At first Sherlock wanted to look away, in fact with something of a gasp he almost did, he almost lurched back and raced back to his room. He didn't want to be a stalker; he didn't want to be a creep. Victor was entitled to privacy, and at the moment Sherlock was not granting him any. And yet...yet he looked beautiful, standing there silhouetted by the oil lamp. In fact he looked more beautiful than Sherlock could ever remember him looking, and that may just be a side effect of the wonderful night he had been having already. Maybe it was a side effect of falling head over heels in love. Yet he stared for a moment, appreciating the way Victor's skin gleamed, the way his hair curled, and the way he stood so tall and so proud. He was a creature of Heaven and a force of nature, all that Sherlock wanted to be and all that he wanted in the end. Someone who Sherlock would follow to the end of Earth if it would mean his open arms were waiting at the edge. And that was almost enough to satisfy his curiosity, and he very well might have looked away if Victor had not begun to move. His actions were enough to draw Sherlock back to the keyhole; enough to stop him from blinking all together, God forbid he miss anything. Victor very quietly began to unbutton his shirt, standing facing the bath so that Sherlock could only see the side profile of his beautiful figure, a figure that would be sure to be revealed in not a moment's time... Victor didn't seem to notice anyone watching, for why should he suspect such a thing? And like that he shed his shirt, pulling his arms out and letting the simple cotton thing fall to the floor at his feet. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, and in a moment of pure panic he glued himself to the door so as to get a better look at the absolute sculpture of a man that was standing before him. Victor was even more beautiful with every layer shed, as would be proved now with his muscular bare chest, gleaming effortlessly and flawlessly before Sherlock's unwanted eye. Sherlock could hardly breathe, he could hardly seem to look away, his entire body had gone rigid and numb, and it would seem that the only thing that mattered now was staring through this keyhole! It would seem as though his entire world had been narrowed down to just one little snippet of vision, where he could watch the man he had fallen for as he prepared himself for his bath. It was wrong, oh God Sherlock knew it was wrong, and yet he knew of course that there was more to come. Even as he thought of what else might play out before his eyes Victor began to unbuckle his belt, and at that moment Sherlock felt a jolt of excitement that he had never yet experienced. He felt something more passionate than he could ever have imagined, a sort of absolute infatuation that rose throughout his whole body, making his stomach twist and his legs numb. It made his breath stop all together and his heart drum up a whole new anthem, and for a moment it was all he could do but clutch to the door handle and clutch to his own leg, digging his nails into his flesh so as to try to divert the excitement that was building up in what could prove to be the most obvious way. And just as his face began to pale, and just as Victor pulled his belt from the final loop, just as Sherlock's mouth went dry and his brow began to sweat...someone cleared their throat behind him. Sherlock flung himself from the door in such a fury that he was almost sure he woke the entire house with his clatter. He fell onto his back on the floor, taking a deep gasp of well overdue air and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, trembling only slightly as he looked up to see just who had interrupted such an unorthodox session of observance. A flash of horror dragged him back to reality, back to the present where the world continued on even past the keyhole. Back to where he could be punished for such things, if they had been observed by the wrong people. Sherlock was quite sure now, looking at the man who had caught him in the act, that he had somehow managed to wrangle up a wrong person. Captain Moran was standing next to the guest bedroom door, crossing his arms and looking at Sherlock in utter amazement. He looked somehow amused, yet his brow was curled in such a way that could allude to anger. A cigarette was still smoldering in his teeth, which made Sherlock wonder why he had not smelled such a stink and be alerted of his presence long before he was dragged back into the present.
"What are you up to, Mr. Holmes?" Captain Moran wondered, his eyes gleaming in a way that made it quite obvious that he knew exactly what it was Sherlock was doing.
"I'm uh...I'm just seeing who..." Sherlock's voice cut off as he thought back to what might be going on right now, what state Victor was in at the moment. Undoubtedly just stepping into the hot water now, all of his clothes lying unneeded at the floor where he had once stood... Sherlock's heart gave way to that strange rhythm again, and with a lurch Sherlock felt a sudden rush of panic, his face heating up again and his body betraying him once more. Oh not here, not now!
"You better get back to your room, Mr. Holmes. Before I tell your father that you have been...entertaining yourself." Captain Moran hummed, chuckling to himself as if Sherlock's sudden panic was something of a joke if not a tragedy. Sherlock nodded, scrambling to his feet with what little power that was still somehow in his legs. He couldn't bring himself to say a final word of thanks; he couldn't even manage a simple goodbye. Sherlock just dashed into his room and shut the door finally, just so that Captain Moran could not sneak inside and see him as he dissolved into the bed as something of a humiliated yet completely love sick mess. Oh what has he done, what was still about to happen? Had Sherlock just given way to his secret, had he let it overpower him and therefore gotten sloppy? Did Moran know now what Sherlock had been doing, who he had been watching; did Moran know now what such an action was alluding to? What sort of unorthodox desires were burning in his heart at this very moment? Would he tell? Sherlock was too stressed to think of the future, it hurt his head and it hurt his heart just to think of what sort of punishments would befall not only him, but his suitor of choice. And so he tried not to think of the future, not even of the present. Maybe so as to settle out this lovely (although interrupted) evening he would allow himself to think of the past. Sherlock was happy to be alone; in fact he knew that such a thought process would be very much frowned upon if he were anywhere else but in his room with the door locked. With the lamp lit just enough so that he could see only half of his illuminated face in the mirror that hung over the dresser, the rest hidden in well-deserved shadow. Maybe Sherlock should feel ashamed, maybe he should be praying right now, praying for forgiveness for the temptations he had succumbed to, he should know that what he had just done was wrong. He should feel rotten, he should feel empty inside. Yet that was not the case, no in fact Sherlock felt anything but. He felt whole again, as if suddenly the missing piece in his life had been recollected and handed to him just as he had expected it to be. As if he had suddenly been granted the love that he had been waiting for, no matter if such a love was delivered unintentionally. He could live on happy now, he could live on at least satisfied with what he had, and what memories and what images were stored into his head. Watching Victor tonight, owing entirely to his infatuation, had been the most romantic thing that Sherlock had ever done. Yes of course it had been something of unwanted stalking, yet it allowed him to experience something that he may never have the pleasure of experiencing again. As someone whose heart worked like his, as someone who lived in such a time when that is considered completely obscene, well what other chances would Sherlock have? He got the pleasure of watching what he considered to be the most beautiful man as he undressed; he was allowed by fate or by chance alone to marvel over the beauty he decided he preferred. Not a thin, trembling woman, but a strong, able bodied man. Sherlock was able to see a man with a sculpted chest, with muscles rippling under his skin from years of strenuous work. He saw a man whose skin gleamed in the lamplight, a man who Sherlock's eye could feast on, and could see over and over again for as long as he liked. How many more opportunities would he be able to get, how many more times might the love of his life be so readily available? And now that Sherlock saw him, now that he could imagine the way he looked purely because it wasn't up to imagination anymore...well he could think of anything he liked. He could add that bare chested Victor to any one of his dizziest daydreams, and suddenly it could be as real as he allowed it to be. Yes maybe Sherlock might live a life of physical abstinence, owing to the fact that he was undoubtedly the only man in the world who would be stupid enough to fall for someone of his own gender. Someone who was set up for loneliness! Yet in his head...maybe it could be different. Maybe tonight's encounter between an unwanted eye and an unknowing subject could turn into something much more intentional. Even between a wooden door, and without trying, Victor's display had made Sherlock feel things he never could've thought possible. Things that he could only imagine were reserved for those who sought them out. It had been without interaction, something that very well might have been left up to the imagination. Something that very well could be replicated now, with an able and willing brain. And so maybe in the real world it had amounted to nothing but humiliation, yet in Sherlock's brain...well maybe it happened another way. He focused hard, lying sprawled out on top of his bedspread in the darkness, and he could almost envision Victor here with him too. Victor who was standing next to his bed, and looking down upon him, and unbuttoning his shirt just as he had done moments before. Victor in reality who was sitting in his warm bath, unaware that Victor in Sherlock's head was just now descending down upon him. Unaware that while Sherlock's own hand brushed against his neck that he could imagine it being Victor's, and that while his lips were exposed only to air, that somewhere in his mind it was different. Maybe he could only have the man when he was elsewhere, but at the moment that didn't matter. While his eyes were shut tight Sherlock could see Victor now, lying with him and kissing him as he would expect him to be able to. While he was alone he could feel Victor's hands on his skin, and while no one would ever notice he could feel his heart giving way once more to such feelings that were only just presented to him tonight. He was alone yet he never would be again, Sherlock would make sure of that. In reality he may never have the pleasure of being with Victor, and yet tonight, without the soldier knowing it at all, it was his very own imagination that allowed it to be the first time, the first time of many. 

    Sherlock woke above the covers, half expecting not to be alone. Yet when he looked around he saw that he was very much so, and that not even his nighttime delusions could conquer up a reality that would satisfy his need for actual human touch. Yet he was alone, his door still locked his shoes still on, and yet he woke with a pungent sense of guilty satisfaction, knowing that while no one had been in his room tonight, he had still crossed over a milestone that would make it possible for him to envision that someone had crossed over the threshold. That maybe last night he had fallen asleep as a scared, unexperienced child, and this morning he woke up as a man who had seen it all. A man who had done it all. And however satisfied this made him it still gave him an uncanny sort of guilt, for all in all it was rather unsettling to think how satisfied his own imagination could make him. It was almost wrong, in a sense, and yet he still woke with something of a smile on his face and a willingness to get on with his day. He rose and dressed quickly, owing to the fact that he had fallen asleep in his clothes it was only too easy to change his shirt and pretend that the pants and shoes he had been wearing were new and clean as well. He descended the stairs just in time to hear the doorbell ring, the announcement of the only man that seemed to coordinate their schedules just so that they could interact at the very crack of the morning sun. Sherlock cleared his throat and brushed his curls back from his head with a little bit of a sigh, for he really didn't want to be bothered with John Watson this morning but it seemed he had no other choice. And so he went to the door and opened it, half hoping that he would be approached by the old milkman who he had grown so used to. Yet no, of course it wasn't him. It was John.
"Well good morning there, Sherlock!" John exclaimed happily, in his hands that ridiculously heavy crate that troubled everyone with its carriers presence. If that thing hadn't been so impossible to lift they wouldn't need John's assistance at all, he would just leave it on the stoop like he did with the rest of the bottles that were delivered in Boston, and they would be rid of him as they should be.
"Good morning John." Sherlock grumbled, holding the door open with a sigh and looking off towards the sitting room. Of course there was more evidence that people were taking lodging here, for the bottles were out and the glasses were visible, the records still had yet to be put away and the stink of cigar smoke still lingered. John seemed to take notice as well, for he peered into the sitting room and nodded to himself before starting towards the kitchen again.
"Are you secretive people ever going to tell me who's actually in your house?" John wondered with a little laugh, hoisting the crate ever higher and following the familiar path to the kitchen.
"No of course not, it's not your business. And it's not a secret; it's merely a preference of privacy." Sherlock snapped.
"Well you're certainly making it seem like a secret." John pointed out. Sherlock just shook his head, opening the door to the kitchen so that John could manage to waddle in. To Sherlock's surprise the kitchen was empty, with no sign that Mrs. Hudson or Mrs. Holmes had even made it in this morning.
"Where are the women?" John asked, obviously taking notice of the absence as well.
"I guess they're not up yet." Sherlock shrugged, opening the icebox for him to set the bottles in.
"I suppose not. How on earth are you going to make that gigantic breakfast then?" John teased. Sherlock sighed heavily, checking the clock above the door and sneering a little bit in a knowing, sarcastic way.
"It's still only six thirty, and breakfast time is eight, we'll have plenty of time to put something together before the soldiers wake." Sherlock snapped, crossing his arms and at first not realizing that he had ever said anything amiss. Yet John paused as he put the last of the milk containers into the icebox, looking up at Sherlock in very obvious surprise.
"Soldiers?" he clarified. Sherlock opened his mouth before shutting it once more, looking back towards the doorway so as to make sure none of his parents had overheard him accidentally confess to a total stranger. Something they should have kept secret this whole time!
"Soldiers...of God. Yes. Missionaries." Sherlock agreed with a stiff nod, his face paling severely as John looked upon him in newfound knowingness.
"You're quartering redcoats?" john clarified with a very keen look on his face, as if he wanted to know more despite this having absolutely nothing to do with him!
"No, I just told you, they're missionaries from the church. Don't put words in my mouth, John." Sherlock snapped. John blinked, nodding and closing the icebox promptly.
"I don't care, it's just good to know now why you need so much milk. War is not my business, Sherlock." John clarified, nodding and getting to his feet, the empty milk crate hanging by his side as he stood pondering for a moment.
"Don't tell anyone, John you need to promise. I was supposed to keep it secret." Sherlock whispered anxiously, taking a step forward to which John responded by staying very still. He nodded slowly.
"Yes of course." He agreed in a weak voice.
"Please John, if the people find out...my parents are loyalists you see, they'll kill us!" Sherlock begged, coming closer ever still without even realizing it. He never gave a second thought to the proximity until he found himself close enough to grasp onto John's shoulder if he needed to, close enough so that he could stare into John's eyes in a pleading sort of way, and see now just how brilliantly hazel they proved to be. Just how there were the smallest specs of gold...
"I won't let you get killed, obviously. Like I said, I'm not a secret keeper or sharer. I'm just the milkman." John promised, looking very content with such a confession before he finally stepped away.
"That you are." Sherlock agreed. "Now if you could please..."
"Ya I know, I'm leaving. Have a good morning, Sherlock, and try not to have a panic attack before breakfast." John advised with a little smirk, and with that he took his leave. Leaving Sherlock sputtering what could become a goodbye if he let it, yet in the end he silenced himself and allowed John to leave, trusting of course that the boy went out the front door instead of taking a grand tour of the Holmes household. Then again, he knew everything now. What more could John discover by poking about? His intrusion didn't matter anymore.
"Who was that William, John?" Mrs. Holmes asked almost as soon as the sound of the front door had come and gone. Her appearance at such a time made it all too obvious that she had been waiting for the appropriate time so as to give the two the time they needed to have a conversation. Undoubtedly she was still holding on hope for a blossoming friendship, and Sherlock really hated to have to be the one to let her down so heavily. He knew not only that he would hate John Watson for the entire time they knew each other, and yet he decided just to nod. The other secret he was keeping now was that he had let it slip to John that they had been housing soldiers, which he felt like, if announced, would only make his mother panic some more. If John kept his word and kept his mouth shut then Sherlock would have no issues and there would be absolutely no need to alert his mother of such predicaments that will not ever come to be a problem. So what if John knew there were soldiers at the Holmes household? Most everyone knew that the soldiers were here, it didn't really matter where they were staying, did it? John would do nothing but go on about his day, now just a little factoid smarter than he started off as. It would change nothing, John was just a milkman and the damage he could inflict upon the British was minimal to nothing. Sherlock needn't worry anyone this morning.
"Yes, it was John." Sherlock agreed, sitting down on a crate while Mrs. Hudson made her well timed entrance as well. They had most definitely been waiting by, of that Sherlock was positive.
"Did you two talk a little bit?" Mrs. Holmes asked hopefully, which Sherlock just shook his head with a shrug.
"No, not really." Sherlock admitted. Mrs. Holmes didn't look like she was trying too hard to hide her disappointment, but she nodded and went on with her morning as if she hadn't been banking too much on the idea that two minutes solitude would turn those two enemies into the best of friends. Sherlock wasn't needed in the kitchen; however he wanted to keep his head on straight and focused on the present. Right now the past was too romantic and the future was much too ominous, and Sherlock had the once in a life time urge to simply enjoy the moment and peel some potatoes. It would keep his nerves settled and his heart at a normal rhythm, right now normality and mundane chores actually seemed welcome. For once Sherlock actually couldn't wait to get to the classroom and think about Punnett squares instead of the war or his sprouting love. And so he went through his daily routine, going almost completely interrupted until the sound of boots at eight o'clock brought him back into the reality that was becoming increasingly more difficult to hide from.