"William!" cried Captain Moran, smiling behind a cigarette and three hidden cards. The other men chorused their greetings all while Sherlock looked around nervously, seeing that Victor was the only one whose smile seemed all together genuine. The others seemed to be upset that his arrival had ruined the most intense moment of their poker game.
"Hello everyone." Sherlock muttered awkwardly.
"Got any betting money?" asked the one with the ponytail, nodding at the pile of cash that sat on the coffee table once more.
"Yes, I suppose I could spare a couple of coins." Sherlock agreed, nodding as he made his way over to the couch. He made an effort to find a seat that wasn't next to Victor, however it seemed as though all the soldiers on the couch were moving over so as to let him sit next to the youngest soldier, almost as if they assumed that they were friends and therefore needed to sit next to each other. Yes that was sort of true, for they were more of awkward acquaintances than Sherlock was with the rest of them. However that still didn't mean that he wanted to sit next to him, right up close so that their shoulders might be brushing, right where the smoke from Victor's cigarette could pollute right in front of Sherlock's face. He had no choice, it would seem, and that was the common theme of the night. And so he sat next to Victor, muttering a nervous little hello before digging out some money so as to be prepared for the next round.
"Long time no see, William." Victor muttered as he looked down at his cards, staring around so as to read anyone else's expressions before he made his decision. Sherlock couldn't see his hand, however by the way his eyes were moving and his foot was tapping, he could tell that it was something good.
"Yes, yes I've been rather busy of late." Sherlock lied. He could see a small smile break out on Victor's face, and for a moment his blue eyes left his cards so as to glance over at Sherlock, as if trying to accuse him for the lie he knew he was spewing.
"I'm sure you've been very busy." He agreed with a laugh.
"What do you mean by that?" Sherlock wondered offensively, to which Victor just chuckled.
"It means that I think you're lying. A boy like you has nothing on, ever. Unless you've got some sort of new obligation that you haven't shared." Victor muttered, taking a card from the dealer and studying it with a pleased breath.
"A boy like me? What are you trying to imply with that?" Sherlock demanded offensively.
"I mean you're homeschooled, and you've said before that you only have one friend. What could you possibly be doing then?" Victor teased.
"I was reading." Sherlock said with a frown, for the delivery of that statement was nowhere near as impressive as he had imagined it to be.
"Reading is a good excuse." Victor agreed. He finally revealed his hand at the end of the round, and to a chorus of groans and great big smile on his part, all the money was pushed to his side. Sherlock played the next couple of rounds with not much luck. At one point he thought he would have at least an admirable chance; however his little arrangement of cards seemed to be no match to the superior and trained hands of the British soldiers. In the end what little money Sherlock had put into the pool got nowhere close to coming back, and in the end he was just left with stupid cards, folding over and over again until he finally reminded himself that this wasn't very much fun. It was only Victor's presence that was making it the least bit tolerable, for despite the immediate shock of being in such close proximity his presence once more proved to be something of a mesmerizing agent. Sherlock had grown to notice a certain smell off of him, probably a familiar shampoo or cologne that was ever present on his skin or uniform, a pleasant aroma that told Sherlock's brain that the beautiful boy was once more in proximity. He had grown to enjoy listening to the man's voice, even if it was to spew out a couple of choice words at his terrible hand, or to cheer in short congratulations of his own victory. It was wonderful just to be close to him once more, so wonderful in fact that Sherlock wondered why on earth he had deprived himself of such a feeling before. Just as Sherlock was beginning to appreciate his time on the couch they were all called to the table, and the men all dropped their cards eagerly and went to the dining room. they had all been complaining of how hungry they were and how wonderful the kitchen was beginning to smell, and so at their first sign of relief from such an agonizing wait they shot off with more speed than Sherlock had ever seen them utilize. He followed a bit slowly, attempting to collect their empty glasses onto the table so that Mrs. Hudson didn't have too big a job of finding them. Sherlock had thought he was alone of course, for all of the men had darted off at the first sign of food, yet when he looked up from his meager work he saw that Victor was standing near the couch, counting his newly earned money in his hands. When he noticed that Sherlock was watching him he looked up and smiled, and of course Sherlock's cheeks chose now to flare up like hot coals.
"I make more money playing those oafs than I do in the service." Victor laughed, tucking the cash into his pockets and watching Sherlock still with curious blue eyes. He never seemed to stop observing him, almost as if his presence was something to be marveled at.
"Gambling is only fun when you win. I'd say you lose just as much." Sherlock muttered.
"You only lose if you're bad at it." Victor pointed out. "And I'm not bad at anything."
"Well that's awfully conceited of you." Sherlock argued, stepping up towards the doorway in an effort to remind Victor that they both had places to be. Yet even as Victor smiled at him with that big, dazzling smile, he knew that his once daring statement would prove to be true. Of course he was good at everything; such a beautiful man couldn't possibly fail! He was probably good at war, good at academics...good at love. Sherlock exhaled rather nervously, realizing that he had been staring, and tried to step once more to the dining room.
"I didn't mean it in a way to hold myself any higher. I'm sure you're plenty good at everything too, Sherlock." Victor assured, his voice calling Sherlock back as if he wanted to prolong their solitude for a little while longer. Sherlock went quite numb as he heard his preferred name, and for a moment he had forgotten he had even told Victor what it was. Yet it sounded beautiful, so beautiful rolling off that man's tongue that Sherlock was ever so happy he had picked such a name.
"Oh I doubt that, truly." Sherlock muttered, turning towards Victor just to see that the man had loomed closer. He did it in a sneaky way, making it seem almost as if he was going off to the doorway as well, yet he seemed very content in standing next to Sherlock and looking down at him with that ever observant smile.
"You would not know, not yet Sherlock. For you have not yet done everything." Victor pointed out with a little gleam in his eyes, a gleam that Sherlock could easily mistake as flirtatious.
"Neither have you, so how would you know that you're not bad at something like...oh I don't know, rock scrambling? Or knitting?" Sherlock wondered with a bit of a chuckle, trying to break the tension that Victor was so effortlessly building up between them.
"I rephrase, then. I am good at everything that matters." Victor clarified, a small smile appearing on his face once more, that little smile that made Sherlock's poor heart do little flip flops in his chest.
"What matters then, to you?" Sherlock asked in whatever voice he could muster, a little squeak at that. Victor's smile widened, and while he stayed silent for a moment his eyes were gleaming so brightly that Sherlock could swear he read the answers in the blues.
"Shall we go eat? They'll be expecting us by now." Victor presumed, turning rather abruptly and touching Sherlock's shoulder ever so softly, so as to cue him to action once more. Yet his touch was both an electric shock and a paralyzing agent, and while Sherlock shivered he couldn't seem to follow on demand. It instead took him quite a long while before he was finally able to nod and walk on in the stride of the soldier, following him to the dining room where everyone had already begun to eat.
"Well there they are! We had almost suspected you two had gone out to eat instead." Mrs. Holmes laughed, patting the seat next to her to encourage Sherlock to sit down immediately. Moran watched Victor with curious eyes, almost as if he was accusing him of something as he sat down. Yet Victor didn't seem to notice, that or he simply didn't care, and eventually Moran averted his eyes back to his dinner. Sherlock wasn't feeling very hungry; in fact his stomach was still in a great big knot after having been approached by Victor without much warning. Sherlock had decided that the best way to fight this infatuation was to avoid it all together, yet for some reason it seemed as though everyone was out to prove to him that he was hopeless in such an endeavor. He could never abstain from Victor's constant approach and attention; he could never quite get out of the proximity that could prove to become hazardous in the near future. The universe itself was pushing them together, heck it had brought Victor over the ocean for them to unite! Did Sherlock really think that moping around in his room was going to stop whatever was already set into motion? Did he think that he was being clever, trying to hide away from it? It was what he wanted in the end, was it not? Why should he hide from something he so dearly wanted, that would be just foolish! And so he looked up at Victor across the table, finding of course that Victor's gaze was already on him. Together they shared a smile, one that was carried even after Sherlock ducked his head away in humiliation, hidden as he stared down at his plate in flattery. Victor chuckled before him, for it would seem at this point he knew exactly what sort of state he was capable of putting Sherlock into. Almost as if he had come to expect it, as if he knew that the possibility of such a crush had been there since the start. It was almost as if Victor had been playing him the whole time, from the moment they first met, so that he could lead Sherlock down the road that led to their mutual happiness and satisfaction with each other. Sherlock had a hard time imagining that maybe Victor was just as infatuated as he was, however now would be the time to at least consider such a thing as a possibility. 

 It was later into the night that Sherlock decided that he best be off to bed. Most of the soldiers had collected around the fireplace (for it was a very cold night, despite the coming spring months) and were listening to Mr. Holmes's collection of records. They were not playing cards, merely chatting with cigars and whiskey, enjoying themselves while they still could. They talked of war as if it was unavoidable at this point, and they were talking more of what they were sure to be secret arms dealings inside of Boston. They talked of the revolutionaries not as revels but as traitors, they referred to them as such. As if they were mere pests that were going to get swatted just as soon as they geared up their arm to take a swing. The British talked with so much confidence, so much so that Sherlock didn't know whether to be worried or not. Maybe a swift war and quick defeat was exactly what they needed, minimal casualties and still the world as he knew it. Maybe everyone would be a bit harsher, maybe the British fist would get a bit more clenched; however in the end he wouldn't have to deal with a new and under experienced government or any sort of political nightmares. Sherlock knew that the world would be changed if they got their freedom, and while in some ways it would be a breath of fresh air it would also prove to be a collapsing blow on what little nationalist governments had already formed. The states would have to come together; well it would be a mess! As bad as the King was overseas, at least he actually knew how to run a nation. And if the British powerhouse did indeed come through and defeat the colonists, well then Sherlock wouldn't have to worry about losing his new friends. He sat with the men for a while that night, smoking a cigarette (his father encouraged such behavior, and he was sitting by as well) and listening to the stories they told. And in a moment of possibly misplaced sentiment, whether it be influenced by the tobacco or a full stomach or the song his heart was still singing, well he looked about the room and saw men that were virtually irreplaceable. He couldn't even name most of these soldiers, yet he recognized them as worthy placeholders on the couches and chairs. He appreciated their presence, not quite as family members but as worthy friends and lodgers. Sherlock couldn't imagine the group without the presence of just one of them, whether it be the man with the ponytail, the man who drinks too much whiskey, or the man who deals the cards at poker. Something would be missing; he knew that to be true. He cherished all of them in the most curious way, and to think that there might be a time when they would be called to battle, called to a field in which to get shot! Well Sherlock couldn't bear to think of it, he couldn't stand to imagine one of these men lying dead in a pool of wasted blood! Not after their time in the Holmes household, smoking carelessly, unable to comprehend what sort of wartime tragedies might befall them the minute the first shot of revolution is fired. Victor was among the men tonight, however with the presence of both Captain Moran and Mr. Holmes he dared not try anything. In fact he was sitting on the other side of the room, at the left side of the Captain and serving as his honorary cigarette lighter. Every time the Captain needed a light Victor would be the one to strike a match and hold it to him, maybe because he was the youngest or maybe because he had some sort of debt to pay. Either way it was rather satisfying to watch him work, for even in such a meager job he looked completely beautiful. He sat so straight in his chair, with posture worthy of only a soldier, his hair slicked back and gleaming in the soft light of the chandelier hanging above everyone's heads. Yet as the conversation drifted from war and back to talks of England Sherlock grew tired, and eventually he excused himself to be off to bed. He knew that once he had left the conversation would either dwindle to a stop or get much more invigorating, however in the midst of his exhaustion he really couldn't be bothered by either way. In fact just as soon as he mounted the stairs he heard more footsteps, as if more people were beginning to move around and start heading to bed as well. The records kept on playing, and so Sherlock knew that whatever evening festivities were taking place were still at least going on in the musical sense. Sherlock went off to his room and sat down heavily on his bed, lighting the oil lamp that sat on his dresser and sitting for a moment in that solitary, shadowy light. Sherlock smiled softly, kicking off his shoes and falling back onto his bed to stare up at the ceiling. It was a soft night, one of those nights where you're not entirely sure if it's even happening or not. When the light of the moon was bright enough to send soft silvery beams into the window, yet the light of the oil lamp was just enough to illuminate everything in an orange aura. The sort of night where you could hear crickets through the gaps in the window panes yet there was complete silence, the sort of night where you were pleasantly warm until a shiver ran down your spine, allowing you only to cuddle up more and sleep tighter. The sort of night that filled your stomach with good food and told you in a whisper that it was time to sleep it off, to fall into your bed and sink like a stone into the world in which your dreams would take you. It was Sherlock's favorite sort of night. He thought more of Victor, for just a moment. He knew that he had some bedtime preparations to suffer through before he could finally get to bed, and yet for a moment he allowed himself to sink into his bedspread and think with a happy smile what might happen if he had the pleasure of allowing Victor to lay next to him. He would be a strong, admirable cuddler. Of that Sherlock was sure. He would be warm, too, in a cotton shirt in which you could feel the muscles underneath the fabric, and you could hear every beating of his heart. He would smell as he always did, and hold Sherlock close up to his chest so that Sherlock's head could fall right on his shoulder. And they would lie for hours, knowing they had nowhere to be, and no one calling for them. That was the sort of love Sherlock aspired to have, with that beautiful man. And he had now that insane spark of hope, that sort of thing that burned so brightly and timidly in his chest, almost as if it wasn't quite sure if it was allowed to exist just yet. Yet it was there all the same, that voice in his head that told him Victor was just as keen. Crazy, yes, but in some ways necessary so as to keep going. To keep a smile on his face, even when things looked grim. Sherlock finally rolled to his feet, unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt so as to allow himself to breathe a bit easier as he stumbled off to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He ran his hand through his hair for a moment, sighing heavily and trying to keep one of those dopey, sleepy smiles off of his face. For some reason in this sort of nighttime ecstasy he liked to smile for no reason, and it was a really good way to be mistaken for a psychopath. The hallway was empty, as he had imagined it to be, yet to Sherlock's surprise the bathroom door was closed. He tried the handle but found it to be locked, almost as if the occupant was attempting to have some sort of solitude. Sherlock heard the sound of water, as if someone was swirling their hand in the bathtub so as to check the temperature before the got in. Sherlock couldn't imagine who would have the audacity to use their upstairs bath, for the soldiers had their own bathroom downstairs and both Mycroft and the Holmes parents had their own private ones attached to their rooms. Sherlock's reserved bathroom had always been this one, and never before had he been unable to use it because of an intruder. However their guests didn't know that, obviously, for they were foolish enough to use it without asking him first. Had they not anticipated that the youngest occupant of the house would be in dire need to brush his teeth? Were they really expecting him to go to bed with breath that stank of tobacco? Sherlock sighed heavily, beginning to turn away before a very uncanny sort of curiosity came over him. He felt a strange urge to at least see who it was that was daring enough to steal his bathroom away, just so that tomorrow he could at least give them a friendly reminder to back off. Some sort of tugging in his stomach was begging him to take a look, as if expected something more than just a trespassing bather to be in his bathroom, but something much more momentous. Following such whims Sherlock hesitantly looked around the hallway, finding all the doors to be shut and the hall itself to be completely empty. The staircase remained silent and the lamps were burning strong, and so ever so reluctantly Sherlock stooped down to his knees, dropping his eye to the key hole and staring in. He blinked for a moment before his eye adjusted to the new key shaped frame which he was looking through, and finally the dimly lit bathroom came into view. It was lit by an oil lamp or two, burning as brightly as they could manage yet still unable to illuminate the whole thing. The bathtub was filled and steaming, while a solitary figure stood next to one of the lamps that were hanging on the wall. A solitary figure that Sherlock immediately recognized as Victor Trevor.