Chapter Text
At first it just felt cold, like he’d shoved his hand straight into a snow bank. Except instead of the accompanying jolt of adrenaline and sharp shock to the senses, he felt suddenly dull and heavy. It was like malaise, except malaise was slow and subtle, creeping up and compounding incrementally in such a way that you might not even realise what was happening until it was utterly paralysing. This, on the other hand, was immediate and intense — a leaden dread that strangled his senses. Really, that was what brought him to his knees before he even registered the pain.
Once it came though, the pain was agonising. It started with a burning sensation, the cold growing so severe it became indistinguishable from extreme heat. Then there was a sharp prickling that rapidly progressed into stabbing, shooting pains and a sudden stiffening of his fingers. Cells bursting, maybe. He tried not to think too deeply on the mechanics of it.
What was worse, though, is when he looked down and saw the blue bloat of his hand, livid mottled veins and puffy flesh, he was forcibly catapulted back to the memory of Jessica’s body — still, cold, distorted, and almost unrecognisable. It was an image he had pushed away repeatedly and forcefully, stuffed so far into his subconscious it mainly only surfaced in dreams. It was the thing he’d been avoiding thinking about all day. But here it was now, in all its gory, unbidden detail. Easily his worst memory, now with a new depth and texture to it because he knew exactly what she’d felt. He knew it in agonising, explicit, specific detail. That was the thing that Lockwood’s mind latched onto, repeated, worried at like a dog — that this , this terrible cacophony of pain and dread, was the very last thing she ever felt.
It was terrible. It was horrifying. But at the same time he felt an odd, twisted sense of relief. Because it was him this time.
There was a gross symmetry that this should happen on the anniversary of Jessica’s death. It was like he’d closed a circle. Like he’d been running up the stairs to her room ever since that day, and now he’d finally arrived. So maybe Flo was right that he’d been running this whole time, but the real shameful bit, the part that he’d been trying his best not to acknowledge, was what he’d been running towards. And now that he was here, a not insignificant part of him was ready to open that door.
There were tears in his eyes. He was just so tired. He was floating.
Then, he was suddenly aware of Lucy’s hand on his shoulder, her arm wrapped around his side. She hadn’t let go of him once she’d yanked him backwards, and now his body was pressed into hers, his back pinned tightly against her chest by the firm circle of her arm.
“You’re going to be ok. I’ve got you. You’re ok.” She was pouring out a litany of comforting little phrases, their effect belied only by the tinny undercurrent of panic in her voice. He could feel her breath, fast and hot against his ear. “God damn it, Lockwood,” she muttered, almost inaudibly, her arm squeezing tighter around him. Her fear was enough to jolt him back to the present, and with it the present horror of it all came crashing back in, not least of all because he wasn’t alone. Anything that happened now, wasn’t just happening to him.
There was the sudden realisation that he very well might die, and now he was considering the reality of it, that idea really did scare him. With a shudder, he had a guilty flash of Lucy and George, years into the future, trying their best to keep buried their own sickening memory of a body, suddenly still and silent. Consequently, it occurred to him first that if he had the choice, he wouldn’t leave his friends with this horror to remember him by, and with it came a larger, oddly comforting sense that he couldn’t go now because he was needed.
The second realisation, and perhaps the more surprising one, was that there was a strong and vocal piece of him that simply didn’t want it, and not just out of fear for the unknown or a sense of guilt or duty or responsibility.
Maybe he’d been running alone all this time towards Jessica’s door, but in a more literal sense, he’d already opened it and invited George and Lucy in. He’d let them see glimpses of the most broken, hollow, shameful parts of him, and they hadn’t turned away. Despite the fact that it was new and tentative and not yet fully realised, it had let something hopeful take root inside of him, and he could feel those tender, delicate new tendrils tethering him to this life he was just now learning how to build.
Now he could hear George yelling some way off behind them, muffled and triumphant — probably still digging in the crawl space. It felt very far away, and then suddenly quite close and present. Now he was urgently calling both their names. “Lockwood! Lucy! What the hell are you two doing? The fucking hall is on fire! We need to get out. Now .”
That got Lockwood’s feet back under him. Nothing like a crisis to force all the pieces back together.
Lucy had already wrapped his good arm around her shoulders and was tugging him upwards. George appeared at his other side, grabbing onto his elbow. He could hear his heart beating in his ears, and felt the bite of overheated air and smoke in his lungs. He could do this. Just had to push through one moment into the next.
“No, it’s ok — you don’t have to. Please, just run. I can manage.” He pushed George off of him, forwards towards the door, then grabbed Lucy’s hand, pulling her into a stumbling run.
For once they moved in unison, no snark or bickering, just George’s clattering footsteps down the stairs in front of him, and Lucy’s harried breaths behind him. His head was clear, focused on nothing except the step in front of him, and then the next one after that. It got him through. Down to the first floor, across the foyer, out the wide, double doors, and down into the front garden. There he stopped, panting, bent over.
The ghost lamp down by the road clicked on, casting the trees and bushes into sharp silhouette and lighting the pavement in a sickly green hue. Lucy and George were next to him, catching their breath in harsh pants. There were tentative hands on his back and his shoulder, a siren somewhere in the distance. A cricket shuffled out from underneath a lavender bush in front of him and then abruptly darted off across the opposite side of the path. He watched in detached horror as it seemed to distort before his eyes, jerking, spindly legs stretched far too long. Maybe it was the angle of the light amplifying it in shadow. Maybe it was the beginnings of another manifestation. Maybe (probably) he was just hallucinating. It didn’t matter anyway because whatever wherewithal that had kept him moving was gone now. Black spots crowded in on the edges of his vision.
There was a sudden burst of pain in his knees as he collapsed right there on the pavement and keeled over sideways into the lavender.
—
They’d given him something for the pain that made his head feel light and fuzzy and the world far away and insubstantial. It was like looking out a frosted window from the warmth of your living room and seeing the bright smudges of headlights passing by — life was still bustling on about him but a layer removed, too cold and distant to affect him. Whatever thoughts he had were fleeting, bubbling to the surface only briefly before quickly being dragged under by the greater current of blissful blankness.
Needless to say, he didn’t remember much of the hospital or the cab ride home.
George helped him to his room. He did remember that, because he’d insisted that he was perfectly capable of taking off his own shoes, and George had rolled his eyes, but let him try. He’d fumbled one handed for what had felt like an eternity at the time (but in reality was probably only a minute or so), before George smirked at him, and asked in a dry tone that was equal parts amusement and fond annoyance, “Had enough?”
After getting him adequately undressed and in the bed, George had bustled about the room a bit, maybe tried to ask him a question or two or brought him a glass of water. That bit got hazy again. Looking back on it later, Lockwood figured he must have looked particularly pathetic, because before he left, George had then tucked the blankets around him and squeezed his shoulder, which was rather uncharacteristically tender for George.
After that he must have fallen asleep for a bit because when he opened his eyes next, Lucy was leaning over him. His mind still felt foggy and slow, so for a long moment he just assumed he was dreaming, and he let himself stare baldly up at her. The early morning sunlight that brightened the room filtered in through the leaves of the apple tree outside his window, and he watched in fascination as the dappled light flickered over the curve of her cheek and caught in her eyelashes and a few little wisps of curls that had fallen out of place. For a few seconds there was a rare softness in her expression, her lips slightly parted and a little worried line between her eyebrows. Then her gaze met his, and reality came crashing back in. Her eyes widened, and it dawned on him he wasn’t actually dreaming.
“Luce?” His voice came out a croak, and he brought his good hand up to rub his eyes.
“Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to barge in. I did knock, but you were asleep, and I thought—” she broke off with a little exasperated sigh. Lockwood couldn’t help noticing she was blushing. Despite the fact that she was the one who had let herself into his bedroom and leaned over his bed, he got the distinct impression that he had somehow intruded on her.
“I just wanted to bring you this.” She held up a hot water bottle wrapped in a well worn woolly cosy. It wasn’t the one from the first aid kit. George had somehow managed to puncture that one during an experiment that had involved packing the skull jar in a heated vat of iron filings and then leaving it to stew for several days. He’d managed to patch it, but not before it developed a faintly mildewed smell and a patchwork of rusty stains from the iron. It had long since been shoved into a little used drawer in the boys’ bathroom and was only pulled out under the most dire of circumstances. This bottle, on the other hand, was old and shabby, but thankfully fully intact, likely Lucy’s own. There were little faded cartoon frogs patterned over it. It was oddly endearing.
“The packet from the hospital recommended keeping the afflicted area warm,” she said, and then paused, her eyebrows drawing down. She reached out tentatively towards his injured arm, but stopped just short of touching him. “Is it painful?”
It was. Even through the lingering haze of painkillers, Lockwood could feel his hand starting to ache, and chills settling into his body. “Yeah, a bit.” He grimaced as he pushed himself up onto an elbow, stretching his stiff fingers.
“Here, don’t do that.” Now Lucy did touch him, laying a hand lightly on his forearm, just above the lingering blue tinge of the ghost touch. “Just lay back down. And, here, take this.” She brandished the hot water bottle at him. Without thinking he reached for it with his bad hand, and the motion sent a sharp, stabbing pain all the way up to his shoulder. He winced, hissing through gritted teeth.
“Shit,” Lucy’s eyes widened again, and she fully dropped the bottle on the bed next to him. Lockwood might have laughed if he wasn’t busy breathing through the pain. Generally so stubborn, brash, and sharp, it was the strangest little things that seemed to fluster her.
The water bottle did help. After he settled back into the pillows, Lucy carefully tucked it up against his hand, and the warmth seemed to radiate all the way to his bones. It wasn’t instant relief, and it certainly had nothing on whatever drug cocktail they’d given him at A&E, but it did take the edge off the sickly, aching chill.
He’d thought Lucy might leave now that she’d accomplished her task, but she lingered a moment longer, looking him over with a bit of a purse to her lips and that little line firmly back between her eyebrows.
“You’re worrying,” Lockwood murmured.
“Mmm. Well spotted.” Lucy’s lips twitched. She made a little huffy noise that might have been a tut or might have been a laugh. “Yeah, Lockwood, ‘course I am.” At that, she seemed to deflate, and she sank down onto the bed next to him. “You might’ve…” she trailed off, gesturing futilely at the air.
“Died?” he supplied helpfully.
“Right.” She glowered down at him, as if just speaking the word might conjure it into being.
“Well, I didn’t, and there’s not much point dwelling on something that hasn’t happened.” He said it both because he believed it, and because he just couldn’t really fathom discussing it. Everything that had led up to that moment felt too expansive and complicated to untangle.
Now she actually frowned. “Lockwood, don’t be obtuse.”
“I’m not, Lucy, really.” He sighed. “What would you have had me do? I mean what exactly were you doing?”
“You could have tried yelling first. I had my rapier out.”
“I hardly think it was the time for trial and error.” He said it with an attempt at a smile. It was a bad joke, but it was the best he had in him at the moment. He didn’t like thinking about it, didn’t want to picture how Mr. Saxton’s crumpled fingers had stretched, jerking towards Lucy’s face, didn’t want to remember the way his breath had caught and stuck, punched out of his body as if his lung had collapsed. Past that, it didn’t escape him that Lucy had blatantly ignored the second half of what he’d said. His next words came out more annoyed than he might have liked. “Besides, you couldn’t see it. I saw you look right past it.”
“Right,” she said bitterly, her jaw clenched tight. She looked away from him.
“See, I said it wasn’t worth dwelling on.” He closed his eyes a moment, took a slow breath. He was frustrated, it was true, but that wasn’t near the half of it. Truthfully, everything he had felt, everything that was rushing back now — the overwhelming crush of fear and grief and hope — just felt far too tender to touch. But once he set all of that aside, he did have gratitude, and that he could offer her. “I just mean, I’m alive because you had my back, just like I had yours. That’s how it should be, right?” That he did mean in all earnesty, and now when he conjured up a smile for her it was genuine.
She brightened at the praise, as she often did, and she did smile back at him, even though it was rather uncertain. For a moment he was feeling quite warm and pleased until suddenly he remembered just how Lucy had gone about saving him.
“Shit. We didn’t burn the place down, did we?”
At that Lucy grinned sheepishly, and turned a little pink. “No. It was only a small fire. Just superficial damage. Or, well, non-structural at least. Mostly.”
Lockwood raised his eyebrows. “Well, that’s rather ominous. What’s that mean? Only one floor collapsed?”
Lucy snorted. “No, nothing like that. It was all contained to the hall. I mean, Ms. Abney definitely had a fit; seemed to think limiting property damage was a higher priority than making sure we all made it out alive. Apparently that boring arse white wallpaper was hand embossed, £500 per roll, and should have been ‘worth a bit of risk.’”
“Mmm. Well, bully for her then. Personally, I think she could use a do-over on that renovation.”
Lucy smirked. “Oh, the fire undoubtedly improved upon it, although I can’t say she took it too kindly when I implied as much. But it is all clearly covered by the waiver, so I’ve just been hanging up every time she calls. Figure she’ll have to give up eventually.”
Lockwood rubbed at his forehead. All of this was bound to bring down a mountain of paperwork on their heads if not some nasty contested fees, but still he couldn’t help but laugh. “We did get the sources though, yeah?”
“Yeah — a whole load of letters. George found ‘em shoved all haphazard up in the crawl space. He’s already looked up the addressee.”
“He did what?”
“Well, they wouldn't let him in the hospital with an active source, so he had to make a stop by the furnaces while we were waiting on you, and, being George, he took a boat load of notes while he was waiting in the queue. He went by the archives soon as they opened this morning at some absolutely ungodly hour.”
“What for?” Lockwood asked. His head was starting to ache, a dull throb behind his right eyebrow. “We already solved it. The ghosts are gone. The case is done. Anyway, shouldn’t he be sleeping?”
Lucy just shrugged, and now Lockwood noticed the way she was slumped back against the headboard and how her eyes slipped slightly out of focus. It occurred to him that it was likely she hadn’t really slept either.
He looked away from her face, looking instead at the shifting sunlight on the ceiling. “Ok, then, what did he find?” he asked in a softer tone.
“He found a death certificate from 1935. Rose must have been in love with the guy, cause she kept writing him for years and years after he died. But then she just threw the letters in a dirty old cupboard, like she was embarrassed and hiding them.” Lucy glanced down at Lockwood. “Weird thing is: they were Saxton’s source too. He disappeared along with Rose as soon as George got the whole bundle wrapped up in silver.”
“That’s odd isn’t it? They didn’t know each other, did they?”
Lucy shook her head. “I think he just lived with her ghost for a really long time. You felt what it was like in there. He was by himself, couldn’t see her, probably didn’t have an inkling what was happening. Just felt it. And he lived like that for years , just there… wallowing… with her.” Lucy frowned. “So, yeah, maybe the rest of his life just fell away, and then he died, and that’s what was left.”
“Well that’s certainly bleak, isn’t it.” Lockwood murmured. “And I suppose the irony of it all is that she kept coming back here looking for someone who hasn’t been here in a very long time.” This image of a tragedy spiralling outwards, compounding on itself, leaving a trail of wreckage in its wake, it was starting to make him feel a bit sick. Although, that could just as well be the ghost touch. He sighed. “Then again, there’s not a lot of logic in grief, is there? I suppose it stands to reason that death wouldn’t change that.”
He rubbed at his forehead. The throb behind his eye has spread to a tight band all round his head. All of this was starting to feel more and more like his doing. “I guess at some point, you just need to accept it, that people die, and then they’re gone, and there’s really nothing more to it. Either let go or spend your whole life and death… searching.” He said it as much as a reminder as anything else. Of course, it was an easier thing to say than do; he had been trying, hadn’t he? Still, Lockwood believed well enough that nearly anything could be accomplished with a game plan and sheer force of will.
Lucy frowned, that little worried line back between her eyebrows. “Lockwood,” she said slowly. “I don’t know that… Look, all that stuff George was saying about attunement: I know there’s been something—”
He pressed his good hand down over his eyelids, until he saw spots of red. His head was really pounding now. “Please, Lucy, can we not do this right now?” he murmured. “Just getting a bit of a headache is all.” A shivery ache was starting to set into his whole body too. The pain and cold in his hand was to be expected, but somehow the feverishness had taken him by surprise. Of course he knew other agents who had been ghost touched before and survived — it happened often enough — but he’d never really cared to ask what it felt like.
Lucy shifted on the bed next to him. “Yeah. ‘Course. Sorry.”
“It’s alright.” He grimaced and let his hand drop back onto the pillow.
“I should let you sleep,” she whispered, but she didn’t move to get up. Her gaze flickered down to her lap, and for a moment, her hands twisted together. Then she reached out tentatively, her fingertips brushing lightly over his temple.
It took him by surprise, and he breathed out a little startled ‘oh.’
“Is that— er, does this help?”
It was utterly distracting, certainly. And he definitely didn’t want her to stop, so he nodded. Her fingers continued on their slow journey over his forehead, petting gently through the hair behind his ear before beginning again at his temple. It was soothing and almost unbearably tender. He closed his eyes.
He wasn’t used to being taken care of like this. It was strange, having Lucy worrying and fussing over him. Comforting and disorienting all at once. Also frustrating and, truthfully, a bit terrifying.
He felt like he was teetering at the edge of a well of longing so deep, if he slipped he might lose himself entirely.
Despite the fragile bits of hope he’d found within himself, last night had also forced him to look directly at some parts of himself he’d gotten good at shoving into the dark. He knew losing the people he loved had left holes inside of him so unfathomably large, he had no concept how to go about filling them, but he’d gotten used to picking around them, keeping careful with his footing. If he kept moving, most of the time he could just avoid getting too close or staring too long into their depths. And what he was doing now — letting Lucy touch him, letting himself want it — it felt like walking on unstable ground.
Still, her hand felt nice petting over his hair, warm and steady, and he was only human. He let the exhaustion sink back into his body, his limbs going heavy on the mattress. Everything slowly faded away except the gentle motion of Lucy’s fingertips against his forehead, and the soft huff of her breath.
He was drifting, almost asleep, when her hand abruptly stopped, and he sensed a subtle stiffening of her body next to him. He cracked his eyes open to see her staring across the room towards his dresser, a perturbed expression on her face.
“Alright, Luce?” he murmured. She jumped slightly. Evidently she’d assumed he had fallen asleep.
“What? — yeah. Sorry, Lockwood, I just noticed — well, ah, did someone, er… bring you flowers?” Even looking up and away from him, he could tell she was blushing.
“Oh, no, I picked them from the garden,” he hurried to correct her. He could feel his cheeks heating too. “I actually was planning— well, I thought you might like them.”
“Oh!” Lucy exclaimed — flustered and a bit confused, maybe, but definitely pleased. She broke into a surprised smile, and he was immediately glad he’d said it. “Oh, cheers. They’re, erm, quite nice.” He couldn’t help grinning back at her.
Now she slid down on the bed next to him, still smiling. He turned his head so he could hold her gaze. Her hair curled around her ear, puddling on her cheek. For a moment, they just looked at one another. This close her eyes looked not so much hazel as flecks of green and amber commingled. Leaves and branches and sunlight. Slowly Lucy’s smile faded into something no less warm but far more inscrutable.
“Look, I’ve been thinking,” she said, eventually. “What you were saying about Rose Walker and the letters… I don’t think it has to be like that, you know — just fruitless searching. Maybe it’s just a matter of looking in the wrong place. Like, when you’re looking too hard at what’s not there, you miss what is…” She paused, and for a moment, her eyes flicked away from his, out of focus, like she was looking for the words somewhere in the air between them. “People change you, and that’s not nothing, yeah?” she continued, slowly, contemplatively. “It’s like, you’ll do or say something and you remember them. And then you realise that a little piece of you is like that because of them. That does mean something, doesn’t it?”
Now he was thinking again of the roses and the fact that they had been loved first by his father and then by Jess and then managed to survive neglected all of those years until they were there for him today to pick and give away. And there it was again: that feeling of a circle closing, but this time it wasn’t the inexorable looping around of death, more so a subtle, patient revelation. Life changing shape and persevering.
“Yeah.” He met her gaze, blew out a slow breath. “Yeah, I think it does.”
