Chapter Text
George bangs on his door sometime mid-morning. He's not sure what time it is, and he doesn’t care. He'd been up for an hour, laying there, trying to find the willpower to get out of bed. The moment he leaves his room though, he’ll have to face the ugly truth – Lucy is gone.
“Lockwood,” George says, “Lucy's not here and we’ve got a client.”
He strides to the door, opens it, looks into George's face. It's evident he hasn’t slept much either, but he is doing better than Lockwood. He's at least dressed.
“I know,” he says. He hopes it’s nonchalant.
“You knew? And you didn’t bother telling anyone?”
“She told us she was leaving. She made her choice.”
“Yeah, but…” George takes his glasses off, rubs them on his shirt and says in a strained but intentionally neutral voice, “She didn’t say goodbye, and you were supposed to convince her Lockwood.”
“I tried, but it didn’t work.”
“Yeah, clearly.”
Holly walks by. “We have a client,” she whispers, and then aghast, “You’re not even ready, Lockwood!”
“Fine, 10 minutes.” He doesn't bother showering, though he could probably use one after his wild chase after Lucy last night.
Nine minutes later, he’s down the stairs, dressed and ready.
“Lockwood,” he turns and faces Holly who shoves a cup of tea into his hands. She looks him over, clearly concerned and hesitant.
But he grins at her, jaw feeling tight. “So Holly, let’s see this new client.”
He follows her into the living room and listens. He asks all the right questions, pays attention, offers the appropriate assurances, but as soon as they leave, he can’t recall the conversation at all.
“Well that was weird without Lucy,” George says.
Holly’s eyes dart between him and George. She stands, “I’m going to clean up our case files,” and leaves for the basement.
Lockwood stands to leave too, but George says, “You do know, Lockwood, that it would help if we had a Listener in this case, right?”
He knows, of course he knows, but there are plenty of ways they can work around this. He just needs time to think. He waves his hand, “We’ll be fine.”
“But Lockwood–”
“Look,” he turns sharply towards George but manages to compose himself as he says easily, “We were fine before her, and we’ll be fine after her. Trust me.”
He's not entirely sure what they spend the day doing, but it passes. Holly leaves for the night, and George retires early. Lockwood finds himself in the basement battling Joe and Esmeralda for hours. His muscles are sore, he’s drenched in a cold sweat, his shirt sticking to his chest and stomach, his hair plastered to his forehead.
He grabs the fencing book off his desk, studies a few more moves and works through them quickly and aggressively. It's 4am by the time he trudges upstairs and showers.
He tries to sleep, but his mind is still too restless, and he attempts to focus on the motions of the fencing moves he just tore through, but he can’t quite hold it in his mind for long enough.
Instead, Lucy’s face floats in front of him, the determined set of her jaw in the cafe, the way her words cut like a knife, how he had rushed out on her, walked swiftly back to Portland Row, had come home gasping and clutching the wall for support in the hallway before Holly had found him and steered him towards the kitchen for a glass of water while his breathing returned to normal. He had sat there, with Holly cleaning to keep busy, stunned. There was a small part of him that didn’t really believe it, but then she had stolen out into the night, bags slung over her shoulder, and he had secretly followed, watching her move into her flat in Tooting.
He clears his head and walks to the library where he picks up a magazine and reads through it just to block out Lucy's scream as she was torn away from him and into the pit under Aickmere’s.
They’ll be bloody brilliant without her. He's sure of it.
Holly finds him the next morning. He watches her debate whether she should say something, but she walks by him, silent, with raised eyebrows. There’s no reason for her to say anything, he’s clearly fine.
He stands and follows her to the kitchen where she’s making tea.
“We should get a new Thinking Cloth.”
Holly turns and looks at him, with a frown on her face. “But–”
“Get a new one, Holly.”
“Okay,” she says, appraising the current one with George's notes, Lockwood's scribbles, and Lucy’s doodles. Her eyes drift to one of Lucy's sketches of Fiona Wintergarden. Holly doesn’t move, just traces the outlines of Lucy's work.
“Now,” Lockwood says and strides out of the kitchen without his tea.
He bumps into George, as he heads down to the basement.
“Give me the latest on the Thomas factory case,” he says. “I think we should go tonight.”
“Well, quite an interesting case–” George says absentmindedly, then looking up at Lockwood, “Hold on, tonight ? No way! Have you traded brains with Kipps or something?”
“Why?”
“Oh I don't know, Lockwood? Because Kipps is an idiot, and you’re doing a fine impression of him.”
He claps George on the shoulder. “George, we’ll be fine. Where’d your faith go?”
“Lockwood,” he says slowly, “What really happened when you talked to Lucy?”
He waves his hand dismissively, as if by doing so, he can wipe it from his mind, “She didn’t want to be held back. Wants to try her own methods without the criticism.”
“But, that almost got her killed.”
“Yeah, well. C'mon tell me what you’ve found out about the factory.”
George looks at him in that way he does sometimes, where he knows Lockwood's full of shit, but he doesn’t push.
“Fine. But just because I'm telling you about it doesn’t mean we’re going tonight. I need more time to look into it. There were some pretty bad accidents and deaths there in the 1800s. Just because they’re planning to bulldoze it and build flats there doesn’t mean that all the hauntings are going away. I need to get a full record, so I know what we’re getting into. but, promise me, Lockwood, you’re not going to do something stupid.”
“Cross my heart–”
“Hope to die?” George scoffs, “Yeah, knew that one already.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Why don’t you figure it out, Lockwood?”
He wants to tell George off, but it never really works anyway. He heads out to buy supplies for the case. They need new chains, salt bombs, the works.
He grabs his coat and sets off, heading to Satchells and places an order to be delivered tonight. It’s one of those bright, sunny days that’s impossibly cold with a relentless wind that burns his cheeks and lips. He shoves his hands into his pockets, walking aimlessly, because he can’t be in that house where it feels like another fucking person has died, with George pushing and Holly skittering around him.
He ends up in Tooting, because of course he does. He looks at her building, dilapidated, peeling, and drab. Scowling, he looks at the trash littered on the sidewalk, the little rundown Thai place across the street, and how much cement exists in this neighborhood. No one should live here, especially not Lucy. Well, she had made her choice, hadn’t she? And clearly there was nothing he could do or say to change her mind.
He inhales deeply. Even the outside air smells different and worse. He hates it here. It's a desolate and depressing place. He turns on his heel and heads towards Portland Row. Walking back, he decides he’ll go to the factory tonight. No use sitting around thinking useless thoughts.
He bangs into the house and tells George that his room is a hazardous waste, and that he needs to use the attic for the extra storage. George looks at him in surprise, but doesn’t protest.
He spends the rest of the day working his way through George's notes on the case. He's pretty sure that Holly leaves early, George wanders off to the archives, and he’s alone in the house.
It's quiet, too quiet. Lockwood can hear his own blood pounding through his ears. He looks wildly around the basement and finds it hard to swallow the lump in his throat. He hangs his head – it’s impossible not to think about Lucy. Despite everything these past months – the fights, the worry, the stress of it all – he can’t fully get her out of his mind. It's deeply worrying, because normally he’s so good at this, after years and years of packing painful memories away into boxes in his mind. But right now, he feels flayed and raw and so tired.
Lucy had said it wasn’t Holly, but maybe he should have just fired Holly after all. He had toyed with the idea more than he cared to admit if it would make Lucy stay. He had been an idiot thinking that bringing in another girl, especially one who had the same past that Lucy did, would make them automatically friends, so Lucy wasn’t just stuck with him and George. And it had royally backfired in his face. Jesus, girls were impossibly confusing.
He still has no idea why she left, but he’s convinced he’s fucked up somehow, but how? His mind circles around Holly again. Or maybe what Lucy said was right. He’s too controlling. But she was flirting with death and risk, and he simply couldn’t have that. Not again. Not after Jessica. Not after Robin, even though Robin was a bloody idiot. But here he is somehow still in the same state despite all his efforts, alone.
He thinks back to the conversation at the cafe, replaying it in his mind for probably the thirteenth time. He should have done more, not held back, because George is right, it was his job to convince Lucy, and he had failed.
He stands and his mind thinks back to Aickmere’s and the time before Lucy announced she was quitting. What signs had he missed? Were there any? There had to be. It’s not like he hadn’t been paying attention, he was always paying attention to her whether it was intentional or not.
He runs through it -
Lucy screaming at him when he finally found her. How hard his heart had been beating against his chest, the sheer desperation and panic, and then the immense relief that she was alive.
Her guilt and confession. Well, he hadn’t gotten mad at her even though he had every reason to, he just couldn’t. It was Lucy and she had almost died, and anything that he had been angry about didn’t matter anymore, because she had almost died.
Lucy wearing his coat, him telling her how much he cared about her and… Goddamn, Lucy wearing his coat and how that did unexpected things to him…
Is it because he had pushed her away? He thought he had explained that to her too, hadn’t he? Sure, he had stretched the truth a bit when he told her it was simply for work reasons, as if he hadn’t spent the past few months admiring her Talent, then worrying about her Talent, then somehow staring at her, noticing the curve of her neck, her eyes, her hips, and vehemently shoving away thoughts of pushing her against a wall and feeling her body and mouth against his.
He shakes his head. He is her employer, nothing more. There cannot be more, and she’s gone anyway, abandoned him just like–
He’s in the attic all of a sudden. Looking around bewildered, he has no idea how he got here. He breathes a deep breath in, and finds that it still smells like her, a smell he can’t really describe. Lavender, fresh, natural? It’s very different from how Holly smells, but he knows he definitely prefers this distinctly Lucy smell.
He sits on the bed, looks around at empty walls, and suddenly all the energy leaves his body. He lays down feeling strangely empty, as a thought hits him with stunning clarity: there will never be a good day again.
He accepts this fate easily and readily. He's been hurtling towards it for years, hasn’t he? Sure, he had a brief reprieve from the numbness that had surrounded him since Jessica died, when he met George and then Lucy, but that’s over now. This is what he deserves.
He sits on her bed for a long time, willing himself to move, to do anything, but his mind circles through all the things he could do, should do, and none of them seem appealing.
He wakes up, cold winter sunlight filtering through the attic curtains. He heaves a sigh, but bloody hell, he needs to get his shit together and at least do something with himself.
He walks downstairs, showers, spends way too much time on his hair just for something to do, and heads to the kitchen, where Holly is flitting about. He ignores her and heads down to the basement to duel with Joe and Esmeralda and read the additional notes George brought back yesterday. George is at the archives again, but he’s made up his mind this time. He's definitely going to the factory tonight.
“Lockwood, just hold still will you?” Holly huffs.
“I’m fine, I’m fine, stop fussing.” And it’s almost true. His neck is sore, he’s light headed from blood loss, and he feels a weird sense of calm settle over him – none of this really matters, so there’s no need to worry, is there? He rubs his thumb and pointer finger together for the sensation of it, but it doesn’t really center him and bring his mind into this moment.
Holly fixes him with a withering look, gauze and bandages in her hand. “You are not fine. George found you lying on the ground, unconscious, with your neck practically sliced open. It’s a good thing he knows you so well and knew immediately where you had gone. What were you possibly thinking? After George told you he needed more time! And why on Earth would you go alone?”
Lockwood doesn’t answer her. He’s not entirely sure why he did it himself. He just knows that the numbness is still there, and the high he was hoping for from the thrill of a case never came last night. There’s a dull, flat quality to everything now, and he doesn’t even care that Holly’s yelling at him.
“Well?“ She demands.
“Holly, I’m your employer, I don’t owe you an answer here. I did what I thought was best for the team.”
Holly stares at him, then says gently, “Lockwood, don’t pretend that George and I don’t know what this is about.”
“Hol,” he says with a forced laugh, “I’m fine.”
And he is fine. There’s nothing particularly bad about what is happening. They solve the case, a reporter calls and interviews Lockwood, and he makes sure to leave out the part where he kind of almost died. Just part of being an agent, he tells himself.
Over the next three months, several things happen.
First, he is almost never alone again. Holly becomes far more constant in his life. He doesn’t necessarily mind, but it’s certainly not the same either. He knows that George and Holly have crafted a plan to make sure he’s watched at all times. Holly stays over a lot more, and because of some misplaced chivalry, he lets her have his bed most nights. Plus, he’d rather sleep on the couch in the library where he can read something to keep himself distracted, avoiding thoughts of Lucy and the risks she might be taking. Holly starts saying sorry a lot. It's a bit annoying, but he knows she feels really guilty, and honestly who is he to deny someone their guilt.
Second, he stops wandering to Lucy’s flat, but he does start stalking the papers like it’s a religion to catch any news of her cases. He finds occasional snippets, but they’re brief and don’t give away much.
Third, he prioritizes networking with the utmost importance. He doesn’t make any friends, he just becomes social. He makes sure to talk to agents at Rotwell’s, Tendy’s, the whole lot of them. He doesn’t necessarily ask about Lucy, but Holly comes with him often, and he finds that with Holly there, Lucy always manages to come up. He’s impressed with the rates that Lucy's asking for and privately appreciates her business acumen. He desperately longs to talk to her about it and tell her that she could charge even more – she is that good.
Fourth, he throws himself into work, and gets injured a lot more. He does research with George, shops with Holly, makes sure sources get burned at the Fittes’ furnaces. He does all of this with a feverish zeal, Lucy constantly on his mind. Sure, he, Holly, and George are good, and they work well together, but Holly and George are both too cautious. He fights with ease and abandon, anything to chase that high, and his heart physically hurts sometimes when he finds himself looking to his other side on instinct, only to remember Lucy isn’t there fighting alongside him with the same intensity.
Fifth, he and George fight frequently. George has become sullen and moody, and Lockwood's patience isn’t what it used to be. George makes snide remarks about Lockwood having a death wish, but after what feels like their tenth argument, Holly makes them call a truce. Still, things remain shaky between them.
And always, always, the constant hunting of cases with an obsession. He physically seeks them out and makes Holly get out there too. He even reaches out to Kipps and Barnes to see what they’ve heard. Nothing seems good enough. One day he gets desperate and walks to the Fittes building himself. They’re in good standing with Ms. Fittes, and he’s confident he can work her over, even if it takes time. If anyone’s got a case good enough for Lucy, it’s the Fittes Agency.
Finally, after a solid month, Ms. Fittes calls him. There’s a case, and she’s confident that it needs an extraordinary Listener.
That night Lockwood does something he’s never done before. He jots down what he wants to say, practices in front of the mirror, picks out a new suit, the tie that Lucy gave him – the one he rarely wears, because he’s afraid he’ll ruin it – and messes a lot with his hair in anticipation for tomorrow, his stomach in knots. He’s failed once, and he will not fail again.