Intro: "I need something. I need someone. I need a distraction." James Moriarty paced around his flat, his mind working at 1,000 miles an hour. His life had been boring for the past three years. He didn't know what to do. Sebastian, his best mate and occasional lover, flicked his eyes up at the pacing criminal from where he sat then rolled them.

"Jim, calm down." The sniper stood up, grabbing Moriarty by the shoulders. "You'll think of something. Someone will come along. Now shut up."

"You're telling me to shut up," Jim hissed through his teeth. "I am your employer, my darling Tiger." He turned, his back to the man. "I made you what you are today." Just then, it hit him. No one would come along with the intellect to spar with him, so he would have to create someone.

And that was exactly what he was going to do.

There once was a boy

Who was made, not created.

Sherlock blinked awake, still lying on the cold, make-shift operating table on which he had been created. Conceived, if you will. The man hovering over him smirked. "I've done it." James Moriarty took a step back, staring at his creation. His eyes raked over the electronic man's naked body, searching for something.

"Perfect."

He wanted to learn

He wanted to indulge his senses

To understand pain

All memories of how he had been created wiped from his mind, Sherlock trekked through the building. He pulled on clothes as he went along, picking out a certain long, black jacket. Wrapping a blue plaid scarf around his neck, strode out into the world. A year later, he met John Watson. Sherlock and John became friends quickly, the small man having no knowledge of Sherlock's true form.

But most of all

He wanted to love

For only when he found true love

Would he become real

Choosing the career path of "Consulting Detective," Sherlock and John met many strange circumstances and individuals. One of the most interesting people he met in his entire short life was a woman named Irene Adler. To Sherlock, though, she was simply The Woman. No other female could compare to her. Irene Adler was the closest he had ever come to love, but she was ripped away from him by one James Moriarty.

Intermission: "No. Nope, not going through with this. I refuse." Sebastian Moran stood facing away from James, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Oh, but please, Tiger. I'll do anything you want." Jim snaked up behind him, quiet as a mouse. His arms wrapped around the taller man's waist. "You only have to play big brother Mycroft when Sherlie-darling is around. Come on, love, he's your son, too." The last bit of that sentence was hissed out of the Irishman's mouth, inches away from Moran's ear.

Sebastian shuddered. "Fine."

He traveled far and long

But love eluded him

The humans that surrounded him complicated the word

Strove to drive it out of the world altogether

The man that called himself Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, kept him away from The Woman, as did Sherlock's encounters with Moriarty. Moriarty, the man who had created him, became his most threatening enemy. Sherlock still didn't know of the circumstances of his "birth," though. For his mind had been filled with the stories and tales that Jim and Mycroft had programmed into him.

And this he could not understand

For what could be more simple

Than to love, and be loved in return?

Sherlock tried his hardest to love. He tried everything he could think to, trying to force himself to fall for any woman he came across. Still, he found himself wishing she was Adler. He had a sick, twisted obsession with Irene Adler. She was his drug. She was his desire. She was what he wanted, and he wanted her right then.

He was made

With an 8-bit heart

Outro: Sebastian Moran climbed the stairs to the roof of the hospital slowly. He knew what he would find once he reached the top, but didn't care to admit that to himself. He pushed the door open, stepping out into the sunlight. A small cry escaping the grown man's lips, he dropped to the side of the bleeding man. "No, no no no." His fingers searched for the man's wrist, checking for a pulse. He found none, though. Screaming, he pulled his own handgun out of his waistband. He let out a small chuckle. "Alright, Jim. You win. You've won the game. This is what you wanted from the beginning, right? You hated me all along." He placed the gun to his temple. "Well, you win." Pulling the trigger, he fired a shot directly into his brain and collapsed to the ground, his head landing on his dead lover's chest.