Sherlock's guilt came in the form of trains, and in such a magnitude that he could not stand to sit in the underground stations no matter the urgency. Cabs did just fine, even if he was in a hurry, even if he was on a budget. For he couldn't hear the rush of the tracks, he couldn't stand the monotonous woman speaking to mind the gap...each time he thought of such things a pang came to his heart, a pang of guilt that magnified into an intolerable wrack of shame. And so he avoided them all together, he stayed above ground, and he decided that life was best lived linearly, without looking back, and most certainly without any hint of regret. He made his decision long before, long enough that he should just stop worrying about the morality of it all, long enough that he could stop worrying about the legality of it all. The police had fallen off his trial; the inspectors certainly had nowhere else to turn. They were at a loss, and so that meant Sherlock had won, hadn't it? That meant he had gotten away with it in the end, and could settle into the life he had always wanted, a life with the child he would never have had. Love was a difficult thing to claim, the love of another was always such a tricky concept. Sherlock thought he knew love when his heart was trapped in the chest of Victor Trevor, a man he thought might have claimed him for the long run, a man he thought may have appreciated him despite his flaws. And yet it seemed as though there was a conflict of interest, as Sherlock's version of forever seemed to be a lot longer than Victor's idea of a mere year and a half. One instant Sherlock was ready to hear that charming question, and the next he found himself terribly alone. And so it would seem that love...well it was complicated. Love was only unyielding when family was involved. Yes of course there were conflicts between families, feuds between fathers and sons, or between siblings. Though there was always a sense of guilt, a sense of obligation and appreciation between members of a family. No matter what their quarrel, well it was the idea of inseparability that brought them back together. A child is severely indebted to their parents, and surely once they mature they'll realize this. A child should always pay back their parent's funds with their own love, with their own needs and appreciation. A child has no choice but to love their parents, forever and ever until the pair was separated by death. No changeable heart, no wandering eye, no unfaithfulness could tear a child from their family in such a permanent manner. They wouldn't go from family to strangers just as quickly as lovers do when the cord was cut. No matter how bad things got, families stuck together. And perhaps that's why Sherlock decided that he needed one. Perhaps that's why, when he heard the screams of a lonely little girl, he felt something of a motherly instinct bubble up inside of him. Those cries sounded much like his own, when he found himself equally alone. And just as his own cries had been ignored, this little girl was given just as much attention. She sat alone in a double stroller, abandoned next to a bench across from where he sat in the underground station all those years ago. The child was throwing about her little arms and rolling her disproportionately big head around in her little seat, trying to magnify her misery in a way that would be understandable to an onlooker. Sherlock was sat in the station without the intent of going anywhere; in fact he had retreated to the underground that day just to be alone in a room full of strangers, festering in the ideas of loneliness and obligation. He loved to see other people's problems, their little trifles and their issues that seemed to be so dire. Saying farewell to a loved one, being late for work, spilling their coffee all along the stairwell. Such issues, such terrible issues! And he loved to see them; he loved to see them panic. It reminded him all the more just how terrible his own situation was, and that grief made him feel more alive than ever. It made him feel powerful. And yet that little baby, crying alone in her stroller, she was perhaps the only creature in this platform that he came to pity. She was miserable, just as miserable as he was feeling inside, and all together ignored. They shared a bond, perhaps in the sense that they had both been forgotten. Sherlock managed a little wave towards the screaming thing, just something to help her attention focus onto him. There was no one else on the benches, no one else that bothered to listen to the cries of the pitiful thing. No one to watch him attempt an interaction. The little girl's eyes softened, though her mouth was still blubbering little spurts of grief. Something was wrong, perhaps she was hungry, though it didn't seem as though anyone was around to care. Sherlock looked about the platform again, looking to see if there was a pair of lost looking parents, frantic even. Though no one seemed to fit the description, there were mere travelers, each one blending in with the next until they seemed to become a blur of business casual gray and black, all hoisting laptop cases and folders, looking frantic to catch their train and completely unaware of the lonely and unoccupied people sitting in the middle most benches. No one thought to calm the baby, and no one thought to console the man. This time Sherlock decided to make a face at the little girl, closing his eyes and sticking out his tongue just long enough to get the little thing's cries replaced instead with gurgling little giggles, as if she was trying her best to laugh but was still clogged with tears of grief. Sherlock smiled as well, sitting back on the bench with some satisfaction and watching as the child stilled in the stroller, smiling at him now with a great toothless grin. Perhaps she found him amusing, just as he found her to be therapeutic. It was relaxing, really, to see someone much more helpless than yourself. Still no parents...still no onlookers. A quick idea had passed through Sherlock's mind in that moment, an idea that may have been whispered into his ear by that ever persistent devil on his shoulder. A small little voice, reminding him of a family he might never have, and a love he may never share. Reminding him of the improbability of ever finding someone to care for him, lest he manage to care for them first. A sort of obligation that he might never achieve, unless of course fate decided to throw the opportunity into his face. And was there really a more obvious opportunity, something any easier than placing an unguarded child before him? A lonely, helpless little thing, that seemed to take a liking to him? A family that could be his own, if he just had the bravery...

Five Years Later: Annie stood on the curb with her heels on the pavement, watching anxiously as all the cars drove past her with frightening urgency. It was the morning rush, in which the traffic of the worker's commute mixed in with the traffic of the children going to school, all huddled into busses or mini vans with their lunches in their hands. She seemed quite apprehensive, though it was all Sherlock could do but stand with her alongside the curb, wanting to be there for her if she needed him all the while respecting her silent contemplation.
"Daddy, you don't think there will be any bullies?" Annie asked at last, looking back towards her father so quickly that her black pigtails swung like maces across her back.
"Bullies?" Sherlock asked with a little chuckle of clarification. "Why ever would you assume that?"
"There's bullies on TV, surely you see them? The big boys, who like to shove little kids into lockers." Annie reminded him with a sharp little frown, clutching to her pink backpack straps anxiously.
"Well, Annie, I have good news and bad news. The good news is that you can't believe everything you see on TV, as they're liars on most all channels. The bad news, of course, is that there are such things as bullies. Surely not in your grade, not yet at least, but there are some children who might grow up to be mean." Sherlock admitted with a sigh.
"So they won't be mean just yet?" she clarified nervously.
"Not yet...and in fact, there's a way to stop them being mean all together." Sherlock reminded her, at last squatting down to get in her eye level. Annie looked rather confused, though she listened with that intent little ear, that little spark of curiosity playing about her brown eyes.
"How can they stop being mean?" she wondered.
"With kindness, of course." Sherlock pointed out, to which Annie nodded quietly. "Bullies are only mean because they feel left out. People are rude to compensate for something inside of them...a feeling of rejection perhaps. They only act out because they feel it's the only way to justify themselves in the eyes of others."
"Daddy, you're using too big words." Annie reminded him with a frown. Sherlock smiled apologetically, dropping his eyes back down to the sidewalk in an attempt to speak in a more understandable manner.
"Bullies are made, not born. Be nice to everyone, and make sure they've got a friend. Just the way with plants, Annie. If you don't nourish them enough when they're young, they'll grow into a devilish little sprout." Sherlock said at last.
"Be friends with everyone." Annie repeated, as if that was perhaps the only thing she got from Sherlock's long series of rants.
"Indeed." Sherlock agreed with a nod.
"Daddy, were you friends with everyone when you were in school?" Annie wondered. Sherlock thought for a moment, braving a little giggle of naughty knowingness while he thought back to his high school years.
"I was very friendly with many people, Annie. Though I wouldn't say I considered any of them my friends." Sherlock admitted at last. Annie frowned, as if she was very unsatisfied with such an answer. Thankfully she didn't have time to respond, for just as soon as she opened her little mouth the sound of a great engine struggling up the hill alerted them to the school bus's approach.
"It's here!" Annie cried, jumping up and down on the pavement as if she had all together forgot her hesitations.
"First day of school, my goodness how fast you grow." Sherlock muttered, holding out his arms for a hug all the while the bus stopped steadily in front of them. Annie gave him quite an unenthusiastic hug, as if she really couldn't care less about leaving him now that the school bus had approached. He was hardly able to get her out the front door with all of her protesting a mere ten minutes before, however now that the bus had appeared she seemed very excited to start this new twelve year chapter of her life. Sherlock didn't want to have to break the news to her that this was the first day of her endless suffering. Just as soon as they stepped onto that bus, well these children were not free until at last they signed their retirement papers. It was an endless torrent of education, stretching on until at last they could leave the nest and start a life of their own. Past that there was only the business world, the same bland whirlpool in which Sherlock was just hardly wading through, an attempt to make money, an attempt to do something with your life that might make your parents proud. And there she went, selling herself over to the government for a proper education, selling herself over to the state provided mold. Was he right in allowing her to climb those rickety stairs and onto that bus, filled with children she didn't know and he didn't trust? Was he really allowing her to be taken off into that dreadful place, with negligent teachers and high probability of accidents? Sherlock felt his shutter of regret far too late, for by the time he wanted to pull poor Annie off of the bus the doors had already closed, and so he instead adopted the expected parent stance, waving along towards the windows where he could just make out the bows in her hair, pointed towards him as if to remind him that she didn't care enough to look back. Sherlock stood lonely for a moment, long after the whine of the engine had disappeared down the road. He checked his watch...only a mere four hours until she would return to him. Well certainly that was enough time to clean up the messes he had made from the night before, certainly that was enough time to go upstairs and kick the stranger out of his bed. And so Sherlock rubbed his eyes exhaustedly, turning his heel towards his apartment and counting each and every step back, all the way up until he got the predictable fifty four steps to his front door. Fifty four steps, fifty four seconds...and the bus would arrive back at that spot at eleven thirty. Therefore, eleven twenty eight should be when he stepped outside of his door; just to be sure that he was a minute early and therefore would look like quite the responsible guardian in the eyes of the bus driver. Because he was a responsible guardian, and an involved one at that. In Sherlock's eyes he was the best da*n father around. When he opened the door he found immediately that there was a stranger at his kitchen table, helping himself to a bowl of cereal without ever having been invited to stay. He was a lean, roughly handsome man that Sherlock couldn't entirely name, and yet despite his good looks (which seemed to be dulled now that they were in the sober morning light) he really was creating quite the problem by his lingering.
"What are you still doing here?" Sherlock challenged, keeping the door open in an attempt to make sure the man knew when to leave. The stranger merely lifted his head, as if he wasn't sure why he was in any trouble. He was halfway done with his cereal, but with a quick flash of anger Sherlock realized that it was Annie's cereal that he had helped himself to. The poor girl would be heartbroken to learn that some strange man had been digging into her sugary morning meal.
"I thought perhaps breakfast was in order. Didn't think it was a problem." The man insisted.
"You should've left, now come on, your welcome has expired." Sherlock growled, gesturing once again towards the door. The man sighed heavily, though at last he settled his spoon back into the bowl and made a great dramatic show of getting to his feet, as if he wanted Sherlock to understand just how strenuous the whole process was proving to be.
"Will I see you again?" the man wondered, straightening his crooked tie and patting his hair back down onto his head. Perhaps he thought he might be able to seduce Sherlock into another night together, though his rude composure the morning after was certainly enough to put a sour taste into Sherlock's mouth.
"Maybe on the street, maybe in the bar. But never again in my apartment." Sherlock promised a bit lethally.
"Mine, then?" the man suggested, not seeming to get the hint.
"Nor there." Sherlock sighed, leaning back on the door and giving a great playful grin before nodding his head out the door once more. The man frowned, though at last he got the message.
"Wish your daughter my best on her first day." He muttered at last, before at last slinking down the stairs towards the door, like a retreating animal with their tail between their legs. Sherlock sighed heavily, watching the man finally fall onto the sidewalk, wincing in the bright sun before throwing the door shut with a large, angry slam. Perhaps he wasn't very happy to be abandoned in such a way, though he surely shouldn't have expected any VIP treatment. There were a great many men that fell into Sherlock's bed, none of which were ever there for a second time. He tried to love them, honestly he did. Though each one had a flaw, something that just got up and under his skin, something that wasn't entirely perfect. There had only ever been one perfect man, and he was off who knows where, gallivanting around with his new lover. Oh Victor...did he not know the state in which he left his poor Sherlock? For a long while Sherlock cleaned the house, as it would seem that he had left the place in something of a disaster. The dishes, for one, had not been cleaned since yesterday's dinner. And so he stood at the sink, carefully examining each one and polishing it to perfection before pushing them all into one of the cabinets above his head. Next he took to sweeping the floors, and then to dusting, and then to washing all of the windows as best as he could on the inside and out. The outside of the windows had always been tricky, as he lived on the second floor and was therefore quite limited by the reach of his arm. For a long while he tried to hang out the window with the paper towel, swatting at the specs of dust that had accumulated on the other side of the windows. In the end he was forced to give up, with in turn caused him to sit on the counter for a long while, staring at the window cleaner and wondering why he was so underserving of its power. Before long the beds had been made and the bathrooms cleaned, producing a spectacularly beautiful apartment. He stopped and smiled for a moment, his hands twitching to do more, his fingers jolting in one or more direction before at last he shoved them in his pocket and stilled them. No, he couldn't do more today. Annie's bus arrived back in twenty two minutes; surely he had to be alert in time for that. And so, Sherlock paced for the remainder of the time. He paced twenty steps in one direction before turning sharply on his heel, with the goal being to end in the exact same spot as he had started before. This involved a great lot of concentration, as his stride length did like to vary, though by the end of the twenty two minutes he found that he had completed his task perfectly the last seventeen times, and therefore owed himself a little pat on the back. With the end of his pacing he decided to march out to the bus stop, and just as he had predicted he arrived just early enough to watch the bus chugging up over the hill, its breaks straining with a mean hiss and the doors opening to eject Annie back into his arms, exactly where she belonged.