Fall if you must
The moment the rig snapped, Tom knew something was wrong. It wasn’t the kind of wrong that gave you a second to react, to brace or twist midair and at least try to minimize the damage. No, this was the kind of wrong that hit like a thunderclap—loud, brutal, and irreversible. One second, he was mid-swing, his body trusting the tension of the harness and the mechanics of the wires to guide him through the scene. The next, he was falling. The sharp, sickening pop of overstressed cables giving way barely registered before he slammed into the padded flooring below. It wasn’t a graceful landing. His shoulder took the worst of it, dislocating with an agonizing crunch, but his ribs were what truly betrayed him, cracking like splintered wood beneath the weight of impact.
For a few long seconds, there was nothing but white-hot pain and the muffled sound of people shouting. Hands were on him before he could even process what had happened, crew members and medics swarming like bees, their concern a buzz in his skull. His breath hitched, each inhale burning as his ribs protested, and as they tried to ease him onto his back, a strained groan escaped his lips.
“Shit,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Sorry—fuck—just, give me a sec—”
“Don’t move, mate,” someone cautioned, though it was a pointless request. Moving wasn’t exactly an option right now. By the time they got him to the hospital, the reality of it all had settled in. Nothing life-threatening, but enough to delay filming for weeks. And the worst part? He lowkey blamed himself. Maybe if he had positioned himself differently. Maybe if he had double-checked the rig himself, even though it wasn’t his job. Maybe if he’d told the stunt coordinator he had a weird feeling about today, instead of brushing it off as paranoia.
The frustration festered in his chest, a dull ache that competed with the fire in his ribs. He hated the idea of being the reason they had to halt production. Everyone had worked so damn hard, and now? Now they had to wait. For him. Meanwhile, the media was having a field day. Within hours, #GetWellSoonTom was trending worldwide, with fans flooding social media with well-wishes and theories. Some speculated that he had downplayed the severity of the accident, while others dug into every previous interview where he had joked about doing his own stunts. Paparazzi camped outside the hospital, desperate for an exclusive shot, while entertainment news outlets ran dramatic headlines:
“Tom Holland INJURED on Set—Production Halted Indefinitely!”
“Marvel’s Spider-Man Star Suffers DEVASTATING Injury—What This Means for the Franchise.”
He hated seeing it all. The speculation. The exaggerated narratives. The pity. It made him feel weak, like he wasn’t in control of his own story anymore. And the cherry on top? The painkillers made everything hazy, as if his mind was wading through fog while the world outside spiraled into chaos.
It was in the middle of this quiet self-loathing—half-propped up in a hospital bed, doped on medication, and idly flicking through the channels of a shitty mounted TV—that Benedict showed up. “Christ, Holland,” Benedict muttered, stepping inside with the kind of unimpressed air that suggested he had just scolded a nurse at the front desk for taking too long to let him in. “I leave you alone for five minutes, and you go and break yourself.” Tom huffed a laugh, wincing instantly. “Technically, not my fault.”
“Technically,” Benedict echoed, dragging the chair closer to the bed and sitting down like a man who had no intention of leaving anytime soon. He eyed the sling immobilizing Tom’s shoulder, the way the hospital gown bunched awkwardly against the bandages wrapped tight around his ribs. “How bad?”
“Cracked ribs, dislocated shoulder,” Tom listed, voice dry. “Nothing major.” Benedict gave him a look. The kind that suggested he had, at some point, dealt with another stubborn idiot who vastly understated their injuries. “You’re pissed off,” he observed, not asking. Tom exhaled through his nose. “I just—ugh. It’s stupid. I know it wasn’t really my fault, but I keep thinking…I don’t know, maybe I could’ve done something. I hate that we’re delaying things because of me.” Benedict tilted his head, a smirk flickering at the corner of his mouth. “That’s rich, coming from someone who willingly clings to the sides of buildings for a living.”
“Bold of you to assume I ‘willingly’ do anything anyone tells me to.”
That got an actual chuckle out of Benedict. He leaned back in his chair, studying Tom for a moment before sighing, something wry and knowing in his expression. “Kids these days. You remind me way too much of the stubbornness Valerie has.” Tom, in his painkiller haze, nodded like he understood. “Yeah, man, totally.”
A beat passed. Then his brows furrowed. “Wait—who’s Valerie?” Benedict stilled for just a fraction of a second, then his lips curled into an almost mischievous grin. “My daughter.”
Tom blinked.“What?”
“She’s about your age,” Benedict admitted, as if this wasn’t casually groundbreaking information. “Goes by her mum’s last name professionally, so not many people make the connection. She’s a special effects artist, works in London.”
Tom opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again. “Dude.” Benedict raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“I—I don’t even—” Tom shook his head, dazed. “You have a daughter?”
“Apparently.”
Tom squinted. “That’s not how that sentence works.”
Benedict just smirked, leaning back in his chair with the air of a man deeply entertained by the way the younger actor was struggling to process this information.
Tom exhaled, still baffled. “So you’re telling me there’s another Cumberbatch walking around London, working in film, and nobody knows she’s yours?”
“Mm,” Benedict hummed. “Well. Now you know.”
Tom groaned, letting his head fall back against the pillows. “I’m too high for this.”
“Excellent,” Benedict said smoothly, standing up. “Then you won’t remember any of it in the morning.”
Tom lifted a finger in weak protest. “You—”
“Rest, Holland.” Benedict patted the foot of his bed before making his way toward the door. “And try not to break anything else before I see you on set again.”
Tom muttered something unintelligible, already half-asleep. But just before Benedict stepped out, his voice mumbled drowsily:
“Tell Valerie I said hi.”
Benedict grinned. “I’ll consider it.”