When Sherlock saw Annie again it was the next morning, a Friday morning, and he was charged with going to pick her up from the Watson's house in his own form of independence. His hangover was enough to make the task difficult, as his head was pounding and his stomach was twisting, though he knew that in order to make himself look a bit more responsible he should not make up excuses any longer. Parenting came first; his daughter's life prevailed over his own in every case imaginable, including health and wellbeing. From now on he was a mere vessel, a unit of transport to get his poor little bird from kindergarten all the way up to adulthood, and even from there he would be there for her to step on in case she needed anything else. He would be her servant; in exchange she would love him unconditionally. He would be respected in this community; he would be appreciated, befriended even. Good parenting led to a great many opportunities down the road, opportunities that would arrive for him at his command. All he had to do now was focus on the job that mattered most in the end, more important than any silly telemarketing position, more important than any soccer game. And so he drove that ridiculous minivan through the dizzying streets of suburbia, following Molly Hooper's little yellow car as it progressed its way through the roads, going precisely the speed limit as if she was being constantly monitored by her neighbors. As if they would know if she went a little ways over thirty five miles an hour, and would be at her doorstep promptly calling for a change. Oh people were so critical here, and that sort of pressure never did anyone well. Those who were most revered in a place like this were those with no personality, no individuality at all. They were the ones living under the most fear, as the bright eyes turned towards them in recognition could very easily slither back, they could very easily turn sour. Those who had so much in these communities, well they were the ones that had the most to lose. And that was why suburbia was dangerous, as people wanted to be you, they wanted to be respected, and that meant that they would turn into a mere manuscript of the rulebook, they would strip away their meaning in life and just become...well become tamed. Humanity works so hard to put a leash on others that they hardly realize they're being tethered themselves. Sherlock thought perhaps that mentality would get him farther in this neighborhood; he thought that maybe having the insight into the corruption of the middle class may perhaps put him above all the rest. Though it was time for him to fall into place, to climb into the mold and let them suffocate him with their clay. It was time for him to transform into something so ultimately indifferent, something so docile. And it was all because of her. At last Molly Hooper's car pulled up alongside a very quaint looking house, thankfully in a neighborhood where the houses were not copies of the other. They seemed to be older, as they were made in a varying shapes and colors, all looking as if the architects had been trying to outdo each other, rather than copy each other in an effort to get as many houses up as possible. The entire street was very well maintained; with lawns spread green and even, flower beds kept trimmed and clean, windows washed and shudders painted. All together these houses seemed one in the same, even if they did look startlingly different. As with the architecture, well it would seem as though the occupants were attempting to one up their neighbors as well. As would be the pattern, supposedly. Sherlock fell out of his minivan, rubbing his temples for a moment as the sunlight blinded him and erupted into an increasing throb, pounding along the inside of his skull like a mallet. Molly waited for him on the sidewalk of the little house, standing in her sundress and waiting for Sherlock to find his way to her side. It was already past time for school, and Sherlock could only imagine that Hamish had been carted off on the bus long before. Nearly an hour had passed since class had started, and so Sherlock already assumed that he would be calling in yet another perfectly healthy sick day. Though this was an event, an event organized by Molly Hooper and the Watsons in an attempt to drill some family values into Sherlock's head before it was too late. Perhaps they wanted this to be a production, one that neither of them would forget for a long time. Though the impression this place had on him, it was startling even without the morality. The house itself was so well kept that it must have been...well it must have been a façade! No one with any decency would keep their house to the state that the Watsons did, in such a perfect state, a spotless state, that something had to be bubbling deep within the surface. Something had to be wrong, as they seemed to want to cover it up with flawlessness. A house that reflected compensation, though for what Sherlock could only guess. Though the chances of these parents being the parents seemed to be growing ever more. The things they tried to hide, those secrets that they kept carried on their back and written across their face, those secrets may very well overlap with Sherlock's own burden. And perhaps they were all connected, spiritually, through an everlasting web of good and evil. Molly rang the doorbell and they were greeted immediately by Mary, who was looking ever the more chipper now that she saw Sherlock was back up on his feet. Perhaps she had been worried for him.
"Sherlock, oh do come in. Good to see you again." Mary muttered, patting him on the shoulder and corralling the two of them into the house. It was nice to be in a building that was not so like his own, it was nice to staircases directed in different directions, and rooms jutting out of walls that were on different sides of the house. It was just nice to see some change from the terribly mundane, change from the walls which entrapped him and countless other members of society in their cookie cutter houses.
"Daddy!" Annie exclaimed, bouncing up and down in her enthusiasm to see her father back again.
"Annie, oh darling!" Sherlock exclaimed, dropping down to his knees and giving her a great hug. There was an audience to this reunion; he knew that, though his reaction was quite genuine. He was positively delighted to see his little bird back where she belonged, back within his arms.
"Daddy are you alright? Mrs. Watson said you were sick." Annie muttered, falling out of his arms with some urgency so as to make sure he was alright. Sherlock merely chuckled, noticing as if on cue his headache and stomach ache all with startlingly urgency. Both seemed to flare up at the mention of illness, and for a moment his vision wavered.
"I'm fine, don't you worry about me." Sherlock assured, though in a voice that he had to conjure with some force. The adults looking on realized that this was a lie, for each one of them must have gone through a time where they suffered an incurable hangover. Perhaps they noticed his lie, and perhaps they appreciated it.
"I had a sleep over, it was so fun! I slept on the floor and Hamish threw stuffed animals on me!" Annie exclaimed with a little laugh, looking up to Mary so as to get her to smile along as well.
"They were very well behaved." She assured, as if the children's behavior mattered at all to the little party in the entry way.
"That's good to hear, and we wouldn't have it any other way, would we? You're a good girl." Sherlock assured with a little grin, at last getting to his feet and letting Annie scamper off to wherever she thought necessary, perhaps to some toy room that would keep her occupied for the duration of their visit.
"Mary, thank you very much for watching over her." Sherlock added quickly, figuring those words would have to be said eventually. The woman nodded her head a bit forcefully, as if she wasn't entirely comfortable with allowing the girl back into Sherlock's care so quickly.
"She's a wonderful child, Sherlock." She assured quietly, keeping his voice low as if reflecting on her words as they poured out. For a moment Sherlock had to wonder what Mary was suspecting, if she saw any of the connections that were growing all the more obvious to Sherlock as the all-knowing spectator. Perhaps she saw some of herself fin the girl, though without the understanding of why that could make sense. Sherlock had to know more about this family, in an effort to conclude his own everlasting theories.
"Thank you." Sherlock managed with a bit of a guilty smile, knowing of course what the women were both thinking in this instant. They were wondering just how such a disaster of a man could've raised such a perfect child, what sort of divine intervention was required. Though they couldn't see what was inside of him, the good heart he possessed, the capability of love and understanding. Of course he would raise a good child, as the only thing that tainted him was voluntary sin.
"If you don't mind me asking...what happened to her mother?" Mary asked at last, to which Sherlock's eyes flashed with interest. Though he forced himself to look remorseful, he forced himself to look distraught. They all had to think that this mother figure had meant the world to him, this woman who had never existed. The better he played off her death the more convincing her life could be, and the better cover he gave himself and his daughter.
"She um...well she died when Annie was small. Too small to remember." Sherlock managed at last, pursing his lips and nodding to the floor as the women let out a collecting groan of sadness. They tried to sympathize, and of course they tried not to ask questions. Though there was a thought, a thought of sexualities that perhaps came to mind when he admitted to having ever loved a woman. And it was hysterical, was it not, the idea? Though it was believable, that was ensured by his acting.
"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. That must have been terrible to go through." Molly offered at once, patting him on the shoulder as if she thought herself worthy enough to touch him. Sherlock shivered a bit, though such a motion of recoil did not make her draw back. For a moment she wallowed in the touch, with her fingers sinking just deep enough into his collar bone to spark up some...suspicion. The moment was ruined (rather thankfully) by John's arrival to the scene. It was the first time Sherlock felt relieved to see him, as he was sure this hallway scene was going to get much too sympathetic. John's only purpose thus far was to provide conflict, oh and it would seem as though conflict was just what Sherlock needed in this prelude to a crying fest.
"Sherlock, back again." John muttered with something of a huff, as if he really couldn't stand the sight of the man upon his welcome mat. His eyes were still livid, though his composure was that of forced acceptance. He was under something more of a restraint now that his wife was here to witness their interaction.
"Back by unpopular demand." Sherlock said with something of a chuckle.
"You're not wrong." John sighed, forcing a smile before looking upon his wife's disapproving glare. He hesitated, though attempted to look a bit more pleasant. He held out a hand for Sherlock to shake, a hand which Sherlock took gladly, and for a moment they stood again with their fingers interlocked and their minds flashing to the first time they had touched... It seemed like ages ago that John's face had been atop of Sherlock's, and it seemed so terribly impossible that it might ever linger so close again. At last their hands fell away, and Sherlock filed back to his place on the wall as if to keep himself a good ways away from John, who despite being in his wife's presence still had something akin to murder in his eyes.
"Sherlock, we wanted to know if there were any questions you had for us. Anything we could help you with at all?" Mary asked finally, seeing as though this meeting was going a bit too long from the moment they had convened. No one wanted to be here, no one needed to be here.
"I haven't got any direct questions..." Sherlock hesitated, remembering of course the one thing he was perhaps slacking in. "Unless you have some good recipes?"
"Recipes?" John laughed, looking towards his wife as if looking for her reaction to be quite the same. No, well perhaps the women saw this as an exciting cry for help rather than a laughable matter.
"Of course I do!" Mary agreed excitedly, clapping her hands together as she rushed off towards the kitchen to retrieve her cook book.
"She's the best cook on the block, oh the lasagna Mary makes..." Molly cut herself off there, as she decided that words were not sufficient enough in describing the delicacy that was her friend's cooking. Sherlock smiled as Mary reappeared with the book, as he had never been in possession of a cookbook himself. He had always just made pasta or gotten delivery food, as he was no chef and was not likely to become one without much needed assistance.
"There's a great many recipes in here, why don't I copy some for you to bring to the game tomorrow?" Mary suggested quickly, paging through for a moment and nodding every time something very interested popped up.
"Oh well...well that would be very nice." Sherlock agreed with a grin.
"Sherlock, haven't you heard of the internet?" John suggested. "I'm sure you really don't need my wife's help in learning how to cook a potato."
"Oh shush, John. You couldn't cook a potato if you tried." Mary snapped.
"And it's good that Sherlock's asking for help, it's a sign of trust!" Molly exclaimed with a little smile, as if she had forgotten that Sherlock was literally standing in the same room as them. Oh they were treating him as if he was a child himself.
"Well I'm glad to hear Sherlock trusts us. We certainly need that in our lives." John growled.
"I don't trust you, John." Sherlock snarled. "Just so we're clear."
"I should hope you don't." John snapped right back, puffing up his chest as if to demonstrate the strength he possessed, the strength he would use to be beat Sherlock to the ground if ever he was given the chance.
"Boys come on now, behave." Mary insisted, waving an exasperated hand between the two as if to break the tension that was building. Sherlock sighed, though turned his attention now to some of the recipes Mary was getting excited about, simple little things that would be fast and difficult to mess up. She promised him a photocopied folder full of them, but for now she allowed Sherlock to take little pictures of the ones she recommended the most. They would be good to have, little instructions on how to make the most basic of meals for his daughter. Though learning to cook was a process it was also a much needed skill. If Sherlock had the capabilities of preparing food for their family then he could certainly take control of their nutrition, making sure the little family got their needed balanced diet or whatever. It would give him another layer of responsibility, another layer of control. For a moment they stood swapping recipes, and with each snapshot Mary seemed to get more and more excited, and with every squeal of interest from Sherlock or the ladies John's face deepened into more and more of a frown. Perhaps he thought himself above culinary skills, or maybe he despised that fact that Sherlock was integrating himself as more of a friend than a service project. Perhaps he thought himself threatened, though by what Sherlock could hardly guess. At last Annie reappeared, breaking up the boring adult talk as she shoved a Barbie into Molly's hands, trying to display the twisty hair style she had managed to create using small rubber bands. This was treated entirely as a message to get going, as her interruption was the exact thing they all needed to spur them out of this little moment of domesticity. Annie's attention span would not last long, and eventually she would be whining by the door, wishing to go home and play with her own toys.
"Well, Sherlock, we'll see you tomorrow at the game I suppose." Mary muttered, patting Annie on the head affectionately as if to thank her for coming to stay.
"I'm so excited!" Annie exclaimed, bouncing up and down with the promise of demonstrating her soccer 'skills' against some worthy adversaries.
"As you should be!" Mary exclaimed just as excitedly. "I know that Hamish is looking forward to the first game of the season, the first win of the season as well."
"We'll win, I know we will!" Annie exclaimed, pretending to kick an invisible ball and flying one of her feet dangerously close to John's shin. Well that was the last thing they needed, for Sherlock's child to go beating up the man who was hanging his composure on the end of a very thin thread.
"Have you got the address?" John managed at last, pushing his hand into his pocket and retrieving his phone. Sherlock hesitated, wondering if this would perhaps be some sort of trap. Perhaps John would give him the wrong address intentionally, so as to make sure they didn't see each other for the third time in as many days.
"No I haven't." Sherlock admitted quietly. John sighed, though he scrolled through his own phone and handed it over to Sherlock for reference. Sherlock took some time to type the address into his phone, seeing that it was a mere thirty minute drive to the elementary school where this game would be taking place. When finally Sherlock gave the phone back he saw John grimace, as if he hated to think that his phone had been touched by those hands, though he pocketed it in the end and crossed his arms rather defensively. As if he didn't want anyone noticing that he had done something nice for the man he had sworn to despite for the rest of his existence.
"I'm not going to school today, am I Daddy?" Annie wondered as they at last started their way outside, bidding their appropriate goodbyes and thanks to each of the members of the house.
"No, you're not. But we can make a day out of it, you think? We could go and get some ice cream, or go bowling." Sherlock suggested with a little chuckle, taking his daughter's hand so as to lead her over to the minivan once more.
"Ice cream sounds good." Annie admitted with a grin.
"Well then, ice cream it is." Sherlock chuckled. He made a point not to look back towards the house, not as he loaded Annie appropriately into the car, nor as they drove away down the street. He tried to make a point of moving on, rather than looking back for the appreciation and approval of the judge, jury, and executioner.