Mother Bird

The President of the Neighborhood Committee

And the night ensued rather as it should have, as most school nights were expected to go about. First Annie shared her stories of the day, explaining first how much better this school was, and how much friendlier all of the kids were. She said that she had made friends with each and every person in the class, and then later explained how she was the only one who was able to recite the alphabet backwards. Sherlock listened cheerfully, as it was quite refreshing to listen to the little achievements of one so young and so untainted by the world. Just a mere sprout in this little forest, proud to have been granted a ray of sunshine and a drop of rain. When at last Annie was don explaining her day Sherlock traded off, and in between bites of delivery pizza he explained his new job as a telemarketer. He told Annie of the cable company's situation, of the dissatisfaction throughout the locals, and lastly he explained the rude audacity of a great many of their citizens. Annie thought it was funny to hear of the times he was hung up on, though he had to make up child friendly versions of the insults that were spewed over the phone. After a little while he had made the girl giggle so violently that she nearly fell out of her chair, and with that he figured that he had at least made up for the misery he had caused her all afternoon. Thankfully Annie had enough sense to leave such descriptions out of her day's occurrences, as even with her young brain she could tell that it troubled her father very deeply. She could tell that he wasn't just disturbed by his own actions, but by his own neglect. At last it was time for Annie to go to bed, and seeing as though she had done all of her homework Sherlock at last paraded her up the staircase to where her bedroom had been set up in a very disorganized sort of way. They had yet to purchase all the necessary furnishings, and so as of now she had just a bed and a dresser tucked along the walls. Sherlock envisioned her room to be much more attractive in the days to come, he imagined the floor carpeted with a fluffy pink rug, the walls decorated with butterflies and flowers, the bed draped about by a lacy purple canopy...it would be a little girl's paradise! Oh, that was what he wanted for her most in the end. To live in a paradise, all arranged by himself, all put together by his thoughtful and loving hands. And then she could never say a word against him, no one could say a word to dispute his fantastic parenting skills.
"Remember, two minutes of brushing." Sherlock instructed, tapping the little timer he kept to ensure that Annie was brushing her teeth for the appropriate amount of time. The little girl sighed in exasperation, though just as soon as she stuck the toothbrush in her mouth she started the clock, brushing and making little circles about her teeth just as Sherlock had instructed. He merely stood to observe, as he was still rather suffering inside and felt the need for something stronger than mouthwash. Already this house seemed to be consuming him; already this neighborhood was trying its hardest to suck away at his soul. And so he had to replenish, he had to offer himself something that might take the pain away, rather than merely add onto his already intensive loads. It was around seven thirty when at last Annie was tucked into bed, and after a quick bedtime story and a kiss on the forehead Sherlock left her to snuggle into her new bed and fall deep to sleep. As he shut the door to her bedroom he wished upon everything in the world that she might be able to sleep peacefully, that there was not a lingering thought of doubt in her mind, that there was not a single speck of fear. Sherlock wished that his daughter just be happy, that she forget the nature of her father and remember that, despite his terrible flaws, he still loved her more than anything else this world could conjure. He could only hope that she felt the same way, or would at least grow to appreciate him to such intensity. He hoped that she could see that he was just trying his best. For a moment Sherlock stood at the door, contemplating what was going through his little bird's head, all the while he was also trying to decipher what was happening within his own skull. Something not entirely normal, something that was beginning to weigh down upon him like a massive weight, something akin to grief... And so Sherlock made his way down the stairs, back to the kitchen where he could find his bottle rather easily. The alcohol had survived the move, and so he allowed himself to indulge in a drinking glass full of rum and coke. It was a delightful drink of choice, as it tasted very nice but also did the job much faster. In no time he was beginning to feel better, his head was clearer and his limbs were substantially lighter. His outlook on life, with the help of his little beverage, was becoming much more optimistic. Despite his blissful indifference, a rather rude interruption seemed to coordinate only too perfectly with his falling onto the couch in a very deep, very comfortable ball...the doorbell. Now whoever would be calling at such an hour surpassed him, considering he hadn't a single friend to call upon at such times of night. Unless someone had already gotten word that a very attractive man had moved down the way and came for a quick chat and perhaps an overnight stay, Sherlock really couldn't fathom who it might be at his door. All the same he took a quick swig and struggled to his feet, anxious to get to the door before they rung the bell again and woke poor Annie. Sherlock first turned on the porch light; so as to make sure his visitor knew they were being watched, and peered through the clearest portion of stained glass to try to make out any defining characteristics. Well for a moment Sherlock tried to define anything in this visitor to spark a memory or two, but alas nothing seemed to be surfacing. In fact, the more he stared the more confused he became, until at last he decided that opening the door and inquiring directly was the only logical thing left to do. When at last the door was opened between them the two stared for a moment, Sherlock leaning heavily along the doorframe and mixing up his drink with some swishes of his careless hand. The man at the door seemed quite intimidated right off the bat, though he stood rather pointedly on the doorstep as if he had every right to be here at such an hour. In his hand he clutched a white binder, a rather pristine looking thing, though he clutched it as if prepared to use it as a defense if anything at all. He was a short little thing, with a strangely proportioned face and a rather boyish, clean shaven look to him. His dark eyes were looking quite timid, and the way his brown hair was combed over alluded already to some balding patches he wished to hide.
"Mr. Holmes?" the man wondered. Sherlock sighed heavily, managing a great smile though still reluctant to introduce himself as such.
"Who's asking?" he asked at last. The man rearranged himself on the doorstep, shuffling from side to side apprehensively.
"My name is Phillip Anderson, and I represent this community as President..."
"President of the Neighborhood Committee! Ah, I should have known by the comb over." Sherlock said with a little slouching smile, shaking his head at his own idiocy. Well certainly anyone who came to his doorstep in white sneakers had to be a member of some hideous committee, and he might've known that it had to do with this cult of a neighborhood.
"Yes sir." Phillip said with a grin, happy to know that he was ultimately recognized as important.
"Well then, Phillip, please come in." Sherlock muttered, falling across the doorway to pry open the door and allow the man access within his home. "Would you like a drink?" Sherlock offered right off the bat, knowing in his experience that the first thing to offer a man was a drink, especially if you wanted the rest of the night to continue in anything of a desirable fashion.
"Oh um...well have you got cranberry juice?" Phillip wondered, looking a bit timid as he walked througt he house. He seemed very familiar with the layout, as if he knew where to expect most everything, as if he knew where the kitchen would be and where the sitting room would jut out from it. Sherlock didn't have to think for a while to remember that all houses were surely the same inside as they were outside, and so moving through these structures became second nature for anyone living in the monotonous neighborhood.
"No I haven't." Sherlock admitted with a saddened little pout, though he could help but wonder why a grown man would inquire about cranberry juice when there was a bottle of rum sitting obviously upon the counter.
"Oh well then...then I'll be quite alright." Phillip decided, and with that he gave a quick little nod and meandered over to the couch, making himself comfortable without any sort of invitation. Sherlock made something of a show of pouring some more rum into his own concoction, figuring that this meeting might be a little bit more bearable if he was a little bit more drunk. And so at last he seated himself next to Phillip, apprehensively looking at the depth of that white binder and wondering just how many pages were supposed to be of interest to him.
"I heard you met Molly Hooper the other day." Phillip began, as if that was going to be enough of a conversational starter to make Sherlock feel any more friendly. In fact his frown widened as he leaned back against the couch, letting his legs stretch out just underneath Phillip's folded legs rather unapologetically. The man turned a shade of white, though dared not move a muscle.
"I did." Sherlock agreed. "Nice lady."
"She is...yes she's very nice. She mentioned you had a daughter?" Phillip inquired farther.
"Yes, Anastasia." Sherlock agreed with a grin. "Annie for short."
"Right." Phillip nodded, finally opening that great big binder and flipping through the pages anxiously. Sherlock could tell that he was on edge, though he really couldn't figure out why. Sherlock was being nothing but friendly, and surely men opened up more to him as he got closer. And so why, when their legs were basically overlapping, was Phillip so uncomfortable? He needed a drink, desperately. And so Sherlock took another sip for him, deciding that if one of them was calm then perhaps such energies would float off towards the other.
"Well, I have a flier here for the local youth soccer program. I'm sure your daughter would love to join the team, and it's a great way to make new friends in a new town." Phillip said quickly, passing along the paper to Sherlock with a very animated lurch, as if desperately trying to get the thing into Sherlock's hands. Sherlock hummed, looking over the paper and nodding with a grin.
"For more information, call Mr. John Watson." Sherlock read over quietly, looking up towards Phillip so as to wonder if that name meant anything to him.
"He's the coach." Phillip said with a little grin, as if he was very happy to be able to answer such a question. Sherlock nodded, setting the flier aside and deciding to inquire to Annie about how she would like to join the team. Well honestly, when he thought of suburbia, the image of a soccer mom did indeed pop into his head. Perhaps then he should invest in a minivan, to get the appropriate image going.
"What else have you got in this little binder then?" Sherlock wondered, knowing of course that Phillip was just waiting for a way to bring up the rest of the documents.
"I'm happy you asked. Well first we have a list of rules, tedious I know, but necessary." Phillip muttered, looking a bit more exciting now as he passed over the binder for Sherlock to look over. The rules made up at least three pages, front to back, and all consisted of almost five sentences of elaboration. Most were just silly things about lawn care and gardening, making sure you didn't put anything too obnoxious in your front yard, making sure you mowed your grass, kept your windows clean. The second page went over to noise complaints, and how there were a neighborhood issued quiet hours at ten o'clock. The third and final page elaborated on some more touchy subjects, discouraging drinking alcohol on the porches, nearly banning all tobacco products, and lastly (and most annoyingly) a clause about nightly visitors.
"No catering to frequent romantic partners over the duration of a single night?" Sherlock read quietly, narrowing his eyes as he deciphered that as just the same argument Mrs. Donavan had all those weeks ago. What was it with distinguished adults and their hatred of brief love affairs?
"Well, you know if there's a new car in your driveway every night people begin to get...disturbed." Phillip explained nervously, clutching the binder back from Sherlock as if to keep it to clutch onto, as if he was quite afraid that it would come to harm in Sherlock's hands.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Anderson, but I really don't think I'm going to take relationship advice from you." Sherlock said at last, draining the last of his rum in a very big gulp and slamming the empty glass down onto the coffee table with a jolt. Phillip shuttered, as if the noise shocked him, and clung to that binder like a safety net.
"When you moved here, Mr. Holmes, surely you understood that there would be rules to keep our neighborhood safe and..."
"Safe? What do you think is going to happen? Will one of my frequent romantic partners go parading about on a murder spree?" Sherlock presumed with a little chuckle, his eyes narrowing a bit playfully as he let himself ease just a little bit closer to poor Phillip. Oh who knows what he was doing? Sherlock couldn't explain his actions any more than could an onlooker, though the way his proximity made Phillip shutter made it all worth it. Perhaps there was something powerful in making the President of the Neighborhood Committee shake like a leaf.
"I'm not suggesting that the women you take home are bad, per say, but the reputation of our community may very well be tarnished. A mark of a good, professional citizen is some sort of...romantic control." Phillip muttered, though his voice was coming out as more of a whisper as Sherlock's chest was now very close to brushing upon his shoulder. The man was beet red, though he made no move to retaliate just yet. It was amusing, so terribly amusing that Sherlock had to laugh.
"I'm sorry, but what is so funny?" Phillip insisted, readjusting himself on the couch now so that he could face Sherlock with an accusing glare. At the same time he rather positioned his shoulder farther away from Sherlock, as if he had planned it so that he might get some more distance.
"Women." Sherlock sighed, nodding his head over his own shoulder and going to pick at one of Phillip's stray hairs, a terribly greased thing that had been hanging over his forehead for the duration of the meeting. The man was stone still, though his eyes were following Sherlock's hand with such a terrified expression.
"What about them?" Phillip managed, his knuckles white over the binder now, staring as Sherlock's fingers at last tucked that disgusting little hair back atop his thinning head and began to trail, now unoccupied, down the length of his face.
"Simply that you've known me for the whole of ten minutes. I figured that, in such a lengthy duration, you might have realized that I have no use of them." Sherlock whispered, chuckling now as his thumb ran over Phillip's top lip, and that seemed to be the breaking point of the trembling little man.
"Mr....Mr. Holmes!" Phillip exclaimed, at last smacking Sherlock's hand away and rising to his feet in terrible urgency. Sherlock sighed heavily, leaning back upon the couch and shrugging in a very innocent manner. He had done nothing wrong, certainly. Just having a little bit of fun.
"Yes, Mr. Anderson?" Sherlock sighed.
"You are drunk." The man announced at last, as if that was the only insult he was brave enough to throw.
"Yes, Mr. Anderson." Sherlock agreed with a sigh, running his fingers through his curls and allowing himself to sink in deeper to the couch cushions, deciding at last that the man had lost all amusement as of now. It was no fun to play with a toy that bit back.
"I think, perhaps, my visit is concluded." Phillip decided at last, giving a great shutter and grabbing the binder where it now lay on the floor.
"Certainly it is." Sherlock agreed with a sigh, his eyes drooping shut now as he found himself very bored by the sound of this man's voice.
"Goodnight, Mr. Holmes." Phillip insisted, though it seemed to take all of his willpower just to force out such polite words. Sherlock didn't respond, instead he let his breathing take him away into sleep, and when at last the front door fell shut he fell through into his own dreams. His dreams which contained that smiling face, the face of the man he had once loved. The face of Victor Trevor, still so soft in his embrace. Still so loving. 

That morning Sherlock prepared Annie's cereal as best as he could, and just as soon as he had the bowl properly submerged with the right proportions of milk and Fruit Loops he saw that it was time for her to get up and get moving. Sherlock had a terrible headache from last night, though it could not have been the meager drops of alcohol he had drunk, as compared to some other binges last night's quantity was a mere mouthful. Perhaps it was a headache of shame, realizing of course that his main objective had been to make friends throughout this neighborhood, and he already scared away the one man with the most influence. Surely if the President of the Neighborhood Committee blacklisted him most of the other residents would do the same? And so perhaps he was just recovering from his own stupidity, rather than from his choice in beverage.
"Annie, time to wake up!" Sherlock called as he climbed up the staircase to meet the girl at her room. There came a groan of disapproval from the other side of the hallway, as if she really wasn't interested in hearing her father's wake up call. When he opened the door he found that Annie was still snuggled up in her pink blankets, and while her eyes were shut she was obviously merely faking a peaceful sleep.
"Come on Annie, I've got your cereal ready downstairs." Sherlock insisted, as if that alone should be enough to prompt the girl out of bed.
"I'm tired!" she whined at last.
"So am I! Everyone in the world is exhausted but you don't see them staying in bed longer than they're allowed. Come on then, it's part of growing up." Sherlock insisted, giving his own very convincing yawn. "I'm not moving." Annie insisted, clutching firmly to her blankets in her own disproval.
"Well then...I'll give you a minute and thirty seconds to get out of bed. And if you don't, well I'll do what my parents did to me." Sherlock said in a very deep, warning voice. Annie stayed still for a little while, though Sherlock could tell that his little comment disturbed her. It was enough to at least make her notice the clock on her bedside table, watching as her time spent in bed was threatened by a chilling end result.
"What's that?" she asked at last.
"They used to fill up a great big jug of ice water and splash it over my face." Sherlock said with a little grin. That was enough, thankfully. Annie jumped to her feet in an instant, figuring at last that the world outside of her blankets was much preferable to a great bout of ice water splashed into her face.
"I'm up!" she announced at last, to which Sherlock gave a successful little chuckle.
"Yes you are." He agreed, and with that he shut the door quietly and allowed the girl to pick out her outfit for the day. As they sat over the breakfast table Sherlock pulled out the soccer flier once more, looking over the description and at last deciding to mention it to Annie.
"Would you be interested in playing soccer?" Sherlock wondered finally.
"Like on a team?" Annie presumed, to which Sherlock nodded carefully. The girl thought for a moment, stirring around her cereal before nodding her head excitedly.
"Yes, I suppose so." she agreed with a grin. Sherlock nodded, as he rather assumed that was what she was going to say.
"Excellent." Sherlock smiled, making a mental note to call this John Watson and get Annie all signed up for the team. "I've got a babysitter coming to pick you up from the bus and stay a little while before I get home."
"Who is it?" Annie asked anxiously, looking quite excited. She loved it when babysitters came over, probably because she knew that she would be allowed to do almost whatever she wanted.
"Oh just some local girl I think, I used a website." Sherlock admitted with a sigh. "Figured there's nothing valuable enough here to steal anyway."
"Alright." Annie muttered. "And you're going to go to work?"
"I am going to go to work. Isn't that strange?" Sherlock asked with a little chuckle.
"That is strange." Annie agreed, looking a bit thoughtfully into her cereal before pushing the bowl aside and going to grab her backpack. Evidently her attention span had worn away, and at last she decided that it was time to go and catch the bus, despite their having twenty minutes still.