Sherlock lay against the cobblestone and only pretended that he was still fighting. In his head he could see the solution in which he jumped into the back of the carriage, knocked Victor out senselessly, and dragged Mr. Hooper's limp body back to safety. He saw John taking out the rest of the guard, he saw the crowd rising up and taking away the muskets, taking away the knives. And yet...nothing happened. Instead Sherlock lay on the pavement, and John was there, he was hovering above, making excuses, making apologies, and trying to drag Sherlock back into the protection of the thick crowd of spectators. The soldiers still had their guns raised, they still had their bayonets drawn, for the crowd was getting more and more violent as the screaming continued, as the police carriage was shut and began to roll away.
"We need to get out of there, come on Sherlock; don't make a fool out of yourself! Come on Sherlock!" John insisted, trying to get Sherlock up to his feet. Yet Sherlock didn't want to stand, he didn't want to move. The only thing he wanted to do right now was stay down on the cobblestone, the only thing he wanted to do was lie there until he got trampled, killed upon impact, and free of this mess they had made of America. Yet he underestimated John, a mistake he was so often making these days. He underestimated the lengths that boy was willing to go to get Sherlock and himself to safety. The effort he was willing to put forth so as to make sure neither of them fell prey to the violence that was beginning to erupt outside of the Hooper household. With all the strength of ten men, John lifted Sherlock up from the pavement and into his arms. He carried him like you would a bride, if this had been any sort of joyous occasion such as that. Yet it was not. Sherlock didn't throw his arms around John's neck; he hung loosely in his limbs, helpless with shock and anger at what he had just seen. Helpless now, with the crushing realization that he was never going to have to go to war. No, the war was going to come to him. John rushed out of the crowd just as the soldiers began to yell orders, warnings of some sort, so as to calm the panicking civilians. They wanted to make this as peaceful as possible, or that was what they claimed, for last time this same situation occurred that was not the case. No, if the British soldiers were good at calming civilians they wouldn't have killed five men on the streets all of those years ago! Was this what this riot was going to amount to be? The second Boston Massacre? John carried Sherlock until his arms began to shake, and thankfully that was far enough away so that he could set him down in the grass of one of their neighbor's yards. Sherlock didn't have any time to care if they would mind, for at the moment he almost felt as though he was slipping in and out of consciousness, he felt as though the world wasn't solid anymore, yet more of a fluid. More of a dream than any sort of reality.A nightmare, more accurately.
"Sherlock come on, stay with me." John snapped, grabbing at Sherlock's head and tilting it back ever so slightly so that Sherlock could breathe a bit easier. He forced open Sherlock's mouth and tipped a strong liquor down his throat, a drink so powerful that it was all Sherlock could do but sit up in shock, the world popping out in strong, vivid colors all of the sudden. He clutched to John's shoulder, almost as if he had suddenly overcome a wild dream, looking around as if he had hoped that this moment of resurfacing was actually from a dream. And yet no, he remembered it all, the crowds were still gathered, the evidence was still there. The screaming still continued, he could hear it still.
"John they're going to kill him." Sherlock whispered horrifically, his voice trembling at the very thought. The man that had been there since his birth, the father of his best friend, the man who had watched him grow. Hanged, hanged for what he was working for, hanged for what he believed in!
"I know." John agreed softly. "I know."
"Well we've got to do something!" Sherlock exclaimed. John shook his head quietly, helping Sherlock sit up so that he could rub his eyes and get accustomed to the newly changed world that still insisted on spinning around him.
"We can't do anything, I'm sorry Sherlock. But he knew that he was in a dangerous position, and we all agreed to carry it on even if he got caught. That was the risk in it all, and he'll have given his life to a noble cause." John promised quietly, trying to ease Sherlock into a more peaceful state. He couldn't catch his breath, it felt like his lungs were expanding and deflating all at the same time. All of the sudden the world seemed so cruel, all of the sudden he felt so betrayed by...by everything. He saw no light at the end of the tunnel, he instead saw carnage. He realized now, vividly, that this was the beginning of the war. This was where it all started. No gun shots had gone off, no, but for Sherlock Holmes alone, this was the beginning of the time he fought. This was the beginning now, when he picked a side.
"Sherlock you're hyperventilating." John whispered, rubbing Sherlock's back so as to try to calm him. Yet Sherlock didn't care, his medical condition, the mere detail if he could breathe or not, that was all in the past. It was the future now, that was what mattered. At the moment it was Sherlock, and it was John. The entire world comprised of two people, the only two people that Sherlock felt he could truly trust, and the only two that were low flying enough to not be suspected yet of the same crimes that Mr. Hooper was accused of. Treachery, that was what it was.
"They're...they're collecting their forces. Moran told me the other day, General Gage is here. He's calling on his troops, collecting up the army. The war is coming, John, the war is here!" Sherlock exclaimed, trying to get to his feet yet getting dragged down instead by John's strength once more. In some ways it was nice to be reminded that he had a place in all of this, in some ways it was nice to be forced to slow down and just take a minute to relax. And yet it was infuriating, the way John treated him as if he was just some child that had to be controlled by force. He was stopping him from doing what was necessary, from breaking Mr. Hooper out of prison and stopping this atrocity before it even began! He was pulled back, stumbling and falling right into John's chest again, where the boy could do nothing more but repositioning him into a more comfortable position. Sherlock sat with his head against John's shoulder, he could feel his heartbeat, a reassuring fact considering he was sure Victor didn't have such a thing. Victor, whose heart was undoubtedly ripped out long ago. What a reptile, what a traitor! It was nice now, to just sit with John and wait until the screaming from afar began to die down. It was nice to wait to hear if any gunshots rang out, it was nice to just sit and wait. To feel as though the war was something that was still far away, to feel as if they were utterly disconnected from it all. To pretend, for only right now, that they had to do nothing but sit back and watch it get played out. To sit back, and pretend that it was a problem for some other men. 

    The two of them waited in the Holmes household until the last redcoat had left the Hooper house. They sat on the porch of the quiet house, for the rest of the family was too ashamed to show their faces in the neighborhood. There must have been a sense of guilt, considering that they were quartering the very same troops that had dragged that man away. And it wasn't like he was innocent; no Sherlock understood that in the eyes of the British Mr. Hooper was one of the most traitorous and insolent members of the rebellion, however in the eyes of the rebels, that man was a hero. He didn't deserve to be hanged, oh in all aspects this was a tragedy! Poor Molly Hooper, the girl who was destined to lose a father before the first shot of war rang out. And it was even more infuriating to have to sit here, sit in the porch and watch to see when it would be safe to go and console her. John was timid; he didn't want to go too close considering he was a rather big part of the operation Mr. Hooper had been orchestrating. His face might not be welcome, especially if the soldiers were already set on hunting him down. And Sherlock, well of course he should wait until the coast was clear, considering the scene he had made the last time. Would the soldiers be angry with him when he returned, would they give him a harsh talking to about not trying to interrupt their military strategies? Oh what did it matter anymore? That was the show that proved to Sherlock where he truly stood; after all of these days of insisting that even the British were humans in the end, that display proved him grossly wrong. They were monsters, all of them rotten down to their cores! Victor, how could he show no remorse as he dragged that man to the police carriage, how could he glance back at Sherlock in a taunting way, not in a shameful way, as he saw the reaction it was having on him? Oh Victor, that horrible man, how had Sherlock not seen it before? And to think only yesterday Sherlock had given him everything, only for him to leave and do something as horrible as this. And yet all faith in humanity was not lost, for as this entire ordeal progressed there was one boy that sat by his side the whole time. Someone that Sherlock could learn to trust, someone he would allow to take care of him, even throughout all of this mess. John sat by his side, rocking back and forth gently on the swing that hung from the Holmes family porch, his short little legs just barely touching the ground so as to propel him forward. Sherlock sat in a stable chair on the other side, holding his head in his hands and just trying to concentrate on breathing, and yet every so often he felt that he had no other choice but to look up at John and smile. He had to appreciate that boy and his loyalty, especially when he remembered that John had a personal connection to Mr. Hooper too. In fact Sherlock was surprised he wasn't anymore affected than this, considering the danger he was undoubtedly in right now. If the British were tracking down the operation that Mr. Hooper had been conducting then John was one of the ones they sought after, and at the moment he was very much compromised. If Sherlock had been in his position he would've already been halfway to Africa or China, or somewhere where he could hide away, far from the tendrils of the British government. Yet John stayed here, on the porch of a loyalist family, and silently grieved for the loss that was sure to come soon.
"Do you think it's safe to go see her now?" Sherlock wondered, craning his neck so as to look across the road to the long, empty sidewalk. It looked as if the soldiers had all dispersed, however some could be in the house all the same. Just as they had been when Sherlock had first left the house, hiding from the public eye.
"Maybe." John shrugged, not making any obvious moves to get up and moving.
"You don't think they'll interrogate her, do you? You don't think..."
"I don't know." John said sharply, cutting Sherlock off before he could even suggest that Molly might crack under the pressure of a British interrogator. He didn't want to think of the consequences of such a thing, to think that she had the power to not only give herself up, but John, and Mycroft, and Sherlock...
"Alright." Sherlock muttered, realizing obviously that his conversation was not wanted. They waited another half hour until finally John allowed Sherlock to get to his feet and start off down the sidewalk, and even then the boy didn't follow. He merely stood on the porch and watched as Sherlock descended down to the sidewalk below.
"Aren't you coming?" Sherlock wondered, getting increasingly nervous about what he might find when he arrived at his destination. He could only hope the soldiers were gone, and he could only hope that the women were unharmed.
"If there's redcoats there, come back. Don't stay. If there's not, then stay and I'll be there shortly. If you don't arrive, I'll follow." John promised, lingering by the banister and looking quite happy with his decision. Sherlock nodded, knowing of course that was the best plan of action, and wondering to himself why he had been stupid enough to think that waltzing in there with a member of the Hooper organization had seemed to be a good idea beforehand. Yes of course, he was an innocent bystander, on no lists of rebels, on no payroll that might have been tucked away inside of Mr. Hooper's desk. He would be safe to go, and even if he did get trouble from the soldiers he still had the legitimate excuse of being Molly's friend and neighbor. The worst thing that could happen was they sent him away. So Sherlock nodded, feeling as though there wasn't anything more to say to him, and started off down the sidewalk alone. The protesters had all dispersed, after the house had fallen silent the crowds didn't have anything more to do than to go home under the false impression that they had done something with their day. As if yelling and tormenting the British soldiers was some sort of accomplishment! They were making things worse, those mindless rebels who would surely do nothing but sit back and watch as the war they yelled about progressed right under their noses! Too scared to volunteer, too afraid to pick up a gun and actually put themselves in the line of fire! The only reason they yelled on the street corners was because they knew there would be no way the British could fire upon them or do anything but ignore them, and so with absolutely no risk to themselves the people went out and verbally abused. However after war had broken out and chaos reigned, well there would be no more laws of etiquette keeping the British from pulling the trigger. And so those cowards would slink back into the holes they had risen from, realizing now that no amount of insults would ever calm the roaring oceans of the British colonies. Sherlock went up to the Hooper's porch, the thing having fallen so silent since Sherlock had last seen it, and knocked timidly on the door. He was half expecting it to be answered immediately by a British officer; however there was a long silence. He then expected no one to answer, as if the members of the house too had been dragged away, leaving the thing empty. Maybe the women were too afraid to open the door, too afraid of whatever ruffians and reporters may be poking around and trying to get up close and personal with the tragedy. Finally, however, Sherlock noticed the curtain pulled back just enough for a single eye to peer through the glass, and in just a moment the door was flung open and Molly Hooper came rushing out, bursting into tears just as soon as her arms met Sherlock's neck. He didn't really know what to say, for whatever sympathies he had would go nowhere, and whatever action plans he might make to save her father were obviously futile. And so he merely held her, as he was undoubtedly expected to do, and patted her back softly so as to console her wordlessly.
"What am I going to do, Sherlock?" Molly whispered between sniffles, grabbing at the folds in his jacket for some sort of stability.
"There's nothing you can do, Molly I'm sorry." Sherlock muttered, patting her back once more so as to encourage her to peel herself away and regain her composure. Yet Molly didn't seem to be in the mood to be alone, or at least without human touch, and so she stayed where she was. Her sniffling subsided and her sobs silenced, however Sherlock could still feel warm, wet tears falling onto his neck where they slid off of Molly's pale cheeks.
"They're going to kill him, I know they will." Molly whispered horrifically.
"Yes I know." Sherlock agreed. "But it was a gamble he was willing to make, he gave his life for the revolution, and with his death I'm sure it will progress."
"You think this will lead to war?" Molly clarified quietly. Sherlock paused for a moment, for the reality of how close this war was getting was only just beginning to sink in. It could be any day now that the first shot went off, and who knows how much longer the muskets would fire until peace reigned once more? And in what state would that peace be in, which side would it favor? Peace throughout Britain, as they established their full domination of the colonies? Or peace throughout America, where they could hang their flag and watch as the limping British army got back on their boats and sailed home, never to return.
"Yes I think it will." Sherlock agreed quietly, feeling his own eyes begin to burn with the attempt of holding back tears.
"I heard that you made a scene outside, I heard that you were yelling." Molly muttered, finally pulling herself away from Sherlock with a desperate little laugh, pushing her hair around so as to make it seem like she was in her perfect every day state once more. Yet that was a fallacy, for the tears still shone on her face and the frown was still forcing its way onto her lips.
"Oh well, you know me. Always trying to be the hero." Sherlock said with a little shrug.
"You got nowhere, though?" Molly presumed.
"I never said I was any good at being heroic." Sherlock debated, and Molly let out a little broken laugh once more.
"You really are the worst." She decided with a disappointed shake of her head, prompting Sherlock to smile proudly.
"Well thank you, Molly." He said with a grin. He only wanted to make the poor girl smile; however she turned away and led him into the house mournfully, as if she didn't even want to listen to his stupid jokes. She was beyond hope at this point, and so it was all Sherlock could do but follow her inside with the hopes that he could bring about some change to her disconsolate state.
"Oh Sherlock, I'm glad to see you." Mrs. Hooper muttered from inside of the house, sitting in the living room alone. Sherlock smiled mournfully to her from where he stood in the entry way, however Molly didn't give him much time to converse. She merely led him upstairs to her room, so they could have some quiet conversations. He felt bad, leaving poor Mrs. Hooper alone to mourn, however at the moment Molly was his top priority, and he knew that he had some sort of responsibility to be there for her first. The house was dark, the oil lamps were lit only where the family thought necessary, and at the moment that was only in the stairwell, in the living room, and in Molly's bedroom. The rest of the house lay in shadows, the very darkness that would seem to stick to the colonies like a fungus until finally they were free of the British flag once and for all.