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Sherlock had thought he’d worn John out. The party had been its usual tediously-necessary self, they’d smiled for the cameras and had been photographed with all the right people, had touched base with several genuine friends and co-workers, had imbibed some much-appreciated drinks and eaten some delectable hors d’oeuvres, and they had practically torn each other’s clothes off when they’d gotten back to the house.
But it was three am, he’d just gotten up to relieve himself, and John was not in bed. He clearly hadn’t done as good a job of tiring his husband out as he’d meant to do. He knew where John was.
Which was precisely where John was when Sherlock walked into the kitchen. The fridge door was open and his husband was peering through everything there. The refrigerator was better-stocked than those of many of their colleagues – the nature of the work meant that busy actors relied on dining out, craft services or takeaway (and actresses lived on diet pills and Smart Water). Anyone else would have mistaken John’s behavior for a midnight-snack raid.
“Did I wake you? I’m sorry.” John didn’t even take his head out of the fridge.
“Not in the slightest.” Sherlock moved to the stove and turned on the kettle before rummaging in the cupboard for tea. “Join me at the table when you’ve reassured yourself.”
John’s shoulders shook a little with his small painful laugh. “I keep forgetting that I married a bloody mind reader.”
“Merely a highly observant human being who is capable of doing Internet research.”
When John finally closed the refrigerator door, Sherlock had two cups of John’s favorite tea and a plate of Jammie Dodgers between him and the empty seat at the kitchen table. “God bless you,” John said, taking a swig and taking a biscuit. “Do you fly these in overnight? The boxes they sell at the Brit shops here are stale.”
“I have a connection.” Sherlock smiled. “You’re hardly the only British expatriate in Hollywood with a craving for the taste of home. All I did was ask her to add a few extra boxes to her next order.”
John swallowed his mouthful of biscuit. One corner of his mouth turned up. “Listen to me whinge about stale biscuits. I’d have leapt on a half-eaten one when I was a kid.”
Sherlock nodded. “I surmised that you had been dreaming of your prior life. You always head to the kitchen to remind yourself that you are no longer in a council flat with a big family, a broken fridge and a cupboard that holds only pot noodles.”
John shook his head, staring into his tea. “I come away from a champagne-and-canapes do, and when I drop off I’m back in a cold flat or rummaging in a skip trying to find something to take back for the others. When I wake up, I wonder if everything since then has just been a fantastic dream and I’m still that hungry kid. It’s been thirty years, Sherlock. But it’s like a scar from chicken pox, it never goes away.”
Sherlock reached across the table to cover one of John’s hands with his own, which immediately turned to lace their fingers together. “Your therapist has reassured you that this is a normal reaction, of course.”
John gripped Sherlock’s hand and shook it a little. “Yeah, Ella’s great. And I’m a lot better than I used to be. She showed me that we all reacted to the poverty in different ways. Charlie got busted for shoplifting as a minor and started to learn motor maintenance in lockup, Harry turned to the bottle, Eleanor hates to throw anything away – if it wasn’t for her husband they’d be up to their necks in clutter – and Peter followed me into the Army looking for that same stability.”
“You had Eleanor’s same problem with spoiled food, as you’ve told me.” Sherlock took another biscuit of his own. "Fortunately I have never seen that manifestation.”
“All thanks and praise to Ella’s work with me, months of it. I still remember how awed I was at my own courage the first time I threw away some bad yoghurt, instead of just scraping off the layer of mould.”
Sherlock shuddered.
John chuckled at his husband’s reaction. “My films didn’t just let me buy Mum and Dad a house and live-in help. They paid for rehab for Harry, and therapy for the lot of us.” John sighed. “My parents said that was rubbish, only mentally-ill people went to shrinks. But they had no problem accepting a house from someone they thought was ‘mentally ill.’ “
“I’m sure you’ve regaled Ella with talk of your parents.”
“She probably knows them better than I do at this point.”
Both laughed a little.
John refilled their mugs without letting go of Sherlock’s hand. “Well, the others took me up on it, even Charlie. The Army had taught me that the normal world wasn’t like the one we’d grown up in, and I reckoned that was the best way for us to learn how to live there. I’d toyed with the idea of making the therapy a condition of their accepting other financial assistance, but I didn’t need to. They’d never minded me bringing home someone’s abandoned takeaway, and seems that they didn’t plan to turn down a little head help from me either.”
Sherlock lowered his head, overcome for a moment. His eyes stung.
“Sherlock?”
Sherlock lifted his head and fixed John with his eyes, full though they were with tears. “I will never mock Havana Honeymoon again.”
John blinked, his expression comical at the non sequitur. But Sherlock saw him following his own thought processes, and watched as John’s face changed, and a flush came to his cheeks – this brilliant actor who had harnessed his award-winning talent like a plough-horse and had set it to the task of supporting his family. He smiled. “I’ve never seen it after the premiere, but every 6 months I see the bank statements from the university funds it paid into, the ones that are waiting for Liam and Isabelle and all the other kids when they graduate. Every time someone jokes about that film, including me, I remember those uni accounts.” He leaned over and kissed Sherlock. “Please. Don’t stop for my sake. You’re family, and you’re allowed to take the piss out of me once in a while.”
Sherlock nodded. “I wish I could help you with this.”
John squeezed his hand and held up his tea mug. “You are helping. This, and being with me and loving me. It’s more than I ever thought I would have.”
If he said something profound now it would all end in tears. So Sherlock pouted instead.
“What’s the matter?” John leaned forward, concern on his face.
Sherlock affected an air of tragic resignation. “So you’re saying I’m somewhat better than a half-eaten Jammie Dodger?”
And Sherlock knew he’d called it correctly, because his husband didn’t stop laughing for forty-two seconds – and then whispered “Oh, yes,” before leading him back to the bedroom for a prolonged display of John’s gratitude.