Divided We Will Fall

Caught Between Two Armies

    He didn't get comfortable until he heard his parent's door shut as well, and with that he walked meagerly over to his bed. It was still a mess, with the blankets and sheets strewn about from his wonderful night with John. Sherlock pulled the shades and dressed properly, for he knew there wasn't a chance he would ever get back to bed after such a fiasco. It was still dark, not even two thirty in the morning, and all Sherlock could do was sit next to the oil lamp and pray that John might return to him safely. He didn't know what was happening now; he didn't know if the army had collected, he didn't know if they were yet on the move. There was nothing he could do, no way he could know, and that alone was infuriating! He wanted to fight, with all of his heart he wanted to fight, yet he knew that he couldn't, he knew that he shouldn't. He gave John his word, and to break it now would be treachery. He loved this country but he loved John more, and if he knew that by staying behind he would put John's nervous heart at rest, well then that was what he had to do. Simply put, he had to stay. It was an agonizing process of unknowingness, of loneliness, that stretched throughout the time he sat on his bed. He wondered where John was, if he was alive or captured already by British troops. Was this all a façade, were the British marching only to turn back and crush the militia that was giving them so many problems? Were they only faking this attack so as to gauge the size of their resisting force, to wipe them out completely? Oh the very idea of John getting killed was getting more and more sickening with every passing minute, purely because it was becoming more and more likely! The idea of that beautiful boy getting skewered on a bayonet by one of those heartless monsters, by those blood stained redcoats! The idea that john's life may come to an end by the ferocity of a face that had once been so familiar, the soldiers who had lodged...could it be possible that Victor killed John in the end? Sherlock trembled with the irony of it all, with the pure and absolute fear. He didn't like not knowing what was going on, especially when he had more knowledge than most! If he knew nothing of the Boston militia, if he knew nothing of the war, and the course the British were taking, then this process wouldn't be nearly as crippling! If he had remained with his parents and never got caught up in the revolution then he would have no trouble sleeping tonight. Yet he would have been alone, he would have fallen asleep at normal time and woken up alone. Had he stayed loyal to the crown he would never have John, he would not have Molly. Instead he might be lying here worried for the sake of the soldiers, worried for the sake of Victor. And what a terrible, pitiful world that would have been! What wasted empathy he would have used on Victor's wellbeing! As if he could even bring himself to care at this point, as if Victor was anywhere near deserving of someone who worried about him! It was near three o'clock when there was a knock on the door, a knock that was followed immediately by the door opening and closing. A single figure appeared, a figure with a musket slung over its back...
"Are Mother and Father asleep yet?" Mycroft's voice whispered, creeping into the light of the oil lamp so as to see his brother sitting there, distraught. Sherlock looked at Mycroft with admiring and rather confused eyes, for it was the frist time he had ever seen his brother dressed for war. He wore very plain brown clothes, possibly to blend in with the forest, and he wore tall leather boots. His musket was slung over his back and his hair was tucked under a cap, with a canteen of water on his shoulder and a backpack weighing down his back.
"I don't know, they're in the room." Sherlock admitted. "You're going?"
"You're not?" Mycroft clarified with a bit of a chuckle, as if the very idea of leaving Sherlock behind was laughable. As if he couldn't imagine any possible scenario where Sherlock would willingly stay behind and let other people do the fighting for him.
"No I um...I made a promise that I would stay behind." Sherlock admitted quietly, pulling his knees shamefully to his chest and watching as his brother dropped an empty canteen and backpack onto his bed.
"And you're sticking to that then?" Mycroft clarified with a raise of his eyebrow. Obviously he didn't believe this, obviously he found it impossible to think that his rebel hearted brother would stay behind and leave the fight before it ever began.
"Yes of course I am. He would kill me himself if he saw me at Concord." Sherlock admitted quietly.
"We'll get you a hat then, come on now Sherlock! Get up, get dressed! Have you a musket you can bring?" Mycroft wondered, going to Sherlock's closet and pulling out his traveling coat and his walking shoes.
"Well no, no I don't. But I have a pistol. Mycroft I can't go though, I promised John that I'd stay behind, he said that he wouldn't march the army if he knew I was among them." Sherlock admitted, not even beginning to move as he sat there useless and ashamed. He was beginning to feel a bit left out, now with his brother off to march and be a hero as well. It was almost laughable that Sherlock had to stay behind, like the rest of the women.
"John, who is John?" Mycroft laughed. "Surely your promise to him means nothing!"
"He's the Captain, as far as I know. He leads the Boston militia." Sherlock admitted quietly. Mycroft was quiet for just a moment, trying to process all that Sherlock had just told him.
"You know the Captain?" he clarified in a bit of a star struck moment.
"Ya, he's the milkman." Sherlock agreed with an ironic little laugh. Oh how puny John sounded, how insignificant! A milkman made captain of an army; he could never live to such a title, could he? Yet Mycroft didn't know John as Sherlock did, he wasn't aware of the strength that was in those arms, and the power that was in that heart. He had no idea of the military mind that had been placed into John's head; he had no idea the drive to freedom that rested in his very bones! Sherlock knew no one else better qualified to be the leader, even if that leader happened to be a milkman by profession.
"Oh come on then Sherlock, surely your word can be broken? We need all the help we can get; we need as many guns firing as possible!" Mycroft insisted.
"Like I said, if he knows I'm there..."
"We'll ride separately if you'd like. Besides, they've probably already begun to march; we're late as it is! We'll take the horses, we can start off in their wake, stay behind a mile or two if you think it necessary. But you need to fight; Sherlock the very idea of you sitting out is like a dolphin deciding it better prefers the land. You were made to fight for America; you were made to fight for freedom! Now come on Sherlock, get your gun, get dressed!" Mycroft insisted, his black eyes sparkling with enthusiasm as he prodded Sherlock to get up and moving. And of course, when Mycroft stated such obvious things so clearly, Sherlock was once more introduced to the powerful need to prove himself a fighter, and to prove his country able bodied and independent! Why would he sit by, why would he watch the fighting, why would he sit here and wait for John to return? If John didn't want to see him then he didn't have to, yet Sherlock would still fight for what he knew was right. What use was he to his country if all he did was sit on his bed and mope? The future was waiting, freedom was waiting! Yes there would be a chance that he got killed, yet there was an equal chance that John would be killed as well. And so it was better that they both die fighting for what they believed in, rather than one of them remaining alive and well only to find themselves alone. And so Sherlock nodded, he got to his feet with a rejuvenated energy, his stomach twisting nervously and his heart thudding guiltily. Yet he did as Mycroft said, he pulled on his traveling coat and walking boots, he grabbed his little handgun from where he kept it in his dresser (not a very good weapon, but an able one all the same) and filled up his canteen with water and backpack with the necessary provisions. Together the brothers snuck out of the window and raced along to the family stables, where they got two of the horses and rode out down the road that had already been disturbed with hundreds of rebel feet. The dust had not yet settled from the stampede of men when the Holmes brothers rode past, their weapons in their hands and freedom in their hearts, flying down the road like heroes, prepared to either die as martyrs or live to see another world. And Sherlock knew, well of course he knew! That this was the right thing to do. He understood that even though his words to John had seemed final, that whatever promises he made to stay behind were futile when tested against his internal drive for war. He wanted to avenge himself, he wanted to free his country, and the only way to do either of those things was to ride off to war with hope in your heart and bullets in your gun! All Sherlock had to do now was fight; he had to fire off a couple of shots, just as he had with those glasses all those days ago. Yet tonight he would be firing at humans, living breathing men that still deserved every wound and every death that might be inflicted on them. They deserved the pain, they deserved the suffering. For in the end they were the trespassers, in the end they were the villains. Sherlock was riding out not to prove himself a hero, but to prove to the British that despite his weakness he was still another piece in a powerful machine. With a single man firing a gun there is no worry, yet with an army firing guns, that was what would make that crown shutter on that pampered king's head! That would be what dislodged the colonies from the British empire, that would be the making of America, the beginning of a new future and a new world! And Sherlock was part of it, Sherlock had to be part of it...he had to fight. The ride was presumed to have taken six hours, however the dust in the road began to settle, signaling that the militia had either stopped or taken to the woods. This indicated that there was something amiss, something that was not supposed to be happening quite yet. It had only been about four hours, the sun was only just beginning to show its first rays over the horizon, and Concord was still a long way off. However the ground grew silent and the road became untraveled. Yet as Sherlock and Mycroft trotted their horses along the road they had been expected to take, they saw above them the steeple of a church, and the distant collection of buildings dispersed so as to make up a small town. Presumably the militia had paused here for a moment, that or they had stumbled across the enemy much earlier than they had anticipated.
"Where are we?" Sherlock whispered to Mycroft, who was hardly even allowing his horse to walk as for the fear of being overheard. They not only had to avoid the British at this point, but the rebels as well. If they were spotted by either party there would undoubtedly be trouble, and the idea of being overheard was very daunting indeed.
"I'm not sure." Mycroft admitted. "Let's tie the horses over on that fence, and continue on foot until we know it's safe."
"You think the British are here?" Sherlock whispered.
"I don't know, but I'd rather be on foot where I can shoot a gun if they are. Come on." Mycroft hissed, hopping from his horse and leading it very quietly to the fence he had indicated. Sherlock had no choice but to follow suit, and he likewise tied his horse by the reigns and grabbed his gun from his pocket. It was a tiny little thing, and he knew that he only had eight shots before he would have to reload. His pockets were filled with bullets; however they would be no use unless he got time to properly reload. He needed to be smart about this, or his life would be in grave danger. This was where it mattered, this is what really counted. If he wanted to help his country prosper he had to be alive to do it, and only now was he just realizing that was very much an irrational thing to wish for. His life now was flimsy, teetering on the edge of a precipice. It would take only a single push from the British to send it falling over the edge, and to send his body broken and bleeding to the ground for good. Sherlock and Mycroft continued to the small town by foot, passing through the gates into the main square under the unrecognizable name of Lexington. It was just another smaller town, or so it would seem, yet there was tenseness in the town that was now asleep, there was a sort of terror that was living between the wooden beams and the green grass that was growing so prosperously in the April sun. There were voices now, voices that could be heard from a little ways away. Sherlock didn't know if they were American or British voices, yet it was all he could do but cower into the shadow of the buildings when they got closer and closer.
"Town square, I can only imagine." Mycroft whispered.
"Americans?" Sherlock presumed hopefully. Mycroft paused, staying hidden in the shadows of the buildings and listening intensely. Sherlock was silent, handling his gun with trembling fingers as he let his older brother do the thinking. Sherlock's mind was quite blank, thinking only to how he was going to survive at this point, and not able to focus on the smaller details of the matter.
"I'm not sure." Mycroft admitted quietly. Sherlock was listening closely to the voices, he could hear them talking quietly, he could hear them setting down metal objects, he could hear a loud voice shouting order to the rest. He could only imagine it was the revolutionaries, he could only imagine that it was John's voice that was yelling. He knew that there was only one group of militia men that would pass this way, for Lexington appeared to be the only town on this long road to Concord. Yet it might be their own small militia? Having gotten a late start, possibly, to the journey to meet the British troops?
"Sherlock get back, hide!" Mycroft exclaimed suddenly, pulling his brother desperately into the nook between two houses, crouching down in the shadows with no apparent motive. It was all Sherlock could do but obey, for suddenly he heard what had alerted his brother. More voices, louder, more careless voices, approaching from the other side. Footsteps that intermingled with the conversations and torch light that was shed on the shadows that had been cast by the moon and clouds. Another army, separate from the one that had collected in town... And that of course meant that Sherlock and Mycroft were hidden between two armies, unable to determine which was which. Were they listening to the approach of the militia, or the approach of the British? Which army was about to be ambushed, and which would end up having the element of surprise? Was John's life in danger, suddenly with the arrival of this new army? Sherlock could do nothing but sit back and wait, he could do nothing but watch as the figures began to march past, the torchlight shining upon them just enough to revel the deep red colors of their coats.
"Redcoats." Sherlock whispered fearfully, and with a ruff grunt Mycroft hushed him, slapping at his arm to signal him to be quiet. Sherlock obeyed, for his brother was right. No commentary was worth getting killed over, especially when such comments were as obvious as can be. Sherlock and Mycroft had the advantage of the darkness on their side, for the torches illuminated the soldiers yet could not shine to where the two brothers were hiding. For now the boys had a perfectly undaunted view, and the soldiers would never know. It was a breath of relief to find that Sherlock did not recognize any of them, no under those hats were faces that were completely unrecognizable. And of course they would be, for the British troops that Sherlock knew had gone out long before, this militia was supposed to be chasing them. And so why were they stalling, and where were these soldiers coming from? Another wave from the Boston fort, or another group coming from another town, to collect onto Concord and rain it for the revolutionary muskets? Suddenly the British soldiers quieted, with a harsh word their voices went silent and their guns clicked. There was a newfound tenseness among the soldiers, those who had only just passed where Sherlock and Mycroft were hiding, far from their hiding spot and far from their eyesight. It was all they could do but try to listen for any sounds that might indicate the erupting violence, try to listen to signs that might provoke the first shots of war.
"Throw down your arms! Ye villains, ye rebels!" cried a harsh voice, thickly coated in an English accent. It was coming from the closer pack of redcoats, and it sent shivers down Sherlock's spine. Of course he didn't recognize the voice, yet his command was so clear that Sherlock understood it would never be followed. He knew that it was a warning, that if the militia men refused they would be shot, and Sherlock knew the revolutionaries well enough to know that they would never follow such an order. No, this would mean violence. Sherlock tried to inch closer to the outcropping of their hiding spot, so as to at least peak around the corner and see what was going on. He was absolutely empowered at the moment, his body tingling with such a daring feeling that came along with understanding that you were completely mortal. He knew that one shot could take him down, and yet that was all the more reason to go and join the fight. For whatever reason tonight Sherlock wanted to be a hero, yet there were so many people preventing him! Like Mycroft, for example. As soon as Mycroft noticed Sherlock trying to sneak away he grabbed his arm and pulled him back, ensuring that his younger brother go nowhere close to the face of danger. It was infuriating, yet Sherlock knew better than to fight him off. It would seem as though everyone in this world was much stronger than him, and of course Mycroft was no exception. He may not work out, however there was some unanticipated strength in those overweight limbs; enough to pull Sherlock back into the shadows and keep him there for just a moment.