Mother Bird

Proper Scandal and A Big Crybaby

No matter how differently Sherlock wanted his life to unfold, it would seem as though stagnation had set in for the betterment of the entire season. It had been weeks since he had any relief from this pining sensation, this terrible and utmost need not just for a man, but for a single man. It was the first time Sherlock remembered ever fixating on one idea, on one vision inside of his head. And perhaps that fell hand in hand with the idea that this may very well be the only time he had ever been denied, not once but twice. This was the only time he had allowed himself to get all worked up over a man in the present moment, only to be left sitting alone in the end, without a touch or a kiss to go along with the aching sensation within his heart. This was the only time that he hadn't anything to show for his efforts, in which he had tried to seduce that cold hearted man out of his obedient state, away from his wife just for an hour, just for a night...It was infuriating! It was so frustrating to want something and never have it, not just for a moment! That may very well be the only attractive thing about the accursed John Watson, not his personality but his inaccessibility. It was a challenge, something that Sherlock could waste away his days thinking about, struggling with the ideas of how to go about it, and daydreaming in those long hours of the morning about what it might feel like to finally be accepted into those arms. He knew that John was poison to him; he knew that with every second wasted pondering about his current situation he was abandoning the priories of an earlier age. Before he had just wanted to keep Annie safe, he had come here for parental guidance, not with the intention of splitting up the family he longed to be a part of! He couldn't be so selfish; he couldn't just take John for himself and deny Annie that beautiful family she was promised to, he couldn't take another thing away from poor Mary Watson without at least explaining why he decided to ruin her life and happiness so thoroughly. It would be wrong...oh but in the moment it would feel so right. Employment didn't come easy in the weeks that followed, and so while Sherlock had actually went out looking a couple of times he had come up empty handed, and so spent his days wasting away as a housewife. The positives of such a lifestyle were that the house was finally up to par with the rest of the little houses along the street. When Sherlock had ceased his cleaning of the inside he went along to the outside, digging up the terrible weeds in the garden and even getting around to planting some little red flowers just before the frost hit. His grass remained cut, the bushes trimmed, and at last his house didn't stick out as the unkempt property. At last he felt as though people didn't care to look inside of the windows, so as to accuse whoever they could see of mismanagement. He hoped that his own cleanliness might reflect a positive message of himself along the neighborhood, that perhaps once people noticed he had gotten his yard together they might assume at last that he had gotten his life together in such the same way. While this was a terribly gross assumption Sherlock had no actual way of proving it to be correct or not. He never talked to anyone in this neighborhood, not even Molly Hooper as of late. He had been a rather reclusive figure for the past couple of weeks, owing to what he felt were a million eyes staring down upon him every time he stepped outside of his house. He felt as though there was suspicion clouding his lifestyle these days, suspicion pungent in the air like a fog. John and Mary were both coming up with their questions, and as effective as his lies had been thus far it seemed a rather hopeless endeavor to keep dragging his story out as a conversational topic. He didn't have too good a story planned out of course, just the absolute fragments of an excuse for having a daughter without having a wife. And there were gaps; well John should know firsthand that Sherlock would never have been with a woman! And now that Mary understood that too, well then there would be all the more suspicion on her part. They even claimed that Annie didn't look anything like Sherlock...well using those two points alone and just half of their combined brain cells they might be able to figure out the truth! Or at least they might determine that Annie was not Sherlock's daughter, without any clue as to where she might have come from. Hopefully John forgot having told Sherlock the story of his own daughter, hopefully the alcohol that night was potent enough to keep him from remembering everything but the most important details of their encounter that night. Sherlock had the power of improbability on his side, not only would the Watsons struggle with the idea of why Sherlock would ever have taken Annie in the first place, not to mention how he had found his way back here, but they would also wonder why he would bother integrating himself back with them. They would wonder why he was so determinedly throwing his own thievery around in their faces, allowing them to watch this girl grow from a cute little child to a girl who had just a vague representation of the father she was supposedly the spawn of. It would be idiotic to do something like that, wouldn't it? Oh and the question of why he was even doing something so stupid was something he could not fully answer. He felt as though there were certain obligations at stake, and on his own head be it... Sherlock had never expected to be invited back to the Watson house, not since his last encounter there with the firing squad. While he had only ever been standing in the entry way he had such a vivid memory of the place, and when the invitation came for an end of the season barbeque hosted at the coach's house Sherlock could not have been more excited. It wasn't the promise of the food, nor even the company that made him count down the days, it was instead the idea of bringing his daughter back to that house where she might have lived out her first couple of months. The idea that he could be allowed to walk the halls of the Watson house, to trace the steps of both John and Mary at all stages of their life. It was the promise to learn more, to deduce what everything meant by staring long and hard. The pictures on the walls, the furniture placed about the room, the lost and discarded Barbie dolls that were hidden in the bottom of the toy bin. There would be evidence; there would be information...all there for the taking. Though before Sherlock had the chance to arrive at the house he first had to perfect some sort of recipe, something that might impress the Watsons so much that they would come to accept him as a human and as a parent just a little bit more. And that was where Molly Hooper came in.
"Sherlock, no, no you can't peel the potatoes." Molly said anxiously, grabbing the peeler out of Sherlock's hand as if it was a powerful weapon that he didn't have full control over. Sherlock obeyed, dropping the half skinned potato onto the counter with a loud plop and feeling quite childish when trapped in a kitchen with someone who so obviously knew what they were doing.
"I thought all potatoes got peeled! I mean, look at the skin it's all...dirty." Sherlock grumbled, prodding at the potatoes as they sat in their burlap bag with something of a distasteful grunt.
"Well that's why we wash them. But potato salad includes the peels; otherwise everything would just fall apart. Not to mention there would be no color." Molly insisted. Sherlock thought for a moment, remembering back to all the times he had been served potato salad. Well admittedly it was not a lot, as he didn't frequent picnics as much as he probably should. At the same time, however, what vague memories he did have did involve at least something more than a puddle of white colored mush.
"Alright then." Sherlock muttered, taking the bag over to the sink with the intention of scrubbing them all quite thoroughly.
"The picnic is tomorrow, yes?" Molly clarified, leaning on the counter and watching as Sherlock ran each potato under the sink with precision, scrubbing at the exterior with his fingers so as to work the dirt out of all the little cracks and crevices.
"Yes, it is. So that leaves us about twenty four hours to perfect this salad and make a good impression." Sherlock said pointedly, to which Molly gave a soft but appreciative sigh.
"So determined to get back on their good side?" she presumed.
"Not their good side, God I know I'll never be there. But just...perhaps on their tolerable side? In which they don't look like they might kill me." Sherlock admitted with a hesitant chuckle.
"Mary wouldn't kill you." Molly offered a bit quietly, as she was obviously doing her best to avoid John's obvious hostility.
"John would." Sherlock pointed out in defense, to which the woman gave a sad little mutter of agreement.
"He's just a complicated man, Sherlock." Molly admitted with a sigh. "He wasn't born angry he was just molded...molded to think that the world owes him something."
"And that something being my demise? Or perhaps he just thinks I've been sent to torture him?" Sherlock presumed.
"The latter, I think." Molly muttered, as if she had heard this same conversation being played out in a much more aggressive tone with the man in question.
"Well I'm not trying to irritate him, surely you understand that? It's just that our personalities clash. I think that we could grow to be friends if he'll just let me have a chance." Sherlock admitted with a sigh.
"In a way I think he envies you, he envies the little family you've made almost effortlessly." Molly presumed, to which Sherlock could almost laugh. The little family he had made out of John's own flesh and blood, the little family that she claimed was effortless...ha! The years he spent worrying for his safety, the years he spent tricking everyone. Effortless...
"it's not like my life has been all giggles and rainbows. I lost people, I suffered my fair share." Sherlock insisted, throwing one of the potatoes a bit too aggressively into a bowl, to which Molly winced.
"No one claimed you hadn't." she defended quietly. "But John's suffered too...just silently."
"He does seem like a brooder." Sherlock agreed, at last finishing his task and taking the bowl of clean potatoes over to be chopped. Molly had to giggle at that, shaking her head as if she couldn't help but agree.
"Set that over here, I'll start cutting them. You can be in charge of the onions." Molly interrupted, taking the potatoes and shoving an onion into Sherlock's hands. He had no idea what to do with it, though he didn't dare risk changing the topic of conversation so as to clarify just how one might cut an onion. And so he thought for a while, thinking on what onions looked like when he had seen them before. Perhaps this was the same, then? They were always rather purple...purple as if the peel had been left on.
"What were they like in high school, John and Mary? I assume they were together back then?" Sherlock presumed, trying to imagine those two in a different form, young, dumb, and in love...
"Oh yes, yes they were together. It was an almost perfect run for them; I mean we all knew they were destined as soon as they finally decided to date." Molly admitted with a little smile.
"Almost perfect? What, was there a hiccup?" Sherlock wondered quietly, to which Molly sighed heavily. Perhaps she regretted ever admitting anything; perhaps she regretted allowing Sherlock that tiny little spot of inquisition.
"Well you know, things happen in high school. People aren't always sure of who they are." She admitted in a little mutter, chopping the potatoes now at an alarming rate, as if she was taking her anxiety out on the poor things. The blade looked rather wild in her hand, though Sherlock maintained his task of trying to saw through the thick hide of this onion, all the while pondering what could possibly have happened between the two love birds all those years ago.
"Well you can't just leave me with that." Sherlock defended in a squeak. Molly groaned, pausing the chopping and staring a bit blankly in front of her, as if cursing herself and the minute she opened her big mouth. Sherlock, on the other hand, had just managed to cut through this accursed vegetable and was now peeling it apart as carefully as he could manage, awaiting Molly's response anxiously.
"Well there was a time in senior year, they had been together for a little while and I remember there was just a small scandal. John had cheated on her, but only briefly. Nothing too romantic, nothing too offensive. But it was enough to shake them both, and John...well there was a moment in which John wondered if he wanted to be back with her at all. He wondered if he wasn't changed forever." Molly admitted quietly.
"Changed, in what way?" Sherlock asked quickly.
"Well, John had cheated on Mary with a boy named James." Molly admitted at last. And with her words...with her words there came a show of tears that Sherlock had not really expected. He didn't think the news was all that astonishing, as he knew that John had at least some interest in men from their first encounter. Though as soon as her words flowed Sherlock felt his eyes well up, and all of the sudden he was standing there with great big tears rolling down his cheeks. Maybe it was the idea that those beautiful people had at one time not been happy, that Annie may have not been born into the ideal house he had imagined. Or perhaps he was crying because he now had the affirmation that John could love men, he just didn't love him.
"Oh my God...oh I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm crying." Sherlock admitted at last, sniffling powerfully and wiping his tears away as quick as possible. "That's not even...well I mean that's shocking but it's not sad. They're happy now, they are!"
"Sherlock, you're crying because you're chopping an onion." Molly pointed out at last, looking towards Sherlock's rather terrible handiwork.
"Oh..." Sherlock hesitated; trying to pretend that he knew onions had such depressive powers. "Right." 

  Sherlock put Annie's hair into a delightful braid for the day of the picnic, sitting with her on the couch while she talked of all the things she wanted to do when the first snow fell. This would be their first winter in their new house, and while the landscape was terribly flat around this development there was a rather lengthy hill on their soccer fields, a perfect slope for sledding. Sherlock promised to get her an authentic wooden toboggan, a nice two person sled that she would be able to steer safely down the hill in comfort. As she talked of more radical ideas, such as snowboarding, Sherlock decided to hastily change the subject back towards something a bit more tame, such as her interest in the spring season of soccer. John had already sent out an email highlighting the requirements, basically it was the exact same concept as the fall but played at the end of the school year, when the winter was turning back into spring and the leaves were growing, not dying. 

"Of course I want to play next year. Daddy, I'm going to be a star. Coach John said I have so much potential, and that goal I scored that other day? It was skill! I'll play for my whole life." Annie said positively, nodding her head as if she was quite determined with herself. Sherlock couldn't open his mouth to argue, figuring that she'll counter her own argument in time. There will be a million other things that she might prefer to do with her time, different sports and activities that may appear to be more tempting as she grew. But for now he could only nod, pulling the long strands of black hair together in an intricate and tightly knit braid with careful threating fingers.
"It's certainly an accessible sport. The local high school has a team, and there's plenty of universities that will let you play as well." Sherlock agreed.
"Did you play any sports in high school?" Annie asked, craning her neck to look towards her father. He merely scoffed at her, turning her head back so that he could focus on her developing hair style.
"No, I didn't play anything. I didn't do much at all." he admitted quietly, thinking back to his own reclusive high school years. He didn't regret them, per say, though as he developed into adulthood he found that it was a lot more difficult to devote yourself to nothing but studying. All of that knowledge he had gained, most having slipped his mind, others just festering without much use at all. He had such dreams back then, such scholarly ambitions...and all wasted. Wasted because of a heartbreak.
"Were you a nerd?" Annie wondered.
"That's not a very nice word, Annie. You shouldn't use it." Sherlock insisted, though he could admittedly think of a lot worse words that she might have spewed out unknowingly.
"Oh, alright." She muttered quietly. "But were you?"
"I suppose, in one's narrow definition, that I was." Sherlock admitted with something of a chuckle.
"What does narrow definition mean?" the little girl asked. Sherlock thought for a moment as he tied of the end of the braid with a cute pink bow, wondering how best to define such a phrase.
"In a very small way." Sherlock decided at last. He paused, picking his finger through Annie's roots to make sure there were no blonde hairs to obviously present at the ends. With the braid done up so tightly it was only too easy to stare down at her scalp, though the hair dye was proving effective. No one would be able to tell that she was naturally blonde, not when her hair was black all the way down to the roots.
"There you are, little bird." Sherlock said with a little chuckle. "Now go put on a nice outfit, and I'll meet you down here."
"Alright daddy." She agreed, springing to her feet and admiring her braid in the reflection of the shortest mirror (positioned as such with that purpose in mind) before racing up the stairs to pick out a dress of some sort. Sherlock wanted to put a positive light on this family, and so he too would have to dress himself decently. Well it wouldn't be too much of a stretch, he honestly never dressed casually. His wardrobe consisted only of formal attire, though certainly colors of shirts matched certain occasions better than others. And so Sherlock retreated to his room, going through his wardrobe in the pale light of the morning and shifting through colors of black, white, and gray to get at the more festive attire. At last he picked out his purple shirt, a rather obnoxious color that demonstrated his sexuality only too well. Though it was the one he called upon when he wanted to make a statement, when he wanted to look appropriate yet absolutely ravishing. It was a deep plum color, complimenting his features in a way that might drive any man mad. And John Watson...well perhaps he wasn't as righteous as he wanted to present. Oh he had a past, a delightful past, in which he might let his heart wander. Mary had lost her husband to a man before, once before...there was hardly anything stopping it happening again. Sherlock would have him; oh it would only be a matter of time. Molly's story filled him with hope, hope that John's concrete personification wasn't as solid as he liked to depict. And what better weapon, in the fight against fidelity, than this stunning purple shirt? When Sherlock descended the stairs he found Annie positioned in the full length mirror, spinning around in her little sundress and looking quite adorable. What a pair they would be, strolling into that picnic with their potato salad! A proper family, two proper and righteous members of suburbia.