I Know Your Face

The Same Heart, the Same Boy

The next couple of days were the lowest of John's entire life. He didn't go to school for a couple of days, he told his mother he was sick, and she knew that it was a lie. Everyone did, but John refused to tell them the real reason. He had thought that coming out would be easier than this; it might have been if Sherlock had been at his side. But now, with no Sherlock and no wig and just a shattered heart in his chest, John found it nearly impossible to declare his love for someone who didn't love him back. His parents thought it was all because of Mary, that he was sulking because of the break up. They were able to piece that much together, she had come by only once to drop off some stuff of John's that had been in her house, sweatshirts she had stolen and socks he had forgotten and water bottles that had gotten lost underneath the seat of her car. But it wasn't that break up that had broken him, no, that may have been the only good thing that came out of that tragic day. It was the break up with his boyfriend that had left him shattered, hiding in his room in his pajamas with the curtains drawn. Greg came over once to drop off some homework John had missed, but John refused to open the door. He didn't want Greg to see him like this, his best friend that stood by him all of those years, it would be traumatic for Greg to see his friend reduced to nothingness. In the end Greg slid the papers under the door, all of these math worksheets that John would never do. But it wasn't like he was wasting around; he wasn't just staring into the darkness like a shut in. He wrote letters. He wrote them to Sherlock, and this time he was able to sign them with his real name. They were mostly apologies, some were letters about their love previously, some were about what their love could grow to be. He was sure that Sherlock was doing the same thing, that was one of the few things he had asked Greg when he had been here. How's Sherlock? Greg said that Sherlock wasn't at school either, for good reason. The guidance counselors had to get involved; Mary was on the verge of expulsion. She admitted to making John do this whole thing, so he was fine for now, but the kids were bound to be tormenting Sherlock as soon as he got back, so they wanted him to take a couple of days off as well. So they were both sitting in their rooms, dreading their very existence and wishing for each other's company in the worst way. It was tragic; really, that they had to hide themselves from the world for being who they were, Sherlock tormented because he was gay and John tormented because he couldn't admit to being the same. Sherlock was longing for Victor, John was longing for Sherlock, and yet they still couldn't be together, not for a while at least. It was day three of solitude when there was an aggressive knocking on John's door. It wasn't the motherly knock announcing his food, or his father's knock demanding he came to the door and faced them. It wasn't Greg, whose knock sounded very guilty, no. This was desperate.
"John, John! Open this door right now!" demanded an unfamiliar voice, muffled by the wooden door between them. John lowered his pencil curiously, looking up from his newest letter and staring at the door through the lamp light.
"Who is it?" he wondered in a scratchy voice, a voice that hadn't been used in a while.
"It's Mycroft. John, Sherlock's disappeared." Mycroft insisted. There was a pause, as if the words needed some time to process in both of their heads. But then, in an instant, John threw the notebook to the side, jumping out of bed in his meager pajama pants and sweatshirt and flung open the door for the first time in a couple of days. Mycroft, as promised, was standing in the hallway, looking slightly disheveled in his suit and tie, his black eyes showing the most emotion John had ever seen. Fear, worry, anxiousness, panic, all of these emotions swam in the beady black sea of Mycroft's eyes, and John couldn't help sharing the same feelings. Any feelings that could melt the man of ice surely couldn't be good.
"He's gone?" John wondered nervously, wincing at the light from the hallway. The door remained open, John could see the darkness leaking into the house, and the Watson parents were just coming around the corner to see who their visitor was. Obviously Mycroft had skipped the formalities.
"He left a note, a note for Victor." Mycroft muttered, pulling a crumbled piece of notebook paper out of his pocket and handing it to John.
"There is no Victor." John muttered, grabbing the note from Mycroft's shaking hands.
"Then it must be for you." Mycroft insisted, sounding careless to the details. John unfolded the note, seeing Sherlock's familiar cursive handwriting scrawled in large print.
I'm not lost; I'm only trying to find you. If Heaven really is real, then you'll be waiting for me when I arrive. Remember me, Victor, and I will try to remember you. Until I see you again. When I am submerged in the world's tears and my own are swept away.
John read the note one more time, trying to decide if he was really reading this, if it really meant what he thought it did.
"Suicide?" he muttered, looking up at Mycroft, who could only nod. John thought he saw a tear start to well up in his eye, but he was sure that must have just been a trick of the light. Surely this machine wasn't capable of crying?
"John did he ever mention anything about where he might have gone, what he might do? Is there any chance he could still be alive?" Mycroft wondered.
"How long ago did he leave?" John asked desperately, running into his room and pulling on soccer slides.
"I don't know." Mycroft admitted, walking into the doorway but lingering there, as if he thought he was intruding. "I knocked, there was no answer, when I finally got in the window was open and this note was on the bed." John could only nod, his voice caught in his throat. The idea of Sherlock taking his own life, obliterating his beautiful existence, it was too much to handle. He couldn't let this happen; he had to stop him, to save him. Sherlock wanted Victor to come save him, well, John would just have to do.
"Well, it's water, he's going to be in water. Submerged in the world's tears? So a lake, pond, ocean, river?" Mycroft wondered desperately, his umbrella twirling in his hands nervously. He couldn't stand still, he was terrified but he was trying to keep it under control. John, on the other hand, was practically shaking as he tried to find his other shoe; he was wasting time, precious time, the last few minutes of Sherlock's life.
"Yes, river. There's a river." John agreed, finally unearthing his second slide from under his pile of laundry.
"Is he going to jump?" Mycroft wondered in horror.
"I DON'T KNOW!" John screeched, jumping to his feet and rushing towards the door.
"There's a bridge, a bridge above the river just outside of town." Mycroft pointed out.
"If you know all of this why didn't you just get yourself? Why did you waste your time getting me?" John asked angrily, racing down the stairs and grabbing his car keys. Mycroft froze, falling into the banister as if the reality of this situation was just weighting down on him. He used his umbrella for support, running his hand over his tired face and dropping hair.
"John he won't admit it, but you're the only one that matters. He does love you, still." Mycroft admitted.
"Well I suppose we're going to find out." John agreed bitterly.
"Take Main Street, turn right on River Road, you'll find the bridge, hopefully you'll find him. Do whatever you can John, don't let him jump." Mycroft begged.
"I won't of course not." John insisted.
"Find him John, bring him home." Mycroft pleaded. John gave him a reassuring nod of farewell, and with that he dashed out the front door and onto the sidewalk, unlocking the door and jumping into his car. He pulled into the road before his mother and father could come outside, trying to ask where he was going, trying to find out just who this stranger in the suit was. John was not going the speed limit, he didn't care about stop signs or stop lights or even clipping the mirrors off of parked cars. There was only one person who mattered tonight, only one life worth saving. And that life might already be gone. John's heart was racing in his chest; his foot was trying to flatten the gas pedal even harder into the floor, his fingers tapping and his eyes scanning the road for any sign of his lost love. This couldn't be happening, it simply couldn't be. Sherlock wasn't this afraid of life; he wasn't one to give up so easily, was John's prank simply too much? Was Victor's true form just too much to bear? If Sherlock jumped then John would never forgive himself, if Sherlock died on his behalf then he wasn't the only one going swimming. John took a hard right, following Mycroft's instructions and going even faster, pushing ninety miles an hour on this deserted side street. It was dark out, and the light from John's headlights was the only thing illuminating his path. He began to see a gap in the trees above, separating for the river; he could see the shining of the moonlight reflecting off of the water, and a bridge. The bridge. If Sherlock wasn't here then this would all be in vain, he could be twenty miles away, submerged in someone's swimming pool for all they knew. There was nothing scarier than a boy who felt he had nothing to live for, especially when the people who loved him were forced to try to knock sense back into him. John pulled up onto the bridge and put the car in park, jumping out and looking around desperately. He couldn't see him, the road was empty, the car's blinking hazard lights illuminating the shadows dramatically. The bridge was made of iron; it was very industrial, as if it had once carried a railway. There were large iron beams stretching to the sky, and what wasn't covered of concreate was merely metal covered in the dirt that was scattered by passing tires. But there was no boy; it appeared as if John was alone.
"SHERLOCK!" John screamed, turning in a desperate circle and seeing no one. He was about to go look over the edge of the bride when a shadow caught his eye, a humanoid shape clinging to one of the massive iron beams. Its figure blended right into the shadows of the beam, so thin and so close that John had easily missed it. But he could tell that it was shaking, quivering in fear and clinging to the iron as if it were the only thing keeping him alive. Well, in this case, it really was.
"Sherlock, Sherlock oh thank god!" John exclaimed, running up to where Sherlock was standing and craning his neck to see his face. The pale skin shone in the moonlight, from this angle he glowed like an angel.
"No, no!" Sherlock exclaimed, holding onto the bar but looking as if he wanted to let go. John took a step back nervously, not wanting to provoke him in anyway.
"Sherlock, Sherlock, please, listen to me, please." John insisted, holding his hands up in surrender. He had to talk Sherlock out of this, he couldn't come any closer.
"I didn't ask for you, John I don't want you here!" Sherlock exclaimed, his voice cracking in emotion. The water rushing underneath them roared in John's ears, but despite the noise he was able to hear Sherlock perfectly. The water was calling to him, however, Sherlock could hear it, it was telling him just to give up, to jump. John had to convince him otherwise, with his own words.
"I've been here the whole time Sherlock, no one else could've come." John insisted.
"Victor...Victor could've come." Sherlock insisted, squeezing tears out of his eyes once more and setting his forehead against the beam to which he clung. "Victor's the only one I need to see."
"Victor's gone Sherlock, he never existed. Mary and I created him over lunch; we made up the whole thing. It was a joke Sherlock, a cruel prank; I never expected...we never thought it would lead to this." John admitted.
"YOU KNEW FULL WELL WHAT WOULD HAPPEN!" Sherlock screamed, shaking so badly John was afraid that his weak fingers would suddenly unfold, and that he would be left plummeting to a cold, watery grave. But he wasn't jumping, he wasn't even trying. It was almost as if he had come up here just so that someone would talk him out of it. He needed to be reminded why he needed to live while standing over death.
"But there were factors, factors I couldn't have predicted, and things that were never supposed to happen." John insisted, taking another step closer to which Sherlock just flattened himself against the beam.
"Don't come near me." Sherlock demanded. "Don't touch me."
"I won't, Sherlock, I won't." John assured, keeping his hands in the air. "Sherlock when we made this plan it wasn't supposed to last. Maybe a week or two, Mary only wanted you to fall in love so that she could break your heart."
"Why? What did I do? She said it was revenge, I've never done anything to hurt her, to hurt you!" Sherlock insisted. John sighed heavily, closing his eyes and shaking his head in shame. It sounded so meager, so unimportant now that he was standing here, trying to talk Sherlock out of suicide. A stupid math test, they had tried to justify driving a boy to his death over a stupid math test.
"When you called me out, when you caught me cheating. She was angry, I was angry, we thought that, well, we thought we could get pay back. But I was never supposed to fall in love you with you as well; I was never supposed to care." John insisted.
"I loved Victor, and Victor loved me. You've never loved me; I was just a piece in your horrible game." Sherlock insisted, more tears rolling down his face, illuminated by the moon and the flashing of the car's headlights.
"Sherlock I do, I do love you. I was the one that kept it going, I used Victor to get to you. I couldn't stand the fact that you didn't love me as John that I used Victor as an excuse, I needed to be with you but wasn't brave enough to face you myself. I thought that maybe you never had to find out, I was prepared to live my life out with you, or until the truth just had to surface." John insisted, hoping that Sherlock would be able to believe the truth. It sounded crazy, it sounded insane, but hopefully it was convincing.
"I GAVE HIM EVERYTHING, I TRUSTED HIM!" Sherlock exclaimed angrily.
"And yet it was me all along, Sherlock, it was me in the park, it was me having dinner with your parents, it was me who crawled into your window that night...and me who woke up beside you." John insisted. Sherlock let out a groan of despair, letting his head fall into the beam once more, his knuckles white from holding on so tightly. The ledge on which he stood was only wide enough to hold both of his feet; if he shuffled anymore he would most certainly fall. He had to stay still, completely still.
"I didn't want you John, I didn't love you! Victor was supposed to be with me, he was supposed to be the one holding me, the one cradling my heart. I decided that night that I would give him my heart and soul, my innocence, my future...and it was you." Sherlock whispered. "You betrayed me."
"But it was my words, my lips, it was my heart, it just wasn't my hair color." John insisted. Sherlock looked over the edge once more, temptation flashing in his beautiful green eyes as he saw a way out, an escape from this treacherous life.
"Sherlock there was one heart that loved you back then, and there still is one today. The same heart, Sherlock, the same boy." John insisted, stepping closer, trying to keep Sherlock's attention focused on him, to make sure he didn't even think about jumping anymore.
"That's why he left me, then, wasn't it? In the soccer game, there was no abusive father, there was no phone call. It was you." Sherlock spat, as if there mere mention of John's existence was profanity. "You had to play your stupid little soccer game, leaving me behind."
"And I won it for you, and I left it for you. I ran for you when the game was over, and you walked away from me." John pointed out.
"Because I feel nothing for you." Sherlock insisted, saying this as though it should be obvious.
"But you felt everything for Victor." John pointed out. Sherlock nodded, wincing as if those words hurt him.
"And now he's gone, and you can never take his place." Sherlock agreed, looking over the river once more. John knew that this wasn't working, he was still considering it.
"You don't believe that I love you, do you?" John wondered, forcing Sherlock's eye back on him.
"I believe you; no one else is out here, are they?" Sherlock pointed out, looking around at the abandoned street.
"You fell in love with Victor because you knew he loved you, that he would do anything for you." John insisted.
"Yes, he would've. He loved me more than you ever could." Sherlock insisted. John nodded, deciding that if he was going to get Sherlock off of this bridge then there would be only one thing he could do. So he grabbed the bar next to Sherlock, and good ten feet away, and heaved himself onto the ledge, holding onto the bar with weak fingers, his leg shaking as he looked down onto the rushing river below. It was shallow, rocky, one fall from here would kill him instantly, there was no getting out of this.
"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked angrily, looking over at John in rage, as if accusing him of stealing his moment.
"Well, it's simple. You jump, I jump." John decided with a shrug, trying to look calm even though he really felt the urge to scream.
"That's pathetic John, that's ludicrous!" Sherlock exclaimed, holding on even tighter to the beam.
"You may think your life is worth nothing, but without you, mine is as well. We complete each other Sherlock; we're connected in a way you won't admit. This is where Victor and I are the same, we can't live without you, so we won't." John insisted.
"I'm not going to let you waste your life on me, just to prove a point. You're not him, you don't care." Sherlock insisted.
"Prove it then. You may be suicidal, but you're not a murderer." John insisted.
"Get off John, GET OFF!" Sherlock screamed, shaking in anger, his green eyes flashing in the darkness.
"I'll follow you, whichever direction you decide to go. If you go into the river then I do as well, but if you chose life, well, you save us both." John decided. Sherlock shook his head madly, tears falling more rapidly now.
"I don't want you to die." he insisted, his words slurred as a sob tried to escape his throat.
"I don't want you to die either, but it's a choice you have to make." John insisted.
"I can't love you John, I can't." Sherlock demanded, staring over at John through the darkness.
"You've managed before." John assured, trying not to look down. He knew that if he looked down he'd start to get dizzy, and his grip might slacken.
"I can't let my heart get broken again." Sherlock begged weakly.
"It's already shattered Sherlock, our hearts are the same. Let me fix yours, and I'll let you fix mine." John insisted. Sherlock let out another sob, but he was looking more and more broken, more and more scared. John knew that he would never jump, not now.
"Why would you love me John?" Sherlock wondered desperately, as if this really were some mystery.
"Because you're beautiful Sherlock, you're beautiful in a way no one else has ever achieved. When I'm with you Sherlock, I can forget all of the mistakes I've ever made. All of the lies I've been hiding behind for years. You've shown me who I really am, and who I really love." John insisted.
"But you're...you're John Watson, you're the most popular boy in the school. You can't possibly love me." Sherlock insisted.
"It's not like I did it on purpose." John insisted, forcing a little smile. Sherlock let out a choked sob, and with that he pushed himself away from the river, falling off of the ledge and collapsing onto the pavement. John jumped down as well, happy to be on solid ground once more. He ran over to Sherlock, who was curled into a small ball onto the pavement and shaking with sobs. John ran up to him, kneeling down and pulling the broken boy into his arms, holding him there, letting Sherlock rest his head in his chest and sob into his shirt.
"It's alright Sherlock." John insisted, pressing a soft kiss into Sherlock's soft curls. He kissed him with the same lips as Victor, except this kiss felt much more real. There was no pair of glasses separating the two this time. Sherlock didn't respond, but John could feel him press ever closer, as if he now knew that John's arms were safe, that his love was genuine. They sat there in silence, the only sounds were Sherlock's sobs and the clicking of the car's headlights as they flashed on and off, illuminating the darkness with an eerie strobe light. John knew that he could never let go of this boy, and Sherlock knew that he could never leave his arms. In a way this was better than any love confession they could've coughed up, in a way this was better than any apology. This was more genuine, this was more intimate, this was more truthful. Sherlock now knew just who it was who was holding him, and John now knew that Sherlock truly wanted to be held. From that night on, piece by piece, they reconstructed each other's hearts. And ever since that night, that cold night on the bridge, they never let go. Not once. From that night on, that cheap brown wig lay untouched, forgotten. They didn't need it anymore, they had learned to love each other for who they were, they had finally become brave enough to take off their masks for good. 

A/N: It always amuses me when my dearest readers assume the worst... Like everyone's all like 'you're going to kill them because you're heartless' like yes I am heartless but sometimes I enjoy a happy ending! And that was a happy ending, ya? Very happy? It's like the boy who cried wolf, in some way or another. I'm too tired to make up a connection. Anyway thanks for reading, I really enjoyed writing this story and I really enjoyed listening to the feedback. It's a bit of an abstract concept, but I'd like to think that I'm the first one to do something like this? Anyway every story I have is ending like...now. So it's going to be an interesting week! Next up is a Titanic AU, hope to see you on Sunday!