Mother Bird

An Involuntary Intervention

Sherlock woke up later, whether he liked it or not. He was not given any choice, really, to just opt out of life entirely in the moments of his blackout, and so he awoke to face whichever consequences he had so stupidly lined himself up for. Oh who knew what was in store for him, what sort of punishment? As he woke to see a familiar ceiling he wondered if this was what Hell might have looked like, a ceiling which looked like his own yet a scent of cinnamon, something entirely unrecognizable. His senses came back to him in an instant, and just as he identified the smell that was wafting agressivley into his nose he began to hear the conversation that was playing out around his head...
"...in the grass when I first met him." came a female's voice, continued along with a jangling of what could only be dog tags.
"Well what the f*ck are we going to do about him? No one can expect me to babysit twenty kids and an unruly adult. He's just...my God." It was John's voice, that was obvious. John's voice was perhaps the only voice he knew to identify without any conscious thought, as it evoked a feeling so strongly within, a feeling that did all the recognizing for his muddled and tired brain.
"I don't know what to say. I mean, the daughter's alright." The woman muttered.
"The daughter's excellent, absolutely no reflection of this drunken b*stard." John grumbled. Sherlock kept his eyes clutched tight, perhaps doing too good a job of pretending to be asleep. He felt the need to eavesdrop as much as possible, to gauge the actual impression these people had on him. It seemed quite bad, though perhaps he had just awoken at the wrong moment. Perhaps they had been gushing about his character just moments before.
"Perhaps we can, well I don't know. We can get Phillip involved?" the woman suggested. Phillip...oh dear lord. That was the man that had come with the binder, the man that Sherlock had tried to seduce out of pure boredom. That wouldn't be a good thing, to get this little party of haters involved with a man who had equally serious complaints.
"No, no he's horrible." John insisted. "I was thinking more along the lines of a social worker."
"Or a therapist." The woman sighed.
"Or both." John agreed.
"Both would work." She muttered. Sherlock's eyes opened at such a statement, and he sat up so abruptly that the woman let out a rather girlish scream. Perhaps it was something akin to watching the dead come back to life, as the shade of white that fell over her face was comparable to pure and unfathomable fear. It was Molly Hooper; well perhaps he could've realized that before merely by the ceiling. It was a ceiling much like his own, meaning of course that he was in his God forsaken neighborhood.
"I don't want therapy." Sherlock said at last. "Nor do I want a social worker."
"Well we're not really asking you, Sherlock." John snapped, seemingly unfazed by the idea of Sherlock's eavesdropping on their whole conversation. He seemed to feel entitled to each and every word he spoke, even the vulgarities.
"Sherlock, you're awake." Molly breathed, dropping the dog from her lap (it fell to the floor very roughly, and its little legs began rather stumped beneath it) and rising to his aid.
"Yes I'm awake." Sherlock grumbled. "And I don't like what I just heard!"
"Can I get you something? Surely you need water, you're probably dehydrated." Molly suggested anxiously, patting at Sherlock's head as if to feel for a fever. In his conscious presence she turned into a mother, though before he had awoken she seemed just about ready to let him die. What a hypocrite.
"I'm not...well actually, water would be nice." Sherlock muttered, readjusting his behavior so as to take into account his own health. He didn't owe these people the satisfaction of waiting on him, though if they didn't at least try to get him back on his feet he may very well be stuck in Molly Hooper's living room for the rest of his life. And this living room was, well let's say interestingly decorated. As if a grandmother had come in to furnish and promptly vanished, leaving behind all of her knit pillows and motivational quotes. Molly rushed off to the kitchen to fill a glass, leaving John now staring with his arms folded down upon what could only be mentioned as his victim. Sherlock was threatened by his presence, perhaps the only man in the world who might evoke a feeling of fear.
"You think me a disaster?" Sherlock presumed quietly, letting his head fall back upon the pillow that had been shoved underneath his head.
"I think you worse than that. By the way, you owe me one hundred fifty dollars." John growled.
"For the shoes?" Sherlock presumed, remembering only vaguely the image of John's fancy shoes getting a bit...dirty.
"For the shoes." John agreed with a small grimace.
"I'm sorry." Sherlock breathed, feeling as though he ought to just throw those words out there for the heck of it. Perhaps it would help John feel a bit more humanly to him in the future.
"I don't care about your apology, I don't want it, nor do I want anything from you again. If it were up to me you'd be exiled from this town, from this whole bloody country." John insisted. Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head and rather wishing it was up to John. Perhaps exile would suit him nicely.
"There was a time you wanted something from me." Sherlock muttered, letting his eyes shut closed so that he could at least block out the face of disgust John made before him. Perhaps John regretted the whole night, though most likely his feelings were quite the same. He felt just as drawn to Sherlock, if not by his personality then at least by his body. Those feelings were merely magnified into much more aggressive thoughts...instead of wanting to kiss Sherlock he wanted to kick him instead. All the same those were physical actions, they were intimate. Molly arrived before John could argue, tapping at Sherlock's shoulder to get him to wake and hold the glass in his own shaking fingers. The water was much appreciated; in fact Sherlock drained the whole glass before he quite realized what was happening. His lips were cracking, his mouth was dry, and there was that everlasting taste of alcoholic vomit still lingering within his throat.
"Thank you, Molly." Sherlock muttered, wincing again as he set the empty glass on the floor and readjusted himself to a more conversational pose. He lay now on his side, staring down at where Buttons the dog was wagging his little tail, sat down in a pile on the hardwood and staring up at him with the utmost desire to lick his face. Sherlock ignored the thing, though he felt at least a more affectionate pang for the dog. It was, perhaps, the only thing in this room that didn't hate him.
"Sherlock, you've really made a mess of things this evening." Molly admitted with a little mutter. "The reception of it all..."
"I'm sorry, Molly, but how exactly are you involved in this? Why am I in your house, and not my own?" Sherlock wondered, trying to pick himself up into a sitting position but ultimately finding it impossible. With a grunt of effort and a twist of his vulnerable stomach Sherlock fell back down onto the couch, giving a low moan of defeat and staring once more at the dog rather than the people he was meant to be addressing.
"You're here because we didn't want your daughter to see you like this." John said abruptly.
"Yes...yes! Annie, where is she? What have you done with her I knew...I knew there was something missing." Sherlock breathed, though admittedly he hadn't given a thought to his daughter since he last set eyes on her, way back then on the practice field.
"She's with Mary." Molly muttered, seeing now that John was not going to allow Sherlock the satisfaction of getting a direct response from him. With Mary...with mother...
"Alright." Sherlock breathed, deciding of course that Mary was the only person who was ultimately capable of taking care of that child properly. If there was ever one other person who he would entrust his daughter in the care of, well of course it would be the lovely Mrs. Watson.
"As Molly was saying, Sherlock, you're not a liked figure at all. You've made yourself a rather fitting image of being a total disaster." John said at last. "Alcoholic, irresponsible, and totally inappropriate."
"Those are words I've heard before, yes." Sherlock breathed. "Though I must insist there are some positive adjectives that could be used to describe me as well. You've taken a rather biased approach."
"Positive ones, okay. Enlighten me." John challenged, flexing his jaw and tapping his fingers impatiently against his arm, staring down at where Sherlock was now smiling against his pillow, thinking hard.
"Friendly." He offered at last, allowing himself a little chuckle of relief. For a frightful moment he had not been able to think of a single thing he had been described as, save for terrible insults and adjectives based entirely of a romantic vocabulary.
"I'll give him that." Molly agreed immediately, to which John grumbled his quiet agreement. For a moment he didn't think to say anything more, he just shook his head and at last collapsed into a rather uncomfortable looking wooden rocking chair, holding his head in his hands as if Sherlock's own indecency was somehow reflecting upon him, somehow changing anything in his own life. Well why would he look so personally offended by something that was not his fault? Oh it must be the shoes.
"We're worried for you, Sherlock. That's why we've kept you here. We're considering options, perhaps tools to help you get your life more steadied out, to help you perhaps...um..."
"Grow the f*ck up." John offered at last, seeing that Molly could not find the correct euphemisms for what she was attempting to describe.
"Well...in a less vulgar version yes. Perhaps mature a little bit, in an attempt to provide a positive impact on the community and a safer environment for your child." Molly suggested with a grin.
"She's perfectly safe with me. I do everything for her, I'd cut off my arms for her, I'd...well I'd do anything." Sherlock muttered, pausing as he tried to think of a great many drastic lengths he would go to make sure Annie had the safest life available.
"Yet you wouldn't sober up for her, ya? You wouldn't wake up to take her to school." John snapped immediately.
"I would most certainly sober up for her! No one has held me accountable for that one yet. And yes, John, sometimes it's rather difficult to get out of bed. But I have depression and so in a sense my brain is rather lacking in motivation sometimes." Sherlock growled.
"Are you on medication for depression?" Molly asked quietly.
"No." Sherlock admitted simply.
"How about a therapist, have you got one of those?" she suggested even more quietly, as she ultimately knew what this answer would be.
"No, I don't trust anyone with rapist in their name." Sherlock sighed at last, shaking his head quietly all the while Molly pursed her lips, as if trying to keep in her own string of nasty words. John looked towards her with raised eyebrows, as if to demonstrate what sort of nightmare he had been describing.
"I would suggest both." Molly muttered at last.
"And a social worker." John interrupted quickly.
"Perhaps that's a more drastic measure." Molly muttered.
"I don't need any of that, oh seriously. I'm only miserable because I've not slept with anyone in the past month." Sherlock growled. "It's really quite the hassle, you know I might've gotten lucky one night at a bar, but the man was married."
"Sherlock, you better shut your..." John began, nearly rising out of his chair before he realized his reaction didn't quite fit the nature of the statement. Someone who didn't know the personal level of such a story may just assume something now. Sherlock merely chuckled, shaking his head and closing his eyes for a moment.
"Perhaps you ought to just let me go, or you could save me the effort and go wrangle in an attractive male yourself." Sherlock suggested. There was some silence, as Molly chewed on her fingernails and glowed just about the shade of red one might expect from someone so innocent as her. John was red in anger, though flushed to the same shade.
"I don't think that's the problem here." Molly offered at last.
"Of course it's not the bloody problem, the problem is him." John growled, jabbing an accusing finger at Sherlock with the thrust of a dagger, as if he would so like to impale the helpless man sprawled out upon the couch.
"Oh yes, you're right. In that case, just shoot me." Sherlock suggested with a little chuckle.
"I'm about to!" John exclaimed, this time getting to his feet and pacing about in small circles. "I'm done with patience; my God I am just so...so done. F*ck."
"Mind your tongue." Sherlock muttered.
"I'm going to throttle him." John whispered to himself, shaking his head and finally leaving the living room, storming out the back door and onto the porch as if to calm himself down. Perhaps he was on the verge of getting violent; maybe all of Sherlock's antagonizing was beginning to sink in. Oh but Sherlock couldn't explain his constant need to make this into a joke, he really couldn't accept within himself that what they're saying needed to sink into a deeper level. Perhaps he did need to grow up; perhaps he was putting himself in the most negative light. There was a time for jokes and there was a time for contemplation, oh but when he felt so attacked he could not manage to decipher properly between the two! It was about defense now, he was being attacked on all fronts and he could only...he could only manage to laugh it off. He couldn't take this seriously no matter how hard he tried, as the moment he took it seriously was the moment it became real. It was the moment he failed in his job as a parent and as a citizen, the moment this move changed nothing except his address and still dragged along all of his worst characteristics. The moment he took it seriously there would be no difference now, between Molly Hooper and Mrs. Donavan.
"It's probably better that he left, really." Molly admitted quietly, though she sounded awfully afraid now to have been left alone with Sherlock. Perhaps she didn't know how to handle him; perhaps she thought he had the capability of violence as well.
"He's escalating things." Sherlock agreed quietly, draping down one of his arms for Buttons to run up and lick, appreciating the attention that didn't seem to be seething with rage.
"He's not terribly good in crises." Molly assured, as if she felt the need to defend the ruthless John Watson.
"Known him long, have you?" Sherlock presumed, now with his own personal goals in mind. Maybe Molly Hooper knew some details about John's personal life, some details she might slip out unintentionally throughout a long and rambling narrative.
"Since high school. The three of us, we all grew up here." Molly admitted with a soft smile.
"How lovely." Sherlock grinned, and this grin was of course quite genuine. He hadn't known the connection between Molly Hooper and the Watsons until now, and knowing that they stretched back so far surely made him the outcast, though it also gave him quite the advantage.
"Gone through many crises with them, presumably?" Sherlock muttered. Molly's face darkened, though she allowed herself a quick nod.
"A few." She admitted in a small voice. Sherlock nodded, attempting to look solemn now.
"Things quite to this magnitude, or things more perhaps...criminal?" Sherlock wondered.
"Sherlock, it's not my history we care about. It's your future." Molly insisted at last. "I honestly want you to find help, whether that be a therapist, or a social worker..."
"Okay, let me intervene here. I've made one mistake, just one. I have gotten drunk on the sidelines of the soccer field, oh so what? I'm sure I'm not the first! Why is it that this is suddenly so bad, why am I being gutted for a simple mistake, a simple indulgence?" Sherlock growled.
"Because it's not your first offense! Annie told us, well she told us plenty. How you left her outside one day because you forgot about her, how you never wake up in time to take her to school, how you make her lunches with stale bread. And John, he shared that you were drunk at a bar, drunk the very same night you dumped your daughter on me without any notice, on the claim of a business meeting! And now here you are again, drunk when you need to drive your daughter home from practice! You're endangering her, Sherlock, you're endangering yourself!" Molly exclaimed.
"Told you about the bar, did he?" Sherlock chuckled. "Bold of him."
"Sherlock, we care about you. Or rather...well I care about you. I care about your wellbeing, and I don't want to see you get hurt. I don't want to see your daughter get hurt." Molly admitted, choosing to avoid his little comment as she really didn't know how to take it.
"And so a therapist will make sure that happens? A social worker will...will babysit me to the point where I don't put our lives in danger any longer?" Sherlock wondered, both options seeming to be terribly revolting. He didn't want to hand over any portion of his life to someone else, he didn't want to allow a social worker into his house, he didn't want to allow a therapist into his head. Those were private places, places he didn't want anyone poking around!
"I should hope so." Molly muttered. "And if you don't go about organizing this yourself well...well John has expressed interest in getting a court involved. He works for the state, you see, and he's got position enough to take it to a higher power."
"A higher power? You mean charge me for getting drunk?" Sherlock growled.
"No, no Sherlock. Charge you for child endangerment." Molly muttered at last, squeezing those words from her lips as if she hated to say them. As if she wanted anything but to have to speak those words directly to Sherlock's face, tell him outright that he was incapable of parenting. Telling him that he was criminally bad at raising a child. His heart broke to hear it, and for a moment he couldn't hear anything at all except a monotonous ringing in his ears, the sound...well perhaps it was the sound of defeat. Instead of responding he fell back onto his pillow, staring up at the ceiling with his dry mouth agape.
"Don't let them take her away from me." he whispered quietly, though to who he was not sure. Perhaps he was speaking out to Molly, or perhaps to John. Perhaps he was begging to a power that he didn't understand, perhaps those words were directed towards God. Most likely...well most likely they were aimed towards himself. They were directed towards himself as a wakeup call, as a call to action, a plea, a plea for change. Don't let them take her away from me...from you. Don't give up the only thing you've ever loved, the only thing that had ever loved you. Don't let it slip through your fingers any longer.