Curved Mirror

By Maelynn Meep

The first time Captain Martin Creiff heard the name Sherlock was in a shop on Baker Street.

He ignored the call of the unfamiliar name, barely pausing in his collecting a Toblerone for Arthur along with the various other snacks required by the miniscule company of MJN, bored of standby. The name was called again and he did indeed stop a bit to ponder at the idea of someone choosing to name a child that. He shook it off.

It was only when he turned around, almost crashing right into the little, kindly-looking old lady staring expectantly up at him, that he realized she had been seeking him out. He stepped back a bit, someone put out by her half-horrified, half-ecstatic and yet supremely disbelieving expression. He blinked at her awkwardly. "Can I… help you?"

She gasped, a small, almost unnoticeable, breathy sound, as if she didn't believe he would ever actually respond to her. She stared at him as if he were some sort of piece in a collection, taking in his features. "… Sherlock?" She asked again, voice wavering. Martin opened his mouth, unsure what to say, but was interrupted as she gasped again, placing her face in her hands. "Sorry. Sorry." She said, shaking her head. "Silly old woman." She shook slightly, and he understood with a heavy heart that she must be crying.

Martin felt his confusion and shock melt in an instant. He placed his hand on her shoulder, feeling the action was far too inadequate as he said, "It's… fine." He sighed, looking over her trembling form and cursing whoever had caused this poor, harmless woman so much pain. "Are you alright?"

She shook her head at that, putting her hands down and glancing at him again. "Of course you're not… I mean you look exactly like… Martin raised his eyebrows, trying to understand. "You're even a little too nice." She trailed off unsurely, looking up at him, as if for answers. He had none. "Silly to hope… I'm sorry dear, it's just… I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize." He said sincerely.

Unfortunately that broke her completely and she was in his arms, practically weeping, "It's been three months since… He… since he killed himself and I wanted to stay strong for John, poor dear, I don't know how he's going to move on, but every time I see those holes in the walls or smell chemicals in the air, I just…" She sobbed on his shoulder. "And you. It's not your fault, dear, you just look so much like…" She gasped on her words, seemingly unable to get them out anymore.

And that's how Captain Martin Creiff ended up holding a stranger in his arms as she cried on his shoulders in the middle of a shop.

Explaining to the others about the lack of snacks and supply of wetness on his shoulder when he got back was a different matter.

The second time he heard the name he barely caught it.

In its usual style, Martin's luck had decided that not only would his favorite uncle die, but would die at the worst time and place possible. The amount of cancelled van jobs almost made him physically shudder, but he opted to stay as strong as he could, taking in his family's refusal to identify the body and feeling as if he owed a debt to the uncle that made his summers as pleasant as possible.

He gathered up as much courage as he could muster before walking into St. Bartholomew's hospital, the smell of sickness and the subsequent medicine always making him feel ill himself. He reached the lady at the desk and was gestured toward a Yarder, waiting for him just a bit down the hall. The man started upon seeing him, looking at him up and down before finally putting out a hand and introducing himself as D.I. Lestrade.

"Sorry you had to come do this." The D.I. said and Martin could sense from his voice that the man's mind was on other things, a puzzle waiting to be sorted.

Martin shrugged. "As am I." He put his hands in his pockets and scuffed his shoe along the ground. "Nicest one in the family, him."

Lestrade rolled his eyes at that. "Yeah, I could tell by the way the others refused to see him."

"That… basically describes my family." Martin replied, sighing. He followed the Inspector down the corridors, down to what Martin could only assume was the morgue. He couldn't help but catch the other man glancing at him periodically, as if he may disappear.

They reached a set of double doors and Lestrade swung them open confidently, striding over to a woman, working and with her back to them. "Molly, we've got our next-of-kin." The D.I. called.

The woman turned around and Martin found he liked her immediately. Thin, mousy, brunette and slightly awkward. Her eyes widened at the sight of him and a small breath of "Sherlock." was just barely heard by him before she quickly reigned in her control. Instead she looked toward Lestrade, as if there was a joke or secret to share. He just glanced back at her with a questioning gaze.

She caught Martin's eye and jolted, reminded of their purpose there. She briskly walked over to a slab, on it a body covered in a sheet. Martin followed her, nervous at the prospect of seeing his dead uncle. "We got the prints off his fingers, no ID on him, so far it looks like a bad mugging. He had a heart attack." She said, faltering over her words a little and gently folding back the sheet to reveal the man's head. "But we still need to make sure—"

Martin grimaced at the sight, closing his eyes. "Yes. Yes that's definitely him." He said hastily.

Molly just nodded, putting the sheet back. Martin let out a breath of relief, feeling a pat on the back as Lestrade started leading him out of the room. As the D.I. thanked him for coming in, Martin swore he saw, in the corner of his eye, Molly look at him one last time before shaking her head with finality.

They reached the hospital exit and were shaking hands when Lestrade made face and hesitated. "This may sound strange," He said, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. "But you wouldn't happen to be related to any Holmes'?"

Martin frowned wanly in bewilderment. "No…" He replied, mostly unsure.

Lestrade nodded. "Thought so. Sorry it's just you look a lot like this man I used to work with." He smiled and shrugged it off. "Anyways thanks for helping out."

As Martin left the hospital, he couldn't help but feel like a huge puzzle piece had been thrown at him. And he knew exactly what it was.

Holmes.

When he got back to Fitton, he couldn't help but look up any possible ties to anyone named Holmes. He found one. A half-aunt on his mother's side that he'd never met: one Sylvia Westmore, married to Albert Holmes with two children. Try as he might, the children's names were unable to be found.

Douglas had dragged him into a pub in Prague the next time he was reminded the name, about a year after the last and two after the first.

He sat there glumly as Douglas chatted with the various nearby patrons, enjoying his fizzy drink to the point of ordering fourths while Martin was barely through his first pint. It was no surprise that he ignored the woman as she slid into the seat next to him, thoroughly annoyed at the first officer for this horrible evening.

It was his irritation only that caused him not to flinch away as lips nearly touched his ear and whispered. "I knew it."

He allowed himself to glance at her, emotions wiped from his face, the day far too ghastly for him to put up with anything else. "What?" He asked, voice sharp.

She wasn't put off by his tone, if anything she purred. She sat back and smiled at him knowingly. "You're alive." He arched a brow at her. "Have you told John?" He didn't answer, looking toward Douglas distractedly. She took this as a refusal to reply and laughed, drawing his attention again. "How incredibly… cold of you." She grinned and leaned in close to him. "We never did have that dinner." Her voice felt like velvet in his mind.

It was only after he steadily ignored her, only to be hauled out by Douglas, having suddenly decided the place was 'dull', did he realize that she must have been under the impression that he was Sherlock.

He instantly felt ashamed for not correcting her.

On the flight back, Martin made the partial mistake of, while thinking it over, mumbling the words 'Sherlock Holmes' too close to Arthur. In return, he was rewarded with a long-winded rant on an apparently well-known detective ("He's just like Ms. Marple, Skip! You'd love him!") along with directions to a certain blog. Curiosity abounded, Martin read the entire thing in one sitting.

It was near three months since the Woman in Prague that Martin ran into John Watson. Or, more correctly, John Watson ran him down.

Again on standby in London, Martin had taken to getting out of the hotel and away from the airport, taking walks along random streets through the city. On that day, he'd walked past a man, who glanced at him for a moment before continuing on his way. A particularly cold breeze brushed against his skin and he shivered before pulling up his coat collar, huddling into himself a bit against the weather.

Next thing he knew, he was on the floor of the nearest alley.

And John Watson was shouting at him.

John Watson. John-the-person-he-never-wanted-to-meet-for-fear-of-how-he'd-react-Watson. Was shouting at him. Was shouting at him about all sorts of things. Shouting about how stupid he must be and how smart Martin must feel. Shouting about how that poor disguise only fooled him for a second. Shouting at him for pulling his coat collar up. Shouting at him about 'how could he leave him?' Shouting at him about 'why?' And the entire time John's grip held firm on the front of Martin's jacket, bunching the fabric up and holding the unresisting Martin down. But Martin wouldn't, couldn't make himself struggle against the grip, against the man trying and failing not to fall apart before him. He closed his eyes and let the words fly over him, opening them tentatively as Watson trailed off, gazing at him with realization in his eyes.

"You're not him."

"I'm not him." Martin replied simply and John nearly jumped away from him, backing up against the wall, drawing his knees up to his chest and sobbing. Reminded of the first woman, Martin moved next to John and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, gently pushing him into an embrace. John continued to cry and he felt tears stinging his eyes as well. "I'm sorry." He said, voice cracking.

John laughed amongst his tears. "It's n-not your fault." He laughed again. "Look at me." He said, calming down a little. "I'm a right mess. Just tackled a man into an alley—"

"Because he has frankly alarmingly similar features to your best friend. I think he'll forgive you." Martin said, smiling.

Sighing, John's crying almost ceased as he sat himself up and wiped his face. "Well, sorry anyway." A thought seemed to occur to him. "How often have you been mistaken for Sherlock?"

Martin leaned back, thinking. "This would be the… fifth time?"

John put his face in his hands. "Oh god. Oh god, I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

John shook his head and sniffed before standing up, holding out a hand to Martin, who took it. John faltered for a moment before asking, "This isn't because you look…" He sighed. "I mean… I think we could both use a pint. Want to… come with me?"

Martin just nodded.

A few conversations later and Martin found out exactly why John Watson was so fascinated by Sherlock Holmes. And possibly why Sherlock Holmes was so fascinated by John Watson.

He also learned that case stories were much more fun to listen to, not just read.

The day after Martin met John was the day he met the man with the umbrella. He didn't say much but Martin could gather at least one important fact from the experience.

"Sherlock," Said the man, standing on the corner, a street away from Martin's hotel. Martin froze at the name, wearily watching the man. "What did we discuss about talking to John? Do be more careful and less obvious. Wouldn't want all that time and energy spent to go to waste now would we?" The man smirked before leaving, and Martin was left with a bitter taste in his mouth and an even more bitter truth.

Sherlock Holmes was alive.

Sherlock Holmes was alive.

A few months short of three years since Martin's encounter with Mrs. Hudson, Martin saw him.

Walking from his hotel in Paris, on an overcast day, Martin saw him. On the other side of the street, a man with a mop of half-auburn hair, the roots coming in as ink-black – with his measly jacket's coat collar pulled up. Suddenly it hit him. Suddenly, Martin understood John Watson's need to shove him into the alley and scream at him. Martin froze for a moment before acting impulsively.

And then Martin, the man who'd never started any real fight in his life, a man who had been beaten up by a child, the man who'd gone running in terror of a strange sound from his watch, grabbed Sherlock Holmes by the arm and punched him in the face.

The man went down solidly and, before he could retaliate, Martin pounced on him and pinned him down. He found himself yelling at Holmes, all the things he'd wanted to say at his picture, let alone the man himself, pouring out of him. "How could you do this to them?! How could you not tell them?! How could you do this to John?!" He froze for a movement, breathing heavily and Holmes under him stared openly and with wild eyes, far from the aloof and mysterious detective from the stories. A thought drifted through Martin's brain that perhaps the man thought the pilot a vengeful ghost or spirit of his subconscious, that the man thought he had gone insane from guilt. Martin gritted his teeth at the thought and shook him firmly. "And how dare you leave me to wander around giving them false hope."

Holmes stiffened under him at the statement, eyes starting to roam over Martin's features in a practiced, abet slightly hasty, way. He relaxed a bit. "Pilot. Small charter company." He nodded to himself, as if finally allowing the idea of insanity to evaporate. Martin sighed, pushing himself off the detective, seated on the ground. God he even sounded like Martin. He rubbed his eyes.

"For them." He distantly heard Holmes murmur.

"Excuse me?" Martin said, harsher than he meant but in no mood to apologize.

Holmes sat up, drawing his knees to his chest and supporting his head by them. "Are they…" He struggled, looking away from the pilot beside him. "Are they alright?"

Rolling his eyes, Martin muttered, "What would you care?"

Holmes turned to him sharply. "Don't ever insinuate I don't care."

The familiarity of the look of Holmes struck Martin again, and he couldn't quite quiet the thought of how similar the two appeared. An image of a mirror's reflection talking back and acting on it's own came to mind. He sighed. "I'll give you a deal: you tell me what you meant. Then I'll tell you about everyone. Okay?"

Holmes again pierced him with a gaze, perhaps studying his motives or possible threat, Martin didn't care. The genius, however, huffed and said, "Fine." Tone bristly.

And from there Martin learned quite a different perspective on the story from the papers and articles he'd studied. A story about a man who had allowed the enemy to close in on him, trap him and essentially beat him. A story about a man who had willingly given up and denounced everything he'd had in every sense. A story where three people had been the basis of the entirety of his decision, two of which he hadn't known he'd considered friends until that moment. A story about someone willing to lay down all that they were for another.

"I've been hunting down the spindles of Moriarty's web." Sherlock continued, pulling his jacket closer to him against the wind. "Just one more to go now. Been tracking him in hopes I get to him before his next destination. From what I can determine, he's headed to London next and I'm not sure I should…" He trailed off, looking at Martin desperately.

A bit stunned into silence by the massiveness of the truth, Martin complied with the unspoken request unthinkingly. "They miss you. John most of all."

"Who've you seen?"

Martin ran a hand through his hair, thinking. "From what I can determine: Mrs. Hudson, she's fine but freaked a bit when she saw me. That D.I. Lestrade and a woman he called Molly? They were nice about it but… sad." Sherlock stared at him, absorbing everything he had to say. "And…." Regret tainted Martin's tone faintly. "There was this woman. In Prague. She thought I was you. Never figured out who she was but she seemed so relieved." He looked over to Sherlock and noticed his eyes widening, looking down at the ground as if in shame. "A man with an umbrella also thought I was you. Made me suspect." He gestured towards Sherlock, as if that covered everything. The detective just grimaced at the mention of the man.

"And John?"

Memories of that evening in the pub swarmed Martin. "John's… surviving. I'd call it 'soldiering on.'"

Sherlock nodded. "He's not-?"

"No." Martin said firmly. "From what I got from him, and I talked to him the longest, he's a soldier. Nobody should take his sorrow for weakness. He's not… okay. But, he'll be fine."

"I'd hoped so."

Sherlock looked at the ground, scuffing his feet absently and the fire that had just possessed Martin roared into life again. "What happens if you die?"

Sherlock looked up sharply. "What?"

"What if," Martin said, pinning Holmes down as much as he could with a stare. "You get hurt or killed out here, looking for the 'spindles'. What happens with John?"

"He already thinks—"

"He deserves to know." Martin pushed. An idea came to mind and he got out his phone, pushing it into Sherlock's hands. "You have a phone?" Sherlock nodded, abet confusedly, an expression that didn't look right on his face. "Give it." Surprisingly, he did unquestioningly. Martin immediately started typing something into it. "I'm giving you my number. You give me yours. You text me once every… let's say two weeks to let me know you're alive. If you don't, I'll tell John what really happened."

Sherlock's eyes drifted to meet his, gaze searching. "You would?"

"I would."

"Good." He replied, swiftly typing in his number onto Martin's cheap mobile.

Two weeks after his encounter with Holmes, Martin received a text. And another two weeks after that. And so on.

"Alive. SH."

They were in Montreal four months later when Martin noticed the front page of Douglas' newspaper. Uncharacteristically, he snatched it from him, ignoring the first officer's incredulous exclamation.

'SHERLOCK HOLMES ALIVE." The heading read. He flipped it open, a recent picture of Sherlock and John greeting him, the doctor smiling and the detective's eyes glittering.

Martin smirked and when the usual text failed to come in, he did not question it.

A/N: This fic has been a while in the making. It really struck me that if John saw Martin on the street, his potential reaction could be disastrous and that, after a while of being mistaken for him and seeing the grief it's caused, Martin would hold no love for Sherlock if he ran into him as well. It's also a first for a few things: I've never written Molly, Mrs. Hudson or Irene before, which annoys me a bit because I love those ladies. I'm fairly sure their characterizations play out well. I'd also love to point out this: severely angry/annoyed Martin sounds like Sherlock. I have proof. Benedict does great at keeping characters separate from each other, Martin surely doesn't sound like Sherlock and I've never crossed the two mentally. However in St. Petersburg there is a line that made me think "Sherlock when did you get here?" It is as Martin has appeared with the bottle to blackmail Mr. Shappey and says "What have you got for Arthur?!" And the tone was cold, impersonal and so very Sherlock. It is hence my headcanon that Martin sounds like that when thoroughly provoked, which is my reasoning for Irene thinking what she did.

Beta: None. My apologies. I'd love to know if you spot something important but no "do you have spell check" questions or flames por favor.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything and would never steal these characters from their wonderful creators, and if I did I'd give them right back.