That night Sherlock couldn't sleep, and well of course you couldn't blame him. He had always known that war was coming; he knew that war was necessary at this point, and yet never did he consider that war would show up on his front porch and come to sleep in his house! It was something out of a terrible dream, something that irony had cooked up especially for he and Mycroft to suffer through. Of course the very breed of men they despised the most would be sentenced to live with them for this long, why wouldn't they? And now he had to coexist, no not just that, he had to pamper these men that came to stay, he had to make them feel not only like guests, but like the very royalty he hated so much! Oh what a terrible turn of the tides, what a dramatic and all together infuriating way to remind Sherlock what was really at stake here, and hard it was to revolt properly. How hard it was to turn against the king that had his colonies in so tight a grasp, and how hard it was to argue with Fate! Well this, it would seem, would be Fate's counterattack. Sherlock didn't wake up because he couldn't fall back to sleep, he was so afraid that his door might open and he would be faced with one of those villains that he kept his eyes open and keep his body alert. His ears were straining, and many a time he heard stirring in the room that houses the captain, the room that was just a wall away from him! Any yet no men came to his door, the hallway remained clear, and he was left to get up with the sunshine. Sherlock dressed in a hurry before trying to organize himself into the most decent he could manage, and yet with the large bags hanging under his eyes he suspected that it would be very well known that he couldn't get a wink of sleep. Of course the soldiers wouldn't find this to be odd, would they? They should surely be used to causing a bit of a disruption their first night staying in someone's home. Nevertheless Sherlock thought that he looked acceptable, and so with that he started his way down the stairs to find that breakfast was already being served. It was a bit unnerving to step into the dining room and find that most all of the chairs were taken, and it was even more terrifying to see the intruders all sitting in their trademark red coats, sitting at the Holmes family table and using their finest china to eat off of. As soon as Sherlock walked in all of the men turned their attention to him, and once more he felt more in the spotlight than he would have preferred to be. All the men looked younger and a bit more approachable than their terrifying captain (who was at the moment absent) and yet that really didn't say much. They were still British soldiers, and despite some of them looking no more than eighteen they still bore an aura of fear and panic, as if they sat there knowing full well that the coats they wore instilled the utmost panic in any colonists that made it their goals to distance themselves from the crown. There were five of them at the table, leaving just one seat available and yet Sherlock knew that he would not be welcome to take it. He knew that no Holmes family member would be welcome to such a chair, even if the soldiers offered. He would rather die than sit and eat with such vile company.
"William, right?" asked one of the soldiers, looking to be twenty or so years old. He spoke with a familiarity that should've been accepted as a friendly remark, as if he was trying to ask as a friend and not as an intruder to the country and to the home. And yet his words sent shivers of repulsion down Sherlock's spine, and it was all he could do but nod. The man who spoke looked to be the most confident of them all, and by far the most visually appealing. He bore a resemblance of beauty that Sherlock often saw in himself, the sort of feminine qualities that really shouldn't look good on a man but did all the same. The sort of beauty that Sherlock was not used to seeing in faces that were not his own. The soldier had brown hair styled into a curious swoop on the front of his head, greased back with what should promise to be an unmeasurable amount of hair gel (certainly a necessity even when in a time of war) and he sported very transfixing blue eyes. He was certainly the type of person that made Sherlock feel very many things at once, yet for the life of him he couldn't figure out what a single emotion was.
"I think I'll go to the kitchen." Sherlock said rather stupidly, turning his back on the soldiers and rushing out the kitchen to see the cook and his mother hard at work.
"William oh thank God you're up! Come here, I need you to scramble these eggs for me dear." Mrs. Holmes insisted, hustling around where their cook, Mrs. Hudson, was trying to knead some more dough into the little biscuit pans.
"Have they eaten yet?" Sherlock wondered, remembering of course that all of the soldier's plates had been eaten off of already.
"Yes, yes I had already given them the first round but William there are five hungry soldiers out there, surely they will need seconds?" Mrs. Holmes clarified, hustling her son over to where there was a big pan of runny eggs sitting on the burner. Sherlock took up the spatula and started to stir while Mrs. Holmes took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down before going over to the stove once more and checking on the oatmeal that was bubbling in the pot.
"Yes I suppose you're right. Is Captain Moran awake yet?" Sherlock wondered, alluding to the one face (and the only one that was now familiar) that had not been present at the breakfast table.
"Yes, he woke very early and left on important business. I hardly had time to feed him before he went off to the town." Mrs. Holmes admitted with a heavy sigh of defeat.
"I'm sure he understands, dear." Mrs. Hudson assured, arranging the biscuit tin before opening the oven and setting it inside. Mrs. Hudson had been the family's cook for as long as Sherlock could remember, and of course in that amount of time she had done much more than prepare the meals. She was the only person in this house (apart from Mycroft, who really doesn't count) that knew of Sherlock's true loyalties. In fact she knew everything that went on in his head, from his patriotism to his preference to go by his middle name. Oh Sherlock really did hate it when people called his William, yet whenever he tried to remind his parents of the fact they just told him that it was more proper to go by William, and that Sherlock was a name much too outlandish for daily use. Of course Sherlock reminded them then that they had been the ones to give him that name in the first place, an accusation they chose to ignore because they could not defend it properly. Yes Sherlock told the woman everything, for she was the only one he chose to trust out of this entire house, and so she alone would already understand the hesitations he had of housing these barbaric troops in their own home. Yet despite her overwhelming knowledge of Sherlock, he had to admit he knew almost nothing about her. Maybe that was because of his habit to talk more than listen, however throughout their years together Sherlock could never get it out of her if she was a loyalist or a patriot. And maybe it was for the best, for if she announced herself a patriot the Holmes parents might fire her, and if she announced herself a loyalist then she would never have the full trust of either Holmes brother again.
"Oh I know this shouldn't be stressing me out...I just want to make a good first impression." Mrs. Holmes admitted, sitting back against the counter and wiping her brow with a large, laborious sigh.
"Go and sit down then dear, William and I can handle this. Have you eaten yet?" Mrs. Hudson asked carefully, playing the grandmother to even those who were around her age.
"No, no Martha I haven't." Mrs. Holmes agreed, nodding her head as if she could see now where she had gone wrong. And so she seated herself on some crates of flour in the back and ate a biscuit or two from the batch that was still waiting to be carried out to the soldiers. She looked very overwhelmed, and while Sherlock knew that he really ought to pity her he instead felt nothing. If this was all up to him he'd let the soldiers starve, their health and nutrition really shouldn't be the burden of their keepers, especially when they were almost forced to take them in. Her stress was kind of on her. When Sherlock was finished scrambling the eggs Mrs. Hudson helped him arrange them in a nice bowl and make them look presentable. They waited until the oatmeal could be taken out as well, and it was then Sherlock's job to deliver the food to the troops. He really didn't like to be in the presence of them all, not because they were mean but just because he knew that they were judging him to their fullest capability. They all looked down on the colonists, and it really was a trait that was carried on from Britain, it was as characteristic as the accent they all sported. And so when all five pairs of eyes settled on him, well Sherlock couldn't help but feel a little bit threatened. Yet he did as he was told, he took the eggs in one hand and the oatmeal in the other and started out into the dining room to serve the soldiers who were still sitting around, waiting to be served on once more.
"There he is! And ah, he's got more food." One of the soldiers cried excitedly, shuffling in his seat so as to get a better angle on the eggs as they were set down in front of the men. Sherlock shivered nervously, for he didn't really like being addressed by these men, much less in this almost friendly sort of manner.
"Have you eaten yet, William?" asked the pretty solider once more, a question that Sherlock hadn't really been prepared for. In fact Sherlock hadn't expected to be addressed by any of these soldiers; he hadn't even considered that they might have a capability to care about other people.
"No I haven't, but I'm not very hungry, so you all feel free to..."
"Well it's not fair if we eat and our hosts do not. We are lodgers, yes, but we are not meant to be an interruption." The solider insisted, to which none of the other soldiers were even paying attention. They were too interested in their breakfast to care about anyone else in this house, which made this one soldier stand out all the more. Surely Sherlock was not feeling any sympathy towards the man, no sort of appreciation, and yet he couldn't help but be surprised with the humanity he seemed to house.
"Yes I know." Sherlock agreed, for it was the only thing his mind could cough up, as it had gone quite blank. The solider smiled at him, a teasing smile that addressed very obviously the fact that he understood Sherlock's little mental shut down. Almost as if he was amused by his thoughtlessness.
"Thank you William." The solider said with a smile, and with that he turned towards the oatmeal and started to ladle some more into his bowl. Sherlock rushed off, too afraid to say anything in return, and scuttled back into the kitchen before his mother noticed that he was missing.
"Oh no, we're running short on milk. We'll have to tell the milkman that we need some more bottles in these upcoming weeks." Mrs. Hudson remarked as soon as Sherlock arrived back at the kitchen. She was standing with a half full glass bottle of milk and frowning at it as if it had done her some great dishonor.
"Oh that will be your job, if you don't mind, Martha. I've always found our milkman to be very creepy." Mrs. Holmes admitted with a sigh, sitting on the crates still and eating now a bowl of whatever was left of the oatmeal.
"Creepy? Well sure he's getting a bit older in years, and maybe h e's missing a couple of teeth, but that...well yes I guess that does sort of make him creepy." Mrs. Hudson agreed with a little bit of a laugh, and for a moment both women giggled away in their own sort of condescending way. Sherlock had seen the milkman before, mostly because it was his job to go and get the milk from the stoop, and he had to admit that yes, the man was pretty creepy. Not just by his appearance, but by the way he slouched about with his crooked spine, worn from all those years lifting heavy cartons and bottles.
"They're fed." Sherlock said quietly, retreating back to sitting on one of the chairs near the door, the chair that is always occupied by Mrs. Hudson when there was a pot of water set to boil. She always sat and read a book or something, for she claimed that if you watched the pot the water would never boil, and it was always something the Holmes parents gave her a hard time about. Not that her work was ever less than satisfactory, but mostly because they thought the novels she read were stupid.
"Very good William. Now you may eat your breakfast as well, I'll take the biscuits out when they are ready." Mrs. Holmes assured with what she tried to make as a good, understanding smile.
"I'm not eating out there, if that's what you're implying." Sherlock muttered in disgust, looking towards the door of the kitchen fearfully, for he knew exactly what was waiting for him if he left.
"Well no, no of course I don't expect you to eat out there with them. We hardly know those men yet, when we get to know them better then maybe we can make their acquaintance yet for now I'm afraid to say that our kitchen table is foreign to us." Mrs. Holmes admitted with a sigh. "Still, it's an honor to house some of the king's finest."
"Does their presence here mean that war is coming?" Sherlock wondered nervously, to which his mother just shivered, looking towards the floor as a way of demonstrating that she didn't know the answer to that. Sherlock knew that his mother would prefer there not to be a war, that even though she wanted the colonists put back in their place she would rather there be as little bloodshed as possible. She was always a good woman, deep down inside. While her loyalties may be a bit skewed and her form of parenting was not always perfect it was of course her intentions to keep the world peaceful and good. Sherlock had trouble hating her, even if she did support the king.
"We can only hope that whatever is necessary comes to pass." Mrs. Hudson muttered, to which Mrs. Holmes nodded once more.
"Well put, Martha." She agreed. Sherlock sighed heavily, but he had to agree with Mrs. Hudson as well. He hoped that war was coming, for it was only through war that they could win their independence and prove themselves worthy to be a separate country. Yet it was through war that they could lose their confidence and get suppressed even more by the king across the sea. These two options, of course, meant that war was necessary. And while Sherlock hated the idea of bloodshed, he understood that it was only through bloodshed that they could move forward.      Sherlock was anxious to tell Molly of the whole happenings at his house, and yet it took quite the while before he was actually allowed to leave. His studies came before anything, and while Sherlock was home schooled it always took his mother a fair amount of time to get things moving. Today he was being taught the works of Shakespeare, and of course this was only meant to be a formality. His mother was very old fashioned, and while she expected him to read some of the love poems that Shakespeare had written she still kept reminding Sherlock that he would probably find them boring. She was a stickler about gender roles, and apparently it was the job of a woman to appreciate such things. Nevertheless, Sherlock found them completely entrancing, and as he read them it was all he could do but imagine himself reading them to a suitor of his choice. The words that Shakespeare wrote so perfectly described what Sherlock thought to be love that it was almost intoxicating, the lines that he wrote and the pictures he created through words! Love, as the man had described it, seemed to be the pinnacle of all of human experience. It seemed to be something that came only once in a lifetime as something so pure, and something so right! Despite this, Sherlock had never considered love something that was made for him. That was partially the reason he found the idea of marrying Molly Hooper to be so absurd, because while yet they were of the opposite gender and perfectly compatible, well he was exactly attracted to her in that way. He didn't feel as though their friendship needed to stray into such romantic territories, he instead felt that he would be much happier alone, without this feeling that Shakespeare described so passionately. And of course Sherlock didn't think that such feelings made him mean or insensitive, yes he knew that Molly was attracted to him but he really didn't think that was his problem. Many people are attracted to many other people, and not all of them succeed. Molly Hooper's love proved to be one of those hopeless cases, and that was just how it was. Sherlock suspected that while love might be fun he thought that it was all together kind of burdensome, not to mention impossible. Maybe when he found a girl that he would like to be with his feelings would change, and yet as he was still yet to find a girl that might fit that category he was very much happier alone. He was usually taught in the drawing room, yet since the soldiers' sleeping arrangements were now there he was instead being taught at the kitchen table, a very uncomfortable arrangement that stank still of scrambled eggs. It was not nearly as pleasant, and yet Sherlock knew not to complain. He was a tolerant boy, raised to be appreciative and not to complain. When finally his studies were over (he snuck a couple of poems into his pocket when he thought his mother wasn't looking) he was free to go out to town where he knew Molly would be waiting.