Disclaimer: Please, if I owned Sweeney Todd, Johnny would have lost that ridiculous white streak in his hair, but otherwise would have remained exactly the same

Angsty!Johanna ahead; here's where the Judge/Johanna stuff comes in. It's brief and a bit vague, but if it bothers you, skip ahead a bit:


Chapter Three


"O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!

It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night

Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear;

Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!

So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows

As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.

The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand

And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.

Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight!

For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night."

- Romeo, Romeo and Juliet: Act I, Scene V


Johanna was both grateful and resentful that she was allowed to keep her own room. On the one hand, it was much easier to find solitude and sanctuary. On the other, nothing in her room felt like it was hers anymore. As she sat on the window seat, Johanna regarded all of the items from her childhood sadly. There was an array of precious china dolls on one shelf. The dimmed winter light filtering in through the window hit their pale faces in a melancholy way. One doll, a princess with perfect brown curls, had shadows that fell across her face so that it looked like she was crying. Johanna's gaze fell on other familiar things: needlepoint disregarded from the day before, a book of Shakespeare's sonnets left open on her bedside table, her china pitcher and basin, a silver brush, a reticule inherited from her mother.

She would have thought that the room would have been extremely comforting after the past two weeks. She was surrounded by familiar things, yet none of them evoked a particularly warm or comforting feeling. Instead, she felt awkward and somehow…unclean in the presence of her innocent childhood things. Her dolls seemed to be looking at her harshly; she had never before noticed that they were not smiling. Everything in the room seemed to judge her. She had never been particularly zealous about Christianity, but more than ever, she believed that God held a trenchant gaze on her. She was only sixteen. She should not be feeling this way. And yet…

Everything ached. Her center hurt in a way that made her dread the nights. She fulfilled her duty as wife unenthusiastically, but the Judge had not appeared to mind. He did not notice her grimace when his lips trailed along her bare shoulder and collarbone. He did not even blink when she had to swallow hard to keep herself from being sick as he freed her breasts from their corset. She had turned her head away when he entered her roughly, without care. Tears had stung her eyes. She did not shield them from his view for his benefit; she just needed to know that, for once in her life, she could be strong. She could suffer without complaint. What else was there for her if not the Judge? He was all she knew. And she would take her punishment…for whatever it was that she had done to deserve it…and she would take it without protest.

As he had taken her, some whimpers and cries had escaped her throat. She imagined that he thought of them as noises of pleasure rather than pain or disgust. The action seemed to go on forever. As he moved inside of her, she bitterly thought of the term "love making."

"There's no love in this," Johanna had thought. "It's just a euphemism to make women feel better. So that they don't feel like whores."

"Or maybe it's just me," Johanna said aloud, coming back to the present briefly, before going back to that night. "Maybe I really am a whore…lying down for my father. God…will I go to hell?"

Did it matter that he wasn't really her father? He was close enough. He had raised her, cared for her…he had loved her as a daughter once, hadn't he? Hadn't she been good enough as a daughter? Why did he need more? The tears flowed freely now, unchecked. All those times that they had played when she was a child, that had been completely innocent. Those times she had kissed his cheek; for her, it had been a sign of traditional daughterly affection. What had it been to him? Her stomach lurched as she thought of how long he had been lusting after her. God…all those times he had seen her in her chemise. She hadn't thought twice about it. She had thought he was merely viewing her platonically, or at least in a way that a father would view a daughter.

She wasn't sure she could take another night of "love making." All she could think about as he kept thrusting and thrusting was of how he had read to her when she was little girl. She tried not to think about it. She had tried to keep herself in the moment, to think of him as a man, and even try to enjoy it, but her thoughts kept drifting to her childhood, making her want to retch. So instead, she had retreated to a part inside of herself. She detached herself from the moment, staring up blankly at the ceiling while he moved over her. She was vaguely aware of his breath in her ear and the occasional whisper, but she did not respond. When it was over, he shuddered and stilled above her for a moment, before collapsing at her side. She hated lying next to him like that, covered and filled with him.

Johanna took deep, calming breaths as she thought of the idea that she might carry his child. There was no sign so far, but what did that mean? She might not know for weeks and weeks. Mrs. Collins kept looking at her closely as she dressed her in the morning, clearly looking for signs that Johanna's ruin was complete. Johanna took a perverse pleasure in the look of disappointment on the old woman's face when Johanna failed to give away any sign of misery. Johanna merely remained cool and polite as she had always been, with a hint of steely defiance lurking under the surface.

At her window seat, Johanna could not bring herself to do anything like read or sew, nor could she keep looking around the room of her childhood. It was clear the room no longer fit her. It belonged to some faraway girl, a girl who had never been bedded by her would-be father, a girl who had never thought about tying up those sheets to her ceiling and simply ending it all. The girl who deserved this room was someone who had never laid down and taken her punishment quietly, a girl who had never needed to retreat into some secret part inside of herself. Tears again pricking her eyes, Johanna's gaze fell onto the street below. She took her mind off of her own misery by making up stories for people on the street.

She is having an affair with her brother-in-law.

He just stole some bread to help his sick mother.

She can't get her daughter to accept a suitor.

He…

Oh.

Johanna's gaze was met by a pair of startling, wide blue eyes. Then, something happened that she was unfamiliar with. The young man under her window smiled at her in an unassuming way, in a way that was meant to be merely friendly and polite, not expecting anything in return.

Oh.


Anthony was lost.

"Damn it," he cursed under his breath, drawing a surprised look from a well-to-do woman passing him on the street. He rarely swore, but being lost in the most impressive (and largest) city in the world brought out his impatience. He knew he was in Mayfair; the large mansion that Anthony could not even dream of one day living in gave that fact away. Not to mention the people he passed on the street, who regarded him with disdain. Never mind that he had six brothers and sisters and a mother to take care of at home. Never mind that he had left home when he was only fifteen to care for them all.

"Never mind that I do the dirty work that your sons wouldn't dream of doing," Anthony thought in a rare moment of bitterness.

Sighing, angry at himself for letting his impatience and bitterness get the best of him, Anthony rubbed his temple and sat down on the nearest bench to gather his thoughts. He could always go to Fleet Street for a while. Though, Anthony could only assume that Mr. Todd was set up there already. Sighing once again and blinking slowly, Anthony's eyes caught sight of a flash of blonde hair in a nearby window. Anthony drew in a sharp breath as he viewed the goddess only a few yards away from him. He stood, drawn in by her breathtaking beauty. Gorgeous blonde curls fell about her shoulders, framing her perfect face. The only thing there to mar her spectacular beauty was the look of complete sadness on her face. Upon closer inspection, Anthony realized that there were tears in her otherwise lovely blue eyes.

Anthony was startled to realize that she was returning his gaze. When her sadness hit him full force with her gaze, he offered an encouraging, lovely smile. She looked surprised for a moment, then she smiled briefly before wiping her tears away. When she saw that he was still looking, Anthony could swear that he saw the faintest blush on her cheeks.

"Alms, sir?"

Anthony nearly jumped out of his skin at the raspy voice and gnarled hand that interrupted the moment. An old crone was to his right, holding out a claw-like hand for money. Rummaging in his pocket for spare coins, Anthony found a few and offered it to the old woman.

"Thank yer, sir, thank yer," the beggar woman began to hobble off towards some other passerby, but Anthony stopped her after a moment's hesitation. The old woman looked completely stunned after being stopped.

"One moment, mother," Anthony said kindly, and the old woman relaxed a bit, though her eyes were still unnaturally wide and strangely blank. "Could you tell me whose house this is?"

For a moment, the old woman said nothing, and Anthony was certain that she really was mad and that he was merely wasting his time. Then, "Oh…that's the great Judge T-t-t-turpin's house, that is." She struggled over the name, and Anthony felt a rush of pity for her.

"And the young lady who resides there?" he asked gently, hoping to keep her attention for just a bit longer as he noticed her gaze fall on wealthy pedestrians.

"Oh, her?" the old woman looked up at the young woman with a bit of hesitation, as if she were staring into the sun and didn't want to look for very long. "That's Johanna…his pretty little ward. Or wife…I can't remember which."

"His wife?" Anthony felt hope deflate within him quickly.

"Wife…wife…beloved," the woman hobbled off, muttering under breath. Anthony let her go, watching as another man pushed her off roughly when she asked for coins.

Anthony looked back up at the window, only to find that Johanna had vanished from her spot. Disappointed, Anthony immediately scolded himself.

"She's not yours," Anthony thought angrily. "She's another man's. Who knows…she may be completely in love with him." But for once, his head and heart were unified: "But then why was she crying?"

Before Anthony could even think another sentence, the door to the mansion his lady lived in swung open. An older man, distinguished, but otherwise unremarkable looking, regarded Anthony coldly for the briefest moment before his expression became paternal.

"Come in, lad, come in," the man gestured for Anthony to enter.

Anthony hesitated, shrugging his bag over his shoulder slowly, before he slowly approached the house. The man continued to smile as Anthony walked passed him into the house. Anthony regarded the impressive entrance hall in awe, jumping a bit when the front door slammed shut behind him. There was a finality in the sound that Anthony found more than a little disturbing. Nonetheless, Anthony followed the man, whom he guessed to be Judge Turpin…which would make him Johanna's husband. Swallowing back his disgust at the thought of the older man touching Johanna, he followed him into a sort of library or study.

"You looked rather lost," the Judge said, his tone amiable.

"Ah, well…I was looking for Hyde Park," Anthony stumbled a bit over his words in light of the odd situation. "It's embarrassing for a sailor to lose his way, but…there you are," he finished a bit lamely.

As he spoke, the Judge handed him a glass of brandy. Anthony was not unaccustomed to drinking, but something inside of him told him not to drink.

"A sailor, eh?" the Judge regarded Anthony in an odd way, as if appraising him…or somehow envious.

"Yes, sir…the Bountiful, out of Plymouth," Anthony replied, still not drinking, the glass feeling heavy and awkward in his hands.

"A sailor must know the ways of the world, yes?" the Judge continued, as if Anthony hadn't spoken. "Must be practiced in the ways of the world…Would you say you are practiced, boy?"

"Sir?' Anthony asked, though he caught the Judge's meaning and his face heated up in response. He wasn't a virgin, but he didn't make a habit of going to the brothels in New Orleans or Paris, which his shipmates frequented and teased him about.

The Judge had turned his back on Anthony to regard the books behind him. He lightly fingered the spines of the leather bound volumes, in an almost sensuous way that made an uncomfortable shiver run down Anthony's spine. His stomach twisted as the Judge elaborated, "Oh yes…such practices…the geishas of Japan, the concubines of Siam, the catamites of Greece, the harlots of India…I have them all here, drawings of them…"

As the Judge spoke, his hand moved lovingly across the various books. Anthony looked over his shoulder, only to see a large, imposing sort of man blocking the doorway. The Judge suddenly turned back towards Anthony, and held him with a piercing gaze, "Everything you've ever dreamed of doing with a woman."

Anthony felt his tongue get stuck in his mouth, leaving him unable to speak. Smiling, the Judge asked in a mild way, "Would you like to see?"

Anthony cleared his throat and found his voice, "I think there's been some sort of mistake." He heard a distinct chuckle from the man in the doorway. The Judge briefly looked at the man before fixing his gaze on Anthony, his voice and eyes decidedly cold.

"I think not," the Judge said, leaving no room for argument. "You gandered at my wife, Johanna…you gandered at her." Anthony opened his mouth to protest, but the Judge continued, "Yes, sir, you gandered."

"I meant no harm," Anthony argued, his voice a bit sharper than he had intended. He heard a shift behind him, and he instantly regretted his impertinent tone.

"Your meaning is immaterial," the Judge said, and Anthony could easily see him at the Old Bailey, sentencing men to death without a second thought. Suddenly, the Judge was inches away from him, his face and voice imposing and ominous: "Mark me: if I see your face on this street again, you'll rue the day you were born."

Anthony swallowed hard, about to protest again, but then he felt rough hands at his back, grasping his jacket and jerking him out of his seat. He was unceremoniously dragged out a back way and flung into an alleyway. Anthony groaned as his ribs hit the pavement hard before he attempted to get up, only to gasp with pain when he felt a club hit his back, then his kidneys. His legs buckled underneath him, and he hit the pavement hard once again. The man turned Anthony's slight body over with his foot, smirking at the sight of the blood smeared on the young man's face.

"You heard Judge Turpin, little man," the man practically hissed, making himself look like a rat. Smirking once more, the man dug his billyclub into Anthony's forehead, making his head throb in pain. "Next time it'll be your pretty brains all over the pavement." With one last push on Anthony's forehead, the man turned back towards the house, entering, and slamming the door behind him, leaving Anthony to gasp and cough and pain in the alley.


Aw, poor Anthony. (Note: It took an embarrassingly long time to decide about whether or not he should be a virgin. Hee.)