Chapter Text
“This is why I never hang around theatre kids,” Greg mutters darkly while he and John stare across the rehearsal space.
The rehearsal space in question is essentially an empty classroom with the tables and chairs pushed from their shelter in the corner. It is filled with students, standing in clearly defined cliques where people had brought in their friends to fill up the remaining roles. They’re all reading out lines loudly and dramatically, or giggling at the directorial notes Harry and Irene had written into the scripts before emailing them out, or talking animatedly about what role they will be getting.
For John, this poses no problem at all, as he’s almost as excited as the others. For Greg, however, who was practically dragged into the rehearsal room kicking and screaming, despite having already signed his soul away to the cause on the sign-up sheet, each shrill shriek brings him one step closer to leaving. That is, if the way he keeps glancing at the exit door with longing in his eyes is any indication.
“They’re not technically theatre kids,” John points out. “They’re just friends of Harry and Irene. Or friends of friends.”
“Exactly. They’re not even going to be good actors. The only thing going for them is that they’re enthusiastic. They’re theatre kids without talent. Like when people who can’t sing go on Britain’s Got Talent, but without the entertainment.”
John chuckles and lightly elbows him in the ribs. “Oh, come on. Where’s your optimism? You’re never like this before a rugby game.”
“Because we usually win rugby games.” Greg gives a dramatic shudder. “There are no winners here.”
“Wow. Keep that acting up and we’ll have you to cast you as a major character.” Harry grins as she approaches, a script in hand. Her cheeks are flushed happily, grinning with excitement.
Greg grimaces. “Ugh. No thanks. I’m playing a servant or I’m backstage crew. Nothing more.”
“Sadly, other than John and Sherlock, that’s what all the guys here have said. So yeah, I’m afraid no one’s safe, particularly you. Who knows? You could be Orsino.”
John rolls his eyes at the dismay on Greg’s face. “Oh, no, what a tragedy. You’ll be given the lead role in one of Shakespeare’s greatest plays and have multiple love interests.”
“Fake love interests. I’m not getting anything out of it. Unlike you, Mr. Romeo.”
“Wrong play, mate. Also, what the hell are you talking about?”
“Please, I know you wouldn’t have signed up if it weren’t for Mr I-must-correct-everything-and-everyone.” Harry snickers, earning herself John’s glare.
“How do you know about him?”
“Because you talk about him all the time!”
“Do I?”
“Yes,” Greg and Harry both say in unison. John simply stares, his mouth agape.
“I can’t believe this. Complete betrayal, from my closest friend and twin sister.”
“You’re not going to deny it?” Greg grins.
“I mean - yeah I’ve mentioned him sometimes, like when he corrects a professor in a way that’s quite funny, or when I see him at a cafe or something, but it’s not like I’m obsessed or anything,” John says, then adds, somewhat bitterly, “We’ve never even spoken to one another.”
“Ah, well, that should change soon. Look, rehearsal’s about to start. Excuse me, sorry.” Harry quickly makes her way through the crowd to Irene, who has taken a chair and placed it in the centre of the room. She stands on it, ignoring the way it wobbles precariously with remarkable calmness, and whistles sharply through her fingers to gain everyone’s attention. The entire room instantly silences, and Harry stands next to her, suddenly even more significantly shorter than before.
“Welcome, everyone, to the first rehearsal of Twelfth Night.” She pauses, as though expecting applause and cheers. Instead, she receives polite clapping from John and Harry and an unenthusiastic whoop from the corner. “For those who don’t know me, I’m Irene Adler, and I am co-directing along with my friend Harry Watson. Now, some of you may be wondering why we have decided to undertake the arduous task of…”
John stops paying attention at that point and Irene’s rambling fades into white noise. He uses the stillness and silence of the room to try and look around to see if he can spot the familiar mop of curls, or the displeased scowl that indicated he would really rather be anywhere but here that he’s come to associate with his lectures. But he doesn’t seem to be anywhere in the room. John’s heart sinks and his mind races - Is he sick? Has he quit? Will John have to work with some second-rate Antonio who doesn’t even correct professors or has subpar cheekbones???
“Today,” Harry’s loud voice cuts over his increasingly ridiculous and paranoid thoughts, “we’re going to officially announce the casting and try a read through. Now, I know most productions would do an audition process to find the most suitable candidate for each part, but since we are short on both time and talent, we’ve given the parts out pretty much randomly to most of you.” No one seems to be that bothered by the suggestion that they lack talent, knowing it to be true, so she continues, “anyway, please take a chair from the back of the room and gather around in a circle so we can begin.”
Everyone does as they are told, and John finds himself placed between Greg and Irene, the script he brought along held between him and Greg, who has forgotten his as an act of defiance.
Harry reads out the cast list one by one: Viola is played by Molly Hooper, a pretty girl who blushes as everyone claps politely; Orsino is played by Greg Lestrade, who groans and swears under his breath at the cruel whims of the universe; Olivia is played by Kate Johnson, Irene’s girlfriend and shamelessly the object of her favouritism (though Harry has assured John that Irene has said that she was actually a good actress, since she took GCSE drama); Malvolio is to be played by Philip Anderson; Maria is Sally Donovan; Feste is Clara Lambert - the list goes on to minor characters that John can’t bring himself to care about enough to pay attention to.
“Wonderful,” Irene smiles once the list has been read out completely. “Now, if nobody has any problems - “
“I do!” Greg interrupts, looking aghast. “I said on the sign up sheet I’d rather be a minor character. Orsino is not a minor character!”
“Well, no. It’s a very good part. You should be flattered that the hat we picked your name out of thought you were suitable for the role.”
“Well, I’m not. I think I should switch with someone.”
Irene sighs, her patience withering away. “Well, is anyone else here willing to swap with Greg?”
The room stays silent, as people skilfully avert their eyes to avoid being called upon. John included - he’s here for Sebastian and Sebastian only. That’s a big enough role for him.
“Perfect. Greg, you’re staying as Orsino.”
“But - “
“Now that that’s over and done with,” Irene glares, “we can finally move on to the actual reading of the script. Now, this is to just give you a chance to get a feel for the words and the style. You don’t need acting or drama - “
The doors burst open. John turns around, as do the other cast members, and in storms Sherlock, his curls wild and windswept, his coat flowing behind him, and his a deadpan expression covering his face. “Sorry I’m late. I didn’t want to be here.”
John chuckles at that, causing Sherlock’s eyes to flick in his direction for a moment, long enough that John swears he has heart palpitations from it.
Irene is less impressed. “That’s strike one, Sherlock. Do you have your script with you?”
Sherlock frowns, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. “No, why would I?”
“It’s the read through today,” Harry cuts across Irene when she looks on the verge of exploding. “Do you at least remember your lines? I’m told you have an amazing memory.” She smirks pointedly at John, who glares daggers back. Don’t say a word.
“As kind as that is for Irene to say, I’m afraid my memory technique only extends to things that I find to be worthwhile.”
Irene inhales sharply. John smothers laughter at the way Irene’s composure is deteriorating. He catches Sherlock’s eye, who smirks back.
“That’s strike three, Sherlock Holmes,” Irene says.
He scoffs. “What for?”
“Forgetting your script and insulting our play. Unless you’re willing to take this seriously, I will have to kick you out.”
“Oh no, what a tragedy that will be. Me, getting kicked out of a play I’m not interested in - “
“I’d be willing to forgive you if you had a script, but sadly - “
“Here!” John interrupts them abruptly, then clears his throat when he realises that, in a sudden and unexpected turn events, Sherlock and Irene are paying attention to him. “Here, use mine.”
“Oh.” Sherlock glances at Irene, who sighs and nods, giving him permission to stay. “Thank you.” Sherlock grabs a chair and plants himself next to John, leaning over to look at the script, so close that John’s arm tingles just at the notion of Sherlock being near enough to touch it. He keeps his eyes fixed on the script, hoping it would hide his red cheeks.
“Right. Finally,” Harry says calmly, though John swears he can hear a smirk in her voice. “Let’s start - Greg, it’s your monologue. Act 1, scene 1.”
“Oh. Okay.” He takes a deep breath, only a slight shakiness betraying his nervousness at being confronted by this new part - John can’t blame him, he would be as well - and he begins. “Right. Uh. If music be the food of love, play on. Give me excess of it, that, surf - surfacing? Surf-ate-ing? - the appetite may sicken and so die. That strain again, it had a dying fall...”
John watches as Greg drones through his soliloquy, stumbling over his words, monotonous, but determined to get to the end. While he smiles encouragingly and gives Greg a reassuring thumbs-up, Sherlock leans over and murmurs in his ear. “I’m surprised you have time to partake in this, given your duties as rugby captain.”
John jumps at the deep voice rumbling in his ear, his heart beating double time. Okay. He’s talking to me. Just talk back and make normal conversation. Like you haven’t been semi-stalking him for the last four months. “Actually, rugby season has ended now that the weather is turning warm- hold on.” John frowns. “How do you know I’m rugby captain?”
“Easy. Your build suggests you take part in a regular exercise, one that involves running for long periods of time. The bruise on your leg is from being repeatedly tackled to the ground. Ergo, rugby. Your interactions with our Orsino here suggest you’re used to being an authority figure and giving out advice and support when needed. He looks to you for guidance and is another member of the rugby team. There. Rugby captain.”
John can only stare, his jaw dropped and the corner of his mouth quirked up in bewilderment. He is on the verge of responding, something between ‘what the fuck, stalker’ and ‘please take me now’, when he is interrupted by Irene’s voice, barely restraining her irritation. “Act two, scene one. If you two wouldn’t mind staying quiet for one damn minute, that would be super.”
“Sorry, Irene.” John mutters, slightly intimidated, as the majority of the people are. Sherlock simply smirks next to him, carefree and unaffected by Irene’s anger.
Molly then starts talking as Viola, saying her lines with perfect understanding in a way that makes Greg visibly stare in awe, his brown eyes wide and adoring like a puppy. John chuckles, deciding to blackmail discuss this with Greg later, and ignores it for the time being. He whispers quietly in Sherlock’s ear, “That deduction you did just then?”
“Yes?”
“Brilliant.”
Sherlock’s turns fully in his chair to face John, his eyes round and his forehead furrowed. “You think so?”
“I know so.” John grins. “Quite extraordinary.”
His eyes dart around John’s face, as though scanning it for any sign of deceit or mockery, then he smiles and holds out his hand. “Sherlock Holmes.”
“I know.” John chuckles. “I’ve seen you in some of my lectures. John Watson.” He clasps Sherlock’s hand with his, watching with intrigue as his smaller hand becomes enveloped in Sherlock’s far larger hand. They discreetly shake hands, trying to avoid Irene’s glare.
“Pleasure.”
~
Sherlock isn’t entirely sure what he was thinking when he approached John first with his deductions.
Perhaps he was overcompensating for his nerves with arrogance.
Perhaps he genuinely wanted John’s approval, or at least to test the waters for it.
Perhaps his one, singular brain cell allocated to human interaction decided that deductions counted as a good flirtation method, and had somehow managed to take free reign of his actions before he could think it through properly.
Either way, it managed to turn out… surprisingly okay.
They talk between themselves the entire rehearsal, despite Harry and Irene’s best intentions to stop them. John is, adorably, slightly fearful of Irene’s temper, so much so that for a few minutes he does stay silent to listen to whichever brainless minor character was saying their lines in that particular moment. But Sherlock is nothing if not a corruptive influence, and they soon start chatting again. He stares defiantly back at Irene whenever she interrupts them - is this not why she casted them as these roles? So they could finally meet and start talking? Besides, he can tell she’s never truly angry at them when they talk over the other characters; her temper is a fearsome thing to behold, and easily spotted from a mile away.
They soon get to Antonio and Sebastian’s scene. Sherlock hasn’t read Harry and Irene’s annotated version yet, but he watched some versions of the scene online: some had them be just very good friends (morons), or as a father-son relationship (god, that’s worse), but the best ones are the ones that truly don’t shy away from what Shakespeare clearly intended: in some, Antonio is experiencing unrequited love, with painfully sad and longing gazes, or flinching at the slightest bit of physical contact, or subtle imagery that would go over the heads of the casual viewer. In others, it’s requited, and intimate, with sharing beds and secret smiles and discreet public kisses before the two characters separate and the chaos increases tenfold.
Sherlock’s heart rate rapidly increases at the thought that he and John could end up being forced to act in this way, as lovers and not two complete strangers, of whom one is mildly obsessed with the other.
He hopes that last fact won’t show.
“Act 2, scene 1,” Harry announces.
Alright. Time to impress John with your fantastic acting. Don’t screw it up. Sherlock takes a deep, calming breath, shuffled closer to John to get a better look at the script (only partially not just an excuse to sit closer to him) focuses himself into the mind of his character (a gay pirate, so it’s not difficult at all) and begins. “Will you stay no lo- ”
“Alright!” Irene claps her hands. “I’m afraid that’s all we have time for.”
“What?” Sherlock growls.
“Well, I only booked the room for an hour. If you wanted more time you shouldn’t have been talking the whole way through,” Irene smiles innocently. “Great job, everyone. Remember to keep reading through your lines. Hopefully we’ll finish reading through the whole thing by the end of the hour next week. If you’re confused about anything, just ask me or Harry.”
“Or Google it,” Harry interrupts.
“Exactly. Now, Sherlock, what will you do different next week?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes, sending a ‘kill me now’ look to John, who is biting his lip to stifle a grin. “Be on time.”
“And?”
“Bring my script.”
“And?”
“Not talk.”
“Wonderful.” Irene gives a tight-lipped grin. “See you next week everyone!”
While the cast pack up their chairs and leave, John whispers to Sherlock, “Is she always so…”
“Bitchy?”
“I was going to say controlling, but yeah, that too.”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Sherlock sighs, as he holds the door open for John as they leave. “Par for the course. Unfortunately for her, though, it means I no longer have any respect for her authority.”
John grins. “Ah. So you won’t be turning up on time with a script or staying silent in rehearsal?”
“Absolutely not,” Sherlock scoffs. “Well, I will have a script on me. It’s only fair to you, so I don’t have to keep borrowing it.”
“No, it’s alright.” John shrugs. “I don’t mind.”
They part ways, both grinning, and it’s only when Sherlock gets to his room that he realises he forgot to ask for John’s number.
~
“Hey!” Molly runs to catch up with Greg’s longer strides as they leave the building. She never usually does this (neither the running nor the actively seeking conversation with a guy) but for some reason she felt emboldened. Perhaps the topsy-turvy world of Illyria was escaping its pages. (She rolls her eyes in her head at her own romanticism. Calm down, Molly) “Greg Lestrade, right? Congratulations on getting Orsino! That’s a great role to get.”
Greg smiles wearily, his dark brown eyes brightening. Molly finds herself rather liking them, warm and safe and trustworthy. “Thanks. Not as great as if I was actually able to play him. Unlike you - you’re great at this. You got the lines spot on. The part really suits you.”
Molly feels her cheeks flush with pride. “Oh. Well, I - I sort of cheated a bit. Had a head start. I studied Twelfth Night in year nine so I know about the play and the character. If you had the same advantage - “
“I’d still be a shit actor.”
“Not necessarily! It’s only the first read through. Maybe once the whole thing is set up you’ll be able to get into the character a bit more.”
Greg pulls a sceptical face. She continues, “Or… I could tutor you a bit?”
His face softens with surprise. “Really?”
“Yeah. I can explain how to pronounce things or what lines mean, we can go through our scenes together by ourselves, without the pressure of other people.” She shrugs. “Up to you.”
“Yes!” He exclaims, before coughing slightly. “Yeah, absolutely. Sure. Thanks.”
Molly beams and hands over her phone to Greg without a second thought. “Could you give me your number? So we can sort out the finer details. I have a lecture in a minute, so - “
“Alright. Sure.” He types into the phone then hands it back. “There. Thank you, for this.”
“Not at all.” Molly smiles excitedly, clutching her phone in her hand like a lifeline. “I’ll text you when I’m free.”
“I’m counting on it,” Greg chuckles. “You’re a lifesaver, Molly Hooper.”