When at last Mycroft pulled into their short driveway all three doors opened and the boys spilled out. Victor said his goodbyes (to which he got little grunts in return) and proceeded across the street to his mother's house. Sherlock and Mycroft arranged their things and made their way into their own building, climbing up the three steps to the front door and finding it unlocked. Like most city homes theirs was a duplex, tall and narrow with a long staircase to connect everything together. It was convenient for hiding on differentiating floors, though once the whole family was contained on one level it was almost impossible to get any space. As was usual around dinner time, now that Mrs. Holmes was in the kitchen and Mr. Holmes was sitting on the sofa, ruffling around his newspaper so as to better get a look at the sports news.
"We're back." Mycroft announced rather unceremoniously, waving around his keys before hanging them on their appointed hook in the wall.
"That you are." Mr. Holmes agreed, giving his boys a quick little smile before returning to the exciting sports pages.
"Sherlock honey, what happened to your face?" Mrs. Holmes exclaimed, using her eagle eyes to spot Sherlock's discoloration even from where she stood behind the kitchen counter. Sherlock groaned, shaking his head in an attempt to get his entire family off of his back. Mycroft swiveled around on the heel of his dress shoe, obviously not having noticed Sherlock's bruises before now.
"Sherlock, what on Earth?" Mycroft exclaimed, grabbing at Sherlock's chin and steadying him while he attempted to wiggle away. The boy's dark eyes examined the wound, his face growing graver as he recognized the mark of physical violence.
"Stop that, oh come on! It's just a bruise!" Sherlock debated, finally batting away his brother's aggressive care and racing up the staircase to his room. He wasn't in the mood for smothering, not from his mother and especially not from his brother. As he ran he could hear Mycroft's deep, professional voice droning on from the first floor, cursing the name of John Watson. It was a curse he was repeating to himself as well, though as he shut and locked his bedroom door in protest to the constant pestering he couldn't help but feel responsible for his own downfall. Certainly he couldn't publicize the story, further humiliating himself, but was it really fair to be smearing the name of John in the dirt? The boy was only responding to the challenge, if not a bit more agressivley than was necessary. Sherlock gave a groan of discontent, flopping onto his blankets and smearing his face into his pillow, staring at the blank wall before him and wondering what John was doing now in his moments of victory. Certainly he was rejoicing with his teammates, perhaps throwing darts at a printed picture of Sherlock which was pinned to their locker room cork board. Who knew what John Watson did in his free time, except lift weights and evaporate brain cells? Certainly he was living the good life, driving around with his friends in their little cars, drinking beers on the banks of the river, listening to loud music and making out with girls. What else did jocks do, if not live the typical rebellious teenaged life? Certainly it was a life different than Sherlock's, the stuff of teenaged summer movies instead of a slow drone of utter stagnation. Oh whatever way John lived, it was none of Sherlock's concern. Each waking moment that boy spent just to spite Sherlock, to the point where every thought (thankfully there were few) that went through his head felt quite like a little slap to the cheek. What did it matter how John lived, so long as he was far away from where Sherlock now lay? 

 John POV: It might be an accomplishment to be able to cook Ramen noodles without needing the bag's instructions to help you along, though the more John perfected the art the more depressing it became. Without anything better to do John stood and pulled the water droplets out of his washed hair, watching as the little bowl of noodles spun around in the orange light of the microwave. He could faintly hear the deep bass of his sister's music coming from her upstairs bedroom, but besides that the house was quiet. His mother didn't cook dinner again; instead she was probably sitting in the basement, watching reruns of her favorite soap operas and staring until her eyes glazed over. It was not an uncommon state to find her in, especially now that fall was settling in. She hardly ever visited the top floors when the house was cold; she preferred the heat of the basement and the comfort of her television. But who could complain, especially when there happened to be two left over chicken flavor packets? John sat at the kitchen table with his makeshift dinner, sitting at his respective seat along the side even though the rest of the chairs were empty. It had been a long time since his family had collected at the table for a meal, now with his father's promotion and his sister's continual hostility. Harriet was beginning to go through her middle school years, those which were filled with angst and generally a large collection of edgy rock bands. She was virtually unapproachable, for John always seemed to anger her by doing his normal activities, such as breathing, or walking. But it was no bother, really. He rather enjoyed the silence. As he slurped the noodles from his fork John begin to ponder the day's events, remembering all the way back to his morning waffle and proceeding to scan from there. It hadn't been a terrible day, especially considering he had managed to pass his history test. That was the grade hanging by a thread, one which might dip him down into an unapproachable range from the schools he was considering. If he failed a history class that would be the end of his scholarships, the end of any potential to move up and out of this house once and for all. And then there was Sherlock, that poor boy. John could still feel the impact of the pointer stick in his wrist, wincing even now as he heard the sickening crack of the wood against Sherlock's temple. He was ashamed for being so violent, but as with most things he found himself completely out of control. He had to win, didn't he? He had to win by all means necessary, that or face that shame of being beat up by the school's most effeminate boy! His hand was forced, and his strength necessary! There was nothing he could do, except send that poor thing to the floor in a heap. John sighed, feeling a bit ashamed as he continued on with his noodles. Perhaps he should amend somehow tomorrow, perhaps offer a small apology. Knowing that was never going to happen, the thought at least subsided his mind and allowed him to enjoy the rest of his dinner in peace. Thinking about his past mistakes never seemed to be a good past time, for they were numerous and they made his stomach twist. What he did in his younger days always came back to haunt him, especially when he saw resentment in the eyes of his past victims. So he had some troubled days before, perhaps took his power a little bit too far. But that was then, wasn't it? Middle school proved to be a bombshell for them all; no one lived a life during those three years that they would be happy to repeat! Certainly it was no different for anyone, not even for the saintly Sherlock Holmes. John finished doing his dishes and grabbed a bag of chips from the counter, figuring he ought to play the parent now that his mother had chosen to immobilize herself. She was often known for forgetting to eat when she was holed up in the dark, and it was on the rest of the family to make sure she didn't accidently starve to death in the wake of her depression. Therefore, John knocked quietly on the door and waited for the grunt of a response. With this confirmation that she was awake, he opened the door just a crack and called down the basement stairs. 

"Hey mom, do you want some chips down there?" John asked, calling into the darkness without much hope of a response. There was silence for a moment, the only noise coming from her television which was flashing arrays of colors about through the wooden paneling.
"Leave them on the steps." came her croaking voice in response. John nodded, tossing the bag down the stairs so as to make sure she didn't have to hike too far for her meal. If there was too much exercise involved, she probably wouldn't risk it.
"Are you okay down there?" john wondered a bit quieter, knowing what the answer would be of course.
"I'm fine." She said, the same two syllable response she always used when she needed to lie. I'm fine...and yet she never seemed to be.
"Alright. Let me know if you need anything else." John muttered, shutting the door quietly and allowing his mother the privacy she was seeking. He knew that she didn't like to be bothered when she was down there, and so it was all he could do but tiptoe around, leaving her be when it didn't seem absolutely necessary to bother her. From there he proceeded upstairs, climbing the staircase until he reached the narrow hallway that branched off into each of the other rooms in the house. It wasn't a big house, though it was reasonably sized for their family. Considering the family of four often never met in groups larger than two, the space was almost ideal. Harriet stayed safe in her bedroom, his father worked hard at work, and his mother held up the fort in the basement. This left plenty of space for John to wander around and enjoy the company of himself. As he went by Harriet's door he knocked as loudly as he could, the unspoken signal for her to turn her music down. Even though headphones had been invented much earlier, Harriet still didn't seem to discover them. Instead she enjoyed playing her music at an earsplitting volume, having set up a speaker set to ensure that the bass would shake the pictures off of the hallway walls. Responding to the knocks Harriet took it among herself to turn the music down just a little bit, perhaps a half a turn on those large volume dials. Well, beggars can't be choosers. John escaped into his own bedroom, unfortunately the one which shared a wall with his sister's. He had pushed his bed up towards the opposite wall, though every time her music hit a deep note the metals hung on his opposite wall would clang and clank together, causing a very annoying accompaniment. Approaching his dresser, he squatted down to observe how his hamster might be doing in the midst of this usual chaos. The poor thing had been a gift from his father, two birthdays ago, as the man still couldn't determine what John was into these days. In Mr. Watson's eyes his children hadn't aged since elementary school, for that might have been the last time he had a full conversation with either of them.
"Hey there Jelly Bean." John muttered, poking at the bars of the cage and watching as the little ball of fluff began to emerge from the paper bedding. He loved to nestle within the softness, perhaps to block out the noise which was assaulting him from all angles. Thankfully he was receptive to John's voice, now having associated it with the coming of treats. As promised, as soon as John began to wiggle the bag of little mango bites the little hamster emerged, waddling over to the bars and standing up on his back legs excitedly.
"There you are." John said with a smile, poking in a couple of treats through the bars so that his little teeth could grab hold. For a while the little hamster chewed, and John fed him two more treats before he figured that was enough. Jelly Bean was growing a bit larger than was ideal, for he could hardly fit in his little house without struggling under the small archway. The next part of John's evening activities was thirty pushups, a routine he had been in since he first joined football in middle school. Of course, his pushups have gotten a bit better since then, and sometimes he put objects on his back to make them a bit more challenging, though for tonight he was worn out from practice and wasn't feeling up to the challenge. He dropped to the floor, pressing his chin down to the carpet thirty times, and got back to his feet in satisfaction. He knew it was a good night when he was hardly out of breath, and tonight all it took was a little sigh before he could settle in his bed with his laptop, ready to start on the long, tiresome process of homework. Sticking earbuds into his ears, John picked one of the more aggressive rain sounds playlists that he had saved on his Spotify account, some of the only tracks that would block out his sister's attempt to deafen him. Sometimes he had to laugh about his life, other times he tried not to think about it. He seemed to change throughout the day, leaving this house and morphing into a boy he could hardly recognize anymore. He was outgoing, popular, never alone during those times spent in school! But at home, well he might be surprised if each member of his family still remembered his name. The great John Watson, degraded to such a state every night. With only a hamster to confide in, without even silence to dwell in. 

It was the talk of the town the next day, when Sherlock returned to school with half of his face covered in an almost green bruise, so discolored that he may just have swabbed a discarded color palate onto the side of his face for attention. The first glimpse John caught of the blemish was during their English class, in which Sherlock had been seated directly across from him in the strange arrangement of desks. It was set up almost like a debate hall, with an aisle in the middle for the teacher to stroll back and forth, reading from her large volumes of Shakespeare. On the first day of class, their teacher allowed the students to choose their seats, and as such the room divided into a very accurate depiction of the school as a whole. On one side sat John, with all of his football friends and their accompanying girls. On the other side sat Sherlock Holmes, with Jeanette Hawkins at his side, scattered about with the rest of the theater kids and nerds of varying degrees. It was almost like a face off, with their eyes meeting each time either boy decided to spare the other side a passing glance. It was a class that John simply couldn't stay awake in, no matter how many cups of coffee he tried to drink beforehand. Being that it was the first class of the day, her droning voice never paired well with his sleepy brain. All the same, John had managed to get about a C average on all of his assignments, and so the class was not going to be too detrimental on any permanent records. Though today he was able to stay awake, simply because his heart could hardly handle what the other side of the room had to offer him. Sherlock was sprightly today, as he always was when their professor read some of Shakespeare's more romantic works. His head was held high, his posture relaxed, and his cheek turning to let his eyes follow the woman as she strolled back and forth with book in hand. With this rotation, John was given an almost perfect view of the mark he had left upon the boy's face. It seemed as though every time he focused it got worse, more colors erupting from under the skin, the surface area spreading. There it was, smack in the middle of Sherlock's temple, half hidden under his dark curls though terribly visible around the eye and into his upper cheek. It was a terrible mark, one that would further remind John and all of his friends of the seemingly epic duel which had taken place the night before. Nevertheless, it made his stomach turn in shame. John sunk down into his chair, trying to stare at anything but the evidence of past violence, trying to read the words which had been carved out into the wooden desk in which he sat. the class trailed along endlessly, with his side of the room growing increasingly restless. Mike Stamford had begun throwing small paper balls at the other side of the room, sailing in some cases right over their teacher's head in an attempt to hit Jeanette in her curly brown hair. One of the kids on the other side had propped open a book and was obviously watching some sort of anime, for whenever the teacher paused there could was the faintest sound of Japanese from somewhere in the corner. It was a mess, the classroom having erupted into chaos in the midst of A Midsummer Night's Dream, and before long it seemed as though the only one truly paying attention was Sherlock. Oh that model student, so pathetically invested in what the teacher had to say! It was almost annoying how legitimately dedicated he was to school work. John was so properly zoned out by the end of the class that he hardly heard the bell ring, his mind having wandered off towards some of the emails he had to respond to. His college recruiting process was well underway, and even though the schools were showing some obvious interest he knew that he still had to be mindful and responsible. Couldn't let his character slip, not when there may very well be a full ride scholarship hidden in the mess of paperwork. As the bell rang everyone got to their feet, the back half of the class nearly gone before John had even shoved his notebook into his backpack. He wanted to linger, as this was going to be one of the last moments he may get to offer his apology to Sherlock. He knew it would have to be quick, and surely it would be taken the wrong way, though his guilt would never settle if he knew that Sherlock was going to be going around all day, cursing his name.
"John, John!" Mike exclaimed, jumping around the desks in an attempt to get John's attention.
"Ya?" he muttered in response, shouldering his backpack and noticing out of the corner of his eye Sherlock's retreating back. Oh, curse his hesitation! There went his opportunity, walking slowly out of the door and following along in Jeanette's wake.
"Imagine if Mrs. Turner had a lisp or something, so that every time she said Puck it sounded like..."
"I don't like where this is going." John protested abruptly, shuffling out of the classroom and bidding old Mrs. Turner a good day. Mike followed along happily, just bursting with that excess energy. John sulked down the hallway, carrying his backpack rather heavily upon his shoulders as he watched the top of Sherlock's head above the rest of the crowd, shuffling much farther up the wave of aggressive packs. It would be a suicide mission to try to get his attention, and then what would happen if he succeeded? Surely along with Sherlock's attention he would receive the eyes of the entire hallway, until his apology had to be made into a school wide assembly. No, he couldn't stand that sort of humiliation. God forbid the whole school find out that he had a conscience.