AN: This prompt hit me today and I couldn't resist trying it out! Hopefully some of you are just as interested!


Sherlock heard oil dripping from the floor above him and cursed. This meant that precious oil was being wasted, his material supply had been found, and the police were here. It would only be a matter of time before they blew their cover completely.

There wouldn't be a way out this time and he knew it. The room he was in didn't have any doors or windows, and the vents were too small even for him. If he used his welding tools as weapons it would only go over worse in court, and there was a narrow chance Mycroft would bail him out this time.

It was obvious they meant business. They were even making an effort to be quiet, although that ruse hadn't fooled the genius for one second.

It wasn't Mycroft. Mycroft would never have tried to fool him. He knew that Sherlock wouldn't be asleep at this hour, and even if he were, he had the vigilance of a scared animal.

Part of this could be blamed on the drugs. He had always been cautious, but his paranoia was only heightened by the stimulants he relied on. The stimulants which he had just used and were currently lying on the desk upstairs.

Fuck.

There was no doubt now that they were going to put two and two together. He wasn't buying the drugs, he was making them. It was how he bought parts. The yard had been after him for months, but his network of distributors were homeless and stayed quiet as long as he supplied them with free drugs.

The robots were not for sale.

As a child, he was so sure he would manufacture them. By the time he was six his parents were catering his education around machinery. He was brilliant and they knew it.

The kids at school thought otherwise.

He had been emotional to the point of obnoxiousness, he could have cared less about girls, and most of all, he was incredibly insightful.

Sherlock sifted through the other kids stories until all their secrets were spilled. He wanted to know how they worked.

Nobody had ever taught him to distinguish between the brain and the hard-drive, so he always saw the brain as something that could be torn apart. Boring people were bad machines. He tried to fix them, but you can't "fix" the human mind. This is why he had created Redbeard.

Redbeard was not a very advanced model physically. His parts were used, he was too small to be of any real use, and his joints were stiff.

But his hard-drive was beautiful.

Like other models, he stored countless books and facts, but Sherlock had made him something more. He could analyze. Just by looking at someone the robot could catalog all their appearances and use the equations Sherlock had entered to find their story. It was an incredible piece of technology.

Jim Moriarty thought so to.

Jim was Sherlock's one and only friend.

He understood him.

He praised him.

He also was not afraid to hurt him. Jim knew that Sherlock was a match intellectually, but he was so innocent. He valued the heart and cared for the broken. Even at the age of twelve, Moriarty recognized this as a weakness. His father had told him so.

His father had also told him to break Sherlock. The boy's intelligence was dangerous. He had the power to create independent machines, to monopolize artificial intelligence, to take over their business.

Years passed and Jim slowly made his way into Sherlock's life. He helped Sherlock to program his thoughts into the robot, to make the machine him.

To make him the machine.

His work became his life, his robot his heart, his body his transport.

Sherlock ignored the basic needs of humans to the point drugs were required to keep him alert enough to work.

His parents would have helped him if they had the care, but they were so blinded by his creation they failed to see how he was destroying himself.

Mycroft tried to interfere for a short while, but by the time Sherlock was 12, he had left for University.

At university Sherlock devoted his time to robots. His studies were just distractions for him, only maintained because others wouldn't think a degree was as trivial as he considered it.

He fought constantly.

Resisting help from teachers and peers, he quickly made enemies with everyone. This included his psychiatrist who was in the preliminary stages of diagnosing him as a sociopath. When he truly needed help, it came in the form of Jim Moriarty, a peer who Sherlock had already identified as a psychopathy.

Because so little time was spent on his social life, he passed through Uni almost two years early with his life work completed and ready to show.

Two weeks before graduation, Moriarty made his move.

"Sherrrlock"

Jim rolled the name on his tongue like chocolate. He looked adorable. Dark curly hair, big brown eyes, small.

His personality was far from it.

"Don't you want a smoke Sherlock? It'd calm you down. You look a little… stressed."

He put a hand on his shoulder and his mouth by his ear.

"Or you know… we could… relieve your stress other ways."

Sherlock flared his nostrils like an angry horse.

"You know very well i'm not into that. Don't be crude."

Moriarty laughed.

"Don't be feisty! It's just human nature… nothing freakish about it. That's not what you crave though, is it."

Sherlock backed away quickly.

"I don't want anymore of your drugs. It won't go over well if I go in high and you know that."

The other boy shook his head.

"Sherlock, Sherlock. They won't care. They're not worried about you. They're worried about Redbeard. Why Redbeard anyway, its really such a childish name."

"Its a pirate. I've always wanted to be a pirate."

Jim laughed.

"What, like with flags, and... and treasure! Sherlock, that is sooooo childish, i simply do not believe that you've ever had such simple dreams."

Sherlock shrugged and walked away.

"I'm going for a smoke, don't follow me."

He shut the door to their dorm with force.

Moriarty could still be heard through the wood.

"They'll smell it on your suit. Your parents, the judges. Those things will kill you. You know that."


Sherlock sat on the balcony and looked out at the city below him. Poverty from a crashed economy meant that most of the city was slums. The business district was as stunning as ever, but it was mostly covered by smog. He preferred the country, it was where he grew up.

He hadn't been home in years though, and he sort of doubted if his parents would even want him home.

They would fuss. He was way more underweight than could be considered okay and his drug use was obvious to anyone who took the time to look. The tendencies of an insomniac, nicotine addiction, and general disconnect with society did not suit his appearance.

When he put on his suit and coat he passed as being healthy, but it was an illusion.

An illusion that would do for tonight.

If all went as planned Redbeard would be inspected by the Board of Science and he would be offered a job and a pass out of University. He had enough credits to graduate and more than enough motivation.

The cigarette dangling from his thin hands trembled as he thought about what could be in-store for his future. So much work had gone into this creation. Every last cell of his mind. He had made a robot with emotions. A robot with his emotions.

The thought of this failing made him nauseous.

Sherlock smelled smoke. He stood up on shaky feet and turned around.

The dorm building was burning.

He panicked and ran for the robot.

His lungs burned as he entered the hallway. The first priority was finding Redbeard.

"JIM! JIM YOU BASTARD WHERE ARE YOU! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!"

He almost tried to open the handle to the dorm, but it was clearly consumed by fire. He grabbed a nearby chair to break down the door, but the heat was too much. The fire had clearly been fueled chemically, and Sherlock could feel the fumes clogging his lungs.

"You bastard," he cried before he passed out, "I knew who you were all along."

He woke up in the hospital two days later.

In addition to a scattering of third degree burns and lung inflammation, the doctors reported malnutrition, slight nicotine damage, and long-term drug use.

Worse than that though was the clear psychological damage.

They reported his memories were repressed, almost like he had locked them away.

He only spoke of student Jim Moriarty, who he blamed for the accident.

When they looked up the records though, it was clear the boy wasn't even sharing a dorm with him. In fact, it did not show any evidence that the two students had ever interacted. As far as the police could tell, Jim Moriarty was nothing more than a rich boy who was set to enter university next year. Most certainly not a criminal.

The fire was evidently caused by a cigarette.

Jim Moriarty did not smoke.


Sherlock shook with the memories of the last time he was put in this situation. If this truly was the police, he would be in the same place as he was five years ago. Hopeless.

His thin form huddled underneath the steps. There was a chance he could trip them, maybe knocking them out for long enough to escape.

Assuming there's not a trap waiting for me outside.

"I'm here for a Sherlock Holmes."

He nearly cried out as the voice broke him out of his thoughts.

"Who are you?"

The man didn't sound nervous, which was odd given the amount of drugs and guns just lying out upstairs.

It wasn't as if he had been stupid leaving them out, he had thought it through. His hideaway was nearly impossible to find, it was in the lowest rooms of an abandoned factory. Only nine other people even knew about it.

"Lestrade. Im not here to turn you in. I hear you work with robots, and I need your help."


I hope you enjoyed:) Let me know if I should continue!