#Sherlock has emotions

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The Dancing Men (Final)

Part 18 of The Arbitrary Lives of the Occupants of 221B Baker Street

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Word Count: 6.7k

Warnings: Guns, violence, descriptions of violence and crime scenes, gore, canon typical violence and shenanigans, Sherlock is Sherlock, crime, breaking and entering, mentions of stalking and yandere themes.

Author's Note: Finally, it's out. Yay! I really hope you enjoy it! Also thank you so much for your patience with me!!

Good News and Bad News. That’s how it always seemed to go in Sherlock’s line of work. Good news: Sherlock had cracked the code; This finely crafted lingo of dancing men turned into words and cohesive phrases. Now that the code had been broken, the case was soon close to an end. Bad News: The last phrase of code was an ominous one. The contorted drawings spoke of one thing and one thing only, death. Hilton Cubitt was going to die. The man behind the code was going to kill Cubitt. 

Now once bad news came Sherlock’s way, more bad news tended to follow. The first wave of bad news came in the form of Sherlock's lack of car keys. John had them in his possession and John was asleep in another room with the door locked. As a consequence of the late hour, Hilton was not answering his phone. That was the second wave of bad news. Now came the third wave. This bad news took form in the shape of ignorant police men. 

“No! You aren’t listening. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I’m a consulting detective, and my client is going to be killed. Hilton Cubitt. That’s his name. Lives on–” Sherlock barked. His voice thundered about the shared room. His feet walked him back and forth about the room adding to the noise that jolted Y/N awake. 

“Sherlock?” Y/N hoarsely said as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. 

Sherlock barely glanced Y/N’s way. His frustration with the oblivious, obtuse, bird-brained officer over the phone. A man’s life was at stake and as a fallout so were the lives of a mother and child. 

“You’re awake. Get John!” Sherlock told Y/N before turning back to the phone. “A man and his family are in danger. Someone will die and worse may happen if you do not listen to me!” Sherlock reprimanded the officer over the phone. 

Worry began to overcome the weariness in Y/N body. Why did she need to get John? Hilton was in trouble? His family? “Sherlock?” Y/N said with concern. 

Again, Sherlock paid Y/N no mind, all of his efforts were going into convincing the officer to send someone out to the Cubitt home. 

Sitting up from the bed, Y/N approached Sherlock’s disoriented figure. His intellect fighting with idiocy, for the sole purpose of pride and correctness was one thing, but with the cost of a man’s and quite possibly his family's life on the line in the battle of intellect was another thing. 

Carefully, Y/N placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. It was only a hand, but it lent the man a beacon of light to ground himself to. Sherlock’s chaotic pace stilled as some peace crept into his mind. He wasn’t alone. 

Tension filled the air as Sherlock’s jaw tightened and Y/N’s grip on Sherlock’s shoulder tightened. Sherlock turned his head away from the phone to glance over at her. “John,” Sherlock harshly whispered. Y/N tilted her head in confusion. “John has the keys!” Y/N’s eyes widened as she understood what Sherlock was asking her. 

Immediately, Y/N withdrew her hand from Sherlock’s side and ran out of the room to bang on John’s door. Like the beating of a drum, Y/N pounded on the door over and over again until the door creaked open, and a groggy John came up to the door. 

She didn’t give John the chance to say anything before she dragged him back to her and Sherlock’s room with a look of panic on her face. Once the door was shut, John was now privy to the conversation. It did not take long for John’s face to mirror the concern and horror on Y/N’s face.  

Words were said. Seconds passed, yet they felt like years, as Sherlock crushed his fingers around the phone. The officer had hung up, but not before telling him he was a wanker who had a few too many drinks at the pub. 

It was silent. John’s eyes were wide as the dumbfounded expression grew on his face. Y/N brows clenched together in a worried expression as she watched Sherlock. He was as still as the surface of a lake in the early morning with not a ripple in sight. His mouth was close, his eyes neutral as he stared at the distance. The only sign of life in Sherlock was the whitening skin of his hand as his grip constricted his phone more and more. 

“He’s dead,” Sherlock whispered. 

John and Y/N shared a distressed look with each other. Yes, a man would now be dead. His family was put in danger, but what scared John and Y/N the most was their friend. He looked broken. Defeated. Sherlock had lost clients before, but never like this–never in a battle with ignorance. 

Y/N gave a comforting squeeze to Sherlock’s shoulder. He wasn’t alone, yet Sherlock couldn’t help but feel trapped in the empty halls of his mind.

_____

The car ride up to the Cubitt household was a solemn one. Everything seemed paralyzed: the streetlights flickered on and off and not a soul was outside. John didn’t enjoy the view outside, but the solemn view was better than the view of Sherlock’s stone-cold face with his blue eyes filled with anguish. 

A sickening feeling stirred in each of their stomachs the closer they got to the Cubitt home. As the familiar roads twisted and turned the insides of their stomachs sloshed around. Y/N felt like she was going to be sick. 

As they reached the street where the Cubitt home was, a new feeling grew from the sorrow in the consulting detective gut–fury. Where once was a yellow warmth from the streetlights, there was now the blaringly cold, red and blue lights from police cars. 

The cab came to a halt and the three of them climbed out onto the street in front of the Cubitt home. Police were everywhere. Some carrying their cameras taking photos of everything they deemed important and others whispering amongst themselves about who knows what. 

Y/N gulped at the scene and found herself reaching for Sherlock’s concealed hand. She needed the comfort, to know that she was not alone. The moment her fingers brushed past his, Y/N’s hand was enveloped by Sherlock’s warmth. It seemed that he too needed to know he wasn’t alone.  

“This is a closed crime scene–” An officer approached the three of them with his thick fingers spreading apart to stop them from moving even further. 

Something snapped in Sherlock at the officer’s gesture and his grip on Y/N’s hand tightened. “Nothing you could do would stop me from entering the scene. I am Sherlock Holmes–” 

“Ah!” The man’s eyes flashed with recognition. “I suppose you’re the detectives from England,” the officer said in the most nonchalant voice possible. “The one who called last night?”

Before Sherlock could implode and before her finger lost all feeling, Y/N stepped forward. “We are. We were hired by the Cubitt family and know more about this case than you idiots who ignored our concerns last night. Now a man is dead.” A silent fury was coming through Y/N’s voice as she spoke.

“Excuse me miss. That’s not at all–” the officer tried to redeem himself and the Clifden police department, and was doing so poorly. 

Y/N took in a deep breath before slightly raising her voice. “No, I'll stop you there. Where’s your Chief Inspector? I–we demand to see him.”

“Right, miss,” the officer paused, looking between the three of them. “The Chief Inspector wanted to see you anyway. This way.” Then the officer turned around and walked away expecting them to follow. 

Through the crime scene they traveled; What once was a cozy family home, with only happy memories is now an empty casket with no family to be found. 

“Where’s Elise and–” Y/N questioned the officer. 

“Save your questions for the Inspector,” the officer replied. 

Y/N scoffed and felt Sherlock’s hold on her hands tighten again. She glanced up at his stern figure and saw that his jaw was tightly clenched. He looked as if he wanted to strangle the man and add another body to the crime scene. She tugged his hand towards her direction causing Sherlock’s gaze to fall on her. 

“It’s alright,” she whispered as she began to rub her thumb across his knuckles. 

“These the English Detectives?” A husky voice boomed. 

“Yes, sir,” the officer said before leaning in to whisper something into the other man’s ear. Once the message had been relayed, the officer excused himself. 

The new man didn’t take long to introduce himself. His hair was an auburn shade with gray strands speckled amongst his head. Matching his hair on his head, was a patchy beard with adorning sideburns and hazel green eyes that appeared more brown than green.

 “My name’s Martin. Inspector Martin of the Clifden Constabulary.” He extended out his hand waiting for someone to shake it. No one did. Awkwardly, Martin put away his hand and cleared his throat. 

“It’s a terrible business,” said Martin “They were both shot, Mr. Hilton Cubitt and his wife. She shot him and then herself—so the neighbors say. He’s dead and she’s in the hospital. Not to mention their daughter’s gone missing. I can only assume the worst.” 

“What do you mean their daughter’s gone?” John asked. 

“Well…we’re not quite sure. All we knew that the child was missing when we arrived. Mr. Hilton was dead, and Elise was wounded,” the Inspector explained. 

Y/N’s face paled. This case turned out worse than she thought it’d be. First, the death of their client, the injury of his wife, and the missing presence of Hilton’s daughter. 

“Mr…” the Inspector asked. 

“Holmes.”

“Right, Mr. Holmes, if you don’t mind me asking, the crime was only committed at three in the morning. How did you know the incident would happen?”

This question irked Sherlock, but nevertheless he answered it. “I anticipated it. I called the Clifden police in the hope of preventing it,” Sherlock said as every part of him oozed contempt for the inspector. 

The Inspector’s face paled slightly as he cleared his throat, realizing his mistake. “Then you must have important insider knowledge that we need for the case.” 

“We only have the dancing men,” John said. 

The Inspector only looked puzzled at John’s answer. Before the Inspector could open his mouth to respond, Sherlock stepped forward. His blue eyes bore a warning to the Inspector. 

“In order for me to help you and your insolent police force, I need one thing and one thing only…” Sherlock’s voice was cold. The Inspector nervously gulped. “Access to the crime scene and all knowledge you have gathered from it.”

“Done,” Inspector Martin said with a shaky voice. “Although I must apologize on behalf of my staff. It would benefit us all if you worked with us.”

Sherlock made an expression with his eyes as if to say, “You don’t think?”

Despite all the hesitancy and nervousness that the Inspector previously displayed, he seemed to understand what he needed to accomplish next: He promptly showed the consulting detective and company to the crime scene and provided Sherlock with the space he needed to observe. 

They were in the Hilton’s master bedroom. It wasn’t a room that they had previously seen before. It was a well decorated room, and one could tell it was a safe haven of sorts for its late occupants with the memories hanging on the wall and the sentimental works of crayon art. The bed sheets and throw pillows were the same scarlet red. A shade that mimicked the pool of liquid underneath the body in the middle of the room. 

Hilton lay on the floor with a hole in his chest right where his heart should have been beating. He was shot. His death was quick and painless. At least that’s what John had gathered looking at the body. The information would have been of the sort that would be used to comfort those living, but not Sherlock. It didn’t matter how Hilton had died, he was dead, and it was a death that could have been prevented. As he examined the body, John found it extremely hard to look at Hilton’s face. Thoughts of “if” were running through John’s brain as he looked at Hilton’s lifeless body: If he had just woken up earlier, if he and Sherlock took the room with two beds, if Y/N had the keys. Hilton’s eyes were still open, frozen in the instant of his death. John was sure if he looked close enough, he’d see what Hilton saw when he died. 

Meanwhile, Y/N occupied herself with the rest of the room. Her eyes refused to look at the body of the man she knew had been alive hours earlier. She wouldn’t–couldn’t let herself grieve. Hilton’s daughter was missing and that was her priority. As she walked about the room, Y/N’s mind pondered the words of the Inspector. He had believed Elise did it. He concluded that Elise shot her husband and then herself in the stomach. A shot that would have been fatal in most cases, but it seemed fate was merciful. The bullet had only skimmed her vital organs. 

Despite all the evidence pointing to the Inspector’s conclusion, Y/N knew that he was wrong. She believed it with every fiber of her being. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, pushed every ounce of feeling that boiled to the surface. This case was like any other, except that it wasn’t. He’d visited crime scenes before and that’s all they were–crimes. Crimes were built like puzzles: you’d have all the pieces–the facts, and then connect them together to see the truth. That’s all they were supposed to be, facts, yet now the facts were stories. They were smiles. They were fears. They were alive, well, not anymore. 

“Inspector?” Sherlock called out. The Inspector appeared in the doorway. “Has the body been moved?” 

“We haven’t moved anything except for Elise,” Inspector Martin explained. “We couldn’t leave her lying wounded on the floor.” 

Sherlock nodded his head as his mind placed Elise’s figure into the crime scene.  “Has anything been touched? Any evidence removed from the room?” Sherlock asked. 

The Inspector shook his head. “We’ve only had time to take photos of the scene before you arrived.  Oh, that reminds me, there are footprints.”

Sherlock turned around to face the Inspector. “Footprints?” 

“Yes, footprints by the window.” The Inspector pointed his fingers towards the window that hung open in the early morning air. Strange, thought Sherlock; Most people tended to keep their windows closed in the colder months. Then Sherlock quickly stepped closer to get a better view. There were indeed footprints underneath the window: dirt and grime still wet, from what Sherlock observed was the rain, was imprinted into the rug. Raising his brow, Sherlock peered outside the open window and looked down.

Pulling back from the view outside, Sherlock nodded and shoved his hands into his pockets before making his way around the room. He needed to find the puzzle pieces: the body, the gun, disturbed bed sheets, open window in the middle of November, footprints by the window, missing child, wife hospitalized with her haunted past, and the dancing men. 

Y/N watched Sherlock as he moved about the room as if he was in a dance. His feet were placed meticulously on the floor as he traced the steps in his mind. It was amazing to watch Sherlock work. Just from the look in his eyes, she knew the wheels in his brain were turning. Each image his eyes produced would be remembered. Each thought would be cataloged along with the evidence in his mind palace. It was a forlorn sense of beauty watching Sherlock. 

As the dance continued, Y/N noticed Sherlock pullout his phone. His fingers grazed the surface of the screen, quickly typing something before placing the device back into his pocket. 

“There was a third person,” Sherlock announced. 

Inspector Martin’s look of perpetual confusion grew. “What do you mean there was a third person?” It was almost a scoff. The noise continued to chip away at Sherlock’s patience. 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at the Inspector. “The footprints. Both inside the room and in the flower bed beneath the window.” Inspector Martin, cautiously meandered to the window to see, and indeed there were matching footprints in the flower bed below. 

“How did you even see it?” Inspector Martin asked in awe at the new evidence. 

Rolling his eyes Sherlock answered, “Because I looked for it.” John and Y/N held back a snicker. “Hilton–the body is barefooted,” Sherlock continued. “Elise Cubitt’s feet are too small to fit the ones underneath the window. Therefore–”

“Another person,” John finished. 

The Inspector glanced between Sherlock and John before clearing his throat. “Do you have any clue as to who?” 

Sherlock looked at John and Y/N. “No clue. But I believe that more evidence can be found in other rooms of the house. Where’s the child’s room?”

The Inspector was startled by Sherlock’s new demand but showed him and the others to the daughter’s room. 

A light pink and floral wallpaper lined the walls of the room. It was a delicate design that reminded Y/N of a magical forest you’d only see in fairytales. On the far side of the room there were two windows, one of which hung open with the latch undone. In between the windows lay a tiny oak bed that would fit a small child. The sheets were a snow-like white with numerous stuffed animals and toys on top. As Sherlock, John, and Y/N stepped further into the room, they noticed the set of drawers that lie open and disturbed. Clothes were scattered on the neighboring floor: dainty socks, dresses, shirts, trousers, t-shirts, jumpers, and even some shoes. 

The evidence in front of Y/N pointed to only one thing. “Sherlock–did he…”

“Not now, Y/N” Sherlock hushed. It wasn’t a dismissal of any sorts, but more a request for silence that Sherlock’s magnificent mind needed if he was to solve the case. 

Peering outside the open window, Sherlock observed, once again, the very same footprints found in Hilton’s room and in the flowerbed. In the blink of an eye, Sherlock darted out of the room and weaved between the officers on the scene to find himself outside.

By the time John, Y/N and unfortunately, Inspector Martin had caught up to him, Sherlock’s theory had been proven correct. The footprints outside the daughter’s window were deeper than the ones in the flower bed outside Hilton’s room. The culprit kidnapped Cubitt's daughter, causing a deeper impression in the dirt when he exited out the window. 

“Sherlock, what are you doing in the mud–” John began. 

“The daughter was kidnapped,” Sherlock stated as he got out of his crouched position on the ground. 

Y/N felt sick to her stomach as her fears were confirmed. Sherlock continued, “The foot impressions here are deeper than those in the flower bed underneath Hilton’s bedroom. The daughter’s room was in disarray as if the culprit was searching for clothes and other necessary things to care for the daughter. Then he made his escape with the materials and child in hand.” 

“Why?” Y/N muttered under her breath. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to supply Y/N with his theory, but Inspector Martin cut him off with his imprudent questioning. “Who do you suspect?” Martin asked again. 

Sherlock turned away from the Inspector and began to march to the rental car. “I don’t have a clue.” Then Sherlock looked over his shoulder and called, “John. Y/N.” 

Together the three of them left Inspector Martin dumbfounded standing in the garden with a completely new case and so many questions in his mind. 

_____

A wave of confusion befell John and Y/N as they sat in the rental car. It was a lie. Sherlock had lied to the Inspector. If they had learned anything from the consulting detective, it was how to catch a lie. Even so, Sherlock didn’t even try to conceal the fact that he withheld information from Inspector Martin. The man in question sat in the passenger's seat directing John as they drove along the winding roads of the Irish countryside. 

After a moment of silence from the trio, John released a vocalized sigh before turning his friend seated beside him. “Why’d you lie?”

Sherlock returned the sigh and that was an answer enough. John pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“They’re the police, Sherlock. You can’t just lie to them,” John muttered.  

“I can and did,” Sherlock said. 

“Sherlock,” Y/N hissed. He looked at her with expectant eyes. “You know who did it. Don’t you?”

Sherlock nodded. His eyes briefly scanned the cab’s surroundings as the car drove away from the Cubitt home to a destination only Sherlock knew; Although the destination was hardly a concern for the other passengers in the car. 

“How–how did you know?” Y/N asked. 

“I feel like I owe you both an explanation,” Sherlock began.

John let out a sarcastic chuckle. “An explanation would be nice. Also, where the hell am I driving to?”

“A place called Eldridge's Farm.”

“Right, exactly. Eldridge's Farm. How could I not have known?” John grumbled to himself. 

“John,” Y/N hissed. 

John glanced back at Y/N as he responded. “Sorry, it’s just–”

“I know and I get it. We are all feeling on edge, guilty, responsible, you name it. We are all together in this, but right now, we need Sherlock to answer some questions for us,” Y/N pleaded. John nodded in agreement and returned his sight to the road. 

“There are rules that every ‘secret’ code follows,” Sherlock explained. “From the first dancing men message, it was hard to decipher anything, but I was positive that one symbol stood for the letter E.”

“Why E?” John questioned.

“E is the most common letter in the English language, so it's expected that a small message would contain at least a few E’s. There were fifteen symbols in the first message and four of them were the same, so I made the reasonable conclusion that they must stand for E.”

“Huh, makes sense,” Y/N commented, her eyes filled with intrigue as Sherlock continued to reply to their questions. 

“But for the other symbols, I had to wait for the next messages in order to find their alphabet counterparts. Then it was a simple matter of using the next few common letters: T,A,O,I,N,S,H,R,D, and L. In the second message, there was one word that consisted of two E’s. Then I tried a few different words until I found one that fit.”

“So, then you knew what those symbols were? So, you could solve more words?” Y/N asked. 

Sherlock nodded. “Exactly. As I was going through this tedious process, it occurred to me that Elise’s name would be present in the message. With those letters discovered I continued my search until I was able to decode the first message: AM HERE ABE SLANEY.” Sherlock looked back at Y/N to gauge her reaction. His eyes were wide open as if he expected a specific answer from her. 

Y/N only responded with a confused look. “What? Am I supposed to know who that is?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and returned to his original direction. “Abe Slaney is an American. The name ‘Abe’ is an American contraction of the name Abraham. This also factors in Elise’s mysterious past in the United States.”

“Sherlock,” Y/N chuckled. “Just because I’m American doesn’t mean that I know every American. The country is huge! It’s bigger than the United Kingdom.” Y/N had to bite her lip as Sherlock mumbled angrily under his breath, for someone quite smart he could be clueless. 

“Since the man is American, I called a frie–a colleague for more information and–” Sherlock was cut off by John. 

“You called your brother. Mycroft.” It wasn’t a question but more of a conclusion. 

Sherlock took in a deep breath through his nose. “It was my brother. That’s besides the fact, Abe Slaney is a gangster from Chicago and one of the most dangerous criminals there.” 

A silence fell over the car as John and Y/N consumed the information Sherlock had just given them. Soon a tapping was heard as John began to fiddle with the car’s steering wheel. 

“Eldridge's Farm. That’s where he’s at. Abe Slaney. We're driving right into the hands of a murderer and kidnapper.”

“We are driving to Eldridge's Farm; Abe does not reside there.”

Sherlock’s words did little to ease John. “You lied to the Inspector; you could be lying to me…” John mumbled under his breath. 

Y/N adjusted her sitting position and leaned forward so her head was between John and Sherlock. “Just tell me we won’t be doing anything illegal. I don’t want John nabbed by the cops again.” 

John shivered remembering what happened while they were solving the Blind Banker case. ”Yeah, I second that. Sherlock, no illegal stuff.” 

Sherlock did not give them an answer. 

_____ It was very much an action that would and could be considered illegal in a court of law. 

“You want me to do what?!” John gasped. 

“Break into the house,” Sherlock replied. “It’s easy. Break the glass and unlock the door.” John groaned. “You served in the military, John. This should be easy for you.” 

“Sherlock! If I remember correctly, breaking into someone’s home is a crime,” Y/N reprimanded.

“You’d be correct,” Sherlock agreed. 

Y/N raised her brows waiting for Sherlock to continue. At the very least, she wanted an explanation as to why they were breaking into a home. It was an explanation that did not come. 

“John, you don’t have to do this,” Y/N said as she approached John by the door. 

“No–I can. Sherlock! Why can’t you do it?” John questioned the curly headed detective. 

“My coat is not thick enough. If I broke the window the glass would cut into my skin and–” The sound of glass shattering stopped Sherlock further explaining further. 

“I did it,” Y/N muttered as she swung the door open. 

For a moment John and Sherlock shared the same look of bewilderment on their faces. 

“What?” Y/N looked back at them. “If anyone asks, it's because I’m American. It’s in my blood–I’m being sarcastic, just let’s go.” Then she entered Eldridge's Farmhouse. 

A quick expression of pride flashed on Sherlock’s face as he watched Y/N enter the home. Then he and John followed after her. 

“What exactly are we looking for?” Y/N asked as her eyes peered around the dark room. It was in the early hours of the morning where there was barely enough light illuminating through the windows. Y/N contemplated using the flashlight on her phone, before deciding against using such a bright light in a home that she broke into. 

“Elise and Hilton Cubitt’s daughter,” Sherlock stated. 

John and Y/N froze and turned to look at Sherlock’s dark figure. 

“You said Abe wasn’t going to be here!” John harshly whispered. “Sherlock!”

“I said Abe did not reside here. Eldridge's Farm is a BnB. Abe is a guest,” Sherlock clarified. 

John furrowed his brows and placed his hands on his hips as he muttered a few curses. 

“Hey, let’s focus more on finding the kid, calling the police, and getting out of here before a gangster from Chicago wakes up with intruders in his BnB!” Y/N quietly suggested. 

“John, take the rooms to the left. Y/N and I will take the rooms to the right,” Sherlock instructed. 

John grumbled a bit before sneaking his way to the room on the left side of the home, leaving Sherlock and Y/N alone in the dark. 

There was something so tranquil about standing in the living room of a home in which you were intruders. Though, Sherlock determined it was not that different from the frequent guests coming and going as they went about their travels. It was quiet and a small breeze snuck through the cracks in the glass causing a few goosebumps to creep onto his forearms. The other tiny bumps along his skin were from her. It was the only reason. They were alone. It was dark and he could feel her presence standing near him. He could hear the air pass through her lungs as it energized her existence. As they stood there, his mind thought of one thing; That night when he should have gone after her and molded his lips to her. It was that night he should have told her that just like the air in her lungs, her presence gave life to his universe. Sherlock cursed himself. This was the worst of times; he shouldn’t be thinking abou–

“Sherlock? Are you coming?” Y/N whispered. 

Suddenly, a bright light cascaded the room. Sherlock and Y/N briefly clenched their eyes shut before reorienting themselves. 

“I wouldn’t go anywhere if I were you.”

Under any other circumstance, Y/N would have been overjoyed to hear someone else speak like her. There was only so much of “you sound like a movie star” that she could handle. However, there was the context that the man who was speaking was a gangster with a gun to John’s head. Immediately Y/N froze in place as from the corner of her eye she saw Sherlock take a small step in front of her. 

“Abe Slaney,” Sherlock addressed the man. He had dirty blonde hair and dull blue eyes. He stood a few inches taller than John, but his height was still significantly smaller than that of Sherlock’s. However, everything about Abe screamed ‘threat’. 

“So,you know who I am. Bravo,” Abe said sarcastically. 

“You killed Hilton Cubitt,” Sherlock noted. 

“Again. Congratulations on figuring that out–”

“But Elise…” Sherlock continued as he chose his words carefully. 

Abe’s grip around John tightened. “What about her?”

“You killed her too.”

At this suggestion, Abe’s face paled. “What? I didn’t kill her–she!” Worry began to set in Abe’s face. “Elise…”

“Then what about the daughter?” Sherlock continued. 

Abe squeezed his eyes shut. The light reflected off the tears trickling down his face. “I LOVED HER!” Abe bellowed as he pointed the gun in Y/N and Sherlock’s direction. Y/N gasped and grabbed hold of Sherlock's arm as he placed himself farther in front of her. Sherlock’s clear gaze never faltered. 

Then a sob escaped Abe’s mouth. “I could have never hurt her. When I say that a man could never love another woman like I love her, I would be saying the absolute truth. She was mine until that–” Abe’s voice grew sour, “until Hilton took her away from me. I was only taking back what was mine!” 

“She was married, Abe.” 

Abe's sad expression grew into a sneer. “Until death do us part, right? That’s how it goes? But when I killed him, Elise, she tried to fight me. She had her–that man’s gun and was going to shoot me. I–” Abe began to cry again. The weapon found its resting place back on John’s head. “The gun. She–”

“So, you killed her,” Sherlock finished. 

“NO! No, I–she was still alive when I left. I called the police. She’s alive. She has to be.” 

John winced in pain as Abe constricted his airways. “Sherlock,” John groaned. “Maybe don’t anger the man with the gun to your friend’s head.”

Sherlock’s eyes briefly flashed with worry at John’s condition before continuing his interrogation. “Their daughter.” 

“She’s not his daughter. She’s–She looks so much like Elise,” Abe explained. 

“So, you thought, since you killed Elise, that you’d take her daughter instead?” Sherlock inquired. 

“I DIDN’T KILL ELISE!” 

“Sherlock!” Y/N whimpered as John flailed around in Abe’s arms. 

“Tell me about the code. Why the dancing men?”

Abe seemed to calm down with the change in subjects. “Elise’s father. He’s the boss. He wrote the code, so we could work in secret. Elise never liked that business, so when he came, she ran away. She was mine. We're supposed to be married. That kid was supposed to be mine, but she left me. I told her that I would find her again and I did.” 

As Abe relayed his story to them, Y/N couldn’t help but a prickling of fear spread all over her body. Abe was obsessed. He called it love, but he was possessed by Elise. The poor woman only wanted to get away. She wanted to be safe, and she was with Hilton. He never asked about her past. He never asked her to relive that horror and trauma, but Abe had found them and destroyed her peace. With how Abe acted, Y/N was beginning to fear the worst. He was a stalker, kidnapper, and murderer. Who knew what else he was willing to do at this point? It was all about Elise. All of his motives were for her. 

Y/N’s eyes widened as she came to a realization. Cautiously, she loosened her grip on Sherlock’s arm and stepped out from behind him. “Abe,” Y/N said softly and with as much gentleness and care she could muster, she continued to address him. “I can tell you really loved Elise.” Abe nodded. “Good. Now, think about what Else would want you to do. Would Elise really want you to take her daughter back to the business she hated?” 

Y/N could see the wheels turning in Abe’s head as he listened to her words. “No, she wouldn’t–” 

“See. Abe, can I tell you a secret?” Y/N waited for Abe nod. “The greatest act of love is letting the person you love go. If you love Elise as much as you say you do, then you need to let her go. You need to let her daughter go.” 

Abe’s face contorted as he fought with Y/N’s words. Sherlock could only watch as Y/N pleaded with Abe. She was beautiful. The panic in her eyes as it blended with the gentleness of her soul. He couldn’t take his eyes away, and for a moment Sherlock thought he never would be able to. She was magical–no that wasn’t the right word. Y/N was intelligent in a way Sherlock could never be and it was breathtaking. 

Slowly, the gun fell from John’s head and Abe let John go. Soon after the man collapsed to the ground in distraught. In his obsession, maybe he really did love Elise. It didn’t take long for Y/N to find Cubitt's daughter. The young girl really did bear a resemblance to her mother; a mother who was recovering from her life saving surgery in the hospital. 

Abe Slaney didn’t struggle as Inspector Martin placed dull handcuffs around his wrists. He kept his head down and his mouth shut as they led him out to the car. Just as the police opened the door to the guarded backseat of the patrol car, Abe snapped his head up as if he just remembered something. In a loud voice, he called out to Sherlock. 

“M says hello,” then the door was shut and Abe was gone. 

_____

Normally, once a case was over, the trio would call it a day and return to their lives at 221B Baker Street; However this was not a normal case. Elise was released from the hospital a week after her incident and a funeral for Hilton was held a few days afterward. Normally, Sherlock never attended funerals. The dead were dead and that was all he needed to know, but this wasn’t a normal funeral. 

They stood in the back. John, Y/N, and Sherlock, in that order, stood with their heads hung low. Each of them shared a sense of guilt as all the questions of ‘if’ from before filled their heads. Even if they didn’t pull the trigger, it felt like they helped aim. 

The service was nice. There was a lot of sentiment and a lot of condolences for Elise and her daughter. Y/N made sure to bring flowers to leave on Hilton’s grave, but once the flowers were placed, the three of them excused themselves. To them it felt like they were imposters imposing on the grief of a family, and not the heroes they were painted out to be. 

Not a word was said once, Y/N and Sherlock got back to their hotel room. The two kept to themselves as they prepared for their journey home. Y/N busied herself with packing, so long as her hands were busy she wouldn’t be able to think. Sherlock, on the other hand, had already packed and was forced to sit with his silence. Instead, he sat on his bed and his eyes were placed in the direction of the window, but Sherlock wasn’t looking at the view. He was trapped in his own mind. All the emotions and fears burst to the surface of his mind. Sherlock was forced to feel and he felt alone. 

It was the stillness that caught Y/N’s attention. Sherlock wasn’t really one to sit still in silence unless it was for a case, but even then there was much going on around him. After a few moments, the worry began to set in. Y/N left all thought of packing behind as she approached Sherlock’s bed. 

The scene in front of Y/N broke her heart. Sherlock’s lips were shaking as his eyes glossed over, yet not a sound was coming from him. Slowly, Y/N kneeled in front of Sherlock with one hand coming out rest on his hand and the other on his cheek. 

“Sherlock,” Y/N whispered as she feigned a comforting smile. “Sherlock.” His pupils dilated as they refocused on her. “I’m here.” Y/N took a deep breath. “You are not alone…It is not your fault.” Her eyes darted between him before she leaned in and entangled him in a hug. It was the best way to prove to him he was not alone. 

Sherlock devoured the warmth that came from Y/N’s body as he buried his head in the crook of her neck. Y/N was there with him. He wasn’t alone. He was in her arms and it felt like that was where he was always meant to be. In her arms, he was safe. In her arms, he was home. At that moment, Sherlock only thought of one thing. He didn’t think about Hilton. He didn’t think about the failure of a case. He didn’t think about Elise or Abe. At that moment, he knew he was in love. Sherlock loved Y/N.  

Pulling away from the hug, he bore into her marvelous eyes and saw the world. With each breath his gaze fell downwards until he saw her lips. The very lips he should have kissed all those days ago. At that moment, he didn’t care if she had a boyfriend. Sherlock didn’t care if she was his employee, a friend, and his neighbor. The only thing Sherlock cared about was tasting her lips and sharing a breath with her. He knew if he didn’t kiss her then, that every breath he took, every sip of water, and every wink of sleep would never be enough to sustain him. So he did. Sherlock brushed his lips against hers and decided that he wanted it all. With a desperation he never existed, Sherlock kissed Y/N and she kissed back. As Sherlock kissed and ignored his lung’s pleas for air, a voice echoed in his mind. 

“The greatest act of love is letting the person you love go.” 

All of a sudden, Sherlock remembered. Y/N had a boyfriend, she was happy and he was perfect. Sherlock was not, everyone was saying so. She was his assistant, his neighbor, and friend. She was practically Mrs.Hudson’s granddaughter. She was everything he couldn’t–shouldn’t have. 

The room felt colder as he pushed her away. He left her in the room as his legs retreated to the streets of Clifden. His shoes clacked across the sidewalks as his mind came to one conclusion: he was alone. 

______

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Author's note: after 117,809 words they finally kiss. I know, I'm all for the angst, but I promise that it will all be worth it. Please just hang in there. Also, thanks for reading and if you could show your support by commenting or reposting that would be amazing!! Great Game is up next!

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[tremendously-crazy]

Relationship envy except I envy the bond between iconic fictional characters Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson

[emma-d-klutz]

Proposal: in the next mainstream Sherlock Holmes adaptation, Watson is the one with the big ego

"This is Sherlock Holmes and his assistant, Watson."

"Haha, assistant. .......Assistant? I'll have you know I have an M.D., a PhD, OF-3 clearance, a CWA Gold Dagger for internationally bestselling creative nonfiction, and a gun."

[aunhinged]

Drunklock concept: The experiment gone wrong

Sherlock, holding an empty beaker: You said I needed to loosen up, so I scientifically determined how much vodka it would take to make me relatable.

John: You’re not relatable, you’re just drunk.

Sherlock, smugly: Experiment successful, then.

John: And you drank it out of a beaker, didn’t you?

Sherlock: Science is about precision, John.

[anneangel]

Then Sherlock says: "The emotional qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning. I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the rule".

Also Sherlock:

"Watson, you have never yet recognised my merits as a housekeeper" (says after preparing the dinner with his own hands).

"Look here, Watson, you look regularly done. Lie down there on the sofa and see if I can put you to sleep" (says Sherlock after picking up the violin and knocking Watson into unconsciousness sleeping, by playing impromptu for him).

"Except yourself I have none friend. And I do not encourage visitors." (says Sherlock, after Watson inquired whether any of Holmes' friends were knocking on the door given that Mrs Hudson was away, and it was too blustery a day for unscheduled client visits. The only other person Sherlock called a friend before Watson, that I can remember, was Victor Trevor. And they weren't close after Holmes solved the mystery involving his friend's father. As seen in that sentence, Watson is Sherlock Holmes only current friend).

"Watson, It's an ugly dangerous business, and the more I see of it the less I like it. Yes my dear friend, you may laugh, but I give you my word that I shall be very glad to have you back safe and sound in Baker Street once more." (Say Sherlock, worried about sending Watson on a case alone).

"My dear friend, you have been invaluable to me in this as in many other cases, and I beg that you will forgive me if I have seemed to play a trick upon you. In truth, it was partly for your own sake that I did it, and it was my appreciation of the danger which you ran which led me to come and examine the matter for myself" (Says Sherlock kindly, after sensing Watson's displeasure, anger and sadness at the thought that Holmes did not trust him enough).

"You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!" (says worried about an injury to Watson leg).

"By the Lord, it is as well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive" (says in a threatening tone to the man who injured Watson).

"I feared as much. I really cannot congratulate you." (says Sherlock with a most dismal groan, when Watson tells will marry with Mary. Watson is so hurt by Holmes' tone that he asks why Holmes doesn't approve of the marriage! To which Holmes responds with: "love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgment." But a good reader realizes that this is not an adequate answer to the Watson question! Holmes swerved! And remember, that's because Holmes tried to discourage Watson, claiming throughout the case that womens are not a reliable option) Lmao!!

"Watson had at that time deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I can recall in our association. I was alone" (says Sherlock needy lamenting Watson's absence by his side for one of his cases).

And, Sherlock Holmes only refers to Watson by his surnames, as was the decorum of the time, but he also uses the possessive pronoun "mine" a lot when addressing Watson. See: "my dear friend", "my dear doctor", "my boy", "my dear fellow", "my dear friend".

Sherlock also says in many cases that he has John Watson as a trusted man. He also drags Watson to concerts, outings and Turkish baths, enjoys Watson's praise, and even allows and encourages Watson to write about cases (although he says he doesn't like it, he never asked Watson to stop and even motivated him to do so), Holmes also seems to enjoy having Watson around him in Baker, cases or non-professional situations too.

John Watson can now, officially, change his name to "Holmes Exception". Lmao.

[loichte]

Sherlock: Bottling up negative emotions is bad for your health, so you shouldn't do it. Liam: I know, that's why I bottle up all my emotions, both positive and negative, so it cancels out. Sherlock: Th-that's not how that works-

[null-doesnothing]

"Holmes is a cold-hearted emotionless busybody!!"

literally every story canonically written by Holmes:

"I miss Watson :[[[[[ I miss Watson a lot :[[[[[[[ where's my friend/colleague/biographer :[[[[[[[[[ where is he :[[[[[[[[ why isn't he HERE. WITH ME!!! uuuuuggghhhh guess I better write my OWN adventures. without him. *loud sobbing*"

[frobby]

the fact that yukio reads shounen jump is lowkey funny to me cuz like outwardly he seems like the kinda guy who is above shounen like when u ask him what hes fave manga is he would tell you to get back to studying or something but no he diligently reads jump every month

[letteredlettered]

1am conversations with my girlfriend

Me, looking at a picture of John while Sherlock is falling to his death: I don't get it. He's just kind of standing there looking puzzled with his mouth open.

My girlfriend: Don't talk to me. This is the worst moment of his life.

Me, looking at a picture of Lan Zhan while Wei Ying falls to his death: But look at Lan Zhan!

My girlfriend: Right, but Lan Zhan emotes.

Me:

My girlfriend: I'm sorry!!! I grew vengeful! You were attacking my ex-blorbo from my ex-show!

Me: *types this out*

My girlfriend, reading this: Okay, but I still have some petulant things to say about Lan Zhan.

Me: You do? Say them!

My girlfriend: Well, he looks like a child compared to John's stoicism! John is sophisticatedly keeping it in!

[walker-lister]

I just have to remind myself sometimes that no matter what anyone else says, the way a piece of media makes me feel and the positive impact it has had on my queer identity is valid, and that tearing myself apart thinking I have to defend it or questioning my own place within queer communities is not at all important when compared to the almost tangible sense of 'rightness' that piece of media helped me to feel about myself.

[def-not-kaz-brekker]

So uh I might have a crush on my best friend?? And I think he might like me back???

(Read tags for more details)

[denimbex1986]

'Andrew Scott’s success did not arrive overnight. His has been a slow and steady ascent from supporting player to leading man. But his status is now assured: at 47, the Irishman is among the most talented and prominent actors of his generation, on stage and screen.

Dublin-born and raised, Scott first took drama classes at the suggestion of his mother, an art teacher, to try to overcome a childhood lisp. At 17 he won his first part in a film, Korea (1995), about an Irish boy who finds himself fighting in the Korean War. By 21, he was winning awards for his performance in Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey into Night, for director Karel Reisz, no less, at The Gate. He arrived in London, where he continues to live, at the end of the 1990s, and worked regularly, with smaller parts in bigger TV shows (Band of Brothers, Longitude) and bigger parts in smaller plays (A Girl in a Car With a Man, Dying City). By the mid-2000s he was well established, especially in the theatre. In 2006, on Broadway, he was Julianne Moore’s lover, and Bill Nighy’s son, in David Hare’s Iraq War drama, The Vertical Hour, directed by Sam Mendes. In 2009, he was Ben Whishaw’s betrayed boyfriend in Mike Bartlett’s Cock, at the Royal Court. He won excellent notices for these and other performances, but he was not yet a star. If you knew, you knew. If you didn’t know, you didn’t know. Most of us didn’t know; not yet.

That changed in 2010 when, at the age of 33, he played Jim Moriarty, arch nemesis of Benedict Cumberbatch’s egocentric detective, in the BBC’s smash hit Sherlock. The appearance many remember best is his incendiary debut, in an episode called “The Great Game”. When first we meet him, Moriarty is disguised as a creepy IT geek, a human flinch with an ingratiating smile. It’s an act so convincing that even Sherlock doesn’t catch on. Next time we see him, he’s a dapper psychotic in a Westwood suit, with an uncannily pitched singsong delivery and an air of casual menace that flips, suddenly, into rage so consuming he’s close to tears. Such was the relish with which Scott played the villain — he won a Bafta for it — that he risked the black hat becoming stuck to his head. In Spectre (2015), the fourth of Daniel Craig’s Bond movies, and the second directed by Sam Mendes, Scott played Max Denbigh, or C, a smug Whitehall mandarin who wants to merge MI5 and MI6, sacrilegiously replacing the 00 agents with drones. (If only.)

There were other decent roles in movies and TV series, as well as substantial achievements on stage, and he might have carried on in this way for who knows how long, even for his whole career, as a fêted stage performer who never quite breaks through as a leading man on screen.

But Scott had more to offer than flashy baddies and scene-stealing cameos. His Hamlet, at The Almeida in London, in 2017, was rapturously received. I’ve seen it only on YouTube, but even watching on that degraded format, you can appreciate the fuss. Scott is magnetic: funny, compelling, and so adept with the language that, while you never forget he’s speaking some of the most profound and beautiful verse ever written, it feels as conversational as pub chat.

Another banner year was 2019: a memorable cameo in 1917 (Mendes again) as a laconic English lieutenant; an Emmy nomination for his performance in an episode of Black Mirror; and the matinée idol in Noel Coward’s Present Laughter at London’s Old Vic, for which he won the Olivier for Best Actor, the most prestigious award in British theatre.

The second series of Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s phenomenal Fleabag, also in 2019, proved to a wider public what theatregoers already knew: Scott could play the mainstream romantic lead, and then some. His character was unnamed. The credits read, simply, “The Priest”. But social media and the newspapers interpolated an adjective and Scott became The Hot Priest, Fleabag’s unlucky-in-love interest, a heavy-drinking heartbreaker in a winningly spiffy cassock, and an internet sensation.

Fleabag began as a spiky dramedy about a traumatised young woman. Scott’s storyline saw it develop into a bittersweet rom-com, brimming with compassion for its two clever, funny, horny, lonely, awkward, baggage-carrying heroes, lovers who can’t get together because, for all the snogging in the confessional, one of them is already taken, in this case by God.

It was the best and brightest British comedy of the 2010s, and Scott’s fizzing chemistry with Waller-Bridge had much to do with that. The ending, when she confesses her feelings at a bus stop, is already a classic. “I love you,” she tells him. “It’ll pass,” he says.

Over the past 12 months, in particular, Scott has piled triumph on top of victory, and his star has risen still further. At the National, last year, he executed a coup de théâtre in Vanya, for which he was again nominated for an Olivier. (He lost out to an old Sherlock sparring partner, Mark Gatiss, for his superb turn in The Motive and the Cue, about the making of an earlier Hamlet.) For Simon Stephens’s reworking of Chekhov’s play, Scott was the only actor on stage. On a sparsely furnished set, in modern dress — actually his own clothes: a turquoise short sleeve shirt, pleated chinos, Reebok Classics and a thin gold chain — and with only very slight modulations of his voice and movements, he successfully embodied eight separate people including an ageing professor and his glamorous young wife; an alcoholic doctor and the woman who loves him; and Vanya himself, the hangdog estate manager. He argued with himself, flirted with himself and even, in one indelible moment, had it off with himself.

It’s the kind of thing that could have been indulgent showboating, a drama-school exercise taken too far, more fun for the performer than the audience. But Scott carried it off with brio. In the simplest terms, he can play two people wrestling over a bottle of vodka in the middle of the night — and make you forget that there’s only one of him, and he’s an Irish actor, not a provincial Russian(s). An astonishing feat.

For his next trick: All of Us Strangers, among the very best films released in 2023. Writer-director Andrew Haigh’s ghost story is about Adam (Scott), a lonely writer, isolated in a Ballardian west-London high-rise, who returns to his suburban childhood home to find that his parents — killed in a car crash when he was 11 — are still living there, apparently unaltered since 1987. Meanwhile, Adam begins a tentative romance with a neighbour, Henry (Paul Mescal), a younger man, also lonely, also vulnerable, also cut off from family and friends.

Tender, lyrical, sentimental, sad, strange, and ultimately quite devastating, All of Us Strangers was another potential artistic banana skin. At one point, Scott’s character climbs into bed with his parents and lies between them, as a child might, seeking comfort. In less accomplished hands, this sort of thing could have been exasperating and embarrassing. But Scott’s performance grounds the film. He is exceptionally moving in it. He was nominated for a Golden Globe for Best Actor, losing to his fellow Irishman, Cillian Murphy, for Oppenheimer. Earlier this year, he made history as the first person to receive Critics Circle awards in the same year for Best Actor in a film (All of Us Strangers) and a play (Vanya).

Finally, last month, the title role in Ripley, a new spin on the lurid Patricia Highsmith novels. That show, which unspools over eight episodes on Netflix, was a long time coming. Announced in 2019, it was filmed during the pandemic, at locations across Italy and in New York. Scott is in almost every scene and delivers an immensely subtle and nuanced portrayal of Highsmith’s identity thief, a character previously played by actors including Alain Delon, Dennis Hopper, and Matt Damon in the famous Anthony Minghella film The Talented Mr Ripley, from 1999.

The fragile almost-charm that makes Tom Ripley such an enduring antihero is there in Scott’s portrayal, but so is the creepiness, the isolation, the fear and desperation. His Ripley can turn on a smile, but it quickly curdles. Filmed in high-contrast black and white, Ripley is a sombre, chilly work by design, but doggedly compelling, and not without a mordant wit. Again, critics swooned.

So the actor is on a hot streak. Later this year he’ll appear in Back in Action, a Hollywood spy caper, alongside Cameron Diaz and Jamie Foxx, above-the-title stars with dazzling, wide-screen smiles. But could they play Chekhov single-handed? They’ll need to be on their toes.

Before our shoot and subsequent interview, in April, I had met Scott briefly on two previous occasions, both times at fancy dinners for fashion brands. Compact, stylish, dynamic, he is impishly witty and charismatic: good in a room. Also, obliging: the second time I met him, he took my phone and spoke into it in his most diabolical Moriarty voice for a wickedly funny voice message to my son, a Sherlock fan.

At the Esquire shoot, on an overcast day in south London, Scott again demonstrated his good sportiness: dancing in the drizzle in a Gucci suit; generously sharing his moment in the spotlight with an unexpected co-star, a local cat who sauntered on to the set and decided to stick around for the close-ups; and entertaining the crew — and hangers-on, including me — with rude jokes. At one point, while for some reason discussing the contents of our respective fridges, I asked him where he kept his tomatoes. “Easy, Tiger,” he said.

At lunch the following day, upstairs at Quo Vadis, the restaurant and members’ club in Soho (my suggestion), the actor arrived promptly, settled himself on a banquette, and we got straight to business. It’s standard practice now for interviews published in the Q&A format to include a disclaimer, in the American style: “This conversation has been edited for length and clarity.” (Well, duh.) In this case, we talked for close to three hours. Inevitably, paper costs being what they are, and Esquire readers having busy lives, some of that verbiage has ended up on the cutting-room floor. But not much! I’ve tried to let it flow as much as possible, and to keep the spirit of the thing, in which we toggled, like all good performances, between light and dark, comedy and tragedy.

In early March, a month before this interview took place, Scott and his family suffered a terrible and unexpected loss: his mother, Nora, suddenly died. He went home to Dublin to be with his dad, Jim, his sisters, Sarah and Hannah, and their family and friends.

As an interviewee and, I suspect, as a person, Scott is thoughtful, convivial and solicitous: he doesn’t just answer questions, he also asks them. He is not above the occasional forearm squeeze when he wants to emphasise a point. He seems to possess a sharp emotional intelligence. Perhaps one should expect empathy in a great actor, but in him it seems particularly marked.

Before we began talking, there was some studying of the menu. Scott wondered, since I eat often at Quo Vadis, if I had any recommendations. I told him I had my eye on the pie: chicken, ham and leek. “Why would you not have the pie?” wondered Scott. A good question.

So, how was your morning? Where have you come from?

This morning I’ve been at the gym, Alex.

Are you working out for a specific reason or are you just a healthy man?

Just trying to keep it going. Exercise is so helpful to me. I don’t know if you know, but my mum died four weeks ago.

I did know, and I’m so sorry.

Thank you. So, yeah. Just trying to keep it going. They say your body feels it as much as your mind.

The grief?

Yeah, the grief. My friend said a brilliant thing last night. She’s been through grief. She said, if you think of it like weights, the weight of it doesn’t decrease, but your ability to lift the weights does. So, if you go to the gym and you’re completely unpractised you won’t be able to lift the weight. But the more you get used to it, the more you can lift. There’s a slight analogy to grief. I’m just learning about it.

Have you been through grief before?

Not really. A little bit, but not to this extent. And it’s a strange thing because, obviously, I’m in the middle of having to talk a lot [promoting Ripley] and making that decision of whether to talk about it or whether not to talk about it. I’m finding myself talking about it, because it’s what’s going on, and without giving away too much of it she was such an important figure. It feels right. It’s such a natural thing.

Is it helpful to talk about it?

I think it has to be. I feel very lucky with my job, in the sense that, all those more complex, difficult feelings, that’s what you have to do in a rehearsal room; you have to explore these things. So strange: a lot of the recent work that I’ve done has been exploring grief. With Vanya, and All of Us Strangers. So it’s odd to be experiencing it this time for real.

I wasn’t planning on making that the focal point of this piece, so it’s up to you how much you feel comfortable talking about it.

I appreciate that.

Was it unexpected? Did it happen out of the blue?

Yes. She was very alive four weeks ago. She just deteriorated very quickly. She got pneumonia and she just… it was all over within 24 hours.

What sort of person was she?

She was the most enormously fun person that you could possibly imagine. Insanely fun and very, very creative. She’s the person who sort of introduced me to acting and art. She taught me to draw and paint when I was really young —that’s another big passion of mine, drawing and painting. She was amazing with all of us. My sister Sarah is very talented in sport, she’s now a sports coach. And my sister Hannah was very artistic and she’s an actor now. So, she was really good at supporting us throughout all our different interests. What I say is that we’ve been left a huge fortune by her. Not financially, but an emotional fortune, if you know what I mean? I feel that really strongly. And once this horrible shock is over, I just have to figure out how I’m going to spend it. Because I think when someone else is alive and they’ve got amazing attributes, they look after those attributes. And then when they die, particularly if they are your parent, you feel like you want to inhabit them, these incredible enthusiasts for life. She just made connections with people very easily. I feel enormously grateful to have had her. Have you had much grief in your life?

My mother died, during Covid. She had been ill for a long time, so it was a very different experience to yours. But I think they are all different experiences, for each of us. I don’t know if that loss would be in any way analogous to yours. But like you, I love art and books and music, and that’s all from her. Last night, I watched a rom-com with my daughter, who is 14. And I don’t know if I would like rom-coms so much, if it wasn’t for my mum.

Love a rom-com! What did you watch?

Annie Hall.

Did she like it, your daughter?

She absolutely loved it. She was properly laughing.

Oh, that’s great!

And she’s a tough one to impress. But she loved it, and my mum loved Woody Allen. My mum can’t recommend Woody Allen to my daughter now, but I can, and that’s come down from her. So it goes on.

That’s what I mean. Your spirit doesn’t die. And I’m sure you went to bed going, “Yes!”

I did! It was a lovely evening, it really was. Tonight we’ll watch something else.

Are you going to watch another Woody Allen? Which one are you going to watch?

I thought maybe we’d watch Manhattan? More Diane Keaton.

Or Hannah and Her Sisters? That’s a good one. Insanely good. Yeah, it’s amazing that legacy, what you’re left with. My mum was so good at connecting with people. She was not very good at small talk. She was quite socially bold. She would say things to people. If she thought you looked well, she’d tell you. She’d always come home with some story about some pot thrower she met at some sort of craft fair. Being socially bold, there’s a sort of kindness in it. When someone says something surprising, it’s completely delightful. My mother sent me something when I was going through a bad time in my twenties. It was just a little card. It said, “The greatest failure is not to delight.” What a beautiful quote. And she was just delighted by so many things, and she was also delightful. And like her, I really love people. I really get a kick out of people.

I can tell.

But there’s a kind of thing, if you become recognisable, people become the enemy? And it’s something I have to try and weigh up a little bit. Because people are my favourite thing about the world. I think it’s part of my nature. My dad is pretty sociable too. And so it’s weighing that up, how you keep that going. Because certain parts of that are out of your control: people treat you slightly differently. But this phase, the past four weeks, it still feels so new. Just thinking about legacy and kindness and love and the finite-ness of life. All that stuff.

Big stuff.

Yeah, it’s big stuff. And it’s very interesting, talking about grief. Because it’s not all just low-energy sadness. There’s something galvanising about it as well. I don’t know if you found that, too?

One of the things about someone else dying is it makes you feel alive.

Yes, exactly. Even though we have no choice, it does that. It’s that amazing thing, the year of magical thinking.

[Waiter approaches. Are we ready to order?]

We are.

I think so. Are we two pie guys?

We’re two pie guys!

We’re pretty fly for pie guys.

Are we salad guys? Tomato, fennel and cucumber salad?

Yeah.

And chips, maybe?

Listen, you only live once.

So, the year of magical thinking…

You know, when you’re walking along, are you allowed to have a surge of joy? Or are you allowed to just stay home and… It’s extraordinary when it gets you.

Like a wave of emotion?

I had one on the rowing machine today. I’m glad of it, though.

That was sadness.

Just loss, yeah. Just loss.

So, there’s two ways to do this. You can choose. We can do the usual interview where we start at the beginning with your childhood and go all the way through to now. That’s totally fine. Or, I can throw more random questions at you, and see where that takes us?

Random!

Shall we random it?

Let’s random it.

OK. That means I might sometimes read questions off this piece of paper.

Reading takes just slightly away from the randomness of it, Alex…

That is a very good point. You are quite right. But I don’t read them out in order! They’re just prompts.

[Sardonically] Oh, I see!

Talk me through what you’re wearing.

Oh, this is so old. What does it say?

[I peer at the label on the inside of his shirt collar. It says Hartford.]

What colour would you call that?

I’d call it a bit of a duck egg, Alex, would you?

I’d go with that. And it’s like a…

Like a Henley?

And these [pointing to trousers]?

Mr P trousers. And a pair of old Nikes.

And sports socks.

When I am off duty, I think I dress slightly like an 11-year-old. You know, when you’re just plodding the streets, I wear, like, a hoodie and trainers.

And you have a chain round your neck.

This is a chain that I bought in New York. No, maybe I bought it in Italy. It was a replacement chain. I’ve worn a chain for years. Sometimes I like to have it as a reminder that I’m not working. When you’re in character, you take it off. Because when you’re in a show or a play, they sort of own you. They own your hair.

They own your hair!

Or sometimes you have to walk around with, like, a stupid moustache. Or, worse, chops. Actors fucking hate that. Like, nobody suits that, I don’t think. Right? I’m trying to think of someone who suits that.

Daniel Day Lewis, maybe? He can carry it off.

He’s got the chops for chops!

What’s something about you that you think is typically Irish?

It goes back to that people thing. When I go home to Ireland, I’m aware that people talk to each other a lot more. And I think there’s a sense of humour that Irish people have that I love. And I suppose a softness, too, that I love. Those are the positive things. And then the guilt and the shame is the negative stuff.

Catholic guilt?

Catholic guilt. I feel very strongly, though, that I’ve worked to emancipate myself from it. There’s a certain unthinking-ness to guilt. Your first thought, always: “What have I done wrong? It’s gotta be me.” That doesn’t benefit anyone. And with shame, I don’t feel shame anymore. I think I probably did before. But in a way, it’s an irrelevant thing for me to talk about now. The thing I prefer to talk about is how great it is not to have that anymore. Rather than how horrible it was. The thing I feel enthusiastic about is how there are so many beautiful and different ways to live a life that aren’t centred on the very strict, Catholic, cultural idea of what a good life might be. Namely, 2.4 children and certain ideas and a very specific life.

Are there positives to be taken away from a Catholic education?

The rituals around grief, I think, are really beautiful, having gone through what I’ve just been going through. And the community that you get in Catholicism. Because that’s what Catholicism is about, in some ways: devotion to your community. The amount of love and support you get is to be admired. It’s the organisation that has been the problem, not the values. Random question number 16!

When’s the last time you were horrifically drunk?

Good question! I was in New York doing press recently for Ripley. And I met Paul Mescal. He had a negroni waiting for me. Love a negroni. And then we went dancing.

Are you a good dancer?

I’m pretty good, freestyle. Slow on choreography but once I get it, I’m OK. I love dancing.

I love dancing.

Do you really? Do you do, like, choreographed dancing as well?

No! But I’m a good dancer.

Do you have moves?

Oh, I have moves.

Ha! I love that!

It’s so freeing, so liberating.

It totally is.

And it’s sexy and fun.

Exactly! It’ll get you a kiss at the end of the night.

It’s sort of showing off, too, isn’t it?

But it’s also completely communal. It connects you with people. Also, you can learn so much about someone by watching how they connect with people on a dance floor. How much of communication do they say is non-verbal? An enormous amount.

If you didn’t live in London, where would you most like to live?

I suppose Dublin. I do live a wee bit in Dublin. But one of the things I feel really grateful for is that I have sort of been able to live all over the place. I lived in Italy for a year, during the pandemic.

You were making Ripley?

Yeah, we were all over. Rome, Venice, Capri, Naples… A bit of New York. I’d love to spend more time in New York. I was very lucky recently to have my picture taken by Annie Leibovitz. We were outside the Chelsea Hotel, and this woman came up. [Thick Noo Yawk accent, shouting]: “Hey, Annie! Why don’t you take a picture of this dumpster? It’s been outside my block for two months! Take a picture of that!” There’s something about that New York-iness that I love. It still has such romance for me.

How old do you feel?

Really young. I don’t have an exact age for you. Thirties?

Some people feel in touch with their childhood selves, or almost unchanged from adolescence. Others seem to have been born an adult.

That’s really true. I think of playgrounds for children: you’re actively encouraged to play, as a kid. “Go out and play!” And I hate that at some point, maybe in your mid-twenties, someone goes, “Now, don’t play! Now, know everything. Now, turn on the television, acquire a mortgage and tell people what you know.” I have to play for a living. It’s so important, not just in your job, but in life. It’s a great pleasure of life, if you can hold on to that. Talking about my mum again, she had an amazing sense of fun.

She was a funny person? She made people laugh?

Absolutely.

That’s important, isn’t it?

It’s really important. I think having a sense of humour is one of the most important things in life. It’s such a tool. And you can develop it. My family were all funny. Laughter was a currency in our family. Humour is a magic weapon. It separates us from the other species. Like, I love my dog. I think dogs are amazing. And he can have fun, but he’s not able to go, “This is fucking ridiculous.” He’s not able to do that! So it’s a real signifier of your humanity, in some ways.

Also, being a funny person, or someone who can connect with people through humour, that’s how we make friends.

I think actors make really good friends. Because you’re in the empathy game. And because you’re making the decision to go into an industry that is really tough, you need to have your priorities straight: “I know this is tough, I know the chances of me succeeding in it are slim, but I’m going to go in anyway.” It shows a sort of self-possession that I think is a wonderful thing to have in a friend. Also, actors are just funny. And a lot of them are sexy!

Funny and sexy: good combination.

I know! Not that you want all your friends to be sexy, that’s not how you should choose your friends.

Oh, I don’t know. It’s not the worst idea.

It’s not. But I think it’s something to do with empathy. And it’s a troupe mentality as well. You’re good in groups.

It’s a gang.

I love a gang. Do you like a gang?

I do. Magazines are like that. A good magazine is a team, a great magazine is a gang. And the thing we produce is only part of it: you put it out there and people make of it what they will. The process of making it is the thing, for me.

Oh, my God. That’s something I feel more and more. Process is as important as product. I really believe that. You can have an extraordinary product, but if it was an absolute nightmare to make then, ultimately, that’s what you’re going to remember about it. You make good things that are successful that everybody loves? That’s lovely. But also, you make stuff that people don’t respond to. So, if you have a good time in the process, and the attempt is a valiant one, and there’s a good atmosphere, if it’s kind and fun, that’s the stuff you hold on to. One of the reasons I love the theatre is you don’t have to see the product. You just do it, and then it’s done. It’s an art form that is ephemeral. There’s a big liberation, too, in discovering you don’t have to watch any of your films if you don’t want to.

Have you watched Ripley?

I watched Ripley once.

And?

It’s a lot of me in it! Jesus!

Is that a problem?

I find it hard to watch myself. I do. There’s something quite stressful about looking at yourself. Have you ever heard yourself on someone’s answering machine? Horrific! You’re like, “Oh, my God, that can’t be me. How do they let me out in the day?” It’s like that, and then it’s your big, stupid face as well. Mostly, I have a feeling of overwhelming embarrassment.

On a cinema screen, I can’t even imagine. Your face the size of a house!

The size of a house, and there’s 400 people watching you.

Nature did not intend humans to ever experience this.

That is so true. It’s not natural.

I mean, even mirrors are to be avoided.

Maybe looking in the sea is the only natural way?

Well, Narcissus!

Yeah, true. That didn’t turn out well. I’d love for that to be a tagline for a movie, though: “Nature did not intend humans to ever experience this…”

But equally, nature didn’t intend the rest of us to gaze upon you in quite that way. We sit in the dark, staring up worshipfully at this giant image of you projected on a screen for hours. Is that healthy?

Without talking about the purity of theatre again, when you’re in the theatre, you, as the audience, see someone walking on the stage, and technically you could go up there, too. There’s not that remove. It’s live. There’s a real intimacy. That’s why I feel it’s the real actor’s medium. Your job is to create an atmosphere. I always find it insanely moving, even still, that adults go into the dark and say, “I know this is fake, but I don’t care: tell me a story.” And they gasp, and they cry, or they’re rolling around the aisles laughing. It’s so extraordinary, so wonderful that it exists. I really do believe in the arts as a human need. I believe in it so deeply. During the pandemic, our first question to each other was, “What are you watching? What book are you reading?” Just to get through it, to survive. It’s not just some sort of frivolous thing. It’s a necessity. As human beings, we tell stories. Expert storytellers are really vital. No, it’s not brain surgery. But, “Hearts starve as well as bodies. Give us bread, but give us roses.” I love that quote.

Tell me about playing Hamlet. Was it what you expected it would be?

It’s extraordinary. Loads of different reasons why. From an acting point of view, there’s no part of you that isn’t being used. So you have to, first of all, have enormous physical stamina, because it’s nearly four hours long. Our version was three hours, 50 minutes. And you have to be a comedian, you have to be a soldier, you have to be a prince, you have to be the romantic hero, you have to be the sorrowful son, you have to understand the rhythm of the language, you have to be able to hit the back of the auditorium — there are just so many things about it that require all those muscles to be exercised. You know, it’s so funny that we’re talking about this today. Because at the beginning of Hamlet, it’s two months since his dad died. His mother has already remarried, to his uncle! What are they doing? I mean the idea that next month my dad might marry someone else is so extraordinary! So, Hamlet’s not mad. Of course he would wear black clothes and be a bit moody. The more interesting question [than whether or not Hamlet is mad] is, who was he before? I think he’s incredibly funny. It’s a really funny play, Hamlet. And it’s a funny play that deals in life and death: the undiscovered country from which no traveller returns. It’s about what it is to be human. And what it’s like to be human is funny, and sad. The language is so incredibly beautiful and it’s also incredibly actable. And it’s also a thriller.

And a ghost story. It’s supernatural.

It’s a supernatural ghost story. And because the character is so well-rounded, I always think of it like a vessel into which you can pour any actor or actress. So, your version, the bits you would respond to if you were playing Hamlet, would be completely different to mine or anyone else’s. It can embrace so many kinds of actors. So Richard Burton can play it or Ben Whishaw can play it or Ruth Negga can play it or I can play it, and it’s going to bring out completely different sides. Did you do much Shakespeare at school?

I did. I studied Hamlet.

I remember Mark Rylance said…

[The waiter arrives with our pies and we both take a moment to admire them before breaking the crusts… The following passages are occasionally hard to make out due to enthusiastic chewing.]

You were about to say something about Mark Rylance. I saw his Hamlet in… must have been 1989, when I was doing my A-levels. He did it in his pyjamas.

I’ve heard. He came to see [my] Hamlet. He said, you feel like you’re on a level with it, and then in week four, you plummet through the layers of the floor and you’re on a deeper level. He was exactly right. Something happens. It’s just got depth.

Does it change you? Do you learn something new about yourself, as an actor?

I think because it’s such a tall order for an actor, it’s sort of like you feel you can do anything after that. Like, at least this is not as hard as Hamlet. You know you have those muscles now. We transferred it from The Almeida on to the West End. So, we did it loads of times. That’s a big achievement.

How many times did you play him?

One hundred and fifty. Twice on a Wednesday, twice on a Saturday. Eight hours [on those days]. Even just for your voice, it’s a lot.

We keep coming back to theatre. Is that because you prefer it?

It goes directly into your veins. It’s pure. You start at the beginning of the story and you go through to the end. When you’re making a movie, it’s a different process. Your imagination is constantly interrupted. You do something for two minutes and then someone comes in and goes, “OK, now we’re going to do Alex’s close-up, so you go back to your trailer and we’re going to set up all the lights and make sure that window across the street is properly lit.” And that’s another 20 minutes, and then you try to get back into the conversation we’ve just been having… And so the impetus is a different one.

The Hot Priest…

What’s that?

Ha! I watched Fleabag again, last week. It’s so good. But The Hot Priest, he’s a coward. He gets a chance at happiness with the love of his life and he doesn’t take it.

Well, not to judge my character, but I suppose there’s an argument that he does choose love. He chooses God. That’s the great love of his life. Whatever his spirituality has given him, he has to choose that. Is there a way that they could have made that [relationship] work? Of course there is. We’re seeing it from Fleabag’s point of view, literally, so of course it feels awful [that Fleabag and the Priest can’t be together]. But I think we understand it, the thing that is not often represented on screen but which an awful lot of people have, which is the experience of having a massive connection with somebody, a real love, that doesn’t last forever. I think somebody watching that can think, “I have my version of that. And I know that I loved that person, but I also know why we couldn’t be together.” And that doesn’t mean those relationships are any less significant. It just means that they are impossible to make work on a practical level. Not all love stories end the same way.

Annie Hall.

There you go! La La Land. Love that movie.

The Hot Priest is damaged. There’s a darkness there. Journalists interviewing actors look at the body of work and try to find through lines that we can use to create a narrative. It’s often a false narrative, I know that. However, that’s what we’re here for! Let’s take Hamlet, and the Priest, and Adam from All of Us Strangers, and, I guess, Vanya himself, even Moriarty. These are not happy-go-lucky guys. Ripley! These men seem lost, lonely, sad. Is it ridiculous to suggest that there’s something in you that draws you to these characters — or is it a coincidence?

That’s a really good question. I think it can’t be a coincidence. Like, even when you said “happy-go-lucky”, right? My immediate instinct is to say, “Show me this happy-go-lucky person.” With a different prism on this person, there would be a part of him that’s not happy-go-lucky, because that’s the way human beings are. If we could think now of a part that’s the opposite of the kind of part [he typically plays], a happy-go-lucky character…

How about the kinds of roles that Hugh Grant plays in those rom-coms? Yeah, the character might be a little bit repressed, a bit awkward at first, but basically everything’s cool, then he meets a beautiful woman, it doesn’t work out for about five minutes, and then it does. The end.

[Chuckles] OK, yeah. I’d love to have a go at that.

Wouldn’t you like to do that?

I would! I really would.

Why haven’t you?

I don’t know! It’s weird. That is something I would really love to do. Because I love those films. There’s a joy to them. It’s something I would love to embrace now. When I was growing up, as a young actor, I did want to play the darkness. With Moriarty, I was like, “I’ve got this in me and I’d like to express it.” And, conversely, now I think the opposite. I know that’s a little bit ironic, given I’ve just played Tom Ripley. Ha! But I have just played it, and I have spent a lot of time in characters that are isolated. And I was in a play [Vanya] that was one person. I don’t feel sad doing those things. It’s cathartic. But I would love the idea of doing something different.

Also, you don’t strike me as a person who is especially morose.

No! No, no, no. I’m not. But again, we all contain multitudes. My mother’s legacy was so joyful. Not that she didn’t have her soulful moments, because of course she did. I mean this as the opposite of morbidity, but it doesn’t end well for any of us, it really doesn’t. So bathing in the murkier waters, it’s wonderful to be able to explore that side of you, but also the opposite is true, the idea of joy and fun and lightness is something I’m definitely interested in. Like a musical! I’d love to be in a musical. I’ve just done a cameo in a comedy that I can’t talk about yet. It was just a day, with someone I really love, and it just lifted me up. But of course, there’s the stuff that people associate you with, and that’s what brings you to the table.

You played a baddie really well, so you get more baddies.

Yeah. You have to be quite ferocious about that. You have to go, “Oh, wow, that really is a great film-maker, that’s a lovely opportunity…” But how much time do you have left and what do you want to put out to the world? I feel like I want to be able to manifest what I have within me now. That’s a wonderful thing to be able to do. It’s such a privilege. And I feel so grateful for the opportunities I’ve been given. But why not get out of the hay barn and play in the hay?

Ripley has been well received. Do you read reviews?

I read some of them.

Why?

I’m interested in the audience. You know when people say, “You should never care about what other people think?” Of course I care what people think.

Ripley is excellent, but it’s quite gruelling to watch. Was it gruelling to make?

Yeah.

Because you have to inhabit this deeply unhappy person?

Maybe not unhappy. But very isolated, I think that’s key. It was hard. There was a huge amount of actual acting. Doing 12-hour days for almost a year. I’m not necessarily convinced you should act that much.

Ripley is himself an actor. He puts on other people’s identities because he doesn’t like his own. He doesn’t like himself. Some people think actors are people who don’t like themselves so you pretend to be other people, assume other identities. Or maybe it’s that actors are hollow shells. When you’re not acting, there’s no one there. No you. Sorry to be rude.

No, it’s not rude at all. I totally understand it. But I find it to be completely the opposite of what I’ve learnt. The essence of acting, for me, the great catharsis of it, is that you’re not pretending to be somebody else, you’re exploring different sides of yourself. You’re going, who would I be in these circumstances? Some of the darkest, most unhappy people I know are the people who say, “I don’t have an angry bone in my body.” Then why do I feel so tense around you? People who have no anger… I remember I used to have it with some religious people when I was growing up. People proclaiming that they’re happy or good or kind, that does not necessarily mean that they are happy or good or kind. That’s the brand they’re selling. I’ve always liked that expression: “fame is the mask that eats into the face.” How do you keep a healthy life when you’re pretending to be other people? You do it by going, “I’m going to admit I have a dark side.” It’s much healthier to shout at a fictional character in a swimming pool [as Moriarty does in Sherlock] than it is to be rude to a waiter in a restaurant, in real life.

You find that therapeutic?

Yes, you’re still expressing that anger. I think it is therapeutic.

So playing Tom Ripley every day for a year, were you able to exorcise something, or work through something?

Well, that’s why I found Tom Ripley quite difficult. He’s hard to know, and a harder character to love. If you think of Adam in All of Us Strangers, you go, “OK, I understand what your pain is.” What I understand with Tom, the essence of that character, is that he’s somebody who has a big chasm that is unknowable, perhaps even to himself. We’re all a little bit like that, we’re all sometimes mysterious to ourselves — “I don’t know why I did that…” — but to have empathy for someone like that is difficult. You know the boy in your class who gets bullied, and it’s awful, and you try and understand it but he doesn’t make it easier for himself? That’s the way I feel about Tom Ripley. It’s a thorny relationship. Your first job as an actor is to advocate for the character. That’s why I hate him being described as a psychopath. Everyone else can say what they like about him, but I have to be like, ‘Maybe he’s just… hangry?’ So you have to try and empathise, try and understand. When we call people who do terrible things monsters — “This evil monster!” — I think that’s a way of absenting yourself from that darkness. Because it’s not a monster. It’s a human being that did this. You can’t look away from the fact that human beings, sometimes for completely unknowable reasons, do terrible things. And that’s why it’s interesting when people talk about Tom Ripley. They say, “Have you ever met a Tom Ripley type?” The reason the character is so enduring is because there’s Tom Ripley in all of us. That’s why we kind of want him to get away with it. That’s [Highsmith’s] singular achievement, I think.

I find reading the Ripley books quite unpleasant. It’s a world I really don’t want to spend any time in. I read two of them preparing for this. She’s a great writer, but they’re horrible characters; it’s a depressing world.

I agree. That’s what I found most challenging. Where is the beating heart here? How much time do I want to spend here? And when you do, well, it took its toll. It did make me question how much time I want to spend with that character, absolutely. That’s the truth.

The way you play him, he’s very controlled. You didn’t play him big.

I think it’s important to offer up difference facets of the character to the director and he chooses the ones he feels marry to his vision. And those are the ones [Steven Zaillian] chose. And he executed those expertly.

Are you a member of any clubs?

Yeah, I’m a member of the Mile High Club. No, no…

That’ll do nicely.

OK, that’s my answer.

What’s your earliest memory?

Do they still have, I think it’s called a play pen?

Sort of like tiny little jails for toddlers? What a good idea they were!

I remember being massively happy in it. My mother used to say she just used to fling me in that thing and give me random kitchen utensils. I don’t know, like a spoon. I’ve always been quite good in my own company. I really remember being left to my own imagination and being very happy.

Do you live alone now?

Yeah.

Is that not lonely?

Of course I’ve experienced that but, ultimately, no. I don’t know if that’s the way I’m going to be for the rest of my life. But I certainly don’t feel lonely. I’ve got so much love in my life.

Would it be OK if you lived alone for the rest of your life?

Yeah. It would be OK. One of my great heroes is Esther Perel.

I don’t know who that is.

Esther Perel. She’s a sort of love and relationships expert, a therapist, and she’s a writer. A real hero, I think you’d really dig her. She talks about relationships and the mythology around them. The difference between safety and freedom. She talks with real compassion about both men and women; she talks about this idea of what we think we want, and what we really want. And how there’s only one prototype for a successful life, really, or a successful relationship. Which is: you meet somebody, da-da-da, you fall in love, da-da-da, you have kids, da-da-da. And that prototype just can’t suit every person in the world. There are some people who live in the world who might see their partner every second Tuesday and that suits them. And to be able to understand and communicate your own preference at any given time is really the aim. To be able to say, “At the moment I’m happy in the way I am, but maybe at some point…” I’ve lived with people before, and maybe I will again, but at the moment it feels right to sort of keep it fluid.

The difficulty, of course, with relationships, is there’s another person with their own preferences. Maybe you’re OK with every second Tuesday, but they need Thursdays and Fridays, too…

But isn’t that the beauty of love? That you construct something, like a blanket. You stitch all these things together. One of the things about being gay and having a life that ultimately is slightly different from the majority of people’s, is you learn that you can create your own way of living, that is different and wonderful. A homosexual relationship doesn’t necessarily have to ape what a heterosexual relationship is. That’s a very important thing to acknowledge. I mean, of course, if you want to do that, that’s brilliant. But you don’t have to. To me, the worst thing is to be dishonest or uncommunicative or unhappy or joyless in a relationship. It’s much more important to be able to have a difficult conversation or a brave conversation about how you feel or what you want. So many of my gay friends, I feel very proud of them, really admiring of the fact we have these conversations. It seems very adult and very loving to be able to acknowledge that the difference between safety and freedom can be real torture for some people. How do I love somebody, and still keep my own sense of autonomy and adventure? That’s a real problem. That’s what Esther Perel says. It’s one of the biggest causes of the demise of a relationship. That people coast along, they can’t have that conversation, and then the whole bottom falls out of the boat.

I wasn’t necessarily going to ask you about being gay. One tries to avoid labelling you as “gay actor Andrew Scott” instead of “actor Andrew Scott, who happens to be gay”. But since we’re talking about it already: because you’re famous, you become a de facto spokesperson for gay people. People look to you for the “gay opinion.” Are you OK with that?

I’ll tell you my thoughts on that. If I talk about it in every interview, it sounds like I want to talk about it in every interview. And, of course, I’m asked about it in most interviews, so I’m going to answer it because I’m not ashamed of it. But sometimes I think the more progressive thing to do is what you’re saying: to not talk about it and hopefully for people to realise that if you had to go into work every single day and they said, “Hey, Alex! Still straight? How’s that going?”… I mean, being gay is not even particularly interesting, any more than being straight is. But I understand, and I’m happy to talk about it. I suppose it depends on the scenario. I just don’t want to ever give the impression that it isn’t a source of huge joy in my life. And at this stage in my life, rather than talk about how painful it might have been or the shame, or not getting cast in things [because of it], actually, I’m so proud of the fact that I’m able to play all these different parts and, hopefully, in some ways it demystifies it and makes people — not just gay people, but all people — go, “Oh, yeah, that’s great that it’s represented in the world, but being gay is not your number-one attribute.” The problem is it becomes your schtick. Frankly, I feel like I’ve got just a bit more to offer than that.

Two reasons I think you get asked about being gay. One is just prurience — you’re famous and we want to know who you’re shagging — and the other is that identity politics is such an obsession, and so polarising, and we hope you’ll say something controversial.

I think that’s right, I think that’s what it is. But sometimes people think there’s just one answer, in 15 characters or less. That’s something I resist, slightly.

All of Us Strangers is about loads of things, about grief, love, loneliness, but it’s also very specifically about being gay. To me, anyway.

Yes, it is.

I thought, in particular, that the scene with Claire Foy, where your character comes out to his mother, was incredibly moving.

Isn’t it extraordinary, though, that you, who is not a gay person, could find that so moving? There’s no way you’d find that moving if it was only about being gay. I always say that coming out has nothing to do with sex. When you’re talking to your parent, you’re not thinking, “Oh, this is making me feel a bit frisky.” Anyone can understand that this is about somebody who has something within them — in this case, it’s about sexuality — that he hopes is not going to be the reason that his parents don’t speak to him anymore. And I think we all have that: “I hope you still love me.” And the great pleasure about All of Us Strangers is that it’s reached not just a particular type of audience, but all types of people. And I love they’re able to market it to everyone. Usually they do this weird thing where they pretend the film’s not gay…

Right. There would be a picture of a woman on the poster.

Exactly. Someone who’s playing the neighbour! But now you’re able to market a film with Paul [Mescal] and I, and the fact is that that’s going to sell tickets. I know there’s a long way to go, but that is progression. Before, that wasn’t the case. This time, no one gave a fuck. Nothing bad happened. The world didn’t explode. Family didn’t collapse.

Identity politics question: there’s an opinion now frequently expressed that gay people ought to be played by gay actors, and so on. What are your thoughts on that?

The way I look at it, if somebody was to make a film about my life — it’d be quite a weird film — would I want only gay actors to be auditioned to play me? I would say that I’m more than my sexuality. But there might be another gay person who feels that’s incredibly important to who they are and how they would like to be represented on film. How do we balance that? I don’t know. I don’t have an easy answer on that. I think it’s a case-by-case thing.

You’ve played straight people and gay people. You’re Irish but you’ve played English people and American people. I would hope you would be able to continue doing that.

The question I suppose is opportunity, and who gets it. It was very frustrating to me, when I was growing up, that there were no gay actors.

Well, there were lots of gay actors…

But not “out” gay actors. Now there are more. Representation is so important. So I think it’s complicated, and nuanced. And talking about it in a general way rather than a specific way is not always helpful. It depends which film we are talking about. Which actor.

You were spared the curse of instant mega-fame, aged 22. Would you have handled that well?

No. I think all that scrutiny and opinion, it’s a lot. Now I’m able to look at a bad review or somebody saying something really horrible about the way I look, or even someone saying really nice things about that, and go [shrugs]. Before, when that happened, it was devastating. But I survived and it was fine, and I got another job and I was able to kiss someone at a disco, so… Whereas if you’re 22 and you don’t have that experience behind you, you go, “Oh, my God. This is horrible, what do I do?” And also, there’s much more scrutiny now, so much more. I think that must be really hard. Social media is a crazy thing, isn’t it?

I think it’s a horrible thing, on the whole.

That thing you were saying about cinema, about how it’s not natural to see yourself, or other people like that… The amount of information that we’re supposed to absorb and process? Wow. You wake up in the morning and you’re already looking at it.

They used to say that the fame of TV actors was of a different order because they are in your home. People felt they knew the stars of Coronation Street in a much more intimate way, while movie stars, Cary Grant or whoever, these were much more remote, almost mythical creatures. People who are famous on Instagram or TikTok are in the palm of your hand talking to you all day.

And it’s so interesting what people on social media choose to tell you about their lives, even when nobody’s asking them any questions. Like, is that person insane? It’s a very dangerous thing. I find it troubling.

Do you think things are getting better or are they getting worse?

That’s such a good question. I have to believe they’re getting better. I don’t know what that says about me.

It says you’re an optimist.

I think I am an optimist.

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever put in your mouth?

Fucking hell. Do you know what I don’t like? Any food that you don’t have to put any effort into eating.

Give me an example.

Custard.

Yes!

I don’t mind ice cream, because it’s got a bit of texture. But I don’t like mashed potato. I don’t like creamed potatoes, or creamed anything.

Risotto?

Absolutely borderline. So if it’s got a little bite to it, it’s OK. But baby food. Ugh! Makes me feel a bit sick.

What’s your favourite of your own body parts?

Ahahah! What do I like? What have we got? I don’t mind my nose? My eyes are OK. Like, my eyes are definitely expressive, God knows. Fucking hell. I remember I was in rehearsal once, and the director said, “Andrew, I just don’t know what you’re thinking.” And the whole company started to laugh. They were like “You don’t? What the fuck is wrong with you?” Because I think I’ve got quite a readable face.

Which is a tool for an actor, right?

It can be a tool for an actor. But you have to learn what your face does, as an actor. On film, your thoughts really are picked up.

What’s your favourite body part that belongs to someone else?

I like hands. And I like teeth. Someone with a nice smile.

Are you similar to your dad?

Yeah, I am. He’s pretty soft-natured, which I think I am, to a degree. He likes fun, too. And he likes people. He’s good at talking to people. He’s kind of sensitive, emotional. He’s a lovely man, a very dutiful dad to us, very loyal.

Would you miss the attention if your fame disappeared overnight?

I definitely think I would miss an audience, if that’s what you mean. The ability to tell a story in front of an audience, I’d miss that. Not to have that outlet.

Before you got famous, you were having a pretty decent career, working with good people, getting interesting parts. Would it have been OK to just carry on being that guy, under the radar?

Oh, my God, yes. Absolutely.

Would you have preferred that to the fame?

The thing is, what it affords you is the opportunity to be cast in really good stuff. You get better roles, particularly on screen. And I’m quite lucky. I have a manageable amount of fame, for the most part.

Some people are born for fame. They love it. They’re flowers to the sun. Others should never have become famous. They can’t handle it. You’ve found you’re OK with it.

Do you know what I feel? I feel, if I was in something I didn’t like, if I was getting lots of attention for something I didn’t feel was representative of me, I think I’d feel quite differently. I feel very relaxed, doing this interview with you today. I feel like, whatever you’re going to ask me, I would feel self-possessed enough to say, “Alex, do you mind if we don’t talk about that?”

Shall we leave it there, then?

Thank you. That was lovely.'

[gasogene]

sherlock holmes moving through the world feeling that there is something intrinsically wrong with him will never not get to me. the defensiveness of his moods (of which autism is often comorbid with bipolar...though autism did not have its diagnostic criteria until the 1940s, bipolar was called circular insanity in the 1850s...not that any of this matters...the brain was not born in a vacuum and all is possible!) and the abuse of various substances to cope with them are so revealing. him needing to find his place in society to the point he literally invents a new career because there's nothing else out there that meets his needs, especially that of human connection... there is a palpable fear about himself not meeting an arbitrary standard. despite this, sherlock holmes IS able to find someone that wholly embraces all of those things that he had to put on the table in ASIS and it's bittersweet

[episodeoftv]

I was feeling impatient so I decided to end the first poll early since these two were pretty far in the lead

Edit: consider what you would submit‚ what you’d vote for‚ stuff like that

Also note that this is only one day long SPEEDROUND

After I get the results of this‚ I’ll probably post a submissions form within the day.

[aunhinged]

Broken promises pact AU 01

(Or the “ill disappear, right after I sabotage you” Treaty)

Sherlock and John make a pact that if they ever feel their relationship slipping, they’ll break up and disappear from each other’s lives forever.

Throughout this, there’s a desperate, unspoken yearning between them, as neither wants the relationship to end but both are too stubborn to admit they need each other. It’s a twisted game of one-upmanship, where their acts of sabotage are more about keeping the connection alive than destroying it.

After a minor argument, John impulsively invokes the pact. But instead of adhering to it and walking away, both he and Sherlock spiral into a chaotic series of events, each trying to sabotage the other’s life, pushing boundaries to prove they can’t live without one another.

An hour later, John’s back at the flat, holding a giant inflatable flamingo. Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

Sherlock: What’s that for?

John: I thought you could use a floatie, you know, for all that drowning you’re doing in your own misery.

Sherlock’s mouth twitches as he tries to maintain his aloofness.

Sherlock: Really? A flamingo?

John: Of course! You can’t drown if you’re floating, right? This is me, saving your life.

[vxctorx]

[ is it really too much to ask for someone to write the granada/book version of sherlock holmes? ]