Author's Notice: This is a short series of drabble-like fictions; one for each of the five senses. I clearly don't own Sweeney Todd in any way, shape, or form so just read and enjoy. Please leave a review when you're finished. Thank you very much.

-Dani-

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Sensory

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Smell

London was full of unique odours, some delightful and others utterly repulsive. But there was one that Todd loved above all others. And that was the smell of fear. It always lingered in his nostrils after the kill. That sweet, sweet scent. It began the moment a man sat down in his chair, before they even knew his intentions. There was just something terrifying about exposing your neck to a complete stranger. The smell grew stronger with every passing second, growing almost unbearable as the blade dug into soft flesh. It was a smell that Todd could live off of. And as he sent the men down the chute, the smell hung deep in the air – the rusty aroma of blood, the dirty stench of sweat. It was his opium.

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Sound

He sat alone in the room above Mrs. Lovett's pie shop, waiting. And then, he heard it – the soft thudding sound of footsteps heading up the stairs. That sound sent thrills rocketing down his spine. He stood and quickly glanced around the room, eyes resting briefly on every surface, checking for anything that could possibly compromise his mission. His eyes lingered longer than necessary on the dresser where his favourite blade sat, calling his name. Soon my friend, he thought, ever so soon. The door to his shop flew open and his head spun quickly to identify his next customer. But there was no man looking for a shave. It was only Mrs. Lovett.

"Dinner's on the table love," she smiled at him.

"Down in a minute," he replied. Mrs. Lovett turned on her heel and headed out the door, closing it behind her. She'd never understand him. He sighed and turned back to the dresser with wistful eyes. Sorry dear friend. Perhaps a little later then.

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Touch

He ran a calloused hand down her smooth, pale cheek, trying to remember the last thing he had felt that was so wondrously soft. She shivered as his fingers moved slowly down her neck, tracing her collarbone. His touch was all she ever wanted and he could see the fulfillment in her eyes. Her hands reached up – delicate and soothing – to cup his face. The skin, laced with the scruff of a five o'clock shadow felt so perfect beneath her fingers and she couldn't help but to sigh contentedly. Her eyes closed, her mind thick with desire, and she leaned forward, silently begging to feel more than just his hands. But she did not receive her wishes of slightly chapped lips. Rather, she felt the roughness of aged fingers pressed against her mouth, pushing her back and away from her fantasies. Her eyes shot open and gazed into his. She could tell one thing from his expression. He was not yet ready for that touch. No matter, though. She could wait forever.

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Taste

Mrs. Lovett was a regular angel in the kitchen. Her pies were marvellous – from the golden-brown crust to the delicately roasted meat filling; simply heavenly. Never would he tire of that taste. But Mrs. Lovett, the angel that she was could make anything taste delicious. Even that which was unspeakably wrong. Every time he kissed her, he could taste liquorice and soft traces of rum. It was a taste even more sensual than pie. But it wasn't right, for he had no heart. Therefore, he could not feel. So why did he crave her lips more than an alcoholic craves his drinks. It was improper and it had to come to an end. Many times he contemplated killing her, but that thought led him to the thought of her scrumptious pies, which led him to the thought of her savoury lips. And he could never go through with it.

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Sight

The mirror was streaked with dirt and a thick layer of dust had settled over the glass surface. Sweeney frowned at his distorted reflection, unable to see much through the grime. This would never do. Proper customers would soon be coming in for business; and although most would never leave, he insisted on being a reputable barber. Taking the rag Mrs. Lovett had given him earlier, he began to wipe away the years of filth that covered the mirror. Little by little, the dust began to subside. Light filtering in from the window hit the glass and sparkled in the gloom that was to be his shop. Yes, this mirror was the first step in a new life. When he finished, Sweeney stopped, folding the cloth like a respectable gentleman, and looked back at the mirror to behold his work. But he was unhappy with what he saw. A man with tousled hair and bloodshot eyes looked back at him. A man who was aged far beyond his years stood in the mirror, looking tired and worn out. Sweeney was outraged. Surely, this could not be him. Not this…monster. His inner demon flared and his fist darted out towards the mirror, shattering it to fragments. He had destroyed the monster.