The Making Of

Daggers & Dotted Lines

London 2012

October came around quickly, and when I arrived home, the change in season made it feel as though I'd been away forever. When I left, the air was still warm, the evenings long, trees full and green. Now, the sky was a constant shade of grey, the ground littered with fallen leaves, people trudging the streets in thick coats to shield from the cold winds and unpredictable rain. I loved it; always coveting the dreariness of that time of year ever since I was a child.

But when I got back to my flat, I didn't appreciate the cold. It was freezing, dark and eerily quiet. The place hadn't been touched since I left months before, the cushions still scattered messily across the couch, a cardigan still draped over a chair exactly where I'd left it. It seemed smaller, somehow, like I'd outgrown it in my absence, became accustomed to wider, open spaces.

'Maybe it's time to buy that house, Ade,' I said to myself as I sat in the living room, still in my coat and boots, taking a minute to get used to the quiet before I'd have to leave again.

I'd arrived back just in time to attend an award ceremony in central London that night, and although I was tired, there was no way I was going to miss it. Sherlock had been nominated for a plethora of awards, and Ben was up for best actor, which meant he was going to be there.

I'd been disappointed at first, unhappy at the thought that I wouldn't be able to run up to him and hug him, kiss him, tell him how much I'd missed him. But it was a small price to pay if it meant we would be back together again.

But before any of that, there was something I had to do; the thought of it making me feel colder than any October day could.

I had to go and see Christine.

*

I tapped my knuckles on the door and stepped into the office. She was on the phone as she glanced up at me, waving her free hand towards a chair and gesturing for me to sit as she continued her conversation.

'Absolutely,' she said. 'That would be fantastic, thank you. Yes, I'll be in touch. Bye bye, now.'

She hung up the phone and the room fell deathly silent. I felt sick, the anxiety balling itself into a hard knot in the middle of my stomach, keeping me still, quiet, as I waited for her to say something.

She wheeled herself back on her chair towards a cabinet and sifted through it, pulling out a wad of paper and throwing it on the desk with a thud.

'There's your contract,' she said bluntly. 'I've already read over it, but I'm sure you'll want to do that yourself too.'

I cleared my throat and leaned forward, skimming over the pages as she spoke.

'Filming starts in March,' she said. 'They've allowed for a break in the summer to accommodate some of your cast mates' schedules so you'll have a month or two to fulfil other projects. Three episodes in total, first episode to air in the January. The contract includes press and promo - photo shoots, interviews, live panels. You'll also feature in the behind-the-scenes special, DVD extras and so on. Table reads will take place a week before filming.'

I could tell she was angry in the way she reeled off the information; no feeling, no warmth or room for conversation. I nodded as I flicked through the last few clauses.

'£475,000,' she said. 'After my commission, you'll be walking away with a little under £430,000 before tax.'

'Wait, 475? You said the offer was 400...?'