Breakfast was certainly interesting, for this morning since there was at least some sort of acquaintanceship between the soldiers and the Holmes hosts they were both seated at the breakfast table together. Captain Moran hadn't shown, and neither had either of the Holmes parents (Mrs. Holmes still thought it was up to her to prepare breakfast, even though Mrs. Hudson was literally paid to do so) and so that left the brothers and the soldiers. It was a very interesting group, made even more disappointing by the fact that Victor had gotten a seat in the middle of the pack of redcoats, leaving Sherlock to sit across from the ponytail man and next to his brother. The men didn't seem awake enough to be rowdy, yet it was a lot easier to study them now that they were all too tired to care. They seemed to range in age from twenty to thirty, with Victor easily being the youngest and some man on the edge being the oldest. Though there didn't seem to be much of a maturity gap, for they were all quite childish this morning after having being woken up. They had undoubtedly all joined the military no more than a year ago, for while a trip to America was supposed to be a military accomplishment all they had to do was get a good captain and a boat. So while these men seemed to be at least experienced, the only one who seemed to be a lethal soldier was Moran, who was at this moment absent. They were all just looking tired, all but Victor who was eating rather normally, looking awake as he tried to crane his neck to at least smile at Sherlock from across the table. Mycroft was looking rather miserable, sitting with his head balanced on his fists and staring down at his table as if trying to ignore the company he was now with. His hate of redcoats really was intense if he could begin to know these men personally and still hate them, for even though they weren't angels it was still hard to debate that they were actually humans. Most all of Sherlock's hatred had come from unknowingness, and now that he witnessed the casual side of the British army he knew that at least some of them could be classified as tolerable.
"What are your plans for the day, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, trying to at least break the silence in an attempt to get the men into a conversation. He was interested in them all, not necessarily because he thought they could prove to be fascinating conversational subjects, but simply because he knew they housed an entirely different perspective of life. It might be interesting to see at least a snippet of their experiences through their eyes.
"Same as usual, I imagine. I'll go to work." Mycroft shrugged, not elaborating at all for the good of the group.
"Wonderful. Thank you." Sherlock muttered sarcastically, to which some of the men chuckled. They didn't say anything, though, and so Sherlock understood that it was now upon him to at least attempt to get these men up and ready for conversation.
"And what about you men? What plans do you have?" he asked, looking towards the group of soldiers, all who simply shrugged.
"We do whatever the Captain tells us, and so far he hasn't woken yet. So as of now, undecided." admitted the man who seemed to be the oldest. None of them looked very bothered by the mystery of their plans, and they all just sat and ate heaping helpings of breakfast.
"And you William?" Victor wondered, the only one from the masses that actually seemed to tell that Sherlock wanted to hold a conversation.
"I'll be in class again, studying with my mother." Sherlock admitted. "And then I'll go and meet my friend in town."
"Like he does every day." Mycroft added.
"Life is only good when you know what's coming, Mr. Holmes. Or at least that's what I have learned over the years. I hate surprises." Victor admitted with a sigh.
"I agree, although these past two days have been filled with nothing but surprises." Sherlock shrugged.
"Not bad ones, I hope?" Victor clarified.
"No of course not. No bad surprises at all." Sherlock assured, leaning over the table so as to see the smiling face of Victor Trevor before he could continue on with his breakfast in peace. 

 That afternoon Sherlock had to admit that William Shakespeare had amazed him once more. Well, baffled might be the better word for it, for even with his intelligence Sherlock could get absolutely nothing out of the poem itself without help and interpretation from his mother. She seemed to take delight (if not surprise) out of his interest in such things. She admitted that from a young age love poetry had always astonished her, yet when she had two boys she was certain that she would never have someone who might share her passion. Well little did she know that her youngest would be just as entranced by the complexity of the poetry presented before them, and as Sherlock sat staring at that poem he felt much more emotions that might possibly be explainable. The wonderful thing was that he had never even felt such things as love and betrayal, love so powerful that it might overcome all other things! They were reading Sonnet 40, which from Sherlock's point of view seemed to be some sort of love poem to a reader that was all together unbothered by the words. Someone who understood that they were being sought after, yet continued to hurt the author even more. For some reason that felt real, in some instances, it felt appropriate. Sherlock felt as though this might have been a poem written boy Molly's hand, a declaration of love that was long past overdue, and that Sherlock was the shameful recipient who could not be bothered. It made sense to him, it struck him hard, and for that reason alone he stuffed it into his pocket when his lesson had finally concluded. 

"You going to show that to Molly, I imagine?" Mrs. Holmes accused with a smile as she tucked the lesson books away. Sherlock blinked, for he was still rather unable to figure out how she was able to see him as he tucked the paper away. He had thought that he was being rather sneaky.
"Well yes, I feel as though she might enjoy it." Sherlock admitted with a shrug. It was true that he was going to show it to Molly, yet he felt almost as if he would rather save it for Victor's purposes. If the man was truly a Shakespeare enthusiast then he would undoubtedly appreciate some poetry to look over before he fell asleep.
"I think she might as well." Mrs. Holmes agreed with an appreciative smile. "That's very considerate of you, William."
"Don't act like it's some great feat." Sherlock groaned, standing up in annoyance as his mother suddenly made everything weird again. Surely she was going to turn this careful act of sharing into some love declaration, and it was always annoying when she brought up the subject of love. She was always acting like the mere question would drag the truth out of Sherlock, as if the moment she set her mind to interpreting his intentions she would suddenly decode his brain. And yet he was not going to allow her such an opportunity.
"What do you think about when you read these poems, William? They seem to interest you in a way that only a sympathizer could manage." Mrs. Holmes pointed out, to which Sherlock just shrugged innocently.
"I think of no one." he lied quickly, looking down at the desk and tapping his fingers against the wood so as to give himself something to do other than feel his mother's glare.
"Oh you must William, you must." Mrs. Holmes insisted. "I would love it if my boy was finally in love."
"Oh why do you always insist that love is the answer? Is it possible for someone just to enjoy art without getting attacked all the time? How many times do I have to tell you that I'm not in love with Molly Hooper?" Sherlock growled, shaking his head miserably and starting towards the door without waiting for his mother to respond. He felt guilty in a sense, not that he was lying about Molly, but because his mother was right. He did think of someone when reading these poems, he was thinking of someone that had nothing to do with love, someone that simply couldn't fall under that classification. Someone who he would've thought as his enemy just a couple of days ago, but was now beginning to surface in his mind when reading the hypnotic lines of love. 

    Molly was very excited to hear that Sherlock had personally encountered the nine boy from the sidewalk the day previous. Even though she had been very underwhelmed by the beauty that Sherlock constantly insisted was there she was still excited that he had gotten the opportunity to see the specimen up close and personal. Despite this, Sherlock insisted that even if John's beauty was a nine on the scale, his personality was actually somewhere in the negatives. What an insolent boy he proved to be, showing up on Sherlock's doorstep only to bully him and make fun of his lack of physical strength.
"He called my arms noodles." Sherlock admitted with a frown, hanging his head low as Molly giggled at him and prodded whatever arm was hiding in the deep folds of his jacket sleeves.
"Well no one was out there telling you that you were buff." Molly teased, making Sherlock frown even more.
"Well, personally I found it quite rude." Sherlock admitted with a frown.
"I hate to say it Sherlock, but he was speaking the truth." Molly shrugged. "Besides, why are you suddenly so interested in what the milkman has to think of you?"
"Well I don't know. I don't care all that much, but if he was bold enough to point it out then how many other people think I'm just a useless little twig?" Sherlock complained.
"Now that's really not a good attitude to have, and besides Sherlock, no one cares. Not all men these days have to be categorized by their strength. You'll be known as intelligent and beautiful, maybe you won't be the strongest man in the world but that doesn't matter anymore." Molly assured with a grin. Sherlock just groaned, feeling even more somber as he reclined over onto his elbows and shook his head.
"If that was supposed to make me feel better it did a terrible job." Sherlock groaned. Molly studied him for a moment, as if suddenly seeing him in a whole new light. He hated the feeling of observant eyes, not because he had something to hide but because he simply didn't want anyone to find the imperfections that may be lingering about.
"It's not like you to care, Sherlock. What's suddenly gotten you all worked up?" Molly wondered in that soft, careful voice she used when she was playing mother.
"Nothing's got me worked up, it's just that...no. I don't care." Sherlock sighed heavily.
"You liar." Molly teased, jabbing him in the chest before Sherlock whined and shook his head once more.
"I'm not lying. Really I'm not trying to impress anyone, it's just recently come to my attention that most every other man in the world is totally buff and able bodied, and I'm just about useless in the physical portion of life. I'm afraid that people might see me more womanly than manly." Sherlock admitted with a sigh. Molly recoiled, as if that somehow offended her, however she probably thought it best not to bring up any harsh topics of feminism at this particular moment. Sherlock was sure it would be brought up in another conversation down the road, yet today she swept it aside and decided to console Sherlock rather than attack him on his word choice.
"It's those soldiers, isn't it?" Molly guessed finally, to which Sherlock dropped his head in shame. He was at least relieved that he didn't have to be the one to admit it; for trying to compare yourself to a trained British soldier was always a way to feel bad about yourself, and most everyone would insist that he was crazy. And maybe he was crazy, however it was dawning on him more and more that he was now surrounded by all of these men, all of these able bodied men, and something inside of him was starting to twist, something was beginning to churn. And it hurt, it drained him in a way that he was not yet used to, it gave him this overwhelming feeling of helplessness that made him virtually immobile for moment on end. And this feeling, well what else could it be? It made him feel completely helpless and it occurred whenever he was around the soldiers, and so self-loathing must be it. Besides, why else would Sherlock be so preoccupied with the muscles that could be scene rippling through Victor Trevor's arm as he passed the bowl of oatmeal to his companions? It was an obsession that must root itself back to shame, and it was making Sherlock's days almost intolerable. There was this everlasting feeling now that he could be something so much more, that he could live as a man who was much more content...there was something undoubtedly missing in his life! Yet what could it be?
"They're all so remarkable, Molly. They're all perfect in most every way." Sherlock whispered quietly, staring at the sidewalk as it was trodden over by multiple pairs of uncaring, unthinking feet. Never before had he sympathized with a sidewalk before, and yet he could almost understand what it must be feeling as it was stepped on repeatedly.
"They're redcoats, Sherlock. What on earth are you doing, sympathizing with them? They're here to oppress us, Sherlock, not to be our friends! Not to be our workout coaches!" Molly exclaimed, looking almost offended that Sherlock would use the word perfect when describing their natural born enemies.
"I know, I know what they are, Molly! Would you just let me finish?" Sherlock demanded.
"They're twisting your mind, Sherlock. You've got to..."
"Will you let me finish!" Sherlock demanded, glaring at the woman until finally she got the message and shut her mouth. Molly pursed her lips so as to silence herself, her arms crossed over the expensive beading on her dress and her face stuck into a contortion that made it very clear that she was unimpressed.
"Sorry Sherlock, go on." She growled.
"I met one of them, personally I mean. At dinner." Sherlock admitted finally, thinking back to Victor and getting that overwhelming feeling of dread once more flaring up in his chest. A feeling that felt as though it had thrown a ton of bricks on top of his head yet still empowered him enough to convince him that he could go on running for miles with such a burden. That feeling that was such a handicap yet such a motivator.
"You mean you made a friend with a redcoat?" Molly clarified, still not sounding impressed.
"What, you think me mad?" Sherlock wondered.
"Yes I do, Sherlock. Yes I do." Molly agreed with a frown.
"Well maybe I am mad; maybe I've just gone completely crazy. Yet he was kind to me, he was interesting, he made me feel appreciated, and he made me want to talk to him. The only other person I've ever wanted to talk to before was you." Sherlock admitted with a sigh, paying close attention to the passerby now so as to give himself something to think about other than Victor. He knew that he would like to think about Victor, yet for some reason he felt almost guilty, letting his mind stray that far. For some reason he felt almost like he wasn't allowed to think about him.
"You're saying that you like him?" Molly clarified.
"Well yes, yes I do like him. And I know that he likes me, he always makes an effort to smile at me. And he calls me Mr. Holmes." Sherlock admitted with a little blush. "It's so formal."
"Well they are supposed to be more polite than Americans, but to be honest shooting at a crowd of protestors doesn't seem..."
"You're stereotyping them, Molly. You're making them all into villains when that was just like, ten men, and that was five years ago!" Sherlock defended anxiously. Molly took a deep breath, making it obvious that she didn't intend on fighting him at the moment, yet she seemed very much tempted to speak her mind. And it was obvious that Sherlock sounded crazy, well to be quite honest if he now spoke to himself just two days ago his past self would have knocked him out cold on the street, that's how raving mad he appeared. Yet it was true, he had learned things he never wanted to know simply by being forced to live in the same house with the men he had previous thought to be his enemy, just because of the country they were born into! Hadn't he understood back then that they were all humans, despite what color their jackets were?
"What's his name then, your British man?" Molly wondered, tapping her foot against the pavement and making a rather infuriating clicking sound against the sidewalk.
"Victor." Sherlock said with a grin.
"That sounds like an evil name." Molly said plainly, and this time Sherlock actually repositioned himself so as to give her a nasty look, one that was aimed directly at her. Yet Molly didn't flinch, because she wasn't scared of Sherlock or any distorted face he managed to pull.
"I'm sorry Molly, but right now you sound completely insufferable." Sherlock growled.
"And right now you sound as if you had forgotten who you are!" Molly exclaimed.
"I am not going to have this argument. I can befriend who I want to; it's not my fault that these men were thrown into my life, if just happened that way." Sherlock growled. Molly hummed her agreement, because obviously she couldn't think of any words that could both describe her disappointment and empathize with Sherlock all at the same time. She really was being a stickler about all of this, refusing to budge and refusing to do so much as listen to what he had to say. Why couldn't she understand that there was more to a man than the country he served and the army he fought in?  It was hard to talk casually for the rest of the evening, and even while Sherlock showed Molly the poetry he had taken for her she still didn't seem to be very impressed. Even when he offered to buy her ice cream and play the rating game she seemed upset, and whenever he attempted to start a conversation she would sit back on the bench and cross her arms as if he had done something to offend her. And so Sherlock saw how this was going to go, he understood that she was just in one of those moods and that he really best not try to get into that head of hers. And so he nodded, getting to his feet and looking down on Molly with something of a frown. They said their goodbyes early, and this time when Sherlock walked off towards his house he was walking alone. But it was no bother, really, for he read the poem and tried to interpret it as he walked, getting nothing but it's original meaning from everything except its first line. Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all... Sherlock had no idea how anyone could have multiple senses of love. It almost sounded as though the speaker had something of a divisible heart, that half of it could go one place while the other was fasted to another. Was it possible to love two things at once, to be devoted to two separate things? Yet it was sort of like he was now, was it not? Devoted to the revolution yet steadily beginning to see the other side not as a warzone, but as a brotherhood? As a simply an extended, hostile family tree? What did it mean, and who could be the one to explain it to him?