Sherlock POV: The most interesting part of interviewing the candidates was matching their faces to their names, and from there trying to determine if their applications had been falsified or not. Many a times he would merely sit at his desk, letting the ticking of the grandfather clock fill in the awkward silence as his interviewee shuffled uncomfortably on the chair, watching as Sherlock read over the application with small chuckles of disbelief. In some cases these men falsified even their height, probably deciding that a larger stature would make them seem much more impressive in the eyes of their potential employer. Here Sherlock was faced with a man no larger than five foot five, who sitting down might have been just as tall as his youngest child, and consequently one who had boasted about a height of six feet and three inches within the topmost section of his application. Sherlock began clicking his silver fountain pen against the desk, leaning back within the comfortable folds of his leather upholstery and staring towards the terrified little man without sparing him an ounce of legitimate emotion. Sherlock knew just how dominating his direct glance could be, and he was always hard-pressed to find a stranger who could maintain it for long. And here again he was disappointed, for the shrimp dropped his eyes back towards the carpet and dug his feet even deeper into the imported threads.
"Sir, how tall are you?" Sherlock asked at last. The man gulped, his mustached face growing red with some hesitation as he struggled to remember just how large of a lie he had scrawled down.
"Over six foot, sir." The man muttered, so quietly into his chest that Sherlock almost couldn't decipher exactly what he was trying to say.
"Oh yes? Well, you certainly wear it well. I never would've known you passed over five eight." Sherlock chuckled, drawing a large line through the man's application with a very audible and indiscreet slash of his pen. The applicant shivered in the chair, obviously noticing that he had dissatisfied his employer, though he remained quiet.
"I will contact you Mr....Mr. Morris, if I have any further inquiries. My only word of advice, don't quit your day job." Sherlock suggested with a sigh, letting the application flutter back down to his desk as he reached for the small brass bell which sat upon the desk, ringing it anxiously to summon the butlers with the next candidate. Mr. Morris scrambled to his feet, looking almost ready to cry, though he allowed himself to be shuffled away by one of the serving boys, keeping his back just about as tall as he could manage to try to at least pass off as a taller than average gentleman. Even with his top hat he didn't seem to pass the six foot mark, and that deceit alone was enough to raise countless red flags. Sherlock didn't want any liars to be a part of his serving staff, especially if he would be kept in such close contact with his children. Sherlock wanted both Theodore and Elizabeth to be raised as honest, intelligent children who had not been exposed to any sort of sinful personality. Save of course for the other more bitter side of the Holmes family, though Mycroft's influence of course could not be helped. Sherlock only hoped that the arrival of a proper tutor would ward the man away from the impressionable children, those he was working so hard to mold into upstanding citizens and not deceitful little con artists. As the butler shuffled around the incoming interviewees Sherlock took the time to rearrange his desk, dropping the discarded applications into his fashionable waste paper bin near the foot of the claw footed desk. The pile in the trash was growing larger and larger as the hours stretched on, and the pile that Sherlock had designated for potential winners was much too small than he should have liked at this hour. He had been interviewing for nearly four hours now, and all he had gotten out of the long list of men was about four or five that seemed likely candidates for the position. Even then these men seemed particularly rough around the edges, some without solid university backgrounds, others with rather dry, boring personalities, and one particular man who had all of the desired qualifications, save for a gigantic nose which perched upon his face like a large, distasteful yam. Sherlock might've hired him on the spot if he could look him in the eyes without flinching! The butler knocked very lightly on the drawing room door, announcing the arrival of yet another man who was searching for a new and luxurious life within the mansion. Sherlock leaned forward upon his desk, calling carelessly for the stranger to step inside as he stared down upon the application which would fit the arrival of the newest candidate. Well, he was happy to see a familiar name filled out very neatly at the top of the page, with swirls of black ink that Sherlock took a moment to appreciate. Handwriting which was almost better than his own, despite his years practicing under the most renowned calligraphy masters Harvard could supply! As soon as the door opened Sherlock knew who to expect, and yes, that grumpy face never failed to amuse!
"John Watson!" Sherlock announced, getting to his feet and leaning his arm over the desk to shake. Mr. Watson walked stiffly into the room with a poised and military style precision, keeping his posture stiff and his eyes determined as he took Sherlock's hand within his own and shook it firmly. His hands, which appeared to be so smooth, were instead riddled with old calluses and bits of dry skin, making for his touch to be somewhat unpleasant but not entirely undesirable. His skin reflected his past, and certainly just like his palms his life too had some rough patches, though not enough to discredit his entire character. Sherlock was rather impressed with the way the man had tidied up for the interview, and as the two of them arranged themselves within their intended seats Sherlock noticed that the man had undoubtedly washed, shaved, and chosen his best outfit for the day's interview. There were even signs that he had ironed his shirt, making a sloppy mess out of the project and only reflecting the marital status he listed upon the middle of the form. Single, undoubtedly. He was an impressive man, though for now Sherlock could not yet understand what was so spectacular about him. There was an underlying character trait, one that had not been exposed just yet, though one that fascinated Sherlock all the same. John Watson seemed decent enough to continue on with a formal interview, and for some reason Sherlock allowed himself to get excited over this one. Suddenly the large stack of unexamined applications seemed less daunting, as if he was already disregarding them as a waste of his time. Perhaps he was sitting across the desk from the newest addition to his prestigious household, so decided without allowing Mr. Watson to speak a word on behalf of his character! Sherlock read over the application with some fleeting glances, finding some interesting spots to question if ever he found the time. Though for now he had to be formal, investigating into the man's backstory just as much as his teaching career.
"Mr. Watson, a military man I see?" Sherlock said at last, shuffling through the application to see the military history listed among the accolades.
"Yes sir, five years in active service, trained as a military doctor." John agreed with a stiff nod of his head.
"That would explain the composure." Sherlock muttered, still impressed with how straight that short back could align. John's face creased, though evidently he was holding his snarky tongue behind his teeth for the time being. Perhaps that was best, though from what Sherlock remembered of their first visit his silence this morning may not completely wipe his slate clean. John Watson had an attitude, another one of his character traits that made him just so interesting to his potential employer.
"Seen death, I imagine?" Sherlock sighed.
"Not as bloody as you would imagine. Without a war to fight I mostly tended infections, terminal illness, things like that." John muttered.
"Ever killed a man?" Sherlock asked, this time merely wondering for his own personal interest rather than for the sake of his children's education. John looked rather shocked by this question, though the way his fingers twisted around each other spoke more than his voice ever would. He was hiding a secret, undoubtedly.
"On the field or the operating table?" John clarified in a hesitant voice.
"Whichever makes a better story." Sherlock grinned. "But we shall save that for another time."
"I am not a murderer." John added quickly.
"I never doubted the fact." Sherlock assured with a nod, scribbling those exact words at the top of the application as if to remind himself of John's clean conscious. Not a murderer was usually a good factoid about a tutor, and the quick reminder was definitely going to work in John's favor if ever a direct comparison was needed.
"You'll see there that I've been teaching for seven years, sir. All in the same building, within the same community." John announced at last, evidently finding this silence to be unbearable. Sherlock nodded, finding the exact information within the form and finally setting it down upon the desk, disregarding the writing for the time being. Suddenly he wished to hear the information from the man's own mouth, as if the way he articulated his words was just as desirable to the ear as his penmanship was to the eye.
"Had much success there?" Sherlock wondered.
"Certainly. I have taught children who received scholarships from many esteemed universities, women who become secretaries, men who become clerks and stockbrokers. I pride myself in teaching even the most inept students to at least succeed in basic reading and writing skills, as well as mathematics and various sciences. I aspire to..."
"Very good, very good." Sherlock interrupted, figuring this speech would go on forever if he didn't disturb its gaining momentum. John sat back with some surprise, closing his mouth as if he was waiting for permission to open it once again. "Tell me then, why leave your job if you found so much success?"
"For the reasons men do anything of course." John muttered, as if that should be obvious.
"Reputation?" Sherlock presumed.
"Money." John corrected with a blink. "Though I imagine in your situation such a trivial thing never crossed your mind."
"There it is, I was wondering when your first insult might arrive." Sherlock mumbled with a hidden grin.
"I meant no offense." John assured quickly, nearly hopping out of his chair in a mad attempt to redeem himself.
"I took some anyway." Sherlock sighed. "Though it really is no bother, Mr. Watson. I can couple your insults with ones just as lethal, if ever I felt the need."
"Certainly, sir." John agreed, easing back down into his chair upon realizing he was in no serious trouble. Sherlock grinned as he ducked his head, pretending to write something on the application just to hide his amusement with this silly man. Certainly John Watson had something the rest of the other applicants didn't, even if it wasn't experience and success. He had a personality, a witty and aggressive personality that would be much fun to toy with throughout their days spent together. Perhaps he would be the perfect addition to the household, not for the children per say, but for the master of the house himself.
"Well sir, where are my manners? All of these questions I've had for you, but never any time for you to ask a set of your own. Tell me, what would you like to know about being my household's tutor?" Sherlock asked at last, deciding that whatever legitimate questions he needed to ask would certainly be covered in the extensive application. He didn't always like to talk about other people, and he hardly liked listening to a voice other than his own for very long. John shuffled within the chair, switching the leg which was crossed and leaning rather heavily along the wooden arm of the chair. For a moment he looked thoughtful, his deep brown eyes wavering from the desk to the floor and then back to his host, as if trying to read the expression on Sherlock's face to gauge his timeline.
"Well I suppose I'll begin with my first question, one which was laughed away. Will I live in the house with the rest of the servants?" John asked finally. Sherlock nodded, figuring that would have been a sufficient answer in itself. Though he figured he ought to buy John some more time to think about his next question, and so for the sake of avoiding silence Sherlock decided it was best to have a small speech prepared.
"Yes, you'll be living here. I can offer you a better room than the butlers and footmen have, as your skills are more irreplaceable than theirs. Our nanny Mary has a room on the bottom floor, one of the less desirable guest bedrooms. Never one I'd put my own family in, though quite a step above those cots which we supply to our serving staff. The nanny and the tutor shall eat with the family when they are invited, though for more formal occasions I should expect you both to find your own meals, as important guests and their conversations shall be reserved only for the direct bloodline." Sherlock declared with a haughty expression upon his face. John nodded, looking thoughtful once more.
"And the children? Would I be able to meet them before I take on the job?" John wondered, as if he was concerned about the mannerisms of the children. Sherlock chuckled, tapping his fingers against the desk and watching the small nervous eyes of his interviewee. He looked like a guilty man, as if he was trying to be as polite as he could all the while preserving some selfish interest deep within his heart.
"I'm sure you'll find they're perfectly tolerable." Sherlock assured.
"Nevertheless..." John muttered.
"Perhaps we can arrange a meeting or a trial period of sorts if you do fit all the categories I prioritize." Sherlock decided at last. "Though it would be a silly thing to leave a job such as this if you find a flaw."
"I'm sure your children are quite flawless, though I have met children with the manners of a mule and the vocabulary of a sailor...terrible things. I should not like to commit to teaching one of those, even if their parents deny their behavior." John insisted, his words certainly sounding much ruder than he should imagine. Not only was he assuming that these children, who were already worth more than himself and perhaps his entire community, were vagabonds! And above all he would accuse Sherlock of lying about their manners? If these words had come from anyone else's lips Sherlock might have thrown them out to the streets, though in some ways he felt that John Watson was excusable. He hardly knew this man, though for some reason he was building up a very strong liking.
"You are not married, Mr. Watson?" Sherlock wondered, changing the subject so as to steer the interrogation away from his own family and more into the direction of John's. He knew from the application, however, that the conversation would be a short one.
"No sir." John said plainly.
"And you are...what, twenty seven?" Sherlock muttered.
"Twenty nine." John corrected.
"Marrying age." Sherlock pointed out with his eyes narrowed. John faltered for a moment, as if this was a rather offensive assumption and one he did not like to discuss very much.
"Perhaps in some people's livelihoods, yes. Though I was never in a position to support a bride financially, and I dare not consider raising children in an economy such as this." John declared, as if this was his planned and practiced defense speech when approached with the subject of women. Sherlock allowed half of his smile to rise, as if to display his amusement all the while trying not to look overly enthusiastic about the man's logic. Of course he appreciated any man who had made it past twenty five without his finger trapped within a ring; it displayed tenacity and a necessary selfishness that Sherlock wished he had possessed.
"Fair enough rationale, Mr. Watson." Sherlock grinned.
"You are married, I imagine?" John muttered quickly, as if he felt the need to purse some sort of conversation upon the subject.
"I almost want to say no, just to see the look upon your face." Sherlock chuckled. "Though I cannot deny, I am a married man."
"A lovely bride?" John presumed. Sherlock nodded quietly, glancing behind his left shoulder towards the door which led to the library, usually the room Irene took the most liking to. A strange shutter went down his spine at the thought of her, though Sherlock straightened his posture and managed a quick grin.
"Indeed." He whispered finally, now regretting ever bringing up the subject of wives to this potential candidate. Surely women were not a thing to worry about, at least not yet. A strange silence followed his utterance, as if both men were recollecting themselves and trying to think of something a bit more intelligent to follow up with. Certainly there was an uncomfortable feeling in the air, the sort of tension that made even Sherlock's perfect posture waver.
"Any more questions for me?" John asked at last, a question which was much appreciated by his silent host.
"No, not until the big one." Sherlock assured almost thoughtlessly.
"Which is?" John chuckled in assurance.
"If it comes to it, I shall have to offer you the position within my household. But until then, if fate should smile upon us, I will only see it necessary to bid you good day." Sherlock declared at last, getting to his feet and stretching out his strangely tense muscles, as if he had been keeping his body in a rigid stiffness throughout the duration of their short conversation. John rose as well, holding out his hand for a firm shake of farewell. Sherlock took his hand gladly, gripping it tight and keeping his eyes fixed within the schoolmaster's, as if to see if his expression would waver at any point throughout their touch. But no, his eyes stayed determined and appreciative, when their fingers met he did not look excited and when their hands drifted apart he did not look disappointed. Sherlock was not used to getting such indifference from older bachelors, though he mustn't think too much about Mr. Watson's personal life at the time being. It was his past as a teacher, not as a lover, that he was supposed to care the most about.
"Good day, Mr. Holmes. Thank you for your consideration." John said with a smile. Sherlock felt there was nothing more he needed to say, though he followed almost mindlessly in Mr. Watson's footsteps, wandering across the plush red carpet of the drawing room and wallowing in the wake of his applicant. The butler came to open the door, having heard the footsteps approaching, and seemed almost surprised to see his master out from behind his desk. John was escorted from the room, leaving Sherlock to stand in the midst of the open space with his arms crossed, watching the retreating back of the shorter man as he strutted in a very militaristic manner across the marble floor of the entrance hall.
"No more for today, James." Sherlock muttered at last, catching the butler's attention before he was able to close the door and block out any further demands.
"But sir, there are at least fifteen more collected within the sitting room." James protested a bit weakly, keeping his gloved hands behind his back and wearing a concerned look upon his face.
"Send them home. I have found my tutor." Sherlock declared proudly, turning on his heel and approaching the desk once more. As he heard the soft click of the door behind him the businessman took up the large stack of papers, the pile of twenty or so applicants that had never been granted a moment of consideration, and dumped them on top of the rejected pile which was filling up inside of the trash bin. With some further rearranging Sherlock made sure that only one application still sat upon the desk, right in the center for his utmost consideration. Slowly he made his way around towards the chair, leaning heavily over the back of the mahogany and reading the name spelled out so graciously upon the top of the paper. John Watson. Yes, it could only be him in the end.