Molly led Sherlock to her room and shut the door quietly, going immediately to sit on the bed and stare at the wall for a moment while Sherlock tried to open the shades to get some more light inside. It was very dark and mournful inside, however the starlight wasn't offering anything except a more eerie, silvery glow.
"Keep them closed, if you will. I feel as though there might be people watching the house." Molly managed a bit fearfully, her voice trembling with the effort of holding back the tears that were so close to falling.
"Yes alright." Sherlock agreed, closing the curtains once more and leaving the room back into the state of darkness which he had first found it. Molly was sniffling once more, however it was obvious that she was trying to keep it under control, almost as if she was ashamed to cry in front of Sherlock. As if he would judge her for something so human, so necessary at this point!
"Molly don't try to hold back your tears, don't be embarrassed. My God, the number of times you've seen me cry in situations far more manageable than this one." Sherlock assured quietly, going over to her side and sitting down on the bed next to her. Molly nodded her head once more, and tears began to fall from her eyes once more.
"I've just cried so much already, it seems impossible that there's anything left." Molly muttered with a shake of her head. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what to respond to that, so he merely shook his head and tried to think of something with which to start a conversation with. Mostly everything to do with today's events would be bad to discus, considering the pitiful circumstances in which they found themselves. He didn't want to make Molly cry anymore, despite how healthy it might prove to be for her. No, Sherlock wanted to take her mind off of her father's arrest, and to topics that might distract her for a while. Well of course, there was only one thing to talk about that Molly would surely be interested to hear.
"I don't think I love Victor anymore." Sherlock said in a shameful little mutter, looking towards Molly to see if there was any reaction. Of course there was, she blinked in something of confusion, as if she wasn't able to process what he had just said.
"You don't?" she clarified.
"No of course not, after what he did, what he's still doing. He was the one...well he was involved today. That's why I made the scene." Sherlock admitted quietly. "I thought that I could talk some sense into him, but in the end you were right. All along you were right. There really is something inhuman in those soldiers...something that drains them of whatever sympathy they could feel, whatever humanity."
"Last night, did you um...follow through?" Molly wondered quietly. Sherlock just smiled pitifully, shaking his head for that felt so long ago! So long ago yet it was only last night, it hasn't even been twenty four hours since the biggest disappointment of his life.
"I told you I would, and I did. You know me, always so stubborn." Sherlock growled. Molly gasped, looking quite amazed to hear his confession, and very curious to hear how it had gone.
"Well...what happened? Was it...nice?" Molly asked in the smallest of voices. Sherlock sighed heavily, taking her hand and giving it an apologetic squeeze before deciding what he wanted to say next.
"I should've listened to you. Which is something I say a lot, but never something I really heed. I rushed too much into it, and frankly all throughout the night I couldn't help feeling as though I had made a big mistake. It was wonderful up until the um, the new experiences. I kissed him, he kissed me, I took of my shirt and he sort of kissed my neck...it was very romantic." Sherlock admitted.
"That's so scandalous." Molly breathed, however she nodded her head as if she understood that it was indeed Sherlock they were talking about, and in the end that was a very Sherlock thing to do.
"Yes I know, and that's not even the worst of it." Sherlock admitted quietly. Molly winced, looking over at Sherlock as if she wondered what else could become of such a night.
"You mean you actually...well how, how does that even work?" Molly whispered in a very horrific way, her eyes widening fearfully as if she couldn't wrap her head around what else Sherlock could have been up to.
"Do you actually want me to tell you? It won't...I don't know, get you pregnant?" Sherlock asked quietly. Molly just giggled, shaking her head and squeezing his hand a little bit more, as if trying to nonverbally communicate just how stupid he was.
"As someone who has already lived through such experiences, I feel like you of all people must know that words alone don't do the trick." Molly muttered. "But yes, now you've got me curious." Sherlock nodded, clearing his throat a little bit apprehensively and dropping his voice to a whisper. Because it was very scandalous, the whole lot of it was. And yet he whispered it to her, all that he had done, all that Victor had done to him. As he talked Molly's eyes widened, and a couple of times she gasped, almost as if she could only imagine how uncomfortable that would be, how painful.
"That's so weird. My God...I'll have to do something like that someday, won't I? That's positively revolting." Molly said confidently, shuttering as if she would dreading the very day that she was supposed to produce an heir.
"Well I don't know, it's probably different for you. And I'm sure it's supposed to be nice, I mean considering the hype surrounding such things, well I suspect that people genuinely enjoy it. I just, well I didn't. There was something strangely hallow in the act, something that didn't feel quite right. I got the feeling the whole time that I was being used, that he had no legitimate feelings for me, and afterwards I felt so, well I felt so filthy. As if he had somehow tricked me into going to those lengths so quickly, just so that he could just have someone to lie there for him." Sherlock whispered painfully. "It wasn't genuine, and I think that's why it wasn't nice at all."
"Sherlock I'm so sorry to hear that." Molly muttered shamefully.
"Yes, but..." Sherlock asked with a teasing sort of assumption.
"But I told you so." she added just as quickly, and right then was the first smile that appeared on her face in a long while.
"That's more along the lines of what I was expected you to say." Sherlock agreed with a grin. Molly nodded, leaning against Sherlock's shoulder as if she didn't know what else to say to him, as if she didn't know if there was anything more to say. It was a tragedy; both of them were simply wrapped up in all the tragedies life could throw at you, war, love, and loss. It was a terrible spot to be in, a terrible world to live in, and a dangerous thing to get caught up in. It left Sherlock and Molly wondering if there was any point in going on, if there was any reward for their perseverance.
"I'm sure you'll find a man who will love you, properly." Molly assured quietly. Sherlock nodded remorsefully, knowing of course that there was someone who was sure to fit that description, and someone he would be sure to love back just was well. Someone who had already proved their love and loyalty, and who just now had to come around and admit to it. Someone who Sherlock would throw his heart at, if only he knew for sure it would be received. And just as the name crossed Sherlock's mind they were interrupted by the very faint sound of knocking coming from the front door, another expected visitor.
"John." Sherlock muttered in a breath. Whether that had just answered Molly's question or announced who was at the door he didn't know, yet at the moment it could definitely fit in both situations.
"John's coming?" Molly wondered, listening as the front door opened and very faint conversation ensued from below.
"Yes, we were together all day, he was the one that went and got me. He said to come here, and if there were no redcoats that he wouldn't be far behind." Sherlock admitted. Molly nodded, a little smile coming around on her face once more as she looked at Sherlock presumptuously.
"Spent the day together, huh?" she pointed out.
"Well yes. I took him out to breakfast because I didn't want to be around Victor." Sherlock agreed, smiling right along as if he knew exactly what direction this conversation was headed.
"How sweet of you, Sherlock." She teased.
"And I told him everything, absolutely everything. That was before I had the guts to admit to you what a disaster it had went, because I still didn't know if I loved him or not." Sherlock admitted quietly.
"He knows that you're homosexual?" Molly clarified with a gasp, holding her hand to her heart once more.
"Well yes, now I suppose now he does." Sherlock agreed with a nervous little chuckle.
"Well you know what that means, right?" Molly clarified with an eager grin.
"It means that...well it just means that he knows." Sherlock muttered quietly.
"No, it means that' he's now a potential suitor. Doesn't it?" Molly clarified.
"I mean he's not terrible, and he wasn't afraid. But I don't know Molly; he's rather...well he definitely has the aura of a heterosexual." Sherlock admitted carefully.
"Only one way to find out for sure." Molly insisted, prodding Sherlock in the side once more, almost as if to try to force him back into the world of romance so quickly after he had been kicked out dishonorably. There was nice more a timid knock on the door, yet this time it was much closer, on the bedroom door to be exact.
"Molly, Sherlock?" John's voice called from outside the wood.
"Yes, come in John." Molly agreed, her head still lolling onto Sherlock's shoulder in a friendly yet surprisingly intimate way. He of course let her head take refuge on his shoulder, merely because he knew that she needed some sort of human interaction to make sure that she remained sane. Also, he loved to cuddle just as much as she did. When John opened the door, however, he seemed to be quite surprised to see the both of them cuddled up as much as they were, with their fingers interlocked and her head on Sherlock's shoulder, he almost seemed taken aback. It was evident in his eyes; however in all other aspects he seemed as remorseful and gentle as he should be in this situation.
"Hello Molly." John muttered, standing awkwardly before the two of them as if he didn't want to invite himself to sit down as well.
"Hello John, thanks for coming." Molly said with a grin, picking up her head finally so as to address him properly.
"How are you doing?" John asked rather stupidly, looking at Sherlock for a quick second before trying to focus his attention once more on Molly, where it should be right now.
"Oh you know, doing just as well as I can be." Molly admitted.
"So not great?" John presumed.
"Far from it." Molly agreed remorsefully. "Come and sit down next to Sherlock." She suggested. John nodded, looking a little bit surprised at the offer yet not all together upset about it. Obviously he was here to support Molly, but sitting next to Sherlock obviously wouldn't be too much of a tragedy. He sat next to Sherlock as instructed, yet Sherlock still didn't say anything for he wasn't sure of what there was to say. They had exhausted all conversation between them long before they had arrived at Molly's, and even now Sherlock knew that there was nothing more to say or do.
"The soldiers went back to your house, Sherlock. I had to hide under the porch, but I overheard them talking about you." John admitted.
"About me?" Sherlock clarified with a gasp, feeling as though nothing good could come out of British conversation.
"Ya, about the scene you made. They said that you were making a fool of yourself, and that you were using their names and making it obvious where they were staying. They seemed to be pretty upset." John admitted shamefully.
"Well I'm so sorry that I disrupted them, because God knows they're completely entitled to make their arrests in peace and quiet." Sherlock growled, clenching Molly's hand so violently that she winced and punched him in the arm.
"And I saw Victor; he was the one who stuck out the most." John admitted with a remorseful sigh. Sherlock couldn't help but perk up when he heard that name; evidently it was the remnants of old habits that refused to subside even after his heart had decided he was finished with Victor and all that he was.
"What did he say?" Sherlock whispered. John sighed heavily, shaking his head as if he didn't want to admit to such things.
"Nothing much." John said a little bit reluctantly, as if that was a lie he would much rather say.
"Are you sure about that?" Sherlock challenged with a little bit of a squint. John sighed heavily, yet he shook his head finally, as if there was much more to that story than he would like to admit.
"He called you some um, some rather horrible things. Said how you needed to keep your nose out of the British business." John admitted quietly. Sherlock shook his head in disgusted amazement, grimacing at the fact that he had ever managed to love such a disgusting human being.
"Yes of course he did, that rat." Sherlock growled. "And to think that he is the one who I chose to give myself to." Of course that put a very awkward feeling in the air, for as casual as Sherlock was now about the ins and outs of romantic escapades, it was still evident that the innocent ones in the room didn't much like hearing such things being referred to.
"Ya, that might have been a mistake." John agreed a bit reluctantly.
"You'll do better next time, Sherlock." Molly assured, looking over at Sherlock with a bit of a grin, all while keeping John very well in the corner of her eye. Almost as if she was already planning the wedding.
"I can only hope so." Sherlock grumbled. "How much easier my life would be if I could just love you, Molly."
"Wow, that's strangely flattering and insulting all at the same time. I'm astounded." Molly laughed, shoving Sherlock just a little bit so that he fell into John. That was her plan of course, and yet it was all that Sherlock could do but brush himself off and apologize, and it was all John could do but hide his blush and try to nod along that it was all fine. They were both here to console Molly, and yet the exhaustion of the day's work quickly over powered them all. What was meant to be comforting conversation ended up to be meaningless rambling, in which your sleep deprived brain forces out any sort of information it saw fit, regardless of whether it be secret or not. Thankfully for them all, nothing that was said was much remembered, and as soon as their brains had gotten rid of most all of their confessions they all lay down at the foot of the bed and fell asleep. It was rather odd, yet rather appropriate. Interesting too, how Sherlock had wanted so dearly to wake up next to someone who loved him, and tonight he fell asleep with Molly's hand in his own and John's body pressed up so close. Interesting how the first thing he would see when he woke up would undoubtedly be John Watson. 

 It was an agonizing wait for when Mr. Hooper would be hanged. They all knew it to be happening soon, and it would be downright pathetic to try to deny its happening. Even Molly didn't dare be that stupidly optimistic. There was a top secret military trial, one which could not be attended by anyone who did not sport the red coat, and within days there was the telltale construction of a gallows. Word spread fast of Mr. Hooper's involvement, of the trial, and of his imminent death. No one really gave thought to why they ran their mouths, or what use it would have. Furthermore no one could give any sort of thought to the grieving family the poor man had left behind, and the impact their meaningless chatter might have upon them. No one thought to do any sort of charity, not even bake a casserole, and so it stood that the only two people who extended a hand to help remained the only two people. Sherlock and John were the exclusive help that was given to the Hooper family, and it was help that was so surely needed. Poor Mrs. Hooper couldn't fight off the depression that was lingering in every corner of her house, and along with such a struggle came the inability to do most anything. No of course she could not be blamed for anything, of course most anyone, even the strongest of all humans, would be shocked senseless by such a tragic loss. It was only natural that the human body couldn't cope. Yet Sherlock and John were then passed the sole responsibility of keeping whatever remained of the Hooper household in check,and this in turn proved to be a very tasking responsibility. Soon Sherlock was forced to learn the ins and outs of housekeeping, from cooking (which he already somewhat knew how to do) to cleaning, to making sure everyone stayed hydrated and respectable looking. He did all of this work partially because he knew that the Hooper household needed a hand, and yet that was only half of it. The rest lay solely in the fact that he could hardly stand to go back to his own house, he could not stand to look upon those soldiers! Sherlock had spent about three days entirely at the Hooper house, wearing the same outfit over and over again and tending to medial tasks that needed to be completed by someone other than the inactive grieving lump that was now Mrs. Hooper. And of course this was completely expected, and not at all a burden. If anything Sherlock was happy for the work, because it took his mind off of the fact that he was basically leaving his family and studies behind. Yet that didn't matter anymore, did it? Education, family values? It was all swept away with the upcoming war, and the consequences of Mr. Hooper's operation! The soldiers were soon to march; Sherlock knew that to be a fact. He hadn't been to his house lately, however he could almost feel the negative energies that radiated off of the wooden walls just a little ways down the street. He could sense the tension rising, he could hear the fuse getting dangerously close to the bomb. He wasn't alone of course, John was by his side the entire time, and throughout the days of playing housewife the two of them bonded more than would be expected. For someone who Sherlock couldn't tolerate to be around all those days ago, now Sherlock was beginning to feel some sort of withdrawal symptoms when he wasn't around John. They were attached at the hip, and slowly coming more appreciative of each other with every passing second. Sherlock felt an intense feeling of respect for John, who not only helped with the Hooper household, but also the Hooper organization. He went off to town a couple of times a day to coordinate, and still every day he did his milk run. As far as Sherlock knew it was now John's sole responsibility to keep whatever weapons operation up and running strong, even without their fearless leader. The whole process of a destroyed household lasted about four days, and on the fifth day Mr. Hooper was hung. Molly and Mrs. Hooper had visited him the night before, and told him that they would not be present at the hanging. Of course this was a good idea, since it was not a nice thing to be present at, especially when you would have the curse of either hearing your loved one's neck break or have to sit and watch as they kicked their feet until they suffocated. Either way it wasn't what might be considered family bonding, and so the Hooper family had said their tearful goodbyes while Sherlock and John were left to make the family's dinner. They had a very limited range of culinary expertise, knowledge that extended about as far as the simplest meals could go. Sherlock could make pasta, he could make salads, and John was good at roasting chicken. And so for those five days that was exclusively what they had, just in different ways. Some nights it was pasta with tomato sauce, other times it was salad with an assortment of vegetables, other nights they would mix their specialties and make chicken noodle soup, just to mix it up a little bit. It wasn't good food, but it would keep all of them alive until they could pick themselves up and continue on with life with such a crippling loss. And all this time none of the Holmes family members except Mycroft cared what had happened to Sherlock. He was sure that the parents asked for him, yet it was only Mycroft who was daring enough to go over to the house and check on him. Mycroft would bring groceries, sometimes he would bring clothes, or books, or cards. It was his rebellious heart that made him care so much, and it was the Holmes parent's loyalist hearts that made them indifferent. They saw Sherlock's act of kindness to be the ultimate announcement of his rebel affiliations, and therefore they ceased to care for him. And that did not matter, in the end he didn't need them and they understood that. It was only when Sherlock sat alone with his book of Shakespeare, or when he tried to remember the rules of poker with the Hoopers, that he realized he wished things could've worked out better. He wished that the two sides could have coexisted, for the love he harbored for his friends used to be indistinguishable to the love he harbored for his family, and even for the soldiers! There used to be no separation between those three categories, at least not until two of them proved to be traitors. And so Sherlock stuck with his friends, the ones he knew he could count on, the one she knew would care for him no matter who he sided with in this war. Yet that question was inexistent as well, for the answer was ever so evident. Of course he sided with the rebels; of course he scoffed at the King and everyone who was affiliated with him. Of course Sherlock despised Victor, the man who he had given his heart, soul, and body. Of course he despised his parents, who had given up on him completely once they determined his affiliations.