A/N: Ha I bet you thought I was going to work on one of my many WIPs. Guess not. sorry.

Sherlock didn't feel real. He had been many things over the years, twisting himself to be what his brother needed. But if you were to ask who Sherlock Holmes was, the most he could say was that he was the brother of Mycroft and that was where he began and end.

It wasn't until John Watson that Sherlock began to formulate a picture of just who he was, having lost himself amongst the characters he played. No Sherlock had naught but a name and a brother that shared it. The name was Holmes and it wasn't until he found love that Sherlock Holmes discovered who he truly was.

But then love has a funny way of doing such things.

XXXX

Sherlock had always had a sort of restless feeling, a sort of pit in his stomach. He attributed it to moving around so much as kids, never having what normal people called a home. As he grew older, that feeling didn't dissipate, if anything it grew just as himself as if it were sewed into his genetic make-up. As if it was always meant to be there.

So he learned to live with it, the way people learned to live with moles or scars, it was simply a part of him and he'd grown accustomed to it. He didn't think anything could fill that pit but for a while he tried. He tried sex and cocaine but nothing made the pit lessen, if anything it made it grow wider.

One day Sherlock was afraid that pit was going to swallow him up, until he was nothing but a black hole that people could stare into and see the vast emptiness that was his soul. If Mycroft knew of Sherlock's unhappiness, he never spoke. Instead he busied himself with planning his cons and proving to the world just how clever he was. Sherlock was almost envious of the way Mycroft seemed to live. He didn't get trapped in his mind the way Sherlock did and managed to use his superior intellect to his advantage.

XXXX

It's a terrible lot in life, to not know what you want. But if you don't know who you are, how can you know what you want? This was the conundrum that haunted Sherlock Holmes's life. He knew he wanted out, out of the cons and away from his brother's never wavering eye. He wanted something that was just his, not theirs, but his. So before they even began their latest con, he knew it was the end.

Mycroft's con went down without a hitch. The library was burning, Sherlock had three fake slugs in his stomach and the mark was off running for his life. Sherlock spat the awful tasting fake blood onto the floor just as Anthea descended the staircase with her blow torch in one hand and the priceless painting, The Reichenbach Falls, that would get them a fortune on the black market in the other.

"My dear, if you burn so much as a dot of that painting, I will have to kill you." Mycroft threatened, switching his umbrella to his left hand so he could offer his right to help Sherlock up. After he had, grunting a little at the effort, he turned back to Anthea. She had placed the painting against the wall and was using the blow torch to light a cigarette.

"I think that went rather well." Mycroft never missed an opportunity to blow his own horn.

"Easy for you to say." Sherlock said bitterly, taking his own cigarettes out of his pocket and lighting it on one of the burning books behind him. "You're not the one with this awful metallic taste his mouth."

"A burden I shall lessen with one third of five million quid." Mycroft smiled and walked over to Anthea, slipping his arm around her waist and briefly kissing her temple. She smiled up at him and together they walked out of the burning building with Mycroft swinging his umbrella as they went.

Sherlock fixed his coat, knowing the shirt underneath was a write off and grabbed the painting before following them. Why was he always the one stuck doing the heavy lifting?

XXXX

Dimmock, one of the members of the crew they'd used for the con was throwing them a wrap party. They entered to a standing ovation as everyone clapped and cheered, knowing they were going to end their lives a little bit richer for having worked with the Holmes boys. Mycroft and Anthea went off to drink, while Sherlock endured everyone's company for as long as he could stand before taking his leave.

"So how long will it take you to sell the painting?" Dimmock asked Mycroft, already three whiskeys in.

"I've already got a buyer set up in the Italy." Mycroft divulged, carefully shuffling a deck of cards in his hands.

"And you really think you'll get five mil for it?"

"If not more."

"Brilliant."

"It was rather." Mycroft grinned as Anthea slipped onto his lap. He placed his arm over her shoulder and she brought her hand up to entwine their fingers.

"I want to dance." Anthea whispered against Mycroft's ear. He nodded and keeping their fingers laced, he allowed himself to be lead to the dance floor.

"Where's Sherlock gotten off to?" Mycroft asked, watching as his sultry companion moved her hips to the music.

She lifted her finger to the side of her nose and Mycroft frowned.

XXXX

Sherlock used a small razor to make four perfectly even lines. He stared at the white powder and slumped down in his chair. He put his head back and stared at the ceiling. It was crumbling with a hole where he could see the stars. They'd never really interested him but for some reason he couldn't look away. They were beautiful but far away, untouchable. Sometimes he felt like a star, just a bit of light in the sky with no real purpose except looking nice.

"I wondered where you'd gone off to." Irene appeared in the doorway, her dress sparkling in the low light. Another star, one that shone brightly. She was beautiful, dangerous and had been invaluable to Mycroft's plan. While Anthea usually played the role of seductress when it was needed, the current job had needed an expert. No one could say Irene wasn't the best. The problem was she wasn't real, she never stopped playing a part. It was almost like looking into a mirror.

"Hello Irene." Sherlock replied, bored and listless. He wanted to get away, escape. Not just from the dingy building where a sad attempt at a party was going on. How did one get a life without stealing it?

"You left the party so soon and I was hoping for that dance you promised me." Sherlock knew exactly what kind of dancing she had in mind. Irene walked around the table and plucked the rolled up dollar bill from Sherlock's hand. She leaned over and without preamble, snorted one of the lines. She handed the bill back to Sherlock and looked at him expectantly.

"You can have it." Sherlock pushed his chair back and stood, closing his suit jacket over his stained shirt. "Sorry about the dance." He called over his shoulder before he left.

On his way out he passed Mycroft, who wordlessly followed him. Sherlock walked along the streets, not paying attention to where he was going. Eventually he had to stop walking so he went into some unknown park and sat down on a bench. Mycroft immediately sat down next to him and opened his umbrella against the early morning drizzle.

Mycroft crossed his legs and put his elbows on the back of the bench, leaning nonchalantly as if he didn't have a care in the world. Sherlock had always envied that, the ease with which Mycroft lived their lives. Sherlock had always felt like a puppet and Mycroft pulled his strings, guiding the show. There were times where it felt like Mycroft pulled the strings of every person on Earth, not just Sherlock's.

"I'm leaving." Sherlock announced as he lit himself a cigarette.

"Don't be ridiculous." Mycroft scoffed, making Sherlock feel like he was seven again.

"I'm serious Mycroft. I'm sick of being a puppet, a star, I want to feel like a person again."

Mycroft sighed and smoothed out the leg of his trousers. "Are you high?"

"No I'm not high." Sherlock clenched his jaw. "I want someone to touch me, actually touch me. Not a character I'm playing but me. I want to meet someone who is real, someone you haven't gotten your hands on and molded so they've stopped looking fake. I just want to get away from you."

"You'll miss it. You'll get bored and come back, like you always do. Why don't we save ourselves the trouble, hmm?"

Sherlock got to his feet and had never wanted to punch his brother so much in his life. How do you punch the person who controls your arm anyway? He satisfied himself with stamping out his cigarette. "I'm going away. I need to find something."

"Such as?"

"I don't know!" Sherlock shouted in frustration. "I just know that if I stay here and live this life, the one you want me to, I'll go insane."

"Don't be melodramatic."

"If I have to be in your company for one more second I will blow my brains out."

"Well that certainly wasn't melodramatic."

"I'm serious. I'm going away and I don't want you to come looking for me. If I see you or Anthea, I'll simply run again. I'll keep on until you finally stop. If there's one thing we both know, it's that I can out run you."

Mycroft rolled his eyes at the insult to his weight. "Very well. If you want to run away, I won't stop you. But what kind of life is that, Sherlock?"

"It's one without you and right now, that's the only thing that matters to me."

Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets and started to walk away. Every step away from that park bench - and the man sitting on it as if he owned it – made it easier to breathe.

"Till next time, Sherlock." Mycroft called out, as if his voice were carried on the wind. Sherlock shook his head and kept walking, For some reason, no matter how much distance he put between himself and his brother, it never felt like enough.

XXXX

Sherlock spent months running from place to place, never staying still too long, unsure if anyone was even chasing him or not. But he didn't like staying in one place for too long in case Mycroft did ever catch up with him. Apparently he didn't run long enough or far enough. Sitting in an outdoor café in Paris, enjoying coffee and a croissant, he heard the familiar tapping of an umbrella against the pavement. He didn't even have to turn around to know who it was.

"Paris, Sherlock, really?" Mycroft sat in the seat opposite him and checked his pocket watch. "Classic mistake. People always think it's easy to get lost in a big city. But you know what big cities have? Cameras. If you want to hide, go to some corner of the world where no one keeps track of the people that live there."

"I'll save you the trouble of asking. The answer is no, Mycroft." Sherlock calmly sipped his coffee, not really that bothered that his older brother had found him. He'd always assumed he would. No, Sherlock Holmes was calm because no matter what, he was not going to get sucked into Mycroft's game again.

"I haven't mentioned the take yet."

"Don't bother."

"2.5 Million pounds."

"No Mycroft."

"One last con and then I leave you alone."

"No."

"Sherlock, don't be childish." Mycroft chastised. "Despite what you think, I want to see you happy and settled. With this money you can be."

"Mycroft, I already have more money than I know what to do with."

"One last con. The moment it's over I won't come looking for you, I won't contact you, I won't bother you again. That is my bargain, you do this last job with me and you're out of the game for good."

Mycroft held out his hand for Sherlock to shake. For his part, Sherlock sat back in his chair and contemplated the offer, running his fingers along his lips. It was tempting but then Mycroft knew how to lure someone in. You didn't get to be the best con man in the world without knowing how to bait someone and give them exactly what they want.

But if he didn't, Mycroft would simply keep chasing him. Allowing himself back into Mycroft's clutches might have been the only way out of them for good. So somewhat reluctantly, Sherlock moved his hand across the table and took his brother's, signing his soul away to the devil.

"You know, my greatest curse was getting stuck with you for a brother." Sherlock said after they'd shook hands.

"As is mine." Mycroft said with a grin.

Sherlock didn't have it in him to argue.

"So who's the mark?"