Mother Bird

Time To Return To The Nest

It didn't matter about the children, they were taken care of. They certainly wouldn't be entrusted to the care of their raving parents, for each one of the families was now engulfed in a certain madness that was not appropriate for the eyes of children. Mary was bent over a bottle of wine, crying in the living room of poor Molly Hooper, all the while Sherlock and John were bent over each other, flailing between their limbs and the bedsheets of a rather terrible motel. But the children made it home, the children were left waiting. And it was all that either party could do but enjoy the company they had, or rather tolerate the company they were forced into. Tonight was not redeemable for poor Mary Watson, sat upon the remains of her shattered marriage. Though for Sherlock and John, well tonight was like most any other night. Tonight held the power to forget, to push aside that saddened feeling in the pits of their stomachs, the feeling that came along with defeat. Tonight they were able to focus on that ever familiar feeling of lust, that feeling which never seemed to die! A flame that was lit for as many nights as Sherlock could remember (and then some), a flame that was still burning strong to this day! To this moment. A flame that consumed them in a mad torrent of fire and of passion, a feeling of repressed emotions spilling out into the open, the appreciation for touches, and kisses, and noises unheard. Privacy and companionship, all mingled together in an audience of one, in an audience who wanted nothing more than to please.
"I'm...I'm a bad parent." John was whispering against Sherlock's neck, his eyes closed tight and his face pressed so close to the skin of his lover that his words were hardly recognizable.
"You're not." Sherlock insisted in his single breath, the only one he could spare.
"I'm a bad man." John repeated in agony, letting out a groan and settling his teeth into Sherlock's bare shoulder.
"You're not a bad man." Sherlock insisted, shaking John's head away and patting down the bangs were they fell upon his sweaty forehead. "You're a good man, with a bad habit."
"You're my bad habit." John whispered in agreeance, uttering something of a breath of relief, as if he liked to hear such reassurance. "The devil on my shoulder."
"Not just on your shoulder." Sherlock chuckled back. John at last stopped his flailing, his limbs went limp where they draped around Sherlock's neck. His eyes shut for a moment, calling Sherlock now to stop his kisses and observe what effect the situation was having upon poor John. He had let his mind wander, he had ruined the moment! Would he think back to his wife, would he think to the separation that was bound to happen? The divorce, the custody battle?
"I'm going to lose them again; I'm going to lose my child...my wife." John whispered.
"You'll keep your children, John Watson." Sherlock promised, imagining a life with John in his household, with John at his side, and Annie...Rosie, together with them forever. "You'll keep one of them."
"I've lost them again. I've lost her again." John whispered.
"It wasn't your fault, John. None of this was your fault. Not today at the field, not all those years ago at the train station." Sherlock assured, trailing one his hands down poor John Watson's face, trying to let his words seep into the man's brain, trying to let him believe them. For a moment John was still, for a moment he even seemed to enjoy the embrace. But then that moment was over...and his eyes shot open straight away. They widened, now, as he stared into the eyes of his oppressor. Perhaps he was beginning to see Sherlock as he really was; perhaps he was beginning to realize what a mess a single man could make of another's life. Perhaps he was coming to his senses?
"Train station." John whispered in return. "Train station?"
"Is that not ...?" Sherlock began, though his words faltered.
"How did you know that? I never...I never told that to anyone." John insisted in a stammering voice, puzzle pieces now forming within his mind. It was just taking him some time, taking him some effort, to put them together to see the complete picture. He was shaking with the effort; he was shaking with the realization. Though this was not yet a mess Sherlock could not clean up, with every word there came a defense, as with every poison there is a cure...
"Your wife told me." Sherlock said abruptly.
"She never speaks of Rosie." John muttered, his words now sounding slow and slurred. His eyes were dulled, his lids fluttering, almost as if he was coming to a realization that almost pleased him.
"She did to me. She was drunk, she was..."
"Annie." John breathed, at last letting his hands trail away from Sherlock's shoulders, his fingers trailing across his exposed ribs as they fell to the bed beside him. He seemed...well he seemed docile. John seemed almost too calm, for a man who just saw the world open up before him. Too calm for a man who recognized his lifelong villain as the lover he now lay underneath.
"Annie is my daughter, she's not yours." Sherlock debated, though his words were suddenly becoming rushed. Suddenly he was finding it difficult to despite this, now that John seemed so set on his observation. Oh how Sherlock wished he was now spewing nonsense, how he wished he could be speaking the honest truth! Though his defenses were built on pillars of sand, and they were crumbling now, with the oncoming waves...
"I knew it...Sherlock I knew it!" John exclaimed, at last giving a great heave against the weight of his lover, throwing Sherlock off with as much force as he could manage and effectively sending the poor man falling to the floor, wrapped in the bedsheets he still clung to.
"I knew you couldn't have slept with a woman, I knew you couldn't have married!" John exclaimed.
"John you're speaking madness!" Sherlock exclaimed, recovering himself from the tumble and dragging himself to his feet.
"I'm not speaking madness, I'm speaking to it." John growled, finding his clothes where they lay scattered about the floor, dressing himself quickly with eyes full of scorn.
"I'm not mad." Sherlock defended in a weak little voice, finding that all of his confidence suddenly bled away like from an open wound. Modesty took over, and he pulled the bed sheet rather imperfectly around his torso. He stared upon the man he thought he loved, oh but who he was he kidding? The man he loved, surely...despite the feelings that may not be returned. John was shaking his head, running his fingers through his hair, pacing about...
"You've stolen my daughter." He said quietly. "All those years it was you who stole her from that stroller, you who ran away with her and...and it was YOU who dared come back?"
"John you sound so sure, why do you sound so...so sure?" Sherlock whispered. "I've not hurt you, I've not done..."
"I'm sure, Sherlock. I'm sure that there was something wrong with you, God if I had to pick out one in one million people who would be so selfish!" John exclaimed. He was really coming back into his old self again, as if he had fallen out of a trance that Sherlock had effectively placed upon him for these long winter months. Perhaps, just like the ground, John's common sense was beginning to thaw.
"I'm not selfish." Sherlock whispered, feeling his eyes begin to well up in tears of defeat. He knew there was nothing he could say against it, he knew that John's heart was settled on the only conclusion he would grow to accept. In John's heart he knew Sherlock to be the criminal, even without evidence that might support such a claim. Even without knowing for sure that he was in the presence of someone so...so ghastly.
"A madman, I've been seduced for so long by a madman." John grumbled.
"I'm not mad." Sherlock blubbered, his words now sputtering through the length of sobs that were issuing from the back of his throat, mingled now with the tears that were running down his cheeks. Perhaps he had no choice, oh of course homewreckers would get what's coming to them! Of course it was only a matter of time before the family John had created, the family Sherlock had destroyed, began to piece itself back together again. Happiness was due to return, any moment now. Happiness was due to strike Sherlock down and make him as lonely as he was before. As helpless...a criminal.
"Where is she now?" John whispered.
"I don't know." Sherlock managed truthfully, not able to wipe away his tears now as both of his hands were occupied with covering himself, pulling the length of the bedsheet along his body as if his main goal was to cover his face. He kept pulling at it; though it stayed tight, and he could only about cover up to his neck without sacrificing the much needed length of the sheet. He couldn't hide his face, he couldn't wipe his tears...he stood sobbing like the child he ultimately was. Oh how could he not have seen this coming? How did he not realize that to be a parent, you first had to grow up?
"She's coming back home, Sherlock. I promise you that. She's..." John wiped his hands along his face, wiping away his own tears of gratification. Perhaps he felt complete now, watching as his lover disintegrated.
"You can't take my daughter." Sherlock wailed, helpless to stop him. "You can't take away my little bird."
"An eye for an eye, Sherlock love. A child for a child...back to my house. Back to her house." John whispered. And with that he nodded his head, with that he let Sherlock have one last glance before he marched out the door, as if that was the last words he felt he needed to utter to the man who had consumed the whole of his year, the whole of his life. John was perfectly happy with those being the last sentences uttered between them; he liked to have the last laugh. Though Sherlock...Sherlock was not satisfied. Sherlock found himself empty and alone, standing in a hotel room that stunk of cigarette smoke and cheap beer. He was standing alone, surrounded by his clothes, knowing that John Watson was driving away. Driving away now, with the intent of separating Sherlock's family. Of severing the only thing he had ever cared about, and shattering the world he built around them. He was going to leave Sherlock, leave him alone...and it would be just like it was before.
"NOOOO!" Sherlock exclaimed at last, throwing down the bedsheet and falling against the closed door. His words went unheard, though his fists smacked just about as hard as they could against the wood.
"YOU DON'T TAKE MY ANNIE AWAY! YOU DON'T TAKE MY DAUGHTER!" Action felt useless, though it would be more beneficial to take a stand than it might be to sit wailing in the spot he had been left. He had to do something, he had to prevent this before the world reverted back to the way it was, all those years ago...oh this pain was returning already? Pain that had been subsided by the gurgling giggles of what might grow up to be his only friend! And where was she now, where would they take her? Back to his house, back to Molly's house? Was she sitting the home of one of the soccer parents, complete with her friend and brother, wondering which of their parents would return to them first? He had to...he had to beat John to it. He had to return to his daughter, before the man had any say in the matter. And so Sherlock fell to the floor, collecting his clothes in a bundle and dressing himself as fast as humanly possible. He took up any of his possessions, his phone; his keys...oh where were his keys? Sherlock looked about everywhere before suddenly realizing that he hadn't driven his car, that accursed van was still parked at the field, he had taken John's car to the motel, he had ridden in the passenger seat! And so he was stranded, stranded unless he could find a person to ride with... In an instant he was banging on all the doors of the motel, rapping his fists along the wood at ten o'clock at night, pleading with the occupants, begging them to drive him. At last a man saw sense, a large man who seemed to be staying overnight on a business trip. When Sherlock pleaded to him on the case of kidnapping the man offered his car as a cab, offered to drive wherever Sherlock's little heart desired...And before long the road was a blur, then again everything was a blur, as the world shifted in multiple colors of pale darkness, illuminated by the passing lights and the constant overhanging moon. Sherlock was fading in and out of clarity, in one moment he heard his companion speaking to him, the next he found himself pressed against the cold glass of the window. Nothing had sunken in yet, everything felt as fresh as wounds, everything felt as though there was a knife in his side, yet to be yanked out. His blood was slowing, his breathing faltering, his heart racing...
"To the development, to the gates." Sherlock whispered anxiously, his words muttered along the windowpane, his eyes straining to see the little area he called home. He winced upon seeing the houses rise up before him, the molds of submissiveness, the cradles of infidelity. The lies, all of them lies! Houses that looked alike, people who looked different, and souls that rotted in mirror images! So fitting that they all festered here together, in the scorn and mockery of suburban life!
"Here, here!" Sherlock exclaimed, smacking at the driver as they veered along the house with the flowers, Molly Hooper's...The car was already there, John had beaten him to it. Sherlock flailed now, grabbing at the door but faltering for an instant, faltering only to realize that he needed a weapon of some sort. He paused, his fingers lingering to the glovebox as if he already knew what he might find. His fingers caught the latch, and on top of all the owner's manuals and napkins there sat a pistol, a great shining thing...
"No, no, you need a permit for that!" The man exclaimed, though Sherlock had already grabbed the weapon and the door, stumbling out onto the road. "Hey, mister! You can't take that, you'll hurt yourself!"
"Thank you, for the ride." Sherlock muttered, regaining his balance on his own two feet as he stood in the middle of the road, straining his eyes, flexing his fingers around the leather grip.
"I'll call the cops on you, man! Give me back..."
"Drive away, good citizen. Or I shall shoot you with your own weapon." Sherlock promised, easing his finger along the trigger in warning. He raised it up towards his driver, and at last the squealing of tires announced his seclusion once more. Into the house, then. Into the house. It was an effortless entry, as the front door was unlocked. Though there was a discrepancy before his arrival, there was a situation taking place within the threshold. There was...screaming. Screaming before Sherlock had even made his entrance.
"...the roots of her hair! Mary, look, look!" John was screaming from a far off room. Sherlock's blood ran cold, they were interrogating the girl, where they not? Examining her for their own likelihoods?
"You're crazy...you're drunk you're..." Mary's voice broke into sobs, sobs that were only matched by Annie's own crying. By his own daughter's terrified tears.
"I'm not mad, if you'll just listen to me, Mary! Listen to me! He knew about the train station, he told me himself!" John exclaimed.
"A wanted poster, John! All it would've taken was a wanted poster; he could know all he ever wanted about us from that!" Mary insisted, her voice sounding broken. Perhaps she saw within her husband the face of true madness, whereas he knew where the true demons lay.
"Sherlock!" came Molly's voice, a whisper from along the corridor. She was hiding away with Hamish; standing in the darkened stairwell all the while the Watsons tormented each other below. She didn't notice the weapon; in fact she seemed to think that Sherlock was here to help. She knew, with her misguided sympathies, that Sherlock was innocent. She felt it within her heart...didn't she? That poor, lost woman. To see the light within a person and never the inky black shadow that lurked just below, it was a curse as was whatever cognitive defect. The tendency to see friends when there was but enemies, and innocents when they still had that scarlet blood stained down their front...
"They've lost their minds." Molly whispered, hugging poor Hamish closer to her as the screams from downstairs intensified.
"They've come to their senses." Sherlock debated quietly, staring blankly down the hallway that would take him to his family. Or rather, to their own family. Separated from him now, with the power of clarity.
"You do realize what he accuses you of?" Molly insisted, spitting out the words as if they were purely ridiculous, as if she couldn't understand the motivation behind such ravings.
"My crimes, Molly. He knows my crimes." Sherlock whispered. And with that he took up the gun, he heard the woman scream...
"JOHN! Let go of my daughter, let go of Annie!" Sherlock exclaimed, at last storming his way into the room with his weapon raised. For a moment all was still, Sherlock's presence wasn't taken as he might've expected, his hostility wasn't treated with fear but rather...rather indifference. Mary's face turned to stone, though she clung to her husband now, clung to him as if depending on him now to protect them both.
"She's not your daughter, Sherlock." John spat, holding Annie close to him, holding her to her parents as if they were the ones that were going to protect her now.
"She may as well be." Sherlock snarled. "I raised her, I raised her when you couldn't."
"Oh my God." Mary whispered, her head seeming to spin all of the sudden. The words, that confession, coming at a time when she thought all hope was lost.
"Now don't you touch her!" Sherlock exclaimed, countering Mary's drop to her knees with the gun raised in the woman's direction. His aim wasn't good, though he assumed the barrel was pointed towards her pretty blonde head.
"Daddy, Daddy stop!" Annie exclaimed, suddenly finding her own voice. She didn't seem too keen to lean into Mary's embrace, though she didn't seem to want to approach her father, either. She was standing in the grip of John Watson, though she seemed terribly conflicted as to which adult to lean towards.
"Annie, love, they're trying to take you away from me." Sherlock whispered. "Come here, come to me. We'll leave while we still can, we'll get away. Where did you want to go, Hawaii? We'll go there, Annie. We'll go swim with the dolphins and we'll...we'll live in a hut along the sea."
"Sherlock..." Mary began.
"Daddy stop it! Stop it Daddy!" Annie was still screaming, her eyes blurred with tears, her face contorted into screams of horror, of absolute anguish...
"DON'T YOU TOUCH HER!" Sherlock exclaimed, waving the gun now to meet John, where he was shifting his hands to keep the girl more secured against him. He was trying to keep her from running to her true father; he was trying to keep the family together!
"Now this is YOUR FAULT!" Sherlock exclaimed, waving the gun and taking a step closer to the distraught Watsons. As he narrowed upon John, Mary was able to scoop Annie into her arms, hugging the girl close and letting her burry her frightened eyes away into the fringe of her collar. Sherlock let out a wince, noticing of course just how comfortable mother and child seemed to be.
"This is your fault." He muttered again... "How could you be so stupid?" he blinked, in an instant turning the gun on himself, pressing it so favorably against his chin. A chorus of screams erupted, Mary in protest and John in encouragement...
"WHO DO I HAVE TO BLAME EXCEPT YOU?" Sherlock roared. "I just wanted to be good; I just wanted to have a family. HOW CAN I JUSTIFY BLAMING GOD?" the gun slipped from his chin, and a shot went off into the ceiling, trailing straight up to Heaven to meet his maker. Perhaps it would hit, perhaps it would land...perhaps it would fall back to Earth and strike the man it was meant for.
"And if not God then...then the Devil. Surely Lucifer, you had some part to play!" another shot, this time through the floor, shattering through the woodwork and into the basement below.
"BUT YOU, YOU'RE THE PROBLEM! You're the mistake, the wretch the...the sinner. Pay, you'll have to pay or you'll be lonely again. Lonely forever." Sherlock whispered, feeling his steps retreating, feeling himself falling away from where the Watson family huddled together again. The pistol was at his throat again, the tears were in his eyes again... John sunk down to cradle his wife and child, his eyes were hard and careless, his composure was like ice. He wanted to see it happen; he wanted to see Sherlock's brains along his wall. And could Sherlock give him that satisfaction? Did he owe him that gratification, the ability to win? Did Sherlock forfeit the battle for his own existence? There she was, Annie...crying sounds that sounded like mere chips into her mother's arms. Mary didn't look afraid; in fact Mary looked more completed as a woman than Sherlock ever remembered her being. She seemed more content, hugging the girl to her chest as she always should have.
"My family." Sherlock whispered at last, blinking away his tears as he stared upon all of the people he had grown to love. His grip slackened on his weapon, it fell from his chin and from his hand...
"I've been looking for...for so long and how, how have I been so blind not to see it?" he managed with a chuckle. "I'm not meant to steal away a family of my own, a child, a husband...I'm supposed to join one. I'm not a parent; I'm not a lover..." Sherlock fell to his knees at last, falling as if bowing before a deity, that family so huddled together and so complete.
"I'm a child." He managed. There was some silence, their grips never slackened, their willingness to die together never faltered. They weren't screaming, they weren't running away. And why, why weren't they afraid of this intruder? Why weren't they afraid of his weapon? Because the Watsons were ever so content, fallen into themselves, closer than they have been in nearly six years. Completed again, as if nothing had ever changed. Perhaps they figured if they couldn't live as a family they may as well die as one. But didn't they see? Their family was just complete, now with two extra additions...
"I'm your child." Sherlock managed at last, with something of a strained laugh, his eyes wild but his heart content. "And you should love me as such." 

A/N: Well, another story down and out! What a strange story this was, certainly a wild ride of unlikable characters and suburban feuds! I was a fan of it, certainly. I love it when I can turn you guys against the main character and see right around his unreliability. Hehe. This ending was supposed to go like ten different ways but I think for sure this is the correct way to go out. A nice ambiguous ending, to be interpreted as you wish. On its way next Wednesday will be a story based off of a real building on my college campus, something that I stared at for so long thinking dang, that would make a really good story if I can just figure out what might have happened. And well, here we are a couple months later, with a story to explain! I hope you enjoyed Mother Bird, and will join me again for the next one!