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Who Is That Face In The Mirror?
John was really not going to like this.
That thought was repeatedly playing inside Sherlock’s head as he banged his hands on the glass futilely. He figured if he somehow managed to come out of this, his friend would probably kill him himself once he found out. Although he really didn’t see how there could be a way out of it this time.
There were no means to foresee this coming on the horizon, it being outlandish enough to not even warrant a single worry of probability about it happening in any form the future chose to take, yet here he was. Dying.
As most things in his life, it had all started with a corpse. A group of Scotland Yard’s ‘finest’ gathered with stupid confused frowns over their faces around the remains of a woman at the centre of the local theatre. The complete bafflement at the means and motive in which she had died evident in their postures. It really wouldn’t take a genius to figure out they would eventually have to call the only Consulting Detective in the world; Sherlock was just doing as John had asked of him and decided to spare them a bit of the trouble.
Striding into the crime scene with his blogger at his side, he received several annoyed glares from some of the officers; still he payed them little attention, choosing instead to continue walking among the rows of audience seats and up a small flight of stairs that lead to a big wooden floor. This was that for which he was there, right where it was opening night.
Sally Donovan approached them, her expression had turned furious the moment she spotted them. “What are you doing here, freak?” She asked, and the detective felt John stiffen beside him. He would never admit how his stomach fluttered at the mere thought of his friend’s outrage on his behalf.
“Your job.” Sherlock said as he smiled innocently at her; her crossed arms showing him she was frustrated enough to have been already at the end of her rope even before he had showed up. Which meant the investigation was moving slower than at snail’s pace.
“Let him in,” Lestrade approached them, the prominent lines over his face smoothing out a bit with the relief he felt at seeing them there. As if they were salvation personified. John greeted him with an amicable hand shake and turned to smile at Sherlock.
Sally, however, just wouldn’t let it go. “But how did you know about this?” She asked, stalking them towards the corpse. Her eyes trained on their every move as if they were going to steal something, —which was not entirely impossible when it came to just evidence. To be fair, the detective had done that quite a few times in the past; but it wasn’t as if they actually knew what to do with any of it anyway.
“I didn’t kill her, Sally.” The brunette answered, rounding the array of equipment towards his objective. The big red curtains falling at both sides of the stage casting a distinctive shadow over those present.
“He probably has your phone hacked, boss.” She continued, in which she was technically correct, but that was beside the point at the moment. The main thing would be the corpse and the abominable chaos sure to be around it. However, once he arrived at the centre of the spectators gathered there, he was disappointed to see there was no mess, and the corpse appeared as if she were just asleep nowhere near to gone from the world.
A young woman, clearly between twenty five and twenty nine, laid over a plush bed made of the softest of white pillows, an arrangements of red roses placed delicately around her. Surrounding her in beautiful cascade. The whole scene looked straight out of a fairytale book, or a gothic romantic novel.
“It was on the news.” John breathed out in his defence, but the detective didn’t even get to enjoy it, his mind not able to reel away from how wrong the placement of the body was. Which was exactly it, there was absolutely nothing wrong with it.
“Ms. Catherine Dean. Twenty eight, professional opera singer,” Lestrade started, placing both his hands on his hips as the utter frown of bafflement returned to his expression. “Recently promoted to protagonist and lead singer according to her cast mates.” He continued, and Sherlock bent down to examine her corpse more closely, already aware of everything the DI was reciting, the whole story clear on her nail beds and the smudge on her right wrist. “She was found like this by the morning cleaning crew.”
“Brilliant.” The brunette exclaimed, delighted of having a worthwhile case at last. John cleared his throat at him, and gave him an unspoken command to behave which the detective found somehow impossible to resist. Sherlock sighed and stood up as he motioned for the doctor to do his magic.
“Asphyxiation.” Was his expert conclusion, as he turned her head slightly to the sides and examined the purplish skin around her neck. “Quite violent, too.” He added, bringing a satisfied smirk to his lips. Sherlock smiled at how unaware he seemed of the fact of how similar to the detective he actually was beneath it all.
“She didn’t die here.” The brunette was quick to point out. Watching as all the others turned to stare at him with lost eyes. The only thing keeping him from striding away in exasperation and never returning was the exceptional nature of the case. Something interesting, at last.
“What?” Lestrade looked around, as if hoping to gather the clues of said fact for himself. “Really?” He asked.
“Look.” Sherlock waved his hand at the display, which could only be described as a careful shrine. “There’s no scruff on the floor, no signs of struggle.” He said, and John’s blue eyes flashed with recognition as he pieced the puzzle along. The detective practically lived for that expression. “She was killed somewhere else on the theatre then carried here.”
“Why would someone go to the trouble of killing her only to place her like this?” Graham —Greg?— wondered out loud, crossing his arms and exchanging amazement with the blonde doctor.
“Why indeed?” Sherlock answered with a smile. To his left a shadow moved on the corner of his vision, startling him from the smugness; but before he could be sure that what he was seeing was not a trick of the light, it was gone. “I need to see her changing room.” He concluded distractedly, shaking his head of the visions. He knew he wasn’t likely to find anything else useful there, and the moving shadows were nothing more than a distraction.
When they entered, the room smelled like roses too. A large mirror covered one of the narrow walls and, strewn across the floor and other surfaces, were different pieces of costume garments, stage make up utensils and papers containing lines and compositions. At first glance, nothing particularly telling, although Sherlock’s mind was already figuring out seven lines of inquiry.
“So far we haven’t been able to find anything useful.” The other officers were doing their best to stay out of his way, —as they should— with Lestrade being the only one willing to cooperate. Sherlock knew he just wanted the case to be solved, no matter by whom.
“Shocking.” Sherlock commented from the floor where he was bent collecting evidence, and the blogger let out an unintentional amused chuckle at such truth. Of course, when he realised how rude it had sounded, he apologised and his whole stance transformed into one of politeness. A creature of contradiction, his John.
“I’ll call you when I’ve solved your murder.” The detective stood up and gave a final sweep at the room as he made sure every data was collected in order to be able to paint the complete unadulterated picture. For a brief moment, it seemed to him he may have glanced a face appearing from behind the mirror, one that had no way of being reflected by anyone present, but as soon as he saw it, it was gone like smoke. Perhaps he shouldn’t have skipped dinner the night before.
“Wait,” The DI shot out a hand to grab the other’s long coat and stall him, unknowing of what had just happened. Said curly-haired turned to stare at him expectantly. “There’s-” He said as he fumbled to retrieve something from his pocket, Sherlock could recognise the clear discomfort such items caused him. “The director told me about these letters.”
The consulting detective reached for the smooth white papers. Folded with precision and care. He took a deep sniff of them, the sweet smell of flowers floating up from it. The perfect calligraphy of the inside requesting for Ms. Dean to become the lead in the next opera. John leaned over his shoulder to read, his warm breath causing shivers on Sherlock’s neck at the proximity.
“Who sent these?” The blogger queried, turning an ocean blue gaze towards their friend, but Gavin let his curiosity down. He just shrugged, immensely uncomfortable with was he was told.
“He says they were sent by a ghost.” Was his answer.
“It’s definitely not a ghost.” Sherlock scoffed, as he and John were walking through the corridors of the backstage. Shadowy corners and empty spaces giving the halls a secretive atmosphere, as if something were waiting in the shadows to jump out and strike.
“But Lestrade-” John tried to counter, but he was abruptly cut off by the other.
“Will believe whatever nonsense you feed him if it makes the case appear solved.” The brunette commented, while he observed the darkness. He could have sworn there was movement in there. In fact, the whole morning he had experienced this indescribable sensation, as if somebody were watching his every move. “It is someone from the theatre, though.” He asserted offhandedly. Attempting to appear as nonchalant and mischievous as his usual demeanour; John was an extremely paranoid person, with the tendency to overreact to danger, and if he uttered a word of his doubts he would go off and lock him up until the case was solved by someone else —ha!— or he finally figured out a way to wrap them both in bubble wrap, whichever came first. Although that last part perhaps was not as bad as it sounded on second thought.
“She just got the leading part,” The blonde said, apparently weaving threads on his own. He crossed his arms over his strong chest and his eyes were distant in his rumination. “Maybe one of her cast mates got jealous.” It was a perfectly sound logic. It was also, regrettably, wrong.
“No, John.” Sherlock answered, stuffing his hands inside his coat as his gaze scanned their surroundings. “You saw how she was displayed. Is jealousy the first word which comes to mind when you see that?” He asked, and the blonde nodded in understanding, following the conclusions with what he had seen at the crime scene. “That doesn’t come out of envy,” Sherlock knew it was true, he had been witness to too many atrocities committed out of hate; but the real hells came out from the heart of devotion. He should know, he had plenty of those crimes over own his shoulders. “That’s reverence.” He assured.
John’s hands became fists at such a notion, but he stayed silent. Walking briskly next to him and taking in the information he was given with as objective a mind as he could muster. Sherlock once again, failed to read the reaction. “The actual murder is sloppy, amateurish. But this work seems skilled, perfect.” The detective explained, “Bordering on obsessive.” He stopped, the realisation of what all those clues boiled down to bringing him to a hesitant halt. He turned his head to face his blogger, unable to hide the deep identification he suddenly felt to the murderer. Perhaps Sally was right in a way. “This is a man who loved her.” He said, A man who couldn’t imagine his life without her, he wanted to say. His gaze fixed on the expression on the other, as blue eyes stared at him in an attempt to understand something.
“Man?” John asked, but the word appeared somehow burdened with many other meanings. Things which the detective had tried to unravel for centuries but had never been able to accomplish with any degree of success.
“Obviously.” Sherlock replied. The blogger stayed quiet for a moment, looking down at the wooden flooring as they approached the exit to the theatre. Twin steps resonating on the unseeable corners of the walls, and getting lost behind the curtain ropes and the crates with costumes.
“Something doesn’t fit, John.” Sherlock admitted, almost unintentionally. His brain just deciding to let John in, even if just a small amount. The blonde didn’t disappoint however, and he turned his head to stare at him with an understanding which made the detective thought it was worth all the struggle he was experiencing. “But we will find our killer, if we can find out who was in love with our soprano.” He assured, wanting to give something in return. In a way desperate for anything other than the oppressive moving shadows to take space in his attention.
“And how do we do that?” He asked, when Sherlock stopped to observe the board of announcements just before the door to the outside world. His eyes were wide open with hope for a new action towards the mystery.
“We can start with this.” The brunette said as he ripped off a flyer for the Annual London Drama Ball. A masquerade hosted by pompous people to ‘raise awareness and money to implement on art and culture’, which now will surely be dedicated to the late Ms. Dean.
As they were about to step out, a snapping sound was heard from above them, and a large bag came rushing from the ceiling, “Sherlock!” John screamed as he skilfully tackled his friend away from the heavy object.
Sherlock panted from the floor, staring confusedly at the sand splattered around the bag which occupied the space he had vacated just mere moments before. “Are you okay?” The blonde asked, running expert hands over the detective’s head and limbs to check for any damage, sighing in relief when he found none.
“Someone needs to be more careful with their ropes.” The other joked, but not even he was able to deny what had just happened had been completely by design. Which made John’s next statement even more worrying.
“Sherlock, there was no one there.”
The hall was opulent. Chandeliers and strings of lights filling the ceiling with an array of contrast, the guests below were dressed in the finest of silk costumes and bejewel masks. A scene for kings and queens of an ancient time, which Sherlock was sure John was finding incredibly charming. The detective, however, couldn’t care less about any of it. They were there to work, and if his friend looked even better than usual in his expensive —courtesy of Mycroft— blue suit and simple mask, well, he was hardly at fault for the distraction.
The blogger stood watching in amazement, when Sherlock got a brilliant idea. “Dance with me?” The brunette held out his hand to the other, as John frowned and turned his head in an attempt to make sure he had heard him correctly.
“What” He asked, to which the younger man just made an impatient gesture with his stretched limb.
“Come on, we need to at least look like we’re not here to trap a killer.” Sherlock commented, a few people already staring at the couple of men standing at the centre of the dance floor like idiots. “I’ll let you lead.” He suggested, knowing John would probably agree faster if he were in a position of control, since dancing was definitely not his area. The blonde accepted the hand with a surprisingly easy smile and lead them away with limited skill across the floor.
“Be on the lookout John,” Sherlock reminded, looking over his friend’s shoulder to the crowd of potential suspects, as the blonde’s hand on his waist left a scorching mark on his back. “This man is extremely dangerous, and he already knows we’re here for him.” John nodded, ever the soldier, and stayed silent as they both scanned the threats around them and twirled together over the floor.
After a while, John’s grip on him relaxed and he worded softly. “Don’t you think this is a little too familiar?” He asked, the lines on his face speaking of his confusion. “You know, the letters, the ghost, the opera?”
“Familiar? We’ve never had a case like this.” Sherlock joked, as the feeling of being watched returned in full, almost locking him in place. He failed to know exactly how, but he was sure one of the masked faces was looking at him, intentionally. Not adverting its sight from every turn John guided.
“You know what I mean.” The blonde said, and yes, he knew exactly how utterly ridiculous his meaning was.
“So you believe somewhere there’s a deformed masked phantom watching us,” He asked, an eyebrow arching in false amusement as his hands gripped the fabric of the blue suit more strongly at his own wording, suspecting gaze studying their surroundings. “Ready to drop a chandelier over our heads?”
“Well, it’s not as dramatic as a chandelier, but that sandbag could have killed you.” John reminded him, closing his eyes in dread to the memory of Sherlock almost being severely injured by something falling from the ceiling. The brunette felt the other’s fingers dig into his flesh too as John attempted to calm his breathing.
“John, you’re smarter than this,” The tone of voice once more cutting and intelligent. Making him feel a bit more confident behind his black mask; as if the unknown stranger couldn’t possibly take the blonde away from him. Spectre or not. “Even if our killer were the very Erik straight out of a ludicrous novel, that automatically would determine him not a real ghost, remember?” John’s lips pursed in contemplation. Probably trying to rationalise the deep gut calling that told him there was something different this time.
Sherlock settled, sighing as he believed he had managed to convince him, even if he couldn’t very well convince himself. John’s eyes strayed upwards, watching at something in the distance over the brunette’s shoulder. “Yeah?” He said, the voice faint and not landing the sarcasm as it should. “And how do you explain that?” He motioned to a place to his left, and when the detective turned, he saw a strange figure, masked completely, wearing a very long cape; it hurried up the stairs out of anyone’s scrutiny. The man itself gave Sherlock shivers of anticipation and dismay, but what he saw around him made the hole in his stomach grow even bigger. Perhaps he should have listened to John and had breakfast after all.
“Find Lestrade, I’ll track him.” He whispered, not straying his eyes from the unnaturally floating candles following the shadow. No one but them appeared to notice, and that wasn’t exactly an encouraging clue. It couldn’t —at least, shouldn’t—be true, but there it was.
John tightened his grip on him reluctant to let him go, the both of them still twirling with the music as if they were trapped inside a broken merry-go-round with no hope of getting out. The exhilaration turning into unescapable dizziness. “He already tried to kill you once,” The blonde said, his blue eyes now fixed on his.
“Faulty ropes, John.” Sherlock answered, unspokenly bringing to light the reality of their unfortunate situation. There was no other way but to split up and hope for both of them to came out with all their limbs still attached. John knew this, which didn’t mean he liked it one bit.
He still nodded, resigned; and in a fit of impulsiveness softly kissed the detective’s cheek. The other gasped, and felt as the blonde slipped away from his hold and into the night to look for the DI, the feeling of apprehension consumed him as he turned in the other direction in search of their phantom alone.
Sherlock ran up the stairs, chasing the tall stranger in a mask. He ignored the fact of how closely his situation resembled one that only lived on paper. He followed him, but the shadow was extremely elusive, first guiding him to a long hallway with several doors lining the walls on either side but disappearing from sight once the detective managed to get there. Sherlock took sure steps forward, confident that he would encounter the very much human suspect hiding behind one of the doors, and all of the confusion would finally cease.
He had no way of knowing which door had been entered however, and choosing the right one on the first try was imperative if he wanted to avoid allowing his shadow to slip away and lose track of him. His pale eyes scanned the shadows before him, as white letters floated up from the scarce furniture; thankfully, it was enough for the genius to make an educated guess and stride towards the door at the front.
Once he entered, he felt as if the temperature had dropped several degrees. The small bedroom was shrouded in darkness with no windows or electricity switch in sight. A tall imposing mirror covered the majority of the far wall past a small dining table.
As he stood on the centre of the room, he felt the presence return, something definitely moving then. He had been able to watch the distinctive shadow grow, but once he neared the wall was empty with no means of scape for anyone who wasn’t made of wistful air. A frustrating concept crossed his mind, that gnawing thought that he may finally be losing his mind invaded him as the noises approached him from behind.
Once he turned around and saw the figure, it was already too late.
The shadows consumed him, as he found himself trapped in a big, dark, empty room. Mist gathered around him, and the only source of light came from the rectangular opening in the distance, not unlike a window; its sight to the room at the other side of the mirror.
True panic gripped him for the first time as his fists banged on the smooth surface of the glass; but there was no way to break through, locked inside a bottomless object.
After a few moments of futile attempts to get out, and no other means of freeing himself he turned, sliding down the mirror and gripping his own hair frustratedly. There was no way this could be real, yet it was. He had been trapped inside a mirror and was probably going to remain there for the rest of eternity. He will never step foot on 221B again, and Lestrade would probably never solve another murder.
He thought about them, his friends; but the image of John desperate, forever wondering what had become of him, was indescribable. All of it hurt, but leaving him behind was as painful as a knife piercing him, cutting through flesh and bone and leaving him a gaping hole.
The door on the room at other end opened, and Sherlock turned around to watch. It was John, beautiful John desperately looking for him. His jacket was gone and the lines on his face were more pronounced. Sherlock knocked on the surface, trying to get his attention, and somehow, even if none of this made any sense, the blonde could hear him; and he could make out the other’s figure through the fogged glass.
“John?” Sherlock asked, feeling as if he didn’t deserve such miracle that was John Watson before him.
“Jesus, Sherlock.” The other swore, frantically looking for a way to release his friend. Ignoring the apparent confusion he must be feeling at seeing a spacious room on the other side of what should be a quite flat reflection. “How?” He asked, but not even that was able to distract him from his task. He bent down, and searched for any levers of latches that he could pull to open up the mirror.
“He trapped me here so I won't catch him, you can’t open it.” Sherlock commented, sure he had tried everything, not even sure quite how he had managed to get him in in the first place, let alone how he was supposed to get out.
The blonde shook his head stubbornly, refusing to admit defeat in this. He would never leave the other behind. “Stand back!” He yelled as he slammed a chair to the glass looking to break it, but nothing happened. “Fuck.” He eloquently said, but tried with something different, even going as far as slamming his whole weight behind a fire extinguisher he had gotten from a different room; but nothing seemed to work.
“John, go.” Sherlock finally uttered, placing his pale hand over the smooth surface to be as close to him as it was possible at the moment. “If you find him now, you’ll prevent this man from murdering someone else.”
“Oh, I’ll find him, alright.” The other said, one of his hands supported on his hips and the other passing over his face, attempting the get rid of the anger and frustration. “Right after I get you out of here.” He turned determined eyes to him. And in that moment Sherlock hesitantly believed him, if there was a man that could save him, as he had done many times before, it was John Watson. But the suspect was more important, he could trap someone else here, he could come back and find John here and that wouldn’t go down well. He had to go. Even if the oxygen was starting to run out and his breathing came in short waves, for all he knew, he could already have been dead since the moment the entrance to the mirror was closed. All which remained of him an echo, the last of his life clinging to a reality until he faded away.
“I won’t leave you here to suffocate.” The blonde swore, folding the sleeves of his shirt over his arms as he continued to look for a way to free his friend, despite Sherlock’s insistence that he left. After a few moments with not a resolution in sight he stopped to watch the brunette’s face, the sheer terror that Sherlock was certain was painted over his features was enough to give the blogger pause. “Listen to me,” He said, the words leaving no room for doubt or argument. “You’re my whole world.” There were tears threatening to spill from the ocean eyes, and the brunette couldn’t even reach out. “And I promise I will get you out of here, and then I’ll kill the bastard who dared to try to take the man I love away from me.” The way he said it resonated in Sherlock, leaving him to breathe past shallow gasps. The reverence in which he-
“That’s it!” The detective exclaimed, a bit of life returning to him as the answer to the mystery glowed in front of his eyes. At least all of this hadn’t been in vain. “John, he didn’t kill Catherine, he’s trying to get revenge on the real killer!” He tapped against the glass as hard as he could, which, oxygen deprived, was not much. “You need to-” He started, but never got to finish as he slowly succumbed to the darkness and lost consciousness.
A bright white light was shining against his face from behind his eyelids. The sterile smell of hospital permeated the air around what appeared to be a very uncomfortable bed. Great.
“John?” He said as he opened his eyes. Blinking at the unnatural garish light, reaching his hand for the other to take it. “Where-?” He asked, but the dryness in his throat stopped his sentence with a fit of coughs.
John reached for a glass of water with a straw from the bedside table, and placed it before his lips. The water should be refreshing but instead it tasted stale on his tongue. “Hospital.” He answered, which wasn’t exactly what Sherlock wanted to know. “You git.” The blonde said, no hint of actual heat behind the words. “If you do anything like that to me again, I’ll kill you myself.” His tan fingers traced smooth circles over the pale skin. He was bent over his bed, sitting in what appeared to be the most uncomfortable chair in the universe.
Something gnawed at the genius’ mind though, something about a mirror and him not being able to see John anymore. “How?” He asked confused. His eyebrows drawing closer as he scanned the man next to him. The worried lines were there but there was an undercurrent of satisfaction that hadn’t been present before, in any of their trips to the hospital.
“The phantom and the real killer, the director?” The brunette asked, because at least he remembered enough to know what he had deduced although he could barely recall why. He griped the hand tighter under his slender fingers. “Did he-?” John shut him up with a look of stubborn command.
“Don’t worry about that now.” He said, brushing away the strands on the other’s forehead with care. His blue eyes were fixed on the headboard behind the genius but his voice sounded somehow different, softer.
“But-” Sherlock wanted to protest, but the sensation felt good and he was really tired. He sighed and leaned back, exhaustion pulling him under once more. “Shh,” John dismissed him, whispering to drown the suffocating silence of the room. “You’re safe.”
The detective was about to let him lull him back to sleep, when he remembered something very important, something which his mind didn’t let him leave unanswered before traveling to the realm of dreams. “John,” He started, watching as the blonde stared strangely ahead, “How am I here?” Sherlock asked, now insistent that John looked at him, something not sitting right with this picture. “How did I manage to get out?” He asked, knowing deep in his soul that he wouldn’t like the answer. John turned to him, his blue eyes empty and unfamiliar in the strange glare caused by the fluorescent lights above, half of his face was gnarled in scars as he grinned patronisingly. Whatever this was, it wasn’t John.
“Oh, Sherlock” It said. “You never left the mirror.”