Variety Studio Portraits – Toronto Film Festival [x]

He did not take a bad photo.


Variety Studio Portraits – Toronto Film Festival [x]

He did not take a bad photo.

This is a long one. And the interviewer doesn’t do much at the beginning to ingratiate himself with Keira or Benedict. This reminds that if I ever get to interview him, bring him some snacks. 

Sherlock as a Father - Episode 16 - Lucy

Walking up stairs seems to take forever. I pause on the bottom step and remember a time when I could bound up to the flat. Now, I have to stop halfway up and rest.

"You might want to have that looked at." I hear Ford’s voice.

"You’re not a doctor. You don’t know what you’re doing." Your voice scoffs. I can hear an actual eye roll. 

"I’ll have to do, as your good doctor wants no part in this.”

What in bloody hell is going on? I take a deep breath and steam forward. I push the door open and am not prepared.

You lie shirtless on the sofa while Ford sits next to you on the coffee table. He is holding an ultrasound wand on your belly. You both watch the screen with knitted eyebrows.

"Where’s the spleen?" Ford squints.

"I don’t even know what to say," I shake my head.

Your eyes snap to me. “What are you doing home? You’re not due for another three hours.”

"I wasn’t feeling well and they let me go home to rest." I wave my hand between you and Ford. "Should I even bother or go straight to bed?"

You peel off the couch. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

"Oh, you’ve achieved that.” 

You wipe the gel off your abdomen. “This is for you.”

As you motion to the screen, I notice the bow around the machine.

"Where did you get this?"

"The ultrasound store." You raise an eyebrow and disappear to the bedroom.

"Arse. We brought it home it from the hospital." Ford explains.


"They let you take it?"

I don’t trust Ford’s smile.

"Of sorts." He points to the couch. "Would you like a turn?"

I rub my forehead. “We can’t keep this.”

"We weren’t going to keep it. We’ll return it after the baby is born." You glide in from the bedroom, buttoning a new shirt.

I sigh. “We can’t keep it now.”


"She sounds like Watson," Ford mutters.

"Does he know?" I ask.

You purse your lips. “He helped get it here.”

"Rather unwillingly," Ford adds.

"I can imagine." I set my bag on the table and see a sizable gift basket. "Did you also raid the nursery there?"

You frown. “Mrs. Hudson must have brought that up.”

The basket is filled with nappies, sleepers, bottles, rattles, and a stuffed rabbit. The card nestled inside has your name. 

"It’s for you." I hand you the small envelope.

You smirk. “Anderson? Or Donovan?”

"Probably neither." I eye the ultrasound machine. 

Your jaw tenses and clenches. 

"Who is it?" I ask.

You tuck the note back into the envelope. “Former client.”

"Let me see it." I hold out my hand.

"It’s nothing." You inspect the basket carefully.

I grab the note from you.

'Congratulations on your foray into boredom, Darling. How disappointing to see you waste away pushing a pram and changing nappies. Maybe you'll come see me for a spanking when I'm out. Much affection, Irene.'

"That fucking woman." I crush the card in my hand. "I wish I could visit just to punch her again."

Ford approaches. “Such language. Who is this then?” He takes the card from me.

"Irene Adler," you answer sourly. “She caused us some bother months ago.”


A furtive smile curls on Ford’s lips. “Miss Adler, eh? It’s been years since I’ve seen her.”

We both look at him startled. “Y-you know Irene?” you ask.

"Long ago when she was just a prostitute." He hands the card back to you.

"And you…." Your eyes flutter.

"Definitely. How did you get caught up with her?" He cocks his head. "Did you shag her?"

"I-I didn’t." Your eyes slide to me.

You could toast bread off my skin it feels so hot. I don’t even notice my hand clenching at my side. I’m not sure what passes between you and Ford, but it causes my stomach to wrench. 

"It was long ago." He clears his throat.

I grab the basket. “I’m not keeping it.”

"It’s free baby items," you protest. Ford tuts behind him.

I give you a murderous glare. “I’d sooner keep a basket from Moriarty.”

A pained look crosses your face. “Okay.”

"I’ll donate it. There’s a shelter for troubled women. They can use this." I head for the door.

"I thought you were tired." You grab my arm.

"I’m not anymore. I’ll be back." I want this sodding thing out of my happy home.

"Let me help." Your voice is soft and placating. It just fuels my fire.

"Fine." I snap. I rush down the stairs faster than I should. I’m winded at the bottom.

"Slow down, Lucy." You lay your hand on my belly.

I pause and gather my composure. You watch me carefully.

"John and I had no clue about Ford. Most didn’t know. What are the odds Irene didn’t know about Ford, or about you from him?

Your eyes light up. “Clever. It crossed my mind immediately. I’m not certain it matters now.” You pause. “Regardless, it should be researched.”

"Must it?"

"By Mycroft. I know to not get close to her." You take the basket from me.

I know you think I’m being silly in getting this basket out of the house immediately.

"I don’t think your reaction is ridiculous." 

"It’s creepy when you do that." I glance over.

You smirk. “Your hormone levels are vastly elevated due to the pregnancy and the woman did attempt to have you killed.”

I smile. “That’s just the bonus of being with you. John should have put that in the paper.” I stop. “You aren’t jealous that Ford slept with her? I’m sure a part of you…”

You hold your hand up while balancing the basket on your hip. “It explains some things. Like her need for control and using sex, or the guise of sex, to obtain it. Even if she mildly interested me many years ago when I first encountered her, it was nothing like the sexual awakening I experienced with you.” You swallow as you avoid my gaze. A flush creeps up from your neck to your cheeks. “It wasn’t immediate, but when I finally understood that my emotions were tied to my desire for you,” you pause to collect your thoughts, “I was tortured most nights by dreams, thoughts.”

I reach up and kiss you deeply. I remember a time when I thought about your lips while kissing Greg, the furtive glances we’d danced around even before that. Now, I get to pull you in and kiss whenever I like. It’s a bit harder with my round belly now.

I loop my arm through yours. “Let’s get rid of this and get dinner.”

*  *   *   *   *   *

"When you mentioned a gun, I didn’t envision this." You look at the scanner in your hand with disgust.

I shrug. “That’s what they call it. Shall we start with bottles?”

In your suit, you strike a handsome comparison to other expectant fathers shuffling about the baby shop in worn jeans, jogging trousers and multicoloured jumpers. 

You eye the laser gun warily. “Fine. Bottles.”

I don’t really need you with me to do this. Mary offered, as did Mum. I asked you mostly because I thought it would be fun to see you in a baby shop. You shocked me by only rolling your eyes once when I asked.

However, the joke was on me. 

"Are you taking every pram for a spin?" My back is beginning to ache.


You look up from the overturned pram with narrow eyes. “This is our heir. Don’t you think it is important that we transport the baby in the safest, yet lightest pram available?”

In two hours, we have only registered for five items. I should have known that you would have researched and dedicated a wing in your head for every product. I learn all about BPA free bottles that resemble a breast. 

"This will eliminate nipple confusion," you explain. "Not that any child of ours will be idiotic enough to confuse a cold plastic nipple with the pleasant softness of your breast."

I blush and glance around. One old woman frowns and tuts before walking away.

"While you play, I need the loo." I shake my head and waddle to the back of the store. Why do they put them so far away? Surely they know that most of us have a six pound weight resting on our bladders.

I shuffle back after ten minutes to find you missing from the pram section. A few disgruntled workers are replacing all the ones you took down to try.

A few aisles over, I hear the distinct rumble of your voice. I hobble over to save whatever poor salesperson you’ve managed to waylay this time.

"This one comes with two different sized flanges. Yes, you could order different ones, but in the interest of comfort, would you want to wait?" 

I round the corner to see you in front of the breast pumps. A young pregnant woman and her mother watch as you hold a breast pump in your hand.

"This one also has a rechargeable battery. As a woman early in your career, you don’t want pumping breast milk to take up too much of your lunch hour.”

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" I ask.

"I have done extensive research on every pump available, and some not available, in this store. I would call myself the most senior expert here, and I am trying to help this single mother with her purchase.” 

"I’m not a single mum," she interjects.

You give her a look over. “You will be.”

My elbow jabs your side.

Another lady steps forward. “We considered renting from the hospital because they are more powerful.”

"For God’s sake woman, it’s not a dairy milking machine," you miff. "If you turn up the suction you will surely damage your nipple. Not to mention by possibly over producing and inviting engorgement which can lead to infections. They should make people take an IQ test before procreating."


"Can I help you sir?" A nervous sales girl swallows.

You roll your eyes. “I highly doubt it. This is a store for expecting mothers, yet it’s staffed by men or young girls barely past the age of menstruation.”


I grab your arm and pull you towards the cots. “I’m getting hungry. Let’s move this along.”

The salesman’s face blanches when you fire ten questions about cot safety. 

"How do you all keep your jobs?" you huff.

I decide to come back another day or carve out eight hours to go over this with you online.

When I tell Mary this, she laughs for a solid five minutes. And as I suspected, photos of you pushing empty prams through the store surface in the gossip section of a few tabloids that love to embarrass us. 

The biggest surprise comes from Mum, who sends a text, of all things, that reads ‘looks like Sherlock is really trying. Good’.

Pregnancy does bizarre things to everyone involved.


Benedict Cumberbatch (photographed by Justin Bishop)

Thank you God. And thank you Justin. 


Benedict Cumberbatch (photographed by Justin Bishop)

Thank you God. And thank you Justin. 

You exhaust me sir. 


Some fave selfies

And  my fave: Go J!


My local Sherlock Holmes fanclub takes itself VERY seriously, I’ll have you know.

This is awesome.


My local Sherlock Holmes fanclub takes itself VERY seriously, I’ll have you know.

This is awesome.

Benedict Cumberbatch “The Imitation Game” Premiere - Arrivals - 2014 Toronto 

Today was wonderful and depressing in the same gasp

TIFF 2014 Interview: Benedict Cumberbatch on Turing and The Imitation Game - YouTube

Wonderful interview. By the way, imma spam this mofo with so much Ben, it will be on this right side of epic