Divided We Will Fall

The Welcomed War

    They said that the soldiers were supposed to leave after the war, and yet it was long afterwards and those red coats were still visible about the town. It would seem as though on every corner there was a soldier, usually minding his own business, occasionally getting harassed, and occasionally harassing back. The British, well they thought themselves better than the colonists just because of some fallacy of ownership. They served the crown, the crown ruled the colonists, and so they in turn must rule them as well. It wasn't always their attitudes that were causing the trouble, no it was mainly their presence that was causing unrest, and nowhere was it worse than Boston. Sherlock remembered very well when the soldiers massacred the townspeople, killing five and injuring three in a volley of bullets that were shot without warning and without instruction. That was when the water began to boil, and now there were great big bubbles rising up on the surface, just about ready to brim over the lid of the pot. The signs were everywhere, not necessarily visible, for such actions could get you hanged. No there was no obvious signs of treachery, no flags hanging in windows, no one walking around holding their head up high and calling themselves officially Americans, yet it was visible just in the way the crowd moved about the town. Everyone these days looked guilty. Of course the king couldn't try to go about and get everyone hanged, that would be a feat close to genocide if he tried to string up everyone who ever thought that this revolution would be worth it. Yet that very thought was in most everyone's minds, at least those who didn't have direct financial ties to the king. There was a special breed of colonist that would never dare call themselves American, they would never stray from the king for they knew that all of their political power and finical security was hanging in the balance here, funded by the king and by the taxes he imposed for their benefits. Mostly they were British company owners, settled down in Boston because of the harbor they had available, and yet despite generations and generations of their family living in America they still dared call themselves British. It was almost sad to watch them hold their noses up and scoff at the men who scowled at the soldiers, strutting around with their lacy parasols and talking loudly about how any troop of farmers had no chance against a fully trained army of highly skilled soldiers. It was these loyalists that gave Sherlock the most trouble, and not just because they annoyed him, but because he was supposed to be one. He was descended from those very same families who ran products to and from Britain on the magnificent boats; his parents owned almost half of the docks down at the harbor, and with those docks came British ships in need of landing. And so they relied on their good ties with the country to get their money, for if America broke off from England then no country would think their trade was any good anymore. They would be viewed as broken and financially insecure, and suddenly those docks that were owned by the Holmes family would be nothing more than waterlogged pieces of wood. And so with such heritage Sherlock was supposed to view this upcoming rebellion as a bad thing, he was supposed to be the one shaming those who talked under their breaths of parting ways from King George and his ridiculous taxes, he was supposed to interject when they spoke their mind on how being their own individually run country would be a benefit to them all. Little did his parents know, little did most of society know, that Sherlock was actually one of the rebels. In his actions he was a loyalist, for if he wanted to stay in the manor and if he wanted to at least get some inheritance he had to pretend to share his parent's political views, yet in his heart he knew that there would be no end without bloodshed. A war was necessary, a war was imminent, and right now all he could do was sit back and watch as the very town tore itself apart trying to clear those ghastly red coats from the streets of their should be quaint little town. It was only Sherlock's closest friends that knew the truth of his loyalties and by closest friends it meant only one, for Sherlock only had one friend at that. And honestly, she could hardly be counted as a friend. More of a sister, more of a blood relative than any friend could be considered. Molly Hooper knew every working of Sherlock's mind, sometimes even long before he realized it for himself. She knew him like the back of her hand, and maybe that was why she was so good at understanding the confusing enigma that he was usually considered to be.
"You're pouting again. You know I don't like it when you pout." Molly insisted with a slap from her rolled up white gloves, drawing Sherlock back into reality as he sat on the bench and stared blankly at the cobblestone in front of him.
"Pouting? I was not, I was thinking. There's a difference." Sherlock defended, drawing away from the rather fierce whip of Molly's gloves and frowning all the same.
"You always look so miserable when you think." Molly concluded then, sitting back on the bench they shared and watching her companion with a concerned look on her pretty face. She was beautiful, Sherlock would admit that, and of course most everyone their age took note of it as well. Boys loved her, girls wanted to be her, well she was everything that would be expected of a woman. She was from a good family (although they were quite popularly known to be rebels, as most were these days anyway), she was well educated and well mannered, and of course her looks gave her the upper hand on most any other women who shared such qualities. It was always rumored that the two of them were together, and every time Sherlock heard such accusations it amused him all the more.
"That's because most everything I think about these days is miserable." Sherlock admitted finally, taking a deep breath yet staying hunched over so as not to get a full view of the redcoat who was lingering across the street. They always lingered, that was probably what they're being paid here to do. Just wander about aimlessly, instilling fear and reminding everyone that they could turn most anyone's coat as red as theirs if they willed it.
"I really don't understand how none of my optimism has rubbed off on you yet. It's quite astounding, actually." Molly admitted with a frown.
"I'm immune." Sherlock assured, to which Molly just laughed and poked him once more. She liked to poke; it was her way of trying to make Sherlock giggle even though he wasn't ticklish in the slightest. Yet Sherlock knew that when he was sad, she in turn got down on herself, and so with a stroke of sympathy he found it in himself to at least produce a small smile before going back to his contemplation.
"There we go, a happy face." Molly said in satisfaction. Sherlock nodded, looking at the redcoat across the street once more, to which his frown just deepened.
"How long do you think it's going to take before the war starts? I'm about ready to get it over with." Sherlock questioned, to which Molly gasped and looked around nervously. When she saw that no one was in earshot (for she was a lady, and was in turn expected to not discuss things as vulgar as war) she leaned in rather closely.
"My father is beginning to fund the militia, for they're terribly short on muskets and they sense that the beginning is coming. He keeps saying that it'll be any day now that the first shot will ring out, and from there the guns won't stop until we're free or hanged...each and every one of us." Molly whispered apprehensively.
"Good, I like to hear that." Sherlock nodded.
"You like to hear that we'll be hanged?" Molly asked in astonishment, gasping at Sherlock's daring before he shook his head and was able to redeem himself.
"No I like to hear that we're going to fight soon. The sooner we start the sooner we end it all, the sooner that we're free and get to have at least some sort of nationalism." Sherlock grumbled.
"Nationalism, as if. Sherlock I doubt you could ever support something that is the status quo. As soon as we become free you'll be that one walking around telling everyone it was better when the British were in charged. You're such a contrarian that way." Molly grumbled.
"I'm a realist, Molly, and yes maybe when the time comes when our government is being run by children dressed in their father's suits I will come about to protest, yet until then I'm going to support our militia men as they struggle to bring us all to freedom." Sherlock insisted, blinking once or twice at Molly before regaining his slouched position on the bench.
"Aren't you going to fight?" Molly wondered, looking towards Sherlock who merely laughed at the very idea.
"You trust me to pick up a gun?" Sherlock objected, to which Molly just nodded her head in silent realization.
"I believe you could have some use, maybe you could be a drummer in the little band, or a flag carrier." Molly suggested with a shrug.
"Flag carriers are always the first ones to get shot, and I can't play the drum." Sherlock debated.
"Oh well then there goes that. I suppose since you can't play the drum you'll just have to be a solider." Molly decided finally, as if those were the only two positions available in the army these days.
"I don't know how to shoot a gun, either." Sherlock pointed out.
"Well they'll teach you that." Molly laughed, to which Sherlock shook his head doubtfully.
"They'd teach me how to play the drum, too. If we're playing that card." Sherlock pointed out. Molly nodded, looking at Sherlock as if she was now seeing a new side to him that she almost didn't recognize.
"You really wouldn't want to contribute?" she wondered.
"Well...I mean I would want to of course. It's kind of the matter of if I should. Think about it, Molly. If I leave my parents they'd disown me, and even if I somehow make it through the battles I'd have nowhere to go home to. And if I do die, no one would bury my body." Sherlock pointed out.
"You could come home to me." Molly suggested meekly, to which Sherlock just grinned, looking over at her with a little accusing glare.
"I'm not going to marry you, if that's what you had in mind." Sherlock scoffed. Molly blushed, however she shook her head in protest and dropped her gaze back to the cobblestone where it should have been in the first place.
"I never said that." Molly debated, yet Sherlock nodded his head knowingly, and silenced himself once more. Sure she didn't say that, but it was most certainly what she was thinking. Molly had been living with this mad delusion of their future together for the longest time, for she had been 'secretly' in love with Sherlock for ages now. They had grown up together, for they lived just down the street and were always out playing at the same time. Molly, as beautiful as she was even back then, always was able to recognize that Sherlock was much more beautiful even still. Maybe that was why she went after him so persistently these days, because that subconscious part of her that always wanted to be the best had decided that if she couldn't be the most beautiful person then she ought to marry him. It was agonizing for her, then, to know that Sherlock was very much content with being alone. They were just friends, and of course they both knew that in the end such a friendship would last unblemished by even the hint of what could have become of a scandalous and distasteful romance.
"If Mycroft went to fight perhaps I would join him." Sherlock said after a while of almost uncomfortable silence, to which Molly grinned proudly, looking almost as if this came as a surprise.
"You didn't join him when he went to the harbor with those men and dumped the tea." She pointed out.
"Yes because I was young back then, I was too afraid. And those boats were on my parent's docks, I knew if they ever found out I was involved they'd skin me." Sherlock pointed out with a shiver.
"It didn't stop Mycroft." Molly pointed out in a very cruel sort of tone. Sherlock sighed heavily, shaking his head in disgust as he always hated to be compared to his older brother. Mycroft wasn't what you'd call the perfect son, yet when compared to Sherlock he was always the one that was most admired. It was a seven year difference between the two brothers, Mycroft being the eldest and therefore the most respected. He was the smart one, the social one (only when forced to be), the rich one, and the business minded one. Sherlock was just, well, Mr. Holmes the youngest. And yet Mycroft had a heart and brain that were both fully functioning and both turned directly to the formation of a new country, a country running independently from any nation that sat across the ocean and tried to tell them what to do. He was very patriotic, and still the Holmes parents had no idea.
"Mycroft is different; he's...well he's got his own mind. He's got his own money." Sherlock reminded her.
"Yes I suppose that's true." Molly agreed finally, sighing heavily as he obvious realized she was beat.
"I'd fight if it was what I had to do. But I'm still in school; I'm still trying to make my way in the world." Sherlock pointed out.
"You're homeschooled, it doesn't count." Molly pointed out.
"Saves me from the draft." Sherlock defended with a shrug.
"No it doesn't." Molly protested. "You just won't sign up."
"Indeed." Sherlock agreed with a sigh. "And that's my own choice, partially because I value my life, and partially because..."
"You value your inheritance?" Molly guessed.
"Well yes, but I was going to say my future, because that's much more socially acceptable." Sherlock defended with a smug little grin.
"Nothing about you is socially acceptable." Molly protested, taking to smacking Sherlock with her gloves again just because she liked it when he whined in protest. She was petty like that. Time with Molly was time well spent, it was the very few times Sherlock was actually allowed to act like himself and speak his mind as the thoughts came to him. There was no hiding the hidden imperfections when he was with her, as opposed to most any interaction with his parents or their social class. In fact it was the only time he was ever referred to by his preferred name, for in everyone else's mind he was simply...
"William!" called that familiar voice from the crowd that was beginning to pool on the sidewalks before them.
"Oh here we go." Sherlock grumbled, regaining his posture all while trying to force a smile onto his face. His mother always expected him to smile, even when he was feeling particularly miserable, and this of course was yet another prime example. Where she had come from he had no idea, and for what purpose was an enigma as well. The Holmes parents really couldn't be described in any logical sense, for their ideals and their values seemed to be as crooked as their smiles.
"William oh thank goodness, I've been looking all over for you!" Mrs. Holmes exclaimed.
"Why? You told me to be back at three o'clock and it's..." Sherlock paused, grabbing for his pocket watch before he heard Molly sigh beside him.
"Four thirty." she whispered, to which Sherlock nodded in a bit of a crestfallen sort of way.
"And it's four thirty." Sherlock agreed, getting to his feet and looking past his mother's shoulder over to where the British solider had thankfully disappeared.
"Molly would you like to join us for dinner tonight? I do believe roast beef is on the menu." Mrs. Holmes offered, and yet Sherlock could tell that it was merely a formality. Molly had a bit of a falling out with the Holmes parents, despite her doing nothing wrong. It was merely her parents that were the issue, for they were becoming rather well known as rebel supporters, and while there was no definite proof of their loyalties it was still enough to keep those loyal to the crown suspicious when they were in their presence. For some reason the loyalists saw all of the patriots as barbarians, capable of striking them down where they stood for no reason whatsoever. The mere idea that Molly would be armed and dangerous was something completely preposterous, and yet Mrs. Holmes seemed to not want to take any chances. Thankfully Molly knew of the newfound hesitations between the Holmes and the Hooper families, despite their having been best friends before all of this war stuff came into play.
"Oh no thank you, I simply couldn't intrude." Molly said gently, to which Sherlock sighed heavily. He of course would rather Molly's presence at the dinner table, and while she may not be all together welcome she would at least provide someone for the parents to judge instead of him. Sherlock was always the talk of the dinner table, for in his parent's eyes he was always doing something wrong. It was always so difficult to be the bad child.
"Yes, probably a good idea." Mrs. Holmes muttered absentmindedly, however she silenced herself with a little bit of a blush when she realized finally what she had just said.
"Let's go then, Mother, before you insult everyone in the mile radius." Sherlock suggested, taking steer of his mother's shoulder so as to lead her away from where Molly stood, looking only a tad bit offended as she was now getting used to being shooed away on a regular basis.
"Goodbye Molly." Sherlock said in a bit of a grumble.
"Goodbye Sher...William." Molly corrected hastily, and with that she walked off before Mrs. Holmes could turn around and scold her for using the wrong name. They both knew that Sherlock would much rather stay and talk on the bench than take his place at the Holmes table, yet it was long past his curfew and if he wanted to stay out of trouble then he ought to just go along with it. Besides, dinner would only take an hour at most, and then he could sneak up to his room and get lost in a good novel for the rest of the night. Yes, that would be ideal.