Summary:

Imagine your biggest fear, not the silly sort, like your fear of spiders or your fear of heights, imagine the fear that you lock away, the fear that lives in the deepest, darkest place in your heart. The fear that you refuse to acknowledge because it is that strong. The fear that, once you confess to it, once you free it, it takes over you. Now imagine that fear manifested as an object, an external force, one that once it takes over your mind with its poison, takes the minds of those around you.

What you are imagining now is The Mirror.

"What? - Never mind."

John shifted his gaze from the large object that Sherlock had brought into the flat and renewed his focus back on the laptop, intent on writing his blog without any distractions. The last week had been what he called a 'demanding week.' Not necessarily a 'bad week' those were reserved for the weeks Sherlock was bored but, a week of minimal sleep, even less food and what he classed as a dangerously low amount of tea was not exactly a 'good week.'

He was typing up the Ripper Case, the case which was at the heart of his problems and wanted to finish writing it today as tomorrow would be a 'bad day' or in other words, Sherlock would be bored. Which was a bit more than a bit not good.
Fortunately, (or not, he hadn't decided) Sherlock had apparently already taken up a case and was whizzing round the flat, babbling at the speed of light. John let out a resigned sigh as he closed his laptop and busied himself in the kitchen, starting to make some tea, not even trying to figure out what Sherlock was up to, he learnt very early on that interrupting Sherlock Holmes while he was on a case could very damn well be detrimental to your health. Sherlock had a case and John's frankly silly dream of a quiet, relaxing day could wait. So, with that in mind, John made absolutely sure to enjoy his tea while he could, he wouldn't be drinking such a luxury in the next week, maybe five days if he was lucky.

John looked at the object in the middle of the room again, the sheet that covered it flowed lightly in the breeze, and it was an oddly calming sight, almost therapeutic. It drew John in, made everything clearer, more calmer, more-

"What are you doing?" Sherlock's voice jolted John out of whatever he was in, alerting John to the fact that he was standing right in front of the object, arm raised, itching to remove the sheet that separated the object, whatever it was, and John.

"Er…Nothing…" John cringed at the useless excuse and edged away from the object to sit in his seat, hoping against hope that Sherlock would drop it and he could have his tea so he could forget whatever just happened to him a few moments ago.

But Sherlock being Sherlock, who just needs to know everything about everything, (except about the most basic of knowledge, it still shook John that Sherlock didn't know the Earth went round the Sun) naturally Sherlock would want to know why John was just wondering what the object was so he could finally call it something more specific than the object, (the sarcasm was dripping from John's thoughts).

"So-"

"What is it then?" John asked, pointing to the object, before Sherlock could finish asking what John knew he was going to ask.

For a moment Sherlock looked thrown as if he had never been cut off in his life, which added to John's satisfaction, but quickly recovered, now wearing his mask of innocence and said "Oh, just something for a case."

"I can see that."

"Congratulations John."

"I'm not stupid."

"I'll leave you to your own deductions."

"Seriously, Sherlock, what is it?"

"Shouldn't you be at home with Mary or something?" Sherlock questioned, clearly irritated, it didn't take Sherlock Holmes to realise that.

"Don't answer my question with a question Sherlock, and she's in Cardiff, that's why I'm here."

"I'm hurt John, you only came here because Mary left?" Sherlock said in mock hurt.

"For god's sake, Sherlock." John sighed, and stood up from his chair, tiring of Sherlock's childish moods and tried to remove the sheet so he could see what the goddamned thing was already!
Keyword: Tried.

Sherlock, (of course!) deflected John's prying hand and shielded any further attempts on the mirror by planting himself firmly between the mirror and John. John launched himself at Sherlock. Punches were thrown, what else could John do, he loved a good fight now and then. Sherlock had managed to get to his feet. So did John. John launched himself at Sherlock. Again. Sherlock clasped the sheet in his long, slender fingers while he toppled over, clearly caught off guard that the same attack strategy had been applied instead of a (logically) new one, (but probably more caught off guard that he had been caught off guard).
And then the inevitable happened. Well, gravity happened for want of a better term.
The sheet fell, in slow motion like a leaf, light, gracefully and attracted all the eyes in the room, keeping them locked on the sheet with an unearthly hold.
John gasped.
It was here.
The Mirror.

John stumbled backwards, common things like balance or breathing forgotten in his shock. His knees felt weak, his heart pounded in his throat, aching and sore, his brain stopped functioning, and John found it difficult to process a single thought. His whole body was on pause, frozen, parked.

It was an age before John could breathe and even longer before he could manifest a thought let alone move. When he did, he ran.

Call it an old habit, or Army training, but John Watson always found it relaxing when he ran, when the cold, harsh air bit his skin and he could feel the blood pumping through his veins, rushing to his muscles and lungs. The way his heart thumped in his chest was soothing, like a sedative lulling a man to a dreamless sleep, allowing his thoughts to wander, roam free without bounds.

When he joined the Army all those years ago, he didn't think for one second he would ever see It again, (the capitals where present even in his head) in fact, It was the reason he became a surgeon, why he joined the army. In a way It had help shape the man he had become.

Imagine your biggest fear, not the silly sort, like your fear of spiders or your fear of heights, imagine the fear that you lock away, the fear that lives in the deepest, darkest place in your heart. The fear that you refuse to acknowledge because it is that strong. The fear that, once you confess to it, once you free it, it takes over you. Now imagine that fear manifested as an object, an external force, one that once it takes over your mind with its poison, takes the minds of those around you.

What you are imagining now is The Mirror.

And you better pray that what you are imagining stays in your imagination, an image concocted out of a description, nothing more. Because you really don't want that part of your imagination to become a reality.

Why?

Because it will tear everything you know apart.

And it had done so to John before, and now it will do it again.

John, faced with this conclusion now feared something else entirely, what it would do to Sherlock.
John with new found resolve, made his way to their flat, winding his way through the people milling about at Baker Street Station and all but ran when his path cleared.

"Sherlock!"

"John?" The concern in Sherlock's voice would in any other day, surprise him but today, he could only think of but one thing, and that was getting that thing out of the flat and then for the second time in his life, try to forget, "Are you okay? John?"

"Get that thing out of here." His hands were trembling, his glare icy cold, completely the opposite of his unassuming, gentle persona, "Now."

"It's for a case."

Right now, Sherlock baritone voice was absolutely infuriating, could the man who claims he knows everything about anything under the sun, really not know how much danger they were in? Could he not deduce it from his stance, his hands, and his face?

"It's dangerous!"

"It's a mirror!" Sherlock scoffed, almost laughed but there was something that was serious in his eyes, John couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"No it's not!" John roared, briefly sparing a thought for his landlady and how the noise would be worrying her, so he tried to keep his voice steady when he said, "You don't know the half of it."

Sherlock looked like he was going to say something but just said, with the same tone John had used asked, "So then tell me."

John sighed. He hadn't told anyone about this, it was a secret that would never be discovered, that he would take to the grave. But he told Sherlock.

John Watson was a man of many words, he always had been. He had a reply to everything, much like Sherlock Holmes but unlike Sherlock, he also knew when to keep quiet. John could tell a tale, he knew that, his blog was proof, because however much his flatmate protested it was romantic nonsense, people enjoyed reading it. He could spin words to his favour, he could capture an audience with one well played word. So when he tried to tell Sherlock the most important story in his life and came up speechless, he was nothing short of shocked.

When he found the right words, he stumbled through them, unable to string the words into an intelligent sentence as he poured out his most guarded secret.

He was only a little boy when it started, ten years old in the summer of 1978. They were moving into their new house. He remembered it all so clearly, it was almost laughable that John had spent his entire life trying, trying so bloody hard to forget.
But It never leaves you. It never completely loosens its hold on you, John had spent his entire life figuring that one out. Harry was thirteen, a completely different person to the one she was now, she was happy unlike the woman that drowned in her sorrows. His mother and father were still married and all in all everyone was happy.

And then It started to poison the minds of his parents. He watched it happen with his own young eyes, he never saw it like his sister, who understood right from the beginning what happened, who was smart enough to know what was happening instead of ignoring it with the blissful innocence of the young. Maybe if he was older, he would be the same like his sister.

It made his father drink, it ruined his parent's marriage, it made his sister become damaged beyond repair and it made him grow older so much quickly. It made their father abuse their mother, abuse them. It made their lives torment, and then it killed his father. Who wasn't a bad person, he was a victim.

John told this to Sherlock as best as he could without crying, because damn the soldier in him, he wasn't this strong.

Sherlock saw a side to John that no one saw, he saw the sadness that hid behind John's happy and bright nature. It came as a shock to both him and John when Sherlock said,

"I know what it does. It happened to me as well."

Hello!

I hope you enjoyed what you have been kind enough to read! I got the idea when I watched Oculus, which this is based on.Updates will be whenever I have finished a chapter which could be any length of time, it really depends on whether I have time and how I much difficulty I have writing it. For those who are wondering, this is not slash, just a very strong friendship between two amazing characters.I have the plot done, so I know where I want to go with this! :)

Reviews would be very helpful, I want to know how I am doing and what I need to change. This is unbeta'd so any mistakes are my own.

THANK YOU!

Until the next page

~ ElevenWholockian ~