a “Performance in a Leading Role” ficlet
John got up from his laptop, feeling numb.
Well, so far 2016′s doing a bang-up job of sucking really hard, he thought. He stood by his chair for a moment, reeling.
Sherlock was downstairs in the kitchen, or at least he had been when John had ventured out for coffee an hour ago. He’d been sitting at the kitchen table, typing madly on his laptop, two nicotine patches on his forearm. He was hip-deep in pre-production on his directorial debut, an intense three-character film about the dissolution of a marriage during the aftermath of a dinner party. Molly had written the script. John loved it, and so did Sherlock, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t rewriting to be done.
This news was going to throw him right off his game.
Maybe I shouldn’t tell him. He won’t hear for hours on his own. Let him get some work done while he’s on a roll.
No, he’ll find out that I knew and didn’t say anything and he’ll be furious and that’ll throw him off even more.
He sighed and went downstairs. He could hear the machine-gun clacking of Sherlock’s keyboard as he approached.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, just looking at him. The sunlight was angling in and highlighting the streaks of gray that were just starting to come in at his temples. His own hair was lightening by the day, it seemed, as his dishwater blonde was overtaken with silver. They were both getting older. He was now on the wrong side of forty, and Sherlock wasn’t far behind him.
“Hmm?” He didn’t look up, still typing. John didn’t say anything. After a moment, Sherlock glanced at him, then did a double-take. He stopped typing and sat back. “What is it, John? What’s happened?”
He walked forward and stood at Sherlock’s side, then put a hand on his shoulder. “Sweetheart, Alan died.”
Sherlock blinked. “Alan, who’s…” His eyes widened as he realized who John meant. “No.”
He flapped a hand. “No, it’s one of those Internet hoaxes. Where’d you see that, on Facebook?”
“I wish it were. His family has released a statement.”
Sherlock went very still. He stared blankly at his laptop screen. “No,” he murmured.
John rubbed his shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I know you were friends.”
“Today. He had cancer. Did you know he was sick?”
“I knew he’d been in hospital some time ago. I didn’t know he had cancer.” Sherlock leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and rubbed his hands over his face. “My God, Alan. I can’t believe it. He was…how old was he? He couldn’t have been 70 yet.”
Sherlock stood up and went to the window. John followed, keeping a bit of a distance. He’d been married to this man for four years, he knew that he’d reach out if he wanted comfort. “I should…send something. Call Rima. Maybe Emma will put something together for him, that’s her wheelhouse.” He raked a hand through his hair. “You know, we never worked together. It was always next year, next season, after this next project, we should talk about it, yes, let’s do that.” He took a deep breath. “Eventually, we all run out of ‘next season’s.” He turned and looked at John. “This must be upsetting for you, too. I know you were a fan.”
“It’s hard to imagine anyone not being. I never met him, but yeah. A big fan.” He went to Sherlock’s side and put his arm around his back. Sherlock pulled him close at once. John felt him tremble on his exhale and held him tighter.
Sherlock bowed his face down to John’s hair. “Promise me you’ll never die,” he murmured.
John smiled. “I promise. If you’ll promise the same.” He felt Sherlock nod.
After a few moments, he drew away and went to the wine fridge. He pulled out a bottle of something and two glasses. “We’ll drink to a man whose talents we were privileged to witness,” he said, uncorking the wine.
John nodded. “First David Bowie, now this. I can’t believe it.”
“It’s strange,” Sherlock said. “We know that we are mortal, and yet we are always surprised when that fact is brought home to us by a death.”
“The people we admire are supposed to be immortal,” John said.
Sherlock handed him a full wineglass. His eyes were wet, but he was smiling a little. “If we continue to admire them, then they are.”
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