"Lost track of time then, had you?" Mrs. Holmes presumed, shaking her son's hand from her shoulder almost as soon as she was certain no one was watching.
"Yes, I had." Sherlock agreed rather defensively, as he wasn't entirely sure what his mother was trying to attack him about.
"I should hope that Hooper girl is not distracting you. You know that this is the most important year of your life, this year's grades will help you into the college of your choice." Mrs. Holmes reminded him.
"She's not distracting me at all, from my studies or from time. What does Molly have to do with it?" Sherlock growled, crossing his arms yet still remembering to smile, for he did love to smile when his mother knew that he wanted to do anything but. She knew of course that her rules were being followed in the most critical and sarcastic manner, and that alone was enough to get her fuming. Sherlock loved to be insufferable, especially around his parents who hated contradiction.
"Oh I don't know William; I just hope you keep the appropriate distance. You are about that age when most boys become...interested." Mrs. Holmes admitted with a shrug.
"Interested in Molly? Don't be absurd, mother." Sherlock growled, shaking his head yet knowing for a fact that his defense was a legitimate one. No one ever believed him when he insisted he wasn't in love with Molly, that's why the rumors spread so fast, because the more you deny them the more powerful they become. Sherlock hadn't yet learned that lesson, it would seem, for even now his mother was wearing that smirk that made it obvious that she thought she knew more than he did in this matter. And yet his heart was his own to interpret, and just because she had lived through marriage herself did not mean she understood what he was looking for in a wife!
"Oh stop that, you know she's very beautiful, and you two have been friends for quite a while." Mrs. Holmes persisted, yet Sherlock just shook his head miserably, refusing to listen to such talk.
"Mother I do hope that one day you learn to take my words seriously." Sherlock whined, and with that he refused to talk the whole rest of the way home. Dinner was a horrid experience, yet again another competition to see who could be the one to beat up on Sherlock the most. He never understood such harassment, especially since Mycroft 'the wonder child' was always hailed as being the most innocent and proper of the two. Oh if only they knew the things Sherlock did of Mycroft's past, present, and future! They would be appalled to learn that one of the 'savage beasts' that had raided their tea ships was actually sitting right at their table, eating their food and donning their family name! And yet even Sherlock knew that such a reminder of the loyalties of this family would be nearly crippling to his family, and for that sake alone he dared not speak. Besides, if his mother and father found out about Mycroft's patriotism Sherlock would lose the only person in this house that had actually proven to be at least tolerable in this household. And so he stayed quiet, which was usually a good tactic in this situation. He stayed quiet until he was granted permission to leave, and almost immediately he raced up to his room where he could be safe from those nagging voices once more. Sherlock loved his room; he described it always as an oasis away from whatever mess his parents had made of the house. It was hardly decorated, and yet it was tasteful since the wood paneled walls were decoration in themselves. The bed was a four poster, with long hangings that provided something of a barrier between Sherlock and the loyalists that roamed about the hallways. His honestly had it all, from a desk filled with books to a wardrobe filled with clothes, and yet all of these possessions seemed worthless when he knew he could make no proper use of them. They still seemed hallow, being that they were provided by the British money, the very same money that would be used to buy cannons, muskets, uniforms...all so as to kill off the men that were merely fighting for their own freedom. They were in bondage, all of these colonists, and yet they were just now beginning to realize the price they would have to pay to get freed! To not only unlock their shackles but to smash them off of their wrists! It was going to hurt, it was going to cost them not only money but lives as well. And yet looking in from a paradise that was constructed just to keep him away from the world for a little while, well Sherlock could honestly say it was worth it. He would be willing to lay down his life for the cause; he'd be willing to lay down most anyone's lives on the battle field if it would mean a victory. And yet no one understood that, no one could see that because he dared not speak of it! Hanging was what awaited traitors to the crown, and Sherlock could not risk snapping his beautiful neck before it was any use to anyone! Oh not just to his country, but to his future, to America's future...and to Britain's demise. 

 Sherlock had no way of knowing what time it was when the commotion begun, and yet it was abrupt enough to knock him out of whatever dreaming state he had been slumbering in. A state in which Sherlock could be anything, be anywhere, his dreams were still the most precious things about this life that he led, simply because they were most always beautiful. He dreamt himself into a world that was worth living in, one that was free, so to speak, and one that wouldn't prosecute him for believing in something that may be considered unorthodox. And of course, leave it to the real world to interrupt! And yet usually when he was interrupted it was in a state of annoyance, most often coming in the form of a wakeup call at an ungodly time in the morning. Usually there was sunlight when Sherlock was awoken, and usually there was a person at his door. Tonight, however, when he opened his eyes he saw that it was dark, and he was alone. And there was pounding at the door. Sherlock got up in a hurry, throwing on his dressing gown hastily as he rushed towards his bedroom door to see what was the matter. Half of him was trying to convince him to stay, to sit it out and wait to see what happened before he interfered and let it all go downhill. The other half of him wasn't afraid of whatever danger may be awaiting him if he went out into the hallway, he wanted to see, he wanted to fight. Yet just as he got to the door it was flung open by his frantic mother, who was now pulling Mycroft inside in a panic and throwing Sherlock away from his only escape route. 

"William, William come on, under the bed!" she exclaimed fearfully, pulling Mycroft into the room before slamming the door and locking it as frantically as could be managed.
"What...why? Under the bed...who's at the door?" Sherlock wondered.
"I don't know, but it sounds aggressive, your father is going to look, if it's robbers I don't want either of you being spotted." Mrs. Holmes insisted, pulling up the blankets that had been hanging down to cover the dusty wasteland that was hiding under Sherlock's bed. Mycroft was looking nervous, however compared to Mrs. Holmes's now frantic state it was safe to say that he was in control. Sherlock was the only one unamused, and while he of course valued his safety he really didn't think that hiding under the bed was necessary.
"If it was a robber they wouldn't have knocked." Sherlock reminded his mother a bit grimly, to which the woman just shook her head, as if she simply didn't have time for such logic right now.
"William don't be stubborn now, come on!" Mrs. Holmes insisted, and yet now with her firm command Sherlock found it all the more necessary to disobey. He was insufferable that way, and yet now it was his natural instinct to, instead of hiding under the bed like his mother insisted, instead run to the door and see what was going on for himself. And so that was what he did. While his mother was trying to arrange the blankets so as to fit Mycroft underneath the bed as well (although they both knew that such a stomach was never going to be hidden as easily) Sherlock pushed past her and unlocked the door, starting down the hallway as his dressing gown billowed around his bare ankles. He rushed towards the staircase, creeping along as his mother's screams of protest faded off into the distance. He couldn't care for her sympathies right now, not as he hid behind the wooden banister and saw the torch light flickering at the open doorway. It was a scene that was more horrific than any burglar could have put on, it was more disturbing than any grotesque mutilation of his father, who was still standing alive and well with the family musket set down against the door frame. It was a scene that sent shivers down Sherlock's spine, shivers that were sent into the banister and almost made the entire staircase shake in hatred of who was standing at the door. Redcoats. A lot of redcoats. They were standing under the torchlight while the commanding officer read a document to Mr. Holmes; their voices muffled yet their state of sleep deprivation seeming quite obvious. Their backs were drooping and their eyes were heavy, some were leaning on the butt ends of their muskets as they set themselves down finally on the wall of the Holmes family garden, simply to give their tired legs a rest for a moment while the formalities were set into place. And yet despite their miserable state Sherlock couldn't even feel a bit of pity, for they donned that coat of blood and those muskets that must have already taken so many lives, they wore those badges that commemorated death and destruction as if war was simply a game to play...God did Sherlock hate those men that stood at his doorway! And yet he couldn't take his eyes off of them, for he had no choice in the matter. Nothing ever happened directly within the Holmes family and the impending battle ground, and this would be the most exciting contribution to the war that Sherlock had been personally involved with. Not just a redcoat on a street corner, but six of them all arrived at his doorstep, reading off a paper by candle light! Yet what were they here for? For Mycroft, perhaps, after finally discovering his ties with the colonists and their raiding the tea ships? Or perhaps for Sherlock, having used some sort of spy techniques to discover his secret patriotism. Was that what this was, an arrest? Suddenly Sherlock feared for his safety, for his brother's safety, and for the integrity of this household after the only two sons would have been taken away for hanging. Despite their obvious ties to the crown the Holmes parents would be shunned as rebels themselves, quite possibly joining their sons on the gallows. And somehow, well...Sherlock could image a future that was much worse than that. And yet Mr. Holmes was handed the document, and with a quill pen he signed his name on the bottom and all of the soldiers gave a collective sigh of relief. They got to their feet, and yet now they were slinging their muskets on their shoulders, thanking Mr. Holmes as he stepped aside, and they all made their way into the house. Mr. Holmes looked apprehensive, and yet that pen was still clenched in his fingers and he didn't seem to regret having used it. He looked towards the stairwell and yet his eyes went right past Sherlock, he was looking towards the hallway as if wondering when it was safest to summon the rest of his family from the upstairs. Sherlock was too afraid to admit to his hiding place yet, and so he stayed still. He stayed very still, and watched the scene unfold.
"Mr. Holmes, my troops are exhausted from our journeys, if you wouldn't mind may we skip the formalities and head to bed?" the officer pleaded, sounding kind yet very formidable in his tone of voice. He asked questions that sounded polite and yet anyone who was on the receiving end of them ought to know that they weren't questions at all. They were suggestions that better be made into reality...or else. And yet that very phrase made Sherlock unexplainably uncomfortable, considering the captain phrased such a question as if it was here that they would be sleeping, at the Holmes manor. Surely they would not be so daring so as to invite themselves into someone else's home?
"Father!" Sherlock exclaimed, getting to his feet and rushing down the staircase enough so that he could see the throng of men that was huddled about in their entry way. Of course such an exclamation was enough to turn all heads towards him, a crowd that Sherlock hadn't really expected to draw. And yet they looked at him anyway, for they all felt that since they wore those coats they were entitled to look at anyone at any time, and so Sherlock found himself once more in the spotlight of those he detested.
"William, what are you doing out of your room? You're supposed to be with your mother, get back there before..."
"We're quartering troops?" Sherlock clarified, gripping onto the banister of the staircase so as to steady his shaking hands. Mr. Holmes sighed heavily, looking towards the soldiers as if he was astounded how quickly he could be humiliated in front of them, yet he nodded all the same.
"Yes, William. We are going to be housing these gentlemen for some time. Now if you would please get to your room that would be much appreciated." Mr. Holmes instructed. And just like that Sherlock realized that not only the soldiers had control here, but his father did as well. He shared the same tone of voice, the same instructive demands as that captain had, and it was Sherlock's only choice then, to obey. And so he nodded sharply, looking about to where most of the soldiers had already lost interest in him, and with that he raced up the stairs were their judging eyes couldn't follow.
"What's going on, William oh you could've gotten killed!" Mrs. Holmes cried, receiving her son with open arms as he scrambled back into his bedroom with a very pale, unseeing face.
"There's soldiers." He murmured, looking towards where Mycroft was, instead of hiding under the bed, sitting rather sadly next to it. Obviously he hadn't made it underneath, and judging by the new creases in his pajama shirt it would seem as though he had tried.
"Soldiers? Militia?" Mrs. Holmes wondered horrifically, making a lunge for the door so as to lock it once more, yet Sherlock shook his head quietly.
"Red coats." He explained quietly. This really shouldn't have calmed her, for if she really did understand the true destructive power of those soldiers she wouldn't have relaxed, yet she took a sigh of relief and nodded her head slowly. She seemed to take some sort of comfort in knowing that it wasn't Americans, but British troops in her home. As if they were any better!
"Red coats? Here for what?" Mycroft asked, adopting whatever was left of his mother's panic as he heard that his very enemies were now taking lodgings downstairs.
"They're being quartered, I don't know for what, but there's about six of them, and they're staying the night." Sherlock explained nervously, to which Mrs. Holmes nodded a bit gravely. Yet Sherlock knew that it wasn't the men's presence that bothered her, it was the new workload that got her concerned. She would never want to have a bad impression in front of the men, especially if they were directly tied to the king. She was now under a whole lot of pressure, so as to make the beds properly, cook the meals to perfection, and keep the house sparkling clean. She of course saw this not as a burdensome responsibility, but an opportunity to climb the social ladder in the eyes of the British monarchy. Oh what skewed priorities that woman had!
"Then we are safe to go to bed, I imagine." Mycroft muttered, rubbing his tired face all while regaining that threatened look of caution on his face. He understood now that he would have to be extra careful, making his daring operations now in the company of the very soldiers he was fighting to extinguish from his country.
"William do come help me make the guest beds up?" Mrs. Holmes pleaded. Sherlock shook his head in exhaustion, looking towards his own bed (that was starting to look so very comfortable) yet nodding all the same. He knew that he had no choice in the matter.
"I was under the impression that they'd be sleeping downstairs, they must have bedrolls or something." Sherlock shrugged carelessly, yet that was obviously not his mother's point of view, for she was already making her way to the linen closet.
"The foot soldiers might get the floor, yet the captain will expect a bed." She said. "Thankfully we have one extra to provide him with."
"Yes, fine mother if you do insist." Sherlock grumbled, getting to his feet and tying his dressing gown just a bit more tightly over his chest. Now that strange men were wandering about through the house he wasn't entirely comfortable with showing as much skin as he normally did. He carried the sheets towards the guest bedroom and helped his mother strip the old ones off, putting the new ones on as carefully as could be managed (she was getting particular about how it looked, pulling at all the creases and folding the blankets on top to a tee) yet Sherlock knew that as soon as those inconsiderate soldiers got in here her perfection would be lost under their disgusting brutality. They would surely track mud in on their boots, lie on the fresh sheets without bathing, and leave their dirty clothes strewn everywhere for her to clean up instead.
"I'll go and get the captain, William if you would please light the fireplace?" Mrs. Holmes pleaded. "And please, please William be on your best behavior." She added before going to the mirror so as to fix her hair as much as she could manage at this time of the night before starting out the door into the hallway. Sherlock sighed heavily, shaking his head and staring over at the empty fireplace. It wasn't even chilly in this room, yet he knew that a roaring fire would be much appreciated by a tired soldier who had undoubtedly spent days on a ship on the cold ocean. That was why they were so late in the night, presumably, for their ship had just docked and they were only just arriving in America now. Tonight would be their first night spent under wild, fresh skies. And tomorrow would be their first day tormenting those sky's residents, trying to scare them into believing that this iron fist was holding their hand instead of squeezing too tight. Sherlock was tempting to just throw the wood out the window, yet he knew that if the captain was dissatisfied with his room service then there might be some repercussions, some that might be so daring as to stretch into the category of treachery. And so Sherlock kneeled down so as to arrange the logs properly, striking a match and setting some kindling on fire before holding it to the wood and letting them catch, slowly. As soon as the fire was lit Sherlock took to aerating it and poking it with the pokers, trying to arrange the flames so that they would spread as he intended them to. This gave him enough time to loiter until his mother arrived with the captain, a man who bore a very striking resemblance to the sound of his voice, the very voice Sherlock had heard earlier.
"Sir if there is anything else we can do for you tonight I would be happy to help. It is our pleasure to host the king's men; I just hope your presence in Boston doesn't mean any impending hostilities." Mrs. Holmes said eagerly as she led the man into the room, prompting Sherlock to jump to his feet and smile rather nervously. The man stood before him like the epitome of a Red coat, from his attire, to his scowl, to his cold dead eyes. He was a man with no beauty, a man with no sense of humanity, a mere shell of a man programed for war and for hardships. He looked down upon Sherlock with his grizzled face and his broad shoulders and almost made the poor boy squirm, for what a terrifying sight he was at this time of night!
"Oh and sir, this is my son William, my youngest son that is." Mrs. Holmes introduced proudly, holding out her hand so as to encourage Sherlock to go and shake the man's hand. Yet he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to, especially since the man's right hand was holding his gun. And so Sherlock dropped into a very awkward yet good natured bow, looking towards his mother as soon as he stood up once more so as to gauge her approval in this situation. The captain's face broke into something that might have been a smile, yet with Sherlock's skewed perception for all he knew it might be an even heavier scowl.
"Pleasure to meet you, young William." The captain grumbled.
"William this is Captain Moran, he's to be the head of all the troops collected in Boston. We are housing one of the most important men in this upcoming campaign!" Mrs. Holmes said with visible and legitimate excitement, and it was all Sherlock could do but nod his head rather anxiously and look around the two to see if he might be able to leave.
"There's a campaign?" Sherlock clarified nervously, looking towards the man for clarification and receiving none.
"There is nothing yet." Moran explained vaguely, staring towards the bed and setting his musket up next to the dresser, just in case he needed to jump and defend himself from breakfast in bed.
"William come, let Captain Moran rest. And of course sir, if you need anything..."
"I'll call you. Yes Mrs. Holmes you had told me that before." Moran agreed in a tone of rather annoyed pleasantries, as if he wanted to sound thankful yet he was becoming quickly annoyed with the offer being repeated over and over again.
"Good night Captain." Sherlock muttered, taking his mother's shoulder and steering her out the door. He didn't hear a goodnight in return, yet he wasn't expecting one from such a brute anyway.