Mother Bird

The Worst of the Working Class

The days following his grand entrance into the suburban life were admittedly rough, as poor Sherlock had found himself caught between who he wanted to be and who he was rather expected to be. There was a great divide now, between the life he used to lead at his previous home and the one that would be needed of him if he ever hoped to fit in around here. The very crimes which Mrs. Donavan accused him of were certainly things to avoid in the public eye, not to mention the extensive list of neighborhood rules that he was attempting to follow to the best of his abilities. It had been oh, perhaps a month since he had moved in? And so it had been about a month since he had ever enjoyed the company of another person. It was a rather maddening hiatus, and just like the changing of the seasons Sherlock felt himself changing as well. Oh it happened every so often, in which his mood shifted just as rapidly as it wanted to, and suddenly he found himself terribly depressed for no obvious reason. He felt such feelings coming on as he reconsidered his life when compared to the Watsons, this potential couple of interest. He was suddenly wracked with feelings of guilt, upon finally seeing the people he had hurt so up close and personal. Oh who knew what they had been through in those past five years, years that Sherlock had spent gloriously with his own family to tend to. The guilt of what he had done was closing in, until at last it settled upon his heart not unlike the weight of the world, and he felt in the early hours of the morning unable to shut his eyes, though unable to keep them open either. He kept staring into a world that was not his world, a reality that did not exist in his bedroom, nor in his house at all. He kept staring into the darkness and instead seeing a man, a man hunched over a bottle in his misery. A man holding back his tears as he sat in public, drinking away his griefs and cursing himself for his own negligence, a man...a man blaming himself for the actions of another. Oh poor John Watson, the poor helpless father of two and caretaker of just one. The poor servant of the system, the poor owner of a double stroller that would only hold one. Was it Sherlock's doing that caused the man his violence, and his pent up anger? Was it Sherlock's greediness, his selfishness, that had erupted the poor father into a chain of alcoholic endeavors that landed him just as drunk and delirious as ever? Why did he drink, why did he suffer...if not to try to drown memories that came afloat in his sober mind and in every passing reminder of a life he might have had? Sherlock's pain came upon him in a fresh wave, pressing him down to the bed just as effectively as would a man, though it trapped him in such a helpless state without the promise of ever letting go. Minutes past, hours past, and still he stared into the window to John Watson's world. The man who tried to smile, who tried to look upon any young girl and forget about his own daughter that was meant to be. Sherlock almost forgave the man for his insolence; he almost forgave the man for his aggression. For as his reasoning seemed a bit lacking, his obligation to pound poor Sherlock to a pulp was certainly there. He may not know it, but his anger towards Sherlock may very well be justified. He was acting upon not just his immediate anger towards Sherlock's beauty and his own shame at having fallen prey, but also upon age old misery that had been festering within him since the day he wandered back through the thick crowd of pedestrians and found his abandoned stroller to be empty. When the morning finally came, the alarm clock was met with an immediate fist. Sherlock might have smashed the whole thing to pieces if his strength might have allowed it, though in the end he had missed the snooze button entirely and had been left instead with an aching and broken hand. In the end he pressed the button with some more accuracy, managing to stop that accursed ringing once and for all as he snuggled deeper into the folds of his blankets, feeling tears welling out of his eyes that really had no business being there. As the morning rays pushed through the curtains he felt more and more like a failure, though what exactly he had failed he wasn't sure. His parenting well...well perhaps his parenting was slacking, though it had always been such! Was it just the exposure to real parents that was making him feel so terrible, was it the realization that while he was certainly passing his daughter through the ages he could be doing it much, much better? Was he setting her up for failure, and himself for prison? Was he becoming negligent, the very thing he had set out to destroy? Sherlock groaned in dissatisfaction, pulling the blankets up and over his head in his misery. Perhaps this little cocoon of darkness would be enough, perhaps the light may never find him, and never remind him that he ultimately had business elsewhere today, elsewhere besides his bedroom. It wasn't the sunshine that reminded him that he had to go to work; in fact it was the little knocking on his bedroom door that woke him from his eventual slumber and tore him back into the realms of reality.
"Daddy, Daddy it's eight o'clock. I have to go to school." Came his little daughter's voice, quiet and muffled through the wood that separated the two of them. Sherlock groaned loudly, or rather loudly enough to make sure Annie could hear his dissatisfaction.
"I'll call you in sick!" Sherlock growled.
"Daddy, I'm not sick." Annie protested quietly. "And you have to go to work."
"I'll call myself in sick as well! God Annie, where's your sense of adventure? Don't you want to watch TV all day?" Sherlock wondered, throwing the blankets off of himself and wincing as the sunlight hit his eyes full and forceful.
"Daddy..." she whined, though at last Sherlock's scream of misery silenced her.
"I'm coming!" Sherlock growled, throwing himself out of the bed and finding it incredibly difficult to walk, as though his legs had lost energy and motivation to keep him upright for much longer. Eventually he found his way to the door; holding himself tightly against the wall and throwing the door open in some exclamation. Annie stood there all dressed and ready for school, with her little backpack pulled tightly over her shoulders and her black hair tied up in two very mismatched pig tails.
"The bus came." She said at last, as she noticed that Sherlock wasn't about to start the conversation himself. He merely stared with eyes unseeing, blinking down at the girl and seeing instead a little Mary Watson, standing before him with a ridiculous glob of dye in her hair. It was quite terrifying, though Sherlock attempted to interact with the image just as he would his own daughter. He tried to ignore the fact that the face was looking ever the more familiar.
"Well why didn't you get on the bus?" Sherlock whined.
"Because I don't have my lunch." She said simply, as if that truly was reason enough to watch the bus come and go without batting an eyelash. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head in some annoyance as he realized what a do-good poster child he had accidently raised. Oh if only his own habits of carelessness had rub off on his child, then at least she might have enjoyed this perfectly valid reason to avoid an education for the day.
"Well...well you don't have your lunch. Alright, we can change that." Sherlock muttered, yawning obviously and stumbling down the stairs with whatever strength he could muster. Oh having a child really was difficult, wasn't it? Even fits of depression were interrupted with trivial matters, those which were treated as if they were the tipping point of the natural world! She didn't have her lunch; well thank God he was awoken for such a tragedy! Thank God he was here just in time to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Annie watched quietly from where she sat on one of the stools, staring down at her father as he lathered about a glob of peanut butter on a piece of rather stale white bread. She didn't open her mouth to complain, nor did she seem to think it was worth her breath to start a conversation. Sherlock was growing more miserable by the minute, as he was wondering what exactly Hamish Watson had in his lunch box. Perhaps a better crafted sandwich, a better balanced meal. He undoubtedly had chopped fruit, or carrot sticks, and he was probably raised not to complain about it. Annie had, well she had this sandwich, and perhaps a bag of chips if he could find one lying about the house. There was no proper nutrition; there were no proper vitamins or minerals to keep her healthy and strong for the rest of her life. There was just what would make do, there was just the bare minimum that would keep her alive and fed for the remainder of her tiny little fraction of a school day. Oh why she even needed a packed lunch was beyond Sherlock, as he was under the impression that she only went for half a day anyway!
"I'll drive you to school." Sherlock muttered a bit miserably.
"Okay." Annie muttered, obviously not appreciating the extent of her father's sacrifice for such a mission. Perhaps she didn't realize just how difficult it was for poor Sherlock to drag himself out of bed, how difficult it was to keep himself on his feet! With every passing moment he realized more and more deeply that he was failing at everything he attempted, and with every second he realized ultimately that the Watsons were the model of choice, even if they weren't his daughter's appropriate parents or not. They were the poster couple for a child's well-being; they were what you put on a bulletin board to advertise suburbia! The soccer dad and the trophy wife, together with their little son. They were everything Sherlock wanted for himself, everything he wanted for his daughter! And of course, well of course they might also be the first enemies he made in this accursed town. Certainly John was keeping his due secrets to himself, though what he could share about Sherlock's undesirable character was obviously being passed along to his wife like propaganda. He was trying to steer their entire family away from the tainting presence that was Sherlock Holmes, disgusted with him now even without knowing the full extent of his crimes! And so Sherlock found himself behind the wheel of his minivan, a stark and unacceptable disguise as he passed through the morning traffic fifteen minutes late for the school rush. He sat bare chested in the driver's seat, with his hair in such a mess as to make sure anyone looking in knew that he was the one that had to be dragged out of bed, and not the other way around. Oh how backwards he had his life, in which it was his daughter waking him up for school! The minivan stuck out through the morning commute like a beacon of carelessness, as it obviously alluded to a child who was late to school, due entirely to the fact that he father was suffering the age old consequences of his actions. When at last he pulled in there were but a few cars parked in the visitor's section, all of which probably belonged to substitute teachers that were wandering about through the school. Sherlock was the only parent in the lot, that was for sure.
"Have a good day. The babysitter will be there for you when you get back." Sherlock muttered with a stifled yawn, as he knew in the end he was going to have to find his way to work as well. He had been missing far too many days than might have been acceptable, and it would certainly take one more 'sick' day to get him punted off of the pay roll. That wouldn't be too much of an issue, but as he had learned through the powers of observation, well most all well rounded families had a steady income. Most all normal fathers had a job. And so he went straight from the school to his delightful place of employment, his eyes dropping shut in dismay as he narrowed down on the place that would try to contain him for these miserable eight hours of the day. Where he might sit behind a desk and get yelled at until at last the clock released him. Sherlock arrived, as one might say, with an entrance. He still had not bothered to clean himself up, and so as he stumbled through the front doors shirtless and without an ounce of personal hygiene it might be said that he rather drew attention to himself. Though no one raised a word against him, even Moran could not find a word to spit out that might be appropriate to fit a situation. Perhaps handling your coworker in such a state was not described in much detail in the employee handbook. Sherlock avoided all eye contact, he didn't bother trying to say good morning, or get coffee at the machine. Instead he lumbered with his stumbling legs down towards his cubical, the one pushed in the far back and the least decorated of the lot. In fact all he had to his name was what the office provided him with, which was only a computer and a little handheld phone. Everything else he was required to get, and as of now he had not bothered to supply himself with anything which might make his life a bit easier. This week's survey was about water quality, how people were satisfied with their local water company and how they might consider installing a lead filter overtop of their sinks. It was dreary work, and as Sherlock sat freezing and hungry in his swivel chair the hours brought with them much more aggravation than he could handle at the moment. No one seemed to want to talk about water quality; in fact the previous survey had at least gotten people interested in complaining. This survey just got them; well it got them angry on a different level. They were not angry with the subpar company, as they had been with the cable provider; instead they seemed to be angry at Sherlock, though with no good reason at all! For a long moment he listened to outrage, he listened to them yelling to be taken off the list (to which he legally obliged), yelling for him to shut up and get off the line, and yelling for him to do much less mentionable tasks of which he had no interest. Oh and there was a breaking point, there was a breaking point to even his rock hard mentality...
"Hello ma'am, my name is Sherlock and I'm calling in regards of Baker Water Filters, asking if you are quite satisfied with the state of your drinking water this afternoon." Sherlock began once again, speaking in the voice of a thousand droning syllables, as personable as an air conditioning unit that went on with the same monotonous hum.
"My drinking water? I'm sorry sir, but I don't ever drink from the tap. I drink exclusively bottled water." The woman muttered at the other end of the line, in such a voice that made it clear she thought herself better than even God.
"Very nice." Sherlock muttered. "Now, if you were in the habit of drinking from the sink..."
"See but I never would. It's not healthy. The government puts all sorts of chemicals in the tap water, in an attempt to poison us. They want to give us cancer, so that we don't live long enough for social security." She said rather pointedly. Sherlock hesitated, staring at his script for a moment and wondering just what he was supposed to say in response to such a ridiculous idea. Well perhaps he was not obligated to entertain the woman one such a notion, perhaps it was perfectly within his rights to be the one to hang up on her. Though she spoke with the voice of suburban mother, one who had been feeding off of the ideas of the local gossip magazines or Facebook conspiracy theories, she sounded like a woman just as failed in her task of normalizing as was Sherlock. And perhaps this was his chance to put someone below him, once and for all.
"Ma'am, I think you are mistaken. Our town's drinking water is only given the minerals that are necessary for human survival, ones we don't get enough of in a common diet." Sherlock pointed out.
"I'm a vegan." She said abruptly.
"Congratulations." Sherlock growled back. "Perhaps you have considered, then, the environmental impact of your drinking from water bottles? How many cases do you go through a day, how many bottles? If you cared enough about the environment you wouldn't be adding on to the obscene plastic waste."
"Oh no, honey, I have a metal straw." She said with a little chuckle, as if that was the entirety of the problem and therefore the overarching solution. Sherlock sighed heavily, shaking his head in wonder at what sort of crazy person he had got on the end of the line.
"Madam, you're a complete and blithering idiot." He said at last.
"I'm sorry?" she asked, seeming now only to realize the rudeness that was being directed at her. She didn't seem to understand what she did wrong, as the tone of her voice perfectly reflected her ideas of...well perhaps of complete innocence. Complete righteousness.
"I said you're an idiot. And I am not speaking any longer for Baker Water Company; instead I'm speaking from myself. From the heart. And I tell you now that you have such a minimalistic grasp on the world, and such an overwhelming need to fit in with the local trends, that you are effectively destroying the..."
"Mr. Holmes?" asked a stern voice from above him, and he looked up to see Moran staring down with crossed arms...evidently not very happy.
"You're destroying the earth by your own narrow views of reality, and making yourself look like a fool!" Sherlock exclaimed once more, to which the woman was obviously speechless.
"Mr. Holmes, hang up right now, and meet me in my office at once!" Moran demanded, stomping his foot so as to alert the entire office of his dissatisfaction.
"Have a nice day!" Sherlock growled at last, slamming the phone down onto the receiver and staring up to look his boss into the eyes. Perhaps Moran didn't expect such confrontational spirit from the usually docile man, as he recoiled just a bit to see two hard and determined eyes staring right back at him.
"Your office, you said?" Sherlock clarified at last, trying to lessen the anger behind his voice but finding it all together impossible. For just the slightest moment he was prepared to quit on the spot, as he knew ultimately that he would be fired anyway. Then again, perhaps a little bit of yelling would serve him well. Perhaps someone to put him in his place was exactly what he needed to maintain what little mental stability he had left.