The adults were talking of the tea market, for while they usually enjoyed the topic of taxes it was obvious that they both would rather forget that rather sour conversation. Despite the Holmes family's loyalties to the king it did not mean that they were not taxed on outrageous things such as stamps and tea, and so both sides decided not to address the elephant in the room and just kept talking about how the tea sales were declining and how profits were down. There was no explaining adult's love for discussing finances, and there was no tolerance for those who didn't care. Money and business, well who could pick more boring topics to discuss? It almost left Sherlock with no choice but to look up once more and address the soldier who was still watching him with those intoxicating blue eyes, watching him until the pleasure was returned. Sherlock was a terrible conversational starter, of course, so it was all he could do but pick up his eyes and force a smile, giving a glare that tried to convey the desperation of his situation. Thankfully it would seem that Victor had a conversational starter already on hand, for as soon as their eyes met for long enough he began to speak.
"How old are you, Mr. Holmes?" he asked immediately, continuing with his food at a slower, more polite pace. Victor was still working through his first serving while Sherlock could've been sure he saw his neighbor scooping up thirds of mashed potatoes.
"I'm eighteen." Sherlock said rather reluctantly, as if his age was something he ought to be ashamed of. The man in his company must have been at least twenty, for he drank wine without looking too guilty.
"Just about college age, then?" Victor presumed.
"Yes well, I'm finishing my studies with my mother before. But I hope to get good enough marks to get into King's college." Sherlock admitted meekly. Victor nodded, a blank look of unknowingness on his face that made it very obvious he had no idea what that was.
"Good school?" he presumed with a bit of a frown.
"Very good school." Sherlock agreed with a humble little grin.
"I take it that you're very intelligent then?" Victor asked, taking a sip of wine yet never taking his eyes off of Sherlock.
"Yes, well I would like to think so." Sherlock agreed, going back to that humble nature that was so often appreciated by adults.
"I think it's a safe bet, Mr. Holmes." Victor assured with a grin. Sherlock nodded rather helplessly, but if he had Victor's approval then he might as well take it and run. He hadn't known the man for long, yet he was sure that his praise wasn't something that one could easily come by.
"Did you go to college?" Sherlock wondered. Victor nodded with a proud smile; however that smile looked only a bit distant now as he thought back to his time in college.
"Yes, well, I did for two years. Oxford, in fact. But I left to join the military, for that was my father's wish. He wanted me to be here for when the revolution breaks out; he claims it's a good way to rise in the ranks." Victor admitted with a little shrug, not looking nearly as thrilled as he ought to be.
"You really think there will be a revolution, then?" Sherlock clarified eagerly, his eyes alight in interest as he studied the man who sat across from him. Victor looked back curiously; almost as if he was surprised that out of that whole sentence it would be the fact of the inevitable that interested Sherlock the most. Surely, as a colonist, Sherlock was expected to know more about this than the British?
"Well I believe it to be possible. Even if there is not, the colonies are still the place to be for a soldier like me. It's where all the action is." Victor admitted with a grin.
"You've come for action then, to kill people? Colonists?" Sherlock clarified.
"I have not come to kill, I have come to fight. If taking lives is necessary in my effort to keep the colonies from separating I will kill, yet it is not my intention." Victor assured quietly, his fork having slowed to a complete halt in his hands as he now focused his exclusive attention on Sherlock. It was nice to be in this boy's gaze, and yet for some reason Sherlock felt as though a spotlight was being shined down on him. There was something so extravagantly different in Victor's gaze, something that no other person possessed. It might not be exactly the expression, yet it was the person behind the eyes that made it all the more pressing. Sherlock felt the need to impress, which was a necessity that really was quite foreign to him. He had always been himself despite his audience; he had never cared about good impressions for he had never bothered with the consequences before. Yet tonight he realized that this was the first time Victor's gaze had been on him for an extended period of time, and he realized as well that once they part ways Victor would undoubtedly take to staring up into the ceiling at night, pondering their conversation in his head. Of course Sherlock wanted the present to be good, yet his performance now, in the present, was the defining factor in Victor's recollection later tonight. He wanted to play the part that was expected of him now, so that the future might be all the more pleasing for them both. And so he sat up straight, he thought about his words before he blurted them out, and he ate as carefully and as daintily as he could manage. And he talked of many things with the soldier, things that he never thought he would come to discus with a man in such a coat. The conversation strayed quickly from war, for as sensitive a topic as that was they both aspired to stay away from it. And so they talked of their educations, their families (Sherlock was forced to say only good things, being the circumstance in which they discussed) and to Victor's past life in England. It didn't seem too terribly different across the ocean, yet Victor described life in America as some sort of dream, as if he couldn't imagine a paradise better than this. He loved the countryside, he loved the people, he loved the ocean. It was almost a shame then, that such serenity as he described was to be torn up very soon to the bloodshed and turmoil of revolution. Sherlock hadn't realized just how quickly dinner had gone by, but in a blink of his eye he realized that desert had come and gone, and all the sudden everyone was getting to their feet in a very final sort of way. Sherlock looked around to see Mr. Holmes and Moran shaking hands, thanking each other for their company as if they weren't going to see each other another ten times this evening. Sherlock stumbled to his feet, blinking and looking towards the clock to see just how much time he had spent talking with the breed of humans he was supposed to despise. Eight o'clock already?
"Well Mr. Holmes, I suppose we should all take our leave." Victor said finally, appearing at Sherlock's shoulder before the boy could even comprehend how he had gotten so close to fast. Sherlock had not noticed Victor walking around the table.
"It's not like we're going far." Sherlock defended, feeling a bit claustrophobic now as he stood so close to the soldier. He had very much preferred having a table between them, that way the obvious signs of nervousness were not as evident. From this proximity Sherlock was sure Victor would notice the beads of perspiration clinging to his forehead, he was sure he could see that his chest was not inflating nearly as much as it was expected to. For it was becoming hard to breathe, really, was that normal? What was it about Victor Trevor that shut down most all of Sherlock's bodily functions?
"I understand, but it is still only our second night. Surely it would seem odd if we decided to take our conversation elsewhere?" Victor pointed out.
"Yes I do agree." Sherlock nodded meekly, for despite it being odd he still would very much like to continue talking. They shared a house, so why would it be weird to continue on? And yet even as Sherlock tried to rationalize he came to realize that Victor was right. For the two of them to continue talking would be seen as an act of friendship, and it would seem that all other soldiers and Holmes family members were merely on an acquaintance level, and not friendship just yet. To appear to have surpassed such a professional stage so early would be seen to be too eager, almost rash in a way. No, it would never do.
"It's been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Holmes." Victor said with a grin.
"And you as well, Mr...?" Sherlock muttered, realizing with a shiver that he had never gotten Victor's last name. Well that was an embarrassing little slip up, wasn't it?
"Mr. Trevor." Victor finished, his blue eyes gleaming as if that really was some sort of monumental shift in their relationship. As if knowing each other's names was really something to be proud of.
"Mr. Trevor. It has been nice getting to know you as well." Sherlock agreed with a nervous little grin.
"William, oh it's nice to see that you're making friends!" Mrs. Holmes said excitedly, appearing very indiscreetly next to her son's shoulder and poking him just to add another layer of annoyance. Sherlock forced a smile onto his face, and yet he already knew that his mother's appearance was inopportune. Could she not see that he was talking?
"Yes Mother, this is Victor Trevor." Sherlock introduced proudly.
"Yes I know, he was the gentleman this morning who helped me with the dishes. Thank you again, Mr. Trevor." She added with a grin. Victor dropped his head in respect, as if he was the one who was supposed to be thanking her. As if washing the breakfast dishes really was some honor. Before they could say anything else, however, the troops began to depart. It was all that was left but a quick goodbye before Victor joined them, scrambling off from the dining room to join the rest of the redcoats on their way to the sitting room, to play more cards presumably. And just like that, the Holmes family was left alone. Alone as they usually were on weeknights such as this, yet alone now with six extra places set and satisfied on the table. 

    It was curious, ever so curious, how a single night with a single man could change your perspective of the world. Sherlock had spent years hating the redcoats; he had spent days and days thinking of their horrible nature and the country they represented and writhing in disgust. And now? Well now he was beginning to have second thoughts. The thing was, up until now he had never been able to think of the redcoats as individuals, never as actual humans. He saw them as nothing more than mere copies of each other, born and bred to kill, with the desire to spill blood programed into their DNA so as to bring about the end of the colonists and a final cap on the revolution. Yet Victor was different, he was a redcoat and yet he seemed almost like a human being. He seemed to care, not just about himself but about other people too. He seemed to have the human race's best interest in mind, and even if that point of view didn't exactly fall in line with Sherlock's it still didn't mean he had wrong intentions. Sherlock saw the world as more peaceful when he imagined America free, and Victor saw it more peaceful when America was subdued and reminded who was truly in power. Now their ideas didn't have to match for them to both have the same aspirations, and when you think of their final goals they really were the same. Peace, that was the mutual desire between the two. Now maybe not all redcoats shared that desire, for some had come for the opportunity to spill some colonist blood. Yet Victor's conversation tonight was able to show Sherlock that not all British soldiers were cut from the same mold, not all of them had the same aspirations. Some, in fact, seemed perfectly human after all. That morning Sherlock was especially eager to get down to breakfast. He was so eagerly, in fact, that he beat his mother to the kitchen. Now it wasn't the promise of cooking breakfast that delighted him, for he couldn't think of a worse way to spend his morning hours than scrambling more eggs in the gigantic frying pan. No, Sherlock's hope was that he wouldn't be the only one early to the table, and that maybe he could have the honor of dining with the very same man who had enchanted him the night before. Yet when Sherlock arrived it only proved to be Mrs. Hudson that was awake, and so Sherlock resorted to talking to her instead. Not that she was bad company, of course. In fact he rather liked talking to the old cook, especially when his mother wasn't around to critique him.
"How was your night with the soldiers, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson wondered. Sherlock smiled, for he really loved it when she referred to him by the name he preferred. As already stated, his family preferred the name William because it was normal, yet when they were alone Mrs. Hudson took into consideration Sherlock's opinion. It was after all his name.
"It was better than I had expected." Sherlock admitted, seating himself on a crate and digging an apple out of the fruit bowl so as to satisfy his grumbling stomach. It was almost eerily quiet about the house, now with everyone asleep. Sherlock could only imagine that the soldiers were sleeping off the hangovers they had gotten themselves, and of course no self-respecting member of American society would rise before eight o'clock if they had nothing better to do.
"That's not saying much, for you usually expect the absolute worst." Mrs. Hudson pointed out, to which Sherlock smiled a bit guiltily.
"Well, you got me there." He admitted.
"What made it so tolerable? I know you hate redcoats, after all. As soon as I heard that we were quartering I knew it would be an issue, especially with your brother." Mrs. Hudson admitted as she started the dough for the biscuits, mixing away as she heated the oven.
"I cannot speak for all of them, yet the one I talked to last night, he seemed very nice. Very kind, a good man I suspect, under that dreadful attire." Sherlock admitted with an approving nod.
"Mr. Trevor?" Mrs. Hudson presumed. Sherlock's ears perked up, he honestly had no say in the manner which excitement struck him.
"How did you know?" Sherlock wondered. Mrs. Hudson just shrugged her shoulders in an all knowing, mysterious way. He hated it when she did that, for she knew that her silence was deafening, and that Sherlock was waiting anxiously to hear her response. She simply loved to keep him in suspense.
"Your mother told me." she admitted finally, to which Sherlock just frowned. That was a very disappointing answer, and yet he really didn't know what he expected. Maybe in some perfect world it would have been Victor who told Mrs. Hudson himself? But Sherlock really didn't know what good that would have done, in fact Victor's knowing Mrs. Hudson would undoubtedly just prove to be more chaotic, for then she would have the opportunity to let lose some rather humiliating stories of Sherlock's childhood.
"Oh so you're talking about me behind my back, then?" Sherlock presumed.
"Well we worry of course, the both of us. I asked her how dinner went, that was all. She seemed excited to admit that you had gotten along very well with one of the soldiers, the very one who had helped us with the dishes at breakfast. Such a sweetheart he was, Sherlock I'm very happy you have gotten to know him better." Mrs. Hudson said with a grin.
"Yes well...as politely as I can beg, please stay out of it." Sherlock muttered with a little frown.
"Why? Oh Sherlock it's my job to worry about you, I have raised you just as much as your mother has, and despite my good first impression of that young man, well I still must worry." Mrs. Hudson admitted with a laborious sigh, finally working the dough into little balls and pushing them into the biscuit pan once more.
"Why would you worry about him? Oh come on Mrs. Hudson, you know that I'm a responsible boy. I can take care of myself." Sherlock insisted with a frown.
"I know, oh I know. It's not you that I worry about." Mrs. Hudson sighed, looking off towards the kitchen door as if expecting a redcoat to walk in any moment. It was just then that Sherlock realized he didn't know of Mrs. Hudson's affiliation. Was she a patriot, with a deep seated distrust for the redcoats? Is that what spurred her apprehension? The question was never answered, for nearly as soon as Sherlock opened his mouth to elaborate there was a ringing at the door.
"Oh, Sherlock could you go and get that? It's the milkman, we've a whole crate and I'm too frail to handle it myself." Mrs. Hudson pleaded, pretending to look busy with the biscuit while she left Sherlock to do all the heavy lifting.
"Oh as if you were frail. You wish you were frail, then you'd actually have an excuse not to get the milk crate yourself." Sherlock snapped, to which Mrs. Hudson just laughed as if that was some sort of flattery.
"Sherlock you really are too kind. Now go on then, I'm sure you could ask the man for some help if you catch him quick." Mrs. Hudson insisted, waving Sherlock off to the door as if he should be in some great hurry by now. Sherlock simply sneered, yet he understood that he had no other choice but to get going, and so he slouched off to the front door where he knew the milk crate would be waiting. Sherlock opened the door to find just as he predicted, a great big crate filled with the jugs that had been ordered, only to his surprise he found that they were still occupied. He almost thought that someone was on their porch stealing their milk, for the man on the stoop was most certainly not the withered old crone that normally made the dairy deliveries. In fact, the boy on Sherlock's porch seemed so ironically placed that he almost had to laugh at the joke that Fate was playing on him. It was the nine, the nine boy from the sidewalk rating game yesterday afternoon. And to be quite honest when Sherlock looked out the door onto the boy in the early morning sunshine he realized that he was indeed looking at a ten after all.