These Days

Tests Aren't All Bad

After the class Sherlock sat outside on a bench, the red van, that had contained Mary, was long gone, and he was just kind of sitting here to make sure no child got hit by a car or anything. Of course, if they had, he wouldn't really complain, one less mouth to feed gross cafeteria food to. The weekend had come at last, and that meant only two more days until Hamish's test. He was confident in the boy's ability to get in, but every time he thought of it his stomach started to feel weightless and his legs started wobbling around like Jell-O. What was he to expect of this meeting? What would John do, how would he act? Sherlock really hoped he wasn't the only one who felt so nervous; he hoped John got butterflies whenever they made eye contact, not so he knew that John might just have the same feelings but to know that it was a normal human reaction. Sherlock had never felt this way about anyone, he's never felt this way period, and he might just be able to blame it on a head cold due to change of seasons. There was nothing special about Mr. Watson, sure he was brilliant to talk to, sure just the sight of him was able to improve Sherlock's day drastically, and of course he was easily the most handsome man Sherlock had ever seen, but there was nothing between them and there never will be. Sherlock didn't even want there to be something between them anyway, so why was he sitting here thinking so hard about it, convincing himself that John was just another human in this mess of society? The trees surrounding the parking lot were now turning brown, half of them had lost their color and a couple of crunchy dead leaves were skittering around the asphalt as cars drove by. Soon it would be fall, which was fine with Sherlock, he wasn't really emotionally attached to summer like some of the beach bum weirdos, but he enjoyed the heat. Soon the knit scarves would reappear, and the coffee and the pumpkin spice candles that made him want to throw up. Even the prized roses were wilting a little bit; the once beautiful red was turning a droopy brown color. Finally the line of cars vanished, and when he went back inside to collect his bag there was no one under four feet walking around, thank god. Mrs. Hudson was right, teaching was a terrible job for someone who hated kids, but it was a good job for someone who hated adults as well. He walked to the classroom and got his bag, turning off the light and pulling the door shut so that no hobos could wander in and live in his classroom for the weekend. Honestly Sherlock didn't get the point of locking the door, but he had to because it was 'school policy', but literally who was going to break into a school and go sit in his classroom? The most valuable thing in there was the swivel chair that he had bought with his own money. Sherlock drove home in silence, not playing the radio and just staring at the yellow lines on the road, or the bumper stickers on the car in front of him. Thank god they had those family stickers, now, if he had to kill them, he'd know how many bullets to bring. Oh, he was such a morbid man, sometimes he wondered if maybe there was something wrong with him.
"I'm back!" he called to Mrs. Hudson. She was in the living room for once, sitting on the couch and drinking tea. The TV was on, playing one of those stupid soap operas that she loved so much.
"Hello dear." She said happily. Sherlock hung his bag on the coat rack, walking in and looking at the TV. Now there was a girl with long blonde hair sobbing about something stupid.
"Good to see you're watching something educational." Sherlock sighed.
"Oh, you just wont understand." Mrs. Hudson sighed.
"Why not?" Sherlock asked.
"Because you don't have feelings." Mrs. Hudson decided with a sarcastic smile. Sherlock didn't say anything, or even force a smile back. She was right of course.
"That doesn't mean I can't watch crap television." He defended.
"I made some cookies a bit earlier; they should be cooled off if you would like one." Mrs. Hudson pointed out, turning off the TV and standing up with her tea cup. Now that she mentioned it Sherlock did smell an amazing scent coming from the kitchen.
"Sugar?" he asked.
"How'd you guess?" Mrs. Hudson asked sarcastically. He followed her into the kitchen where at least two batches of sugar cookies were set up on cooling racks all over the counter. Mrs. Hudson handed him one and took one for herself.
"So how was work?" she asked. Sherlock sighed, sitting up on the flour covered counter and kicking his long legs gently against the wood.
"I guess it's wrong to tell children Santa isn't real." He sighed. Mrs. Hudson just sighed, as if she should've seen this coming.
"No, it's not really something you tell them." She decided. "I'm slightly worried about how you're teaching these kids, I know you think it's the best way, but if you're being too negative about it they might be a bit upset. They are only children after all." Mrs. Hudson pointed out.
"I'm doing what is best for them..." Sherlock started.
"What you think is best for them." She pointed out.
"Yes, yes, thank you for your input Mrs. Hudson. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be upstairs." Sherlock sighed. He stuffed the rest of the cookie into his mouth, which was actually really good, but he didn't want to show any emotion, sulking up the steps to his apartment and slamming the door rather aggressively. He was doing the right thing, he knew he was, and even if other people didn't see it then he did. And when the next generation grows up to be somewhat bearable they'll be thanking him.