Well, a job came and a job went just about as quickly as one could manage such a turnover. Sherlock hadn't thought that his behavior validated a complete separation from the company, as he had merely assumed this little violation of conduct would be treated as nothing more than a strike one. Well, according to Moran this had been his fifth strike of such magnetite, and he was to pack up his things and leave to never return that very night. Well perhaps the joke was on that withered, boring old man, as Sherlock didn't even have things to pack. And so when he left the office he gave a little wave to that accursed cubical, a pat to the horrible phone, and a small smack to the computer that never decided to work. To each one of his coworkers he gave no eye contact, and to his boss he shouted no final farewell. He left in quite the same state he had arrived in, a state of rather carelessness, and found himself at last seated in a borrowed lawn chair on the sidelines of a soccer practice. Thursday night soccer, seemingly just as miserable as had been Tuesday night soccer. This time, however, Annie had seemed much more excited to rejoin her new friends, and Sherlock was admittedly a little bit more excited on the opportunity to interrogate the lovely Mrs. Watson on the sidelines. Tonight he was going for confidence, he was going for strength, and so he filled his own reusable mug up with a quick mixture of whichever alcoholic beverages he had stowed away and a large dose of orange soda, making for a powerful yet tasty concoction of liquid numbness. And he sipped it on the sidelines, getting slowly and surely drunk all the while he chatted to Mrs. Watson about the local weather patterns, and which way the clouds traveled in this little town of theirs.
"I got fired from my job today." Sherlock admitted at last, sighing with some hesitation as he tapped his fingers against the seat of this rather expensive outback chair.
"You what?" Mary clarified with something of a gasp, as if that was a serious offense in the eyes of the suburban resident.
"I said I got fired." Sherlock pointed out, honestly under the impression that she had failed to hear him the first time.
"Well...well what are you going to do?" Mary asked at last, oh with such a linear attitude on life! One thing ends, the other begins, well why couldn't we just stop to think about the circles each person chased around money, employment, and the general wellbeing of themselves and family. Oh it was not a step by step process, it would take some time to readjust, it would take some time to think.
"Nothing." Sherlock admitted with a shrug. "I've got plenty of money from my parents, we won't be destitute."
"I should hope not! Sherlock I'm so sorry, that's a very stressful situation to find yourself in." Mary admitted with a little frown. Sherlock laughed lowly, sipping at his drink and hissing as the stinging of the soda and the potency of the alcohol made its way down his throat.
"It's quite under control." He assured with a sigh. Mary nodded, looking back towards the children where they ran around with their soccer balls, now all lined up in the middle of the field and playing some sort of running game, in which Coach John kicked a ball into the open corridor and two children went out to chase for it. Sherlock watched for a moment as well, wincing as the man turned his eyes towards the parents, wincing as the man's eyes caught his for just a moment before looking away just as abruptly.
"You know, my boss gave me an offer." Sherlock admitted with a sigh. "He said that he'll keep me on board if I'd sleep with him."
"What?" Mary exclaimed, clenching her heart as if she felt it skip a beat with Sherlock's shrewd statement. "Sherlock that's...that's sexual harassment!"
"I know, right? So disgusting. I mean, he's old." Sherlock sighed, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe such a disgraceful offer was placed in his direction. "I said no, if you were wondering."
"You could definitely call the cops on that man." Mary offered, though she sounded rather relieved that Sherlock was brave enough to stand up for himself in such a situation. Well the idea wasn't as scandalous as she may have perceived it to be, for Sherlock had taken rather worse deals on the basis of romance and self-interest. Though the fact remained that he had always hated his job, and some poor love would be wasted if it was merely to maintain his misery for some time longer.
"I didn't feel the need. He's probably just lonely is all it is...and in reality who really could resist the temptation to just throw the offer out? I'm beautiful, I admit it! It's a weakness." Sherlock grumbled, shaking his head as if his own good looks were such a tragedy. He took another sip, honestly enjoying the feeling of weightlessness that was beginning to cloud him and encircle him with the idea of ecstasy. The soccer practice was slowly fading from his immediate recollection; slowly the electricity flowing through the clouds above was beginning to circle through his own system, suddenly the sun shone brighter. He smiled quietly, listening very vaguely to Mary Watson as she droned on about something legal, he wasn't entirely listening. It was more the quivers of her voice that attracted his attention, the way she formulated her words with an accent he couldn't quite trace. Perhaps there was no accent at all, perhaps she was speaking in the way man intended, perhaps she was speaking in the way that the first humans dared utter. She was speaking eloquently, professionally, with thought and time put into each word that fell off of her tongue. He was entranced, entranced enough to lean over the arm of his chair and stare blankly at her, wondering what exactly he sounded like if he might have said the same speech. The same speech that, well...he wasn't entirely sure what it was about. Though it sounded nice, and that was enough to make him nod along to encourage her to keep speaking, sounding now like music, like rhythm. Sherlock wondered if this might be what Annie grew up to embody, this sort of knowing speech, this sort of well thought out conversation. Perhaps Mary really was the mother of his child, oh one could only hope at this point. One could only hope that he was raising a little girl who might grow into such a powerful, confident woman. And suddenly she stopped, she stopped speaking, as if waiting for a response. Sherlock sighed quietly, blinking once or twice and taking another sip of his drink.
"Interesting." He muttered at last, the only foolproof comment he could think to make in light of his very short attention span.
"Interesting? Sherlock, I asked you a question." Mary pointed out with some suspicion, as if she was beginning to realize now that only a fraction of Sherlock was still sitting here before her. Most all of him had transcended, leaving behind the body, leaving behind the being that could not float higher than his legs might permit. Life was but stagnated for his physical form, but with every sip his soul rose higher, until Mary Watson's voice, however eloquent it may be, fell beyond his range of contemplation and far from the shot of his ear.
"Interesting that you should ask me such a question." Sherlock clarified.
"You didn't hear me, did you?" Mary sighed, sounding disappointed in her friend's apparent unappreciative nature. Perhaps she thought he was bored with her, or that he didn't respect her enough to listen to her opinion on life's little problems. Well...well quite the contrary! He was so enraptured in her conversation that he forgot to listen to the words.
"I did...not. No." Sherlock agreed with a sigh. "But in doing so, I have my own question to ask of you."
"And that is?" Mary muttered, though still sounding a bit sour in her lack of appreciation.
"What does your husband think of me?" Sherlock asked at last. Together their eyes turned towards where John was doing small laps about the field, encouraging the kids to keep passing throughout their tight groups. It was some sort of interception game, as one or two of the children were trying to snatch the balls as they went flying across the grass. Occasionally the thieves were successful, though only because the little athlete's aims were quite inaccurate. This may have been a successful drill to practice only after they had practiced the art of kicking without the use of their toes.
"John? Well, I can only imagine he thinks highly of you. I'm not sure he'd have any reason to form a negative opinion." Mary commented, though her words sounded rather doubtful, as if she was having a little bit of trouble spitting them out. Sherlock could tell that was the beginnings of a lie, a white lie perhaps, but a withholding of truth in the end. John had mentioned him, he must have. For John must have been thinking about this situation ever since Sherlock strode onto his field, oh he still must be thinking about it. He must be obsessed by now, and with obsession always came that subconscious leaking of information. That little mention once or twice throughout a normal conversation, or that face that was made when a name or idea was spit out by another party. The face he must make when Mary mentions her new friend, that face of utmost guilt and shame... Sherlock reveled in it.
"I'm not sure I believe you on such a front. I think he despises me." Sherlock sighed; shaking his head doubtfully all the while Mary twisted her fingers anxiously between themselves.
"Why do you say that?" she wondered quietly, though her voice now had dropped into an unfamiliar octave, one which might allude to her nerves poking their way through her normally polite composure. She knew something, oh she must. Not the true reasoning behind such a grudge, but she knew of the grudge all the same.
"Because he never speaks to me. I feel alienated by him, purposefully." Sherlock admitted.
"I'm sure if he's distant it's purely accidental. John isn't a man to hate." Mary assured a bit weakly, though Sherlock bowed his head in amusement. Not a man to hate, oh surely she hadn't witnessed his aggression at the end of practice the other day? John's threat which ended up throwing his poor companion onto the grass! He was violent, he was angry, and for what? For what reason, why did he have so much pent up anger? Guilt, oh it seemed to magnify in such delightful ways! Guilt for acts he had done years before, guilty of the neglect that he saw reflected in Sherlock's beautiful eyes, like mirrors into one's own soul. He felt the guilt, as he saw the man who ultimately took the burden of parenthood off of his shoulders. He felt neglectful, as he knew that Sherlock had seen his management of his family and decided that it was better fragmented into more manageable pieces. If John really was the person he was looking for, the perpetrator of the crimes Sherlock had saved him from, well that would give him all the more reason to be angry. That would give him all the more reasoning to house hatred for Sherlock, hatred he couldn't even place! Hatred that had no meaning within his conscious realm of perception, within this world that made so little sense any longer.
"Is he a man to love?" Sherlock wondered quietly. "Seems to be. Seems to be a good father, a good husband. Are you happy, Mary?"
"I'm...well of course I'm happy." Mary muttered, seemingly taken aback by such a question. Perhaps this wasn't the best placement for such inquires, but there it went all the same, question one of his interrogation processes.
"That's good to hear. Honestly, Mary, you deserve it." Sherlock agreed quietly. "And I assume you've just got the one child?"
"I...I'm sorry Sherlock, but I don't feel comfortable answering your questions right now." Mary muttered, rearranging herself in her lawn chair and looking rather longingly towards her husband where he stood stagnant on the field, as if wishing he might come over and rescue her from Sherlock's obscene questioning.
"I understand that, darling, I really do." Sherlock sighed heavily. "I'm not entirely comfortable with asking them." For a long moment there was silence, such a silence that Sherlock realized at last he had lost his companion's attention all together. In the end she had taken to talking with her other neighbor, striking up a conversation with the sole intent of keeping Sherlock silent, of forcing him to keep his invasive questions to himself. But what did that prove, her hesitations? It proved that she didn't have a straight answer; it proved that her family tree had lost a leaf, though she would not deny that it had ever been there in the first place. She was...well she was conflicted on what to admit to and what to keep private. She was afraid, not only to call upon her memories but to admit to what she couldn't form into words. She wanted to avoid the conversation of family all together, just so that she didn't have to admit how fragmented her own family had come to be. When practice was over Sherlock was properly intoxicated, to such a level where he figured driving might not be a safe bet. All the same he had places to be, and wasn't just about to let Annie find her way home herself. She wouldn't be a very good chauffeur, that was for sure. And so when she came running over Sherlock got to his feet to intercept her, stumbling about a couple of times and wincing as she slammed into his legs in her excitement.
"Daddy, they gave us animal crackers!" Annie exclaimed, as if that was truly the best part of the practice.
"Yes...yes we love those." Sherlock mumbled, patting his daughter's head and looking off to where John was collecting the soccer balls where they were scattered about on the field. He took another swig, as he didn't like the feelings which were bubbling up inside of him. It wasn't love; ah he knew that feeling all too well to mistake something else for it. It wasn't love but it wasn't something usual, it was nothing that another person had conjured within his system for a long time. Perhaps it was a sense of obsessive hatred, a sort of feeling that gave satisfaction when looking upon the subject. Perhaps this fell into the category of the very opposite of love, though with the same general guidelines. Nevertheless, whatever it was, it was hard to look away from. Almost to the point where he could do nothing more than gaze until at last John turned to face the crowd, hiking back over to meet his fragmented family, and therefore forcing Sherlock to focus on his own daughter in an attempt to keep her at his side as long as possible. Perhaps no one knew it here but him, though the Watson family was just as close to being completed as it may ever be. In this very moment in time, well perhaps they were all collected again like one big happy family. They just didn't know it yet. His thoughts were continually scrambled, and as he spoke with his daughter (well, more like listened) he felt the alcohol starting to take a rather negative toll on his body. His stomach was beginning to feel sort of...well it wasn't entirely good.
"Mr. Holmes." John's voice came, walking a bit tediously to where Sherlock stood with his daughter, just now tottering back and forth on his heels and giving a low groan of discontent. He was drunk enough to ignore his emotional pain, though the physical pain was beginning to manifest a bit too drastically for his liking.
"Mr. Watson." Sherlock managed, bringing his head up to meet John's and trying to keep the expression of pain off of his face for as long as he could manage.
"The game on Saturday, well it'll be played about a thirty minute drive from here. I was wondering if you knew the spot, the Wayside Elementary school?" John muttered, sounding entirely miserable with the notion of speaking with Sherlock for more than thirty seconds. It was impressive, actually, how long he could go without throwing about an insult. Sherlock smirked a little bit, though allowed his head to shake.
"No, I'm not familiar with it." Sherlock admitted, wincing now as his stomach began to twist anxiously. He clutched onto his bottle, though he was finding it more and more difficult to hold up his head. Something was coming, surely...
"Well I can email you the directions, if you could just be so kind as to share with me your address?" John muttered.
"Kind? Be kind to you, Mr. Watson? Well surely. I thought you'd never..." Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling something of a heave coming from his throat. "I thought you'd never ask." He whispered in finality, only now collapsing upon his companion as he lost whatever strength he had left in his legs. He caught onto John's shoulders with his long arms, holding himself up all the while his head fell down and began to empty the liquid contents of his stomach onto the grass field below. Oh it tasted like putrid alcohol, just a disgusting mess of each and every fermented substance which sat writhing in his stomach for the past hour. And Sherlock was helpless to stop it, helpless to do anything more than latch his fingers into the notches of John's shoulder blades, throwing up all over the man's presumably expensive soccer cleats.
"Oh...my..." John couldn't even spit out the last of his statement, presumably because there were children present. It was all he could do, all that was within his power, to throw Sherlock back with just as much strength as he could muster, sending the man stumbling over the borrowed lawn chair and crashing down atop of the metal frame. The last thing he remembered was the sound of children screaming in disgust, children screaming as if they had just seen a man die. Well, perhaps they did just watch a man die. Maybe they were all witnessing Sherlock's death, and when this blackness overtook his eyes it may be the last thing he ever saw. Perhaps he'd never wake up. Perhaps that would be preferable.