Everything he was, Benedict owed to his parents. He used to think that his only (unattainable) goal in life was getting their approval anddeserving all their love and support. Embarrassingly, he'd even cried the first time his father complimented his work (well he was notorious in his small circle of friends for being an easy cry, but that was neither here nor there).
His parents had wanted a good, stable life for him, far away from the camera, and they had worked hard to send him to a good boarding school. Unfortunately, he found a calling in the exact profession they hoped he would avoid.
Thanks to them though, he knew all about the difficulties that came with being an actor, and was one-up on coping. One would always have trouble staying grounded. Maintaining relationships. Developing skills and dealing with critics. Handling public image, choosing the right parts…
Well he turned out to be apt enough at handling his career. In fact it felt natural to Benedict. The only hard part, initially, had been memorizing his lines (especially in Sherlock). Staying grounded was easy, because early on he'd had Olivia and the certainty that came with her. Even after the post-Sherlock explosion, he was fine dealing with everything because he had the support of his family. He even seemed to have some sort of natural talent (not his words!) for the industry.
Well he'd certainly earned his place in this world, and his career was now a palace built atop many years of doubt and endless disappointment. He had been "the next big thing" for ten years, and nobody had truly taken notice until after War Horse.
Ben took it all in stride though, and maintained a healthy, humble lifestyle. No ridiculous house. No extravagant drug habit (not that he would have the time anyway). Here he was sitting on top of the world finally, and he was dealing with it perfectly well. It even felt right.
Until the day Amanda came on set with her laptop.
Since then, Benedict had learned the truth behind all the warnings and horror stories about fame, and came to understand exactly why he never had to worry about losing himself in the flurry of it all.
It was because he'd never had anything to hide.
As it turns out, it's keeping your heart hidden. That's the real challenge.
"Benedict?" there is a soft rapping on the opposite side of the lavatory door. That was Martin's voice – he would recognize it anywhere, "Alright in there? They're calling us to the next scene!"
And it was killing him.
"Just a second!"
With his left hand, Benedict hastily wiped as much semen into a tissue as he could, and tucked his wilted cock back through the zip of Sherlock's trousers. Shakily, the right hand closed the smutty Johnlock fanfiction on his cellphone and deleted the browsing history (just in case).
"Done primping yet, princess?" came the voice again, jolly. Shaking. It was a tad nippy out.
"Yeh but my polish isn't quite dry yet!" Ben pulled his most feminine Manchester accent and tried not to let his grin spill into the inflection, "Give us a min'nit!"
They stifle laughs as he scrubs his secret away from sinful hands, and lets the pluck Martin's chuckle dance through the door and straight into his guilty heart. In the fanfiction he'd just wanked to, John Watson had held him down and whispered dirty words into his ears while buggering him from behind. It was one of his favorites, randomly selected in his haste to scroll through his AO3 bookmarks for something to relieve the tension, and in his post-orgasmic haze it was a little difficult to differentiate the two entities of John and Martin.
Sometimes it was hard to tell them apart when he touched himself too.
To be completely clear, he held no romantic feelings towards Martin, but the sightsoundsmell of the man still managed to agitate an endless pit of anxiety in his core. At this point, Benedict couldn't tell if the pit was full of butterflies or flying daggers, but he did know that somebody finding out about his little addiction would be the end for him. He would be denounced as a pervert, and a narcissist, and would likely be shunned by one of the greatest friends he'd ever had. The world wouldn't understand. It wasn't that he was interested in it because it involved a character he played – not at all. Johnlock was something more than that. Something beautiful, "We're about to come out love! Let us know what you think of me' dress!"
Martin's body shakes with laughter. Benedict's shakes because of something else entirely. He gets out and they shoot a scene where they fight a tall man on little stilts.
Occasionally on and off set, they all like to laugh about Johnlock. A lot of it is actually written into the script for comedic purposes, so that makes it easier to accept.
Well.
Not for Benedict.
Sometimes people even bring up the eccentricities of the fanfiction and fanart communities.
He tries to hide his anxiety by acting properly embarrassed, pretending to want to respect the dedicated and artistic nature of Sherlock fans.
He would die if anyone ever found his secret tumblr.
John and-, no. No. No. Martin. (This has been happening all too often. God help him if Benedict ever slipped up whilst cameras were rolling).Martin and Amanda like to prod fun at it as well. Sometimes to extremes, as long as they're not in public.
Benedict often wonders what Martin thinks about it behind the usual humor. One time before season two, he'd cupped Benedict's bum and gave it a huge squeeze while his wife Amanda laughed from her seat a few feet away, but directly after the fact Martin left in a mood. Sometimes it was hard to tell what's actually going on behind those deliberately sarcastic wrinkles.
The most 'real' it ever got was when Benedict made the mistake of reading "Performance in a Leading Role". He wouldn't be able to recant how many times he reread it.
Over and over again.
Between takes in the loo.
Under his covers.
Hidden in corners of whatever set he's on.
He cries torrents every time he reaches the single hydrangea.
Sometimes while they're playing their respective characters, Benedict can't help but imagine that Martin truly is the John in the fanfiction world. That they're actors, playing actors, playing modern super sleuth Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. The edges of the world are tinted and blurred, and Benedict has to lock his body down to prevent himself from flinging himself into Martin's arms in front of everyone.
He hopes the fire doesn't show in his eyes.
Sometimes it does.
In the infrequent private moments Benedict had during the day, he occasionally brainstormed (fantasized about) fanfiction ideas of his own. His favorite to entertain was Sherlock cast as a Space Pirate traveling the Universe in search of other pirates to pillage from, with John his unwilling (at first) concubine. That was a fantasy that may or may not have gotten out of hand in his mind, on cold lonely nights.
Of course, his acting career came first and it came hard, so he hadn't any time to write.
Thank god for that cesspool they called the kink meme.
If Benedict were to admit one of his many (many, many many) flaws, it would be the addictive personality. It's what got him ahead in the entertainment business (the need to do more, to be perfect, to know everything!), certainly, but it was also his greatest vice.
That fateful day when Sherlock fanart first floated onto set was still deeply and shamefully writ onto the shores of Benedict's memory banks. It started with Amanda, bringing everybody coffees and brandishing a laptop in her hip bag. Grinning in that devious, adorable way that she does, she gathered Martin and the gang around and started with hedgehogs.
As expected, it all went downhill from there. The evening ended in the backroom of a local club, with Amanda and Mark doing a dramatic reading of something terrible between Benedict and Martin's characters. The two victims sat in the booth, clutching each other's shoulders in agony and laughing with the rest of them, but some horrible curiosity started to bloom inside of him. The night rounded out with roaring laughter and after he stumbled back home he couldn't resist popping open his own laptop to privately read all the flattering things people wrote about his character in their fanfiction.
The next ten hours were a blur, but what Benedict associated with that night was frenzied breath, an overheating laptop burning his legs, picture after picture, memes, a new self-loathing, vacant eyes caught in the bedroom mirror, and orgasm after orgasm after orgasm.
Before they shoot the next scene, they have to reposition the cameras a bit, so they use the extra time to review the script. Skipping ahead of a 10 page deduction that he's sure to stumble over a few times, he gleefully re-reads the part where John and Sherlock flee 221b holding hands, and has to suppress a miniature fangasm.
He hopes he's successfully kept the perversion out of his expression.
"HAIIIII-YAH!"
"CRUMPETS-" HEART ATTACK HEART ATTACK HEART ATTACK FUCK-
The sandy haired imp retracts his karate chop from it's mark (an inch away from Ben's jugular, as usual) and the bumbling Blunderbatch picks up the script he'd thrown down, wavering between having a laugh or a cry as he looked up to his terrorist tearfully.
Martin often surprises Benedict by kung-fu'ing him - usually when he's spacing out and/or not paying attention, but because these occurrences are so frequent (space cadet as he is), and because Benedict is apparently so easy to scare, it's become something of a favorite pastime of Martin's.
At least he hadn't been discovered.
Benedict always thought he wanted to get married.
Live in the country.
Have kids.
Teach them to read and draw and dream.
Right now it's his first day off in ages, and instead of looking for 'the one', Benedict's neck is sore and his muscles tense from his third hour of orgasm denial. His body teeters on the edge of relief but he can't seem to find it. Abusively, desperately, he beats at his slick, throbbing shaft as his imagination replays the image of Sherlock and John frotting against one another in a dirty alleyway, post-case. He imagines the gasps. The heat. He imagines John cumming in his trousers like a teenager as Sherlock panting John's name into the smaller man's tingling ear, over and over.
Right now he doesn't know what he wants.
When Benedict cums to the mantra of John John John John he has to concentrate to keep John and Martin separate in his mind. It's the hardest he'd ever cum in his life. He doesn't invite friends to his flat anymore. There's too much evidence and shame.
Benedict is having lunch in a London curry house with Amanda while the rest shoot a scene without them for Series Three. She spends the entire time showing Ben Sherlock fanart, and talking about her role (the immensely talented, charming girl was a perfect choice for Mary).
"And I thought this one was particularly good. It's a bit erotic but do you want to see?" she giggles, quirking her eyebrows teasingly. As far as she knew, he's quite bashful about looking at the 'sexualized' things of Sherlock and John. As far as she didn't know, however, Benedict was just very keen on avoiding getting turned on in public – especially when in Sherlock's extra-tight clothing. He laughs and takes a nibble of nan dipped in Paneer Sagg while holding up another hand to fake-shield his eyes away from something he'd probably already reblogged, "Spare me that at the very least! I don't know why the fans have this obsession with them. Can't two blokes get on without shagging?"
"Not if they're in love! Have you seen the way you look at Martin in that show?"
They laugh. He takes a drink of water because the mild curry is burning his lips.
"They are rather in love with one another though, aren't they," she smiles to him (to herself?) fondly, before elaborating, "John Watson and Sherlock Holmes".
He smiles too, nerves dissipating a bit, and looks down at the table in a way he hoped would indicate that he's had this conversation faaaar too many times before, "Well yes, in a way. They're clearly atwo halves of a whole, and they're clearly made that way…"
She regards him through low-lidded eyes for all but half of a moment, before suddenly crying out with excitement and remembering some story she forgot to tell him about the kids. Oh she just has to bring them to set tomorrow, they're such big fans of the show, the little darlings.
He smiles and laughs but doesn't hear the rest.
She knows.
Benedict had a dream where he adopted a pet hedgehog. When he woke up, he was so giddy with fanboy joy that he'd practically torn his trailer apart to find a notebook and write everything down before it was forgotten.
He'd hidden the thing in a compartment of his lodgings, and when the stress of secret-keeping ate away at what little sanity he had left, he took little John out and groomed him with a mini toothbrush.
Rereading his log a few weeks later, Benedict felt an infinitely deep warmth and longing.
If Benedict had to pick a favorite fanfic, it would be Memory of a Dear Place by SinningVirtue on AO3.
Not only does he appreciate the frankly astounding level of literary talent behind it (coming from another who loves writing), but because it captured the feelings inside him so well.
Benedict wished he knew how to form the words he should. To give "I'm sorry" to the wind and let it blow his parents' way. How to spray-paint the inside of his lungs so every breath screamed for Johnlock. To tattoo himself with "Please Forgive Me" so Martin can read his skin and give him an answer.
But he doesn't know how to do any of that, so he sits in his dressing room dressed as John Harrison and scrolls through reapersun's most recent tumblr posts.
Martin is a sardonic bastard and it's so fucking sexy sometimes. It's almost unjust how good he is at what he does - that straight-faced style of comedy makes Benedict tremble whenever when he opens his mouth to insult someone.
He tries not to think of why.
At least when he's in public.
Ben hopped from Japan to New Zealand to check in for The Hobbit. He took the role of Smaug because it seemed like there was some interesting acting work to be done, and it would allow him time on the same set as Martin, who he adored. As a friend. Turned out filming schedules were against him though – Benedict ended up doing the Smaug scenes before the rest of the cast even arrived, and the New Zealand winter had been harsh.
It was definitely a lonely and unpleasant experience, but finally he'd come in to do that final scene with Martin – that definitely made the weeks of lonely attempts at method acting worth it. And Martin was adorable as Bilbo, to boot. They took pictures. He was going to be brilliant on the big screen. Absolutely brilliant. Benedict couldn't wait to see the film.
They met on set, exchanged banter, and caught up a bit on all life's little gossips. On Martin's suggestion, he decided to take a moment to recuperate from his multiple flights even. Benedict dumped his luggage off in Martin's room and went to wash up, but that was when the fatigue really hit him. The cold water hit his face like a slap in the face, and in the mirror he saw droplets fall away from the dozens of weary lines scoring his face.
This secret was taking its toll.
Well he had at least a few minutes to himself, and there was no point in having a soul-sucking secret like a membership in the Johnlock fandom unless you actually partook in it once in a while, so he reached into his pocket for his phone (on the flight he'd found adelicious magical realism fic You Promised Me Two Years that he was desperate to finish)… only to find it… missing?
He bolted back, without even enough care to dry his hands or face. Barreling into Martin's room, he found the man sitting in front of his mirror… playing with his prosthetic ears. The phone lay innocently on top of the rest of Benedict's things on Martin's desk, but he wasn't completely positive that was where he'd left it. Martin turned, face blank (Careful? Ignorant? What?!), "Forget something?"
"I. Ah. No. Yes," he stammered. Shit, he was stammering. Get it together man, "Phone".
"Ah," Martin nodded and reached behind him to hand it over, "Here".
"Right," he walked over to take it, heart drumming in his ears, "Yes. Thanks."
"Mmh."
There was a drawn-out moment in time in which neither of them moved, where Benedict didn't even attempt direct eye contact, preferring to try to deduce (as Sherlock would) if Martin had opened his phone based on the fingerprints on the screen. Martin observed him carefully, but there was a chance that he actually hadn't looked at the phone (though if he had the tab was definitely open to a rather inappropriate passage…) but maybe, just maybe-.
"Sherlock".
Benedict felt himself start.
Panic froze his lungs.
"What?"
Martin rose from his seat at the desk, "You haven't been completely honest with me,"
"Martin please, let me explain, I-" but then Benedict saw it. The squared shoulders. The severe brow. This was John H. Watson in front of him - he shook himself internally, "I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about".
"Give it to me," he stepped closer, until they were inches apart, breath mingling. Benedict didn't remember tilting his head down to gaze into John's eyes, but he was already starting to lose himself in the deep blue. John held out his hand, but all Sherlock did was caress it.
"I don't know what you mean John," he added a smirk, but could hear the excited tremble in his own voice betray him, "But if you're looking for something, maybe you should come and find it".
Hours later found the pair in a discreet hotel on the other edge of the island, sweaty and ashamed, but laughing and smiling. It wasn't every day you got to act out your favorite fanfictions and also actually be the characters you were portraying .
Martin laughed, "I've just about caught my next wind. Let's do MirabileLectu's Filthy/Gorgeous next".
And they lived happily ever after.