Chapter Four

John waited until everyone in his camp had fallen asleep before gathering up his belongings and creeping into the woods. He didn't bother leaving a note to explain himself to Sholto. It would have been a waste of paper; Sholto would know exactly why he left.

Sherlock Holmes.

Of course, no one in the regiment knew that the officer who slaughtered Greg was named Sherlock. No one knew that John had been trying to save Sherlock when he called out that strange combination of letters. No one knew how close John had felt to Sherlock before seeing him plunge his bayonet straight through his best friend's heart.

The very memory caused John to grit his teeth. Whatever feelings he might have felt towards Sherlock were gone now. They were replaced by pure, unadulterated hatred. That was good, though. John would need that hatred when he entered the enemy camp to achieve his one goal: avenging Greg's death.

Once he reached the Red Coats' camp, John hung back in the shadows. There were still men walking around, moving from tent to tent. Almost every single one of them was discussing the conflict that had occurred earlier in the day.

"Didn't know Holmes had it in 'im." One of the soldiers muttered to another.

"Me neither. Makes me think twice about putting all those snakes in his tent." The other remarked with a laugh.

John's eyes narrowed. Hearing these men express their admiration for Sherlock's brutish actions was not helping his homicidal feelings.

"Gentlemen." Sherlock's familiar voice drew the attention of the entire camp. He was standing directly in front of the fire, his posture tall and proud. He looked around, a slight smile crossing his face. John couldn't stand it.

Without thinking, John sprang into action. He bolted through the mass of soldiers hanging about the camp and lunged straight at Sherlock. He didn't even think to grab his bayonet before he moved - he just stuck out his arms and wrapped his hands around Sherlock's throat.

John knocked Sherlock to the ground as he applied as much pressure as possible to his hands. Unfortunately, he didn't inflict very much damage before a swarm of soldiers fell upon him. They pulled him off of Sherlock and threw him onto the ground a few feet away from their commanding officer. One of the soldiers withdrew his sword.

"Stop." Sherlock croaked, his command sounding rather pathetic when given in a raspy tone that was likely the direct result of John's attempt at murder.

"Sir?" The soldier lowered his sword just a fraction and turned to look at Sherlock questioningly. John glared at Sherlock. "The protocol states…"

"I know the protocol." Sherlock growled, struggling to his feet and rubbing his throat in an effort to soothe himself. He met John's hate-filled gaze. John's mouth curved upwards into a sneer when he saw the red fingerprints he had left behind on Sherlock's neck. "My brother wrote it, if you'll recall. As your commanding officer, however, I am instructing you to ignore the protocol. This is one of the Patriots that we encountered earlier. He might have useful information for us. Please restrain him and find accommodations for him."

"Shall we question him, sir?" Another soldier asked uncertainly. John was fairly certain that there was an implication of torture behind the word 'question'.

"Absolutely not." Sherlock objected. It was strange to see him performing in his position of authority. "I will see to the questioning myself. Anderson, inspect the perimeter of the camp to ensure that there are no other patriots waiting to assassinate me. As for the rest of you: return to your tents and consider yourselves extremely lucky that I am not holding you all personally responsible for the injuries that I have sustained this evening."

Two soldiers hoisted John up roughly. They pinned his hands behind his back while another soldier rounded up a rope and bound his hands together. John scowled as he was forced in the direction of the supplies tent.

"John?" Sherlock's raspy voice called into the tent nearly an hour later.

John, who was sitting on the ground with nowhere to go, glared at the tent opening. The very last thing that he wanted to do was see Sherlock. Especially when he was still alive.

"John." Sherlock entered the tent.

He looked different when he was not standing in front of his men. His shoulders sagged, his mouth tugged downwards, his eyes were cast downwards, and his throat...well, it looked like John had come pretty close to killing him, after all. John's chin jutted out. He refused to feel guilty about his attempted murder.

Sherlock drew a bit closer and sat down on the ground in front of John. John refused to meet his eyes. Sherlock let out a heavy sigh.

"John."

John was getting sick of hearing his name spoken in so many tones. "What?"

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it. He let out a humorless laugh. "I hardly know where to begin. I suppose I just do not understand the sequence of events that brought us to this particular point in time."

"I think it's pretty clear." John murmured venomously.

Sherlock met John's eyes and sighed again. His shoulders slumped down further. "The battle."

"You killed my best friend."

"Your best friend." Sherlock echoed in a defeated tone, hanging his head. "John, I am sincerely sorry. I had no idea that -"

"Would knowing have made a difference? Or would you have just murdered someone else in my regiment?"

"You killed four of my men."

"You hate your men and they hate you."

Sherlock nodded his head, not bothering to argue. That somehow made John angrier.

They were both silent for a moment.

"Did he have a family?" Sherlock finally asked quietly.

John nodded. "A wife and three kids."

Sherlock cringed. John couldn't tell if it was due to the strain he was putting on his injured throat or because he actually felt some semblance of guilt.

"I'm sorry. I wish that the battle had not happened. I tried everything in my power to avoid any sort of movement, but I received orders and if I had ignored them, my brother would have sent another troop that would not have thought twice about massacring you all."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did you hesitate?"

"I ordered my men to remain defensive and avoid any fighting that was not completely vital."

"So they're terrible at instructions, then."

"Your men attacked. What were we to do?" Sherlock demanded, his voice cracking.

"Retreat."

"My brother would have had my head."

"Hm. At least someone would have had it."

"You were really going to kill me, weren't you?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"Did I leave room for any doubt?" John asked.

Sherlock touched his throat absent-mindedly. "I suppose that you didn't. I am sincerely sorry that I killed him, John. You must know that."

"Hm." John grumbled.

Sherlock nodded his head, seeming to understand that he was not going to get a more forgiving response. John just stared back at him defiantly.

"I suppose that I had better check on Anderson's progress." Sherlock sighed, standing up and brushing the dirt off of his pants. "I, ah," There wasn't much he could say to John now that he was a prisoner. John would not have a good night, he would not sleep comfortably, he could not visit Sherlock's tent, and he was not looking forward to their next interaction. "I'll look for more suitable accommodations."

"Don't bother." John murmured sulkily. "Won't make a difference to me whether I sleep on a feather bed or in the mud."

Sherlock smiled at him sadly before exiting the tent.