Author's note: This piece is based on the movie but also the musical, in which Johanna is not quite as passive and much more fierce. Graphic depictions of gore, violence, angst. Johanna/Anthony and Sweeney/Lucy/Mrs. Lovett, implied.

"Whatever you think you've become
Don't worry 'bout it dear, it's where you come from"

At last, his time had come.

Nothing in his life could compare to the rush of seeing the object of his obsession at his mercy. Seeing the recognition in Judge Turpin's face, the helpless acknowledgment as he awaited his death, the atonement for a long life of destroying others. Fifteen years in hell for this.

The predator had become the prey at last, and Sweeney Todd basked in the raw surge of euphoria that coursed through him when slamming the sharp edge of the razor into the man's jugular over and over. He poured all his strength and rage of fifteen years of slavery, a lost wife and stolen daughter into it. To return every ounce of what had been taken. To rid this world of man's evil.

His favorite of his razors was a switchblade, which could extend at a moment's notice, and he had sharpened her perfectly just for Turpin. The blade was his only friend now, an extension of himself, his family.

All the while thinking of her, of them. The blinding image of a golden-haired woman with a baby pressed to her chest would never fade. He had been thinking of his sweet child as he opened throats after throats, the act of slicing them had been like an afterthought, hardly inconvenienced by the way it soaked his shirt sleeves.

Mrs. Lovett had tried to hold him back for too long, with her sweet nonsense words and her Mistah T and her coddling. She had been wrong all along: no amount of planning and bidding his time was as sweet as this brutal finish, to finally pay the judge back for her death.

He had thought he would feel something when he had his razor pressed against Mrs. Lovett's throat back then when he formed his plan, seeing her eyes wide open, making no resistance, hardly showing any fear. He had seen how her eyes fluttered closed when she felt the blade against her bared throat. A little whimper had escaped her lips, as if the touch of death would pleasure her, as if she welcomed him to try. It took away the joy of killing her, and so he had come to accept her. But in the end there was only Lucy and she lay in ashes. And his Johanna, she was gone.

And I'll never hug my girl to me again.

He straightened up, lowering his arm as white flashed behind his eyelids. Warm blood ran down his face as he pressed the hidden lever and the body slid down into the bakehouse below, waiting for the furnace. He felt like smiling, but the euphoria was fading quickly, leaving a gaping hole behind.

He turned when he heard a sound from the trunk behind him.

.

.

Johanna had never had any dreams.

Her life had been spent in a room with four walls, always under Judge Turpin's watchful eyes. Her guardian's desire for her had been following her everywhere, like the repulse she felt when he pulled her close and told her she was going to marry him, almost drowning her in his rough, masculine scent and heavy breathing, his grip around the back of her neck that made her feel like a bird stuck in a cage with a cat.

She couldn't remember why her larks sang day and night, without ever seeing the light of day. The dullness and boredom had made her feel withered, watching the world through a window, but it couldn't compare to the cold cell of Bedlam, the screams and women slamming their heads against the walls. There was only the small barred window where barely any fresh air slipped through, the warden's breath and the constant darkness they all lived in, like the birds. Smile for the gentleman and you'll have a sweetie.

Sitting there, completely alone among the shaking inmates, she had felt herself slipping for the first time. Her mind had caved in. It was no longer her sitting there, and it had made it easier.

Anthony had made the fears go away for a little while, nursed her hope of eloping to someplace far away, but she could never truly believe it. He had come for her at the Asylum, and when he was unable to pull the trigger of his handgun, she had taken it from him and finished. Right at the warden's face. It had been a moment's reaction, and Johanna didn't find it in herself to feel an ounce of regret.

When Anthony led her upstairs to the barber shop in the shield of darkness, black smoke belched out from the top of the roof. Johanna knew the place; it was located right above Mrs. Lovett's pie shop. It was the smell that brought her down to earth, from the elevated state of mind she had been in.

That sickly, thick smell of something being cremated. It filled her completely, almost sickeningly sweet, far from the romantic dreams she'd harbored of fresh wind in her hair once they managed to escape London. She suddenly felt sick, gazing up at the ominous chimneys towering against the grey sky. A beggar woman's nasal voice filled the dark street behind her like a curse, chanting about witchcraft and the devil, and Johanna shuddered.

She followed Anthony into the empty barber's shop, still disguised as a young sailor boy, and he told her he was going to come back with the coach in no less than half an hour. Not even his reassuring presence could calm her down. Even if they managed to escape this place, how could they ever be free?

She would always carry those years of the cage within her, the madness she felt slipping into her piece by piece. She had killed a man today.

Waiting alone, she needed to distract herself to keep from truly going mad. They could be discovered any moment; her guardian could come here and drag her away, to lock her away forever. She needed to push the fears away before they swallowed her whole.

Pacing around the room, she studied the photos on the worn vanity table in the dim light, for once not wary of the shadows lurking in the corner. She took notice of the barber's tools, but saw no other belongings. She picked up a shining silver razor from its stand, feeling its smooth weight in her hand.

It felt almost dizzying to wield, yet she couldn't put it down. She flipped it open, watching the blade reflect herself.

Could she use it if she had to? She would rather die than become Turpin's wife, to feel his heavy hands and eyes following her everywhere.

She would use it, to protect Anthony. He had awakened something within her she had never known, never even glimpsed at.

She wanted to be free, with a clawing desperation.

A sound coming from outside, a sickly wailing, brought her out of her thoughts with a flinch. She quickly closed the razor and let it slip into the pocket of the oversized brown coat she wore. Looking around in desperation, she spotted the trunk standing by the wall.

She crawled inside, shut the lid and then pressed her eyes together, wishing she wouldn't have to hear the sounds she heard. But she couldn't shut it out, trembling when she recognized Turpin's voice and the Barber's, after the wail of the beggar woman had since long gone quiet. The Judge was there, talking to the barber, and she waited.

It was a mad world, and Johanna had no way to escape.

She waited in silence for many long heartbeats, barely daring to breathe. When the sounds and thuds stopped, she slowly lifted the lid of the chest to see if the silence was safe, if she could finally get out of this place.

The demon barber stood there with his back against her, covered in blood. It had splattered across his face, drenched his white shirt and vest, and his roar still echoed inside of her.

It still lingered in the room; the name he had shouted, the act of stabbing the razor repeatedly into her guardian as the crimson liquid sprayed over the floor and windows, and the judge's last breaths had disappeared into a low gurgle. He almost seemed content when he flipped a lever underneath the chair to dispose of the body through an opening in the floorboards.

Johanna felt the sound of her own heart beating up all the way in her ears. Her hand trembled and the lid clattered against the trunk.

The barber turned his pitch black eyes towards her.

She saw him pick up his soiled razor with one quick movement, and she was stuck, hovering in the far end of the trunk, sinking down as if she could disappear through the bottom of it. His steps approached her.

He threw the lid open and towered above her.

He was pale like an angel of death, his eyes calm and empty. He had black shadows underneath his smudged eyes and his curled hair was matted with blood. When he spoke, it was barely a hiss.

"Come for a shave, have you lad?"

Anthony couldn't save her now, not even Turpin.

"No, I-" She tried to raise her voice, but it died in her throat when he reached out and pulled her out of her hiding place with one jerky movement. His grip on her arm was bruising, unrelenting and she stumbled to her feet.

"Everyone needs a good shave."

He roughly pushed her into the barber chair. She didn't blink, couldn't tear her eyes away from his face, when he raised his arm without an ounce of pretense. He wouldn't waste time luring her into death. Johanna felt herself slipping faster, down into something vast.

Her eyes followed the movement of his arm, the glistening razor, wondering how it would feel against her throat. Would she feel the tear of it? Would it hurt when it slid smoothly through her skin? The barber's expression changed when he had pulled his arm all the way back, and something akin to triumph grew on his face.

She was stiff in the chair, legs pulled up in front of her, one hand grasping the armrest, while the other, she realized, was clenched tightly around the stolen razor in her pocket. Her fingers twitched, wanting to raise her hand, to use the weapon to save her life. But she was frozen stiff, unable to move.

The barber made a movement and Johanna finally closed her eyes, feeling her head snapping backwards.

She was dead.

Her own heartbeat slowed down in her ears, and she could hear the blood rushing through them. Peace and calm spread through her, a sense of stillness.

It disappeared in a cold rush down her spine a moment later.

"Johanna…"

The soft, almost choked voice belonged to a stranger. The demon barber was right in front of her now when she opened her eyes, his dark eyes peering at her.

She felt her hand go lax around the razor, and she realized her time had come. She could no longer care. It did not matter what happened to her now.

It was a relief to succumb to the feeling; the only way out when there was no way out. She could feel it spreading like numbness through her body.

The barber reached out a trembling hand, and she saw that his razor was gone, and heard a faint thud when something fell to the floor. His hand softly touched the side of her face and she let it happen, barely aware of it. He stroked a few strands of hair from her face and she vaguely realized that her cap had fallen off her.

Her hair was bared to him, and she saw him pull it gently between his fingers.

"Johanna, Johanna, my dear," he whispered, and it almost sounded like a song. "You look just like her."

.

He couldn't believe it, that she was here, and she was breathing.

During all this time, he had come to accept the thought that he would never see her again.

Golden curls fell down her shoulders once her hat had been knocked off, and despite her disguise still shadowing her appearance, she was the striking image of Lucy. Only her expression did not hold that rosy smile, she was pale and stiff like a corpse in the chair, and he wondered why she had not closed her eyes in the face of death.

Johanna, his lamb, his turtledove, his star. His only image of her had been that of a smiling baby from fifteen years ago, a memory now erased by the pictures he kept by his side night and day. Photos of her and Lucy he had smudged with blood.

He saw her sharp features, and her eyes that were much darker than Lucy's – a reflection of his own. She was one of the few things in this wicked, stained, filthy world that was completely pure. She was the daylight and the stars. The memory of his little girl had lingered more like an abstract idea than reality, and that was why he had never looked for her, believing her to be safer away from his tainted world. Still he had made it a part of his mission, to make sure the corrupted judge never laid a finger on his girl again.

She seemed to so breakable, like a brush of his fingertips would cause her to shatter like porcelain. He couldn't keep his eyes off her face, barely able to grasp the realization. She was here.

For Johanna, it all felt like a dream, she was only watching through a bubble. The barber was crouching in front of her now, his skin glowing sickly from the wax candles in the room.

She was still slipping, and she reached for the razor in her pocket again. She had killed before. She let her fingers sweep past the engraved metal, now warm in her hand, and imagined flipping it open.

"Please let me go," she breathed.

"Johanna," he said, his expression almost broken. "I won't harm you."

She should have been dead minutes ago. Now death surrounded her from every angle, creeping up on her, and the wait made her nerves tear. She struggled to stand up from the chair and he allowed her to, but when she stumbled towards the door, he stood in her way, his face almost pleading.

"I'm... Benjamin Barker," he said, voice low and torn. "I'm your father."

Her parents were nothing but an empty void in her life, a missing spot. She was all alone in the world, just like Judge Turpin had told her when he adopted her. Until Anthony, she had been completely alone, sailing on an empty sea with a depth that terrified her. In her nightmares she had been falling into that depth.

"My parents are dead," she said, shaking her head.

Something harsh came over his face, a shadow darkened his eyes. Breathing faster, Johanna slipped. She finally found the strength to open the razor in her pocket and held it in front of her, as one would a cross, as if to abjure his presence.

She had no idea how to use it, and was aware of his ability to overpower her, but she would have to try to stay alive until Anthony came back.

"I'm alone," Johanna said, taking a step towards him, towards the blocked door as her hand tightened around the handle of the razor. His dark eyes followed her every movement, flickering to the blade without emotion, then back to her face. "Until Anthony came for me, I had no one. No one remembers me and I remember no one."

She took another step towards the door as if hoping he would relent and move out of the way, but when he didn't, she started breathing faster and the hand around the blade started trembling. She felt like the child she was, in the face of something she couldn't handle.

She didn't even notice him moving, until he had his arms loosely wrapped around her, mindless of her weapon. She gasped, feeling the stench of blood surround them both.

"For fifteen years I thought about you," he mumbled. "You and your mother. I saw your face... I would remember you until to the day I die. It kept me alive, Johanna." Her thin, tense body felt like a bird's in his arms and for a moment he immersed in the feeling of having her so close again.

He pressed her a bit closer, breathing the scent of her hair, and it almost felt like peace.

She breathed slower, but not letting down her guard. His words slowly sank in and she thought of the woman and the baby in the pictures. The woman had looked so familiar to herself, but she still felt detached - this was nothing but a dream.

"Father," she croaked. Her father was the man who had taken Judge Turpin away, so he could never lock her inside again. He had also killed a woman, the beggar woman from the street who stumbled around asking for her alms, with her bright song. He was a complete stranger and a murderer.

"What about mother?" she whispered, feeling him tense up.

There was a scream coming from below, a woman's shriek that could wake the dead.

He suddenly let go of her, backing away one step as he looked down, picking up his own razor again. "Stay here," he said hastily, before leaning over and pressing a kiss to her forehead. It was swift and cold, but it was the only thing like parental affection she could remember in her life.

Then he was gone, and Johanna was alone.

There was a weight inside of her, something she couldn't hide from. It was disappointment - she had been so close to finding out something about herself, to get to know someone she had known her whole life, and - he had been so close, she could have ended his life effortlessly. There was no such thing as forgetting, even if she and Anthony left this place. It remained inside, and knowing what she knew, it was inescapable.

A wide hole had opened in the ground and taken her down in it.

She waited for ten minutes, perhaps twenty, before the restlessness urged her to leave the room - the room where she was born - and walk down into the empty pie shop. She looked around as she went, seeing the traces of filth and the cold energy lingering in the rooms.

There was an open door at the back of the shop. A moist stairwell led down to what she assumed must be the cellar. With a complete sense of calm, she took a hold of the railing and slowly descended, feeling the stench thicken and the temperature getting warmer.

The sight that met her was the last slip. Slipping away, she could see it clearly. The flaming furnace in the bakehouse, the bodies on the floor and in the meat grinder, and the smell coming from the oven, the blazing heart of the building.

Her father was there, on his knees, cradling the body of the beggar woman in his arms, stroking her matted golden hair.

Johanna remembered why the larks sung in their small cages. They had been blinded so they wouldn't see the difference of day and night and sing all the time.

She knew what life waited her upstairs, a life of sunlight and endless skies with Anthony, an artificial kind of freedom, but she would never be able to wash this sight from her memory.

She sank down to her knees next to her father. The woman in his arms must be her mother, the figure she had never known since her early childhood, beautiful even with her skin diseased and the stillness of death over her features. For a moment Johanna wanted to join her, to stay in this room with them forever. They were beautiful, and she embraced them both, trying to imagine what it would feel like to have them close, in life.

There was a boy standing by the meat grinder. He was grinning at her as he pulled the handle, speaking to himself: "Three times, you turn it. Three times, that's the trick. That's all."

Johanna rose to her feet, picked up the razor from the ground, and flipped it open.

Fin.