Sherlock POV: Jeanette was so kind as to drive as many theater kids as she could towards John's highway side house, though in the eyes of any law abiding citizen the sheer number of children would be an appalling crime. Sherlock was lucky enough to have scored the front seat, though it was not as much spacious as it could have been, considering he was forced to sit on Victor's lap. In the back seat were about four of the skinniest freshmen they could find, and in the trunk was a great number of upperclassmen who were tasked with keeping their heads low, lest they be discovered by anyone following them too closely from behind. Jeanette was the only one truly comfortable, though the pressure of having so many lives in her hands couldn't have been helping her stress levels. One accident could take out the entirety of the theater program!
"Sherlock, are you absolutely sure this isn't some sort of set up?" Jeanette wondered anxiously, still with her face smeared with the remains of her costume makeup.
"I'm sure. I talked it all over with John." Sherlock assured. "It's a charity event, we're trying to end the feud once and for all."
"And you're not worried?" piped up Henry Knight from the backseat, the most timid freshmen to dare come along for the show.
"So long as John can keep them all in line, there's nothing to fear." Sherlock assured.
"I don't all together like trusting my life with John Watson." Jeanette growled.
"He's changed, certainly for the better." Sherlock assured.
"And how can you be so sure? Have you mixed up this fanfiction John for the real thing? He's not like that in real life, Sherlock. Certainly he doesn't kiss so sweetly." Jeanette warned teasingly. Victor chuckled, using some of his very sparing breath to show his amusement for such dramatic irony. Sherlock repositioned himself so as to lean even farther back into Victor's chest, hopefully deflating his lungs and suffocating him before the ride had finished.
"It's not his kiss I'm after, it's his cooperation." Sherlock defended.
"But you'll get both in the end." Victor offered with his knowing little smile.
"Don't make me elbow you in the neck." Sherlock warned.
"Who knows, it might be the beginning of true love." Jeanette sighed sarcastically.
"Or the end of it." piped up someone from the trunk, their voice unrecognizable from the muffled distance between them.
"It will be nothing of the sort." Sherlock promised truthfully. This kiss wouldn't be the beginning or end, merely an exciting continuation on a love story that would be everlasting.
"Well on your head be it. I wouldn't be surprised if he bit off your lips just to humiliate you." Jeanette grumbled.
"That's a lawsuit waiting to happen." Victor muttered.
"It won't happen. I trust him, okay? He's a good person." Sherlock insisted at last, snarling his words so as to make sure it was the end of their unnecessary conversation.
"Well then, when you disappear from the party we'll all know who you're with." Jeanette mumbled, at last pulling off of their exit. This was the first time Sherlock had gotten a proper look at the house, and just as promised it was every bit as strange as John had described. Its location alone was enough to raise some eyebrows, being a stone's throw from their most major highway with a driveway that spanned off of the exit ramp. It was one of the largest houses Sherlock had ever seen, constructed without anyone noticing the project, and still one of the most depressing structures in recent memory. The entire thing was a sandstone color, with flimsy building materials and vast, lonely windows that were dark from the inside. The surrounding ground was exactly the sort of dusty plain you would expect from such an unideal location, and there was garbage blowing from one end of the lawn to the other when the wind blew the highway's trash along the landscaping. Jeanette's car joined many others in a vast parking lot, with some of the more recognizable vehicles belonging to Mary Morstan and mike Stamford. Sherlock had expected the jocks to beat them here, though with the promise of a final show down the pressure of the night was finally creeping in. It was the timeline that he was most concerned about, being that Molly Hooper's arrival could halt the night's events or elevate them to a questionable degree. While her involvement in the affair made the most sense Sherlock was still not entirely convinced of her guilt. What if they jumped upon the wrong girl, therefore making their manhunt known to the rest of the crowd? Would they have to wait until after their promised kiss to get her final reaction, or would she be intercepted on her way up the sidewalk? Most importantly, it was what happened after their interrogation that was worrying him. Molly Hooper was obviously blessed with some sort of powers, the question was if she was aware of them or not. Was she a proper witch, or was she channeling the ability to manipulate reality through a special device, a magical journal perhaps, or a helpful possessive spirit? Would she use these powers to fight back, should she be blessed with more than one range of attack? Slowly each of the theater kids spilled out into the parking lot, with Jeanette lingering a bit nervously at the driver's side door, her eyes scanning the large house as if to display her obvious uneasiness.
"This is a strange location." She admitted.
"It's not permanent." Sherlock assured. "And much too long of a story than I have time for."
"Since when did you know all about John Watson's housing affairs?" Jeanette wondered. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, figuring it would be better to stay quiet than to further incriminate himself. There was no good explanation, so instead he helped Victor out of the seat and slammed the door rather loudly behind them both.
"No use lingering, Jeanette. Better get this over with." Sherlock sighed, trying to rearrange his curls where they sat upon his head in a skewed, disorganized mess. The girl gave a little huff of agreement, following with the rest of the ensemble behind the rather more confident Sherlock and Victor. It was indeed a good thing to have Victor so audibly on his side, especially since Victor knew almost half of the true story. He at least understood that John could be trustworthy, therefore being able to comprehend Sherlock's confidence. Of course Sherlock was going off of trust for John alone, figuring that boy would need to get the rest of his teams under control if this party was going to be a success. The expectations were not terribly high; it wasn't as if Sherlock expected both sides to be perfectly integrated by the end. However with a little bit of alcohol, some dimmed lights, and loud music, perhaps each one of the students would lose their party affiliation, instead turning into the normal high school students they were intended to be. Perhaps some friendships would be formed, some feuds forgotten, and some trust gained between predator and prey. It was a lofty goal of course, though not nearly as steep as the main goal Sherlock was approaching with. He wanted freedom slightly more than he wanted cohesion; he wanted to be in control of his own life and his own heart once again. With the defeat of Molly Hooper he will be able to look upon the world in his own way, using his own instincts and motivations to guide him. Freedom was necessary, as there was no denying her power over the two of them had created more problems than it had solved. Though there was one hesitation, only one lingering question in the back of Sherlock's mind as he approached the house standing tall and out of place in the dwindling ecosystem. If they freed themselves from Molly's grasp, how much would they lose? More importantly, if this love had been entirely conceived by her hand, how much of it would be left once her reins had been snapped?
"Sherlock!" John's voice called from the front porch, the boy himself bouncing off onto the grass and welcoming the incoming party with enthusiasm. Jeanette stepped back as if on instinct, her teeth barred with the intent to protect herself from his oncoming excitement. Perhaps she had never seen John wear a legitimate smile, though Sherlock recognized it to be a friendly welcome, made with his typical friendliness that was not yet understood by anyone who had ever stepped on a stage.
"Hi John. I'm happy to see we have the right house." Sherlock muttered.
"Ya, if you can call it a house." John grumbled, giving a rather aggressive kick towards the front porch. To Sherlock's surprise some of the stone actually chipped, as if it was made of such poor building materials that it cracked under such mediocre pressure.
"I loved the performance, by the way. Sort of sad you all didn't wear your costumes." John admitted with a little chuckle.
"I don't trust you." Jeanette said at last, folding her arms and trying to look as intimidating as she could manage.
"Well, now's a good time to start." John suggested.
"Stop being friendly, it's weird." She insisted with a little shutter.
"Jeanette, come on." Sherlock whined. "Can't you see he's making an effort?"
"But it's not natural! It's like he's possessed by an overly enthusiastic ghost. I'm talking to the shell of John Watson, not the real thing." Jeanette pointed out.
"I think he's doing alright." Victor offered, figuring that a second voice would need to come to John's defense.
"Thank you Victor." John muttered. "We're all here to make a change, right? To show each other different angles, and to cooperate along the way."
"It's just an episode of the Twilight Zone." Jeanette shivered.
"Why don't you all come inside? Everyone's mostly here, except a couple of stragglers. Some more important ones, actually." John admitted, glancing towards Sherlock who gave a little nod of understanding. John had explained all that he needed to over the phone, and with that one declaration Sherlock figured they were expecting their prime suspect to arrive at the house. The fact that Molly had not yet made an appearance was good news, for it would make their apprehension all the more easy. Right as she walked through the door they could pull her away for an interrogation, and before the night was ended their freedom could be won! Sherlock led the way inside, following in John's wake as he stepped into the house for the first time. It was every bit as lifeless as the outside had been, the same haphazard construction with hardly any decorations to be seen. There were assorted vases of dried flowers tucked in strange nooks about the walls, some stock photos hanging in cheap frames on the walls, and furniture arranged in every pattern throughout the alternating rooms. Sherlock could tell now why John had such distain for his current living situations, even a house full of broken family was probably better than whatever poor imitation of liveliness this house attempted. The sound of conversation could be heard from somewhere, though the entry way contained so many doors and branch hallways that Sherlock couldn't find them without proper guidance.
"Where are your caretakers for the evening?" Sherlock wondered in something of a whisper, not wanting to alert the rest of the crowd as to John's interesting guardians.
"Locked in the upstairs closet. I managed to get all five in at once, and locked the door behind them." John admitted with a little chuckle. "It worked so well I might just install a cat flap and feed them through there. That way I can have the house to myself."
"Sounds sort of illegal." Sherlock debated.
"I'm pretty sure they're not real people any way. I Googled it, and found that all the members are living separate lives off in California somewhere. These guys are just...well they're just imagination I suppose." John shrugged.
"This whole house is imagination." Sherlock added.
"And so underdeveloped. If she really is writing stories, couldn't she have added a more homely touch?" John grumbled, shoving over one of the sad flower pots and letting it tumble to the floor to prove his point. Sherlock had expected the thing to shatter, considering it looked to be pottery, though it merely bounced off of the floor and leaked water along the carpets.
"Plastic?" Sherlock exclaimed.
"Everything here is cheap." John growled.
"I think it's a fantastic house." Victor assured, craning his neck to observe the high ceiling which stretched above.
"Thanks." John mumbled, though not with as much enthusiasm as would be expected. Finally he lead theater party into a large screened in porch, one that overlooked the scraggly forest that lined either side of the highway. It was a strange place to host a party, though there certainly wouldn't be any noise complaints. The music was loud already, though Sherlock could still hear the conversation drop off with the first arrival of the theater kids. Sherlock and John stood side by side, staring down what might turn out to be an old country shootout. The two gangs arranged together, tightly knit and staring as if they were heavily threatened, their eyes flashing and their fists clenching. From the opposing side were all the familiar faces, Mary Morstan with her high pony tail and familiar girl posy, Greg Lestrade with the rest of the large pea brained footballers at his side. Sherlock tensed, watching each one of them and trying to determine who would be the first to make a move. And yet that move wasn't going to be exactly as expected, certainly not. In fact it was Victor who stepped forward first, offering a hand to Mike Stamford in greeting.
"Hi Mike." Victor said with a little smile, trying to appeal to the cooperation that had been reached during their detention hours. The boy stiffened, in fact the entire room seemed to hold their breath, hanging on this moment and wondering what would happen next. Would he shake Victor's hand, or would he take this opportunity to roundhouse kick him in the throat? Mike looked towards his friends, each one who looked as if they were watching a nuclear bomb tick away, though at last he settled his gaze back on Victor, taking a deep breath as if to encourage himself to go on.
"Hi Victor." Mike managed in a weak voice, clasping the boy's hand tight and shaking it as quickly and authentically as he could. "I um...I liked your sword fighting in the play." He added quickly.
"Thank you! I watched YouTube videos of fencers to get some practice." Victor said with a little grin, his cheeks flushed excitedly to be having a legitimate conversation with a boy who had historically shoved his fist into his teeth.
"Cool." Mike muttered, looking back again towards the rest of the crowd as if searching for a savior, someone who might help him out of this conversational rut he had begun with.
"I thought it was funny when Jeanette and Sherlock kissed. Looked pretty convincing, actually." added in one of the cheerleaders, a sophomore who Sherlock had never learned the name of.
"Convincingly in love?" Jeanette asked with a chuckle. "Well honey, that's called acting."
"It wouldn't be Romeo and Juliet if the audience didn't believe they were in love." Sherlock added in, this time rather defensively. He could sense John tensing at his side, though it was silly for him to get jealous. Certainly he understood that theater necessitated some awkward interactions, and some displays of affection that were perfectly falsified.
"Well I suppose we can declare this party officially started. Before we open up the bar, I warn everyone not to go overboard, and please drink water in between. Above all, don't drive away without sobering up. I don't want any accidents tonight." John warned, staring down both parties and giving them all a stern, military style glare. Even the footballers coward under his stare, and the entire patio nodded their heads in agreement.
"Yes sir." Sherlock agreed with a little chuckle, finding it quite attractive when John went all official. Perhaps he did have a working brain somewhere in the mix of things. Taking this as a sign of compliance John spun into the kitchen and arrived back with a cart laden with all sorts of alcohol, the only authentic things in this cheap imitation house. Perhaps these fake band members were alcoholics, for they seemed to have every single drink in store. Vodka, whisky, rum, beer, wine, everything an underage high schooler would find most tempting during these stressful times. It was how Friday nights were supposed to be spent according to mass media, though it was a scene that Sherlock had never witnessed before. The footballers jumped to the occasion, with the cheerleaders in their tow, making it seem as though this was a typical weekend night for the likes of them. The theater kids, on the other hand, hesitated before deciding to steady themselves in their spots.
"Can't be hung over for tomorrow's show." Jeanette decided fixedly, to which all of the students nodded in agreement. Even if this wasn't their true reasoning it was still a perfectly valid excuse, so while the athletes filled their solo cups to their hearts desire the theater kids mingled around and enjoyed the corn chips which were laid out on one of the tables as a makeshift appetizer. Sherlock watched rather from the sidelines, hovering and waiting for John to return to him and pay him some proper attention. The people were integrating rather nicely, while they were staying in large and predictable groups it seemed as though those groups were a little closer than they would have been otherwise. The very fact that they could all be in the same room at the same time without a massive uprising was an accomplishment to be sure, and Sherlock could just appreciate the fact that the boys could hold a conversation with Victor without smacking him around the face. That silly boy was now having a conversation with Mary Morstan, often times pointing around at her hair as if they were discussing the latest fashion trends. She was continuing on pretty well, her hands clutched pretty forcefully to her red solo cup, though when she did talk she seemed to be genuinely enthusiastic. Jeanette was cowering back towards the freshmen crowd, as if she was trying to protect little Henry Knight and his squad of very intimated friends. Of all the thespians who had no chance of intermingling, Jeanette was the most unsociable of them all. Certainly she wouldn't be baited with conversation, not unless someone else roped her into a conversation and held her there forcefully. Sherlock was just about to step in with some of the upper classmen, now entertaining Stanley Hopkins as he drained back more and more alcohol, progressively getting more easy going and easier to approach. However, Sherlock's decent was interrupted by the very distant sound of a doorbell, just quiet enough to perk only the more sensitive ears but loud enough to be heard over the music. He looked towards John, who was also attentive, and their eyes met with a mutual understanding. Someone was arriving late, when all of the expected parties were already here. It had to be here, it had to be Molly Hooper. Their puppeteer.