Just as soon as Sherlock put Annie on the bus and waved her away he called a taxi and got driven into work, this time with much more peace of mind than the day before. This time he had a lunch packed and a babysitter booked, resting easy knowing that both himself and his daughter would be well cared for in the midst of such a normalized catastrophe. Employment was hard, not just because the work was boring but also because the day was virtually wasted. It was difficult to imagine that there was any point to life if this was your daily routine, just getting up every morning to sit behind a desk and get hung up on for eight hours a day. Sherlock became increasingly thankful that this wasn't his main form of income; he was very pleased to know that he could quit at any time and not be ruined financially. Thank God for rich parents. Over his lunch break Sherlock sat himself in the break room, dialing up the number that had been offered on the soccer flier so as to get Annie signed up for the next practice. For sat back quietly, watching with passive eyes as two of his coworkers ducked behind one of the vending machines, careful with the idea that no one could see their flailing limbs from the other side. Sherlock sighed, tired now of seeing just about everyone else in love but himself. If love could be spawned in such a dismal spot as this, if anyone could think of anything more than just leaving...well certainly that had to count for something. Certainly that had to be considered romantic. Sherlock missed romance; he missed feeling something more than despair in his heart. He missed looking upon the same man each and every day and every day just feeling...feeling that same sort of excitement. He missed being in love, and with each and every man who happened through his door he felt as though he strayed farther and farther away from ever finding that one true man again. With every hook up he knew he was drawing farther away from being happy. Finally the ringing on the other line ceased, and at last a man's voice spoke into the phone.
"Hello?" the man asked, sounding quite suspicious of anyone who was calling his number even though it was displayed on a public flier.
"Hello, Mr. Watson?" Sherlock sighed.
"Speaking." The man agreed. Oh well at least he was a conversationalist.
"Hi, my name is Sherlock Holmes. I just moved into the area and my daughter is interested in joining your soccer team. I was wondering if you might have an available position on the team?" Sherlock asked.
"Oh certainly, yes!" John agreed, sounding a bit more enthusiastic now that he knew the reason for this strange caller. Sherlock smiled, getting a pen ready in his hands to write down more information.
"So, Mr. Holmes, it's one hundred fifty dollars a season to play. Your daughter will get a uniform and practices are twice a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays, with a game on either Saturday or Sunday." John rattled off, as if he had memorized such a speech perfectly. Sherlock paused, not having realized this was a paid affair. It didn't bother him of course, it wasn't like he was on any sort of tight budget, however the idea that the local soccer teams were milking parents for their money seemed awfully unethical.
"Alright then." Sherlock muttered, finishing up his writing and waiting for further instructions.
"Your daughter is certainly welcome at next week's practice, Tuesday evening at five thirty." John said again, to which Sherlock nodded quietly.
"And how long do they go?" he wondered with a sigh.
"About an hour and a half, until seven o'clock give or take." John admitted, to which Sherlock grimaced just a bit. Certainly he wasn't expected to waste his own night sitting in the stands and watching a bunch of five year olds run around and kick a ball?
"Alright then. I'll have the money when I drop her off." Sherlock decided at last.
"Splendid, Mr. Holmes. I look forward to meeting you both." John said, in such a manner that Sherlock could tell he was smiling. Sherlock nodded, happy to hear what he could only imagine to be a friendly voice. Perhaps not everyone wrapped up in suburbia was all that bad after all.
"Thank you Mr. Watson." Sherlock muttered.
"Thank you. Have a nice day." John's voice said finally, and with that the line went dead and Sherlock was left once more listening to the humming of the vending machines, occasionally coupled with the sharp hitting of his coworkers' limbs against the wall behind it. 

It was the house with the flowers...that was how Molly Hooper had described it. The house with the pretty flowers. Well there were a great many houses with flowers, and so Sherlock really had to determine just how inflated the woman's ego was, or if she was terribly realistic about her own garden's appearance. If she considered her flowers to be the most beautiful in the neighborhood then they really should stick out, and honestly Sherlock didn't seem to think that any of these little patches of hasta counted as very beautiful. Thankfully the woman was terribly tacky as well, and so Sherlock was relieved to see a little garden flag depicting a cute little pug, buried in the midst of what looked like some roses and some mountain pinks. Alright, so her garden was what some could consider pretty, though certainly when compared to the other messes of flora buried in other people's garden beds, hers was not all together standout.
"Daddy, where are we going?" Annie complained a bit tiredly, shuffling her feet along behind him as he went down the driveway fearlessly.
"I told you Annie, to the babysitter's house." Sherlock explained quickly.
"But I already have a babysitter, and she doesn't live in the neighborhood." The girl complained.
"Well it's Saturday night, remember dear? And girls who are sixteen don't wait around on Saturday nights to see if five year olds need a sitter." Sherlock reminded her with a little frown. "Now come along then, and meet Ms. Hooper."
"Daddy I'm tired..." Annie complained.
"Well come along then, and maybe Ms. Hooper can let you sleep on the couch." Sherlock insisted, beckoning for the girl to follow him. Sherlock was not in the mood for complaining on the girl's part, especially when it was already nearing eight o'clock. He really did have a curfew now, as he certainly couldn't leave Annie to sleep at Ms. Hooper's house for the whole night. He would have a bit more of an impression to upkeep when compared to Mr. Turner and his convenient sort of carelessness. At last Annie obeyed, waddling up to where Sherlock stood in the driveway and taking his hand quietly. Sherlock gave her a little smile of appreciation, and with that he started up to the door to knock. For a moment there was silence, followed almost too quickly by the yapping of that horrible dog on the other side of the door.
"Buttons! Buttons shush!" came Molly's recognizable voice, yelling over the barking in an effort to make her house seem more inviting. That little thing did not yield, and after a moment of apparent struggle the barking became a lot more muffled, as if Molly had wrestled the thing into another room farther from the view of her unexpected guests.
"Ms. Hooper has a dog?" Annie said excitedly, pulling on her father's hand as if to demonstrate her newfound excitement.
"Yes she does, a ratty little thing that..."
"Sherlock!" Molly's voice interrupted, as the door had opened just as soon as he had begun his small definition of that accursed creature. Sherlock forced a smile, trying to make it seem as though he had not been interrupted as he was insulting the dog she most cherished.
"Molly, great to see you again." Sherlock said with a little grin. The woman looked just about as confused as could be, though she was very good at hiding her emotions behind a veil of practiced hospitality. For the moment she didn't seem to care why Sherlock was here on her doorstep, she only seemed to care about the impression she made of herself to her new guests.
"And who's this?" Molly wondered, crouching down and holding out a hand for Annie to shake. The little giggled, though shook Molly's hand politely.
"My name is Annie. Can I see your dog?" Annie wondered quickly; as if there was an utmost urgency that she pet that obnoxious little thing.
"I put Buttons in his crate, but I could certainly get him out if you wanted." Molly promised. "First I must ask what business you have on my doorstep?" Sherlock sighed a bit guiltily, looking down towards Annie and hoping that she was cute enough to evoke pity. This hadn't necessarily been a scheduled visit, though he was hoping that Molly had a rather empty schedule.
"Well, Molly, I haven't got a local babysitter and some urgent business has come up tonight. I thought perhaps you could watch her for a couple of hours?" Sherlock said with a little grin, trying to make himself seem a lot more heroic in his speech than what may be the real cause for his outing. Certainly if he tried to make this seem like a work emergency Molly would be a lot happier to take little Annie in, opposed to his actual plots.
"Oh well...well I suppose I'm not doing anything too important." Molly admitted, though her voice seemed terribly reluctant, almost as if she was weighing the costs and benefits. "I suppose we could watch a movie or something."
"I like Snow White, because she looks most like my Daddy." Annie announced proudly, to which Molly could only try to stifle her laughter. Sherlock sighed heavily, wondering at last just what sort of embarrassing information Annie was going to relay to Molly during the duration of her stay. Certainly that little girl knew all too much about her father, though never did she understand the weight and connotation of such information. That was presented rather effectively in her drawing, the one that Mrs. Donavan had used as ammunition against the struggling single father.
"Oh well, I've always been compared to Belle." Molly admitted with a happy little grin, not seeming to care much about Sherlock's feminine charm after all.
"I can see that." Sherlock agreed, though only with the idea to flatter the hopeless woman. Thankfully it worked, and she giggled in pleasure.
"What time will you be here to pick her up?" Molly wondered at last, trying to change the topic back to business.
"Oh maybe...maybe midnight?" Sherlock decided with a sigh, knowing that this answer depended entirely on the clientele of the local bar. If he couldn't find a soul who might entertain him, well then he may be back a lot earlier than that.
"Midnight, for work?" Molly clarified with narrowed eyes, suspicious eyes.
"Urgent work, I'm afraid." Sherlock agreed with a nod. The woman sighed, though obviously she was in no position to say no. Annie already seemed content on staying, and all of her exhaustion had been replaced with enthusiasm to meet the dog that was still barking in the back room.
"Alright then." Molly agreed with some practiced enthusiasm.
"I'll pay twenty five dollars an hour." Sherlock offered abruptly, to which Molly's ears obviously perked up in more interest.
"That's...that's awfully generous." She muttered quickly, already deciding within herself that this was definitely too much money to pass up.
"That's why I offered it. Because you're being just as kind. Now, Annie has no allergies and she can stay up as late as possible. Here's my phone number in case something bad happens, and I'll see you at twelve!" Sherlock said cheerfully, passing over a little notecard with his phone number and prodding Annie to go into the house. Molly nodded, taking the card a bit reluctantly and watching out of the corner of her eye as Annie filed her way into the doorway and stood obediently near the stairs.
"Um, alright. Alright." Molly agreed with a nervous little chuckle.
"Thanks again, Molly. And don't worry, she's an angel!" Sherlock promised, and with that he gave a great big grin and filed his way off of the porch, trotting down the driveway and not leaving in any time for the woman to ask questions. Certainly he didn't have time for all of the details, and at twenty five dollars an hour Molly would certainly be able to figure anything out. Annie was, after all, a very well behaved child. Shocking how she could have been raised as such, considering just how misbehaved her father was prepared to be tonight. 

 The cab dropped him off at what the driver himself considered to be the most 'populous' bar, and so Sherlock was rather expecting something of a crowd. It was a Saturday night in this dismal town, yet the bar could only be distinguished from the local businesses surrounding it by the neon lights it had advertised in the window. A crowd at the door might have been a bit reassuring, perhaps even a cloud of cigarette smoke to stink up the local vicinity. Though when Sherlock was dropped at the curb he was faced with what almost looked to be an uninhabited wasteland, with a couple of flickering beer signs decorating the sidewalk in a hazy blue tint. Even before he walked inside he found this place to be disappointing, and his heart yearned back to his favorite bar back home. For five years he had prowled about that establishment, and nearly every weekend night he would have someone new on his arm. He had been something of a well-known character back then, even known to have drawn in other frequent visitors like some sort of tourist attraction. On multiple occasions he would wake up the next morning only to hear that the man he had been with had heard through the grapevine to get picked up by a tall, pale gentleman with a peculiar name. Though this bar tonight, well Sherlock could only hope that looks deceive. Never judge a bar by its sidewalk, perhaps that could be a new saying. And so he pulled open the door, hit immediately in the face by the stink of stale beer and a powerful wave of loud rock music, nearly crippling after being accustomed to such peaceful silence of suburbia. When Sherlock walked inside he found, to his delight, that there was a crowd enough to entertain him for the night. The bar's windows were quite deceitful, as inside there seemed to be plenty of space for all sorts of sins. The room included all the sort of things you might expect from a well-established place, including a long bar maintained by two rather exasperated bartenders, a pool table tucked in the corner and surrounded by drunken men in cut off flannel shirts, and a dance floor with neon lights illuminating a handful of lovesick couples, still young enough to be entertained purely by settling their weight upon on another and moving from side to side in a daze. Sherlock stared for a moment at the crowd, finding that a great number of them were the sort of people you would expect at such a bar on a Saturday night, though there was a stark contrast between those that the bar needed, and those who needed the bar. You could tell who were the frequenters, those who dressed for the occasion and talked rapidly to their friends. Those people who knew the rules of the pool table, knew the beers on tap, and could dance to most every song on the predictable playlist. Then there were the sort that had stumbled in after a tough day at work, those poor suburban singletons who had found themselves sat on a bar stool before their tragedy had properly sunken in, drunk before they could realize the depth of their situation. They stuck out like a sore thumb, and in numbers much more drastic than the bar back home. These outliers usually wore business attire, as if they had fallen into the bar from work or even from home, with their outfits chosen and their hair preened for an occasion that was not typically conducted from the other side of a rundown bar. They drank in excess, hard liquors, anything that might numb their brains for the appropriate amount of time. Those who were facing crises...Sherlock knew them well. They were the perfect prey, those who felt as though they had nothing left to lose. They were the ones who liked his arms more than they liked their own, and found that it was a lot easier to love a man when it felt like the world refused to love them any longer. Sherlock at last made his way over to the bar, his eyes darting this way and that as he counted his steps from the door. Thirty two steps and he was positioned rather comfortably on one of the bar stools, leaning over onto his elbows so as to flag down one of the bartenders to get him a drink. Sherlock was never a very simple man, and so beer or straight alcohol never settled well if he was able to order something more delightfully complex. Therefore, tonight he ordered a Moscow Mule, and he sat back in some pleasure as he watched the bartender give him an exasperated look, miserable now that she had to prepare something so time consuming when all of the other clientele were demanding their glasses be filled. Sherlock never had it in his mind to make friends, that's for sure, and so her dissatisfaction really wasn't too deterring. As he was handed his drink he looked down the bar, watching for eyes that may be turning in his direction as well. There were a great many men sat alone, though there was an equal amount of women sitting next to them, sometimes engaged in conversation and other times immersed in their own self-doubt, wondering if their approach to conversation would be well accepted or not. Sherlock hated to see people struggling with such issues, especially when it was clear that the man next to them was equally discouraged by his own self-perception. Sherlock sighed heavily, sipping at his drink and looking towards the man who was sat next to him, a peculiar looking older man who seemed about as interesting as his conversation could be. He certainly wasn't the sort Sherlock was interested in, though perhaps he had some lifetime wisdom that he might want to share. 

"Are you local?" Sherlock asked at last, presuming that would be a conversational starter with someone who was obviously born and raised in such a simple town such as this. He would die here, too, judging by his mannerisms.
"F*ck off." the man growled, giving Sherlock quite the nasty stare as he huddled his beer glass closer to his chest in defense. Sherlock grimaced, turning back to his own section of the bar and deciding that it would be best to mind his own business. One more drink later and he was still sitting alone, worried for a moment that everyone in this establishment was straight. Usually the men found him first, but God forbid if he has to go out on his own and seek a partner...Not even the women were talking to him! And women, well they were at least good for a quick chat. They were entertaining enough by their knowledge, and indeed one of the women parading about here might prove to be the very woman he was looking for, the intended mother of his child. Well of course if she was found in such a place as this Sherlock would admit to being very disappointed, though it was always worth a quick look around to be sure that no one matching the potential description was lingering throughout the smoke. Sherlock craned his neck down the bar again, searching for that telltale blonde hair, though at last as he scanned the crowd he saw a pair of eyes that were looking at him with the same extent of curiosity. A small smile of curiosity played about his lips, as the eyes that were staring down at him were quite intense, quite longing in a way. Quite desperate.