"Jesus, that was incredible," John declared when Sherlock got back to his dressing room after the performance. "Always said you deserved a BAFTA for your acting skills, but wow. You really were fantastic out there."

"Yes, well. Thanks." Sherlock set about wiping off as much of his makeup as he could. "At least I proved Hamlet didn't do it."

"Hamlet's a fictional character from a 400-year-old play. I could have deduced his innocence myself, thanks."

"Not the character - the actor. Benjamin Crumpleback or whatever his name is. He's not the blackmailer." Sherlock peeled off the layers of his costume with a bit more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary - the pseudo-period clothing itched like crazy. He desperately wanted his own familiar suit back, but he was stuck with Crumpleback's terribly boring sense of casual fashion - a worn t-shirt and blue jeans - until he could get home. "He's perfectly welcome to have his role back tomorrow - I just needed to impersonate him for opening night anyway."

John grinned. "You've got to admit there's a bloody good resemblance, no? You complain about your cheekbones and all, but the man's practically your twin."

"After I dyed and cut my hair and put on his terrible clothes and let you feed me up another stone, I suppose."

"Convenient, though."

Sherlock dipped his head in acknowledgment. The actor had been downright genial when he'd first been introduced directly and Sherlock had announced his plan to take over as Hamlet for the dress rehearsal and the opening night performance - he'd expected more resistance, a bit of argument about how a mere consulting detective couldn't possibly replace a world-famous actor in an actual play without anyone noticing the difference, but Bendrick Crumblebranch had just clapped Sherlock on the back and declared he'd appreciate the extra time at home with his newborn anyway. Sherlock still couldn't entirely explain the man's behavior. Actors are just odd, I suppose.

A knock came on the dressing room door just as Sherlock finished reverting to his (well, the actor's) street clothes. "Mr. Cumberbatch?" called a stagehand through the scarred wood. "Quite a crowd at the stage door tonight - shall I tell them you'll be making an appearance?"

John laughed at the sight of Sherlock's immediate revulsion. "I'm afraid Mr. Cumberbatch is over-taxed from opening night," he called back through the door.

"They'll be disappointed, sir." The man sounded worried at the thought of having to go turn Sherlock's eager fans - no, Bennet Crannonbunk's fans - away.

John looked straight at Sherlock and grinned. "Pick one to come on in and say hi, then. And apologize politely to the rest. My client really would prefer to get home and go to bed."

Sherlock glared at him, but John refused to stop smirking. Even when the knock returned a minute later, revealing the young stagehand (barely into his twenties, on acne medication, just dumped by his girlfriend) and a nervous-looking woman (American, been growing her hair out for at least five years, mother of two teenagers, traveling to London - alone? Really? Odd.)

The woman flashed a hesitant smile, but she couldn't stop staring at both of them. "I - thanks so much for letting me - I know you want to get going, I'm sure, but could I-"

"-get a picture?" John finished. "Absolutely. Here, I'm happy to take it for you-"

"No," she squeaked, digging in her purse. "I mean, yes, but can I get one of you two holding these?"

It took a moment to puzzle out what she was holding up, but then John laughed - his true, light-up-the-room laugh - and tossed Sherlock one of the two small crocheted figures. "My God," he declared. "It's us - they're adorable. I want a picture too."

Sherlock blinked and stared and said almost nothing as John flirted his way through a few photographs and a bit of small talk about the woman's visit to England. She's crocheted two dolls. One of each of us. She's crocheted JOHN. Which meant she knew who they actually were. Was she involved in the blackmail scheme somehow? A theater investor, somehow? But no, there was nothing in her manner-

"You take care," John was saying. "It was lovely to meet you."

The woman smiled at him with a good deal more warmth than Sherlock liked. "He really was telling the truth when he said he'd be lost without you, wasn't he?" she commented. "It's been so . . . beyond fantastic to meet both of you. Thanks." And she left without any further fuss (or, God help him, flirting with John.)

"There, that wasn't so bad!" John announced after she'd gone. "I'm thinking curry - what about you?"

"John." Sherlock needed to think. "John, she knew who you were. She crocheted a doll of you."

"Yeah - adorable, wasn't it? I kind of wished yours had been wearing the ear hat, though."

"She knew." Sherlock whirled, pacing in place. "You're not part of the theater; she should have been curious who you were. But she recognized you, which means she knew I wasn't that ridiculous man I've been impersonating for the last two days. How did she know, John?" Sherlock stopped suddenly. "I'd be lost without you. I said that. How did she-"

"Probably from the telly, Sherlock," John said with a bit of an eyeroll. "You are a bit of a celebrity, or didn't you notice?"

Sherlock waved the notion away with a physical swat of his hand. "We were in 221B, though. How did she know what I said?"

"The telly?" John raised his eyebrows in a why-do-I-have-to-explain-this look. "The show about you? Well, us?"

The what? Sherlock suddenly realized his mouth was hanging open and he snapped it closed.

"The miniseries," John prodded. "Going into its fourth season now. Please tell me you've at least noticed them filming."

John kept looking at him like he expected Sherlock to know the answer already. "You know I don't watch telly, John."

"Bloody Christ - okay. Sherlock. Remember how on the day we met, people kept running around us wearing black and carrying giant cameras? And how they keep showing up every once in a while? Filming us? At the flat, at crime scenes, at Angelo's, at St. Bart's? What did you think those were all for?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock answered flatly. "He's always got cameras on me."

"Bloody CCTV cameras. Not big freaking movie cameras. How could you not notice?" John appeared torn between concern and dissolving into laughter.

"It's Mycroft," Sherlock retorted. "He's always hanging around. It's what he does."

"Yeah - because he's directing a television show," John countered. "Bloody hell. I bet you thought it was just totally reasonable that a world-famous actor trust you to take over his big opening night, too. I swear, the ego on you-"

"I did note the oddity," Sherlock interrupted. He refused to acknowledge the sulk in his voice.

"Because he's doing half the work for you, you great git," John said. "They've found another actor bloke who looks uncannily like me - seriously, I need to get you to see the show at least once. It's one of the top-rated on BBC One. The actors help with retakes and body doubles and such, but mostly the show just consists of me following you around and telling you you're brilliant."

"You do that anyway."

"Yeah, I guess I do." John grinned. "So - speaking of which - can we go get that curry now? I want to get back to 221B so I can finally eat and then I'll tell you all about how brilliant you were out there on stage tonight."

(If you're interested in following Crochet Sherlock and John's adventures in London, they're at consultingblogger dot weebly dot com/blog and they're adorable!)