"Daddy, are we going to get a cab?" Annie wondered at last, tugging on her father's hand when she seemed to realize had stagnated. And so he had, standing on the curb with his toes just over the yellow paint, staring into the traffic and waiting for each and every driver to stare back at him. Staring with such a lost expression that he had forgotten his objective in this town was not to reminisce, but instead to create a new life to compensate for the one he had lost within these very streets.
"Yes, sorry." Sherlock agreed, dropping his suitcase onto the corner so as to wave his hand around in the air to hail one of those quick moving cars among the mess of commuters. When at last they had gotten themselves situated within the cab it had begun to rain, and it was all Sherlock could do but stare out the window for a long moment at what seemed to be the tears of the town, pouring down upon him in retaliation. Perhaps even Mother Nature deemed him unworthy of returning; perhaps she too understood just how incompetent he was a loving parent.
"Where are you off to then?" the cab driver asked at last. He sounded a bit impatient, almost as if he had asked this question multiple times, though to an ear that was simply not listening.
"We are off to...oh let me look here." Sherlock muttered, ruffling around in his pocket for the address he had printed off. Instead of reading it off he merely handed it to the driver, who looked a bit too closely than Sherlock was comfortable with as the road was still quite busy. For a long moment the driver allowed himself to be distracted with the address, though thankfully he tossed the paper back into the backseat and started his GPS with something of an inaudible mutter. Perhaps he didn't appreciate Sherlock's mannerisms, for he spoke not a word the rest of the unreasonably long trip.
"Daddy, will we have a swimming pool?" Annie asked at last, turning her attention back to her father so as to riddle him with questions that time could answer far better.
"I don't think so." he admitted, as he hadn't remembered seeing such a thing listed when he bought the house. Then again he had not necessarily looked at all of the details, he had instead just flipped through the listings in an attempt to find the one that would plop him most effectively into suburbia.
"We should get a swimming pool." Annie decided quietly, as if she was terribly dissatisfied.
"Perhaps we will, but first we need to adjust to living here." Sherlock insisted, staring out the window towards any pedestrians who were lining the wet sidewalks. He couldn't see their faces or even make out their genders from where he sat up against the window; instead he sat the backs of raincoats and the fronts of umbrellas. Oh but it was no loss, as he still wasn't sure what he was looking for. Curse his unobservant eyes, all those years ago! He should have looked at the parents before he snatched the child, that way his job five years later was less of a daunting and impossible task. If he knew what the woman looked like it might have been easier to speak with her, though he was left with nothing to go on rather than the mere resemblance she may have to his young daughter. Both of the parents would surely have blonde hair, as it was a recessive gene if he remembered correctly. Yet beyond that...beyond that it could be anyone. And if he was to track down each and every blonde haired couple in the whole of this city (considering, of course, that they still lived here!) he would die before he made any impact upon his daughter's life. He was a flawed man; he understood that now...though now it was time to correct his mistakes. And each step they took closer to this town brought them even closer to the family his poor daughter might have belonged to, if he had not intercepted her into a much more loving atmosphere. For a long while they were silent, that is until the roads began to look more residential and Annie began to try to find the house that belonged to them. Well Sherlock thought the answer would come most obviously with the presence of a moving truck in the front yard, though Annie seemed content imagining herself frolicking through the halls of each and every house on their way to their own. Sometimes when the cab drove through she found herself disappointed, as if she really wanted that house to be the one, though when at last she spotted the appropriate structure her little eyes grew wide in excitement.
"Daddy, that's ours isn't it?" she exclaimed, nearly leaning her entire body onto the window pane in an attempt to see the rather bland, familiar looking house that stood before them. The cab parked in the middle of the street, and after a quick transaction and very few words Sherlock found himself standing before the house on the wet sidewalk, his hair getting drenched from the downpour which now ensued. Annie wasn't set off by the rain, in fact she let go of her father's hand completely and went running to the front porch in an attempt to wrench the door open herself. When Sherlock had signed for the house he had been given the key, and so it was sitting here in his pocket, perfectly within his reach. Though for the time being he didn't think to search his pockets for it, for the time being he was perfectly content with standing here on this sidewalk and staring up to the house which looked exactly like its neighbors. He was perfectly happy to look up onto the bland, cookie cutter windows and see that horrible shade of tan staring back at him from the walls. He was happy to look upon the plastic siding, and the gutters which were already filling with leaves. He loved to see the empty porch, a stage for which to set his own array of rocking chairs and flower pots, and the garage that would not have a car parked inside of it for a long while. He loved to see the front yard, still riddled with the holes that the previous owner's sprinkler system had dug into the mud, and the bushes that were trimmed perfectly by the realtor's landscaping company to better market the property. All of this, all of this utter stagnation, well it was his to own. All of this apple pie, copy and paste architecture, all of this happy family of four bulls*it, it was his to own. His life to adopt, and his mask to pull over his own persona of vulnerability and deceit. This was the world he was stepping into, at first as a stranger but soon to be an expert, knowing that it would not be too difficult to drain himself of all originality should the neighborhood demand it. At last Sherlock pulled the key from his pocket, marching up to join his daughter at the door and casting a bored side eye to the moving truck where it sat in the parking lot. It didn't seem to have a driver, which made him think that they had arrived much earlier than expected and decided to take a cab to town or something like that. Well the relief was that it was here, and that they could begin the moving process just as soon as they got adjusted to the house itself. Sherlock allowed Annie to turn the key herself, as she was the most anxious out of the two of them to see the inside. Sherlock hadn't even stepped in, though he knew ultimately what to expect. These were the sort of houses that looked just like every other house you've been inside, the sort that were put up in the span of a year along with ten or fifteen other houses which looked exactly alike. The sort of development that was put together on top of a beautiful field, tearing up the pristine plot of nature and replacing it instead with a soul sucking atmosphere of spin class and man caves. This was the world Annie might have grown up in, and so it had to be the life that Sherlock adopted for them both. It had to be the life accepted by them both, in an attempt to better themselves.
"Look, look Daddy! We've got a fireplace!" Annie exclaimed, rushing from the empty living room and into the kitchen to pry open the fridge. "And we've got a freezer...big enough to fit me inside!"
"How wonderful." Sherlock said with a little chuckle, dropping his wet suitcase down onto the floor with a shutter of defeat and closing the door behind him. Yes, as he had predicted, he had been in this house before. It had hardwood floors and tan painted walls, nails hammered into the plaster to a hang a picture every couple of feet and a staircase leading up to a very predictable second floor. On the ground they had a living room, a dining room, a kitchen, and an awkward sort of sitting area that could filled with a myriad of different things. Up top must be the three bedrooms and two bathrooms, as the realtor had promised him. They had a deck on either side of the house, one that wrapped around the front half of the house and another that jutted out into the extensive backyard. There was no swimming pool; however the yard was fenced in should they ever have need of a family pet. The floors were currently empty, save for a scattered bit of furniture the previous family had not found any use for. There were some end tables littering the hallway, as well as a single bean bag chair left in the corner of the living room (one which Annie took an immediate liking to). Overall the house would certainly suit their needs, as Sherlock could already imagine hosting dinner parties here, or backyard barbeques on the deck. The goal here to was expand his horizons to an uncomfortable level, to sober up and straighten out his mental state so as to focus on finding the woman he had stolen from. And the best way to find someone in the mess of suburbia was to let them find you.

 The next morning Sherlock forced himself to get up before seven, in an attempt to start his life as a settled and acceptable man of the neighborhood. He decided that to better blend in with the current population it was in his best interest to go for a jog. And so, making sure not to wake Annie where she slept in her own bedroom, he snuck out the door dressed in his best makeshift exercise clothes, fitted into a pair of sneakers he had seemed to own for his whole life but only ever wore once. They were uncomfortably tight, and frankly this worn out tee shirt was not flattering at any angle provided, though this is what suburban parents do, wasn't it? They wake up at ungodly hours and torture themselves; all with the intention of letting their friends see them out and about, living their best lives. And so he stood out on the sidewalk, straining his eyes in either direction and trying to figure what the best destination for his little run was. How far did people usually go? Was it by miles, or by minutes? Oh well certainly he couldn't run a mile today, the last time he had exerted himself to such a level was way back in grade school, in which they were tested on their ability to run four big laps around their track. Such tortuous days were those, well frankly Sherlock imagined he would rather die than make it the full four laps without stopping! So no, not a mile quite yet. Perhaps...perhaps five minutes down and back. A full ten minute jog, well that was sure to get him acquainted around the neighborhood, yes? And so he checked his watch for the next minute, and when at last it became seven twelve he set off down the neighborhood in something of an ungodly sprint, flailing his limbs and looking so ridiculously eccentric that he was more worthy of a caught on camera film rather than a friendly morning chat. Who knew this running stuff would be so horribly difficult? Within three minutes Sherlock stopped abruptly, falling upon his knees in an attempt to keep himself upright despite his panting, finding that his heart was beating so fast through his chest that it may very well pound straight through his rib cage. After a moment of utter defeat Sherlock found it within himself to heave himself back into his proper posture, heaving breaths so embarrassingly loud that he thought he sounded more like a strained opera singer rather than an exhausted athlete. Another two minutes down the road at his pace and Sherlock found himself fallen over onto someone else's lawn, staring up into the sky and wondering what he had done to deserve such pain. There was no way he would make it back to his house without walking, for this running business was much too painful to continue. How on earth did people do this...and for fun? It was unthinkable, it was just so painful. His legs felt too heavy to support him, his joints felt too broken to move any longer, and his lungs felt as though he had swallowed a flame! He was broken, from the inside out, and felt terribly incapable of continuing on any longer. And perhaps he wouldn't have, perhaps he might have laid here and let nature take its course right in the yard of someone else's identical house. The only interruption to his self-pity came in the form of a particularly friendly dog, a long and warm tongue that abruptly began to help itself to Sherlock's exposed and sweaty leg. 

"Oh, oh Buttons come on!" exclaimed an exasperated woman's voice, yanking the dog away with some urgency without first paying mind to the man who was lying on the grass. When at last she was done being embarrassed for her dog's misbehavior the woman seemed to realize at last what was wrong with this picture, and at last her head appeared within his line of vision. The first thing that struck Sherlock was her look of pity, such a humane and caring look that he couldn't help but feel a little bit better about his situation. The second thing he noticed, here with a bit more disappointment, was her brown hair. So not the woman he was looking for, but a woman all the same.
"Are you alright?" she asked at last, holding a bit tighter to her dog's leash though not effectively preventing the little pug from starting to lick at Sherlock's face. Sherlock sighed heavily, finding at last the breath within him to at least sit up and push the fat little dog away.
"I'm fine. I've just tried to take up jogging and...well it's a lot more than I expected!" Sherlock admitted at last, shaking his head in defeat and struggling now to get to his feet. The little pug, presumably called Buttons, persisted to jump up onto his weak and wobbling legs in an attempt to regain his attention.
"Oh, well I'm sorry to hear that." the woman muttered, her soft face frowning in an attempt to display her forceful pity. Sherlock sighed heavily, shaking out his legs in annoyance and slouching in defeat.
"I think it's the shoes." He decided at last, displaying his beat up old track shoes in an attempt to justify his own defeat.
"Certainly it must be." The woman agreed with a nod, at last offering up her free hand for a quick introduction. "I'm Molly Hooper, by the way. I live just down the road there, in the house with the pretty flowers."
"I'm Sherlock Holmes, I actually just moved in. I'm in the house with um...with no defining characteristics." He admitted at last, after thinking for a moment about what made his house different from the rest. When at last he determined they were all interchangeable he frowned again, thinking about different ways he might be able to refer to it next time. Maybe he could put something out in the front yard, like a flag or a garden gnome. At least that way people would know where to find him if ever they cared to call.
"Oh how exciting! I saw the moving truck yesterday, but I wasn't going to come say hello until the community email came out. I never like to walk over without first learning the names." Molly admitted with a sigh.
"Community email?" Sherlock clarified, his eyes narrowing and his stomach lurching with the idea of such a domesticated thing.
"Oh yes, just a daily update of what's going on in the 'hood. Parents like to put their children's accomplishments in and whatnot, or little home tips to keep your house happy and healthy!" Molly said with a big grin.
"That's um...that's terribly nauseating." Sherlock decided at last, as he hadn't enough energy to lie.
"It's actually quite helpful. Especially when new friends move in!" Molly exclaimed. Buttons began to bark along with his owner's enthusiasm, to the point where they had merged into one progressive roar of unnecessary noise. Sherlock's ears nearly began to bleed, though he managed a smile and a nod so as to keep himself from looking too rude.
"Fantastic. So I should expect to be added to this email chain, yes?" he presumed.
"Oh yes! I think...yes! Philip is the President of the Neighborhood Committee, so you should be expecting a visit from him sometime soon. He'll fill you in on all the do's and don'ts, as we like to keep a good image about here!" Molly said with a smile. She didn't seem to think any of this was very creepy; in fact she was speaking of a community email chain and their 'good image' as if it was a perfectly normal way to go about life. As if all neighborhoods were just as cultish. Sherlock made a mental note not to drink any Kool-Aid that was offered to him in the duration of his stay.
"An image?" Sherlock muttered with a sigh. "An image of what, exactly?"
"It's all in the rulebook." Molly assured. "Why don't I walk you home, just to make sure you don't fall over again?"
"Yes that would be..." Sherlock sighed, shaking his head as he realized of course that wasn't a suggestion. Perhaps Molly had it in her mind that Sherlock's state of dishevelment was an embarrassment, and that it would damage the community reputation to have him throwing up into one of the rain gutters. "That would be nice." Sherlock finished at last, though his words came too late, as Molly was already starting down the sidewalk with her little dog in tow, as if she felt the need to show Sherlock the way he had already come.
"Have you come a long way?" Molly asked at last, slowing her pace to allow poor Sherlock to catch up. Despite his usually long stride; his legs were terribly exhausted at the present moment. So instead of his quick pace he was instead reduced to something of a crawl, and had to put it upon poor Ms. Hooper to slow herself down to a conversational pace.
"Oh no, no just five minutes down the road. You'll see the truck." Sherlock said quickly, realizing at last just how pathetic the five minutes sounded in correlation to his exhausted state. He looked as if he had come a full marathon, though in reality he was already able to see the boxy form of the moving truck coming in over the horizon where he had left it.
"I meant from your original home. How far did you move?" Molly clarified, not seeming to care too much about where his house placement was in the whole of this monotonous neighborhood.
"Oh, sorry. Yes, I've come about four hours. By train." Sherlock said with a little grin. He didn't want to share too much about his past, considering it seemed that Molly would be the sort to phone the local mayor and ask about Sherlock's behavior in the town previous. God forbid she got ahold of anyone who had ever frequented that bar, or even worse she got into contact with Mrs. Donavan. Surely he would be kicked from the neighborhood immediately, as he was not the sort of person they wanted representing their caring community.