A/N: BAAAAACK! sorry. I didn't know where I wanted to go with this chapter without giving away to much information. I wanted certain things to be kept a secret until the right time so this chapter was a lot harder to write because of that. I feel that I did the job I set out to do. I have left you several clues in past chapters as well as this one. The games afoot! Now go find Watson and have a jolly good time figuring out the mystery. And for the record: I DON'T OWN HETALIA OR SHERLOCK HOMES OR ANY OF THE MUSIC THAT MAY SHOW UP IN THIS FIC! That is all.

Ch. 8: Do Not Ask Questions You Do Not Want To Know The Answers To

"It is always the simple things that change our lives. And these things never happen when you are looking for them to happen. Life will reveal answers at the pace life wishes to do so. You feel like running, but life is on a stroll. This is how God does things."

~Donald Miller quotes

Spain had made it to Germany in record time. His car sat in the small driveway and his determination stood in the forefront of his mind, keeping him from running back to said vehicle and pretend everything was going to work out in the end. He was Boss Spain. Nothing could change that. Nothing could alter that. If he was responsible in anyway for Feliciano's change in behavior, he had to make it right. Had to. It was his duty. His goal.

Spain had never been a truly goal oriented nation like America or Germany, he rarely set goals other then 'make Romano happy today' or 'keep the tomatoes growing well' or other things like that. Little things. Taking charge of a situation like this was not how Spain usually handled anything, but for his Lovi and Feli he would do anything. He liked to see them happy, even if he knew he couldn't be a part of their lives or that future decisions may hurt them a bit. He never thought he could hurt either of them, but seeing his Lovi broken, pleading to God in a voice that sounded like a small child or hearing the cold, hollow voice of his precious Ita. It nearly killed him to think about it. And that is why he was here. In Germany. Now.

He knocked. No one answered. He knocked again. No one answered. A little frustrated that he knew they were home, both cars were present, and that Germany never ignored a guest, Prussia was usually a bit late, but had always opened up before, he knocked again. Harder then last time. Much harder. The door swung open under the extra pressure. The doorway was dark. The light of the afternoon sun creeping it's way inside the now exposed home. The pungent smell of beer assaulted his nose and caused him to cough and gag. Prussia wasn't kidding that Germany wasn't doing to well. Or was this Prussia's doing in reaction to how Ita had talked to him. After all. Prussia had been face to face with him. He had seen what Germany had seen and what if he broke too?

Worry over his friend had him running through the house trying to find his old friend. He checked upstairs, the kitchen, the living room – only a passed out Germany was found there – he'd checked nearly the whole house when a crash and German swears had him racing towards the basement.

"¡Gilberto! ¡Mi amigo! ¿¡Es bien!" A few more swears and another, smaller, crash and Gilbert's hair became visible in the low light of the basement.

"Scheiße! Antonio? How many dimes do I have do say don't call me 'Gilberto'? It's nod an awesome version of mein name!" His red eyes glared in his friends direction as he tried to get out from underneath his box prison.

Spain laughed in relief and set about releasing Gilbert from the boxes. The silver haired man's freedom was meet with a shout of victory before a swift kick into the side of an old box. Said box broke open at impact and it's contents spilled out over the floor. Gilbert once more began to swear before looking down at the contents. Red eyes widened. His voice caught in his throat. He had found it. Unexpectedly, but he had found it.

Spain looked on as Prussia gingerly picked up the black cloak. The hat that came next had him gasping in shock. So this is why Prussia came down here. To dig through old memories and decades past. Basements and attics became archives and museums for Nations. Their lives spanned centuries so they tended to accumulate far more stuff then the average human. Any museum curator in the world would have a heart attack if they saw any of the 'historical artifacts' that they had each ended up with over the years. Letters from kings and princes. Military leaders and common folk. People they had known at one time or another. Old uniforms, worn and well used, packed carefully in decaying boxes were a common thing. The only time any Nation choose to go any where near these stores of the past were if the were moving – which happened rarely thanks to the government – and if they got brave and attempted to 'spring clean'. So far only America had been known to try that. Once. And as far anyone knew, he hadn't tried it since.

"You were looking for his things then, amigo?" Gilbert didn't answer. He just stood there holding his little brother's things close. If Antonio didn't know Gil better he would say that his face was blank. But he did know him better. He could tell that his friend was in pain. He could see the tears in the corners of his crimson eyes.

Spain placed his hand in his friends shoulder. He didn't have to say anything. His presence was enough. He knew that, but he wanted to do more. To heal the wound his friend still held. To help close the all to fresh cut that still lay across his heart. But there was nothing that he could do for Gilbert the time had not done already or would do if allowed.

"Dis is vhy." Antonio blinked. Gilbert's voice was sad, but serious. Serious was something that Gilbert rarely was. This ment something.. It had to, but exactly what? He came for answers to questions he had yet to ask, but the Prussian's statement. Why did it sound like the answer he was looking for?

"¿Qué?" Gilbert turned around. His crimson eyes blazing with a fire he had not seen since the Thirty Year war.

"Vhat happened do Feli. Dis is vhat. De vone moment in all of hisdory dat impacted him de most. His death." He said the word as if it was going to harm him. His face falling. Tears actually falling down his face. The proud Nation of Prussia fell to the floor in tears, clinging to the hat and cloak of a young Nation who never had the time to truly live, despite finding love.

Spain stood in shock. He could have done something. Protected what meant the most to Italy. But he hadn't he had listened t his Boss. He had left Ita to wait for a love that would forever be forgotten. Tears began to fall from his eyes to. Tears of anger and pain. Sorrow and regret. How could he have been so blind? Italy had been a child then. Same as him. Children should not fight the wars of men. They should laugh and play. Paint and catch firefly's with friends. But they just let a child go off to war. To death itself without so much as a word of advice. With out so much as attempting to stop him. Then he had kept his only remaining family away. He had been betrayed by the ones who said that they loved him and would protect him. They were responsible. They were the cause. Not just Gil for not running into battle with his brother. Not just him for keeping Romano away when his twin needed him most. But France and Austria and Hungary and, and...It was their fault. All of them. The adults. The ones that said that they knew better. But they didn't Ita had told them that going off to war wasn't good. That it would just cause pain for everyone in the end. A child who had never been into battle knew what battle was better then they who had spent years of of their lives fighting. He knew now why Gilbert was dragging razors over old wounds. This problem was older then anyone had thought. It wasn't because they didn't him any attention or treat him like the oblivious, care-free, naive boy they had help raise. It was because if they didn't reopen some of these wounds. Didn't remember the old days, they might loose someone important to them. They would Italy...Feliciano...if they did nothing. He under stood now.

The tears fell to ground harder with every revelation. With every new thought a blade was thrust deeper and deeper into his very soul. Gilbert felt it. It was why he was crying. Sobbing into his brothers clothes. It was why he, Boss Spain, was now kneeling on the floor crying as if he had been kicked in his vital regions. He had found the answer to many of his questions and he didn't like them, but he couldn't turn them away. They wouldn't let him.

Two nations, that the world had never seen cry, sat in the basement of a world power, that was intoxicated past his limit, in tears of pain, guilt and regret. Time would heal them this time. This wound had been a blow made worse with time. They wouldn't let it have it's way with them this time. They would act. They would fight. They would succeed in fixing their friend. But the cost of realization was their strength. Fatigue pushed it's way past their pain. A sedative to their injured minds. Sleep fell quickly upon them. Bring the sweet relief of bitter sweet dreams.

A/N: So tell me Holmes, where are the clues taking you? Do you know yet? Has the picture become clearer or has the clue been obscured by trying to figure the answer out to fast? Watson won't give you the answer Holmes, he can just guide you. I am your Moriarty. You are my Holmes. Let us make this ne thrilling mystery, shall we?

Transulations:

¡Gilberto! ¡Mi amigo! ¿¡Es bien! - Gilbert! My friend! You okay? (Spa)

Scheiße - Shit (Ger)

Mein - My (Ger)

¿Qué? - What (Spa)