Breakfast that morning was going to be fearful, and that was why Sherlock stayed in his bed as long as could be tolerated by his mother. He was afraid to go down stairs, afraid because of the lucid dreams he had the night before, afraid because of what they had presented to him, and what it meant for him now. He was having trouble accepting what his dreams had been trying to tell him, he had trouble in realizing that the words of the men that had been presented to him last night were in actuality his own words, coming from the corners of his mind. The words, the actions, the consequences, they were all his...and they were announcing something dreadful. Something much more real than could possibly be expected of him, something much more desperate. He had sworn himself off of love, for he had never thought himself able to make such a leap, such a dedication to a single woman. And yet, oh what a fool he had been! To think that a woman was his only choice! To think that a woman was the only thing that was made available to love, did he not know there were millions of other candidates walking here and there, right in his view, right in plain sight? Men with hearts that worked just as well, that were just as magnetic? Oh it was a terrible thought, something that made his stomach clench in shame, for what a monster he had become...yet who was he to try to deny his inner thoughts? What he had said, what he had done, well that was what he was thinking and what he was longing for, it was the harsh reality of it all. He could try to deny it all he liked, and of course he would try, yet it would forever be the truth, lingering in the back of his head and trying its best to be realized. And Victor...oh no, what would Victor think? What would he think if he ever found out what sort of horrible inclinations Sherlock had suddenly found himself prone to? What would he think, what would he do? He would be terrified, that was for sure, that had to be certain. No man would ever feel comfortable around a homosexual, no he would want out of this house as soon as possible! Yet where would he go, what would he say to justify his leaving? Unless, in order to protect himself, he told others of the real reason he was leaving? Unless he announced to the world that Sherlock's romantic tendencies had driven him to abandon his station? Not only would Sherlock's life be ruined, but Victor would be gone...No that could not happen; Sherlock would simply not let it happen! With all of his power, with every last string of will he had, he would make sure to keep this secret to himself, he would make sure it never got past his own brain. He would keep himself safe, all while protecting the proximity he had to the man he just may have come to love. He would not mess this up, yes love was a dangerous thing, and only now was he realizing just how necessary of a thing it really was. The first step in protecting his secrets was making sure no one noticed anything was amiss. He was a boy of predictable habits, most always following the same schedule, and so avoiding Victor or the soldiers all together was impossible. He would have to face his fears, not run from them, if he wanted to make sure no one noticed that he was scared at all. And so despite his desire to just stay in bed and mourn for the innocence he had fallen asleep with he instead rose as a broken, horribly disfigured boy. Gone were the days where he could swear off of love and insist that he was waiting for the right woman, now came the time in which he saw that woman would never come, for she simply didn't exist. Was it possible to even love a man? Was this idea completely new, or was it created in the midst of Sherlock's subconscious because of a little fact or tidbit he had picked up along the way? Someone somewhere must have mentioned such a thing, for how else could he have left it up to his heart to be self-aware? How could he have detected such feelings if he didn't even know they were a possibility? Oh how he wished he could just forget this all, he wished he could tell himself it wasn't true and just move on! And yet that would prove to be impossible, and he was knowledgeable enough to realize that. Just as soon as his mind had suggested it he accepted it. Maybe that seemed like a weak response to something, maybe that seemed as though he was something of a pushover to even the slightest self-concocted suggestions, and yet the truth of the matter was he had realized this before. He must have known long before his mind had reminded him of what he was after; he must have been getting so miserable around the soldiers not because of what he could never be, but what he could never have. As a beautiful boy, one who could have any girl he wanted, oh leave it to him to want a boy instead! Leave it to him to long for the impossible! Sherlock dressed quickly and started down the stairs, for by this time he would have been down there already, and if people suspected him to sitting around moping then they would surely begin to question him. Sherlock was a terrible liar, and he wanted to make sure that he was never put in the situation were lying was his only option. He wanted to avoid the questions; he wanted to be sure that no one even got the slightest doubt of his normality. When he descended the stairs already he found that his promptness was to go punished, for it wasn't a member of the Holmes family, nor was it a soldier, who was there at the bottom waiting for him.
"Milk boy." Sherlock announced confrontationally, descending the stairs in the most elegant of fashions and staring down the boy who stood in his doorway. "What are you doing in my house?"
"First of all, I'm a milk man." John corrected with a frown. "And secondly, your mother let me in."
"I think man is a bit of a stretch." Sherlock hummed, pausing on the last couple of stairs just so that John had to stretch his neck to look at him. He wanted to be sure that he could look down on the poor boy, just so that he knew who was ultimately his superior. John was looking very much as he had the day before, the same blonde hair and the same annoyingly good looks that went completely soiled by his rotten personality. He was so snarky and so sarcastic, so much so that you would think he had forgotten his place in the world. And yet once again Sherlock's newfound reality kicked in, for all of this time, even during the rating game, Sherlock had been knowledgeable to rank the men higher based on looks. This was not judging through rational senses, it was instead going by his own romantic dispositions; he had been looking at John Watson as a suitor instead of just a milkman. That was why whenever he looked at him he was once more dazzled by his beauty.
"Says you, Mr. 'I couldn't even lift the crate to the door'. Your mother managed all the way to the kitchen, all I had to do was take it from the doorway to the fridge. She far outmatched you." John muttered, leaning against the wall as if he was expecting to stay and have at least something of a conversation. His smile was friendly enough, but once again he was back to sassing Sherlock and making this overall experience something that was very undesirable.
"Don't steal anything." Sherlock snapped.
"No of course not, I don't want any of your things anyway. Rich kid stuff, crystal glasses and golden candelabras and whatnot, what use do I have of that?" John laughed.
"You could sell it of course; maybe buy yourself a better personality." Sherlock suggested with a hiss. John blinked, and for a very short moment Sherlock actually thought he was upset. Would that have been ideal? Yet no, John's face broke out into something of a congratulatory smile, giggling as if he was extremely impressed with Sherlock's reaction time.
"That was good, you got me there. Yet if someone could buy personality you'd think you'd have already done that? Maybe you're not too rich after all." John muttered. Sherlock sighed heavily, shaking his head in disappointment, for jokes were no fun after they were recycled.
"Well, I'm done wasting my time and breath with you, John. If you would please exit my house, I would be much obliged." Sherlock grumbled, descending all the way to ground level so as to make it past John and to the kitchen.
"You know my name, why don't I know yours?" John wondered immediately, swerving so as to keep Sherlock in his range of vision and continue their conversation.
"Because your knowing my name only encourages you to talk to me. Surely I wouldn't want that, we're not friends." Sherlock snapped.
"Ha, I thought you'd say that. That's why I asked your mom, William." John teased. Sherlock just frowned, looking back at the boy with very little interest at all.
"That's not what I like to go by. And, speaking of going..." Sherlock muttered, shooing John off with a wave that one might use when calling off some sort of wild animal. "You best be going now too."
"Ya alright, alright, I can see when I'm not wanted." John agreed with a sigh.
"Evidently not, considering you've stayed here for a while." Sherlock grumbled.
"I've only been here two minutes." John snapped.
"More like four, and yet if you'd have known when you weren't wanted you wouldn't have shown up at all." Sherlock pointed out.
"You don't have to be so rude about it." John muttered, yet he started for the door as he was meant to. "Have a nice day William, I hope you cheer up eventually."
"Once you're gone it will certainly be easier. Bye now." Sherlock snapped, and with that he started towards the kitchen and John started towards the door, until finally the telltale snap of the door announced that he was back on the sidewalk where he belonged. Sherlock sighed heavily, pausing in the doorway of the kitchen just for a moment of recollection. Oh how he despised that boy, really he had to learn his place in the world! Sassing to Sherlock as if he somehow had the right, prying into business that was very much not his business to pry into. He just had to keep his nose out of places it didn't belong, and keep his feet from treading through households they were very much not welcome in!
"Why'd you let the milkman into the house?" Sherlock wondered immediately as he started into the kitchen. He found both Mrs. Holmes and Mrs. Hudson hard at work, and yet they quickly found him some cooking that could be done. He was given the job of the potato slicer, for they were trying to mix up the breakfast by serving hash browns and pancakes this morning. There was a very reasonable stack already, all about as large as a plate and tall enough to justify attempting to feed an army. Yet even with that he knew that there would be more, for Mrs. Holmes was making the batter while Mrs. Hudson was cooking them into lovely shaped pancakes, stacking up more and more until it was reasonable to say that was enough, and yet still they kept going!
"You mean John?" Mrs. Holmes clarified.
"Yes, I mean John, he's the only milkman there is now." Sherlock agreed with a bit of a snap; however he leveled his attitude when he remembered that he was talking to his mother, and not some insolent intruder. He would have to mind his manners from now on.
"He's a very nice boy, isn't he? We both think so." Mrs. Holmes said proudly, nodding towards Mrs. Hudson who nodded along eagerly.
"We think he could make a good friend for you, too." Mrs. Hudson added.
"A friend? I don't need a friend, what are you, mad?" Sherlock groaned, holding the potato knife a little bit threateningly as he stopped his chopping to gape at such a suggestion.
"Well we were both thinking that you've only got one friend, and while Molly is an excellent girl, well maybe you need to broaden your horizons? John's just about your age, we asked." Mrs. Holmes said with a grin.
"I am not going to be friends with that ruffian. He's so rude to me." Sherlock growled.
"Well I'm sure you're rude back, it's not like you to be nice." Mrs. Holmes pointed out. A normal person would be offended by such a statement, yet in all honestly Sherlock could only grin along proudly.
"Indeed." Sherlock agreed.
"You don't have to be friends with him if you don't want to; we just thought it would be nice if you had a guy to hang out with once in a while. Just to, you know...give you a more masculine view of the world." Mrs. Holmes admitted rather quietly, shrugging her shoulders as if she had something to be ashamed of for some reason.
"What's wrong with my view of the world? You're saying that I'm feminine now, aren't you?" Sherlock challenged, immediately going rigid with the truth in the matter. Was that what this was, a sexuality confrontation? Did these women somehow know, that after a single morning of self-understanding, that Sherlock's perception of the romantic world had changed so drastically?
"No of course not! We just thought that with you hanging out with Molly exclusively, well you might not get the full image of the world." Mrs. Holmes clarified, to which Mrs. Hudson nodded in agreement.
"That's mad." Sherlock decided with a frown.
"It was just a suggestion William. No need to get defensive." Mrs. Hudson warned, to which Sherlock sighed heavily. Sometimes it was very hard to have two mothers. With finally the finished breakfast product Sherlock was one of the people who had the honor of presenting the food to the crowd of hungry soldiers. Thankfully there was now a wake up time at which breakfast is served and if you didn't wake in time to make it then you didn't eat that morning. This was a good supplement for Sherlock's previous task of waking the sleeping and sometimes nude soldiers, a very disturbing task that he would very much like to avoid at all costs. The time was eight thirty, and at exactly eight thirty the pancakes and hash browns were served. It seemed more like a mess hall than anything now, for the soldiers were stumbling in half dressed and whining about the hour when they arrived. None of them seemed very awake, yet even without their fullest perception Sherlock knew that he had to be careful. He knew that with the rest of the soldiers would eventually come Victor, and that was a terrifying thought at the moment. Last night's confrontation had been short, yet it had obviously been enough to wake something inside of Sherlock that he would much preferred stay silent. He had to wonder of course if the very same feelings had been erupted inside of Victor, and if so was he going to make them known? Well of course not...no that would never happen and so Sherlock had to start reminding himself of the fact. There was no possible outcome in which he got what he wanted, for what he wanted now was something so outlandishly criminal that it would never pass in this respectable English household. He had to stop thinking of his desires as possible and more as a burden, one which he should try to rid himself of in the near future. And just as his thoughts turned towards the boy, just like that he appeared. It was almost as if Victor could tell when someone was pondering him, and even worse he could tell in what state of agitation they were in. For of course he had to come dressed in his red coat, polished up and preened for a day of soldier work. He looked stunning, almost ironically stunning for Sherlock really wanted the man to be crawling in here like all the rest of them. He had wished that victor would come in a bed ridden, disgusting state so that he could at least looking at him without feeling a blush creep into his cheeks. Yet leave it to Victor Trevor to make everything a fashion show, and in doing so making everyone's life a lot more difficult. 

"Good morning William." Victor said with a little wink, for he obviously remember from last night that Sherlock preferred his middle name. He was just using his formal title so as to sound proper around the parents and the soldiers who might find Sherlock's preferred name to be amusing, or even insulting.
"Good morning." Sherlock managed, nearly choking out his greeting as he turned away and made himself busy arranging the silverware on the nearest napkin. This hadn't been his job of course, yet it still seemed preferable to watching Victor as the man observed him. He could feel the eyes still watching, and so he went to the next napkin and straightened out the already perfect silverware, for he really didn't want their simply good mornings to turn into something of a conversation.
"What've we got here, pancakes? Mm, I hope they're blueberry." One of the men said excitedly, sitting down heavily in one of the chairs and helping himself to the gigantic stack that sat in the middle of the table.
"I think some are blueberry, others are chocolate chip, and the rest are plain." Sherlock muttered quietly, for he almost felt as though he had no authority to discuss the breakfast foods.
"Yay, chocolate chip!" another man joined in, sounding like an excited child as he made immediately for the stack. Sherlock nodded, proud that he had at least made one man's morning a bit more tolerable. Yet he knew that victor had yet to take his seat, and so without a word Sherlock tried to slip into the kitchen without being detected.
"Are you not eating, William?" Captain Moran questioned, for he had just seated himself with the rest of his men. He was the only other one dressed; he and Victor were representing the more civilized side of the English army while the rest were all looking like they had just crawled off the streets by the state of their dress and demeanor. Sherlock turned, for Captain Moran was the only one he knew he was obligated to talk to, and so he shook his head a bit nervously.
"I'll um...I'll wait until you men have had your share." Sherlock assured with a nervous little grin.
"Now really, politeness only goes so far until it's self-neglect! You need your food as much as we do, now sit down with us William; you have every right to this table." Victor insisted, piping in because he thought he was the one personally responsible for Sherlock's health. Sherlock knew that it would be rude to decline, and once more a voice in the back of his head was reminding him that he really should be acting normally. If he expressed any sort of reluctance he knew that someone would pick up on it, and so he nodded his head nervously and went to sit at his normal spot. The men and the family had all synched perfectly to the table arrangement they had chosen the first time they all dined together, and while that was good in theory, it always meant that Sherlock would be sitting across from Victor. However wonderful it was to look at the man (for he was beautiful) it also meant that Victor could look at him as well. And Sherlock hated eye contact, especially when his eyes were trying their best to hide things that may very well be picked up by the ever observant blue eyes across the table. Yet he served himself pancakes, trying to forget that the man who had been on his mind so often was now sitting so close to him, so close yet so far! He tried to sit back and enjoy his breakfast, without giving any thought to who may or may not be around.