Sherlock sighed thankfully, sitting back in his stool with the utmost confidence that his lonely night had been stifled by a curious stranger. At last he noticed in his peripheral vision a figure take the empty stool to his right, someone who must have rearranged themselves in the sequence of drunken bar goers. Sherlock was quiet for a moment, though with a quick side glance he recognized the man as the very same, a man who bore many characteristics of a time hardened, grumpy suburban father. He had short, sandy blonde hair, cut close in an almost military style about his head. He seemed to be quite short, as even when they were seated Sherlock had to look down so as to look him into his deep hazel eyes.
"What are you drinking?" Sherlock wondered at last, deciding that was the proper way to start a conversation when dotted around the table of a laminated bar.
"Scotch." The stranger admitted in a low yet almost recognizable voice. Sherlock faltered for a moment, though decided at last that it must have been a coincidence. Surely he didn't know this man, even if his voice did bare a rather stark familiarity.
"Would you like another?" Sherlock offered with a sigh.
"I'd always appreciate another." The man agreed, clearing his throat and falling into his hands in some sort of self-induced misery. Sherlock waved at the bartender to equip the man with his poison of choice, all the while he went sipping on his own drink in the hopes that his generosity would be returned. Though this new stranger seemed too indulgent in himself to bother with returning the favor, in fact he seemed only to have moved seats to brood in silence in another location entirely.
"Rough day, presumably?" Sherlock muttered, leaning now on his elbow in an attempt to get the man's attention more effectively.
"Rough life." The man debated, grabbing at the scotch offered up by the bartender with the utmost urgency. After a sip he winced, nodding for a moment before shuffling the thing back and forth between his hands, sliding it over the bar as if looking for something to do beside make conversation.
"You're new here?" the man presumed at last, looking up towards Sherlock as if to confirm that he never saw him before.
"This is my first night in town." Sherlock muttered, trying to keep himself and his identity rather vague. God forbid this man was one of his neighbors, and would immediately realize that Sherlock was out and about with the intentions of breaking the neighborhood rule book.
"Welcome to Hell." The man grumbled. Sherlock hummed in playful agreement, running his fingers through his curls as if offering the man the same temptation.
"Doesn't have to be Hell, if you try to enjoy yourself once in a while." He assured with a rather soothing sigh.
"Enjoy myself, yes. I'm familiar with the concept." The man sighed. "Though I haven't enjoyed myself in a long, long time."
"Perhaps you've just been waiting for the right opportunity." Sherlock offered.
"Opportunity? Just waiting for..." the man groaned, shaking his head in agony. "Waiting for her to come back?"
"No, no." Sherlock debated with a little chuckle, finishing off his drink with a quick and effective gulp.
"No you're waiting for something else, someone else. Something different entirely." He insisted, at last extending his fingers out to brush upon the stranger's hand where it clenched upon the gifted glass of scotch. For a moment their fingers played upon each other's, and for a moment no words need be said. After a moment of playful silence the man's hand rather shot out, grasping at Sherlock's wrist a bit more forcefully now, as if trying to command him to be still, trying to fight away his advances with his own bout of intimacy. Sherlock chuckled, finding the stranger's grip to be quite strong. It was rather nice, feeling at last hopeless within someone else's grasp.
"What makes you think that you can touch me?" the man growled, rearranging himself in his chair so that he could stare down Sherlock in their own little bubble of privacy. Oh how delightful bars were, a crowded room full of people who were doing such private, exclusive things. And no one batted an eyelash, no one noticed for a second too long. Bars were the perfect place to get into trouble before an audience who never cared enough to remember. Right now it would seem that everyone's eyes might be turned towards them, the drunken suburban father and the lanky newcomer, caught in a battle of hesitation and seduction, though Sherlock felt not a glance except that of this stranger before him. A smile appeared on Sherlock's face, a smile that he wore when he knew that he had his prey exactly where he wanted them.
"The fact, sir, that you have not let go." Sherlock whispered back, his response cutting through this stranger's argument just as effectively as could a knife. If the man was serious about his hesitations, well that might have been the moment he at last tore his grip away. He might have been disgusted, if at last he realized the connotation behind his grasp. Though in fact his hand didn't fall away, in fact he seemed to grip even tighter, as if he found himself with a sudden and awful need to hold fast to his newfound companion. For a moment they stared at each other, until at last the stranger began to pull Sherlock closer, pulling at his wrist before capturing the side of his face with his other hand, pressing down upon Sherlock's cheekbones with frantic fingers and sighing in some satisfaction. Their faces drew nearer, though Sherlock could tell there was something wrong with this equation. Even as the man's lips drew nearer to his face, as he slid his own face along the side of Sherlock's and caught a part of his chin between his teeth...well the proximity counted for nothing. Sherlock let his hand catch the hand which stayed his head so perfectly, interlocking their fingers and feeling that terrible interruption of metal along the ridges of the stranger's hand. A ring, a wedding ring.
"It would seem as though there is a conflict of interest." Sherlock breathed, at last letting his face draw farther back, so as to make it more difficult for this audacious man to make any sudden moves. However, the subject seemed to bring about unforeseen anger in his strange new companion, as the man gritted his teeth and ripped his devoted hand away, as if to hide the evidence of his marriage long after it had been discovered.
"You don't ask questions, not in a bar. God you just...you just go with it." the man growled. "Tonight I've chosen to take my opportunities as they come, and you're here. You're available and you're...you're simply ravishing."
"Flattered." Sherlock hummed, pulling his hands to his sides with a little smile of regret.
"You're not saying no?" the man growled, as if trying to rationalize why someone would seem so friendly and turn suddenly so cold. He didn't seem to understand how discouraging a cheating man was to a fragile heart.
"I'm not saying yes." Sherlock chuckled back. "I don't do affairs, they're much too messy."
"I won't make a mess of things." the man promised in something of an urgency, as if he thought this conversation had already lasted far too long. Certainly he was urgent to get along with it, though he didn't seem to understand that there would be no love tonight. Not from Sherlock, at least.
"Then come back sober. Think it over, yes? Prioritize. And if when your head is clear of scotch and your heart is set back on track you want to come back to me, you know where I'll be. Though I'm sure, dear stranger, that after tonight I may never see your face again." Sherlock whispered with something of a knowing grin.
"Get stood up a lot, have you?" the man wondered with a snap, his eyes hardening and his jaw clenching. Evidently he wasn't used to getting denied.
"No, surely not. For I never expect them to return. Men are much more level headed when their thoughts are their own, untainted and sober." Sherlock muttered with a regretful sigh. The stranger pulled back into his own chair, ultimately giving up his endeavors to numb his pain with the love of another. It was a shame on both of their sides, as Sherlock was ultimately missing out on his only opportunity to have a partner for the night, and this sad gentleman was missing out on his only opportunity to have Sherlock. Certainly that ring was quite the disadvantage for them both, though it was enough to separate them into silence. And those who were prepared to be so close, suddenly separated by a wall of promises made ages ago. Sherlock stayed quiet and the stranger, well he must have slipped away without a farewell. For Sherlock found himself alone after a moment. 

 Sherlock's new car was a minivan, and he had bought it was the sole purpose of blending in throughout the neighborhood and throughout Annie's new soccer team. He had the budget for something much more extravagant, perhaps a sports car with a broken muffler, or perhaps a convertible Ferrari for driving about in the winding country roads just beyond the sprawl. Sherlock had a myriad of different choices, and perhaps the last car on his list was this aging beast, this red minivan which had the capacity to fit seven people quite comfortably. And yet it was what he needed, not only for blending in but for becoming an involved and useful part of this interesting community. If he could add himself to some sort of carpooling agenda then he could use this massive machine to cart all of the neighborhood kids to school, or to practice. He could become helpful, he could become invaluable. And for friends, if he ever did make friends that was, well he could drive them all around to the local restaurants or clubs! Who knew the possibilities of this vehicle, who knew just how many people might find use of it besides just Sherlock and Annie? The two passengers as of now, sitting in the front two seats of such an enormous van. Perhaps they looked silly, tucked quietly away with so many empty seats sprawled out behind them. Though this was just the first day, this was the first practice. Perhaps things would be different after today, and on Thursday Sherlock might have been offered the luxury of driving about more little children. 

"Are you excited?" Sherlock asked as he watched Annie struggling to buckle her seat belt, pulling at the strap and finding that it was pulling back with the same amount of stubbornness.
"I'm nervous." She admitted at last, raising up her hands in defeat as Sherlock leaned over to buckle her up securely. When at last she was strapped in Sherlock started up the car, feeling very pleased to be driving once again. Taxis were only useful as a last resort, a worst case scenario that was much too expensive to maintain over a long period of time.
"There's surely nothing to be nervous about. You know some of these kids from school, don't you?" Sherlock wondered, presuming of course that this team was made entirely of children of Annie's grade. "Well, ya. My friend Hamish is on the team." She offered up a bit weakly.
"There you go!" Sherlock exclaimed with a grin.
"But what if I'm no good at soccer?" Annie whined, kicking her sneaker clad feet against the car seat in her apprehension. Sherlock gave a whine of doubt, though it took him a moment to formulate a good response that might cheer her up without leading her into a farther path of disappointment. Surely if he promised that she was a star in the making, well perhaps she would accuse him of lying if she did in fact turn out to be the worst player on the team.
"Annie, you can be good at whatever you put your mind to. As with most things, perfection takes practice. If you're not good at first, well that's expected! No one started off with anything by being the best. Everyone on that field was in your shoes at one point, even the coach!" Sherlock exclaimed. Annie hesitated, nodding her little head though looking quite perplexed.
"I'm not sure the coach would fit in my shoes, Daddy." She insisted with some concern, looking down towards her sneakers with dissatisfaction. Sherlock merely chuckled, appreciating of course the literal explanations adopted by most children her age.
"That's merely an expression. It doesn't mean they'll be wearing your shoes, it means they've been in the same place you are now, as nothing more than a beginner. But they've grown to be experts, and certainly you will be an expert as well, if you push through and give it your all!" Sherlock insisted. Annie nodded sharply, as if that was motivation enough for her to take a rather more optimistic approach to this first practice. The rest of the car ride she was silent, and Sherlock could tell that she was rather upset about the promise of a daunting new task ahead of her. Her favorite song even came on the radio (at the present moment it was Need Somebody To Love, by Queen) and she didn't even try to sing along. Presumably she had gone into her head, anticipating what might happen if she got onto that field and turned out to be the worst player, or perhaps even the best. Sherlock thought it best not to bother her and her contemplation, and so he went along focusing on the road, listening along to the terse instructions of the GPS as it disrupted the radio in various intervals to point him in one way or the other. At last Sherlock ended up in a gravel parking lot overlooking about three soccer fields, each one dotted with players of various sizes and ages. Sherlock made sure to arrive with Annie a couple of minutes early, so that they could better get to know the coaches and the customs of the team before they started up with their warm up drills. Annie hopped out of the car first, looking much more excited now that she was in the moment rather than anticipating it. Perhaps these fields didn't look as intimidating as she first imagined.
"Got your soccer ball?" Sherlock wondered, opening up the back doors with a very convenient click of a button so as to remind Annie to grab all of her necessary supplies. They had gone out over the weekend to purchase the essentials, such as a pair of shin guards and a soccer ball that was just her size. Sherlock had been reluctant to buy her a pair of cleats, as those fancy shoes were close to one hundred dollars and there was no guarantee that Annie would stick to the sport past this month! Those were going to be a present for her, if she persisted throughout the year towards the end of the season. Annie grabbed her things from the back and started down the hill, breaking now into an excited run as if she had left all of her worries behind her. Sherlock followed along, though admittedly slower, and walked over to where Annie was already introducing herself to the vague outline of a coach, one who was standing with a baseball hat covering most of his face. Sherlock locked the car twice (though who would want to steal such an abysmal machine, he had no idea) and made his way over to where Annie was looking quite happy, her high pitched little voice squealing very excitedly as she tried to demonstrate her enthusiasm for being here.
"...and then Daddy said that you wore my shoes!" she was finishing, as if that was certainly the most notable part of the story. The man simply laughed, laughed with a voice that sent some preliminary shivers down Sherlock's spine. That voice, well it was the second time he thought he might have recognized it...and perhaps this was just the sudden and smacking realization that he had recognized it each and every moment. The coach, the man on the phone...the man in the bar. They were one in the same. Just as soon as the man lifted his head Sherlock's suspicions were confirmed, as tucked under that baseball cap was the same face that had been starting so longingly into his eyes on Saturday night, those lips that were falling out of his smile were the same that had been tucked up against Sherlock's chin in his urgency...
"Oh..." Sherlock's first instinct was to grasp at Annie's ears, quite the good parental reaction. "Sh*t." was the coach's final exclamation. Sherlock gave a hesitant smile, though he knew of course that it would be within his best interest to pretend that he had never been acquainted with this man in his life. It would save them both a lot of trouble, trying to explain to their loved ones why they were reuniting in a situation that really should have been their first interaction. At last Sherlock's hands fell off of Annie's ears, and he gave a little chuckle of nervousness, figuring that he would have to play this off in such a way as to get this old stranger in on his little ploy.
"Good to meet you in person, Mr. Watson." Sherlock said with a careful little smile. The coach hesitated, though forced a smile on his face as well.
"You must be Mr. Holmes, on the phone." He muttered, clearing his throat a bit awkwardly and extending out a hand in a very reluctant manner, as if he was forcing his hand with all of his might to conform to his wishes. Perhaps touching the very same skin would elicit the same sort of response, perhaps the moment their fingers touched John Watson would have fallen to his knees in plea...
"The very same." Sherlock agreed, reaching out and grasping the man's hand firmly. For a moment they shook the other's hand in false greeting, though they pulled away just as frantically with a mutual breath of relief. Thankfully they separated with their identities and reputations intact, and no harm was done just yet.
"Daddy this is my coach!" Annie muttered, pulling at her father's sleeve as she was very unaware of the rather awkward situation her father had been put into.
"I know, honey. I spoke with him before." Sherlock agreed with a little grin, patting his daughter on the head like one would a dog, as he really had no better ideas on how to keep the mood light and carefree. At the moment this Mr. Watson was radiating all sorts of negative energies, things mixed between guilt, shame, and fear. He seemed to be something of a time bomb, prepared to go off without a moment's notice. And what that explosion might be, what form it might take, well that was entirely up to his own daring. Perhaps he would just slap Sherlock across the face for being so bold as to show up, or perhaps he would jump upon the poor man and take what he thought he deserved from the night before. Either reaction wouldn't be terribly uncalled for, though both had the startling potential to mutually ruin their lives. Thankfully, John Watson did neither of those things. Thankfully he was a better actor than Sherlock might have given him credit for, and he forced a friendly smile onto his face as if this was just another night, another occurrence in his mundane and reoccurring life. 

"Well Mr. Holmes, don't you worry. Annie will be in good hands for the night. You're welcome to sit over along the sidelines, as most parents do." John offered, nodding over to where there was already a line of parents lined up in lawn chairs, looking like a big cluster of spray tans and Axe cologne. Sherlock hesitated, not having anticipated that he was going to have to socialize as well.
"Oh um...well I haven't got a lawn chair." he muttered hesitantly.
"What a shame. Well practice will be done in about an hour and a half, you can just..."
"John honey, is this a new recruit?" asked a new voice, a feminine voice, coming from the other side of the field. All of the sudden the small group was joined by a startling woman, one who strolled in from side lines as if she owned not only the field, but perhaps even the world itself. Sherlock was brought to a standstill, not just by the woman's confident mannerisms, but mostly because of her head of familiar blonde hair. Radiant blonde hair, just like the roots which sprouted from his own daughter's head... At last a probable candidate, and dare he admit a preferable one.