October 1st, 1940: The only thing that saved Sherlock's life was his mother. If she hadn't been waiting in the car for him when Mr. Holmes threw him into the backseat, he would've been dead already. As soon as his father got into the car, he grabbed the beer he had waiting for him in the cup holder and took a large chug, clutching the wheel with one hand and the bottle with another.
"Oh, Sherlock, are you alright?" Mrs. Holmes asked, leaning over to the backseat to make sure her son was safe. Sherlock was still lying in a fetal position over both back seats, trying to process what had just happened. Surely Victor would hate him, their first official date turning into a kidnapping party and all. He fought the urge to cry, his father had cost him his safety, surely his freedom, and now, most likely, his only boyfriend that he might ever have. Dad of the year most certainly doesn't go to Mr. Holmes.
"That soldier, I swear to god, punching him in his perfect little face was worth this entire thing." Mr. Holmes growled, swerving majorly to keep from straying off the road.
"You punched Victor?" Mrs. Holmes exclaimed.
"I had to, the little ba**ard wasn't letting be through, what else was I supposed to do?" he asked. Obviously there were a lot of things that Mr. Holmes could've done to be more civilized, but neither Sherlock nor his mother were brave enough to suggest an alternative route.
"You could've really hurt him." Sherlock muttered.
"I don't want a word out of you boy, or god help me I'll throw you from the car." He insisted. Sherlock stayed silent. They pulled into the driveway, and Mr. Holmes seemed too angry to bother with Sherlock, he grabbed his precious beer and slammed the car door so forcefully that Sherlock was sure the glass must have broken.
"Sherlock, dear, come on." Mrs. Holmes insisted.
"You won't let him hurt me, will you?" Sherlock asked fearfully.
"You know I can't control your father, but I'll step in if I think you're in danger." Mrs. Holmes insisted.
"So, could you step in now?" Sherlock pleaded.
"Sherlock, what you did was wrong; I know that, your father knows that, you know that. It's just how we handle the fact that makes me worry." She sighed.
"What's the punishment?" Sherlock asked nervously.
"At least a month of grounding." She decided. Sherlock groaned, but crawled out of the car reluctantly. Surely that meant he wasn't going to be allowed to go see Victor, which pained him even more than the beating he was surely about to receive. When the two of them walked into the house, Grandma Holmes was sitting at the kitchen table, looking worried. As soon as Sherlock walked in, a look a relief flooded her face, and she smiled her big, denture filled smile.
"Oh thank god! I told you, he was kidnapped, that Victor kid was going to sell him on the Black Market!" she insisted.
"Mom, shush." Mrs. Holmes insisted.
"Boy, get in here!" Mr. Holmes demanded, coming from the living room. Sherlock looked at his mother fearfully, but she just gave him an encouraging nod. Sherlock took a deep breath, and walked into the living room, his hands shaking with fear. His father was standing, half shrouded in the shadows of the small lamp, draining the last of his beer so that he was all drunk for the punishment. This should certainly be a fair trial then.
"What were you thinking?" he growled.
"I'm sorry sir, I just..." Sherlock started.
"I DON'T WANT ANY APOLOGIES! YOU RAN AWAY FROM THIS HOUSE, YOU DEFIED A DIRECT ORDER, IF I HAD IT MY WAY TOU'D BE OUT ON THE STREETS!" Mr. Holmes roared, taking a step forward which made Sherlock stumble back.
"I didn't want to spoil our friendship, I didn't want to decline!" Sherlock insisted.
"I'LL MAKE SURE YOU NEVER SEE THAT SCUM AGAIN!" Mr. Holmes roared. Sherlock didn't know how to respond, the thought of never seeing Victor again, it was almost impossible for his love sick brain to comprehend.
"You can't do that! He's my friend, and if you didn't noticed, I haven't got many of those!" Sherlock defended.
"There's a reason you don't have any friends Sherlock, because you're a lying, disrespectful, traitorous little boy! There is something seriously wrong with that Victor kid, no wonder he wanted to be friends with you." He growled. Sherlock felt tears of defeat brimming in his eyes; he wanted to run away to his room, to hide from what his father was surely going to inflict on him. Something Sherlock could never handle.
"You probably hurt him." Sherlock mumbled.
"I BLOODY MEANT TO HURT HIM!" Mr. Holmes growled, taking another step towards Sherlock, who ducked away. "Why couldn't you have been more like your brother, huh? He was fine, he never ran away, he was a good son!"
"I didn't run..." Sherlock started. This time he wasn't quick enough to duck away, and when Mr. Holmes stepped forward, he was able to slap Sherlock in the side of the face, leaving a large red handprint. Sherlock yelped, once more cowering into the corner, feeling a couple of tears fall from his eyes.
"You're grounded." Mr. Holmes decided.
"For how long?" Sherlock asked.
"Until I decided you paid your debt to this household. Until I feel like you were inconvenienced more than I was, to leave my own home and collect my disrespectful son." Mr. Holmes decided. So, in other words, he was grounded forever. "And, if I see you with that horrible Victor again, you will most certainly pay the price." Mr. Holmes promised, his milky white eyes staring evilly into Sherlock's through the darkness. Sherlock could only whimper in reply, trying not to break down in front of Mr. Holmes, he couldn't show weakness, that might lead to the suspicion of affection, and that would lead to worse things. If a life of grounding was the punishment for sneaking out to have dinner, Sherlock could only imagine the punishment if his father realized that it was a date. Of course, his father's little brain couldn't function that way, it was unable to put two things together, it would be a long stretch for his brain, destroyed by countless bottle of alcohol.
"Leave, before I make it worse." Mr. Holmes spat, and Sherlock nodded profusely, scurrying out of the living room and up the stairs to his bedroom, closing the door and locking it with the weak little lock. This was horrible; it was honestly the worst thing that his father could've ever done. Not just the grounding, Sherlock's gone through that before, usually when his father was so drunk he really didn't notice Sherlock sneaking out or doing things he wasn't supposed to do, but the part about Victor, that was a lot harder to hide. He could never come over for dinner any more, he could never be a normal part of the family, he couldn't come for tea, or for visits, or for small chats at the kitchen table. This wouldn't just be a loss for Sherlock; it would be a loss for everyone in the family. Except, of course, Mr. Holmes, who hated the mere mention of Victor's name. There was officially no chance for Sherlock and Victor to reveal what was going on behind the scenes, they could never come out as a couple, they'd have to hide who they were. Sherlock didn't know why being homosexual was even such a big deal, his parents had their relationships, they had to have had a love that no one agreed with. But just because it happened to be the frowned upon relationship of a man and a woman, that's what Sherlock and Victor lacked. Their souls were the right match, but according to society, their genders weren't. And that was pathetic. Sherlock sat on his bed, thinking about ways he could get to see Victor without letting his father know. He could always skip lunch, then they'd have time together, but the fact that Jim and Moran were probably lurking around wasn't helping. If Victor didn't want the two of them to have any blackmail on him, it would be even harder to spend time together during the school hours. But even the thought of Victor blackmailing them as well, that's pretty rough, especially for a boy who holds himself to such high standards, to a soldier's standards. Of course Sherlock didn't want to get in a battle of the homosexuals, especially when he would be going against the two biggest bullies of the school. Obviously Victor could inflict some damage against them, but even he couldn't take on both. The other thing Sherlock didn't particularly like was the fact that Jim and Victor were once together. The very idea, of his soldier, the kind gentleman and Jim, the rude, arrogant, all around horrible person, their personalities clashed so badly. Sherlock hated the idea of Victor kissing Jim, just as he had kissed him. Victor never said if he had liked Jim or not, if he still liked him or not. He mentioned that Jim was the one to end it; did the boy still have lingering feelings? Of course he said that he knew it could never work, but that didn't mean he didn't want it to. Sherlock sighed, leaning his head on his hands and trying not to cry. Victor, his beautiful Victor, they'd be so separated, so alone, just when they thought that they'd never have to feel lonely again.  

              Sherlock could barely go to sleep that night; he kept blinking up at the darkness above him, thinking deep thoughts, thinking about Victor, even shedding a couple of tears on the other boy's behalf. He really hoped that he wasn't seriously injured; he didn't want Victor to have to go to the hospital because of Sherlock's stupidity and his secrecy. Just as he was about to actually fall asleep, just as his stiff eyelids started to droop, he heard a peculiar noise, a clanging almost. At first he thought it was his foot or something, or his breath against the blankets, and tried to convince himself to go back to sleep, when it came again, clang. Sherlock sat up in his bed, his heart beat rushing in fear, might it be his father, coming back to punish him again? Might it be a burglar trying to get inside the house, steal all of their money or something? There it was again, clang. The blood drained from his face as he clutched the feeble blankets, wondering that, if it were in fact a murderer, how he could best escape. Should he hide in the closet, run out the door, jump from the window? Sherlock looked at the window, contemplating how many bones he'd break if he did jump, when a small object, probably a rock, bounced off the window, making the mysterious clanging noise. Sherlock scrambled out of bed, shivering in his feeble cloth pajamas, and peered outside. There was a figure out on the front lawn, a figure shrouded in shadow, but the shape gave it away, the outline of the hat perched on the head. Victor was out in his front yard. Sherlock looked around, and then opened his window as slowly as he could, trying his best to make sure it didn't creek. 

"Let down your hair?" Victor asked with a smirk.
"Victor, what are you doing?" Sherlock asked, as quietly as he could manage.
"Making sure you're all right of course." Victor insisted.
"You shouldn't be here, my father, he's livid, if he hated you before, it's nothing compared to now." Sherlock insisted.
"I hate to think what might happen if I needed a blessing." Victor decided. Sherlock stumbled for a response, but nothing seemed to come to mind. He just stood there and gaped like a little fish. "Well, I came all the way here; I hope you might invite me in? It's quite cold out here." Victor insisted.
"I can't, if I go downstairs they'll hear me, they'll kill both of us!" Sherlock insisted.
"Who said anything about downstairs?" Victor asked. Even from down there in the darkness, Sherlock could see the mischievous glint in his eyes.
"You can't be serious?" Sherlock asked.
"There's a very convenient drain pipe here." Victor insisted.
"You'll fall, that can't possibly be stable!" Sherlock debated, hanging out the window a little bit to see the pipe. There was, in fact, a small pipe, iron of course, like there was on all the old houses, snaking its way up the house to the roof. Victor walked up to the pipe, examined it, shook it lightly to see if it would hold, and put his first foot on the wall, grabbing the pipe and pulling himself up the side of the house. Sherlock could barely breathe in fear, not only of Victor falling, but of his parents hearing all of the noise that he was making in the process, his loud footfalls, his struggled breathing, and his grunts of effort as he heaved himself up the pipe. Twice there was a mysterious creak of the house, in which Sherlock lost all feelings in his nervous limbs, but finally Victor was able to get close enough that Sherlock could grab one of his now rough, cold hands, and help pull him into the room. Victor rolled into the window with ease, getting to his feet extremely close to Sherlock, their hands still entangled.
"Hello Sherlock." Victor said with smoothness, not seeming to mind the fact that he literally just climbed up a house.
"Hi Victor." Sherlock managed in his breathless state, half from fear and half with the lack of space between them. It was all Sherlock could do but look into Victor's blue eyes, shining even brighter in the darkness, making continuous shivers run down his spine. If he looked away then he knew that Victor would think he didn't want to look at him (which he very much did) and if he kept looking then Victor might think that he was some creepy stalker, obsessed with the way the blues shined in the dim lighting (which he honestly was). Finally though, Victor broke the awkward stare with a quick kiss on the forehead before taking a step back, examining Sherlock's face.
"A hand print, he slapped you, didn't he?" Victor asked, his cold hand lingering on the side of Sherlock's face where his father had hit him.
"It's nothing, honestly, I'm used to it." Sherlock insisted, trying to make it seem like this wasn't as big a deal as it obviously was.
"You shouldn't get used to it Sherlock, you need to stand up for yourself, don't let him bully you." Victor pleaded his voice so soft and gentle. It was almost intoxicating.
"There's nothing I can do, he's my father, he's allowed to treat me however he wants to." Sherlock debated.
"Sherlock..." Victor muttered, but his voice sounded so defeated that he couldn't seem to end his sentence, so he just let the word fade.
"What about you, he hurt you, didn't he?" Sherlock asked. Victor nodded, turning his head so that Sherlock could see the large, black and blue bruise on his cheek. There were also little cuts, where Mr. Holmes' knuckles had hit, which were still fresh wounds, although they weren't bleeding.
"What about the counter?" Sherlock asked.
"Oh, that was, another story." Victor sighed.
"Can I see?" Sherlock asked.
"No, I don't want you to." Victor breathed.
"Why not?" Sherlock asked, feeling the responsibility to care for Victor just as Victor cared for him.
"I don't want you to know how breakable I am." Victor decided.
"I don't think anything less of you; in fact, you pretty much saved my life. I owe you everything, the power to stand up to my father, to defend me with everything you have, you're a hero." Sherlock insisted. Victor just smiled innocently, as if he had never been called anything of the sort before.
"I'm not a hero Sherlock, people aren't heroes. We can only live up to what we imagine they would be as best we can, make the choices they would, protect the ones we love as fiercely." Victor insisted.
"You can't possibly like me that much." Sherlock insisted.
"No Sherlock, no of course not. I love you that much." Victor insisted. Sherlock was too flustered to comprehend how cheesy that was. Nevertheless, he blushed scarlet and had to awkwardly look away.
"That's one of my favorite things you do." Victor decided.
"What?" Sherlock asked.
"When you get all flattered, when I tell you how I really feel, and you blush and you look away, you're the most adorable thing on earth, it's nearly impossible not to just feel my heart bursting every time you do that." Victor insisted.
"I feel the same when I receive such complements." Sherlock agreed, smiling innocently. "My dad refused to let me see you again, I'm grounded until he decides otherwise, and he says that if he sees me with you that the punishment will be worse."
"That's no problem; they don't see us now, do they?" Victor asked.
"No, of course not, but that's not the problem, we can't do this every night, we can't hide, we look like fugitives." Sherlock insisted.
"We are fugitives Sherlock, the world is against us, even if they don't know it yet." Victor pointed out.
"I don't want to be different." Sherlock muttered.
"And yes it's the price to pay. If you are, of course, as passionate about this relationship as I am. If I'm going too fast, if I'm pressuring you, if you feel obligated to be with me, you most certainly are not. It's not as if the moment our lips met I handcuffed us together, no, you are free to make your own decisions. If you don't think this is right, then obviously it's not." Victor assured.
"I'm not...no, of course I want to be with you! Of course I do!" Sherlock insisted. Victor's face shown with relief, and he smiled once more.
"That's what I hoped you'd say." He decided. "Then why are you so scared?"
"I love you, of course I do, but what would happen if someone like my dad found out? Or Mr. Fitz, or Jim? They'd throw us both in jail or they'd try to correct us with those drugs, with torture, it's inhumane." Sherlock insisted.
"We have to make sure they don't find out, it's that simple. They can't torture us if they don't know, can they?" Victor pointed out.
"In a way, they already are." Sherlock muttered.
"It's my job to be poetic Sherlock, it's your job to be adorable." Victor insisted.
"Fair enough." Sherlock said with a small smile.
"There you go, doing your job perfectly." Victor agreed. There was a small grunt from down the hallway, one of Sherlock's family members stirring in their sleep.
"You've got to go, if dad wakes up..." Sherlock mumbled.
"Alright, alright. Just, when you hear a rock on your window, answer it okay?" Victor asked.
"I wouldn't dream of doing anything else. I'm sorry it had to be this way, I screwed everything up." Sherlock insisted.
"Heck of a first date, huh?" Victor agreed. Sherlock smiled and nodded. "Take care of yourself, alright Sherlock?"
"I will, and be safe." Sherlock insisted.
"As always. I'll see you soon." Victor insisted, pressing the smallest of kisses onto Sherlock's lips, as not to frighten him, just a brush, and then opened the window back up and, with catlike stealth, scurried down the pipe and took off down the lawn, a darkened figure consumed by the shadows.