only cream and bastards rise

I think it’s a tough category this year. But when I told Martin—because he didn’t know he’d been nominated—I rang him, and I said, “You’ve been nominated in the BAFTA again!” He went, “Is Andrew in the category?” and I went, “Yes!” He went, “Fuck!

Because you’re all so lovely to Martin. And you’re all really nice. You all seem very intelligent, funny, and talented girls. Seeing some of the artwork and some of the stuff that was being written. It’s so good. Martin’s very very very very private—freakishly private, which is a good thing. I love that he is. But I just wanted to say thank you on his behalf and say hi and I fully support what you’re doing. It’s fine! And I’m not one of those girlfriends or wives who goes, “Those bitches!” I’m not like that at all, and I just wanted to say, you’re doing a fabulous job, because you are. I think it’s lovely how much you love Martin, and I love it. I genuinely love it.

Cumberbatch is tired. It’s a dark corner; a candle, a bowl of candied nuts, a sheaf of Sherlock posters on the table. He beams turquoise at every single person in the endless autograph line: “Come on up. Don’t be shy, hurry up. What’s your name? Okay, spell? Where are you from?” He’d said a million of thanks in the last hour and heard more. Thanks for thanks. Thanks for hurried confessions and for each naive, child-like, sincere offering—a drawing, a book, a pin (“I am Sherlocked” goes onto his white shirt, right over the heart).

He holds hands, gives hugs, strokes shoulders. Signs old volumes of Conan Doyle, hats, teapots. Long strand of hair is falling, again and again, across his eyes. Laughing wrinkles laugh. He steals a cookie, a sip of water, breathes out: “I’m tired. I’m completely exhausted”, and immediately lights up again, to return the warmth and gratitude that can’t reach Sherlock onscreen.