As luck would have it, Annie didn't need monitoring through the night. She would be staying with her family; she would be staying as a sleepover guest. Sherlock hadn't any hesitations with that notion, when he was approached on the subject he could hardly contain his excitement about the idea. The idea of allowing this family to be back together, back together when he too would be present... The idea was just about as exciting for him as it was for his little daughter, who couldn't wait to have her first official sleepover. Well of course Sherlock might've had hesitations, considering that her first ever best friend just happened to be a boy. But that didn't bother him, not nearly as much as it would any distinguished and self-respecting housewife. He had to allow his daughter to branch out one of these days; she had to leave the nest eventually. This would be her first night away from home, and in essence one of her first nights in her true home. Her first night in a while, at least. And it wasn't like she wouldn't be monitored, not only would John and Mary be there to look after the two crazy kids but Sherlock would also be lingering about the halls. It was the night of exploration, he would have to jump on his chances as they were presented to him, and tonight seemed the perfect time for observation and investigation. Beyond all things he wanted to experience the Watsons on their home stage, he wanted to listen to them talk over the dinner table, he wanted to know what they watched on TV as the sun set below the clouds. He wanted to see the whole family in their natural habitat, and he was blessed by fate when the family would indeed be completed tonight. Annie would be among them, their lose little rose... Sherlock's second agenda was to dig farther into their history, he wanted solid proof that any of this ever did occur. He wanted to discover where they hid away all their memeoies, those things that were too sentimental to get rid of though too painful for their daily eye. The photographs of the happy family, the strollers they might have kept. All the pink baby clothes, tucked away in a plastic container somewhere in the attic. He wanted to find them; he wanted proof, solid proof, not just the words of a broken and drunken man. As much as his gut told him that John was being truthful, as much as all of the puzzle pieces fit together, well there was still room for doubt. There was still just the smallest chance that Sherlock had abandoned his search for the perfect family when he had stumbled along this flawed unit, looking at their outward projection of a happy and loving family when inside they were rotting and miserable. He had to be sure. And so, as luck would have it, he was given a point of entry. During the picnic Sherlock separated himself from the group just long enough to find one of the side windows, one that was low enough to the ground that he might be able to slip inside yet still secluded enough that any entry would go unnoticed. The window led into what looked like an unused dining room, decorated with furniture that was far too fancy to match with the rest of the house. Perhaps it had been some sort of heirloom set, decorated with the intentions of providing a classy spot for the whole family to collect on holidays. Though the furniture had been lost to the Watson's unused junk, piled with papers unread and clothes that no longer fit, laden with boxes of old school supplies and canned goods that had gotten lost in the high speed chase that was life. No one would be in there tonight, no one would care to notice that the window had been propped open from the outside, allowing effortless access once the sun had fallen. The plan would go about perfectly, as this was an agenda set up by a higher power, not just by Sherlock's own conniving brain. Someone was putting all the pieces together, Sherlock was merely following then around like a mouse in a maze, prodded every so often by an invisible hand that shook the depression from his shoulders and prompted him into action. And so he made his farewells that evening at the picnic, taking his now nearly empty bowl of potato salad and wishing the hostess well, thanking Mary for a delightful afternoon and giving John a mere nod of appreciation. He knew that the man would not appreciate any verbal communication, as whatever charity he had been offering at the beginning of the party was evidently spent by Sherlock's big mouth. He hadn't been comfortable with the conversation, in fact he might have realized in the duration that Sherlock knew more than he accredited him to knowing, he may have realized that Sherlock had been doing his homework. Oh but it mattered not, Sherlock's knowledge now helped him in the fight against fidelity, he knew that if he ever needed to use the new ammunition that this man James offered him, well perhaps it would be enough to take John down after all. Maybe that very name would spur the same feelings of carelessness, of selfishness, and John might forget his wife and his family long enough for Sherlock to cherish him... And so it was time. It was somewhere around six o'clock when Sherlock made his departure, saying a quick goodbye to his daughter and wishing her well on her first night away from home. She didn't seem nervous; in fact she seemed positively delighted to see her father go. But he wouldn't be going far, no that was the fallacy. He would be right there if she needed him, creeping in the shadows of the Watson home, in the thick darkness that they had piled away in the corners so as to make the house look much more light and happy in the eyes of guests. Though as the minivan crept from the road, as Sherlock started away from the house, he waited just until the edge of the property, where the neighborhood and the adjoining woods would conceal his obnoxious red vehicle. He had no intention of walking from his house to the Watson's, and so he pulled off into some unused logging road somewhere along the edge of the street, far enough away that the family could not hear the crunching of his tires along the gravel. The sun had not yet set, and so Sherlock decided that he might wait a little while and enjoy the company of silence. His car was now pulled far enough out of the way that no one would see it if they weren't looking, and he was rather positive that no one would go searching if no one was around to claim he was missing. So long as no one decided to take a midnight stroll in the woods his cover would be intact, and no one would be around to question why his stupid red car was parked so far away from civilization yet so close to the Watson household. Sherlock waited in silence for about two hours, waiting until the sun had long since fallen and the neighborhood was sure to stay confined in their little houses. Eight o'clock would bring no wanderers, that was for sure, and when at last Sherlock stepped from his car he found his path completely unchallenged as far as the road. The woods were empty, and save the occasional cricket yet to die from the chill, the night was silent. The road brought new challenges, as he needed to make sure that no cars were witness to a stranded and beautiful traveler, heading back the way he had come. The most dangerous potential was a straggling soccer parent, one who would recognize him as the unhinged drunkard from the sidelines. They would raise an eyebrow, they would wonder what he was doing wandering back to the site of the picnic, they would alert the Watsons, or even perhaps the police. And so Sherlock had to be cautious, he had to duck into the tree line whenever any oncoming traffic had the potential to reveal him. The headlights were bright and blinding, though he was sure that he blended into the dying foliage well enough to conceal himself from the drivers wandering stares. Thankfully no one stopped, no one slowed, and no one paid him any attention as he made his way through the edges of suburbia. And there it was, just where he had left it, the Watson household so delightfully unique, a house like no other, lit from the inside with the soft yellow glow of lamplight. It was silent, and as Sherlock stole across the dark yard he was quite sure that no one was around to notice. They were surely fixed upon their own methods of entertainment, the children somewhere playing and the adults perhaps enjoying a quiet glass of wine by the TV. Sherlock was the only thing that moved, creeping along now into the landscaping as he found the window he had left ajar, still propped with the rock he had used. It would open now, on his command. Thankfully the window wasn't as loud as he expected, as the wood was quiet as it slid carefully open. The dining room was dark and deserted, though there were lights on either side. There were two doorways adjoining this corner room to the rest of the house. One was the entry way, somewhere he was familiar with now from his previous two visits. While there was light coming from that direction he couldn't imagine it would be highly trafficked. The other doorway, however, led to the kitchen. This one was his main concern, as there was an uncorked bottle of wine sitting on the counter. It would take one empty glass to blow his cover, as if he began to wiggle through the window and someone wandered into the kitchen for the bottle, well certainly he would be caught in the act. Therefore he had to time this well, though with what evidence he could not guess. He needed to rely on luck, really, if this operation was going to go successfully. And so, without any higher power to pray to, Sherlock decided just to take matters in his own hands and go while he knew the coast would be clear. He jumped head first into the window, landing rather painfully onto his chest and wincing as he dragged his torso across the wood. For a moment he was left dangling, clutching to the floor with his long arms but trying to figure out just how he would land without making too much noise. He should've gone feet first, surely that would have been a more controlled decent. Oh what a fool he amounted to be! All the same, Sherlock knew that there was no choice now. He did his best to drag his legs carefully through the window, clambering down to the floor as quietly as he could though still producing quite the thump. He waited in silence for a still moment, listening as hard as his ears would allow for any sounds of disturbance throughout the house. There was indeed a TV show playing somewhere, though there were no other sounds to allude to his being caught...all was still. And so Sherlock carefully ascended to his feet, creeping low through the shadows of the dining room and peering ever so carefully around the corner. The kitchen was abandoned, thankfully, and so he was able to peer ever so carefully around the corner to keep tabs on those he was supposed to be stalking. The TV was facing him, and so thankfully its viewers were facing away. It was John and Mary; Sherlock knew the back of their heads now just as immediately as he recognized their faces. They didn't seem to realize that they were being watched; in fact they looked ever so calm. Mary was leaning into John's arm, looking sleepy but affectionate, and John had his arm wrapped tightly around his wife. It was heartwarming to see them so still, oh how would Sherlock ever have gotten such an experience if he hadn't invited himself inside? It was a different side of the Watsons, a different side of privacy that he had not expected out of the two of them. He had rather expected the inside of the Watson house to be riddled with secrets and with lies, though standing here in the soft light of the kitchen, well he could only feel joy. He could only feel relief, knowing that the family that his dear daughter came from was indeed the model of family he aspired to reach. Such a shame, knowing that ultimately his goal was to destroy this household from the inside out. Perhaps he had already had. But he wanted more, oh curse his devoted heart! He wanted more than just a daughter, now he wanted her father as well.
"John darling, get me more wine?" Mary muttered, raising up her empty glass. Just in time for John to look around Sherlock hid back into the shadowy recesses of the dining room, pressed against the wall where John could not see him unless he turned the corner. He tried to slow his breathing, he tried to control his heartbeat, though as he heard the man's footsteps coming closer Sherlock felt as though he was something akin to a volcano, bubbling up and ready to burst. His heart was beating so quickly that his veins could not control it, his breath was heaving but his lungs weren't filled, he was panicking...he was panicking. What should happen if he got caught, what would John have in store for him? Would there be police involved, would this be the breaking point? Would finally he get the court to take Annie away? Sherlock couldn't control himself, he knew that he was safe in this little corner but he dared not think of what would happen if he broke down here and now. There was the gentle trickle of wine; John was right on the other side of this wall, oblivious to his onlooker... Sherlock covered his mouth with his hand, though his lungs were breaking through his ribs, they were practically gasping for air that simply wasn't being supplied. Leave, oh for God's sakes John, go back to the TV...
"That's quite a lot." Mary commented. "Trying to get me drunk?"
"Oh I wouldn't dream of it." John chuckled. There were footsteps now, though they weren't leading away. They weren't John's footsteps, they were Mary's. She was joining him in the kitchen.
"Wouldn't you?" Mary muttered. "Then perhaps you're more of a gentleman than I thought."
"Of course I'm a gentleman." John insisted. "You know it firsthand." There wasn't a response from Mary, the woman merely hummed in agreement, a hum that ended in a chuckle that surely meant they were getting friendlier, they were getting friskier. At last Sherlock was able to catch a breath, though his mind was slowed only was he was allowed to think for a long while on the moment he was accidentally witnessing. John and Mary, alone together...intimate together. How had he managed to encounter such a thing? How had he managed to time his arrival just in time? It wasn't breathtaking; no in fact it gave him life. He hadn't known just how relaxing it might be to listen to the sounds of love, not even love that he was involved in...love that he might be considered a third party in at the very most. But he still felt connected, he still felt as though he was there, as if he was living it. He heard the smacks of their lips, the hastening of their shuffled steps. He heard the counter shake; he heard their quick little breaths and their childish little giggles. It was a bold move, kissing while there were children roaming free, though it was a move that was necessary for the three of them all the same. Sherlock could not have felt more connected unless they had invited him to join, he felt as though he was an onlooker from a third person perspective, narrating the whole thing as a fly on the wall. He heard it, he felt it, he slid against the wall on which he was leaning and let his head drop back against the wallpaper, heaving thankful breaths, his fingers clenched around his ankles and his heart ecstatic...everything they were feeling was magnified within himself tenfold, the love that they were exchanging was downright suffocating.
"John, not tonight. Annie's over, remember?" Mary muttered quietly, silencing the whole ordeal rather abruptly. Sherlock's drooping eyelids flew open upon hearing his daughter's name, spoken so softly by the voice of Mary Watson...
"Oh do you have to be so logical? Remember the days when we were the children, hiding from our parents...not the other way around?" John scoffed. "We have much less to lose."
"Well then, you should be the one to give them the talk then, yes? Explaining just why we're both..."
"Oh alright!" John exclaimed, his voice taking a sharp turn towards aggression now. Oh that man, that angry, drunken man. So hard to hear the word no.
"There's no need to get mad at me, John. I'm just speaking the truth." Mary said insistently, though her confidence wavered as she struggled once more with the idea of her husband's short temper. Perhaps it annoyed her, perhaps it scared her. The poor woman was nothing against her husband, especially now that he was infected with alcohol. He was limitless, was he not? Careless. There was no word from John, though the familiar sound of glass sliding upon a countertop alluded to the fact that he had quitted the scene entirely, taking with him the bottle of wine he now seemed to care for much more.
"John you don't have to be such a child!" Mary exclaimed, though still her husband said no more. That was the last Sherlock heard of Mary Watson for the night, for her retreating footsteps across the house and eventually up the stairs announced her departure from the scene. She had given up, unable to take her husband and his short temper for any longer. And so that left the two of them, did it not? Though they were on much shakier ground now...if John had caught Sherlock before this little upset perhaps he might have gotten away with a firm talking to and a restraining order. Now, however...he may very well be killed just for something fun to do, something to take all this aggression out on. What better than a pretty face? And so Sherlock decided that it was best to leave the eavesdropping behind, perhaps now it was time to focus on the more important operations, the reason he was in their house at such an hour. From what Sherlock had observed, the basement door was along the entry way underneath the stairwell. With the proportions of the house he could assume that the basement door was quite shielded, though that would of course be depending on where John was facing. The living room was around the corner, though if the man was lingering next to any mirrors, or if he hadn't even made it to the couch yet, well then the game would be up. Stealth, that was required now. Sherlock pulled himself to his feet, his limbs still tingling with sensations long gone, and as he crept along the plush carpet he felt something of a sense of longing, something that was a terrible accomplice to the feeling of fear. For half of him wanted nothing more than to escape this endeavor unnoticed, and the other half wanted to be caught just to see what would happen. John Watson was roaming this house, drunken and alone, craving affection that he could not get from his wife. And Sherlock Holmes was also roaming, just as alone and drunk not on wine but instead on adrenaline, longing for affection that he hadn't been offered in the months past. They both needed each other, to some extent, and should their paths cross there might be a moment of hesitation, in which calling the police didn't seem to be the definitive answer. Should Sherlock be caught in the act, well there were a million different possibilities...perhaps not all of them negative.