With a pang of horror he realized that his brother had to be dead, yet in the moment it was difficult to believe that his counterpart, the one who had been by his side this whole time, so lively and annoying, would sit so quietly there. The dead figure bore no resemblance to his brother, yet he knew that the two were one in the same, and with the death of Mycroft came the death of a piece of Sherlock's heart. He ached in despair for the sudden loneliness that would follow the trek back home, yet he had other problems to worry about. If he didn't run quickly Mycroft wouldn't be the only Holmes brother who didn't make it home.
"Come on back, Sherlock!" called that ever familiar voice, the only cruel voice who would dare use his preferred name. "Come back and fight like a man!" Sherlock didn't even dare to respond, he didn't want to think about what might happen if he wasted any of his much needed breath on yelling obscenities back to Victor. Yes, as Sherlock ran Victor followed, everywhere he thought to weave and wander, up and down every hill and along every beaten dirt road, Victor still managed to follow. Until suddenly Sherlock's little legs proved useless, until his lungs had given up on him and his body ultimately decided that he could go no longer. Until that firm grip stole upon his flailing arm, and suddenly he was caught in a grip that he could not hope to fight. Sherlock collapsed with the effort, he collapsed with the touch that he was cursed to recognize! The panting breath behind him was not all together unfamiliar, and just as with the first time Sherlock could do no more than cry out and fall to the grass below. Yet Victor tugged him at least to his knees, tugged him by the arm so viciously that Sherlock suspected it might come off with further wear and tear. With whatever strength was left in his arms he attempted to raise the gun up to face his captor, however Victor merely slapped it out of his hands, a force so powerful that the little gun went flying from Sherlock's limp fingers and into the dirt road that stretched before them. The air was cool with the morning breeze yet polluted with the smoke and with the ash that was coming from the deserted buildings, the wood and fabric of people's homes and lives getting caught in Sherlock's mouth as he heaved in his next breath, ultimately unsure of which one would be his last. For now that victor had him in his clutches, now that there was no one here to stop him, and war had almost nearly been declared. Well it was lawless, was it not? Sherlock was now completely at the hands of Victor Trevor, yet now instead of his innocence, Victor was after his life.
"Sherlock now stop squirming, stop!" Victor demanded, kicking Sherlock harshly in his exposed chest with his heavy boot. Sherlock gave a gasp and fell once more to the ground, only to be hoisted up by Victor so that they could at least look into each other's eyes. Sherlock couldn't breathe, now when he most needed breaths! Whatever air was desperately needed by his aching muscles was not supplied, for Victor's kick had knocked whatever air out of his lungs. And so Sherlock merely gasped, trying to fall upon anything for his own body could not hold his weight any longer. He then ended up falling against Victor's legs, his head lolling against the man's knee as he merely laughed at the helplessness of it all. Sherlock finally sat still, for he understood that struggling would get him nothing more than added punishment, added torture.
"Now that's better, huh? Yes Sherlock, that's better. So good to see you again, by the way." Victor purred, using the hand that wasn't restraining Sherlock to run his fingers through the tangled mess of sweaty curls that still sat matted on Sherlock's head.
"I hate...I hate you." Sherlock struggled, giving a shutter of discontent before Victor stilled him once more. He wrapped his fingers forcefully around the side of Sherlock's face, not letting him move his head any longer, holding Sherlock in place and squeezing until his fingers most likely left an indent on Sherlock's very skull. He could feel the pain, the soldier's fingernails digging into his skin, the feeling that his eyes might pop out of his head. He knew that no one was going to save him now, if Mycroft really had died and there was no sign of the militia, well then Sherlock was completely at the mercy of this villain! And who knows to what lengths Victor might take advantage of this submissiveness? Who knows what he might do, now that there was no one here to tell him to stop?
"Oh I don't think you hate me, Sherlock. In fact I know you don't...for you told me quite the opposite just a little while ago. I distinctly remember you saying, oh what was it? That you loved me?" Victor guessed with a very mocking tone, mocking in the way someone might laugh at a wild animal who had gotten lost in foreign territory. Laughing like a raccoon who had been stuck in a cage, or a rat caught in a trap. Laughing at their helplessness to things that were specifically designed to incapacitate them, laughing as if it was their fault for getting outsmarted. And Sherlock felt a lot like that rat, or that raccoon. Victor was his cage, and that smile was his bait! Those eyes, that face, that posture, all were merely the honey that was left in the back of the trap, for when Sherlock went to enjoy it he was immediately trapped, shut up with no way out, and told to enjoy it! Told to feel honored to have been in such a cage, one that so many others could only hope of finding themselves in. And he had escaped, or at let he thought he had, yet everywhere he went he still felt as though he was dragging the accursed thing around, if not physically then in his memories, in his conscience, always on the brink of recollection whenever he thought that happiness was within reach. And here he was again, as might be predictable at this point, caught in the trap that was Victor Trevor. Trapped now, with nowhere to go, now in a trap that had the barrel of a musket pointed inside.
"I never said that." Sherlock defended, however Victor's laughter continued.
"You were thinking it, oh that was for sure. So incredibly eager, Sherlock." Victor laughed. "You almost made it too easy."
"And of course you wouldn't say a word against it." Sherlock growled. Victor nodded again, taking a deep breath as his fingers trailed along Sherlock's jawbone and along his neck. His fingers still brought feeling to Sherlock's skin, however the romantic passion that had been there so long ago seemed to have dissolved. Instead he felt repulsion, he felt disgust. He felt as though Victor's fingers were dragging filth across his skin, and although there would be no physical marks of his desecration Sherlock would always feel it, he would always see it there.
"Why would I prevent it, if it's what you wanted? It's all I can hope for, Sherlock, to find beautiful boys wandering stupidly into my bed." Victor laughed, pulling Sherlock ever closer and leaning down just so that he could hover his lips right above the top of Sherlock's head. Sherlock could feel his hot breath, stinking against his scalp; he could feel the proximity as his body began to tense. Every muscle was ready to run; every breath was being stored for a quick retreat, that or a fight. However Sherlock was helpless to do either, he was helpless to do anything except sit there as he was expected to, and try to make it through the consequences of being caught in Victor's grasp.
"It was a mistake." Sherlock growled.
"What, didn't you like it?" Victor teased. Sherlock merely groaned, shaking his head and trying to lean the other way, for Victor was so close now that his lips were nearly at Sherlock's ear. He was getting closer, undoubtedly with the intent of going ever farther... He was kneeling now, kneeling behind Sherlock so as to hold him to his chest with those uninviting, cage like arms. Sherlock wasn't stupid enough to waste his strength fighting him, for he was sure an opportunity would open up that might be a better use of his energy. Victor was sure to make a mistake, he would be sure to let Sherlock go even if for a fragment of a second, in which Sherlock could yank his arm away and take off towards the woods that sat just above them on the top of a hill. There he could find cover; there he could hide while Victor ran aimlessly past in his obvious red coat. Maybe then Sherlock could take a shot at him, maybe then he could end his reign of madness once and for all.
"We could try again, if you weren't satisfied the first time." Victor whispered, his voice dropping to a dangerously seductive whisper, in which his lips were speaking directly into Sherlock's ear. His words still sent shivers down Sherlock's spine; still there was that miniscule piece of his heart that wanted to crawl back into the strong arms of his soldier, just because the opportunity had presented itself. That part of his heart thought nothing of the misery this man had caused, nothing of the vileness that leaked through his very skin. Yet his brain said otherwise, and the whole of his heart that was dedicated entirely to John was repulsed. It wanted to escape, to run to the softer boy, the one who would hold him with gentle arms, with hands that would caress instead of shackle.
"No, no." Sherlock growled, squirming once more as he realized that this wasn't a question that was entirely up to him. In fact, he was quite sure he had no say in the matter.
"Now really Sherlock, such a change of heart? Doesn't my being so close to you just excite you? Doesn't my touch make you just want to begin unbuttoning, as it did last time?" Victor purred with a little laugh, his fingers now trailing towards the shirt buttons that were sitting innocently on Sherlock's chest. This time Sherlock gave a great lurch, trying to smack Victor's hand away with the one arm that was free of his clamp. He screamed, for he knew nothing else to do, however it was all Victor had to do but grab Sherlock's other free hand. Somehow he was able to wrap his entire hand around both of Sherlock's wrists, completely incapacitating him and making it impossible to do so much as twitch.
"Get off of me, Victor get off!" Sherlock screamed.
"That's not what I wanted you to say, yet it still won't deter me. I get what I want, Sherlock, remember? And right now, well I want you." Victor reminded him with a grin, his lips gently beginning on the back of Sherlock's neck while his hand grabbed at the clasp of Sherlock's belt buckle, beginning to unclasp it as best he could blindly. Now Sherlock was panicking, now he had begun to realize just what sort of trouble he was in. He began to fight, he began to scream. He kicked out his legs and flailed his head, trying to smack the back of his skull into Victor's forehead, yet as much fighting as he attempted he still found it impossible to shake the villain off. For every move of protest he made, Victor merely made another move of dominance. And just when Sherlock was completely helpless, just when Victor no longer had to focus on restraining him, it was then that he finally worked that belt out of the loops. It was then that he gave a great laugh, kissing Sherlock's neck all the while. And yet, something went wrong. Sherlock could tell it had gone wrong, for instead of a laugh from Victor's lips came a great groan, a sort of wince of shock before something warm and wet began to slide down Sherlock's neck, under his shirt, issued from Victor's mouth like some sort of bile. And Victor's grip slackened, in fact Sherlock could pry his fingers away from his wrists entirely, long enough to kick the man's limp body off of him and find that they were both covered in blood.
"Sherlock!" John cried from a little ways away, standing near the crest of the hill with his musket in his hand. Sherlock gave a great sigh of relief, squirming away from where Victor's oozing skull was soaking into the grass underneath him. Oh how wonderful it was to see that villain dead, to see no beauty whatsoever on that disfigured, shattered head. No more would Sherlock ever be tempted by a thing, for whatever façade of beauty he had once worn was now in shards, yet another casualty of war. John began to run down the hill, and it was only then that Sherlock realized just how far away he had made that shot. It had to be one hundred meters, at least! And when you take into consideration how close Victor had been, and how much they had both been moving, well it was a blessing that the bullet didn't chose to go into Sherlock's head instead.

"Sherlock you're alright, you're alright?" John called desperately, falling to his knees just as soon as he arrived where Sherlock was still lying. He was still clothed, thank God, yet he was so incredibly scared that even John's enthusiasm was enough to make him recoil back to where he had previously been lying.
"I'm fine, he...he didn't..." Sherlock muttered, looking back towards Victor's mangled body his limbs still strewn every which way, and lying on his stomach so as to better censure the acts of forceful romance he was trying to commit. Sherlock gave a great shutter, finally finding it within himself to crawl towards John's open arms, remembering finally that the enemy lay dead, and his hero was still there to comfort him.
"I didn't hit you, did I? You're covered in blood, you're not hurt?" John questioned frantically, pulling Sherlock into his arms just so as to examine his skin and make sure there were no wounds.
"It's not mine." Sherlock whispered, beginning to tremble and fall into John's chest, the very chest he was meant to be against, the very arms he was meant to be wrapped in. No, everything about Victor was mimicry, from his romance to his beauty to his kindness. Inside he was disfigured, disgusting, and cruel. And now he was dead, the world was ridden of a pest and Fate had finally done some good. And now Sherlock was free to cower into the open arms of John Watson, now he was allowed to shutter into the boy who would cradle him and comfort him and tell him that everything was going to be okay. He could relax, knowing now that the true enemy was no more.
"You idiot, you shouldn't even be here...why'd you come here?" John asked desperately, his words coming in breaths of relief and of great distress. The flames of Concord were beginning to subside, giving light to the fact that a good many buildings were surprisingly still standing. The morning was beginning to look more beautiful.
"Where's the militia?" Sherlock whispered.
"In the woods, on the road. We ambushed the British, Sherlock, and they retreated. We outnumbered them and they ran off, leaving their carriages behind, leaving their supplies." John admitted with a breath of delight, holding Sherlock ever closer on this grassy hill, the both of them still thoroughly covered in Victor's black blood. Yet it was beautiful, in a way. Victor's blood was the garnish of their romance, the disgust of lovers past now merely decorating the lovers of the present and the future. It would now be so easily washed away, the mere remains that still tried to cling to Sherlock, still tried to cover him and own him in a way. All it would take was a mere stream to wash whatever was left of that beast away.
"We won?" Sherlock whispered in clarification.
"We won, we won this battle. And it was all thanks to you, they got none of our weapons, they got none of our supplies. And now they'll take us seriously, now we can stand a fighting chance in this war after all. All because of you." John reminded him quietly, kissing Sherlock very softly on the top of the head so as to show his appreciation.
"And because of you." Sherlock pointed out.
"I merely led the army, you directed them." John debated, as if being a military wasn't at all difficult. As if the task of marching into the gunfire was less difficult than sitting at the dinner table over some seemingly casual conversation.
"You killed Victor." Sherlock whispered, almost unable to believe that he had been ridden of such evil, the chains of what if had been torn off of his wrists! No longer could he wonder if he was making a mistake by leaving, no longer could he be tempted back by those eyes, those lips, and that face! That face that lay in a shattered puddle in the grass! Oh sweet victory, sweet vengeance!
"Come on Sherlock, they're marching home. We don't want to miss it, a hero's return." John insisted.
"Can't we just stay here a little longer?" Sherlock debated with a bit of a frown, raising his head from John's bloodied shoulder just enough to look up at the face of his lover once more. The smile that was broken out on his face, and the sun that was now hanging high in the sky, triumphantly illuminating the victory of the rebellion.
"Yes alright, Sherlock. We can stay here a little longer." John agreed quietly, settling back into the grass so that he could hold Sherlock closer once more. Sherlock obeyed, sinking deeper into his chest and hearing the boy's heart beating at a steady, inviting rate. He didn't feel panicked, he didn't feel excited. He felt relaxed, as if they were meant to be cuddling on the battlefield, in the midst of blood and flames. The ground that was decorated with the corpses of Victor and Mycroft, the ground that was soaked through with blood, the same ground they now sat on to embrace.
"We can stay until the war calls us back." Sherlock agreed quietly.
"That won't be long now." John whispered.
"We can wait until then." Sherlock debated once more, to which John gave a great sigh of amused obedience, knowing now that it was probably best not to argue with Sherlock's pleas. Not now after he had been so close to losing him to the violence and the brutality of the British.
"Alright then. Until then." John agreed quietly. Yet even then the call of battle was summoning them, for once the gunfire broke out it wasn't soon to stop. It wasn't soon to allow its soldiers to leave, or its Captains to depart for a peaceful summer's morning with their partners of choice. However in an ideal world, a world where the sun would rise on a new country and on a new America, they sat there all the same. Wherever they ended up, frozen in a field in Valley Forge, or perhaps bloodied in the trenches of Yorktown, or maybe even sitting at home and hoisting the American flag, a part of them would still be waiting on that hill with the other in their arms. Whether a couple of miles separated them, or the gap between Heaven and earth, they would be there still. Long after they had walked away, and long after the call of war had long since ceased. 

A/N: And so ends another story...interesting I think this one will end at the same time as the other one I'm publishing now, so it's a very interesting situation. All the same, I'm only going to publish one new story to make up for these two, simply because I've got almost no writing time these days, and I've only got one new story all written up. I had written a second, but I'm pretty sure it's garbage and I've chosen not to publish it. But this story, I think it was beautiful in a way as he really doesn't know who to go to, it's a battle of loyalties and of love. And this is also the first story where the true love isn't quite right...I sort of liked that excitement getting dulled down. Nevertheless, I also learned a whole lot about the revolutionary war (even without Hamiliton!) and it was a fun time. Well then, following this is going to be a cool story that explores the deep dark unconsciousness, and the people who know how to bend the law at their will. Thanks for reading!