Author's notes: Hi, this is my Sweeney Todd story. I've already finished it, so I'll post the first few chapters now, and if the response is positive then I'll keep going - I should be able to post a chapter a day. This story follows the plot of the movie, seen through the eyes of my OC, Sarah. It's sort of a SweeneyxOC, but it's hard to keep Sweeney in character so it's kind of one sided. I hope you enjoy it!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sweeney Todd, its characters or its plot. All I own is Sarah and Mark.

Chapter 1 – The Worst Pies in London

"Get out!" Mark yelled.

"Why should I? Don't you love me anymore?" I screamed back, anger boiling up inside of me.

"No!" he answered.

I stopped, not sure what to say. He didn't love me anymore?

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice calmer.

"Not again," I muttered.

He looked at me, his beautiful blue eyes full of sympathy.

"I'm really sorry," he said, placing his hand on my shoulder.

I shook it off furiously. After all this, he thought I would just forgive him? I'd been married to him for two whole years, and they weren't exactly fun, especially as it had been arranged by our parents. True, I might have complained about the cottage, or how he never tidied up after himself, but I was still there. I never cheated, or even considered the fact. I might have had other reasons than love for doing that – he was incredibly handsome – but I couldn't see how that mattered. And now he just expected me to go?

"Is there another girl?" I asked feebly.

He shuffled uncomfortably.

"There is?" I cried incredulously. "Who?"

"Come on Sarah; let's not make this any harder than it already is."

"Who's it hard for, Mark?" I asked. "You? Or me? Because I really don't see what's hard about tossing your wife of two years out into the cold, with nowhere to go."

He sighed. I'd heard that sigh before. It was the one he always used whenever I gave him a difficult response.

"It's a lot harder than you think, Sarah. And can't you stay with one of your friends?"

Now it was my turn to sigh. All my 'friends' only liked me because of Mark. It was probably one of those liars that he'd ditched me for. Most likely Scarlett, the most beautiful.

I didn't mention this however. I just snorted.

"You hate me now don't you?" he asked.

"Yes."

I wanted to tell him that it wasn't true, that I loved him deep down and wanted to stay with him. But the words wouldn't come out of my mouth.

"I'll help you pack your things," he offered, trying to be kind.

I paused.

"You expect me to leave now…right this minute?"

I didn't understand. What was the rush?

"Well, I'm afraid so. Sophia will be here in less than an hour."

Sophia? Who on earth was she?

"Sophia?" I asked weakly. "I haven't…I haven't heard of her."

"She's the girl at the grocery shop," he explained.

"The one with the huge boil on the end of her nose?" I cried.

Not only was Mark leaving me, he was leaving me for possibly one of the ugliest girls in London.

Mark glared at me, while talking about how she was very sweet, and he just felt she was better for him than me.

"How so?" I asked, being difficult (and stalling leaving).

"Sarah-" he began.

"Just forget it," I muttered, pushing past him to get to my room.

He called after me, offering to help me. I tried my hardest to ignore me. What was wrong with me? What was it about me that turned men away? Was I ugly? Was I stupid? Was I un-ladylike? Did I have as much charm as a potato?

I dragged my trunk out from under my bed and opened it. I threw in the first dresses, underwear and accessories I could lay my hands on, my kohl pencil, some hair pins, the copy of the Bible that my grandmother gave me, and the small picture of my parents that I had had since they died last year. I then slammed the lid shut and dragged it downstairs.

"Where will you be staying?" Mark asked, as I stood in the doorway.

"I'll find somewhere," I answered.

"Sarah, it's raining. Just stay for half an hour longer," he begged.

I span on my heel.

"One minute I can't get out of the house quick enough, but the second you feel guilty it's 'stay a little bit longer'. I'd rather take my chances with the rain than you, thank you very much."

With that (rather impressive) final speech, I walked out of the door, pulling my ring off at the same time and tossing it at him, then slamming the door shut behind me.

Once I was standing in the middle of the street in the pouring rain, I didn't feel so triumphant. I shivered, my blonde hair clinging to my forehead. A tear made its way down my cheek, leaving black smudges of kohl down my face.

Part of me wanted to run back to the house, but the strong side of me won. It told me to keep on walking, to never look back and think of my losses. Because there were so many of those.

My black boots lead me to Fleet Street, a street I never normally visited. In truth, I had no need to. There was not a doctor, a dress shop, a market, or even a baker. There were mainly worn down old houses, a church, a few grocery stalls, and the odd tavern. I eventually stopped at a building. The peeling gold paint on the black sign above the window read: 'Mrs Lovett's Meat Pie Emporium'. I stopped to look at myself in the window. I looked a mess. My hair was wet to the scalp, and strands had come loose and fallen about my face. My kohl was smudged from rain and tears, and my face was swollen and red. My favourite black dress clung to me like a second skin, the corset over the top felt too tight, and the purple material of my petticoat poking out at the top hung limply – which it wasn't supposed to do.

Suddenly, my green eyes caught sight of a sign in the bottom left corner of the window. 'Help Wanted' it read in bright red letters. I didn't have to think twice, I opened the door and walked in.

I found myself inside a dingy restaurant; the morning light had failed to make its way through the grimy window. The tables and chairs were covered with a light layer of dust, the countertop looked filthy and completely unhygienic.

A small woman in her forties sat a pie and a mug of ale in front of the only customer. She was pale, and the skin surrounding her eyes was dark, like she had barely slept. Her messy curls of auburn hair were piled up on top of her head. She wore a tatty brown dress, a corset pinching her waist in. A large floury smudge trailed across her front, and white powder covered her fingerless mesh gloves.

I then turned my attention to her customer. He was surely the strangest man I had ever seen, but the handsomest too. I was mesmerised. A messy tangle of black hair covered his head, with a shock of white running through it. He too was pale (but weren't we all in London?) with bags under his eyes – the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen, more beautiful than Mark's. They were such a dark shade of brown they were almost black, and held sadness and fear. He had clearly been travelling, for he wore a large leather coat and a satchel rested beside him on the seat.

The woman turned to me.

"Can I help you, dearie?" she asked.

"I'm here to help," I replied, pointing at the sign.

She cheered up when she realised what I meant.

"Oh, how wonderful. My poor knees aren't what they used to be you know love. Now, what days are good for you?"

"I was thinking…every day."

Her brown eyes widened in surprise.

"And maybe…somewhere to stay?" I asked.

She smiled warmly.

"Of course, love. It will be nice to have an extra pair of hands. There's a room down the hall that should suit you. It's a nothing much, but there's a bed and a fireplace. What's in yer case?"

I explained that it was nothing much, just a few clothes, and some knick-knacks.

"Now, the important question is: can you cook?"

I nodded.

"Of course, ma'am. I can also clean and run errands, whatever you want."

She nodded her head slowly, and then studied me carefully.

"Are you alright dear? You look as though you've been crying."

"I'm fine, ma'am."

"Please, call me Nelly. Nelly Lovett's the name. What's yours?"

"Sarah Perkins."

"How old are you, sweetheart?"

"Twenty one, Nelly."

"Nice young thing. So why do you want to stay at this old place, eh?"

"I've nowhere else to go. My husband of two years threw me out. Left me for some other girl," I told her sadly.

"Well the man's an idiot if he threw a pretty thing like you out. Ain't she pretty sir?"

I realised that this question was directed at the man in the booth, who had, up until now, stayed silent.

"Mm," he muttered, nodding.

He placed his pie on his plate with a look of disgust on his face. To my horror, I saw a beetle run out of it.

"Go on dear, sit down over there and I'll get you a nice pie to warm yer bones."

She gestured next to the man.

I sat down uncomfortably, trying to keep my distance. Unfortunately, my foot knocked his shin as I crossed my legs.

"Sorry," I murmured.

He glared at me.

I felt a red blush creep up into my cheeks.

Nelly came to my rescue, setting a pie in front of me.

"So, how are times?" I asked, trying to make polite conversation (and avoid eating the pie).

"Hard," she sighed. "No one dares come here. Would've thought we had the plague or somethin'. Course, these probably are the worst pies in London."