His Majesty, The Queen

December Seventh, 1941

December seventh began as a terribly uneventful day, at least for Sherlock. While the day would go down in history books it started just as any other day might've, with that six o'clock alarm and a sleepy breakfast, following the routine that every other day took on. Nothing extraordinary happened throughout chemistry, nor in English. Lunch was a loud affair as always, though today there were BLTs to wrestle over, and each boy seemed to think himself entitled to at least half the tray of bacon, so as to make his sandwich extra fattening. Sherlock noticed that his friends had avoided the bacon all together, which was honestly an impressive show of restraint. If they cared so much about this upcoming football game that they could steer clear of bacon, well they deserved to win more than Sandringham. They deserved to win the American football World Cup, if there even was such a thing. John was looking quite dormant today; all the while Sherlock knew he must feel a little bit disappointed in last night's outcome. Sherlock felt it too, that little spark of incompleteness that seemed to latch onto his fond memories. They hadn't reunited after they had ducked back from their biography section, and while Sherlock would have liked to retreat somewhere more private their homework made it virtually impossible. Studies came before romances, especially for the two smartest boys in the grade, and so it seemed as though time had slipped them by in the form of dreadful essays. In the end Sherlock was too tired to be carried away, and so here he sat with just the vague memory of John's lips on his own, without anything to show for it except a book on Robert E. Lee and a rather lengthy essay. From lunch the boys carried onto Latin, and when that had finally dragged through they found themselves landed in the back of Professor Trevor's class. The man didn't seem to know anything extraordinary had happened throughout their boring day, and he stood above the class pointing on his European map, collecting all the little red pins to show the German line surrounding the whole of France. All of the blue pins had now collected into England, to show that they were now preparing for a defense rather than trying to push through the German line and save their neighbors. Professor Trevor looked rather discouraged as at last he turned back to the class, his eyes falling upon Sherlock with something of an apologetic glance before going to sit on the edge of his desk and begin their regularly scheduled class. Up until Professor Trevor opened his mouth, December seventh had been like most any other day trapped inside of this boarding school. Though it wasn't the words which flew from his mouth, it was what never came. It was the interruption of the door flying open, and the sound of a radio as it squealed with a static male voice, announcing something dreadful.
"Professor Musgrave!" Professor Trevor exclaimed, getting up from his desk and looking quite confused as to the interruption. Half of him was excited to see his friend, though the other half looked concerned. The whole class perked up in interest, watching as Professor Musgrave set his radio up onto the desk with a pale look of horror. For a moment only the radio spoke, as everyone seemed to have fallen into a silent state of paralysis.
"Victor I thought you'd...I thought you'd want to know." Musgrave managed, his hands shaking as he shoved them into his pockets, so as to keep them from displaying how terrified he really was. The students all watched anxiously, Sherlock giving a mere side glance to John as if to make sure he was paying attention as well. And he was, of course, he was perked up like a prairie dog, listening now to the man on the radio as he began to read off names...
"What's happened?" Trevor wondered, stepping almost fearlessly close to his friend, as if having forgotten they had an audience. He looked ready to clutch onto Musgrave's arms for support, though he had at least a little bit of restraint within him.
"The Japanese have bombed a naval base in Hawaii...there's over two thousand dead, Victor." Musgrave announced, loud enough so that the whole class could hear but softly enough so that he didn't frighten the poor Professor any more than he had to. For a moment everyone stayed silent, though the weight of what had happened fell upon them like a bag of rocks, hitting upon each and every head in the room, quite like the bullets that would be raining upon them before long. Sherlock's shoulders dropped, his face paled, and he looked abruptly to where his friends were sitting stone still in their chairs. It wasn't the tragedy that frightened them, while they had places in their hearts to mourn for the lost citizens there was more of a self-interested shiver going down their spines. Well this meant one thing, didn't it? It could only mean one thing. America was going to war.
"No that can't be...that's not right." Professor Trevor's words caught in his throat, coming out as mere croaks as he stared breathlessly at the bearer of bad news. He was still the only one talking though he seemed to forget he had an audience, as he seemed not to have blinked for the whole time his eyes were trapped within the math professor's gray ones. Suddenly his legs gave a threatening wobble, and he stumbled into Musgrave's arms for support. Musgrave caught him by the shoulders, holding him upright so that he would not have to stumble to the ground in front of the whole class. All the same he kept him within arm's length away, though if he wanted to keep them apart because of the audience or because of personal preferences that remained to be seen.
"We'll be going to war." The man whispered at last, letting his head hang miserably by his neck. That declaration was enough to bring the whole class back to life, even the silent boys in the front found it within themselves to talk to their neighbors, contemplating if they were going to be drafted immediately or not. Some must have been eighteen, the ones who looked like they had been slapped personally in the face by the President of the United States. Others looked worried not for themselves, but for their friends, for their brothers, and for their fathers. Everyone seemed to want to start drafting a letter here, though what they might say to their families would all be the same. It would be a declaration of fear, and of confusion. Asking their fathers if they were going to go off to Japan, or if they would be spared from the draft. They would be pleading to flee the country, or wondering what they could do to avoid the war all together. They would be wondering why it had to be them, these little boys from a posh boarding school, that would have to don a helmet and a rifle and go fight for a country they didn't even understand yet. Everyone was scared, fear rippled like a wave throughout their classroom like a wave that threatened to pummel them all underneath its weight. Sherlock could only stare to his friends, all of which were still sitting silently in their desks, giving glances between them as if to gauge which would be the first to speak. They knew it already; they knew that their birthdays would become a death sentence.
"Do you think we'll be drafted?" Greg muttered at last, his voice so quiet that it came as a mere squeak. Sherlock turned his eyes away from Professor Trevor, who was now sitting upon his desk and talking in a very hushed voice to Musgrave, wringing his hands anxiously as if that would be a good way to release his nerves. The radio continued to drone, listing names alphabetically and still not haven got through the B's. Those must be the names of the dead, then. At least the dead they had found as of now.
"We're seventeen, idiot." John growled. "We won't be drafted yet."
"But when we..."
"Yes!" John exclaimed, slamming his hand upon his desk and turning towards Greg with wild eyes. "Yes we will be drafted when we turn eighteen! You don't have to ask stupid questions."
"I'm sorry. God John." Greg muttered, furrowing his eyebrows in self-defense and turning rather moodily towards Mike. Poor Mike was keeping silent, though his dark eyes were alight in concern. He realized just as well as they did, the moment they turned eighteen they would be handed a uniform and a gun, forced to fight. Forced to understand. John hung his head between his fists, shaking his head and not saying another word. Sherlock tried to remain unnoticed in his chair, as he was one of the only ones who didn't have to worry about the draft. The news came as a dreadful shock, as he realized now that his American safe haven had been interrupted by the never ending war. Though his life was not in danger, as his country had been at war for a while now, and he knew he was safe from the front lines. He didn't need to worry for his life, now he had to worry for his friends, for his classmates, and for his professors. Suddenly no one was safe, not from the bullets that were slowly but surely making their way over the ocean to strike their designated targets. To no one's surprise the class ended there, as Professor Trevor did not seem to be in the proper state to teach old wars, all the while they were running headfirst into a whole new history lesson for the next generation. They were to start their own chapter of the history book which had never been written, they were to die as martyrs and get their names on the plaques that had not been made, they were to lose their blood in a puddle that had yet to collect. Hell stood lingering before them, waiting to accept them with open arms...and here they were with Time himself pushing them forward. Here they went, into the dangerous unknown. John was the first to leave, getting to his feet and throwing his chair agressivley into the desk. He draped his bag across his shoulder and rather ran from the room, running from where the radio could still be heard throughout the halls.
"Go ahead Sherlock; he won't bite your head off." Mike insisted with a sigh, as if this dramatic flight has happened one time too many in his experience. "He needs someone, he just won't admit it."
"My thoughts exactly." Sherlock agreed, though he knew he was the right boy for the job by his own personal experience. No one would be able to tame the beast that was John's temper, no one that didn't have the advantage of owning at least a portion of his heart. And so Sherlock followed, rushing from the classroom and forgetting to even give Professor Trevor a nod of encouragement, he merely sprinted down the hallways to where he thought John might resort to in this maze of doors, halls, and stairwells. The only place he thought he might be able to find John's refuge was in the bathroom, as it was probably one of the most hidden spots throughout the lively school. He could get a stall and lock himself in for some time, process his emotions without having to look anyone in the face just yet. And so Sherlock pushed through the door way, hearing as expected the sound of just faint crying, the mere sniffles and whimpers that came before you allowed the sobs to emerge from the bottom of your throat. Sherlock hesitated to say anything, though the door closed rather loudly and gave away his entrance. The sniffling silenced, as if John was now forcing his emotions to obey, trying to keep them at bay long enough to appear more level headed in this situation than he actually was.
"That's Sherlock, isn't it?" he presumed at last, his voice coming from one of the only closed stall doors. Sherlock sighed, nodding his head before realizing that John couldn't see him.
"Yes." He admitted finally, walking up towards the sinks and hesitating there. He didn't know if John wanted a shoulder to cry on or if he just needed someone to talk to. Sherlock would be fine with either, in fact he was perfectly willing to sit here at the sinks and cry along with him, without ever saying a word.
"Did they send you then?" John presumed.
"Yes." Sherlock agreed quickly, to which John gave a great sigh of defeat.
"One day I'll just have to scream at you, so they stop thinking you're the mediator." John grumbled.
"Well until then..." Sherlock muttered quietly. "We all need someone to talk to, I just thought perhaps I could be that someone."
"There's nothing to talk about, so you're just wasting your time. No one runs to a bathroom stall to have a conversation, you know. They go to be alone and wallow." John insisted, though his voice was clearing up. He didn't sound as if he was on the verge of tears any longer, though Sherlock couldn't decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing. John needed to cry, surely, and if he was holding in his tears they would just come stronger at another time.
"And no one follows just to go away." Sherlock added, to which he heard John scoff from the other side of the door.
"You're such a bother, you know that?" John insisted.
"Yes, but I'm your bother." Sherlock agreed with a little chuckle, hoping that behind the wood John was mirroring his smile. There was no immediate response, though after about a minute's silence there was the sound of a latch opening, and at last John emerged. He looked rather normal, with his face paled and his forehead rather sweaty. Though his clothes were intact and his face was not yet wet with tears. If it wasn't for that look in his eyes, that which made it clear he had a countdown started, well Sherlock might have thought nothing tremendous had happened at all.
"It's my birthday on Sunday." John admitted quietly. "They'll have me then, sent off to fight with the Japanese, or the Germans."
"They're surely draft the older ones first, John you're still in school! That might give you a pass, surely." Sherlock insisted, reaching forward so as to offer his hand to John if he felt he needed it. John stared at his hand for a while, and for a long while he kept his own hands still by his side. He looked almost too stubborn to accept help, all the while his eyes pleaded for it. He needed someone there, and slowly he began to understand that. So at last John reached out his hand and let Sherlock's fingers interlock between his own, pulling him a bit closer so that their other hands could be used now to touch and to cradle. John fit his hand underneath Sherlock's arm, all the while Sherlock let his free hand touch upon Sherlock's shoulder. It almost looked as if they were getting ready for a dance, though neither of them looked to be in the mood for waltzing. Instead they huddled together in the way lovers do, those who felt safest when confined in the body heat of another. It was times like these that Sherlock was sure John loved him, for if he was merely a pastime there would be no way John would allow such delicate intimacy.
"I'm not afraid of going to war, Sherlock. I know it's been coming, I know that we all have to serve our time eventually." John whispered at last. "I'm afraid of dying."
"If there was a boy here who could disagree they'd be a liar." Sherlock muttered in response, trying to look John in the eyes but finding it quite the difficult task. John seemed determined to keep his eyes down, as if he didn't want to allow Sherlock to view his full spectrum of emotions just yet.
"I'm afraid of my friends dying. And above all I'm afraid we'll fail. Going to war means there has to be a winner and there has to be a loser. What happens if America gets beaten, what happens if we're over run? We'll start speaking German, or Japanese, become citizens of a country we've not even visited..." John gave something of a fearful shiver, closing his eyes for a moment before raising his head level with Sherlock's.
"I fear that every day, for my own motherland." Sherlock assured. "But you need to hold onto hope, you need to trust in your country, its soldiers, and its pride. You need to trust that good will triumph in the end."
"Good is a matter of perspective." John reminded him.
"Your own version, then." Sherlock insisted with a little smile, raising up his chin so that his nervous eyes were finally able to make contact with Sherlock's.
"My own version of good?" John presumed hesitantly.
"Of course. If we don't have our own versions then what else would we be fighting for? If we knew what lay on the other side of the war, good or bad, I'm sure we'd not fight nearly as hard. Imagine a utopia, with just the German line standing in the way. Imagine a world where...oh I'm not sure. I'm not sure of your utopia. Where football is played as a job, or...or you get to avoid Latin for the rest of your life." Sherlock teased, running his thumb rather nervously over John's bottom lip. The boy managed something of a grin, though it was very short lived and not overly enthusiastic.
"A world where I could love Mary and still keep you. A world where you won't be prosecuted, if ever they discover." John muttered quietly, giving Sherlock the softest of glances before leaning in to kiss a mere peck onto his lips. Though there was something off with his statement, something curious enough for Sherlock to pull away a bit quickly.
"Why do you say that as if I'm the only one in the line of fire?" Sherlock wondered. "Relationships go both ways, and both parties get punished if they're caught."
"Well no, surely not me. I'm not a homosexual, I've got Mary. I don't need hormonal therapy when I love women." John pointed out with something of a self-righteous little nod. Sherlock almost laughed, he would've laughed if his heart wasn't currently in the process of breaking. There was another broken confession, wasn't there? The direct admittance of no real feelings for Sherlock, merely a pastime.
"John, you'll be punished too." Sherlock insisted. "If they catch us in...well I suppose in action, you'll be charged."
"But I'm not a homosexual, you are!" John insisted, pushing away from Sherlock with some urgency, as if he didn't want to be associated so closely anymore.
"Me? What makes you any different from me; I thought we had agreed that all of this meant nothing?" Sherlock exclaimed, taking a rather offensive side of their argument even though he didn't even like the side he was taking. If he wasn't so dedicated to tiptoeing around this sensitive jerk he may have ultimately taken the standpoint of truth, insisting that John was actually in love with him no matter what he claimed.
"What makes us different? Jesus, Sherlock I feel like the list would be shorter if we listed what we had in common! I mean for one, you're just so...so flowery. And I play football!" John exclaimed with an almost childish whine of insistence.
"And so playing football will automatically convince the jury that you're innocent? And what card will you have to play, hm? Saying that I forced myself upon you, saying that I seduced you without your knowing consent?" Sherlock growled. John's anger faltered for a moment, as if he wasn't sure what he was prepared to say.
"Well no...no of course I wouldn't say that." he muttered quietly. "But I would tell the jury that I, like any boy out there, was more interested in sex rather than commitment."
"That's disgusting." Sherlock said at last.
"Well what do you want me to say?" John exclaimed, throwing his hands up into the air in exasperation, for he realized now that they were both fighting the losing side of the argument. There was a third option, one which neither wanted to admit to now. There was the option of legitimate feelings, of love that was spewing from their very pores but going unnoticed and unacknowledged as of now.
Sherlock gave a sigh of regret, wondering why he ever tried to argue a topic that would be the equivalent of twisting a dagger into his side.
"I don't want to fight you, John. But I don't want you to go this whole relationship thinking you'd be off the hook." Sherlock insisted at last, deciding there was no use in yelling if neither one of them were going to listen anyway. Reason was abandoned in this despite, and logic was ignored all together.
"It's not a relationship. I told you, it's a pass time! I don't love you! And love is what relationships are built on. I don't." John insisted, clarifying that awful word as if to make sure Sherlock understood his pure indifference. It was all Sherlock could do but drop his head regretfully, hating to hear those words directed at him, hating to hear such rude things being said abruptly and shamelessly. It was perhaps John's error, not to realize that Sherlock had had legitimate feelings for him. It was his fault for not realizing how cruel he was being in his own self-defense, as he surely couldn't recognize that Sherlock felt something so strongly within his own chest. And all of this arguing was not doing him any good; it certainly wasn't raising any self-confidence. It was all the boy could do but nod away his sorrows, realizing that he had intentionally dug himself into this very hole. It was his fault now that he couldn't climb out; it was his fault for jumping in in the first place.
"Yes I know." He said at last. "But in a way we need each other anyways. I need a hand to hold and you need...well I suppose you just need a pastime."
"Exactly." John muttered, simmering down now that he had said all he needed to say. Sherlock's argument wasn't entirely convincing, though John wanted to believe that he understood. He wanted to believe it, and so he forced it to be the truth even if it was not. He was forcing himself under the impression that he had all of this under his control, when in reality he was grasping at fog and trying to collect it within his arms. He was hopeless to keep his own heart in check, much less Sherlock's.