"Anyone have any interesting things on today?" asked one of the men as he started his way through his freshly buttered stack of pancakes, looking around the table so as to see if anyone actually had to do things. Sherlock suspected that the sole responsibility of these men was to sit around on the sidewalks and prepare for the war that may or may not come, and so an interesting task might very well be a tempting story for them all. However they all just shook their heads, some claiming they had guard duty near the harbor, others just talking of how they were going to draw up some battle plans with the generals in case the revolutionaries ever set their sights on Boston. It sounded dreadfully boring, yet Sherlock's day plans weren't any better. He was moving from Shakespeare to trigonometry, or so his mother claimed, and so he would be stuck up in the classroom with a pencil and a large, well-used eraser trying to figure out what triangles even were. Sherlock was gifted at math; however that meant in no way that he liked it. His mother always liked to give him challenging problems, which were good in theory and yet when he lost interest he didn't try, and with that came a lot of whining on his mother's part and a lot of mistakes on his paper. Today should prove to be something of a challenge, considering there was no way trigonometry would take precedence over his newfound obsession with Victor.
"What about you, William?" asked Moran, trying to keep the conversation going, or at least attempting to include their host. Sherlock only now realized that he hadn't picked up any food, for he felt as though his stomach would reject anything he tried to swallow. It was twisting and turning anxiously with the newfound proximity to Victor, and to have to digest things and keep reminding Sherlock of his company, well that would prove to be too much for the poor thing.
"Oh, just school work. Nothing exciting." Sherlock shrugged truthfully. He took some hash browns just so that he could look as if he had something of an appetite, and yet the mere smell made it hard to pick up his fork, and so he pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair with a bit of a nauseous lurch.
"Still learning about Shakespeare, or are you moving on?" Victor asked politely, seeming to take a genuine interest as he paused his breakfast consumption to bring his gaze up to meet Sherlock's. Just as soon as their eyes met, however, Sherlock had to turn his away in fright. Certainly he couldn't let Victor look at him, not now, not on this fateful morning!
"Moving on, trigonometry." Sherlock admitted in a very small voice, for he was still very much aware of who he was talking to.
"Ouch." One of the soldiers laughed. "I remember getting taught that, with the circle and whatnot? Yikes."
"Indeed. I hate math." Sherlock admitted with a grown.
"You know when people say you'll use it all the time? Well, not once did I ever have to solve a triangle, not once did I have to find the negative square root, never! Once you get past algebra it's useless for any common job." another soldier agreed, nodding his head as if he was personally offended by all the years he had wasted in school.
"Tell that to my mother, if you will." Sherlock suggested.
"As if I would dare. I'm sure she'd kill me, and find a way to make it look like an accident." The man shuttered, shaking his head in denial while Sherlock could only attempt to force a smile.
"Yes, on second thought maybe you best stay quiet." Sherlock agreed finally.
"I liked learning math, just because it's nice to always have one single answer. That never happens in real life, does it?" Victor pointed out.
"No, that's why it's unrealistic and frankly a waste of everyone's time." a soldier said flatly. Sherlock had found it difficult to respond, and so he just nodded passionately and kept his head down towards his unflattering breakfast that was waiting in vain to be eaten.
"I think it's like a puzzle, just waiting to be solved." Victor admitted a bit somberly, as if he was expecting to be alienated for some reason based on his mathematical preferences. Sherlock couldn't help but grin a bit, for when he got into a math mood he did agree. Yet he was very rarely in such a mood, and usually he was instead whining on and on about how pointless it was to solve things he would never have to use again. The rest of breakfast proved to be like the beginning, just small talk that was always ended abruptly by victor's participation in the subject. He always seemed to have the opinion opposite of everyone else, and while sometimes Sherlock had the same mindset it was the mere fact that speaking up would bring Victor's attention to him that kept him from saying anything. When finally everyone was finished he simply couldn't wait to leave the table, even though he knew full well what was waiting for him when he departed. Mathematical nightmares of all sorts, the very horrors that had been discussed as public enemy number one, and yet somehow Sherlock was very relieved when he could trade the packed dining room table for the silent, solitary classroom. Yet math proved to be just as inadequate as conversation, for as soon as he tried to convince himself to focus on what really mattered his brain instead decided to go back and try to remember every syllable spoken by Victor over the breakfast table. It really was tedious, falling in love, and ye the more he thought about it the more he loved the feeling ,the more he decided that love was almost a necessary part of every fundamental livelihood. He felt as if it gave him strength, as if it gave him not just a reason to live, but a goal to set. And maybe that goal was to fall out of love as soon as possible, or to hide his love as effectively as could be managed, or maybe it was simply to get Victor to love him back. Either way it made his life a lot more interesting than it would have been if his brain was instead thinking of angles.
"William your head is in the clouds again, what is wrong with you this week?" Mrs. Holmes whined, erasing Sherlock's work to a problem he was supposed to have done by himself. Work was a very broad term of course, and a generous one at that, for instead he simply copied down the problem and drew a picture of it, simply biding his time as he daydreamed about what Victor was doing right now. Apparently he was on sidewalk duty, or that was what he had said over breakfast, and so who knows, maybe Sherlock could see him again this afternoon?
"Nothing's wrong, it's just so busy around here. Sorry if I can't focus." Sherlock muttered a bit sarcastically, to which Mrs. Holmes frowned and put the newly erased problem back on his desk.
"The soldier's arrival will not matter to the college application board, if you want to go to King's..."
"I know, I know, I have to work my hardest and do my best. My apologies mother, if my best is not what, you were hoping it was. And yet I am trying." Sherlock defended with a groan.
"I know, I know you're not perfect. But William it's a simple math problem, you could do this in your sleep!" Mrs. Holmes insisted with a very bothersome tone. Sherlock groaned heavily, shaking his head and letting it fall down to the table with a defeated flop.
"Mother, you know I'd rather be called Sherlock." He groaned.
"Stop that, changing the subject will get you nowhere. Now do your math problem, William, and I will let you leave early." Mrs. Holmes insisted, tapping the problem with her pencil urgently. At the idea of leaving early Sherlock was suddenly very motivated, and in his eagerness solved the question without even batting an eyelash, proving once more to his mother that he really was capable of such things. She whined to him as soon as she read the right answer, for even though his participation was ultimately what she wanted from him now that he actually gave it his best shot he was now criticized freshly for the time he had wasted doodling. Yet in the end a deal was a deal, and he got to leave early. However just as soon as he got to his feet his mother called him back, sounding as though she had forgotten something urgent.
"Oh Sherlock wait, come back!" she exclaimed. "I've got something for you."
"Now stop that, I swear, if it's another math problem I'm holding you legally responsible..."
"No it's not a math problem, stop being so mean. It's a present, but if you've decided now that you don't want it then there's no need for me to give it to you, I suppose." She said with her characteristic motherly sarcasm. Sherlock frowned, pausing at the door before shaking his head eagerly. He wanted a present, obviously, and it was foolish of his mother to try to joke around like that.
"Oh come now, you know I actually want a present. What is it?" Sherlock asked excitedly, bouncing back into the room with a newfound energy in his step. Mrs. Holmes smiled, obviously happy to see her son back to being his usual, childish self. Sherlock would be happy to remind her that presents always brought him out of his most miserable moods, however now didn't seem to be the time to ask for anything extra. From the drawer Mrs. Holmes pulled out a great big leather bound book, something that Sherlock doubted he could lift much less read, however the sight of it immediately gave him an unprecedented feeling of excitement. Oh how he loved books bigger than his forearm!
"It's the book I've been pulling the poems from, all of William Shakespeare's greatest. I've got many copies, but I thought I'd share one with you since you seem to share my passion for his works." Mrs. Holmes said with a proud smile, passing the book over to her now beaming, ecstatic son.
"You really mean it? Oh that's amazing, thank you so much mother!" Sherlock exclaimed, dropping the book onto the desk so as to give his mother a great big hug. With that, however, he took up his new present and ran off to his room, prepared to find a good couple of poems before the time came when he was to meet Molly at their bench. He was let out almost an hour early from his studies, and so he had that time now to devout to his new book, the one that undoubtedly described the very feelings he was feeling now. It was almost spooky, the way his very thoughts could be portrayed so effortlessly through the pages! As confusing as the language proved to be, and as ancient as some of the dialect, oh the words still flowed effortlessly, conveying not only a feeling of love but a feeling of hopelessness, the very same feeling Sherlock was suffering through now! It was difficult for him to sit there and read, however intrigued he was, for he still kept thinking on what might happen in the future, the future that might hold both he and Victor together. Would it be love that was destined for them both, or might it be something else entirely? With war on the brink, war downright inevitable, what might happen if one of them got shot? What would happen if one of them died? Or even worse, come to think about it, what would Sherlock be expected to do? Despite the evident madness of such a claim, say that Sherlock and Victor really did end up being together, and suddenly the first shots of this war are fired. Molly would expect Sherlock to fight for the revolutionaries, for she was one of the few that would remember Sherlock's rebellious fires and try to convince him to let them burn. Whereas Victor would either want him to join the British army or defend the soldiers as best he could from home, whether that involves mending their clothes with the women, traveling in their army band, or even just passing out pamphlets on the streets about how helpful the British king has been over these last couple of centuries. What would happen then, where would his loyalties truly lie if his heart was with Victor but his common sense was with Molly? Oh for the first time in his life he truly wished war would not break out, simply because he would find himself ripped in two, with his obligations to both drastically different parties tearing him apart! Those gun shots would either end his relationship with Victor or his friendship with Molly, and despite one of those two not even existing yet he still found it nearly impossible to choose! Oh how tempting it was now, to give up everything to be with that dashing young soldier, the one who would treat him like a king all while loving him as if he was some sort of prince charming. Victor would prove to be his soulmate, oh of that Sherlock was positive! When finally Sherlock was expected to meet Molly he grabbed his new book and started down the road, a very short walk to their bench in the middle of town. He was very much hoping to meet Victor along the way, for most every sidewalk these days had a soldier on them, whether they be guarding shops or houses it really made no difference. Sherlock didn't know exactly what these soldiers were supposed to be watching for, any signs of uprising, perhaps? Or maybe they were just there to remind everyone that despite the king's being an ocean away the soldiers and the discipline that came along with his rule was always right there to enforce the laws of the land. Either way it wasn't working very well, in fact the soldiers being there seemed only to provoke the townspeople more, to irritate them at the king's iron fist and to start sparking flames that would surely prove to burn into a huge, raging fire.
"You're early." Was the first thing Molly said when he arrived. She was sitting on the park bench as she always was, yet today she was eating a small little sandwich, evidently one she had just purchased from the market next door. Even though this was a very normal human behavior Sherlock had never been witness to watching Molly eat lunch, for he was always much too late to catch such a process in action.
"Yes, my mother let me out early. I was being too fussy." Sherlock admitted with a little grin.
"Fussy, you? No, no that doesn't correlate at all. I've never known you to whine about anything." Molly teased, finishing off the last of her sandwich and sitting back with a very satisfied look on her face.
"Yes I know, hard to believe, but it's true! Yet she still gave me a present, a great big book of Shakespeare's poems! It's impressively massive, and I plan to read the whole thing before I die!" Sherlock decided proudly, to which Molly just grinned a bit sarcastically.
"Yet better start reading then." She teased, to which Sherlock simply frowned.
"You're implying that I'm going to die soon? Frankly I thought I gave myself a nice big time window, to procrastinate." Sherlock admitted with something of a frown.
"Well if you go to war then you might not have as long as you might prefer." Molly pointed out with a regretful shrug.
"Wonderful that you have so much confidence in my military skills." Sherlock grumbled.
"I have zero confidence in your military skills, that's why I doubt you'll get even a quarter of the way through that book before I have to burry you with it." Molly groaned. Her tone was still playful yet she seemed to get more and more depressed as she got through the sentence, as if even though she liked to make fun of Sherlock for his lack of manliness it still hurt her immensely to have to cope with the idea that he might die soon. If there was indeed a war Molly would lose a lot, not just people but lifestyles as well. She was the daughter of what might arguably be the most influential revolutionary in Boston; she would be imprisoned just for her connections if her father was ever found out! And of course with a war would come exposure, furthering Sherlock's secret desire that the conflict was pushed off another fifty years, long after either of them would have to worry about it.
"I won't die, Molly." Sherlock assured quietly, sitting back on the bench and looking at her as if trying to decide whether or not to give her shoulder a reassuring pat.
"Are you going to fight?" she wondered quietly. Sherlock paused at that question as well, for at the moment he was unsure of the answer. Was he going to fight, and if so, who for?
"I would prefer not to go to war, but if it's deemed necessary then I suppose I'll have no choice." Sherlock admitted quietly. Molly nodded her head solemnly, and for a moment she stared at the ground, unable to bring her eyes to meet his. She was pondering the same question he really didn't want to be asked, and despite both of their reluctance to put the thing to words, they knew of course that it would have to be said.
"Will you be able to kill redcoats now that you're so friendly with them?" Molly asked in a small voice. Sherlock blinked, for he hadn't exactly expected that question from her. Not only that, but he wasn't sure how to answer it, either. He thought for a moment, thinking back a week or so when his hatred for that horrible red coat was burning so brightly inside of him. When he channeled that fire he knew the answer was yes, he knew that a weapon in his hand would only prove to aid in putting a bullet in a British soldier, he knew that he would be able to fight, he knew that he would be able to kill. And then he thought of now, of the men that he had befriended over poker and cigars, he thought of Victor, the boy who had brought the words of love to life, the one who had light the first flame of desire in his heart. Could he really shoot into a field of redcoats, knowing that there was a chance his bullet would hit one of his new friends? Would he be able to take a man's life knowing that he was ultimately no different from any of the revolutionaries, save for his loyalties?
"I don't know if I could kill anyone, Molly." Sherlock admitted quietly. "I've never known."
"You did once, you wanted to. I remember you telling me." Molly pointed out solemnly.
"Well maybe something has changed, my ability to see through my own bias, to see past the red coat and realize that there was a human being wearing it." Sherlock snapped.
"A human being that is trying to kill your friends, your fellow Americans. A human being that is serving the man that would try to oppress us all." Molly muttered, her voice wavering as if the words were hard to come by, as if it was hard for her to choke them out properly. She sounded almost as if she was close to tears; as if she was struggling to think that her closest friend was now starting to side with her enemy.
"You should meet him, Molly. You should meet Victor. It would help you realize..."
"I don't want to meet Victor, Sherlock this is not my problem to overcome. I am in no way trying to turn myself against what I know is right." Molly growled, shaking her head pointedly and regaining that frown. Sherlock didn't see this as in anyway fair, for she kept insisting she was fighting for the right side without actually looking at the other side, she wasn't considering that this war had two fronts of people who all thought they were doing the right thing. It was the issue of loyalties and tradition, obligation and nationalism, why couldn't Molly see that behind every colonist and behind every British soldier there was a scared family, waiting for them to return? Why did she insist on blinding herself and still fighting on?
"I don't want to fight with you, not today." Sherlock decided with a sigh.
"I know, I know, I'm sorry. I don't want to fight either." Molly agreed. Sherlock nodded, looking through the crowd and seeing if he could find anyone worth rating. He knew that the rating game would at least take their attention away from their newfound hostilities; it would give them something to think about other than just war. Yet just as soon as Sherlock looked through the crowd, he spotted the very person he really would rather not see at the moment.