Performance In a Leading Role (12/20)
Title: Performance in a Leading Role
Author: MadLori
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 9500 (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
I forgot to post the visual aid for John’s house on the previous chapter, so here it is!
Chapter 12
By the time Monday rolled around, John felt that he and Sherlock were settling into their cohabitation. Thanks to Harry, most of Sherlock’s clothes had migrated from his condo into the large closet in the master suite, which John’s own collection of clothes could never hope to fill, and his toiletries had taken up residence in their bathroom. Books were gradually filling the shelves in Sherlock’s den, and his computer was set up on his desk. It made John smile to come home and see Sherlock’s jacket on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, his half-empty teacup in the sink, and that strange brand of plain yogurt he liked in the fridge.
It was just - working. They fit comfortably in their bed, they fit comfortably on the couch in the den, they moved around each other in the kitchen like they’d been doing it all their lives. It boggled John’s mind that they’d only been together for what was, in reality, a very short time when it felt to him as if it had been ages.
Which just made it feel even stranger for them to rise, have breakfast and coffee, and then get in their separate cars - each of which had had its windows tinted over the weekend - to drive to the ADR studios. John didn’t even see Sherlock when he arrived, he was just shown into his own booth by the ADR director and got to work. When they broke for lunch he went down the street to a popular local café; he sat inside and ate a sandwich and read his Kindle, signing a couple of autographs along the way. He went back to the studios and went back to work. He saw Sherlock’s car in the parking lot but did not see the man himself until the day’s recording was done (there’d be two more days after this one) and emerged to find Sherlock waiting for him. He had to resist the urge to kiss him hello. “What are you doing here?”
Sherlock put his book in his briefcase and stood up. “I finished about ten minutes ago, so I thought I’d wait for you. I don’t care what Irene says, I want us to go to this meeting together. We have no secrets from the studio, they already know.”
John nodded. “All right. I’ll drive.”
Sherlock agreed with a terse nod. They left the building together, a safe three feet of space between them, and got into John’s car. The moment they were safe behind the tinted windows they both turned and grabbed each other, sharing an urgent, hard-edged kiss, frustration lining it with sharpness. John gave Sherlock’s rather delectable lower lip one last suck and pulled back. “I needed that,” he said.
“As did I.”
They sighed in mutual resignation. John started the car and off they went.
Focus Features had their production offices in New York, so they’d be going to the offices of Focus’s parent company, Universal Studios. They pulled up to the gate and gave their names; they were expected. John drove to the low, unremarkable office building and found a parking spot. Neither the public nor journalists ever came to places like this; here they need not worry about being seen together. No actor, extra or production crew member would ever out them to the press, not if they wanted to keep their job. The conspiracy of silence in Hollywood wasn’t just about being in the closet. You’d walk a long way before you met an actor without a secret that he or she was hiding from the public, whether it was a child they wanted to keep safe from the limelight, an affair they were shoving under the rug, a same-sex lover or even, in one case that John knew of, a past life as the opposite gender. He also knew of a very well-liked actor who cultivated a nice-guy image and who spent quite a bit of time and money hiding a past that included several domestic violence convictions. Appearances were so often deceiving. Several actors he knew who were viewed as jerks by the public were in actuality perfectly nice and decent, but had grabbed the wrong end of the publicity stick and hadn’t been able to shake it off.
The point was that no one would dare tell anyone else’s secrets, because everyone had secrets of their own.
Irene was waiting for them in the lobby, with Greg Lestrade on one side of her and Mike Stamford on the other. The three of them were conferring intently, but all of them looked up as their clients entered. “I see you three are getting along famously,” Sherlock said.
“Oh yes, we’re a bloody efficient little talent management team, we are,” Greg said, wryly.
“I must say it’s a far sight easier dealing with one manager and publicist instead of four,” Mike added.
“Well, it would take four men to do the work of one me,” Irene said. “How are you guys?”
“We’re all right,” John said.
“Anxious to get this over with,” Sherlock grumbled.
She nodded. “Do you want us to do the talking?”
“No,” John said, seeing Sherlock nod in agreement out of the corner of his eye. “You can jump in if necessary, but this is our issue and we’ll deal with it.”
“Good.” She sighed. “Well, let’s go. The quicker this is over the sooner we can go get drinks afterwards.”
“God, yes,” John said.
They were shown to a conference room. There were fewer people than John had feared. Jim Schamus and Anderson were there along with a suit that he didn’t recognize - probably an exec from Universal - and another who was obviously a lawyer. John’s eyes narrowed to see him there, visions of nondisclosure contracts dancing in his head. He glanced over at Mike and saw the same thought on his face. Mike shot him a look and a minute head-shake.
Jim smiled and shook their hands. “John, Sherlock, it’s great to see you again.” More handshakes all around.
“You as well, Jim.” They all took seats, filling the smallish conference table.
“What did you think of the theatrical trailer?”
“We loved it,” John said. “It’s entirely appropriate, very evocative.”
“We’re making sure that the promotional materials match the tone of the actual film,” Jim said. “No bait and switch here. We’ll be releasing the trailer on the film’s website this evening, and it’ll go into theaters this weekend.” He sighed. “I wish that’s all we were here to discuss.” He glanced at the be-suited man to his left. “This is Donald Metcalfe, from Universal, and this is Roger McWilliams, one of their attorneys. I’d like to make it clear that this discussion is taking place at their insistence, not at mine.”
John appreciated the disclaimer, which would no doubt not endear Jim to the higher-ups at Universal.
“Mr. Holmes, Mr. Watson,” Metcalfe said. He didn’t seem evil or menacing, but then they never did until you were way past the point of extrication. “We are here to address the nature of your relationship. I won’t ask you the exact nature of that relationship, as I think we all know what we’re talking about.”
“You don’t have to ask,” Sherlock said, in his lowest, most silkenly frosty tone. “We’ll be glad to tell you. John and I are together. We will not hide from you, although we understand the necessity of concealing our relationship from the public and the press.”
Metcalfe nodded, looking relieved. “Good. I’m glad you’re on board with that. It’s distasteful for everyone that we have to involve ourselves in a private matter, but this film’s release must not be compromised by sensationalistic media coverage.”
“You don’t have to spell it out for us,” John said, tightly. “We’ve both been working in this business for our entire adult lives. We understand the stakes. This film is very important to both of us, and neither of us wants to do anything to detract from its release. We have discussed this, and while we aren’t willing to hide forever, we agree that we will keep our relationship a secret until after the Oscars.”
Metcalfe and McWilliams exchanged a glance. “That’s excellent. Precisely what we were going to propose.”
“Good,” John said. “Then we’re done here.”
“One moment, please. If you’ve already agreed to this, you won’t mind signing a document to that effect?”
“No,” Sherlock growled. “We’re not signing anything.”
McWilliams spoke up for the first time. “Mr. Holmes, if we have nothing in writing, how is the studio to have any recourse if this agreement is not honored?”
“You won’t,” Greg said. “You’ll be relying on their discretion. It’s in their best interests to honor the agreement in the first place.”
“That isn’t satisfactory,” Metcalfe said.
“It will have to be,” John said, controlling his temper with difficulty.
Greg spoke up again. “Suppose, Mr. Metcalfe, that Sherlock and John were to be outed through no action of their own? They are being as careful as it’s possible to be, but they are only human and something may be overlooked even when they are honoring the agreement in good faith.”
“What if we had to make a choice?” John said. “What if one of us were hurt in an accident, God forbid, and the other had to choose between seeing his partner and maintaining our confidentiality? If I had to choose between Sherlock and this film, much as the film means to me, I’m afraid Sherlock wins, hands down. I will not sign anything that will legally proscribe us from revealing the truth about what we are to each other if it were to become urgent that we do so.”
Irene cleared her throat. “This is all so much smoke-filled bullshit, gentlemen. We all know that you have no way to legally compel them to sign so much as an autograph. Their contracts detailing their compensation for this film, including back-end points, are already signed and cannot be altered.”
“We cannot alter their signed contracts, but we can ensure that they are never offered another,” Metcalfe said.
Mike laughed. “You go ahead and do that, Donald. I daresay there are a few other studios who’d love to employ either of them.”
Irene wasn’t done. “And if this film is even half as good or successful as it’s shaping up to be, you’ll be down on your hands and knees begging their forgiveness for your inexcusable demands and pleading with them to please pretty please with sugar on top star in whatever project strikes their fancy.”
Metcalfe cleared his throat. “We can make things very difficult for them.”
“You can, but you won’t.” Irene smiled. “Because if you do, I will make things very, very difficult for you, and we both know that I can.”
He held her gaze for a moment, then, to John’s amazement, looked away first. She had him. John didn’t know how or why and he didn’t want to know. “It’s not just us who would be less than pleased if this comes out at the wrong time,” Metcalfe said.
“We know that,” John snapped. “We aren’t stupid, you know. We have a plan as to when to make our announcement.”
Metcalfe sighed. “That announcement could drastically damage your future marketability. I like you both as actors. The early cuts of To a Stranger are - I hardly know what to say. It’s an amazing film you’ve made. I’d hate to see you throw away your careers on…”
“On what, Mr. Metcalfe?” Sherlock said. “On our future together? On the truth?” He reached out and took John’s hand where it rested on the tabletop. “Since it seems we’re all on the same page here, I just want to make one thing absolutely clear. John and I love each other. It is no one’s business but our own. You may make whatever judgments or proclamations you see fit. But I will not stand for anyone interfering, sabotaging or otherwise meddling with us. Is that clear?” The other men in the room exchanged uncertain glances, but no one spoke. “Good.”
John was squeezing Sherlock’s hand hard, mostly to keep himself from gazing at him in abject adoration. “Let’s go home,” he said.
Sherlock nodded briskly. “I think we’re through here.”
John couldn’t stop staring. He quite literally could not look away. He’d never seen anything so captivating. “She’s so - tiny,” he marveled, his eyes glued to the infant on his lap, her miniature fists clutching at his fingers.
Sarah smiled from where she and Anthea were sort of slumped against each other on the couch. They looked blissed-out, but exhausted. “She’s even two pounds bigger than she was when she was born,” Sarah said.
“She gained two pounds in ten days?” John said, amazed.
“She’s supposed to. She has room to grow now, and isn’t all folded up inside,” Anthea added.
“Look at her tiny little fingers!”
“Everybody fixates on the fingers,” Sarah mused.
“We did too, when she was born,” Anthea reminded her.
“They’re amazing,” John said, looking at little Sophie’s impossibly small fingernails. “They’re just so complete and perfect.”
“Just like she is,” Sarah sighed.
John smiled up at them. “I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to come see her.”
“That’s all right. We haven’t been terribly keen for visitors. And it sounds like you’ve been otherwise engaged. Where is your better half, anyway?”
“He’s in San Francisco. He’s on the boards of several performing arts schools, including the San Francisco School of the Arts. He’s gone up to do a two-day drama masterclass.”
Sarah blinked, looking surprised. “I’d have never picked him to take an interest in arts education.”
“He is full of surprises,” John said, still distracted by the tiny rosebud mouth and wide, goggling eyes of baby Sophie. “I would have gone with him, but - well, you know.”
She nodded, looking at him with sympathy on her face. It was two weeks since Sherlock had arrived in the States. At least six months to go. John wasn’t sure he’d last. It was worse than he’d feared it would be.
Anthea got up and plucked the baby from his lap. “I better put her down,” she said, glancing at Sarah. John saw a clear signal pass between them, but he wasn’t sure what it meant.
The moment she was gone, Sarah joined him on the couch. “John, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about what’s going on. We haven’t had time to get together.”
“It’s been a bit hectic, to say the least. And you with your new baby.” He smiled. “She’s beautiful. I’m so happy for you.”
“Thank you. We’re pretty ecstatic ourselves. Tired, but ecstatic. John - I’m not going to say I told you so, in spite of all the smack you used to talk about how gay actors should just come out, already.”
He shook his head. “You’d be well justified. I deserve it.”
“Glass houses and such, luv. You don’t see us rushing to come out, do you?”
“You’re waiting, like we are. It’s horrible.”
“Now I see Sherlock’s being linked with Irene, of all people?”
“That’s the plan. He’s going to take her to a few premieres and such. Then when we come out we can tell the truth, that he just took Irene out a few times for company because he couldn’t take me. We considered the full put-up job, having them act like they’re mad for each other, but - none of us were really very keen for that. Besides, we’d have had to lie about when he and I fell in love.”
Sarah nodded. “The truth is always preferable.”
“If nothing else, it’s easier to remember. Besides, the less time he has to spend with her, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”
“You don’t think she…”
“No, God, no. She has no interest in Sherlock, nor he in her.”
“But you still hate seeing him with her, don’t you?”
“God, I hate it so fucking much,” John exclaimed, his self-control frayed and stressed to the breaking point. “I hate all the gossipers talking about what a handsome couple they make, speculating on if they’re dating, how they have to smile and act flirty - they’re both much too good as actors, it’s too believable. My only consolation is that when he comes home he looks just as miserable as I feel.” He reached out and grasped her hand. “Were you and Anthea this miserable? When you were out with me?”
She smiled wanly. “A little, yes. At least I had the consolation that I was with someone who was a friend, and whose company I actually enjoyed. But I’d see this look in her eyes when there’d be red carpet photos of you and I - it broke my heart. That’s why I couldn’t do it anymore. If I can’t go with her, I’ll go alone or not go at all.”
“Well, he’s back tomorrow night, then Irene is sending us someplace for the weekend to get away. Someplace private where we can be together outside the house without worrying about getting spotted. I swear, it is enough to turn you into a hermit, this constant looking over your shoulder. How have you done it for five years?”
“It’s easier for women. Women are allowed to have close, intimate friendships with other women and it isn’t assumed to be sexual. If I’m seen out with Anthea at Whole Foods or at the salon I’m not automatically a lesbian. Men don’t have that kind of leeway, or at least not as much.” She sighed. “Is it working, at least?”
“Well, our secret agents who watch this sort of thing say that there’s no more than the usual amount of gossip about us. With the film’s trailer there’s a big upsurge in fan interest in To a Stranger. Predictably, some of the fans are talking about me and Sherlock. But nothing on TMZ so far. Not even Perez Hilton.”
She snorted. “If there’s anything at all, he’ll be the first to pounce.”
“We must be doing a fair job keeping everything on the down low.” John smiled at her. “But don’t feel too badly for me. Honestly, it’s worth it to have him here.”
“It’s working out, then?”
“It’s brilliant. He’s impossible, of course. He’s cranky and superior and critical and judgmental and totally intolerant of anyone’s shortcomings except mine, and I’m absolutely mad for him.”
“Well, far be it from me to judge your taste in men, John.”
He chuckled. “I’m just in it for the sex.”
If anyone had told John that he’d be so eagerly spreading his legs for another man, he’d have - well, he’d at least have offered a skeptical eyebrow-arch. He’d found men attractive before, had even had sexual contact with other men, but he’d never really imagined himself having sex with one in this way. Now, he couldn’t get enough. He might have thought that whatever alpha-male pride he possessed would throw up a protest, but in the end it didn’t matter. Fuck the alpha-male pride. He loved the feeling of Sherlock inside him too much to care.
He loved it even more when it was drowsy and cozy and intimate, as it was this particular afternoon. The energetic, pound-you-till-you-scream style was brilliant as well, but this - this made his stomach do slow rolls of bliss. Sherlock on top of him, kissing him, John wound around him as he thrust smoothly. Sherlock dropped his face into John’s damp neck. “Oh, John,” he said, his breath shaking.
John held him tighter, one hand on his head and the other on his arse. “Yes, harder,” he whispered into Sherlock’s ear. He groaned and began making longer, deeper thrusts. “Ahhh God,” John choked. His own cock was trapped between their bellies where it was rubbed on each stroke. “God, you’re brilliant. Ohhhh yes…”
Sherlock slipped his arms beneath John’s shoulders, letting his full weight settle on him as he picked up the pace. John tilted his hips up a little as Sherlock hitched himself a bit higher. “John - I’m close…”
“Me too,” John choked out. Sherlock fastened his mouth on John’s neck and sucked hard, working a hand between them to stroke John’s cock. John bit back a cry as he came, spilling between their bodies. “Sherlock, god yes…”
Sherlock’s hips bucked hard, driving his cock into John’s body a few more times, then he went rigid and groaned, giving a few more shallow thrusts as he came into John. He went limp and sagged into his arms. John kissed him deeply, both of them breathing hard. “I’ve never had sex like I have with you,” Sherlock murmured. “I don’t know why it’s so different.”
“You love me, that’s why,” John said, kissing his nose and his closed eyelids.
“Is that it?” Sherlock sounded a bit dazed.
John chuckled, cradling him in his arms. “So they say.” They lay there for a few moments, Sherlock still buried in John’s body, until finally he had to roll away to his back. John got up, leaving a soft kiss on Sherlock’s chest and letting his hand trail away down his arm. “You want some water?”
“Mmm,” Sherlock said, vaguely assenting.
John went into the bathroom to clean up, then trotted nude down the stairs to the kitchen. This had been a very impromptu rendezvous. They’d both had full schedules today, but a meeting John had scheduled at two o’clock had been moved so he’d found himself with two free hours. He’d texted Sherlock. Unexpected downtime. Meet me at home?
The answer had come very quickly. Be there as soon as I can.
John had arrived first, undressed and got into bed to wait. To his embarrassment, he’d fallen asleep. He’d woken to Sherlock climbing right in on top of him, wasting no time, and they’d gone at it without so much as a hello.
He went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. As he headed back to the stairs, his attention was caught by a plain wrapped flat parcel lying on the counter with a note. Frowning, he picked up the note. Stopped by to drop these off. Didn’t want to interrupt. Sounded like a good time was being had by all. -Irene Shaking his head, John took the parcel with him. He knew what it was.
He had to hesitate by the side of the bed before climbing back in. Sherlock was elegantly sprawled out, the sheets barely covering him, eyes closed. He was so damned beautiful. John could lose minutes just looking at him, if such a thing were to be allowed by the object of his admiration. I could look at him for the rest of my life.
John cleared that thought away and got back in bed. Sherlock stirred with a grumble, immediately burrowing into John’s arms like a sleepy child. John kissed the top of his head. “This is a lark,” John said. “Like an afternoon date with my boyfriend. Feels like we’re being naughty. As though we’re cheating on each other, with each other. Last-minute secret meetings and such.”
Sherlock chuckled. “Yes, I’ll be tormented with guilt that I’m cheating on Irene. It’ll keep me up nights, I dare say.”
John sat there for a moment, enjoying the warm weight of Sherlock in his arms, one hand combing through his hair. “You know what day it is?”
“Friday.”
“Today it’s one month since you surprised me in the kitchen.”
“Hmm. Am I in some sort of trouble for not marking the occasion through the purchase of a random and inexplicable gift of flowers or chocolates?”
“No. I just thought - oh, I don’t know what I thought. It’s an anniversary of sorts.”
“And tomorrow it’ll be one month and one day and the day after that it’ll be one month and two days and so forth. John, as far as I’m concerned, every day with you is worth commemoration.”
John grinned. “Aw, Sherlock. Is that sentiment I detect in your voice?”
“Nothing of the kind. I’m merely pointing out that the arbitrary designation of the passage of any interval of time as more or less meaningful than any other interval makes no inherent sense.”
“You need to watch yourself. You’ll turn into a romantic.”
“Perish the thought. What’s that, then?” Sherlock had seen the parcel.
“Irene was here while we were otherwise occupied. She said she’d drop by the Entertainment Weekly as soon as she had it. It won’t be on newsstands until tomorrow.”
Sherlock pulled away and sat up straighter. “Well, let’s see it.” He took the water bottle from John and drank half of it down in one gulp
John opened the parcel and pulled out three copies of the magazine. All he could do for a moment was stare at the cover photo. “Oh. Oh - my.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows had shot up. “My, indeed. Don’t we look dishy?”
‘Dishy’ was one word for it. The photographer had put them both in black shirts and shot against a black background, so they appeared to float. They were back to back, turned so that John was three-quarters to the camera and Sherlock was three-quarters away. Sherlock was looking back over his near shoulder, John down and toward Sherlock. They both had thoughtful, serious expressions on and the black-and-white image made them both look like - well, like movie stars. Whoever had done the image processing had restored the color in just their eyes. Sherlock’s alien verdigris and John’s deep blue peered out from under their lids. It was a stunning photograph. The cover had been kept mostly free of text except above the masthead and the title of their article in the lower right. “Men on a Mission: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson shoot for career rejuvenation and a leap forward for gay cinema in ‘To a Stranger.’”
“I suppose we’d better read it, although I dread finding out how badly I was misquoted or taken out of context this time.” John handed Sherlock another copy and they both opened to the article. It was accompanied by another two-shot and several individual shots, all black and white but with different wardrobe. John was rather distracted by the one of Sherlock in a very well-tailored white button-down.
The interview and photoshoot, which they’d done a few weeks ago, had gone surprisingly smoothly. The interviewer had pointedly not asked them about any rumors of their personal involvement, just more generic ones about their friendship. As John read the article, hope sprung in his chest as no hideous misrepresentations jumped out at him. They had talked about the career slumps each had been experiencing, how they’d come to the project, and about John’s “unconventional” casting, as this material was not in his normal wheelhouse. Sherlock had admitted to having had doubts about his co-star but quickly went on to praise John’s performance. They talked about the close friendship they’d developed, and in a calculated move that they’d decided upon with Irene, had acknowledged that Sherlock was staying at John’s house while he sold his condo and researched real estate. Having this fact out in the open would ease their paranoia a tad and provide a touch of an alibi, because surely they wouldn’t admit to living together if they actually were hiding a relationship. They talked about their filming experience, about the uniqueness of Molly Hooper’s script, the inevitable Brokeback comparisons, and Ang’s direction. The interview ended with each of them saying what they hoped audiences would take away from the film. This question had not, in fact, been asked during their sit-down but had been emailed to each of them later for their answer. John said he hoped they’d take away the universality of human stories, and no longer feel the need to label something a “gay” story. Sherlock’s answer was “I hope people will realize just how egregiously they’ve underestimated John Watson as an actor.”
John blinked, that response surprising the hell out of him. He looked over at Sherlock, who glanced at him and went back to reading - it looked like he was on his second time through. “I knew you’d make the appropriate final statement about the film’s importance so I decided to risk going for a personal hope.”
You mad wanker, John thought. “You did rather show your hand a bit.”
Sherlock sighed. “As a professional, I’m allowed to express admiration for the skills of my colleagues. If I’d said something about how I hoped people would see what a brilliant kisser you are, that might be suspect.”
“Am I a brilliant kisser?” John said, grinning.
“You may continue to demonstrate it at your convenience,” Sherlock said, not taking his eyes off the pages, a half-smile on his face.
John slumped back among the pillows and waited for Sherlock to finish his re-read. He did, set the magazine aside, and returned to John’s embrace. “There is something we ought to talk about,” John said.
“Must we? I’m quite comfortable and contented at the moment.” Sherlock’s hand was making tiny stroking motions across John’s stomach, as if he were petting him. It was soothing.
“I think we must.”
“All right.”
“Sherlock - once we come out, there’ll be no going back. We ought - I mean, we should be sure - oh, bugger, I don’t know how to say this that it won’t sound awful.”
“Then allow me. We should be sure that we’re serious about each other. If we go public and break up a week later, we’ll never be allowed to forget it.”
“Yes. I’d rather not become the Anne Heche of the new millennium, if that isn’t too insensitive a thing to say.” John sighed. “How is it possible that we haven’t had this discussion? How did we skip that bit and barrel straight on into the coming-out strategies?”
“Because at the time we were in Sussex, rather drunk on each other and still high on the adrenaline of your appearance in my dressing room. It’s not easy for me to admit this, as you will appreciate, but I wasn’t operating at my most rational at the time and I reckon you weren’t, either.”
“No. Definitely not.”
“Some time has passed. We’ve been living together for a month. We’ve seen each other at our unglamorous worst and faced many of the difficulties we knew we’d face. It’s normal that we ought to start thinking rationally again.”
John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s forehead. “All true.”
Sherlock turned a bit and propped up on his elbow so he could look John in the face. “You need only ask yourself the question you’re asking me, John. Have no doubts about my intentions. Have you ever known me to be less than decisive, or clear about my own mind?”
“No, never.”
“I love you. I have never loved another and I never expect to. If you require me to make a declaration of permanence then I’ll make one, but since you are already aware that I would ring up every journalist in town and inform them of our relationship right this moment, you can be under no illusions about my attitude towards our future together. I can only surmise that it is your own commitment that you doubt. So if either of us should be questioning his partner’s intentions, it is me.”
John looked into Sherlock’s eyes and the words were out before he could stop them. “Marry me.”
Sherlock snorted. “No. Out of the question.”
John was a bit knocked off center by that. “That isn’t the answer I was expecting.”
“No doubt. But it is the correct one. It is far too soon to be considering formalizing, John. I appreciate what you’re trying to communicate to me, but you’re being rather clumsy about it, aren’t you?”
John sighed, miserably. “Naturally. How else would I be?”
“Don’t take on so.” Sherlock sat up against the headboard and pulled John into his arms. John went, curling up in an embarrassed little ball and hiding his face against Sherlock’s bare chest. “I have considered the step you just suggested. I’m not implying that such a thing is forever off the table. Quite the opposite. At some point in the future, there is no question that nothing would make me happier than to be your husband, and you mine. But I won’t consider such a step while we must hide. I won’t bind myself to you until I can do so in full view of the world. You’ve asked me to love you in secret, and I am doing it. Don’t ask me to do more.”
“Am I ruining us?” John asked. “Is this too much?”
He felt Sherlock’s lips in his hair. “No. We can take anything for a few short months. They’ll be busy months, and the Oscars will have been and gone before we know it. That is putting aside the undeniable fact that loathsome as it is, this choice is the correct one. In this I find myself on the wrong side of rationality for the first time - well, the first time in my life, John. I hope you can consider that an achievement. This decision we’ve made is based on reality, careful thought and prudence. If it were up to me, I’d be making a proper mess of things. It is fortunate that I have you to temper my innate stubbornness. Mycroft always said that it would be my undoing.” He tightened his arms around John. “I hope, at the very least, we’ve settled this question of whether or not our commitment to each other warrants going public in the first place.”
John chuckled, wrapped not just in Sherlock’s embrace but in the cocoon of words his lover had just spun around him, words that someone else might consider cold and detached, but which contained some of the tenderest sentiments anyone had ever directed at John. “I think we have. Although I never really doubted it. I just thought it needed saying.”
“Some things go without saying.”
John sighed. “They sometimes go better with saying.”
WHAT TO WATCH
Thursday, 10 pm EST “The Mentalist”
The conclusion of the thrilling three-episode arc featuring John Watson as cryptic extortionist The Blogger culminates tonight as Patrick Jane and the team attempt to rescue Agent Cho, taken captive by The Blogger last week. Watson’s unexpectedly chilling dramatic chops have injected high tension into the series’ early fall offerings, calming fears of the future of the show’s storylines after the demise of perpetual Jane nemesis Red John in last season’s finale.
--
SEEN AROUND TOWN
Sherlock Holmes and his manager/publicist Irene Adler, making an appearance at a birthday party for Ben Whishaw, with whom Holmes has appeared on stage twice. Talk is swirling about Holmes and Adler, who also accompanied Holmes to last week’s L.A. premiere of Almodovar’s “The Skin I Live In.” Holmes is a notorious loner, attending social functions alone when he attends them at all. The status of their relationship is unclear, although speculation is that Holmes met Adler through John Watson, his co-star in the upcoming drama “To a Stranger,” and who shares Adler as a manager/publicist.
--
OSCAR BUZZ
The fall film season has got Academy Awards predictions swinging into high gear. The release of Oliver Stone’s “For Which They Stand” to strong critical praise and excellent box-office strengthened that film’s status as a major contender for a boatload of awards, including a likely one for the film’s star, James Moriarty. Several major contenders are yet to be released, including “The Ides of March,” the latest offering from the powerhouse team of George Clooney and Grant Heslov. The real question mark in this field is the December release of gay drama “To a Stranger,” starring the non-obvious combination of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Amid vague rumblings about director Ang Lee revisiting the “Brokeback Mountain” well a bit too soon and both his lead actors looking for a comeback, early chatter about this film is that it’s phenomenal and that Watson, especially, is a revelation. Time will tell, as the film isn’t to hit theaters until December 2.
--
BLIND ITEMS
This C+ supporting actress, soon to bump up a few grades based on recent films in the can, used to date this A- leading man, although our man’s star has been on the decline of late. Rumors dogged the pair that she was his beard. Turns out that he was hers. Our girl has been in a long-term relationship with another woman, who has just had a baby. Her recent breakup with her beard was given the usual explanations, but the real reason was that she just couldn’t take the secrecy any more. Her erstwhile fake paramour was fine with this, in no small part because he’d fallen madly in love with his male co-star while shooting a film, and they’re now co-habiting!
--
BACHELOR WATCH
Ever since his break-up with Reese Witherspoon, it seems Jake Gyllenhaal would rather not be tied down. Perhaps it was the sight of his ex meeting and marrying a new man at a head-spinningly fast pace that put him off, but except for last winter’s puzzling and ill-fated fling with Taylor Swift (what was he thinking?), Gyllenhaal has remained tantalizingly available. Meanwhile, date movie mainstay John Watson, despite having a reputation for being charming and decent, has never been married or had a relationship lasting longer than a year. His most recent girlfriend, actress Sarah Sawyer, dumped him last spring over those pesky “wanting different things” and he’s not been seen out with anyone but his sister and personal assistant, Harriet. In fact, lately the only person we see him with is his new BFF and temporary housemate Sherlock Holmes, who plays his lover in the upcoming “To a Stranger.” Holmes is busy himself with a new girlfriend, so we hear, so perhaps Watson may need some consoling while he sits at home alone without his partner in bromance.
Line forms to the left, ladies. Or gents, depending on if you believe what we hear about either of today’s bachelors - or both of them!
Irene finally found Sherlock in the alley behind the restaurant, ignominiously crouched between two dumpsters. He was squatting with his back against the brick wall, his head down and his hands dangling between his knees. For a moment, she was struck dumb at the contrast between his typical upright-and-proud bearing and the broken-looking sight before her.
They were at a premiere party for The Three Musketeers. It was their third official “date” after the Almodovar premiere (at which they’d just walked the carpet and then left) and Ben Whishaw’s birthday party (at which they’d made a token appearance). Sherlock himself had suggested that they attend this party after the premiere. Matt MacFadyen was a friend that Sherlock actually cared to see, so they’d come.
The red carpet had been brutal, more so than usual. The reporters were digging in to their relationship, asking if they were dating, asking if they were engaged, for fuck’s sake. She’d come around to Sherlock and John’s idea that they keep it casual, so that later Sherlock could claim that he’d brought her to these events merely for the company because he could not bring John. But it required them to appear at least to enjoy each other’s society, so she’d smiled and laughed and tooled her body language to indicate friendship, if not undying love.
The truth was that she could hardly understand how John actually did love the man. He was a caution, no mistake. Pretentious, impatient and superior. He was less so with her, because (according to him) he respected her intellect. If this was his better side, it was no wonder that there were at least a dozen actors in this town who categorically refused to work with him.
But love him John did. From what she could see, the sentiment was returned. And she was fond of John, very fond, and wanted him to have what he wanted. What he wanted was Sherlock, but he wanted him on his own timetable and without deep-sixing his career or this film. That was where she came in. Before meeting with them, she’d assumed, wrongly as it turned out, that Sherlock was the one urging them to stay closeted. The fact that it was John had surprised her, but it shouldn’t have done. John was careful by nature.
“Sherlock?”
He didn’t look up, but his head turned fractionally toward her. “I’d rather be alone just now, thanks.”
“But - why are you out in the alley, all by yourself? Matt was looking for you, he said he hadn’t seen you in awhile and was eager to catch up.”
“Catch up.” Sherlock snorted. “I’m sure he is. I’ve not seen him in a few years. I’d like to talk to him. I’d like to hear about his kids. He has two, you know, and a stepson. I thought we could exchange Russell horror stories. We were at RADA together, you know. Overlapped one year. I saw him across the party and thought to myself, there’s so much I’d like to tell him.” He pushed himself to his feet; Irene winced at what the brick was doing to the back of his suit. He banged his head back against the wall, grimacing. “And I can’t tell him any of it, Irene! Oh, I can tell him about the film, I can tell him about the play, I can tell him about selling my condo and hating Moriarty but I can’t tell him about the most important thing in my life, and nothing else seems worth telling without that.” He shook his head. “I hate this beyond all reckoning. Escorting you up that red carpet is like walking a gauntlet. John is the only thing I’ve ever had that I wanted to be proud of, and I can’t.” To her horror, Sherlock’s voice caught on the last word. He put his hand over his eyes and she saw him swallow down a sob.
Irene stepped closer. “Sherlock - I had no idea.”
“Good. I am a professional actor, as you may have heard.”
“Does John know how much this is hurting you?”
“No,” he said, looking at her for the first time, his eyes blazing. “And he won’t hear it from you, either. He can’t know.”
“He wouldn’t want you to be so - tortured.”
“I know, which is why I’ve gone to some lengths to make sure he doesn’t know. This is for him, Irene. It’s all for him. He needs this film more than I do. It could reinvent him, and I want for that to happen more than I don’t want to hide. No one has ever deserved reinvention more than he does. I actually pity the rest of this bloody business because they don’t know what they have in him. Well, they shall, and I’ll not be the one to ruin it with sensationalism.”
“But - if tomorrow he told you that he’d changed his mind, that he wanted you to go public right away, would you? Even if you knew it wasn’t what was best for him?”
Sherlock thumped a fist on the wall. “Yes, because I am a bloody selfish bastard. But he’s not said that, and he won’t.” He covered his eyes again, and Irene watched, helpless, as he tried to control his emotions.
She sidled over to him and hesitantly grasped his hand. He gripped it back at once. “I feel so badly for you both,” she said. “I admit I had my doubts about you, Sherlock. But all I can say is that I hope John knows how lucky he is to have someone who loves him as much as you do.”
He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. “I am the lucky one in this equation, Irene. I don’t think I’ll ever know how I came to earn his love, but I’m doing what I can to deserve it.”
John Watson was the jealous type.
This was a secret that he guarded. It was one of the reasons he’d intentionally kept his dating life simple. He valued his self-possession, and he didn’t want his jealousy to sabotage an otherwise meaningful relationship. His love for Sherlock had won out over his fear of his own nature, and he didn’t think he’d ever have anything to question about Sherlock’s fidelity. He’d thought he was safe.
He’d been wrong.
He was in the master suite, on the couch in the telly corner, staring at E! News Daily with a scowl on his face. They were showing footage from the Three Musketeers red carpet. Currently in the spotlight, flashbulbs going off in his face, was Sherlock. His Sherlock. With Irene on his arm.
John’s inner beast scented the air and growled.
They both looked stunning. They looked like a matched set. Irene was tall, slender and aristocratic, much like Sherlock himself. They had almost the same color hair. They looked comfortable with each other. John knew it was all an act, but that distinction was, apparently, lost on John’s reptile brain. It didn’t care that it wasn’t real. It didn’t care that Sherlock would be coming home to him and Irene would go home to her own husband. It only cared that it was seeing John’s own mate with another. Being touched by another. Being smiled at and photographed with and talked to about another.
She’s in my spot.
Someday, he would claim that spot. He would tell this whole business to go fuck itself if it didn’t like it and he would be back where he belonged, at Sherlock’s side, before God and everybody.
He glanced at the time. Sherlock would be home soon. This wasn’t live, it had been taped. He’d said that he and Irene would be going to the party, at least for a short time. He wanted to say hello to Matt MacFadyen, who was a friend from RADA. He’d probably attract some attention, as the article in EW had been generating more and more press inquiries, and the people who he’d know at the party would want to talk to him. John racked his brain for who else was in this bloody film that might keep Sherlock there. He was pretty sure Sherlock didn’t know the director. Orlando hated Sherlock with notorious vitriol. Something about a parking ticket and a misunderstanding with the security guards on the Warner Bros. lot.
It was useless to speculate. Sherlock and Irene were off the screen by now, which just made it worse. Were they off seeing the film? Were they at the party right this second? Were people making sideways innuendoes at them? Was she holding his hand? Was he laughing at something she’d said?
Helpless, John just sat there and stewed. E! News Daily was over. Chelsea Lately was on. He didn’t even bother to change it. “The Soup” came on after Chelsea. At least this might provide a diversion.
It was half over when he heard the garage door open and shut again, then Sherlock enter through the kitchen. “John?”
He didn’t answer.
He heard Sherlock checking the den and the porch, then his footsteps coming up the stairs. He appeared in the bedroom, his tie undone already. “Oh, there you are. Didn’t you hear me call?”
“I heard.”
Sherlock sat down next to him, his hand falling to John’s knee. John could smell Irene’s perfume on him.
The inner beast was pacing now, scratching at the bars of its cage. “I’m later than I thought, I know. I got to chatting with Matt. He has some quite amusing stories about Ian McShane. Had a not-unpleasant chat with that Waltz fellow. Nice chap. Decidedly not stupid or annoying, which is a nice change of pace. I did think the Academy got it right with him, for once.”
All John heard was “blah blah blah blah” over the roar in his ears of Sherlock, smelling like Irene.
“John? Good God, are you watching something involving a Kardashian? Turn that off, I can hear your brain cells screaming in protest.” Sherlock leaned over him, grabbed the remote and stabbed the power button. He looked at John, frowning. “What’s wrong with you? You look positively thunderous.”
John met his eyes. The contact sent a bolt up his spine and he just knew he had to do something. “You smell like her,” he said, sounding lower and rougher than he’d ever heard his own voice.
Sherlock’s pupils dilated a little. “Do I?”
“Yes,” John growled, and grabbed him. He hauled him to his feet, mauling Sherlock’s mouth with his own and tearing at his clothes. He pushed him back toward their bed, sucking, licking, biting at Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock hung onto him, going a bit boneless. No doubt he already knew what sort of headspace John was in, and what he wanted to do. John had no illusions about being able to put anything over on Sherlock Holmes.
“John,” Sherlock moaned as John tore his shirt open, buttons flying everywhere. “I’d rather smell like you.”
“Fuck yes,” John said, pushing him down on the bed. He unbuckled Sherlock’s belt and pulled his trousers and shorts right off him. He whipped off his own t-shirt and jeans, Sherlock watching, propped up on his elbows, his eyes dark with lust. “You are going to have me all over you, and inside you,” he said, naked by now. Sherlock was wearing just his shirt, hanging open and ruined, red marks all over his throat where John had left them, his hair wild. John had never been so hard.
Sherlock jerked his chin, beckoning John forward. “Make me yours again, John,” he murmured.
With a groan, John fell on him. Sherlock didn’t do much, he didn’t need to and he’d know that John didn’t want him to. He returned John’s kisses when they happened to fall on his mouth, but other than that, he let John reclaim him. “You are not hers,” John said, barely aware that he was speaking at all. “You are mine.” He worked lube into Sherlock with rushed fingers, knowing by now just how much Sherlock could take and how much he needed.
“Yes,” Sherlock said into John’s ear, his fingers in John’s hair. “Fuck me and show me I’m yours.”
John slicked himself fast and pushed in. “Fuck, Sherlock,” he choked out.
Sherlock wrapped his long legs around John’s waist, tilting his hips up to let John go as deep as he could. “Hard. Do it hard, I know you want to, I want you to,” he said, the words hushed and subliminal in John’s ear.
John lost all control. He went at him like a madman, the beast loose now and tearing his way through John’s brain, cutting off his restraint and reducing him to a base creature who needed this, who needed to rut and take and have and own. “Mine, mine,” he muttered as he thrust, feeling Sherlock’s cock erect between their bodies, seeing the flush rise to his upper chest. Sherlock’s head slammed back, his gorgeous neck arching, decorated with John’s markings.
“John, fuck you’re good, yes like that, more, oh God you’re making me…I’m…going to…” The next word was rendered moot by Sherlock’s cry as he stiffened and came.
John felt Sherlock’s body pulsing around his cock and he stepped up the pace. “Fuck yes, I made you come, I made you come, no one else,” he muttered, half to himself.
“No, never, no one else, come John, come for me, come inside me,” Sherlock said, grabbing John’s head in his hands and pulling him close to kiss him, biting at his lips. “Make everyone see I’m yours, fucking mark me, John…”
John’s body surged, bending Sherlock nearly half on the bed, and he poured himself into him, the world going a bit white and fuzzy as his brain went offline for a few moments. The next thing he knew he was lying on top of Sherlock, still wrapped up in his long limbs, his face pressed into Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock was caressing him, kissing his face.
He saw the last few minutes on tape-delay as if he were watching a match. He lifted his head, wide-eyed, and saw Sherlock smiling at him. “Jesus. Sherlock - I’m sorry. Are you all right?”
Sherlock frowned. “Of course I am. Why on earth are you apologizing?”
“I was - that was - I lost it a bit, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did. It was tremendously arousing. I suspected you had a jealous streak but I didn’t know it would manifest itself with such lovely side benefits to me.”
“Then it was okay?”
“If it hadn’t been, do you for one moment imagine that I wouldn’t have said so?”
“Well, no.” He let himself smile a bit. “And you came with no hands. That was a first.”
“Indeed.” He peered at him. “Are you all right?”
John rolled to the side and propped up on one elbow. He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m a little embarrassed.”
“Because you don’t like to see yourself as - how shall I put it? A caveman.”
“Yes, exactly.”
“We are all cavemen, John. Some more than others. That urge to possess and claim and own is in all of us. It is harmless unless it bleeds into daily life.”
“But I don’t want to treat you like a sex object.”
“Why on earth not? One likes to be treated like a sex object sometimes, when one is actually having sex. I’ve gone at you with similar enthusiasm in the past. Did it bother you?”
“God, no. I liked it. I liked that I could make you want me like that.”
“Then stop worrying.” He sat up. “This shirt is a write-off, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Please. A shirt for a truly epic shag? Fair trade.”
They cleaned themselves up, trading off in the shower, and John poured some wine. They got into bed and watched the previous night’s “Project Runway” episode on the DVR, cuddling and exchanging quiet kisses, and John felt himself calming down. Sherlock was his, but the ownership went both ways.
John was awakened by Sherlock’s mobile going off. He grunted and turned over, casting a bleary glance at the clock. Fuck, who is calling at five a.m.? He heard Sherlock answer. “Yes? Sally, do you know what time it is? What in god’s name are you doing up?” He paused. “Yes, of course he’s here, we do share a bed, you know.” He sat up and thumbed the speaker on. “Go ahead, he can hear you.”
“Morning, lovebirds. Sorry to wake you so early.”
“It’s okay,” John said, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “What is it?”
“Some news. Troubling news from the Tubes.”
“When is there not?” Sherlock grumbled.
“Perez posted a picture of Sherlock and Irene at the premiere with the usual inane commentary, although he does compliment both of you for looking fabulous.”
“That hardly merits a pre-dawn phone call, Sally,” Sherlock said.
“I wish that were all. He goes on to say, and I’m quoting here, ‘Nice try, Sherlock, but we all know you’re a cold fish. Or are you? I’ve got a very reliable source who informs me that your days as an aloof bachelor are over. But your new honey is not the super-chic babe on your arm. It’s the cuddlier (and shorter) John Watson. My source says that you two couldn’t have been more obviously crazy about each other while playing lovers onscreen, and that you’ve moved to LA to be with him, even given up your own house to shack up. Thank God, because I might finally have a shot at you, you gorgeous thing.’”
They were both silent for a moment. “Is that all?” Sherlock said, his tone frosty.
“Isn’t that enough? It’s the first reporting of rumors about you two on a major Internet gossip outlet. All they needed was for one person to go first. Now it’ll be open season.”
“They’ve got nothing concrete to report,” John said. “We’ve been very careful.”
“Having nothing concrete is no barrier to gossip, John, and you know it.” Sally sighed. “I’d better to set up some new alerts, check the other sites.”
“All right. Keep us posted.” Sherlock hung up.
They both fell back into the bedding. “It starts,” John said. Sherlock said nothing. John looked over at him. Sherlock was staring at the ceiling, eyes narrowed and lips slightly pursed. “You’re figuring out who talked, aren’t you?”
“Trying to.”
“It doesn’t matter. Stop it.”
He sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”
“But we have a more serious matter to hash out.”
Sherlock looked at him, frowning. “What?”
“How am I going to keep you, now that you know Perez is up for it?”
For a fraction of a second a look of absolute befuddlement crossed Sherlock’s face, then it creased into a grin and he laughed, a tad maniacally. “Yes, that is a bit of a worry. Lord knows it’s always been my fantasy.” He touched John’s chin with one finger. “So, John. What are you going to do to keep me happy?”
John grinned back and rolled over him. “Whatever you want.”
The Triumphant Return of MetaNotes!
Hoo boy, brace yourself. Lots of MetaNotes.
1. I am probably fudging reality by involving studio executives from Universal in this situation. It is true that Focus Features is a division of Universal Studios, but Focus is itself a studio. Unless Universal put up some money towards the filming of “To a Stranger” it isn’t too likely that they’d involve themselves in this situation. My narrative problem was that I did not want to make Jim Schamus the bad guy here (by all accounts he is not in reality) and there’s nobody higher than him at Focus, he’s the CEO. So if I wanted higher-ups I had to invent some who worked for the next level up. Forgive the fudging. If anybody cares at all or is confused about the difference between studios and production companies leave a comment and I’ll attempt an explanation.
2. Reminder: ADR = additional dialogue recording, also known as “looping.” The process in post-production by which an actor re-records his dialogue to be overlaid when the original sound recording made during filming is unusable. Most actors hate doing this (it requires them to reproduce a vocal performance without actually acting in the scene) but it’s almost always necessary for at least some shots, especially those filmed outdoors.
3. Irene makes reference to back-end points. These are percentages of the film’s net profit that are allocated to the actors. They’re becoming more and more common in film contracts. Often an actor will accept a lower salary up front if he is guaranteed back-end points, say five percent of profit. There’s an increasing trend for actors to forego up-front payment entirely and be paid solely in back-end points, if they’re sure enough of the film’s success. They’re also a safer bet on a low-budget film. “To a Stranger” would have been a fairly economical film to make given the lack of special effects and Canadian shoot. It was probably made for well under $20 million despite being shot entirely on location (Brokeback Mountain, as a point of comparison, which was also filmed entirely on location in Canada, cost $14 million). Incidentally, most people think that to make a profit, a film must make back its budget. Not true. To make a profit, a film must make back double its budget, as 50% of a film’s revenue goes to the theaters that show it.
4. After some deliberation I decided to leave real Hollywood as it is, just adding in my fictional actors and their projects. So the movies mentioned really are opening in October and are as they are described, “The Mentalist” is an actual TV show, et cetera. I was pleasantly surprised to find that Matthew MacFadyen, one of the stars of “The Three Musketeers,” went to RADA (as did Sherlock, if you’ll recall) and is close to Sherlock’s age, making him an excellent candidate to be a friend.
5. If you’re looking for a good time, I do NOT recommend scouring Wikipedia for someone who was a) born in the second week in October, b) works in the film industry and c) is someone Sherlock is likely to have worked with. Ben Whishaw was a fortunate discovery. My second choice was Sacha Baron Cohen.
6. Fun trivia fact: Warner Bros. is not an abbreviation for Warner Brothers. The legal name of the studio is Warner Bros. so if you see the word “brothers” written out, that is stylistically incorrect. It looks weird sometimes, but that’s how the company is registered.
7. Things I never thought I’d be doing for a fic: researching the E! television network’s late-night schedule of programming.
Next Chapter
Author: MadLori
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 9500 (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
I forgot to post the visual aid for John’s house on the previous chapter, so here it is!
Chapter 12
By the time Monday rolled around, John felt that he and Sherlock were settling into their cohabitation. Thanks to Harry, most of Sherlock’s clothes had migrated from his condo into the large closet in the master suite, which John’s own collection of clothes could never hope to fill, and his toiletries had taken up residence in their bathroom. Books were gradually filling the shelves in Sherlock’s den, and his computer was set up on his desk. It made John smile to come home and see Sherlock’s jacket on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, his half-empty teacup in the sink, and that strange brand of plain yogurt he liked in the fridge.
It was just - working. They fit comfortably in their bed, they fit comfortably on the couch in the den, they moved around each other in the kitchen like they’d been doing it all their lives. It boggled John’s mind that they’d only been together for what was, in reality, a very short time when it felt to him as if it had been ages.
Which just made it feel even stranger for them to rise, have breakfast and coffee, and then get in their separate cars - each of which had had its windows tinted over the weekend - to drive to the ADR studios. John didn’t even see Sherlock when he arrived, he was just shown into his own booth by the ADR director and got to work. When they broke for lunch he went down the street to a popular local café; he sat inside and ate a sandwich and read his Kindle, signing a couple of autographs along the way. He went back to the studios and went back to work. He saw Sherlock’s car in the parking lot but did not see the man himself until the day’s recording was done (there’d be two more days after this one) and emerged to find Sherlock waiting for him. He had to resist the urge to kiss him hello. “What are you doing here?”
Sherlock put his book in his briefcase and stood up. “I finished about ten minutes ago, so I thought I’d wait for you. I don’t care what Irene says, I want us to go to this meeting together. We have no secrets from the studio, they already know.”
John nodded. “All right. I’ll drive.”
Sherlock agreed with a terse nod. They left the building together, a safe three feet of space between them, and got into John’s car. The moment they were safe behind the tinted windows they both turned and grabbed each other, sharing an urgent, hard-edged kiss, frustration lining it with sharpness. John gave Sherlock’s rather delectable lower lip one last suck and pulled back. “I needed that,” he said.
“As did I.”
They sighed in mutual resignation. John started the car and off they went.
Focus Features had their production offices in New York, so they’d be going to the offices of Focus’s parent company, Universal Studios. They pulled up to the gate and gave their names; they were expected. John drove to the low, unremarkable office building and found a parking spot. Neither the public nor journalists ever came to places like this; here they need not worry about being seen together. No actor, extra or production crew member would ever out them to the press, not if they wanted to keep their job. The conspiracy of silence in Hollywood wasn’t just about being in the closet. You’d walk a long way before you met an actor without a secret that he or she was hiding from the public, whether it was a child they wanted to keep safe from the limelight, an affair they were shoving under the rug, a same-sex lover or even, in one case that John knew of, a past life as the opposite gender. He also knew of a very well-liked actor who cultivated a nice-guy image and who spent quite a bit of time and money hiding a past that included several domestic violence convictions. Appearances were so often deceiving. Several actors he knew who were viewed as jerks by the public were in actuality perfectly nice and decent, but had grabbed the wrong end of the publicity stick and hadn’t been able to shake it off.
The point was that no one would dare tell anyone else’s secrets, because everyone had secrets of their own.
Irene was waiting for them in the lobby, with Greg Lestrade on one side of her and Mike Stamford on the other. The three of them were conferring intently, but all of them looked up as their clients entered. “I see you three are getting along famously,” Sherlock said.
“Oh yes, we’re a bloody efficient little talent management team, we are,” Greg said, wryly.
“I must say it’s a far sight easier dealing with one manager and publicist instead of four,” Mike added.
“Well, it would take four men to do the work of one me,” Irene said. “How are you guys?”
“We’re all right,” John said.
“Anxious to get this over with,” Sherlock grumbled.
She nodded. “Do you want us to do the talking?”
“No,” John said, seeing Sherlock nod in agreement out of the corner of his eye. “You can jump in if necessary, but this is our issue and we’ll deal with it.”
“Good.” She sighed. “Well, let’s go. The quicker this is over the sooner we can go get drinks afterwards.”
“God, yes,” John said.
They were shown to a conference room. There were fewer people than John had feared. Jim Schamus and Anderson were there along with a suit that he didn’t recognize - probably an exec from Universal - and another who was obviously a lawyer. John’s eyes narrowed to see him there, visions of nondisclosure contracts dancing in his head. He glanced over at Mike and saw the same thought on his face. Mike shot him a look and a minute head-shake.
Jim smiled and shook their hands. “John, Sherlock, it’s great to see you again.” More handshakes all around.
“You as well, Jim.” They all took seats, filling the smallish conference table.
“What did you think of the theatrical trailer?”
“We loved it,” John said. “It’s entirely appropriate, very evocative.”
“We’re making sure that the promotional materials match the tone of the actual film,” Jim said. “No bait and switch here. We’ll be releasing the trailer on the film’s website this evening, and it’ll go into theaters this weekend.” He sighed. “I wish that’s all we were here to discuss.” He glanced at the be-suited man to his left. “This is Donald Metcalfe, from Universal, and this is Roger McWilliams, one of their attorneys. I’d like to make it clear that this discussion is taking place at their insistence, not at mine.”
John appreciated the disclaimer, which would no doubt not endear Jim to the higher-ups at Universal.
“Mr. Holmes, Mr. Watson,” Metcalfe said. He didn’t seem evil or menacing, but then they never did until you were way past the point of extrication. “We are here to address the nature of your relationship. I won’t ask you the exact nature of that relationship, as I think we all know what we’re talking about.”
“You don’t have to ask,” Sherlock said, in his lowest, most silkenly frosty tone. “We’ll be glad to tell you. John and I are together. We will not hide from you, although we understand the necessity of concealing our relationship from the public and the press.”
Metcalfe nodded, looking relieved. “Good. I’m glad you’re on board with that. It’s distasteful for everyone that we have to involve ourselves in a private matter, but this film’s release must not be compromised by sensationalistic media coverage.”
“You don’t have to spell it out for us,” John said, tightly. “We’ve both been working in this business for our entire adult lives. We understand the stakes. This film is very important to both of us, and neither of us wants to do anything to detract from its release. We have discussed this, and while we aren’t willing to hide forever, we agree that we will keep our relationship a secret until after the Oscars.”
Metcalfe and McWilliams exchanged a glance. “That’s excellent. Precisely what we were going to propose.”
“Good,” John said. “Then we’re done here.”
“One moment, please. If you’ve already agreed to this, you won’t mind signing a document to that effect?”
“No,” Sherlock growled. “We’re not signing anything.”
McWilliams spoke up for the first time. “Mr. Holmes, if we have nothing in writing, how is the studio to have any recourse if this agreement is not honored?”
“You won’t,” Greg said. “You’ll be relying on their discretion. It’s in their best interests to honor the agreement in the first place.”
“That isn’t satisfactory,” Metcalfe said.
“It will have to be,” John said, controlling his temper with difficulty.
Greg spoke up again. “Suppose, Mr. Metcalfe, that Sherlock and John were to be outed through no action of their own? They are being as careful as it’s possible to be, but they are only human and something may be overlooked even when they are honoring the agreement in good faith.”
“What if we had to make a choice?” John said. “What if one of us were hurt in an accident, God forbid, and the other had to choose between seeing his partner and maintaining our confidentiality? If I had to choose between Sherlock and this film, much as the film means to me, I’m afraid Sherlock wins, hands down. I will not sign anything that will legally proscribe us from revealing the truth about what we are to each other if it were to become urgent that we do so.”
Irene cleared her throat. “This is all so much smoke-filled bullshit, gentlemen. We all know that you have no way to legally compel them to sign so much as an autograph. Their contracts detailing their compensation for this film, including back-end points, are already signed and cannot be altered.”
“We cannot alter their signed contracts, but we can ensure that they are never offered another,” Metcalfe said.
Mike laughed. “You go ahead and do that, Donald. I daresay there are a few other studios who’d love to employ either of them.”
Irene wasn’t done. “And if this film is even half as good or successful as it’s shaping up to be, you’ll be down on your hands and knees begging their forgiveness for your inexcusable demands and pleading with them to please pretty please with sugar on top star in whatever project strikes their fancy.”
Metcalfe cleared his throat. “We can make things very difficult for them.”
“You can, but you won’t.” Irene smiled. “Because if you do, I will make things very, very difficult for you, and we both know that I can.”
He held her gaze for a moment, then, to John’s amazement, looked away first. She had him. John didn’t know how or why and he didn’t want to know. “It’s not just us who would be less than pleased if this comes out at the wrong time,” Metcalfe said.
“We know that,” John snapped. “We aren’t stupid, you know. We have a plan as to when to make our announcement.”
Metcalfe sighed. “That announcement could drastically damage your future marketability. I like you both as actors. The early cuts of To a Stranger are - I hardly know what to say. It’s an amazing film you’ve made. I’d hate to see you throw away your careers on…”
“On what, Mr. Metcalfe?” Sherlock said. “On our future together? On the truth?” He reached out and took John’s hand where it rested on the tabletop. “Since it seems we’re all on the same page here, I just want to make one thing absolutely clear. John and I love each other. It is no one’s business but our own. You may make whatever judgments or proclamations you see fit. But I will not stand for anyone interfering, sabotaging or otherwise meddling with us. Is that clear?” The other men in the room exchanged uncertain glances, but no one spoke. “Good.”
John was squeezing Sherlock’s hand hard, mostly to keep himself from gazing at him in abject adoration. “Let’s go home,” he said.
Sherlock nodded briskly. “I think we’re through here.”
John couldn’t stop staring. He quite literally could not look away. He’d never seen anything so captivating. “She’s so - tiny,” he marveled, his eyes glued to the infant on his lap, her miniature fists clutching at his fingers.
Sarah smiled from where she and Anthea were sort of slumped against each other on the couch. They looked blissed-out, but exhausted. “She’s even two pounds bigger than she was when she was born,” Sarah said.
“She gained two pounds in ten days?” John said, amazed.
“She’s supposed to. She has room to grow now, and isn’t all folded up inside,” Anthea added.
“Look at her tiny little fingers!”
“Everybody fixates on the fingers,” Sarah mused.
“We did too, when she was born,” Anthea reminded her.
“They’re amazing,” John said, looking at little Sophie’s impossibly small fingernails. “They’re just so complete and perfect.”
“Just like she is,” Sarah sighed.
John smiled up at them. “I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to come see her.”
“That’s all right. We haven’t been terribly keen for visitors. And it sounds like you’ve been otherwise engaged. Where is your better half, anyway?”
“He’s in San Francisco. He’s on the boards of several performing arts schools, including the San Francisco School of the Arts. He’s gone up to do a two-day drama masterclass.”
Sarah blinked, looking surprised. “I’d have never picked him to take an interest in arts education.”
“He is full of surprises,” John said, still distracted by the tiny rosebud mouth and wide, goggling eyes of baby Sophie. “I would have gone with him, but - well, you know.”
She nodded, looking at him with sympathy on her face. It was two weeks since Sherlock had arrived in the States. At least six months to go. John wasn’t sure he’d last. It was worse than he’d feared it would be.
Anthea got up and plucked the baby from his lap. “I better put her down,” she said, glancing at Sarah. John saw a clear signal pass between them, but he wasn’t sure what it meant.
The moment she was gone, Sarah joined him on the couch. “John, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about what’s going on. We haven’t had time to get together.”
“It’s been a bit hectic, to say the least. And you with your new baby.” He smiled. “She’s beautiful. I’m so happy for you.”
“Thank you. We’re pretty ecstatic ourselves. Tired, but ecstatic. John - I’m not going to say I told you so, in spite of all the smack you used to talk about how gay actors should just come out, already.”
He shook his head. “You’d be well justified. I deserve it.”
“Glass houses and such, luv. You don’t see us rushing to come out, do you?”
“You’re waiting, like we are. It’s horrible.”
“Now I see Sherlock’s being linked with Irene, of all people?”
“That’s the plan. He’s going to take her to a few premieres and such. Then when we come out we can tell the truth, that he just took Irene out a few times for company because he couldn’t take me. We considered the full put-up job, having them act like they’re mad for each other, but - none of us were really very keen for that. Besides, we’d have had to lie about when he and I fell in love.”
Sarah nodded. “The truth is always preferable.”
“If nothing else, it’s easier to remember. Besides, the less time he has to spend with her, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”
“You don’t think she…”
“No, God, no. She has no interest in Sherlock, nor he in her.”
“But you still hate seeing him with her, don’t you?”
“God, I hate it so fucking much,” John exclaimed, his self-control frayed and stressed to the breaking point. “I hate all the gossipers talking about what a handsome couple they make, speculating on if they’re dating, how they have to smile and act flirty - they’re both much too good as actors, it’s too believable. My only consolation is that when he comes home he looks just as miserable as I feel.” He reached out and grasped her hand. “Were you and Anthea this miserable? When you were out with me?”
She smiled wanly. “A little, yes. At least I had the consolation that I was with someone who was a friend, and whose company I actually enjoyed. But I’d see this look in her eyes when there’d be red carpet photos of you and I - it broke my heart. That’s why I couldn’t do it anymore. If I can’t go with her, I’ll go alone or not go at all.”
“Well, he’s back tomorrow night, then Irene is sending us someplace for the weekend to get away. Someplace private where we can be together outside the house without worrying about getting spotted. I swear, it is enough to turn you into a hermit, this constant looking over your shoulder. How have you done it for five years?”
“It’s easier for women. Women are allowed to have close, intimate friendships with other women and it isn’t assumed to be sexual. If I’m seen out with Anthea at Whole Foods or at the salon I’m not automatically a lesbian. Men don’t have that kind of leeway, or at least not as much.” She sighed. “Is it working, at least?”
“Well, our secret agents who watch this sort of thing say that there’s no more than the usual amount of gossip about us. With the film’s trailer there’s a big upsurge in fan interest in To a Stranger. Predictably, some of the fans are talking about me and Sherlock. But nothing on TMZ so far. Not even Perez Hilton.”
She snorted. “If there’s anything at all, he’ll be the first to pounce.”
“We must be doing a fair job keeping everything on the down low.” John smiled at her. “But don’t feel too badly for me. Honestly, it’s worth it to have him here.”
“It’s working out, then?”
“It’s brilliant. He’s impossible, of course. He’s cranky and superior and critical and judgmental and totally intolerant of anyone’s shortcomings except mine, and I’m absolutely mad for him.”
“Well, far be it from me to judge your taste in men, John.”
He chuckled. “I’m just in it for the sex.”
If anyone had told John that he’d be so eagerly spreading his legs for another man, he’d have - well, he’d at least have offered a skeptical eyebrow-arch. He’d found men attractive before, had even had sexual contact with other men, but he’d never really imagined himself having sex with one in this way. Now, he couldn’t get enough. He might have thought that whatever alpha-male pride he possessed would throw up a protest, but in the end it didn’t matter. Fuck the alpha-male pride. He loved the feeling of Sherlock inside him too much to care.
He loved it even more when it was drowsy and cozy and intimate, as it was this particular afternoon. The energetic, pound-you-till-you-scream style was brilliant as well, but this - this made his stomach do slow rolls of bliss. Sherlock on top of him, kissing him, John wound around him as he thrust smoothly. Sherlock dropped his face into John’s damp neck. “Oh, John,” he said, his breath shaking.
John held him tighter, one hand on his head and the other on his arse. “Yes, harder,” he whispered into Sherlock’s ear. He groaned and began making longer, deeper thrusts. “Ahhh God,” John choked. His own cock was trapped between their bellies where it was rubbed on each stroke. “God, you’re brilliant. Ohhhh yes…”
Sherlock slipped his arms beneath John’s shoulders, letting his full weight settle on him as he picked up the pace. John tilted his hips up a little as Sherlock hitched himself a bit higher. “John - I’m close…”
“Me too,” John choked out. Sherlock fastened his mouth on John’s neck and sucked hard, working a hand between them to stroke John’s cock. John bit back a cry as he came, spilling between their bodies. “Sherlock, god yes…”
Sherlock’s hips bucked hard, driving his cock into John’s body a few more times, then he went rigid and groaned, giving a few more shallow thrusts as he came into John. He went limp and sagged into his arms. John kissed him deeply, both of them breathing hard. “I’ve never had sex like I have with you,” Sherlock murmured. “I don’t know why it’s so different.”
“You love me, that’s why,” John said, kissing his nose and his closed eyelids.
“Is that it?” Sherlock sounded a bit dazed.
John chuckled, cradling him in his arms. “So they say.” They lay there for a few moments, Sherlock still buried in John’s body, until finally he had to roll away to his back. John got up, leaving a soft kiss on Sherlock’s chest and letting his hand trail away down his arm. “You want some water?”
“Mmm,” Sherlock said, vaguely assenting.
John went into the bathroom to clean up, then trotted nude down the stairs to the kitchen. This had been a very impromptu rendezvous. They’d both had full schedules today, but a meeting John had scheduled at two o’clock had been moved so he’d found himself with two free hours. He’d texted Sherlock. Unexpected downtime. Meet me at home?
The answer had come very quickly. Be there as soon as I can.
John had arrived first, undressed and got into bed to wait. To his embarrassment, he’d fallen asleep. He’d woken to Sherlock climbing right in on top of him, wasting no time, and they’d gone at it without so much as a hello.
He went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. As he headed back to the stairs, his attention was caught by a plain wrapped flat parcel lying on the counter with a note. Frowning, he picked up the note. Stopped by to drop these off. Didn’t want to interrupt. Sounded like a good time was being had by all. -Irene Shaking his head, John took the parcel with him. He knew what it was.
He had to hesitate by the side of the bed before climbing back in. Sherlock was elegantly sprawled out, the sheets barely covering him, eyes closed. He was so damned beautiful. John could lose minutes just looking at him, if such a thing were to be allowed by the object of his admiration. I could look at him for the rest of my life.
John cleared that thought away and got back in bed. Sherlock stirred with a grumble, immediately burrowing into John’s arms like a sleepy child. John kissed the top of his head. “This is a lark,” John said. “Like an afternoon date with my boyfriend. Feels like we’re being naughty. As though we’re cheating on each other, with each other. Last-minute secret meetings and such.”
Sherlock chuckled. “Yes, I’ll be tormented with guilt that I’m cheating on Irene. It’ll keep me up nights, I dare say.”
John sat there for a moment, enjoying the warm weight of Sherlock in his arms, one hand combing through his hair. “You know what day it is?”
“Friday.”
“Today it’s one month since you surprised me in the kitchen.”
“Hmm. Am I in some sort of trouble for not marking the occasion through the purchase of a random and inexplicable gift of flowers or chocolates?”
“No. I just thought - oh, I don’t know what I thought. It’s an anniversary of sorts.”
“And tomorrow it’ll be one month and one day and the day after that it’ll be one month and two days and so forth. John, as far as I’m concerned, every day with you is worth commemoration.”
John grinned. “Aw, Sherlock. Is that sentiment I detect in your voice?”
“Nothing of the kind. I’m merely pointing out that the arbitrary designation of the passage of any interval of time as more or less meaningful than any other interval makes no inherent sense.”
“You need to watch yourself. You’ll turn into a romantic.”
“Perish the thought. What’s that, then?” Sherlock had seen the parcel.
“Irene was here while we were otherwise occupied. She said she’d drop by the Entertainment Weekly as soon as she had it. It won’t be on newsstands until tomorrow.”
Sherlock pulled away and sat up straighter. “Well, let’s see it.” He took the water bottle from John and drank half of it down in one gulp
John opened the parcel and pulled out three copies of the magazine. All he could do for a moment was stare at the cover photo. “Oh. Oh - my.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows had shot up. “My, indeed. Don’t we look dishy?”
‘Dishy’ was one word for it. The photographer had put them both in black shirts and shot against a black background, so they appeared to float. They were back to back, turned so that John was three-quarters to the camera and Sherlock was three-quarters away. Sherlock was looking back over his near shoulder, John down and toward Sherlock. They both had thoughtful, serious expressions on and the black-and-white image made them both look like - well, like movie stars. Whoever had done the image processing had restored the color in just their eyes. Sherlock’s alien verdigris and John’s deep blue peered out from under their lids. It was a stunning photograph. The cover had been kept mostly free of text except above the masthead and the title of their article in the lower right. “Men on a Mission: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson shoot for career rejuvenation and a leap forward for gay cinema in ‘To a Stranger.’”
“I suppose we’d better read it, although I dread finding out how badly I was misquoted or taken out of context this time.” John handed Sherlock another copy and they both opened to the article. It was accompanied by another two-shot and several individual shots, all black and white but with different wardrobe. John was rather distracted by the one of Sherlock in a very well-tailored white button-down.
The interview and photoshoot, which they’d done a few weeks ago, had gone surprisingly smoothly. The interviewer had pointedly not asked them about any rumors of their personal involvement, just more generic ones about their friendship. As John read the article, hope sprung in his chest as no hideous misrepresentations jumped out at him. They had talked about the career slumps each had been experiencing, how they’d come to the project, and about John’s “unconventional” casting, as this material was not in his normal wheelhouse. Sherlock had admitted to having had doubts about his co-star but quickly went on to praise John’s performance. They talked about the close friendship they’d developed, and in a calculated move that they’d decided upon with Irene, had acknowledged that Sherlock was staying at John’s house while he sold his condo and researched real estate. Having this fact out in the open would ease their paranoia a tad and provide a touch of an alibi, because surely they wouldn’t admit to living together if they actually were hiding a relationship. They talked about their filming experience, about the uniqueness of Molly Hooper’s script, the inevitable Brokeback comparisons, and Ang’s direction. The interview ended with each of them saying what they hoped audiences would take away from the film. This question had not, in fact, been asked during their sit-down but had been emailed to each of them later for their answer. John said he hoped they’d take away the universality of human stories, and no longer feel the need to label something a “gay” story. Sherlock’s answer was “I hope people will realize just how egregiously they’ve underestimated John Watson as an actor.”
John blinked, that response surprising the hell out of him. He looked over at Sherlock, who glanced at him and went back to reading - it looked like he was on his second time through. “I knew you’d make the appropriate final statement about the film’s importance so I decided to risk going for a personal hope.”
You mad wanker, John thought. “You did rather show your hand a bit.”
Sherlock sighed. “As a professional, I’m allowed to express admiration for the skills of my colleagues. If I’d said something about how I hoped people would see what a brilliant kisser you are, that might be suspect.”
“Am I a brilliant kisser?” John said, grinning.
“You may continue to demonstrate it at your convenience,” Sherlock said, not taking his eyes off the pages, a half-smile on his face.
John slumped back among the pillows and waited for Sherlock to finish his re-read. He did, set the magazine aside, and returned to John’s embrace. “There is something we ought to talk about,” John said.
“Must we? I’m quite comfortable and contented at the moment.” Sherlock’s hand was making tiny stroking motions across John’s stomach, as if he were petting him. It was soothing.
“I think we must.”
“All right.”
“Sherlock - once we come out, there’ll be no going back. We ought - I mean, we should be sure - oh, bugger, I don’t know how to say this that it won’t sound awful.”
“Then allow me. We should be sure that we’re serious about each other. If we go public and break up a week later, we’ll never be allowed to forget it.”
“Yes. I’d rather not become the Anne Heche of the new millennium, if that isn’t too insensitive a thing to say.” John sighed. “How is it possible that we haven’t had this discussion? How did we skip that bit and barrel straight on into the coming-out strategies?”
“Because at the time we were in Sussex, rather drunk on each other and still high on the adrenaline of your appearance in my dressing room. It’s not easy for me to admit this, as you will appreciate, but I wasn’t operating at my most rational at the time and I reckon you weren’t, either.”
“No. Definitely not.”
“Some time has passed. We’ve been living together for a month. We’ve seen each other at our unglamorous worst and faced many of the difficulties we knew we’d face. It’s normal that we ought to start thinking rationally again.”
John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s forehead. “All true.”
Sherlock turned a bit and propped up on his elbow so he could look John in the face. “You need only ask yourself the question you’re asking me, John. Have no doubts about my intentions. Have you ever known me to be less than decisive, or clear about my own mind?”
“No, never.”
“I love you. I have never loved another and I never expect to. If you require me to make a declaration of permanence then I’ll make one, but since you are already aware that I would ring up every journalist in town and inform them of our relationship right this moment, you can be under no illusions about my attitude towards our future together. I can only surmise that it is your own commitment that you doubt. So if either of us should be questioning his partner’s intentions, it is me.”
John looked into Sherlock’s eyes and the words were out before he could stop them. “Marry me.”
Sherlock snorted. “No. Out of the question.”
John was a bit knocked off center by that. “That isn’t the answer I was expecting.”
“No doubt. But it is the correct one. It is far too soon to be considering formalizing, John. I appreciate what you’re trying to communicate to me, but you’re being rather clumsy about it, aren’t you?”
John sighed, miserably. “Naturally. How else would I be?”
“Don’t take on so.” Sherlock sat up against the headboard and pulled John into his arms. John went, curling up in an embarrassed little ball and hiding his face against Sherlock’s bare chest. “I have considered the step you just suggested. I’m not implying that such a thing is forever off the table. Quite the opposite. At some point in the future, there is no question that nothing would make me happier than to be your husband, and you mine. But I won’t consider such a step while we must hide. I won’t bind myself to you until I can do so in full view of the world. You’ve asked me to love you in secret, and I am doing it. Don’t ask me to do more.”
“Am I ruining us?” John asked. “Is this too much?”
He felt Sherlock’s lips in his hair. “No. We can take anything for a few short months. They’ll be busy months, and the Oscars will have been and gone before we know it. That is putting aside the undeniable fact that loathsome as it is, this choice is the correct one. In this I find myself on the wrong side of rationality for the first time - well, the first time in my life, John. I hope you can consider that an achievement. This decision we’ve made is based on reality, careful thought and prudence. If it were up to me, I’d be making a proper mess of things. It is fortunate that I have you to temper my innate stubbornness. Mycroft always said that it would be my undoing.” He tightened his arms around John. “I hope, at the very least, we’ve settled this question of whether or not our commitment to each other warrants going public in the first place.”
John chuckled, wrapped not just in Sherlock’s embrace but in the cocoon of words his lover had just spun around him, words that someone else might consider cold and detached, but which contained some of the tenderest sentiments anyone had ever directed at John. “I think we have. Although I never really doubted it. I just thought it needed saying.”
“Some things go without saying.”
John sighed. “They sometimes go better with saying.”
WHAT TO WATCH
Thursday, 10 pm EST “The Mentalist”
The conclusion of the thrilling three-episode arc featuring John Watson as cryptic extortionist The Blogger culminates tonight as Patrick Jane and the team attempt to rescue Agent Cho, taken captive by The Blogger last week. Watson’s unexpectedly chilling dramatic chops have injected high tension into the series’ early fall offerings, calming fears of the future of the show’s storylines after the demise of perpetual Jane nemesis Red John in last season’s finale.
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SEEN AROUND TOWN
Sherlock Holmes and his manager/publicist Irene Adler, making an appearance at a birthday party for Ben Whishaw, with whom Holmes has appeared on stage twice. Talk is swirling about Holmes and Adler, who also accompanied Holmes to last week’s L.A. premiere of Almodovar’s “The Skin I Live In.” Holmes is a notorious loner, attending social functions alone when he attends them at all. The status of their relationship is unclear, although speculation is that Holmes met Adler through John Watson, his co-star in the upcoming drama “To a Stranger,” and who shares Adler as a manager/publicist.
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OSCAR BUZZ
The fall film season has got Academy Awards predictions swinging into high gear. The release of Oliver Stone’s “For Which They Stand” to strong critical praise and excellent box-office strengthened that film’s status as a major contender for a boatload of awards, including a likely one for the film’s star, James Moriarty. Several major contenders are yet to be released, including “The Ides of March,” the latest offering from the powerhouse team of George Clooney and Grant Heslov. The real question mark in this field is the December release of gay drama “To a Stranger,” starring the non-obvious combination of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Amid vague rumblings about director Ang Lee revisiting the “Brokeback Mountain” well a bit too soon and both his lead actors looking for a comeback, early chatter about this film is that it’s phenomenal and that Watson, especially, is a revelation. Time will tell, as the film isn’t to hit theaters until December 2.
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BLIND ITEMS
This C+ supporting actress, soon to bump up a few grades based on recent films in the can, used to date this A- leading man, although our man’s star has been on the decline of late. Rumors dogged the pair that she was his beard. Turns out that he was hers. Our girl has been in a long-term relationship with another woman, who has just had a baby. Her recent breakup with her beard was given the usual explanations, but the real reason was that she just couldn’t take the secrecy any more. Her erstwhile fake paramour was fine with this, in no small part because he’d fallen madly in love with his male co-star while shooting a film, and they’re now co-habiting!
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BACHELOR WATCH
Ever since his break-up with Reese Witherspoon, it seems Jake Gyllenhaal would rather not be tied down. Perhaps it was the sight of his ex meeting and marrying a new man at a head-spinningly fast pace that put him off, but except for last winter’s puzzling and ill-fated fling with Taylor Swift (what was he thinking?), Gyllenhaal has remained tantalizingly available. Meanwhile, date movie mainstay John Watson, despite having a reputation for being charming and decent, has never been married or had a relationship lasting longer than a year. His most recent girlfriend, actress Sarah Sawyer, dumped him last spring over those pesky “wanting different things” and he’s not been seen out with anyone but his sister and personal assistant, Harriet. In fact, lately the only person we see him with is his new BFF and temporary housemate Sherlock Holmes, who plays his lover in the upcoming “To a Stranger.” Holmes is busy himself with a new girlfriend, so we hear, so perhaps Watson may need some consoling while he sits at home alone without his partner in bromance.
Line forms to the left, ladies. Or gents, depending on if you believe what we hear about either of today’s bachelors - or both of them!
Irene finally found Sherlock in the alley behind the restaurant, ignominiously crouched between two dumpsters. He was squatting with his back against the brick wall, his head down and his hands dangling between his knees. For a moment, she was struck dumb at the contrast between his typical upright-and-proud bearing and the broken-looking sight before her.
They were at a premiere party for The Three Musketeers. It was their third official “date” after the Almodovar premiere (at which they’d just walked the carpet and then left) and Ben Whishaw’s birthday party (at which they’d made a token appearance). Sherlock himself had suggested that they attend this party after the premiere. Matt MacFadyen was a friend that Sherlock actually cared to see, so they’d come.
The red carpet had been brutal, more so than usual. The reporters were digging in to their relationship, asking if they were dating, asking if they were engaged, for fuck’s sake. She’d come around to Sherlock and John’s idea that they keep it casual, so that later Sherlock could claim that he’d brought her to these events merely for the company because he could not bring John. But it required them to appear at least to enjoy each other’s society, so she’d smiled and laughed and tooled her body language to indicate friendship, if not undying love.
The truth was that she could hardly understand how John actually did love the man. He was a caution, no mistake. Pretentious, impatient and superior. He was less so with her, because (according to him) he respected her intellect. If this was his better side, it was no wonder that there were at least a dozen actors in this town who categorically refused to work with him.
But love him John did. From what she could see, the sentiment was returned. And she was fond of John, very fond, and wanted him to have what he wanted. What he wanted was Sherlock, but he wanted him on his own timetable and without deep-sixing his career or this film. That was where she came in. Before meeting with them, she’d assumed, wrongly as it turned out, that Sherlock was the one urging them to stay closeted. The fact that it was John had surprised her, but it shouldn’t have done. John was careful by nature.
“Sherlock?”
He didn’t look up, but his head turned fractionally toward her. “I’d rather be alone just now, thanks.”
“But - why are you out in the alley, all by yourself? Matt was looking for you, he said he hadn’t seen you in awhile and was eager to catch up.”
“Catch up.” Sherlock snorted. “I’m sure he is. I’ve not seen him in a few years. I’d like to talk to him. I’d like to hear about his kids. He has two, you know, and a stepson. I thought we could exchange Russell horror stories. We were at RADA together, you know. Overlapped one year. I saw him across the party and thought to myself, there’s so much I’d like to tell him.” He pushed himself to his feet; Irene winced at what the brick was doing to the back of his suit. He banged his head back against the wall, grimacing. “And I can’t tell him any of it, Irene! Oh, I can tell him about the film, I can tell him about the play, I can tell him about selling my condo and hating Moriarty but I can’t tell him about the most important thing in my life, and nothing else seems worth telling without that.” He shook his head. “I hate this beyond all reckoning. Escorting you up that red carpet is like walking a gauntlet. John is the only thing I’ve ever had that I wanted to be proud of, and I can’t.” To her horror, Sherlock’s voice caught on the last word. He put his hand over his eyes and she saw him swallow down a sob.
Irene stepped closer. “Sherlock - I had no idea.”
“Good. I am a professional actor, as you may have heard.”
“Does John know how much this is hurting you?”
“No,” he said, looking at her for the first time, his eyes blazing. “And he won’t hear it from you, either. He can’t know.”
“He wouldn’t want you to be so - tortured.”
“I know, which is why I’ve gone to some lengths to make sure he doesn’t know. This is for him, Irene. It’s all for him. He needs this film more than I do. It could reinvent him, and I want for that to happen more than I don’t want to hide. No one has ever deserved reinvention more than he does. I actually pity the rest of this bloody business because they don’t know what they have in him. Well, they shall, and I’ll not be the one to ruin it with sensationalism.”
“But - if tomorrow he told you that he’d changed his mind, that he wanted you to go public right away, would you? Even if you knew it wasn’t what was best for him?”
Sherlock thumped a fist on the wall. “Yes, because I am a bloody selfish bastard. But he’s not said that, and he won’t.” He covered his eyes again, and Irene watched, helpless, as he tried to control his emotions.
She sidled over to him and hesitantly grasped his hand. He gripped it back at once. “I feel so badly for you both,” she said. “I admit I had my doubts about you, Sherlock. But all I can say is that I hope John knows how lucky he is to have someone who loves him as much as you do.”
He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. “I am the lucky one in this equation, Irene. I don’t think I’ll ever know how I came to earn his love, but I’m doing what I can to deserve it.”
John Watson was the jealous type.
This was a secret that he guarded. It was one of the reasons he’d intentionally kept his dating life simple. He valued his self-possession, and he didn’t want his jealousy to sabotage an otherwise meaningful relationship. His love for Sherlock had won out over his fear of his own nature, and he didn’t think he’d ever have anything to question about Sherlock’s fidelity. He’d thought he was safe.
He’d been wrong.
He was in the master suite, on the couch in the telly corner, staring at E! News Daily with a scowl on his face. They were showing footage from the Three Musketeers red carpet. Currently in the spotlight, flashbulbs going off in his face, was Sherlock. His Sherlock. With Irene on his arm.
John’s inner beast scented the air and growled.
They both looked stunning. They looked like a matched set. Irene was tall, slender and aristocratic, much like Sherlock himself. They had almost the same color hair. They looked comfortable with each other. John knew it was all an act, but that distinction was, apparently, lost on John’s reptile brain. It didn’t care that it wasn’t real. It didn’t care that Sherlock would be coming home to him and Irene would go home to her own husband. It only cared that it was seeing John’s own mate with another. Being touched by another. Being smiled at and photographed with and talked to about another.
She’s in my spot.
Someday, he would claim that spot. He would tell this whole business to go fuck itself if it didn’t like it and he would be back where he belonged, at Sherlock’s side, before God and everybody.
He glanced at the time. Sherlock would be home soon. This wasn’t live, it had been taped. He’d said that he and Irene would be going to the party, at least for a short time. He wanted to say hello to Matt MacFadyen, who was a friend from RADA. He’d probably attract some attention, as the article in EW had been generating more and more press inquiries, and the people who he’d know at the party would want to talk to him. John racked his brain for who else was in this bloody film that might keep Sherlock there. He was pretty sure Sherlock didn’t know the director. Orlando hated Sherlock with notorious vitriol. Something about a parking ticket and a misunderstanding with the security guards on the Warner Bros. lot.
It was useless to speculate. Sherlock and Irene were off the screen by now, which just made it worse. Were they off seeing the film? Were they at the party right this second? Were people making sideways innuendoes at them? Was she holding his hand? Was he laughing at something she’d said?
Helpless, John just sat there and stewed. E! News Daily was over. Chelsea Lately was on. He didn’t even bother to change it. “The Soup” came on after Chelsea. At least this might provide a diversion.
It was half over when he heard the garage door open and shut again, then Sherlock enter through the kitchen. “John?”
He didn’t answer.
He heard Sherlock checking the den and the porch, then his footsteps coming up the stairs. He appeared in the bedroom, his tie undone already. “Oh, there you are. Didn’t you hear me call?”
“I heard.”
Sherlock sat down next to him, his hand falling to John’s knee. John could smell Irene’s perfume on him.
The inner beast was pacing now, scratching at the bars of its cage. “I’m later than I thought, I know. I got to chatting with Matt. He has some quite amusing stories about Ian McShane. Had a not-unpleasant chat with that Waltz fellow. Nice chap. Decidedly not stupid or annoying, which is a nice change of pace. I did think the Academy got it right with him, for once.”
All John heard was “blah blah blah blah” over the roar in his ears of Sherlock, smelling like Irene.
“John? Good God, are you watching something involving a Kardashian? Turn that off, I can hear your brain cells screaming in protest.” Sherlock leaned over him, grabbed the remote and stabbed the power button. He looked at John, frowning. “What’s wrong with you? You look positively thunderous.”
John met his eyes. The contact sent a bolt up his spine and he just knew he had to do something. “You smell like her,” he said, sounding lower and rougher than he’d ever heard his own voice.
Sherlock’s pupils dilated a little. “Do I?”
“Yes,” John growled, and grabbed him. He hauled him to his feet, mauling Sherlock’s mouth with his own and tearing at his clothes. He pushed him back toward their bed, sucking, licking, biting at Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock hung onto him, going a bit boneless. No doubt he already knew what sort of headspace John was in, and what he wanted to do. John had no illusions about being able to put anything over on Sherlock Holmes.
“John,” Sherlock moaned as John tore his shirt open, buttons flying everywhere. “I’d rather smell like you.”
“Fuck yes,” John said, pushing him down on the bed. He unbuckled Sherlock’s belt and pulled his trousers and shorts right off him. He whipped off his own t-shirt and jeans, Sherlock watching, propped up on his elbows, his eyes dark with lust. “You are going to have me all over you, and inside you,” he said, naked by now. Sherlock was wearing just his shirt, hanging open and ruined, red marks all over his throat where John had left them, his hair wild. John had never been so hard.
Sherlock jerked his chin, beckoning John forward. “Make me yours again, John,” he murmured.
With a groan, John fell on him. Sherlock didn’t do much, he didn’t need to and he’d know that John didn’t want him to. He returned John’s kisses when they happened to fall on his mouth, but other than that, he let John reclaim him. “You are not hers,” John said, barely aware that he was speaking at all. “You are mine.” He worked lube into Sherlock with rushed fingers, knowing by now just how much Sherlock could take and how much he needed.
“Yes,” Sherlock said into John’s ear, his fingers in John’s hair. “Fuck me and show me I’m yours.”
John slicked himself fast and pushed in. “Fuck, Sherlock,” he choked out.
Sherlock wrapped his long legs around John’s waist, tilting his hips up to let John go as deep as he could. “Hard. Do it hard, I know you want to, I want you to,” he said, the words hushed and subliminal in John’s ear.
John lost all control. He went at him like a madman, the beast loose now and tearing his way through John’s brain, cutting off his restraint and reducing him to a base creature who needed this, who needed to rut and take and have and own. “Mine, mine,” he muttered as he thrust, feeling Sherlock’s cock erect between their bodies, seeing the flush rise to his upper chest. Sherlock’s head slammed back, his gorgeous neck arching, decorated with John’s markings.
“John, fuck you’re good, yes like that, more, oh God you’re making me…I’m…going to…” The next word was rendered moot by Sherlock’s cry as he stiffened and came.
John felt Sherlock’s body pulsing around his cock and he stepped up the pace. “Fuck yes, I made you come, I made you come, no one else,” he muttered, half to himself.
“No, never, no one else, come John, come for me, come inside me,” Sherlock said, grabbing John’s head in his hands and pulling him close to kiss him, biting at his lips. “Make everyone see I’m yours, fucking mark me, John…”
John’s body surged, bending Sherlock nearly half on the bed, and he poured himself into him, the world going a bit white and fuzzy as his brain went offline for a few moments. The next thing he knew he was lying on top of Sherlock, still wrapped up in his long limbs, his face pressed into Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock was caressing him, kissing his face.
He saw the last few minutes on tape-delay as if he were watching a match. He lifted his head, wide-eyed, and saw Sherlock smiling at him. “Jesus. Sherlock - I’m sorry. Are you all right?”
Sherlock frowned. “Of course I am. Why on earth are you apologizing?”
“I was - that was - I lost it a bit, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did. It was tremendously arousing. I suspected you had a jealous streak but I didn’t know it would manifest itself with such lovely side benefits to me.”
“Then it was okay?”
“If it hadn’t been, do you for one moment imagine that I wouldn’t have said so?”
“Well, no.” He let himself smile a bit. “And you came with no hands. That was a first.”
“Indeed.” He peered at him. “Are you all right?”
John rolled to the side and propped up on one elbow. He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m a little embarrassed.”
“Because you don’t like to see yourself as - how shall I put it? A caveman.”
“Yes, exactly.”
“We are all cavemen, John. Some more than others. That urge to possess and claim and own is in all of us. It is harmless unless it bleeds into daily life.”
“But I don’t want to treat you like a sex object.”
“Why on earth not? One likes to be treated like a sex object sometimes, when one is actually having sex. I’ve gone at you with similar enthusiasm in the past. Did it bother you?”
“God, no. I liked it. I liked that I could make you want me like that.”
“Then stop worrying.” He sat up. “This shirt is a write-off, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Please. A shirt for a truly epic shag? Fair trade.”
They cleaned themselves up, trading off in the shower, and John poured some wine. They got into bed and watched the previous night’s “Project Runway” episode on the DVR, cuddling and exchanging quiet kisses, and John felt himself calming down. Sherlock was his, but the ownership went both ways.
John was awakened by Sherlock’s mobile going off. He grunted and turned over, casting a bleary glance at the clock. Fuck, who is calling at five a.m.? He heard Sherlock answer. “Yes? Sally, do you know what time it is? What in god’s name are you doing up?” He paused. “Yes, of course he’s here, we do share a bed, you know.” He sat up and thumbed the speaker on. “Go ahead, he can hear you.”
“Morning, lovebirds. Sorry to wake you so early.”
“It’s okay,” John said, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “What is it?”
“Some news. Troubling news from the Tubes.”
“When is there not?” Sherlock grumbled.
“Perez posted a picture of Sherlock and Irene at the premiere with the usual inane commentary, although he does compliment both of you for looking fabulous.”
“That hardly merits a pre-dawn phone call, Sally,” Sherlock said.
“I wish that were all. He goes on to say, and I’m quoting here, ‘Nice try, Sherlock, but we all know you’re a cold fish. Or are you? I’ve got a very reliable source who informs me that your days as an aloof bachelor are over. But your new honey is not the super-chic babe on your arm. It’s the cuddlier (and shorter) John Watson. My source says that you two couldn’t have been more obviously crazy about each other while playing lovers onscreen, and that you’ve moved to LA to be with him, even given up your own house to shack up. Thank God, because I might finally have a shot at you, you gorgeous thing.’”
They were both silent for a moment. “Is that all?” Sherlock said, his tone frosty.
“Isn’t that enough? It’s the first reporting of rumors about you two on a major Internet gossip outlet. All they needed was for one person to go first. Now it’ll be open season.”
“They’ve got nothing concrete to report,” John said. “We’ve been very careful.”
“Having nothing concrete is no barrier to gossip, John, and you know it.” Sally sighed. “I’d better to set up some new alerts, check the other sites.”
“All right. Keep us posted.” Sherlock hung up.
They both fell back into the bedding. “It starts,” John said. Sherlock said nothing. John looked over at him. Sherlock was staring at the ceiling, eyes narrowed and lips slightly pursed. “You’re figuring out who talked, aren’t you?”
“Trying to.”
“It doesn’t matter. Stop it.”
He sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”
“But we have a more serious matter to hash out.”
Sherlock looked at him, frowning. “What?”
“How am I going to keep you, now that you know Perez is up for it?”
For a fraction of a second a look of absolute befuddlement crossed Sherlock’s face, then it creased into a grin and he laughed, a tad maniacally. “Yes, that is a bit of a worry. Lord knows it’s always been my fantasy.” He touched John’s chin with one finger. “So, John. What are you going to do to keep me happy?”
John grinned back and rolled over him. “Whatever you want.”
The Triumphant Return of MetaNotes!
Hoo boy, brace yourself. Lots of MetaNotes.
1. I am probably fudging reality by involving studio executives from Universal in this situation. It is true that Focus Features is a division of Universal Studios, but Focus is itself a studio. Unless Universal put up some money towards the filming of “To a Stranger” it isn’t too likely that they’d involve themselves in this situation. My narrative problem was that I did not want to make Jim Schamus the bad guy here (by all accounts he is not in reality) and there’s nobody higher than him at Focus, he’s the CEO. So if I wanted higher-ups I had to invent some who worked for the next level up. Forgive the fudging. If anybody cares at all or is confused about the difference between studios and production companies leave a comment and I’ll attempt an explanation.
2. Reminder: ADR = additional dialogue recording, also known as “looping.” The process in post-production by which an actor re-records his dialogue to be overlaid when the original sound recording made during filming is unusable. Most actors hate doing this (it requires them to reproduce a vocal performance without actually acting in the scene) but it’s almost always necessary for at least some shots, especially those filmed outdoors.
3. Irene makes reference to back-end points. These are percentages of the film’s net profit that are allocated to the actors. They’re becoming more and more common in film contracts. Often an actor will accept a lower salary up front if he is guaranteed back-end points, say five percent of profit. There’s an increasing trend for actors to forego up-front payment entirely and be paid solely in back-end points, if they’re sure enough of the film’s success. They’re also a safer bet on a low-budget film. “To a Stranger” would have been a fairly economical film to make given the lack of special effects and Canadian shoot. It was probably made for well under $20 million despite being shot entirely on location (Brokeback Mountain, as a point of comparison, which was also filmed entirely on location in Canada, cost $14 million). Incidentally, most people think that to make a profit, a film must make back its budget. Not true. To make a profit, a film must make back double its budget, as 50% of a film’s revenue goes to the theaters that show it.
4. After some deliberation I decided to leave real Hollywood as it is, just adding in my fictional actors and their projects. So the movies mentioned really are opening in October and are as they are described, “The Mentalist” is an actual TV show, et cetera. I was pleasantly surprised to find that Matthew MacFadyen, one of the stars of “The Three Musketeers,” went to RADA (as did Sherlock, if you’ll recall) and is close to Sherlock’s age, making him an excellent candidate to be a friend.
5. If you’re looking for a good time, I do NOT recommend scouring Wikipedia for someone who was a) born in the second week in October, b) works in the film industry and c) is someone Sherlock is likely to have worked with. Ben Whishaw was a fortunate discovery. My second choice was Sacha Baron Cohen.
6. Fun trivia fact: Warner Bros. is not an abbreviation for Warner Brothers. The legal name of the studio is Warner Bros. so if you see the word “brothers” written out, that is stylistically incorrect. It looks weird sometimes, but that’s how the company is registered.
7. Things I never thought I’d be doing for a fic: researching the E! television network’s late-night schedule of programming.
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