestrate the surprise, and he couldn’t wait to see the look on John’s face.
He tried to sleep and couldn’t. He tried to read, but he was too distracted. He toyed with the idea of getting drunk but he wanted to be alert and sober when he landed. Eventually he settled on listening to music on his iPod.
Slowly, agonizingly, the flight passed.
Sherlock gathered up his carry-on and his laptop bag. He only ever traveled with a small suitcase; he had plenty of clothes at his LA condo and it saved him having to stand at baggage claim and thus increase the chances of photographers deciding he was their catch of the day. He nodded to the flight crew and was off up the jetway.
Harry was waiting for him at security. She grinned and waved and Sherlock found himself grinning back. “Welcome home!” she said.
“God, it’s good to be off that bloody plane.”
“C’mon, let’s be off. I saw a camp of cameras down the terminal. We might sneak by.”
Sadly, they did not. The moment they emerged onto the concourse, two photographers spotted him. They snapped photos, flashes going off in Sherlock’s face as they barked his name, trying to get him to turn or acknowledge them. Some photographers were known to shout really terrible insults and abuse, just to get a shot of some celebrity looking angry or shouting back, but these two just stuck to his name. Nor did they pursue him all the way out, which was also known to happen. They snapped a few shots and then went back to their roost.
“Not so bad,” Harry muttered.
“I’ve had worse.”
They made it to Harry’s car without incident. Sherlock put his bag in the back seat and got in. Harry got behind the wheel; Sherlock waited for her to start the car, but she just sat there. “Harry?”
“Okay, I’ve got to get this out,” she said, half-turning toward him.
Oh God, it’s the don’t-hurt-my-brother speech. I suppose I’ll have to endure it eventually, might as well be now. “All right, then.” He sat quietly, waiting for his due.
She took a deep breath. “I’m not an emotional girl. I’m a snarky bitch, to be honest. But I love my brother more than anyone in the world. He’s the best man I know or ever expect to. It hurt my heart that he should be alone for so long, even if it was partially by choice. He deserves so much more, he deserves everything. So while I have you alone I just have to thank you.”
Sherlock looked at her, surprised. “Thank me?”
“Yes. For making John so happy. I’ve never seen him like this, it’s like someone finally found the light switch.” She smiled, and Sherlock was astonished to see tears in her eyes. “So thank you for not being afraid of it, for not running away from it.”
He sighed. “I was afraid. I still am. But your brother’s too much for me, Harry. I couldn’t turn away from him now if I wanted to.”
She patted his arm. “Probably not the speech you were expecting, was it?”
“I admit I assumed you were going to give me the ‘hurt him and I’ll murder you in your sleep’ speech.”
“Oh, Sherlock. We’re intelligent people. Surely you don’t need me to spell that out for you.” She started the car and they were off.
John lived in the Hollywood Hills. Sherlock had never been to his home, of course, as he and John had not become friends until the shoot in Toronto. He wasn’t sure what to expect. John wasn’t the sort to splash out for a glamorous house, although he surely could have afforded a mansion if he’d wanted one. He imagined it would be comfortable and practical, like John himself. Possibly a Colonial, even a sprawling ranch.
So when Harry turned into a steep semicircular drive onto a heavily wooded lot, Sherlock couldn’t help but stare in surprise at the house that sat at the top.
“Nice, isn’t it?” Harry said. He could hear her smile in her voice.
“It’s beautiful,” Sherlock said. It was a large lodge-style house, the exterior clad in timbers and river stones. It would not have look out of place in a pine forest on a mountaintop. Sherlock got out of the car, his admiration of the house cut short by the sight of John’s car in the drive and the abrupt knowledge that only a door separated them now.
“Come on,” Harry said, carrying his suitcase. “I’ll let you in, then I’ll faff off and leave you two alone.”
“Harry, I do appreciate your help with this.”
She smiled. “He’s going to be over the moon to see you.” She opened the front door and beckoned him inside, putting a “shh” finger to her lips.
Sherlock followed her in, and was immediately greeted by the smell of something delicious cooking. They’d barely gotten in the door before Sherlock heard John’s voice; just the sound of it made his stomach flip. “Harry?”
“Yeah, John, it’s me.”
“Did you bring the capers?”
“Yeah, I got them right here.” She handed Sherlock a jar of capers. “I brought you a surprise, too.”
“Oh?” he said, chuckling. “I hope it’s alcoholic. I’m hoping to pass out tonight and sleep until Friday.”
Harry nodded toward the sound of John’s voice. “He’s in the kitchen,” she whispered. “Go on,” she said, giving him a nudge. Harry retreated to the door, gave him a wave, and left.
Sherlock squared his shoulders and headed for the kitchen. It was large and well-appointed, but that was as much of it as he registered, because his attention was riveted by the sight of John at the stove, his back to the entryway.
He’d been well aware when he hatched this plan that he might catch John totally unprepared for his arrival, perhaps sweaty from exercise or dirty from gardening, or wearing his most bedraggled old nylon shorts and a tattered undershirt. But as far as he could tell, John looked perfect. He was wearing a rather snug t-shirt and well-worn jeans that fit him perfectly in all the right ways. Over this, he was wearing an apron. The endearing sight of John in an apron, cooking something that smelled of lemon and garlic, was almost enough to make Sherlock drop the capers.
He leaned in the doorway, just watching for a moment. “I’m afraid I’m not alcoholic,” he said. “But if you’d like to sleep until Friday I might be able to find a way to wear you out.”
John dropped his wooden spoon with a clatter and whirled around, eyes wide. His mouth fell open when he saw him. Sherlock grinned helplessly, his mouth straining to stretch even wider and coming up against the design limitations of his face. “Sherlock!”
“Surprise,” Sherlock said. John’s answering grin lit up everything it touched; he bounded across the room and then Sherlock’s arms were full of him, gorgeously full of John. “I was able…” was all he got out before John’s mouth was on his, insistent. He surrendered without hesitation and kissed back, their tongues tangling, Sherlock’s arms wrapped around John’s back and feeling that glorious heft of him, muscle and bone and breath and pounding heart. John’s arms twined around Sherlock’s shoulders, one hand wandering up into his hair so that he couldn’t draw back even if he’d so wished. John pressed kisses to the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his jaw, his neck, and then buried himself again in Sherlock’s embrace, pressing his face into Sherlock’s throat. “John,” was all Sherlock could think to say.
“I can’t believe you’re really here,” John said. There was a clogged quality to his voice.
Sherlock pulled back and looked at John’s face, his watery eyes. “John, are you crying?”
“No!” He sniffed. “Maybe a little,” he said, blushing. “I’m just happy to see you. How are you here? I thought Friday!”
“I was able to rearrange my schedule to fly over a few days early. I thought I’d surprise you.”
John laughed, his hands rubbing Sherlock’s arms. “You surprised me, all right. Best surprise I’ve ever gotten.”
“I couldn’t wait any more.” He met John’s eyes.
John nodded, holding his gaze. “Well, you’re here now. No more waiting.”
Sherlock cupped John’s face in his hands. “No. No more waiting.” He leaned in and kissed him again, taking his time about it. John hung onto his forearms for a moment, then stepped closer and slid his arms around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock turned them so John was against the wall; he pressed close, John giving it back as good as he was getting. John hooked one leg around Sherlock’s; Sherlock slid his hands down to John’s arse, seized him and lifted, bending his knees to scoop John’s hips up. John wound his legs around Sherlock’s waist, hitching himself higher with his arms round Sherlock’s shoulders. The changed angle shifted the tone, enabling John to press down and plunder Sherlock’s mouth. “Is this all right?” Sherlock managed to slip in.
“Doesn’t it feel all right?” John said, kissing Sherlock’s face.
“It isn’t - I don’t know. Emasculating?”
John’s tongue flickered out, wetting his lips. “Do I feel emasculated to you?” He gripped the back of Sherlock’s neck and bucked their hips together; Sherlock felt John’s erection rub against his own.
“Quite the opposite.”
“Good. You won’t be asking if I’m emasculated later, when I’m fucking you,” John growled into his ear.
Sherlock groaned and yanked John’s head back, baring his throat to Sherlock’s lips and teeth. He sucked on the pulse point and pulled on the neck of John’s t-shirt to get to his collarbone. John just hung on to his head, rocking their hips together while Sherlock braced his feet and pressed forward so he could support John’s weight. John dragged his face up again and kissed him, deep and thorough, his hands on Sherlock’s neck. He broke off to catch his breath and let his forehead rest against Sherlock’s; they stayed like that for a few moments, calming themselves. “God, I missed you,” Sherlock whispered.
“I missed you too, every second,” John breathed. He lowered his legs and slid back down to the floor. “I was cooking dinner for myself and Harry, but I’m guessing she’s scarpered. Are you hungry?”
“Yes, I think I am. What is that you’re making? It smells good.”
John flapped a hand. “Nothing specific. Just throwing some shrimp in with lemon and garlic and - say, where are those capers?”
Sherlock smiled and rescued the jar from where it was fallen and rolled under the cabinet. “Here you are.”
John took them, kissing Sherlock again as he did so. He moved back to the stove to stir the food. “Make yourself at home. You are, after all. Home, that is.”
Sherlock opened the fridge. “Shall we open this wine?”
“What’s that, the pinot grigio? Yes, please.”
Sherlock uncorked the bottle and took wineglasses from the rack. He poured two glasses and handed one to John, who clinked it against Sherlock’s. “Cheers.”
“To being home,” Sherlock said.
John nodded, looking at him with soft eyes. “Indeed.”
They talked about the flight and Sherlock’s moving plans as John cooked. Sherlock’s attention was rather diverted by watching him. There was efficiency in the way John moved around the kitchen, wasting no motion, never hesitating over anything. His t-shirt pulled against his body as he moved and Sherlock found himself captivated by his easy competence. “I didn’t know you could cook so well.”
He shrugged. “I’ve been cooking for myself most of my adult life. I got bored with standard fare right off, so I started experimenting. I’d throw together whatever struck my fancy, and sometimes it turned out and sometimes not. I got to know what went well with what, how to put things together.” He looked up to see Sherlock watching him. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked, smirking.
Sherlock harrumphed, looking away, a bit embarrassed to have been caught out. “I enjoy watching you cook. It’s - sexy.”
“Really?” John said, chuckling. “I’m not feeling terribly alluring just now, in this apron, with oil spatters on my shirt.” He stepped closer and kissed him quickly, tasting of the Pinot. “Although it is a bit brilliant, cooking for sexy boyfriend.” He went back to the stove. Within a few minutes he’d put the sauce aside to reduce and had pasta boiling. He took off the apron. “That’ll be ten minutes or so, let me show you around the house.” He picked up his wine and led Sherlock back out into the living room. “It’s rather a lot of house for one person, but I love it.”
“It’s very you. I couldn’t picture you in one of those ultra-modern glass-walled affairs that are so thick on the ground here.”
“God, no. I like wood and leather and green and comfort.” He walked Sherlock through the living room, the dining room, a den in the back, the huge wraparound porch, the screening room and the downstairs loo. “I’ve been getting things ready for you.”
“Ready? Does your house require Sherlock-proofing?”
John laughed. “I wanted you to have your own space. I cleared out one of the guest rooms upstairs for you.” He opened a door and Sherlock stepped through, blinking in surprise. “I thought you might use this as a den or an office.”
John had furnished the large room with rugs and leather furniture that reminded Sherlock of what he had in 221B. Bookshelves had been set up, along with a desk and a computer. “John,” he said. “I’m touched. You went to some trouble for this.”
“Don’t give me too much credit, I barely lifted a finger. I told Harry what I wanted and she made calls and then it happened.”
“But you thought of it. I confess I might not have done the same.”
“I know I need my own space, Sherlock. It’s reasonable that you might, too. We can’t be always in each other’s pockets, we’ll drive each other mad.”
“A logical assumption.” He turned to John and smiled. “But what if I want to spend as much time with you as possible?”
John grinned. “I have no problem with that. For now. But we’re - we’re living together. It’s exciting for now, but there’ll come a time that we’ll have to respect each other’s boundaries. We’ve both lived alone for a long time. It’s going to be an adjustment, and we ought to be realistic about that.” He must have seen something on Sherlock’s face, because he reached out and pulled him close by his hips. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not over the moon that you’re here,” he said.
Sherlock smiled down at him, then reached up and combed his fingers through John’s silky hair. “Time affects human visual memory on a logarithmic curve,” he said, pitching his voice low in a way he knew John found arousing. “Our recollections dim faster than the time passes since our last sighting of a familiar face.”
John looked a little bemused. “Which means what, exactly?”
“You’re even more bloody gorgeous than I remembered.”
John’s eyes went darker, his pupils dilating. “Why don’t I show you the bedroom?”
“You mean our bedroom?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.” John took his hand and led him down the hall to a large master suite. Sherlock barely glanced around before he had John in his arms again, lips slotting together and hands at each other’s clothing.
“John, the dinner.”
“Oh, fuck the dinner,” John growled, attacking him. He pulled Sherlock down onto the bed and rolled them over so Sherlock was on the bottom. John dragged his mouth down Sherlock’s neck, opening his shirt as he kissed his way down onto his chest. Sherlock’s head thrust against the mattress, his neck arching at the touch of John’s lips on his skin. He sighed. “I don’t deserve all this, you know.”
“Deserve it? It isn’t about deserving anything, you daft git. I want this to be your home, too. Why shouldn’t I do what I can to make you feel comfortable?”
Sherlock dragged him up so he could look into his face again “It isn’t the things you surround me with that’ll make me comfortable, John. It’s you.”
John smiled, his eyes twinkling. “So I should cancel the Jaguar I bought you?”
Sherlock cleared his throat, arching an eyebrow. “Well, let’s not be too hasty.” They kissed again, chuckling against each other’s mouths. Jaguar? Sherlock pulled back abruptly. “You are kidding about the Jaguar, aren’t you?”
John rolled his eyes. “Yes, Sherlock, I’m kidding. Buying you a couch and a desk is one thing, but a two hundred thousand dollar car is quite another.”
John woke the next morning at eight. The knot of excitement in his belly was still there, the one he’d had for the past week in anticipation of Sherlock’s arrival. Wait, did I dream that? He turned over and there was Sherlock, asleep next to him. He relaxed. Seemed his subconscious hadn’t yet gotten the memo that the wait was over.
He lifted a finger and skimmed it gently down Sherlock’s pale cheek. Seeing him standing there in the kitchen the night before had been a shock, the best kind of shock. He’d have to thank Harry later, surely she’d had a hand in arranging it. He and Sherlock had eaten dinner together in the breakfast nook after their impromptu bedroom romp. He had worried that once Sherlock was here, there would be awkwardness. Would they be able to talk? Would they be easy with each other? Granted, it was only the first night, but so far those fears seemed groundless. There had been no awkwardness, they had talked easily and freely, and when they’d retired to the den to watch “Project Runway,” teasing each other over the cliché, it felt like something they’d done a thousand times. Going up the stairs to bed together, fingers intertwined and anticipation flowing between them, John couldn’t help but feel that it was all fine, everything was fine, he had the man he loved in his house and in his bed.
Except it wasn’t fine, none of it was fine, and only the passage of time would reveal just now not fine it was going to be. But he didn’t want to think about that now. They’d have to face reality on Monday, when they’d start their ADR work on To a Stranger and likely come face to face with their colleagues for the first time since the shoot had wrapped. He was fully expecting a phone call from Jim Schamus, asking them in for a serious meeting to discuss The Situation. They knew. Of course they knew. They always knew everything. Sally had told them how Anderson had come looking for them while they were in Sussex. They’d heard nothing else since, but he supposed it was easy enough to ignore the issue while they were separated by an ocean. Now, with both of them in Los Angeles and living in the same bloody house, the studio would have concerns. They’d likely have demands. Worries about what they might ask, threaten or cajole plagued him. John knew actors who’d had to sign nondisclosure agreements that they would not reveal their sexuality or other aspects of their personal life. He didn’t know what he’d do if he and Sherlock were asked to sign such a document.
How can I ask him to do this? How can I ask him to hide? How can I ask it of myself? He’s happy, I’m happy, why does it all have to be so bloody fucked up?
It didn’t matter that they were happy. It was fucked up, no question, but that was the way of it.
He’d made good on his promise last night and had shagged Sherlock cross-eyed, the act sweetened by the knowledge that this was their bed now, their home, and fast though it may have been, it felt right, as if this house had been waiting for years to house another soul, the right soul, and its very beams and joists had sighed in fulfillment. The act had been new again in another way, as well. Over the last three weeks they’d both been re-tested and had swapped medical reports. They were both clear. So last night they’d come together without any barriers between them.
Poor Sherlock. He’d be jetlagged for a few days. He didn’t need much sleep, but right now he seemed to be out like a light. John slipped quietly out of bed, went to the loo and got his laptop. He booted up and read the trades while Sherlock slept on at his side. He skimmed through the usual news of people changing agencies and signing to new projects and books being optioned until he got to something that caught his eye; a review of For Which It Stands, the new Oliver Stone film that would open today. He read it with some trepidation.
The film is a stirring portrayal of the trials of veterans and the adjustment they face returning to civilian life. Breathtaking desert cinematography and sharp writing are well served by Stone, at his most intimate and emotional, but what elevates the film is the transcendent performance of James Moriarty in the central role of disabled Marine veteran Toby McTeague. Moriarty, sporting a pitch-perfect American accent and wholly inhabiting his character’s guilt, indignance and post-traumatic stress, is peeled like an onion throughout the film, revealing ever-deeper spheres of secrecy and shame. Moriarty is an absolute shoo-in for an Oscar nomination.
John sighed. That didn’t exactly fill him with joy. John was one hundred percent certain that Sherlock would also be nominated this year (he was less certain about himself, no matter what anyone said about it) and he didn’t relish having to listen to Sherlock rant about competing with Moriarty for the prize.
Sherlock stirred and rolled over, wriggling closer to John’s warmth. He shifted about until he was tucked against John’s side, his head resting on John’s bicep. John ducked his head and kissed his mussed curls. “Mmmph,” Sherlock said.
“Good morning.”
“What’re you reading?”
“Review of Moriarty’s new film.”
Sherlock lifted his head and peered blearily at the screen. “What’s it say?”
“That it’s - wait, I want to get this right - a triumph of modern American filmmaking, Moriarty is transcendent and a shoo-in for a nomination.”
Sherlock made a disgruntled noise. “Of course he is, that film is the most blatant Oscar bait I’ve ever seen in my life. I read the script. He’s got about four long, dramatic monologues in which he pounds desks and foams at the mouth, and that’s on top of the three sobbing-breakdown scenes. And all of this with a prosthetic limb. Tiresome.”
“Bad news for us. Our film is subtler.”
“This town has not forgiven Oliver Stone for - well, being Oliver Stone. They won’t rush to reward his pet project, especially when he’s bound to be accused of just rehashing Born on the Fourth of July. Which he is.”
“They might reward Moriarty, though.”
Sherlock took the laptop and shoved it away down the bed so he could burrow closer into John’s arms, tossing one leg and one arm across him. “Don’t want to think about him. You’re much cozier, and less annoying.”
John slid down in the bed a bit and wrapped him up, chuckling. “Why do you two hate each other so much?”
“He’s insufferable and a dreadful actor.”
“He’d probably say the same about you.”
“Yes, but he would be wrong and I am right.” Sherlock sighed. “We were at RADA together. He used to employ various means to advance his career that weren’t exactly cricket. I exposed him and cost him a role he badly wanted. We’ve been up for the same role three times. Once I got it, once he did, and once neither of us did. The role that he won out over me was that Russell picture, the one about the missionaries?”
“God, that was awful.”
“Yes. Somehow that’s my fault, too.”
“What was the role you won out over him?”
“It was Kanisza. And he’s still bitter.”
“He would not have been good in that, not like you were.”
“Terrence agreed. But we’re both on his little list, or so it seems.” Sherlock snaked a hand down to John’s crotch, his warm lips leaving footprints on John’s neck. “No more shop talk in bed. I seem to recall someone expressing a fondness for morning sex, or did I just imagine it?”
John was at the mirror shaving when Sherlock emerged from the shower. He sniffed the air. “Is that coffee I’m smelling?”
“I believe it is.”
“Is Harry here, then?”
John smiled, but it was a suspicious, I’ve-got-a-secret smile. “No. That isn’t Harry.”
They dressed and went downstairs. Sitting at the kitchen island was a sharply-dressed woman on a Blackberry, drinking coffee. “Making yourself at home, I see,” John said to her. Sherlock’s eyes ticked off observations of her and John’s reaction to her. Hollywood power broker, behind-the-scenes, married but keeps it a secret, native of the East Coast, possibly New York but more probably New Jersey.
My new manager and publicist, in other words.
“Well,” she said, dusting off her hands. “Look who decided to join us. The rest of us have been up getting shit done. Tell me, which of you is it that makes the really entertaining moose-mating-call noise when you’re coming?”
Sherlock just stood there, experiencing a heretofore unsuspected condition: speechlessness. John chuckled. “Sherlock, I’d like you to meet my -- our, that is, publicist and manager, Irene Adler.”
She got up and shook Sherlock’s hand, a two-pump professional handshake. “We’ve got a lot of work to do, gentlemen, so I thought we’d better get an early start.”
“May we at least have coffee first?” Sherlock said, arching one elegant eyebrow. “Your Majesty?”
She smirked. “I’ll allow it. Just this once.”
They reconvened at the table in the breakfast nook off the kitchen, John with coffee and toast, Sherlock with just coffee. Irene was typing on her Blackberry while hardly looking at the keys, a feat that was impressive even to Sherlock, himself an avid texter.
“All right,” she said. “First off, I think you guys are smart to consolidate your management. With all the maneuvering we’re going to be doing in the next six months, I would have spent half my life on the phone with your manager and your publicist, Sherlock. If I handle both your schedules and press, we’ll cut down on the chance that something will slip through the cracks and save me tons of time.”
Sherlock nodded. “That was our logic as well.”
“Second, you guys are also really stupid.”
John and Sherlock glanced at each other. “We’re smart and stupid?” John said.
“The two are not mutually exclusive. The decision to consolidate will have implications to those in the know. It’s a very coupleish arrangement. I may have a way around that. But I was actually referring to this.” She pulled out her iPad and showed them a photo of Sherlock at the airport the day before.
“Me at the airport.”
“Yes. You at the airport all over the Internet.”
“So?”
She sighed. “Who are you with, Sherlock?”
“Harry.”
“So you arrived in Los Angeles and were picked up by John Watson’s sister.”
John stared. “They know who Harry is?” Sherlock was kicking himself. Of course they knew who she was. He ought to have anticipated that.
“They know everything, John. Always assume that everyone knows absolutely everything. You’ll be safer that way. This is the kind of thing we can’t afford.” Irene folded her hands on the table and fixed them each in turn with a stern gaze. “If you’re serious about keeping your relationship under wraps until after the Oscars, I can do that. But you must do what I say, when I say it. I tell you to wear hipwaders, you ask what color. I’ll do what I can to make sure you can lead normal lives, but from now until March, this is your job. You got that?”
Sherlock’s hackles were rising in spite of himself. He recognized the necessity of Irene’s dictums, but he rebelled against being told what to do. It was just his nature. John grabbed his hand. “We’ve got it,” John said, forestalling Sherlock’s objections.
“Good. From now on, you two do not leave this house together. It’s bad enough that you’re living here, Sherlock, but if we’re lucky that won’t become common knowledge. You do not eat in public together, you don’t go for runs together, you don’t ride in the same car, you don’t go to the same parties. The only places you are allowed to go together are appointments and events related to the film where you’ll be expected to be together. Given the nature of this film, almost all of your publicity and press will be done as a pair. Aside from that, you are not to be seen together, at all, full stop. No grocery shopping, no outings to the beach, nothing. Your relationship is to stay within these four walls.”
Sherlock’s heart was sinking even further. He’d known that this was what would be required, but to hear Irene spell it out so starkly was depressing. He’d come here to be with the man he loved. Now it looked like they’d be kept apart like teenagers on a chaperoned date. John looked just as miserable. “What if we want to - get away?” he asked.
“That can be arranged. I will make the arrangements and you won’t question them. I’ll send you someplace private where you won’t be disturbed or observed. I’ll send you there as often as you like if it will help you carry out the rest of the plan, all right?” She sighed, and her face softened a little. “Listen, I understand how much it’s going to suck. I’ll try and help you through it. But my first priority is maintaining your secrecy until such time as you tell me you don’t want me to anymore.”
“I think the studio knows already,” Sherlock said.
“Of course they know. You can’t keep this from your colleagues, or from the journalists. Your only goal is to keep it from the public. The best I can do is promise you that no actual journalist will ever ask you about the rumors, and no one will ever print those rumors. I can’t control the paparazzi or any of these blogging yahoos who claim to be journalists, they’ll print what they want. But you know the rule of the Internet: pics or it didn’t happen. I’ve got one of my sneakiest assistants scouring every single vantage point from which you could conceivably see this house to check if anyone could ever get a telephoto shot. Anything he finds, we’ll block off.” She took a deep breath, then offered them a bit of a smile. “I don’t want to make things any harder for you than they have to be. I’m happy for you, honestly. I may sound like a ballbusting hardass, but I’m a romantic at heart.” She smiled. “My husband will back me up on that.”
John’s mouth dropped open. “I didn’t know you were married!” Sherlock kept his mouth shut. Irene had been John’s manager and publicist for five years. She was obviously skilled at hiding her own relationship, although she hadn’t fooled Sherlock. Few could.
“No, nor does anyone else. My husband and I prefer it that way. So when you wonder if I’m capable of engineering this façade for the two of you, remember that I’ve managed to keep anyone from knowing that I’ve been married for eight years.” She eyed them with a speculative expression. “What we really need is a girlfriend for Sherlock.”
Sherlock froze. John’s hand clamped down on his. “No. Absolutely not,” John said, an edge to his voice that Sherlock had rarely heard there. “Out of the question.”
“John, it would help deflect questions about him living here.”
“Why for me?” Sherlock asked.
“John’s too close to his breakup with Sarah. And he’s - well, to be frank, he’s known for being amiable and attractive to women. You’re not. If you got a girlfriend, people would be less likely to assume it was a casual thing, because you just don’t do that.”
John was shaking his head. “We could never get anyone on such short notice.”
“No. It’d have to be me.”
“You?” John exclaimed.
“Yes. That would also provide an explanation as to why he’s left his manager and his publicist and signed with me, one that doesn’t involve him sleeping with you.”
“But you’re married!”
“You didn’t know that until four minutes ago, and neither will anyone else.”
Sherlock was dubious. “You as my girlfriend? No one would accept it.”
“They’ll accept what I put before them, and they’ll like it.” She looked at them, and seemed to take pity. “We’ll deal with that later. You two are clear until Monday. You’re due at the ADR studio at nine a.m. and then Focus wants a meeting with you at five. I assume it’s about this,” she said, making a vague motion in the air in their direction. “I will be in the meeting as well, so try not to worry about it.”
John snorted. “Good luck.”
“I don’t need to tell you to stay in this weekend, do I?”
“No.”
“If you want to get out of town, call me and I can have it set up in an hour.” Irene looked at her watch. “I have got to be off. It looks like Entertainment Weekly wants to do a big story on the film, with you two on the cover. I’ll be setting up a joint interview and a photoshoot, probably for the end of September.”
John nodded. He looked numb. Sherlock could sympathize. They got up and walked with Irene to the door. “Thanks for all this, Irene,” John said. “I know it’s a huge pain in the arse.”
“John, this is why you pay me. It’s just business. It’s much worse for you, this is your life.” She looked from John’s face to Sherlock’s. “I admit, I hate that this is necessary. You both looked so happy when you came downstairs, and now - not so much.”
“As you say, the necessity is disheartening,” Sherlock said, taking John’s hand again. “We’ll manage.”
“All right. Call me if anything comes up, otherwise enjoy your weekend, and remember what I said. I’ll see you on Monday.” She let herself out.
They just stood there in the entryway for a moment. Sherlock let go of John’s hand and walked a few steps away, rubbing his face. The urge to slap on a few nicotine patches was strong, but he resisted. “John, I think - I need some time alone.”
“Me, too.”
“Is there a gym?”
John got out his wallet and handed Sherlock a membership card with his name on it. “Harry set you up at my gym. Take my car.”
“I’ll call a cab. I shouldn’t be seen driving your car.”
“God, they can’t possibly know my car.”
“They can and they do. Remember what Irene said? Assume everyone knows everything?” He even found himself wishing he were at a different gym than John’s.
“All right, then.” John turned and disappeared down the hall into the den.
Sherlock got his gym clothes together, called a cab, and within half an hour was on a treadmill, pounding out his frustrations with his iPod blaring the Beastie Boys into his ears, numbing him to the surroundings. He ran until his thighs burned, then he got off the treadmill and did two circuits of free weights until the sweat poured off him.
At one point the manager came over to welcome him. Sherlock glanced around and saw that all the other clients - all of them clearly well-to-do locals, including a few other actors he recognized - had been giving him the side-eye the whole time and he hadn’t noticed. He exchanged the required pleasantries with the manager and made his excuses, calling for a cab to pick him up in twenty minutes as he headed for the showers.
He returned to John’s (their) house feeling much more centered, ready to talk, ready to deal.
He barely had the door closed behind him when John called out to him. “Sherlock?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
Hurried footsteps, and then John appeared in the entry, looking excited. “They sent the first trailer.”
“Did you watch it?”
“No, I wanted to wait for you. Come on!” John turned and hurried back the way he’d come. Sherlock dropped his bag and followed along to John’s office. He leaned over John in his chair and watched the monitor as John queued up the trailer.
They both went entirely still. The Universal Studios, then Focus Features logos came and went.
There was no spoken dialogue. The score was a sparse guitar and violin; Sherlock didn’t recognize it, although it sounded like the work of Andrew Bird, the singer/songwriter who was composing the equally sparse musical score for the film. The cinematography was even more stunning than he’d hoped. Each shot was a masterwork of light and shadow, color-desaturated and stark. John’s face in each shot was a study in stillness, in subtle play of expression. His own face was angular and alien.
The story was teased in a series of very brief clips, five to ten seconds each. Benjamin and Mark meeting in the waiting room, at opposite ends of a couch. A phone call in a park. An embrace, a sleepy wake-up, an angry mother, a funeral. A startling splash of blood, surprisingly vivid on the wall.
Sherlock held his breath while the two minutes of film played. The title card at the end, all lower-case, floating near the bottom, then their two names drifting past each other in the opposite corner of the screen. December 2011.
The file ended. Without a word, John restarted it and they watched it again.
When it ended the second time, John just sat there. Sherlock turned and sat on the edge of the desk. John looked up at him, rawness in his eyes. “That is why we’re doing this, John,” Sherlock said.
He nodded. “We owe this film. We owe it everything.”
Sherlock reached out and took his hand. “This isn’t going to break us. We can do this.”
John leaned forward, both Sherlock’s hands in his now, his eyes on their clasped fingers. “Sherlock, I know you don’t want to hide. I know you’re doing it for me. I don’t know how to make it up to you, but I will make you a serious promise.” He looked up and met his eyes. “If it ever came down to keeping the secret or keeping you, that isn’t a choice for me. You come first. We come first. Always.”
Sherlock felt the knot inside him loosen just a little. “I know that, John.”
“Good. I just wanted you to hear me say it.”
“Thank you.”
John glanced at the monitor. “This film is going to be very special. I have to believe it’ll be worth it.”
Sherlock nodded. “It will be.”
John stood up and embraced him. “I love you,” he said into Sherlock’s ear.
Sherlock gripped him tightly. He wouldn’t let go, not for anything or anyone. “I love you too, John. More than I can say.” He hoped that didn’t sound trite; it was the literal truth. He could hold forth on just about any topic one could choose and articulate an eloquent explanation of a variety of opinions, phenomena and theories, but he found that he quite lacked the command of language he’d need to fully articulate how he felt about John Watson. His experience of life so far had not prepared him for this and he found himself often blown off-course by its intensity.
But Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not resourceful. If he could not tell John how he felt, he’d just have to conduct himself in such a way that John would know.
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