Secrets Aren't Made Slowly

All Information Has Its Price

After lunch he bid Molly a reluctant goodbye and started down the hallway, muttering to himself so as to remind him that it wasn't love. He'd never been in love before, never properly at least, and so he wouldn't be prepared for the first time he felt it. And yet there was probably a difference, you see, between Molly's sort of fairyland love and Sherlock's miserable drunk unrequited love. It probably sprouted up at different times and with different feelings depending on if your internal consciousness thought that you had a chance with your dream guy. Surely no one would be sprouting flowers out of their ears if they fell in love with someone they could never be with? And yet it wasn't...well I suppose it was true. Sherlock probably shouldn't be with John, and yet that's drastically different from couldn't. He was a student, yes, but not a proper one. Sherlock wasn't all that sure about the laws of consent between a teacher and an undercover cop, however he was going to have to bet that they were different than those between a student and a teacher. He was twenty four, he had said so himself! Of course maybe Sherlock should ask for a driver's license or something, just to clarify. But then he might seem too paranoid, which of course he really was at this point. Paranoia with a dash of longing, he wanted to do something and yet he was too scared to realize it. It wasn't love, no of course not, but he was curious enough to at least consider the possibility. He wasn't trying to rationalize his actions of course, when thinking about John and his age and his peculiar situation. He was wondering what John was feeling, if anything, at this very moment. Now if he really was lying about this whole cop thing just to protect his identity then maybe he wasn't feeling anything at all, and yet if he was indeed an undercover cop, sent inside the school to investigate drug usage, well then maybe he had the same sort of internal battle playing in his mind. He was trying to figure out if it was perfectly acceptable to be falling in love with a teacher, someone of relatively his own age after all, and he was probably coming up with the same diagnosis. He shouldn't, obviously, but technically he still could. Sherlock sunk into his desk chair miserably, spinning around for a moment before getting nauseously dizzy and stopping for a moment to rest his head on the stack of papers that had piled up before him. He almost didn't want to be here, and yet again he knew in his heart that this really was the only place he wanted to be. Yes it was going to agonizingly awkward, and yet Sherlock knew full well that he would make no progress in whatever this was if he didn't feel a little bit awkward. He had to push himself to his limit in order to continue forward, love or no love, there was something connecting him to John Watson that the two of them were undoubtedly just finding out about, just trying to diagnose. And so when the first of the students walked in Sherlock obsessively fixed his hair (because you should always confront someone you felt weird around with the utmost beauty) and longed onto his desk in a comfortable yet attractive position, leaning his head on his bent arm and reading a book with a very calm look upon his face. He knew this to be attractive because he had practiced all of his discreetly flirtatious moves with Janine, who would judge him on a scale from one to ten. This particular pose had landed Sherlock with an eight, but that's only because Janine preferred it when he showed a little skin, which would of course be very inappropriate in a classroom. When finally John walked in Sherlock couldn't help but glance up at him, his eyes darting just quickly enough for him to catch John looking very taken aback. Just as soon as their eyes met they both looked away, allowing Sherlock to watch him for just a moment more so as to notice the blush that was appearing in his usually neutral cheeks. It was rather tense, and Sherlock almost suspected that the other students could feel whatever very awkward connection was passing between the two at this very moment. And yet he willed himself to ignore it, to just ignore John all together, and so he went back to staring at his book and hoped that maybe John would glance up once more to see him looking gorgeous. The rest of the class was probably very confused, for despite the door having been shut by the last student and everyone already taking their seats Sherlock still continued to stare at his book, and yet he was rather annoyed ay everyone else not bothering to mind their own business and so he stayed put for a moment longer. He wasn't reading of course, and he was sure those in the front row could probably notice that for his eyes weren't moving at all, and therefore he was just staring at the pages as if expecting whatever story there was to just materialize itself in his brain and be done with it. And so Sherlock finally set his book aside, crossing his arms over the desk and sitting up nice and straight, looking around the classroom and taking a deep breath.
"Homework out, please." He instructed, leaving out any of the pitiful formalities Molly Hooper might have left in so as to be the student's friends. She liked to bid them good afternoon, ask them about their weekend, share a story about her husband or her cat, and then go on chatting about the weather for a good ten minutes before she had even realized that she was paid to instruct them, not to satirize them. Sherlock rose to his feet and got out his clipboard and his red pen, deciding to check the homework for completion rather than correctness, and started around the room. They were seated alphabetically and so Sherlock took the liberty of starting at the last names starting with A. This method, of course, saved him the best for last. Well, almost last. There was one girl with the last name Z, and yet she really didn't count as she was most always asleep and quite miserable. And so Sherlock worked around the room, marking people with a nice little red checkmark or an upset x over their names on the roster, for him to either put a one hundred or zero in their homework category. When finally he arrived at the row John sat in he began to feel that same sort of awkwardness that he had felt when John had first walked in, and yet for once he felt as though it wasn't coming from him. Of course Sherlock's throat felt a certain tightness, and yes his stomach was curling and his heart was doing flip flops, and yet he didn't feel nearly as awkward as these feelings might imply. This meant, of course, that these feelings were coming from John. Now of course Sherlock didn't hope to try to diagnose this man of any sort of feelings, and yet it seemed to him quite obvious that something had changed over the weekend. What had John done, what had he realized? Who did he talk to, and why? Had he sat alone in his room for the entirety of the weekend, thinking of Sherlock, dreaming of Sherlock? Was the mere image of Sherlock in his head enough to make him fall in love, or was there more? Curious. When Sherlock finally got to John he held out his hand carefully, letting his fingers wrap around the paper in an attempt to maybe have their hands brush together. And yet he was mistaken, for John had pulled his hand away just in time, avoiding any contact as if he knew that it was coming. He wouldn't look at him, which was odd, all the other kids almost felt entitled to study every line in Sherlock's face as he looked over their papers, as if they felt like it was too awkward just to stare ahead and pretend like they weren't under some sort of examination.
"Have a nice weekend Mr. Watson?" Sherlock murmured, trying to at least remind John that it really was him, standing above him. He didn't like it that he was the only one really interested, or at least attentive!
"Yes um, ya I guess." John agreed, smiling weekly as Sherlock handed him his paper back, he had of course earned a nice check mark. Of course he had, he already went through college and the police academy, he would have learned some work ethic somewhere in there along the line. Sherlock nodded, moving on as if he really wasn't all that interested although he actually was very interested. It was odd, and he sort of began to empathize with Molly Hooper, for despite John's weekend having absolutely nothing to do with his wellbeing or his daily life he began to wonder, just how did John spend his two days off? The question was gone before he could even get a chance to ask it, for he had already started to the last girl in the row, and when he gave her the expected x he walked back to his desk and sat down miserably. And so class commenced, if you could even call it class, for Sherlock wasn't really the best instructor. Today was much worse, however, for he was very much preoccupied with a particular student in the rows, and yet he couldn't address that. When class was over John left with all the others, keeping his head down as if he was too afraid to look back and bid Sherlock the good bye that was already waiting to be delivered on Sherlock's lips, expecting those words, hoping for them. And yet to no avail. Sherlock cleared his throat nervously, swallowing the words that might have been said as he stared at his empty classroom, rather hurt that John couldn't find it in himself to at least look back and smile.