Victor was quiet the whole meal, for he seemed to be digesting his food well enough and had taken to poking at his silverware, not seeming to be very in tune to the conversation. He seemed almost guilty about getting Sherlock in trouble, for every so often he would look up at Mrs. Holmes with a mournful, regretful glare before turning to Sherlock and smiling softly, that beautiful smile he wore when his eyes light up in admiration. Sherlock still didn't know what he did to deserve such a smile so often, but whatever it was he really hoped he could maintain it for an extended period of time. He loved to be the receiver of such a beautiful thing. When finally dinner had concluded Sherlock went up to his room, bidding everyone goodnight for he doubted he would be seeing them again tonight. He wanted to stay hidden in his room just in case his mother was prowling about, still with a speech all pent up in her head about the dangers of gambling and smoking. And so Sherlock retreated to his bedroom, closing the door and sitting in his bed against the headboard, staring at the wall for just a moment and pondering life. He really hoped that Molly wasn't going to be upset with him for a long period of time, and most importantly he hoped that his association with these soldiers was not going to bring about the downfall of what seemed to be an immortal friendship. The two of them had been best friends forever; it would be a crying shame if the new entrance of British soldiers put a rupture in such a bond. And yet Sherlock knew that he was not going to be the one to yield, for he was not the one in the wrong. It was Molly and her stubbornness, her ability to compromise and see the world as it was, that was holding her back. Sherlock was not going to turn against his new friends just so that he could satisfy his old one, for while Molly was being childish Sherlock was completely justified. The men here had been nothing but nice to him, nothing but pleasant and accepting, and if Molly was having trouble understanding that they were humans to, well then maybe she really was stuck in the past, and maybe it would be best to leave her there. It was just as Sherlock was examining the poem once more that there was a knock on the door, and with a large groan he called for whoever it was to come in. He was expecting his mother, for her lecture was long overdue now, and after all of this time the thing was probably festering into a giant speech that had been planned out over many hours. Sherlock knew that it was coming, it was just a matter of when, and so when the door opened he attempted to mentally prepare himself for the great big life lessons that were about to be served to him. And yet his heart leapt to see not his mother, but Victor, strolling through his door.
"You sound as if you're not admitting guests." Victor teased. "Is it alright if I come in?"
"Oh...Victor yes, yes of course. I thought you were my mother." Sherlock admitted with a great gasp, sitting up as straight as he could before looking about to make sure his room was up to scratch. Yes, everything seemed to be in order. He had no dirty clothes lying around, his drawers were shut, his curtains were drawn. It almost gave the impression that his room was always like this, always so up kept and beautiful.
"Your mother, yes. She was rather terrifying tonight." Victor admitted in that soft voice of his, that consoling voice that made Sherlock feel so very safe. He shut the door quietly and came to stand next to the edge of Sherlock's bed, smiling upon the occupant yet not inviting himself to sit down just yet.
"You can um, you can sit." Sherlock mumbled immediately, guesting towards the end of his bed as he desperately tried to be a good host.
"Thank you." Victor said with a grin, sitting very elegantly on the edge of Sherlock's bed and looking about quietly.
"Yes my mother can be very fearful at times, yet I understand that she has my best interest in mind. Tonight, however, I'm very happy you saved me from her. I was sure I would get a nice big talk about the dangers of smoking and gambling and whatnot. She's always telling me to avoid such bad behavior." Sherlock admitted with an innocent little shrug, absentmindedly folding the poem between his fingers as he spoke. Victor's eyes noticed, yet for a moment he didn't comment on it, not yet.
"It's never good when she uses your full name. And you, William, seem to have a nice big list of them. It took her many breaths to get such a scold out." Victor chuckled, to which Sherlock nodded shamefully.
"Yes they did like to give me a list, and then use the most boring out of them all to address me." Sherlock admitted with a sigh.
"You don't like your name?" Victor wondered in amusement.
"No, not at all. Everyone's named William these days, it's nothing extraordinary." Sherlock grumbled.
"Yet you still use it?" Victor clarified.
"No I don't, actually. My parents take no notice of course, but I prefer the name Sherlock. My friends call me Sherlock." Sherlock admitted with a small little shrug.
"Well I would like to think us friends. Might I be allowed to call you Sherlock as well?" Victor wondered with a little grin, his eyes sparkling and Sherlock's chest retracting once more.
"Yes of course. It would be an honor to be friends with you." Sherlock agreed with a grin, to which Victor chuckled quietly, interrupting the silence with the music of his amusement.
"Well I'm happy you feel that way. Not many others share such enthusiasm." Victor admitted with a grin.
"Do you not have any friends back in England?" Sherlock wondered, finding this very hard to believe. With all of Victor's charm and wit it seemed almost impossible for him to be looked over so carelessly! Did people not understand just what it was they were missing?
"No, not really. I have had acquaintances in the past, yet it would be a stretch now to consider them friends." Victor admitted with a sigh.
"You're not married?" Sherlock clarified. Victor just laughed, looking up towards Sherlock as if nonverbally trying to convict him of something. As if that question had somehow been loaded.
"No, no of course not." Victor assured with a grin. "No I would never dream of such a thing."
"You are old enough." Sherlock pointed out.
"I am, as are you. There's a reason we're both unmarried of course." Victor assured.
"And that is?" Sherlock wondered apprehensively, feeling a very odd sensation of excitement beginning to build up in his chest. It was a feeling that really could not be explained, simply because he had never felt such a thing before. Almost like fear, yet excitement. As if he was terrified of what was going to happen next yet he understood that there was no alternative that would please him more.
"We haven't found the right person." Victor pointed out, to which Sherlock took a deep breath of relief yet disappointment as well.
"Yes I suppose you're right." Sherlock agreed with a small nod. This brought his attention back to the poem, and of course as soon as he glanced at the paper Victor saw it again. This time it was almost his responsibility to comment, for it was obvious he had some inquisitions stored away from the moment he spotted it when he walked in.
"Is that a poem?" he wondered finally, a very obvious lead off.
"Yes, today's Shakespeare." Sherlock agreed, unfolding the poem and looking over it once more with a frustrated clench of his eyebrows. No matter how hard he tried he still could not make any sense out of the thing.
"May I see?" Victor wondered, to which Sherlock nodded and hand him over the poem. Victor read it over with a grin, looking towards Sherlock as if he approved. "Sonnet forty, another one about love."
"Yes well, my mother is picking them." Sherlock admitted, feeling almost as if it was his duty to defend himself against that comment.
"And you that is keeping them." Victor pointed out. "Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all..." he read quietly.
"It makes no sense to me, or at least, I can't personally understand it. Maybe that's what I like about it." Sherlock admitted nervously. Victor looked at him in something of astonishment, his long fingers folding over the paper once more yet he did not hand it back just yet.
"You have never fallen in love?" he clarified in astonishment. Sherlock shook his head rather guiltily, as if this was somehow a character flaw of some sort, as if there was some sort of legal requirement that he had to have fallen in love at least once in his eighteen years of life.
"Well no, not really." Sherlock admitted. "I guess I've never met the right woman." Victor was quiet for a moment, looking upon the boy regretfully, almost as if he was amazed at how naïve he was. Almost as if he pitied him and his single mindedness.
"No, I suppose you have not." Victor agreed quietly, mournfully at that.
"Is it a nice feeling?" Sherlock asked abruptly, drawing Victor's attention to him in a flash of guilty blue eyes. Sherlock's heart leapt, and for a moment it felt as if the temperature in the room had risen to twenty degrees more than it had been when they had first began to talk. Yet it was a question that needed to be asked, for some reason his brain thought it necessary to ask such a thing.
"What do you think, Sherlock, from reading the works of our master Shakespeare?" Victor wondered quietly, his voice once more sounding as smooth as water over river rocks. Sherlock could only sit there for a moment, feeling so at ease yet so terrified all at once.
"No, I don't think it's nice at all. Maybe once you realize what it is, maybe in the moment, and only if it's returned. If not I think it must hurt." Sherlock guessed, staring rather blankly down at the bedspread under his feet, staring so that he didn't have to bring his eyes to meet Victor's.
"It's almost as if you have experienced it, Sherlock, and never realized. For it does hurt, it hurts a lot. But it's worth it, of course it is. If it was only pain then people would not seek it out, yet falling in love is one of the most prized experiences a human can have. It is the reason for art, the reason for happiness. Love is a pure thing, Sherlock, and I hope that one day you can experience it. I hope that one day you find the right person who could take that initial pain right away." Victor whispered, his eyes focused on the poem before he very quietly set it back at Sherlock's side, as if he was too timid to place it back into Sherlock's hands. He got to his feet, almost as if he had decided that his time here was finished and this job was concluded. Sherlock said nothing and yet he agreed all the same, for some reason the discussion of love seemed to be the thing that Victor had arrived for, and now that their conversation could go no further it was obvious that his time he was now getting expired.
"I should go, Sherlock." Victor announced formally. Sherlock nodded, for it was all he could do but agree. The air now hung so heavily over them both, so thick with the things they had shared and the underlying meaning in them all. So tangible were the things that were left unsaid, yet hinted at all the same.
"Have a nice night, Victor. I'll see you tomorrow morning." Sherlock agreed quietly. Victor smiled at him, nodding his head in a final farewell and allowing their eyes to meet once more, allowing for one more shiver down Sherlock's spine before Victor finally turned away and made his overdue exit. Sherlock was left alone, and yet for the first time in a while he didn't like the feeling. 

It was rare for Sherlock to leave himself to think, to let his mind wander off towards the unexplored and frankly unacceptable parts of his mind. The back parts that he tried not to wander into, for it held the honest truth, the truth that sometimes he didn't want to think about. Yet tonight he sat in the darkness with his eyes wide, wide yet seeing nothing but the inside of his own head. He thought of love, of what Victor had been saying about the feeling being so beautiful that it always made the pain worth it. And Sherlock tried to think, he thought to his own internal pain right now and h had to wonder if that was what it was after all. If he was actually falling in love, and that was why he constantly felt to be in a state of absolute distress. Was he actually shameful of himself, and embarrassed of his poor masculinity? The pain that he felt when in the soldier's presence, knowing that he could never be nearly as manly or as perfect as them... What was the reason for his sudden shame, for his need to impress? Was he falling in love and not realizing it, was that the reason he was being so confrontational to his mother when approached on the subject? But if he was actually falling in love, then who on earth could it be with? Was it Molly, was that the reason he defended himself so angrily when her name was brought up with the subject of marriage? Well it only could be Molly; she was the only woman he knew, the only one that was marriage ready at least. Yet when he thought of her he imagined that something might be better, something like realization might click in and give him that final confirmation that yes, she was the one he was anxiously waiting for. He thought that maybe his heart would change its rhythm so as to assure him that he was on the right path. Yet as he thought of Molly Hooper nothing monumental happened, he heard no choir of angels, his heart didn't flip flop in his chest...no nothing happened at all. And he still felt underwhelmed, if this was indeed the feeling that love provided then it wasn't anything special at all. It could not be Molly, then. And that was quite obvious from the start. Then who? He never felt himself go to sleep, he never remember ever crossing over from reality into a dreamlike state, in which your head controls what happens and your common sense had absolutely no control over the situation. In which your heart and your imagination take the reins to put scenes together that might satisfy your internal longings. It was an odd illusion, playing out before him, and when he sat up all he saw were soldiers. It was the six of them, all clustered about the edge of his bed and watching him as he slept, all of them looking quite amused, as if his sleeping style was something very alien to them, as if they slept on the floor in Britain. And Victor was there...oh yes it was him, wearing his red coat proudly, the garment that no longer offended Sherlock. He looked so incredibly dashing in it, so beautifully put together that it was all Sherlock could do but stop and stare. He sat up in his bed reluctantly, for he felt quite in the spotlight with all of these men looking on him, looking at him as if he really was funny.
"You say you have never fallen in love, don't you? Think you're immune, huh?" Moran chuckled, to which all of the soldiers joined in a chorus of mean chuckling.
"Not immune, just not opportune." Sherlock corrected nervously.
"What do you think is happening now, Sherlock?" the one with the ponytail laughed, all of them starting to move around the bed so as to entrap him, leaving Victor standing at the head of the bed alone, the sole receptor of Sherlock's gaze when he looked straight ahead. Almost as if the men were attempting to draw more attention to him.
"What is happening now, nothing's happening. This isn't love, it cannot be. There is no one for me to fall in love with." Sherlock protested, looking about at the men to see them all laughing once more, as if Sherlock was proving to be more unintelligent than they had expected.
"There is, Sherlock, you're just not looking hard enough. You're not focusing on what is right in front of you." Moran insisted, his ghostly figure running its hands along the bedpost, almost as if claiming ownership of it. Yet as soon as his hand touched the wood the bed began to vibrate, it began to rock him back and forth steadily, as if nothing more than Moran's touch had the strength to put such actions into motion. Sherlock clutched to the mattress in terror as all the rest of the men began to touch the bed, it began to rock back and forth almost violently, Victor standing before it, Victor standing still.
"The way you watch, the way you're fascinated with him. The way he smiles at you, and the way you smile back. The curve of his lips as he clenches the cigar, the breath of smoke, the gleam in his eyes. Oh you just stare, and wish that you might be able to get closer. Don't you?" Moran clarified, the bed rocking even more, the bed rocking faster.
"Don't be mad, he's a man, he's..."
"We're not mad, you're mad, for we are purely of your imagination. Don't you understand Sherlock, that you're still dreaming? Don't you understand that we're of your own creation, and our words are your own?" Moran clarified.
"You're lying; I never thought such a thing!" Sherlock cried.
"We've seen your inner thoughts, we are your inner thoughts, don't think you could hide something as momentous as this from us! Falling in love, Sherlock...for the first time." Moran laughed.
"I'm not falling in love!" Sherlock defended, feeling almost helpless to do anything. He felt his eyes begin to leak, for he didn't want to hear any of this anymore, he didn't want to have to think about it any longer. It was the disgusting truth, a terrifying reality, and it was so much easier to just try to hide!
"Stop this, all of you, just stop." Victor insisted, finally opening his mouth. He went to touch the bed, and as soon as his fingers touched the fabric it stopped abruptly, leaving Sherlock motionless and terrified, for it was the very man in question that seemed to be coming closer.
"Victor, don't listen to them, they're just..."
"They're speaking the truth. I know it here, I know it there, it's reality. Don't run from it...Sherlock. Don't try to run." Victor insisted, and with that he got closer, with that he lunged onto the bed, coming closer so abruptly that it was all Sherlock could do but lean forward and accept him just as anxiously. Because what could he do when the truth was trying to make itself clear? Who did he think he was, to fight it?