I Know Your Face

Please Enjoy The Show

    John pranced into the locker room with a smile on his face, shedding his sweatshirt and pulling on the blue sweatshirt specifically set aside for Victor cosplay. He changed his shoes, put on the glasses, and tucked his hair into the wig once more. John smiled at himself in the mirror, making sure his jeans didn't have any noticeable stains or anything on them before heading out, clearing his throat so that his Victor voice would be nice and ready for when he had to say hello. When John got to the auditorium the door was suspiciously open. He half remembered Sherlock having to pry it open the last time, but he decided that Sherlock was probably inside already, setting up his color coded lunch box. John walked inside, momentarily blinded by the stage lights shining harshly down onto the stage. Those were the only lights that were on, and thankfully they were the only ones. As promised, Sherlock was standing on the stage, pacing around and looking a little bit lost. John closed the door as silently as he could, and yet that little noise gave him away. As soon as Sherlock saw him his face light up, and John smiled right back.
"Victor, thank God, I thought for a moment that you weren't coming." Sherlock muttered.
"Of course I was coming; I wouldn't miss this for the world." John assured, jumping up onto the stage and meeting Sherlock with a welcoming kiss. Sherlock smiled at him very softly, leaning in for just another peck on the lips before pulling away and stepping back.
"You look gorgeous, as usual." John decided, looking Sherlock over. Of course he was wearing the same outfit he always did, black slacks, black jacket, and today's shirt color was white. Nothing different, but it was what worked for him, it was what made him positively radiant. The day Sherlock Holmes pulled on a pair of jeans was the day the world ended. Sherlock simply blushed, smiling to his feet in modestly. But John could stare at him all day, just watch him stare there and blush and be adorable, this boy was going to be the death of him. But oh it was so worth it.
"You don't look all that bad yourself." He muttered. "But I'm glad you called me here, I think we should talk." John looked up at Sherlock suddenly, his heart stopping in his chest and his face draining of all blood. Sherlock, his sentence, his words...they weren't right. They weren't....
"Sherlock I didn't call you here, you did. You wrote to me this morning." John pointed out. Sherlock took a step back in surprise, but soon his little frown of confusion turned into a small little smile. Oh, there it is, it was a little mistake, obviously.
"No Victor, don't play around here. You wrote to me as well, simple sentence. Said to meet you in the auditorium." Sherlock insisted. John shook his head nervously, his eyes scanning the motionless darkness in the auditorium seats. No, surely this couldn't be...surely it wasn't...her?
"Sherlock I think we should leave." John decided, his legs feeling a little bit numb as he walked swiftly over to Sherlock and grabbed one of his skinny arms.
"Victor, what, what are you doing? There's no danger, it was simply miscommunication, we don't have to leave." he insisted, shaking John's hand off abruptly and stepping back nervously. Obviously he must think that Victor had gone mad, and of course that would make sense. Maybe John had gone a little bit mad.
"No, Sherlock, honestly, we've got to..." John's words were cut off when the curtain rustled, someone was watching them from the side of the stage, someone was moving in the shadows...
"Sherlock, please, there's someone here." John insisted in a defeated voice, pulling at Sherlock's arms again. This wasn't going to happen today, no, John wasn't going to let it. This was not how it was supposed to end, it wasn't supposed to end! At these words Sherlock submitted thoughtlessly, letting John drag him away before finally the figure stepped out of the shadows. With blonde hair, and tan skin, and piercing, determined blue eyes. Mary Morstan. Sherlock cowered in fear behind John, as if suddenly scared of the small girl who appeared on the side of the stage. In any other context John would've thought that was ridiculous, she was small, puny even, what harm could she do? If it were any other person, other than the Devil herself, John would've laughed. But he didn't laugh, because they truly were in the presence of Satan.
"No, no, you can't." John insisted, talking directly at Mary, who just smiled a little bit, putting her hands in her pockets and shrugging innocently. She looked as if she were just out for a careless little stroll, as if she didn't care how many lives she ruined in the meantime.
"Yes I can." She said simply, talking a couple of steps forward. John flung his arms out to defend Sherlock, keeping him behind him at all times, just in case Mary decided to get out a switchblade or something. He wouldn't put it past her, but with all the damage she was about to do, she might as well just kill them. It might be less painful.
"Mary, stay back." John insisted, trying to sound as if that were a warning. As if she should be scared to approach.
"Victor what's going on?" Sherlock whispered, his voice trembling although he probably didn't know why. He probably didn't know what there was to be afraid of. But there was everything to be afraid of; he should be running for his life right about now. In fact, John should be too. But their feet were stuck to the floor as if by cement, their legs numbs in fear and their brains stationary with curiosity. Sherlock didn't see what was wrong, how could he?
"It's alright. Sherlock, just know...just know that whatever happens, that I love you. Never ever forget that." John insisted in a harsh whisper, quiet enough so that Mary couldn't hear. Sherlock didn't respond, he probably thought nothing of it; this was just Victor's ramblings, wasn't it? It meant nothing. Sherlock didn't know that was most likely going to be the last time he heard those three words in a while.
"It's pretty nice that we're going to do this on a stage, it's rather dramatic, don't you think?" Mary wondered, walking ever closer. Now they were only ten feet apart, now John could make out every single detail in her once beautiful face, alight with those stage lights.
"Mary please, I'll do anything." John begged, his voice desperate, his eyes pleading. He really would, of course, do anything. He would give her all of his money, his happiness, even his life, as long as she simply spared Sherlock of this emotional pain.
"This is all I want." Mary said simply. "I'm done, being put second, I'm done with these lies. I'm sure you are as well. I'm sure Sherlock is, most of all."
"Victor what's she talking about?" Sherlock wondered, seeming to let his guard down now that Mary started to talk in riddles. She made it sound like she was on his side, like she was going to help him understand what these lies were and what the supposed truth was that was buried underneath.
"She's trying to break us apart." John muttered truthfully.
"She could never. Do you know her?" Sherlock whispered nervously.
"Yes." John said simply. It was the truth, he did know her, but Sherlock probably didn't know how.
"We go way back, Victor and I. It's almost like I created him." Mary admitted with a careless shrug. John closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to make sure that this was really real life. He would much rather it be a nightmare.
"You're not...Victor what's going on here?" Sherlock wondered, dodging around John's arms and standing in the middle of the two. He was in the line of fire, exposed! She could hurt him, she could manipulate him, he was too close!
"No, Sherlock get back here!" John exclaimed, but it was too late, he lunged for Sherlock's arm and Mary lunged at him. It was a mess of arms, grabbing hands, a couple of screams, and finally a very telling crunch, the sound of breaking glass underneath Mary's fancy boot. John shuttered madly, covering his now naked face with his hands, he had no eyeliner on, no mascara, nothing. And now without the glasses, the pair in shatters at her feet, the moment he looked into Sherlock's eyes the boy would see the truth.
"Victor did she hurt you?!" Sherlock wondered anxiously, running right up to where John stood. Sherlock had no idea what was coming, he was still worried, still loving. He softly put his hands over John's, trying to gently push them away to reveal his face. But John wasn't ready; he didn't want this to be over. He couldn't see Sherlock's face, but still he knew what kind of soft, worried expression he wore. He could only see darkness, and yet he knew this was the last time he would ever see Sherlock Holmes truly happy.
"Let me see." Sherlock whispered in a very soft voice. John just took a deep, shuttering breath, but he knew that this was the end. It all had to end, and this was going to be the defining moment, whether Sherlock loved him after finding out his true identity. Somehow John already knew this answer.
"Do you really want to?" John whispered, still with his hands over his eyes.
"I do. Victor I do." Sherlock assured. John took a deep breath, but he decided that this was just going to be the end. The end of everything. It had been imminent; he should've seen this coming. He should've been prepared. So slowly he let Sherlock's hands ease his own away, and slowly he opened his eyes, looking up to where Sherlock stood, letting Sherlock gaze upon his true face. Sherlock blinked for a moment, obviously not wanting to even make that assumption. Surely he thought it was just some crazy coincidence, surely it couldn't be?
"Victor...you um..." Sherlock swallowed his words, finally breaking the eye contact to look over at Mary nervously. He wanted clarification; he wanted to know that he wasn't crazy. John couldn't see Mary's face, he could barely see Sherlock's despite his close proximity, there were tears welling up in his exposed eyes and he was left blind. But as soon as Sherlock turned back to face him, and as soon as his hands slid out and he took a step back in fear, somehow John could see everything. He could see his lips quivering, his eyes watering; he could see that little spark of doubt that was beginning to build into a roaring fire in that poor boy's precious little heart.
"Victor you look like..." Sherlock started, his voice cracking in horror.
"John." John muttered, not even bothering to disguise his voice anymore. Sherlock took another step back in fear, he could only nod. He couldn't say anything, he was speechless, he was terrified.
"Tell me I'm going crazy? That this is a nightmare?" Sherlock whispered, unable to believe what was right in front of him. If John wasn't part of this he wouldn't have believed it either, he wouldn't have dared.
"It's not a nightmare Sherlock. It's revenge." Mary said simply, marching right over to John, who stood motionless, his hands shaking in shame and tears falling freely from his eyes.
"Re...revenge?" Sherlock whispered, taking the smallest step closer just to make sure he could hear her correctly. Mary nodded with a maniacal smile, looking awfully pleased with herself.
"Go ahead there love, show him." she insisted. John couldn't move, his limbs were like stone, he felt like the only way he was going to get this wig off was if she scalped him. He could never do such a thing right in front of Sherlock; he could never reveal himself like this? Sherlock wasn't broken, not yet, but this final act of betrayal would send that precious boy to his knees. He would shatter, even though John was so determined not to drop him.
"Go ahead, do it." Mary instructed. And suddenly John could move, but not as he wanted. His hands were on puppet's strings, and Mary was dragging them along. Very slowly John reached up onto his head and grasped the wig, he could feel Sherlock hold his breath, he could feel that boy's heart start to quiver in fear. Because surely this couldn't actually be happening. John took a deep breath, and with that he pulled the wig straight off, revealing his true hair, revealing his true identity. He wasn't Victor Trevor anymore; the mere thought of Victor Trevor had just been obliterated. There was only one disappointing boy now; there was only one broken heart. Sherlock let out a cry of horror, and it was as if gravity had decided to claim him for itself. His legs gave out and the boy fell to his knees, curling into a little ball of despair, not even bothering to muffle his sobs. Not even bothering to hide his pain. And then suddenly, there was laughter. Laughter from everywhere, from behind them, from in the empty auditorium, suddenly filled with previously unseen students. They had come out from behind the seats, from behind the walls. And they were laughing. And Mary laughed alongside him. And John, well, John just couldn't help it. John looked at Sherlock in that destroyed ball on the floor, his black jacket stretched feebly over his bony back, and a smile stretched across his wretched face. And John, like all of the rest, laughed. The wig slipped from his hands and he laughed even harder, he had to, he needed to laugh. He needed to pretend that this was all okay, seeing Sherlock in that little ball, seeing the love of his life so defenseless and so broken. What could he do here, with all of these kids surrounding him, except laugh? Except to go along with the world's plan simply because he was expected to? He only noticed that Sherlock had run when the space previously occupied by the boy was empty. He only realized that he had run as well when he found himself against the cement wall, in the back hallway, leaning so that his head was pressed against the cold white paint. And that was when he realized that these weren't laughs that were escaping his throat. He couldn't stop them, he couldn't stop...screaming. Crying. Sobbing. There were tears that ran down his cheeks, his legs felt useless and soon he slid to the ground, the world was spinning and he was being pulled to the ground, his fists raw against the tiles as he tried to take it out on anything but himself. His throat was sore, his cheeks red and raw, his eyes drained. And he knew that somewhere else in this school, somewhere in these halls, Sherlock was doing the exact same thing. Crying, punching, feeling his heart being torn to shreds inside of him. And John couldn't go to him, because he was the one that was causing Sherlock this pain in the first place. He couldn't go to him because Sherlock didn't love him, and not even the wig would change that now.