"Have you got anything then? Anything important?" John wondered, clutching at Sherlock's hands before looking at him anxiously.
"Yes, yes actually! I know where they're going, I know where they're headed." Sherlock exclaimed with a little squeal, to which he hushed himself nervously. Yet at this point it didn't matter, he had won his own personal battle, and what happened to him after this seemed almost irrelevant. Sherlock might have been able to ensure a victory for the rebels, what now after this was important?
"Where then, where are they going?" John asked in an excited whisper.
"Concord, they're following the guns in hopes to confiscate them. I don't know when they're leaving, but that's easy enough to observe, John I think...I think we should collect the militia. I think we should meet them there." Sherlock said confidently, giving John's hands one more squeeze before giving him a great big grin of excitement. And this grin, as was expected at this point, was returned with an even bigger smile. One of a boy who now saw a purpose, a start date to the game he had been preparing to play for his entire life. And it had been through Sherlock that finally it may be started with a victory.
"Oh Sherlock, Sherlock that is invaluable information! You're absolutely amazing, my God; you may have just won us the element of surprise. You may have just won us the first battle." John breathed in excitement, leaning forward to press a kiss onto Sherlock's lips in congratulation. Sherlock smiled to him softly, for with such a brief kiss he was already excited enough to continue it. He knew that if this really was the information that would lead to the first battle then it was quickly approaching, and a moment like this, a moment alone with John, it may never come again. Such thoughts had gotten him into trouble before, yet that had been with a man who had made it very clear very early on that he cared nothing for Sherlock in the end. The change in partner alone had rejuvenated Sherlock enough to crave more, to crave something new, while his life was still his own and while his heart was still beating just fine in his chest. While he lived with an optimistic future, rather than a troubled and defeated past. He planned to love John while he still could bear to love anything, and he wanted to love John while he still had the chance. While their lives could be only enhanced instead of ended, and while they still lived undaunted by the shackles of war. What better night, what better time? And so Sherlock kissed John again, bringing the boy closer than ever before and interlocking their limbs together, kissing him as powerfully as he could so as to pass along the message that John should follow suit. They should be celebrating this victory, shouldn't they? They should be enjoying each other's company, enjoying each other's success. Tonight was the night to display that they loved each other, they loved everything about each other, and they wanted what could be their last night on earth to end with something a lot more rewarding than a single, anticlimactic kiss. However just as Sherlock tried to continue the kiss John began to get more and more apprehensive, and when Sherlock trailed his lips down to John's neck the boy finally pulled away a bit nervously.
"Sherlock, this is how you got yourself in trouble before." John reminded him, his heart beating just as fast, yet with a brain strong enough to counteract it. John was thinking logically, as he always was.
"That was different, John, that wasn't with you." Sherlock pointed out, letting go of John just long enough to begin unbuttoning his shirt, to kick off his shoes and to lean in closer once more. Yet John's arms shot out and stopped him, he grabbed Sherlock's hands so that he could go no farther than the third button down. It was almost as if he didn't want to be with Sherlock, it was almost as if he didn't think tonight was made for such intimacy. It was insulting, in a way.
"Sherlock you fell out of love with Victor the morning after, how can I be sure you won't fall out of love with me?" John insisted, sounding terrified of the thought of losing the boy he held most dear. Almost as if he cared so strongly for the love between them that he couldn't take the risk of losing it. And with that, suddenly, his reluctance made sense. So much sense that it almost halted Sherlock's eagerness, it almost brought him back to the present, back to reality. It was enough to make him blink, and yet finally his brain switched on and reminded him that his own argument might still ensure that tonight ended up the way he intended.
"Because I know that you love me, and I know that I love you. And after all of these weeks falling in love...well it almost seems as if it was all for nothing if we die tomorrow." Sherlock whispered carefully, wrapping his fingers around John's so as to hold his hands there for a moment, pressing his hands against his own beating heart so that John could understand the intensity of the moment.
"We won't die tomorrow." John promised.
"How can you know that?" Sherlock replied quietly.
"Because I won't let us die tomorrow. I won't let you die tomorrow." John insisted, finally pushing Sherlock away so that he could turn his face away in shame. As if he had done something that he was going to regret, as if he did something that he knew was not going to be appreciated. Oh and Sherlock did feel like a fool, standing there with his shirt half undone and one shoe on, getting turned away by the one boy he thought was sure to love him. And yet John...what was he up to now?
"How can you be sure of that?" Sherlock clarified quietly, his nerves building up tensely as he began to imagine the extreme lengths that John was going to attempt so as to keep Sherlock safe. What did he have in mind, body armor? A shield or some sort? Or was he just prepared to jump in front of every bullet that had the potential to come close to where Sherlock was standing?
"I'm not going to let you come. I won't let you fight." John said quietly, his voice trembling with shame. Sherlock stood frozen where he was, his hands beginning to tremble as he stared at the traitor that stood before him. Could it be that he had managed to fall in love with yet another boy that cared nothing for what he wanted? Could it be that he had found someone else who managed to put their wants and needs before his own?
"What do you mean you're not going to let me fight...John that's ludicrous! That's not fair! You have no authority over me, you cannot just..."
"I can! Sherlock I can. I lead the army, I'm in charge after Mr. Hooper was hanged, I collect the men, I supply the men, and I lead them to battle. I will not leave for Concord if you are among the infantry, I simply will not put your life in danger like that." John said confidently. Sherlock was quiet for just a moment, almost unable to process what John had just told him. Could he be lying, could he just be making this up for the sake of keeping Sherlock away from him? Was this some sort of breakup, or was he literally so concerned about Sherlock's wellbeing that he would deny him the honor and glory of charging with the militia to the first battlefield of the war? The battlefield he had just risked his life to determine? This was all because of him, and all in vain apparently, for John's selfish and downright intolerable actions would deprive Sherlock of all that he has lived for up until now. Couldn't John understand that Sherlock's very purpose was to march with those soldiers, couldn't he see that the one thing Sherlock had always aspired to do was fight? He was made to kill British soldiers, not only did he have the power of freedom on his side, but vengeance, he was going to free his country and pay them back for all of the hurt they had caused him, he was going to pay them back in bullets! Yet now...now John was expecting him just to sit at home?
"You would be that selfish to put America's future in jeopardy just so ensure that I was alright?" Sherlock growled, his fists clenched at his sides and his brain pulsing against his skull, every inch of his body begging and trying to jump out in retaliation. All he wanted to do, for the strangest reason, was to jump out at John and hurt him. Hurt him with the emotional weapons that he himself had granted to Sherlock, hurt his physical being with all of the tears that were destined to fall from Sherlock's cheeks! To let the pain and humiliation seep into his pours like poison, and allow him to feel the absolute agony Sherlock had been forced to live with for years! Yet he stayed still, he stayed and watched like the helpless child he was growing to be. The child who dreamed of war, but would get left behind as the big boys went to fight instead.
"Yes I would be! Sherlock, you don't understand what you mean to me. How could you understand? I have not yet told you that...that I love you. More than anything in the world, more than my life, more than my soldier's lives, more than the future of America! Do you not understand the hurt it would cause me if my own operation led to your death?" John breathed, his eyes already welling up with tears that he could not help shedding. Tears for his love, for his life, and the vile acts that he had somehow convinced himself were necessary. Yet Sherlock could not yet cry, no he couldn't afford to look any more weak in front of John, he couldn't afford for that boy to see that he was not only incapable of fighting, but controlling his emotions as well.
"If I want to sacrifice myself...you would deny me my birthright to be a martyr? For my own country, you would not allow me to live out my dream? Do you not understand what this country means for me, do you not understand what fighting for it would mean?" Sherlock whispered.
"I understand fully, Sherlock, but take that love and multiply it with any number you can imagine! That would still not be enough to emphasize what you mean to me. I cannot let you die!" John exclaimed, now not even trying to hide his voice from the other occupants of the house. At this point if they were discovered together it really would be no bother, for they were doing nothing more than arguing. If they had been caught in bed that would be a different story, yet it was perfectly explainable to sneak a boy into your window at midnight only to begin yelling at each other.
"I won't die, John if we have the element of surprise there's such a slim chance that I will..."
"There's a chance, and I won't take it. Sherlock they might overpower us, they have guns, cannons, they're evil and they won't stop until the entire revolution has been crushed under their feet. You saw what happens to rebels, how could you think I would let you suffer the noose, or the bullet?" John insisted.
"And you, what about you? What good is your precaution if you end up dying? Have you not taken into consideration how much I love you? How I would rather die at your side than have to wait for a wagon with your corpse?" Sherlock growled. John just sighed heavily, rubbing his hands over his tear streaked cheeks and shaking his head in annoyance.
"I was made to die, you were made to live. You were made to be protected, to be secure. I need to be the one to ensure you live to see your twentieth birthday, and your thirtieth, and your fiftieth. I need to be the one to ensure that you survive this war, to ensure that you don't have to fight in it at all." John whispered anxiously, looking beyond pained to have to deliver such news. He didn't want to see the face of the boy he loved contorted into absolute despair; he didn't want to have to break the heart of the boy he wanted only to cherish.
"You weren't made to die! John your life matters just as much as my own, why do you get to protect me if I cannot protect you?" Sherlock exclaimed, lunging towards the boy and taking his hands into his own, trying to squeeze some sense into him, trying to demonstrate that he loved John just as powerfully as John loved him. And John didn't fight back, not now that his secret had been shared, yet he was still crying, and Sherlock was still angry. This was not the ideal embrace, nor was it the ideal night; however they would have to make do if it was to be their last.
"Just don't fight, Sherlock. That's all I ask of you, stay out of it, protect yourself for my sake." John begged him, his hazel eyes letting down fat drops of emotion even now as he stared up at Sherlock. His heart was beating and his hands were trembling, his mouth was downturned into an uncontrollable frown yet he was still staring up with such love, he was still looking upon Sherlock as if he was the most precious thing this world had to offer. And that love was of course enough to make Sherlock overlook his anger. Yes he wanted to fight, he wanted to be a hero and he wanted to take the lives of the British who had done everyone wrong. Yet he also wanted to ensure that John fought with a clear head, he wanted to ensure that John led the men to victory. Maybe he was right; maybe Sherlock's place in the resistance was on the sidelines. Maybe he would be just as he had hoped to be, a housewife who had no choice but to wait for her husband to return home. He could sit and wait, he could pray for victory, and when John returned he could make sure he was as comfortable as he could possibly imagine. Would that be suitable enough, would that subside his need for violence? Would John's love be satisfactory enough to substitute for his vengeance? Sherlock took a deep breath, seeing the desperation in John's eyes, seeing the absolute necessity. A mere boy at the helm of a ship that was almost destined to sink, the commander of an army that was almost definitely going to be crushed. What could Sherlock do but appease him, to try to make him feel better? What could he do but try to preserve the heart that was made to be broken, to be torn to shreds by a British bullet? Why couldn't he find it in himself to think of someone else's needs instead of his own? Oh John Watson, the beautiful martyr, the man who would love him no matter what. What could Sherlock do accept obey?
"Fine." Sherlock whispered, a mere breath that he could hardly hear himself. He didn't want to say it too loudly, just in case he wanted to take it back, however it would seem that John hear the single syllable loud and clear. For finally his tears stopped falling, and in a rush of appreciation he hugged Sherlock again, holding him so powerfully in his arms that Sherlock almost couldn't breathe. It was all he could do but try to hug John back, try to appreciate his selfishness and try to take it as a compliment more than an insult. Sherlock had to convince himself that John's actions were out of love, and not out of doubt. He had to remind himself that this was exactly the sort of love he was looking for, the sort of boy he had been waiting for, and the sort of protection that came along with legitimate emotions. Victor wouldn't have hesitated to kill Sherlock himself, and here John was threatening to give up the colonies so as to ensure Sherlock didn't get hurt. How could he complain, how could he fight back when he knew that this was what he had been asking for? Love or violence, he knew which one was secondary, just as he knew which was essential. He could wait out the war, he could watch from the sides. The war may have come to him but that didn't mean he had to meet it, it didn't mean he had to fight it. He could let it pass like every season, every gust of wind, he could hear the screams and the guns and the cannons, yet no harm will come to him at all. He would be untouched, undaunted, with the only pain coming in the form of his worry for John. For his beloved general, so new to the world, yet so powerful already.
"Thank you Sherlock, thank you so much." John whispered into his ear, his words still trembling, his hands still shaking and his arms still clutching to Sherlock as if he never wanted to let go. Sherlock couldn't bring himself to say anything more; he was overwhelmed now with the purpose of John's visit having been exhausted, leaving the rest of their night together completely free, completely up to them. Maybe it was time to show each other how much they loved one another, maybe it was time to demonstrate.
"Please John...let our last night together be memorable." Sherlock begged in a mere whisper, slackening his grip so that he could try to back away. He could already feel John's heart beat beginning to increase; he could already feel his muscles relaxing. And John allowed Sherlock to back away, he allowed him to pause if only for a moment so as to finish unbuttoning his shirt, almost as if he couldn't bring himself to protest any longer. Yes this was the type of rash decision making that had gotten Sherlock so heartbroken before, it was the exact sort of excitement that had brought him up in a great big whirlwind before ending suddenly and leaving him to fall. Yet what else could he do but accept it, what else could he do but allow himself to be pulled from the ground once more? Because with this sort of love, well even if he did fall, he knew that John would be there to catch him. Sherlock dropped his shirt and walked up close to John, the boy who still could not wholly process what was going on. How different it was to be the one who was educated on such romantic matters, how different it was to be in control? To know exactly what would put a man into frustrating longing, to know how to deny him such pleasures until it was the perfect time. The very feelings of confusion and excitement that John was feeling, Sherlock had gone through before! Tonight was his night to be in control, tonight he would be the one to lead. Or so he thought. For just as soon as Sherlock was beginning to touch at John's cheeks and taunt him with his lips, assuming of course that John was helpless to do anything but gape, it was then that the boy sprang to life. Instead of waiting in vain, instead of standing there in shock and admiration, John was quick to react. He was quick to go along with it. And so he too pulled off his shirt, he too pulled Sherlock close, grabbing his head only to steady his head as he began to kiss him, a quick learner, that is if he had not done this before...
"You know what to do?" Sherlock clarified breathlessly, mumbling his question against John's lips and expecting them to be heard quite easily.
"Yes of course." John agreed, his fingers wrapping through Sherlock's curls, holding him there with strength that Sherlock need not fight against.
"How?" Sherlock wondered, his heart beginning to drum up the familiar beat that he had thought had been only reserved for Victor. It had begun to send shocks of excitement through his entire body, it had begun to take the reins, and to tell his body now what to do. His brain was useless in this process of passion, and so instead it sat aside, and let the heart take control.
"Molly Hooper told me." John admitted breathlessly. And with that his lips left Sherlock's, instead now kissing his neck, kissing just as Victor had done, just as Sherlock had been taught. Once again Sherlock was the weakling, the object...yet tonight it didn't matter. It was just as effective, John's kisses and touches and aura, just as effective as Victor's. Yet it made him wonder if he would ever want to be in control, if he could ever even imagine himself as kissing rather than being kissed. If he could ever summon the power to do anything but slacken and accept it. He loved to be admired, John had commented on that before; maybe this was just his body's way of getting what it wanted, completely shutting down in the face of any romantic ecstasy... And so Sherlock let out a breath of acceptance, pulling John's face closer into his neck and wrapping his legs around his torso, making sure that John knew what he wanted, making sure John knew that he was all his. Making sure he knew that tomorrow might be the war, tomorrow might hold his death...yet tonight held his life.