Performance In a Leading Role (14/20)
Title: Performance in a Leading Role
Author: MadLori
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 10,000 (this chapter)
Genre: AU, romance
Warnings: None
Rating: PG-13 (this chapter), NC-17 (whole work)
Beta: tzikeh
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 -- Chapter 13
Chapter 14
John Watson woke up in a new world. A world in which he was now a gay man, in a gay romance with another gay man, and everything was just gayer than Dad’s old hatband.
He didn’t feel any different than he had the day before, or than he’d felt before he’d met Sherlock. He’d long ago given up trying to figure out if a particular label fit him. Gay? Bisexual? Straight-with-an-asterisk? Did it matter? He was savvy enough to realize that, regardless of how he viewed himself, the world would apply a set of criteria and judge him to be gay. He was in love with Sherlock. He found him sexually attractive and enjoyed his body. Therefore, he was gay, wasn’t he? But if he were not with Sherlock, would he find other men attractive? Would he seek out a different male partner, or go back to dating women?
If I were not with Sherlock. He couldn’t imagine not being with Sherlock-not anymore. He turned his head to look at him, asleep on his back. The rays of the early sun slanted in their bedroom window and cast shadows over the alien architecture of Sherlock’s face. John’s gaze crawled over him. He’d had ample time to study Sherlock’s features, but he still found something new to appreciate every time he looked at them.
As if he could sense John’s gaze, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him across the pillows. He didn’t speak. For a few moments they lay there in silence, sharing body heat and early sunlight within the new reality they’d soon have to face. “I suppose it’s too much to hope for that it was all a dream,” Sherlock murmured, his voice raspy with morning hoarseness.
John smiled. “It wasn’t a dream. And I’m glad. No matter what we’re in for now, I’m glad that the hiding’s over. I’m glad that the world knows that you’re mine.”
Sherlock lifted his hand to John’s cheek. “I’m experiencing a strange sensation. Not quite sure what to make of it.”
“Shall I call a doctor?”
He chuckled. “I don’t believe it’s indicative of a medical condition, but rather of an emotional one. I suspect it’s….” He sighed. “I believe what I’m experiencing is…happiness.”
John’s smile broadened. “It is?”
“Yes. It’s quite remarkable. I’m beginning to understand why people pursue it with such dedication.”
John kissed him softly. “You make me very happy.”
Sherlock’s eyes lingered on John’s lips, his brow furrowing a little. “Do I?”
“Yes.”
“I wish I knew how I am doing that.”
“Is it important to know how?”
“Of course. I wish to keep doing whatever it is that’s making you happy, because I want you to continue to be so. If I don’t know what I am doing to make you happy, I may inadvertently stop.”
“That’s not possible. You’d have to stop being you. I don’t think you’re capable of that.”
“Hmm. Perhaps not.” He pulled John close and kissed him. John kissed back, winding his arms around Sherlock’s slim body. He tipped Sherlock to his back and settled over him.
“You know what I’d like to do today?” he whispered.
“What?”
“I’d like to stay in this bed and do absolutely nothing but make love to you all day long.”
“Hmm. Appealing as that sounds, I suspect that the day has other plans in store for us.”
They both heard the door into the garage bang open, and then Irene’s footsteps. “Boys!” she yelled. “I’m putting the coffee on and then I’m coming up, so if you’re doing it, you have five minutes to finish!”
They both chuckled. “Was she waiting outside for a cue?” John said.
“Five minutes is enough time for a good snog, though,” Sherlock said.
“Then let’s not waste any of it,” John said. He relaxed into Sherlock’s arms and got to the snogging. It was his favorite sort, warm and drowsy and stubbly and wrapped in a cocoon of bedding, hands all over each other, no hurry. Soon enough the smell of coffee drifted into the bedroom, and then they heard Irene’s footsteps on the stairs. They separated, reluctantly, so when Irene strolled into the bedroom with three mugs held in one hand and her gargantuan purse in the other, they were properly situated with all their bits covered.
“Ah. Good. You’re actually awake. I wasn’t sure.” She handed them their mugs and then clambered right up on the foot of the bed, folding her legs under her. She was wearing jeans and a Band of Horses t-shirt, her hair pulled back into a French braid, her face free of makeup. She looked like a college student, ready to clean a house or move some furniture.
“Good morning,” John said, sitting up. She didn’t seem the least bit put off that he and Sherlock were both naked; the three of them had progressed far past the need for modesty.
Sherlock was eyeing her. “You haven’t slept at all, have you?”
“Sleep’s for wimps.” Her eyes did look a bit manic.
“My God, how much coffee have you had already?” John said.
“Coffee? Please. I drink coffee to calm down. I’m on my fifth Rockstar.” She slurped down half her mug. “I hope you guys got some sleep, because it’s going to be a long day.”
“How bad is it? My phone hasn’t been ringing.”
She gave him an ‘oh-honey-you’re-so-clueless’ sort of look. “Please, John. Action Plan Delta involves redirecting all of your incoming phone calls, emails and text messages to my office. Bruno has been filtering all communications since the moment you walked back onstage last night.”
“Ah yes, the mysterious Bruno,” John said.
“He’s collating all incoming inquiries. Don’t worry, he’ll soon be forwarding any that you need to see or hear. And don’t be concerned about your families, Action Plan Delta also involved intercession on their behalf. No press will bother them.”
John barely stopped himself from slapping his forehead. “My family-God, I hadn’t even thought about them.”
“Harry’s spoken to your parents and siblings, John. Their phones and email have been secured so that only approved numbers and addresses will get through. They won’t be harassed. I spoke to your brother about this weeks ago, Sherlock, but he assured me that his own procedures were already in place and would be more than adequate.”
“No doubt,” Sherlock said, dryly.
She snugged her coffee mug between her crossed ankles and got out her iPad. “You want the hate first, or the love?”
They exchanged a glance. “Give us the hate first,” John said.
“Conservative talk radio is having a field day. I won’t bore you with the details of their thoughts on this subject, I’m sure you can fill in the blanks for yourself. There is a radio DJ someplace in Kansas who’s organizing a drive for everyone to bring in their DVDs of your films so they can have a bonfire.”
“Charming,” Sherlock said. “And not at all Nazi-esque.”
“They’re welcome to burn as many copies of Havana Honeymoon as they like,” John said. “I’ll go buy up all the DVDs I can find and send them along.”
“What about the studio?” Sherlock asked.
Irene grimaced. “Yeah. They’re not thrilled. Jim phoned last night. He was doing his best to straddle the line between being personally happy for you and livid about his movie getting swallowed up by all this.” She swept a finger over her iPad. “There’s the predictable brigade of adoring women who now feel betrayed and denied both of your glorious heterosexual selves. Then you’ve got your standard-issue harpies with their ‘you’re going to hell’ and ‘how dare you show your faces among decent people’ boilerplate.” She sighed. “The media just wants information. People went to press last night, but they pulled their planned cover and put you two on it instead, with an accompanying article. I expect most of the other gossip mags to do the same.”
John’s mind boggled. “They had time to write an article?”
She gave him that ‘oh-honey’ look again. “John, they’ve had that article written for weeks and a cover ready to go. All they had to do was write up the specifics of your revelation. These people are very good at what they do.”
“Oh,” John said, feeling a tad out of his depth.
“It isn’t all bad news. Howard Stern’s been talking about nothing all morning but how awesome you are. According to him you stuck it to the man, or however he put it. For the most part, the Internet is falling all over itself to love you. Oh No They Didn’t is on their fifth Sherlock & John master post and it’s a party in the comments. Your fan forums, for the most part, are beside themselves with rapture. The edited-down version of the Q&A from last night has gone viral. Last I looked, it was up to eight hundred thousand hits and rising fast.”
John shook his head. “I don’t understand how all this happened overnight.”
“Bruno says that nobody goes to bed when there is epic shit happening on the Internet.” Irene grinned. “Okay. We’re having a meeting of Team Awesome in an hour.”
John laughed. “Team Awesome?”
“That is what I have decided we are called. Do not argue with the team captain. You’re just the high-priced talent.”
“And who is on Team Awesome besides us?” John asked.
“Sally and Harry, and Mike and Greg. And Bruno, of course, although he will only be attending via speakerphone. The others are on their way. Harry has promised to bring donuts. So get yourselves up and showered, I’ll be downstairs.” She bounded up and out of the room.
John sighed. “Five Rockstars.”
Sherlock finished his coffee. “I’ll have the first shower, then?”
“Sure, why not.” He watched as Sherlock got out of bed and walked to the bathroom, rubbing a hand through his hair. John cocked his head, appreciating the sway of his narrow hips and the excellent view of his arse. He set his mug aside and flopped back into the pillows.
Fuck, it is going to be a day.
By the time they’d showered and dressed and made it downstairs, Harry was there with donuts and Sally was making more coffee. Irene had set up her iPad with a keyboard at the kitchen table. Bruno’s distinctive chain-smoker rasp was coming from her phone. John had often wondered aloud about the elusive Bruno. Sherlock didn’t volunteer what he’d already deduced about him, namely that he was between twenty-five and thirty, an aspiring musician, hailed from Boston, had at least one postgraduate degree and at least one child whose mother was no longer part of Bruno’s life, and that he was quite desperately in love with Harry Watson. “Letterman’s office just called to make sure that Sherlock’s still confirmed for Tuesday,” he was saying. “Ellen’s office wants to know if John can talk to Ellen this afternoon.”
“That ought to be fine. John, can you talk to Ellen later? I’ll bet you anything she’s going to ask you to do the whole hour with her. Are you up for that?”
“Well, that isn’t till Wednesday. I think my head ought to have stopped spinning by then.”
“Tell her fine, Bruno, and clear that number for to John’s cell phone.”
Greg and Mike arrived with a flurry of sincere, concerned-but-happy-for-you hugs and handshakes. Sherlock was fascinated by the self-contradictory body language on display: cheerful, but worried. Open, but cautious. Everyone seemed conscious of being too grim about all the issues they were now facing when the source of those issues was something that made their clients/employers happy.
When everyone was seated around the table with coffee and donuts, Irene gestured for attention. “All right. Let’s get down to business. In an ideal world all we’d have to do is wish John and Sherlock the best and debate whether they ought to color-coordinate their suits for the premiere, but we don’t live in an ideal world.” Sherlock glanced around at their faces; they all wore serious and determined expressions, as if they were preparing battle strategy. He supposed that’s just what they were, in fact, doing. “First of all, this photo.” She twirled her iPad around to show them the photo of him and John that had been taken last night outside the restaurant. They were holding hands and smiling broadly as they looked at each other. “This is perfect. Everyone is using this photo with their write-ups. Nobody is digging through their archives to find oddball photos of either of you or hunting for ones in which you look even the slightest bit swishy. We’re already controlling the media presence because you decided to walk out the front door like a goddamned boss. Well done.”
“That wasn’t our intent. But I’m glad you approve,” John said, smirking.
“But no more accidental victories. From now on, it’s about being smart. The good news is that we’ve got a lot going for us.”
“We do?” Sherlock said, frowning. “I rather thought we were in dire straits.”
“Well, not as dire as they could be. The first thing we have going for us is that you’ve inadvertently chosen the exact right time for this. If you’d actually intended to come out before the film’s release, I would have advised you to do so two to three weeks ahead of it. Two weeks is forever in the media. It’s close enough to the release to be a publicity boost, but far enough out that most of the histrionics will be over and there’s an excellent chance that a bigger story will have bumped you off the headlines by opening day. The second point in our favor is the spontaneity of what happened last night. Nobody who sees that video can possibly question its sincerity. It’s honest, real and unpremeditated, and that makes it sympathetic. Everything about how it happened makes it achingly clear just how hard it is to hide, and how unfair and wrong it is that anyone should be made to do so. It makes people root for you. There’s also the fact that neither of you were in a relationship when you got together, so you’re not leaving behind any broken hearts or traumatizing any photogenic children. And last but definitely not least, neither of you are-to be blunt, neither of you flame. I hate to put it in those terms, but that’s the truth of it. If the great gay brunch confab in the sky had engineered an A-List couple to be the first to come out together, they couldn’t have done much better than you two.”
John had a tentative smile on his face. “Is this your way of bucking us up? Because I have to say, it’s working.”
“Don’t get too comfy. Now it’s all about managing the information and the media presence. We have to walk a very fine line here, folks. It’s going to be an onslaught and I know it’s going to be uncomfortable, but you two can’t go into hiding. It’ll look like you’re ashamed or that you regret it, or that you’re too chicken to face the world. But you can’t be everywhere, grinning into every camera, because then it’ll look like you’re playing into all the press and taking advantage of it. That will make people wonder if you did it on purpose, and you can kiss all the underdog sympathy goodbye. So you have to be out in the world, but not too much.”
Harry had her head in her hands. “Bloody hell, this is like plotting the Normandy invasion.”
“The first step has to be the press release,” Greg said. “We need to get it out as soon as possible. Right now it’s about rumor control. They’re going to start making things up themselves if we don’t give them something.”
“Way ahead of you,” Irene said, passing around sheets of paper. “This is the draft of the statement you two will release. Read it, we’ll make any changes that need making, and Bruno will release it immediately.”
“Should we really be making political statements in the release?” Mike asked.
“We have to,” Irene said. “We have to acknowledge that last night wasn’t planned, and that they were lying about being just friends, and that means we have to say why. We’re not taking any positions in the release, that isn’t what it’s for.”
John nodded. “I like it. It’s direct.”
Sherlock shrugged. “I suppose.”
“You don’t like it?” John said.
“I dislike all this euphemistic, desaturated language. Although I don’t suppose it would be terribly constructive to release a statement that says ‘Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are really chuffed to announce that they’re shagging quite a lot, fancy each other to bits and would like to politely but emphatically invite anyone who doesn’t like it to go rot’.”
Everyone laughed. “I dare you, I bloody dare you,” Sally said.
John was grinning at him. “Have I told you today that I fucking adore you?”
Sherlock felt himself blush. “Such are the sorts of things one does not weary of hearing.”
John slid a hand around the back of his neck, pulled him in and kissed him quickly, then sat back. It was the first time they’d kissed in front of others. Nobody seemed fazed. “So we’re agreed on this wording?” Nods. “All right, you got that, Bruno?”
“Ten-four, chief,” he said.
“Okay. Our next task is going to be planning how we set you two loose on the world. Greg, Mike, how big is the camp of cameras outside the gate?”
“Looked like around fifty.”
John’s eyes widened. “Fifty? Paparazzi?”
“Not as many as I was afraid of, actually. Now, the minute either of you two leave, they are going to follow you. So here’s the plan. Today, you are each going to go out on your own. We’ll wait a few days to send you out together. John, you’re going to go to the gym at ten. Sherlock, you are having a late lunch with Emma Hudson at two.”
“Oh, I am, am I?”
“Yes, you are. I called Emma and asked if she could help us out. I need you to be seen with someone famous enough to be identifiable but who wouldn’t be seen as a romantic rival for John. Emma was happy to oblige us.”
Sherlock grit his teeth. He didn’t like being handled and given marching orders like he was a five-year-old being escorted to dance class and play dates. He recognized the necessity of what Irene was doing, but it still felt intrusive and patronizing.
You got everyone into this with your outburst last night, Holmes. Square up and suffer the consequences.
He felt John’s hand on his leg, a quick stroke and a pat. He glanced over at him. John wasn’t looking at him, but Sherlock could sense his understanding and his commiseration. He didn’t like this any more than Sherlock did. But at least they weren’t going through it alone.
Irene folded her hands on the table. She looked pretty grim. “Here’s the hard part, guys. While you’ve both had plenty of experience with the paparazzi, what you are about to go through with them will be unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. It will be the full-court press. It will be an assault. They will surround you, they will impede your ability to walk, they will shove and push and trample and crowd you. They will shout the vilest, nastiest slurs at you that they can in an effort to get a reaction. They will insult people you love. They will make vulgar remarks about your sex life. There is nothing they’d like more than to get a picture of one of you angry, or shouting. If they could get one of you to take a swing at them, that would be the goddamned mother lode. Am I making myself clear? This is going to be horrifically unpleasant, but you have to do it. Do whatever you have to do in your own head to stay in control. Do your best to look calm and Zen-like. Nobody’s expecting a big grin, in fact that would look disingenuous. You have to look unruffled and like you’re in total control. This is going to be the hardest acting job of your lives.”
She stopped and took a breath. John was peering at her. “Irene, you sound…upset.”
“I am upset. I hate that you are going to be pursued like this for however long it takes the story to die down and I hate that I have to put you in the middle of it.” John put his hand on her arm. Irene took a deep breath and smoothed her hand back over her hair, then smiled brightly. “It’s all right. Everything will be fine.”
“You think John should spend a full hour on Ellen’s show?” Sherlock asked.
“Yes, if she asks. He won’t find a more receptive audience or a more understanding host. It’ll be an excellent chance to do some spin control.”
John looked at his watch. “Blimey, it’s gone nine already. I best get my things and be off to the gym if I’m going, then. Irene, is there anything else?”
“Oh, tons more, but it can wait. Go ahead.” He jumped up and headed upstairs.
Sherlock stayed where he was, feeling moody. He could feel their eyes on him. “This is going to be worse for him than for me, isn’t it?” he said.
Irene sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“Why worse for John?” Harry said, frowning.
“Because of the sorts of actors they are, and the niches they inhabit,” Greg said. “Sherlock’s more of an aesthete. He’s an upper-class highbrow sort of actor who does Shakespeare and Mamet between films. As such, he’s already seen as something of an outsider. He’s a bit more out there. John’s an Everyman. He’s-pardon the slight on his nation of origin, but he’s the All-American guy next door. People will have an easier time with Sherlock being gay than with John.”
“What about his career?” Sherlock asked.
Greg sighed. “Well, it’s a damn good thing he was looking for a change, because he’ll most certainly be making one. Romantic comedies are most likely a thing of the past, not that he’ll be sad about that. Both of you will probably have to stay away from romantic leading roles for awhile, maybe several years. Maybe more.”
John trotted down the stairs, his gym bag over his shoulder. Everyone got up at once. John laughed. “Jesus Christ, you all look like you’re about to send me off to war. It’s just the gym. You know. Few lat pulls, a little time on the elliptical?”
Irene was rubbing her own arms. “Remember what I said, okay? Zen-like and calm. Don’t engage. Just try to put yourself inside a little force field.”
“Relax, Irene. I’m a big boy. I can handle it.” He turned and went to the door. Sherlock followed him.
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried,” he said.
John sighed. “We’ve got to face the world sooner or later, sweetheart.”
Sherlock blinked. “Did you just call me ‘sweetheart’?”
John fidgeted, blushing. “Yeah, I did. Sorry, it just sort of popped out.”
“Hmm. I think-yes, I think I liked it.”
A smile broke over John’s face. “Really?”
“In small doses, perhaps.” He bent and kissed him. “Good luck.”
“If I need to go to a happy place, I’ll close my eyes and be in your house in Sussex, with you,” John said.
“If that is not a happy place then none exists.”
John grinned and left. Sherlock was left staring at the door, hoping to get him back in one piece.
Paparazzi, fucking paparazzi, John thought as he drove to the gym. He felt like he was in Bullitt.
They were all around him. Motorcycles, vans, cars, and half of them were on phones or radios. They had been lying in wait outside the gate to his neighborhood, and sure enough, they knew it was him immediately. They snapped photos of him as he drove by, although he wasn’t sure what they could see through the tinted windows. Then they leapt onto motorbikes and into cars and followed him.
John parked in the gym’s lot. He saw the paps parking and racing each other towards his car. Zen-like and calm. Zen-like and calm.
Sherlock in the hot tub at Mount Shasta. Lying with Sherlock under the stars in Sussex.
Happy place, happy place, happy place.
He took a deep breath and got out of the car.
He almost couldn’t get the door open, they were crowding him so close. He was bloody glad he’d worn sunglasses, because it was worse than a photocall. He was in a forest of moving cameras; eight zillion flashbulbs went off six inches from his face. He started towards the door and they moved with him.
Then they were shouting.
He tried not to listen, but he couldn’t help but hear.
John how long have you been gay John who’s on the bottom do you like sucking cock does he beg for it I bet he begs for it John who’s the man John who’s the girl how do you like it how does he like it how long have you taken it up the arse how long have you sucked dick how long were you lying do you have AIDS who else have you slept with did you sleep with are you sleeping with….
They crowded closer. He could hardly move forward. He’d soon have to fight his way through.
Don’t fight. They don’t want you to walk? Don’t.
John stopped in his tracks. He stood stock-still and crossed his arms over his chest, staring vaguely down towards the pavement. He closed his eyes behind his sunglasses and focused on breathing. The cameras kept snapping, the flashes kept flashing, the shouters kept shouting.
He didn’t move. He waited.
He remembered something Sherlock had once told him about how some theater actors discouraged the paparazzi from camping out at the stage door; they would wear the same clothes each night when they left the theater, so no matter what day the paps showed up, it looked like the same photo. Nobody would pay for the same photograph over and over, so it negated their incentive to show up.
John didn’t move a muscle. They could take photos of him as long as they liked, but they’d all look the same. This same position, this same boring pose. They’d have to give up eventually; at least, he hoped they would.
He was amazed how well it worked. Within a minute, the shouting had stopped. Within two, the camera flashes and clicks had died down. He didn’t move. Gradually, one by one, the photographers started backing away. Realizing he wasn’t going to move until they did, they lowered their cameras and eased off.
Finally, after he’d stood there for a good five minutes, there was blessed quiet. He raised his head, glanced around at them, and gave a brief nod. Unimpeded, he headed for the door of the gym. They didn’t follow him. He heard a few isolated shutter-clicks as he entered the gym, but then he was inside and safe.
“Jesus, John,” said the trainer behind the desk. It was Phil, one of John’s favorite sparring partners. “That looked like a nightmare.”
“I’m the flavor of the moment. They’ll find a new victim to feed on soon enough.”
“You okay?” Phil asked.
“Yeah, I’m good. I guess you’ve heard, then,” John said, as he and Phil walked up to the workout floor.
“Fuck me, everyone’s heard.” They walked into the large, airy space full of cardio machines, free weights and weight machines. Everyone turned to look. “We’ve got more’n one gay trainer here, and of course a good number of the members are queer. I never thought you were, though.”
“Me neither,” John said, smiling. “Funny how falling in love with a man can alter your perceptions.”
Phil laughed. “Yeah, I guess it might do that. Hey, let me know if you want to spar after your cardio, okay?”
“Will do. I might need to work out some aggression today.”
Phil left him to his workout. John started on the treadmill, cranking it up to the fastest jogging speed he was comfortable with, then jacking up the incline. It felt good to run, just to pound the treadmill deck, to feel his heart thump in his chest and sweat pour down his face, to let the rush of blood drive all the thoughts from his head and the poison from his veins.
He ran six miles, walked one more to cool down, then hopped off and headed for the drinking fountain. Halfway there, a tall meathead sort of bloke bumped into him, rather hard. “Oh, excuse me, mate,” John said, even though he wasn’t at fault. He started to pass on by.
“Watch it, faggot,” the bloke muttered.
John stopped in his tracks. Did that just happen? “What’d you say?” he said, incredulous.
The meathead immediately whirled around, all dramatic, like he’d been hoping John would challenge him. “I said watch it, faggot.” John could only blink in amazement. He was caught totally off-guard. He’d known this could happen, of course, but it had never occurred to him that someone might slag off him in a gym in Beverly Hills. “Guess all you actors are fags, huh?” he said, smirking like he was putting a good one over on John.
John glanced around. Nobody seemed to have heard him, at least. The last thing John wanted or needed just now was a big dramatic scene. “My private life is none of your business,” John said. He tried to walk by again, but his new friend wasn’t having it.
“That all you got to say, then?” the bloke said. His voice was rising.
“I don’t want to get into it, all right?”
“Maybe I don’t want a fag staring at my ass, ever think of that?”
John stared at him. Well, John. Here he is. Your very first homophobe. Maybe I should thank him for taking my bigot-virginity, although that might not go over so well. It was an unfortunate thought, because all it did was make John bust out laughing.
The meathead’s frown deepened. “What the fuck are you laughing at?”
“Oh my God,” John said, still laughing. “Really? That’s what you’re going with? Calling me a fag and fretting that I’ll stare at your arse?” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I was actually worried about people like you.” John wiped at his eyes. “You sound like Central Casting sent you over, mate.” He walked around the man, who just looked confused now, and didn’t try to stop him. “Oh, by the way? You needn’t worry about being stared at. Your arse can’t begin to compare to my boyfriend’s.”
He walked to the drinking fountain, grinning and a bit giddy. The fearsome specter of his imaginings had materialized, called him a faggot right to his face, and he’d survived. He hadn’t melted with embarassment, or boiled over with rage. In fact, the fearsome specter had turned out to be more ridiculous than scary.
He filled his water bottle. If only I could believe that they’d all be so easily vanquished.
John got home just after noon, still on a bit of a high from his encounter with the meathead at the gym. He wasn’t naïve enough to think that all people who would wish him ill would be quite as mustache-twirlingly obvious about it, though. If it was never any worse than that, he could deal with it; the problem was that he knew that in all likelihood, it would get worse.
Greg and Mike’s cars were gone, but Harry, Sally and Irene’s were still there. He hoped he’d be able to sneak off for half an hour alone with Sherlock, because he was a bit worked up and horny as hell.
The first thing he noticed upon entering the house was the smell. It smelled like…like…a funeral. Frowning, he walked through into the kitchen, then stopped short.
The kitchen counters, the table, and the breakfast bar were covered in flower arrangements, fruit baskets, and other gifts of varying sizes and degrees of lavishness. Harry came in, carrying another one. “Oh, John! Glad you’re back, Sherlock’s been envisioning doomsday scenarios.”
“What the hell is all this?”
“They started arriving just after you left. Eighteen so far. This one’s from Neil and David.” She plucked the card off the cookie bouquet, munching on one of the blooms, and read it out. “’Welcome to the dark side. And it’s true, we do have cookies!’ Best wishes, et cetera. I think every out gay couple in the world has sent you flowers. And some other people, too. This one’s from Wills and Kate.”
His jaw dropped. “Wills and Kate sent us flowers?”
“They did, indeed. Their card was all proper and polite, but it came down to the same thing. Congratulations, way to strike a blow for equality, blah blah blah.”
“Save that card, Mum will want to have it bronzed or something.”
He heard Sherlock’s footsteps thundering down the stairs. “John, is that you?”
“Yeah,” he said, bemusedly looking at the bouquets.
Sherlock burst into the kitchen and enveloped him in a hug. “Oh good, all your limbs are still attached. How was it? Was it awful? How bad was it?”
“Um…both worse and better than I expected. Blimey, Sherlock, look at all these flowers!”
Sherlock flapped an impatient hand. “Meaningless gestures.”
“Not meaningless to me!”
“John,” Sherlock beseeched him, “what happened at the gym? Anything?”
“Oh. Well…yes, a few things happened. Let’s get Irene and I’ll tell you about it.”
They found Irene in the den, working on her iPad. John told them everything about his experience, from the technique he’d used to defuse the paparazzi to his encounter with the meathead. “They were both bad experiences, but I dealt with them, I lived, and I won’t be quite as nervous next time.”
The doorbell rang again. “I’ll get it,” Sally said. Harry was on the phone to someone and Irene was back on her iPad. John, his patience at its limit, pulled Sherlock to his feet and out of the den.
Sherlock ducked his head and kissed John’s neck. “I find it arousing when you come home sweaty,” he growled against his skin.
“I know; that’s why I did,” John said. “Throwing it in that arsehole’s face got my blood up and all I’ve wanted to do since is bend you over a chair and make you scream,” he said, low and intense into Sherlock’s ear.
“God, John,” Sherlock groaned. He grabbed his hand and practically dragged him up the stairs. “Half an hour until I’ve got to get ready for Emma.”
“What’ll we do with the other twenty minutes?” John said, kicking the bedroom door shut behind him.
“Sherlock, darling,” Emma trilled, reaching up to hug him. Sherlock smiled and bent down to hug her back.
“Thanks for meeting me. I know it was, erm, short notice,” he said, taking his seat across from her in the café. Normally he’d prefer to eat on the patio, but he didn’t dare, with the paparazzi circling like buzzards.
She flapped a hand. “Pish tosh, I’m happy to help. I’m glad I was still in town; I’m heading back to London next week.” She looked toward the window where a crowd of photographers was lurking outside. “Have you had that pack of wolves on your tail all day?”
“This is the first time I’ve left the house today, but they’ve been on me the whole trip, yes. Thank God for valet parking, I was able to get out of the car and inside before they caught up to me. John had quite a run-in at the gym earlier.” He gave her the quick rundown of John’s gym excursion.
She clucked her tongue. “It isn’t right, you two being pursued like this.”
“It’ll die down. The novelty will wear off, and something newer and more sensational will turn up. Just because John and I are out now doesn’t mean we’re suddenly going to start falling down drunk at clubs or going to rave parties and snorting lines off underwear models. We’re as boring as we ever were.”
They ordered drinks. The waiter gave Sherlock a flirty little smile. He frowned; that was the second time a man had done such a thing; the valet had winked at him when he took his keys. “I’m so happy for you, Sherlock,” Emma said. “You brought a tear to my eye at that screening. You sounded so terribly frayed.”
He nodded. “I was. I’m sorry I’ve let us in for all this insanity, but I can’t say I’m not glad to have things out in the open. I’m just relieved John isn’t angry about it.”
“He’s a good sort, your John.”
Sherlock smiled. “Much more so than I deserve. Part of me is waiting for him to come to his senses and wonder what the bloody hell he’s doing with a bastard like me.”
“Emma?” came a new voice.
They both looked up to see Fiona Beesley, the second assistant director from To a Stranger. “Oh, Fiona dear, hello!” Emma said, half-rising to hug her. Sherlock waited to be acknowledged, but Fiona seemed to be deliberately ignoring him. “Um…,” Emma said, glancing at Sherlock, “how are you?”
“I’m well, thanks. I’ve just been hired on as first AD for de Palma’s new film, we start pre-production in a few weeks.” Fiona was standing so her back was half-turned toward Sherlock. Emma looked puzzled, but he wasn’t.
“And hello to you, too, Fiona,” he said, his tone icy.
Fiona hesitated, then turned to face him. Her face was like stone. “Sherlock,” she said, the minimum allowable response to his greeting.
He sat back, cocking his head. “I gather you are unhappy with me.”
“Are you surprised? I took a pay cut to work on that film, a lot of us did, and you just threw the whole thing under the bus without a thought.”
“Is that what you think? That I don’t care what happens to the film?”
“Not enough to keep quiet, obviously. You couldn’t stay in the closet for just one more month?”
He held her gaze for a moment, seeing not just her present irritation, but the older pain that it was masking. “I’m sorry that your brother was discharged from the Marines for being gay, but that isn’t my fault.”
Her eyes widened. “How the hell did you-no, it doesn’t matter, I don’t want to know. And this isn’t about Jason, it’s about this business and your privilege. I’ve got friends who’ve been in the closet for years, but they can’t do what you did because they don’t have an Oscar sitting on their mantel.”
“If you think that’s going to earn me any special dispensations, you’ll be pleased to know that it won’t.”
“Then what about John? Did he want this?”
Sherlock swallowed hard. He was already feeling guilty enough about that as it was without having it thrown into his face. “No, he didn’t,” he said.
She sighed. “I must be crazy, talking to you like this, but honestly, I am fresh out of fucks to give. That film was going to be important, and now all it’ll be is the movie where the lead actors turned gay for each other.”
Sherlock crossed his legs and looked up at her. “I’m afraid that the film was always going to be the one where the lead actors ‘turned gay,’ as you put it, no matter when we went public. The only way to avoid that would have been to stay closeted forever, and that was never an option that we considered.”
Fiona seemed to deflate a little. “It must be nice to be famous enough that it’s an option, and not a necessity. It was nice to see you, Emma.” She turned and left the café.
Emma shook her head. “That was uncalled for,” she said, sounding irritated. “She’s got no right to get so shirty with you.”
“I’m sure she isn’t alone in the sentiment.”
“I worked on the film too, Sherlock. I don’t bear you any ill will.”
“Thank you. I fear there’ll be very few people whose good opinion I can trust going forward. No one will dare publicly denounce us for fear of looking bigoted, so I may find myself surrounded by people who may smile, and smile, and be villains.”
Emma smiled. “At least it may be so in Hollywood.”
“I knew I could count on you.” He sobered. “It is disconcerting to have to wonder who in this business now thinks ill of me.”
“You’ll drive yourself mad trying to work that out, dear. We all do, all the time.”
“I’ve never much concerned myself with other people’s opinions. Why on Earth does it matter so much now?”
“Because it’s not you you’re really worried about, luv. It’s John. Things start to matter when they’re happening to someone we love.”
Sherlock nodded. “I’d gladly trade my own career if it meant that his would flourish. I don’t care if they hate me, but I can’t bear to think of anyone hating him because of me.”
“That’s because you’re afraid of losing him, Sherlock.” Emma’s voice had gone serious. It was easy to forget, given her habitual dotty-English-granny manner, that she was a sharp-minded student of human behavior who’d never had much trouble sussing him out. “You fear any consequences he may suffer because he chose you, because you don’t really believe that you can possibly be worth it to him. But you are. He’s chosen you over everything. He took your hand and pulled you back out on that stage, because he loves you and he didn’t want to see you suffer anymore. Can’t you respect his decision? You didn’t railroad him into this. John’s a grown man. He’s thrown in his lot with you and I reckon he means for it to stick.”
Sherlock smiled. “You do have a way of putting things to me straight, don’t you?”
She winked. “No pun intended.”
They laughed together as the waiter brought their food, which came with yet another wink and a slightly too-long look. “Emma, I don’t think I am imagining that at least four blokes have tried to pull me since I came in here, nor am I imagining the three others in this dining room who are watching me while trying to be subtle about it.”
“Oh, you aren’t, dear.”
“Are they not aware that I’m quite spoken for?”
“Oh, yes. Welcome to this side of the table, Sherlock, and the wonderful world of the male gaze. I daresay you’ll be surprised by it. Now, tell me everything.”
Sherlock found himself babbling quite easily about what had happened the night before, and his date with John afterwards. Emma was a sympathetic listener and a savvy observer, a combination that made him want to share his innermost thoughts and wax rhapsodic about John.
He was in the middle of telling her about all the flowers and gifts they’d been sent when the hostess came up to the table. “Excuse me, Mr. Holmes.”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s a pair of young men up front who want me to ask you if it’d be all right for them to speak to you briefly. Something about a theater?”
Sherlock looked past her. Two young men in jeans and t-shirts, both overtly gay, one with dreadlocks and one with bright ginger hair, were hovering near the door. They were holding stacks of fliers and wearing eager expressions. “All right,” he said.
The hostess went to the young men, who grinned and hurried back to his table. “Mr. Holmes, thanks so much,” Dreadlocks gushed. “We were putting up fliers and we saw all the paparazzi and then we saw you in here and…well, we just had to risk it.”
“What can I do for you gentlemen?” Sherlock said in his best polite-actor voice. His eyes flicked over his visitors. Dreadlocks came from money but had distanced himself from his family - Midwestern, probably Plains - when he came out. He was attending film school, probably USC, had a boyfriend of at least two years, and was a vegetarian, possibly vegan. Ginger was from Seattle, maintained close ties with his family and was single. He had at least one other job as a server and owned a cat - no, two cats.
“We work at an art-house theater in West Hollywood. Just a two-screener. After what happened last night…well, everybody’s pretty excited!” said Ginger, grinning.
Dreadlocks gave him a ‘calm the fuck down’ sort of look. “We’re having a little impromptu event tonight,” he said. He handed Sherlock a surprisingly well-designed flier advertising the “Sherlock & John Film Festival,” which featured Kanisza and Rewind, along with the full video of the Variety Q&A and a surprise of some sort.
Sherlock couldn’t help but smile. “You chaps don’t waste any time, I’ll give you that,” he said.
“Oh, we were all on chat watching the Q&A last night. We can’t wait for To a Stranger. In fact we’re having a midnight showing next week, with a party beforehand. As soon as we saw how you and Mr. Watson-well, you know, we all started talking about having a special showing of your movies, which turned into a film festival! I hope you approve of the films we picked,” Ginger said, looking worried. “I wanted to show Out of Noise because everyone’s seen Kanisza.”
“Not everyone,” Dreadlocks said. “And it’s really popular! I’m still not sure about Rewind. Maybe we ought to show one of his dramatic films.”
“Well, Rewind is John’s most famous film,” Sherlock said. “It’s my personal favorite of the romantic comedies he’s done. He’ll just be glad you’re not showing Havana Honeymoon.”
“What’s super exciting is that we’re getting to show a ten-minute preview of To a Stranger! Your publicist set it up for us!”
“Oh, you spoke to Irene?”
“She was super nice. I mean, it was a long shot; we called her because we thought maybe you would come to the film festival. She said that you weren’t available, but she’d call Focus and get then to send us an extended clip to show. We’re having a raffle, too, for charity. We’re donating the proceeds to The Trevor Project.” Dreadlocks was clearly quite caught up in this little event. “Which is why we-uh, I mean the reason we came over is that we were hoping you might sign one of the fliers for us. It’d be an amazing item for the raffle.”
“Certainly.” Sherlock accepted a Sharpie from Ginger, and signed his name in one of the blank spaces. “Would it not be worth more for your raffle if John were to sign it, too?”
Dreadlocks and Ginger looked at each other, eyes wide, like their wildest dreams had just come true. “Oh my god, would it ever! It’d be, like, historic! Your first ever joint signing after you came out! That would be so legendary!”
Emma was giggling a bit at their enthusiasm. Sherlock couldn’t help but want to make their day. “Then I’ll take this home with me, I’m sure he’ll be happy to sign it. I’ll have it messengered over to your theater before your event; would that suffice?”
Ginger looked to be on the verge of tears. “Mr. Holmes, that would be so amazing, you have no idea. You’d really do that for us?”
“It’s not an inconvenience. Here, give me three, we can sign more than one for you. You might ask my lunch companion to sign one, she’s in the film, too.”
Ginger and Dreadlocks looked over at Emma, who they hadn’t even noticed. Their jaws dropped. “Oh my God, Ms. Hudson!” Dreadlocks exclaimed. “You are my absolute favorite! That film you did with Anthony Hopkins, I cry every time I watch it, like a little baby, it’s pathetic.”
She smiled. “Well, thank you, boys.”
“We’d love to have you sign a flier.”
“I’ll sign separately,” she said. “You’ll be wanting some with just the men of the hour.” She winked at Sherlock and signed two fliers for them. Ginger full-on jumped up and down when she handed them back.
“Could we maybe get a photo?” Dreadlocks asked, looking embarrassed to be making the request, but Sherlock had been waiting for it.
“All right.” They conscripted the hostess to take a photo, then Dreadlocks and Ginger took their fliers and left in a flurry of thanks and handshakes and general star-struck euphoria.
Emma shook her head. “Sherlock, you are a revelation to me. There was a time you’d have told those boys to piss off and leave you be.”
“Perhaps I’m learning to value those who are enthusiastic about me, Emma. I need all the help I can get.”
Irene had a good laugh when Sherlock told her about his encounter at the café. “I spoke to the owner of that theater earlier. He wanted you two to come make an appearance at his little festival. As if.”
“How do you know we wouldn’t?” John said.
“Oh, I figured you would, which is why I said no. John, you’ve been out of the closet for one day, it is way too soon for you two to start jumping feet-first into gay-themed events. It’ll look like you’re sucking up to the community, and it’ll shove you even further into the ‘gay actor’ label, which is what we’d like to avoid. But signing these fliers is harmless enough, it’s a nice gesture.”
John added his signature to the three Sherlock had already signed. Irene took their photo holding them and Sally went off to print it. “What else can we sign for them?” John said, looking around. “Oh! I know! We’ve got a few nice, fresh copies of the EW with us on the cover, let’s sign one of those and send it along!” Silver paint pens were located and they both signed the front of the magazine. Sherlock watched, bemused, as John drew a big heart on the cover with an arrow through it, and the initials “JW + SH” inside it.
“John, what on Earth are you doing?”
“I think it’s called ‘getting carried away.’ I’m inclined to indulge people who are actually happy that we came out.”
“Oh, wait!” Irene said. She rummaged in her bag and came out with a program from the Variety screening. “How about this?”
“Fuck, yeah!” John said, grabbing it. He signed it and handed it over to Sherlock, who did the same, chuckling.
“I’m a little afraid of where this is heading,” he said. “I’m rather glad my Oscar is in London, you two would have me donating that to this raffle as well.”
“I think this’ll do,” John said, looking at the nice little stack of items they’d rounded up.
“My friends from the café may just faint with shock,” Sherlock said, dryly. “They nearly had simultaneous strokes when I told them I’d get you to sign the fliers as well.”
John smiled at him, a fond look on his face. “That was right nice of you, Sherlock. See, I knew all along that you weren’t such a bastard as everyone said.”
“No, they were right. I was and still am a bastard. I am just less so around people I give two shits about.”
John finally had to throw everyone out at nine o’clock. “But…but…” Irene stammered. “John, we have to talk about Ellen, and we haven’t even thought about the premiere yet…”
“It’ll wait,” he said, half-carrying her to the door. “You’re going to crash soon, not even Rockstar can keep you up for two days straight, and I’d like my house back, please.”
She, Sally and Harry reluctantly allowed themselves to be bundled off. John shut the door after them with a grateful sigh, then waited until he actually heard their cars start up and drive away.
“Are they gone?”
“Yes,” John said, going back to the den, where Sherlock was sprawled on the couch with his laptop. He flopped down at the other end, lifting Sherlock’s feet and resettling them on his lap. He picked up the remote and turned on E! News.
”Hollywood is still reeling from what is shaping up to be the biggest story of the year: that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, two of the big screen’s top leading men, have been romantically involved for several months. The pair, who met while filming the Ang Lee drama To a Stranger, revealed their relationship at a screening of the film last night in Beverly Hills. The viral video of the spontaneous, emotionally charged moment has been viewed over three million times today. In a statement released through their shared publicist, Holmes and Watson have acknowledged that they hid their relationship for the sake of the film and their careers, but that this secrecy became too painful to bear. Reactions have ranged from excitement to shock to dismay. Watson was seen today suffering through a horde of photographers while visiting his gym, while Holmes shared lunch with friend and To a Stranger co-star Emma Hudson. Neither have spoken publicly since their statement.”
“Hear that?” John said. “We’re the biggest story of the year.”
“The fact that such a characterization can be made with a straight face is a sad testimony to the arsed-up priorities of this society,” Sherlock muttered.
“To be fair, I do think they meant the biggest entertainment story of the year.”
“Even so. A couple of British chaps shacking up should hardly be cause for such extravagant comment.”
“Shouldn’t be, no. But it is.”
Sherlock sighed and shut his laptop. “I’m going to have a soak. It’s been a bloody long day.” He pulled his feet from John’s lap, tossed his computer aside and walked out. John watched him go, frowning. Usually he’d have left John with a kiss, or at the very least a fond look.
E! News was still on, but John wasn’t paying attention. He sat there for a few minutes, a vague disquiet growing in his belly. He’d never said so, but one of the reasons he had been keen to wait until after the Oscars to go public was for the sake of their relationship. He had known how it would be, and as far as he was concerned, the more time they had to solidfy what they had together, the better. If they had waited until April, they would have been together a good seven or eight months before having to face the media circus. Now, it was barely more than two.
They were solid; he knew they were. But they were still feeling their way around their raw edges, testing the seam where their lives were knitting together, tucking in the loose threads and picking up the dropped stitches. His confidence in their ability to weather this storm together was undercut by his awareness of just how much it would destroy him to lose Sherlock now. He couldn’t. He couldn’t even think about it. Sherlock was the most important person in his life, the most important person he’d ever had in his life. Sherlock was his partner, his companion, his harshest critic and his biggest fan; he was his lover, and he was his best friend.
John had never feared losing someone the way he feared losing Sherlock, because he’d never in his life loved anyone the way he loved Sherlock.
He got up, turned off the telly, and went up the stairs. He could hear the drip-drip of the faucet and feel the humidity from Sherlock’s bath. He hesitated, then stripped off his own clothes and walked nude into the bathroom.
Sherlock was slouched low enough in the water that it covered his chin. Steam rose all around him, making his hair curl fetchingly around his face. He looked over as John approached. Feeling a little shy, and uncertain if his presence was welcome, John padded over to the tub decking and sat on the edge. He looked down at Sherlock’s face, flushed with heat.
Sherlock sighed, then reached out with a dripping hand and took John’s. He guided it to his own face and pressed a kiss to the center of his palm, holding it there. He tugged on John’s arm and gestured with his chin. Come in here, in with me.
John carefully stepped into the tub, not wanting to step on Sherlock or, worse, slip and turn the entire enterprise into a tangle of limbs and splashed water. Sherlock pulled him close and settled him back against his chest, his arms circling John’s shoulders from behind. John relaxed, the heat of the water and Sherlock’s body soaking into his muscles. He let out a long breath and twined his fingers with Sherlock’s.
They didn’t speak. John’s mind raced, searching for a way to express his lurking unease and ask for what he needed to quell it. I need you. Promise me this won’t tear us apart. I love you. Tell me you love me, for better or for worse. Tell me I’m enough. Tell me I’m all you’ll ever need. Tell me all these things and I’ll tell you the same. Swear we’ll get through this. Let me hear you say it because nobody warned me that a side effect of being wildly in love is that you need reassurance that you’re not alone in it.
He screwed up his courage up to say-something, though he wasn’t sure what it would be. He took a breath, sat up, and turned so he could look in Sherlock’s eyes, but whatever had been about to come out stalled in his throat and slunk back down, because he saw there the same fear that he’d been wrestling with all day.
Sherlock put a finger on his lips. “Yes,” he whispered. “All of it, yes.”
Next Chapter
Author: MadLori
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 10,000 (this chapter)
Genre: AU, romance
Warnings: None
Rating: PG-13 (this chapter), NC-17 (whole work)
Beta: tzikeh
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 -- Chapter 13
Chapter 14
John Watson woke up in a new world. A world in which he was now a gay man, in a gay romance with another gay man, and everything was just gayer than Dad’s old hatband.
He didn’t feel any different than he had the day before, or than he’d felt before he’d met Sherlock. He’d long ago given up trying to figure out if a particular label fit him. Gay? Bisexual? Straight-with-an-asterisk? Did it matter? He was savvy enough to realize that, regardless of how he viewed himself, the world would apply a set of criteria and judge him to be gay. He was in love with Sherlock. He found him sexually attractive and enjoyed his body. Therefore, he was gay, wasn’t he? But if he were not with Sherlock, would he find other men attractive? Would he seek out a different male partner, or go back to dating women?
If I were not with Sherlock. He couldn’t imagine not being with Sherlock-not anymore. He turned his head to look at him, asleep on his back. The rays of the early sun slanted in their bedroom window and cast shadows over the alien architecture of Sherlock’s face. John’s gaze crawled over him. He’d had ample time to study Sherlock’s features, but he still found something new to appreciate every time he looked at them.
As if he could sense John’s gaze, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him across the pillows. He didn’t speak. For a few moments they lay there in silence, sharing body heat and early sunlight within the new reality they’d soon have to face. “I suppose it’s too much to hope for that it was all a dream,” Sherlock murmured, his voice raspy with morning hoarseness.
John smiled. “It wasn’t a dream. And I’m glad. No matter what we’re in for now, I’m glad that the hiding’s over. I’m glad that the world knows that you’re mine.”
Sherlock lifted his hand to John’s cheek. “I’m experiencing a strange sensation. Not quite sure what to make of it.”
“Shall I call a doctor?”
He chuckled. “I don’t believe it’s indicative of a medical condition, but rather of an emotional one. I suspect it’s….” He sighed. “I believe what I’m experiencing is…happiness.”
John’s smile broadened. “It is?”
“Yes. It’s quite remarkable. I’m beginning to understand why people pursue it with such dedication.”
John kissed him softly. “You make me very happy.”
Sherlock’s eyes lingered on John’s lips, his brow furrowing a little. “Do I?”
“Yes.”
“I wish I knew how I am doing that.”
“Is it important to know how?”
“Of course. I wish to keep doing whatever it is that’s making you happy, because I want you to continue to be so. If I don’t know what I am doing to make you happy, I may inadvertently stop.”
“That’s not possible. You’d have to stop being you. I don’t think you’re capable of that.”
“Hmm. Perhaps not.” He pulled John close and kissed him. John kissed back, winding his arms around Sherlock’s slim body. He tipped Sherlock to his back and settled over him.
“You know what I’d like to do today?” he whispered.
“What?”
“I’d like to stay in this bed and do absolutely nothing but make love to you all day long.”
“Hmm. Appealing as that sounds, I suspect that the day has other plans in store for us.”
They both heard the door into the garage bang open, and then Irene’s footsteps. “Boys!” she yelled. “I’m putting the coffee on and then I’m coming up, so if you’re doing it, you have five minutes to finish!”
They both chuckled. “Was she waiting outside for a cue?” John said.
“Five minutes is enough time for a good snog, though,” Sherlock said.
“Then let’s not waste any of it,” John said. He relaxed into Sherlock’s arms and got to the snogging. It was his favorite sort, warm and drowsy and stubbly and wrapped in a cocoon of bedding, hands all over each other, no hurry. Soon enough the smell of coffee drifted into the bedroom, and then they heard Irene’s footsteps on the stairs. They separated, reluctantly, so when Irene strolled into the bedroom with three mugs held in one hand and her gargantuan purse in the other, they were properly situated with all their bits covered.
“Ah. Good. You’re actually awake. I wasn’t sure.” She handed them their mugs and then clambered right up on the foot of the bed, folding her legs under her. She was wearing jeans and a Band of Horses t-shirt, her hair pulled back into a French braid, her face free of makeup. She looked like a college student, ready to clean a house or move some furniture.
“Good morning,” John said, sitting up. She didn’t seem the least bit put off that he and Sherlock were both naked; the three of them had progressed far past the need for modesty.
Sherlock was eyeing her. “You haven’t slept at all, have you?”
“Sleep’s for wimps.” Her eyes did look a bit manic.
“My God, how much coffee have you had already?” John said.
“Coffee? Please. I drink coffee to calm down. I’m on my fifth Rockstar.” She slurped down half her mug. “I hope you guys got some sleep, because it’s going to be a long day.”
“How bad is it? My phone hasn’t been ringing.”
She gave him an ‘oh-honey-you’re-so-clueless’ sort of look. “Please, John. Action Plan Delta involves redirecting all of your incoming phone calls, emails and text messages to my office. Bruno has been filtering all communications since the moment you walked back onstage last night.”
“Ah yes, the mysterious Bruno,” John said.
“He’s collating all incoming inquiries. Don’t worry, he’ll soon be forwarding any that you need to see or hear. And don’t be concerned about your families, Action Plan Delta also involved intercession on their behalf. No press will bother them.”
John barely stopped himself from slapping his forehead. “My family-God, I hadn’t even thought about them.”
“Harry’s spoken to your parents and siblings, John. Their phones and email have been secured so that only approved numbers and addresses will get through. They won’t be harassed. I spoke to your brother about this weeks ago, Sherlock, but he assured me that his own procedures were already in place and would be more than adequate.”
“No doubt,” Sherlock said, dryly.
She snugged her coffee mug between her crossed ankles and got out her iPad. “You want the hate first, or the love?”
They exchanged a glance. “Give us the hate first,” John said.
“Conservative talk radio is having a field day. I won’t bore you with the details of their thoughts on this subject, I’m sure you can fill in the blanks for yourself. There is a radio DJ someplace in Kansas who’s organizing a drive for everyone to bring in their DVDs of your films so they can have a bonfire.”
“Charming,” Sherlock said. “And not at all Nazi-esque.”
“They’re welcome to burn as many copies of Havana Honeymoon as they like,” John said. “I’ll go buy up all the DVDs I can find and send them along.”
“What about the studio?” Sherlock asked.
Irene grimaced. “Yeah. They’re not thrilled. Jim phoned last night. He was doing his best to straddle the line between being personally happy for you and livid about his movie getting swallowed up by all this.” She swept a finger over her iPad. “There’s the predictable brigade of adoring women who now feel betrayed and denied both of your glorious heterosexual selves. Then you’ve got your standard-issue harpies with their ‘you’re going to hell’ and ‘how dare you show your faces among decent people’ boilerplate.” She sighed. “The media just wants information. People went to press last night, but they pulled their planned cover and put you two on it instead, with an accompanying article. I expect most of the other gossip mags to do the same.”
John’s mind boggled. “They had time to write an article?”
She gave him that ‘oh-honey’ look again. “John, they’ve had that article written for weeks and a cover ready to go. All they had to do was write up the specifics of your revelation. These people are very good at what they do.”
“Oh,” John said, feeling a tad out of his depth.
“It isn’t all bad news. Howard Stern’s been talking about nothing all morning but how awesome you are. According to him you stuck it to the man, or however he put it. For the most part, the Internet is falling all over itself to love you. Oh No They Didn’t is on their fifth Sherlock & John master post and it’s a party in the comments. Your fan forums, for the most part, are beside themselves with rapture. The edited-down version of the Q&A from last night has gone viral. Last I looked, it was up to eight hundred thousand hits and rising fast.”
John shook his head. “I don’t understand how all this happened overnight.”
“Bruno says that nobody goes to bed when there is epic shit happening on the Internet.” Irene grinned. “Okay. We’re having a meeting of Team Awesome in an hour.”
John laughed. “Team Awesome?”
“That is what I have decided we are called. Do not argue with the team captain. You’re just the high-priced talent.”
“And who is on Team Awesome besides us?” John asked.
“Sally and Harry, and Mike and Greg. And Bruno, of course, although he will only be attending via speakerphone. The others are on their way. Harry has promised to bring donuts. So get yourselves up and showered, I’ll be downstairs.” She bounded up and out of the room.
John sighed. “Five Rockstars.”
Sherlock finished his coffee. “I’ll have the first shower, then?”
“Sure, why not.” He watched as Sherlock got out of bed and walked to the bathroom, rubbing a hand through his hair. John cocked his head, appreciating the sway of his narrow hips and the excellent view of his arse. He set his mug aside and flopped back into the pillows.
Fuck, it is going to be a day.
By the time they’d showered and dressed and made it downstairs, Harry was there with donuts and Sally was making more coffee. Irene had set up her iPad with a keyboard at the kitchen table. Bruno’s distinctive chain-smoker rasp was coming from her phone. John had often wondered aloud about the elusive Bruno. Sherlock didn’t volunteer what he’d already deduced about him, namely that he was between twenty-five and thirty, an aspiring musician, hailed from Boston, had at least one postgraduate degree and at least one child whose mother was no longer part of Bruno’s life, and that he was quite desperately in love with Harry Watson. “Letterman’s office just called to make sure that Sherlock’s still confirmed for Tuesday,” he was saying. “Ellen’s office wants to know if John can talk to Ellen this afternoon.”
“That ought to be fine. John, can you talk to Ellen later? I’ll bet you anything she’s going to ask you to do the whole hour with her. Are you up for that?”
“Well, that isn’t till Wednesday. I think my head ought to have stopped spinning by then.”
“Tell her fine, Bruno, and clear that number for to John’s cell phone.”
Greg and Mike arrived with a flurry of sincere, concerned-but-happy-for-you hugs and handshakes. Sherlock was fascinated by the self-contradictory body language on display: cheerful, but worried. Open, but cautious. Everyone seemed conscious of being too grim about all the issues they were now facing when the source of those issues was something that made their clients/employers happy.
When everyone was seated around the table with coffee and donuts, Irene gestured for attention. “All right. Let’s get down to business. In an ideal world all we’d have to do is wish John and Sherlock the best and debate whether they ought to color-coordinate their suits for the premiere, but we don’t live in an ideal world.” Sherlock glanced around at their faces; they all wore serious and determined expressions, as if they were preparing battle strategy. He supposed that’s just what they were, in fact, doing. “First of all, this photo.” She twirled her iPad around to show them the photo of him and John that had been taken last night outside the restaurant. They were holding hands and smiling broadly as they looked at each other. “This is perfect. Everyone is using this photo with their write-ups. Nobody is digging through their archives to find oddball photos of either of you or hunting for ones in which you look even the slightest bit swishy. We’re already controlling the media presence because you decided to walk out the front door like a goddamned boss. Well done.”
“That wasn’t our intent. But I’m glad you approve,” John said, smirking.
“But no more accidental victories. From now on, it’s about being smart. The good news is that we’ve got a lot going for us.”
“We do?” Sherlock said, frowning. “I rather thought we were in dire straits.”
“Well, not as dire as they could be. The first thing we have going for us is that you’ve inadvertently chosen the exact right time for this. If you’d actually intended to come out before the film’s release, I would have advised you to do so two to three weeks ahead of it. Two weeks is forever in the media. It’s close enough to the release to be a publicity boost, but far enough out that most of the histrionics will be over and there’s an excellent chance that a bigger story will have bumped you off the headlines by opening day. The second point in our favor is the spontaneity of what happened last night. Nobody who sees that video can possibly question its sincerity. It’s honest, real and unpremeditated, and that makes it sympathetic. Everything about how it happened makes it achingly clear just how hard it is to hide, and how unfair and wrong it is that anyone should be made to do so. It makes people root for you. There’s also the fact that neither of you were in a relationship when you got together, so you’re not leaving behind any broken hearts or traumatizing any photogenic children. And last but definitely not least, neither of you are-to be blunt, neither of you flame. I hate to put it in those terms, but that’s the truth of it. If the great gay brunch confab in the sky had engineered an A-List couple to be the first to come out together, they couldn’t have done much better than you two.”
John had a tentative smile on his face. “Is this your way of bucking us up? Because I have to say, it’s working.”
“Don’t get too comfy. Now it’s all about managing the information and the media presence. We have to walk a very fine line here, folks. It’s going to be an onslaught and I know it’s going to be uncomfortable, but you two can’t go into hiding. It’ll look like you’re ashamed or that you regret it, or that you’re too chicken to face the world. But you can’t be everywhere, grinning into every camera, because then it’ll look like you’re playing into all the press and taking advantage of it. That will make people wonder if you did it on purpose, and you can kiss all the underdog sympathy goodbye. So you have to be out in the world, but not too much.”
Harry had her head in her hands. “Bloody hell, this is like plotting the Normandy invasion.”
“The first step has to be the press release,” Greg said. “We need to get it out as soon as possible. Right now it’s about rumor control. They’re going to start making things up themselves if we don’t give them something.”
“Way ahead of you,” Irene said, passing around sheets of paper. “This is the draft of the statement you two will release. Read it, we’ll make any changes that need making, and Bruno will release it immediately.”
“Should we really be making political statements in the release?” Mike asked.
“We have to,” Irene said. “We have to acknowledge that last night wasn’t planned, and that they were lying about being just friends, and that means we have to say why. We’re not taking any positions in the release, that isn’t what it’s for.”
John nodded. “I like it. It’s direct.”
Sherlock shrugged. “I suppose.”
“You don’t like it?” John said.
“I dislike all this euphemistic, desaturated language. Although I don’t suppose it would be terribly constructive to release a statement that says ‘Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are really chuffed to announce that they’re shagging quite a lot, fancy each other to bits and would like to politely but emphatically invite anyone who doesn’t like it to go rot’.”
Everyone laughed. “I dare you, I bloody dare you,” Sally said.
John was grinning at him. “Have I told you today that I fucking adore you?”
Sherlock felt himself blush. “Such are the sorts of things one does not weary of hearing.”
John slid a hand around the back of his neck, pulled him in and kissed him quickly, then sat back. It was the first time they’d kissed in front of others. Nobody seemed fazed. “So we’re agreed on this wording?” Nods. “All right, you got that, Bruno?”
“Ten-four, chief,” he said.
“Okay. Our next task is going to be planning how we set you two loose on the world. Greg, Mike, how big is the camp of cameras outside the gate?”
“Looked like around fifty.”
John’s eyes widened. “Fifty? Paparazzi?”
“Not as many as I was afraid of, actually. Now, the minute either of you two leave, they are going to follow you. So here’s the plan. Today, you are each going to go out on your own. We’ll wait a few days to send you out together. John, you’re going to go to the gym at ten. Sherlock, you are having a late lunch with Emma Hudson at two.”
“Oh, I am, am I?”
“Yes, you are. I called Emma and asked if she could help us out. I need you to be seen with someone famous enough to be identifiable but who wouldn’t be seen as a romantic rival for John. Emma was happy to oblige us.”
Sherlock grit his teeth. He didn’t like being handled and given marching orders like he was a five-year-old being escorted to dance class and play dates. He recognized the necessity of what Irene was doing, but it still felt intrusive and patronizing.
You got everyone into this with your outburst last night, Holmes. Square up and suffer the consequences.
He felt John’s hand on his leg, a quick stroke and a pat. He glanced over at him. John wasn’t looking at him, but Sherlock could sense his understanding and his commiseration. He didn’t like this any more than Sherlock did. But at least they weren’t going through it alone.
Irene folded her hands on the table. She looked pretty grim. “Here’s the hard part, guys. While you’ve both had plenty of experience with the paparazzi, what you are about to go through with them will be unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. It will be the full-court press. It will be an assault. They will surround you, they will impede your ability to walk, they will shove and push and trample and crowd you. They will shout the vilest, nastiest slurs at you that they can in an effort to get a reaction. They will insult people you love. They will make vulgar remarks about your sex life. There is nothing they’d like more than to get a picture of one of you angry, or shouting. If they could get one of you to take a swing at them, that would be the goddamned mother lode. Am I making myself clear? This is going to be horrifically unpleasant, but you have to do it. Do whatever you have to do in your own head to stay in control. Do your best to look calm and Zen-like. Nobody’s expecting a big grin, in fact that would look disingenuous. You have to look unruffled and like you’re in total control. This is going to be the hardest acting job of your lives.”
She stopped and took a breath. John was peering at her. “Irene, you sound…upset.”
“I am upset. I hate that you are going to be pursued like this for however long it takes the story to die down and I hate that I have to put you in the middle of it.” John put his hand on her arm. Irene took a deep breath and smoothed her hand back over her hair, then smiled brightly. “It’s all right. Everything will be fine.”
“You think John should spend a full hour on Ellen’s show?” Sherlock asked.
“Yes, if she asks. He won’t find a more receptive audience or a more understanding host. It’ll be an excellent chance to do some spin control.”
John looked at his watch. “Blimey, it’s gone nine already. I best get my things and be off to the gym if I’m going, then. Irene, is there anything else?”
“Oh, tons more, but it can wait. Go ahead.” He jumped up and headed upstairs.
Sherlock stayed where he was, feeling moody. He could feel their eyes on him. “This is going to be worse for him than for me, isn’t it?” he said.
Irene sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“Why worse for John?” Harry said, frowning.
“Because of the sorts of actors they are, and the niches they inhabit,” Greg said. “Sherlock’s more of an aesthete. He’s an upper-class highbrow sort of actor who does Shakespeare and Mamet between films. As such, he’s already seen as something of an outsider. He’s a bit more out there. John’s an Everyman. He’s-pardon the slight on his nation of origin, but he’s the All-American guy next door. People will have an easier time with Sherlock being gay than with John.”
“What about his career?” Sherlock asked.
Greg sighed. “Well, it’s a damn good thing he was looking for a change, because he’ll most certainly be making one. Romantic comedies are most likely a thing of the past, not that he’ll be sad about that. Both of you will probably have to stay away from romantic leading roles for awhile, maybe several years. Maybe more.”
John trotted down the stairs, his gym bag over his shoulder. Everyone got up at once. John laughed. “Jesus Christ, you all look like you’re about to send me off to war. It’s just the gym. You know. Few lat pulls, a little time on the elliptical?”
Irene was rubbing her own arms. “Remember what I said, okay? Zen-like and calm. Don’t engage. Just try to put yourself inside a little force field.”
“Relax, Irene. I’m a big boy. I can handle it.” He turned and went to the door. Sherlock followed him.
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried,” he said.
John sighed. “We’ve got to face the world sooner or later, sweetheart.”
Sherlock blinked. “Did you just call me ‘sweetheart’?”
John fidgeted, blushing. “Yeah, I did. Sorry, it just sort of popped out.”
“Hmm. I think-yes, I think I liked it.”
A smile broke over John’s face. “Really?”
“In small doses, perhaps.” He bent and kissed him. “Good luck.”
“If I need to go to a happy place, I’ll close my eyes and be in your house in Sussex, with you,” John said.
“If that is not a happy place then none exists.”
John grinned and left. Sherlock was left staring at the door, hoping to get him back in one piece.
Paparazzi, fucking paparazzi, John thought as he drove to the gym. He felt like he was in Bullitt.
They were all around him. Motorcycles, vans, cars, and half of them were on phones or radios. They had been lying in wait outside the gate to his neighborhood, and sure enough, they knew it was him immediately. They snapped photos of him as he drove by, although he wasn’t sure what they could see through the tinted windows. Then they leapt onto motorbikes and into cars and followed him.
John parked in the gym’s lot. He saw the paps parking and racing each other towards his car. Zen-like and calm. Zen-like and calm.
Sherlock in the hot tub at Mount Shasta. Lying with Sherlock under the stars in Sussex.
Happy place, happy place, happy place.
He took a deep breath and got out of the car.
He almost couldn’t get the door open, they were crowding him so close. He was bloody glad he’d worn sunglasses, because it was worse than a photocall. He was in a forest of moving cameras; eight zillion flashbulbs went off six inches from his face. He started towards the door and they moved with him.
Then they were shouting.
He tried not to listen, but he couldn’t help but hear.
John how long have you been gay John who’s on the bottom do you like sucking cock does he beg for it I bet he begs for it John who’s the man John who’s the girl how do you like it how does he like it how long have you taken it up the arse how long have you sucked dick how long were you lying do you have AIDS who else have you slept with did you sleep with are you sleeping with….
They crowded closer. He could hardly move forward. He’d soon have to fight his way through.
Don’t fight. They don’t want you to walk? Don’t.
John stopped in his tracks. He stood stock-still and crossed his arms over his chest, staring vaguely down towards the pavement. He closed his eyes behind his sunglasses and focused on breathing. The cameras kept snapping, the flashes kept flashing, the shouters kept shouting.
He didn’t move. He waited.
He remembered something Sherlock had once told him about how some theater actors discouraged the paparazzi from camping out at the stage door; they would wear the same clothes each night when they left the theater, so no matter what day the paps showed up, it looked like the same photo. Nobody would pay for the same photograph over and over, so it negated their incentive to show up.
John didn’t move a muscle. They could take photos of him as long as they liked, but they’d all look the same. This same position, this same boring pose. They’d have to give up eventually; at least, he hoped they would.
He was amazed how well it worked. Within a minute, the shouting had stopped. Within two, the camera flashes and clicks had died down. He didn’t move. Gradually, one by one, the photographers started backing away. Realizing he wasn’t going to move until they did, they lowered their cameras and eased off.
Finally, after he’d stood there for a good five minutes, there was blessed quiet. He raised his head, glanced around at them, and gave a brief nod. Unimpeded, he headed for the door of the gym. They didn’t follow him. He heard a few isolated shutter-clicks as he entered the gym, but then he was inside and safe.
“Jesus, John,” said the trainer behind the desk. It was Phil, one of John’s favorite sparring partners. “That looked like a nightmare.”
“I’m the flavor of the moment. They’ll find a new victim to feed on soon enough.”
“You okay?” Phil asked.
“Yeah, I’m good. I guess you’ve heard, then,” John said, as he and Phil walked up to the workout floor.
“Fuck me, everyone’s heard.” They walked into the large, airy space full of cardio machines, free weights and weight machines. Everyone turned to look. “We’ve got more’n one gay trainer here, and of course a good number of the members are queer. I never thought you were, though.”
“Me neither,” John said, smiling. “Funny how falling in love with a man can alter your perceptions.”
Phil laughed. “Yeah, I guess it might do that. Hey, let me know if you want to spar after your cardio, okay?”
“Will do. I might need to work out some aggression today.”
Phil left him to his workout. John started on the treadmill, cranking it up to the fastest jogging speed he was comfortable with, then jacking up the incline. It felt good to run, just to pound the treadmill deck, to feel his heart thump in his chest and sweat pour down his face, to let the rush of blood drive all the thoughts from his head and the poison from his veins.
He ran six miles, walked one more to cool down, then hopped off and headed for the drinking fountain. Halfway there, a tall meathead sort of bloke bumped into him, rather hard. “Oh, excuse me, mate,” John said, even though he wasn’t at fault. He started to pass on by.
“Watch it, faggot,” the bloke muttered.
John stopped in his tracks. Did that just happen? “What’d you say?” he said, incredulous.
The meathead immediately whirled around, all dramatic, like he’d been hoping John would challenge him. “I said watch it, faggot.” John could only blink in amazement. He was caught totally off-guard. He’d known this could happen, of course, but it had never occurred to him that someone might slag off him in a gym in Beverly Hills. “Guess all you actors are fags, huh?” he said, smirking like he was putting a good one over on John.
John glanced around. Nobody seemed to have heard him, at least. The last thing John wanted or needed just now was a big dramatic scene. “My private life is none of your business,” John said. He tried to walk by again, but his new friend wasn’t having it.
“That all you got to say, then?” the bloke said. His voice was rising.
“I don’t want to get into it, all right?”
“Maybe I don’t want a fag staring at my ass, ever think of that?”
John stared at him. Well, John. Here he is. Your very first homophobe. Maybe I should thank him for taking my bigot-virginity, although that might not go over so well. It was an unfortunate thought, because all it did was make John bust out laughing.
The meathead’s frown deepened. “What the fuck are you laughing at?”
“Oh my God,” John said, still laughing. “Really? That’s what you’re going with? Calling me a fag and fretting that I’ll stare at your arse?” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I was actually worried about people like you.” John wiped at his eyes. “You sound like Central Casting sent you over, mate.” He walked around the man, who just looked confused now, and didn’t try to stop him. “Oh, by the way? You needn’t worry about being stared at. Your arse can’t begin to compare to my boyfriend’s.”
He walked to the drinking fountain, grinning and a bit giddy. The fearsome specter of his imaginings had materialized, called him a faggot right to his face, and he’d survived. He hadn’t melted with embarassment, or boiled over with rage. In fact, the fearsome specter had turned out to be more ridiculous than scary.
He filled his water bottle. If only I could believe that they’d all be so easily vanquished.
John got home just after noon, still on a bit of a high from his encounter with the meathead at the gym. He wasn’t naïve enough to think that all people who would wish him ill would be quite as mustache-twirlingly obvious about it, though. If it was never any worse than that, he could deal with it; the problem was that he knew that in all likelihood, it would get worse.
Greg and Mike’s cars were gone, but Harry, Sally and Irene’s were still there. He hoped he’d be able to sneak off for half an hour alone with Sherlock, because he was a bit worked up and horny as hell.
The first thing he noticed upon entering the house was the smell. It smelled like…like…a funeral. Frowning, he walked through into the kitchen, then stopped short.
The kitchen counters, the table, and the breakfast bar were covered in flower arrangements, fruit baskets, and other gifts of varying sizes and degrees of lavishness. Harry came in, carrying another one. “Oh, John! Glad you’re back, Sherlock’s been envisioning doomsday scenarios.”
“What the hell is all this?”
“They started arriving just after you left. Eighteen so far. This one’s from Neil and David.” She plucked the card off the cookie bouquet, munching on one of the blooms, and read it out. “’Welcome to the dark side. And it’s true, we do have cookies!’ Best wishes, et cetera. I think every out gay couple in the world has sent you flowers. And some other people, too. This one’s from Wills and Kate.”
His jaw dropped. “Wills and Kate sent us flowers?”
“They did, indeed. Their card was all proper and polite, but it came down to the same thing. Congratulations, way to strike a blow for equality, blah blah blah.”
“Save that card, Mum will want to have it bronzed or something.”
He heard Sherlock’s footsteps thundering down the stairs. “John, is that you?”
“Yeah,” he said, bemusedly looking at the bouquets.
Sherlock burst into the kitchen and enveloped him in a hug. “Oh good, all your limbs are still attached. How was it? Was it awful? How bad was it?”
“Um…both worse and better than I expected. Blimey, Sherlock, look at all these flowers!”
Sherlock flapped an impatient hand. “Meaningless gestures.”
“Not meaningless to me!”
“John,” Sherlock beseeched him, “what happened at the gym? Anything?”
“Oh. Well…yes, a few things happened. Let’s get Irene and I’ll tell you about it.”
They found Irene in the den, working on her iPad. John told them everything about his experience, from the technique he’d used to defuse the paparazzi to his encounter with the meathead. “They were both bad experiences, but I dealt with them, I lived, and I won’t be quite as nervous next time.”
The doorbell rang again. “I’ll get it,” Sally said. Harry was on the phone to someone and Irene was back on her iPad. John, his patience at its limit, pulled Sherlock to his feet and out of the den.
Sherlock ducked his head and kissed John’s neck. “I find it arousing when you come home sweaty,” he growled against his skin.
“I know; that’s why I did,” John said. “Throwing it in that arsehole’s face got my blood up and all I’ve wanted to do since is bend you over a chair and make you scream,” he said, low and intense into Sherlock’s ear.
“God, John,” Sherlock groaned. He grabbed his hand and practically dragged him up the stairs. “Half an hour until I’ve got to get ready for Emma.”
“What’ll we do with the other twenty minutes?” John said, kicking the bedroom door shut behind him.
“Sherlock, darling,” Emma trilled, reaching up to hug him. Sherlock smiled and bent down to hug her back.
“Thanks for meeting me. I know it was, erm, short notice,” he said, taking his seat across from her in the café. Normally he’d prefer to eat on the patio, but he didn’t dare, with the paparazzi circling like buzzards.
She flapped a hand. “Pish tosh, I’m happy to help. I’m glad I was still in town; I’m heading back to London next week.” She looked toward the window where a crowd of photographers was lurking outside. “Have you had that pack of wolves on your tail all day?”
“This is the first time I’ve left the house today, but they’ve been on me the whole trip, yes. Thank God for valet parking, I was able to get out of the car and inside before they caught up to me. John had quite a run-in at the gym earlier.” He gave her the quick rundown of John’s gym excursion.
She clucked her tongue. “It isn’t right, you two being pursued like this.”
“It’ll die down. The novelty will wear off, and something newer and more sensational will turn up. Just because John and I are out now doesn’t mean we’re suddenly going to start falling down drunk at clubs or going to rave parties and snorting lines off underwear models. We’re as boring as we ever were.”
They ordered drinks. The waiter gave Sherlock a flirty little smile. He frowned; that was the second time a man had done such a thing; the valet had winked at him when he took his keys. “I’m so happy for you, Sherlock,” Emma said. “You brought a tear to my eye at that screening. You sounded so terribly frayed.”
He nodded. “I was. I’m sorry I’ve let us in for all this insanity, but I can’t say I’m not glad to have things out in the open. I’m just relieved John isn’t angry about it.”
“He’s a good sort, your John.”
Sherlock smiled. “Much more so than I deserve. Part of me is waiting for him to come to his senses and wonder what the bloody hell he’s doing with a bastard like me.”
“Emma?” came a new voice.
They both looked up to see Fiona Beesley, the second assistant director from To a Stranger. “Oh, Fiona dear, hello!” Emma said, half-rising to hug her. Sherlock waited to be acknowledged, but Fiona seemed to be deliberately ignoring him. “Um…,” Emma said, glancing at Sherlock, “how are you?”
“I’m well, thanks. I’ve just been hired on as first AD for de Palma’s new film, we start pre-production in a few weeks.” Fiona was standing so her back was half-turned toward Sherlock. Emma looked puzzled, but he wasn’t.
“And hello to you, too, Fiona,” he said, his tone icy.
Fiona hesitated, then turned to face him. Her face was like stone. “Sherlock,” she said, the minimum allowable response to his greeting.
He sat back, cocking his head. “I gather you are unhappy with me.”
“Are you surprised? I took a pay cut to work on that film, a lot of us did, and you just threw the whole thing under the bus without a thought.”
“Is that what you think? That I don’t care what happens to the film?”
“Not enough to keep quiet, obviously. You couldn’t stay in the closet for just one more month?”
He held her gaze for a moment, seeing not just her present irritation, but the older pain that it was masking. “I’m sorry that your brother was discharged from the Marines for being gay, but that isn’t my fault.”
Her eyes widened. “How the hell did you-no, it doesn’t matter, I don’t want to know. And this isn’t about Jason, it’s about this business and your privilege. I’ve got friends who’ve been in the closet for years, but they can’t do what you did because they don’t have an Oscar sitting on their mantel.”
“If you think that’s going to earn me any special dispensations, you’ll be pleased to know that it won’t.”
“Then what about John? Did he want this?”
Sherlock swallowed hard. He was already feeling guilty enough about that as it was without having it thrown into his face. “No, he didn’t,” he said.
She sighed. “I must be crazy, talking to you like this, but honestly, I am fresh out of fucks to give. That film was going to be important, and now all it’ll be is the movie where the lead actors turned gay for each other.”
Sherlock crossed his legs and looked up at her. “I’m afraid that the film was always going to be the one where the lead actors ‘turned gay,’ as you put it, no matter when we went public. The only way to avoid that would have been to stay closeted forever, and that was never an option that we considered.”
Fiona seemed to deflate a little. “It must be nice to be famous enough that it’s an option, and not a necessity. It was nice to see you, Emma.” She turned and left the café.
Emma shook her head. “That was uncalled for,” she said, sounding irritated. “She’s got no right to get so shirty with you.”
“I’m sure she isn’t alone in the sentiment.”
“I worked on the film too, Sherlock. I don’t bear you any ill will.”
“Thank you. I fear there’ll be very few people whose good opinion I can trust going forward. No one will dare publicly denounce us for fear of looking bigoted, so I may find myself surrounded by people who may smile, and smile, and be villains.”
Emma smiled. “At least it may be so in Hollywood.”
“I knew I could count on you.” He sobered. “It is disconcerting to have to wonder who in this business now thinks ill of me.”
“You’ll drive yourself mad trying to work that out, dear. We all do, all the time.”
“I’ve never much concerned myself with other people’s opinions. Why on Earth does it matter so much now?”
“Because it’s not you you’re really worried about, luv. It’s John. Things start to matter when they’re happening to someone we love.”
Sherlock nodded. “I’d gladly trade my own career if it meant that his would flourish. I don’t care if they hate me, but I can’t bear to think of anyone hating him because of me.”
“That’s because you’re afraid of losing him, Sherlock.” Emma’s voice had gone serious. It was easy to forget, given her habitual dotty-English-granny manner, that she was a sharp-minded student of human behavior who’d never had much trouble sussing him out. “You fear any consequences he may suffer because he chose you, because you don’t really believe that you can possibly be worth it to him. But you are. He’s chosen you over everything. He took your hand and pulled you back out on that stage, because he loves you and he didn’t want to see you suffer anymore. Can’t you respect his decision? You didn’t railroad him into this. John’s a grown man. He’s thrown in his lot with you and I reckon he means for it to stick.”
Sherlock smiled. “You do have a way of putting things to me straight, don’t you?”
She winked. “No pun intended.”
They laughed together as the waiter brought their food, which came with yet another wink and a slightly too-long look. “Emma, I don’t think I am imagining that at least four blokes have tried to pull me since I came in here, nor am I imagining the three others in this dining room who are watching me while trying to be subtle about it.”
“Oh, you aren’t, dear.”
“Are they not aware that I’m quite spoken for?”
“Oh, yes. Welcome to this side of the table, Sherlock, and the wonderful world of the male gaze. I daresay you’ll be surprised by it. Now, tell me everything.”
Sherlock found himself babbling quite easily about what had happened the night before, and his date with John afterwards. Emma was a sympathetic listener and a savvy observer, a combination that made him want to share his innermost thoughts and wax rhapsodic about John.
He was in the middle of telling her about all the flowers and gifts they’d been sent when the hostess came up to the table. “Excuse me, Mr. Holmes.”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s a pair of young men up front who want me to ask you if it’d be all right for them to speak to you briefly. Something about a theater?”
Sherlock looked past her. Two young men in jeans and t-shirts, both overtly gay, one with dreadlocks and one with bright ginger hair, were hovering near the door. They were holding stacks of fliers and wearing eager expressions. “All right,” he said.
The hostess went to the young men, who grinned and hurried back to his table. “Mr. Holmes, thanks so much,” Dreadlocks gushed. “We were putting up fliers and we saw all the paparazzi and then we saw you in here and…well, we just had to risk it.”
“What can I do for you gentlemen?” Sherlock said in his best polite-actor voice. His eyes flicked over his visitors. Dreadlocks came from money but had distanced himself from his family - Midwestern, probably Plains - when he came out. He was attending film school, probably USC, had a boyfriend of at least two years, and was a vegetarian, possibly vegan. Ginger was from Seattle, maintained close ties with his family and was single. He had at least one other job as a server and owned a cat - no, two cats.
“We work at an art-house theater in West Hollywood. Just a two-screener. After what happened last night…well, everybody’s pretty excited!” said Ginger, grinning.
Dreadlocks gave him a ‘calm the fuck down’ sort of look. “We’re having a little impromptu event tonight,” he said. He handed Sherlock a surprisingly well-designed flier advertising the “Sherlock & John Film Festival,” which featured Kanisza and Rewind, along with the full video of the Variety Q&A and a surprise of some sort.
Sherlock couldn’t help but smile. “You chaps don’t waste any time, I’ll give you that,” he said.
“Oh, we were all on chat watching the Q&A last night. We can’t wait for To a Stranger. In fact we’re having a midnight showing next week, with a party beforehand. As soon as we saw how you and Mr. Watson-well, you know, we all started talking about having a special showing of your movies, which turned into a film festival! I hope you approve of the films we picked,” Ginger said, looking worried. “I wanted to show Out of Noise because everyone’s seen Kanisza.”
“Not everyone,” Dreadlocks said. “And it’s really popular! I’m still not sure about Rewind. Maybe we ought to show one of his dramatic films.”
“Well, Rewind is John’s most famous film,” Sherlock said. “It’s my personal favorite of the romantic comedies he’s done. He’ll just be glad you’re not showing Havana Honeymoon.”
“What’s super exciting is that we’re getting to show a ten-minute preview of To a Stranger! Your publicist set it up for us!”
“Oh, you spoke to Irene?”
“She was super nice. I mean, it was a long shot; we called her because we thought maybe you would come to the film festival. She said that you weren’t available, but she’d call Focus and get then to send us an extended clip to show. We’re having a raffle, too, for charity. We’re donating the proceeds to The Trevor Project.” Dreadlocks was clearly quite caught up in this little event. “Which is why we-uh, I mean the reason we came over is that we were hoping you might sign one of the fliers for us. It’d be an amazing item for the raffle.”
“Certainly.” Sherlock accepted a Sharpie from Ginger, and signed his name in one of the blank spaces. “Would it not be worth more for your raffle if John were to sign it, too?”
Dreadlocks and Ginger looked at each other, eyes wide, like their wildest dreams had just come true. “Oh my god, would it ever! It’d be, like, historic! Your first ever joint signing after you came out! That would be so legendary!”
Emma was giggling a bit at their enthusiasm. Sherlock couldn’t help but want to make their day. “Then I’ll take this home with me, I’m sure he’ll be happy to sign it. I’ll have it messengered over to your theater before your event; would that suffice?”
Ginger looked to be on the verge of tears. “Mr. Holmes, that would be so amazing, you have no idea. You’d really do that for us?”
“It’s not an inconvenience. Here, give me three, we can sign more than one for you. You might ask my lunch companion to sign one, she’s in the film, too.”
Ginger and Dreadlocks looked over at Emma, who they hadn’t even noticed. Their jaws dropped. “Oh my God, Ms. Hudson!” Dreadlocks exclaimed. “You are my absolute favorite! That film you did with Anthony Hopkins, I cry every time I watch it, like a little baby, it’s pathetic.”
She smiled. “Well, thank you, boys.”
“We’d love to have you sign a flier.”
“I’ll sign separately,” she said. “You’ll be wanting some with just the men of the hour.” She winked at Sherlock and signed two fliers for them. Ginger full-on jumped up and down when she handed them back.
“Could we maybe get a photo?” Dreadlocks asked, looking embarrassed to be making the request, but Sherlock had been waiting for it.
“All right.” They conscripted the hostess to take a photo, then Dreadlocks and Ginger took their fliers and left in a flurry of thanks and handshakes and general star-struck euphoria.
Emma shook her head. “Sherlock, you are a revelation to me. There was a time you’d have told those boys to piss off and leave you be.”
“Perhaps I’m learning to value those who are enthusiastic about me, Emma. I need all the help I can get.”
Irene had a good laugh when Sherlock told her about his encounter at the café. “I spoke to the owner of that theater earlier. He wanted you two to come make an appearance at his little festival. As if.”
“How do you know we wouldn’t?” John said.
“Oh, I figured you would, which is why I said no. John, you’ve been out of the closet for one day, it is way too soon for you two to start jumping feet-first into gay-themed events. It’ll look like you’re sucking up to the community, and it’ll shove you even further into the ‘gay actor’ label, which is what we’d like to avoid. But signing these fliers is harmless enough, it’s a nice gesture.”
John added his signature to the three Sherlock had already signed. Irene took their photo holding them and Sally went off to print it. “What else can we sign for them?” John said, looking around. “Oh! I know! We’ve got a few nice, fresh copies of the EW with us on the cover, let’s sign one of those and send it along!” Silver paint pens were located and they both signed the front of the magazine. Sherlock watched, bemused, as John drew a big heart on the cover with an arrow through it, and the initials “JW + SH” inside it.
“John, what on Earth are you doing?”
“I think it’s called ‘getting carried away.’ I’m inclined to indulge people who are actually happy that we came out.”
“Oh, wait!” Irene said. She rummaged in her bag and came out with a program from the Variety screening. “How about this?”
“Fuck, yeah!” John said, grabbing it. He signed it and handed it over to Sherlock, who did the same, chuckling.
“I’m a little afraid of where this is heading,” he said. “I’m rather glad my Oscar is in London, you two would have me donating that to this raffle as well.”
“I think this’ll do,” John said, looking at the nice little stack of items they’d rounded up.
“My friends from the café may just faint with shock,” Sherlock said, dryly. “They nearly had simultaneous strokes when I told them I’d get you to sign the fliers as well.”
John smiled at him, a fond look on his face. “That was right nice of you, Sherlock. See, I knew all along that you weren’t such a bastard as everyone said.”
“No, they were right. I was and still am a bastard. I am just less so around people I give two shits about.”
John finally had to throw everyone out at nine o’clock. “But…but…” Irene stammered. “John, we have to talk about Ellen, and we haven’t even thought about the premiere yet…”
“It’ll wait,” he said, half-carrying her to the door. “You’re going to crash soon, not even Rockstar can keep you up for two days straight, and I’d like my house back, please.”
She, Sally and Harry reluctantly allowed themselves to be bundled off. John shut the door after them with a grateful sigh, then waited until he actually heard their cars start up and drive away.
“Are they gone?”
“Yes,” John said, going back to the den, where Sherlock was sprawled on the couch with his laptop. He flopped down at the other end, lifting Sherlock’s feet and resettling them on his lap. He picked up the remote and turned on E! News.
”Hollywood is still reeling from what is shaping up to be the biggest story of the year: that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, two of the big screen’s top leading men, have been romantically involved for several months. The pair, who met while filming the Ang Lee drama To a Stranger, revealed their relationship at a screening of the film last night in Beverly Hills. The viral video of the spontaneous, emotionally charged moment has been viewed over three million times today. In a statement released through their shared publicist, Holmes and Watson have acknowledged that they hid their relationship for the sake of the film and their careers, but that this secrecy became too painful to bear. Reactions have ranged from excitement to shock to dismay. Watson was seen today suffering through a horde of photographers while visiting his gym, while Holmes shared lunch with friend and To a Stranger co-star Emma Hudson. Neither have spoken publicly since their statement.”
“Hear that?” John said. “We’re the biggest story of the year.”
“The fact that such a characterization can be made with a straight face is a sad testimony to the arsed-up priorities of this society,” Sherlock muttered.
“To be fair, I do think they meant the biggest entertainment story of the year.”
“Even so. A couple of British chaps shacking up should hardly be cause for such extravagant comment.”
“Shouldn’t be, no. But it is.”
Sherlock sighed and shut his laptop. “I’m going to have a soak. It’s been a bloody long day.” He pulled his feet from John’s lap, tossed his computer aside and walked out. John watched him go, frowning. Usually he’d have left John with a kiss, or at the very least a fond look.
E! News was still on, but John wasn’t paying attention. He sat there for a few minutes, a vague disquiet growing in his belly. He’d never said so, but one of the reasons he had been keen to wait until after the Oscars to go public was for the sake of their relationship. He had known how it would be, and as far as he was concerned, the more time they had to solidfy what they had together, the better. If they had waited until April, they would have been together a good seven or eight months before having to face the media circus. Now, it was barely more than two.
They were solid; he knew they were. But they were still feeling their way around their raw edges, testing the seam where their lives were knitting together, tucking in the loose threads and picking up the dropped stitches. His confidence in their ability to weather this storm together was undercut by his awareness of just how much it would destroy him to lose Sherlock now. He couldn’t. He couldn’t even think about it. Sherlock was the most important person in his life, the most important person he’d ever had in his life. Sherlock was his partner, his companion, his harshest critic and his biggest fan; he was his lover, and he was his best friend.
John had never feared losing someone the way he feared losing Sherlock, because he’d never in his life loved anyone the way he loved Sherlock.
He got up, turned off the telly, and went up the stairs. He could hear the drip-drip of the faucet and feel the humidity from Sherlock’s bath. He hesitated, then stripped off his own clothes and walked nude into the bathroom.
Sherlock was slouched low enough in the water that it covered his chin. Steam rose all around him, making his hair curl fetchingly around his face. He looked over as John approached. Feeling a little shy, and uncertain if his presence was welcome, John padded over to the tub decking and sat on the edge. He looked down at Sherlock’s face, flushed with heat.
Sherlock sighed, then reached out with a dripping hand and took John’s. He guided it to his own face and pressed a kiss to the center of his palm, holding it there. He tugged on John’s arm and gestured with his chin. Come in here, in with me.
John carefully stepped into the tub, not wanting to step on Sherlock or, worse, slip and turn the entire enterprise into a tangle of limbs and splashed water. Sherlock pulled him close and settled him back against his chest, his arms circling John’s shoulders from behind. John relaxed, the heat of the water and Sherlock’s body soaking into his muscles. He let out a long breath and twined his fingers with Sherlock’s.
They didn’t speak. John’s mind raced, searching for a way to express his lurking unease and ask for what he needed to quell it. I need you. Promise me this won’t tear us apart. I love you. Tell me you love me, for better or for worse. Tell me I’m enough. Tell me I’m all you’ll ever need. Tell me all these things and I’ll tell you the same. Swear we’ll get through this. Let me hear you say it because nobody warned me that a side effect of being wildly in love is that you need reassurance that you’re not alone in it.
He screwed up his courage up to say-something, though he wasn’t sure what it would be. He took a breath, sat up, and turned so he could look in Sherlock’s eyes, but whatever had been about to come out stalled in his throat and slunk back down, because he saw there the same fear that he’d been wrestling with all day.
Sherlock put a finger on his lips. “Yes,” he whispered. “All of it, yes.”
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