Sherlock had always dreamed of waking up alongside someone he loved, he had always wanted to wake in the tangle of arms and limbs, he wanted to wake to hear a heartbeat under his ear, and to see a sleepy smile waiting for him as the sun began to shine through the curtains. This dream was partially accomplished that night, for he was indeed awoken with someone by his side. However he was awoken in a very violent fashion, with someone tugging at his shoulder and throwing his discarded clothes onto his face.
"Sherlock, John, come on! The British are on the move!" Molly Hooper insisted, turning away only to light the oil lamp and shed some light on the scene she was witness to a couple of hours later.
"Molly, oh my...this isn't what it looks like!" Sherlock exclaimed frantically, his eyes opening to see not John but Molly, standing over his bed and trying to shake him into consciousness.
"Of course it's what it looks like, but that doesn't matter now. Come on now, get up!" Molly exclaimed.
"How did you get in here?" Sherlock grumbled, rubbing his eyes and getting no answer. Molly seemed almost insulted that he would ask such a question, however with very little observation he was able to tell that the window had been opened once more. And so just like John, Molly had been able to make her way up onto the roof without being spotted. Oh this was tragic, he wasn't even able to appreciate the beauty of the night, he wasn't even able to let the memories seep into his brain. There was a mere feeling of satisfaction, one that still had yet to develop inside of his chest, the feeling that he had waiting in vain for all the while he was with Victor. And yet tonight had felt so appropriate, tonight had felt so much better! And that proved it then, that a change in partner really could change the way you look at love.
"The British are moving?" John clarified anxiously, jumping to his feet to which Molly gasped, looking away with a frantic blush in her cheeks.
"Yes, they were spotted leaving the fort just twenty minutes ago, a pack of about one hundred soldiers, redcoats." Molly agreed, still shielding her eyes as John dressed. Sherlock instead just pulled the blankets up to his chest, sitting up against the headboard and looking towards John frantically. He was suddenly afraid of what might befall his lover should he race off to battle, especially at this state and this time of night.
"What time is it?" Sherlock grumbled, feeling both terrified and inconvenienced at this occurrence.
"About two o'clock." Molly admitted, sounding exhausted yet exhilarated all at the same time.
"So they'll be at Concord by morning, they'll catch them when they're just waking. We need to get the militia..." John grumbled.
"I've already sent riders out; they'll be alerting the militias to meet us at Concord, they're to be riding out as we speak. John we need to collect the Bostonians, we need to catch the British on the move." Molly insisted. John nodded, taking deep breaths of panic as he tried to do up his tie back around his neck.
"You're going now?" Sherlock clarified in a trembling voice, looking towards John and then back at Molly, as if begging one of them to speak up and halt whatever military operations were falling into place.
"Yes of course, come on then Sherlock, get dressed, get moving!" Molly exclaimed, trying to push him to get to his feet. However Sherlock stayed where he was, hidden under the blankets and not looking to be moving any time soon.
"I'm not going." He said quietly, looking over at John, who had paused his dressing to give Sherlock an appreciative nod of approval. Molly, however, did not seem to understand such a statement.
"What do you mean you're not going? I thought you had signed up, you're part of the militia, you can't just back out now because you're scared!" Molly exclaimed, sounding almost angry as she looked between the two boys to see which of them would tell her what was going on. Sherlock just sighed heavily, looking towards John so that he could provide the explanation using his own words of persuasion. Sherlock knew that if he was the one to phrase the excuses he wouldn't be nearly as convincing, and Molly would drag him off to the battlefield by his ear. Not that he didn't want that to happen, in fact he would love for an excuse to have to fight. However now that the time was here, now that he knew their soldiers were destined to march for hours with their muskets in hand, constantly on edge and constantly alert for British soldiers...well a part of him was happy he was staying behind. It wasn't that he was scared; it was just that he was becoming increasingly timid. He wasn't as brave now as he had been a couple of hours earlier, when he could only fathom the idea of British blood being spilt. Now he was realizing that he was just as vulnerable as them, and that British skin and American skin was broken just the same.
"I'm not letting Sherlock fight. I don't want him to get hurt; I care too much about him to have that weigh on my conscience." John admitted finally, straightening out his jacket before lacing up his boots once more. Obviously he prepared to go to war in those clothes, for there were no uniforms assigned to the rebels. They would be dressed as they always were, as farmers, blacksmiths, and fathers.
"That's ridiculous; you cannot pull Sherlock out of the army just because you're afraid he's going to get hurt! All of these men have the same worries, they all have people to live for, you cannot just pick and choose because you alone have that power!" Molly exclaimed frantically, grabbing hold of Sherlock's arm and attempting to pull him off of the bed, as if that would in any way get him moving any faster. However Sherlock resisted, he grabbed hold of the bedpost and held fast, squirming and yelling in protest. If the Holmes family hadn't been awoken yet, they most certainly would now.
"Stop it, Molly! He's not going, and that's final. I don't want to hear a word from you, I am in charge, remember." John growled, storming over to the girl as if he would try to remove her with force. Obviously Molly was smart enough to let Sherlock go, however she didn't seem very happy about it. Instead she sneered at John, taking a step back while Sherlock rearranged the blankets so as to cover himself properly. This was a bit of an awkward and ill-timed visit.
"If my father was still alive I would have authority over you." Molly reminded him.
"Yes, but that's not so." John insisted. "Have you sent riders for the Bostonians?"
"They're riding about now, to collect in town square." Molly agreed a bit reluctantly, her voice trembling now as she was reminded harshly that her father had been killed by the very demons who were on the prowl now, trying to take more fathers, more brothers, and more husbands away from those who loved them. Obviously she would not fight too hard to get Sherlock carried away by the militia, simply because she now realized what sort of mortality they all had. How one single bullet, or one single noose, could take away a future and a past. How just like that, the ones you cared about were simply gone.
"Alright then, I suppose I'll go out to meet them." John agreed with a stiff nod.
"Won't the soldiers notice you; won't they arrest you if you're caught associating?" Sherlock pointed out fearfully, imagining at once the same fate brought upon John as was Mr. Hooper.
"They can try, but I'm bringing my musket, and so is everyone else. There are no arrests in war, Sherlock." John reminded him. He paused for a moment, seemingly having begun to walk out the door before he realized what he was forgetting. John took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment before walking back to the bed where Sherlock was lying.
"I'll um...I'll wait in the hallway." Molly decided quickly, seeing obviously that this was a heartfelt moment and that she would be nothing more of an intrusion. John nodded, lingering near the bedpost until he finally heard Molly's shoes exit the room, and the door shut tight once more. Just as soon as they were alone Sherlock sat up, grabbing John's hands and wringing them once more with all of the nerves and tension that was building up inside of him.
"Do you have to go?" Sherlock whispered, a stupid question but a necessary one all the same.
"I do, yes of course I need to go. And Sherlock please behave yourself. Don't play the hero, stay with Molly, stay with your family." John instructed.
"I know, I know John. Be careful, my God John you better be careful. You better get back...you better return." Sherlock warned anxiously. John just nodded, a small nervous smile appearing on his face as he was reminded once more just how much Sherlock loved him.
"I'm glad we had tonight, even if I don't make it back, I'm glad you..."
"You're coming back. I'll kill you if you don't." Sherlock insisted.
"Be rational." John warned.
"Be careful." Sherlock debated, pulling John down so as to kiss him for what might be the last time. How agonizing it was to have to say goodbye, so quickly after they had given their hearts to one another! Why did John have to be ripped from his hands so quickly after he had finally gotten to embrace him?
"I'll see you later, Sherlock." John promised, kissing Sherlock once more for good measure yet tearing himself away. It was obvious that if he stayed he would continue the kiss and he would never leave, and as much as Sherlock would have preferred that he knew that John had other obligations, to other people beside himself.
"Go be a hero, John Watson." Sherlock agreed, letting the boy pull his hands away from his own and start off for the door. John nodded slightly, unable to look back for he might dash right back to where his love lay. Yet he had a duty, he had a war to fight, and an army to leave. To stay here tonight would mean an end to America. It was all he could do but appreciate that Sherlock wasn't following him; it was all he could do but thank whatever God was watching that he didn't have to put that boy's life in danger. And so John left, leaving Sherlock trembling and fearful on the bed, not able to think of a way to call him back before he disappeared out the door. This might have been goodbye forever, and he never would have...
"John!" Sherlock yelled, jumping from the bed, grabbing his pants, and wiggling into them as he dashed to the door. "JOHN!" he called once more, pulling open the door to catch John as he was descending the staircase, Molly still waiting in the hallway where she was told to stay. John looked back in some surprise, looking about ready to give a great big speech about how Sherlock had to stay put. However Sherlock didn't go running to him, he stayed at the top of the staircase and looked down in the darkness, John's hair shining just bright enough so that he could be spotted and distinguished against the rather humanoid banisters that marked the beginning and end of the staircase and landings.
"John I love you." Sherlock added desperately, clutching to the railing and watching as John's face turned into something of a sad smile. As if he was pleased to hear such a confession, yet upset to know that it might be the last time it was said.
"I love you too, Sherlock. Always." John assured with a grin, nodding his head in agreement before turning away and making the final decent towards the door. And just like that, with his words still hanging in the air, John walked out the front door. There was a terrible moment, a shocking realization, that Sherlock might never see him again. And once more e was tempted to run after him, yet he knew that he had to stay here. He knew that John had work to do; he had other priorities that would take him away from the one he loved, priorities that might get him killed. Yet he went off anyway, with the knowledge that he may never return. He went off because he had to, he had an army to lead, he had a war to win. And Sherlock had a promise to keep, that was all.
"He'll be fine, Sherlock." Molly assured quietly, her voice trembling softly as she walked up so as to support him. Sherlock nodded, for it was all he could do at this point but hope to optimistic. It was all he could ever do but nod along, and hope that the best result was the one that turned out to be true. Molly hugged him softly from behind, both of them staring out the front door as if expecting John to come back. Hoping that he would arrive to announce that the British had returned, and that they were only marching for exercise at this time of night. Yet he didn't return, the door stayed shut, and once or twice the sound of horse's hooves went riding past, the riding yelling out something that was impossible to understand. The call to action, presumably, met by hundreds of men waking in the middle of the night, kissing their wives, and grabbing their muskets. The call to the town square, where they would be lined up in poor formation and instructed to march the road to Concord, where they might meet their death, where they might meet a bullet. Sherlock was terrified, not for himself anymore, but for the fate of John and for the fate of America. This battle would be the one that defined the entire revolution, it would signify if the Americans even stood a chance against the military power that was and always will be England. They might get stomped underfoot, or they might get pushed aside in the British's scurry to reclaim the weapons that were being hidden around the state. Or they might hold their own, those famers with their guns and ammo, they might take out the British soldiers one by one, and prove that they are just as able bodied as the trained regulars. Finally there were sounds coming from the other end of the hallway, doors opening in sleepy surprise, footsteps stumbling over the carpets in their darkened delirium. Molly immediately ripped away from Sherlock, afraid that her hugging him might not give off a clear picture, however the last thing on Sherlock's mind was what his parents might think was going on between he and Molly.
"What on Earth is going on here? Why was there yelling?" Mr. Holmes growled, appearing from his bedroom with his pistol in hand. Sherlock gasped, lunging at Molly so as to shield her from whatever bullets might be fired off. Oh how ironic that would be, to be kept from the war and killed in his very own house!
"Nothing." Sherlock said anxiously. "Nothing's happening."
"Is that Molly? At this time of night, William you have a lot of explaining to do!" Mr. Holmes exclaimed, dropping the gun and raising his fists threateningly.
"It's not what you'd think." Sherlock defended, sounding just a little bit insulted as Mr. Holmes assumed once more that his flamboyant son would ever have a woman in his bed.
"It's happening, isn't it?" Mrs. Holmes whispered nervously. "The war?" Sherlock hesitated, looking towards Molly who was looking just as nervous to disclose anything. They both knew that the Holmes parents were loyalists, and to admit the war would be obviously admitted their involvement. However Sherlock nodded quietly, shivering in the hallway as he thought once more towards John, who might have just arrived at town square. He would now be meeting with the men he was prepared to die with, and to die for. The men he was expected to lead.
"I think, well maybe I should go." Molly suggested quietly.
"I'm coming with you." Sherlock said pointedly.
"No, John told you to stay, I'm not..."
"You're talking as if you're going out to fight!" Sherlock exclaimed with a laugh, grabbing Molly's arm to which she merely shook him off.
"I'm not going to fight, don't be crazy." Molly snapped. "Just stay here, Sherlock. Stay safe."
"I'm going to help you, with whatever you're doing." Sherlock insisted.
"You're not saying you're sided with the rebels? Those traitors to the crown?" Mr. Holmes exclaimed, sounding deeply offended that his own son would go off with Molly Hooper to help with the rebel cause.
"Just stay, Sherlock. Or I'll tell John that you were breaking your promise." Molly pointed out, pushing Sherlock with more force than might have been expected, pushing him so that he stumbled backwards into the doorframe of his bedroom. Sherlock sighed heavily, understanding once more that he had been met with the second unstoppable force of the night. The love and protection John felt for Sherlock was not his alone, it was also shared by Molly, Molly with that motherly spirit of hers. She was yet another person who could not stand to imagine Sherlock in the line of fire, and so like John before her she insisted that Sherlock stay safe, stay hidden in his bedroom. Where she was going he dared not ask.
"Fine, I'll stay." Sherlock growled. "But at least tell me you're not going!"
"I'm not fighting, Sherlock, don't be stupid." Molly growled. "But just in case..." she ran over to him with some urgency and threw her arms around his neck, the same sort of hug that he constantly shared with his mother and with Mrs. Hudson, and appreciative hug. And he hugged her back, for this may be the last time they saw each other. He didn't know where she was going, or if she was in any danger by going there, however Sherlock knew that Molly was not above dressing in men's clothes and grabbing her father's gun. He hated to think that Molly Hooper would fight in his place, yet he could only hope that she was going to organize food or water for the troops as they marched. He hated the idea of that poor girl in the line of fire, especially when he was the one who was forced to sit at home!
"Be careful Sherlock, please. For once in your life just do as you're told." Molly begged.
"Oh you know me; I'll do what I want." Sherlock teased, forcing a bit of a smile onto his face as Molly pulled away with a great, almost inconvenienced roll of her eyes.
"Moron." She muttered, and with that she started down the stairs just as John had, leaving through the front door with that as her last word.
"What's going on, who's John?" Mr. Holmes demanded.
"Why aren't you wearing a shirt?" Mrs. Holmes added a bit nervously, as if she really didn't want to know the answer to that question. Sherlock sighed heavily, looking over at his parents as if he really didn't want to be bothered by their questions any longer.
"I'm going back to bed." Sherlock said simply.
"You better stay there! No son of mine is going to march under that accursed flag!" Mr. Holmes threatened, waving around his pistol some more yet with no intention of ever pulling the trigger.
"Yes, you've said that before. Goodnight." Sherlock grumbled, and with that he walked into his bedroom and closed the door with a snap.