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Lockwood stands on the sidewalk before 35 Portland Row, staring at the building he has always considered home. Its windows glow with soft lights that fade in and out as people walk past the curtain-covered glass. If he listens hard enough, he can hear laughter. Muffled conversations between those he loves so dearly chatting so excitedly about something he wishes he knew.
He can imagine how things are going inside. Lucy sitting curled on the couch, holding her tea close to warm her always-cold hands. Maybe she has that ragged gray blanket Lockwood pulled out of his closet for her draped across her lap. She’s probably watching George pace around the living room (could he be telling her about his night out with Flo?). He can imagine George beaming, his hands flying every which way as he gushes over the relic woman.
A small smile graces his lips. It is full of sorrow and yearning as he gazes at the covered windows. There’s an ache in his chest that follows suit. It feels like his heart is being strangled; gripped so tight by misery that he can barely breathe.
He finds himself walking up the cement stairs despite his better judgment. He doesn’t want to go further, he doesn’t want to stand before that door with the small flicker of hope burning so bright. He wants to snuff it out before it becomes a blaze. The disappointment of something doomed to fail is far more realistic than the notion that maybe the laws of the universe will bend for him.
But, there he is. On the final step of A.J. Lockwood & Co. before the door. Never before has the familiar sight been so intimidating. The foreboding nature of the lifeless wood makes him uneasy and almost consider running.
He wants to run. He wants to run from the future and endless possibilities. He wants to go home.
But where can he go when he is already home?
Lockwood raises his hand, palm facing the door. He holds it out, fingers splayed as his hand shakes. Will this work? Is it even possible?
He reaches out to place his hand on the wood, but is stopped mere centimeters away. His palm is flush against a solid barrier. It stops him from reaching further.
The flicker dissipates.
He feels like he’s going to throw up. Nausea hits at the same time tears prick the corner of his eyes. This has to be a joke, this has to be a mistake. This can’t… this can’t be real, this… this can’t be real.
Lockwood slams his hand against the invisible barrier. Once, twice, three times before he screams a wordless wail. He rests his forehead against the barrier and closes his eyes, arm now resting on the magical barricade.
As he leans there, sobs wracking his body in a way they haven’t since he was a child, he listens. He pays attention to the quiet voices of his family. He takes in the charming… comforting laugh of Lucy as she cackles and the frantic rambling from George’s lower voice. He swathes himself in it. Grounds himself with the help of his friends nightly bonding.
The ache returns with a stronger force when Lockwood’s mind drifts. They don’t know that he’s standing outside their door. They don’t know he wants to drop to the ground and cry in the same vein of grief he’s only felt once before. For all they know, he is out on reconnaissance. Scouting out the location of tomorrow night’s case to make sure he can have a plan in case things go awry.
For all they know, they will wake up to him coming home in the early hours of the morning. They’re carefree, they’re happy… They’re unaware of the devastation that will come to haunt them when they realize he isn’t home.
Lockwood bites his lip. His breaths are ragged as he tries to calm down and he can barely manage to stay upright when he lifts his head, dizziness catching him off guard. He has to sit on the top step to keep himself from falling. As he stares through bleary eyes, the world spins around him. It tilts and warps everywhere he looks.
Maybe he would be vomiting off the side of the stairs now if things hadn’t gone wrong.
He lowers his head into his hands. Of course the world chose to do this. Right in his prime when he still had so much to do… A name to make for himself and friends to lead to a better future. He had a footprint to leave for himself.
And yet the universe pulled him back before he could take that important step.
It’s almost like it mocks him; laughs in his face as he pulls his knees to his chest. Taunts him for grieving on the steps of 35 Portland Row.
A lock clicks behind him, and he freezes. He doesn’t dare turn around at the sound. That snuffed out flame creeps back to life, hope being pulled to the forefront by the idea that the door could open.
“Lockwood?”
He jumps and scrambles to his feet. Apparently he hadn’t heard the door open, because now he is face to face with George, whose expression shifts from excitement to confusion. That confusion seems to lighten a bit when Lockwood smiles at his younger friend, but it doesn’t last long.
“Why are you sitting on the steps?” asks George. “Why didn’t you come inside why are you–” the boy trails off and Lockwood watches as grows despondent. It feels like a punch to the gut to watch his friend realize. “Lockwood…”
Lucy comes flying around the corner, ginger hair frizzy and messy from laying on the couch. Just like he thought. Her green eyes are bright and excited and she rushes forward to greet him. “Lockwood! You’re back! How’d it go? How–”
She’s stopped from crossing through the entryway by George’s hand now being planted firmly on her chest. He doesn’t look at her when she protests her confusion. No, he holds eye contact with Lockwood.
Lockwood feels like his stomach is about to claw its way from his throat.
“What’s going on? George let me–”
“Stop.” Is all George says.
Lucy shoves his hand away and tries to step past her friend. She is only stopped again, this time though with George turning to stare her down.
“Lucy, you need to stop.”
“But…”
“Listen to him, Luce,” Lockwood says softly, pulling her attention from their friend. Her eyes dart between them and he wishes he could step forward. He longs to reach out and take her hand. To tell her that everything is alright, he’s just injured.
She shakes her head. He can see the disbelief in the way she steps back as she says, “no, tell me what’s going on, right now .”
He and George exchange a solemn look. There’s a knowingness in his friend's eyes that is almost drowned by the first tears Lockwood has ever seen come from him. They stand like that for what feels like an eternity before Lockwood nods.
“Look long and hard at him, Lucy,” says George, putting his attention back to the young girl. “Look at him and tell me what you see.”
She gives him an incredulous look. “What..?”
“Please, Lucy. Just do it.”
She examines Lockwood now. Those green eyes that were so full of excitement are now quizzitive as they scan over him. He almost feels like she’s looking through him.
Maybe she is.
He watches the way her lips part in shock. The way the lower one quivers for a moment before she clamps her mouth shut and vigorously shakes her head.
“No, no this is not–” She steps back from George, dragging her fingers through her hair at the same time. “This–” she cuts herself off with an empty laugh. One that makes Lockwood’s skin crawl. It’s a maniacal sound, hysterical even. It’s horrifying and he wishes for nothing more than to be able to run inside that hallway and wrap her in a hug.
Lockwood places his hand against the barrier again. He notices George’s shock at this from the corner of his eyes, but he can’t pull his pained gaze from the shaking form of Lucy. “Luce…”
She points to the door. “Stop.”
“Luce, please listen to me,” Lockwood pleads.
“STOP TALKING!” she shouts, hands dropping to her sides. He recoils, stepping down from the main cement stair. “This… this isn’t real, this isn’t!” She laughs harder and Lockwood again wishes he could run. “I’m going to wake up. This is a fucking nightmare. This isn’t real. Of course it isn’t, why wouldn’t it be!”
He tries to speak again, this time his voice smaller than it’s ever been. “ Luce …”
Lucy whips around and storms up the stairs and leaves him in a painful silence. His heart is ripped out in the process, pulled straight from his chest and thrown to the floor as if it were meaningless. He’s left to stand there like a hurt kitten, stuck looking at where she stood moments before.
His eyes water as his chest constricts.
“I love you…” he whispers.
He can barely manage to look at George. The sight of his best friend in tears leaves Lockwood in shambles.
“I’ll miss you…” George murmurs. “I’ll… I’ll find your source. I’ll come find you, I’ll bring you home. Because you’re… you’re here now, you were speaking to Lucy… you’re a type three. I’m not letting you be alone, I'm not– I’m going to find you tonight.”
He knows the boy can’t hear him, but he doesn’t care. “Thank you.”
With another nod to his friend, the door shuts in his face and he hears heavy footsteps retreat towards the stairs.
His final words go unheard. They are full of love and desire. So much emotion is packed together as he speaks to the air, perched in solitude on the cold stairs to Portland Row.
“I can’t wait to be home.”