When Sherlock Holmes was seven, he slept on his side. He always liked to be as close as he possibly could to the floor, because the floor on the left side of his bed was where Redbeard always was. Redbeard was, arguably, the greatest dog and the greatest pirate in the world. He was sweet-tempered, he always kept Sherlock safe, and sometimes, when Sherlock was very lucky, he'd manage to smuggle Redbeard in the bed next to him. Together, the two of them would have dreams of sailing off into the sapphire ocean and looting ships while the sun set behind them.

When Sherlock Holmes was eleven, Mycroft left for college, taking Sherlock's dreams of becoming a pirate along with him, in a moving van stuffed with decrepit furniture. When Sherlock began to cry, Mycroft leaned down, took Sherlock by his attenuate shoulders, and looked him squarely in his huge, tear-filled eyes. He hated Mycroft; mummy liked Mycroft more than him; he'd always dreamed of Mycroft leaving... but now, he could barely imagine it.

"Sherlock, it's okay.  You don't need me here. Caring is a human flaw, Sherlock, and we both know that we both are something slightly above human," Mycroft said matter-of-factly, his intelligent well beyond his years.

"Caring is a human flaw," Sherlock echoed, his voice filled with admiration for his scholarly older brother. "I don't need to care... but, please, come back soon." He ran into Mycroft's arms, trying not to cry. Mycroft hugged back, smiling. He'd never tell, but he would miss Sherlock too.

That winter, Mycroft called in for Christmas, but didn't have time to talk to Sherlock.

When Sherlock Holmes was thirteen, he slept on his opposite side. After Redbeard's death, he couldn't bear to see the empty space on the rug next to his bed, so he tried his best to ignore it.

Mycroft didn't come home for Christmas.

When Sherlock Holmes was fourteen, he got in a fistfight. He knew he could get the better of the other boy, but he told himself he shouldn't care. He couldn't care. The boy got off with a sore hand and a bloody nose, but Sherlock broke three ribs, and he was put on pain medication in the hospital. He liked the way it felt; the way it made him think. He pretended that his ribs hurt for longer than they did.

Mycroft didn't come home for Christmas, and Sherlock was angry.

When Sherlock Holmes was fifteen, his parents got a divorce. He didn't like to talk about it, so he took pain medications to make the hurt that was in his soul go away. It didn't help, so he moved to some stronger medications.

Mycroft came home for Christmas six months later, and put Sherlock into rehab. Sherlock insisted that he was fine, but was there for four months.

When Sherlock Holmes was sixteen, he learned that you can't trust people. When people found out about his addictions, they cut him off completely, or worse, spread rumors about him that caused other people to shun him. He learned that people would stab you in the back, so you always had to watch yourself closely. Mycroft came home for Christmas, and noticing his empty shell of a brother, told him he thought it would good if he came to the boarding school he worked at so he could get away. They'd taken cases like him before, Mycroft said. He would be safe from the other kids, Mycroft said. Even so, Sherlock was guarded.

When Sherlock Holmes was seventeen, he slept on his back- just to be safe.

***

"Sherlock, what are you planning on doing about... you know?" John laid on his stomach, working on a paper and occasionally glancing up to inspect and supervise whatever Sherlock was doing. (He'd learned that he had to do this the hard way when Sherlock had almost set the entire room on fire after miscalculating a current he'd created. Because science.)

Sherlock sat crosslegged, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands folded, fingers pressed to his lips. His expression was serene. If John didn't know better, he'd say Sherlock was meditating, but Sherlock had reprimanded him when he had made that mistake before because no, he would never try to silence his mind. The only sound that he made in reply was the in and out of his breathing, and that was barely audible to begin with.

"Sherlock," John repeated, impatient with the other boy's apparent lack of hearing. "Sherlock, I said--"

"I am aware, John." Sherlock's voice flowed, the baritone rushing through the air to John's ears ever-so-softly. "I'm thinking. Looking in my mind palace."

"Your...?"

"Mind palace, it's where I store information." Sherlock dismissed him with a wave of his hand, keeping his eyes closed.

They were quiet for a few more minutes, until Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. "I'm going to meet the sender," he said, breathing in sharply. "However, I am going to get to the pool before him so he can't try to trick me." Sherlock closed his eyes again, the Saturday sun hitting his face from in through the window. "Not that he would, anyway. I'm nearly impossible to surprise."

John raised his eyebrows. "Nearly?"

"I may be superior but I'm not entirely without fault, John." His eyes opened and fixed on an object-- a skull of some animal that was sitting on his desk-- but he still remained seemingly emotionless.

John snorted. "Superior, my arse," he mumbled, chuckling.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing." Silence. "I'm coming with you, you know."

"No you're not."

"Why?"

"You're a liability."

"Why am I a liability?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, looking at John carefully as he considered his answer. "Because I've made the mistake of becoming somewhat attached to you. You're admittedly better than my last roommate."

John suspected that this was the closest thing to a compliment that he would ever receive from the boy. He gave Sherlock a short nod, and was given a half-smile in return. "...But I'm still coming with you. You'll have a witness that way. I'll stay well out of sight. It..." John trailed off, words escaping him. "It'll be...fun."

Sherlock's eyes flicked upward, suddenly sparkling. "The thrill of the chase," he muttered, his suddenly unable to control his motions. He stood, spinning, looking at everything in the room like it was new, before putting his coat over his shoulders and tying his scarf around his neck. "God, I love this."

"Do you... do this often?" John moved slowly to get his coat, amused and confused by Sherlock's sudden incline of interest in the case. Sherlock looked as though someone had lit a lantern inside of him-- John had never seen him looking this alive.

"I'm unofficially the school detective. The school supplies security guard and such but detectives... well, I'm currently the only one. But I haven't seen anything like this for a long time... the extent of the blackmail..." Sherlock was speaking more quickly than John could follow, getting more and more excited. "...meeting whoever the sender is, finding out who is tying all of these people together... it's like Christmas." He suddenly turned on his heels, a lopsided grin stretching over his entire face. "Let's go."

The winter wind was decidedly chilly. Despite the snow clouds going away and the sun coming out, the freezing air still nipped the two nervous teenagers to the bone as they made their way to the indoor pool facility. They approached the looming white-washed doors with some caution, their breathing becoming quicker as Sherlock placed a skeleton hand on the door. "Remember, John, stay out of sight. Even though the sender didn't specify that I needed to come alone, you could be used for leverage." He pushed the door open, and muttered quietly to himself, "Mycroft was right."

John didn't know what he expected to happen when Sherlock pushed the door open. A bomb exploding, maybe. Or possibly some action adventure music coming on and serenading them as they entered the building (quite dramatically, John might add, with Sherlock's long coat trailing behind him). Whatever he expected, it wasn't at all what happened. What they did see was a young man, probably their age, sitting on the bleachers and looking quite bored. So much for trying to beat him there.

"I was wondering when you two would show up," the figure called in a cheerful voice. Sherlock tensed. Obviously, whatever this was wasn't what Sherlock was expecting either. "John and Sherlock, Sherlock and John. The new roommates are already best friends. Oh, I knew you'd be perfect together."

"We're.. uh... we're not best friends. We're not even friends. We've only been roommates for... what, a week?" John chattered nervously, his eyes flicking back and forth between Sherlock and the figure, Sherlock and the figure, Sherlock and the figure....

"And a half," Sherlock corrected, his gaze never leaving the person. Every muscle in his body was tensed, John noticed that his hands were balled into fists. He was a cat, stalking his prey and ready to pounce.

"Oh, but you are just such soulmates." The figure giggled, somewhat unnervingly. "I've been watching you. It's entertaining, really, how much you are like puppets. I just have to find the right thing to cut the string..." The boy pulled out a phone and scrolled to a photo- the photo. "Wouldn't it be awful if this were to... get out?" He grinned, keeping the phone out and at the ready.

"Who are you, and what do you want from me?" Sherlock's voice remained steady. John figured that must have been a plus of not feeling anything, as Sherlock so often had been reminding him this first week.

"Oh, I'm sorry, how very rude of me. Oh, how terribly impolite. Jim Moriarty, hi." He waved and smiled. "I know all about you. Your friend Molly; charming girl. Not exactly my taste, though. But she'd be all over you, Sherlock." He walked closer, and Sherlock got a better look. He was well dressed, in a suit and a tie, with slicked-back dark hair. His eyes were unsettling, however: they were absolutely insane. There was a monster inside this man, and Sherlock knew from first glance that he had to try very, very hard to keep him inside of his cage.

"I'm here to propose something to you. I've been watching you, I understand how you tick." The voice sent a chill up John's spine. "We're similar, Sherlock. You can see it. Think of how well we'd work together, just you and me, creating beautiful chaos and taking over the world," he was close enough now that Sherlock could smell the mint of his breath. "We'd be perfect."

Sherlock looked him steadily back in the eyes. "You seem to know a lot about me. Why don't I know anything about you?"

Jim rolled his eyes. "Oh the specifics-- boooring. You already know I'm orchestrating the blackmails-- beautiful work if I do say so-- but let's see... last year's deaths?"

"They ruled those as apparent suicides. I tried to talk them into an investigation, but no one would listen..." Sherlock trailed off. "You murdered them."

"Murder is a harsh word, isn't it? More like... encouraged them. Besides, I wasn't the one who even pushed them. I have people: tiny, insignificant, replaceble people. You wouldn't be one of them, Sherlock." He stepped closer, tracing Sherlock's shoulder with his finger. "C'mon, give it a try."

Sherlock was silent.

"Sherlock, you're not actually thinking about this, are you?" John asked, incredulous. "This kid is a bloody murderer."

"What will you do if I say no?" Sherlock stepped forward, his eyes still making contact with Jim's animal eyes.

"Nothing, yet. I won't post the picture. But you'll come. They always do. And if not..." Jim's expression darkened. "I will burn you."

John tugged at Sherlock's coat. "Let's go."

Sherlock took a few steps backward, and Jim began to walk the opposite direction.

"This has been a good chat. Don't you think so, Sherlock?"

No answer.

"Well, there's no need to be rude, we are civilized. But I'm looking forward to our next talk. See you around, Sherlock." Jim left the room, leaving Sherlock and John alone in the pool room.

They walked silently back to their dormitory.

A/N:

so. Moriarty. Yas.

I TRY SO HARD TO GET JIM'S VOICE CORRECTLY BUT IT'S SUPER DIFFICULT. I CAN HEAR IT IN MY HEAD BUT ITS HARD TO MAKE THE ACCENTS THAT I WANT SOUND RIGHT ON THE PAPER.

also, I've been getting eaten by a mosquito the entire time I've been writing this, so that's has been an adventure. For some reason we have them all over my house. I don't know why, maybe it's the plague or something. I kill like 3 a day HELP ME.

but I was excited ALL DAY yesterday to write this and then I didn't bc class and crap. HOWEVER I watched Harry Potter for the first time (shoot me, I know) yesterday and so that wound up happening before I wrote the rest of this chapter.

THANK YOU GUYS FOR VOTING ITS BEEN SO EXCITING. Even though this is still a little baby fic, I get so excited every time someone I'm not familiar with votes for my fic. like COME HERE LEMME HUG YOU.

also, thank you queen_mycroft for being cool and reaching out to me!! :) :) :)

comment/vote because that would be AMAZING! You know the drill. I get so excited every time i see one of your shining faces pop up in my notifications.

Later, nerds.