"Well I know you can't do anything to help...I just sort of wanted to tell someone. It's terrible keeping such things bottled inside." Sherlock grumbled.
"You said that you were going to lie to me before. Yet if that's the truth you want me to believe, well then Sherlock I honestly couldn't think of anything worse you actually could've done." John admitted with a little chuckle. "You must be way over your head."
"No, I didn't lie that was...what do you mean anything worse? You think that was the culmination of the worst choices in the history of mankind?" Sherlock whispered nervously, staring at John persistently enough to make the boy sigh in reluctance.
"Well to be honest all of those things seemed to me to be bad choices. I mean I can understand how in the moment you were...confident. But honestly Sherlock, in only two days you not only fell in love, but you also stretched that love to the absolute extent, and now you're whining that you've fallen out of love? No offense, but it sounds to me like you burned yourself out." John clarified with a blink.
"No, no I haven't fallen out of love. I'm just sort of disappointed with his...etiquette, I guess. I had expected him to be much more gentle, and a little bit more romantic." Sherlock admitted with a sigh.
"Ya, I mean I guess I could understand why you'd get upset over that." John agreed apprehensively, so obviously out of his depths here that Sherlock almost felt bad bombarding him with questions that he was so helpless to answer. Sherlock simply sat back, nodding and staring down at his breakfast in a shameful sort of way. It was nice not to be the only one who knew these things, however he understood now that he wouldn't be the only one who saw him in a very negative light. Now John would see Sherlock as a child, as an unexperienced and much too excited child who was willing to throw himself at the first man he fell in love with. Not only that, but now John knew of Sherlock's romantic preferences, of his homosexuality. Would that put a divide between them, will that threaten the integrity of their friendship?
"It's not a problem, right?" Sherlock clarified. John simply shrugged, looking up at Sherlock with the most convincing face of indifference. So convincing, in fact, that Sherlock was put under the impression that the news hadn't changed anything at all.
"No it's not. My sister, well she's also a little bit um, well she likes girls. So it makes sense that you should like boys." John admitted with a nod.
"It makes sense?" Sherlock clarified with a blink.
"Well yes! Isn't there some sort of, well there's defining features, or so I thought. Like Harry, she sort of wears masculine clothes, hates to do her hair or makeup or anything like that. And you wear your nicest attire, you dress yourself up a lot, you strut about and sort of make that pucker lip face whenever you get offended. I mean it's not too hard to believe, that's all. Almost predictable." John pointed out.
"Pucker lip?" Sherlock clarified, to which John just nodded proudly.
"Yes, you know what I'm talking about right? A little baby like pout, most old women use it when..."
"I don't want to hear anymore." Sherlock interrupted with a shudder. "Such a talent you have, for offending people!"
"I wasn't trying to offend you; I was just trying to offer my understanding!" John protested. Sherlock sat back in his chair and frowned, making sure his lips were nowhere near puckering as he looked at John with a very dissatisfied look on his face. John could do nothing but smile hopefully, starting on his breakfast as if he didn't know what else he could possibly do.
"I hate you." Sherlock decided with a groan, sitting up and starting on his breakfast as well.
"Yes of course you do." John laughed. "That's the reason we're here, right?" Sherlock looked up at him with something of a grin, the very smile he couldn't keep off of his face if he tried. Oh he hated to admit it when John was right, but at this point there was really no denying it. Yes of course he hated John, and that was what brought them closer together in the end. Everything John did, everything he said, well it was offensive and repulsive and downright crude! And everything about it just made Sherlock appreciate him all the more. Because he was sure he could never find another person on this earth who would hear such things like that and still find a way to comfort someone through insults. Someone who wouldn't make a big deal about mistakes, simply because they saw the motivation behind it all. John was just...well what could Sherlock even say? He was perfect! And that, that was the very feeling that had gotten him in quite a lot of trouble before. The very same feeling that was undoubtedly going to get him in more trouble in the future. Yet it was hard to deny, and so Sherlock didn't put forth the effort to try. He just went along with it, ate his breakfast, and appreciated John's company so much that he almost forgot the reason the two of them had collected there in the first place. He almost forgot the dread that had been so quick to build up in his stomach, and that had now been so quick to dismiss. 

    Like all things that were good, Sherlock's breakfast with John was destined to end. It was like a blink and he was back in the classroom, leaning over the desk and trying to figure out just what he was supposed to be doing. His mother had not expressed any sort of anger towards his outing with John, only that she was happy that he was making new friends. Sherlock had nodded along and pretended that such a thing was an attempt to see people, and not to get away from them. She had wanted him to befriend Victor as well, and look how that had turned out. Oh this horrible life! What new mess was Sherlock going to get himself into next? Trigonometry, for starters, would probably be the death of him. He had been so quick to answer the whole packet last night, back when excitement and overconfidence had been his internal motivators. And now that his stomach felt like lead, and all of his secrets were still fresh off of his lips...well it was almost impossible to regurgitate the information he had learned what felt like so long ago. Yet Sherlock did his best, he really did, and in the end he thought the test went okay. His mother didn't seem too disgusted by his work and he was free to leave at the normal time. The soldiers were gone; Mrs. Holmes had said they didn't even stay for breakfast. Urgent business, according to Captain Moran, and nothing that concerned the Holmes family as far as they were told. Yet Sherlock was worried once again, for he could feel both sides of the coin beginning to tremble. He could feel tensions rising, he could sense that everyone whether they be rebels or loyalists were all on edge. War was coming; it was just brimming over the horizon now, like dark storm clouds that were soon to produce gigantic claps of thunder. Natural hazards that broke out when the British soldiers loaded their guns in the Holmes family drawing room, the casualties of conflicts that the human race brought upon themselves. Lives were lost, hearts were broken, when a slip of the tongue cost so much. It was the sort of casualties that struck close to home; it was the sort of tragedy that made itself all too apparent in the lives of men who were trying to keep themselves out of it. Sherlock hadn't expected the war to get so close to home, he hadn't expected the brutality to come so quick and in such a cruel swipe. Yet quick it was, and brutal it was, when Sherlock arrived at the bench and saw that there was no one there.
"Molly?" Sherlock asked stupidly, looking around as if expecting to see her blending in with the crowds somehow. This was their meeting spot, this was the right time...this was every day! Where was she? Sherlock looked off towards the shops, hoping to see one of Molly's extravagantly ugly hats somewhere through the windows, yet to no avail. He was alone, as far as he could tell. And of course, leave it to Sherlock to blow things out of proportion, leave it to him to sit down on the bench and worry. Because he felt as though something was wrong, he felt as though there was no possible explanation to make him believe Molly's disappearance could be peaceful. No, of course he was too pessimistic to wrap his head around the idea that maybe she had gotten caught up with housework, or homework, or chatting with some of her mother's friends on the side of the street. There were a million explanations for why Molly could be late, yet it was also wildly improbable that these complications had only affected one afternoon out of eighteen years' worth of afternoons. She was...well at the moment she was gone. And that wasn't much like her. Sherlock waited for a couple of minutes; however it felt more like a couple of days. It was infuriating, really, to look down the street and expect Molly to be standing there. His head was on a swivel, for every time he looked one way or the other the very small part of his brain that was optimistic told him that Molly would be waiting for him there. He somehow managed to hear her voice, or the rhythm of her footsteps, with every passerby! Suddenly he was forced to just sit back on the bench and remind himself that it wasn't her, and that she would say something if it was. He tried to not to obsess, but every time he tried to think of something else he was yet again reminded of how lonely he was right now. His only friend...oh where could she be? It took twenty minutes until finally John showed up, and yet this time he wasn't arriving in any sort of clueless state. Sherlock could notice it, he could see the look of pure panic strewn across the boy's face, the sort of panic that came only from an absolutely hopeless situation.
"Sherlock, there you are, I thought you would be at the house but when I checked you weren't there. Come on then, come on!" John yelled, grabbing at Sherlock's hand and pulling him from the bench with a surprisingly powerful yank.
"What are you doing, what's wrong?" Sherlock asked anxiously, following John nevertheless, their hands grasped together as they ran back towards the direction of the Holmes household. "Where's Molly?"
"It's...well you'll see." John called, yanking Sherlock even harder so as to encourage him to run faster. They barreled through the crowds; for they had no time to sit back and wait until the women and children meandered by. Manners were lost in this panic.
"Tell me what's going on, John come on!" Sherlock yelled, however John wasn't listening, he was just running. And it was surprisingly hard to keep up, Sherlock had thought his leg length would give him the upper hand but once more he was disappointed in his own strength, for John easily outpaced him. Well of course John was stronger, of course he was faster, there was no doubt that he was trained for the military before he became a spy. He was, in his own special way, a soldier in the end. Sherlock was surprised when they ran past his house, and he was even more surprised to see that there was something of a procession outside of the Hooper house. He could see it in the distance, a carriage of some sort parked up in the streets, with men in red coats lining up between the front door and the carriage, as if to make sure that no one escaped. It looked like, and Sherlock really hoped he was wrong...but it looked like an arrest.
"Oh my god...MOLLY!" Sherlock yelled, beginning to try to race towards the house. However John pulled him back, his grip was too strong on his arm and instead of running forward he was instead pulled back into John's chest, stumbling madly before he could finally lean against the man for support. He was paralyzed with the fear that his best friend had just been arrested; he was stunned with the fact that he might be next. They were getting the rebels, weren't they? Hunting them down one by one?
"It's not Molly, she's fine. It's her father. They don't know about her, they don't know about me. Up until now, they believe he was working alone." John whispered in reassurance, keeping a firm grip around Sherlock's chest so as to make sure he didn't fall to the ground now that his legs had lost almost all feeling. He could breathe easier now knowing that Molly was safe, but at the moment the fact that her father was the one headed for the gallows still didn't soothe him. He had never been close to the Hooper family after the Americans began separating from the loyalists, and just as his family had a prejudice against Molly because of her family's connections, the Hoopers had a prejudice against Sherlock. But it still didn't mean that he would just sit back and watch as the man was led to the gallows; it didn't mean that he wouldn't mourn over the loss of his friend's father!
"I need to see her, where is she, what's happening?" Sherlock whispered fearfully, clutching at John's arms now as some sort of safety net. They were far enough away so that their little scene wouldn't be noticed by the soldiers; however there was a terrifying feeling in the pit of Sherlock's stomach, the realization that hiding underneath those black hats might be familiar faces. He hadn't considered that until now, that the soldiers lined up here could be the very ones that occupied his house. Was that what Gage was doing now, getting the troops in order so as to hunt down the rebel leaders? Was this their attempt at a game of cat and mouse?
"She's inside, I think. I haven't seen anyone come out yet, but they're not letting in, not letting anyone out." John whispered.
"How do you know so much?" Sherlock asked fearfully.
"It's my job to know. Now come on, let's get into this crowd of civilians, I want to see what's happening up close." John insisted, pushing Sherlock off of him with some effort and leading him by the hand towards the onlookers. Of course a procession of this sort did not come without nosy people trying to see what was going on, and the more the soldiers stayed the larger the crowd circled. Sherlock didn't understand how he had missed this when he went to the bench, however at that time it was possible it hadn't escalated this far. The police carriage must be relatively new, and with its arrival came the spectators. That would at least explain why Molly wasn't at the bench, because she wasn't allowed to leave the house. Sherlock clutched to John's hand fearfully, however together they crept closer and closer to where the crowd was, and effortlessly blended in with the rest of the onlookers. There was already unrest; Sherlock could sense it in the crowd. Some were just there to watch, others were obviously there to protest. A couple of them were yelling obscenities at the soldiers, using language that should never be allowed near any respectable young lady's household. They were threatening them, yelling that America would be its own country, yelling about how horrible King George was. Yelling as if that was their sole duty to their country, merely making matters worse. Sherlock hated them for it, he hated to have to hear the idiocy of the rebels, the very men who thought that they could insult the soldiers enough to make them drop their weapons and give up. No, John was being smart about it, he and the Hooper organization were being smart. Staying low, minding their own business, and getting all of the states prepared for war. And yet, apparently they were not smart enough. 

"Will they find you?" Sherlock whispered fearfully, suddenly struck with the realization that he may be losing John as well, shortly.
"I'll be fine, we're not stupid. Now shush." John hissed, swatting Sherlock's words away and focusing on the unrest in the house. It was quiet, surprisingly quiet for now. Sherlock didn't know what was happening inside, yet from the looks of it, it was nothing. And that was impossible, because he could almost feel Molly's pain; he could almost channel it to his own heart. There was a harsh energy inside of the house, and so Sherlock knew very well that the peacefulness was a façade. What happened behind closed doors, that was what he was worried about? Interrogations, possibly? Beatings? Were they hurting Molly, they wouldn't dare! Oh Sherlock would stab them all in their sleep if they laid a finger on her!
"What are we going to do now?" Sherlock whispered, clutching up John's wrist now, and leaning very close to his shoulder.
"We're going to see how this progresses, then we're going to continue." John said thoughtlessly.
"You're not going to rescue him?" Sherlock clarified horrifically.
"And put the rest of our lives in danger? No of course not." John scoffed. Sherlock took a sharp breath, however he understood now that there's really nothing else he could do. John seemed to know how to work military operations such as this, he seemed to understand. If he said something was foolish then there was no doubt that it was. If he said that something was suicidal, well then Sherlock would follow his orders. It seemed now that John was the man in charge, now with Mr. Hooper having been compromised, and now it was all Sherlock could do but pray that there wasn't any sort of list lying about, naming the names of everyone who was helping who. If Sherlock had to watch his two best friends being marched up the gallows, well he would rather join them! To survive such a thing would be a tragedy, for afterwards there would simply be no reason to live. Suddenly the door was flung open, and all at once the crowd exploded. Some cheered, others booed, and a hail of rocks came flying from the more aggressive ones, trying to hit the line of soldiers guarding the police carriage so that maybe Mr. Hooper could escape. Yet it was hopeless, Sherlock realized that. Mr. Hooper was dragged between two soldiers, and the only reason Sherlock could tell it was him was because it simply couldn't be anyone else. There was a bag on his head, a black bag so as to hide his identity from the press, however they would find out soon enough. It wasn't a difficult leap to make, trying to identify the man who was being dragged from the Hooper home. He was handcuffed and his legs were bound, in fact the soldiers almost had to carry him towards the carriage, for he didn't seem to walk very easily. The front door was closed behind them, but even now Sherlock thought he could hear screaming, female screaming. The back of the police carriage was opened, it was something of a cage by the looks of it, and the soldiers led their prisoner around to it. This was the perfect opportunity now for Sherlock to see the faces that lay underneath the hats; this was his perfect opportunity to identify the ones responsible. Oh it burned like a flame inside of him, that hatred he felt, so powerfully struck like a match on tinder! That face he could never forget, that face he hardly ever saw, that man who had discarded him, soiled him, and humiliated him! Now dragging Mr. Hooper as if he was the criminal!
"VICTOR!" Sherlock roared, giving a great lurch and breaking away from John's unsuspecting grip. It was in a moment of desperateness, the feeling that a chaotic man felt when he had the false impression that he could make a difference. That maybe somehow he was the only open in the world of halting what was already being put into motion. And maybe he was right, maybe he could've done something and been the hero. Yet he didn't go about it the right way, for he barreled straight in without giving a thought to what he was doing, and what could go wrong.
"Victor, my God what are you doing?" Sherlock exclaimed, pushing through the crowd and trying to run up to Victor, the man who was lugging Mr. Hooper's left arm so as to keep his limp body from dragging on the ground. It was only now that Sherlock realized he was unconscious, for his legs weren't moving, his arms were still, and his head was rolling about his neck as if it had a mind of its own. It was terrifying, seeing such a previously powerful man so limp and helpless, to see such a strong man with his head in a bag, being carried like a ragdoll by the very people he had sworn to defeat. Sherlock wasn't able to get to Victor, and he was almost thankful he wasn't given the opportunity because he didn't know what he was going to do when he arrived. Undoubtedly he had the capabilities to make a complete fool of himself, that or make a criminal out of himself, and join Mr. Hooper on the gallows. Soldiers were there, they pushed him away with their gloved hands, their accomplices wielding their bayonets in his direction so as to shoot if necessary. Just like the massacre, the heartlessness of these men in their blood red coats, how had Sherlock not seen it before?
"VICTOR HAVE YOU GONE MAD?" Sherlock shrieked.
"Stay back kid, stay back! We will shoot, we will not hesitate!" yelled one of the men in the back, a voice that he didn't recognize. Mr. Hooper was thrown into the carriage, and with him went Victor and the man who was helping with the process. Sherlock paused so as to watch the ordeal, he watched as Victor gave him a quick side glance, a look of utter indifference. A look that changed his previously aflame heart to be as cold as ice. Sherlock took a quick breath, he stared at the evilness he saw erupting in those eyes, those eyes that had once been so beautiful. He could not believe that only yesterday he had been so willing to give himself to that monster?

"Victor...Moran...ARE ANY OF YOU STILL HUMAN!" Sherlock roared, fighting against the soldiers one last time before the pushed him away violently. With a lurch he fell back, falling straight against the road and staying down helplessly.