These Days

What Even Are Dreams?

Sherlock POV. Sherlock sighed, tapping his foot irritably against the heater on which he sat. The lights were shining bright but he was behind the curtain, so it was dark in this area of the stage except for the long illuminated streaks on the dusty wooden floors. He could hear the kids singing their dreadful songs and hear their loud shoes clicking as they walked, but he was only interested in somehow going back to that lobby and talking to John again. There was just something about that man that he couldn't place, something that made his entire body feel like it was on fire, but he couldn't feel the flame. He only felt the warm heat, a pleasant sensation that disappeared when John left. He couldn't see out in the audience but he knew he was out there with his little video camera taping the whole thing, and Sherlock felt terribly sorry for him. At least he was able to ignore the rest of the world while the production went on. But for the first time he didn't want to ignore the world, at least not all of it. When the production was finally over the kids in his class crowded around him excitedly, asking how they did and if he liked it or if he saw them, much to Sherlock's disgust. Of course he answer was yes, even though he never even glanced towards the stage throughout the whole thing. Finally when they were able to go back home Sherlock walked out through the hallways, hoping that he could drop Hamish off himself somehow. Maybe he could pretend he wasn't feeling well or that someone in the other classes had called him a mean name, then maybe Mary would go off somewhere and he could talk to John again. Pathetic, what a stupid idea. There was no way he would talk to John again, it was impossible, and there was no reason he should, it's not like they were ever going to be friends. John was plenty busy with his work, and to be friends with one of the parents just sounded wrong to Sherlock, like it was some weird unspeakable act. No, best not communicate with Mr. Watson again. The parents were swarming around the hallways, roses and bouquets falling out of their hands, cheering for their pathetic children and their horrible performances. Sherlock spotted Mary, she wasn't hard to miss with her gleaming blonde hair, but John was standing right next to her. Instead of watching for Hamish though, he was looking at Sherlock, and when their eyes met the two of them smiled semi awkwardly. Suddenly the fires burned once again, and Sherlock wanted to do whatever he could to go over and talk. The math, of course, John might need help on how to teach Hamish the math!
"You must be Mr. Holmes." said a voice in front of him, ruining Sherlock's chances to go talk to John once more.
"What, yes, hello?" Sherlock said, swiveling around to see a petite woman smiling up at him. She was horribly unattractive, with a gap between her front teeth and her brown hair tied back in a miserable and knotty pony tail.
"I wanted to thank you for putting on such a good production." she said again, batting her horrible eyelashes.
"Oh, um," Sherlock looked up to make sure John was still there, which he was. "Yes, thank you."
"Maybe sometime we could go get a drink or something, discuss what went into the production?" she suggested.
"Oh god, sorry, no, I'm terribly busy." Sherlock said quickly, feeling like he needed to go throw up all that horrible fruit punch.
"I hadn't set a date though." She pointed out.
"I'm sure I'll be terribly busy, if you'll excuse me." Sherlock decided, pushing the woman away and seeing that the Watson family had disappeared. Dang it. Sherlock waded through the crowd, they must be outside, how badly did he want this? Sherlock decided that there was no limit to what he would do to talk to this man again, and he plunged outside into the chilly night. The street lamps were still on, reflecting pale light across the parking lot and adding to the bright moonlight. Sherlock could see the family on the other side of the sidewalk, kind of far away; he could do this though, as long as he wasn't hit by a car. Sherlock started off running down the road, pushing through families that muttered something and even jumping over a fire hydrant, which he was pretty proud of.
"Hey, Mr. Watson! John!" he called as he ran. Finally John heard him, turning around with a confused look. Oh god, he had done the wrong thing, John would never want to talk to him now, Mary was right here, what might she think? They were probably just telling their son about how much of a good job he did, Sherlock was no doubt ruining a family moment.
"Sorry, you left before I could say goodbye." Sherlock said breathlessly, digging around in his pockets for a pen and paper.
"It's fine, don't worry." John assured. Sherlock could sense his uneasiness; Mary probably didn't know about their little chat, Sherlock was being a blind idiot at the moment.
"Mr. Holmes did you see me?" Hamish asked excitedly.
"Yes, Hamish, a very good job." Sherlock said, scribbling numbers down on the paper sloppily. "Here's my number, if you ever want to learn more about the gifted program, talk it over and then maybe we could arrange something." he decided, holding out the paper for John to take. The man took it, his wife watching him suspiciously. The streetlights were illuminating his eyes in a beautiful way; his hair gleaming in the darkness, Sherlock could even see the slight fog emerging from his nose as he breathed. Why did he notice these things, why did they matter to him so much?
"Oh, thank you very much Mr. Holmes, we'll definitely consider it." John agreed, looking up at Sherlock with a smile.
"Okay, yes, thank you, have a nice night." He decided, nodding to John and Mary before turning his back and running back off into the night, feeling like he could run a lot faster and longer, as if he had been recharged with a newfound energy. Sherlock drove home a little bit later, when all the lights were out and the moon was the only thing illuminating the empty streets. He parked outside of the flat and walked inside, being as quiet as he could be and creeping up the steps to his own apartment. Sherlock went right to bed, swapping out his formal attire for his pajamas and laying in the dark, not able to see the ceiling but not wanting to. For some reason he couldn't fall asleep, his heart was still beating out of control, Sherlock had no idea what was happening to him but he knew it couldn't be good. He might be lonely, he might be terrified, he might be nervous that the creepy woman will come back and ask him out again, either way there was something in his brain that wouldn't let it shut down, and he knew what it was. He knew exactly what it was but he didn't want to let it control him, he couldn't think about it because he knew that he shouldn't think about it. He shouldn't think about John Watson.