Sherlock sighed heavily, deciding it best then to just sit in the sitting room and wait for other people to rise, and so he took an apple from the bowl and started over to where he saw already the cards lying out, all haphazardly shoved on top of one another to make a very pitiful, disorganized pile. Sherlock sat on the couch quietly, twirling his apple about in his hands instead of actually eating it like a normal person might do. Instead he was much too occupied with the idea of what had happened last night, and furthermore the idea of what could happen next. Surely a kiss was not where it ended, no it couldn't mark the end of something that had barely even taken off! There had to be more, Sherlock knew that most relationships got much more intimate than a kiss. Yet would he be expected to wait for marriage, possibly? Would there even be a marriage, could there possibly be one? Homosexuality was illegal of course, and a publicized or even private marriage might get them caught. Besides the church was predominantly the one behind such outlawing, they could never get any sort of priest who would oversee such a thing! No, marriage was impossible, so what did that mean for...well the more physical side of their relationship? Should they wait a year, or would it never happen? Sherlock didn't know enough about relationships to answer these questions; however he imagined that Victor did. He imagined that Victor knew everything about love, how, what, and with who it could be done. He seemed a very knowledgeable person, considering how confidently he had acted on the porch last night. Almost as if he had been waiting for such an action just so that he could counter it one with something even more romantic, something much more formidable. Sherlock was merely a beginner with all of this stuff; however he knew that Victor would be willing to lead him through it. And he knew that he would be willing of course, to allow such a thing. As innocence goes it was severely overrated, an untouched body was one that simply lacked a certain necessity of pleasure. Sherlock was willing to give his up without a doubt, in fact he was eager. Now that he had his first kiss (a beautiful one, if not mentioned already) he was ready to go the next step as soon as possible. With what minimal knowledge he knew of the next step, he knew enough to know that a mere kiss was cut short if it ended with anything else but the morning after. Last night had been perfect, yet the next one would be even better. Modesty abandoned, morals deserted and laws broken...his ethics, religions, and obligations left at his feet he would follow Victor to bed, simply because Sherlock felt that no relationship was complete without a physical obligation of some sort. A promise made in the form of intimacy, and the prize of being the first given to the one he thought to be the most deserving. Victor was that man, the one he would give everything to, the one who might win the prize of Sherlock's innocence. The first one that could see him, the first one that could have him, and with all luck, maybe the last one to have such an honor. Maybe Sherlock's first love could also be his permanent one, the one who would be able to wear no ring, but would know all the same that forever was a binding agreement, and that their forever would be shared together. Sherlock's quiet contemplation was interrupted when he heard just the slightest stir, coming from what appeared to be the back hallway. A floor board creaking, or maybe the scuff of a shoe against the rug. It was the slightest little noise, small enough to convince Sherlock that it wasn't a noise at all. He checked his watch, it was now six thirty seven, and still no one was up. Well then surely his mother was awake, or Mrs. Hudson? Someone who was on their way to the kitchen, quietly yet not noiselessly. Sherlock got to his feet miserably, wondering if maybe the stirring had merely been a soldier turning over in his sleep, yet Sherlock felt the need to go and make sure that either one of the women didn't need help in the kitchen. Considering how late they all were to get breakfast prepared Sherlock wanted to make sure all hands were on deck so as to make everything run as smoothly as it had before. Yet when he went out into the hallway and into the kitchen he found that it was empty as it had been before, empty and untouched since he had last arrived. Almost as if no one else had been up since he went to check on everything. Then what was the noise he had heard...if Mrs. Holmes and Mrs. Hudson had yet to arrive? Sherlock looked towards the hallway, suddenly with a vague feeling of fear building up in his throat. It wasn't as if he felt threatened, more creeped out by the thought that he might be being watched. Was it a soldier, or a member of the Holmes family? And why weren't they making themselves known? Sherlock walked quietly towards the hall once more, knowing that whoever had been there couldn't have left. The door didn't open (he would have heard it) and as far as he knew, the hallway had been empty since he got up from the couch. Yet no one was making themselves known, not yet at least. Were they hiding, or did they not know they were being pursed? And if they were sneaking around, what purpose could they possibly have? Sherlock hesitated to grab some sort of weapon, deciding that if this was an intruder he might need something to defend himself with. Yet a knife seemed rather extreme, it seemed too murderous. Sherlock wanted to use something a bit more blunt, something that would knock the suspect out rather than kill him. Something like...ah! The potato masher! Sherlock was a skilled professional with that thing, something like a metal club that would crush a potatoes and a skull if need be. The perfect weapon. Sherlock grabbed the masher from the drawer as quietly as he could, and with this he crept out into the hallway where he might get a better view of this potential intruder's hiding spot. Sherlock didn't know what use he would be against any sort of burglar, particularly because he was thinner and weaker than most anyone on the planet. Even if this intruder was a woman, Sherlock seriously doubted that he could get the upper hand without the element of surprise. That was why he crept. The hallway itself was abandoned, yet it took only a small scan of the doors to see which one had been disturbed. The room that held the soldiers, the drawing room. The door was open, and it certainly shouldn't be at this time of morning. Open only ajar, yet the very fact that it had been disturbed in the first place alerted Sherlock to wear this burglar might be hiding out. Why he would pick the room that was most populated Sherlock had no idea, yet he held his potato weapon higher and prepared to investigate on his own. He was feeling particularly daring this morning, much more than he ever would manage without the knowledge that with a mere stir there would be five angry, sleep deprived soldiers to join the scuffle. Maybe the promise of war made Sherlock begin to adapt to the constant danger, maybe even the pursuit of dangerous situations, and maybe that was what made him creep closer to the door. Another floor board creaked, right on the other side of the door, almost as if the intruder was coming back! It wasn't warlike instincts but natural instincts instead that persuaded Sherlock to dart from the hallway and back into the kitchen, hiding in the shadows next to the door and waiting for his prey now to come to him. It was the hunter in him, also the coward, that made him hide now. Half of his brain was urging him to jump out and fight, while the other half was insisting he stay here and make no noise, hoping only for a glimpse of the intruder so that he could alert the police. The door hinge creaked, alerting Sherlock that the burglar was officially leaving the soldier's quarters, he was on the move! Another couple of steps, just another second or two and Sherlock would have his moment! He waited patiently, he heard the minor creaking of floorboards under feet, they were right out the kitchen door! And so Sherlock listened to the attack part of his brain, the one that was trying to persuade him in a moment of madness to fight. And he listened, and so he lunged. No discretion here, he jumped up from his hiding spot and ran at the shape of a man that was still trying to make quietly for the front door. Sherlock gave a yell of determination, swinging the potato masher as hard and as heavy as he could at the man's head. Yet the intruder must have known that was his first instinct, for he darted out of the way before turning and leaping at Sherlock, a counter attack that made the poor boy squeal in terror. He didn't know what to do now, and his missed swing with the masher had gotten him off balance. He tried to recuperate and take another swing, yet before he could even reposition his feet the intruder ran into him, his strong arms wrapping around Sherlock's thin torso and taking him to the ground in a very brutal style tackle.
"Drop it!" the harsh voice demanded, pressing onto Sherlock's wrist until finally his thumb gave way. The masher fell to the carpet with a thunk, and it was all Sherlock could do but wince in defeat as his head ached and his eyesight blurred. Yet he was beginning to see a clearer picture, he was beginning to realize that his attacker looked vaguely familiar...
"You idiot you could've killed me." the voice muttered, the intruder taking a deep almost inconvenienced sigh as he sat on Sherlock's stomach, his own curious way of pinning him down to the carpet so as to prevent any more attacks.
"Could've...well you're, you're in my house." Sherlock murmured, groaning as he looked up finally to recognize the very blurry blonde head that spun before him. Sherlock let his head fall back to the floor in defeat, not even caring now what the outcome of this potentially dangerous visit could be. Well of course it had to be John.
"Like I told you, I'm allowed to be in your house." John reminded him, poking at Sherlock's cheeks so as to bring him back to reality. His head was still aching yet his senses were coming back, sense enough to try to yank his arm out from where it was pinned and slap John right back. It was a futile attempt, yet it was attempt enough to let John know that his football style tackle was very much overdue. He cleared his throat awkwardly and hastily got to his feet, holding out a hand for Sherlock to take yet putting it back in his pocket when he realized that it was very much unwanted. Sherlock merely sat up, his head spinning for a moment with the change in elevation as he looked up to where John was looking just a little bit uncomfortable.
"Sorry for knocking your head against the floor." John muttered shamefully, almost as if he had done something wrong in defending himself.
"Why were you sneaking around?" Sherlock snapped.
"I wasn't sneaking around, I was..."
"You were sneaking around, you were tiptoeing. Only people who don't want to be caught are tiptoeing. Only people who sneak." Sherlock growled. John sighed heavily, as if he was just biding his time for a moment longer to think of a proper excuse.
"I was just looking for one of you people, I didn't feel like you all trusted me enough to be in your house alone. I had hoped to find your mother or your maid." John admitted with a quick shrug, as if he was supposedly trying to come off as innocent. As if a terrible excuse such as that had any sort of convincing parts to it.
"And so in order to make sure you weren't in our house alone you took a grand tour and looked in every room?" Sherlock clarified. "Alone?"
"I wasn't in every room, I had only looked in the one I left before deciding that I didn't want to get mauled by five British soldiers." John defended.
"So you did see them, huh? You counted them...didn't you?" Sherlock clarified, blinking for a moment before rising a bit shakily to his feet. John winced, backing up just a bit as his interrogator rose to be a head taller than him once more. Despite John's physical strength he was nothing to a man who had the ability to look down upon him, and that was exactly what Sherlock did now. He looked down upon him shamefully, curiously. He wanted to find out John's secrets but he wanted John to be the one to spew them out first.
"I merely glanced." John lied.
"Yet you knew there were five." Sherlock pointed out. "That's not a glance, that's an examination."
"It was a recall, now really Sherlock who do you think I am? I'm not in your house to count your lodgers; I'm merely here to deliver milk. That's my job, not soldier counter." John pointed out with a forced, almost pathetic laugh. Sherlock could tell that he was nervous, yet his hands weren't twitching, his face wasn't morphing, in fact if Sherlock hadn't been so adapt now to reading poker faces he may have never realized that john was lying. It was only until after he noticed the corner of a piece of parchment poking from the inside of his pocket that he realized his suspicions were correct, and there was much more to this story than was being presented to him. Sherlock was quick enough to grab the paper from John's pocket, quick enough to grab at the exposed edge and rip the entire thing from his pocket before John could do so much more than yelp in protest.
"Hey stop, stop that's..."
"Five redcoats, none older than thirty five. Youngest around twenty. Five muskets, Brown Bess, attached bayonet. Ten bags of powder, five horns...ten boxes of bullets." Sherlock read in astonishment, fighting John's flailing hands all as he read aloud. If he didn't hear his own voice reading off the words he may not have believed them to be written down at all, however they were indeed there, printed in must be John's handwriting.
"Sherlock give that back!" John demanded, and with that he slapped Sherlock's arm out of the way and grabbed the paper from his hand, using his brute strength to wrestle the thing out of Sherlock's palm once more. Yet the damage had already been done, Sherlock hardly even tried to fight him off this time as he stared at the man he suddenly realized he didn't know at all. The man who suddenly seemed a lot less friendly.
"You're a spy." Sherlock whispered, blinking in recognition. John winced, shaking his head anxiously yet realizing of course that he had been discovered. It was all he could do now but make excuses and attempt to lie his way out, yet it would be no use at this point. That one piece of information was enough to confirm what Sherlock had been suspecting this whole time, that John Watson was much more than a milk man. No wonder he kept sneaking around and observing everything, no wonder he showed up right about the same time as the soldiers! He was trying to gauge the power of the British army, to investigate their supplies and the quality of their men. He was sizing up the opposing force, so as to gauge if the rebellion troops could handle them.

    "Sherlock of course I'm not a spy, don't be stupid." John demanded, yet Sherlock just continued to stare. He continued in complete fascination to stare down the man he no longer recognized, now realizing that he had been getting to know a completely fabricated personality.
"I'm not being stupid, John I cannot believe it." Sherlock muttered.
"Ah, there you go. That's because it's not true." John pointed out with a smile; nodding along to Sherlock's confusion as if he would rather him stay in that state.
"But it is. Don't try to deny it, John, it's not like I'm going to report you." Sherlock insisted, dropping his voice down to a whisper so as to make sure no one that might have been woken by the skirmish in the hallway could overhear. Then again, it wasn't like the damage hadn't already been done. John had spoken quite loudly while trying to deny himself, if the soldiers had heard that, then they would discover the truth... As hateful as Sherlock was to this boy it seemed now that most of his more miserable qualities were completely justified in this secret. His nosiness, his obnoxious tendencies to try to get closer, it was all because he was investigating, purely for the sake of the wellbeing of his country! As a boy who saw both sides of the coin Sherlock couldn't even imagine trying to get John in trouble for risking his life so as to save the lives of the colonists. He wouldn't dare send this brave boy to the gallows on behalf of a little slip up. However he still felt the need to protect the soldiers who were staying in his house, for they were here to try to save the lives of their fellow soldiers as well. They were just as noble, and deserved the same sort of privacy and secrecy that John received.
"Why wouldn't you report me?" John muttered with a blink. "You're a loyalist."
"My parents are loyalists; I'm more of a neutral person myself." Sherlock admitted. He saw the overwhelming sort of relaxation that shivered through John's body, his tense shoulders shrugging and his uptight expressions falling once more into relief. He looked much more human now that he owed Sherlock his life.
"You're neutral? But you're quartering soldiers, you said before...they're your friends." John pointed out.
"I never told you that." Sherlock defended with a frown.
"Yes...sorry. You told Molly Hooper that, who in turn told her father, who in turn told me." John agreed, nodding his head as he went down the list of confidants that were involved in this operation.
"Wait a moment, Molly is..."
"Well she's opportunistic. A family girl at heart, realized now that she had stumbled into what must be the most important band of soldiers in all of Boston." John assured with a quick nod. "But yes, I suppose spy is a good word for her."
"Are you serious? And she never told me? She knew...she knew about you?" Sherlock clarified with a blink. John sighed heavily, looking back towards the drawing room door so as to make sure it was still closed and secure. Obviously this was a conversation he didn't want to be overheard. Sherlock blinked, still not able to process just how many sneaky traitors he had been associated with over the past couple of days. And to think, Molly hadn't even told him? Who did she think she was, to hide such a thing from her best friend?
"Yes, she knew." John agreed with bit of a nervous shrug.
"Well why didn't she tell me, why didn't you tell me?" Sherlock clarified with a gape, feeling very betrayed at the moment. Did they not find him trustworthy?
"We weren't sure where your loyalties lay. With your friendship with the soldiers, we didn't know who you would pick." John admitted with a truthful shrug.
"Well of course I wouldn't send my best friend to the gallows!" Sherlock growled in exasperation. A small smile appeared on John's face, a cute little one that shone with the light of a hopeful sun.
"I'm your best friend?" he clarified with a little breath.
"What, no! No you moron, Molly Hooper is my best friend." Sherlock defended with a grimace.
"Oh ya." He agreed with a bit of a disappointed breath. Sherlock frowned at him once more, feeling as though he had so many more questions to ask. Yet for the life of him he couldn't think of anything else, he couldn't think of any questions he could ask without forcing more information that might be confidential. He realized of course that most of his questions were now aimed at Molly, the traitorous little sneak who wouldn't even admit to Sherlock that she had been spying on him for the past couple of weeks! Well of course that was forgivable, considering she had every reason to wonder where his loyalties lay, however did she really think that he would give her up? Sherlock knew of her father's affiliations, why did she not trust him enough to know her role in it all? Oh how sneaky she had been...an excellent spy, actually. As would be expected of such a girl like her.
"You should leave, before the soldiers stir." Sherlock suggested quietly, looking up at John with a bit of a soft expression. Suddenly it was a lot easier to appreciate the boy now that he knew just what was up with him. It was a lot easier to realize how brave he was now that there was no secrets between them...it was a lot easier now to see him as an ally than a pest.
"Yes, yes you're right." John agreed rather reluctantly. He turned towards the door before pausing, looking back with something of a thankful smile. "And Sherlock..."
"You don't need to thank me, I know. Just know you owe me your life." Sherlock reminded him with a bit of a teasing grin.
"No, I was going to tell you that your milk is on the stoop." John pointed out with an antagonizing little grin, the very same grin that made Sherlock want to attack him once more. Yet all he did was smile along, because he knew that such commotion would probably draw some inquisitive redcoats.
"Ya, alright there Watson. Get out of my house." Sherlock demanded, shooing him along so that the boy opened the front door and finally escaped. John just laughed, stepping out into the sunshine with that familiar taunting smile.
"Don't you want me to carry it in?" John wondered.
"I'll manage, now get going. You've already overstayed your welcome." Sherlock insisted, feeling a bit strong and dedicated now. At the moment, with all the excitement of the morning, well that milk crate didn't look too difficult.
"Yes alright, alright, I can see when I'm not wanted." John agreed finally, jumping on down to the sidewalk like a child would, standing in the thin morning crowd and smiling back up to where Sherlock was watching him with a suspicious frown.
"Take care, Sherlock. And thanks again." John said with a nod of appreciation, and with that he disappeared into the crowd, starting off down the sidewalk with a skip in his step. Oh that idiot, he really was clever, wasn't he? He really was clever.