Divided We Will Fall

The Violence And The Silence

    "We're not meant to fight here, the battle is in Concord." Mycroft hissed. "Let's get the horses, and leave out a side road."
"No, Mycroft that could be John out there, I'm not going to sit back and let him die!" Sherlock growled, trying to shake Mycroft off of him yet to no avail. Mycroft's grip only tightened, and he let out a very quiet breath of exasperation.
"Oh what does it matter, Sherlock? Why does this Captain mean so much to you?" Mycroft growled. Sherlock sighed heavily, feeling his cheeks heat up in some sort of embarrassment even as he was deciding whether or not to admit the truth. Well of course Mycroft had no choice but to accept his choice in partners, partially because they both might die before they ever got the chance to discuss. However it seemed almost exciting, for he had never admitted his love for John to anyone except Molly, and really where was the fun in that? Molly knew everything already; there was no exhilaration in spilling his secrets to someone who knew the very interweaving of his soul! Oh and what could Mycroft do except judge him for a moment, especially when there were so many more important things to think about.
"He means so much to me because I mean so much to him." Sherlock admitted with a bit of a smirk, his finger trailing lovingly over the small gun that John had given him all of those days ago. "We're together."
"Together?" Mycroft asked immediately, his surprise slackening his grip just enough so that Sherlock could sneak out and yank his arm away. He had no intentions of going anywhere, of course, for the fun was just getting started. Oh that well used brain of Mycroft, the man who could solve any problem, any riddle, still so confused by the plain declarations of love! Sherlock could sense his drawing realization, he could sense the shock beginning to settle in.
"Yes of course, together. That's why he wouldn't leave, and why I'm following anyway." Sherlock admitted with a proud grin. Oh to be the love interest of the most powerful man in the Boston militia, what an honor, what bragging rights!
"You don't mean like...like you love the Captain? Surely you understand Sherlock that he's...he's a man?" Mycroft questioned with wide, confused eyes.
"Yes I know." Sherlock agreed carelessly, blinking as if he didn't understand what the big deal was. Blinking just to drive poor Mycroft crazy as he tried to wrap his head around how his little brother could ever fall for a person of his own gender.
"You're a homosexual?" Mycroft breathed in realization, looking a little bit shocked yet almost not surprised. Almost as if this shock had come as a blow, yet an expected one at that.
"Yes." Sherlock agreed quietly, feeling just so rejuvenated now that he could answer that question straight away! How wonderful it was to admit to such a secretive thing, to pour his heart out into some Lexington alleyway, with no cares as to what happened with such contents! Such invulnerability came when knowing the end very well might be near! Sherlock was tempted to shout his confession to the world, oh the looks on his parents faces if he ever admitted such thing! Well it might almost be worth getting kicked out of the family and disowned, if he wasn't already going to face such a thing if he returned from this war. At this point the parents must have realized their children were missing, the sun was just beginning to rise and with that came breakfast, a call that would be echoed off of the empty walls of the boy's bedrooms. They would know that their sons had gone off and joined the fight as militia men.
"I don't know why I'm not surprised." Mycroft admitted with a quiet blink. "I suppose I just...well what does it matter? Homosexual or not, we still have to get out of here."
"Did you not hear me? We need to help him, he might..." Sherlock's words were cut off by the firing of a gun from where the soldiers had arranged. He didn't know from which side it was fired, and he was not brave enough to question it. He didn't want to know if that bullet was shot from a British gun, he did not want to know if it was shot by a revolutionary. He only cared about which side it had struck, if either at all. He wanted to be sure that he didn't just hear the small explosion of the bullet that would take his John away. Sherlock let out a gasp as more and more guns went off, he could almost smell the gunpowder as it rose up in a cloud of thick smoke above the skirmish, he could hear moaning, and screaming, and yelling from either sides. Mycroft had to hold him away, yet Sherlock didn't want to run. He was terrified of the shots, he was terrified of the wounds, and he was terrified of who he might find now lying on the ground. Yet after that volley of explosions they stopped, and for a while Sherlock and Mycroft waited in silent terror of the Bostonian lives that may have been lost. They must have waited five minutes, listening to the moans of agony from the wounded, yet no guns went off, and it would seem as if they were not in the company of only one army.
"Come on Sherlock, the horses! The British will be close to Concord, we can catch them if we hurry." Mycroft insisted, grabbing his brother's arm and trying to tug him away towards the road to make a run for it.
"Mycroft he could be dead!" Sherlock insisted, trying to fight his brother off yet getting pulled all the same towards the road.
"If he is, what good would your presence be? Now come on!" Mycroft insisted. Sherlock gave a great groan of defeat; however he understood that when Mycroft had made up his mind on what was best there really was no stopping him. And so, as instructed, Sherlock allowed his brother to pull him to the road, and together they ran off towards where they had tied their horses. Sherlock was just granted a single look behind him as they were dashing off, towards where what appeared to be the numbers of the Boston militia were huddled around some bodies lying on the ground, unidentifiable. Sherlock felt an overwhelming feeling of hopelessness, for he couldn't distinguish John's figure or face from the rest that were either standing or lying on the grass. He couldn't save him from death, he couldn't bring him back to life, and he really was no use here. If he wanted to mourn he could do that later, yet to run in there to check on John would be a message loud and clear that he had done what he had promised not to. If John was alive, what would he say, what would he do? Undoubtedly he would make Sherlock leave, he would turn him back to Boston and scold him for disobeying a direct order. He would have to play captain so as to ensure that the boy he loved didn't get hurt. And so it was all Sherlock could do, for the sake of America, to run back down the disturbed dirt road to get the horses, untying them frantically while Mycroft took a sip of water and looked about for anymore approaching bands of redcoats or rebels. There were none, however, and so they both mounted their horses and took off down the road, following where the British must have disappeared down the path, and leaving the wounded and dying men, those who may or may not be John Watson, behind in the little town of Lexington. It wasn't a far ride from Concord, and when they arrived they saw that they had been beaten there. Already there was yelling, presumably from both sides of the town that would soon become a battlefield. Sherlock and Mycroft rode up to the town, a little bit bigger than its neighbor Lexington yet still considerably smaller than Boston. The houses were small, with little pastures spread out as far as the eye could see, giving way to farmland and forests a little ways towards the horizon. It was beautiful, that was all Sherlock could use to describe it, for the sun was just rising now. There were beautiful colors of red and gold splashed about the horizon, a sight that was so breathtaking that Sherlock almost forgot there was a bloody, violent reason for his being here to appreciate it. He was here not to admire the reds in the horizon, but to fight the redcoats on land. He couldn't appreciate the sun rise when he might be the one to fall quite soon.
"The militia can't be far behind, come let's tie the horses." Mycroft instructed, looking at his brother with a sort of pondering expression on his face, as if he was still trying to rearrange the mental image he had in his head. Surely Sherlock's being homosexual wouldn't interrupt him too much, would it? Surely there shouldn't be too much reorganization? And yet as soon as Sherlock tried to comment on his brother's insolent staring Mycroft had already looked away, allowing Sherlock to linger towards the road so as to see who had arrived and if the fighting had broken out yet. He could hear yelling; however it was much different from what he had heard in Lexington, it was yelling that sounded frantic and desperate, almost as if the screamers had no chance of fighting back. Almost as if they knew the situation was helpless.
"Why isn't there any gunfire?" Sherlock wondered as Mycroft reappeared at his side. Mycroft shrugged his shoulders, looking off into the town to see if there were any distinguishing features of a warzone. Yet there was nothing, nothing but screaming.
"They're searching the town, they must be. But where is the militia? Surely other branches had beaten us here?" Mycroft presumed, taking a step forward to which Sherlock shot out an arm to stop him.
"You don't think we should wait for the militia, do you?" Sherlock wondered nervously. "I mean what are we to the whole of the British army?"
"They might already be in there, don't you think?" Mycroft insisted, sounding confused yet unable to think of a reasonable enough explanation to the silence. There should be gun shots; there should be more than just screaming!
"I think we should wait here, for signs of life." Sherlock suggested quietly. Mycroft shook his head, obviously uninterested with waiting around to see if the battle would decide to show up. He came here for war, not just loitering! And with all the stubbornness that was so characteristic of him, he shook off Sherlock's arm and started into the small city. That was of course, until he was rudely interrupted by smoke. At first it was the smell, like a candle that had been snuffed out yet on a larger scale, on a more destructive scale. And then was the black smoke that began to rise in plumes, rising up above the steeple of the local church, above the rooves and above the tops of the trees. Smoke that paved the way to the Heavens, so as to let the dead follow behind.
"They're burning it!" Sherlock exclaimed horrifically, jumping back as he noticed flames reaching towards the skies. Oh how horribly they contrasted with the blood red sunrise, how they clashed with the natural beauty of the world! Beauty by nature and destruction by humankind, how very characteristic of them all! And just as soon as those flames appeared, more followed. Building after building went up into flames, the screams multiplied, the bells began to chime, and finally Sherlock began to saw life. Men, women, and children all began to race down the street in which Sherlock and Mycroft now helplessly stood, racing in their nightgowns and night caps towards safety, leaving their possessions behind as they fought only to keep their families alive from the blaze. The Holmes brothers dodged to the sides to avoid the stampede; however it was obvious that civilians weren't their only worries, not anymore.
"Redcoats." Mycroft announced as he peered around the corner. And he was right, they stuck out in their obnoxious coats against the drab colors of the townsfolks. The redcoats with their torches and with their guns, laughing as they set innocent American's homes and livelihoods ablaze. Sherlock was sick to his stomach to watch them race about, their faces contorted into the most unsympathetic sneers, seeming as if they were having great fun in burning the town to the ground.
"Should we fight?" Sherlock whispered, seeing now that the redcoats were coming into view, they were coming closer with their fires.
"I'm tempted." Mycroft admitted quietly. "But we have no one to back us, no rules to follow."
"So what? We can say we were acting on our own, we can..." Sherlock's words faltered as the British soldiers veered even closer, close enough for him to get a good look at just who was leading the blaze, and who was following joyously along behind. Suddenly his stomach wasn't just sick, it seemed as though it was gone. His body felt numb, empty inside, and his fist clenched even tighter around the handle of that small little gun. The gun that felt so strong in his hands, the gun that felt so powerful... A group of six, now not twenty feet away, parading with their torch and looking for the next house to raid and burn.
"It's him." Sherlock sneered, beginning to take deep, struggling breaths as he noticed the tallest of the pack, the one who stood the straightest, the one who looked the proudest.
"The soldiers from our house." Mycroft agreed quietly, obviously being able to recognize the stench of the Devil as they drew nearer and nearer. Rage that Sherlock simply could not explain began to course through his body, now not only did he realize that he had the chance to fight for America, he now understood that he was presented with the opportunity to fight for himself. They were right there, unsuspecting, with their muskets still only slung over their shoulders! He had eight bullets, there were six men...well he'd have two left over if he made every shot, hit everyone. Was it worth it, would he use the weapon that surprise had handed him, use it to his advantage to wet the streets with British blood? And Victor...well Sherlock had no troubles emptying the whole of his cylinder into that man's beautiful head! That horrible man, that hideous beast! Somehow having used his own beauty to convince Sherlock to do his bidding, to convince Sherlock furthermore that it was his idea to begin with! And to go along and use such ignorance to his advantage, to take what he wanted and not even stop to make sure it was enjoyed by both parties! To just steal the love, steal the innocence, and walk away without even a goodbye. That horrible fiend, that thief who still held onto Sherlock's childhood heart! How dare he stand and laugh at the flames of America, how dare he stand and torch the lives that colonists had worked so hard to build. How dare he...how dare he take one more breath! And to Sherlock, the one who could prevent him from doing so! Suddenly all logic was irrelevant, suddenly all common sense was lost in the ferocity. Rage overwhelmed his body and soul, and suddenly the only thing that Sherlock could even consider was violence...was justice! And so he leapt out onto the road, he wasn't even thinking of what retaliation he could be met by, he didn't even consider the disapproval from his brother behind him. All he could do was cock his gun, load it and aim, and take a shot at the pack of soldiers that were clustered like an infestation in front of him.

    "You VILLAINS!" Sherlock yelled angrily, taking another shot blindly while the men just began to realize who they were under attack by. They quickly dropped their things, the torch lay forgotten on the cobblestone and all six of them worked as a unit to draw their muskets and point them, bayonets forward, towards where Sherlock was running madly. He really wasn't thinking, that was for sure. Both of his shots seemed to have missed, however he kept firing in hopes that at least one bullet will make their mark. Yet when he pulled the trigger and nothing came out, that was when he realized that all six of the men were standing uninjured and undaunted, realizing now that their attacker was virtually helpless to do anything but gape at this point. Maybe it was the fact that he was shooting while running that would explain his inaccuracy, or maybe it was because he had no idea how to properly fire a gun in the first place! Yet either way, all eight shots were wasted, and when Sherlock pulled the trigger to no avail, well that was when he suddenly found himself in trouble. To the crackling of the flames the soldiers began to laugh, keeping their muskets level with Sherlock as he stopped dead in his tracks, trying to fish some more ammunition out of his pocket as they all ogled at him, laughing as if he was a helpless child come to entertain them.
"Would you look at that, William Holmes, come to fight with the big boys!" laughed one of the men in the midst, looking especially eager as he inched forward with his musket. To be shot didn't seem too bad of a way to go, especially if the bullet passed cleanly through his head or heart. A fast, virtually painless death seemed all together preferable to those sharp bayonets, those with the capability to gut him and leave him bleeding out on the streets. No, he wanted to stay back, far away from those.
"Come to kill us then?" Moran wondered, sounding downright disappointed to see the anger that was portrayed so clearly on Sherlock's face. It was almost as if he had come to appreciate their time together, come to assume that they had become friends. Moran seemed to be the only one upset about Sherlock's shift in loyalties, for the others looked as if they would be ever so happy to kill him. And none more exhilarated than Victor himself, standing off to the side of the group with his musket pointed right at Sherlock's heart. Oh how beautiful he stood among the carnage, so beautiful still that if Sherlock focused hard enough he could still feel his heart beating for the man. So ignorant he still was, so helplessly flustered if he still saw Victor Trevor and felt some sort of attraction to that demon! Yet the love that had once flourished so powerfully in his heart, the passion that had developed almost effortlessly...he could still feel it. Harbored deep in his bones, deep in his very soul, all hatred was erased when he saw those blue eyes shining so vividly from afar. So beautiful that his heart was just ready to submit once more.
"Come to kill me, I can only imagine." Victor teased, lowering his gun as he saw Sherlock fumbling with his own, helpless to the point of empathy.
"If only I could!" Sherlock growled, emptying the cylinder of the bullet shells and trying to reload with trembling fingers, keeping one eye on the soldiers as they still inched closer and closer, and one eye on the task at hand.
"You might've if you hadn't missed all of those shots!" laughed one of the nameless men from the midst of the pack, one of those who merely sat around the table and smoked cigarettes without doing anything more than chuckling at his fellow gamblers.
"I think he might have shot us dinner though, after we burn this place to the ground we can go and find some downed birds." The ponytail man laughed. Sherlock grimaced, fixing a couple of shells into his revolver before finally trying to click them into place.
"Don't you fire that one again boy, fire and we'll have to fire back." Moran warned, taking another step forward with the shining bayonet, a step in which the entire pack mimicked. Sherlock shuttered with his eagerness, oh how he wanted to silence those men, silence their laughter, still their sinful hands! How he wanted to wipe that smile off of their faces by blowing their jaws out of their skulls! And no one more than Victor Trevor! And a gunshot did go off, yet it was not fired from Sherlock's gun, nor was it from any of the soldiers. The air was clear of gunpowder yet a soldier dropped dead, the ponytail man from what it appeared. A shot straight to the chest.
"Sherlock run!" Mycroft's voice yelled from behind him, reloading his musket as he crouched behind the building in which he was hidden. Another shot, another one down. And for once, Sherlock did as he was told. Vendettas left deserted behind him, Sherlock took off and ran as fast as his legs would carry him, racing down the road and around the corner, where no stray bullets could find him, where he was in no one's sights. He heard multiples shots, the retaliation of the British pack, all undoubtedly going after Mycroft, who had downed two of their men without so much of a blink. Oh how Sherlock wished he could have such a privilege as to deprive those no good snakes of their lives! However it was Mycroft's task to complete, and his consequences to face. For even as Sherlock looked back, even as he began to notice that as he ran he was being followed...out of the corner of his eye he saw that there was a figure slumped dead over the sidewalk where Mycroft had just been hiding. The guns had quieted.