The Hooper family home was disconsolate for quite a while, and of course neither Sherlock nor John had the daring to try to liven the place up. There was an increasingly wide hole opening up where Mr. Hooper used to be, and as it widened they were all much more aware of how it would never get filled. He was dead; they had gotten the certificate in the mail. It came in a British envelope, by the American mail, and merely announced that he had been put to death and was to be buried in a local church. The Hoopers wanted to give him a proper funeral however they understood just how dangerous that would be. Not only would it be drawing even more unwanted attention from the loyalists, British, and press, yet it would also bring out the rebels who wanted to pay their leader respect. It would accumulate them all in one spot, the very place where the British could invade and arrest them all for the same charge. Yet despite the meager gravestone, despite the one priest who spoke a sermon to the two remaining members of the Hooper family (Sherlock and John didn't attend) there were quite a lot of strangers who were appearing to the Hooper house to at least pay their respects. Some might have been rebels, others may just be sympathizers, and a great many could also be family friends. Yet despite the myriad of strangers, they all seemed to be welcomed gratefully by Mrs. Hooper. She was always so happy to receive what they might be taking her, mostly casseroles, yet other times there were delicious pies or deserts, sometimes it was a sympathy letter and some cash, and other times it was just the promise of company that was happily accepted. All while this went on, however, Sherlock and John felt rather like spectators to the whole ordeal, and tried to stay out of the way as much as possible. They understood that their job here was to make the two women comfortable, and to make sure that when they were done their mourning they had food on the table and oil in the lamps and freshly made beds to return to. They were the housewives and the maids and the cooks all in one, yet no matter what they did they understood that they could never actually be a real part of the family. Yet they were certainly making their own family together, how unorthodox such a thing may seem. Their love was much different than that shared by Sherlock and Victor simply because it seemed to be mutual and appreciative. As Sherlock's love for John deepened he understood just how hallow his feelings for Victor had been, and even more so he understood just how broken their relationship had turned out. To even think that he was once willing to spend his life with that horrible soldier, considering just how miserable their relationship had been! Half of that was Sherlock's fault of course, for he had been pushing things to fast, however half of the blame also fell on Victor for allowing him to make such drastic mistakes. Victor knew full well that Sherlock had no love experience, yet he went along with it for his own personal benefit. He didn't love Sherlock, which now was quite obvious. John's love for Sherlock was vivid, and it wasn't displayed as one might expect. In fact the thought of spending a night together never crossed either of their minds for a long time, nor did their lips come very close for days after they met for the first time. It was a different sort of love, considering it wasn't rushed and it was very much innocent. It appeared in the form of hand holding, or leaning against each other's shoulders, or sharing a drink out on the bench that use to be populated by Molly. They spent time together, they talked together, and they were both abruptly shown that they had found their soulmate through a simple couple of weeks of conversation. For someone who Sherlock hadn't been able to stand just a couple of weeks ago, John was now absolutely essential for his happiness. A day without John would prove to be a day without sunshine, yet such a day has not yet appeared since they got codependent. Sherlock never went home, and it appeared that John didn't have a home to return to either, for they stayed at the Hooper household as long as might be expected of them. Sherlock usually slept in the bedroom with Molly, for at night was when she mourned the worst, when the sun set and she couldn't find an ounce of happiness in the world. It was then when she needed comforting; when she needed a shoulder to cry on and someone to hug her as she fell asleep with tear stained cheeks. John slept on the couch downstairs, always on alert, and always armed. He was the guard dog, so to speak, for there was many a time when he was the one to answer the door at unorthodox hours. Most of these calls were confused and inopportune mourners, who had come to pay their respects to the family that had long since gone to bed. Yet once there were some loyalist revels, kids most likely, who had thrown a brick through the front window. On the brick was tied a piece of paper, reading Long Live The King, and it was John who had chased them down the road with his musket, daring them to come back and say it to his face. This of course was stopped by Molly (and Sherlock, yet Molly ran faster) so that he didn't draw any unnecessary attention to himself and so that he didn't find himself on the gallows just like the late Mr. Hooper. The window was replaced with a board, soon to be replaced by John when he had some free time, and life went on as usual. Or at least it did for quite a while, it went as long as it could before things got, if possible, even worse. John and Sherlock were taking a break from cleaning for just a moment, sitting on the chairs in the sitting room together and enjoying a nice pot of tea with Molly before they got back up to dusting out the large curtains that seemed to hang in every single room. Mrs. Hooper was up in her room, as she most often was, and the house was quiet. Sherlock and John sat together on the love seat while Molly sat alone on the couch. She hadn't yet asked about what had happened between them, yet considering their intimacy the past couple of days the question almost seemed like a pointless waste of air. They were leaning against each other's shoulders, sipping their tea at complete ease. Sherlock could feel it when John inhaled and exhaled, he could hear his heart beating, hear his tea slurping into his mouth. He liked listening to John, even when he wasn't saying anything. It was just another shocking reminder that this perfect man was, unlike Victor, completely and perfectly human. Molly wasn't saying anything and so they didn't say anything either. She had gotten quiet ever since her father died, she hardly said anything and she seemed rather upset with the world in general. She could be mad at herself, for promoting such rebellious behavior, maybe at Sherlock for having sided with the British momentarily, and maybe at her father himself for putting himself in harm's way. Sherlock was sure that all possible scenarios of blame had gone through Molly's head multiple times, and it was all he could do but remind her that in no way was it actually going to be her fault. It was a natural part of the grieving process to assume that the loss had been entirely your fault, and of course that was what made the whole thing worse. Going back and telling yourself oh, if only I had done something different. Yet Sherlock was there to remind her that such thinking was ludicrous, and Mr. Hooper had done what he did to protect the country, he had died an honorable death that had been entirely the British's fault. It was them that should pay the price; it was them that had to live with the guilt. Yet they would feel nothing, oh Sherlock was positive that they would be sitting around smoking and playing poker like they always did! He was sure they didn't feel an ounce of regret, only satisfaction on having maybe stopped another ploy from the rebels. The quiet afternoon was interrupted by a knock on the door, one that aroused some suspicion simply because of the urgency of the knocking. It was fierce, desperate, and in quite the hurry. It was enough to make John set down his tea and reach for the musket, all while Sherlock cowered behind him like the helpless child he proved to be. It was of course Molly who thought clearly, using her mind that did not immediately jump to violence she crept towards the window and looked through the curtain at their visitor. She didn't look relieved, nor did she look afraid, she instead looked back at Sherlock where he cowered with a distraught expression.
"Sherlock it's for you." Molly announced quietly, the first string of words she had spoken in quite a long time. She then replaced herself on the couch, crunched down on a sugar cube, and sat staring mournfully at her empty glass of tea. Sherlock blinked in some surprise, considering he had not expected to get a visitor at the Hooper house. In fact it would seem that all the people that actually cared for him were in this exact room, and so the idea that someone else might have appeared seemed almost unlikely. Yet he approached the door anyway, leaving John's protection and instead peering out the window himself. And on his doorstep he saw a broken woman, a woman who was sobbing into her expensive handkerchief, a woman that he knew all too well.
"Mother?" Sherlock exclaimed, running to the door and undoing all the bolts and locks that they had taken to securing through all hours of the day and night. He opened the door eagerly, unable to hide his excitement at finally seeing his mother after all this time. He had separated from them on his own grounds and by his own choice, and of course he still harbored a sort of anger for his family forgetting completely about him this entire time. He knew that he shouldn't be as excited as he was, yet it was the natural human instinct to delight in a mother's presence. It was all he could do but open the door and throw his arms around her neck once more, so happy to once more be able to get hugged back by her soothing, empathetic arms.
"Oh William, William I thought I had lost you!" she exclaimed in agony, hugging her son with such ferocity that Sherlock almost expected to be suffocated.
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, pulling himself away from his mother and immediately regaining the confusion and slight hurtfulness that came with a visit after so many days of silence. He drew back, looking at his mother suspiciously, wondering if she could possibly be a spy from the other house of soldiers. Was she sent to get a better look inside of the broken household, to see which one of the conspirators might be hiding amongst the family?
"The soldiers left for good. I came to tell you that you can come home." She breathed, blowing her nose finally into her handkerchief and pulling herself together as best she could. For some reason she seemed emotional, yet whether it was because of the soldiers' leaving or the promise of her son's return, Sherlock didn't know.
"They're gone? All of them?" Sherlock clarified.
"They packed up and left, they're off to fight the war, Sherlock. They've been summoned to the fort, and they're set to march soon." Mrs. Holmes admitted tearfully, dabbing at her eyes and attempting to take a step closer to her son. Sherlock resisted, taking a great step back so as to defend himself from her prying arms.
"Where are they going?" asked John's voice from inside, obviously listening in to the conversation despite the need for privacy in such a situation. Mrs. Holmes sniffled in surprise, obviously not expecting to hear a man's voice from inside the Hooper household any longer. John walked towards the door to hear the answer, still with his musket in hand, and obviously looking quite formidable. It was all Mrs. Holmes could do but take a shocked step back, appalled at the violence and surprised to see such a familiar face.
"The milkman?" she muttered with a blink.
"He's a family friend." Sherlock clarified, stepping aside so that John could stand next to him on the stoop. However John stood innocently in the house, leaning against the door frame and looking at Mrs. Holmes curiously.
"I'm um...I'm not supposed to say." Mrs. Holmes muttered with a small shrug.
"So you know?" Sherlock clarified with a gasp. Mrs. Holmes sighed heavily, looking down to the sidewalk as if expecting the soldiers to be looking back.
"I'm not supposed to say." She reminded them quietly. Sherlock was overwhelmed with a sort of anger that came of course with getting so close yet so far, so angry in fact that it was all he could do but stay where he was and not charge at his own mother. He stood still, nodding as if he understood such infuriating loyalty, and looking towards John mournfully.
"Yes of course we understand." John agreed, setting the musket down against the wall inside of the house and watching Mrs. Holmes curiously. Sherlock could almost sense him thinking, for they were so properly synched at this point that most every thought that went through one of their heads went through the other's. John was thinking of ways to get it out of her, ways that he might possibly learn the information he needed. He was a spy; after all, this should be his specialty!
"William won't you please come back home? We miss you so much, and if it was the soldiers who upset you they're long gone, everything can go back to normal." Mrs. Holmes begged, taking a step closer to Sherlock to which he didn't move. This might have been reassuring to her, for she took another step, and this time Sherlock hopped backwards in a threatened sort of way.
"I'm taking care of Molly." Sherlock said flatly.
"Yet I'm perfectly able of doing that myself. Sherlock...William, go ahead and go back to your family." John insisted, patting Sherlock's shoulder from where he stood on the porch. It wasn't an encouraging pat; it was more the rough type that wanted to explain that if Sherlock didn't do as he said he would face the consequences of his stupidity. It was obvious that Sherlock's return to his house would be essential to finding out where their unwelcome visitors had gone off to, and yet what a sacrifice that would be! He would be going without John, going without Molly, leaving them alone to fend for themselves! Yet it was obvious that it was necessary, if it wasn't John wouldn't be enforcing it so eagerly. Mrs. Holmes gave a squeak of hopefulness, for it was obvious her happiness and wellbeing was riding on this very decision. She couldn't stand to have two sons yet only one in the house; she couldn't stand the idea of one of her sons abandoning her.
"Yes alright then. John you have a good point." Sherlock agreed in a small mutter, looking back at the boy who was standing so patiently in the doorway, watching this all as it unfolded. He was so beautiful, so small now, so small with such a big purpose. Sherlock didn't want to leave him, however his separation anxiety was a meager factor when taking into consideration the shame of not getting the information needed. Sherlock didn't need to see John every day; he merely needed to make him proud. And so this was what he was going to have to do. Mrs. Holmes gave a cry of delight, throwing her son once more into an inescapable embrace and letting her tears flow uncontrollably.
"Oh thank you, thank you!" she sobbed, rocking Sherlock back and forth in her thankful enthusiasm. Sherlock could only nod, hugging her back with a bit of a reluctant smile as he was not sure what to do now. He had adapted so well to life with the Hoopers that he was almost disappointed to be going back to his old life, now that the soldiers had cleared out and everything might appear to be normal. However normal was a long way away if the soldiers were indeed collecting to march. They were going somewhere, doing something, and starting an escapade that may very well lead to the beginning of the war they all knew was coming.
"I'll be over in a moment, Mother." Sherlock muttered apprehensively.
"Yes...yes of course. William you take your time, and please do give my sympathies to the Hooper family." Mrs. Holmes suggested, giving her son one last hug before nodding a bit awkwardly to John, fixing her hat, and staring off once more down the sidewalk. They waited until they heard the slam of the Holmes door to finally retreat back into their own house, and just as soon as they were sure they were out of the woman's earshot they began to talk their own strategy. This of course began with Sherlock letting out a great whine and throwing his arms around John, mourning already the loss of time he was going to have to suffer.
"I don't want to go back there!" Sherlock groaned, letting his long arms fall extravagantly across John's back and his head fall against his shoulder. This proved to be a great contortion, considering that John was a lot shorter than Sherlock, yet he soothed Sherlock all the same, despite the crushing weight of Sherlock's entire body mass falling onto his shoulders.
"You have to; didn't you hear that, Sherlock? The soldiers are marching, and your mother knows where to. If we can intercept them, foil their plans, we could one up them, we could win the first battle of this war, prove to the rest of the world that we're strong, able bodied soldiers!" John exclaimed, peeling Sherlock off of him so that he could look the worried boy in the eyes once more.
"I know the stakes are high, I know that it's all on me now. But I just don't want to." Sherlock whined. "I want to stay with you for the rest of my life."
"And you will, in a new country, Sherlock! In a free one!" John exclaimed, clutching Sherlock's shoulders with all of his pent up enthusiasm. Sherlock nodded, unable to argue with such a valid point. He knew that this war might not produce a free country, and even more so he understood that when this war was over they may not both be standing. This war may claim their life, their love, and their aspirations. It might claim their freedom and their nationalism; it could take a great big step and squash all of their optimism in a single blow. Yet they had to try, didn't they? Or they would always be living with the what ifs, imagining what their world might have looked like if they had been daring enough to take a stand.