Chapter Text
The Spice Force 5 was, for a moment, Britain's biggest export. They were a manufactured act, but that was easy to get over in the superficial world of internationally acclaimed pop music. Plus, they were manufactured well. They covered all their bases: posh brothers, windswept bangs and hipster jumpers, an affable salt-n-pepper and a feisty little lady who let the fans with the sticks up their arses (you know, the ones so vehemently opposed to anyone having anything fun up their arses) join in on the fun of intra-band shipping.
They were a talented lot. Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes were classically trained, straight out the womb, Mycroft a voice major while Sherlock's actual concentrations were violin and composition. Greg Lestrade was a product of a happy childhood and an overzealous, single mother (whom Sherlock once accused of only training Lestrade so thoroughly because she fancied his instructor. Lestrade just shrugged). Molly Hooper had as impressive a background as the Holmes brothers, but seeing as they had beautiful-but-arrogant and posh well covered, Molly was billed as the 'Sporty' Spice, much to her chagrin. But she braved the pink or yellow nylon tracksuits day in and day out, and never really envied how Mycroft fussed over his waistcoats, or the way John's skinny jeans persistently tried inching off his bum on long bus rides.
Ah yes, John Watson, the veritable diamond in the rough, if diamonds were also crack shots at sticking a ill-fitting group together like an adhesive and always nailing the least-preferred pitches of any five part harmony on the first take. He was a born performer, but never a soloist. Sherlock had dubbed him the 'first chair, second violin' in one of his dry (but secretly very sentimental) attempts to somehow intellectualize their bizarrely pedestrian occupation.
Mrs. Hudson was their manager. The woman was sharp as a tack when it came to business, yet as squishy as a fangirl when it came to the mental health of her Spice Force 5 babies. After all, this whole mess was her brainchild and she couldn't really enjoy the mint she was pulling in if her very alive and needy product started falling apart. But as much as she tried to be there for her group, she always drew the line at housekeeping.
............
"Boring!" Sherlock's baritone rang out like an unintentional, but very effective vocal warm up.
"Hang on,"John tempered, "they really think they could sell a film staring us? We’re just singers." His hands were on his waist, fingers crawling to find and hoist up his slouching jeans, as they were taking his pants with them and the breeze was disconcerting.
"Gol," said Mol. "And right as I was finally starting to get up my nerve for the stadium shows without pills and a pint. Perfect." She wrung her hands and wandered over to her treadmill, picking a leisurely pace, as Mrs. Hudson had recently showed her an article that said walking was good stress relief, but then tacked on a stern warning about how she dare not lose any weight.
All five bandmates (choir mates, really- they just danced and sung at shows) were standing in their two story loft of an office, which had of its own accord organized itself into five distinct sections based on their very unique personalities and interests.
As you entered you were greeted on the left by Greg. The blokiest of blokes, it was all pennants and jerseys and a large flatscreen expressly for sports, unless Mrs. Hudson usurped it to study MTV for an afternoon.
Across from Greg, Molly had her treadmill (nicknamed 'the stressmill'), and a colorful salt water fish tank. She also had a squishy love seat with one lone throw pillow, emblazoned with the union jack (but everyone was aware that Sherlock's face was printed looking haughty on the other side).
Mycroft was Molly's immediate neighbor, and he had more technology than James Bond. His telly was projected onto the wall, and his armchair was an Eames disguise for an elaborate universal remote.
John neighbored Greg across the aisle. His section was peculiar in the way it was entirely comprised of Sherlock hand-me-downs, but had a feeling distinctly like it was as he would have chosen were it all new. Whenever Sherlock brought a fresh chair or gadget into his space, it would usually be ejected brusquely over to John in a matter of days. Mycroft sniffed. It was a thinly-veiled psychological tactic in which Sherlock managed to hold enough vestigial ownership over the items that he ended up with twice as much space and stuff. John was just too dense to notice and protest (so thought Mycroft. Molly gave John a little more credit, and eyed the daily Sherlock/John tea parties with envy).
Sherlock's den was center of the back wall, and looked like a room in a Victorian haunted mansion, before the application of cobwebs. That plus the installation of a forensic chemistry set earned him the nickname 'Scary Spice' (he was massively put-out by this, as he was hoping to be dubbed 'Science' or 'Deduction Spice').
"Well we're all to look over these script ideas and see which ones speak to us. Filming will start in April, dears, regardless of what we choose." Mrs. Hudson had been passing out stapled packets, which Mycroft, Greg and John immediately began to examine, with Sherlock's melodramatic protests playing a sort of duet with Molly's nervous treading.
"Oy, in this one we just simply play ourselves going on a world tour. Not very creative, if you ask me." Greg flipped a page over. "And then we meet aliens. Jesus."
"What's this going on about me saving London by skiing? I can't ski. This is shite." John frowned at the papers, still engrossed.
"I don't know. I'm rather keen on the idea of us all being MI6 agents, with our music as a cover identity." Mycroft tainted his positive comment with just enough sarcasm to maintain a conversational escape hatch should everyone turn on him.
John and Greg flipped ahead to see what he was referring to while Molly's peakishness left her for a moment while she daydreamed.
"You and your obsession with very small guns. It's fooling no one." Sherlock flounced into his chair and began redirecting the gaze of the skull on his end table. "Perhaps Molly can be a baker who misconstrues your love of cake as amorous advances, then after being rudely rebuffed, poisons us all with chocolate biscuits."
"Wouldn't almond biscuits be better suited because it's the flavor of that one undetectable poison?" John murmured, not meaning to egg Sherlock on, but unable to resist, making a point he knew was correct.
Sherlock grinned snidely for a full second, deeming John to then be worthy of the skull's full attention.
"That's brilliant John. Then we can all come along as different characters and solve the mystery of our own deaths."
Wouldn't that make me two people at once?" Molly piped up. "I'd be rot at pretending I was talking to myself."
"Quite." Sherlock leaned forward and steepled his fingers. "Yes, we'd need a true villain."
"That's easy. Moriarty!" Greg chuckled gleefully. "He's practically your arch nemesis and he's done loads of cameos in films and stuff. He's more than just a chat show host."
"Mycroft is my arch nemesis." Sherlock grumbled, suddenly sounding very irritable.
"Well Moriarty would make a convincing villain if needed. He always comes off a bit unhinged, to me. Plus, people love it when you can poke fun at yourself.“ John watched Sherlock in his peripheral, trying to ascertain whether his logic would calm the temperamental genius. Sherlock sulked, which was promising.
"Well then it's settled. You kids write this little mystery solving script, and make sure to include at least six songs, the singles first. You'll have to hand it in for budget analysis on Wednesday. Best get started tonight." Mrs. Hudson had stood unnoticed for all that time. Molly physically started when she spoke.
"Us write it? What about all the work these people put in? Even if it is rubbish, mostly." John shook the packet of treatments at his manager.
"Flattering, dear. It really is. But I just came up with those in the bath last night. I knew you'd think of something, with the right push. " Mrs. Hudson winked at Greg, who in-turn smirked at a surprised Sherlock. It was a luxury.
"I would have known that had I actually examined them."
Everyone dared each other not to argue with him, using only their minds.
"Well I'll put the call in to Moriarty’s people." Mycroft disappeared through the door to his own private phone booth, backwards, with an evil grin.
John rubbed his forehead, brimming with British angst. So many of Sherlock's tantrums had been assigned to him that it was now a given that the moping heartthrob would be his responsibility. Luckily, Greg had a positive, proactive approach.
"Look here, I've just downloaded this screenwriting program. I took a class on this once. It should be a snap."
John opted to let Sherlock brew, and wandered over to Greg's comfy couch.
"Well let's start by writing a list of everything we've ever wanted to do on film."
"I think I'd like to really haul off 'n slap someone." Molly walked over, her legs a little wobbly after dismounting.
"Like Mycroft!" John and Greg added in unison. John grimaced. "Yes, well, Molly gets first dibs."
"That's alright. I'd like to narrowly escape an explosion, with a fashion model on my arm." Greg grinned. "Might as well take advantage of the magic of cinema. What about you, John?"
John twisted his mouth to the side in thought.
"I'm fine with anything that contradicts that stupid 'Hipster Spice' name."
"No eyeliner..." Greg spoke out loud as he typed. John huffed a laugh. "But you know, John, out off all of us, you're the one that’s probably expected to really woo the girl."
John looked perplexed as Sherlock suddenly came to life, bouncing out of his chair and striding into John's section, to be condescendingly stand-offish without having to yell so loudly.
"Don't be ridiculous! I am the most enigmatic and therefore sought after spice. The romantic subplot will consist of me having a secret admirer that I don't deign to deduce, until we reveal that there is a chance that it could be Moriarty. After we foil Moriarty there's a touching scene where the true admirer is revealed to have been one of you all along and we passionately embrace, happily ever after, etc. etc."
Molly's eyes grew large as saucers and she started to stutter.
"Oh for heaven's sake. It won't be you, Molly." Sherlock sniped.
"So, you think the kids will go for that, kind of, mates to lovers plot?" Greg shifted uncomfortably as he strained to be sensitive to whatever sexualities were present (not caring always bit you in the arse later when you realized that you had no idea who or what anyone fancied).
Everyone simultaneously received a text. After a moment of groping at pockets in confusion, they were all rewarded with a very dramatic oil paint portrait of Mycroft bottoming for Greg, who was inexplicably tear-stained.
"Alright, I see your point." Greg swiped the pic away and shoved his phone between two couch cushions, blushing. He didn't need to be reminded how zealously he was shipped with his co-worker. It was uncomfortable, but on the up side, it meant there'd be mass hysteria if he and Sherlock were to kiss on screen. Greg sighed with relief then looked over to see John coming to the same realization. The boyish man looked perplexed, and worn, but also resolved. It was a look they'd grown used to from John.
"I'm gonna make some tea. Let's get this abomination written and done with."
“Can you write it so we get to go somewhere fun? Maybe it should take place on a cruise.” Molly looked dreamy again.
“I’m not sure we can pull off serial murders on a cruise ship, believably.” John explained apologetically. Molly wandered back to her section to feed her fish.
“Hawaii then? Somewhere with a reef would be lovely.”
Greg turned back to his laptop, and Sherlock hopped up to crouch on the back of the couch and likely dictate every line and direction. That was fine with Greg. Mrs. Hudson wasn't the only one who knew how to use Sherlock's vanity to get the most work out of him.
...................................
Shooting Day I:
It was Sherlock and John’s turn in the makeup trailer, and John had been successful, so far, in sending anyone with an eyeliner pencil in Sherlock’s direction. He busied himself behind his script, studying the plan for the day. Sherlock stared holes into his own eyes in the mirror.
“Why does it say here that Meatloaf is our bus driver?”
“He owed Mycroft a favor.” Sherlock didn’t look away. John cocked his head and jutted out his bottom lip.
“Wouldn’t this benefit him more than it will us? Or do you think a lot of the Meatloaf fandom will suddenly find a new respect for teen pop?”
John let a mirthful grin settle on his lips. Sherlock’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
“Perhaps Mycroft owed him the favor.”
“Ugh.” John shivered. “I’d hate to know what he had to do to obtain the eternal gratitude of Mycroft.”
Makeup finally finished with them and hurried them onto the set, which was a large, empty amphitheater. Molly, Greg and Mycroft were just starting to learn some basic choreography, and the instructor pulled Sherlock and John into the scene without too much fanfare.
“I vant you to imagine zat you are five vorld-famous zuperstars.” Their instructor gushed, with a rainbow wave of his hand. “What I zee here in front of me iz five nerdz. But we haz the power of ze cinema to make thiz great, and to let you shine.” He grabbed Molly by the shoulders. “Ztand up and be azzertive. Look tough.” He turned to Greg. “I vant zou to look at each and every girl like zou haz the key to her chaztity belt in zour right front pocket.” He turned to Sherlock, who simply held his hand up in a silent order to cease. “Zou are perfect.” He moved to John. “Zou just need to put on zome dance trouzers zou can move in.”
“These are stretch.” John bit out, quietly.
“Perfect zen. Let us begin - follow me! Thiz part is in unizon.”
Despite his accent, and insistence that they visualize reality as if it were some kind of unattainable goal, the choreographer was not that bad. The song they would be filming in the theater was a rockier tune, and many of the moves were choreographed “improvising”. An air guitar here. A hop off a drum stand there, and everyone would be swept up in the rock-and-roll of it all. The lyrics had the men asking Molly what she truly wanted, and her answering very saucily that when she figured it out they’ll be the first to know. For the chorus they all joined together to sing about the confusion of youth, and how to figure out whether your best mate is your best man or your best friend is your best girl.
John wondered, as he spun over to Mycroft’s side to assist Molly in climbing a particularly sparkly piece of scenery, how Sherlock could participate in this sort of drivel, let alone compose half of it. He hazarded a guess that it was formulaic, and Sherlock did fancy the consistency of formulas. Perhaps that was all it was.
Shooting Day 4:
“Come on, come on. Come on, come on. Come on, come on, come on. I said -” Greg read the song lyrics out in his speaking voice, with a stiff rhythm.
“Wait wait wait. Are those really the lyrics?” John wasn’t having it.
“‘Fraid so, mate.” Greg shrugged. “They go on to say ‘Do you want to knit in my clique?’ repeatedly.”
“And Sherlock wrote this?” John looked around the set in an attempt to lock eyes with the man (the highlight of anyone's day, John imagined). They were shooting outdoors at a spacious park on some lighted bleachers with a squad of teen-girl-looking dancers to back them up in a sort of flash mob.
“This is a Mycroft original.” Sherlock spoke, disdainfully, suddenly appearing at John’s side. “Utterly lazy, though the repetition is effective as a cognitive tool, immediately familiarizing the listener, and generating a sentimental response to the extremely basic chord structure before we even reach the bridge.” Sherlock looked almost wistful for a moment. “But I refuse to speak to him if “knitting in a clique” ever becomes a popular turn of phrase.”
“Should I note that on your Possible-Reasons-To-Cease-Communicating-With-Mycroft list?” John joked.
“Do you keep that list?” Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “I have a mental version, of course, but I’m afraid it was first floor real-estate, and I may have lost some of it during the spring thaw, and subsequent flooding.”
John bit his cheek. Sherlock stared into John’s eyes.
“Just so I’m positive, we’re speaking of the flooding of your mind palace, right now, yes?”
“Of course. No where else of import has flooded recently, to my knowledge.” Sherlock scowled at John,
Greg flicked his eyes between his colleagues, then back down to the music in his hand. He coughed, and wandered towards craft services, where he found Molly desperately trying to take a natural-looking selfie with a bottle of trendy sports drink.
“Need some help, there?” He offered, chivalrously.
“Bugger. Yes. But stay around arms length. It’s s’posed to look natural.”
Greg just laughed. Molly blushed.
“Well, pretend it’s a … cuddly puppy.”
“I’m a cat person. And why would I cuddle a drink?” Molly retorted, cooling her face on the cerulean sports drink bottle.”
“Then pretend it’s a … clown fish.”
Molly guffawed and Greg snapped the photo. He examined it, and looked very pleased with himself. Molly took the phone back, examined it, dipped her head back and forth and then sent it to the internet with a resolute sigh. When she looked up, she caught sight of Sherlock barely containing a fit of giggles while John did his best impression of the scowling version of Mycroft singing and dancing to their pop-iest ballad. John’s interpretation was on point. Greg followed her eye-line, and his face shifted with empathy.
“How are you getting on then, you alright?”
Molly snapped out of her eavesdropping and resembled a deer in the headlights.
“What? What do you mean? I’m fine.”
“I just meant-” Greg shifted from one foot to the other, and picked his script back up. “Just wondering how you felt about… the script.” He tried to imbue “the script” with as much meaning as he could. Molly blushed in understanding.
“Oh. It’s fine. I think it’s … nice. Good. A bit final. But that’s good, right? I -” She struggled to find the best words to keep the conversation significant, but still lacking in all specifics. “I think I should be looking for ways to reduce stress. And people who reduce stress. And not the alternative. ”
They were both interrupted by Sherlock storming past them in a huff, glaring at his mobile and muttering about stupidity. John stood where they were previously, rubbing his forehead. He then sighed, hoisted up his jeans, and took off after Sherlock, leaving Greg and Molly with a small wave and a forced smile.
Shooting Day 7:
Sherlock refused to come out of the equipment tent. They were up a knoll overlooking Stonehenge, and the setup was very fly-by-night because they were on a budget, and they only needed one shot. It was a simple flicker of a montage, featuring Sherlock and John having tea with Stonehenge in the background. John stood bundled in a long, down coat, trying to warm his hands in some over-sized grey mittens (thanks, Mrs. Hudson).
“What’s the freak’s problem?” A very brusque, feminine voice cut through the air of confused dissatisfaction that Sherlock and John had conjured up together. John cringed, knowing every word was putting Sherlock into more of a stubborn tizzy.
“Sally, you're the prop master. You are master of the props. If there’s supposed to be tea there should be. It's on you.” John argued, with little vehemence.
“I’m not a bloody waitress.” Sally shot back. “There’s a thermos. There’s a mug. There’s a certified replica of the Queen’s tea set. If you two can’t handle a little acting it’s not my problem. We can add steam in post. Now let’s get on with this before the light changes. Again.”
“Is there no way to get a hot cup of tea up here?” John pleaded. Sally rolled her eyes and turned her sourpuss towards the male grip with the hawkish nose.
“Anderson! His majesty needs some bloody tea!”
“Publicly abusing your authority over him doesn’t disguise the fact you two are shagging. It just makes it painfully obvious that he’s in charge in the bedroom.” The voice came out of the tent, and for a moment it felt like Sherlock was simply a ghost in their midst. John fought off a twinge of sadness at the idea, and bit the chap off his lips. Sally glared at him, then fumed away.
John eyed the tent, and took a deep breath. He tentatively pulled the flap aside and stepped in, starting a little when he realized that the majority of the structure was filled with equipment, and Sherlock was sequestered in a tiny space to the left of the opening.
“Somehow, crazily enough, I hadn’t pictured you as the kind of writer who would strike for the sake of artistic vision. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Sherlock wrinkled his brow and looked down his nose at his co-star.
“I did not simply write a hit formulaic musical comedy. I also took into account budget and time and personal preference and crafted pleasurable experiences for all of us, that are simultaneously entertaining to the audience and personally fulfilling. Hot tea on an English hillside is in no universe considered an insurmountable obstacle.”
John tilted his head and let himself examine his friend, warmed by the sentiment currently unspoken.
“For all of us, eh? So where’s Mycroft right now?”
Sherlock stifled a grin.
“Swimming with dolphins.”
John laughed out loud.
“You’re joking! How did you…? You’re not joking. That’s amazing.”
Sherlock licked his lips and refused to make eye contact, as he succumbed to a smirk.
“Yes well. It is somewhat fortunate how ridiculously embarrassing his secret desires can be. A win win, if you will.”
“And Greg and Molly?”
“Paris. Eiffel Tower.”
" Tea with you anywhere was my favorite before, but Mycroft and dolphins? Now you're just spoiling me." John chuckled. He looked around the tent, watching the wind beat against the side. He let himself notice Sherlock in his periphery, looking vexed, but proud. He thought of Mycroft, in a diving suit somewhere warm paddling around with dolphins, with his pinky in the air. He imagined Greg racing after “sporty” Molly, up the stairs of the Eiffel Tower. He smiled at Sherlock, who had brought him to a blustery hillside overlooking a medieval wonder and was desperately trying to make sure he got a cuppa.
“ Anderson will be back in 40 minutes with your damned tea.” Sally had returned, and was yelling through the wall, not eager to see her stars’ faces. “Congratulations. With the delay, it’ll end up costing you over £500.” She sounded triumphant.
“Milk and two lumps.” John shouted back. Sherlock allowed himself to finally crack a noticeable smile, though he did not make eye contact.
Shooting Day 9:
The “Spice Bus” was the accidental brainchild of Sherlock and Molly. Sherlock, who determined that using their existing office space to serve as the film set for their base of operations would be exceedingly convenient as well as cost effective, and Molly, who was absolutely correct when she asserted it would be funnier if it were supposed to be a double-decker bus, that was bigger on the inside than it is on the outside. Mrs. Hudson was the only one who noticed that Sherlock didn't seem to get the reference, and surreptitiously texted him an explanatory YouTube link, because seeing Sherlock as anything but all-knowing was a tad jarring.
.....................................
It was late, and SF5 had just finished shooting the last of their cameo-riddled bus scenes.
“Elton John! That was Elton John! Sir Elton John! I’ve met him! He kissed my cheek! Was he wearing lipstick? Is there a mark? I’m never washing it!” Greg was standing rigid with glee in the middle of the office, pointing at his cheek.
The last of the production crew had just finished clearing out, and all that was left of the guest of honor was a whif of his high end cologne. The Spice Force 5 were still in costume and makeup, and it was just late enough in the evening that John was about to suggest they all order some dinner together instead of heading home separately to whatever lurked in their cupboards (he was pretty sure he had a couple bags of crisps and some eggs, so any excuse for dinner out would be welcomed).
“There’s no mark.” Mycroft made no effort to let Gregory down easy.
“I still can’t believe it.” Greg beamed. “He called me ‘baby’. There’s my nickname. There. That’s it. Call the papers. I’ve been renamed by Sir Elton John.”
“Baby Spice?” John and Sherlock asked in unison (one with markedly more disdain).
“Elton John’s lips have touched my face. You could call me Cream Puff Spice, for all I care. I’ve peaked.”
“Where was this reaction when I showed up?” A less familiar voice called out from above. The sound of heavy boots came clanging down the balcony stairs. The boots belonged to Meatloaf, and matched his dated leather jacket well. He lingered at the bottom, looking over the teen pop sensation with interest. “And why exactly am I piloting the Spice Bus from the second level?”
“Oh they used to laugh at me when I refused to ride-” Sherlock quoted down his nose at Meatloaf, as if reciting Shakespeare- “on all those double-decker buses, all because there was no driver on the top.”
Meatloaf grinned.
“And they say kids these days don’t know the classics. Well, it’s been fun. I’ll see you next week for the big finale.” He read the room like an old pro, giving a short wave to Sherlock and Mycroft, shaking hands with Greg and John, and giving Molly a quick peck on the cheek before exiting for the night.
“Who’s up for Thai?” John finally asked.
Shooting Day 11:
I always knew you were out of this world
And now I know that you’ll never come down
That’s not going to work for me
I need someone to stick around
So I filled (filled up)
A suitcase (filled up)
With all (filled up)
Your stuff (your stuff)
I’m throwin’ it in a rocket
and sending it to the moon
The countdown’s on
10 - 9 - 8 - 7 - 6 - 5 - 4 - 3 - 2 - 1
Blast off, we’re done
The Spice Force 5 stood on lit podiums of different heights as fog and lasers danced around them. The song ended with all of them facing away from a fully extended hand, and they held that pose until Mrs. Hudson yelled “cut.”
“That was very nice, poppies.” She cooed from behind the monitor. “And I think it’s very sweet of you to include the aliens I wrote up from before. Don’t think I didn’t notice, Sherlock.”
Sherlock tried to look cranky, but it was overshadowed by the graceful leap to the floor.
“ It was a sensible extrapolation of The Countdown’s On’s existing visual story, and nothing more.” He grumbled, dusting off his blazer.
“I wish they didn’t have to be so creepy.” Molly whined, as she sat down on her butt to more safely scoot off her podium.
“It stands to reason that an advanced race of beings would communicate via telekinesis. The aid of machines would not require them to be as tall or have defined musculature. Increased intuitive brain function would render their sense of hearing and smell and touch less important, and result in a shrinking of the ears and nose. I daresay our model of extraterrestrial is more probable than it is possible.”
“I was just talking about that one little man who kept trying to kiss me.” Molly shuddered, involuntarily. “But that’s good to know, My. Thank you.”
“That’s nothing.” John piped up. “I signed a boob. A little one. Well. It was regular-ish, just lower down.” Mycroft rolled his eyes, while Sherlock glared. “For science.” John shrugged.
“Congrats Johnny.” Greg cheered, sitting on his podium still, kicking his feet against the boards with little regard to structural integrity. “Maybe your luck has changed and you’ll be able to pull again. You’ve been in a bit of a dry spell, yeah?”
It was John’s turn to roll his eyes.
“ I’m plenty lucky. I’m just married to my work. ” John put on a hoity-toity air as if he were quoting someone else, and Molly and Mycroft didn’t miss the way Sherlock’s scowl deepened, though John and Greg went right along chatting idly until a new crew came in to strap them all into harnesses so that they could appear to be weightless in space.
Shooting Day 16:
The gang was back together again for a particularly wordsy scene in a cafe. The production crew had shanghaied a little bistro called Angelo’s and brought along some props that made it look a little less Italian. Angelo himself was thrilled with the take-over, and busied himself in the kitchen, fussing over the craft services that they had insisted they didn’t need, and breathing fire down the necks of his kitchen staff when they stirred a pot or washed a dish too loudly.
The Spice Force 5 were standing on their marks, discussing the case of their doppelgangers’ mysterious deaths. For the most part they were remembering their lines quite admirably, though everyone had expected Sherlock and Mycroft to perform like machines. But John, Greg and Molly had come just as prepared, and were managing to impart their characters with little unscripted nuances that were surely going to endear them to their fandom more than ever.
Sherlock was in the midst of an impressive string of deductions when he stopped short.
“Cut.” He said, mid-line.
“As co-director, and the person in this scene with less lines, calling cut really should be left to me, Sherlock.” Mycroft drawled.
“John.” Sherlock ignored his brother. “It’s essential that you follow me from there, so that you’re here when I’m done.” He indicated the spot on his left.
“I can’t just say ‘brilliant!’ from over here?” John griped.
“It’s necessary to subconsciously build the case for the audience that we favor each other.” Sherlock shook his finger, still pointing at the spot beside him.
“There is no ‘we’.” John huffed, but moved towards the new mark anyway. “There’s only me. The audience gets to see me following you around like a lost dog. We’re subconsciously building the case that I’m a lonely wanker, right up to your brilliant ending where I reveal to the biggest prat in Britain that I’ve been pining for him from afar like a schoolgirl with a crush. ”
“Were that the case," Sherlock drilled, "it would be an effective way endear you to our audience of schoolgirls with crushes, but it is not. Our fans may be idiots, but they can’t all be that daft. My character clearly reciprocates your character’s feelings on many occasions.”
“ Name one.” John leveled at Sherlock, darkly. He lunged off camera and picked up a script and began flipping through it. “ Sherlock runs out to find the killer, leaving John and Greg looking perplexed.” He read out loud. “ Sherlock says ‘Don’t be an idiot.’ and dumps Johns’ tea down a rain gutter.” He flipped a couple more pages. “ John rubs his neck. Sherlock says, ‘remind me never to take you to the casino. I’ve never seen a person with so many tells. Honestly, I’d be better off with Molly.” John huffed. “Nice one. You managed to get Molly in that one. Very sweet, Sherlock.”
John threw the script back off camera and crossed his arms over his chest, tapping his foot and narrowing his eyes in calculating annoyance.
“You know what? I’m sorry if this messes up our schedule, but I’m getting some pasta.” He stomped towards the kitchen, which had been wafting delicious and appetizing smells towards them all afternoon. Before he reached the swinging door, he stopped and turned once more. “I suppose I should insist that you stop and eat something, seeing as you haven’t since dinner last night, but I’m sure you’ll only tell me dinner is ‘boring’ or some other rubbish, and I wouldn’t want anyone getting the idea that you favored me in some way.” And with that, John whooshed into the back.
Sherlock stood stark still, looking puzzled, and slightly affronted. Greg and Molly trecked back to the kitchen, too happy to be distracted by delicious food to bother being afraid of leaving without the directors’ permission. Molly sent Sherlock a sad glance as she passed him.
Mycroft took a labored breath, and stepped into Sherlock’s space, speaking to him in a low voice.
“The audience will not be aware that you wrote him a movie. They really are that stupid.”
“That’s impossible.” Sherlock pouted. “It’s right there in the credits.”
“Of course. But who sits through the credits anymore, my dear brother?”
"Everyone. They're desperate to know if we've included anything extra. Bloopers are like fangirl crack."
Mycroft frowned until his jaw looked pained, at which point he and his all-knowing condescension finally vacated the room, doubtless in search of one of those giant raspberry Napoleon’s that Angelo had put out with the tea, earlier. His exit should have allowed Sherlock to breath easily once again, but something a bit not good was beginning to weigh on his brilliant mind.
Shooting Day 19:
Moriarty was much more than a chat show host. He was a narcissist and a royal pain in the ass. His green room demands were unreasonable, his people wandered absolutely everywhere with no regard to rules or privacy, and he was under the impression that just because he’d met a lot of famous people, he knew absolutely everything about everyone.
It was no small delight to Sherlock that Moriarty was about to be filmed emerging from a toilet with a camera strapped to his oddly shaped head. The rest of the Spice Force, as much as they collectively distrusted the man, were slightly more intimidated by his know-it-all demeanor. They had been casually workshopping alternatives for the scene at hand, but had hit a brick wall when it came to the lead writer. Sherlock was unmovable.
“Don’t cry for me, Argentina.” Moriarty drawled, as he caught Molly’s worried expression. “I’m just excited to play a part in the Master’s game, here.” He indicated Sherlock with nothing more than a flick of his eyebrow. Sherlock ignored him to study the monitor. “Are you sure you don’t want to muck me up a little, Sherlock? Or would you like to give everyone the impression that you’re too good to shit? This is supposed to be your toilet, right? We can do piece on that, sometime. I would really love to get you on my couch.”
John was off to the side, watching Moriarty push sherlock's buttons. It was simultaneously fascinating and frightening. It's not that Sherlock couldn't be riled up any moment of any day. Humanity (mostly in the form of his bandmates) incensed him with their “resilient ignorance” on a regular basis. But John, et all spent so much time trying to please him that the thought of enraging him on purpose, or whatever this odd mix of sarcastic innuendo was trying to accomplish, well it was just plain wrong. Sherlock was married to his work (an odd thought for John to have now). The band was his work (yes. Obviously). John was in the band (where exactly was this thought headed?) They were all like sister wives (just horrendous, John). And if it seemed like Sherlock was caving in to the strange and acrid come-ons of Moriarty, then John would have to stake his claim, for the sake of the others, over himself.
He cleared his throat, and shifted his weight, so lost in thought that he wasn't sure what he was interrupting. Sherlock cringed and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and pointer. Moriarty let his gaze slip to John for a microsecond. John bit his lip.
"Must you be so simple, John?" Sherlock almost groaned.
"Excuse me?" John's voice was dangerous.
"You think I'm so desperate to converse with people of similar intellect that I'd stoop to responding to the tawdry come-ons of- him?" Sherlock imbued the word "him" with a non verbal description that only John could interpret, and it was full of words like "sycophant" and "despicable" and "lecherous".
"Perhaps I was simply clearing my throat." John bristled with an exhilarating mix of shame and relief.
"Oh this is good." Moriarty oozed, now half out of the prop toilet, leaning on his elbows and dripping water everywhere. The man truly had no regard for his appearance, and that kind of confidence was like a live wire crackling away in a rainstorm. "He knows you were doing more than just clearing your throat because he knows what every little cough and hiccup mean because he can read every sad little thought that trundles through your pedestrian mind." John 's face reddened, though it really wasn't news to him (though he'd sort of hoped certain, very buried thoughts might have somehow escaped detection by way of Sherlock's lack of emotional understanding). "And he wastes a veritable suite of his mind palace documenting what your ugliest jumpers mean to you -" Moriarty continued, gleefully, "but he's too much of a pussy to just tell you he-"
"STOP!" Sherlock barked. He stood rod straight, but his eyes were directed at the floor.
Mycroft walked calmly out of the shadows, like a ninja in a back brace, and held up a megaphone.
"Everyone, please take five. I will be taking over the directing of this scene." He walked primly over to Moriarty. "Can we get you anything, sir? A cup of tea?"
Moriarty waved him away and slid back into his toilet with a smirk. Sherlock stalked off towards the dressing rooms, and John didn't even think to move (or breathe) until he was safely out of the focus of both hyper perceptive madmen. He then rubbed at his eye sockets with all his pedestrian might.
Shooting day 21:
The finale was going to be an entertaining montage of music and action. But before the editing and the movie magic, it was simply a long series of seemingly unrelated vignettes. The benefit was that John and Sherlock could each sneak extra scenes into the shooting schedule without detection (which they each did, unbeknownst to the other. Mycroft, Molly and Greg all just went along with it, and patted themselves on the back for their improved acting skills)
For I'll Be The One you Choose , they found themselves dressing up as famous movie heroes and villains. Molly rocked her first leotard as a gangly Wonder Woman. Mycroft was allowed to live out a small bit of his 007 fantasy. John, Sherlock and Greg dressed up as a Jamaican bobsled team, after Sherlock decided it would be the most effective non-sequitur. At the end of their costume changes they came out all dressed as each other. Mycroft as John, in skinny jeans and an oversized sweater, Greg as Mycroft in a añtiquated three piece suit, with a paisley waistcoat, Molly as Greg in a rugby getup and John as Sherlock, in the sharpest navy pinstriped suit he'd ever worn (complete with purple silk shirt), and Sherlock coming on set last dressed in sweats and a loose off the shoulder crop top.
John gaped. Sherlock studied him thoroughly in return. John lamely tried to wrestle his jaw into submitting to being shut.
"I've been informed that people like it when one can poke fun at oneself." Sherlock stated, jutting out his chin and daring anyone to laugh. John just eyed his exposed midriff and gulped. Molly looked close to tears for a moment as well, likely in ab envy.
"I told you that." John said, without thinking.
"Yes." Sherlock answered, eyes ravaging posh John once again. "You're to keep that suit when we're through here. It was tailored for you."
John looked down at his arms. They shimmered very subtly.
"I don't even remember being measured for a suit."
"You waste far too much time underestimating my genius." Sherlock shuffled across the studio in pink Reeboks that were more like ballet flats than useful trainers. "Come on. I'm rather eager to endear myself to a new generation by playfully mimicking Molly's big feminist solo. If my calculations are correct, this will be a significant turning point for my character."
"Well the audience will be right there with you when they see Posh John. You're about to turn me, mate." Greg jokingly oggled John. Sherlock honed in on Greg for a moment before deducing it was a joke. But that was long enough for Greg to pick up on the possessive flash, and he smiled as he remembered he was a secret confidant to both men. John blushed as Sherlock examined him yet again.
"How are you fairing with skinny jeans, My? They actually suit you." Molly piped up.
"Wait 'till your arse falls out." John grumbled.
"I've employed an ingenious device in my arse's defence. Maybe you've heard of it. It's known amongst the general populace as a belt." Mycroft looked like his smugness was battling with a giggle. John opened his mouth to protest, but Mycroft cut him off. "The giant jumpers obscure any possible muffin top."
"It's irrelevant. After the film he'll be wearing more tailored slacks. Belts. No muffin top. More cashmere" Sherlock didn't look up from a series of ballet stretches he was executing like a pro.
John shook his head at the back of Sherlock's bending form. Molly bristled.
"Maybe John should get to wear what he wants. We already sing and dance exactly as we're told. Do you really need to dress us up like we're dolls?"
Sherlock stood straight and turned to mutter at Molly.
"John wants to be comfortable, but he detests looking sloppy. He wants to appear tailored without coming off posh. He prefers earth tones to primaries because he hates to stand out, especially as a result of loud clothing.” He swung his head around to face John. “John, is any of this inaccurate?”
“No.” a wilting John answered. “It’s spot on, as usual.”
Sherlock swung back around to give Molly a glare, but she glared right back.
“It doesn’t matter if you’ve deduced whether he prefers argyle or solid-”
“Solid.” Sherlock interjected. Molly responded to the interruption with something between a snort and a growl.
“- it’s the fact that you come in here and order him about, in front of all of us just to make it look like he does every single thing you say.”
“That’s not how it looks.” Sherlock argued.
“I pretty much do everything he says.” John blurted out, over Sherlock. He then walked walked across the floor and put his hand on her arm, Greg and Mycroft staring on, respectfully. “It’s alright, Mol. It’s just how it is.”
Molly furrowed her brow, beginning to shake a little from the adrenalin of confrontation in front of, and with her idol.
“That isn’t how it looks.” Sherlock repeated, turning towards Greg and Mycroft, who did not respond at all, positively or otherwise. “John?” Sherlock questioned John in a tone that begged for confirmation, or at least more data.
“Enough with the chit chat.” John announced loudly. “Let’s get this dance over with. I’ve a date tonight.”
And with those words Sherlock morphed into a laser-focused dancing and singing machine, while Mycroft performed as robotically perfect as usual, and Molly and Lestrade were left gaping and uncomfortable at the thought of John off on a date (with anyone other than Sherlock). The joke was on them, thought Sherlock, who was well aware that John's date was his monthly visit with his Nan. This however did not stop him from asking an absent John to make them tea twice later that evening, while he amused himself by seeing which minerals exploded when super-heated.
Shooting Day 24:
Though the film wasn't shot sequentially, the big finale, as well as the subsequent romantic reveal were saved until the very end of the shooting schedule. This gave John nearly a full month of brushing his teeth until it felt like he was scrubbing the enamel clean off, in nervous preparation. He’d also thoroughly scraped his tongue a few times as well.
He wondered exactly what it was going to be like locking lips with Sherlock in front of everyone and their brother. He kept the focus of his anxiety on the audience. He was a private man, though that wasn't as possible ever since he had become a celebrity, but he certainly wasn't accustomed to having people watch him kiss anyone. And even if he had gotten out a little bit more, a paparazzi snapshot was very different from a crowded movie set where the end of the kiss would be punctuated by Mycroft saying "cut." His only solace was that Sherlock was participating,which would save him from the usual piercing scrutiny of his closest friend.
John licked his lips.
"Prepping for your big romantic end, eh?" Greg entered the dressing room in a bound and sat himself down on one of the empty chairs in front of the mirror.
“The end.” John echoed, looking at his stoic features in the mirror. “It really is the end, I daresay. I can’t imagine that after this they’ll ask us to make another one.”
“God, I hope not.” Greg laughed. “It’s because Sherlock is a genius that we even have more than one album. But as far as films go, we’ll be the flavor of the week, and then we’ll be gone.”
John nodded. That was as it should be. They were then interrupted by a clipped knock on the door. They waited, thinking the knocker would simply pop their head in, but nothing happened.
“Come in?” John answered.
The door was pushed slowly open by a very casual Sherlock. His flannel sleep slacks were covered only by a thick, blue robe. John smiled, as he had only ever seen Sherlock like this when he had needed to stay late recording at his apartment on Baker Street. The incongruous wardrobe seemed to suddenly bring a bit of Sherlock’s eclectic flat into the studio, which ignited a comfortable warmth in John’s chest.
“Right then. I’d best be going. I’m Molly’s designated Selfie Stick, so I’ve got to stay close.” Greg jumped to his feet and slid out behind Sherlock, giving John a private little wave before wresting the handle away from the man, who stood uncharacteristically still.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” John joked, awkward tension already creeping through the veins of his arms as he tried to push away the knowledge that today was the day he would make-out with Sherlock Holmes. He clasped his hands behind his back. Sherlock seemed to be examining him closely.
“Well.” Sherlock paused, and paced a step, seemingly just so he could twirl and face the other direction, sending his robe out in a little arch around his thighs. “It seems that later today we will have to kiss one another in the company of our colleagues. Though I am confident that my predictions on the quality and outcome are correct, they are technically only theories until tested, and I dislike relying so heavily on untested data.”
Sherlock looked away from John for a moment and fiddled with a fingernail, which only served to highlight the fact that he had been making full eye contact up until that point, which was a tad unusual. Christ. he’d reportedly had one-sided conversations with John without ever checking to see if John was present to listen. Comparatively, John had been drowning in his gaze.
“As you are at least subconsciously aware, our kiss was conceived and written, by me, to be the impetus of our real-life romantic relationship. Mycroft seems to be convinced that you are none-the-wiser when it comes to my intentions.”
Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back (perhaps to mimic John) and rose up on his toes for a moment, now looking at the floor. John rolled his eyes.
“Mycroft should give me more credit. You wrote me a bloody film. How stupid does he think I am?”
Sherlock looked up and released a quick, but fond smile.
“Inspiring consistent underestimation seems to be your super power.”
John smiled back. Sherlock remained almost six feet away from him, still by the door. The taller man cleared his throat.
“Right then. As long as that’s understood, then I propose we take a moment and rehearse the physical directions of our upcoming love scene. Familiarizing ourselves with the physical aspect of our relationship should speed up the filming, considerably.” Sherlock took one large step into John’s - well not exactly his space - but his territory. John held his hand up to halt further progress.
“Wait a minute. You’re suggesting our first kiss be a rehearsal for this damn fool musical comedy now that we’ve gotten all the pesky bureaucracy of starting a relationship out of the way?”
Sherlock paused, eyes darting around the room in record time, leaving his upper body to sway towards his friend.
“Not good, then?” He was one quarter sincere, and three quarters already smirking at his impending success. Sherlock's crush read like a fine Italian cookbook, and he was sure he had blended his seasonings just right (a fitting metaphor for a member of the Spice Force).
“Just... typical. Typical Sherlock.” John felt his chest trying to hold back a flood of something warm that upon release would surely drown them all, which was unacceptable, considering he'd finally been invited to put his mouth on Sherlock (for mostly the right reasons). He stepped into the taller man's space and somewhat tentatively put his hands on the robed and belted waist. As an afterthought, he moved one hand up to reach for the back of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock only moved to incline his head down very slightly.
“Would you like me to sit down, for ease of access?” The question didn't sound like mockery, but John always assumed.
“Shut up.” John muttered, as he ran his fingertips lightly around the base of Sherlock's skull, while daringly snaking the other hand into the man's robe to feel the exposed waist underneath.
“Are you positive? I hadn't actually considered the physical logistics when I entered the room. An gaping oversight on my part.”
“Shut up shut up shut up.” John's smile was cringing with a healthy dose of why me? but he persistently caressed the object of his affection, moving his face forward to nose at the base of Sherlock's neck. He breathed in the warm coming from Sherlock's skin and pressed the softest kiss into his throat. Sherlock's eyes fell shut.
“If I step to the right there's a stool you can stand on.” The taller man murmured, with his eyes closed.”
John shook his head in a furious ripple of motion that disturbed their relative calm. He stepped back and let his hands fall to his sides, left hand making and releasing a fist.
“Fine, you prat. Why don't you arrange us exactly as it's written in the script.”
Sherlock tilted his head and squinted at John.
“Well? Get on with it. You're the director.”
Sherlock just kept looking at him as if he were a potentially meaningful smudge of ash. John bit his lip, then licked his teeth, then raised his eyebrows in a now do you see? that seemed to be directed towards a very tiny, invisible observer off to the left. Apparently they offered him enough sympathy so that he could swallow, scrunch his nose, and huff a breath in and out.
“Fine. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. If you do not lower your bloody head down here and kiss my face off this instant I swear to God I will annul this whole very illogical idea.”
Sherlock complied, and suddenly John felt as if he'd invited in a vampire and got a hurricane as well. There was very quickly no blue robe, and then everyone lost their breath, which was a blessing as it kept any attempt at muttering to a minimum and really only allowed John a few breathy giggles. There was saliva in new places and much petting of soft curls. Many very astute deductions were tested and proved by both men.
Sherlock was unsurprised. He'd always had impeccable taste. John was the very underestimated cream of the crop in yet another arena.
John was elated to finally reap some personal benefits as he continued his quest to keep the genius known as Sherlock Holmes happy. Martyrdom for his cause suddenly didn't seem unappealing.
The makeup staff tried very hard not to giggle at them when they were called to set, but Sherlock's neck and John's beaming smile were a big gay neon sign that read “FINALLYYYYY”
On set, a clap on the back from Greg (to John only) a thumbs up from Molly, and utter indifference from Mycroft let them know that everyone was aware, and on board. Even Mrs. Hudson caught on, after their very first kiss take was spot on, efficient and professional.
“You kids have been practicing! Naughty, naughty, John, you never came and asked me for Sherlock's hand.”
“We've run a bit past that now, Mrs. H. May I please have his pants?”
“Oh, you.” She whacked John in the shoulder with a rolled up magazine and wandered off towards the craft services table to find a mint tea.
…..................................
The End.
.....................................
John Watson looks into the camera, at YOU
“Wait a minute. Is the writer ever gonna tell them about the special scenes they filmed for the outtakes?”
Sherlock walks over to John's shoulder and joins him as he gazes at your lovely face
“It's unnecessary, now. My extra bit simply told the audience that I wrote a film for you, and yours thanked me for writing a film for you. It would be redundant to include.”
Molly wanders by with her cell phone out, trying to find an angle that makes her forced smile appear genuine.
“When do I get a tall boyfriend? I'm sorry anyone has to look at me from a height of less than six feet.”
Sherlock snaps his fingers at Molly, almost silently. John puts his finger to his lips to shush her
“Molly, we're doing an end thing here.”
Molly looks over at them, and the camera they're staring down into, and shakes her head
“Are you mad? At that angle I'd have eight chins. Tell the audience they can meet me down at the pub. And to be tall.”
Greg and Mycroft walk in, chatting civilly about something that Mycroft is making look important, even as Greg begins to mime popular dance moves.
Mycroft shocks everyone by laughing.
Greg is stunned, and notices the camera when he looks around the room in shock
“An end bit? You're doing an end bit without us?”
Molly huffs over and hands Greg her phone
“Here. You try.”
“Say something for the end bit, then.”
“Ugh. Fine. I love you all, even though I hate you for being so nice and making me grind my teeth at night when I worry about doing the BEST for you.
Mycroft glides over and simply peers down his nose, the weirdo
Molly has a start for no reason
"Shit! I almost forgot!
Molly turns around and slaps Mycroft in the face.
Greg and John raise their arms in good-natured cheers
Mycroft rubs his cheek with the palm of his hand, but looks oddly satisfied
Sherlock grins, mischievously.
“Verily. We love you like Mycroft loves cake. Goodbye.”