These Days

Fake Smiling To The Competition

Sherlock POV. Sherlock took out his phone once more just to check his hair in the front camera. As he thought there wasn't a curl out of place, but he had to make sure, he had to look perfect. He brushed off his coat once again and straightened the freshly ironed pants so that they didn't crinkle. The room was as spotless as he was, dusted, organized, every chair pushed in, even the globe was clean as he twirled it nervously between his fingers. This was it, he was going to declare his love to John, he had the words planned out but he was sure when the time came his tongue would tie up. This was a horrible thing to be doing, but it was the right thing as well. He needed to come clean to John and to himself and hopefully getting pounded down with insults and denial would bring him to his senses. There was no way he could ever be with John, and this was going to prove it. But there was that hope, there was always that spark of hope that could only be snuffed by the look of disgust that would surely play across John's flawless face. The time was coming, six o'clock, it was almost time. All he had to do was look John in the eyes, to admit it, there didn't need to be a conversation at all, as soon as he walked in the room Sherlock should just blurt it out. His stomach twisted nervously and it felt like his entire body had static instead of blood rushing through him, he was sure this was the right thing to do, but he was also terrified. He loved talking to John, he loved being in the presence of John and this was going to end all of that. Was he willing to sacrifice it all for that one percent chance that John would be okay with his secret admirer? Any minute now John would walk through that door, any minute now... Sherlock's foot tapped nervously, the globe spinning faster and faster as his heart rate anticipated the speech... He heard footsteps coming down the hall and his heart stopped right there. Sherlock got up, straightened his coat as they came closer and closer, this was it, this was when he was going to say it. This secret would be his no longer, no longer a secret for him to keep. He was sacrificing everything and yet he knew it was worth the risk...
"Mr. Holmes?" asked a sweet, unmanly voice at all. Sherlock saw Mary Watson walk through the door, a pleasant smile on her face. Sherlock's heart fell like glass, shattering at his feet as he stared at the one woman that made his life as miserable as it was. She was the one that was taking his sleep from him, taking his appetite, his desire to live, only because she said yes to John's proposal.
"Mrs. Watson." He muttered. Mrs. Watson indeed.
"I got the email, this is the right time is it not?" she asked. Sherlock snapped out of his shock, trying to regain the fiction that he was totally okay with this.
"Yes, it is come right in." Sherlock agreed, forcing a smile on his face and trying not to look venomous.
"Sorry that John couldn't make it, work was piling up and I decided that he didn't need any more stress." she decided. What did he say now; there was nothing to say about Hamish, there was nothing about school that she cared about!
"That's certainly okay, either parent would be fine." Sherlock assured.
"What is it that you wanted to talk about?" Mary asked.
"Well it was just Hamish, and it's mandatory that we have a little talk with the parents of a gifted child just to make sure the work is adequate, not too much and not too little." Sherlock decided, sinking back into his chair. Mary reached over and stopped the globe, which was spinning still ever so slightly with an apologetic smile.
"Sorry, a bit OCD." She decided, staying standing as if she thought this meeting wouldn't last very long.
"So, has Hamish been experiencing any stress, has he complained about the work he's been doing or not being himself before a test?" Sherlock asked.
"No, Hamish has been perfectly fine; he actually loves the program and hangs all of his good tests on his door." Mary pointed out.
"I'd expect that would be the case, he's doing an excellent job when faced with work or obstacles of any kind." Sherlock decided.
"He speaks very highly of you as well." Mary added.
"Well that's good; I always want to make a good impression of the students. Now has Hamish been studying for the tests, or has he been putting them off?" Sherlock asked.
"No, he has either John or I help him study, we quiz him or write down math problems, he has no trouble most of the time." Mary shrugged.
"That's very good; parent cooperation is a good motivator for the kids." Sherlock decided.
"I certainly hope so." Mary said with a little laugh.
"But this studying doesn't take up all of his time does it?"
"Not at all, he still makes time to play with his action figures or on the computer." Mary assured.
"Good, he should enjoy being a kid while he still can." Sherlock laughed.
"It's all a landslide after high school isn't it?" Mary asked with a little laugh.
"Oh you have no idea." Sherlock agreed. Mary just laughed, but it was a very fake laugh. She checked her watch and Sherlock could tell she was counting the seconds until she could leave already.
"Now do either you or John have any questions for me? I know a lot of parents want to know what exactly their children are going through at school and I don't like to be keeping anyone in the dark." Sherlock pointed out.
"No, I don't have any questions really, I'm sure Hamish is in very good hands." Mary assured.
"Well, if either of you have anything you've got my email, feel free to get in contact anytime if you have any questions or concerns." Sherlock decided.
"I'll make sure we will." Mary agreed. "Is that all Mr. Holmes?"
"That's all. Have a nice night Mrs. Watson." Sherlock agreed.
"You too, thank you." Mary agreed, shouldering her purse and walking out of the door. "Oh, and John says hi." She added with a pleasant smile, closing the door with a snap. Sherlock sat in his chair, staring into space and feeling his anger rise. She was the Devil, wearing a disguise of a nice lady who has the best interests of everyone. She was sent to destroy Sherlock's life; she was here just to make sure he was never happy with his life, to make sure he suffered as much as humanly possible. He sighed, grabbing his bag and walking slowly out of the school, walking to his car in an angry little daze. It was the calm before the storm, he could tell. Mary was a sign from whoever was working his fate, whoever had him and everyone around him on little strings, playing out the events in his cursed little life like scenes from a play. It was a sign that his intentions were faulty, that John should never know, nothing would work out between them. Sherlock arrived home and didn't tell Mrs. Hudson, he didn't say a word. He hung his trench coat up on the coat rack and walked slowly up stairs, gingerly pouring himself a glass of whiskey and sitting in his chair, his emotions churning inside him like a volcano about to erupt. He hated Mary; he hated her, just the thought in his head of that evil woman made his blood run cold. It wasn't just because she was married to John, which was perfectly acceptable it wasn't her fault, but she came instead of him, she kept rubbing it in Sherlock's face that she was the winner; she had beaten him at his own game. John says hi. John says hi. That meant John was thinking of Sherlock, he probably asked to go, she was stubborn, she insisted, she had ruined Sherlock's plans, she had thrown his confession out the window so that he could sit in his house alone and stir his feelings once more. Staring at the flames devouring the logs. Stare into his glass. Stare at the chair. The one chair that was made for John. The one chair that would never be occupied by John. Sherlock saved the chair for him, only for him, now he knew it would never be of use. John would never be in his house, he would never be his, they would never be happy together and Sherlock would rot inside his own body, tormented by what might have been. By what never could be. Sherlock snapped, throwing the half full glass of whiskey at the chair in front of him and listening to the glass shatter, the shards falling onto the floor and the liquid dripping through the fabric into a little puddle. Drip. Drip. Drip. Sherlock got to his feet and kicked the leg of the chair as hard as he could. Again. Again. The wood splintered under his shoe on the fourth try, the chair heaving forward and wobbling slightly. Again. Again. The leg fell out from under the chair in a mess of splinters and wood chips, spraying over the floor and joining with the mess he had already made. Sherlock kicked the frame again, stomped on it, ripped the fabric apart with his bare hands and throwing the wood into the now roaring flames. John would never be his, John could never be his, as long as Mary was still in play Sherlock would never be able to admit his true feelings, to confess his love or express his feelings or finally kiss his lips... Sherlock ripped apart the frame of the now destroyed chair, the weakened wood snapping under his fingers, throwing it at the wall, tears of rage spilling down his face; silent screams never heard echoing through his mind. Soon the chair was no more than a heap of wood and ripped cloth, it had no purpose but to remind him that John would never be his. But he knew that, he didn't need a reminder, it must have gone. It had to go. Sherlock collapsed into his own chair, now alone at last, curling into a little drunken ball and crying to himself. He felt like a baby, but it helped to relive the pain, the built up rage, sadness, and utter misery he had been hiding within since he had first seen that idiot of an angel knocking on the doors of the school.

The next morning he was awoken by a soft shriek, Mrs. Hudson bringing tea.
"Oh my goodness, Sherlock what did you do?" she exclaimed. Sherlock came to, blinking rapidly to adjust to the morning light and seeing her frightened figure in the doorway, holding a tray of tea.
"It hurts Mrs. Hudson. It all hurts." He muttered.
"Sherlock what happened?" she asked, setting the tea down and rushing to his side.
"Nothing happened." he hissed, sitting up straight in his chair and looking at the pile of rubble he had created.
"Obviously something." Mrs. Hudson decided.
"Emotions." He decided. Mrs. Hudson clapped with delight, but then realized that it may not be the best time to celebrate Sherlock Holmes finally feeling something.
"Who is it?" she asked.
"It's none of your business." Sherlock decided.
"Sherlock I'm only..."
"GET OUT!" Sherlock roared, getting to his feet in an instant and pointing threateningly to the door. Mrs. Hudson didn't say anything, she just raised her hands in surrender and scampered out the door, shutting it behind her as if scared he'd actually hurt her. But Sherlock wouldn't, she was the only person he had left. Sherlock sighed to himself, looking around the flat and slowly coming to terms about what had happened last night. He had lost control. Sherlock quickly showered and got dressed, trying to make it look like he had a perfectly normal night at home, tipping tea and enjoying what was left of his life. He looked decent enough to go back to work, and when he pulled on his coat there was no Mrs. Hudson to give him a lunch. Obviously she was a bit scared of him at this point. Sherlock drove down the road to the school, gripping the steering wheel a bit too tightly in anticipation. Today he wouldn't stand at the door, today he vowed not to see that red van. So he sat in his room, the children came running in and he knew that at one point in time John was in that parking lot dropping Hamish off, and he would be scanning the sidewalk to see if Sherlock was there. He would hang his head a little bit in disappointment but then drive off, drive to his happy, carefree life with his wife and his child and his home, to the life he had built around himself, not knowing that Sherlock was dying inside.
"Good morning Mr. Holmes!" said a small voice below his desk. Sherlock looked down and saw Hamish once more, smiling up at him.
"Good morning Hamish." Sherlock sighed.

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