A Study In Him (Teenlock)

Winter Break

Three days.

It had been tree days and neither had spoken a word of what had happened.

Honestly, they weren't sure what to say. What to make of it.

It was really all a blur.

In fact, neither boy had spoken much of anything to the other in three straight days. There was no explanation, they just stopped speaking.

Speechless.

Tomorrow they'd be leaving home for a three-week winter holiday. John was already packing, but Sherlock had already packed almost a week ago.

"Do you think your parents will worry about your leg?" John broke the crushing silence awkwardly.

"They know, but they're off on a business trip in Paris. It'll be just me and Mycroft. Huzzah!"

John could only dream of coming home to an empty flat. His family was not something he was ready to return to.

"I'm going to miss you...Over the break..." Sherlock murmured, the first trace of feelings toward John since three days ago.

"Uh..." John stammered, "I'll...Miss you too. But we'll still be roommates when we come back. And you have my number...I'm only a phone call away."

And with that, the cracks in the silence were glued back together. Neither spoke a word until the next day.

John hauled his luggage down the front steps again, heading toward the cab waiting for him.

"Goodbye, John," Sherlock sounded choked.

"Don't cry, Sherlock, I'll be around."

Silently, John added an "I hope." He really did hope he survived the coming three weeks.

The future doctor fitted his suitcase into the trunk of the cab and got in the back, firmly telling the address and fishing his wallet out of his bag.

The ride was quiet and dull. He listened to the static-drowned music of the radio the whole way through the city streets and along the dirt country road.

When he finally reached his family's small flat in a small town just off London, he paid the cabbie and dragged his deathly heavy bags up to the door, fishing the infamous door key out of his front pocket.

Slowly, the door creaked open. Dust flew up from the floor. Nobody did much cleaning in this house.

He dropped his suitcase by his bedroom-- the tiny closet below the staircase-- and edged up the musty stairwell. When he turned at the top, he could see into his family's small living space. On the sofa sat his mother, crying and holding her right cheek.

"H-Hi...Mum," John whispered, creeping closer, "What happened?"

"Oh, John, it's so good to see you!" She forced a smile and held out her arms for a hug, revealing the purple bruise on her face.

"Mum," he gently hugged her, "What happened?"

"Nothing, Johnny. Your father just got...Angry again, shortly before you arrived. Harry had called again. He's gone to the pub, but should be here soon."

"Does it hurt, mum? Your cheek?"

"Oh...A little, but it's okay."

"No, it's not 'okay'. I'll get you some ice."

John fished an ice pack out of the freezer and wrapped it in a towel, gently pressing it to his mum's cheek.

"Hold it there," he murmured, seething. How could his father do this?