Okay we're doing this again. I've been trying to write this damn fic for literally months now and can't get past the first bit. So I'm going to post what I have now, iffy as it is, and hope its having been exposed to readers will force me to finish the rest. Eventually. Why I'm doing this whilst being continually annoyed that I'm still even writing fanfic is beyond me, but whatever.

Follows some time after Mycroft manages to get Sherlock out of their parents' house to live with him in London. Do take note if you're new that this is part of a long series and will probably be pretty meaningless without having read at least the central novel. Just warning anyone who didn't notice that in the summary.

Musical inspiration is Beautiful Gas Mask by The Mountain Goats.

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Knuckles scraped bloody, shoes a complete loss and his tailcoat ruined, he stood at the brink of a fatal drop and smiled.

Far below the masses bustled to and fro, leading their silly little pointless lives, completely unaware of the figure lording high above them all. Their new king, grinning like a giddy child for the recklessness of it all. Because he'd done it. He'd honestly done it. He'd climbed a bloody building. No one had stopped him. No one even knew.

Stood there on the very edge he could look down and see the pavement far, far below. Imagine the consequences should he fall - all the torn flesh and smashed bones, the pain, the near-certainty of death. And with those thoughts a bolt of adrenaline shot through his system. One which, for just that brief instant, made everything feel clear. Thoughts normally scattered to the winds began to take recognisable shapes. Things he'd been avoiding for so long now seemed so reasonable, linear, simple.

He leant as far forward as he could without falling, then jolted back before he could overbalance, laughed for the first time in months. Real, genuine laughter. Sparked by the utterly alien feeling of being... well, happy, he supposed. If this was what happiness felt like, anyway. He didn't have much to compare against. Felt fine with both himself and his place in the world, though, and that was enough. He wasn't a Freak, not up here. Up here he was absolute, the all and the one of reality. Up here the world was an inconsequential diorama of tiny ants.

Soon, though… soon he'd have to go back down.

His smile dropped a few notches, and he glanced back over his shoulder, the crumpled heap of his uniform coat discarded on the roof.

All this clarity and optimistic sense of purpose would diminish gradually with the altitude until he hit the ground. Always did. Back to the hard shell of his usual existence. Bullies and brothers and grades. Everything that didn't matter in the grand scheme of things because there were buildings that, yes, were possible to climb. And the sunset over London. Human beings like insects far below. All the misery of the world was naught but a passing daydream. Only on the cusp of death could he ever seem to remember that.

He shook his head and turned back to stare out over the city instead. Said a mental farewell to the vestige of contentment which, sure enough, began to dissipate the second he stepped back from the ledge. Had to leave, even if he never wanted to. The sun was beginning to set and he needed the light to pick the lock on the stairwell. Not quite at the level yet where he trusted himself to do it blind. And he'd exhausted all his strength climbing up, nothing left for down, so the stairs were really his only option if he didn't want to fall to his death. Which, honestly, he didn't.

No, he'd had quite enough close brushes with his own mortality to know he really did not want to kill himself. Even if the world was horrible and cruel and full of utter bastards. A low, constant grind of misery seemed better overall than that stabbing terror of nearly dying. The animal instincts thrashing about screaming no no no no whilst your brain shut down all function... ugh, never again. Not if he could help it.

Shaking his head at his own useless thoughts he turned to the business of picking the roof's door lock. A disappointingly short time later, without even a close call getting caught to break the solitude, he found himself back to his natural level. Hollow and angry once more, and now for some reason besot with a sense of directionless annoyance for the world at large. Christ, why couldn't he just have the adrenaline, the clarity and peace, whilst safe on the ground? Without having to be dangling half over a precipice? There had to be some way to replicate that contented feeling. Something he'd not thought to try yet.

Thoughts were pushed aside as he came to the door of the flat he'd been sharing with his brother since last year, not far from the office block he'd decided to scale. Back to the dull routine of life. Still… maybe he could wring some amusement out of it.

"I climbed a building today."

Mycroft looked up from the packet of papers in his hand, gaze flicking once over Sherlock's scraped knuckles and battered coat, and paused only a microsecond before turning his attention back to whatever he was reading.

"Apparently so," he remarked blandly. "You do know you're meant to be at school right now?"

Sherlock shrugged. He tossed his coat off to the side, not caring where it landed, and let himself fall backwards over the arm of Mycroft's leather sofa so he was lying draped across the cushions, staring up into the shadows of the ceiling. After a short moment of silence he turned his head to instead regard his brother. Still sitting in his armchair, reading. So much for providing amusement.

"Don't you want to know how I managed to skive off without you finding out?" Sherlock asked, voice somewhat teasing. He'd been utterly brilliant this time. Mycroft would have to acknowledge it.

But the man only lifted a brow, eyes ever scanning his document.

"You changed my contact information in the school directory. Pickpocketed cleaning staff for keys to the administrative offices and made use of an unsecured computer terminal during morning assembly. I'm sure whatever lewd joke you overwrote the data with was very clever." Mycroft's voice was a flat, disinterested monotone. Sherlock's triumphant little smirk evaporated. Fuck, how'd he-? But he'd thought… he'd been smart about it, hadn't he?

"What gave it away?" Sherlock refused to acknowledge the undertone of disappointment in his voice.

"Mostly the fact that you haven't yet smugly corrected me," Mycroft replied drolly. He finally deigned to look up from his document and fixed Sherlock with an unimpressed look.

Abruptly Sherlock frowned, a flash of insulted anger shooting through him. "That's not fair!" he snapped. "You can't just guess."

"A correct guess is no less the truth than a deduced fact." Finally Mycroft exhaled a breath that wasn't quite a sigh, and glanced over to Sherlock's abandoned tailcoat in the middle of the entryway. An expression that might have been exasperation crossed his face before it smoothed away once more to leave his countenance its usual bland mask. "You couldn't have at least left the coat at school? It's rather tiresome to replace."

"It's rather tiresome to wear," Sherlock retorted petulantly. Mycroft half-rolled his eyes.

"As if you'd even know. You've been written up for improper dress eight times this month."

Sherlock allowed a bit of a smile for that, admittedly somewhat proud of himself. Hah - finally Mycroft verbally acknowledged something as annoying. Have to remember to ditch the coat more often, now. Maybe he could actually manage to piss the man off.

That would have to be a long-con sort of game, though. Not interesting at the moment. Sherlock shifted his head back to stare at the ceiling for a few seconds more. Didn't really have a good comeback for Myc's jab. And anyway he was a bit sick of snide sniping - that was the only sort of conversation they ever seemed to have these days. Getting repetitive. Perhaps they could do something else.

"Want to play a board game?"

He ignored the note of pathetic hopefulness in his own voice. Like he even cared, really... Mycroft could do whatever. It was just that a game might be sort of fun, that was all. And maybe Mycroft was bored as well. Wouldn't be a big deal if he refused.

But then, "Has it completely escaped your notice that I'm occupied?" Mycroft's tone had dropped to one of uncharacteristic frustration. He flicked his gaze up towards his little brother and fixed him with a flat, irritated look. "Go read a book. Or maybe do your coursework, for a change. I'm sure your professors would have a collective heart attack if you were to actually complete an assignment on time for once."

Sherlock had been about to speak again – suggest which game would be best, actually – but immediately snapped his mouth shut. Mycroft went back to his report without so much as a second glance.

A minute or so of silence passed. Finally Sherlock hefted himself up on his arms, wincing for the soreness of abused muscles, and glanced over at his brother. No need to mask the hurt expression, pretend to be haughty or sarcastic or angry. Mycroft wasn't looking.

With a quiet sigh Sherlock got up off the sofa and headed for his bedroom.

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It was curious, he supposed, that the more he found himself being ignored the unhappier he got.

Should have been the opposite, shouldn't it? He was finally free to do whatever he liked. Even smoking, the transgression that had sparked this whole debacle in the first place, never elicited more than a few mocking words about his having an appalling lack of willpower. And under a barrage of sarcastic derision from his brother Sherlock had, indeed, managed to kick the habit. Mostly. Which was good, he supposed. But now he had nothing to dampen the gnawing sense of boredom and isolation that continued to writhe unabated in his chest.

Naively he'd thought… or hoped, maybe, that things would change living in London. He wouldn't be as crushingly lonely, wouldn't need nicotine to make the emptiness bearable. He'd have his big brother instead, wouldn't he? Someone to talk to, play games with, trade snide jokes.

But of course things hadn't really worked out that way. Mycroft was busy. Sherlock was annoying. They rarely had any conversation that didn't end in Sherlock being summarily dismissed from the room.

Which was fine. Obviously it was. Sherlock understood that his brother had a demanding position, and that he himself was an irritating sixteen year old. Nobody could reasonably expect a career-oriented twenty-something to waste time entertaining the stupid whims of a teenager. And besides which Sherlock had a lifetime of practise with solitude, didn't he? Hardly needed Mycroft to keep himself occupied.

But he'd just thought that… you know, maybe he wouldn't have to be so alone anymore.

The ceiling above his bed was speckled with tiny glowing dots in the darkness. Stars and planets – childrens' toys, just stupid decorations meant for toddlers. He'd found them in a corner shop during one of his semi-frequent bouts of wandering away from school and decided to steal them. Something a bit ironic in that, he figured. Stealing a toy. Innocence and corruption all in one.

He didn't really know why he liked the stars so much. Maybe it was the soft glow, warm and friendly despite being an odd, otherworldly shade of green. Or just that they gave him something to look at. Whatever the reason he often found himself staring at them for hours on end.

Should have been sleeping, really. It was late, he'd exhausted himself with pointless physical exertion, and he'd have to go back to school tomorrow. But... sleeping would probably mean dreaming. And dreaming hadn't been a very pleasant experience of late. With the nicotine withdrawal had come the expected period of neurological upset, which carried with it... well, nightmares, he supposed. The term sounded childish, but then he was currently staring at a festoon of little plastic glowing stars on his ceiling, so maybe that wasn't so far off the mark.

Eventually he'd fall asleep without meaning to, jolt awake two or three hours later utterly convinced he'd heard Father passing down the hall. Go through the same tired routine of berating himself out of being frightened, keeping his head buried under the blankets to block out whatever evils he still felt lurking about. It was just the autonomic nervous system, he'd remind himself. A glitch, that was all. Adrenaline cycle tripped by false signals. And just like a computer one should theoretically be able to debug their body's faulty software. Somehow.

He'd not yet found a method to do that, however, and so he was reduced to simply doing his best to avoid the problem. Never sleep.

Obviously an impossible goal, but at least he could usually manage to draw out the safe periods between wakefulness and a hellish dream-world to several days at a stretch. This practise left him feeling constantly half-dead of exhaustion, of course, but that was fine. Hardly anyone noticed. He'd managed to build such a bubble of infamy around himself at school as to be functionally invisible, so it wasn't as if his being quiet and withdrawn would arouse any suspicion from students or faculty. They didn't care.

Mycroft, though, he'd thought might catch on. Had to eventually. And at the very least he'd have a go at Sherlock for being ridiculous, right? Avoiding sleep altogether just to dodge a few bad dreams. Melodramatic nonsense.

But... Mycroft hadn't said so much as a word about it. He'd been too busy with work.

Sherlock sighed and tossed an arm over his eyes, blocking out the soft glow of the stars. It didn't matter. Really, it didn't. He was entirely capable of dealing with his own problems. Should just be thankful to Mycroft for letting him live here. Being ignored was an acceptable trade-off for finally escaping Father, wasn't it? Shouldn't bother him. Didn't bother him.

Only... it did. A lot. And he couldn't seem to make it stop.

He took a deep breath, held a moment, then let it out again.

One of these days he'd learn not to care.

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