Chapter Text
*
"Good Lord, what's this?" Another voice joined Henry's: Graham Charles Lowe (why the man had introduced himself with both names was a not-very-interesting puzzle), looking down his long nose at Sherlock's supine form. To be fair, though he certainly wasn't feeling terribly fair, Sherlock was on the floor, so it was difficult to look in any direction but down.
"Thought you only had one glass of wine, mate," Henry said.
"Don't be an idiot, Henry." Graham leant down, his hands planted on his knees. "Are you all right?"
"Yes," Sherlock said. "Fine."
"Shall I call a doctor?"
"I've got a –" But no. No, he didn't have a doctor. Not in this universe. "Not necessary," he said. "Thanks all the same." Henry put his hand out to help Sherlock up, but Sherlock waved it away and picked himself up, testing his balance in a crouch before rising to his feet. He felt fine, not dizzy at all, but he was still in Cumberbatch's London in this stupid restaurant with these stupid, stupid, stupid people. "I'm fine," he repeated. "Thanks, though."
Graham searched his face. "Rather alarming, coming in to find you on the floor."
"Some sort of fainting spell," Henry said. "Look, not to tell you your business, Benedict, but Tom's always been a fairly straitlaced sort of fellow – he was at RADA, anyhow. Drank a bit, but wasn't much for drugs. Always disapproved of a bit of blow. Still, that might have changed now that he's a big Hollywood star. Of course, I won't say a word." He winked and nudged Sherlock in the side.
Sherlock gave Henry a tight smile. Amateur.
"Henry, shut up for God's sake," Graham said. His cheeks had turned a mottled pink, contrasting oddly with the lank ginger-blond hair flopping over his forehead. "Besides, I'm certain that Tom's…you're chums, the pair of you, not –"
"Christ, spare us the grizzling, Graham." Henry tossed back the last of his triple Scotch. Difficult to separate the man from his alcohol if he actually brought it into the loo. "You've had your chance." He gave Sherlock a quick conspiratorial smile. "Sure you're okay?"
Sherlock nodded. "I drank that wine pretty quickly and the bone marrow on toast is the first thing I've eaten since breakfast. I think I'm a bit dehydrated as well – I took a long walk in Hampstead in the heat from my place to Tom's and it's sapped my strength a bit. Probably should have slept a bit more this morning, too, and I'm certain that the madhouse of the past few days of filming took a toll on my general health and equilibrium."
Graham regarded Sherlock with an eye that was infinitely colder than it had been a few moments ago. "Well, I must say, that was far more than I needed to know. You say you walked to Tom's?"
He hadn't, actually, but Sherlock found it amusing that Graham was now so chilly. Must be jealous, given the soulful-eyed pining he'd been indulging in at the table. "Well, we don't live terribly far from each other. I walked quite a bit before returning to his digs."
"I see." Graham's eyes narrowed, and his cheeks were even pinker. "Right." He pivoted quickly and marched out of the loo, swinging the door wide open. His grand trampling exit was a bit spoilt by the soft hiss of the anti-slam device on the door.
"Don't mind him," Henry said. "He's always got his knickers in a knot over Tom. You know how it is. Come on back, if you've finished."
Damn. Sherlock gave one yearning glance at the window before following Henry out to the table.
TWH was getting to his feet, and as they approached he turned and took a half-step toward Sherlock before checking himself. "Ben – Graham said you fainted. Are you all right?" His eyes searched Sherlock's anxiously.
Sherlock glared at Graham, who hurled a smug smile in return, and focused his attention on Tom. "I'm fine. Really." He smiled, letting his lower eyelids crinkle upward – an almost foolproof indicator of sincerity.
"You're certain? I can take you home."
Excellent idea. Still, that would mean an evening at home with TWH, who would undoubtedly try to have sex with him again. Not that the sex was awful, but being the one who did the tying-up got boring very quickly. Besides, sex with Tom made Sherlock feel a bit…odd. He shook his head. "Honestly. I'm all right. I think I just need to eat."
Tom pressed Sherlock's upper arm and guided him back to his chair, as if he were an invalid. "Benedict had a bit of a nasty shock yesterday," he said, pulling Sherlock's chair out. "You don't mind if I tell them, Ben? They won't tattle. He accidentally grabbed a live wire that knocked him out. Awfully frightening – they closed the set down and I think there's an investigation pending, isn't there?"
Sherlock nodded. "Yes."
"My God," Lucy said. "Are you sure you're all right?"
"You should ease up on the speed," Peter observed sourly.
"God, Peter, don't be such a twit!" Fiona said, displaying the first bit of backbone Sherlock had seen all evening. "Sorry, Benedict. You are okay, though?"
"Oh, yes," Tom said, before Sherlock could answer. "They took him to hospital and gave him all sorts of scans. Still, it's got to be wearing. Maybe we should go after all." He rubbed Sherlock's forearm. Clearly some forms of physical affection were acceptable.
Sherlock's peripheral vision caught Graham's furious stare. "No. I'm famished. I really think I need to eat."
TWH conceded, but ordered Sherlock bottles of still and sparkling water and made him drink from each. He also cajoled the waiter into bringing more bone marrow on toast and watched sternly as Sherlock ate. Finally the main courses arrived, and Sherlock sat in silence, tuning out the chatter around him.
He made sure I was okay and got me to hospital, and he looks at you – at me – like…oh, God, never mind.
Well, of course John made sure Cumberbatch was all right and got him to hospital. He was a doctor, and a bloody good one. Competent, intelligent – well, slightly above average, at any rate – courageous, sensitive to the vagaries of the human heart, or soul, or whatever, kept his head in the worst situations, and almost endlessly patient with Sherlock, long past the time that any ordinary person would have packed and left. Sherlock knew that well enough – he'd lost count of the uni roommates who'd buggered off in varying states of pique until the powers that were gave up and wearily assigned him to a new hall of residence with luxurious private bedrooms. But it had been nearly a year that he and John had been flatmates, and John hadn't buggered off. He'd been furious with Sherlock a few times, but he stayed. He always stayed.
Looks at him like what?
What had Cumberbatch meant by that? God, it was infuriating being thrown into that white, featureless space that defied any sort of careful examination – was it even really physical, or was it some sort of bizarre fugue state? – and subjected to the panic of a babbling idiot who got flustered at the very idea of a universe that expanded beyond the staggering selfishness of his own tiny sphere without the opportunity to sort out what was happening to them or even to ask pertinent questions because Cumberbatch was far too busy flailing and bellowing to give Sherlock a chance to think. Pity; he wasn't a half-bad actor.
Good enough to fool John?
Sherlock and Cumberbatch hadn't had time to discuss it in depth – obviously – but it seemed that Cumberbatch was being cautious about revealing his real identity. Sherlock wouldn't have credited him with that degree of prudence. And Jim Moriarty was in the flat. How badly would that end? Certainly it wasn't a given that Moriarty would jump to the truthful conclusion – it wasn't as if multiverse body-swaps happened every day – but he was unpredictable enough to scare the hell out of an ordinary citizen, and Cumberbatch was ordinary. With luck, he'd act well enough to do no more than confuse Jim, and with poor John thinking Cumberbatch was Sherlock….
Sherlock stuck his fingers in his hair and encountered an almost solid wall of nastily grooved hair plastered down to his scalp. Damn it.
God help Cumberbatch if his stupidity led to John getting hurt. And God help him if –
No, that was ridiculous.
If one believed the scandal-rags (and the Puzzle of the Purloined Playthings, John's title of course, in which a famous motion-picture thespian's trove of sex toys was stolen by an obsessed fan – John's blog had become insanely popular after that. Typical dimwitted prurient curiosity) most actors were promiscuous, and judging by TWH's amorous proclivities, frequent sex was quite common. Suppose Cumberbatch was the sort of person who couldn't do without sex? What if he'd….
Ridiculous. Absurd to even think of it. John wasn't gay, for one thing; hadn't he said so, over and over and over again?
"Six months." Mycroft had offered Sherlock a rather caustic smile. "I feel as if I should send you both a potted plant, or perhaps one of those gateaux from Amelie's."
"I'll bet you ordered one and ended up eating the thing yourself." Sherlock hadn't looked up from his examination of a centipede with suspicious traces of gold dust on its forcipules and maxillae.
"How droll. Are you drugging him nightly to keep him nearby?"
"What do you care?"
"I'm merely curious. I don't need to tell you this…relationship is unprecedented in its length and intensity." Mycroft had clasped his hands together and was watching Sherlock closely.
"And yet."
"I'm pleased, actually. It's long past time you had a friend, Sherlock, someone who diverts your attention and keeps you occupied."
"A nanny, you mean?"
"Whatever you'd like to call it," Mycroft had replied with a shrug.
"And you? Are you speaking from your vast store of experience with enduring friendships?"
"Irrelevant. What about Dr. Watson, Sherlock?"
Sherlock had thrown Mycroft a sharp look. "John."
"Yes. John. I've observed his qualities, of course. I see what might draw you toward him. What, I wonder, does he see in you that keeps him so near?"
"Staggering intelligence, good looks, a sense of adventure, a conspicuous absence of dreariness, just to name a few."
"Is that all?"
"That's not enough? I can go on if you like."
"What have you allowed him to see, Sherlock? How far have you let him in?"
"I've got to work," Sherlock had replied, bending back toward the centipede. "Never mind the cake or the plant."
Mycroft had strolled toward the door. Halfway out, he'd paused. "Try to remember what I've told you, Sherlock. I fear you might have left it too late." And before Sherlock could tell him to bugger off, he'd gone, getting the last word in as always.
"Ben?" TWH touched Sherlock's arm.
"What?" Jarred out of his reverie, Sherlock blinked in confusion.
Tom searched Sherlock's face. "You're grimacing like you're in pain," he said quietly. "We can leave if you're not feeling well."
"It's fine," Sherlock said, trying to keep his temper in check. He was tired of being asked. "Honestly, it's fine."
"Okay." Tom gave him a conciliatory pat on the thigh.
"Hang on a minute," Henry said. He gave Sherlock a bright smile. "Have you got a lisp?"
"Henry," TWH said, his brows drawing together.
Sherlock snorted in derision. "No."
"You sure, mate?" Peter asked. "Sounded like it."
"Thanks for listening in, Peter," Tom said. "Height of courtesy." He turned to Sherlock. "Sorry about that. When we're all together, it's – sometimes diplomacy goes out the window."
"Say something really sibilant," Henry said, gesturing at Sherlock with his wine glass.
"Honestly, you two," Lucy interjected, "that's not on at all."
"Yeah – how about 'She sells seashells by the seashore. The shells she sells are surely seashells. So if she sells shells on the seashore, I'm sure she sells seashore shells.'" Peter chortled at his own petulant wit.
Graham and Fiona exchanged a glance. Fiona looked mortified, but Graham sat back and spectated, an expression of intense satisfaction and curiosity on his overbred face.
"Peter, for fuck's sake," Tom said. His voice was soft, but there was an edge of steel in it Sherlock hadn't heard before. "I've had just about enough."
No point in getting angry at morons. Nonchalantly waving Tom's protest away, Sherlock gave Peter and Henry a smile that didn't come close to touching his eyes. "Ready? Here goes: she thellth theesh –" Horrified, he stopped as Henry and Peter burst into laughter. Diners at nearby tables stared in puzzlement at their sudden hilarity.
Heat flooded Sherlock's face. Cumberbatch, you imbecile.
"You arseholes." TWH's ordinarily mild blue eyes kindled with rage.
"Oh, come on, Tommy. Sit down," Henry said, wiping at his ruddy face. "We're just taking the piss."
"You're being bastards." Tom clenched his fists.
"Relax," Peter said. "God, it's not like we're going to the Mail to talk about your boyfriend's lisp. Benedict's all right with it, eh Ben? I mean, you've probably had to deal with it all your life, haven't you?"
Sherlock turned to Peter. "Well, we've all got problems that we deal with, haven't we?" He enunciated with exaggerated care, ruthlessly cutting out any possibility of a lisp. "Your pathological need for approbation, for one thing. Really rather obvious despite your studious nonchalance – clearly you got a lot of attention for your looks in your youth, but it wasn't enough, because you crave it, what with the way you look around after you make a remark of any kind, just to make certain that people are focused on you, the extra decibels – the restaurant isn't all that loud, but you've become used to talking loudly because everyone's got to hear each golden syllable that comes tripping off your tongue, the conspicuous clothes that you'd love to believe are the pinnacle of nonchalance, but both the jacket and the shoes were purchased yesterday, going by the smell, so it's obvious you haven't got enough confidence to wear something you've already got – it's a constant game of one-upmanship with Tom who hasn't even got the faintest idea he's in a competition. He feels sorry for you, and he's –"
"Ben."
Sherlock turned to Tom, then noticed that everyone at the table had fallen silent. He turned back to Peter, who was ashen. "I haven't finished."
"We're all finished," Tom said. He got to his feet, dug in his pocket, and pulled out a money clip. Extracting several notes, he dropped them on the table. "Come on. Let's go."
Opening his mouth to continue the counter-attack, Sherlock caught a glimpse of Tom's face. He'd been around John long enough to understand its expression: evidently he'd made some sort of social gaffe. John usually demanded apologies, but Tom simply stood still, waiting for him.
"Tom…." Graham said. "Look here –"
TWH cut Graham off with a quick shake of the head, and turned to walk out of the restaurant, not even waiting for Sherlock.
Everyone (not the surrounding diners – Sherlock's tiny diatribe hadn't been delivered in the sort of foghorn voice that seemed to be Peter's speciality) stared at Sherlock in stupefaction. Clearly the most prudent action to take was departure. Accordingly, Sherlock scraped his chair back and rose.
"Er. Lovely to meet you all." He clasped his hands behind his back and inched toward the door. "'Bye."
Nobody responded, and Sherlock concluded that the usual parting pleasantries would not be taking place. He about-faced and strode smoothly from St. John's
A maroon-jacketed, spotty young man was pulling up in Tom's car. He got out and held one door open whilst another maroon-jacketed, equally spotty young woman held the other. Tom and Sherlock got in, belted up, and Tom drove away.
The car moved smoothly through London traffic. The noise and glittering lights soothed Sherlock's slightly nettled mood. Gaffe or not, how was he meant to have known that Cumberbatch had a lisp? It wasn't on any of the adoring fan pages he'd scanned, nor in the Wikipedia entry nor in the interviews he'd watched. Apparently he'd managed to learn to hide it fairly well. Still – he should have noticed, and now, really thinking about it, there had been some evidence of an interdental lisp in one of the interviews, but not enough to arouse suspicion or merit further investigation. And Sherlock had only spent time with Vertue and Freeman and TWH, who were either accustomed to Cumberbatch's lisp or politely ignored it. Bloody hell, there was always something.
He glanced at TWH, who was sitting straight, staring out into traffic, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "That went south rather quickly. The food wasn't spectacular, though, so I suppose it doesn't matter," Sherlock ventured, trying for some levity.
"They shouldn't have said those things."
Sherlock shrugged. "Doesn't matter."
TWH sighed. "Don't – look, you've told me about it. A lot of people wouldn't agree, but I think some childhood hurts last longer – it can be a deep impression on a tender soul."
That was an astoundingly gluey sentiment, but Sherlock elected to keep silent.
"They can be such arseholes – Peter and Henry, and even Graham. Fi and Lucy are okay, mostly. I'm embarrassed for them, and embarrassed for myself because I've always considered them friends, even when they're stupid. Tonight was a mistake. But Ben –" Tom looked Sherlock full in the face for a few seconds before turning back to the road. "God, I wish you hadn't lashed out like that."
Sherlock hated being chided. It took formidable restraint not to snap back. "Why?"
"It's not you, for one thing. You've been acting oddly all weekend. I can't put my finger on it –"
"We've been together nineteen hours, if that."
Tom bit his lip. "It's not funny. Look, we all get deep into character. It's a hazard of the profession, I know that, even if neither of us approach Daniel Day-Lewis levels of…er, focus. And I know Sherlock's hard to shake. He's a strong, beautiful, astonishing force of nature, and if you changed your approach I'd be bereft. Nobody could do what you do with him, Ben. Nobody. But that rant – you've got to dial it back just a little. If one of them went to the scandal sheets with a story about how you've been acting like Sherlock off set and insulting people, the tide of public opinion could shift against you, and I don't want that. It would be terrible for you. You know how the press can be."
"Terrible for me, or terrible for you by association?" Sherlock inquired sharply. If tiptoeing around for the benefit of the papers was the done thing, Sherlock wanted out. Except there wasn't any out, was there? Damn it, damn it to hell.
Tom was silent for a long moment. "Please don't say that," he said at last. "You know that's not what I meant."
Sherlock looked out the window.
"You know there's nothing I want more than to be open about everything, but…." Tom shook his head. "I can't. Not yet. And neither can you."
…What?
Ohhh.
"You don't know how many times I've thought about it…calling my dad and telling him, and letting it all spill out, but…." Tom took a deep, shuddering breath. "You know, we – I – keep telling myself it's strategic, and I tell you the same damned thing, but maybe…Christ, I don't know. I don't know."
Sherlock heard the shakiness in Tom's voice, and saw tears standing in his eyes.
Might have left it too late.
In a welter of confusion, Sherlock moved to touch Tom's arm, but Tom started like a frightened colt, and Sherlock pulled back abruptly.
"Ben, I'm not feeling well. I've got a splitting headache – too much wine and not enough food, I guess." He made a poor attempt at a smile. "Would you mind terribly if I just drop you off tonight?"
"It's fine," Sherlock replied numbly.
"Okay." Tom pulled up to the kerb and let the car idle. He reached out and grasped Sherlock's hand, squeezing it lightly and rubbing his thumb back and forth across Sherlock's palm. It was a pleasant sensation. "Don't be angry with me. I'm at sixes and sevens tonight. I'm sorry about those twits. I should have stopped seeing Henry and Peter a while ago, but it's hard to cut them off without cutting off the rest."
"It's fine," Sherlock repeated.
"Kiss me?" TWH moved forward and kissed Sherlock on the lips, tracing his tongue round the inside of Sherlock's mouth. He pulled back and cupped the back of Sherlock's clay-ridden head. "See you tomorrow?"
Sherlock nodded, and opened the car door.
"Love you."
"Mm," Sherlock replied, climbing out of the car. He forced himself to return Tom's wave, and watched as the car drove down the road, taillights winking in the darkness.
What now? He couldn't go inside; what in God's name would he do? Watch telly, surf the internet, read a book? He doubted Cumberbatch had any books worth reading at any rate. No, he wouldn't sit on his arse. Sod that.
Resolute, he stepped into the street and waited for a taxi. He checked his watch: only eight-thirty. He took his phone out (he'd charged it at TWH's house; they had the same sort of phone. Twee beyond words) and scrolled through the new messages.
Call me. K
Tons of post for you. Dropping it at CvGG Monday. Change your address, okay? O
Times/CM interview now tomorrow at one. Car will pick you up. CALL if problem. K
Mum got us new phones. Test run. xx Dad
I dropped the old one in the tub.
She gave me this today. V. sleek. So pleased
I absolutely killed her.
That was marginally more intriguing.
Kissed her.
This is much beget.
Better.
Bloody auto compact.
Correct.
Oh, for God's sake. Sherlock scrolled through the rest of the texts, finding nothing interesting. And three minutes had passed with no cabs. Ludicrous. Ambulation it was, then. He needed to burn energy off again.
He set a rapid pace, walking back toward central London – a twenty minute journey by car. The night was pleasant and still; out here the light pollution wasn't so bad and he actually saw a star or two overhead. Or a planet. The planets were the ones that didn't twinkle. John had told him that. And the bright reddish one, that was Mars. The stars were the same here. That was a bit reassuring, at least.
"You see, I didn't –" He closed his mouth abruptly.
Idiot. John wasn't beside him. Funny how one got used to companionship.
Viciously, he kicked at a rock on the path and walked faster. He bypassed the tube station – there was no way he was riding the tube with mouth-breathing morons who gaped and shouted again – and kept walking. He was starting to sweat a bit, but he wasn't hot; instead, he felt profoundly chilled, as if he'd been thrown into icy water. Like that time those human traffickers had shoved Sherlock into the Thames and John had fished him out –
Reminiscing: the first sign of encroaching senility. Only fools and bores reminisced, looking backward instead of forward. But it wasn't the first time he'd done it since all this began, was it?
If we follow this meandering line of thinking to its invariably bitter end, Sherlock, where does it lead us?
"Oh, shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock muttered. He was grounding himself in reality, that was all. Even Mycroft would be rattled finding himself in another universe.
London had enclosed him entirely, and he finally found a cab that deigned to stop for him. He leant toward the window and realised he'd no idea where he wanted to go.
The cabbie gazed at him with patient curiosity, waiting for him to speak. "Where to, sir?" she asked politely. Her accent was West African, Cote d'Ivoire if Sherlock wasn't mistaken.
"The M – Scotland Yard, please." He climbed in and sat back, watching the city pass by, pedestrians everywhere: throngs of young men and women in club clothes, theatregoers, gangsters, panhandlers, buskers – a flashier crowd than daytime London, only slightly more intriguing. Usually the cleverest sort of criminal slipped easily into a crowd, living quietly and transgressing flamboyantly in the shadows.
How aggressively dull Cumberbatch's life was. A lisp and hiding in the closet were his darkest secrets.
"You're an actor, aren't you? I've seen some of your films."
Sherlock met the cabbie's eyes in the mirror. He was about to deny her assertion, then nodded wearily. "Yep."
"I saw you in the film about Stephen Hawking. And then in Atonement. Such a talent, to play such different people. So sweet and then so evil."
"Thank you."
"I've seen some of your other films too. And Sherlock." She smiled. "My daughter wants to be a detective now because of you and Sally Donovan. I tell her it's dangerous work and not glamorous but she's determined. She's twelve. Top marks in school."
Donovan! Sherlock almost smiled. Well, God knew that there was a dearth of competent detectives at the Met, probably in this universe as well. "She'll never be bored."
The cabbie laughed. "School bores her. I think that's Sherlock's fault as well. She wants to fight crime, she and her best chum. I tease them a bit – call them Holmes and Watson."
"Every Holmes should have a Watson," Sherlock said, and the cabbie beamed at him, then turned her attention back to driving. Sherlock sat back, staring at nothing now, conscious of a growing discontentment in his middle that had nothing to do with his current predicament.
Presently they arrived at the Met. "Here we are, sir. My little girl will be so thrilled that I drove you."
Sherlock withdrew Cumberbatch's money clip, got out the fare, and added a fifty-quid tip. What the hell, it wasn't his money anyhow. "Tell her…." Children, both ordinary and extraordinary, were a notoriously changeable species; probably in a few years she'd want to be an astronaut or a barrister. "Give her my best. Tell her…tell her she'll be a marvellous Holmes as long as she has –"
"Watson?" She grinned at him.
"Curiosity," Sherlock said, handing over the money and climbing out of the car.
The woman waved and drove away, leaving Sherlock at the entrance to Scotland Yard.
Christ, what was he doing here? If he went inside, he wouldn't find Lestrade, nor Donovan, nor even Anderson, not even wayward members of his homeless network, only police officers and detectives who would recognise him not as Sherlock Holmes, but as Benedict Cumberbatch who played at being Sherlock Holmes. A façade of himself, an actor alone on a grand-scale stage looking beyond the footlights for shreds of familiarity and comfort.
He turned and began walking back toward Hampstead.
*
The persistent shrill of the doorbell woke him. Sherlock climbed out of bed, dragging the sheet round his body and trudging downstairs. He scratched his head, encountered the unyielding clay, and decided to shower immediately. His hair felt disgusting.
He opened the front door to a woman standing on the step. "Hi!" she said brightly, her enthusiastic greeting at odds with the flowy layers of black she wore. Self-esteem issues; conventionally attractive face by current standards, but body slightly heavier than traditional media expectation. Believed black was both slimming and edgy judging by the garments, mostly of degage Japanese cotton. Untidy pounds of blonde-streaked dark hair, too much eye makeup, glossy mouth.
Sherlock scowled. "Yes?"
Her gaze roamed greedily over his be-sheeted figure. "Oh, dear. Karon said one o'clock would be okay for an interview. She said you'd text or call if it wasn't all right. Didn't you get her texts?"
Evidently this woman and Cumberbatch were acquainted, if her excessive familiarity was any indication of acquaintance. "I was busy last night."
"Well, you can tell me all about it at lunch," the woman said with a cosy smile. "Car's out at the kerb, but I can come in and wait while you shower or…do whatever you need to do." She took a step forward, as if her remark had established terms of intimacy between them.
Sherlock was tired of this celebrity game and disliked journalists on principle. "Not up to an interview. Sorry."
The woman's face fell even further. "I…okay. Tomorrow, perhaps?"
Sherlock's only reply was a negative shake of his head.
"Ben, are you okay?"
God, he wished people would stop asking him that. He bared his teeth in a poor approximation of a smile. "Fantastic," he said, and slammed the door.
The doorbell shrilled again, but he paid it no mind, trudging back up the stairs and into the darkened bedroom, where he slumped back into bed. He'd walked from NSY to Hampstead, surprisingly unbothered and, finding himself exhausted at the end of his trek had collapsed immediately. Now he picked up his phone and discovered he'd slept nearly ten hours. Several more texts and voicemails had come through; he deleted them methodically, without opening a single one.
Except one.
Sorry about last night. Call me? T
Almost unwillingly, Sherlock punched in TWH's number.
*
"You look good enough to eat," Tom said by way of greeting. He closed the door behind him and wrapped Sherlock in a tight and surprisingly muscular hug, burying his nose in Sherlock's neck. "Mm – just showered. Smells fantastic."
"Yeah, it's, er, Ormonde," Sherlock said. He'd picked it out of a collection in Cumberbatch's loo. Not really a fragrance-wearer, he'd still scoffed at the practise of keeping fragrance in a loo – even in a closed cabinet, worst possible place to store it.
"I love it. And you left the hair slop off as well. Wise move." He held Sherlock away. "Ben. About last night –"
"You don't have to –"
"No, listen, please." Tom put a finger against Sherlock's lips. "You know this is new to me – this," he said, waving a hand between both of them, "the fire and potency of it, and the public scrutiny, all the media attention. I've never been much good at hiding, and the only reason I'm a good liar is because I'm a fair actor. I want to shout about us from every rooftop, and I can't, I know that, but sometimes it makes me a bit barmy, you know? I don't want to fuck it up. I love you." He drew Sherlock close and kissed him.
This time, Sherlock allowed it, opening his mouth against Tom's, yielding to the warm pressure of Tom's lips and tongue. Tom's hand cupped the nape of his neck and massaged, and Sherlock couldn't deny that it felt good.
Tom pulled back a bit and rested his forehead against Sherlock's. "I'm sorry I got angry. Forgive me?"
"Of course I forgive you," Sherlock said. Easy enough; Tom hadn't done anything all that terrible, and he'd defended Sherlock - Cumberbatch - and his lisp, even though the far more practical thing would have been to pay Cumberbatch the compliment of letting him fight his own battles. Sherlock appreciated it nonetheless as he'd been slightly off-balance, though TWH could never know that, obviously. For good measure, Sherlock gathered Tom in his arms and returned the embrace, probably as Cumberbatch would have done.
"I'd better stop, or I'll end up mauling you and we'll be late for lunch." Tom grinned. "I don't want to muss you. You look very smart."
Of course he looked smart, or as smart as it was possible to look given the state of Cumberbatch's wardrobe. Nothing he could do about the hair, though – that was a total loss, and he resigned himself to it glumly. Sherlock tugged on his suit jacket. "Thank you." He took in Tom's faded tight jeans, white shirt, and cotton cardigan. "So do you." It wasn't a half-bad look, actually.
"Oh, ha-ha. Come on, let's go. And then when we get back, I want a proper shag. I feel cheated." He put his hand on Sherlock's arm and steered him toward the door.
TWH was certainly touchy-feely. It wasn't, Sherlock admitted privately, entirely unpleasant.
He'd worry about the shagging business later.
*
"We should work together, you and I," MG said.
"Oh, I'd love that!" Tom said, digging into his prawns with enthusiasm. "I'm looking at a few projects right now, and there are some tempting offers. Let's sit down and talk about it soon." He smiled at Sherlock. "That's a great idea, don't you think?"
Sherlock managed to nod his head, but it was an effort.
He'd sorted out who MG was, and he'd seen the programme on YouTube, obviously, but it was an entirely different thing to have a man who looked exactly like Mycroft sitting across from him in a casual jumper and khaki trousers and moccasins – moccasins! – and a scruff of beard. Mycroft would have apoplexy at the very thought. Too, he was smiling and…laughing. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he'd heard more than a sardonic chuckle emerging from Mycroft's mouth. Gatiss…Mark…had a partner as well, a man named Ian whose informality with MG was positively astonishing. He touched Mark's hand and rubbed his upper arm and even kissed him. And Mark returned the affection wholeheartedly.
Dear God.
"More wine, Ben?" Mark said, proffering a bottle.
Sherlock nodded again. Speaking required more industry than he was able or willing to undertake at the moment.
Mark poured a generous amount into Sherlock's glass. "Well, the latest and greatest news, if you're interested. We resume filming on Wednesday. The break makes things a bit tight, but obviously we've built some time in on the front end for emergencies, and we've got to make absolutely certain that everything's up to safety codes. It's a first for us," he said, addressing Tom. "We've never had to fill out accident-incident reports, and Sue was wild about it. Steven – well, he had his moment of rage and then calmed down. You know how that is. The good news is that the inspectors haven't found anything other than that one cable, which apparently had been nicked pretty hard so that the coating just chipped off. It's been replaced, obviously, and they're still checking everything. We should have it all sorted by Monday afternoon. And you seem fine, Ben, which is the most important thing. Meanwhile, it's a holiday, so –" he raised his glass. "Here's mud in your eye."
Everyone touched glasses, and Sherlock numbly followed suit. He drank his wine off in a gulp and poured more.
Tom laughed. "Glad I'm driving." He poked Sherlock in the arm. "I'm teasing. You've earned it. You've had a peculiar few days, haven't you?"
That, at least, was true. "Yes."
"Actually, Ben's been a little quiet and subdued the past few days," Tom said. He speared another prawn. "I'm glad he went to hospital and they made sure he was okay – otherwise I'd really be worried. But maybe you're just tired, eh?" He put his hand atop Sherlock's and squeezed briefly. "You've been nonstop the past few months."
"The past few years," Mark said. "And he doesn't show any signs of slowing down. I don't know where you get your energy."
"Oh, you've got enough energy," Ian whatever-his-last-name-was said, and hugged Mark around the shoulders.
Sherlock stared at the gesture and drank more wine.
"You've scarcely touched your soufflé," Tom said. "Isn't it any good?"
"It's delicious," Sherlock said.
"Oh." Tom's brow furrowed, but he seemed to accept the answer and went back to his own starter.
The main dishes arrived, and they dug in, chattering, mostly theatre and screen gossip – at least Sherlock thought it was theatre and screen gossip. He wasn't really listening. He pretended intense interest in his steak, which wasn't bad at all, and drank most of the bottle of wine. Cumberbatch must have been a guzzler, because nobody seemed to notice, or they were accustomed to pampering him. MG ordered another bottle without comment and went back to his discussion with TWH, some drivel about a Shakespeare play they'd both seen.
Drivel. It was all drivel. What a ridiculous life this was: self-indulgent, careless, preoccupied with pleasing people, pleasing hordes of idiots who sat on their arses and did nothing but consume endlessly, pleasing a media crowd both greedy and hostile. Where was the purpose? Where was the thrill of discovery, that exquisite mélange of exasperation and passion that drove him through nights and weeks, pushing against enigmas that wouldn't yield without the most dogged persistence? They pretended to be somebody else and called it work. And Sherlock did that, true, but it was an infinitesimal slice of his existence, not the whole of it. He didn't have time for their endless self-gratification and navel-gazing.
He got up, a bit startled at how wobbly his legs felt. "Back in a bit." Tugging his jacket into place, he wove his way to the loo and pushed the door open. He unzipped, had a piss, and washed his hands, staring at his face in the mirror. God, was that a spot on his nose? Wasn't that the cherry on the cake.
Sherlock leant over the sink, a little dizzy from the wine. He was as good an actor as any of them, but the pretence was beginning to wear. But if he went back out to the table and said I've got some news for you: I'm not really Benedict Cumberbatch. I'm Sherlock Holmes, and you're a lot of tiresome halfwits - he couldn't think of any possible outcome that would end well. And he still couldn't get back home. How in hell was he going to get back home?
John.
He pressed his hands to his face. John mightn't be able to fix things, in fact he almost surely would have some sort of furious meltdown were he trapped here, but it would be good to have him close by.
The door creaked open. "Ben?"
Sherlock took his hands from his face. "Mark," he said with a smile, wondering if it looked as artificial as it felt. "Hey."
"Are you all right?"
No. No, no, no, no, no. "Great. A bit woozy from the plonk."
Mark shut the door behind him. "Well, you've earned it, as Tom said. Look, I wanted a word with you. It's about the other night."
"Shoot." He tried to view the man standing in front of him as a writer, an actor, but suddenly he only saw Mycroft in awful clothes and a two-day growth of beard. Difficult to reconcile, highly improbable, but not, with a little imagination, entirely impossible.
"It's sort of rotten to ask this, but…we, all of us, would really appreciate it if you didn't mention what happened on set. We've got such good press, and it was honestly a freak accident –"
Ha!
"—that it would be terrible if word got out. Steven's working on a compensation package for you, but he can talk to you about that. It sounds rather sinister when I say it like that, but you understand, don't you?"
Sherlock took a half-step forward, grabbed the edge of the sink, and made a zipping motion across his mouth. Then he tossed an imaginary key away (he hadn't locked his mouth, just zipped it. Why did people do that? It was stupid).
Mark sagged in relief. "Oh, thank you. Honestly, it's beyond generous –" He made a startled muffled noise as Sherlock dove in and kissed him full on the mouth. He struggled away, backing against one of the toilet stalls, and gaped. "Ben!"
Ben. Ben. Been far too long, brother mine. Sherlock pressed himself against Mycroft. "Your pupils are dilating. You know, during the Cold War the Canadian government came up with a pupillometry device to determine the existence of homosexuals in their civil service bureaus. They'd show the subjects risqué imagery and watch pupillary response. They called it the fruit machine. Trouble was, it didn't really work all that well. Not everybody has the same response to graphic imagery, and some people can control mydriasis better than others. But the eyes are still a fair indicator of cognitive, emotional and sensory reaction. We read cues all the time, in the eyes, and in other ways as well." He grasped Mycroft's wrist and pressed his thumb against the pulse. Gatiss wanted Cumberbatch. Had wanted him for a long time.
Mycroft…no, Mark. It didn't matter – wet his lips. "Ben, please." He didn't move, though.
Sherlock pushed him into the wheelchair-accessible toilet stall and closed the door. "I need…I need…." He didn't know what he needed, exactly, but that didn't matter either. He sank to his knees and despite the havoc the alcohol was wreaking on his nervous system, unbuttoned and unzipped Marcroft's trousers with expert precision.
"Ian. Tom."
"Shut up," Sherlock muttered, and pulled the khaki trousers down, revealing claret-coloured stretch-silk briefs. Not something Mycroft would have approved of or indeed allowed to come within two metres of his body. He yanked the front of the briefs down and saw Mark's cock, swelling, reddening. He bent close, inhaling the clean, slightly musky odour, and grasping Mark's hips, drew his tongue up the underside of his brother's cock.
"We've both had too much to – oh Christ." Large hands grasped either side of Sherlock's head, fingers tangling in his hair. "Christ, oh, fuck."
Sherlock worked up more moisture in his mouth, then opened it widely and enclosed the now-jutting prick. He sucked hard, remembering Mycroft's efforts to keep silent, and pulled back to nuzzle the slit and tease at the head, sliding his tongue round and round, dipping his head down, increasing suction, plunging deeper, half-gagging on cock. He slid his hand into his own trousers and rubbed.
Some part of his brain remained detached and aware, coldly observing this nearly unprecedented debauchery in a toilet stall in another universe. It wasn't Mycroft's cock he was sucking, and it wasn't Mark Gatiss' cock. Mycroft hadn't permitted it after that single time, and Gatiss didn't really want it with his emotions or his heart or whatever got the limbic system going, he couldn't quite remember at the moment. He wouldn't open his eyes, wouldn't look up, would not meet this other man's eyes, because if he kept his own eyes closed he could preserve the –
"Oh, God!" The cry, far above him, was a low growl, and Sherlock did gag now as the cock thrust hard into his mouth, down his throat, and he felt the spill of semen, like a flood though it wasn't much, not more than average, and he relaxed his throat and let it trickle downward, wet and warm.
He shivered. He hadn't brought himself off – it always took him a while if he was masturbating, and that hadn't been nearly long enough – but that didn't matter either. He freed his hand and rose shakily to his feet, coming almost nose to nose with a panting, red-faced Gatiss.
Oh, God.
Sherlock stumbled out of the stall and dropped into the little slipper chair at the far end of the loo. He bent forward, forehead nearly touching his knees, and breathed hard.
"Ben…."
Sherlock looked up at Mark, re-ordering his clothes. "I…that was a mistake."
Mark nodded. "Look, we'll just…it was my fault. I shouldn't have…God, please don't say anything about this. It's –" He turned as the door opened and Tom came in.
"Hey, sorry to interrupt your conference, but I've got to make some room. I'm not leaving without pudding, though." He went to the urinal and unzipped, whistling a little.
Sherlock stared at Mark, fierce warning in his eyes. MG's face was still red. Maybe he had a heart condition. He seemed fitter than Mycroft, though.
Tom shook off, zipped up, and went to the sink. "You two are awfully quiet. What are you –" He looked at Sherlock in the mirror with a smile, but the smile gradually faded and his forehead creased. "What?" Drying his hands, he turned to Mark. "What's wrong?"
Mark smiled. "Nothing. Just having a chat." However decent an actor he was, he was a terrible liar.
Tom turned to Sherlock, then took a tentative step forward. His nostrils quivered a bit, and as if by some instinct, he glanced at the toilet stall, then back at Sherlock.
Sherlock found it impossible to meet Tom's gaze. It shouldn't matter, it didn't matter, God damn it all, he wasn't Benedict Cumberbatch and he wasn't accountable to Thomas William Hiddleston for the impulses of his body or the occasional mistakes he made, it wasn't something he'd planned and he wasn't wrong often, but –
Tom took a breath. "Please tell me I'm imagining things."
"Tom, honestly," Mark said, and then fell silent.
Anger and frustration and something ineffable he couldn't work out made Sherlock raise his head and meet Tom's eyes at last. He saw Tom's face crumple and immediately knew what the ineffable was. "Tom…."
Tom shook his head, waved his hand, and turned on his heel, leaving the loo without a word, leaving Mark and Sherlock alone.
Mark dragged his hands through what remained of his hair. "Fucking hell – Ian." He paused at the door, seemed about to say something, and then thought better of it and left.
Sherlock's head was hurting. He drew his knees up, encircled them with his arms, and rested his head on them, curling up and retreating for a moment, just a moment, from this loathsome and inhospitable world.
*
A pile of scripts rested on his lap, untouched for the past twenty minutes at least.
Tom knew it wasn't very environmentally sound to ask for them to be printed out, but Tom still liked the feel of paper, and still collected print books despite the scads of stuff on his mobile and his shiny new iPad. Not that they were doing much good at the moment. He'd tried to read them, moving to another when he couldn't concentrate, but nothing stuck, and eventually he'd ended up staring into space, trying to fight a desolation so profound that he could scarcely breathe. He felt tears threatening again and rubbed his eyes. Better to just let himself cry, probably, but that would be like acceptance, and he couldn't accept it, not yet.
His phone sat on the arm of the chair, silent. He'd set it to Do Not Disturb except for one number, and silent it remained. He couldn't ask himself why it had happened, or how – that wasn't for him to answer. But he wouldn't make the first move, not yet. Stupid and prideful, maybe, but he couldn't bring himself to call first. Tomorrow, if he hadn't heard from Ben by then. Maybe his dad had been right – you really couldn't trust many people.
The doorbell rang. Tom's heart stuttered, and he jumped out of the chair, scattering the scripts to the floor. Mingled fury and relief surged in his blood. He wasn't going to let Ben off so easily. They hadn't discussed infidelity – hell, they'd only begun to discuss commitment a month ago – but it was time for a serious talk.
He looked out the peephole – not that the thing was all that effective – his own mother would look like an axe murderer through the distorting glass – and his stomach sank as he saw two people standing on his doorstep and he finally recognised them. He opened the door.
"Truce," said Graham, holding out a bottle of Glenfiddich. Beside him, Henry smiled uncomfortably.
Tom sagged against the doorframe. "Hi, guys. Look, it's not a great time –"
"We're not staying," Henry said. "We just wanted to apologise for last night. We were pricks. Well, I was a prick, and Peter was a prick."
"You'll notice his conspicuous absence," Graham said. "I tried to get him to come, but he can be obdurate, to say the least."
"Yeah, I know," Tom said. "Well, at least come in for a few minutes." He took the bottle and opened the door wider to let them in. "You didn't have to do this."
"We did, though," Graham said. He ran a hand through his floppy hair. "Fi and Lucy are furious with us, and they're absolutely right to be." He dropped onto Tom's chesterfield. "Whew, warm in here."
"I don't really bother with AC. I can turn it on if you like."
"No, no. As Henry said, we're not staying."
"Stay long enough for a drink, at least," Tom said. He was glad to be taken out of himself for a moment. "I'll open this up."
"I'll do that," Henry said. "Have a seat. Rocks all round?"
"Sounds good. Glasses are in the freezer, too. They're beer glasses, but who cares. Thanks, Henry." Tom sat in his chair, suddenly conscious that he was wearing nothing but jogging shorts and that Graham was not only impeccably dressed in a beige linen suit but also ogling Tom rather avidly. "You look nice."
"Off to dinner with some dot-com billionaire. Trying to extract a few-score thousand pounds for a new lighting system. The old one's going to bash someone's head in soon if we don't get rid of it."
"Oh, that's too bad. Anything I can do to help?"
"Cash always helps," Graham chortled. "If I can tell him you'll match funds, that'll add a bit of lustre. You needn't match the full amount, though."
"That sounds good. What about a five-thousand quid cap?"
"Done!" Graham nodded firmly in lieu of a handshake, and stretched out a hand to Henry, coming in with the drinks. Doubles, Tom noticed. Good. "Thanks, old chap."
"Not at all." Henry gave Graham his drink, then Tom, then seated himself on the chesterfield.
"You're not going out as well? Heading to Tilford?" Tom asked, eyeing Henry's summer-weight cord trousers and sports shirt.
"No, I'm staying in town tonight. Had to run a few errands and told Graham I'd ferry his cheap arse to Jin Kichi, save him eight quid on a cab ride, but made him promise to come here first. I really –" He shifted a bit. "Really sorry about that. Bloody childish. Hope, er, Benedict's not too upset with us."
"He didn't say a lot about it," Tom said. "It was childish, frankly. And it would probably be better if you apologised to him, not me." Though he isn't here to accept an apology, and he needs to issue some apologies of his own.
"We rather thought he'd be here," Henry said. "You two are an item, aren't you?"
Tom sighed. "I'm not really sure what we are." He took a deep drink of the whisky, letting the liquid burn pleasantly down his throat, and scratched his cheek, his nails rasping against the short beard he was growing for his next role. He met Graham's eyes, which were a little too intense for Tom's comfort. "We're still working it out."
"Seemed like a nice chap," Henry said. Graham said nothing.
"Yeah," Tom said wearily. "Look, don't mention that to anyone, okay?"
"Oh, come on," Henry said, and took a swig from the beer glass, draining the whisky in a draught. Ice clinked musically. "Not even Peter is that much of a prick. I tried to get him to come, but he's busy tonight banging some bird, apparently."
"It's okay. Well…you know what I mean," Tom said. "It's not okay, actually. He's always been a bully. I'm a little tired of it."
"We'll have a word with him." Henry looked at his watch. "We'd better dash. His Nibs here is going to be late. Look here, tell Benedict we're sorry, would you? If we get to see him again, we'll tell him as well."
"Okay." Tom got to his feet, finished his drink, and set it down on the floor. "Thanks for stopping by."
"Not at all." Henry steered Graham toward the door. "Cheerio, Tommy."
"'Night," Tom said. "Thanks for the whisky."
"'Night."
Tom closed the door and locked it, then trudged back to his chair. He sank into it, then noticed something on the chesterfield. "Oh –" He rose and scooped up Henry's mobile. "Shit." Running to the door, he threw it open, but Henry's Audi was long gone. "Damn it."
He couldn't call Henry, obviously, and Graham was one of those eccentrics who refused to carry a mobile phone. Tom got his own phone, found Henry's land line in the city, and rang him. "Hey, Henry, it's Tom," he said, after the answerphone had played. "You left your mobile here. I'm staying in tonight, but I can run it over in the morning if you don't feel like picking it up. 'Bye."
Slumping back in the chair, he picked up his spilled scripts and yawned hugely. "Oh, fuck it." He set them on the floor again and stretched his legs out, contemplating his toes. By all rights, he should have been upstairs, getting his brains shagged out, but Ben had decided to be unbelievably weird and even more unbelievably unfaithful, with Mark. Why, for fuck's sake?
You don't have the answers. Don't jump to conclusions.
Although there didn't seem to be a surfeit of conclusions from which to choose.
He yawned again, and decided to catch up on a few episodes of Breaking Bad before turning in for the night. Maybe he'd have a sad, solitary wank, too.
Walter White was sitting outside Gus' house getting ready to kill him when the doorbell rang. Tom's doorbell. Tom roused himself from utter torpor, paused the programme, and ran to the door, adrenaline surging again, but he moved slower; he was weirdly exhausted. His legs felt like rubber, as if he'd done a fast run with little preparation. And again he was disappointed; it was Henry, not Ben. Tom mustered a smile. "Hey! I'm glad you came back. You must have –"
"Yeah, left my phone. Do you mind…?"
"No, come on in." Tom let him in and shut the door. "I was about to go to bed, actually. I'm knackered." He yawned in the middle of the sentence. "Sorry. God, rude."
"Don't worry," Henry said. "In and out."
Tom leant over to get the phone from where he'd left it on a side table and got a strange head rush. He stood still for a moment, hunched over, and awkwardly scooped up the phone. He wobbled as he straightened, and Henry grabbed his arm. "Wow."
"You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm just…really tired." He turned to Henry. "I'd better get to bed."
"I thought it'd work faster," Henry said.
Tom frowned. His head felt fuzzy. "Huh?"
"Must be your muscle mass. Well…." Henry shrugged and turned away from Tom. He peered out the peephole and turned back with a smile, reaching into his pocket and pulling something out. "Just us chickens."
"Yeah," Tom said. "I don't mean to be abrupt, but I'm really tired." His tongue was thick and uncooperative.
"I know." Henry held a silvery packet in his hand. He steered Tom to his chair and urged him down. "Have a seat." He ripped the packet open, and a sweetish stench filled the air.
Tom tried to focus on it and saw a square of white, like one of those pre-saturated cleansing cloths, shining white in the low light of the table lamps. The smell was awful. A funny apprehension slowly worked its way through Tom's fog. "Henry?"
"You wouldn't believe what I had to go through to get this stuff. The GHB, too. I reckon I didn't calculate the GHB properly, but that's what this is for." Henry gathered up Tom's hands and held his wrists together. "Asset class diversification, you might call it."
Alarm flooded Tom's body, but he was heavy and slow and couldn't form sentences. "Henry, wait. Don't – what –"
Henry jammed the wet cloth over Tom's mouth and nose, pushing him back into the chair and pinning his wrists against his chest. "Just hang on a minute, pal. Won't be long."
Tom found himself leaden-limbed, voiceless, and utterly unable to prevent Henry from mashing the stinking rag over his face. He sucked in fumes, choked, and tried to call out. He imagined his struggles knocking Henry to the floor – he was taller, and probably stronger, but he couldn't quite….
No
….
*