Ch 2.
Sherlock eyes snapped open again to her buzzing phone. Somehow, the guy next to her always managed to cup one of her breasts everytime even in his sleep. Sherlock had half-a-mind to tell him that it wasn't arousing in the slightest. A text back, from Mr. Watson, she checked.
Friday, 5:30 pm. Will's school.
Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at his reply. Well, if Mr. Watson wasn't the one to mince words. She had never received a more precise reply from anyone else. She imagined that Mr. Watson must be a busy man, and her smile faded at once. She knew exactly how those high-profile parents were like, who did not pay a single ounce of attention to their kids. But Will seemed nothing like that. He was surprisingly well-behaved and Sherlock could see that although his clothes were machine-washed and ironed by a housekeeper, the folds and creases of his shirt and his kerchief and scarf had a distinct military neatness to them, suggesting that either the housekeeper had been in military, which was highly improbable, given the way her voice had quavered when Sherlock had informed her that she was Will's teacher speaking.
Therefore, it was his father doing it, and if Mr. Watson went far enough to fold his son's clothes himself, it was evident that he loved Will very much. Meaning that Will's father had spent some time in the military. And given the way his voice had been uncharacteristically nervous over the voicemail (at least uncharacteristic for an ex-soldier, she assumed), his pressure point was his son. Therefore, maybe, Will's mother was dead, maybe long before he had become intelligent enough to recognise his mum and dad visually, because Sherlock had never heard him talk about his mum.
Which reminded her that she also had to call up at Robbie's house.
It was just possible that Will's father did not realise the damage he was doing to his son, or maybe he did, but he couldn't help it. Nightmares? Many soldiers were diagnosed with PTSD after they had come back from active duty and after they were forced to relive some of the worst experiences in their lives in their sleep.
Nonetheless, Sherlock decided that she did not have much data and that she really shouldn't draw her conclusions before she met the man for herself. But for now...
"Hey," she smiled flirtatiously at the man lying next to her. This one had a nice face and the one that her mother referred to as 'bedroom eyes'. She slipped out of her underwear and gently slipped back into bed with him, forcing him awake. She tried to remember his name. Shane... something?
"Hey!" he smirked back, the sort of smug smile that she only could kiss away in order to wipe it from his face.
"Ready for a morning shag?" She asked, placing his hand on her breasts, taking a finger and circling her interested nipple with it, and watching the tell-tale mound between his legs grow. She wondered how her libido had begun to soar high up in the air in the first place. Sex was the best distraction she had... but from what, she had no idea. She had always heard of drugs and crack and coke, but nothing, she believed, nothing was as intensely and blindingly and invigoratingly pleasurable as sex.
And when it came to intercourse, nothing could match the first time she had had with John. Because with John, she had felt a sense of intimacy, of belonging like she had never felt with anyone else. Of course, she never would. For her, the only relationship she liked having was the unselfish ones with her children in the classroom, much happier and much simpler as 'yes' or 'no'. She needed sex, so she had it.
"Oh, God yes," Shane leaned forward, and forced her brutally forward by the base of her neck to mash their lips together.
Sherlock had been grading the creative writing assignments when Cassie came up to her. Will and Robbie were sitting two benches away, doing drawings of their favorite sport.
"Ms. Ho'mes! Ms. Ho'mes!" Cassie squeaked, and Sherlock shifted the papers away from her desk as her student sat down on a chair in front of her. Even as a five year old, Sherlock couldn't help but notice how she sat like a perfectly grown-up lady, her legs together, her socks up to the same level, and her skirt without any unruly creases, "Yes, Cassie?"
She looked down shyly at her lap, and hesitantly met Sherlock's eyes. Instantly, Sherlock realised that she had done something wrong. Realising that Will and Robbie would be listening to whatever she Cassie was going to say, she asked her to move over so that she could have more privacy, and put just an arm on her shoulder. If there was anything Sherlock had learnt about kids, it was that except for the really clever and narcissistic ones, they hated being treated as kids. She waited patiently for Cassie to take her time.
"Ms. Ho'mes, promise me you won' tell Seb anythin'," she squeaked in her ear, and Sherlock nodded in understanding, "Unless I don't have any reason to." Sherlock never lied to children, and she tried to maintain that, to be as precise and as frank with them as possible. Because, unlike what other adults believed, kids usually did not tend to forget if they were being lied to. She learnt that from her own experience. She did not dare to think that as a child, she had been smarter than others. Her upbringing was just different, and her curiosity had never been suppressed in the name of 'when you'll grow up, you'll understand'. Her mother took care of that, and her father, who was always frank with everyone, talked freely with her during those long evening walks. Her childhood was somewhat unusual, but it was as good as it could be.
At this, Cassie twiddled her thumbs nervously, "You migh' tell 'im..."
"Is it that bad?" Sherlock asked.
"No..." her voice was now uncertain, and any stiffness in her posture was now relaxing, "But I need to tell anyone."
"Someone," she corrected her, and Cassie looked into Sherlock's grey eyes, trusting and then slowly looked down, "I... I tol' a lie."
Sherlock nodded, her expression impassive and non-judgemental, "Go on. If you don't want to, you don't have to tell me what you said to Seb. You could just ask me what you need."
"No... but... but," she started defending herself, "It wasn'... it wasn' a - a real lie..."
Sherlock frowned in confusion. She had never come across 'real lies' and 'unreal lies' and this was now unfamiliar land, "What do you mean?"
"We - we... know," Cassie started, sounding very confused herself, as if thinking through whether he remembered it right or not, "we know that there is a white lie, and then there's a s - sort of black Protestant lie, which is more serious... I think - "
Sherlock tried to not let her confusion be evident on her face. Cassie was the cleverest kid in the class, and that's why she always came to her for advice, unlike the others who thought that they were "grown-up" enough to handle it on their own. But now, listening to her talking about 'black' and 'white' lies were certainly disconcerting, "I - I don't think so, Cassie. Who told you that?"
"My - my paren's?"
Sherlock tried not to shake her head in dismay. For such a gifted child, her parents were absolute... Sherlock wasn't really sure what she should call them. Racist? Orthodox? Too Christian? Too Roman Catholic? Too Anti-Protestant? Stupid was a better choice for teaching their kids such absurd things. If her baby were alive, she would've made sure that he learnt the most precise of things, and none of such orthodox bullshit.
"No, Cassie," she shook her head in refusal, "There's no such thing as a white lie or a black lie. A lie is a lie."
Cassie scratched her head, thinking it through. Seeing that Will and Robbie were trying their best to listen, Sherlock turned to them, "Will, Robbie, how much have you completed?"
They showed her their complete drawings, a litany of colours and imagination on their paper. She smiled appreciatively and give them thumbs-up. Knowing Will's helpful nature, she asked them to submit their drawings and to help Phil in the back benches, who looked like he needed help. Will shot away at once, and Robbie followed his best friend without a word.
"You know, Ms. Ho'mes... sometime my sister does cooking, an' although she cooks very bad, my mum and da tell her its very good, so that they don' hurt her feelings... that sor' of lie..."
Sherlock thought it through. She remembered how sometimes her classmates did that sort of thing when she was a kid, and then when Sherlock would tell the truth, they would all get upset, and the person would shout at her even if she told the truth. Whenever she went home and asked her mum what she should've done, her mum always said that she did the right thing because after all, the other person would see through their faults and do better the next time. She decided to answer similarly.
"You know Cassie, when I was in school," Cassie's green eyes went wide at the thought that the tall and intelligent and so-grown up Ms. Holmes could've attended school once upon a time, "One of my classmates made a drawing, and it was very bad."
"So..." Cassie looked at her expectantly, and Sherlock realised that her situation with Seb must be something similar, "What did you do?"
"I told her that it wasn't very good, and that everybody would make fun of her," Sherlock spoke, and Cassie seemed completely engrossed in her story, "And then, at first she did scream at me, and told me that I was a mean girl, but then..."
Sherlock wondered if she should tell her the real story, of how that girl's parents had called up at her house and her mother had shouted her head off at Sherlock's mother until they had to have it settled in the school, where even Sherlock's mother had declared her drawing a monstrosity. The experience wasn't good.
"Well... a lot of drama happened which I slept through," and Cassie giggled conspiratorily at that, "But after that... when the time for grades came, she submitted her drawing and got a 'D'. You see, a 'D'."
Cassie's mouth became an 'O' at that. Being the cleverest student, it was unimaginable for her to get a 'D'. But she still looked a little skeptical, "Um... but it's the sor' of lie that won't hurt Seb... you know... it does not hurt my sister... and she will learn cooking even... even..."
"Eventually," Sherlock completed the large word for her, "Been reading the dictionary again, are you?"
"Susie and Will gave me one for my birthday," she squeaked excitedly, her previous reserve forgotten, "I learn five words every day!"
"Hmm... but if you point out your sister on her cooking, you might get a decent meal next time," Sherlock offered.
Cassie looked confused for a while, "So... I should tell Seb? I told him that Santa was real, but... I know he ain't."
"Isn't."
"Isn't..."
Sherlock was impressed. Cassie was the only person who told her that she did not believe in Santa, and that too at the age of five. That was pretty... fast. And weird... considering that her parents were too Roman Catholic to make out a black "Protestant" lie.
"I think it shouldn't matter to him in a year or two," Sherlock told her, thinking of Seb, who always insisted on bringing his Playstation. He seemed like the boy who would laugh at the idea of Santa's existence in a year, "Anyway... if you're feeling guilty, you could tell Seb that you were wrong."
"But I wasn't wrong. I lied."
"Can you tell him that?" Now Sherlock was beginning to get tired because she had thought that this was a major problem, but still, it was a kid, and she would have listened to her baby just like that.
No, she thought again, she would've dumped him on her partner, if it were John.
To her relief, Cassie nodded, and with a thank you, she sped off.
Sherlock intended to finish her work before she met Mr. Watson in the staff room, although because this was specifically about him, and the effect his sleeplessness was having on Will and his development, she preferred to have the talk in her classroom, so that the other snoopy, gossip-loving teacher did not have to hear it. So, when the peon arrived and told her that Mr. Watson was waiting in the hallway, she simply asked him to send them in. The peon looked at her weirdly, and she honestly wondered why they had not gotten bored of their ability to look weirdly at her. Even she had got bored of it. Everyone in the school knew that Ms. Holmes was an oddity.
"Yeah, send them in! What are you, deaf?!" she snapped, putting her papers away, and smoothing her skirt down. As she set to cleaning her desk, which always looked like elephants had tap-danced on it, she heard the unmistakeably same mellow voice that he had heard on the voicemail, "Ms. Holmes?"
"Yes," she turned and brushed a stray lock out of her eyes. Will beside his father looked almost like he was presenting the two of them to each other proudly, "Mr. Watson, I presume?"
Of course, this was Mr. Watson. Will was his carbon copy, except for the nose and the chin, which were mostly mother's, she imagined. Her eyes narrowed as she surveyed him. War wound, psychosomatic leg, broken and scarred, weather beaten, unemployed, and as correctly she had deduced earlier, an ex-soldier. The most remarkable fact was that he looked vaguely familiar... although Sherlock couldn't put her finger on it. Maybe it was someone from the university... probably. He was too weather beaten to come into recognition.
"Yes," he croaked. She turned away before she could see Mr. Watson's jaw drop in astonishment.
