Divided We Will Fall

The Malicious Milk Man

    "I'm sorry, I was just..." the boy stuttered, looking down towards the crate of milk with a very concerned look on his face, as if he had been caught doing something he really shouldn't be doing.
"Are you the milkman?" Sherlock clarified, stepping out onto the stoop so as to contort the boy while he took a nervous step back. He was dangerously nearing the edge of the stairs now, and with one more step he may very well find himself falling backwards against the concreate. And Sherlock wouldn't want that, not in a million years would he consider such beautiful blood being spilt.
"Yes, I just took over yesterday, in fact. Day two on the job!" the boy said proudly, holding himself higher even though he stood a good three inches shorter than Sherlock did. He was strangely unimpressive, despite how attractive he had proven to be. He had all of the necessary features to be beautiful, yet there was simply something lacking, an aura of confidence that was necessary to make such a look pass off. This boy stood on the stoop and looked like he wasn't allowed to be there, whereas someone like Victor, for instance, would have already been inviting himself in to help carry the crate into the house.
"Congratulations." Sherlock muttered sarcastically. The boy looked past his shoulder and into the house, almost as if he was looking for something specific, but when he noticed Sherlock watching him he straightened up once more and gave his best, most enthusiastic smile.
"Can I help you with your crate?" he asked hopefully.
"Oh um...no, that won't be necessary." Sherlock muttered, looking the boy up and down and deciding ultimately that his attitude was enough to drain out his beauty in the end. "I can manage myself."
"Yes of course. I'll just um...well I'll wait here until you admit that you're wrong about that." the boy said with a grin, folding his arms behind his back and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking almost as if he was biding his time, waiting for Sherlock to get on with it.
"Wrong about...you don't think I can lift this myself?" Sherlock asked in a sort of confrontational way, for this boy was really getting offensive very quickly. Was he assuming that just because Sherlock's arms were thin that he couldn't lift a simple crate? Well how heavy could it be, really?
"No sir, I don't. It took me quite the effort to get it up the stairs, and it's safe to say that I could lift you twice over without breaking a sweat. Your arms, if you don't mind me saying, are thinner than most pastas." The boy said with a grin. Sherlock could tell that he didn't mean to be offensive; he could tell that the boy was simply speaking his mind without fully understanding the consequences. Yet good God, he really did manage to put an angry blush into Sherlock's cheeks!
"Well thank you very much." Sherlock growled.
"I'm John by the way." The boy said with a grin, as if that little snippet of conversation was worthy enough for an introduction.
"I don't care." Sherlock said flatly, going up to the milk crate and looking down apprehensively. Well those bottles must be just a bit heavier than he had anticipated, for they were about six of them all jammed inside, filled to the brim with milk as well as being made of heavy glass. That definitely seemed like a workload. Yet Sherlock had confidence in himself, of course he did. And so he took the crate by both of its handles and lifted it upwards with a great exertion, straining himself to get the crate up onto his knee where he could balance it and at least give his arms a little bit of a break. Yes he had to admit, this was quite the task.
"Oh good! Good job sir." John said excitedly, clapping his hands twice so as to demonstrate his enthusiasm and making Sherlock scowl all the more.
"You're being sarcastic?" Sherlock clarified as his arms shook, nervously starting towards the railing and setting the crate down where it could at least be at arm's reach. He was slowly coming to realize that there was no way he could bring this thing all the way into his house, despite his maximum effort of pettiness. He would have to ask for assistance, and this John boy really wasn't deserving of such catering at the moment. Oh if only Mrs. Hudson were here, he was sure that she would jump to the challenge.
"Having trouble?" John wondered.
"No, no look. I picked it up, I proved you wrong. Now if you wouldn't mind, I'll show you where it can be set down, in the kitchen just in here...." Sherlock muttered, heaving the great crate up so that he could thrust it into the boy's arms once more.
"Yes, good job." John agreed sarcastically, struggling to readjust the crate in his arms as he followed Sherlock into the house. Sherlock led the way into the kitchen, looking back to see that while John was struggling he was still looking around like the curious little thing he was. He was looking up the staircase and into the sitting room, taking note of all the empty glasses and the packs of cards that were strewn about the place.
"In here, come on then, don't snoop." Sherlock insisted, throwing open the door and letting John waddle in with the crate in his arms. Mrs. Hudson smiled at them both, looking at John with only the smallest bit of confusion, for it was obvious she wasn't entirely sure who she was looking at. They were both used to that wrinkled old milkman that had been coming since Sherlock had been born (and probably before that, too) and to see a new, younger man was certainly quite the event.
"Right here, on the counter." Sherlock directed. John nodded, looking too short of breath to squeeze out a word before he was finally able to drop the great big crate onto the counter. It shuttered, the glass all tinkling together in a great musical number, before finally everything was still. John heaved a great breath, turning towards Sherlock with a smile, as if he was looking for some sort of praise. He got none.
"Well, thanks for that." Sherlock muttered, holding the door open still so that the boy could show his way out.
"Lots of milk for just a family. Do you have guests?" John wondered as he meandered over towards the door. Sherlock looked towards Mrs. Hudson, for he wasn't entirely sure what he was supposed to say to that. He didn't know if the soldiers were here secretly or if they were allowed to be mentioned, yet as soon as Mrs. Hudson noticed that Sherlock's gaze was asking for a response she shook her head sharply.
"No, just us." Sherlock lied, to which John didn't look terribly convinced.
"Ah. Well that doesn't make any sense." John decided with a nod; however he started his way out into the hallway once more.
"Doesn't need to make sense to you. You're just the delivery boy." Sherlock snapped.
"Ah, that's what they all say." John said with a grin. He walked out onto the stoop yet turned once more, as if expecting some sort of formal goodbye. Sherlock glared at him, with one hand on the front door, just waiting to see if there was any other formality that he had forgotten on their trip back.
"Have a nice day." was all John managed, and with that he turned. Sherlock didn't get to see what happened next, for he had already slammed the door in the boy's face, and that was the end of that. When Sherlock returned to the kitchen he sat back on the crate, aware however that as soon as his mother woke his peaceful morning lounge would be replaced instead with work, and so he had to appreciate it while it lasted. The milk crate sat on the counter as a grim reminder of the little pest that had delivered it, and Sherlock couldn't help but frown. What an annoying, insolent delivery boy! And meddlesome, too, asking all of those questions. What did their milk consumption have to do with the delivery, what did it matter who was drinking it? Maybe that had been John's attempt for a tip, taking genuine interest in the costumers despite calling their arms even thinner than a noodle. How much more insulting could you get?
"Sherlock I really do suggest you don't mention the soldiers to anyone else. I suspect they showed up after dark just to ensure that they were spotted, for if the patriots find out that high ranking officials are here then they might mob. I would hate to see our lives hanging in the balance on account of our guests and our own open mouths." Mrs. Hudson mumbled.
"Yes, sorry Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock agreed, hanging his head as if he had to be ashamed. He hadn't actually told John anything, it was the mere fact that he had stumbled over his words that had been the cause for alarm.
"No need to apologize, dear. Now you know." Mrs. Hudson assured with a grin.
"I told Molly, almost as soon as it happened I told her." Sherlock pointed out, his face falling in worry before he noticed that little smile was back on Mrs. Hudson's face.
"Well of course you did, you tell that girl everything." Mrs. Hudson agreed, giggling to herself as she started frying up pieces of bacon. "Your telling her was almost expected."
"You don't actually think my mother intends on me marrying Molly?" Sherlock asked nervously, tapping his feet anxiously against the floor and awaiting her response. Mrs. Hudson sighed heavily, shrugging her shoulders before poking at the bacon with a fork just to give herself something to do.
"Well I know that she considers it a high possibility. Your bother doesn't want you to do anything you don't want to do, but if I'm being perfectly honest, Sherlock, we all think that's what you do intend on doing. You may deny it, but that still might be your immaturity." Mrs. Hudson said finally.
"You think that I'm immature?" Sherlock asked immediately, that being the most important thing he drew out of that sentence.
"On the topic of love, most certainly. Sherlock you've always been hesitant around women, you and your brother really do house a deep seated distrust of women. And that of course is natural in younger boys, who still have some sort of superiority complex in them. Thinking that girls are gross, and whatnot. It goes away with age, when you realize that most all of your life's ambitions revolve around having a good woman at your side." Mrs. Hudson admitted with a grin.
"You don't think that we're just not made for marriage? That maybe we have greater aspirations?" Sherlock suggestion.
"Sherlock one day you might realize that there really is nothing greater than marriage. It is the most important decision of your life, for once you give a girl your ring there is no turning back. She will be the woman who will aid you, cook for you, counsel you, care for you, and grow old with you. You really must choose carefully. You will realize this when you find the right woman, and when she helps you along your path to whatever greatness." Mrs. Hudson assured with a grin.
"But what if I'm simply not meant to marry?" Sherlock said once more, for she really hadn't answered his question properly.
"Then you will live as a bachelor, a feat that is only easy if you're rich enough to hire a maid and a cook. Men these days don't know their way around a kitchen or a cleaning closet; you'll be lost or starving within a week." Mrs. Hudson teased. Sherlock nodded, sighing heavily as he looked towards the kitchen door, wondering who was stirring now in the barracks that was the living room.
"I'd be alright." Sherlock assured.
"Well let's hope you never have to find out." Mrs. Hudson suggested with a grin, one that Sherlock returned hesitantly, for he wasn't entirely sure how encouraging those words were. He didn't think he wanted to smile at that, for she was basically saying that they should hope he did get married, even if that wasn't what he intended on doing. The whole maturity argument was completely invalid; maybe Sherlock was still young enough to have hesitations but Mycroft? No, he was seven years older, and if he didn't have any interest in marriage then there was absolutely no hope for Sherlock in the future. And that was fine; he wasn't going to be turning his back on his own ambitions just so that he complied with society's wishes! If Sherlock never found the right woman then so what, he would be perfectly happy alone and no one was going to tell him otherwise. When Mrs. Holmes arrived the breakfast was already nearly cooked, and so all they had to do now was get it all nice and hot and then rouse the soldiers that it was time to eat. The food here wasn't all morning, and so they had to get it while it was fresh or they would miss out. Of course this was Sherlock's job, for he was given all the rather demeaning and somewhat aggressive tasks around the kitchen. First mashing the potatoes, now waking sleeping soldiers? What next, was he supposed to butcher their beef? And yet he was just a little bit relieved, for it would give him an obvious excuse to make sure Victor was at the table and within talking distance. For he had been looking forward to talking to that boy ever since they stopped talking the night before, and there were so many questions rattling around in his brain. So many, in fact, that he was sure he wouldn't be able to pick one when it was necessary. And so Sherlock left the kitchen smelling a bit like bacon and went to the drawing room, the darkest room in the house on account of the pulled curtains. The soldiers were still asleep, that was for sure since there was at the moment no noise. Sherlock was always convinced that to be a soldier you had to bear the most miserable conditions, one of those being rising with the sun to take morning runs or something, and yet these men slept like rocks, and upon approaching the little camp out it looked like none of them were really planning on waking anytime soon. The five soldiers were spread out over the couches and floor as if they were having some sort of wild slumber party. Their redcoats were folded and neat towards the side, whereas the men themselves were all bare chested (some Sherlock could have sworn were only covered by their blankets...) and drooling as they lolled over in their sleep. The older ones were on the couches, most likely the ones with the most experience and dominance over the pack. The rookies were sleeping on the floor, and so that was where Sherlock first noticed Victor's unkempt brown head. His hair was in a rat's nest on account of sleeping on it all night, and his blanket was falling down near his knees where he had kicked it off sometime in his sleep. Victor seemed to be the only man properly dressed, and maybe that was because he was modest or maybe it was because he was cold. And Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what it was, his admiration of the man or his perplexity at how someone could be asleep and still looked beautiful, that was making him stare. Either way it was hard to take his eyes away, hard for him to clear his throat so as to prepare himself to wake these sleeping British men.
"Um, excuse me, everyone?" Sherlock muttered apprehensively, looking about towards the men and seeing them as they slowly began to stir. The men gave great groans of annoyance, probably because they were having lovely dreams of the English countryside and a nice pot of tea. To wake now, in an American home with some scrawny little boy shouting at eight in the morning, well that might be considered just a little bit less than ideal.
"Breakfast is ready, if anyone is hungry." Sherlock announced once he noticed that most all of the men's eyes were open. Some of them were grumbling and pulling their blankets up to their chins, as if they had absolutely no intentions of waking at this ungodly hour, yet others seemed to be very motivated by the smells they caught whiff of from the kitchen. Some were already sitting up, rubbing their sleepy eyes and checking their pocket watches for clarification that it was still much too early.
"Good morning Mr. Holmes." Victor managed, sitting up now against the couch (whose occupant still wouldn't budge) and giving Sherlock the sleepiest of all smiles. Nevertheless it was quite flattering, for Sherlock's spine gave a great shiver and he felt as though he had almost no choice but to smile back.
"Good morning Victor." Sherlock managed, feeling very uncomfortable now as all the soldier's eyes trained once more on him.
"What's for breakfast?" one of them asked in a rather rude mumble. Sherlock thought for a moment, thinking back to what he noticed Mrs. Hudson preparing from his time in the kitchen.
"Biscuits, I think. And bacon." Sherlock said with a mutter. "At least those are the things I remember, there's definitely more."
"The bacon in America is weird." One of the soldiers muttered.
"Much better than our rashers." Another defended with a rather enthusiastic air to him, as if he felt very strongly on the topic.
"But it'll kill you twice as fast. I swear those things are dipped in their own grease twice over." the first insisted, rubbing his eyes and getting to his feet shakily. Sherlock was glad that he was looking the other way at that very moment, for it was only out of the corner of his eye that he realized that the only color visible on that man's blurry outline was flesh...he wasn't wearing a thing.
"Woah!" Sherlock exclaimed automatically, covering his eyes instinctively as the men laughed a bit cruelly.
"What's the matter boy, you modest?" the man wondered, or at least Sherlock assumed it was the original man. He wasn't brave enough to look, for the very idea of seeing such a display was ghastly.
"Colonists are just a bit more private, I do suppose." Sherlock managed; retreated backwards until he hit the doorframe and scuttling out into the protection of the hallway, a place where he could certain that there were no nude men mingling about. "Come out when you're ready for breakfast." He added.
"Oh, do you think I should dress to dine then? Or should I wear this?" the same man wondered, creating a great laugh from all of the men as Sherlock shivered once more and finally turned, opening his eyes just in time to run headlong into Mycroft, who had been making his way down to breakfast as well.
"What on earth are you doing? Watch where you're going, William." Mycroft growled, pushing Sherlock back as per his natural duties as an older brother.
"Don't go in there." Sherlock warned, to which Mycroft simply laughed doubtfully.
"Why, are you afraid of the big bad British?" Mycroft giggled. Sherlock was glad that he had the opportunity to watch as Mycroft tried to be brave, for never had he ever seen Mycroft's face get quite as red as it did when he poked his head into the drawing room. "Oh dear...oh yes I see what you mean. I wish I hadn't, but I do understand. Carry on." He added hesitantly, clearing his throat before walking very swiftly towards the dining room, as if he wanted to distance himself as much as possible from the barbarians that were just beginning to stir.