Mrs. Holmes hadn't spoken to neither of her children for several days. Sherlock's tantrum had been a shock to the whole family, as he was always the obedient child. She stills cooks meals, but Mr. Holmes was the one who serves them, while Mrs. Holmes ate alone in the living room. After everybody finishes their meal, they all go back to their rooms and mind their own busissness.
However, Sherlock had never been less alone at school. John and Mary had been sitting with him every recess, talking to one another, growing more and more comfortable with each other's company as the days went on.
It was almost like the two place's roles had switched. School was where Sherlock had been the most isolated, while home was where the comfort and friends were. Of course, Mycroft was Sherlock's only friend. Until now.
John had never mentioned about the awkward hand holding incident a few weeks ago. At least it wasn't awkward for Sherlock. But perhaps to John. Maybe he might think he was a freak if he enjoyed their hands touching. But Sherlock…he…he wasn't…was he?
He had been attracted to girls in the past, but he had always thought he was just thinking that to convince himself that he wasn't…
"Are you alright John?" Mary asked, looking up at her boyfriend. John had just arrived to school, despite it being the first recess. His hair was ruffled, his shirt un-tucked, his tie wrinkled, his eyes baggy. There was an uncertain darkness to him, not like his usual self. As he turned, Sherlock noticed a stitched cut above his eyebrow. John merely nodded his head and took a seat.
"John Watson, I'm not an idiot," Mary replied through her teeth. Sherlock was taken back by this. He had expected her to keep asking the same question over and over again, shaking his arm and crying. But Mary was smarter than that.
"Your sister is a fencer," Sherlock said. Both John and Mary's heads turned towards him.
"What?" John began, his mouth gapped.
"Well, it's pretty obvious," Sherlock said, "You've had a rough morning, as everybody might have guessed. However, you walk with anxiety and tiredness at your feet, meaning you hadn't had any sleep, so something must have happened the night before."
"The stitched cut on your head. It's very thin, but it cut pretty deeply. My instant thought is a glass bottle. Full of alcohol, I suppose. However, it wasn't smashed on your head, otherwise the cut would have been presented differently and would have been on the side of your head. The placement of your cut is very precise. No drunk could have been that detailed."
"Somebody must have hit you while sober. My first thought is arguing with somebody about a sensitive topic, might have been about a drinking problem, might have not, and the conversation got out of hand. How they cut your forehead, the method is very peculiar.
"The cut looks like somebody must have smashed the bottle, then pressed it against your head. It was more of a torture technique. It must have been fast. Doing something like that with a fast takes practice. My first thought is fencing. The activity requires quick thinking and swift moves. The sword has to go straight through the opponent, much like what your sister had."
Sherlock opened his eyes, as he realized he had them closed throughout his explained deduction. His words sunk in. He had just told a tragic event like he was answering a question in class. His face burned red. He expected John and Mary to never talk to him again. He messed up and he's going to be alone. There would be nothing to look forward to now.
"I'm-I'm sorry. That wa-that was…rude," Sherlock said to the floor. He played with his fingers behind his back. What an idiot he was…
"How did you know it was my sister?" John asked, surprisingly intrudingly.
Sherlock looked up from the floor, confused. "I-well, I didn't. That…was a guess. I'm still not very good at this sort of thing. Still learning. I saw your sister at the park, assumed she was your sister. So, that was the first face I thought of."
John nodded his head understandably. Sherlock was shocked that John wasn't angry or upset. This boy wasn't like anyone Sherlock had ever met before.
"John," Mary said, "does Harriet do this often?" John shook his head.
"We got in a heated argument, as already figured out. I didn't like her…well…drinking. She had started getting obsessed with it, and smarter on how to get keep in secret."
"I'm sorry John," Sherlock said. He had trouble getting those words out of his mouth.
John laughed. "You machine."
Sherlock didn't know whether to laugh or to hug him. Or both.
Sherlock ran into Mycroft today. Middleschoolers and seniors have different schedules, and the only time they could only pass each other was when the seniors have recess and the middleschoolers have class, because they both pass through the hallways.
Mycroft used to send hand signals to Sherlock, complaining about teachers who got their facts wrong and fellow students who feel asleep during class. Sherlock would send hand signals back, usually about the same things. They would chuckle at one another's signals, then go their own ways, ignoring the confused bystanders.
As he expected, Mycroft passed by Sherlock without a word. He had his face buried into a textbook, using his knowledge of foot coordination with minimum focus.
Though Mycroft didn't technically see Sherlock, Sherlock figured he would have probably ignored him anyways. He knew he wasn't supposed to care, but that realization stabbed him in his chest.
After a very long discussion, Mr. Holmes had convinced his wife to try and break the tension between their sons. She had stopped eating in the living room, and even started making eye contact when she served them dinner and said a greeting every time they came home. It wasn't much, but it was improvement.
However, Sherlock and Mycroft failed to reason and return the favour to their mother.
"Eat up, boys," Mrs. Holmes said as she placed a plate of scrambled eggs and baked beans in front of Sherlock. Mr. Holmes and Mycroft had already started digging in.
"This is splendid, darling," Mr. Holmes said, a smile stained with sauce on his face. Mrs. Holmes put her hand on his shoulder affectionately. Mycroft nodded in agreement.
Mycroft was giving in on neglecting his mother's tries on making up with them, however Sherlock wasn't going to let that happen to him.
It was a weekend, which meant a whole day in the house, a day without seeing John or Mary. Sherlock grew to hate weekends. However, plenty of time to draw.
After finishing his meal, Sherlock scooted his chair back, stood up, and headed towards his bedroom. After shutting the door, he retrieved his notepad from underneath his desk (he had spent one afternoon installing a compartment on top of his desk, which was normally hidden by his desk lamp, which opens by sticking a pen, pushing the compartment open), and grabbed a pencil, ready to draw.
He first sketched the outline of his face, then started defining the jaw. Then the hair, doing every detail of his strands, then his nose. The cute nose. The eyes, the lashes, the mout-
"Sherlock?" Mrs. Holmes swung the door open. Sherlock was so surprised, he threw his pencil into the air and the notepad on his bed. He immediately regretted it, because Mrs. Holmes' attention had turned to the notepad. The first thing she saw was a portrait of a stranger boy. The room was silenced.
"Sherlock. Let me see that," Mrs. Holmes' face had turned so stern and serious, she might have looked like a stone statue. Sherlock's heart stopped beating, so he turned to his mind, the much more useful organ. His first thought was to destroy the picture.
He grabbed the page and started ripping it, but Mrs. Holmes had already took grab of it. The force from both sides had the page rip in two. The noise was unbearable. They stood there for a split second, before Mrs. Holmes snatched the other piece from Sherlock's grasp. She looked at both of the papers side by side, and it was bluntly obvious what the picture was.
"Who is this?" Mrs. Holmes said, a nervous waver in her voice. Sherlock didn't say anything at first. He could feel sweat running down his forehead and on his palms.
"Nobody," Sherlock lied, but he was so panicked, he did a bad job at it. Mycroft could lie better than he could. Mycroft could do anything better than he could.
"Don't lie to my face. I've had quite enough of you. Now, who is this?" The anxiety of her voice had disappeared, replaced with anger.
"I already said. Nobody," Sherlock said again, a jolt of bravery rushing over him. He wasn't sure what made it happen, perhaps the brain reacts to the same attitude of it's surroundings. He makes a mental note to go into philosophy a bit more.
"I will not ask again. Who are you drawing?"
"NOBOD-" He was interrupted with a slap across his face. His mother had never hit him before, and she had never shown the symptoms of an abusive parent. But she did indeed slap her son.
A long silence hung between the mother and son. It stayed for several, painful moments.
"I'm sorry, Sher," his mother said weakly. Sherlock held back tears. Human, emotional, bursting tears.
Mrs. Holmes had started wanting to talk to Sherlock, but he used every opportunity to avoid her. He knew what she wanted to talk about. It was a topic no kid wanted to talk about to their mother.
His sexuality.
He was NOT gay. He was straight. He didn't have anything against gays. He was actually fascinated by them. One time, when he was bored, he studied why people are born with sexualities and how it happens.
Sherlock figured that drawing portraits of a boy would perhaps question his sexuality. But everybody had a boy (or girl) crush, even if it wasn't their cup of tea.
The more and more Sherlock thought about it, the more he realized. Maybe he was gay. He liked John's structure of face, his voice, how he laughs, how he doesn't think Sherlock is a freak. Everything about him, Sherlock liked. But John wasn't…he had Mary. It was a ridiculous thought.
His life was so busy, he had almost forgot to enter the art contest. He did the following day of school. Now he had to think of what to draw.
What did he want to draw? What did he love? Maybe he should draw his family. It might break the fuse between them. But, let's face it. Everybody was going to draw their family. Redbeard, he could draw Redbeard. But everybody would draw pets.
He wanted to be original. What did people love, but would never tell about? It was obvious. A crush. Sherlock heard about this new girl at school. Janine, he thought her name was.