Performance In a Leading Role (13/20)
Title: Performance in a Leading Role
Author: MadLori
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 9000 (this chapter)
Genre: AU, romance
Warnings: None
Rating: PG-13 (this chapter), NC-17 (whole work)
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 -- Chapter 12
I'd like to take this opportunity to thank some of the awesome friends and readers who have been there for me to bounce ideas off of, read chapters and parts of chapters, and cheerlead: mariemjs, tzikeh, moony, mazarin221b, and special thanks to my Hollywood informant, tinseltowncloud.
Chapter 13
“What should I wear? How formal is this event?”
Sherlock was standing in the closet in his dressing gown, surveying the sartorial options. John was shaving. Irene was lounging on the couch in the master suite. The concept of “boundaries” had more or less broken down among the three of them over the past two months.
“I’m wearing jeans,” John said. “Is that okay, Irene?”
“I’d say so,” she called in from the bedroom.
Sherlock walked into the bathroom, holding a white button-down and a tailored jacket. “What if I wore these, with jeans?”
“Wear the dark ones, with the narrow leg. Your arse looks amazing in those.”
“I didn’t think the point of this was to dress so as to arouse you, John.”
“No. Just a perk. And don’t wear the white button-down, it’ll glow under the lights. Wear something dark, like that wine-colored one. But with the charcoal gray jacket.”
Sherlock nodded. “Your fashion sense is improving.”
“You must be rubbing off on me.” John met Sherlock’s eyes and they both giggled.
“Stop right there, I’m filling in enough innuendo in my head, no need to say it out loud,” Irene said.
John walked out into the bedroom. “I don’t know why, but I’m nervous,” he said.
“We are seeing the product of our labors for the first time,” Sherlock said. “A little anxiety is natural.”
“With all the drama going on around it, it’s easy to forget there’s still an actual film to worry about.”
“It’s one week to the LA premiere,” Irene said, “and two weeks to nationwide release. We can make it. It’s the home stretch.”
John sighed. “It’ll be a relief, but then we just have to face more waiting. And the talk is only going to get worse once they actually see us onscreen together, kissing and having sex and what have you.” He pulled a v-neck jumper over his t-shirt, running a hand through his hair. “It’ll be nice to see Molly again tonight. And Ang, as well. Haven’t seen either of them since we wrapped.”
Sherlock emerged looking perfect, as usual. “They both know, correct?”
Irene nodded. “Everyone associated with the production got a memo.”
John stared at her. “There was a memo? About us?”
“John, they can’t respect your privacy or keep your secrets if they are caught off-guard by a question. That is how people are startled into blurting something out. I’m told that Ang was very supportive, which was a relief.”
“Why wouldn’t he be?” Sherlock said.
“Because if two straight actors play lovers onscreen, then fall in love and ‘turn gay,’” she said, making air quotes, “it’s open season on any actor playing a gay role. It’ll make them even more susceptible to rumor than they already were. We may see a sudden drop in straight actors willing to play gay roles, which is a real problem for directors. For years the business has been saying that playing gay didn’t make you gay. Well, for you two, it did.”
“Leaving aside the half dozen holes I could poke in that argument, I fail to see how their internalized homophobia is our fault,” Sherlock snapped, but John was shaken. That was an angle he hadn’t considered.
“But - playing gay didn’t make me gay,” he said. “I don’t even know that I am gay! And it wasn’t playing that role that made me fall for Sherlock. It was - well, I don’t know what it was, exactly, but it wouldn’t have mattered if we were playing lovers or police partners or archrivals!”
“You really think most people are going to make that distinction?” Irene said. “To most of the world, it’s a simple cause-and-effect. You weren’t gay, you played gay, now you are gay. QED.”
“And here I’ve been worrying about backlash from the Fox News crowd,” John said.
“Oh, don’t worry, you’ll get plenty of that. But I think we’re all going to be unpleasantly surprised from the internal Hollywood backlash. There’s a cone of silence around these things, and you guys coming out is going to be a big old crack in it. That’s going to be threatening to a lot of people.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Sherlock said. “This is supposed to be a warm-up event, is it not? A nice low-stress screening and question session with a private audience who are likely to fawn over us?”
“Well, that is the idea,” Irene said. “I’m not sure we can count on anything being low-stress at this point.”
It had been a very long month.
Perez Hilton’s “revelation” about John and Sherlock’s relationship had been met with skepticism in some quarters and eager salivation in others. As Irene always said, the rule online was “pics or it didn’t happen,” so the collective Internet hive mind went to work. So far, the most incriminating thing was the photo of Sherlock leaving the airport with Harry, which was still easily explained by Sherlock staying at John’s house, but that arrangement was also being questioned. The not-gay camp insisted that Sherlock was, indeed, selling his condo, as a simple real estate search verified, and pointed out that they had freely admitted that they were housemates in the EW article. The gay camp wondered why Sherlock was staying so long with John instead of renting a place, and why it was taking him so long to find a new one.
The level of paparazzi attention to their activities had increased by at least an order of magnitude. Neither of them had ever been particular targets given that they’d always led fairly dull lives without scandal, nubile young starlets or drunken antics. Unfortunately, this was no longer the case. The paps had set up camp at the gated entrance to John’s neighborhood. The tinted windows protected them to a degree, but it wasn’t long before their dogged pursuers figured out which cars were theirs. It wasn’t as if they could hide their license plates.
Happily, their schedules had been very light on public appearances thanks to Irene’s strategizing, so the number of impertinent questions shouted at them during red carpets or press events was minimal. John had attended the opening of an exhibit at the Getty two weeks after Perez broke the story and had, as was his habit, stopped to sign some autographs for fans. A disproportionate number of them wanted him to sign prints of the To a Stranger publicity stills, and he was barraged with shouted questions from reporters and photographers. John, are you gay? Are you and Sherlock living together? Did you hook up during the film? Is this a publicity stunt? He’d been particularly confused by that last one. If it were a publicity stunt, they could hardly expect that he’d admit it.
John was feeling a bit more relaxed than he had been, though. He and Sherlock had just returned from holiday. Sensing their frustration and cabin fever, Irene had sent them to an extremely private, exclusive resort near Mt. Shasta in northern California for a week. John had been afraid to ask how much the place cost. The resort, which catered to the wealthy and those who wanted privacy, like them, consisted of a group of isolated luxury lodges. They’d been pampered and waited on and treated like kings, when they were so inclined, but for the most part they’d been left alone. They’d hiked in the mountains, stretched out on blankets and stargazed on clear nights, and soaked themselves in the hot tub for hours on end. They’d honest-to-God made love in front of a roaring fire. It had been heaven. John had come home feeling refreshed, but Sherlock seemed, if anything, even tenser than before. He’d appeared to enjoy himself during their time away, but as they prepared to return home he’d grown quiet and snappish. John pretended he didn’t notice.
The screening was being held at the Harmony Gold Theater on Sunset Boulevard. It was a novel sensation to actually ride in the same car as Sherlock, after months of strictly enforced public separation. They would be all but joined at the hip for the next few weeks for the press events. John wasn’t sure he wouldn’t rather do things separately. Standing and walking with Sherlock, posing for photos - he’d have to work hard to suppress what by now had become natural: touching him casually, holding his hand, kissing him when the urge struck.
Irene parked in the gated lot reserved for the theater’s special guests, and they made their way inside where they were shown to a green room. Molly and Ang were there; they exchanged hugs and handshakes. Molly looked from one to the other, her eyes shining. “It’s really true, then?” she said, beaming.
John glanced at Sherlock. “I’m afraid so, Molly. I’m sorry, but Sherlock’s off the market.”
She slapped at him, laughing. “Oh, don’t be silly, I’m thrilled for you.” Ang was smiling, but he did not comment. John was glad that he wasn’t upset, but the last thing he wanted was to upstage Ang’s film, so the less the matter was discussed, the better.
A woman with an earpiece and a clipboard came in. “All right, folks, the audience is taking their seats. You can sneak in when we lower the house lights. Once the screening is over, we’ll set up chairs on the stage and you’ll join the moderator there, he’ll ask a few questions to get things rolling, then we’ll open it up for questions from the audience. We set aside some tickets for film students as you requested, Mr. Holmes, and they were snapped up in an instant. Expect lots of process questions,” she said, with a wink.
“Our favorite kind, I’m sure,” Sherlock said.
John glanced at him, wondering if he were as anxious as John felt. To finally see this film, which had meant so much to both of them - well, he didn’t know how he’d feel. Watching Benjamin and Mark discover their relationship would be to remember himself and Sherlock discovering theirs. Above all, he hoped it was as good as they all thought it would be. He hoped it would be worth all the sacrifices he and Sherlock were making for it.
They entered the auditorium once the house lights were down. A quick few screens of upcoming events for the Variety series were being shown. They snuck into the seats that had been roped off for them in the front row. John wondered if he could risk holding Sherlock’s hand under cover of darkness. He didn’t have much time to ponder this question before the film began.
Andrew Bird’s score was the first thing he heard. It was minimalist but evocative, a plaintive violin and a piano. A quiet guitar joined in. The opening was brief, only the studio credits and “an Ang Lee film.” No cast names, no writing credits.
Then - smash cut to the hospital waiting room. A couch, viewed straight on, the desaturation making it seem even lonelier for the single person in the shot. Mark, on the far left, seated alone, knees together, looking straight ahead.
John took a deep breath. Here we go.
Irene sat there as the credits rolled, Andrew Bird’s quiet voice singing the song he’d composed as the film’s theme. She heard Molly sniffling over to her right. John and Sherlock were on her left and they were practically vibrating with the effort of not holding hands.
The audience was eerily quiet, listening to the song. Nobody was talking or clapping or shifting in their seats.
The song ended, giving way to instrumental score as the credits rolled on. The applause started somewhere in the back of the auditorium and within a few seconds became a crashing, deafening roar. The audience all but leapt to their feet as the house lights came up.
She glanced to her left and caught Sherlock looking at John. The expression on his face said it all. “It’s worth it,” he whispered. John nodded.
The stagehands were quickly and efficiently moving five chairs onto the stage, one of them set a bit apart and facing the other four. That’d be for the moderator from Variety, film historian and analyst Malcolm Dobbs.
John, Sherlock, Ang and Molly stood up and mounted the stage. The applause intensified, peppered with shouts and whistles. Irene had been to many screenings, and it was rare to get a response like this. Brokeback had gotten it, she recalled, as had Memento.
It took five minutes for everything to die down. Irene got up and relocated to the back of the theater, feeling conspicuous sitting alone up front. She clipped her Bluetooth back into her ear and got ready, just in case.
Malcolm collected his notecards as everyone sat back down, settling in and murmuring. “Gentlemen, Ms. Hooper, congratulations. It’s a remarkable film,” he began.
They all nodded their thanks as the audience applauded anew. “We are proud of it,” Ang said.
“Before we begin, I’d like to interject one personal reaction.” Malcolm hesitated. “John Watson…” he began, and that was as far as he got. The audience broke into mad applause and catcalls, and suddenly they were on their feet again. John looked around, amazed. Ang and Molly rose as well, then Sherlock, laying a hand briefly on John’s shoulder before starting to clap. John half-rose and bowed a bit awkwardly, shrugging it off and holding out “no, no, please” hands, smiling that self-deprecating, humble smile that was often thought to be a put-up job but which Irene knew to be genuine. Everyone calmed, and with that, Dobbs was off. He asked them to discuss the casting, the script, the usual elements of filmmaking. For twenty minutes they spoke in turn, all of them giving answers they’d probably rehearsed in their heads for the questions Dobbs was likely to ask.
The fun, nerve-wracking part would come next. Audience questions.
A bohemian-looking film student was first. “Mr. Holmes, this question is for you. First of all, I loved the film, and I thought you were very good in it.”
Sherlock gave him a nod. “Thank you.”
“You’re known to be a very cerebral actor with a well-defined method to your work. You seemed much looser and more in touch with your emotional side in this film. Can you comment on that?”
Sherlock cleared his throat. “I’ll try. This material was inspiring, but I must give the credit for any differences you noticed in me to my co-star. John and I worked very closely together and I believe we learned a great deal from each other. I trusted him and that’s very important when you’re performing so intimately with another actor. I was able to expand my experience of the craft and I believe my performance was the better for it.”
Irene could see John puffing up a bit with the praise. The next question was from a critic. “John, let’s not mince words. You’re known for date movies and romantic comedies, and your films of late have been lackluster. Did you intentionally seek a role that would let you break out of that mold and demonstrate what you were capable of?”
John sat up straight. “Well, I’ll say that you certainly don’t mince words.” Scattered laughter. “It’s true that I’d become associated with a certain genre of films. I’m proud of many of those films. Not so proud of others. I confess that what I really wished for was a challenge, something that would force me out of my comfort zone, but I’d given up on ever again being offered such a role, so when I got the call to read for this part, it was - well, a sort of miracle. I did and do hope that it will allow me to - how did you put it, Sherlock? Expand my experience of the craft.”
Another film student was next, a young man. “How did you prepare for the love scenes? Neither of you have done romantic scenes with another man before; how was the experience different?”
Irene wasn’t surprised, nor did John and Sherlock appear to be so. They’d all expected many iterations and variations on this question. John and Sherlock looked at each other, exchanging smirky, wink-wink expressions. All calculated, of course, to subtly convey their “hey-we’re-just-buds-but-professionals” personas. “You want to take this one?” John said.
“Please, be my guest.”
“I’ll start, then.” John cleared his throat. “It’s not all that different, actually. You’ve heard a hundred other actors tell you that shooting sex scenes isn’t sexy, and they have not lied to you. Sherlock and I, since we shot this film almost entirely in sequence, had achieved a level of trust and comfort with each other that made it fairly easy. In a way, it was easier than similar scenes with women, when I am always very conscious of their sensibilities. I’m usually terrified of offending them in some way. I wasn’t as concerned about that with Sherlock.”
“It’s a question of getting yourself into the appropriate frame of mind,” Sherlock said. “And letting go of the fear of being seen, and of being honest about how you are seen. That is the hardest task an actor faces.”
Irene nodded a little. They’d pulled that one off well.
A mousy, unassuming young woman had the next question. “As is so often the case with films about lovers, there have been some ugly rumors floating around about your involvement off-camera. Have you heard those rumors? Can you comment on why people make these assumptions?”
Sherlock shifted in his chair. Irene’s brain twigged to something in his posture. Battle stations.
John smiled. “Of course we’ve heard the rumors, everyone has. That’s something we always have to contend with as actors. People confuse the characters we play with who we are as people. Sherlock and I are just good friends. The problem that arises is….
“Ugly rumors?” Sherlock interrupted, leaning forward a little. “Why ugly?”
“She just meant the rumors that - ” John said, trying to redirect.
“I know what she meant, John,” Sherlock said, cutting him off with a gesture. “I’m merely curious about the wording. Ugly rumors. Hmm. I have to wonder. If my co-star were a woman, would those same rumors have been described in this fashion? I don’t think so. They’d have been ‘naughty’ rumors, or ‘sexy’ rumors, or just plain rumors. But since my co-star is a man, this man here, suddenly these rumors are ‘ugly.’” The young woman who’d asked the question was glancing around, looking horrified. The audience was shifting in their seats. John was giving Sherlock a Look. Sherlock harrumphed and pulled himself back a little.
“Rumors of that nature are very common, I think was the salient point,” Dobbs interjected.
“Yes, of course,” Sherlock said, in a calmer tone. “John and I played lovers, so people wonder if we are lovers. Of course we aren’t. John and I are good friends, nothing more. How could we be otherwise? It’s preposterous.” He was toeing the party line, but he had a strange, distracted look in his eyes that Irene did not care for. She could see his face flushing from the back of the auditorium.
Dobbs nodded. “Getting back to your answer, John, would you -- ”
“What if we weren’t?” Sherlock said, abruptly. His eyes had gone all - flashy.
Irene grit her teeth. Oh, shit.
“I’m sorry?” Dobbs said.
Sherlock's fingers were laced together so hard that his knuckles were white. “What if we weren’t just friends? What would that mean, Malcolm?” A murmur ran over the audience. Ang and Molly were looking at Sherlock like he’d gone insane. John was doing his best to appear calm, but his jaw was clenching.
“Sherlock,” John began, reaching out as if to touch his arm but stopping his hand halfway there.
“No, John, I’m curious. Perhaps we ought to ask some questions of our own while we have access to so much Hollywood insight here. What if everything people were saying were true - well, except for that bit about Barbados, anyway, that’s rubbish. Let us speak in terms of the worst case scenario, shall we? What if we were together, and it were discovered? Or even acknowledged? Surely that would be the absolute worst possible situation for us. No one could imagine anything more disastrous than that. What would it mean? Would it mean my career would be over, as well as his? What about this film that we worked so hard on, and which means so much to us? Would it be doomed to failure? Would the film’s quality cease to matter? Would its merits become so insignificant that our private lives would have the power to eclipse them? Would it really be such a calamity that we must speak of it as if the very invocation of these ugly rumors is enough to make us all panic? Tell me, Malcolm. Would the hallowed pages of Variety really disown us and make sure we never worked in this town again for the hideous sin of loving each other?” He stopped, his voice having risen steadily throughout this speech until he was speaking more forcefully than was usual at a friendly Q&A.
The room was so silent it was as if Sherlock’s inhalations had sucked everyone else’s voices from their throats. Sherlock sat there for a moment, swallowing hard, his mouth opening and closing like a fish’s. John was frozen in place, staring at the floor, his jaw clenched so hard that his face had gone all square. Dobbs clearly had no idea what to do.
Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. He looked around and seemed to realize what he’d just done. No one in the room could possibly still think that he had been speaking hypothetically.
Irene could see at least half a dozen people trying to be subtle about going for their phones. It’d be on Twitter within thirty seconds. Sherlock Holmes just outed himself and John Watson as a couple at a Variety screening. Film at eleven. Oh God…film. This Q&A was streaming live on Variety’s website. Who needed Twitter?
“I think we ought to…” Dobbs began.
Sherlock stood up. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. He tore off his body mic, shot an agonized glance down at John, who was not looking at him, and stalked off the stage into the wings.
John turned and watched him go. Dobbs looked at Ang and Molly and seemed ready to redirect the conversation and pretend none of that had happened, but he was once again cut off when John stood up as well. “My apologies,” he said. “Will you please excuse us for a moment?”
Dobbs nodded, looking glad to have something polite to respond to. “Of course.”
John removed his own body mic and followed Sherlock offstage. The whole audience was murmuring now. Dobbs held up a hand. “All right, ladies and gentlemen. I’m sure we’ll have the chance to speak to Sherlock and John again once they return. No doubt you’ll have more questions for them.” A nervous titter of laughter. “Right now, let’s turn to this remarkable screenplay….”
Irene wasn’t listening. She had her own phone out. She sent a text message to Greg, Mike, Harry and Sally as well as her own assistant, Bruno.
Code red, everyone. Implement Action Plan Delta.
John walked offstage, fists clenched, clamping down on his anger. He could see Sherlock in the wings, his back turned, silhouetted by the red glow of an Exit sign. John’s stomach was rolling, he was afraid he might throw up. Panic was crowding out conscious thought with loud, insistent cries of oh fucking arse it’s out it’s all out we are done we are out that’s it it’s all over this is it what the fuck did he just do. He wished he understood what had just happened on that stage. He’d had to restrain himself from tackling Sherlock to the floor to shut him up, but at the same time he’d heard the emotion in Sherlock’s voice, that underlying tremble of not-okay, and he’d wanted to put his arms around him and squeeze him until he told John what the hell was going on. How had he missed it? How had he not known that Sherlock had been so close to the edge? And why had he been that close in the first place? Sherlock was control, Sherlock was rationality, Sherlock wasn’t -- this.
The thought occurred that he still had a few things to learn about this man he loved.
“Sherlock!” he said, pitching his voice low, just above a whisper, fearing that they’d be overheard. Sherlock didn’t move, he just stood there with his hands on his hips and his head hanging down. “You want to tell me what the hell just happened?” No response. John ran a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ. This was not the plan. We are not prepared for this, this wasn’t supposed to happen now, and…Sherlock?” John took a step closer. “God, what were you thinking? Will you turn around and talk to me? We agreed, we fucking agreed on a plan, if you were going to toss it out with the rubbish you could have fucking warned me and…”
He stopped talking when Sherlock turned around. The look on his face made anything else John might say irrelevant. “I’m sorry, John,” he rasped. He looked - God, he looked wrecked. To anyone else he might have looked no more than slightly perturbed, but to John, who knew him so well, he might as well have been sobbing. “I’ve ruined everything. I don’t know what happened. I know you’re angry, I just…”
John grabbed Sherlock’s upper arms. “I’m not angry, I’m confused and you’re scaring me now. What in God’s name is going on? What the hell happened out there? I thought we were okay! I thought things were going so well!”
He nodded. “They were.”
“After the holiday we just had, wasn’t it good?”
“It was better than good. That just made it worse. John, we had to go to a remote wilderness and hide behind locked gates to be together. It isn’t right. We shouldn’t have to hide.”
“No, it isn’t right at all. And I don’t want to hide either, but we - we talked about this, it was only going to be for a few more months, I thought that you…” John shook his head. “What happened? What made you just pop off like that? Can’t you tell me?”
Sherlock just stared at him with hollow, lost eyes. “I can’t do this, John. I can’t do it anymore. I thought I could do it. I tried, I swear to you that I tried, but - I can’t take it.” John watched in horror as Sherlock’s eyes welled up.
“Sherlock, my God,” he whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me how much this was hurting you?”
“I didn’t want you to know. I know how much you need this, I know how much it means to you, and I…”
“Stop,” John said, giving him a quick shake. “You should have told me you were in this much pain. Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you think you had to hide it?”
“I didn’t want you to feel guilty. I didn’t want to pressure you. I made you a promise and I meant to keep it.”
“You think that means more to me than how you feel?”
“No one’s ever cared how I feel before now.”
“Goddammit, I care, Sherlock! Aren’t we a team? Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course I trust you. It’s me I don’t trust. How could I be enough?”
John frowned. “Enough for what?”
“To make all this trouble worth it!” Sherlock said, his head coming up. “I’m not like you, John. You get along with people, you can talk to anyone. People are drawn to you, they want to be your friend, your lover, your brother, your sister. I have never had that gift. I drive people away, and that was always fine with me, because people were always tiresome. I grew up knowing I’d be alone forever, just like they said.”
Anger burned in John’s heart. “Who? Who said that?”
“Everyone! My schoolmates, my teachers, my nannies, even my own mother! I was the freak, the loner, and that was fine. They didn’t want to have anything to do with me; well, I didn’t need them, either. I never thought there’d ever be anyone like you, John. You, who are kind and decent and normal, and you chose me. I don’t have any idea why or how, but you chose me and they were wrong, they were all wrong and I wanted them to know, I wanted everyone in the world to know and see that someone like you, who could have anyone, actually wanted me.” He met John’s eyes again. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever been proud of, John. Anything else I’ve accomplished was the natural result of work and effort and superiority of skill, but you - you are mine because of me, whatever it is that you see in me, and it must be something of value for you to love me. So to sit up there and deny it and hear it called ugly and know that it would be hated and denounced - I don’t know. I lost control. I don’t know how to deal with these kinds of feelings, John. I’m new at this. I just wanted to rub it everyone’s face. And now I’ve fucked it up good and proper. I’m sorry.”
John was speechless. God, how have I failed him so badly? I’ve been given this man’s heart to care for, and it is fragile and untested. I have got to take better care of him. He reached up and pulled Sherlock into his arms, wrapping him up tightly. Sherlock clutched at him; he was shaking, he was actually trembling, and John caught the merest glimpse of the guilt he was in for later. Just the glimpse nearly brought him to his knees. “I’m the one who should be sorry,” he whispered in Sherlock’s ear. “I should have seen. I should have known.”
Sherlock sniffed. “I made sure you didn’t. I am a very good actor, John.”
“You mustn’t act for me. Not ever. Promise me you won’t hide from me.”
“I promise.”
John drew back and kissed him, brushing the wet streaks from his cheeks. “Look at me.” Sherlock met his eyes. John held his face still. “There is nothing more important to me than you. Nothing. Not this film, not my whole sodding career, do you understand?” Sherlock said nothing, just looked at him with disbelieving eyes. “Don’t you fucking talk to me about something of value that I see in you, because it is you that I value, every bit of you, the shiny bits and the dodgy bits and all the bits in between. I don’t love you because of some little glimmer of worthiness that a bunch of fucking wankers convinced you that you didn’t possess. I don’t love you because you deserve it. None of us deserve it, but all of us deserve it. I love you because you are Sherlock Holmes and I am John Watson and we were waiting for each other without knowing it. You don’t have to act a certain way or be a certain person, you don’t have to earn my love, because it is yours no matter what you do and you’re just going to have to get used to it.”
Sherlock smiled, a little hesitantly. He looked like he might speak, but then he stopped and just kissed John again, one hand in his hair, pulling John close with one arm about his waist. John kissed him back and hugged him, both of them exhaling hard, as if setting down a great weight and stretching their cramped shoulders after carrying the heavy burden for longer than they ought to have done. “John,” Sherlock murmured. “I fear that you’ll never know how deeply I love you.”
“Don’t worry,” John said. “I know. And it’s a good thing I do, because you’ve just let us in for a great cracking nightmare.”
Sherlock sighed. “What are we going to do?”
John took another look in his eyes, and he knew just what they had to do. “We’re going to make it right.”
“How can we? I just confessed the whole thing, nobody will ever believe I was speaking hypothetically. Everyone in that hall has a smartphone, it’s probably already all over Twitter.”
“Sherlock. We’ll make it right.”
“I just don’t see how we can fix this.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Of course.”
“Then believe me when I say we’re going to make this right. Are you ready to face the world again?”
Sherlock sighed. “I suppose I’d better be.”
“All right, then.” John turned and walked back out onto the stage, not letting himself hesitate. All eyes snapped right to him. The conversation on the stage ceased at once as if guillotined. He looked back over his shoulder to find that Sherlock had not followed him out. He was standing just offstage in the wings, looking at John with a questioning, hesitant expression.
John felt a wave of peace and calm wash over him, the peace of choosing a path and not looking back, and knowing with absolute confidence that it was the right path.
He held out his hand.
A murmur ran over the audience. Sherlock’s eyes widened a little. John just beckoned him out with a wiggle of his fingers.
Sherlock walked out and grasped the offered hand. John smiled up at him, not bothering to school away the affection from his eyes, and was pleased to see the smile returned. He led Sherlock back to their chairs, where they let go of each other long enough to take their seats and reaffix their microphones to their shirts. “Sorry about that,” John said. He turned and met Sherlock’s eyes; on some tacit signal, they reached out and reclaimed each other’s hand, interlacing their fingers on the arm of John’s chair. He heard a few scattered gasps from the audience, and their murmuring jacked up a notch.
Sherlock cleared his throat, looking around. “Well, what did we miss?” he said.
The audience burst into laughter, more laughter than the remark really merited. Someone began applauding, and it spread and spread until once again, they were on their feet. John felt himself blushing. They were being applauded for it. Actually applauded. He met Sherlock’s eyes and saw the same thought mirrored there. John couldn’t help himself, he broke into a wide, happy grin. And the audience cheered.
They cheered.
John glanced over at Molly, who was crying, and Ang, who was applauding and smiling, but there was concern hovering around his eyes. The audience calmed and resumed their seats.
“Well,” Dobbs said. “I’m not entirely sure how to proceed.”
“If I may, Malcolm?” John said. Dobbs nodded. “This was not the plan. I’d - we’d - like to apologize for the interruption. This evening is about this film, and the last thing we want is to upstage it. So if you’ll just allow me to take a moment first to clear a few things up, I think we ought to return to discussing the film. There’ll be plenty of time to discuss - other matters, and I’m sure we’ll be heartily sick of discussing them before too long, so let’s not linger on the subject tonight.”
Dobbs nodded. “Agreed.”
John went on, addressing the audience. “I assume that sometime in the next day or so, Sherlock and I will release some kind of statement, which doubtless our publicist has already written and is hurriedly revising as we speak. It’ll be moot by then, of course. I don’t think I want to know how many of you have already Tweeted about this.” Nervous chuckles. “Even if you haven’t, this Q&A is being streamed live over the Internet. As I said, this was not our plan. We had intended to wait until well after the film’s release. The necessity of doing so - well, I don’t need to explain it to anyone here. Our careers and the release of this film were a concern. But the cost…” He broke off and looked at Sherlock. “Sometimes the emotional costs of secrecy are too high.” John sighed, squeezing Sherlock’s fingers. “The one thing I think we ought to make clear tonight is that we were not together when we made the film.” Sherlock nodded. “We met at my screen test. We were practically strangers when the shoot began, which was by design, and I must say we didn’t get on so well at first. We soon became close friends, but it did not become anything more until months later. I think that’s important to establish. That’s all I have to say right now. Sherlock? Anything to add?”
He thought for a moment. “Just that it was always our intention to acknowledge our relationship publicly. The fact that we need hide at all for fear of disrupting this film’s release, or that we should fear for our careers - which we both still do, of course - is unacceptable.” Enthusiastic applause. “It is our fervent hope that whatever media attention this draws - and really, it doesn’t merit the sort or the quantity that it will probably receive - will not overshadow the release of this film, which deserves nothing but fair evaluation on its considerable merits.” More applause.
Dobbs nodded. “Thank you, gentlemen. Well said. Now, shall we return to the topic at hand?”
Irene met them in the green room. John had been expecting shrieks of fury, but instead he and Sherlock were greeted with a huge hug that enveloped both of them. Surprised, he hugged her back. “Irene, I’m surprised at you. What’s next? Will I find you reading one of those Oprah books?”
“God forbid. What did you think, John? That I loved helping you hide? That I thought it was terrific that you had to be secretive? That it gave me great satisfaction to restrict your movements and pretend to date Sherlock and watch you both pine for each other even while you were living under the same roof? What sort of ogre do you think I am?”
“A publicist who wants her clients to have careers after this.”
She flapped a hand. “I am a publicist, I am a kick-ass publicist, in fact I am such a badass that your careers will not only fail to wither and die but you will, in fact, skyrocket to new heights of stardom. You watch. I’ve been planning this for months.”
“You planned for an accidental revelation?” Sherlock said.
“I planned for every conceivable contingency, including one in which one of you lost it and spilled the beans yourself, which is exactly what happened. Incidentally, my personal bookkeeping had the odds of your being able to hold out until after the Oscars at less than ten percent. I did think you’d make it until after the film’s release, though.”
“What now? Do we go to the reception?”
“Absolutely. You have nothing to hide, not anymore. This is a friendly group of people, you’ve quite unintentionally chosen the ideal venue for your little coming-out party. Enjoy the calm before the storm, it won’t last long.”
“How bad is it already?” John said, peering at her Blackberry, in her hand as always.
“Well - the first tweet that went out from this audience has already been retweeted ten thousand times.”
John blanched. “Bloody hell.”
“There is a post up about you at every major gossip outlet.” The phone trilled. “Oh - you just made HuffPo.”
“The modern world moves quickly,” Sherlock said, sounding grim. “It’s been how long? An hour?”
Irene smiled. “Let me show you something. This might cheer you up.” She reached into her bag for her iPad. A few taps and she queued up a video. “Harry turned this up a few minutes ago. This was shot on a cell phone at a gay club up in San Francisco about a half hour ago. The club manager stopped the music and got onstage and showed everyone the clip of the Q&A. Here, watch.”
They crowded close to her iPad, Sherlock leaning over John, his hand resting on the back of John’s neck. They watched the video. When it got to the bit where they joined hands at their seats, the whole club went nuclear. Whoever was shooting the jittery video panned around. Men were hugging each other, kissing each other, dancing without music, grinning, cheering. John didn’t know what to think. “I’m not sure I understand,” he said. “That is to say, I understand why it’s important but - they’re so happy about it. It seems so - personal.”
Irene reclaimed the tablet. “You don’t know what you’ve just done, guys. You are both A-list movie stars, and you are now in a publicly acknowledged same-sex relationship. That has never happened before. Ever. It’s unprecedented. Nobody’s going to know what to think or how to react. I’m a little uncertain myself. You’re both too famous to get shunted into comic-relief or gay-best-friend roles.” She snorted a little. “You might say you’re too big to fail.”
“Nobody is too big to fail, not in this business,” Sherlock said.
“As to why these men are happy? Are you serious? Guys - you are heroes now. Do you have any idea how many of them have crushes on one of you? Or both of you? How eagerly they’ve been watching this film’s development? How desperately they’ve wanted to see someone have the courage to just say fuck the police, this is the man I love and you can all go suck rocks? That is what you did tonight, whether you meant to do it or not. It might have been nice to wait, and release a quiet, polite statement next April when the stakes will be lower, but this? This has drama. It has weight. It has ‘mad as hell and can’t take it anymore’ passion. This is what inspires people. And I fucking love you for it, both of you.” She grinned. “Even if I’m not going to be sleeping much for the next few months.”
They went to the reception in the lobby, receiving a healthy round of applause when they appeared. John had expected an immediate deluge of the personal questions about their relationship that they’d shied away from after the screening, but surprisingly, it didn’t happen. Everyone was quite emphatically staying on-topic. “I’m not surprised,” Sherlock muttered, as they paused to get drinks at the open bar. “Everyone’s so eager to prove that they’re above it all, that gossip is of no concern to them and that they’re not watching us like a hawk this very minute.”
“We won’t soon forget this screening,” said a familiar voice behind them. They turned to find Malcolm Dobbs, drink in hand.
“We really didn’t mean to hijack things,” John said.
He shrugged. “I know you didn’t. It’s fine. You handled it with admirable aplomb.”
“I ought to apologize for my outburst,” Sherlock said.
Dobbs eyed him. “If you are, in fact, apologizing, then I accept.”
“You’ve never been a particular fan of mine, Malcolm.”
“You never gave me reason to be. The one time I tried to interview you for the magazine, you left the session in a huff because I was asking too many ‘inane questions.’”
John sighed. “Isn’t he a charmer?”
Dobbs took a drink, speaking in a low voice. “Don’t be fooled, everyone’s talking about it. Just not to you.”
“We know,” Sherlock said. “What’s the consensus?”
“Honestly? Nobody knows what to think. Nothing like this has ever happened before.”
“That’s what Irene says.”
“I’ll say this, though. You’re going to be making a lot of people nervous.”
John frowned. “Nervous? Why?”
“Come on, John. First rule of show business is don’t rock the boat. You two are rocking the boat, and there are a lot of people in that little boat with you. Most of them work hard to keep it calmly sailing along and won’t want it to start rocking.”
“We’re not rocking the boat, we’re abandoning ship, to extend this rather tortured metaphor,” Sherlock said. “They can all keep to their jolly little boat, we just won’t be in it.”
“Watch yourselves. You’re going to have a lot of people patting you on the back so they can look for the best spot to stab you in it.”
It was after ten by the time they climbed into the car again. John had never experienced quite the roller coaster of emotions that he had this night. Right now he felt elated, almost giddy, the release of all his nervous tension making him light-headed. No sooner were they into the back seat then Sherlock pulled him half into his lap and proceeded to kiss him senseless.
Irene sighed as she got behind the wheel. “Don’t make me come back there.”
“Oh, you wish,” John teased her.
She started the car. “Home?”
John pushed Sherlock away with an effort. “I don’t feel like going home yet. I’m too jittery. I rather feel as though I’d had eight cups of coffee.”
“What do you want to do?” Sherlock asked.
John looked at him, at his expectant expression, and he knew. “I’d like to take you out on a date. What do you say, Sherlock? Will you go out with me?”
Sherlock smirked, slow and mischievous. “Only if Mum says it’s all right.”
Irene sighed. “Mum says she has a million things to do, so a decision would be smashing.”
John took Sherlock’s hand. “I’d like to take you to a restaurant, walk in together, get a table, sit there and have dinner where anyone could see us. Like a normal couple.”
“Dinner it is!” Irene said, and rocketed out of the parking lot.
John had her take them to the same restaurant where they’d met up the first time for that short and not-so-sweet chat before the shoot. She dropped them off and handed the keys to the valet. “I’ll leave you the car and get a cab home. I’ll probably be at the house early, so try not to be too naked outside the bedroom, okay?”
They waved goodbye and got a table in a corner booth; they sat next to each other with a shared smile at the sheer novelty of it. The maitre d’ looked a little amazed to see them there together, and John realized that he knew. He glanced around and saw eyes flicking to them and away again. A lot of people here knew. He’d known that word traveled fast in this town, but the speed with which this news was spreading was astonishing.
They ordered wine and for a moment, just sat there staring at each other. John finally dissolved into giggles. “I don’t know what to do,” he said.
Sherlock grinned. “Neither do I. This is so strange. After months of avoiding each other in public, to suddenly be here, it’s - surreal. What does one say on dates?” He looked John up and down. “You look - nice?”
John raised an eyebrow. “You saw me put these clothes on six hours ago.”
“And you have looked nice in them ever since. You always look nice.”
“Gosh, just what a chap likes to hear. That he looks nice.”
“Now you’re just taking the piss.”
“You make it so easy.” He fiddled with his napkin. “It’s going to get bad. Next few days in particular.”
Sherlock nodded. “Am I a terrible person to be half-hoping for a major celebrity death to scoop us off the news cycle?”
“I wouldn’t put it past Irene to poison someone’s Metamucil. Someone who was close to the end anyway, of course.”
“Zsa Zsa Gabor.”
“No, she isn’t famous enough. Kirk Douglas, perhaps.” Their eyes met and they both dissolved into horrified giggles.
“We’re going to hell. Very fast, with malice aforethought,” John stammered.
“If you believe in that sort of thing, we were already on the express line.”
Their wine came, then their food. Sherlock groaned suddenly. John frowned, his fork midway to his mouth. “What?”
“John, I’m on Letterman next week.”
“I know, and I’m on Ellen, and then there’s the whole junket to look forward to. This isn’t our first time on publicity tours. Sherlock, they’re not going to ask.”
“Letterman will ask.”
“He might. You and Irene can work out how to handle it.”
“What should we do about the premiere?”
“What do you mean?”
“Should we go - together?”
John stared at his plate. “I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to think that far ahead.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to think about it now, either. Listen, it isn’t even our job to worry about these things. This is why we pay Irene. No doubt she has a whole action plan with bullet points and staff briefings. We’ll get our marching orders from her. So let’s not talk about it. Let’s talk about anything but, because I am out in public with my dishy partner for the first time and I just want to wallow in it.” He took Sherlock’s hand. “We’re not going to have much time to enjoy each other’s company, not for awhile. It’s going to be a mad two weeks and then we’ll be off to international premieres and I won’t see you for days on end, and then the holidays will be on us before you know it. Let’s just breathe and sit here and talk about normal things like normal people do.”
“I’m not sure I know what normal people talk about.”
John released his hand and went back to his dinner. “Life, Sherlock. Everyday life.”
Sherlock nodded, still looking a little unsure. “All right. I’ll make the attempt.”
Talking about normal things turned out to be easier than they thought. They talked about the fast-approaching holidays and where they ought to spend them. They talked about their house and whether or not some remodeling was in order, which led to a tentative broaching of the idea of selling John’s house and buying or building one together. They talked about Sherlock’s mother, who’d gotten over being scandalized and was now pestering him endlessly to bring John to meet her. They talked about taking a trip, a long indulgent trip together after the Oscars, and where they might like to go.
Before they knew it, it was nearly midnight and their plates had been cleared, the bill paid, and they were just lingering over coffee, holding hands and talking in low voices. John was becoming a little mesmerized watching Sherlock’s lips move.
“We should probably go home,” Sherlock said, his voice a low purr to which John had developed a bit of a Pavlovian response. “Our waiter is giving us the side-eye.”
“Yes, let’s go home. I intend to shag you blind tonight.”
Before Sherlock could respond, the maitre d’ appeared at their table. “Mr. Watson, Mr. Holmes. Pardon my intrusion. I can see that you’re preparing to leave. I thought it prudent to warn you that a group of photographers has assembled outside the main entrance. If you wish, I will have your car brought to the side entrance, which is clear.”
Sherlock nodded. “Thank you, that would be…”
“No,” John said.
“No?” Sherlock echoed.
“No, we’ll leave through the main entrance. Please have our car brought there.”
“But, John - plenty of people in non-scandalous straight relationships use the side entrance to avoid the paparazzi.”
“I know. But tonight, I just…” He sighed. “We only just stopped hiding, Sherlock. I hate the idea of starting again.”
Sherlock shook his head. “You astonish me, John. It was you who wanted us to keep things secret, after all.”
“Yes, it was, and I still don’t think I was wrong. But it’s done now, it’s out, and I am through hiding. I am going to march right out that front door and I am going to hold your hand while I do it.”
“But why?”
John met his eyes. “Because I’m John Watson, I do what I want, and fuck them.”
He saw an excited sort of light come into Sherlock’s face then, the same light he got when he was tackling a difficult scene or a challenging puzzle or something he couldn’t figure out. “Then let’s go,” he said, rising to his feet and holding out his hand for John’s.
John got up and handed the maitre d’ their valet ticket. The man turned to go, then paused and turned back. “I apologize if this is inappropriate, or if I am crossing a boundary, but may I just say - you made us all proud tonight, gentlemen. My heartfelt congratulations and my very best wishes that this goes well for you.”
John blinked, unexpectedly touched. “Thank you.”
They followed him to the door and waited. He signaled them when their car was at the curb. John looked up at Sherlock, squeezed his hand, and they walked out of the restaurant, hanging on tight.
Credit where credit is due: John's callback to Sherlock's statement about his sexuality (I'm John Watson, I do what I want, and fuck them) is entirely due to my amaaaazing beta tzikeh. I don't know why I didn't think of using that phrase, but I didn't (John said something else in the draft) and she suggested it in what is perhaps the best beta note in the history of beta awesomeness.
MetaNotes
1. For those of you who are not American, Fox News is a heavily right-wing slanted news channel likely to vilify John and Sherlock for coming out. Its corresponding lefty channel is MSNBC.
2. The Variety screening series is real; it is a private series of events just like this one and a much-coveted list to be on.
3. The character of Malcolm Dobbs is my invention.
Next Chapter
Author: MadLori
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 9000 (this chapter)
Genre: AU, romance
Warnings: None
Rating: PG-13 (this chapter), NC-17 (whole work)
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 -- Chapter 12
I'd like to take this opportunity to thank some of the awesome friends and readers who have been there for me to bounce ideas off of, read chapters and parts of chapters, and cheerlead: mariemjs, tzikeh, moony, mazarin221b, and special thanks to my Hollywood informant, tinseltowncloud.
Chapter 13
“What should I wear? How formal is this event?”
Sherlock was standing in the closet in his dressing gown, surveying the sartorial options. John was shaving. Irene was lounging on the couch in the master suite. The concept of “boundaries” had more or less broken down among the three of them over the past two months.
“I’m wearing jeans,” John said. “Is that okay, Irene?”
“I’d say so,” she called in from the bedroom.
Sherlock walked into the bathroom, holding a white button-down and a tailored jacket. “What if I wore these, with jeans?”
“Wear the dark ones, with the narrow leg. Your arse looks amazing in those.”
“I didn’t think the point of this was to dress so as to arouse you, John.”
“No. Just a perk. And don’t wear the white button-down, it’ll glow under the lights. Wear something dark, like that wine-colored one. But with the charcoal gray jacket.”
Sherlock nodded. “Your fashion sense is improving.”
“You must be rubbing off on me.” John met Sherlock’s eyes and they both giggled.
“Stop right there, I’m filling in enough innuendo in my head, no need to say it out loud,” Irene said.
John walked out into the bedroom. “I don’t know why, but I’m nervous,” he said.
“We are seeing the product of our labors for the first time,” Sherlock said. “A little anxiety is natural.”
“With all the drama going on around it, it’s easy to forget there’s still an actual film to worry about.”
“It’s one week to the LA premiere,” Irene said, “and two weeks to nationwide release. We can make it. It’s the home stretch.”
John sighed. “It’ll be a relief, but then we just have to face more waiting. And the talk is only going to get worse once they actually see us onscreen together, kissing and having sex and what have you.” He pulled a v-neck jumper over his t-shirt, running a hand through his hair. “It’ll be nice to see Molly again tonight. And Ang, as well. Haven’t seen either of them since we wrapped.”
Sherlock emerged looking perfect, as usual. “They both know, correct?”
Irene nodded. “Everyone associated with the production got a memo.”
John stared at her. “There was a memo? About us?”
“John, they can’t respect your privacy or keep your secrets if they are caught off-guard by a question. That is how people are startled into blurting something out. I’m told that Ang was very supportive, which was a relief.”
“Why wouldn’t he be?” Sherlock said.
“Because if two straight actors play lovers onscreen, then fall in love and ‘turn gay,’” she said, making air quotes, “it’s open season on any actor playing a gay role. It’ll make them even more susceptible to rumor than they already were. We may see a sudden drop in straight actors willing to play gay roles, which is a real problem for directors. For years the business has been saying that playing gay didn’t make you gay. Well, for you two, it did.”
“Leaving aside the half dozen holes I could poke in that argument, I fail to see how their internalized homophobia is our fault,” Sherlock snapped, but John was shaken. That was an angle he hadn’t considered.
“But - playing gay didn’t make me gay,” he said. “I don’t even know that I am gay! And it wasn’t playing that role that made me fall for Sherlock. It was - well, I don’t know what it was, exactly, but it wouldn’t have mattered if we were playing lovers or police partners or archrivals!”
“You really think most people are going to make that distinction?” Irene said. “To most of the world, it’s a simple cause-and-effect. You weren’t gay, you played gay, now you are gay. QED.”
“And here I’ve been worrying about backlash from the Fox News crowd,” John said.
“Oh, don’t worry, you’ll get plenty of that. But I think we’re all going to be unpleasantly surprised from the internal Hollywood backlash. There’s a cone of silence around these things, and you guys coming out is going to be a big old crack in it. That’s going to be threatening to a lot of people.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Sherlock said. “This is supposed to be a warm-up event, is it not? A nice low-stress screening and question session with a private audience who are likely to fawn over us?”
“Well, that is the idea,” Irene said. “I’m not sure we can count on anything being low-stress at this point.”
It had been a very long month.
Perez Hilton’s “revelation” about John and Sherlock’s relationship had been met with skepticism in some quarters and eager salivation in others. As Irene always said, the rule online was “pics or it didn’t happen,” so the collective Internet hive mind went to work. So far, the most incriminating thing was the photo of Sherlock leaving the airport with Harry, which was still easily explained by Sherlock staying at John’s house, but that arrangement was also being questioned. The not-gay camp insisted that Sherlock was, indeed, selling his condo, as a simple real estate search verified, and pointed out that they had freely admitted that they were housemates in the EW article. The gay camp wondered why Sherlock was staying so long with John instead of renting a place, and why it was taking him so long to find a new one.
The level of paparazzi attention to their activities had increased by at least an order of magnitude. Neither of them had ever been particular targets given that they’d always led fairly dull lives without scandal, nubile young starlets or drunken antics. Unfortunately, this was no longer the case. The paps had set up camp at the gated entrance to John’s neighborhood. The tinted windows protected them to a degree, but it wasn’t long before their dogged pursuers figured out which cars were theirs. It wasn’t as if they could hide their license plates.
Happily, their schedules had been very light on public appearances thanks to Irene’s strategizing, so the number of impertinent questions shouted at them during red carpets or press events was minimal. John had attended the opening of an exhibit at the Getty two weeks after Perez broke the story and had, as was his habit, stopped to sign some autographs for fans. A disproportionate number of them wanted him to sign prints of the To a Stranger publicity stills, and he was barraged with shouted questions from reporters and photographers. John, are you gay? Are you and Sherlock living together? Did you hook up during the film? Is this a publicity stunt? He’d been particularly confused by that last one. If it were a publicity stunt, they could hardly expect that he’d admit it.
John was feeling a bit more relaxed than he had been, though. He and Sherlock had just returned from holiday. Sensing their frustration and cabin fever, Irene had sent them to an extremely private, exclusive resort near Mt. Shasta in northern California for a week. John had been afraid to ask how much the place cost. The resort, which catered to the wealthy and those who wanted privacy, like them, consisted of a group of isolated luxury lodges. They’d been pampered and waited on and treated like kings, when they were so inclined, but for the most part they’d been left alone. They’d hiked in the mountains, stretched out on blankets and stargazed on clear nights, and soaked themselves in the hot tub for hours on end. They’d honest-to-God made love in front of a roaring fire. It had been heaven. John had come home feeling refreshed, but Sherlock seemed, if anything, even tenser than before. He’d appeared to enjoy himself during their time away, but as they prepared to return home he’d grown quiet and snappish. John pretended he didn’t notice.
The screening was being held at the Harmony Gold Theater on Sunset Boulevard. It was a novel sensation to actually ride in the same car as Sherlock, after months of strictly enforced public separation. They would be all but joined at the hip for the next few weeks for the press events. John wasn’t sure he wouldn’t rather do things separately. Standing and walking with Sherlock, posing for photos - he’d have to work hard to suppress what by now had become natural: touching him casually, holding his hand, kissing him when the urge struck.
Irene parked in the gated lot reserved for the theater’s special guests, and they made their way inside where they were shown to a green room. Molly and Ang were there; they exchanged hugs and handshakes. Molly looked from one to the other, her eyes shining. “It’s really true, then?” she said, beaming.
John glanced at Sherlock. “I’m afraid so, Molly. I’m sorry, but Sherlock’s off the market.”
She slapped at him, laughing. “Oh, don’t be silly, I’m thrilled for you.” Ang was smiling, but he did not comment. John was glad that he wasn’t upset, but the last thing he wanted was to upstage Ang’s film, so the less the matter was discussed, the better.
A woman with an earpiece and a clipboard came in. “All right, folks, the audience is taking their seats. You can sneak in when we lower the house lights. Once the screening is over, we’ll set up chairs on the stage and you’ll join the moderator there, he’ll ask a few questions to get things rolling, then we’ll open it up for questions from the audience. We set aside some tickets for film students as you requested, Mr. Holmes, and they were snapped up in an instant. Expect lots of process questions,” she said, with a wink.
“Our favorite kind, I’m sure,” Sherlock said.
John glanced at him, wondering if he were as anxious as John felt. To finally see this film, which had meant so much to both of them - well, he didn’t know how he’d feel. Watching Benjamin and Mark discover their relationship would be to remember himself and Sherlock discovering theirs. Above all, he hoped it was as good as they all thought it would be. He hoped it would be worth all the sacrifices he and Sherlock were making for it.
They entered the auditorium once the house lights were down. A quick few screens of upcoming events for the Variety series were being shown. They snuck into the seats that had been roped off for them in the front row. John wondered if he could risk holding Sherlock’s hand under cover of darkness. He didn’t have much time to ponder this question before the film began.
Andrew Bird’s score was the first thing he heard. It was minimalist but evocative, a plaintive violin and a piano. A quiet guitar joined in. The opening was brief, only the studio credits and “an Ang Lee film.” No cast names, no writing credits.
Then - smash cut to the hospital waiting room. A couch, viewed straight on, the desaturation making it seem even lonelier for the single person in the shot. Mark, on the far left, seated alone, knees together, looking straight ahead.
John took a deep breath. Here we go.
Irene sat there as the credits rolled, Andrew Bird’s quiet voice singing the song he’d composed as the film’s theme. She heard Molly sniffling over to her right. John and Sherlock were on her left and they were practically vibrating with the effort of not holding hands.
The audience was eerily quiet, listening to the song. Nobody was talking or clapping or shifting in their seats.
The song ended, giving way to instrumental score as the credits rolled on. The applause started somewhere in the back of the auditorium and within a few seconds became a crashing, deafening roar. The audience all but leapt to their feet as the house lights came up.
She glanced to her left and caught Sherlock looking at John. The expression on his face said it all. “It’s worth it,” he whispered. John nodded.
The stagehands were quickly and efficiently moving five chairs onto the stage, one of them set a bit apart and facing the other four. That’d be for the moderator from Variety, film historian and analyst Malcolm Dobbs.
John, Sherlock, Ang and Molly stood up and mounted the stage. The applause intensified, peppered with shouts and whistles. Irene had been to many screenings, and it was rare to get a response like this. Brokeback had gotten it, she recalled, as had Memento.
It took five minutes for everything to die down. Irene got up and relocated to the back of the theater, feeling conspicuous sitting alone up front. She clipped her Bluetooth back into her ear and got ready, just in case.
Malcolm collected his notecards as everyone sat back down, settling in and murmuring. “Gentlemen, Ms. Hooper, congratulations. It’s a remarkable film,” he began.
They all nodded their thanks as the audience applauded anew. “We are proud of it,” Ang said.
“Before we begin, I’d like to interject one personal reaction.” Malcolm hesitated. “John Watson…” he began, and that was as far as he got. The audience broke into mad applause and catcalls, and suddenly they were on their feet again. John looked around, amazed. Ang and Molly rose as well, then Sherlock, laying a hand briefly on John’s shoulder before starting to clap. John half-rose and bowed a bit awkwardly, shrugging it off and holding out “no, no, please” hands, smiling that self-deprecating, humble smile that was often thought to be a put-up job but which Irene knew to be genuine. Everyone calmed, and with that, Dobbs was off. He asked them to discuss the casting, the script, the usual elements of filmmaking. For twenty minutes they spoke in turn, all of them giving answers they’d probably rehearsed in their heads for the questions Dobbs was likely to ask.
The fun, nerve-wracking part would come next. Audience questions.
A bohemian-looking film student was first. “Mr. Holmes, this question is for you. First of all, I loved the film, and I thought you were very good in it.”
Sherlock gave him a nod. “Thank you.”
“You’re known to be a very cerebral actor with a well-defined method to your work. You seemed much looser and more in touch with your emotional side in this film. Can you comment on that?”
Sherlock cleared his throat. “I’ll try. This material was inspiring, but I must give the credit for any differences you noticed in me to my co-star. John and I worked very closely together and I believe we learned a great deal from each other. I trusted him and that’s very important when you’re performing so intimately with another actor. I was able to expand my experience of the craft and I believe my performance was the better for it.”
Irene could see John puffing up a bit with the praise. The next question was from a critic. “John, let’s not mince words. You’re known for date movies and romantic comedies, and your films of late have been lackluster. Did you intentionally seek a role that would let you break out of that mold and demonstrate what you were capable of?”
John sat up straight. “Well, I’ll say that you certainly don’t mince words.” Scattered laughter. “It’s true that I’d become associated with a certain genre of films. I’m proud of many of those films. Not so proud of others. I confess that what I really wished for was a challenge, something that would force me out of my comfort zone, but I’d given up on ever again being offered such a role, so when I got the call to read for this part, it was - well, a sort of miracle. I did and do hope that it will allow me to - how did you put it, Sherlock? Expand my experience of the craft.”
Another film student was next, a young man. “How did you prepare for the love scenes? Neither of you have done romantic scenes with another man before; how was the experience different?”
Irene wasn’t surprised, nor did John and Sherlock appear to be so. They’d all expected many iterations and variations on this question. John and Sherlock looked at each other, exchanging smirky, wink-wink expressions. All calculated, of course, to subtly convey their “hey-we’re-just-buds-but-professionals” personas. “You want to take this one?” John said.
“Please, be my guest.”
“I’ll start, then.” John cleared his throat. “It’s not all that different, actually. You’ve heard a hundred other actors tell you that shooting sex scenes isn’t sexy, and they have not lied to you. Sherlock and I, since we shot this film almost entirely in sequence, had achieved a level of trust and comfort with each other that made it fairly easy. In a way, it was easier than similar scenes with women, when I am always very conscious of their sensibilities. I’m usually terrified of offending them in some way. I wasn’t as concerned about that with Sherlock.”
“It’s a question of getting yourself into the appropriate frame of mind,” Sherlock said. “And letting go of the fear of being seen, and of being honest about how you are seen. That is the hardest task an actor faces.”
Irene nodded a little. They’d pulled that one off well.
A mousy, unassuming young woman had the next question. “As is so often the case with films about lovers, there have been some ugly rumors floating around about your involvement off-camera. Have you heard those rumors? Can you comment on why people make these assumptions?”
Sherlock shifted in his chair. Irene’s brain twigged to something in his posture. Battle stations.
John smiled. “Of course we’ve heard the rumors, everyone has. That’s something we always have to contend with as actors. People confuse the characters we play with who we are as people. Sherlock and I are just good friends. The problem that arises is….
“Ugly rumors?” Sherlock interrupted, leaning forward a little. “Why ugly?”
“She just meant the rumors that - ” John said, trying to redirect.
“I know what she meant, John,” Sherlock said, cutting him off with a gesture. “I’m merely curious about the wording. Ugly rumors. Hmm. I have to wonder. If my co-star were a woman, would those same rumors have been described in this fashion? I don’t think so. They’d have been ‘naughty’ rumors, or ‘sexy’ rumors, or just plain rumors. But since my co-star is a man, this man here, suddenly these rumors are ‘ugly.’” The young woman who’d asked the question was glancing around, looking horrified. The audience was shifting in their seats. John was giving Sherlock a Look. Sherlock harrumphed and pulled himself back a little.
“Rumors of that nature are very common, I think was the salient point,” Dobbs interjected.
“Yes, of course,” Sherlock said, in a calmer tone. “John and I played lovers, so people wonder if we are lovers. Of course we aren’t. John and I are good friends, nothing more. How could we be otherwise? It’s preposterous.” He was toeing the party line, but he had a strange, distracted look in his eyes that Irene did not care for. She could see his face flushing from the back of the auditorium.
Dobbs nodded. “Getting back to your answer, John, would you -- ”
“What if we weren’t?” Sherlock said, abruptly. His eyes had gone all - flashy.
Irene grit her teeth. Oh, shit.
“I’m sorry?” Dobbs said.
Sherlock's fingers were laced together so hard that his knuckles were white. “What if we weren’t just friends? What would that mean, Malcolm?” A murmur ran over the audience. Ang and Molly were looking at Sherlock like he’d gone insane. John was doing his best to appear calm, but his jaw was clenching.
“Sherlock,” John began, reaching out as if to touch his arm but stopping his hand halfway there.
“No, John, I’m curious. Perhaps we ought to ask some questions of our own while we have access to so much Hollywood insight here. What if everything people were saying were true - well, except for that bit about Barbados, anyway, that’s rubbish. Let us speak in terms of the worst case scenario, shall we? What if we were together, and it were discovered? Or even acknowledged? Surely that would be the absolute worst possible situation for us. No one could imagine anything more disastrous than that. What would it mean? Would it mean my career would be over, as well as his? What about this film that we worked so hard on, and which means so much to us? Would it be doomed to failure? Would the film’s quality cease to matter? Would its merits become so insignificant that our private lives would have the power to eclipse them? Would it really be such a calamity that we must speak of it as if the very invocation of these ugly rumors is enough to make us all panic? Tell me, Malcolm. Would the hallowed pages of Variety really disown us and make sure we never worked in this town again for the hideous sin of loving each other?” He stopped, his voice having risen steadily throughout this speech until he was speaking more forcefully than was usual at a friendly Q&A.
The room was so silent it was as if Sherlock’s inhalations had sucked everyone else’s voices from their throats. Sherlock sat there for a moment, swallowing hard, his mouth opening and closing like a fish’s. John was frozen in place, staring at the floor, his jaw clenched so hard that his face had gone all square. Dobbs clearly had no idea what to do.
Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. He looked around and seemed to realize what he’d just done. No one in the room could possibly still think that he had been speaking hypothetically.
Irene could see at least half a dozen people trying to be subtle about going for their phones. It’d be on Twitter within thirty seconds. Sherlock Holmes just outed himself and John Watson as a couple at a Variety screening. Film at eleven. Oh God…film. This Q&A was streaming live on Variety’s website. Who needed Twitter?
“I think we ought to…” Dobbs began.
Sherlock stood up. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. He tore off his body mic, shot an agonized glance down at John, who was not looking at him, and stalked off the stage into the wings.
John turned and watched him go. Dobbs looked at Ang and Molly and seemed ready to redirect the conversation and pretend none of that had happened, but he was once again cut off when John stood up as well. “My apologies,” he said. “Will you please excuse us for a moment?”
Dobbs nodded, looking glad to have something polite to respond to. “Of course.”
John removed his own body mic and followed Sherlock offstage. The whole audience was murmuring now. Dobbs held up a hand. “All right, ladies and gentlemen. I’m sure we’ll have the chance to speak to Sherlock and John again once they return. No doubt you’ll have more questions for them.” A nervous titter of laughter. “Right now, let’s turn to this remarkable screenplay….”
Irene wasn’t listening. She had her own phone out. She sent a text message to Greg, Mike, Harry and Sally as well as her own assistant, Bruno.
Code red, everyone. Implement Action Plan Delta.
John walked offstage, fists clenched, clamping down on his anger. He could see Sherlock in the wings, his back turned, silhouetted by the red glow of an Exit sign. John’s stomach was rolling, he was afraid he might throw up. Panic was crowding out conscious thought with loud, insistent cries of oh fucking arse it’s out it’s all out we are done we are out that’s it it’s all over this is it what the fuck did he just do. He wished he understood what had just happened on that stage. He’d had to restrain himself from tackling Sherlock to the floor to shut him up, but at the same time he’d heard the emotion in Sherlock’s voice, that underlying tremble of not-okay, and he’d wanted to put his arms around him and squeeze him until he told John what the hell was going on. How had he missed it? How had he not known that Sherlock had been so close to the edge? And why had he been that close in the first place? Sherlock was control, Sherlock was rationality, Sherlock wasn’t -- this.
The thought occurred that he still had a few things to learn about this man he loved.
“Sherlock!” he said, pitching his voice low, just above a whisper, fearing that they’d be overheard. Sherlock didn’t move, he just stood there with his hands on his hips and his head hanging down. “You want to tell me what the hell just happened?” No response. John ran a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ. This was not the plan. We are not prepared for this, this wasn’t supposed to happen now, and…Sherlock?” John took a step closer. “God, what were you thinking? Will you turn around and talk to me? We agreed, we fucking agreed on a plan, if you were going to toss it out with the rubbish you could have fucking warned me and…”
He stopped talking when Sherlock turned around. The look on his face made anything else John might say irrelevant. “I’m sorry, John,” he rasped. He looked - God, he looked wrecked. To anyone else he might have looked no more than slightly perturbed, but to John, who knew him so well, he might as well have been sobbing. “I’ve ruined everything. I don’t know what happened. I know you’re angry, I just…”
John grabbed Sherlock’s upper arms. “I’m not angry, I’m confused and you’re scaring me now. What in God’s name is going on? What the hell happened out there? I thought we were okay! I thought things were going so well!”
He nodded. “They were.”
“After the holiday we just had, wasn’t it good?”
“It was better than good. That just made it worse. John, we had to go to a remote wilderness and hide behind locked gates to be together. It isn’t right. We shouldn’t have to hide.”
“No, it isn’t right at all. And I don’t want to hide either, but we - we talked about this, it was only going to be for a few more months, I thought that you…” John shook his head. “What happened? What made you just pop off like that? Can’t you tell me?”
Sherlock just stared at him with hollow, lost eyes. “I can’t do this, John. I can’t do it anymore. I thought I could do it. I tried, I swear to you that I tried, but - I can’t take it.” John watched in horror as Sherlock’s eyes welled up.
“Sherlock, my God,” he whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me how much this was hurting you?”
“I didn’t want you to know. I know how much you need this, I know how much it means to you, and I…”
“Stop,” John said, giving him a quick shake. “You should have told me you were in this much pain. Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you think you had to hide it?”
“I didn’t want you to feel guilty. I didn’t want to pressure you. I made you a promise and I meant to keep it.”
“You think that means more to me than how you feel?”
“No one’s ever cared how I feel before now.”
“Goddammit, I care, Sherlock! Aren’t we a team? Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course I trust you. It’s me I don’t trust. How could I be enough?”
John frowned. “Enough for what?”
“To make all this trouble worth it!” Sherlock said, his head coming up. “I’m not like you, John. You get along with people, you can talk to anyone. People are drawn to you, they want to be your friend, your lover, your brother, your sister. I have never had that gift. I drive people away, and that was always fine with me, because people were always tiresome. I grew up knowing I’d be alone forever, just like they said.”
Anger burned in John’s heart. “Who? Who said that?”
“Everyone! My schoolmates, my teachers, my nannies, even my own mother! I was the freak, the loner, and that was fine. They didn’t want to have anything to do with me; well, I didn’t need them, either. I never thought there’d ever be anyone like you, John. You, who are kind and decent and normal, and you chose me. I don’t have any idea why or how, but you chose me and they were wrong, they were all wrong and I wanted them to know, I wanted everyone in the world to know and see that someone like you, who could have anyone, actually wanted me.” He met John’s eyes again. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever been proud of, John. Anything else I’ve accomplished was the natural result of work and effort and superiority of skill, but you - you are mine because of me, whatever it is that you see in me, and it must be something of value for you to love me. So to sit up there and deny it and hear it called ugly and know that it would be hated and denounced - I don’t know. I lost control. I don’t know how to deal with these kinds of feelings, John. I’m new at this. I just wanted to rub it everyone’s face. And now I’ve fucked it up good and proper. I’m sorry.”
John was speechless. God, how have I failed him so badly? I’ve been given this man’s heart to care for, and it is fragile and untested. I have got to take better care of him. He reached up and pulled Sherlock into his arms, wrapping him up tightly. Sherlock clutched at him; he was shaking, he was actually trembling, and John caught the merest glimpse of the guilt he was in for later. Just the glimpse nearly brought him to his knees. “I’m the one who should be sorry,” he whispered in Sherlock’s ear. “I should have seen. I should have known.”
Sherlock sniffed. “I made sure you didn’t. I am a very good actor, John.”
“You mustn’t act for me. Not ever. Promise me you won’t hide from me.”
“I promise.”
John drew back and kissed him, brushing the wet streaks from his cheeks. “Look at me.” Sherlock met his eyes. John held his face still. “There is nothing more important to me than you. Nothing. Not this film, not my whole sodding career, do you understand?” Sherlock said nothing, just looked at him with disbelieving eyes. “Don’t you fucking talk to me about something of value that I see in you, because it is you that I value, every bit of you, the shiny bits and the dodgy bits and all the bits in between. I don’t love you because of some little glimmer of worthiness that a bunch of fucking wankers convinced you that you didn’t possess. I don’t love you because you deserve it. None of us deserve it, but all of us deserve it. I love you because you are Sherlock Holmes and I am John Watson and we were waiting for each other without knowing it. You don’t have to act a certain way or be a certain person, you don’t have to earn my love, because it is yours no matter what you do and you’re just going to have to get used to it.”
Sherlock smiled, a little hesitantly. He looked like he might speak, but then he stopped and just kissed John again, one hand in his hair, pulling John close with one arm about his waist. John kissed him back and hugged him, both of them exhaling hard, as if setting down a great weight and stretching their cramped shoulders after carrying the heavy burden for longer than they ought to have done. “John,” Sherlock murmured. “I fear that you’ll never know how deeply I love you.”
“Don’t worry,” John said. “I know. And it’s a good thing I do, because you’ve just let us in for a great cracking nightmare.”
Sherlock sighed. “What are we going to do?”
John took another look in his eyes, and he knew just what they had to do. “We’re going to make it right.”
“How can we? I just confessed the whole thing, nobody will ever believe I was speaking hypothetically. Everyone in that hall has a smartphone, it’s probably already all over Twitter.”
“Sherlock. We’ll make it right.”
“I just don’t see how we can fix this.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Of course.”
“Then believe me when I say we’re going to make this right. Are you ready to face the world again?”
Sherlock sighed. “I suppose I’d better be.”
“All right, then.” John turned and walked back out onto the stage, not letting himself hesitate. All eyes snapped right to him. The conversation on the stage ceased at once as if guillotined. He looked back over his shoulder to find that Sherlock had not followed him out. He was standing just offstage in the wings, looking at John with a questioning, hesitant expression.
John felt a wave of peace and calm wash over him, the peace of choosing a path and not looking back, and knowing with absolute confidence that it was the right path.
He held out his hand.
A murmur ran over the audience. Sherlock’s eyes widened a little. John just beckoned him out with a wiggle of his fingers.
Sherlock walked out and grasped the offered hand. John smiled up at him, not bothering to school away the affection from his eyes, and was pleased to see the smile returned. He led Sherlock back to their chairs, where they let go of each other long enough to take their seats and reaffix their microphones to their shirts. “Sorry about that,” John said. He turned and met Sherlock’s eyes; on some tacit signal, they reached out and reclaimed each other’s hand, interlacing their fingers on the arm of John’s chair. He heard a few scattered gasps from the audience, and their murmuring jacked up a notch.
Sherlock cleared his throat, looking around. “Well, what did we miss?” he said.
The audience burst into laughter, more laughter than the remark really merited. Someone began applauding, and it spread and spread until once again, they were on their feet. John felt himself blushing. They were being applauded for it. Actually applauded. He met Sherlock’s eyes and saw the same thought mirrored there. John couldn’t help himself, he broke into a wide, happy grin. And the audience cheered.
They cheered.
John glanced over at Molly, who was crying, and Ang, who was applauding and smiling, but there was concern hovering around his eyes. The audience calmed and resumed their seats.
“Well,” Dobbs said. “I’m not entirely sure how to proceed.”
“If I may, Malcolm?” John said. Dobbs nodded. “This was not the plan. I’d - we’d - like to apologize for the interruption. This evening is about this film, and the last thing we want is to upstage it. So if you’ll just allow me to take a moment first to clear a few things up, I think we ought to return to discussing the film. There’ll be plenty of time to discuss - other matters, and I’m sure we’ll be heartily sick of discussing them before too long, so let’s not linger on the subject tonight.”
Dobbs nodded. “Agreed.”
John went on, addressing the audience. “I assume that sometime in the next day or so, Sherlock and I will release some kind of statement, which doubtless our publicist has already written and is hurriedly revising as we speak. It’ll be moot by then, of course. I don’t think I want to know how many of you have already Tweeted about this.” Nervous chuckles. “Even if you haven’t, this Q&A is being streamed live over the Internet. As I said, this was not our plan. We had intended to wait until well after the film’s release. The necessity of doing so - well, I don’t need to explain it to anyone here. Our careers and the release of this film were a concern. But the cost…” He broke off and looked at Sherlock. “Sometimes the emotional costs of secrecy are too high.” John sighed, squeezing Sherlock’s fingers. “The one thing I think we ought to make clear tonight is that we were not together when we made the film.” Sherlock nodded. “We met at my screen test. We were practically strangers when the shoot began, which was by design, and I must say we didn’t get on so well at first. We soon became close friends, but it did not become anything more until months later. I think that’s important to establish. That’s all I have to say right now. Sherlock? Anything to add?”
He thought for a moment. “Just that it was always our intention to acknowledge our relationship publicly. The fact that we need hide at all for fear of disrupting this film’s release, or that we should fear for our careers - which we both still do, of course - is unacceptable.” Enthusiastic applause. “It is our fervent hope that whatever media attention this draws - and really, it doesn’t merit the sort or the quantity that it will probably receive - will not overshadow the release of this film, which deserves nothing but fair evaluation on its considerable merits.” More applause.
Dobbs nodded. “Thank you, gentlemen. Well said. Now, shall we return to the topic at hand?”
Irene met them in the green room. John had been expecting shrieks of fury, but instead he and Sherlock were greeted with a huge hug that enveloped both of them. Surprised, he hugged her back. “Irene, I’m surprised at you. What’s next? Will I find you reading one of those Oprah books?”
“God forbid. What did you think, John? That I loved helping you hide? That I thought it was terrific that you had to be secretive? That it gave me great satisfaction to restrict your movements and pretend to date Sherlock and watch you both pine for each other even while you were living under the same roof? What sort of ogre do you think I am?”
“A publicist who wants her clients to have careers after this.”
She flapped a hand. “I am a publicist, I am a kick-ass publicist, in fact I am such a badass that your careers will not only fail to wither and die but you will, in fact, skyrocket to new heights of stardom. You watch. I’ve been planning this for months.”
“You planned for an accidental revelation?” Sherlock said.
“I planned for every conceivable contingency, including one in which one of you lost it and spilled the beans yourself, which is exactly what happened. Incidentally, my personal bookkeeping had the odds of your being able to hold out until after the Oscars at less than ten percent. I did think you’d make it until after the film’s release, though.”
“What now? Do we go to the reception?”
“Absolutely. You have nothing to hide, not anymore. This is a friendly group of people, you’ve quite unintentionally chosen the ideal venue for your little coming-out party. Enjoy the calm before the storm, it won’t last long.”
“How bad is it already?” John said, peering at her Blackberry, in her hand as always.
“Well - the first tweet that went out from this audience has already been retweeted ten thousand times.”
John blanched. “Bloody hell.”
“There is a post up about you at every major gossip outlet.” The phone trilled. “Oh - you just made HuffPo.”
“The modern world moves quickly,” Sherlock said, sounding grim. “It’s been how long? An hour?”
Irene smiled. “Let me show you something. This might cheer you up.” She reached into her bag for her iPad. A few taps and she queued up a video. “Harry turned this up a few minutes ago. This was shot on a cell phone at a gay club up in San Francisco about a half hour ago. The club manager stopped the music and got onstage and showed everyone the clip of the Q&A. Here, watch.”
They crowded close to her iPad, Sherlock leaning over John, his hand resting on the back of John’s neck. They watched the video. When it got to the bit where they joined hands at their seats, the whole club went nuclear. Whoever was shooting the jittery video panned around. Men were hugging each other, kissing each other, dancing without music, grinning, cheering. John didn’t know what to think. “I’m not sure I understand,” he said. “That is to say, I understand why it’s important but - they’re so happy about it. It seems so - personal.”
Irene reclaimed the tablet. “You don’t know what you’ve just done, guys. You are both A-list movie stars, and you are now in a publicly acknowledged same-sex relationship. That has never happened before. Ever. It’s unprecedented. Nobody’s going to know what to think or how to react. I’m a little uncertain myself. You’re both too famous to get shunted into comic-relief or gay-best-friend roles.” She snorted a little. “You might say you’re too big to fail.”
“Nobody is too big to fail, not in this business,” Sherlock said.
“As to why these men are happy? Are you serious? Guys - you are heroes now. Do you have any idea how many of them have crushes on one of you? Or both of you? How eagerly they’ve been watching this film’s development? How desperately they’ve wanted to see someone have the courage to just say fuck the police, this is the man I love and you can all go suck rocks? That is what you did tonight, whether you meant to do it or not. It might have been nice to wait, and release a quiet, polite statement next April when the stakes will be lower, but this? This has drama. It has weight. It has ‘mad as hell and can’t take it anymore’ passion. This is what inspires people. And I fucking love you for it, both of you.” She grinned. “Even if I’m not going to be sleeping much for the next few months.”
They went to the reception in the lobby, receiving a healthy round of applause when they appeared. John had expected an immediate deluge of the personal questions about their relationship that they’d shied away from after the screening, but surprisingly, it didn’t happen. Everyone was quite emphatically staying on-topic. “I’m not surprised,” Sherlock muttered, as they paused to get drinks at the open bar. “Everyone’s so eager to prove that they’re above it all, that gossip is of no concern to them and that they’re not watching us like a hawk this very minute.”
“We won’t soon forget this screening,” said a familiar voice behind them. They turned to find Malcolm Dobbs, drink in hand.
“We really didn’t mean to hijack things,” John said.
He shrugged. “I know you didn’t. It’s fine. You handled it with admirable aplomb.”
“I ought to apologize for my outburst,” Sherlock said.
Dobbs eyed him. “If you are, in fact, apologizing, then I accept.”
“You’ve never been a particular fan of mine, Malcolm.”
“You never gave me reason to be. The one time I tried to interview you for the magazine, you left the session in a huff because I was asking too many ‘inane questions.’”
John sighed. “Isn’t he a charmer?”
Dobbs took a drink, speaking in a low voice. “Don’t be fooled, everyone’s talking about it. Just not to you.”
“We know,” Sherlock said. “What’s the consensus?”
“Honestly? Nobody knows what to think. Nothing like this has ever happened before.”
“That’s what Irene says.”
“I’ll say this, though. You’re going to be making a lot of people nervous.”
John frowned. “Nervous? Why?”
“Come on, John. First rule of show business is don’t rock the boat. You two are rocking the boat, and there are a lot of people in that little boat with you. Most of them work hard to keep it calmly sailing along and won’t want it to start rocking.”
“We’re not rocking the boat, we’re abandoning ship, to extend this rather tortured metaphor,” Sherlock said. “They can all keep to their jolly little boat, we just won’t be in it.”
“Watch yourselves. You’re going to have a lot of people patting you on the back so they can look for the best spot to stab you in it.”
It was after ten by the time they climbed into the car again. John had never experienced quite the roller coaster of emotions that he had this night. Right now he felt elated, almost giddy, the release of all his nervous tension making him light-headed. No sooner were they into the back seat then Sherlock pulled him half into his lap and proceeded to kiss him senseless.
Irene sighed as she got behind the wheel. “Don’t make me come back there.”
“Oh, you wish,” John teased her.
She started the car. “Home?”
John pushed Sherlock away with an effort. “I don’t feel like going home yet. I’m too jittery. I rather feel as though I’d had eight cups of coffee.”
“What do you want to do?” Sherlock asked.
John looked at him, at his expectant expression, and he knew. “I’d like to take you out on a date. What do you say, Sherlock? Will you go out with me?”
Sherlock smirked, slow and mischievous. “Only if Mum says it’s all right.”
Irene sighed. “Mum says she has a million things to do, so a decision would be smashing.”
John took Sherlock’s hand. “I’d like to take you to a restaurant, walk in together, get a table, sit there and have dinner where anyone could see us. Like a normal couple.”
“Dinner it is!” Irene said, and rocketed out of the parking lot.
John had her take them to the same restaurant where they’d met up the first time for that short and not-so-sweet chat before the shoot. She dropped them off and handed the keys to the valet. “I’ll leave you the car and get a cab home. I’ll probably be at the house early, so try not to be too naked outside the bedroom, okay?”
They waved goodbye and got a table in a corner booth; they sat next to each other with a shared smile at the sheer novelty of it. The maitre d’ looked a little amazed to see them there together, and John realized that he knew. He glanced around and saw eyes flicking to them and away again. A lot of people here knew. He’d known that word traveled fast in this town, but the speed with which this news was spreading was astonishing.
They ordered wine and for a moment, just sat there staring at each other. John finally dissolved into giggles. “I don’t know what to do,” he said.
Sherlock grinned. “Neither do I. This is so strange. After months of avoiding each other in public, to suddenly be here, it’s - surreal. What does one say on dates?” He looked John up and down. “You look - nice?”
John raised an eyebrow. “You saw me put these clothes on six hours ago.”
“And you have looked nice in them ever since. You always look nice.”
“Gosh, just what a chap likes to hear. That he looks nice.”
“Now you’re just taking the piss.”
“You make it so easy.” He fiddled with his napkin. “It’s going to get bad. Next few days in particular.”
Sherlock nodded. “Am I a terrible person to be half-hoping for a major celebrity death to scoop us off the news cycle?”
“I wouldn’t put it past Irene to poison someone’s Metamucil. Someone who was close to the end anyway, of course.”
“Zsa Zsa Gabor.”
“No, she isn’t famous enough. Kirk Douglas, perhaps.” Their eyes met and they both dissolved into horrified giggles.
“We’re going to hell. Very fast, with malice aforethought,” John stammered.
“If you believe in that sort of thing, we were already on the express line.”
Their wine came, then their food. Sherlock groaned suddenly. John frowned, his fork midway to his mouth. “What?”
“John, I’m on Letterman next week.”
“I know, and I’m on Ellen, and then there’s the whole junket to look forward to. This isn’t our first time on publicity tours. Sherlock, they’re not going to ask.”
“Letterman will ask.”
“He might. You and Irene can work out how to handle it.”
“What should we do about the premiere?”
“What do you mean?”
“Should we go - together?”
John stared at his plate. “I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to think that far ahead.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to think about it now, either. Listen, it isn’t even our job to worry about these things. This is why we pay Irene. No doubt she has a whole action plan with bullet points and staff briefings. We’ll get our marching orders from her. So let’s not talk about it. Let’s talk about anything but, because I am out in public with my dishy partner for the first time and I just want to wallow in it.” He took Sherlock’s hand. “We’re not going to have much time to enjoy each other’s company, not for awhile. It’s going to be a mad two weeks and then we’ll be off to international premieres and I won’t see you for days on end, and then the holidays will be on us before you know it. Let’s just breathe and sit here and talk about normal things like normal people do.”
“I’m not sure I know what normal people talk about.”
John released his hand and went back to his dinner. “Life, Sherlock. Everyday life.”
Sherlock nodded, still looking a little unsure. “All right. I’ll make the attempt.”
Talking about normal things turned out to be easier than they thought. They talked about the fast-approaching holidays and where they ought to spend them. They talked about their house and whether or not some remodeling was in order, which led to a tentative broaching of the idea of selling John’s house and buying or building one together. They talked about Sherlock’s mother, who’d gotten over being scandalized and was now pestering him endlessly to bring John to meet her. They talked about taking a trip, a long indulgent trip together after the Oscars, and where they might like to go.
Before they knew it, it was nearly midnight and their plates had been cleared, the bill paid, and they were just lingering over coffee, holding hands and talking in low voices. John was becoming a little mesmerized watching Sherlock’s lips move.
“We should probably go home,” Sherlock said, his voice a low purr to which John had developed a bit of a Pavlovian response. “Our waiter is giving us the side-eye.”
“Yes, let’s go home. I intend to shag you blind tonight.”
Before Sherlock could respond, the maitre d’ appeared at their table. “Mr. Watson, Mr. Holmes. Pardon my intrusion. I can see that you’re preparing to leave. I thought it prudent to warn you that a group of photographers has assembled outside the main entrance. If you wish, I will have your car brought to the side entrance, which is clear.”
Sherlock nodded. “Thank you, that would be…”
“No,” John said.
“No?” Sherlock echoed.
“No, we’ll leave through the main entrance. Please have our car brought there.”
“But, John - plenty of people in non-scandalous straight relationships use the side entrance to avoid the paparazzi.”
“I know. But tonight, I just…” He sighed. “We only just stopped hiding, Sherlock. I hate the idea of starting again.”
Sherlock shook his head. “You astonish me, John. It was you who wanted us to keep things secret, after all.”
“Yes, it was, and I still don’t think I was wrong. But it’s done now, it’s out, and I am through hiding. I am going to march right out that front door and I am going to hold your hand while I do it.”
“But why?”
John met his eyes. “Because I’m John Watson, I do what I want, and fuck them.”
He saw an excited sort of light come into Sherlock’s face then, the same light he got when he was tackling a difficult scene or a challenging puzzle or something he couldn’t figure out. “Then let’s go,” he said, rising to his feet and holding out his hand for John’s.
John got up and handed the maitre d’ their valet ticket. The man turned to go, then paused and turned back. “I apologize if this is inappropriate, or if I am crossing a boundary, but may I just say - you made us all proud tonight, gentlemen. My heartfelt congratulations and my very best wishes that this goes well for you.”
John blinked, unexpectedly touched. “Thank you.”
They followed him to the door and waited. He signaled them when their car was at the curb. John looked up at Sherlock, squeezed his hand, and they walked out of the restaurant, hanging on tight.
Credit where credit is due: John's callback to Sherlock's statement about his sexuality (I'm John Watson, I do what I want, and fuck them) is entirely due to my amaaaazing beta tzikeh. I don't know why I didn't think of using that phrase, but I didn't (John said something else in the draft) and she suggested it in what is perhaps the best beta note in the history of beta awesomeness.
MetaNotes
1. For those of you who are not American, Fox News is a heavily right-wing slanted news channel likely to vilify John and Sherlock for coming out. Its corresponding lefty channel is MSNBC.
2. The Variety screening series is real; it is a private series of events just like this one and a much-coveted list to be on.
3. The character of Malcolm Dobbs is my invention.
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