I Know Your Face

When Will My Reflection Show?

"Do you feel like elaborating on why you attacked Sherlock today?" Greg asked as the two of them walked out of soccer practice together, making their way down the sloping fields to the parking lot. John was quiet, he hadn't talked much during practice and couldn't concentrate on his homework in detention, this whole Sherlock thing was really putting a black cloud around his overall mood.
"He was just being a jerk." John admitted with a little shrug. Greg just laughed, not seeing this as an acceptable answer apparently.
"Ya, but what was he saying? He's always a jerk, but you've never attacked him before." Greg pointed out.
"I have, once. In a bathroom." John admitted. Greg looked at him in confusion, wondering why on earth John would ever admit to that, especially under these circumstances.
"Alright well, pretending you never said that, why now? What did he say?" Greg wondered.
"He expected me to thank him for telling Mr. Anderson about my cheating, insisting that if I hadn't been caught I would end up not studying at all. That's understandable, sure, but he expected a thank you at the end, and that's when my vision just turned red." John admitted. "I didn't even know what happened until you had thrown me on the floor."
"You've got to take it easy on that kid John, honestly he doesn't deserve any of it." Greg insisted.
"And what makes you say that? What has he ever done for you that would make you defend it?" John wondered.
"Nothing really, but that's kind of the point. I've never really seen him talk to anyone, do anything. He's seriously antisocial, and I think that you'll give him a bad example of what humans do to people like him. He's only trying to be friendly, polite even, just in his own way." Greg admitted.
"He's trying to be an insufferable know it all. And a snitch." John decided flatly. He wasn't going to listen to Greg the disciple trying to defend his newfound runt, John was thinking logically, he knew Sherlock better than Greg did, probably better than anyone in the whole school. Even though they've barely spoken more than four times, and none of the words positive, John knew Sherlock's deepest, darkest secret, and that had to count for something.
"Maybe he's honestly trying to be nice to you." Greg suggested.
"If that's his version of nice, I don't' want to know what mean would be." John decided.
"You're just biased. I think if you gave him a chance you two could actually be friends." Greg said with a hopeful little smile, as if now that he had recommended it John and Sherlock were suddenly going to go and get smoothies together and drink from a single straw.
"Ya um, sorry Greg, but be friends with Sherlock? I'd rather get run over by a car." John decided.
"That's terribly pessimistic." Greg decided in disapproving voice.
"You try befriending him, see how you like it!" John exclaimed.
"I don't have a chance to befriend him John, you sit next to him, you're the one that does all the interacting. I'm the side mediator." Greg insisted. John just shook his head, digging his car keys out of his backpack as they approached the parking lot.
"He's a psychopath Greg; he doesn't want to make friends. If he had wanted to, don't you think he'd at least have one friend in these past twelve years?" John pointed out. Greg was silent, as if he couldn't think of any sort of answer to justify Sherlock's solitude.
"Well, I don't know, maybe he prefers the company of his books to people." Greg decided.
"There we go." John agreed with a laugh. "He's a weirdo Greg, he doesn't want to be nice to me."
"Well, even so, you should be nicer to him, to make sure he knows that it's alright to talk to people, to sort of open up." Greg decided.
"What's up with you being all acceptant? I've never known you to be so soft." John decided.
"I feel bad for the kid, that's all. I've never noticed his existence in all the years he's been in our grade." Greg insisted.
"Well that's because he takes all the smart kid classes." John defended. Greg just laughed in agreement, looking both ways before they ventured out into the half deserted parking lot.
"Alright then, I guess I'll see you tomorrow." Greg decided, walking over to the bench on the sidewalk to wait for his mother to come pick him up. Greg didn't have his license for some reason, he insisted it was because he didn't want one but John kind of suspected he couldn't pass his permit test. Nevertheless they shared small goodbyes before John got into his car, throwing his bags into the backseat and starting off to his house.
"Hey mom!" John called, announcing his arrival as soon as he walked through the door.
"Hi John, how was school?" she called back, poking her head out of the kitchen. John was always just in time to catch his family cooking, as soon as he was back from practice the house was always filled with such wonderful smells.
"Oh you know, it was school." John said with a shrug.
"That bad?" Mrs. Watson said with a laugh. John thought of the fight, of Sherlock's irritation, and the pain he now had throbbing from the back of his head.
"Worse." He decided. "I'm going to shower."
"Alright honey, but be quick!" Mrs. Watson insisted, and John just nodded, dashing up the stairs to his room where he saw that the door was open. He always left the door closed, he hated to have people nosing around in his things, or even looking around. It wasn't like he had anything to hide, it was just annoying.
"Who was in my room?" John called downstairs. There was no response, but he heard giggling from in the room, as if someone was still inside...John kicked the door open and stormed inside, finding harry sitting on his bed and admiring herself in the mirror. But didn't look like Harry, in fact the only way John could tell was from her obnoxious orange sweatshirt, her hair was short, brown, and rather off center. The wig.
"Harry get that off!" John exclaimed, diving at his sister, who simply scurried out of his reach.
"Why do you have a wig John?" she wondered.
"I didn't, how'd that even get here?" John asked, lunging at his sister once more, who had taken refuge behind his desk chair. John groaned loudly, but finally with a fake lunge to the side and a dive to the middle, John was able to both snatch the wig off of her head and crash face first into the chair. This only added another element of pain to his already throbbing head. Harry was laughing hysterically, as if the idea of sending her brother face first into a chair was great fun.
"Mom said that Mary came and dropped it off, she thought it was a dead animal." Harry said with a laugh.
"It's not a dead animal." John snapped.
"Obviously not." Harry agreed, flopping back onto John's bed with an obnoxious smile. "So why did Mary give you a wig?"
"It's for a school project." John snapped, the first logical explanation that he could cough up in such short notice.
"What kind?" Harry wondered curiously. John groaned loudly, not wanting to deal with anymore of her childish antics right now.
"Never you mind, just get out of my room!" John exclaimed, pointing furiously to the door.
"Can I at least wear it to dinner; try to convince mom and dad that I cut my hair off?" Harry begged.
"No, of course not, get out, I need to shower." John insisted.
"Alright, alright, I'm going. You'll look really dumb in that thing by the way." Harry mumbled in a sort of last minute attempt to get back at him. John really wasn't affected by her comment, and just waved her out the door. Finally Harry left, dragging her feet along the carpet and making a big fuss about basically nothing. John slammed the door behind her, smoothing the wig off a little bit and holding it up so that he could see it. It looked convincing, not like a crappy wig but like real hair, it was convincing enough to fool even Sherlock Holmes, hopefully. John sighed heavily, pulling the wig over top of his hair and staring at himself in the mirror. He pushed all of the blonde bangs back, making sure that none of his natural hair showed, and observed his reflection. He then dove towards his bag, where he had stashed his glasses and shoved those onto his face as well. But when he looked into the mirror he didn't see himself staring back, he saw Victor Trevor. He saw the boy they had made up one lunch period by picking random, evil names, he saw a boy that was love sick and writing desperate love letters. He didn't see Mary's father's old glasses, or a thirty dollar wig from Amazon, he saw a socially awkward boy with a heart of gold staring back. It was a very odd experience, to stare into the mirror and not see yourself staring back, but for some reason it was appropriate, it almost felt right. As if Victor Trevor was the boy John was hiding under his real complexion. As soon as John started to get that thought he tore the wig off of his head, folding the glasses and throwing them carelessly onto the bed. No, he couldn't start to take this seriously; he couldn't start seeing himself not as John Watson but as Victor Trevor. It was a prank, a simple practical joke that was meant to torment Sherlock, not give John a lesson on who he really was inside. There was no part of him that was Victor, he wasn't gay, he wasn't soft, and he wasn't even brunette. He wasn't going to let some stupid wig question his true morals, his true identity. He was John Watson, and for now, he was happy with just being himself.