There was never much to see outside of Sherlock's window. There was even less now that the people across the street had moved. Sherlock sat at his desk and stared listlessly out the window, subconsciously rubbing the bruise on his cheek. Mycroft knocked lightly on the door. He could tell it was him because he was the only one who knocked.
"What?" mumbled Sherlock. Mycroft slowly opened the door and crept inside. The look on his face was solemn.
"Sherlock, I'm sorry." Mycroft whispered.
"I don't care. Go away."
"I know you expected me-"
"I don't expect anything from you, Mycroft. Leave." Mycroft opened his mouth to peak, but instead crept back out of the door. John and Sherlock looked at each other.
"Get the door, John," John huffed and walked to the door. He jumped up on his hind legs and clicked the lock shut with his nose. It had taken Sherlock months to train him to do that. By the time the door was locked, Sherlock had already made his way out the window and was halfway across the street.

The house across the street was far smaller than the Holmes manor. It was a two storey house made of brick with a peeling, green, wooden door. The thick ivy on the wall allowed Sherlock access to the chipped shingle roof, and from there he climbed down to the windowsill of the woman who used to change with her window wide open. The window was stupidly left unlocked and Sherlock pushed his way inside.
The room was fairly small and bare, except for a desk that seemed to be fixed to the wall. There was a slither of sunlight running from the top of the desk down to the bottom drawer. He looked through the drawers, finding that they were full of junk that the previous owners had probably forgotten to clean out. There was a small shoe box full of seemingly unused scientific equipment, such as spare slides and test tubes, and various other objects. A pocket watch, a pair of glasses with cracked lenses and a water bottle. Sherlock unscrewed the top and sniffed at the water. It was extremely stagnant. At least four or five years old. It's been here for longer than the past owners have, Sherlock thought, perhaps this desk wasn't even used. They probably didn't know this stuff was here. Sherlock sighed at the box and left it on the windowsill, continuing to search for the object he had seen the other day.
Across the hall was another room. It was slightly larger than the other one and had some mould growing in the closet. He could smell it. The curtains on the window were drawn, and the slither of sunlight on the drawers was a result of the window. There was only a little sunlight, however, and at the moment the sun was barely shining through from the other window. The one Sherlock had come through. He pulled open the curtains to find an enormous ornate window with a small circular mirror in the middle. The mirror caught the sunlight and reflected it back onto the drawers. Logical. It must have been the mirror he saw when he looked across the street that day. Sherlock left and headed downstairs, only to be greeted by a locked door at the bottom. The door was locked on the other side and Sherlock hadn't brought his lock pick, so he went back upstairs.
"Fuck," he hissed as he entered the first room. The water bottle's lid had been left unscrewed, and in the time it took for him to search around, it had toppled, leaked and frozen onto the windowsill. He had been out for too long, long enough for Mycroft to notice he was missing. And if Mycroft knew, so would his father. Sherlock shoved the pocket watch and the glasses into his pockets, and let the slides and tubes fall onto the snow. If somebody walked past, they would be less noticeable. It's not like he was stealing, in a sense. They didn't belong to anyone. Well, anyone who cared about them, he guessed. He put the shoebox back into the drawer and cautiously climbed onto the windowsill. Sherlock stretched his arms out to grab hold of the roof, but he was only just short. Carefully, he rolled up onto the tips of his toes and was about to grab the roof when his left foot slipped. His mouth opened and his eyes widened as he fell, and he made a soft grunt as he hit the snow below. One of his heels had crushed a slide, but the rest of the glass remained glittering and unharmed in the snow. Though the snow had fallen heavily since his and Mycroft's walk, the impact still made his back ache, and he swore as he sat up. He heard footsteps coming towards him, so he grabbed the slides and tubes as fast as he could manage and went to stand.
"Are you alright?" came an unfamiliar voice. Sherlock refused to turn, just in case it was an associate of Mycroft or his father.
"Fine," he grunted. He painfully stood, still avoiding the man speaking to him.
"You just fell from the second storey window! What were you doing anyway? There's a perfectly good door here!"
"It's locked. So was the one leading to the other windows, before you ask."
"What? Didn't your parents give you the key?"
"My parents do not give me anything. Even if they did, I highly doubt it would be the key to this house."
"But, you live in it, don't you?"
"...No."
"Shit, man! You shouldn't be stealing at this age!"
"I wasn't. No-one lives here."
"Then what were you doing?"
"None of your damn business!" Sherlock only caught a glimpse of a pair of blue jeans and a burgundy jacket as he turned slightly to escape to the manor.

Sherlock pressed his ear against the wood of the manor door. Not only did the air wafting from behind the door stink of alcohol, but he could hear his father snoring on the lounge. Sherlock took this opportunity to sneak up to his bedroom. He knocked lightly twice and he could hear John jumping off the bed and towards the door. He quickly slid into his room when he heard the lock click open and was greeted with John wagging his tail and nuzzling Sherlock's hand. Sherlock smiled and dumped the contents of his pockets onto his desk. The lens of the glasses were cracked badly, but the pocket watch seemed intact. It wasn't surprising when he discovered the battery had died, but it was a bit eerie when he saw it was stopped at midnight. He dismissed it and stored the objects in his own desk drawers.
"Boy!" came a drunken voice, "boy, get your arshe down here!" brilliant, Sherlock thought, he's at the "sh" stage. Sherlock ignored his father and continued to flick through a book he had picked up.
"Didn't you hear me, boy? I shaid, get your arshe down here!" after a couple of minutes of Sherlock ignoring him, Sherlock's father proceeded to stagger up to his room
"Boy!" he spat. Sherlock span in his chair to face the clearly over-intoxicated man.
"And where is Mummy in all this?" he asked calmly.
"Shut up! Thish ishn't about your mother! Thish ish about your dog!"
"What, John? What did he do, exactly?" Sherlock's father indicated towards his crotch.
"He pished on my pantsh!"
"I would find that understandable if the stain was further down your leg, but seeing as how it isn't, it is your fault, not John's. And I would appreciate it if you left my room. Now," Sherlock turned away, and his drunken father's face adopted a dirty grimace. He stumbled towards Sherlock's chair and shook his index finger pointedly at the young man.
"How dare you… you fuckwit of a child. You… do not… shpeak to me like that!"
"Get out of my room," Sherlock heard his father storm out of the room before collapsing at the top of the stairs and vomiting. He sighed

Mycroft paced steadily down the footpath leading away from the manor. The snow had cleared so he was happy to twirl his umbrella in his hand by the handle. Sherlock's fiddling in his room, mother's off to God knows where and father's drunk! He thought happily to himself. No doubt it was easy for him to slip out of the manor.

Mycroft could hear the faint clicking of a keypad. He smiled and tapped the point of his umbrella on the apartment door. The clicking stopped and Mycroft heard a chair slide on the floor. His heart was pounding in his chest. He straightened his suit and shifted his stance, his smile still plastered onto his face. The door opened and he was greeted with a warm smile that matched his own.
"Hello, you," greeted the owner. He beckoned Mycroft into the apartment, breathing gently on his neck as he walked past. Mycroft gathered every reserve of his strength not to collapse onto the floor.
*~*