I Know Your Face

Practice Makes Perfection

John was already planning out his next letter when the class began, and he didn't hear a peep out of Sherlock's mouth the entire class, as if Sherlock was also thinking about something distracting. John didn't see Sherlock or Mary for the rest of the day, and of course he had to sit in detention and do his homework over the hawk like eyes of the secretaries. Today they actually seemed to care about his work, because every five or ten minutes they would swoop over and look to see what he had written down. Thankfully John had paid attention in class, and he was able to get most of the problems done without much assistance. His time was almost up when he noticed someone outside the office, in the little window on the door jumping around to try to get his attention. John focused a little bit more, almost expecting Sherlock to be there knocking on the window. But then he saw the blonde hair, and what looked like a piece of notebook paper in their hand...
"Mary?" John wondered out loud. The secretaries paused their typing to look at him, and John looked around innocently. "Sorry." He muttered, deicing that he should keep his girlfriend's presence a secret. She could get in trouble for distracting him in his detention. So John finished up his work and packed it all into his bag, wondering what on earth could be worth Mary's excitement, especially after school. As soon as the clock struck three forty he was out, rushing out the door and saying a very quick goodbye to the secretaries. Mary was waiting outside for him on a bench, but as soon as she saw the door open she jumped to her feet, looking positively thrilled.
"We got a response!" she exclaimed excitedly. John looked at her in confusion, wondering how on earth Sherlock couldn't slipped a note into either one of their lockers and still not wonder just who 'Victor Trevor' might be.
"What do you mean by that?" John wondered, putting his arm around Mary's shoulders and leading her away from where the office workers could see them. He definitely didn't want them to be suspicious, especially if he was already in trouble.
"It was taped to his locker, I noticed when I walked by, here, read it." Mary said with a smile, shoving the notebook paper into John's empty hand. John slung his soccer bag from his shoulder and unfolded the note, reading the only three letters written across the page.
"Who are you?" John muttered, reading the huge letters once more just to make sure there wasn't anything concealed between the lines.
"Exciting, right?" Mary wondered. John just shrugged; it was alright of course, it wasn't great.
"I was honestly expecting something bigger." He admitted.
"Well come on, you know who we're dealing with here, it's not like he'll fall head over heels in love with the writer of a mysterious note. These things take time." Mary insisted. John sighed heavily, folding the letter back up and trying to hand it back over to Mary, who refused.
"Oh no, you keep that John, you keep all of them." She insisted. John nodded, stuffing the note into his pocket and returning his large bag to his hand.
"Oh, and these as well, just in case you want to practice your character." She said with a smile, handing John the glasses proudly.
"This is cruel." John decided, but nevertheless he stuffed them into his pocket as well.
"Oh yes it is. The wig should come next Tuesday, so I think you should plan your first date on that Friday." Mary decided.
"What if he doesn't want to go on a date with Victor by then?" John wondered nervously.
"He probably will, or at least he'd be curious enough to meet up. It won't be a date per say, more like a getting to know you walk in the park." Mary decided with a mischievous smile.
"You think he'll really want to meet victor by then?" John wondered.
"Most certainly, and until that time, you really have to practice for your role, he can't suspect anything." Mary insisted. "So new voice, posture, walk, personality, everything."
"He's really observant, I would be shocked if this thing went anywhere to be honest." John insisted.
"People believe what they want to, so even if Sherlock suspects that his new boyfriend is a little bit like you, he won't act upon it. He'll convince himself that he's just being paranoid." Mary assured.
"Why do you seem to be the expert on this?" John wondered.
"Because you remember that kid you kicked on the playground in fifth grade?" Mary asked.
"Jeanette? She kicked me first!" John defended.
"I'm actually her." Mary pointed out with a laugh. John looked at her in suspicion, but almost had the urge to pull on Mary's hair to see if it's a wig.
"That doesn't even make sense." John decided flatly, and Mary nodded in agreement.
"You believe what you want to." She repeated, as if this proved anything. John just laughed, shaking his head and making his way slowly to the locker room.
"Alright Jeanette, I've got to go to soccer practice, I guess I'll see you tomorrow." He decided with a sigh.
"Work on the letter, work on the character, this is all going to get better and better." Mary assured.
"Of course it will, when have any of our plans gone wrong?" John wondered.
"We've never had plans before." Mary insisted with a small frown.
"Well, maybe this will be the first to blow up in our faces." Mary said with a shrug.
"Oh come on, what could go wrong?" John wondered. Mary just laughed, pressing a quick kiss onto John's lips before he dashed into the locker rooms to get changed.
"There he is, Mr. Watson, late again!" the coach exclaimed as he saw John running down to the field, his multiple bags thumping around on his back.
"I was at detention, it's not my fault!" John defended. And yet he got many dirty looks from his fellow teammates, as if they too blamed him for all of this crap. Well, at least it wasn't as bad as yesterday. So John went through soccer practice like he usually did, sweat, tears, yelling, but by the time he was down he felt considerably better. There was something about exercise that simply melted his problems again, and it gave him the strangest urge to just go harder and harder until he finally cracked and all of his stress had been worked away. But of course, as soon as John was just starting to enjoy the pain coach blew the final whistle, and they all packed up their things and meandered home. John sighed heavily, not feeling very fulfilled at all but nevertheless he took off his cleats and changed to slides, walking over to his car and getting inside. He sighed, looking around for a moment before digging the paper out of his bag, Sherlock's response. He unfolded it and read the words again, the words written desperately on the paper as if he were frantic to get a response back in time. Who are you? Bloody good question. John tucked it back away and drove off to his house, announcing his arrival when he asked what was for dinner.
"It's just about ready sweetie, could you help your sister set the table?" Mrs. Watson asked from the kitchen, where wonderful smells were wafting from.
"I've got to shower mom, I'm disgusting!" John insisted.
"You were only practicing for a half hour, go help your sister." Mr. Watson said more sternly, wearing oven mitts shaped like roosters and preparing to grab whatever was cooking out of the oven. John sighed heavily but dropped his bag near the door, grabbing plates and forks from the cabinet and setting them for the family of four.
"Anything exciting happen today at school John?" Mrs. Watson asked as she served casserole to everyone. For smelling so delicious it proved to be rather gross, and John was only eating what he thought was polite before he ran up to his room to become Victor Trevor again.
"Oh, you know, nothing really." John said with a shrug, thinking back to everything that had happened in school. It had proven to be a very exciting day, but nothing of that concerned his parents.
"How's Greg doing? I heard the soccer team suffered a rather embarrassing loss the other day." Mr. Watson wondered.
"Ya, well, Greg was mad at me at first, but now I think we're good." John said with a shrug.
"That's good; he's such a good friend." Mrs. Watson said with a smile.
"And what about that Sherlock kid, I hope you're not tormenting him too much?" Mr. Watson wondered, staring at John judgmentally behind his glasses. John couldn't help but avoid eye contact, looking down at his food and thinking about just how much he was tormenting that poor kid.
"Not really doing much of anything really." John lied.
"That's good; he didn't seem like the type of kid who could take a beating." Mrs. Watson decided.
"Don't tell me you actually pity the kid, he's the bloody devil!" John defended.
"Oh come on John, he did what he thought was right, it's not his fault that you just happened to be on the opposing side." Mrs. Watson insisted. Harry giggled a little bit, and John gave her an evil stare, of course she had no idea what they were even talking about.
"He's horrible mom, you should see him in school, walking around like he owns the place, he's such a loser." John insisted.
"Oh well, you've got to live with him, I'm sorry to say that there will be a lot of people in this world we don't particularly care for, but that's life." She said with a small smile.
"I have to work with him on a history project, a project that lasts all semester! Do you know how horrible this is going to be?" John wondered.
"An excellent learning experience." Mr. Watson decided.
"No, an excellent form of torture." John corrected glumly, poking at his casserole without much interest.
"Don't be dramatic John, he's just a kid." Harry insisted, and John could only groan. It seemed like he was the only one taking to Sherlock's betrayal rationally, he and Mary were the only ones who could see what type of snake Sherlock really was. As soon as John was done with dinner he rushed up to get showered and changed into his pajamas, obviously he didn't have any homework tonight because he had done it all in detention, so he was home free. So as soon as John got dressed he grabbed the glasses and the notebook from his bag and locked the door to the bathroom, turning on the fan so that no one could hear him as he practiced different voices. John sighed, wiping off the bathroom mirror with his hand so that he could see a very foggy image of himself staring back, his hair wet and darker than usual. He looked very small, standing there in the steamy bathroom, but he couldn't tell why. He just didn't radiate that aura of power he usually did, and it was an odd feeling to look at himself and not see an excellent boy staring back. Was he starting to feel guilty about this whole thing already? Was it really getting to him that much? No, of course not, this part was the good part; Sherlock was going to be so happy. This was going to be the good part. John unfolded the glasses and slid them gently onto his face, resting them on his nose and staring back at himself once more. He looked very intellectual, which was a good thing I guess. He really didn't look like John, in fact with his hair darker than usual and the glasses covering his face, he could hardly even tell it was himself looking back. That was a good thing, a very good thing. John started by practicing the posture, holding himself up very tall and straight, kind of how Sherlock did, like there was a puppeteer dragging the top of his head around on a very tight string. He held his chin up as well, like he was proud to be himself, just like Sherlock. He looked different already, if not taller. John slouched a little bit, and was very used to looking up at people to see them properly. Victor wasn't going to be like that, he was going to radiate authority, pride, and power. Then the voice... John sighed heavily, looking around the bathroom as if he were expecting his family to be lurking behind the shower curtain, trying to tell just what their son was up to. So John cleared his throat, feeling very awkward as he dropped his voice an octave.
"Hi Sherlock." John said in a very deep, caveman sounding voice. Oh dear, that would never work, too manly sounding. Victor was supposed to be gay, flamboyant almost, a walking stereotype. If Sherlock was going to believe this whole thing then John shouldn't sound like a truck driver with an excess of testosterone. So he moved his voice up an octave, deciding that if he were trying to sound like a gay stereotype then he ought to sound a bit more...feminine. I guess. Not that Sherlock sounded feminine; in fact his voice was so deep John was surprised it wasn't underground yet.
"Hi Sherlock." John said in a higher voice, sounding like he had just inhaled helium from a party balloon. No, that wasn't going to work either. John sighed heavily, but changed his voice just a little bit, making it ever so slightly deeper.
"Hello Sherlock." He said, sounding rather normal, sounding a bit like Greg. Better, that was better, but it still sounded fake, like he hadn't used it a lot. He would have to practice a bit more of course; maybe he and Mary could practice, sort of like a mock interview.
"I think your eyes are very beautiful..." John said in his voice once more, sounding very convincing. "And I am very much not straight." He really hoped his family wasn't listening, because this would take way too much explaining. The voice sounded convincing enough, and John decided that was enough embarrassment for one night. Somehow he was able to embarrass himself a lot even when he was all alone, as if trying to practice such an act was laughable. So John left the bathroom, curling up into his bed with the notebook and turning to a new page. Who are you? John readjusted his glasses, feeling very intellectual as he stared at the paper through lenses.
"I'm Victor Trevor." John said in his Victor voice, sounding better and better with every word he said. He wasn't John Watson, not anymore. As long as these glasses were on his face he was Victor Trevor, and that was all Sherlock would ever see him as.
My love, John started off the letter with the sappiest opening he could, just for fun. He had to admit, this whole thing was becoming very entertaining.
I ache to reveal my true identity to you but alas I do not have the courage. I'm afraid that you will mock me, ridicule me for being different. My heart yearns for things I cannot have, people I cannot love, relationships that are frowned upon by today's society. But nevertheless I cannot pull myself away from you, I simply can't tell my brain to stop thinking of you, I can't turn my heart off whenever it's whims are becoming inconvenient. But I wouldn't be writing these letters to you if I thought they would amount to nothing, there is hope in my poor, deranged heart that you would somehow share my love, share my views. So tell me Sherlock Holmes, does your heart ache for the wrong people as well?
With all my unnatural love,
your secret admirer.
John sighed, smiling to himself and reading over what he had written. That was poetry that was; if Sherlock didn't fall head over heels with his romantic writing then he was sure the boy was made purely out of ice. Mary was going to be so proud of him. John looked over it once more, sketching a quick heart below the message for good measure and reading Sherlock's response again. There was something very peculiar when John pictured Sherlock writing a note back, something out of character about Sherlock taping a piece of paper to his locker for another to find. Maybe he really was interested, romantically that is, or maybe he was just curious, maybe he thought he was toying with his admirer's emotions, maybe he thought he was being cruel by answering back. Maybe Sherlock was trying to play the same game that John and Mary were playing on him? No, of course not, Sherlock wasn't that self-aware yet, he was just curious, that was all. He couldn't possibly think he had the upper hand in all of this. So John just tucked the notebook back into his backpack, taking off his glasses and folding them on the nightstand, as if he were going to wake up and put them on once more.
"Goodnight Victor." John muttered in his Victor voice, satisfied with how it was turning out. And with that he shut off the lamp, plunging his room into darkness and closing his eyes, trying his best to force himself to go to sleep, to keep Sherlock off of his mind.