They didn't see each other much after that night, school was up and running again and their schedules were very inflexible, but whenever Sherlock saw Victor, in the halls, on the sidewalk, or even just his silhouette in the beautiful house (which wasn't creepy, of course it wasn't) he'd wave. And Victor would wave back. But their smiles and they eye contact said everything the wave simply couldn't, how much they missed each other, how they wanted to talk, to see each other, and Sherlock knew that Victor wanted to see him as badly as he wanted to see Victor. Ever since the kiss, Victor was now present in the hallways, as he had not been previously. It always had bugged Sherlock that he never saw the other boy in the halls, but now he seemed to be everywhere. Maybe Victor was purposely avoiding him, to make sure he didn't give too much away in public. Never the less, it made Sherlock's day just to see that adorable solider, walking to his next class, standing at his locker, or even just the back of his head moving through the halls, it was a presence that reminded Sherlock that everything was simply perfect. His mother, of course, would always ask, when Sherlock would see Victor again, if he wanted money for the crystal tray he had left them (which she filled with apples, just in case he wanted to come back and have one), and if he wanted to come over again. Even Grandma Holmes injured, commenting on how he was such a nice boy and how he was the type of youth that should be accepted in the world. Sherlock was sure that if he actually told them what was going on, they'd accept it. Maybe not at first, especially his grandmother and her old fashioned views, but his mother would most certainly accept Victor (and Sherlock, for that matter) as who they were, and welcome into the family. The problem was Mr. Holmes, who seemed to think even the slightest mention of his name was like a venom injection. He wouldn't eat anything off of the tray Victor had left them, and every time the topic came up, two things would happen. Sherlock would go as red as one of the apples, and Mr. Holmes would clench his fist around whatever he was holding, whether it be a beer bottle, a fork, or the edge of the table. When this would happen, Sherlock would remind himself that whatever hope he had for coming out to his family, Mr. Watson would insure that it would never happen. His father hated homosexuals, he hated Victor, and he probably hated Sherlock as well. Those three things, including the fact that Victor could get into the military being homosexual, and that Mr. Holmes couldn't by just being an alcoholic, well, Sherlock was sure his father would start to breathe fire. So he kept his head down, his mouth shut, and he tried to enjoy whatever meal they were having. That evening the sirens went off once more, so they had to abandon whatever was left of their meals and retreat to the cold bomb shelter in the backyard. It was cold and damp, and the alarms were so loud, and so repetitive, that they were forever burned into Sherlock's memory. It was a low, continuous drone, which he couldn't help but tap his foot to whenever he knew the next alarm would come. But, when it didn't, they all headed off to finish their now cold meal. They cleaned up a little bit; Sherlock stuffed the leftovers into containers while his mother did the dishes. Mr. Holmes went over to the sitting room to read the paper, a bottle of beer glued to his hands as he trudged over.
"What in the h*ll is this?" he grumbled, stooping over to pick something up from the doormat. Sherlock looked up with annoyance, probably some mud or something smeared on the floor, someone was going to pay never the less. But when Mr. Holmes stood back up, there was a blue envelope in his hand, and he was looking at it like it was a bomb in disguise.
"It's for the kid." He insisted. Sherlock's heart leapt, if he was getting mail at this hour, it could only be from one person. He rushed to where his father stood, still staring at the envelope as if he was fighting the overwhelming urge to throw it into the fire.
"Here." he insisted, shoving it into Sherlock's hands, but Sherlock handled the pale blue envelope gently, as if it were some sort of rare artifact that must be treated with extreme caution. There was no return address, no stamp; it must have been shoved through the mail slot while the alarms were going off. There was only one thing written on the front, in beautiful, cursive ink, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had to swallow his excitement, because he couldn't seem too thrilled about having getting a letter from a seemingly platonic friend.
"Who's it from dear?" Mrs. Holmes asked.
"I assume it's from Victor." He guessed. He felt his heart rate increase even as he said the name out loud.
"Well, you go and read it, I'll finish up here." Mrs. Holmes insisted.
"Thanks." Sherlock said with a smile, knowing that his mother cared about their reputation with Victor almost as much as Sherlock did. He scampered up to his room, turning on the lamp beside his bed and carefully opened the envelope, being sure not to so much as crease it as he pulled the paper out and unfolded it.
Sherlock,
This is the first letter I've dared send you, and I'm not sure who might read it, so I'll keep it brief. It's been a while since we've seen each other, and I must admit that it has felt like long, painful ages. So, in an attempt to repay you for the lovely evening Friday night, I invite you to dinner at my house, as a special treat from me. I'd love for you to come early, if at all possible, because even though it has only been a couple of days, I would love to see you. Please send your response back, on paper if you could, just in case we don't have the chance to see each other until Friday evening. You're welcome to come right to my house from school, but there's no rush since Mrs. Turner plans on making quite a feast. Any attire is proper, I'm not very sensitive about fashion and it's just me, so don't go through any trouble, not on my behalf at least. Until then, Sherlock, I impatiently await the time where we can next meet, and do hope you accept my offer.
Sincerely,
Victor Trevor.
Sherlock's heart seemed to steam a little bit, a feeble little hiss of love that seemed to travel through his entire body, warming his very soul. Victor wanted him over; Victor wanted to see him, he wanted to have dinner at his house. He was sure that his mother would be alright with it, although she might be a little bit jealous that Sherlock was going to dine there and she wasn't. His father, on the other hand, wouldn't be on board at all. Victor seemed to have no problem crossing lines that no one else dared to cross, but Mr. Holmes wasn't going to take that one bit. He was strict about having the family all there for dinner, even if he wasn't always present himself. He claimed it was bonding time, but it was usually just a time to complain about the economy and the war. Nevertheless, Sherlock rushed down the stairs, not daring to take the letter in case they wanted to read it. It didn't really say anything to explicit, nothing mentioning love or anything, but Victor was obviously very anxious to reconnect, and that might be a little bit suspicious.
"Good news?" Mrs. Holmes asked hopefully, looking up from the catalog she was reading in the living room. Mr. Holmes was there as well, but he just glared overtop of the paper and didn't say anything.
"I'm invited to Victor's house, Friday night, for dinner." Sherlock said happily.
"Just you?" Mrs. Holmes asked hopefully.
"Ya, sorry." Sherlock shrugged.
"For dinner?" Mr. Holmes asked suspiciously.
"Yes sir." Sherlock agreed.
"That's family time." he pointed out.
"Oh, come on dear, Sherlock deserves a little bit of time to himself, he's had a busy week." Mrs. Holmes insisted.
"So have I, but you don't see me skipping dinner!" Mr. Holmes insisted.
"I think that would be a lovely idea." Mrs. Holmes agreed.
"I think it's a terrible idea! That stuck up little b**ch thinks he can just swoop in and steal my family, well I think not!" Mr. Holmes insisted. Sherlock flinched, if Victor knew how he was referred to in the Holmes household, he might never want to come back.
"He's a nice boy dear, and I think it would be rude to decline." Mrs. Holmes insisted.
"I think it's rude that he invited him in the first place!" Mr. Holmes growled.
"He has the right intentions, he..." Sherlock started.
"You shut your mouth boy! You want another bottle in the face?" Mr. Holmes warned, and Sherlock took a fearful step back.
"No sir." He insisted.
"Then shut up!" Mr. Holmes roared. Sherlock flinched, but nodded. "You won't be going to any prissy man's house, he's a stuck up and he's a know it all, and the sooner we can pry that pest off of our family the better!"
"Yes sir." Sherlock agreed forcefully. Mrs. Holmes sighed, obviously she didn't agree with Mr. Holmes' views, but obviously there was nothing she could do about it.
"Now go back up to your room and stay there!" Mr. Holmes growled.
"Yes sir, thank you." Sherlock agreed through his teeth. In reality, his soul was on fire. How dare that poor excuse of a father deny him the company of his love? How dare he talk about Victor like that, how dare he take Victor's kind intentions as nothing more than annoying behavior? It took all the emotional strength Sherlock had not to rip the wall off of the house and choke his father with it. He sat up in his room, the door closed and only the light of the lamp and the moon to illuminate the dark room. Sherlock was fuming, so angry he felt as if he were going to be able to set the entire world on fire. His father, that horrible, wretched, fat worm, needed to be put in line; he needed to see that whatever he says isn't gospel. He needed a wakeup call. So Sherlock dug out a pen and paper, writing his response to Victor as neatly as he could.
Dear Victor,
Dinner would be lovely! I'd love to just go straight from school, if it's not a burden, because my mom will make me dress all up and make a big deal out of it, so I'll use school as an excuse not to wear a suit. I can't wait to see you Friday, and until then, I will very much anticipate when we can reunite.
Thanks again,
Sherlock Holmes.
That'll show the miserable maggot. A little bit of rebellion was good, was it not?                                    

               As Sherlock walked to school the next day, he slipped the envelope into Victor's letter box, hoping that Victor would get it and not send any replies. He really didn't want his father to get suspicious. Maybe he was being a bit too rebellious, that was possible, he hated to think what his father would do if he figured it out, but Sherlock had a plan. He'd come home Thursday night and complain heavily that he had gotten a detention,after school, from Mr. Fitz. It was a believable tale, considering Mr. Fitz would love to have any opportunity to throw Sherlock into detention. He couldn't wait, of course, to once again be in the beautiful presence of Victor Trevor. He always waved in the hallways, but it's been so long since they actually could talk to each other, it's been so long since they've seen each other up close, been able to appreciate the little details in the other's face. So, when Thursday night came, Sherlock announced his imprisonment after school the next day. His father snorted a little bit, seemingly happy to hear that Sherlock was in some kind of trouble.
"It'll do you good to be given a reality check. I hope they still use the canes." Mr. Holmes decided. Little did he know. Thursday night, Sherlock once more had trouble sleeping. Obviously he would need to make the visit quick, as much as he'd love to stay at Victor's house for years, his father would certainly piece two and two together, obviously detentions don't take numerous hours, and there would only be one place Sherlock would be other than trapped in the office, stapling things for Mrs. Dangler. But he knew whatever kind of punishment he would receive if the truth be revealed, it would be worth it. He would see Victor, they might even share a long overdue kiss, they'd talk, they'd interact, it would be magical. When the final bell rang, announcing that the students were free to leave, Sherlock was just finishing tucking his things into his locker when he felt a very familiar presence beside him. He looked up to see the startling blue eyes of Victor, smiling over top of him.
"Victor!" he exclaimed with delight, shoving the final book into his backpack anxiously, not wanting to keep him waiting.
"Sherlock Holmes." Victor agreed, his voice sounding like a beautiful symphony. But, of course, as soon as he said his name, Sherlock started to blush like a school girl, hastily closing his locker just to give his hands something to do and his eyes somewhere to look, other than stare at the beautiful boy before him.
"It's been a while." Victor decided.
"It has, too long." Sherlock agreed.
"I'm terribly sorry, everything's been kind of busy, my father has been redeployed, he's going over to Italy next week, my mother is frantic because she has to stay in Germany without him, obviously she's scared out of her mind for him. It's just been hectic." He insisted.
"I'm sorry to hear that." Sherlock admitted.
"Oh don't be sorry, it's not your fault. I just love to hear your voice." Victor admitted. Sherlock's heart leapt, realizing once more that Victor actually liked him. It was a fact easily forgotten when he was too busy trying to telepathically make sure his hair looked alright.
"I um, I love hearing yours too." Sherlock agreed. The two of them walked out of the school together, in the mess of students and buses and cars, and walked down the sidewalk towards town. Victor walked at the pace Sherlock was going, careful not to walk to fast or too slow, but in sync with Sherlock, in case a conversation was to be started. Sherlock dare not tell Victor that he wasn't supposed to be out, that his father would never approve, that he was, as far as his family knew, in detention. He didn't want to spoil the day any more than he undoubtedly already had. They walked in silence, Victor tipping his hat and nodding at the people he knew on the streets. Sherlock noticed, though, that everyone Victor seemed to acknowledge were people that weren't in school with him. He said hello to the elders, he smiled at the children who were scampering around on the sidewalks, nodded at the parents who sat on the benches watching. But someone that looked about the age of high school he walked right past, keeping his head down as if he were in some sort of spotlight. Maybe he thought that the kids in school would figure it out, they would never see through his friendly charm, they'd notice how in sync Sherlock and Victor were, and they'd suspect.