I Know Your Face

There's Only One Difference

John didn't return to the field. He knew he was expected there, he knew that they would want to celebrate with him and take more pictures and exchange more pats on the back, but he just walked to the empty locker rooms and collected his bags, staring at himself in the mirror and looking at his disappointing reflection staring back. Why couldn't he be Victor forever? Why couldn't he just become that boy, the boy that had Sherlock's heart? Why couldn't he be the one with the brown hair, the weak eyes, and the thick glasses? Why did Sherlock stare right through him when he was John, and why did he see too much when he was Victor? Why couldn't John just love that boy in all aspects of life, in all hours of the day? Why didn't Sherlock realize that John's soul and Victor's soul were the same, and although their physical appearances might change, that same soul was in them both, loving Sherlock just as fiercely. And why couldn't Sherlock just love it back? John sulked out of the locker rooms and walked all the way home, his soccer bag bouncing against his leg with every step through the quiet roads. The stadium was just starting to leak out, all of the spectators loading up their cars and driving off, loud music playing and bottles being passes around. And John just walked. He arrived home a little bit after ten o'clock, long after his family had arrived. Most of the usual lights were on, and he could hear talking from inside, frantic talking, worried words.
"He was supposed to be getting a ride home from Greg, where is he? I swear if he went off with Mary I'm going to..."
"I'm home!" John exclaimed, pushing open the door and announcing his arrival. Mrs. Watsons's sentence was cut off as she shrieked in relief, running over to John and hugging him fiercely.
"Oh John, thank God, where were you?" she asked desperately. John just fought her off, not really in the mood for hugging right now.
"I walked home, just to get myself calmed down." John admitted.
"No one knew where you went, they're all so worried!" Mrs. Watson pointed out.
"I'll text Greg, tell him that I'm home." John decided, hoping that would stop her worrying.
"Alright, just tell us next time! We thought you had been kidnapped!" Mrs. Watson exclaimed. John sighed heavily, wondering just what went on in his psychotic mother's head.
"Ya, sure." John muttered, shrugging and starting to carry his bag upstairs.
"Are you alright John?" Mrs. Watson wondered, looking worried for obvious reasons. John should be ecstatic tonight, completely thrilled! He had just won the biggest game of his life, he had scored a goal! So why was he so miserable?
"I'm fine mom, just exhausted. I think I'm going to go to bed." John decided, prepared to say anything just to shake off his mother and her constant pestering.
"Well, alright then. Just tell me if you need anything. Good job today." She muttered, obviously worried. John just gave her a reassuring smile before running up the stairs, dragging his bag along with him and disappearing into his bedroom once more. John didn't text Greg that he was home, nor did he celebrate by himself. He knew that tonight was probably one of the biggest nights of his high school life, there were parties everywhere, people hanging out in the company of beautiful girls, drinking and breaking other laws. It should be fun, it should be chaotic, and yet john just sat in his room alone, wallowing. He showered of course, washing off all of that sweat, grass, and blood, watching whatever evidence was left of his victory wash down the drain. He then pulled on sweatpants and walked out into his darkened bedroom, sitting glumly on the bed and staring at himself in the mirror. He was unsure of who stared back; the room was so dark that he could only see his face, his skin, his eyes. He couldn't see his hair color, so at the moment he was unsure if he was still John or if Victor had somehow taken over. His heart ached for Sherlock, who probably sat alone in his bedroom as well. Sherlock was distraught, abandoned, betrayed. He was probably crying right now, huddled in a quiet ball on the floor and crying to himself in the silence of his empty house. John just couldn't get that boy's face out of his head, those sad eyes, turned away so that John wouldn't see them as they leaked out tears. Sherlock was alone, and John was alone, and he felt that there was only one thing he could do to fix both of these problems. He got up from his bed and dug around in his soccer bag, finally finding the plastic bag full of make your own Victor. He toweled off his hair and stuck it into the hairnet, pinning up his bangs the best he could while the lights were still off. He didn't know why he operated in the darkness, but it just felt better this way. He could be one with his thoughts, one with his heart, and his longings. John then pulled the brown wig overtop of the hair net, breathing now with Victor's lungs and seeing now with Victor's eyes. He felt Victor's heart beating in his chest, and yet it yearned for the same boy just as ferociously. The only difference was when Victor's heart ached for Sherlock it got what it desired. When John's heart tugged towards the lonely boy, John had to pull it back in shame. John put on the eye makeup to the best of his abilities, going into the bathroom and turning on the harsh mirror lights so that he could trace the eyeliner back and forth on the lids of his eyes flawlessly. He had become rather good at putting on his own makeup, a skill no one would ever expect the star soccer player to possess. But then again he wasn't the star soccer player, not anymore at least. He didn't know what Victor was, his talents or his weaknesses. He was good at winning over lonely boy's hearts, that was for sure, he was a talented flirt as well. But that was all John knew of this Victor Trevor, and that was probably all he'd ever know. He didn't want to get to know Victor anymore; he didn't want to know him long enough to find out these things. Victor had to get out of his life soon; Victor had to vanish eventually, leaving Sherlock's poor broken heart for John to repair. John then pulled on a sweatshirt, only a sweatshirt, and tucked his feet into a pair of soccer slides. He slid on the glasses as soon as he got to the door, and breathed silently for a moment. Was he really going to do this? Turn his back on his family, sneak around in the dead of night just to end up by Sherlock's side? Yes, of course he was. So with that John cracked open his bedroom door, judging by the darkness of the hallway that the rest of his family was asleep. The bedroom doors were all closed, John almost felt that if he listened carefully he could hear their peaceful breathing, hear them rolling over in their sleep, dreaming of soccer games and taxes. John's footsteps were silent as he stole his way down the darkened stairs, approaching the front door stealthily. The house was silent as he creaked open the front door, making sure it was unlocked before scampering off into the quiet night. It was a long walk to Sherlock's house, a cold journey down deserted sidewalks and quiet streets. The street lights cast his shadow as he strolled, his hands in his pockets and his heart on his sleeve. The crickets were chirping, hidden in the tall, cold grass beside the sidewalks and in the weeds that sprung up through the cracks in the cement. The sky was bright and cloudless, the stars and moon providing a silvery night light upon the earth, enough to light John's way as he crept along some of the more deserted back alleys to get to Sherlock's house. It was about eleven thirty when finally the peeling white paint of the Holmes family's house came into view, but John had no intentions of knocking on the door. He walked around back, down a very shady alley and around dumpsters and other lovely wonders you'd only find parallel to a townhouse. Finally he came along around the back of the house, where the manicured Holmes' family lawn was protected by nothing more than a chain-link fence, stretching around the perimeter to keep hobos from peeking in the back windows. Then again, that was exactly what John planned to do. He looked around cautiously, peering at the darkened windows of the house to make sure no lights were on. It was easy enough to climb the fence, John didn't want to call himself an expert or anything, but climbing these simple fences became a second nature to kids around here. All of the good things were protected by fences, the playground after dark, the town pool after it closed, even the soccer stadium when the gates were locked. It was only too easy to jump the fences and enjoy yourself long after you were allowed to, and so John had no problem climbing up the fence to the Holmes' backyard. His feet fit perfectly in the holes, and he swing himself over the top and landed catlike in the freshly cut grass. The fence shook loudly and John winced, hoping no one would wake up and come investigate. But after a moment of silence John decided that it was finally safe to proceed, so he crept across the yard and in front of the porch. Thankfully their porch had a top to it, it was study and shingled and lead to all of the upstairs windows. It was only too easy for John to find a nice picnic table to push towards the edge of the awning, standing on top of it and grabbing hold of the shingles, pulling himself progressively up with his muscular arms. Of course breaking into your boyfriend's house is no easy feat, so once John rolled on top of that overhang, the sweat sticking to his black sweatshirt and his body aching, he just lay there for a moment. He didn't want to come into Sherlock's room panting, or stinky for that matter, so he just lay there and stared at the stars in the cloudless night sky, breathing heavily and letting his throbbing muscles rest for a moment. But of course his impatience overtook his logic after a while, and very quietly he got to his feet, creeping along the roof until he came to the last window. Now he wasn't entirely sure which room was Sherlock's, and this would have to be a very careful process of illumination. He knew that Sherlock's window faced out into the backyard, and he was fairly certain that Sherlock's door was the last one in the hallway, but all John needed now was to push open the window and crawl under the covers with Mycroft. John approached the darkened window very carefully, he didn't want to stare into the room and scare Sherlock half to death, but then again he needed to be certain that it was Sherlock's room he was entering. Thankfully there was no screen, and John was able to press his face right up against the glass and peer into the room. There was a desk, a bookshelf, and a closet. Yes, that looked about right. There were papers thrown about, books scattered on the floor, this had to be Sherlock's room. John pushed open the window, finding it only too easy to break into this house. If he were a burglar he could steal everything of value from that house, if he were a murderer the entirety of the Holmes gamily would be found dead in their beds the next morning. They really ought to up their security system. But nevertheless it was terribly convenient, and luckily for the Holmes family John was neither a burglar nor a murderer, he was simply a modern day Romeo, come to wake his sleeping Juliet from her, or rather his, tear streaked slumber. There was a figure on the bed, but it wasn't drawn out, as John had expected. Sherlock's thin body wasn't asleep under the covers, but huddled in the corner of the bed, awake and cowering. His eyes scanned the darkness helplessly, obviously he didn't know who was in his bedroom just yet, obviously he couldn't see.
"What...what do you want?" Sherlock whispered, his voice shaking uncontrollably.
"Sherlock, it's alright." John assured in a soft voice, wanting to make sure Sherlock didn't scream and wake the family.
"Victor?" Sherlock whispered unbelievingly. John couldn't help but crack a smile, nodding and turning to close the window once more.
"Yes Sherlock, it's me. It's Victor." He assured, walking over to where Sherlock was huddled.
"What are you doing here Victor, how'd you get in?" Sherlock wondered, letting his legs unfold back under the blankets were they belonged.
"I climbed up onto the roof, it really wasn't that difficult." John admitted simply, shrugging as if his little conquest hadn't been difficult.
"You're crazy." Sherlock whispered, sounding completely astounded by John's efforts.
"Nothing can stop a man in love, not even a chain-link fence." John shrugged. Sherlock eased down onto his bed once more, coming ever so closer, probably without even realizing it. He was fully dressed in the same outfit he had worn to the game, except his jacket was absent. He was wearing that beautiful purple shirt, the one that made his skin glow underneath, and in the moonlight he was positively stunning. It eased John's aching heart to see him once more, see him so beautiful and so obtainable. Sherlock's breathing was heavy, as if he were nervous to see John in his bedroom at this hour. He probably wondered what his intentions were, but to be honest, John was as clueless as he was.
"I'm sorry I had to leave the game tonight." John muttered, sitting down on the side of the bed where Sherlock's feet were buried under the blankets. Sherlock was silent, but he nodded, his curls bobbling over his forehead childishly.
"I thought we were supposed to make a statement tonight Victor, we were supposed to say that nothing would get between us, not even the tormenting of the whole school. Turns out, all it takes is a phone call." Sherlock muttered, staring down at the darkness instead of into John's eyes, as if worried he might not want to see what was looking back. John could only move closer, kicking off his shoes and pulling himself onto the bed, sitting near Sherlock's waist and crossing his legs on top of the blankets.
"No, Sherlock, it wasn't just a phone call...it was from my mother." John muttered, making this up as he went. "My father, he was drunk tonight, he was...violent. She was scared, she was alone, so she called me and I had to go to her. By the time I got home I realized I had no way to contact you about my leaving, but I couldn't leave her there by herself. I felt horrible, so as soon as he passed out in his chair I came straight here." Sherlock was silent for a moment, obviously feeling guilty for even accusing of Victor of not caring about him. How could he possibly think that Victor abandoned him now?
"Oh." He muttered, seemingly the only thing he could force out of his mouth.
"Don't think that I don't love you any less, Sherlock. Don't think for one second that we still can't make a statement." John insisted.
"Victor the game is long over, the stadium is dark, everyone is asleep. We can't prove our love to anyone if there's no one there to watch." Sherlock insisted. John just moved ever closer, sitting so that he was nearly on top of the poor, cowering boy. Sherlock was scared, that was obvious, but he had nothing to fear.
"But we can prove our love to each other." John whispered. Sherlock's breath rattled in the darkness, a fearful breath of knowingness. John could only stare down at him in the darkness, the thin boy cowering on his bed, his pale skin on the white sheets, the dark curls and the red lips, the purple shirt with the straining white buttons. There was only one way this night could end, and John suspected they both knew that. John leaned down so that he could press a careful kiss upon Sherlock's lips, ever so gently, as to not startle the poor boy. He knew that this was the first of many kisses that they shared in this night's darkness.
"Victor, Victor I've never..." Sherlock muttered, unable to finish his sentence as their faces hovered only inches apart.
"I know." John agreed in a breath, letting his hands trace up Sherlock's thin arms gently, letting his chest press down onto Sherlock's so that he could feel his heart racing beneath his skin.
"But it's alright." He assured, pressing another kiss to Sherlock's lips and let his fingers trace over Sherlock's shoulder, appreciating every beautiful curve that hid underneath his thin dress shirt.
"Just breathe Sherlock." John assured, noticing that Sherlock's lungs were hardly daring to inflate. His beautiful porcelain skin gleamed with nervous perspiration, but with every breath his muscles relaxed, he was able to meet John's lips with kisses just as furious, with a heart just as curious. John never noticed Sherlock's fingers slowly easing the glasses off of his face, he never heard them fall to the floor, but he didn't need to. It didn't matter anymore. Because it was too dark to make out any faces, their faces were blurred and their eyes were closed, but they did make a statement, if only to themselves. John was now certain that he didn't need to be Victor to love Sherlock, even if Sherlock hadn't noticed the difference that night.