Mother Bird

Slipping into Suburban Domesticity

When they arrived at the Watson household it was very obviously set up for an event, as there was a gigantic tent set up in the backyard that was just visible from the road. The air smelled of grilling burgers and there was music playing from some sort of speaker system, a positively delightful scene to stroll up to ten minutes late.
"Now, be on your best behavior Annie." Sherlock instructed. "We want to be respectful to everyone."
"I know." She assured, skipping along down the sidewalk in her sandals. Sherlock hesitated at the front door, wondering if they might be allowed to just walk around the idea of the house and invite themselves in. All the same he decided it might be better to knock, as surely the Watson family would be the only ones obligated to answer the front door. They were the two he was trying hardest to impress; they were the ones whose opinion mattered so dearly in the end. And so, with the large bowl of potato salad in one hand, he rang the doorbell as long and loudly as he could, to ensure that anyone standing on the back porch might be able to hear it. It took a moment, though at last the sound of approaching footsteps prepared him for the door to be opened by a delighted Mary Watson. She was too polite to hold any grudges, that was certainly one of her best qualities. Despite all the terrible things Sherlock had done to soil his image, well she was still always so happy to see him.
"Sherlock, Annie! Come in!" she exclaimed happily, propping open the door wider and allowing the new guests to enter into her home domain. Sherlock allowed Annie to run in first, pausing as Mary paid her a polite compliment on her braid. Sherlock didn't want to make it all about him, and so he didn't mention that it was he who constructed it out of her long hair.
"I've brought potato salad. Molly Hooper help me make it." Sherlock said proudly, holding out the bowl in offering to which Mary smiled thankfully.
"Oh wonderful! Well anything you make I'm sure would be delightful, and with Molly's touch it can only improve." She said positively, taking the bowl and starting her way out to the back porch. "Come along then, the party's out back."
"Where's Hamish?" Annie wondered anxiously, taking off in a trot towards the back door all the while her father lingered a bit in the halls. He had never fully appreciated the Watson house, as it had only been presented to him once in a state of imprisonment. Now that he was here on his own free will, without three pairs of disappointed eyes staring upon him, well there was a much more delightful charm about the place. There were layers of emotion stored up in the walls, he could feel them with a passing touch...there was joy, despair, and rage all piled up to make a thick and rather suffocating cloud of passions, highlighting the parts of their lives the Watsons preferred to keep hidden. All the pictures on all of the walls...in not one of them did Sherlock see any evidence of a second child. They kept their Rosie Watson to themselves, grieving for her without ever realizing that she had come home. Sherlock finally passed through the screen door and was met with the characteristic backyard barbeque, everything he might have expected from such a group of predicable and rather boring people. There was a grill positioned on the wooden deck, slightly overhanging a large sloping yard which was interrupted by a rather ugly above ground pool with a shaky wooden structure positioned around it. Though the yard was not the most noticeable thing about the property, no in fact the woods just behind were what caught Sherlock's immediate attention. There was a massive spread of trees, collected into a delightful forest just on the edge of the property. Each one glistened in the sunlight with different colors of changing leaves, some barren to the season and others just beginning to show the most brilliant colors of yellow and red. There must be paths back there, wandering to and from as one got lost from the constraints of suburbia into the confusing freedom of nature. The Watsons must retreat to there, when at last they decided their lives were growing too heavy. The Watsons must know those paths like the back of their hand. The more distasteful part of the yard was occupied by the large tent, under which the family had set up tables and chairs for the guests to sit at. There was a large spread of food on one table and a long line of the obnoxious parents at another, watching as their children ran and played and jumped into the freezing pool fully clothed. It was something akin to chaos, and it immediately turned Sherlock's stomach. He realized that his only companions would be the ones tasked with hosting, and so his support system was completely exhausted by their obligations to each one of their guests. He would be a pain, if anything at all. Social anxiety crept upon Sherlock like a shadow, shrouding the sunny day with the ominous task of positioning himself under the tent, finding one of the available seats to position himself around those who might tolerate his presence the longest. An afternoon filled in silence, that was what awaited him. Annie ran about already, forgotten about her father and his inability to communicate. He almost wanted to call her back, though he knew it would be cowardly to hide behind your child in an attempt to make friends. He would have to get through this on his own, would he not? He would have to suffer in silence and count down the minutes until it was an appropriate time to leave.
"Here's to the end of the season, then." came a voice from behind him, followed by the snap of the screen door as it slammed shut behind his newest visitor. Sherlock spun on his heel, not entirely sure if John's arrival would be his saving grace or the bane of his existence. And yet he came holding two bottles of beer, one he kept for himself and the other he extended out in offering...
"Is it poisoned?" Sherlock asked immediately, knowing better than to accept any liquids prepared by your enemies. John paused for a moment, as if he didn't know exactly how to answer that. He said nothing, though he lifted each bottle to his lips one at a time and drank enough to ease Sherlock's mind. At last he accepted one of the bottles, holding it nervously in his hands and running his fingers over the condensation.
"I don't like big parties." Sherlock admitted quietly, though he wasn't sure why he was admitting all of this to John. If he exposed his weaknesses then the man would surely use them against him, if John knew that Sherlock didn't like to meet new people then surely he would abandon him to make sure he was as lonely and awkward as ever. Or at least, that was Sherlock's expectation. When John still lingered here on the porch, well Sherlock had to wonder if he had missed anything at all. Any sort of reconciliation there had been between them, in which they forgot their differences and their pasts.
"Me neither. But I'm the coach, and so I should be the one to thank everyone. I should be the one to host." John grumbled.
"That's a script your wife gave you, isn't it?" Sherlock presumed. John sighed heavily, shaking his head with something of a guilty smile (a smile, in Sherlock's presence!).
"Yes, I suppose it is." He agreed at last. "Thankfully I have the task of grilling to occupy me."
"Oh, well I don't mean to impose." Sherlock muttered, admittedly uncomfortable even now. Perhaps that party wasn't as daunting as was John's solitary presence, so nice and pleasant that he had to wonder what was coming next. Was this an attempted interrogation process?
"Yes you do, but you're welcome to impose." John assured. "People in small doses are tolerable."
"I'm not just people." Sherlock debated.
"No, you're you." John agreed with a sigh. "But I suppose you'll have to do."
"Oh." Sherlock muttered, blinking a bit awkwardly but nodding his agreement at last. He wasn't sure why he was suddenly so opposed to being in John's solitary presence, as this was obviously some sort of step in the right direction for them. If John could stand to talk with him then he could certainly grow to love him, if he hadn't fallen head over heels already. Maybe it was the shirt; maybe the purple shirt was bringing out feelings of sympathy that John hadn't anticipated on before. John went over to the grill, popping open the lid and observing all of the burgers and hot dogs that were being cooked inside of the flame. He flipped them a couple of times, as if to make sure all sides were evenly distributed through the heat, and before long took to scooping them out onto a large plate.
"Have you eaten yet?" John wondered. Sherlock shook his head, trying to think of some excuse not to eat all the while his stomach was growling in protest. Something about following John's suggestions and orders made him feel a bit uncomfortable, as if he was allowing the man some sort of dominion over his life and wellbeing. And while John was right, that Sherlock did need to eat (as it was already closing in on two o'clock) Sherlock felt that he should be the one to decide. Was that too petty?
"No, I haven't." Sherlock admitted at last.
"Well then, what will it be?" John wondered, shoving the plate rather anxiously under Sherlock's nose for him to have first pick. Sherlock hesitated as the forces within himself battled for control. One side begged to be fed, the other begged to be independent... Oh in the end he really couldn't fight himself any longer. He found that he had no choice but to hastily accept one of the burgers off of the tray, setting it carefully into a bun and thanking John rather quietly, as if he was guilty of something that he couldn't yet define.
"I made the potato salad." Sherlock said with a little grin, looking towards the spread of food and noticing with something of an angry shock that there were two bowls of potato salad. One he recognized as his own creation, and the other looked like a sorry imitator. Though upon examining the two bowls, the other was much emptier than his own, which seemed to only sport a couple of dents. Sherlock felt a bit infuriated, deciding just by looking at it that his own salad was much better than his competitor. His was much more colorful, sporting beautifully chopped red onions and whatever else Molly had thrown in at the end. Yes, his was better. Sherlock looked around to make sure that no one was looking before he shoved the other bowl far to the back of the table, where none but a very determined hand could reach. Yes, that should make sure that his hard work was not wasted. People would enjoy his potato salad, he was positively entitled to praise at this point. As Sherlock filled his plate John distributed the food to their guests, coming back with a near empty plate with the newfound motivation to grill some more. Sherlock made sure that Annie was getting her food, noticing that she was also putting together a hot dog with some difficulty. Before Sherlock could step in to help, however, Mary Watson appeared almost out of nowhere and offered her professional hand, fitting the hot dog together and proceeding to scoop anything else that Annie wanted from the tall table. Sherlock watched from his spot along the wooden railing, watching as the woman treated Annie like any mother would treat their own child. The ironic part was of course the fact that this was her child, though at the end of the night Annie would come home with Sherlock and leave her true family behind.
"Annie was telling me that you put that braid in her hair. She was so excited to share." John commented when he noticed Sherlock's eyes trailing towards his daughter, watching like a helicopter parent as she ate her hotdog along with the other little children, all compiled in a circle on the grass. Sherlock hummed, at first not realizing that he was being directly addressed. Oh he might have thought that John was talking to someone different entirely, considering the soft and almost respectful tone of his voice. It was outrageous, this kindness he was being offered. It was almost suspicious.
"Yes, yes I'm quite good with hair. My own isn't long enough to play with so Annie is a good little model." Sherlock admitted with a little grin.
"Well I'd arguably say you've got the best hair I've ever seen. That's definitely a window to your more fashionable side." John muttered, perhaps not even realizing that he had paid Sherlock a direct compliment. For a moment Sherlock faltered, pausing as he went to eat his hamburger and wondering if he should just go along with it at this point. Was it worth it to be suspicious, or should he just go with the flow? It had been a while now that he wished for some respect from John Watson, though now that the opportunity had come along it just felt so utterly wrong. Perhaps it was time he just accepted the fact that John was more cheerful and went with it? Who knows, perhaps they could both profit in the end. Sherlock thought back to Molly's story, he thought to James...
"I do try my best." Sherlock muttered at last. "Though I was blessed with luxurious curls. The maintenance is just half the battle, the genetics...well that's the whole of it."
"Your parents had curly hair then?" John presumed.
"Well, I think my father would've. Though he had a close cut, so it never really showed. He was military in style, though he never actually fought." Sherlock remembered with a little mutter.
"I've been told the same." John muttered.
"You look like a soldier. Could've fooled me." Sherlock decided, happy for the excuse to look over John Watson one more time. He was an impressive figure, that was for sure.
"I might've been, if I hadn't fallen into education so quickly. My parents wanted me to be a doctor, and so I got ushered through medical school just as fast as they could pay." John admitted, though there was a rather sour tone to his voice. Almost as if the entire memory was traumatic, as if he didn't want to relive his college years. Perhaps the memory involved something more, more than just homework and essays and dissections...perhaps there was some underlying guilt there as well. Sherlock was beginning to wonder just how strong John's heart was, remembering again to their first interaction. Perhaps this James boy was not the last man John had acquired, perhaps there had been more...perhaps there would be more to come. Just how happy was this little family John presided over? Was the image they put out to the world just a fallacy, a fleeting dream that they conjured to make themselves look good? What rotted beneath the surface of their smiles?
"You're a doctor then? I'm not sure that I knew that." Sherlock muttered, thinking back to even his own processes of stalking. The fact had been quite shocking, admittedly, and so he decided at last that this was news to him.
"I work for the state." John agreed a bit vaguely. Sherlock gave something of a sniffle of surprise, though he hoped that the employment conversation would just end here. He wasn't all together proud of his own standpoint, as while he was quite fortunate in inheritance the title of unemployed wasn't nearly as glamorous as he deserved.
"Do you get paid for coaching?" Sherlock wondered at last, which not only furthered their conversation but also satisfied his curiosity on such a matter. John's job as coach was certainly stressful, and while it might be rewarding in some sense it was by no means a tempting position.
"No, actually. It's just volunteer work." John admitted with a shrug. "But it gets me out of the house, you know? Gets me a bit more centered in the community, more involved with my son."
"It's nice to be involved. I try my best to be Annie's guiding light, but it's getting more and more difficult. I mean now she's going off to school, she'll be meeting new kids, getting new teachers...I mean what am I to do? How am I supposed to fair against them?" Sherlock grumbled. "I can't even imagine when they all get personalities, when the rough crowd starts forming...I can't imagine what I'd do if she fell into that."
"What like, drugs?" John assumed.
"And boys, and alcohol. You know that middle schoolers do that sort of thing now?" Sherlock pointed out, demonstrating his own shock to something of an unmoved audience. Perhaps John knew all too well the rebellious nature of the younger generations, as he didn't seem too surprised by Sherlock's testimony.
"It's those phones." He offered at last.
"And that music." Sherlock grumbled with a little nod. "I mean, I don't attest to being behaved in high school but...well she ought to be better raised than I was."
"What did you get up to in those years?" John asked with something of a chuckle. Sherlock thought that he may very well ask the same thing, though he figured that such an approach would not be very appropriate. As for now he decided to flatter John's curiosity, in the hopes that he would be offered the same courtesy.
"Oh everything a boy could get up to, I suppose. Everything that one might consider indecent." Sherlock admitted with a little shrug, looking back and deciding that it was better to have lived then while he still had the chance. It was fun while it lasted, but here came adulthood like a train, interrupting any more fun as he was shockingly transformed from rebel to caretaker. All of the sudden he had to be a good role model, he had to shape himself into a proper parent figure and forget the ways and rules he once lived by.
"Well, from what I know of you now not much has changed." John offered at last, contradicting Sherlock's thought processes almost perfectly.
"No, no I've changed. I listened, ya? I listened to you guys about good parenting, and I haven't drank in public, I haven't even hooked up with anyone. It's going on four months now!" Sherlock exclaimed, posing this as an unbelievable feat. This time, thankfully, John understood the enormity behind such a statement, and took a moment from his grilling to mock a little clapping of encouragement.
"Well aren't you just the responsible adult now?" he chuckled.
"I am, I definitely am." Sherlock agreed, nodding his head and hoping that John would conveniently forget all of the times Sherlock had tried to restart the clock on that statistic. Well, every time he did try to find someone at the bar that someone always ended up being John, and each time that happened it escalated into nothing but another reason to hate one another.
"Yes well, we all have to adapt at some point I'm afraid. Leave behind our teenaged years and forge on through the real world." John admitted with something of a regretful shiver, staring down at the flames as they swelled up to engulf the hamburgers. He stared as if he quite understood that feeling, the feeling of burning...
"What happened in your teenaged years, John?" Sherlock muttered, his voice now dropping to something of a whisper as he hesitantly drew closer, his legs operating on a rhythm that was not all together appreciated by his brain. Though he felt the proximity, he felt the temptation...
"Nothing that will repeat again." John said flatly, his eyes flashing dangerously and sending Sherlock back into the routine, sending Sherlock back into his approved persona. He blinked for a moment, realizing of course that he was coming onto John Watson at the man's hosted backyard picnic. Perhaps not the best stage for a scene that would not be child friendly.
"I um...well I guess I might mingle for a little while." Sherlock decided at last, feeling as though whatever invitation he had been offered was just spent. Oh his idiocy, his constant need to escalate situations into a mess he couldn't get out of! He was so effective at pushing people away, so effective at ruining anything that might ever escalate into something that would be beneficial for the both of them. A friendship, why could he not secure a simple friendship? Why was it that he took a casual offering of a helping hand as a terrible need for love, and why did he respond so much more eagerly to the latter?
"Probably best that you do." John agreed, flipping over one of the hamburgers and engulfing the whole of the grill in a magnificent flame, spawned by the grease as it fell between the rungs. Well there was nothing left for Sherlock at this party, nothing at least within the bounds of social expectation. He sat himself at the far end of one of the tables, sitting just on the edge of the crowd without allowing himself to get within conversational proximity. He didn't want to speak to them, he didn't care to. He found himself lost in thought, lost with the idea that his feet were touching upon the very ground that had been hallowed by the feet of the Watson family. He thought of what might've happened here, when they were still happy and whole. What had come before the children, what sort of passionate love that had spawned. What had come after the children, what sort of backyard games they might've played before the twins could walk. What came after the loss...what happened in the immediate aftermath? The soil which held the chair which Sherlock so effortlessly smashed into the mud...it knew. It witnessed. Perhaps that was Sherlock needed in the end, a witness, a whole witness that would spill its secrets. He was obsessed with the idea of time, now that he had a much firmer grasp on John Watson's timeline and his transformation from soccer star to an aimless drunkard, posing in a polo shirt with the attempt to be normal. He saw the misery that festered beneath the skin, he saw the disloyalty. He knew what burned inside of John's heart, he knew what branded him. But there needed to be a witness, there needed to be someone willing to squeal. And perhaps...well perhaps Sherlock was wasted in the attempt to find someone to speak. Perhaps he had to witness it all first hand; perhaps he had to be invited into the household when it wasn't under constant surveillance. Perhaps he had to...well perhaps he just had to blend into the crowd.