Beginnings

The first time he saw him, he was only six years old and playing with Harry in the woods that stretched out behind his grandmother's house. It was a beautiful summer day, not a single cloud in the sky and they were playing hide and seek and running around between the trees, while their granny prepared the afternoon tea.

Harry was hiding somewhere in the bushes, he could hear the leaves rustling every time she made the tiniest move. He, however, got a little distracted by a small pond at the edge of the woods, frogs were croaking and a tiny dragonfly passed right by his nose. John picked up a couple of stones and sent them flying across the shallow water, smiling when they bounced off the surface.

He bent over further to see if he could find one of the frogs; he couldn't see a thing, but his own reflection on the water. Except, that it was not only his face staring back at him. There was another boy, right next to him. He got so scared, he almost fell straight into to the pond. Barely catching himself, he blinked rapidly and looked around his shoulder, there was no one there, back in the pond, yes, there was a little boy. He was pale, with dark curly hair and startling, sad eyes. He waved at him and John's mouth fell open with surprise. He looked around again, but still, he was sitting here alone.

"Hey Johnny, you were supposed to look for me, silly." His sister burst through the bushes. "What's there to see?"

John quickly turned around and scrambled on his feet. "Nothing… it's just a pond."

"How interesting," Harry mused. "Let's go back to the house." With that, she grabbed his hand and dragged him along. John threw a quick glance back at the pond, but the little boy was gone.

The next time was when John was in 5th grade. It was his first week at a new school and everyone already hated him, his classmates made fun of him, because of his "weirdo sister" and the older kids called her names he didn't even understand.

School was out and John was hiding in the boy's bathroom, trying to avoid bumping into some of his idiotic classmates, since he didn't want to get into trouble. He'd just wait until everyone was gone, and then he could walk straight home without running into anyone. Of course, he didn't want to be a coward, but he didn't want his mum to get mad at him, she had enough problems with Harry already, he didn't need to add to that.

The bathroom was pretty dirty, doodles and insults scribbled all over the stalls. John heard footsteps in the hallway, silently praying that everyone would go straight home, so he could conveniently stay in his hiding place without being bothered.

"I'm almost certain that you could take on all of them, you know."

John spun around, he hadn't heard anyone coming in. And as a matter of fact, there was no one else in the bathroom. Until he saw him, looking at him from inside the window, a crooked smile playing around his lips. John recognized him immediately, it was the boy from the pond.

"You…?" He couldn't believe it. He remembered that day at his granny's house like nothing else that had ever happened to him. Over the years he had thought of him sometimes, but had convinced himself that it had been his vivid imagination playing tricks on his mind.

"Nice to see you again, John."

"I… you… who are you? How can you be there…," he gestured toward the mirror, "… and not here. Are you even real?"

"Of course I'm real," the boy snapped. "My name is Sherlock."

"Okay… um, hi. So, how…?" John shook his head, this was just too strange.

"Who cares whether I'm a by-product of your dull mind or if you're hallucinating, I'm here."

"But you're not," John replied, still skeptically eyeing Sherlock. "You're in the mirror."

"If you were paying attention, you would know that I'm not just in the mirror. I'm in every reflection, remember the pond?"

John took a step closer to the mirror. "How come I haven't seen you since?"

"I probably thought it was too boring," he said with a shrug. "You should get going, I'm sure your dear mother is already waiting for you."

He found it extremely hard to break away from the mirror, he wanted to keep talking to Sherlock, find out how he could possibly be there, but he was right, he needed to go. He'd never run home so fast.

From that day on, Sherlock was there nearly constantly. Every time John looked in the mirror, he stood right next to him in the reflection, and after a while it turned out that his invisible companion was rather observant.

"Did you know that your classmate Sebastian, who usually likes to makes so much fun of you, still sleeps in his mummy's bed, because he's so scared of the dark?" he casually said one morning, when John was especially terrified of going to school.

John mentioned this during his next encounter with Sebastian and no one ever bothered him again. When he got home that day, the first thing was to run to the mirror he'd found in the basement and taken to his room. "You are fantastic," he muttered.

The answer was just a happy chuckle coming from the mirror he wasn't even looking at.

"Don't go out with her, she has cheated on every single boyfriend she's ever had."

John rolled his eyes. He was getting ready for his first date, he was fifteen years old, he thought it was about time.

He didn't even ask Sherlock how he knew anymore, he was deducing people all the time, it was just part of his days. He also still had no idea how Sherlock could, well, exist, but he was also at a point past caring. He had grown used to Sherlock, he knew when to stay away and sometimes his presence was more than convenient, throwing him little hints when he passed windows and mirrors. He was terribly smart, which made him terribly annoying at times.

They often got into arguments, John trying very hard to keep his voice down, because he more and more noticed the strange looks Harry was throwing him over the dinner table.

However, he enjoyed the constant company. It was the reason he always smiled at the mirror, it was their little secret.

Before the Nightmare

John had never told anyone about Sherlock. It had been quite embarrassing at times, when John had mumbled "shut up" at nothing but thin air, because he'd forgotten that Sherlock was not really there, but he had accepted his friend as part of his life.

Sometimes he walked down the street and saw Sherlock walking next to him in the display windows, and he noticed how Sherlock was changing, growing older, just like he was.

"You know, actually I'm way too old for an imaginary friend."

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I'm not imaginary."

"But you only exist in reflections of me. And no one else can see you. Or hear you."

"That doesn't mean I'm not real."

"I think there might be something wrong with my brain." He snorted. If anyone caught him like that, they'd think he was completely nuts. Which he probably was.

"Your brain is just fine, you're a doctor now, you should know."

"Right."

John stomped up the stairs to his flat, this night had been a complete disaster. Things with Mary had been going so well, at least that's what he had thought, but apparently she didn't "feel it anymore" and John always seemed so "distracted". So basically that was it for them.

He didn't turn on the light in his flat, he merely shuffled to his bed, feeling absolutely miserable. It wasn't long, however, until he switched on the small lamp next to his bed and started staring at the photo of him and Harry on his bedside table, only concentrating on his own reflection in the dim light.

"Sherlock, are you there?" It was silent for a while. "Sherlock?" He tried his hardest not to sound panicky. He was always there, why wouldn't he be now? Where could he have possibly gone? Suddenly, he felt awfully lonely.

"Please?"

"You're better off without her anyway."

He could see Sherlock's pale eyes in the glass of the picture frame, staring back at him. "Well, thanks a lot, that was exactly what I needed to hear."

"I'm just telling you the truth, she was utterly boring."

"Can you kindly enough stop being rude for a second?" John sighed and buried his head in one of his pillows, this time he really wasn't helping at all.

"Do you want me to leave?" Sherlock asked timidly.

Well, that was new, usually he didn't back down so easily. He still didn't look at him, though. John just slightly shook his hand. "No. Actually, you're kinda my best friend," he mumbled into the pillow.

Sherlock sniggered and John finally raised his head to look him in the eyes.

"Well, that's somewhat fortunate for me. Because you are my only friend."

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"What?"

"Where are they sending you? Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John couldn't look at him, he didn't even want to look at himself. Obviously he knew. "Afghanistan," he muttered.

"Your hands are shaking."

John gripped the edges of the sink in front of him, to make his hands stop trembling, but it didn't do any good, since he soon felt like his whole body was shaking.

"John…" Sherlock had raised his hand, it looked like he was touching the mirror, as an attempt to get through to him, but there was always this barrier between them, separating them and keeping them distant.

He lifted his right hand to touch Sherlock's. It rested against the mirror, his own reflection blurring as if to create space for his friend. It was the weirdest feeling, they'd never been so close and it was strangely soothing. John eventually rested his face against the mirror, the cold against his cheek calming his nerves.

"I'm scared, Sherlock. What if I don't come back."

"You have to come back. For me."

He was right, as usual. "You're still gonna be here when I come back?"

"Where else would I go?"

The Aftermath

When he came back, he wasn't the same.

Nothing was the same.

He might spend the days in his tiny flat in London, but at night he was in the desert. Endless sand and blood and screams.

Often, he woke up shaking, tangled up in his bedsheets. Then he'd slump into the bathroom and splash cold water on his face, hoping it would pull him back to reality and then moving on to staring at his tired face in the mirror for what sometimes seemed like hours. And he wondered, wondered if he was too broken to be fixed, wondered if he could ever go back to how he'd been before the war.

And his eyes would flicker across the whole glass of the mirror… and find nothing.

First day out in the desert. A day full of lives he failed to save.

It was hard, one desperate situation chasing another.

Blood soaking into the sand.

People dying.

And at the end of the day, his fist shattering a dirty mirror. He couldn't talk to him, there were no words, nothing he could say.

That was the last day he had seen him.

It wasn't just the mirror that had broken, it was so much more.

He didn't know what had woken him, if it was the gunshot, its sound still echoing in his ears, or the pain soaring through his scar. He sat up, disoriented, blinking to get the images out of his head. It had felt so real, so bloody real.

Breathing heavily, he turned the light on. Everything's alright, I'm in London, in my flat, it's all fine.

He buried his face in his hands and only now noticed that there were tears running down his face. Tentative hands brushed over his arm and he jerked up, bewildered. He was starting to think that now he was going completely mad, until the reflection in the window opposite his bed caught his attention.

Sherlock was there, right next to him on his bed. He still had the same dark curls, the same pale skin, the same mesmerizing eyes, but he was also older and he looked sadder than ever.

"You're here."

"Still exceeding at stating the obvious, I see." His voice had changed as well, it was distant and cold and made John shiver.

"Where have you been?" More tears streaming down his cheeks. "I needed you."

"You didn't seem to want me."

"So, it's all my fault then?"

"Clearly," Sherlock said with a smirk on his face. "I came back, didn't I?"

John fought the temptation of leaning on him, telling himself that he wasn't there, not really. Sherlock, however snuck his arm around his reflection. "Close your eyes, John. It's alright, I'm here."

"But you're not." Still, he obeyed, and he could feel it; the warmth of another person's body right next to him, holding him, running his fingers through his short hair and pressing a chaste kiss on his temple.

Finally, he relaxed and eased into Sherlock's touch, eventually he fell asleep.

He didn't have another nightmare that night.

They had been through enough together, it was good now.

And when John woke up the next morning, he didn't wake up alone.