Chapter Text
Mirror, Mirror
Sherlock staggered into 221B and slammed the door shut. “Fuck Mycroft and his bloody cases,” he growled while looking around for a note from John. Eventually he found it, confirmed that it was that evening’s note, and read it. John had a date with MelissaW- an improvement over MelissaS and KateB- and then he was taking an overnight shift at the hospital. Sherlock was sure that he’d be able to finish the case without any social interactions.
It was a Yard case and nothing related to Moriarty’s network as was claimed for most of the cases that he was given. Sherlock knew that his brother had him doing government work, either directly or through the Yard, and he didn’t care. It kept him busy and his mind relatively occupied. After his lover killed himself on the rooftop, nothing held much meaning for him.
Jim had become ridiculously jealous over his friendship with John. The situation had escalated after what happened at the pool even though Jim had claimed it had been just a joke. Mycroft had gotten involved and promised to smooth things out. Everything had gone to hell instead and culminated in Jim’s death. Sherlock tried not to think about it anymore and focused on whatever cases he could find, the treats Mrs. Hudson made for him, and the compounds which both sharpened his mind and numbed the pain.
After hanging up his coat and retrieving a small bag of white powder from one of the front pockets, he went to the bedroom and opened the bottom drawer. Wrapped in a black velvet cloth was the last gift Jim had given him: an ornate carved silver and gem studded mirror and a Nepalese 1000 rupee note featuring Mount Everest on one side and an elephant on the other. Jim had despised his drug use but insisted that if Sherlock were to engage in it, he had to do it with style. Sherlock had tucked a razor between the frame and mirror.
Jim had written a note and taped it to the back of the mirror. Sherlock usually looked at it before starting and smiled at Jim’s flowing arabesque handwriting.
Don’t do it.
I love you.
-JM
-from Marrakesh Night Market
Would you like a mask?
Would you like my mirror?
You can look at yourself
We can look at each other
Or you can look at the face of your god.
Closing his eyes for a moment, Sherlock took a deep breath and forced all thoughts of Jim away. They always came back whenever he used. He set the mirror on his bed and made two long neat lines. Soon enough he felt the dopamine surge throughout his body. His focus sharpened and he no longer felt fatigued from not sleeping the past two nights. Now to analyze the data.
Mrs. Berkshire was suspected of murdering her husband, a peer, but there was only circumstantial evidence. She’d been out shopping two days ago. He had died of a heart attack. By the time Sherlock had gotten there, that morning, the police had already made a mess of the scene. She had no entanglements, debts, or failed businesses. Most people generally disliked her, and Mr. Berkshire’s family was convinced that she had done her husband in.
Sherlock looked at the mirror. He could almost see Jim in the reflection. You’re missing something, Sherly. Jim’s voice in his head. “You could just tell me,” Sherlock muttered under his breath and focused on the room where Mr. Berkshire had been found, a very ornate, immaculate sitting room. He’d been having mid-morning tea.
He thoroughly and meticulously scanned the images in his mind of the room and compared them to the crime scene photos taken by the police the day of death. They were nearly identical. Except for the body in the overstuffed chair. And dirt on the carpet near the chair. He shifted to his memories. No dirt by the chair. Someone had cleaned up even though they weren’t supposed to. Mrs. Berkshire was known to be obsessed with cleanliness. Sherlock chuckled as he thought of setting her up with Mycroft.
Sherlock focused on the dirt that had been by the chair. It was dark and not dried. A tiny broken blade of grass was in it. The gardener. He shifted to his memories from that morning. The dirt had been swept to a much more obvious place. The entryway. Someone was trying to frame the gardener and take advantage of him to do so.
He remembered seeing the gardener and analyzed all the details. Handsome. Neat appearance despite very worn clothes. Poor. Clean shoes. Nervous and afraid. Sherlock smirked and pulled himself up to sit on the bed. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he stared at it for a moment before turning to look at the mirror. “Thanks, Jim,” he said and texted Lestrade.
Question the gardener. -SH
I actually think he’s being framed. -SH
He may have information. -SH
He then texted Mycroft.
Can you check the pharmacy records for the Berkshire family? -SH
NSAIDs, metformin, thiazolidinediones, dipeptidyl peptidase-4 inhibitors… -SH
Can you please email me this list? -MH
Calcium channel blockers, clonidine, moxonidine, digoxin, TNF inhibitors… -SH
I’ll send you everything. -MH
Sherlock chuckled. Mycroft was no fun.
Cyclophosphamide, doxorubicin, trastuzumab, sotalol, flecainide… -SH
Stop. Or I will find the most boring cases and give them to *you*! -MH
You’ll have a report by tomorrow afternoon. -MH
Sherlock smiled and then laid down again. Closing his eyes, he let his thoughts flow to happy times with Jim.
~~
Mrs. Berkshire was arrested for the murder of her husband. She’d been having an affair with the gardener and had convinced him to kill her husband with the hand hoe. He’d hesitated but eventually had gone into the house mid-morning. The man was dead already. Unsure of what to do, he’d fled back to his home. Mrs. Berkshire’s mother took digitalis and some of her pills had gone missing. Traces of the compound were found in Mr. Berkshire’s blood.
Sherlock celebrated by walking the streets of London the way he and Jim used to after a dinner at a nice restaurant.
*~*~*
(a week later)
“I hate this case,” Sherlock growled as he injected some heroin into his vein. The case was regarding the death of Lillian Davies, one of Sir Edwin’s PAs, at The Princess Grace Hospital. Sherlock couldn’t care less. While Sir Edwin was the head of MI6 and his PAs had significant clearance, a quick perusal of the facts led Sherlock to believe that there was no political motive involved. The case was mind numbingly inane and made worse by Mycroft’s constant badgering him over it’s supposed importance. Heroin would help.
After he finished, he carefully put his kit back together again neatly. Jim had always insisted on neatness. Thinking of his lover, he pulled out the mirror and, holding it close to his heart, laid down on the bed.
Sherlock had finally begun to relax and sort through the exorbitant amounts of reports that Mycroft had provided when his phone chimed indicating a text from his brother. Fabulous. He picked up the phone. It wasn’t just one text from Mycroft but five. “Save me,” he muttered to the mirror as he set it next to him and read the messages.
How is the case coming? Have you solved it? -MH
It’s very important. Sir Edwin is important. -MH
“I know! You’re acting daft,” Sherlock yelled at the phone. “And it’s not.”
Ms. Davies passing is most unfortunate. -MH
She was working on numerous international cases and missions. -MH
This needed to be solved two hours ago. -MH
Sherlock felt a headache starting.
I’m working on it. -SH
Work faster. -MH
“You can’t rush perfection, you entitled supercilious busybody,” Sherlock yelled at his door. He had sent John to the hospital to obtain their list of fatalities for the past year as well as for the staff involved in Ms. Davies’s care. He wasn’t going to come to a conclusion until he’d seen those reports.
Choosing to not answer his brother, he shut off his phone. Unwanted interruptions wouldn’t help at the moment. Closing his eyes, he made himself comfortable on the bed and tried to process the information faster. It wasn’t working. He saw permutations in the data and explored novel analyses that could be applied but his mind was slow and sluggish.
“Fuck,” he swore and pulled himself up to sitting again. “Not working.” He pushed himself off the bed and took two uneasy steps to his dresser. After some rummaging in his top drawer, he found his newest stash of cocaine. “It’s your fault,” he shouted at the mirror. “You should be here helping me, you selfish bastard.” He laughed bitterly as he made two lines on the mirror and quickly inhaled them. That should fix his slow mind. “You probably know who did it.”
Sherlock hid the cocaine and then looked at Jim’s message before wrapping the mirror in its velvet cloth and lying down again. For a while everything was working perfectly. His mind was processing the myriads of information at a rapid pace. And then Sherlock’s hands started shaking. And his mind started getting stuck in feedback loops. He couldn’t focus no matter how hard he tried. Bloody hell.
More heroin would help. It would calm him down again and with the cocaine, his mind would function optimally. Sherlock was meticulous about making the solution and injecting himself. His hands were shaking more but his mind was calming. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock put everything away except for the mirror.
The room was starting to spin. Sherlock sat on the bed and forced his mind to bring up the data from the case. It was also spinning. And dancing. A waltz. His stomach lurched and he cursed that he didn’t have any water on his nightstand. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock tried to steady himself. Turning the mirror around he tried to read the words. They seemed to float in the air and spin as though captured by a whirlwind. But Sherlock knew the words by heart and he could hear Jim repeat them in his mind.
Would you like a mask?
Would you like my mirror?
You can look at yourself
We can look at each other
Or you can look at the face of your god.
Sherlock staggered to his feet. “I love you,” he murmured, crumpling to the floor. The mirror slipped from his hand and shattered into pieces.