Rated T for drug abuse

Disclaimer: not mine.

In a dark, echoing room, men and woman stood, dressed in identical white underclothes. All races and types and generally quite normal from the outside. That was the intention. The lines of the warehouse seemed to go on for eternity, swallowed by the shadows. Although they were standing, their eyes were closed and the only sound was the soft hiss of charging machinery. No one moved. No one breathed.

As the footsteps of the factory workers faded, the doors shut, locks clicked, and the shadows reached out and swallowed the still ones bit by bit.

Until they were enveloped.

No one breathed.

The silence stretched, somehow loud in the absence of anything.

And then third in row 2k, a blonde one blinked. And again. Slowly, he relaxed and ran worried hands through his hair. A shuttering exhale.

Quiet.

And then something shifted.

The man's arms returned to his side. His eyes glazed. Like nothing had happened.

No one breathed.

1

Timothy Warner here to announce this month's latest Mimic* model! Fully capable in housekeeping, and first aid, as usual, and a new addition, mountaineer-

Sherlock flicked off the television to the grumbles of several of the other room occupants. "I cannot abide useless information," he muttered, slumping down in his chair and entirely ignoring the imbeciles. There were an inordinate amount of stupid in the room, and it was rather suffocating even without the humbum of the television. Besides, he had taken a certain dislike to Mimics of late. Well, to be honest, he had never really liked them. They were, frankly, dull. While he fully appreciated the brilliance of the machinery, being contained to 'recover' in his hospital room for a ridiculous amount of time by a Mim-nurse who was entirely unable to be manipulated had been maddening. After all, you couldn't reason with a machine.

Some skinny bloke snorted next to him. "Useless information? That's rich coming from you. Weren't you just goin' on 'bout wood ash or whatnot yesterday?"

Sherlock scowled. Just a few minutes longer, and he'd be free of this horrid place. "Tobacco ash," he spat. "Which is extremely-"

The man rolled his eyes and waved his words away. "I not wanna hear it."

"You don't," Sherlock corrected, his gaze boring into the door across the waiting room.

"Yeah, I don't."

"No, I mean, you don't want to hear it, not, you not want to hear it."

The man blinked at him, and Sherlock broke his vigil long enough to roll his eyes. "Never mind." They lapsed into silence.

Mycroft was going to show up in a few minutes and take him away from here. He'd have to play nice. It was going to be atrocious. But it was better than staying here any longer.

Tranquil Lakes Rehabilitation Center might have saved him from an overdose, but any longer, and they might just bore him to death. Not only were most of the staff Mims, and, therefore, dull but he had been surrounded by irritating, washed-out people for… how long had he even been here?

You are just as messed up as the rest of them, you prat.

Sherlock chewed the inside of his lip and leapt to his feet the moment the door opened by a secretary Mim. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Your brother is here." Without a backward glance, Sherlock wove around the rest of those being released, and edged around the Mim. She smiled cheerily.

And then from inside the reception lounge: "Sherlock?"

Wonderful. Mycroft's eyes zipped up and down his younger brother's form, and Sherlock resisted the urge to fidget as he stepped into the room. His anger still burned hot at the man, although he was nowhere as murderous as he had been when Mycroft first abandoned him here. All the same, Sherlock was in no mood to be dissected.

"Mycroft." There was no one better at making Mycroft's name sound like a curse word. He emphasized the first syllable and dipped it in scorn.

To the average man, Mycroft was entirely unruffled.

But Sherlock was very aware of his brother's fingers drumming on the handle of his umbrella. Almost obsessively. Sherlock smirked. "Worried for me, were you?"

A flash of anger. "You are insufferable. I see you are no more repentant than last time." But he didn't answer the question.

"Can you sign your name, Mr. Holmes?" said the Mim, holding out a clipboard. Mycroft took it without breaking his glare and signed.

The Mim stood there blinking and grinning and overall looking exceedingly disturbing until Mycroft handed it back. Finally, he glanced down at her. Something flickered in his gaze, and he watched her leave with an odd look on his face.

Frowning, Sherlock stepped forward and ignored his brother's blatant irritation. Sherlock was thinner than he ought to be and the baggy clothes given to him did not help things. "And you still haven't been eating enough." Mycroft fingered a file as he pushed open the glass door and walked into the morning chill.

"So you're mummy now?"and Sherlock couldn't help peeking over his shoulder. "On that note, where is she? She usually comes with you."

Mycroft shrugged, opened the door to a rather delux car, and bent inside. "She didn't want to get her hopes up. Again."

That stopped him.

Sherlock stood there. On the curb edge of Tranquility Lakes. He was clean but this certainly wasn't the first time. He bit back a fiery response just barely and then climbed in after his brother.

As they eased from the curb, Mycroft spread open the file and looked over it stonely. Sherlock stared blankly at the back of the seat in front of him. "Is that about me?"

Mycroft made a noise that could have been yes or no, which only prompted a scowl. "They want you to get a Mim."

Sherlock blinked. Him? Get a Mim? He sneered. "That's preposterous. What need could I possibly have for a robot?"

Mycroft shrugged. "They are far more than robots, Sherlock. And I imagine it is to keep you from ending up half dead in a gutter."

A long silence. "I wasn't going to die, Myc."

Something broke. That ice in Mycroft's voice. He curled his fingers over the paper and his eyes flashed up to meet Sherlock's. He was furious, that much was obvious. And terrified, too. But none of that emotion showed anywhere but his eyes. And even that disappeared after a second. "You were, Sherlock." he hissed. "You were going to die because of your own selfish, conceited, pettiness."

Sherlock huffed and slumped in the seat, prepared to tune out any lecure coming his way.

But instead, Mycroft just watched him. Until Sherlock was forced to look up again. His next words were quiet and sad, almost. "You are not invincible. I hope someone is there to pick up your pieces when you finally fall apart."

Again, silence. And then Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I mean, I can't always be here. I can't always be around. Not everytime. Eventually, I'm going to be late."

Sherlock stared at his shoes. "And that's why you agree with the file," he grumbled. "You want to get me a nannie."

Mycroft gave him an irritated sneer. "You are twenty-three, Sherlock. You shouldn't need a nanny, as you say. If you hadn't shown yourself to be continually self-destructive we wouldn't need to even have this conversation."

"So this is my fault?"

"Yes, it's you're fault!"

And to be honest, Sherlock couldn't really deny that.

The car glided along out of the country, and, after a half hour, into London city. Life stirred just outside of these walls; life he could touch and play and strum if he could just get Mycroft to let him. Let him go.

Yes, eventually Sherlock knew he'd end up in an alley once more. He'd end right where he ended last time. It was an inevitability just like gravity. He was resigned to that fate.

But it was not now. Now he could experience London just a bit before he was swamped. Overwhelmed, tired, bored. How long would he manage this time?

"Here's how it's going to work, Sherlock. Either you get yourself a Mim, or I pick one for you."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose again, eyes on the busy street. "And knowing you, you'll get one of the atrocious nurse-y sorts that follow you everywhere."

He didn't need to look at Mycroft to see the man almost found his response amusing. "Well…"

He needed Mycroft to let him be. "I'll get a Mim. I will not like it, but I'll get one." He glanced at Mycroft in time to see him blink in surprise. The man's eyes narrowed in suspicion so Sherlock continued with a sigh. "And I'll let you make sure it's capable of restraining me or whatever it is you think necessary."

Gosh, he really was desperate to get out of this car, wasn't he? That wasn't even an argument.

Slowly, Mycroft nodded. The car slid to a stop in front of a familiar flat. "Right," Mycroft said sharply. "I will be by tomorrow. Tell Mrs. Hudson you are back. I expect you to have acquired a Mim when you see me again. You can use my card for that and only that. I will know if-"

"Yes, yes. If I try to buy the milk. Got it."

The glare Mycroft was leveling him quite clearly said that he was not referring to milk. With a smirk, Sherlock opened the door and soon found himself alone in the chilly London morning on another curb. He stared after the distancing car. "Git."

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock noted the familiar scent of the sandwich shop next to his flat, turned on his heels, and hoped up the steps. With concern, he noted the stiffness in his muscles and the slight lightheadedness at the quick movement. Still recovering at bit. He didn't have his key and felt like an idiot knocking on his own front door but what else could he do? And where did my coat get to?

He'd rung the bell seven times, knowing that that was just about right to get her attention and motivate her to move quickly to the door. A few clicks later and Sherlock opened his mouth to greet-

"Hello, sir. Welcome to the Hudson residence. How may I assist you?"

Sherlock blinked. The Mim before him was… very masculine. Well defined muscles, black hair, a chiseled chin and the barest hint of facial hair.

Dear gods, Mrs Hudson didn't-?

"Oh, out of the way, Dorian dear." Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock's landlady and professional worrier, poked around the slow responding Mim, and her face lit up with delight when she caught sight of him. "Sherlock! You're home!"

"Obviously." But he smiled. Or tried to. The Mim moved aside confusedly for Sherlock to enter and Mrs. Hudson spent the next ten minutes fussing over him until they found themselves in the kitchen with a rather large amount of food that looked delicious and entirely beyond Sherlock's appetite. He nibbled to appease her and drank his tea idly as she prattled away. On most people, prattling was horribly unattractive, but he didn't mind listening to Mrs. Hudson. At least, he didn't right now when he had nothing important to do.

He managed to get in a word when she finally sat down across the kitchen table from him.

"So. Dorien? How long have you had a Mim?"

"Oh, just a week or two." She waved dismissively. "I had a fall a-"

"You fell?"

Another dismissive wave that did not at all appease him. "Yes, yes, but I was quite alright. The hospital recommended I acquire a Mim to help me up those blasted stairs and such. He has been quite handy."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow above his sipping tea. "I imagine so." There was a brief, comfortable silence, and then Sherlock sighed. "I probably should tell you, I'm being ordered to get a Mim of my own."

"Really? Well, that will be good then." Mrs. Hudson nodded rather sternly.

To which Sherlock grunted. "I suppose."

"Do you not like Mims?"

Sherlock considered his answer, watching the muscular thing at the staircase. If it was not for his posture, Sherlock figured the average observer would not even know that it was made of machinery. "I… well I suppose I just find them rather strange is all. And…" He smirked. "I don't take kindly to being watched. Or nannied, for that matter."

A tittering laugh. "Don't be silly, Sherlock. They're only machines, after all. I'm sure you'll find one you like."

Sherlock snorted and downed the last bit of tea. "Believe me, whatever type I get, I am quite decided to hate it."

AN: So I think this is only going to be a few chapters long. Probably no more than five. But who knows. I got the idea from the Amazon Prime original "Humans" (which is fantastic and has Colin Morgan and yes) but yeah, it wasn't exactly available to crossover, and I'm not using any of the characters from that show. Just using the idea of a modern world just like ours... except there are these eerily lifelike robots being sold to the general public, and they not all are what they seem...

On another note, there are two joys to writing fan fiction, the joy of actually writing it, and the joy of hearing the response from their readers. So I encourage you to respond, not only to this, but to any other fic you come across.