It feels so good to deny. To deny what they hold so dear. What they yearn to control, to stifle. He's no masochist, he'd just rather die screaming while conformity implodes in itself before his obstinacy, he swears, a mocking titter duly repressed behind his cigarette and sharp angles. They want to control him, his speed, his brilliance, his body, his experience, all of him. Just beyond their boredom-induced, razor-filed fingertips, manicured to pitiful perfection. He's no stranger to the hungry glint in their sagging eyes. Something about his appearance must scream "White-collar me!" given the way their eyes brighten the second he enters the room.

They just wait. Waiting to dig into his dark suit, it must reek of potential, to keep him there. Work him till they see bone, then turn a blind eye and keep working him anyway, maybe work him harder—put the guy out of his misery for god's sake. Dull-eyed and young. Such a shame, they would say when he'd spiral into depression—debt circling him like vultures, marriage failed, and shoulder-biters bitter, he was such a hard worker.

But he's insane, you see? He's a machine, constantly working. Working till he sees red, till his head aches, till he likes it. For him and him only, he can't stop if he wants to. Perhaps that's why he refuses to share, handing over something so valuable and seemingly limitless to greedy hands—they could wring him dry, maybe. If they squeezed him at just the right angle, holding him there with a stiff, light shake before he could throw in the towel. He knows how they wish to commandeer his gears, trying rearrange technology so advanced it would make their little permed and bald heads spin right off. It's comical and almost makes him want to try. There's another catch though, no one can. Statistic and probability concepts dictate they never will. Not even him.

Regardless of their fantasies, it's entertaining to taunt them and see their sweet-sixty faces flush rosy red at his, offensive and immoral at times, flee. And why? Ah, right. They wish to condemn him to the life they'd sold their life to. It's only fair he supposed, attempting to create a brief persona weaved with their coding and psychology.

It imploded intermediately. Damn it. Yes, only fair, they'd agree, skin a crinkly paper and limbs weak as they reverently leafed through 72's yearbook, remembering the fucking line at the office to publish their prides, joys, and hellions on an unpleasantly stuffy summers day. Crushing regret for missing a shot at something more underneath their overworked, bony thumbs like the pest it is. And inevitably was.

He wants to soar, scoffing at the very prospect all the while. Leap off Lady Liberty, crash headfirst into the Thames, feel the wind bite his nose and flick his hair, and do it all again. Until he can't take the fall anymore. Not as if he expects to get that far. Fully expecting to leave an unrecognizable, spongy cadaver floating below London's Tower Bridge at 33. Mycroft would choke to death during the reading of his will, poor Mycroft had always been a stress-eater—he'd put a great deal of thought into it after all, would be a shame if they interrupted it mid-clever, Putin and smuggled Sugar Daddy candy and Donald Trump reference. America deserved a proper farewell too.

Indulgent self-destruction. Absurdism. Insanity. What a waste. And that's all it is. Living and being alive appear to be two different things in the eyes of realist and a sociopath. Who knew? He does—surprise, surprise- and he intends to make the most of his next seventeen years. And not by giving in to getting takeout or fucking a perfect stranger whenever he feels particularly aware of how dead he is inside. Nor everyday. Twats.

Escaping the norm is merely a small victory, rather effortless on his part—practically handed to him on a silver platter, and when he refused said platter, it was slammed in his face. Hairline maxilla fractures were a dream-a blurry peer through swollen eyelids. It will never be enough, he doesn't what it is but he wants to. To try. Is it worth it? If so then why? Probably isn't but why ever not? So he'll claw his way up, painful, smooth and slow at times. Or rushed, aimlessly excited and vaguely desperate at others. He'll make a tower. He'll build off of their Huggies stepping stool and make Empire State building architects cry at its sheer, palpable being.

Just for kicks. Make them ache for it. A small part of him will revel in being better (more so than usual he rationalizes), anything less would be unacceptable. He doesn't know why that is and he knows why quite well.

Yet here he is, stuck in Uni, promptly going to waste away for four years and quite possibly contract stupidity—the disease is relatively rare in his blood line but he's taking no chances- all because he's not capable of making realistic decisions. So here he lies, in his dorm room shower and counting Aspergillus mold spots (Aspergillius, causation of many a sever lung infection, he muses bitterly, inhaling another lungful of soothing poison and tilting his nose to the ceiling) on the tiny, yellowing ceiling—no longer the pristine white the university prided its students for being akin to in colour—and determining how long it'll have to fester until maintenance gives a shit and cleans it after his pretty-boy rugby roommate alerts them of the health hazard.

Faux-concern or adamant, self-inflicted conditioning into the good little doctor he's going to be, must be hard. John would probably attempt to condescend him for their age difference (it wasn't his fault he ranked at AP, not completely), under the guise of him still being his elder—maybe out of jealously-making the reality of his situation all that much worse. Telling from the classes listed for his roommate's in the Birkbeck's online records, John was above average, but painfully average all the same. Blond, bright-eyed and cookie-eating, dream-shitting grin. He wondered for a moment, as his eyes phantom-stung at the memory of the pearly whites glaring back at him. Would John's smile remain vivid when he received his diploma onstage, in spite of a bullet to the leg or knife to the shoulder. How ecstatic would he be? Ecstatic enough to be numb, that happened right? Going into shock? Like fainting girlfriends at proposals.

A true minor-mediocre prodigy if he ever knew one, a boy you could pin your hopes on no doubt. No longer a Captain America-idolizing thumb-sucker missing their two front teeth, but now an appallingly righteous, modern version with less blue-spandex. He sniffed at the thought, smelling sulfur, nicotine and artificial lemon cleaner and crossed his legs. He's still going to get punched in the face. No one can resist. Can't wait, maybe he'll get his own dorm. He could piss any possible and upcoming roommates off and get beaten until the headmaster gives up and leaves him be. He'd take the basement. Or he could pretend they're dead and keep his strangely attractive face intact. Plus, the bathroom and closet weren't a bad touch…

Whatever, point being Birkbeck really needed a better firewall. Preferably one they hadn't just downloaded and ceased customizing to their system out of sloth. Maybe they were just modest. He wouldn't blame them for assuming no one wanted to hack their steadily thickening cesspool of mediocre maggots. Still, to care was just principle. And just might keep out amateurs. Might. McAfee was shit at times, honestly. He had his secrets, all right? Myc, the dear, refused to warp his records to his liking and he's not even one to boast, he'd even said please. He never says please.

Sherlock shifts his crossed arms cradling his head—stained, greying, penny-sized, square tiles scraping his elbows, the skin indented, red and raw from the elongated pressure, and hisses out wasted carbon dioxide mingled with smoke from between his teeth, the soft sound ringing shrill like a stifled train engine to his ears and his ears only.

Neat.

The first time he meets John, he's officially sure that his roommate has either dropped out last minute, been delayed by a family issue or something or other, or croaked. He happy dances, and almost considers using the other half of the room now, suddenly having someone burst in on his methodic madness would be embarrassing. So Sherlock has taken the liberty of keeping John's side pure of his organized chaos.

Having second thoughts though… it would take a while to assign another student to his room, courtesy of Mycroft's controlling nature and need to snoop…plus, Sherlock needed somewhere to put his paraphernalia on heterogeneous mixtures. Anderson was being astoundingly obnoxious as of recent and he had a little plan for his Twix bar next lunch period.

So you can imagine his surprise when he's tapped on the shoulder, after class hours no less, and the world having previously fallen on deaf ears from the earplugs he'd dug into his canals. The Hearse song's intro was beginning to leak through.

Haha, 'leak'.

Sherlock plucks a fuchsia pink earplug from his ear—tolerating the bright color had been a sacrifice on his part, Philip was the most resilient brand on the market right now-, the other remaining in, and continues staring down at his dorm-work, reluctant form still seated on the hardwood floor, the papery mess spread around him enough to make any tree-lover cry. How had John managed to reach his shoulder without rustling a paper? Moreover, John isn't worth both plugs being removed at the moment. Or ever. Sherlock was just going to pretend he was dead for the rest of his stay. Earplugs would assist this endeavor tremendously.

Sherlock hums in question—might as well get introductions over with-, still scrawling up tedious trig. Yes ABC is a right angle at A, yes ABD and ABC apply to Pythagora's theorem, yes he's Birkbeck's mathematical whore for the next four years. What does he get? X equating AC and AD and a triangle so aesthetically displeasing it makes his skin crawl.

"Uh, hi." John begins, sounding put off by his immediate disregard. And stay off, would you? "My name's John."

"I know." Sherlock replies, the instinctual urge to spill John's indubitably slimy guts out to him rearing its head. He wants to smack himself for a moment, because that's the last thing he wants to do. But instead of indulging in masochism and risking seeming any stranger, he settles for scratching the back of his head with his pencil. "Uh, I mean I read your file." He assures John quickly, still staring down. "McAfee is pitiful, honestly." Sherlock adds with a mumble, feeling the tips of his ears burn.

He could also feel John's raised brow burn into the back of his University sweater, the black logo emblazoning the front a stark contrast to the soft, grey cotton. He hated bright colors, it was no shock that he nearly gagged at the neon all Birkbeck students wore (probably to avoid getting hit by fellow drunken students, bud-light in one hand, steering wheel in the other, then tragedy on your resume). The colours burned his peripherals- so it was a joy to find this one, he'd had enough of patrol questioning his residency due to his younger age. Sherlock bought five. Now, if only John would stop trying to singe holes into it with his eyes.

"You hacked the schools firewall to read my file?" John didn't sound weirded out, just vaguely surprised.

It wouldn't last. Shit. Think fast. How do you not piss off a seemingly decent person, of whom is going to share the same 5 feet of space with you for the entirety of the next four years?

"Obviously, how else?" Flawless. Just the right tint of fuck-off and he's going to die by next month, can't wait.

"Stalking?" John prompts, seeming amused at his rhetorical act. What the—

"Much too busy. Try again." –hell?

"Psychic?" John asks again, the sound of a suitcase hitting the bare mattress makes a thump. And for a moment, Sherlock considers punching John for his reply, getting himself expelled instead, that's actually not an awful idea.

In lieu of getting his scrawny form retaliated against or bloodied, he answers, "Something like that." Still not worth the expulsion. And what would a few diplomas hurt? He's not a coward, he has common sense. And provoking an athlete in his willowy three-days-awake-and-going-down state would be plain cruel.

A disbelieving scoff. "Oh, as if." Just the right amount of cynicism and sass. Sherlock suddenly wants to kiss him. Mindless of how John's suitcase zipper freezes mid-journey from its twin in alarm at his own comment. But Sherlock just removes his other earphone. Edith Piaf wasn't helping the urge.

Sherlock feels an unfamiliar smirk twitch his features. "Good to know." He murmurs and scratches out another answer with the lotto pencil he stole from Lestrade's pencil-cup.

"I don't believe I caught your name." John pipes up after a while. Having finished unpacking, all set and ready to suffer the next 1,460 days and get maudlin and pissed at how the miniature family-portraits on his desktop keep blurring before his teary eyes, or maybe it would be myopia, were his eyes falling out? John soon wouldn't know, aspiring doctor or not.

Sherlock clears his throat quietly and swallows, after trying to answer and making a rather squeaky, emasculating sound instead. "The name's Sherlock." He announces mockingly grand and shimmies his suddenly-air-born hands in the air at the title, feeling rather foolish at his failed attempt at slang, then snaps his hands down. Because he did not do jazz hands he was a Holmes.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance." He subsequently smoothens politely, calling back on his inner-clinical. "I look forward to our rooming this year."

It wasn't an utter lie either, and wasn't that a surprise. But not an entirely unpleasant one. Still not taking the chance. Hopefully he wouldn't see John too often due to their schedules, they could keep this mutual I-don't-hate-you vibe going. 'Ignorance is bliss' rings true in some cases. Even if Sherlock loathes the saying, he'd learn to live by it for this one thing. Mycroft had handled this situation well enough. His overbearing nature had its perks. All he had to do was play dead.

He hears John smother a small cough. "Ah, likewise?" John agrees hesitantly. Sherlock mustn't of sounded as accommodating as he first thought. "How old are you anyways?"

Sherlock blew out a breath, making his bangs float. "Do I really look that young? You haven't even seen my face." And why would John suddenly care for his specifics? Especially something so random? He hadn't even gotten a good look at Sherlock's face, nor Sherlock of him—save for his file. Ah, could he have been told of Sherlock's attitude prior to-

A nervous chuckle. "No reason—"

"The headmaster." Grain, the sod.

"How did you—"

Sherlock waves away the short-lived question like the pest it is, and inevitably will be. "Obvious, he's been an overbearing father-hen ever since his divorce to compensate for the separation of his child. Tragic, he would've done swell with the skills he possesses, swell for his infant. Don't mind him." Lestrade wouldn't need to mind John either.

Finally completing three pages of pointless preliminary tests to evaluate his Advanced Placement being a right lie or not, he flips the red, scrawl-covered binder shut with a satisfying snap, they'd later appoint him ahead of any and all students accompanying him to his lectures. No, 'Ignoring him to his lectures' fits the bill better. Sherlock turns around, uncurling his legs from their Indian position as he goes, and bends his knees up so his elbows can rest on them.

Oh, his back aches from the crouched position he'd held it in for hours. Sherlock groans and rubs at it, finally looking up at John in the real.

John smiles and it doesn't make his eyes hurt. "Hello."

Clean shaven, showered, hair sprayed down, not gelled. Good, two gays in a room didn't look too good. (Not that Sherlock looked gay or anything of the sort, absurd.) Planned on arriving today, wasn't in a rush for his stress lines were nonexistent and his posture relaxed. Pressed button-down and blue, woolen jumper washed with softener three days or so prior to his arrival, not a speck of lint. So, planned outfit and cleaned shoes, clearly looking forward to his enrollment after managing to get in. Had he not seen his report cards explicitly stating him above average? Of course he'd get in, the dumbass. John appears more mature than most, his patience speaks volumes, he even wears a belt. Smells of colon strong enough to make him want to dig his face into John's fuzzy midsection. Sodding Chanel, it always got him. Also smells of tea and bread, perhaps he'd paid his mother a farewell and had lunch, would explain his delayed arrival today. Lipstick smudge on the bottom left corner of his sweater where John had wiped a kiss off his cheek with the material implied as much. Couldn't be a girlfriend, not a picture or memoir of her in sight.

Sherlock frowns up at him in confusion. "I believe we've already done this."

John just nods, smile still in place and sits down on his quilted cot, the striped, sky-blue and indigo blanket having been knitted by hand, not methodical, prim machine. His jumper wasn't hand-knit either. Perhaps the jumper John now wore had acted as a clone of the gift his mother made for him, she could have told him she wanted him to wear it on his first day. And John, with his burly rugby hands, had managed to ruin the sentimental gift. He'd need to work on steadying them for his aspired profession. Perhaps rugby wasn't the stupidest of hobbies, a steady grip was essential. Undoubtedly helping him keep his cool when the adrenaline hit.

John shrugged and wringed his fingers, the callouses typical of his preferred sport, must've gotten the ball quite often in high-school. But they hadn't faded, practices with his friends on weekends? Did they join the same university too? "What's the harm in one more time?" Waste of time, Sherlock wants to drone, but holds his tongue. "You never told me your age though."

"5,840 days, 8 months and 19 days."

John squints at the answer, then purses his lips. Yeah, think harder. Sherlock inwardly jeers.

Then a smirk, John's eyebrows rise in pleasant surprise.

Error 402. Sherlock had just blatantly condescended him and watched in silence as he looked terribly confused. Mercilessly. And John wasn't even a tad annoyed?

John spoke a split-second later. "Your seventeenth birthday's in three days then."

Sherlock immediately felt himself brighten. Not because he'd be officially one year closer to his demise, but because John could do simple math! Some cynical part of him knew he shouldn't have been as excited by the revelation as he was. But the ability came with other admirable attributes. So, yeah. Perk.

"Correct, and might I just say how pleased I am at your calculation skills and their timeframe."

John just chuckles and toes off his loafers, "You wouldn't be the first." And lays back onto the cot, making the ancient bedframe creak beneath the pressure. Then closes his eyes, folding his arms beneath his head with a sigh.

Taking the unspoken hint, Sherlock leaves John to rest, and puts his headphones back in. Only after uncurling the flimsy rubber-coated wire from his curls. And cranks up Ludwig Van Beethoven's 5th Symphony in C Minor, for he was feeling particularly bold, and slips his arms through the hoodie that had previously been hanging off the peeling door's hinge. It must have fallen when John entered. Normally, he'd wear his beloved woolen trench-coat over one of his suits, but he held no ill-conceived notion of the surrounding area. In short, he isn't daft enough to prance around a lions den in a meat suit.

"Where're you headed?"

Sherlock blinks at the interruption, and pauses zipping up his hoodie. Still facing the door. "To see a man about a dog." Sherlock lightly shakes off his surprise and hauls his book-bag over his shoulder.

John hums in contemplation. "I could've sworn animals weren't allowed at Birkbeck."

"They are, they're even given their own dorms." You appear to be decent though. He observes but doesn't add. And closes the door behind him, muting John's quiet laughter.

Now, off to break into the library. He needed the 10th edition of Art Through The Ages, an electric pencil sharpener, and a snickers bar. Because he's not him when he's starving to death.