When they reached the Holmes house Sherlock walked past, for he didn't like to leave Molly to walk home alone. It wasn't a safety issue, more of a pity thing at that. He felt as if she deserved to be walked to the door, that and he didn't really want to give her up just yet. She was the only tolerable person he knew; it seemed almost unfair that his time with her had to be limited to merely a couple of hours every day.
"Goodbye Molly, although it seems as though we just said hello ten minutes ago." Sherlock whined as they started up onto her front porch.
"So clingy, Sherlock. Really you must get over that." Molly said with a little smile, dislodging her elbow from his so as to take his hand softly. He knew that this wasn't a platonic grasp; no it was something that she probably thought to be flirtatious, and so it was Sherlock's duty as a respectable citizen to pull his hand away and shake his head.
"You really need to stop pining over me and move on with your life. There's boys lined up around the corner for your arm, Molly. Why do you pick the only one who's not interested?" Sherlock scolded, shaking his head once more to which Molly just groaned in annoyance. She had heard this one a thousand times before, which of course means she wasn't listening at all if she still had to be reminded. Yet there was that guilty blush evident in her cheeks, the one that told Sherlock flatly that she knew exactly what she had been doing and she wasn't planning on stopping.
"And you, Sherlock, have girls lined up around the corner for your arm. Why are you spending time with the only one who wants nothing to do with?" Molly challenged.
"I never said I want nothing to do with you, Molly. I simply said I was not interested in being anything more than friends. We grew up together, it would be wrong." Sherlock insisted, holding his head up prouder as he had come up with a very polite way to decline.
"I feel as though couples with a history last longer." Molly pointed out.
"Well let's not find out. Good night, Molly Hooper." Sherlock said with a smile, bowing sarcastically before darting off of the porch before Molly could make any more unwanted advances. He left her there, the poor girl standing and frowning as she watched his retreating back. But they both knew it would never work out, oh the poor thing was so focused on what she wanted that she never took into account anyone else's ideals! Didn't she understand that for a relationship to work there needed to be love on both sides? It wasn't Sherlock's fault that he wasn't interested, and it wasn't Molly's fault either. She had all the qualifications to be Sherlock's perfect bride, she was smart, funny, beautiful, and tolerable, and yet still she was missing something...something important. Well what that was proved to be a mystery, for that very aspect that Sherlock was searching for was absent in all of the female population to date. Certainly he would find it someday, but for now he was simply stuck searching, and knowing that he was leaving a lot of women in suspense as he tried to find out which one would best suit him. When Sherlock arrived home his mother and Mrs. Hudson were hard at work, both in the kitchen as Mr. Holmes and Mycroft entertained the soldiers with card games and smoking. The sitting room was loud, filled with smoke and men as they tried to puff their cigars and read their cards at the same time. Sherlock dared not look into the room too heavily, for he knew that no one there was actually interested in him or what it was he had to say. And so he went back to the kitchen to join the women, where they immediately put him to work mashing the potatoes with a great big masher. They claimed that the work was too strenuous for their womanly arms to handle, which was a great big lie! Not only was his mother and Mrs. Hudson like ten times as muscular as he was, but he knew that they watched him struggle to carry his textbooks up the stairs, much less mash these potatoes. They were just trying to get out of doing the most laborious task, and instead took to garnishing the plate that was to house the great big chicken that was now roasting in the oven.
"Oh come on William, you can mash faster than that! We're literally feeding an army tonight!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, tapping Sherlock a bit disappointedly on the shoulder as if to say that she expected better of him.
"They're not the whole army, there's only six more!" Sherlock defended in a whine, yet he picked up his pace just so that she would back off and go back to whatever she had been doing before she came to bug him.
"They just got back from town, I'm not sure what they were doing, most likely official business. Did you see any of them out there, William?" Mrs. Holmes asked as she wiped excess flour onto her apron.
"No, I didn't see any of them. Then again I wasn't really looking." Sherlock defended.
"Out with Molly again I assume?" Mrs. Hudson presumed, raising an eyebrow with that trademark smile, oh he knew she must be smiling that knowing thing! She always pretended to know more about Sherlock's life than he did, which was quite honestly the most annoying thing considering she was always so far off!
"Yes, I was with Molly. I'm always with Molly; I don't have any other friends. Yet you all still think it's some big deal." Sherlock grumbled.
"Well of course it's a big deal, she's hanging around, that's a sure sign that there's interest on her end. Oh wouldn't it be wonderful if you were to marry her, William?" Mrs. Holmes exclaimed, clapping her hands together and spraying flour all over the counter space. She was attempting to make rolls, yet every time she took to kneading she got distracted in the conversation, and so Sherlock highly suspected there would be no rolls at dinner tonight.
"Why is everyone so insistent that I marry Molly? I don't want to marry her, if I had don't you think I would've done it by now?" Sherlock insisted with an annoyed roll of his eyes.
"We just assume that you're too shy. But you'll get over that, surely..."
"I don't want to marry her, mother! I don't!" Sherlock exclaimed, slamming the masher so hard into the potato bowl that he nearly shattered the ceramic thing. That act of violence was enough to silence the whole conversation, putting his mother back to her kneading and finally taking his word seriously.
"That's more like it, dear. Another good whack and those potatoes will be ready to be mixed." Mrs. Hudson added reluctantly, and yet even her good humor went unappreciated. Sherlock stood fuming, for he didn't want to be mean to his mother and he most certainly didn't want to disrespect Molly by taking such offence at the topic of their marriage. And yet every time he had been approached on the subject he had insisted that he felt strongly against it. What did these people think, that his mind would miraculously be changed in such short a time? It was annoying, not being taken seriously, and it was more annoying when people thought that their opinion, since it complied with the masses, had to be correct in everyone's mind. And yet Sherlock must be the outlier, he must have a different way of thinking, and because of that everyone simply pushed his opinion aside like it was nothing! Did they not understand that his life was his own, and that he could marry who he wanted, despite the strong suggestions from all around? Oh it was so annoying to be so disregarded! When dinner was finally ready Sherlock was glad to be out of the kitchen, and tonight there were ten chairs set up at the Holmes dining room table. They had to add the middle pieces of the table so as to make it long enough, yet after they dug the rest of the chairs out it seemed to look as it always did, just a bit longer. It would be their first formal encounter together with the soldiers, and to be quite honest Sherlock was very worried. He didn't know what tonight's evening might hold for them, would the soldiers respect the Holmes family or would they immediately think that since they were the guests, they were also superior? Sherlock hadn't really accounted on having to get to know these men, to be quite honest he wanted nothing to do with them, but before he knew it he was dressing into his dinner clothes and preening himself to perfection so as to make the best possible first appearance. Sherlock and Mrs. Holmes were the first in the dining room; for they helped Mrs. Hudson put the finishing touches on the elaborate meal despite already being dressed in their finest. It really was a dinner fit for a king, however if the king himself arrived Sherlock was sure that he would add another special ingredient to his chicken. Mrs. Hudson called everyone to dinner while the Holmes family took their places, Sherlock was to sit next to his mother at the end of the table, whereas Mr. Holmes would take the head and Mycroft would sit to his left. The soldiers then were left to fill in the rest of the seats, where it would be presumed that Captain Moran would be the head. Sherlock waited nervously as he heard the approaching boots of the soldiers, all who were dressed in their red coats as an excuse for formal attire. They did of course look dashing, and yet it was that color red that simply infuriated Sherlock to the point where he had to look away. The whole bunch of them, all looked as if they had shed blood already. They entered into the dining room respectfully, one by one finding their seat and waiting until their commander and Mr. Holmes sat before they pulled out their chair and seated themselves. They were gentlemen, at least they were here. The same undoubtedly couldn't be said for every other aspect of life, the battle field, the sidewalk, the bar. Sherlock was sure that these very soldiers that refused to sit would be the same to fire their weapons into a crowd of protestors, following some order that had never been shouted for the sake of their own vengeance. Finally Mr. Holmes sat down, prompting everyone else to take their seats. Sherlock was getting increasingly nervous, for he found that he was sitting not only next to a soldier but across from one as well, the very soldier who was so kind to him this morning. The very soldier who could be described as nothing but beautiful.
"Let us begin, everyone, by praying." Mr. Holmes instructed, holding out his hands in prayer like the good Christian he had been raised to be. Everyone complied, and as they all bowed their heads Mr. Holmes read off a little thing about being thankful for their food and thankful for the soldiers who had come to protect them. He finished by saying, "God save the king!" and everyone gave their chants of approval while it was Sherlock and Mycroft's curse to swallow their discontent and chant along. It was too risky now, while surrounded by redcoats and loyalists, to skip over that part that agitated them so. For a moment it was quiet, for really nothing could be said except 'please pass the potatoes', for everyone was going after the food that most suited them. Sherlock somehow ended up with a loaded plate, for every time he thought the bowls that were being passed would stop he was pleasantly surprised to have something new end up in his hands. He was sitting next to a young, fairly rugged looking soldier who was at this moment unnamed. He had black hair that was pulled into a pony tail behind his head, a fashion that was popular these days and that frankly looked quite ridiculous. Yet he smiled and was polite about handing Sherlock the bowls and platters of food, and so his fashion could pass for now. The soldier across from Sherlock was looking quite occupied with his plate, however whenever Sherlock went to take a bite or cut up the chicken that had somehow ended up on his plate (Captain Moran had taken it upon himself to carve) he felt that there was someone watching him, a feeling of eyes he still had yet to get used to.
"Well, let me break the silence and pronounce a toast, to our hosts the Holmes family, let me say how truly grateful for your hospitality and your welcome. You have made our first night here a pleasant one, and I do hope that we remain appreciative and cooperative as we move together into a new age." Captain Moran announced, holding up his glass of wine as he waited for everyone to chime in.
"Thank you, Captain. And we do give you a warm welcome into our home." Mr. Holmes responded, holding up his glass and prompting his family to raise their glasses as well. They all clinked their wine glasses and got back to dinner, all of them feeling slightly more appreciated than they had before. Finally Mrs. Holmes took to striking up conversation, and for a while they talked of their trip from England and the storms they had encountered. They seemed to have great stories, from waves pounding onto the deck to pirate ships in the distance, however they had gotten here safely and that, Mrs. Holmes insisted, was all that mattered in the end. What was interesting to Sherlock was that there had been more of them, a whole ship full in fact. There were up to two hundred soldiers now lodged about in different houses, all over New England. That was unnerving to say the least, for it was almost a sure sign that the British were preparing for war. However Sherlock tried not to worry about that, for he didn't want his brow to get too furrowed and get questioned on what was the matter. For now he focused on eating his dinner and drinking his wine (he was still only eighteen, but they allowed him a glass all the same), listening to the conversations and trying not to look up. He knew that the soldier was staring back at him, and as flattering as that surely was he really didn't want to have to make any unwanted eye contact. Not that looking at the man was the worst thing in the world, just that his eye contact would make Sherlock uncomfortable. Those eyes, well they weren't the easiest to look into. For some reason they took his breath away, they made his stomach churn and they made his knees turn to jelly. It made no sense why those eyes had such an impact, and yet Sherlock was sure that whatever it was, he would like to avoid it now in this packed dinner table.
"We were just reading that today!" exclaimed Mrs. Holmes, completely out of context considering how Sherlock had gone off into his head for a moment. "William why don't you tell the gentlemen what poems we were reading in your lessons?"
"Oh um..." Sherlock stuttered, looking around at the expecting eyes. He can't imagine why they were talking about Shakespeare now, unless his mother was trying to prove some sort of point by reading British literature. Yet now, with all their eyes on him, it was almost impossible to remember the title. "It was the one...it was shall I compare thee to a summer's day?"
"Thou art more lovely and more temperate." finished the soldier across from him with an air of elegance. "Sonnet eighteen." There were those eyes again, piercingly blue, enchantingly so!
"Yes you um, you know it?" Sherlock clarified, feeling his legs begin to go numb as he was forced to maintain eye contact.
"I do know it. We all do, I'm sure." the soldier agreed in his smooth voice, a voice heavy with an English accent yet spoken with elegance, as if he was constantly in the company of finer people.
"As if, Victor. We do not all share your love for the romantics." mocked one of the soldiers from down the line, beginning them all into a chorus of rather cruel laughter. Victor, so that was his name. Victor.
"I enjoyed it." Sherlock assured with a guilty little shrug, to which Victor smiled approvingly at him from across the table.
"Oh, it is not my fault that they do not have any class, no taste for the finer things." Victor sighed heavily, spinning his fork between his fingers as he took a break from eating, just for a moment.
"Is that a common issue in your life?" Sherlock wondered.
"Oh all the time, Mr. Holmes. All the time." Victor sighed heavily, as if struggling with lesser people was such a great, constant burden.
"You don't need to call me that." Sherlock assured immediately, to which Victor's mouth upturned into a presumptuous little smile.
"Call you what?" Victor wondered, still looking quite guilty as if he knew very well what he had done. It was just his way of teasing, that must be it.
"Mr. Holmes, I'm not deserving of that title yet. I'm the youngest; you can just call me Sher...William. Call me William." Sherlock insisted with something of a nervous grin.
"Sher William?" Victor questioned with an upturned little eyebrow.
"No, just William." Sherlock clarified finally.
"Ah. Understood, Mr. Holmes." Victor said with a grin, winking at Sherlock before going back to his meal. Sherlock was left in something of a state of paralysis, for what charm that man had in merely a second's worth of conversation! It was rather unnerving, for Sherlock had attempted to be confident going in, and now as Victor finally lost interest he was left entirely defenseless and flustered, blushing madly as he tried to explain the feelings that were going through his body right now. Something of embarrassment, yet something of flattery as well. He felt almost like a girl, one who had been gifted her first rose. No one had been witness to the conversation instead of the two who had been involved, and so Sherlock had no choice but to go back to his dinner and try to remind his throat how to work once more.