Disclaimer: I don't own anything, not the characters nor, obviously, the people I write about. But since Freeman and Cumberbatch have both commented positively and with lots of humor on the fanfiction written about them I feel confident that I am doing no harm.
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It was almost noon and they had been working since six a.m. The beginning of the second season had been a lot of work, in part because of the success the first season had been, adding interviews and public events to their busy schedule, in part it was simply the season. Cardiff was a grizzly town this time of year, more gray than green, more wet than dry and certainly always cold cold cold. At least they were shooting indoors today. One needed to count the small blessings.
"Oh no no no no, we are fine, it's the burglar. He got himself badly injured" Sherlock was about to continue, John watching him intently, an arm around the shaking Miss Hudson. That's when Martin saw Benedict's fingers clutching the desk in front of him for support, knuckles going white. He looked up in time to see the tall man squeezing his eyes shut, letting out a moan of frustration.
"Cut" came the voice of Paul McGuigan. "Benedict, what's going on? This would have been a wrap". "Nothing. It's fine. But we have been at it for hours now. I need to take five". And with that, Sherlock's Belstaff fluttering dramatically, he stormed off the set, down the hallway that led to the parking lot of the Upper Boat Studios.
The crew was baffled. It was not like Benedict to complain about long shoots. In fact it was he who was usually most cheerful after a long day, entertaining them all with impersonations of various actors and directors he had worked with in the past, while the crew carpooled downtown towards their respective hotels.
"I'll go check on him", Martin volunteered, pushing himself up from the sofa and giving Una a small smile. He had no answer to her questioning look, but having worked with Benedict for a while now he felt quite certain that there was more to the outburst than just artistic caprice. So he briskly walked down the hallway after his colleague and friend and pushed open the door leading out into the chilly and windy Welsh air.
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When he looked around however, his eyes jumping from one of the spots the set's smokers usually inhabited during breaks to the other, he found the lot conspicuously empty, nowhere a sign of the tall man that was his acting partner. Martin was about to turn back, determined to search the corridors and changing rooms when he heard a low moan coming from behind a black sedan parked to the left of the exit.
When he rounded the car's tail, he found Benedict, huddled against the back tire, Sherlock's coat pulled all the way up, clutching his head. "Ben?", he asked tentatively, approaching slowly. When no response was forthcoming, he crouched down, putting a hand on the other man's shoulder. "Hey, Ben, what's wrong". He tried pulling back Benedict's long and slender fingers to get a look at the man's face, but all he got was a swat from one of the hands.
"Go. the. fuck. away!". The words were curt and pointed, and Martin retreated, sitting on his haunches and taking in the man before him. Benedict was leaning hunched over against the car as if he had intended to do so standing, but his knees had just given in. The collar of the black woolen coat was turned up against the cold air, but behind it, Martin could make out ashen skin stretching taunt over Benedict's pale cheeks. His eyes were shut tightly, almost entirely obscured by the bases of his hands, fingers entangled in the black curls. His breath was coming in quick, shallow rasps that spoke of pain.
"You have got a headache", Martin finally stated. A low laugh was his answer. "No shit. Who is Sherlock now? Just give me a minute. I'll be right in." "The question is more one of 'Where is Doctor Watson'", Martin replied, pleased that Benedict was finally talking to him. "Do you want some ibuprofen?". "Already took two codeine this morning – probably shouldn't take anything else for now". Martin winced in sympathy. "That's quite a headache if it's that persistent after a double-dose of codeine. But you are not doing anyone any good playing dead possum in the parking lot. We need to find you a place to lie down for a bit. Come on. Up you go." And with that he hooked his arms under Benedict's armpits and brought him into a standing position, with Benedict leaning heavily on him. He looked up at the pale face and noticed that Benedict's eyes were still closed. "Think you can make it inside?"
They took two steps towards the door, when Benedict suddenly pushed away from Martin, gripping the frame of the car and vomiting onto the gravel of the parking lot. "Oh Ben", Martin muttered, carefully putting his hand on the small of the heaving man's back, as another bout of vomit landed in the dirt.
He hated seeing people he cared about sick, and it seemed especially hard to watch someone like Ben brought down by anything. Ever since Ben's run-in with pneumonia, Martin had felt himself becoming quite a bit protective of the man that played his Sherlock. Little thing such as a cough had him worried about a re-infection, and he seriously felt like extinguishing every single cigarette he had seen the other man smoke since recovering. But in the end it was not his place to interfere. Now at least there was something he felt he could do.
When the retching had ended, Martin slung one of Benedict's arms over his shoulder. "Done for now?", he asked, and when he received a curt nod, he helped his friend to stumble towards the door of the studio again.
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"What 's going on?", Paul asked when Martin reentered the set alone. All eyes were immediately on him. "Ben's got quite the headache. I'll try to get it under control, but he is pretty much out of it for now". Paul frowned. "We really cannot lose the entire day. We need to finish this sequence as well as the Buckingham Palace one if we are not to fall behind. Again."
"Lara is already here. And so is Mark. I can have both of them ready in fifteen minutes.", Louise Coles supplied. "Alright. We can do some solo-shots of Mycroft and Irene for now. But then I need the two of you after lunch. God knows there is barely a scene in this thing without you.", Paul said to Martin, scribbling furiously on his schedule. Martin just nodded and filled up a coffee mug. On his way out he also grabbed a bottle of water and his jacket, and then he was off towards the dressing room the sofa of which he had deposited Benedict on.
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Upon approaching the room he could already hear the sounds of retching. He carefully pushed open the door and found Benedict on his knees, his head over the bin underneath the sink. "Oh no.", he muttered and sank to his knees next to his friend. Carefully, he felt his way around his ill friend's head, drawing the curls away from the sweaty forehead. He could feel Benedict leaning into the coolness of his palm. "Hurts", Benedict managed to get out between retches. "So I gather", Martin replied in a low voice, gently laying his other hand on Benedict's back, drawing soothing circles. He could feel the slender body heave under his palm and he grimaced in sympathy. Throwing up was always vile, and it was probably wreaking havoc with Ben's already ailing head.
When he realized that now all Ben was doing was dry-heaving, he carefully pulled him back against him. "Shshsh. You are breathing too fast. Let your body calm down a little. Come on. Hold the air a little. And out. And wait a bit. Now in." In a clam and level tone, he talked Benedict through his breathing rhythm until he could feel the other man calming down a little. "Done for now?", he asked. Benedict nodded, whimpering as he could feel the muscles in his neck tightening against the movement.
"Here", Martin said, reaching into his jacket pocket and drawing out a blister package from which he liberated a pink pill. "Can't take anything, would overdose", Benedict said, his breathing no longer hitching, if still a bit fast. "It's Pepto-Bismol, not a pain killer", Martin replied. "I take it you're still nauseous, and continuously throwing up will only aggravate your head further. You're allergic against anything in it?" "No idea", Benedict replied. "Allergic against aspirin?", Martin inquired further, not wanting to make matters worse for his friend. "No. Have taken a lot of that". "Then you are probably not allergic to Pepto-Bismol either", Martin said, offering the pill again. "Here, rinse first", he added, extending the water bottle as well, "and then we will see if you can keep the pill down".
Benedict took the bottle in a shaking hand and, after sipping and spitting water for a while, downed the pill without further comment. "God. I thought I was over these.", he then muttered, letting his weight settle firmly against Martin's chest. Martin held him close, waiting to see whether the pill would be expelled again immediately. Better not to move for now. "So, not your first migraine then, I take it?" "I used to have them a lot when I was a teenager, but nothing since I left school." "Yes", Martin responded, "A lot of times people grow out of them, but sometimes they return, I guess. Pill staying down?" "For now". "Okay, let's get you settled then".
And with this, Martin slowly helped Ben to his feet and led him back to the sofa. He had drawn the blinds upon first bringing Ben in here, but the outline of the cushioned recliner was still visible in the light of the rays creeping in through the slits. Ever so slowly Benedict lowered his ailing frame onto the welcoming softness, groaning a little as his head made contact with the sofa's surface. He placed his right hand over his eyes, blocking out the remaining light and his taunt features spoke of pain and misery. Martin retrieved his jacket from the floor, climbed onto the window sill and draped the brown leather over the window, its edges tucked in at the corners of the frame. "Better?", he asked. The dry chuckle that came from the sofa was followed by a wince. "Still nauseous. Still hurts. What can I say".
Still standing on the sill, Martin reached into his jacket again. "Here. Maybe that helps a little.", he said, pressing the little pads he had retrieved. Carefully, he placed one onto Benedict's solar plexus and one by his feet. "What…?", Benedict was about to ask, but Martin shushed him. "Don't speak. Just try to relax. These are pocket warmers. My secret defense against Wales' winds when we shoot outside. I hope the warmth helps to settle your stomach a bit.". Benedict hummed low in agreement.
"Think you can stomach some coffee? Caffeine can help shorten migraines by quite a bit", Martin asked, getting the cup he had brought with him. "I'll try anything", Benedict said in a raspy voice. Martin observed him carefully. In the dim light it was hard to tell, but it looked as if the greenish tinge had gone out of Ben's skin. Good. The anti-emetic seemed to be doing its job. Then it was worth the risk. "Here. I'll help you up", he said, as he saw Benedict struggling to lift his head. He passed the mug into trembling hands and helped bringing it to his friend's lips. "Slow sips", he instructed.
"Enough", Ben said after finishing half the mug. Martin took it from him, setting it onto the floor. Then he helped Ben lie back down. Another low groan followed as Ben's head was resettled on the pillow. "Sh. Try to sleep a little!". Another wince. Jaw muscles clenching in tension. Eyes squinting despite the darkness of the room. The sounds of fast, painful breaths. Taking all this in, Martin gave in to his instincts. It might be forward, but then again, they had worked together for a while now. John Watson would certainly do this for Sherlock. He might as well just go ahead and offer.
"Would you like me to rub your neck and head? There is little I can do for the actual headache, but I might be able to relieve some of the pain brought on by the tense muscles that come with it, and maybe you can fall asleep". He hovered uncertain, but needlessly, as it turned out. "Whatever helps!", Benedict almost pleaded. Martin let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding and drew a chair up to the sofa. "Here. Scooch up a little", he said, putting a pillow into his lap and helping Ben to place his aching head on top of it. "Are you okay like this?". A wince and then a hum. So much easy trust. Wondering when their friendship had grown so deep to make this so simple, Martin set to work.
He started by extending his hands underneath Ben's shoulders and slowly rubbing the tense muscles between the shoulder blades and the spine. "Tell me if anything hurts", he whispered, letting his hands move towards the slender neck. The muscles there were tight as concrete, and he exerted a little more pressure, letting his finger tips move in slow circles. His hands moved along to the outside of the lanky frame Sherlock is so famous for, including the shoulders and upper arms in his ministrations.
When he was satisfied that at least the lateral muscles were sufficiently relaxed, he moved back towards the spine, slowly kneading his way up towards the base of Ben's head. He carefully hooked his index fingers underneath the bones forming the base of the man's skull and was gratified when he heard Ben exhale a sigh of relieve. "Okay?", he asked, just to be sure. A low "mmm" was all the answer he got, but that was enough. Encouraged, he let his fingers roam the tender scalp, soothing the tense tissue. He worked his way forward, letting his fingers find the spots where nose and eyes meet, and slowly and tenderly drawing them outwards along the exquisite eyebrows of his friend. As they came to rest upon the man's temples, Martin exerted some more pressure, drawing small outward circles. Thumbs down along the jar line. Back up over the forehead. Two strong, tender hands that carefully turn his head to one side, stretching out the muscles in his neck. A warm, soft palm that stroked along his neckline, teasing his cramped muscles into a state of relaxation. Forehead and Base engulfed by warmth. Being turned to the other side. Slowly. Carefully. And finally, Benedict drifted off to sleep.
Martin watched as the tension seemed to seep out of Benedict under his careful ministrations and he finally succumbed to the demands of his body, letting sleep engulf him. Ever so softly, Martin continued to stroke neck, face and head of the man before him until he was satisfied that he was as relaxed as could be. Then he carefully lifted the head that has been the focus of his attention for the last half hour, and, getting up, placed it back onto the pillow.
A bundle of energy on any normal day, Benedict looked vulnerable and peaceful in his sleep. For a while, Martin continued to watch his friend for any signs of discomfort. When none become apparent, he allowed himself a smile. It felt good to have been able to do something this time. When Benedict had struggled through day after day of filming, ill with fever and a cough that wouldn't go away, swearing he was fine, just a touch of the cold going around, thank you very much, there had been nothing he could do. They had simply bee colleagues then. Nothing he had said had made a difference. When Ben had finally collapsed on set, doctors quickly crowding around him, there had been no call for him to stay with the man. Now, over the last half year, they had become friends. At a loss as to what to do with himself now, he ended up sitting on the floor next to sofa, one hand extended towards Ben's arm. If anything should happen, he would be within easy reach. And with that happy though, after setting the buzz alarm on his watch, he let his own eyes drift close for a bit.
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An hour and a half later, Martin could feel the little device on his hand vibrate and he dragged his eyes open. The nap had felt good after the last week of lots of work and little sleep. Hopefully it had done even more for Benedict, who still lay asleep on the sofa before him.
Carefully, Martin began to shake Benedict's arm. "Hey. Ben. Wake up. Time for us to go back up." Gently, he put his hand on his friend's cheek, letting it linger there before slowly drawing it down along Ben's neck and shoulder. He was awarded with fluttering eyelids and the sight of Ben's heterochromatic eyes, clearly no longer dark with pain. "Hey you! How are you feeling".
Ben didn't respond immediately, taking inventory of the signals his body was sending out. Then he frowned. "Better. Much improved, as a matter of fact. This is quite impressive. Have you been holding out on us? Is Dr. Watson a real doctor after all?" "No,", Martin smiled, "just a father of two, which means I am well-versed in caring for the sick – and for my own aching head when they drive me up the wall every once in a while. Think you'd be okay going back up?" Ben sat up slowly and carefully, rolling his head from one side to the other. A smile spread over his face. "You bet, Dr. Watson!" and with a mischievous chuckle he jumped off the sofa.
"Wait, one second!", Martin called him back. "What?" Slowly and deliberately, Martin stretched his hand out towards Benedict's head. When the taller man did not withdraw, only watching in puzzlement, Martin reached out and straightened out the curls that spoke of the soft massage and the time on the sofa. "Or people will talk, Sherlock", Martin said with a smile. "Thank you, Dr. Watson!", Benedict replied and, with his trademark grin of excitement, bounced up the stairs towards the set.
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My very first Real Person Fic. My very first one-shot. What do you think? Reviews are, as always, much appreciated!