Performance In a Leading Role (18/20) Part 2 of 2
Chapter 18, Part 2 of 2
Sherlock could feel John’s impatience to get into the theater through the twitching of his fingers where they were interlaced with Sherlock’s. As was now standard procedure for them, they’d held hands all the way down the red carpet, waving and posing and enduring an interminable series of fluff interviews while never letting go of each other. Sherlock enjoyed holding John’s hand, but not when it was mandated by Irene. “If you drop his hand they’ll all leap on it like there’s trouble in paradise,” she’d said. “You have to present a united front to that pack of hyenas.” So no matter how sweaty, cramped-up or stiff their hands got, they didn’t dare let go.
Of course, every single interviewer wanted to know if their nominations had caused any competitive tension between them. They all asked the question in that patronizing look-how-liberated-I-am tone with that little glimmer in their eye, that you-can-tell-me twinkle as they teased and angled for a juicy tidbit. Sherlock was half-tempted to tell them that John had been sleeping on the couch since the nominations were announced and that they hadn’t spoken in weeks, just to see the looks on their faces. Naturally, he did no such thing. They both gave approved, generic answers and smiled their practiced red-carpet smiles and forged ahead. A couple of times he’d looked at John and caught a glimpse of the real him, not the actorly façade, but the man behind it, the man he knew and loved, and it was a relief. They’d exchanged a quick glance or a subtle eyeroll and then resume their progress through the gauntlet.
John let go of Sherlock's hand and flexed his fingers as they finally reached the relatively safe haven of the theater’s lobby. “You were hanging on rather tightly,” he commented.
“I can’t have anyone stealing you away now, when you’ve just agreed to endow me with all your worldly goods.”
“I get half of yours, too. Oh, that means half-ownership of the Jaguar! Brilliant!” John’s smile lit up his face, and once again Sherlock was struck dumb with sheer amazement at this man, who could stand in the lobby at the Academy Awards, probably more nervous than he’d ever been in his life, crack a joke, and grin like a kid in a ice cream shop just out of the joy of the moment. Sherlock had never possessed that gift, but being in close proximity to it had benefits.
For half an hour, they drifted about the lobby, making small talk and avoiding the press. Molly found them and introduced them to her impossibly handsome date, and the four of them formed a little protective huddle near the bar. Sherlock pretended not to notice that John kept glancing at the doors into the theater, which were standing tantalizingly open. Members of the public who had tickets and the nominees in the less photogenic categories were going right in and finding their seats, but it would look odd for two Best Actor nominees to be sitting in their seats half an hour early like overeager schoolchildren. Sherlock kept half an eye on George, who was surrounded by hangers-on across the lobby. Nobody was better at navigating Hollywood’s unwritten rules and oblique codes of social behavior than George, so everyone waited for him to make his move.
At length, he did, about ten minutes before the ceremony was due to start. As soon as he went into the theater, everyone followed, and suddenly they were in the aisle with what seemed like half the audience, maneuvering their way to the front. Sherlock reached back and grabbed John’s hand. “Oh, isn’t that sweet,” said a familiar voice. “Like little children in a scary fairy tale.”
Sherlock turned, his lip curling at the sight of Moriarty. “I see your Rent-a-Date canceled on you,” he said, addressing Moriarty’s lack of an escort to the ceremony. “I suppose even professionals have standards.”
“Sherlock,” John said, a warning in his tone.
“Oh, there’s no cause for concern, John,” Moriarty said, his conspiratorial tone grating on Sherlock’s nerves. As if he had anything in common with John, or was even worthy to breathe the same air. “He’s always been...prickly. I learned to let him roll off my back long ago.”
John stepped half in front of Sherlock, his jaw clenching. “I don’t need you to tell me what he’s like, Jim.”
“Dear me. He is adorable when he’s puffed up, isn’t he, Sherlock?”
“Excuse us,” Sherlock said, teeth gritted, pulling John away down the aisle through a gap in the crowd that opened up right then. He didn’t look back, just plowed ahead to the front row. A few of their colleagues greeted them on the way, wishing them luck. John drew up a bit short as they came abruptly face-to-face with Meryl Streep. “Meryl,” Sherlock said, leaning forward to place a polite kiss on her cheek and accept one from her. “Lovely to see you.”
“You too, Sherlock. You’re having a very busy year.” Her eyes were full of good humor.
“That is something of an understatement. I don’t believe you’ve met John.”
“No, I haven’t had the pleasure,” she said, turning her serene smile on John, whose ears had gone pink. She extended her hand and John shook it. “So nice to meet you,” she said.
“The pleasure is mine,” John said, giving Meryl that charming smile that had launched a dozen romantic comedies.
“I really loved your film. You were both magnificent in it,” she said.
“Thank you,” John said. “You were remarkable as well, but then you’re never anything else.” The ushers began urging everyone to take their seats. John motioned to Meryl’s seat. “After you,” he said. She sat, glamorous in her tasteful gown, giving John a big smile.
Sherlock and John took their seats. “Aren’t you the ladies’ man?” Sherlock murmured into John’s ear.
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” John said, leaning close with a flirty smirk.
“That’s ridiculous,” Sherlock said. “Why would I be jealous? You are engaged to me, after all.”
“It’s all right if you’re jealous--that’s worked out rather well for us in the past, hasn’t it?” John said, quirking one eyebrow.
Sherlock sighed. “I am not jealous, and now is hardly the time,” he said, tossing John an amused glance.
The lights dimmed. “Oh Lord, here we go,” John said, sounding a bit breathy.
Sherlock reached out and took his hand. “It’ll all be over in four hours. Focus on that. If you get distracted, which you will, just clap when everyone else claps. You’ll be fine.”
The camera crews were in place; one operator had set up camp right next to them. The stage was set. The audience was seated.
And then the show began.
John wasn’t the only distracted nominee in the audience. Sherlock only half-paid attention to Billy Crystal’s inane opening monologue, which naturally had to contain a joke about him and John at which they were obliged to laugh good-naturedly (“I know some of you are Method actors, but there is a line”), and when the show began in earnest, it quickly devolved into a blur of presenters and nominees and dull acceptance speeches. Their category would not be called for several hours, as the Best Actor statuette was scheduled as the penultimate award of the show, so they’d have plenty of time to stew.
As Irene had predicted, the director kept a camera on them continuously. Sherlock had never been so conscious of schooling his expression; fortunately, that was a skill he’d mastered long ago. Less fortunately, as the evening wore on it became clear that their film wasn’t the prettiest girl at the dance. Andrew Bird’s score didn’t win, and cinematography went to For Which It Stands.
“If Molly doesn’t win, that’s a bad sign,” John whispered during a commercial break, just before the Best Original Screenplay award was to be announced.
“Very bad. But she’s such an overwhelming favorite, I’m sure she will.”
She did. John and Sherlock stood up, as did Ang, who was seated just behind them. Molly came up the aisle from her seat and they all hugged her; she was shaking so hard she could barely walk. Sherlock glanced at John, who was beaming with pride. He couldn’t help but feel it himself. If it were not for Molly’s writing, none of them would be here, and Sherlock would never have met John. For that alone, he thought she deserved every award that existed.
The next fifteen minutes crept by at a snail’s pace. Sherlock felt John’s left leg start to bounce nervously and nudged him a little. “Find your neutral space,” Sherlock whispered. John’s leg stopped and he smiled a little.
Sherlock took a deep breath as Natalie Portman took the stage to present the Academy Award for Best Actor in a Leading Role. He didn’t think he was imagining that the level of tension in the room went up significantly. He glanced over at John, who was attempting to look calm and nonchalant and failing miserably. John met his eyes, the fuck me, here we go clear in his expression. Sherlock smiled at him and squeezed his fingers. The camera operators were in place to shoot reaction shots of all five nominees, Natalie was rattling off the canned introductory spiel, and this was it.
She read the list of nominees. After each name, a short clip of their performance was projected on the monitors. Sherlock’s was from the final epic confrontation between Benjamin and Mark. John’s was from Mark’s discovery of his brother’s body.
“And the Oscar goes to...”
Never would Sherlock have believed that the opening of an envelope could seem so interminable.
Natalie looked at the card and grinned. “John Watson, in To a Stranger."
Sherlock’s mind blanked out for a moment, the explosion of applause and wild cheers lost in a white haze of relief, joy and pride. Before he’d realized that he’d moved, Sherlock found himself on his feet with his arms full of John, hugging him tight, John exhaling a sharp, disbelieving breath and sucking in another. When he pulled back all he saw was John’s face, glowing with amazement and happiness, and Sherlock couldn’t stop himself. He pulled John close and planted a quick kiss on his lips. John squeezed Sherlock’s arm and walked off to the stairs. The entire exchange had taken five seconds.
The applause kept rising. Sherlock watched, amazed, as the audience stood. A standing ovation for the Best Actor winner was by no means assumed, but tonight, this room full of Hollywood royalty were on their feet for John Watson, a man he’d once deemed unworthy to screen test with him. How wrong he’d been, how wrong they’d all been.
John reached Natalie and she handed him his Oscar, then threw her arms around him in an enthusiastic hug. She released him and he went to the microphone, staring down at the statuette as if he were afraid it might detonate in his hands. The cheers and applause went on for a little longer, a few whistles and whoops thrown in with scattered laughter and shouting. Finally everyone calmed down and took their seats. “Oh, God,” John said, his tone so perfectly befuddled and amazed that it made everyone laugh again. “I don’t...God, I’ve got so many names and no time. If you got a paycheck from Focus for this film then I thank you. Molly, for putting such great words in my mouth, my sister Harry, the world’s best PA, and my incredible manager Irene who has been our hero these past few months...God, I can’t believe this, is this happening?” He gave a little headshake. “I’ve been very lucky, I’ve had a good career. But it isn’t every day that a bloke like me gets a chance to reinvent himself, and by believing in me, that’s what Ang Lee did for me by casting me in this film. I hoped I had this in me, and the fact that you’re all telling me that I pulled it off, it means so much.” He hesitated, looking down at the statuette. “You know...holding this thing, when I let myself imagine this...I thought it would be a great honor, and it is. I thought it would mean everything, and it does mean a lot. But it can’t compare to what this film’s already given me, what it’s meant to me. That it’s meant a lot to so many other people is...I can’t tell you how that makes us all feel. I thank everyone who made this happen. And of course, I have to thank....” He paused and looked away for a moment, biting his lip. Sherlock swallowed hard over the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. John faced forward again. “This is not my award alone, it’s also Sherlock’s, because I could not have done this without him. I am honored and grateful to share this with him. Almost as honored and grateful as I am to share my life with him.” He took a breath and lowered his eyes. The audience was dead silent; everyone could see that John was trying to keep it together. Sherlock felt his own chin trembling. When John looked up again, he looked right at him. “Sherlock, of all the things this film did for me, by far the greatest is that it brought me to you.” His voice went rough on the last few words. Sherlock’s heart lurched sideways in his chest and he let out a shaky breath, feeling his eyes welling up. John held up his Oscar. “Thank you all, I’m so honored.”
The music started up as he walked away, Natalie hugging him again and hanging on his arm as they left the stage together. Sherlock gripped the arms of his seat to stop himself from leaping up and following him. The broadcast went to commercial. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Ang smiling at him. “Congratulations. He really deserved it,” he said.
“Yes, he did,” Sherlock said.
A seat-filler materialized in John’s chair. Sherlock stared straight ahead, contemplating how long it would be before he could see and touch John again. There was the Best Picture award, of course, and John would be stuck with the press for at least an hour. Plots surfaced in his mind as to how he could sneak into the press room afterwards, but he didn’t want to hijack John’s moment of glory, either.
He would never have imagined that he’d be looking forward to the interminable post-awards party circuit, but at least he’d be with John. That could make anything bearable.
John didn’t remember walking to the stage. He barely remembered talking. He had no idea what he’d said. All he remembered was looking down and seeing Sherlock in the front row. He didn’t remember walking off, either, but now he was in the wings with Natalie hugging him and there was something heavy in his hand.
“I’m so glad you won,” she was saying. She pulled back, bouncing on her toes a little. “I really hoped, but after Jim won the SAG I didn’t know how it would go.”
He stared down at his Oscar. “I can’t believe it. I really won,” he said, dazed. “What did I say? Did I say anything embarrassing? I can’t remember, it’s all a blur.”
“You gave a great speech. Very heartfelt. Sherlock teared up.”
“Sherlock?” John said, incredulous. “My Sherlock?”
“He looked so proud.” She put her hand on his arm. “John, they gave you a standing ovation.”
“They did?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “I hope that helps calm some of your fears about your career.”
“I wish it did. It feels great to receive that kind of support, and I appreciate it, but you and I know that applause on Oscar night doesn’t always mean projects the next day.”
“You’re an Oscar winner now, though. Nothing can take that away.”
John smiled, looking down at his--his!--Oscar again. “I am, aren’t I?”
“I hope you’re ready for the press room.”
“I’ll wait for the Best Picture announcement, then go.”
Natalie kissed his cheek and left him with the ushers and the stagehands. He glanced out at the sliver of audience he could see; happily, that sliver included Sherlock, who was sitting very primly with his legs crossed and a seat-filler at his side.
The music swelled, and then Martin Scorsese took the stage to announce the Best Picture winner. He read off the nominees (seven this year) and a clip from each was shown. The clip from To a Stranger was from one of John’s favorite scenes: the first time Mark brings Benjamin to meet his family. It was a scene full of humor stretched over simmering cauldron of tension and mistrust, and it had not been easy to play.
Drum roll.
“And the Oscar goes to...The Artist!”
John sighed. Still, if he could have chosen a film for them to lose to, it would have been that one. He and Sherlock had both loved it. The evening had brought them many awards, but more important than that (to him, anyway) was how well the film had been received by audiences.
“Mr. Watson, please come with me,” said one of the ushers.
The next hour rushed by in a blur of bright lights, camera flashes, and questions coming at him from all directions. The press corps was more frenzied than usual due to his “stunning upset” (which he was asked to comment on/analyze/react to/feel something about no fewer than five times) and his “dramatic career turnaround” (which he was asked to explain/justify/feel things about), not to mention the aftermath of his “personal revelation” (which he was asked to discuss in more ways than he thought was possible). Someone asked about Moriarty’s insinuations about publicity stunts, someone else about John’s career plans going forward, and someone, bizarrely, asked him if he’d seen Torch Song Trilogy.
John should have known better, but as the press conference drew to a close without any major PR disasters, he made the mistake of letting his guard down. A reporter from one of the larger blogs stood up and asked her question, barely containing her eagerness.
“John, do you and Sherlock have any plans to get married?”
It was a very near thing. John was so wired and giddy from his win that it almost popped right out. Yes, we do. In fact, we’re engaged. Sherlock asked me to marry him while we were getting ready for the ceremony, and I couldn’t say yes fast enough. He caught himself just in time. He couldn’t drop that bomb without talking to Sherlock and Irene. Sherlock would forgive him, but he dreaded getting on Irene’s bad side. He scrambled for a reasonable answer. “We’ve hardly had time to think about that,” he said. “Ask me again in a month when we’ve had a chance to catch our breath.”
At long last, his interrogation was over. Irene appeared in the doorway when his time was up; as soon as they were clear of the press’s view, she leapt on him in a ferocious hug. “John, you gorgeous thing. I will never make you do anything you don’t want to do, ever again.”
“We’ll see how long that lasts,” he laughed, patting her back.
“Let me see that,” she said, reaching for his Oscar. He handed it over and she hefted it. “Oh, John. I know you don’t think in these terms, but no one’s ever deserved this more.”
“Sherlock deserves it more than I do. His performance made mine possible.”
“I think you underestimate how much your performance made his possible. As I’m sure he’d remind you if he were here.”
“Where is he?” John said, looking around. All he wanted right now was to seize that man by his shawl-collar lapels and kiss the public-school accent right out of him.
“He’s waiting for us in the lobby. Come on, I know you’re dying to see him.” John followed Irene up the stairs and spotted Sherlock right away; he was across the room talking to Ron Howard. Sherlock saw him at almost the same moment. John saw him excuse himself; they met halfway and Sherlock grabbed him up in a tight embrace. John exhaled, finally coming back down to Earth. “I won,” he said, reduced to simple declaratives.
“I know, John. I told you that you would.” Sherlock drew back and smiled down at him. “And you didn’t believe me.”
“No, I didn’t,” John said, laughing. “That’ll teach me, won’t it?” He looked up at Sherlock, a little punch-drunk with the intensity of his feelings for this man. “I meant what I said up there. Every word. Well, I assume that I do; I barely remember any of it.”
“I know you meant it. You always mean what you say, and you deserve this, not just for this performance but for being the sort of man you are. You deserve every good thing that can possibly happen to you.” Sherlock broke off, looking a bit perplexed at hearing this pronouncement emerge from his own mouth. John suspected Sherlock had imbibed a little while he waited.
John smiled. “Every good thing that can possibly happen?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing could be better than what’s already happened.”
Sherlock nodded. “You won tonight.”
John shook his head. “I met you.”
Sherlock stared at him with a lost, wondering look in his eyes, like a child who’s just been told that yes, Father Christmas was real after all. John grinned and pulled him down into a kiss. People were staring, but he didn’t care. If he wanted to kiss the man he loved in the lobby of the Kodak Theater, he’d bloody well do it.
Because I’m an Academy Award Winner, I do what I want, and fuck you.
John’s career as an actor had given him plenty of experience with notoriety, and how everyone suddenly wanted to be his friend, but it had never been like this. Was it like this all the time for people like George? How did they handle it?
He’d never been in a position to “hold court,” as it was called, but that’s what he and Sherlock ended up doing at the Governor’s Ball. Their arrival was greeted with a robust round of applause and cheers. John, caught up in the moment, had shaken his Oscar in the air like a prizefighter, earning himself even more cheers, but then he’d had to relinquish it.
“But...I don’t want to let go of it,” he’d said, as they walked to the engraving booth. “What if they realize there was a terrible mistake and they don’t give it back?”
“They’re just going to engrave your name on it,” Sherlock said, his arm around John’s shoulders. “They’ll give it right back, I promise.” A few nearby guests overheard this exchange and grinned at them. “It’s yours, forever. You do want your name on it, don’t you?”
John had sighed, gazing longingly down at his statuette. “I suppose.” He’d handed it over with a little put-on sad-face, and they’d rejoined the party in time for dinner.
In the past, when he’d attended parties like this (this very party on two occasions), he’d always envied those celebrities famous or powerful enough to sit in one spot and let everyone else jockey for face time with them. He’d always been the one doing the jockeying, but this time he couldn’t have left his table had he wanted to. The moment he even considered it, someone else would appear to hug and congratulate him, or a photographer would show up and want a photo, or a waiter would put yet more food in front of him.
Irene did not let them stay long, however. They had apparently been promised to Elton John’s party, and then the Vanity Fair party, so before John could sneak a second helping of the heart-stoppingly delicious dessert, Harry and Sally were hustling them out the door with barely a chance to bid goodbye to anyone.
Their last stop of the evening, the Vanity Fair party, was less eating and posturing, more drinking and dancing and gossiping. Once again, John and Sherlock’s table was the one everyone wanted to visit and, ideally, get photographed at. It was a sign of their level of pull that when George and his date showed up, he asked to join them. “Hell of a night, isn’t it?” he said, taking a vacant seat.
“I’m still not entirely convinced it wasn’t a hallucination,” John said.
George picked up John’s Oscar and examined the newly-engraved plate. “Well, it does have your name on it.” Everyone laughed. John settled back against Sherlock’s side, their hands clasped together between them. He’d never felt quite this relaxed being with Sherlock in public before. He supposed having received not just an Oscar, but a standing ovation as well, had helped smooth over what was left of his self-consciousness.
A familiar face emerged from the crowd. “John!” Sarah called, working her way over to their table.
John grinned and jumped up to hug her. Anthea was trailing after her, and both of them looked stunning. “Hello, luv,” he said. “I’m sorry it wasn’t your night tonight.”
She sighed. “I know I’m supposed to be gracious and say that it’s an honor to be nominated, but fuck it, I’m disappointed and I don’t mind admitting it. But seeing you win made up for it. God, John, your speech. It was...well, I was sniffling, and so were a lot of people around me.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it, I don’t remember much.” He leaned past her to kiss Anthea’s cheek. “Wonderful to see you here. Both of you,” he added, with emphasis.
Sarah nodded. She was glowing. “We didn’t go to the ceremony together. I didn’t want to answer the questions just yet. We’ve made no statement, we’re not going to issue a press release, she’ll just be my date from now on and everyone can make of that what they will. You might say that we were inspired,” she said, glancing past him at Sherlock, who was talking to Javier Bardem.
“Sometimes I wish we’d had the luxury of managing our coming-out with less urgency, but in the end I’m rather glad we used the slash-and-burn approach. Got everything bloody well over with.”
“Are you going to Elton’s?”
“We just came from there, actually. We’re not staying long here, either. I’ve got contingency bookings on two morning shows tomorrow. Funny, when I agreed to them, I never really thought I’d win and would have to follow through. I’ll have to be up at some ungodly hour for the GMA live feed, and then I have to go on Leno tomorrow night. I wish I could just lie about the house all day, but I suppose it’s worth it for my new paperweight.”
Sarah laughed. “Your phone’ll be ringing off the hook.”
John sobered a little. “That’d be a welcome change.”
“Has it been bad?” she asked, lowering her voice.
“Well, it hasn’t been good. I’ve had some things fall through, a few casting directors who are suddenly not returning my calls. Sherlock’s got the Tesla project, but so far I am...without projects in the pipeline.”
“It just takes one, John. One project to prove that you’re still marketable even if you live with a man.”
“The trick will be getting that one project.” He forced a smile. “But let’s not talk business. How’s that gorgeous baby?”
Sherlock checked his watch as he waited at the bar. It was just after midnight, and he knew he ought to get John home soon. He had early interview feeds, and Sherlock had his own plans for John that absolutely had to be realized before either of them slept.
So far, the evening hadn’t been entirely insufferable. John was definitely the main attraction. Everyone wanted to congratulate him, kiss his cheek, shake his hand, and tell him how marvelous he’d been...but no one was asking him to call them about a project, or if he was interested in the script they were developing. Such talk was very much de rigeur at these parties, which were as much a chance to do a lot of networking in a short time as they were a chance to drink and celebrate. John didn’t seem to notice, but then he hadn’t been to as many of these parties as Sherlock had. He’d be damned if he’d bring it up and spoil John’s enjoyment of this celebration of his success, which was richly deserved.
“My, what a beatific expression. Thinking of your sweetie, are you?”
Sherlock sighed. “What if I am?” He turned to face Moriarty, who still looked perfectly put-together and groomed at a time of night when most of the men had, at the very least, loosened their ties, but Sherlock could see through his façade. His eyes, and the slight tilt to his voice, betrayed how much he’d had to drink, and there was tension around his brow. “One should look happy when thinking of one’s ‘sweetie,’ correct? Of course, you wouldn’t know, never having had one.”
Jim leaned back against the bar. “The media is calling this a shocking upset,” he said, smooth as silk.
“I’ve been much too busy celebrating John’s win to pay attention to what’s being said in the press.”
“No doubt the voters felt sorry for him, since he’d been repeatedly defeated by another nominee. Sentiment was on his side.”
“And why might sentiment be on his side, Jim? Could it be because so many people felt that he was unjustly beaten out for other awards by that other nominee, who had been badmouthing his competition on national television? If that were the case, it’d be hard to characterize that sentiment as unjustified.”
Jim seemed unfazed by this. He shook his head, as if saddened by a great tragedy. “It pains me to see you like this, Sherlock. Once, you were a force to be reckoned with. You were in control. You were your own man. You were encumbered by no extraneous considerations. You were a being built for one purpose: the work. The craft was your only master. A man cannot serve two masters, Sherlock. I fear you will lose your way amid all this...emotion.” He shuddered and leaned close, his affable demeanor vanishing and real malice appearing behind his eyes. “Your John’s career won’t last, and we both know it. I know too many people in this town, Sherlock, and I know too much about the people in this town. He won’t work again. He’ll be forced out and you’ll have to support him, until you’re forced out, too. How long do you think your revolutionary little love affair will last then, eh?”
Sherlock raised his glass. “Till death do us part,” he said. “And John is the sort of man that you may take at his word.” He walked away, satisfied with that particular coup de grâce, but as he put more distance between him and Jim, he grew alarmed. Bollocks, what did I just do?
John met him halfway to their table. “There you are! That must be the slowest bartender in history!”
“I ran into our old friend Jim.”
John rolled his eyes. “I can afford to ignore him now, I think.’
“I may have told him that we’re engaged.”
John’s smile froze on his face. “Ah,” he said, exhaling slowly. “You just...told him?”
“Not straight out. It was more like an implication.”
“I can’t say he’d be my choice for the first person to hear our news.”
“I know. I’m sorry, darling.”
John shrugged it off. “Well, it isn’t as if we’d planned to keep it a secret. We’ll just need to tell Irene sooner rather than later.”
“I seem to keep making unplanned outbursts that detonate our options.”
“Your outbursts have a way of pushing us forward in the direction we already want to go, so don’t beat yourself up over it.”
Sherlock smiled. “Your ability to cheerfully accept and deal with my sometimes alarming social tone deafness never ceases to astonish me.”
“You do have other qualities to recommend you.”
He looked John up and down. “I may have forgotten to mention that I’ve never seen you look more handsome.”
John blushed a little. “Thanks. It’s a bit rough on the ego, walking around next to someone as gorgeous as you.”
“Even if I stipulate as to my attractiveness, which I do not, such things inevitably fade with time. You are fortunate to possess virtues that are immutable...as I am fortunate to benefit from them daily.”
John slipped his hand into Sherlock’s. “We’ll have the rest of our lives to benefit from each other,” he said.
“Yes, we will.” Sherlock smiled and drew him into an embrace. He felt John’s arm go around him and shut his eyes, Moriarty and the Oscars and lingering career worries falling away and leaving just him and John, and this unexpected life they were making together.
The ride home was quiet. After the cacophony of the past twelve hours, the inside of their limo was a haven of peace. They didn’t speak, just sat close together, Sherlock’s arm around John’s shoulders. John rested his hand on Sherlock’s thigh and stroked the soft wool with his thumb. He sighed as the limo pulled up to the house. “Home at last,” he said. “Where shall I put it?” He held up his newly-engraved Oscar.
“Anywhere you like.”
“We’ll have to have yours sent from London so we can use them as bookends.”
Sherlock laughed. “I’ve always been tempted to use it as a doorstop.”
“Would it be tacky to wear it on a chain around my neck?” John said as they went into the house.
“Well, it would be quite rough on your neck.” Sherlock bent and pressed his lips to John’s nape. “And I am very fond of your neck,” he purred, dropping his voice into a lower register--his most reliable trick when he wanted to turn John’s mind immediately to sex.
John groaned, set his Oscar on the hall table, spun around, and seized Sherlock’s face, kissing him deeply. He pressed closer, sucked on Sherlock’s lower lip, and then pulled back just a hair. “God, I’ve been thinking about doing that all night,” he whispered, their lips barely touching as he spoke. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted you so badly.”
“Well, you are the man of the hour,” Sherlock said, low and intimate. “You can have your way with me.”
“Can I?” John said, grinning like it was Christmas and he’d just gotten the biggest, shiniest present under the tree. “Are you all mine to do with as I please?”
“You did say that I was your best reward for doing this film.”
John’s expression turned a bit serious. “You are.”
Sherlock took John in his arms and kissed him again, taking his time about it. He kissed John in a way he knew he enjoyed, greedy hands and quick brushes of their lips traded off with long, deep kisses that pulled them further into each other. He slid his hand down to John’s arse and gave it a slow, deliberate squeeze, then brushed his lips across John’s cheek to his ear. “Take me to bed, John. You’ve made me wait long enough.”
He felt John smile as he took his hand and pull him toward the stairs. He followed along, a flutter of anticipation unfurling in his belly at the thought of all the ways he and John might drive each crazy tonight. John stopped at the top of the stairs and turned around, taking advantage of his brief height superiority over Sherlock, to bend him backwards slightly and kiss him. He pulled away just enough so their lips were barely touching. “I can’t wait to marry you,” he whispered, then hauled him down the hall to their bedroom.
John turned around and gave him a slanted smile, that damn smile that he knew would get him whatever he wanted. He ran his hands up Sherlock’s chest. “You know how hard it was to keep my hands to myself all night, watching you walk around in this tuxedo? It was torture. The only thing that kept me from molesting you in front of God and everybody was knowing that I’d get to unwrap you at the end of the night.” He slipped his hands under Sherlock’s jacket and pushed it off his shoulders. He grabbed the necktie and pulled him down for another slow, deep kiss, then slid his hands down to unbuckle Sherlock’s waistcoat.
Sherlock pulled on John’s bow tie and whipped it off his neck, then attacked his buttons. Shirt studs flew across the room. John let go of Sherlock for long enough to shrug out of his own jacket and they both half-stumbled as they toed off their shoes, grabbing each other for balance and giggling. John seized Sherlock’s hips and pulled them tight against his; Sherlock could feel him hard beneath his trousers. “God, what you do to me,” John said, sliding a hand around to Sherlock’s arse and kissing him again.
“What you do to me,” Sherlock said, reaching for John’s trousers. John unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt and bent to kiss his bare chest, flicking his tongue over one of Sherlock’s nipples. Sherlock sighed and arched his back, dropping his arms so John could pull his shirt away. John stepped out of his trousers and started pulling Sherlock toward the bed. The rest of their clothing was shrugged, yanked and ripped off en route.
Sherlock pushed John down to the bed and climbed over him, sighing as they embraced each other skin to skin. Sherlock propped up on one elbow to kiss John languidly, the urgency of undressing each other falling away. He drew back and looked down at him. John lifted one hand and brushed his fingers through the curls at Sherlock’s temple. “Sometimes I can’t stop thinking about how close I came to never meeting you,” John said. “So many things had to go a certain way to get us both to that screen test. It doesn’t seem right that the thread is so fragile that if I went back and changed one tiny thing we wouldn’t be here, and I would never have known what I’d missed in you.”
“I’ve had those same thoughts, illogical as they are.”
“Illogical?”
“Yes. It’s true that our meeting was the culmination of a long series of events, and changing any one of them could have derailed it. But the same is true for every other moment of your life, and every other thing that’s ever happened to you. We can’t know what we’ve missed out on due to happenstance. We can only know what we have now. And I have all I need.”
John tried to smile, but his lips were quivering too much. “God, I love you so much. I...I wish I could say it better. More poetically.”
“It’s poetic no matter how you say it.” John grinned, and Sherlock bent to kiss him again. John sighed into his mouth and kissed back, rolling them over. He slid his hips between Sherlock’s and worked a hand between them, seizing Sherlock’s cock and giving it a few long strokes. Sherlock cupped John’s arse and wound their legs together, straining up to kiss John harder. “How do you want me tonight?” he whispered. “Whatever you want, just tell me.”
“I want you inside me,” John said, breathless, still kissing Sherlock as he spoke. “I want to ride you until you come. I want to watch your face and know that I made you look like that. That I made you feel like that,” he said, punctuating it with a long, firm stroke to Sherlock’s cock.
“Bloody hell, John,” Sherlock gasped, helpless arousal slamming through him. John grinned and slid down Sherlock’s body to take him in his mouth. Sherlock groaned and tangled his fingers in John’s hair, still tacky with the product the stylist had put in it. “I thought...perhaps...you’d want...oh, God, yes like that...to fuck me.”
John hummed around his cock, then pulled off and looked up at him, lips wet and cheeks flushed. “You’ll get your chance,” he said, with a mischievous smirk. “I love having you inside me. I love what it does to you. And I love--and I do mean love--your cock.” He bent and slipped it into his mouth again.
“Ohhhhh John, not too much, or you’ll end up waiting,” Sherlock gasped, his hips making little involuntary thrusts into John’s mouth.
John pulled off and crawled up Sherlock’s body, kissing his navel and his chest. “I’m not waiting,” he growled, sucking and nipping at Sherlock’s neck. “I just wanted you nice and hard, ready to give me a good ride.”
Sherlock pulled the lube out of the nightstand and smeared some on his fingers, then reached around John’s hips and slid his fingers inside. John hissed and tilted his arse toward Sherlock’s hand. “Oh, you’ll get your ride, John,” he whispered in his ear. “You might get more than you bargained for.” He slicked his cock and held it in position while John slid back onto him. Sherlock’s head slammed back into the pillows as he felt himself surrounded by John’s tight heat, overwhelmed by John’s smell, John’s body, his hands on Sherlock’s chest and the little noises he made as he began to move.
“Sherlock,” John breathed, his head thrown back. “Yes, God, right there....” He seated himself in the cradle of Sherlock’s hips and rocked, and Sherlock’s eyes rolled back in his head. John gave a low, sexy chuckle and rocked again. “You like that, baby?”
“Fuck,” Sherlock said. It seemed to be the sum total of his vocabulary at the moment. He grasped John’s hips as they pressed forward and back. John leaned forward and kissed him, planting his knees and thrusting down on him as Sherlock wound his arms around John’s torso and kissed back, a little frantically. He braced his feet and pushed up.
A helpless sort of grunt came from John’s throat and his jaw clenched. “God, yeah, like that,” he muttered. Sherlock did it again, harder, and John pushed back until they settled into a rhythm. John reached up and grabbed the headboard for leverage so he could thrust down harder, staring into Sherlock’s face with sweat dripping down his forehead, flushed and panting and the sexiest thing Sherlock had ever seen. He grasped John’s erection and stroked it, feeling his own orgasm approaching and wanting John to come, too.
Sherlock’s body tensed, his breath coming in fast gasps. “John...I’m....”
“Yes, do it,” John hissed. “Come inside me. Are you close?”
“Mmm...close, yes....” Sherlock stroked him faster, that light touch with a thumb over the crown, just how John liked it. “Come with me.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna...oh, Sherlock...now, come on, do it now!”
Sherlock’s back arched and he came, his hand still moving on John’s cock; John followed a few seconds later, crying out and pulsing over Sherlock’s stomach. They both went still for a few moments, breathing hard and riding out the aftershocks, and then John slowly relaxed, smiling down at him. He sighed happily and slid his hands up and down Sherlock’s damp chest a few times. Sherlock ran his hands up John’s arms and back down again, content to watch his blissed-out face. “I hope that fulfilled the requirements of ‘a good ride,’” he said.
John grinned and lowered himself into Sherlock’s arms, sliding off him to the side and cuddling close. “A very good ride,” he said. “Maybe we could wait half an hour and swap out?”
Sherlock glanced at the clock. “Tempting as that sounds, my love, you have a live feed in three and a half hours. We should probably get some sleep.”
“I’m all sticky, and so are you.”
He sat up and pulled John out of bed. “Come on, then. Let’s see how fast we can shower.”
As it turned out, they could shower very fast. Within five minutes they were back in bed, under the covers this time, damp-haired and fresh and wrapped around each other. “I still can’t believe I won,” John whispered.
“It won’t seem real until it’s real in daylight. I remember that feeling.” John burrowed in, tucking his head under Sherlock’s jaw, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “I think this might be the closest I’ll ever come to a perfect day,” he said. “If perfection were possible, even in this hyperbolic usage.”
He felt John smile. “Perfect, huh?”
“Well, consider: I asked you to marry me, and you said yes. I watched you win an Academy Award, defeating a man I despise. I listened to you thank me in your speech and say...well, things that took courage and feeling and that touched me deeply. After that, we went to fabulous parties where most of Hollywood bowed and scraped to us. And last, but certainly not least, I finally, finally got to do something that you’ve been doing for months now.”
John lifted his head, frowning in puzzlement. “What’s that?”
Sherlock grinned. “Fuck an Oscar winner.”
John gaped at him for a moment, then burst into mad giggles, his head dropping to Sherlock’s chest--and if there was one thing Sherlock had learned, it was that he was helpless not to join in when John Watson got giggling. They were laughing so hard that they almost didn’t hear the incoming-text alert. Sherlock picked up his phone and flicked open the message. “What is it?” John said. “God, let it be something we can handle from this bed.”
“It’s a link from Irene--it says ‘THE picture of the evening.’” He touched the link; when the photo loaded, Sherlock’s breath caught.
“What?” John said, craning his neck around. Sherlock held out the phone to show him. It was a photograph of them, taken at the Vanity Fair party. They were embracing, eyes closed, both of them looking utterly content. John’s arm was wrapped around Sherlock’s back, his Oscar in his hand. John sighed. “Look at us,” he said.
“I might like a copy of that,” Sherlock said.
“Me, too.” John touched the phone screen and zoomed in a little. “We look really happy.”
Sherlock turned the phone off and set it aside, then met John’s eyes across the pillow. “The camera doesn’t lie.”
Notes
1. The number of Oscar nominees for Best Picture is no longer set at ten. The Academy changed the rules so that only films that receive a certain percentage of the vote wll be nominated, with the final number being anywhere from five to ten.
2. The amazing painting by Marie was a surprise for me and I am blown away, amazed, honored, humbled, everything. All the awards for Marie.
Next Chapter
Sherlock could feel John’s impatience to get into the theater through the twitching of his fingers where they were interlaced with Sherlock’s. As was now standard procedure for them, they’d held hands all the way down the red carpet, waving and posing and enduring an interminable series of fluff interviews while never letting go of each other. Sherlock enjoyed holding John’s hand, but not when it was mandated by Irene. “If you drop his hand they’ll all leap on it like there’s trouble in paradise,” she’d said. “You have to present a united front to that pack of hyenas.” So no matter how sweaty, cramped-up or stiff their hands got, they didn’t dare let go.
Of course, every single interviewer wanted to know if their nominations had caused any competitive tension between them. They all asked the question in that patronizing look-how-liberated-I-am tone with that little glimmer in their eye, that you-can-tell-me twinkle as they teased and angled for a juicy tidbit. Sherlock was half-tempted to tell them that John had been sleeping on the couch since the nominations were announced and that they hadn’t spoken in weeks, just to see the looks on their faces. Naturally, he did no such thing. They both gave approved, generic answers and smiled their practiced red-carpet smiles and forged ahead. A couple of times he’d looked at John and caught a glimpse of the real him, not the actorly façade, but the man behind it, the man he knew and loved, and it was a relief. They’d exchanged a quick glance or a subtle eyeroll and then resume their progress through the gauntlet.
John let go of Sherlock's hand and flexed his fingers as they finally reached the relatively safe haven of the theater’s lobby. “You were hanging on rather tightly,” he commented.
“I can’t have anyone stealing you away now, when you’ve just agreed to endow me with all your worldly goods.”
“I get half of yours, too. Oh, that means half-ownership of the Jaguar! Brilliant!” John’s smile lit up his face, and once again Sherlock was struck dumb with sheer amazement at this man, who could stand in the lobby at the Academy Awards, probably more nervous than he’d ever been in his life, crack a joke, and grin like a kid in a ice cream shop just out of the joy of the moment. Sherlock had never possessed that gift, but being in close proximity to it had benefits.
For half an hour, they drifted about the lobby, making small talk and avoiding the press. Molly found them and introduced them to her impossibly handsome date, and the four of them formed a little protective huddle near the bar. Sherlock pretended not to notice that John kept glancing at the doors into the theater, which were standing tantalizingly open. Members of the public who had tickets and the nominees in the less photogenic categories were going right in and finding their seats, but it would look odd for two Best Actor nominees to be sitting in their seats half an hour early like overeager schoolchildren. Sherlock kept half an eye on George, who was surrounded by hangers-on across the lobby. Nobody was better at navigating Hollywood’s unwritten rules and oblique codes of social behavior than George, so everyone waited for him to make his move.
At length, he did, about ten minutes before the ceremony was due to start. As soon as he went into the theater, everyone followed, and suddenly they were in the aisle with what seemed like half the audience, maneuvering their way to the front. Sherlock reached back and grabbed John’s hand. “Oh, isn’t that sweet,” said a familiar voice. “Like little children in a scary fairy tale.”
Sherlock turned, his lip curling at the sight of Moriarty. “I see your Rent-a-Date canceled on you,” he said, addressing Moriarty’s lack of an escort to the ceremony. “I suppose even professionals have standards.”
“Sherlock,” John said, a warning in his tone.
“Oh, there’s no cause for concern, John,” Moriarty said, his conspiratorial tone grating on Sherlock’s nerves. As if he had anything in common with John, or was even worthy to breathe the same air. “He’s always been...prickly. I learned to let him roll off my back long ago.”
John stepped half in front of Sherlock, his jaw clenching. “I don’t need you to tell me what he’s like, Jim.”
“Dear me. He is adorable when he’s puffed up, isn’t he, Sherlock?”
“Excuse us,” Sherlock said, teeth gritted, pulling John away down the aisle through a gap in the crowd that opened up right then. He didn’t look back, just plowed ahead to the front row. A few of their colleagues greeted them on the way, wishing them luck. John drew up a bit short as they came abruptly face-to-face with Meryl Streep. “Meryl,” Sherlock said, leaning forward to place a polite kiss on her cheek and accept one from her. “Lovely to see you.”
“You too, Sherlock. You’re having a very busy year.” Her eyes were full of good humor.
“That is something of an understatement. I don’t believe you’ve met John.”
“No, I haven’t had the pleasure,” she said, turning her serene smile on John, whose ears had gone pink. She extended her hand and John shook it. “So nice to meet you,” she said.
“The pleasure is mine,” John said, giving Meryl that charming smile that had launched a dozen romantic comedies.
“I really loved your film. You were both magnificent in it,” she said.
“Thank you,” John said. “You were remarkable as well, but then you’re never anything else.” The ushers began urging everyone to take their seats. John motioned to Meryl’s seat. “After you,” he said. She sat, glamorous in her tasteful gown, giving John a big smile.
Sherlock and John took their seats. “Aren’t you the ladies’ man?” Sherlock murmured into John’s ear.
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” John said, leaning close with a flirty smirk.
“That’s ridiculous,” Sherlock said. “Why would I be jealous? You are engaged to me, after all.”
“It’s all right if you’re jealous--that’s worked out rather well for us in the past, hasn’t it?” John said, quirking one eyebrow.
Sherlock sighed. “I am not jealous, and now is hardly the time,” he said, tossing John an amused glance.
The lights dimmed. “Oh Lord, here we go,” John said, sounding a bit breathy.
Sherlock reached out and took his hand. “It’ll all be over in four hours. Focus on that. If you get distracted, which you will, just clap when everyone else claps. You’ll be fine.”
The camera crews were in place; one operator had set up camp right next to them. The stage was set. The audience was seated.
And then the show began.
John wasn’t the only distracted nominee in the audience. Sherlock only half-paid attention to Billy Crystal’s inane opening monologue, which naturally had to contain a joke about him and John at which they were obliged to laugh good-naturedly (“I know some of you are Method actors, but there is a line”), and when the show began in earnest, it quickly devolved into a blur of presenters and nominees and dull acceptance speeches. Their category would not be called for several hours, as the Best Actor statuette was scheduled as the penultimate award of the show, so they’d have plenty of time to stew.
As Irene had predicted, the director kept a camera on them continuously. Sherlock had never been so conscious of schooling his expression; fortunately, that was a skill he’d mastered long ago. Less fortunately, as the evening wore on it became clear that their film wasn’t the prettiest girl at the dance. Andrew Bird’s score didn’t win, and cinematography went to For Which It Stands.
“If Molly doesn’t win, that’s a bad sign,” John whispered during a commercial break, just before the Best Original Screenplay award was to be announced.
“Very bad. But she’s such an overwhelming favorite, I’m sure she will.”
She did. John and Sherlock stood up, as did Ang, who was seated just behind them. Molly came up the aisle from her seat and they all hugged her; she was shaking so hard she could barely walk. Sherlock glanced at John, who was beaming with pride. He couldn’t help but feel it himself. If it were not for Molly’s writing, none of them would be here, and Sherlock would never have met John. For that alone, he thought she deserved every award that existed.
The next fifteen minutes crept by at a snail’s pace. Sherlock felt John’s left leg start to bounce nervously and nudged him a little. “Find your neutral space,” Sherlock whispered. John’s leg stopped and he smiled a little.
Sherlock took a deep breath as Natalie Portman took the stage to present the Academy Award for Best Actor in a Leading Role. He didn’t think he was imagining that the level of tension in the room went up significantly. He glanced over at John, who was attempting to look calm and nonchalant and failing miserably. John met his eyes, the fuck me, here we go clear in his expression. Sherlock smiled at him and squeezed his fingers. The camera operators were in place to shoot reaction shots of all five nominees, Natalie was rattling off the canned introductory spiel, and this was it.
She read the list of nominees. After each name, a short clip of their performance was projected on the monitors. Sherlock’s was from the final epic confrontation between Benjamin and Mark. John’s was from Mark’s discovery of his brother’s body.
“And the Oscar goes to...”
Never would Sherlock have believed that the opening of an envelope could seem so interminable.
Natalie looked at the card and grinned. “John Watson, in To a Stranger."
Sherlock’s mind blanked out for a moment, the explosion of applause and wild cheers lost in a white haze of relief, joy and pride. Before he’d realized that he’d moved, Sherlock found himself on his feet with his arms full of John, hugging him tight, John exhaling a sharp, disbelieving breath and sucking in another. When he pulled back all he saw was John’s face, glowing with amazement and happiness, and Sherlock couldn’t stop himself. He pulled John close and planted a quick kiss on his lips. John squeezed Sherlock’s arm and walked off to the stairs. The entire exchange had taken five seconds.
The applause kept rising. Sherlock watched, amazed, as the audience stood. A standing ovation for the Best Actor winner was by no means assumed, but tonight, this room full of Hollywood royalty were on their feet for John Watson, a man he’d once deemed unworthy to screen test with him. How wrong he’d been, how wrong they’d all been.
John reached Natalie and she handed him his Oscar, then threw her arms around him in an enthusiastic hug. She released him and he went to the microphone, staring down at the statuette as if he were afraid it might detonate in his hands. The cheers and applause went on for a little longer, a few whistles and whoops thrown in with scattered laughter and shouting. Finally everyone calmed down and took their seats. “Oh, God,” John said, his tone so perfectly befuddled and amazed that it made everyone laugh again. “I don’t...God, I’ve got so many names and no time. If you got a paycheck from Focus for this film then I thank you. Molly, for putting such great words in my mouth, my sister Harry, the world’s best PA, and my incredible manager Irene who has been our hero these past few months...God, I can’t believe this, is this happening?” He gave a little headshake. “I’ve been very lucky, I’ve had a good career. But it isn’t every day that a bloke like me gets a chance to reinvent himself, and by believing in me, that’s what Ang Lee did for me by casting me in this film. I hoped I had this in me, and the fact that you’re all telling me that I pulled it off, it means so much.” He hesitated, looking down at the statuette. “You know...holding this thing, when I let myself imagine this...I thought it would be a great honor, and it is. I thought it would mean everything, and it does mean a lot. But it can’t compare to what this film’s already given me, what it’s meant to me. That it’s meant a lot to so many other people is...I can’t tell you how that makes us all feel. I thank everyone who made this happen. And of course, I have to thank....” He paused and looked away for a moment, biting his lip. Sherlock swallowed hard over the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. John faced forward again. “This is not my award alone, it’s also Sherlock’s, because I could not have done this without him. I am honored and grateful to share this with him. Almost as honored and grateful as I am to share my life with him.” He took a breath and lowered his eyes. The audience was dead silent; everyone could see that John was trying to keep it together. Sherlock felt his own chin trembling. When John looked up again, he looked right at him. “Sherlock, of all the things this film did for me, by far the greatest is that it brought me to you.” His voice went rough on the last few words. Sherlock’s heart lurched sideways in his chest and he let out a shaky breath, feeling his eyes welling up. John held up his Oscar. “Thank you all, I’m so honored.”
The music started up as he walked away, Natalie hugging him again and hanging on his arm as they left the stage together. Sherlock gripped the arms of his seat to stop himself from leaping up and following him. The broadcast went to commercial. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Ang smiling at him. “Congratulations. He really deserved it,” he said.
“Yes, he did,” Sherlock said.
A seat-filler materialized in John’s chair. Sherlock stared straight ahead, contemplating how long it would be before he could see and touch John again. There was the Best Picture award, of course, and John would be stuck with the press for at least an hour. Plots surfaced in his mind as to how he could sneak into the press room afterwards, but he didn’t want to hijack John’s moment of glory, either.
He would never have imagined that he’d be looking forward to the interminable post-awards party circuit, but at least he’d be with John. That could make anything bearable.
John didn’t remember walking to the stage. He barely remembered talking. He had no idea what he’d said. All he remembered was looking down and seeing Sherlock in the front row. He didn’t remember walking off, either, but now he was in the wings with Natalie hugging him and there was something heavy in his hand.
“I’m so glad you won,” she was saying. She pulled back, bouncing on her toes a little. “I really hoped, but after Jim won the SAG I didn’t know how it would go.”
He stared down at his Oscar. “I can’t believe it. I really won,” he said, dazed. “What did I say? Did I say anything embarrassing? I can’t remember, it’s all a blur.”
“You gave a great speech. Very heartfelt. Sherlock teared up.”
“Sherlock?” John said, incredulous. “My Sherlock?”
“He looked so proud.” She put her hand on his arm. “John, they gave you a standing ovation.”
“They did?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “I hope that helps calm some of your fears about your career.”
“I wish it did. It feels great to receive that kind of support, and I appreciate it, but you and I know that applause on Oscar night doesn’t always mean projects the next day.”
“You’re an Oscar winner now, though. Nothing can take that away.”
John smiled, looking down at his--his!--Oscar again. “I am, aren’t I?”
“I hope you’re ready for the press room.”
“I’ll wait for the Best Picture announcement, then go.”
Natalie kissed his cheek and left him with the ushers and the stagehands. He glanced out at the sliver of audience he could see; happily, that sliver included Sherlock, who was sitting very primly with his legs crossed and a seat-filler at his side.
The music swelled, and then Martin Scorsese took the stage to announce the Best Picture winner. He read off the nominees (seven this year) and a clip from each was shown. The clip from To a Stranger was from one of John’s favorite scenes: the first time Mark brings Benjamin to meet his family. It was a scene full of humor stretched over simmering cauldron of tension and mistrust, and it had not been easy to play.
Drum roll.
“And the Oscar goes to...The Artist!”
John sighed. Still, if he could have chosen a film for them to lose to, it would have been that one. He and Sherlock had both loved it. The evening had brought them many awards, but more important than that (to him, anyway) was how well the film had been received by audiences.
“Mr. Watson, please come with me,” said one of the ushers.
The next hour rushed by in a blur of bright lights, camera flashes, and questions coming at him from all directions. The press corps was more frenzied than usual due to his “stunning upset” (which he was asked to comment on/analyze/react to/feel something about no fewer than five times) and his “dramatic career turnaround” (which he was asked to explain/justify/feel things about), not to mention the aftermath of his “personal revelation” (which he was asked to discuss in more ways than he thought was possible). Someone asked about Moriarty’s insinuations about publicity stunts, someone else about John’s career plans going forward, and someone, bizarrely, asked him if he’d seen Torch Song Trilogy.
John should have known better, but as the press conference drew to a close without any major PR disasters, he made the mistake of letting his guard down. A reporter from one of the larger blogs stood up and asked her question, barely containing her eagerness.
“John, do you and Sherlock have any plans to get married?”
It was a very near thing. John was so wired and giddy from his win that it almost popped right out. Yes, we do. In fact, we’re engaged. Sherlock asked me to marry him while we were getting ready for the ceremony, and I couldn’t say yes fast enough. He caught himself just in time. He couldn’t drop that bomb without talking to Sherlock and Irene. Sherlock would forgive him, but he dreaded getting on Irene’s bad side. He scrambled for a reasonable answer. “We’ve hardly had time to think about that,” he said. “Ask me again in a month when we’ve had a chance to catch our breath.”
At long last, his interrogation was over. Irene appeared in the doorway when his time was up; as soon as they were clear of the press’s view, she leapt on him in a ferocious hug. “John, you gorgeous thing. I will never make you do anything you don’t want to do, ever again.”
“We’ll see how long that lasts,” he laughed, patting her back.
“Let me see that,” she said, reaching for his Oscar. He handed it over and she hefted it. “Oh, John. I know you don’t think in these terms, but no one’s ever deserved this more.”
“Sherlock deserves it more than I do. His performance made mine possible.”
“I think you underestimate how much your performance made his possible. As I’m sure he’d remind you if he were here.”
“Where is he?” John said, looking around. All he wanted right now was to seize that man by his shawl-collar lapels and kiss the public-school accent right out of him.
“He’s waiting for us in the lobby. Come on, I know you’re dying to see him.” John followed Irene up the stairs and spotted Sherlock right away; he was across the room talking to Ron Howard. Sherlock saw him at almost the same moment. John saw him excuse himself; they met halfway and Sherlock grabbed him up in a tight embrace. John exhaled, finally coming back down to Earth. “I won,” he said, reduced to simple declaratives.
“I know, John. I told you that you would.” Sherlock drew back and smiled down at him. “And you didn’t believe me.”
“No, I didn’t,” John said, laughing. “That’ll teach me, won’t it?” He looked up at Sherlock, a little punch-drunk with the intensity of his feelings for this man. “I meant what I said up there. Every word. Well, I assume that I do; I barely remember any of it.”
“I know you meant it. You always mean what you say, and you deserve this, not just for this performance but for being the sort of man you are. You deserve every good thing that can possibly happen to you.” Sherlock broke off, looking a bit perplexed at hearing this pronouncement emerge from his own mouth. John suspected Sherlock had imbibed a little while he waited.
John smiled. “Every good thing that can possibly happen?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing could be better than what’s already happened.”
Sherlock nodded. “You won tonight.”
John shook his head. “I met you.”
Sherlock stared at him with a lost, wondering look in his eyes, like a child who’s just been told that yes, Father Christmas was real after all. John grinned and pulled him down into a kiss. People were staring, but he didn’t care. If he wanted to kiss the man he loved in the lobby of the Kodak Theater, he’d bloody well do it.
Because I’m an Academy Award Winner, I do what I want, and fuck you.
John’s career as an actor had given him plenty of experience with notoriety, and how everyone suddenly wanted to be his friend, but it had never been like this. Was it like this all the time for people like George? How did they handle it?
He’d never been in a position to “hold court,” as it was called, but that’s what he and Sherlock ended up doing at the Governor’s Ball. Their arrival was greeted with a robust round of applause and cheers. John, caught up in the moment, had shaken his Oscar in the air like a prizefighter, earning himself even more cheers, but then he’d had to relinquish it.
“But...I don’t want to let go of it,” he’d said, as they walked to the engraving booth. “What if they realize there was a terrible mistake and they don’t give it back?”
“They’re just going to engrave your name on it,” Sherlock said, his arm around John’s shoulders. “They’ll give it right back, I promise.” A few nearby guests overheard this exchange and grinned at them. “It’s yours, forever. You do want your name on it, don’t you?”
John had sighed, gazing longingly down at his statuette. “I suppose.” He’d handed it over with a little put-on sad-face, and they’d rejoined the party in time for dinner.
In the past, when he’d attended parties like this (this very party on two occasions), he’d always envied those celebrities famous or powerful enough to sit in one spot and let everyone else jockey for face time with them. He’d always been the one doing the jockeying, but this time he couldn’t have left his table had he wanted to. The moment he even considered it, someone else would appear to hug and congratulate him, or a photographer would show up and want a photo, or a waiter would put yet more food in front of him.
Irene did not let them stay long, however. They had apparently been promised to Elton John’s party, and then the Vanity Fair party, so before John could sneak a second helping of the heart-stoppingly delicious dessert, Harry and Sally were hustling them out the door with barely a chance to bid goodbye to anyone.
Their last stop of the evening, the Vanity Fair party, was less eating and posturing, more drinking and dancing and gossiping. Once again, John and Sherlock’s table was the one everyone wanted to visit and, ideally, get photographed at. It was a sign of their level of pull that when George and his date showed up, he asked to join them. “Hell of a night, isn’t it?” he said, taking a vacant seat.
“I’m still not entirely convinced it wasn’t a hallucination,” John said.
George picked up John’s Oscar and examined the newly-engraved plate. “Well, it does have your name on it.” Everyone laughed. John settled back against Sherlock’s side, their hands clasped together between them. He’d never felt quite this relaxed being with Sherlock in public before. He supposed having received not just an Oscar, but a standing ovation as well, had helped smooth over what was left of his self-consciousness.
A familiar face emerged from the crowd. “John!” Sarah called, working her way over to their table.
John grinned and jumped up to hug her. Anthea was trailing after her, and both of them looked stunning. “Hello, luv,” he said. “I’m sorry it wasn’t your night tonight.”
She sighed. “I know I’m supposed to be gracious and say that it’s an honor to be nominated, but fuck it, I’m disappointed and I don’t mind admitting it. But seeing you win made up for it. God, John, your speech. It was...well, I was sniffling, and so were a lot of people around me.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it, I don’t remember much.” He leaned past her to kiss Anthea’s cheek. “Wonderful to see you here. Both of you,” he added, with emphasis.
Sarah nodded. She was glowing. “We didn’t go to the ceremony together. I didn’t want to answer the questions just yet. We’ve made no statement, we’re not going to issue a press release, she’ll just be my date from now on and everyone can make of that what they will. You might say that we were inspired,” she said, glancing past him at Sherlock, who was talking to Javier Bardem.
“Sometimes I wish we’d had the luxury of managing our coming-out with less urgency, but in the end I’m rather glad we used the slash-and-burn approach. Got everything bloody well over with.”
“Are you going to Elton’s?”
“We just came from there, actually. We’re not staying long here, either. I’ve got contingency bookings on two morning shows tomorrow. Funny, when I agreed to them, I never really thought I’d win and would have to follow through. I’ll have to be up at some ungodly hour for the GMA live feed, and then I have to go on Leno tomorrow night. I wish I could just lie about the house all day, but I suppose it’s worth it for my new paperweight.”
Sarah laughed. “Your phone’ll be ringing off the hook.”
John sobered a little. “That’d be a welcome change.”
“Has it been bad?” she asked, lowering her voice.
“Well, it hasn’t been good. I’ve had some things fall through, a few casting directors who are suddenly not returning my calls. Sherlock’s got the Tesla project, but so far I am...without projects in the pipeline.”
“It just takes one, John. One project to prove that you’re still marketable even if you live with a man.”
“The trick will be getting that one project.” He forced a smile. “But let’s not talk business. How’s that gorgeous baby?”
Sherlock checked his watch as he waited at the bar. It was just after midnight, and he knew he ought to get John home soon. He had early interview feeds, and Sherlock had his own plans for John that absolutely had to be realized before either of them slept.
So far, the evening hadn’t been entirely insufferable. John was definitely the main attraction. Everyone wanted to congratulate him, kiss his cheek, shake his hand, and tell him how marvelous he’d been...but no one was asking him to call them about a project, or if he was interested in the script they were developing. Such talk was very much de rigeur at these parties, which were as much a chance to do a lot of networking in a short time as they were a chance to drink and celebrate. John didn’t seem to notice, but then he hadn’t been to as many of these parties as Sherlock had. He’d be damned if he’d bring it up and spoil John’s enjoyment of this celebration of his success, which was richly deserved.
“My, what a beatific expression. Thinking of your sweetie, are you?”
Sherlock sighed. “What if I am?” He turned to face Moriarty, who still looked perfectly put-together and groomed at a time of night when most of the men had, at the very least, loosened their ties, but Sherlock could see through his façade. His eyes, and the slight tilt to his voice, betrayed how much he’d had to drink, and there was tension around his brow. “One should look happy when thinking of one’s ‘sweetie,’ correct? Of course, you wouldn’t know, never having had one.”
Jim leaned back against the bar. “The media is calling this a shocking upset,” he said, smooth as silk.
“I’ve been much too busy celebrating John’s win to pay attention to what’s being said in the press.”
“No doubt the voters felt sorry for him, since he’d been repeatedly defeated by another nominee. Sentiment was on his side.”
“And why might sentiment be on his side, Jim? Could it be because so many people felt that he was unjustly beaten out for other awards by that other nominee, who had been badmouthing his competition on national television? If that were the case, it’d be hard to characterize that sentiment as unjustified.”
Jim seemed unfazed by this. He shook his head, as if saddened by a great tragedy. “It pains me to see you like this, Sherlock. Once, you were a force to be reckoned with. You were in control. You were your own man. You were encumbered by no extraneous considerations. You were a being built for one purpose: the work. The craft was your only master. A man cannot serve two masters, Sherlock. I fear you will lose your way amid all this...emotion.” He shuddered and leaned close, his affable demeanor vanishing and real malice appearing behind his eyes. “Your John’s career won’t last, and we both know it. I know too many people in this town, Sherlock, and I know too much about the people in this town. He won’t work again. He’ll be forced out and you’ll have to support him, until you’re forced out, too. How long do you think your revolutionary little love affair will last then, eh?”
Sherlock raised his glass. “Till death do us part,” he said. “And John is the sort of man that you may take at his word.” He walked away, satisfied with that particular coup de grâce, but as he put more distance between him and Jim, he grew alarmed. Bollocks, what did I just do?
John met him halfway to their table. “There you are! That must be the slowest bartender in history!”
“I ran into our old friend Jim.”
John rolled his eyes. “I can afford to ignore him now, I think.’
“I may have told him that we’re engaged.”
John’s smile froze on his face. “Ah,” he said, exhaling slowly. “You just...told him?”
“Not straight out. It was more like an implication.”
“I can’t say he’d be my choice for the first person to hear our news.”
“I know. I’m sorry, darling.”
John shrugged it off. “Well, it isn’t as if we’d planned to keep it a secret. We’ll just need to tell Irene sooner rather than later.”
“I seem to keep making unplanned outbursts that detonate our options.”
“Your outbursts have a way of pushing us forward in the direction we already want to go, so don’t beat yourself up over it.”
Sherlock smiled. “Your ability to cheerfully accept and deal with my sometimes alarming social tone deafness never ceases to astonish me.”
“You do have other qualities to recommend you.”
He looked John up and down. “I may have forgotten to mention that I’ve never seen you look more handsome.”
John blushed a little. “Thanks. It’s a bit rough on the ego, walking around next to someone as gorgeous as you.”
“Even if I stipulate as to my attractiveness, which I do not, such things inevitably fade with time. You are fortunate to possess virtues that are immutable...as I am fortunate to benefit from them daily.”
John slipped his hand into Sherlock’s. “We’ll have the rest of our lives to benefit from each other,” he said.
“Yes, we will.” Sherlock smiled and drew him into an embrace. He felt John’s arm go around him and shut his eyes, Moriarty and the Oscars and lingering career worries falling away and leaving just him and John, and this unexpected life they were making together.
The ride home was quiet. After the cacophony of the past twelve hours, the inside of their limo was a haven of peace. They didn’t speak, just sat close together, Sherlock’s arm around John’s shoulders. John rested his hand on Sherlock’s thigh and stroked the soft wool with his thumb. He sighed as the limo pulled up to the house. “Home at last,” he said. “Where shall I put it?” He held up his newly-engraved Oscar.
“Anywhere you like.”
“We’ll have to have yours sent from London so we can use them as bookends.”
Sherlock laughed. “I’ve always been tempted to use it as a doorstop.”
“Would it be tacky to wear it on a chain around my neck?” John said as they went into the house.
“Well, it would be quite rough on your neck.” Sherlock bent and pressed his lips to John’s nape. “And I am very fond of your neck,” he purred, dropping his voice into a lower register--his most reliable trick when he wanted to turn John’s mind immediately to sex.
John groaned, set his Oscar on the hall table, spun around, and seized Sherlock’s face, kissing him deeply. He pressed closer, sucked on Sherlock’s lower lip, and then pulled back just a hair. “God, I’ve been thinking about doing that all night,” he whispered, their lips barely touching as he spoke. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted you so badly.”
“Well, you are the man of the hour,” Sherlock said, low and intimate. “You can have your way with me.”
“Can I?” John said, grinning like it was Christmas and he’d just gotten the biggest, shiniest present under the tree. “Are you all mine to do with as I please?”
“You did say that I was your best reward for doing this film.”
John’s expression turned a bit serious. “You are.”
Sherlock took John in his arms and kissed him again, taking his time about it. He kissed John in a way he knew he enjoyed, greedy hands and quick brushes of their lips traded off with long, deep kisses that pulled them further into each other. He slid his hand down to John’s arse and gave it a slow, deliberate squeeze, then brushed his lips across John’s cheek to his ear. “Take me to bed, John. You’ve made me wait long enough.”
He felt John smile as he took his hand and pull him toward the stairs. He followed along, a flutter of anticipation unfurling in his belly at the thought of all the ways he and John might drive each crazy tonight. John stopped at the top of the stairs and turned around, taking advantage of his brief height superiority over Sherlock, to bend him backwards slightly and kiss him. He pulled away just enough so their lips were barely touching. “I can’t wait to marry you,” he whispered, then hauled him down the hall to their bedroom.
John turned around and gave him a slanted smile, that damn smile that he knew would get him whatever he wanted. He ran his hands up Sherlock’s chest. “You know how hard it was to keep my hands to myself all night, watching you walk around in this tuxedo? It was torture. The only thing that kept me from molesting you in front of God and everybody was knowing that I’d get to unwrap you at the end of the night.” He slipped his hands under Sherlock’s jacket and pushed it off his shoulders. He grabbed the necktie and pulled him down for another slow, deep kiss, then slid his hands down to unbuckle Sherlock’s waistcoat.
Sherlock pulled on John’s bow tie and whipped it off his neck, then attacked his buttons. Shirt studs flew across the room. John let go of Sherlock for long enough to shrug out of his own jacket and they both half-stumbled as they toed off their shoes, grabbing each other for balance and giggling. John seized Sherlock’s hips and pulled them tight against his; Sherlock could feel him hard beneath his trousers. “God, what you do to me,” John said, sliding a hand around to Sherlock’s arse and kissing him again.
“What you do to me,” Sherlock said, reaching for John’s trousers. John unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt and bent to kiss his bare chest, flicking his tongue over one of Sherlock’s nipples. Sherlock sighed and arched his back, dropping his arms so John could pull his shirt away. John stepped out of his trousers and started pulling Sherlock toward the bed. The rest of their clothing was shrugged, yanked and ripped off en route.
Sherlock pushed John down to the bed and climbed over him, sighing as they embraced each other skin to skin. Sherlock propped up on one elbow to kiss John languidly, the urgency of undressing each other falling away. He drew back and looked down at him. John lifted one hand and brushed his fingers through the curls at Sherlock’s temple. “Sometimes I can’t stop thinking about how close I came to never meeting you,” John said. “So many things had to go a certain way to get us both to that screen test. It doesn’t seem right that the thread is so fragile that if I went back and changed one tiny thing we wouldn’t be here, and I would never have known what I’d missed in you.”
“I’ve had those same thoughts, illogical as they are.”
“Illogical?”
“Yes. It’s true that our meeting was the culmination of a long series of events, and changing any one of them could have derailed it. But the same is true for every other moment of your life, and every other thing that’s ever happened to you. We can’t know what we’ve missed out on due to happenstance. We can only know what we have now. And I have all I need.”
John tried to smile, but his lips were quivering too much. “God, I love you so much. I...I wish I could say it better. More poetically.”
“It’s poetic no matter how you say it.” John grinned, and Sherlock bent to kiss him again. John sighed into his mouth and kissed back, rolling them over. He slid his hips between Sherlock’s and worked a hand between them, seizing Sherlock’s cock and giving it a few long strokes. Sherlock cupped John’s arse and wound their legs together, straining up to kiss John harder. “How do you want me tonight?” he whispered. “Whatever you want, just tell me.”
“I want you inside me,” John said, breathless, still kissing Sherlock as he spoke. “I want to ride you until you come. I want to watch your face and know that I made you look like that. That I made you feel like that,” he said, punctuating it with a long, firm stroke to Sherlock’s cock.
“Bloody hell, John,” Sherlock gasped, helpless arousal slamming through him. John grinned and slid down Sherlock’s body to take him in his mouth. Sherlock groaned and tangled his fingers in John’s hair, still tacky with the product the stylist had put in it. “I thought...perhaps...you’d want...oh, God, yes like that...to fuck me.”
John hummed around his cock, then pulled off and looked up at him, lips wet and cheeks flushed. “You’ll get your chance,” he said, with a mischievous smirk. “I love having you inside me. I love what it does to you. And I love--and I do mean love--your cock.” He bent and slipped it into his mouth again.
“Ohhhhh John, not too much, or you’ll end up waiting,” Sherlock gasped, his hips making little involuntary thrusts into John’s mouth.
John pulled off and crawled up Sherlock’s body, kissing his navel and his chest. “I’m not waiting,” he growled, sucking and nipping at Sherlock’s neck. “I just wanted you nice and hard, ready to give me a good ride.”
Sherlock pulled the lube out of the nightstand and smeared some on his fingers, then reached around John’s hips and slid his fingers inside. John hissed and tilted his arse toward Sherlock’s hand. “Oh, you’ll get your ride, John,” he whispered in his ear. “You might get more than you bargained for.” He slicked his cock and held it in position while John slid back onto him. Sherlock’s head slammed back into the pillows as he felt himself surrounded by John’s tight heat, overwhelmed by John’s smell, John’s body, his hands on Sherlock’s chest and the little noises he made as he began to move.
“Sherlock,” John breathed, his head thrown back. “Yes, God, right there....” He seated himself in the cradle of Sherlock’s hips and rocked, and Sherlock’s eyes rolled back in his head. John gave a low, sexy chuckle and rocked again. “You like that, baby?”
“Fuck,” Sherlock said. It seemed to be the sum total of his vocabulary at the moment. He grasped John’s hips as they pressed forward and back. John leaned forward and kissed him, planting his knees and thrusting down on him as Sherlock wound his arms around John’s torso and kissed back, a little frantically. He braced his feet and pushed up.
A helpless sort of grunt came from John’s throat and his jaw clenched. “God, yeah, like that,” he muttered. Sherlock did it again, harder, and John pushed back until they settled into a rhythm. John reached up and grabbed the headboard for leverage so he could thrust down harder, staring into Sherlock’s face with sweat dripping down his forehead, flushed and panting and the sexiest thing Sherlock had ever seen. He grasped John’s erection and stroked it, feeling his own orgasm approaching and wanting John to come, too.
Sherlock’s body tensed, his breath coming in fast gasps. “John...I’m....”
“Yes, do it,” John hissed. “Come inside me. Are you close?”
“Mmm...close, yes....” Sherlock stroked him faster, that light touch with a thumb over the crown, just how John liked it. “Come with me.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna...oh, Sherlock...now, come on, do it now!”
Sherlock’s back arched and he came, his hand still moving on John’s cock; John followed a few seconds later, crying out and pulsing over Sherlock’s stomach. They both went still for a few moments, breathing hard and riding out the aftershocks, and then John slowly relaxed, smiling down at him. He sighed happily and slid his hands up and down Sherlock’s damp chest a few times. Sherlock ran his hands up John’s arms and back down again, content to watch his blissed-out face. “I hope that fulfilled the requirements of ‘a good ride,’” he said.
John grinned and lowered himself into Sherlock’s arms, sliding off him to the side and cuddling close. “A very good ride,” he said. “Maybe we could wait half an hour and swap out?”
Sherlock glanced at the clock. “Tempting as that sounds, my love, you have a live feed in three and a half hours. We should probably get some sleep.”
“I’m all sticky, and so are you.”
He sat up and pulled John out of bed. “Come on, then. Let’s see how fast we can shower.”
As it turned out, they could shower very fast. Within five minutes they were back in bed, under the covers this time, damp-haired and fresh and wrapped around each other. “I still can’t believe I won,” John whispered.
“It won’t seem real until it’s real in daylight. I remember that feeling.” John burrowed in, tucking his head under Sherlock’s jaw, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “I think this might be the closest I’ll ever come to a perfect day,” he said. “If perfection were possible, even in this hyperbolic usage.”
He felt John smile. “Perfect, huh?”
“Well, consider: I asked you to marry me, and you said yes. I watched you win an Academy Award, defeating a man I despise. I listened to you thank me in your speech and say...well, things that took courage and feeling and that touched me deeply. After that, we went to fabulous parties where most of Hollywood bowed and scraped to us. And last, but certainly not least, I finally, finally got to do something that you’ve been doing for months now.”
John lifted his head, frowning in puzzlement. “What’s that?”
Sherlock grinned. “Fuck an Oscar winner.”
John gaped at him for a moment, then burst into mad giggles, his head dropping to Sherlock’s chest--and if there was one thing Sherlock had learned, it was that he was helpless not to join in when John Watson got giggling. They were laughing so hard that they almost didn’t hear the incoming-text alert. Sherlock picked up his phone and flicked open the message. “What is it?” John said. “God, let it be something we can handle from this bed.”
“It’s a link from Irene--it says ‘THE picture of the evening.’” He touched the link; when the photo loaded, Sherlock’s breath caught.
“What?” John said, craning his neck around. Sherlock held out the phone to show him. It was a photograph of them, taken at the Vanity Fair party. They were embracing, eyes closed, both of them looking utterly content. John’s arm was wrapped around Sherlock’s back, his Oscar in his hand. John sighed. “Look at us,” he said.
“I might like a copy of that,” Sherlock said.
“Me, too.” John touched the phone screen and zoomed in a little. “We look really happy.”
Sherlock turned the phone off and set it aside, then met John’s eyes across the pillow. “The camera doesn’t lie.”
Notes
1. The number of Oscar nominees for Best Picture is no longer set at ten. The Academy changed the rules so that only films that receive a certain percentage of the vote wll be nominated, with the final number being anywhere from five to ten.
2. The amazing painting by Marie was a surprise for me and I am blown away, amazed, honored, humbled, everything. All the awards for Marie.
Next Chapter