The Making Of

Venice

Wales 2011

'Well that's going in the blooper reel!'

'I am so sorry,' said Ben, his words broken and disjointed as he tried to stop laughing. He placed his hand on the back of my head. 'Are you alright?'

'I'm fine,' I replied with a chuckle.

It took everyone on set a few minutes to calm down, wiping away tears of laughter and catching their breath. We went behind the monitor and watched the moment back; Ben pulling me into a kiss and closing the door with his foot, spinning me around and pushing me back against the door. The boom mic had picked up the sound of my head hitting the door; the hard clunk, followed by my swearing and Ben's panic as he made sure I was okay.

'Maybe a bit less passion next time,' Steve joked as we reset the scene.

I stood on my mark with my hands on my hips, swaying from side to side. 'Never thought of myself as accident-prone until I started filming this show.'

'I know!' he replied. 'Think you're cursed.'

I thought back to earlier in the week. It was my first time filming a scene with Andrew; in awe of how easily he could fall into the terrifying character of Jim Moriarty. I was strapped to a hospital bed, feigning tears as he delivered his lines with a cold precision that sent chills down the back of my neck.

The script read that Moriarty would pull out a gun, press it against Margaux's temple as he threatened to kill her in front of Sherlock. But on the first attempt, he took the prop gun from his pocket and accidentally poked me in the eye.

It became a running joke amongst the cast and crew that they were all secretly trying to kill me. Steve would say things like 'if we can refrain from injuring Adrian today, that'd be great.', and Martin had found bubble wrap in the prop department one day, wrapping me in it while we ate lunch.

When we finally finished filming season two, I was sad to see it end. I had never enjoyed working on something as much Sherlock, wishing it could go on forever.

London 2011

'I just can't believe you're not taking us,' said Éna.

I rolled my eyes as we shuffled up the queue in the café.

'The only reason you want to go is so you can stalk celebrities,' I said.

'Yes, and?'

'And I'm sure there'll be plenty more opportunities for you to do that in future.'

'Mm.'

I approached the counter and ordered a coffee and a sandwich. I turned to Éna.

'What do you want?'

'Nothing, I'm fine.'

I glared at her.

'I'm not relapsing,' she said. 'I'm just not hungry.'

'So get a drink.'

'I said I don't want anything.'

Her tone was curt, defensive. I stood in silence for a moment before turning back to the barista.