Sherlock moved out of the Hooper household quietly, and in the same night that his mother had come to collect him. The Hoopers were sad to see him go, especially now that they owed him such big a debt, however they understood after a brief counseling that his departure was necessary. Sherlock told them over and over again that he would much rather stay with them, that even though the soldiers were gone the Holmes household would forever be scarred by their once having stayed there. He shivered with the very idea of Victor's presence, and the more of he thought of the British army now on the move the more he longed to take that tiny gun out of his waistband and practice his shots on some moving, breathing targets. Moran, Victor, every single one of the men that had once camped out under the Holmes roof, they all deserved a nice mouthful of lead! Sherlock wanted to be the one to deliver it, he wanted to be the one to end the lives that had ended so many and would be destined to continue if they were not put to an end. Sherlock wanted to be the protector of future families; he wanted to safeguard the happiness that would become of a new nation, in which households never had to suffer the same losses as did the Hoopers. He wanted to ensure that no more lives were ruined by those redcoats, even if he ruined his own life in the process. And so that was why he packed what meager necessities he had brought and relocated them back home, back into his dresser or on his bed or in his closet. Back where he had once roamed in Victor's wake, back where he had once crouched by the keyhole of the bathroom, back where he had laid on the bed and just waited for the end to come. This house was ruined with memories of the undesirables that had once crept its halls, the villains who were daring enough to disguise themselves as humans. Those whose sole purpose seemed to be to ensure Sherlock picked a side once and for all, to make sure he figured out where his loyalties lie.
"So glad to see you back, William." Mrs. Holmes muttered joyously as she watched Sherlock tuck his shirts back into the closet where they belonged. He wasn't one on ironing, and so he always liked to make sure his clothes were folded to perfection so that he didn't have to. These past couple of days he had worn wrinkly clothes, since at the Hooper's house he was so focused on keeping everyone else comfortable that he had almost forgotten about his own wellbeing. And what a liberating experience that was, how rewarding it ended up being! For once in his lifetime he almost felt as if he had a purpose, keeping that house together. He could see himself enjoying the life of a housewife, if of course he was blessed with such an honor of a peaceful and quiet life with the man he loved. Yet that seemed so far off! It was ludicrous, the very idea that after the blood had been spilt that he might be able to return to a life of cooking and cleaning under the stars and stripes of the flag that hung outside. Peace...it seemed so far away, so foreign! Sherlock had practically been born into the tensions of war, and he would of course live to see the outcome. To settle down, to not constantly worry about an attack or a gunshot or a riot, well that seemed almost too good to be true. Yet it was what he would fight for, wasn't it? The promise that the future could be peaceful, even if the present did not have such a luxury.
"How are the Hoopers doing?" Mrs. Holmes asked, looking almost disappointed that her son wasn't in the mood to chat. He was very much down in the dumps, and of course his mother's conversations never did much to aid him in that aspect.
"As good as they can be doing, I suppose." Sherlock said with a shrug.
"Not too good then?" Mrs. Hooper presumed.
"Not good at all." Sherlock agreed. She sighed heavily, leaning up against the doorframe pitifully and looking down the hallway as if expecting to see someone looking back. Expecting, of course, for Moran to be peering around the room he had once claimed as his own.
"There is a sense of guilt, of being the ones responsible for the soldiers that took his life." Mrs. Holmes admitted with a shameful little sigh.
"Yes of course there is." Sherlock agreed. "I still cannot believe that we ever let those inhuman, rabid..."
"Now William watch your tone!" Mrs. Holmes barked, regaining her control over the room with that overwhelming air of dominance. Sherlock had no choice but to cower back with a scowl on his face, slamming his closet door shut before going to sit on his bed, curled into a pouting little ball.
"You have to admit mother, they were monsters!" Sherlock exclaimed.
"They are the soldiers of our king! They're here to keep the peace..."
"They're here to destroy the peace! They're here with their guns, and their war, why can't they just leave us be? Why can't they just let us go?" Sherlock whined painfully, shaking his head with the temptation of lying back onto the bed to sulk. However he was afraid to, because the very spot he would have settled into would be the same spot he had laid that last night...the same spot he had laid with Victor on top of him. Sherlock gave a great shutter and jumped up from the bed, too afraid to settle down for he realized that he had not been here since that night, since that morning of solitude. Could he ever settle in under these blankets, could he ever feel safe again?
"Are you sided with the rebels?" Mrs. Holmes muttered, looking at her son as he regained his balance near the dresser, looking at him almost as if she didn't recognize him any longer. Sherlock just sighed, his fists clenched in anger that was beginning to dissipate.
"Mother, I'm sided with what I know is right." Sherlock admitted in a whisper. He let her interpret that any way she wanted to, and of course she probably chose correctly. For in an instant she took a very deep breath of disappointment, clutching her handkerchief from the room before starting down the hallway in a very quick pace, almost as if she wanted to hide herself before she broke down into tears. Sherlock was left alone once more, a very foreign feeling now that he had been so used to having John as company. He knew that telling his mother his loyalties wasn't the best possible way to get the information the revolutionaries needed, however he could no longer bring himself to lie about which side he had chosen. To say that he was still empathetic to the British was just so ludicrous and so downright demeaning that he could not force the words from his lips. The very words would sting his lips, burn his tongue, and singe the ears of his listener. Such lies were not meant to be spoken, not by someone whose heart and soul lay with the rebels, not by someone who would gladly give his life for the promise of a star spangled future. The adjustment back to the Holmes household was not an easy one, and the main challenges now arose in confronting his family after so long a hiatus. He had to admit that the familiar shower and clean clothes were a nice bonus to having returned home, however the very idea of sitting before his family at the now empty dinner table was such a horrible feeling that he was almost tempted to skip again. He was almost tempted just to stay in his room and starve, rather than look at his tear stained mother and his cold, disappointed father. He was a disappointment now, the second of the black sheep in the family, and of course that would be easily noted by his lengthy disappearance. It would not take long for his family members to determine that he had left because of his disgust in the soldiers, his appearance alone after their departure was evidence enough of that. Yet Sherlock could not skip dinner, and he could not delay the inevitable. He would have to see his family at one point, and so tonight, when such an arrival would be seen as most appropriate, would have to do. And so he dressed for the occasion of looking presentable before descending down to the lower floor, one that still stank with the ghost of cigars and wrung with the phantom laughter of the gambling soldiers. The woodwork that remembered the sound of their footprints, and the portraits whose eyes had seen it all. It was almost too much to handle, the memory that the soldiers had once stayed under this very roof, and yet as tainting and disgusting as their presence had once been, their absence was even more so haunting. It felt almost as if they would appear at any time, from around any corner, and Victor would wrap his arms around Sherlock and whisper to him, tell him not to move too much, and not to cry out. It felt as though any moment whatever serenity that could be managed from such a destroyed household would be reintroduced to the devils that had once occupied it. And so Sherlock went to sit in the sitting room, sitting on the windowsill for the imprints of the soldier's backsides were still so heavily indented into the couches that he couldn't bear to sit there. Their cards were absent; their glasses washed and put away, their cigarettes in the pockets and their laughter having traveled with their carefree, absent hearts. Yet they were still here, Sherlock could still see them, he could hear them, he could smell them. Those absolute animals, who they thought they were, what they thought they had the power to do! Like carnivores in a world of small game, ripping them apart just because they could, and leaving their mangled bodies for the birds that might swoop down to pick the meat off of their bones. Sherlock craved a cigarette; however he sat there quietly, waiting for dinner to be called. Half of him wanted to return to the Hoopers, and the other half reminded him that it was necessary to stay where he was so as to ensure the victorious start to the revolution. It was in his hands now, all of it. And his duty was not to run, not to hide from the shadows that still lingered in his household, but to face the demons with all of the power he could summon. For there were many lives counting on him, and to back away now would be to submit the poor colonies to the utmost terror. They might in turn live as he did, or as Molly Hooper was now forced to, and he would not wish such a fate upon anyone. When dinner was called Sherlock was the last to the table, causing for quite the scene when he entered. Or at least he considered such a thing a scene, when in fact not a single word was spoken. His mother looked up at him quietly, her eyes still pained yet her expression neutral, and his father was already staring at the kitchen door, as if to ask where the food was at this time of night. Mycroft was sitting quietly, looking up at Sherlock with an expression that Sherlock might actually be able to mistake as pride. As if Mycroft was actually appreciative of his younger brother and the things he had accomplished and committed himself to in such a short span of time.
"So you're back then?" Mr. Holmes asked long after Sherlock had gotten situated and the food had been shared about the four plates. Such a small meal looked almost pathetic after the large meals that had been prepared for the armies of people who had been assembled; however tonight Sherlock felt so sick that he could hardly stand to eat his share. He ate enough that he could manage, enough that might appear to be polite, yet his stomach was churning so badly when he kept looking up and seeing the ghost of Victor Trevor staring back at him.
"Yes, I'm back." Sherlock agreed rather obviously.
"Because the soldiers left?" Mr. Holmes presumed. Sherlock paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before nodding stiffly.
"Yes." He agreed again, in the smallest and most shameful of voices.
"You can't hold their actions against them, Sherlock. That Hooper man was a criminal, he deserved what he got." Mr. Holmes grumbled, carelessly digging through his chicken while Sherlock's fingers wrapped around the table with a force that he had not expected from himself. He trembled in hatred, this time not just for his father, but for the entirety of the blinded American loyalists who wanted to deny to themselves that their country was better off free. He wanted to throttle those who wanted to stay living in the past for their own selfish reasons, and those who would classify the loss of a father and husband something of a necessary occurrence! Sherlock couldn't even bring himself to say anything in response, for he knew that if he opened his mouth only obscenities would come out. He knew that he had to stay silent, for yelling at his father was always a bad idea.
"Where did they go, and why in such urgency?" Mycroft asked, beginning to pry for the information that they both knew was vital. Oh thank God for Mycroft, thank God for his clear thinking in such drastic emergencies! Here Sherlock was, seething with rage and virtually useless, caught in his own web of emotions, all while Mycroft was as calm as could be. The angel child, as he always had been, probing his parents for information that would destroy their empire and their ideals. This was the only time Sherlock had ever been thankful to have his brother at his side.
"Oh they went to collect some weapons I do believe, following the trail of guns that had been left by Mr. Hooper's organization." Mr. Holmes admitted carelessly, running his mouth as he downed more and more wine. Sherlock quivered in anticipation, for even that information might be enough to put an end to it all. However he needed more, and Mycroft knew that much, and so he nodded yet didn't look satisfied. Mrs. Holmes yet reluctant yet she didn't speak up, she didn't try to censor the conversation that was being had over her very dinner table. Maybe she was secretly siding with her sons, that or she didn't want to make herself look like a fool by stopping the conversation that was already unfolding. She knew that Sherlock needed the exact information that was being discussed, if she sincerely didn't want him knowing she would have spoken up by now. Yet she remained silent, and Mr. Holmes remained oblivious.
"And where does that lead then? Surely not in Boston?" he asked curiously. Mr. Holmes merely shrugged, looking down towards the end of the table as if the empty chair that had once housed Moran might have such an answer.
"No, not in Boston, but close. Where was it, Concord? I think it was Concord." Mr. Holmes admitted with a careless shrug, unable to realize just how stupid he was being right now, unaware that his ramblings would be costing the British some heavy losses. Mycroft nodded, looking over to Sherlock just once as his black eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. Sherlock could only smiled quietly, bending back over his plate of chicken yet not eating a single morsel, for now the disgust that had kept his stomach empty was replaced by an equally nauseating feeling of excitement and accomplishment. How easy that had been, getting the information out! And now how effortless it would surely be, to round up the soldiers and start for Concord just in time to intercept the British and begin the battle. This was where the war started, here at the Holmes dinner table, and maybe if they were lucky, this was where the war would end. 

 John was supposed to arrive at Sherlock's window at twelve o'clock that night, and right as promised when the clock struck midnight he could be clambering onto the roof like the clumsy cat burglar he was. Sherlock had left out a stepping stool for him, as well as left the window unlocked, however just as soon as midnight was rounding the corner he had gotten up from bed and went to receive him. How adorable he was at this time of night, especially when he was kicking his legs and crawling onto the shingles like some sort of failed acrobat! It was due to John's brute strength that he survived such a climb, for he was able to pull himself up with some difficulty before getting to his feet and tiptoeing towards the open window in which Sherlock was already waiting. Sherlock smiled at John in relief, for he had almost worried that he would either fall off of the roof or get shot by his father in the process. Yet he was able to open the window and draw the curtains back in reception, allowing John to crawl in through the window feet first and land rather stealthily inside. The first thing Sherlock did was pull him into his arms, for after a mere day's separation he was beginning to feel so empty inside. How wonderful it was now to hold that man where he was supposed to be, close to his heart, where he could feel his breath and feel his head leaning heavily onto his shoulder. These boys were simply made to embrace, and so that was what they did now in their breathless delight of reunion. 

"I'm so glad to see you." Sherlock breathed finally, patting John's back before pulling away ever so slightly so as to study the boy's face once more. Nothing had changed, as he had expected it wouldn't. John still looked just as stressed, just as exhausted, and just as fearful as he always had. Yet there was that familiar gleam in his eyes, that almost toxic look of hope that seeped from those hazel eyes and made it seem impossible to hold your head low. That optimism that would always separate them, yet would always pull them together in the end!
"I'm glad to see you as well. I was almost worried you'd be killed, returned only to find that the soldiers had never left." John admitted in a bit of a careful mutter, obviously trying to keep his voice down so as to not alert any of the Holmes family occupants with his presence.
"That would be the worst way to die, by far." Sherlock admitted with a bit of a quiver. He could only imagine how degrading it must be, to have those horrible wretched faces as a last sight! To hear their words and their gunshots as the last sounds! He couldn't imagine bleeding out in their arms; he couldn't imagine even living among those men, much less dying!