Work Text:
I wish you would come back
wish I never hung up the phone like I did
I wish you knew that
I'd never forget you as long as I live
I wish we could go back
and remember what we were fighting for
and I wish you knew that
I miss you too much to be mad anymore
and I wish you were right here, right now, it's all good
I wish you would—I wish you would
I. December
it's 2 a.m. in your car
windows down, you pass my street, the memories start
It was only December 23, but the Black Winter already felt unending. To make matters worse, London was also suffering from an unrelenting cold snap. As Christmas approached, anyone who had any sense was at home in their bed in the middle of the night, safe from both the frigid temperatures and resentful Spirits.
However, Lockwood had never been known for his sense, so instead he was standing outside a school in Wimbledon with George and Holly waiting for two night cabs. They had spent the evening clearing a cluster of Spectors that had been disturbed during some recent construction. It was their last case before a brief holiday hiatus, and after a trip to dispose of the Source, they would finally be able to return to their respective homes.
“I’m not very familiar with this area,” Holly said, making conversation as they all shivered in the brisk wind.
George clutched his puffy coat tighter and shook his head. “Never much of a reason to come here either.”
As Lockwood flipped up his coat collar, his mind snagged on one reason someone might come to this area. His hand automatically gravitated to his wallet that now held a certain business card. They were close to Tooting, weren’t they? That meant Lucy lived near here.
His heart rate picked up a bit at the thought of Lucy physically closer than she had been in weeks. As the first cab pulled to the curb for Holly, he turned to George, an idea forming in his mind.
“It’s already two in the morning, and you both deserve some rest before the holidays,” Lockwood said. “Go ahead and take this cab home. I’ll go to the furnaces and dispose of the Source on my own.”
George didn’t need to think twice. “Gladly. Come on, Holly,” he called as he stalked off.
None of them were taking Lucy’s departure well. George had been pricklier than usual ever since Lucy had left, and Lockwood couldn’t blame him. Despite their past issues, it was clear that Holly also missed Lucy. To compensate, she had been fluctuating between guiltily presenting them with baked goods and aggressively scrubbing every surface in Portland Row.
Tonight, however, Holly wavered on the curb, giving him a concerned look. “You’re sure, Lockwood?”
He flashed her a reassuring grin. “Yes, I’ll be perfectly fine. Too keyed up to go to sleep right now anyway.”
Holly nodded and followed George into the cab, seemingly relieved to be going home before dawn.
When the second cab arrived a few minutes later, before Lockwood had the chance to think better of it, he asked the driver to take him to Lucy’s flat. He didn’t even need to look at her business card, the address rolling off his tongue like it was his own.
He had been at DEPRAC for an unpleasant meeting with Barnes three days prior when the inspector had slid a business card across his desk without a word, raising a single eyebrow. Lockwood had carefully placed the card into his wallet and nodded in return. He didn’t know where Barnes had gotten Lucy’s business card or precisely why he had given it to him, and he didn’t care.
In the days since, Lockwood had unintentionally memorized Lucy’s address, as he pulled the small laminated piece of paper out of his wallet and flipped it through his fingers over and over. While he hadn’t fully fleshed out a plan to get Lucy back—yet—at least now he knew where she lived and how to get in touch with her.
During the short drive to Lucy’s neighborhood, Lockwood wondered about her Christmas plans. He couldn't imagine that she was traveling to visit her family. Last year, the three of them had celebrated together on Christmas Eve. After George left to visit his family Christmas morning, he and Lucy had eaten popcorn and watched old movies together for the rest of the day. It had been the best Christmas he’d had since Jessica’s death.
So far, this holiday season looked to be a stark contrast to the prior year, with the somber mood hanging over Portland Row. Holly had strung up some decorations, but Lockwood hadn’t had the heart to help her. He also hadn’t been able to muster up the enthusiasm for a tree.
Now Holly was off to her family, and he and George would be having a more subdued meal together on Christmas Eve. George had also insisted that Lockwood accompany him to visit his family the following day.
More memories washed over Lockwood as he fidgeted in his seat, including regret after regret for how he’d handled the autumn. He’d been too focused on the Chelsea Outbreak to see how much Lucy was struggling, too in denial about the extent of the conflict between Lucy and Holly to address it, and too intent on pushing his own non-professional feelings for Lucy aside to acknowledge the depth of them.
Needless to say, he had a lot of regrets these days. And he had never been known for his ability to let his mistakes go when it came to the people who mattered the most to him.
When they arrived at Lucy’s address, Lockwood scanned the building, taking in the rundown exterior. He stared out the window, wondering which flat was Lucy’s. Her card said Flat 4. A window on the third floor still had a light on—maybe that was hers?
Of course now that he was here, confronted with the reality of her presence, Lockwood had no idea how to proceed. He scoffed at his own impulsivity.
What was he going to do? Knock on her door at 2:00 a.m. and say, Lucy, I wish you would come back? It was quite likely that she was out on a case and not even at her flat. He couldn’t just barge in, despite how much he wanted to.
While he didn't have a proper strategy yet, maybe he could ask Lucy if she wanted to spend Christmas together for old time’s sake? Was that pushing her for too much?
God, he needed a plan—a real plan.
“Sir,” the cab driver inquired, the gravelly voice interrupting his train of thought and snapping him out of his fantasy. Suddenly, Lockwood realized how long he had been sitting motionless. “Is this the right place or do you have another destination?”
He jerked his head away from the window and cleared his throat, making his decision. He couldn’t show up at Lucy’s door right now. “Ah, yes, thank you. Another stop, please. The furnaces in Clerkenwell.”
Lucy’s building slowly disappeared as the cab drove away. Lockwood slumped in the seat, letting his head fall back as he closed his eyes.
What the hell had compelled him to do this? He didn’t feel any better now that he’d seen Lucy’s flat. If anything, he was even more worried now that he had seen how shabby her neighborhood was for himself.
Lockwood thought again of his final torturous conversation with Lucy at that godforsaken cafe. She’d always known how to push his buttons, and he’d been so angry with her as he’d stormed out that day. But now, weeks later, it was all in the past.
Even at their worst moments, he’d never been able to sustain anger towards Lucy, and now he missed her far too much to be mad anymore. Part of him wished he could be angry. Anger would be easier than the anxiety and longing he felt now—the languishing, wistful desire that he couldn’t shake, the fear that wouldn’t allow him any peace, the weight of all the still unsaid words between the two of them.
Lucy had given him everything—far more than she had ever realized—but ultimately, she had left him with nothing but her memory, brittle and all consuming.
As the cab continued to drive away, Lockwood made two decisions: he could never admit that he had come here, and he needed a plan to get Lucy back.
Soon.
II. February
it's 2 a.m. in my room
headlights pass the window pane, I think of you
As Lockwood hung up his coat and stuck his rapier into the pot in the entryway of Portland Row, he was struck by another coughing fit.
This fucking never ending cold, he thought, leaning a hand against the wall while he attempted to catch his breath. He’d had this terrible cold for the past month; occasionally he got a day or two of respite, but the dry, hacking cough never went away completely.
Holly gave him a concerned look, but wisely kept her mouth shut, as she sat her own kit down on the floor next to George’s. The three of them had just returned from back-to-back cases in Whitechapel, and Lockwood didn’t have to be a doctor to know that the bone-chilling temperatures weren’t helping him get better.
Meanwhile, George adjusted his glasses and made a disgruntled noise as he went straight up to his bedroom. Lockwood couldn’t help but think that in the old days—when Lucy was here, his brain supplied unhelpfully—George would never have let the night end without at least a biscuit.
“Fancy some tea?” he asked Holly hopefully. His thoughts were still racing, and his head was fuzzy. He wasn’t going to be able to sleep right away, and it would be nice to not feel alone for a minute. Thankfully, Holly nodded in agreement and followed him into the kitchen.
“Did we get any interesting calls about potential cases this afternoon, Hol?” he asked, feigning casualness as he flipped through the mail while they waited for the kettle to boil.
“Nothing that will meet your standards, I think.” She gave him a perceptive look with a hint of pity underneath it from her graceful perch at the table.
Lockwood resisted the urge to flinch. Since Lucy had left, being around Holly occasionally felt like having an exposed nerve. She would consider him in that intense way of hers, and he immediately knew she saw right through him. Lockwood detested himself for being so vulnerable, but given how much of his brain was taken up with worrying about and missing Lucy, he lacked his usual emotional reserves to hide all the soft parts of himself away.
“Well,” he said, shifting on his feet as he searched for a new topic of conversation. It was already well after one in the morning. There would be a long wait for a night cab right now as they had become more difficult to come by over the course of the Black Winter. If he couldn’t keep Lucy safe, he could at least keep Holly safe. “Would you like to sleep here tonight since it’s late?”
Holly hesitated, as she always did. “I don’t want to put you out. Especially when—”
Lockwood waved a hand dismissively at her. “You know I don’t mind. The sheets on my bed are clean, as you know.”
Earlier that afternoon, Holly had made up his bed, insisting on tidying his room until he didn’t have the energy to protest any longer. She had also left him extra tissues, bottles of water, and cough drops with a pointed look.
Since Holly had started staying at Portland Row after cases, they had devised complicated sleeping arrangements. The first time, she had offered to sleep on the sofa, and George had instead suggested the attic. Something in Lockwood had reacted so strongly to that idea that he found himself hurriedly saying that Holly could stay in his room, where she would be more comfortable, and he would sleep in the attic. They’d continued on in that way ever since.
Once the kettle boiled, Lockwood made them both tea. His one concession to his cold was adding an aggressive amount of honey to his mug in the hope that it would help soothe his throat. He passed Holly her own cup.
“Here you go,” he croaked, his voice going rough again. “I’ll get my things and head up to the attic. Do make yourself at home.”
Holly nodded in thanks. “Goodnight, Lockwood. Get some sleep, will you?” Her eyes flickered to the dark purple shadows under his eyes with a hint of concern; they’d become so pronounced over the past several months they almost seemed like stains, even to him.
Suddenly Lockwood wanted to run and hide for the second time during this short conversation. Sometimes it would be easier if Holly didn’t notice so much. There was only so much he could take of her well meaning meddling.
“I’m fine, Holly.” He was a professional at pretending, and tonight she gave him the courtesy of pretending along with him.
“Of course you are,” she said, accepting his answer.
He breathed a sigh of relief, unwilling to wade any further in these waters with her at the moment. “Goodnight,” Lockwood called over his shoulder as he hurried up the stairs, escaping Holly’s steely gaze.
On his way to the attic, he grabbed his warmest flannel pajamas and a pair of wool socks from his drawers. Then, he took a much longer shower than necessary, hoping that breathing in the steamy, humid air would ease his cough and the ache in his chest.
A half empty bottle of Lucy’s shampoo still sat in the tiny stall. Lockwood looked at the bright orange bottle and sighed, knowing he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to throw it away.
Finally, he made himself leave the shower and pulled on his pajamas. At least the worn fabric was comforting against his skin. He climbed into Lucy’s bed and blew his nose three times before he started drinking his rapidly cooling tea.
While he’d never admit it out loud, Lockwood felt truly pathetic. Over the past month, Holly had gently suggested he go to the doctor multiple times, but he had more important things to worry about than a little cold. He knew his illness was partly due to stress and not sleeping properly, but he couldn’t stop moving. He couldn’t rest—not when Lucy was still gone.
Once his mug was empty, Lockwood flipped off the bedside lamp and pulled the layers of heavy quilts over him. While they had been washed several times since Lucy had left, he could almost imagine that some of her scent still remained.
He stared at the glowing numbers on the alarm clock, still shivering. 2:00 a.m.
Beams of light from the ghost lamp and headlights of passing night cabs streamed through the window as he tossed and turned, his cough quickly returning. Christ, how had Lucy ever gotten any sleep up here with all this light? This room really needed blackout shades. When she, if she ever—
Lockwood stopped himself from going down that rabbit hole, as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The ache in his chest was back, and this time, it wasn’t because of the cold.
Dreaming about what it would be like when Lucy came back wasn’t a luxury he could allow himself at the moment. He’d been down that road too many nights in the past, and it never got him anywhere. He needed more than unrealistic fantasies. He needed a strategy that wouldn’t fail.
When Lucy had announced that she was leaving, Lockwood had been caught completely off guard, scrambling to control his own emotions. He had been unable to formulate a plan to convince her to see sense in time. But the one benefit he had on his side now was time—time to ensure that when he tried again, he would succeed.
While he’d appreciated the distraction of their heavy caseload, the real reason he'd thrown himself into his work relentlessly these past months was in the hope of formulating a foolproof plan to get Lucy back. They had received an influx of calls since Lockwood & Co. had been awarded the Agency of the Month award. He had hoped it would lead to just the right case to convince Lucy to come back, and Holly had clearly picked up on his increasingly urgent line of questioning.
Once he got the right stroke of luck in the form of the perfect case, Lockwood was confident he could turn this all around. He would engineer the situation, make the magic happen, and find just the right words to convince Lucy.
Lockwood found himself wondering what Lucy was doing right now. Was she also laying awake in her bed? Was she out on a case? While she was in the same city, she might as well have been halfway across the world for how far the distance felt. She was always out of reach, whether it was in his dreams or in his waking hours.
This had been his life for three months: work (too much), sleep (poorly), eat (not enough), think about Lucy (both too much and never enough). Rinse and repeat, day after day.
The ghost lamp flickered back on again, just as Lockwood was beginning to think that he could potentially fall asleep. He stared glumly at the eerie green light until his cough returned, making his throat burn. He closed his eyes and pressed Lucy’s pillow into his face.
For the love of God, he hoped he would catch a break soon.
III. March
2 a.m., here we are
see your face, hear my voice in the dark
The inky black night seeped through Lockwood’s bedroom windows as he went through every detail of the Ealing Cannibal case for the thirty-sixth time.
His thoughts mostly revolved around his final conversation with Lucy outside Guppy’s house. He had wanted so badly to ask her to come back while they were waiting for the cabs together, but he had decided that, yet again, it wasn’t the right time. It would have been unwise to bring up his proposition in front of George, Holly, and Kipps. When he had that conversation with Lucy, Lockwood felt certain it needed to be one-on-one.
However, now that he had reestablished the flow of communication between the two of them, Lockwood knew it was time to execute the next step in his plan. He decided he would call Lucy the following day to check in and to explore the idea of partnering on another case. If he continued to stick to his strategy, he would get her back eventually—he just had to keep the pace slow and steady.
The front doorbell suddenly blared into the heavy silence. It was likely a client, and Lockwood resisted the urge to groan, as he threw on his dressing gown and stumbled downstairs. He pulled out a spare rapier, as he swung open the door.
But it wasn’t a client. Lucy was on his doorstep, standing in the dark.
His heart thudded in his chest, and for the first time in a long time, Lockwood didn’t trust his sight.
“Lucy?”
“Lockwood,” she said, her voice weak.
He was immediately on alert. Something had to be very wrong for her to show up at his door at this time of night. She looked like she was going to fall over at any second, and her leggings were torn. Was she hurt? He rushed to her side, his arm automatically wrapping around her waist like it belonged there.
“Lucy, what’s happened? You’re shaking. Come on. Come inside.”
Lockwood found he couldn’t stop talking as he pulled Lucy into the warm comfort of the kitchen. As he helped her settle into a chair, he noticed her bloody arm for the first time. He was momentarily speechless with fury.
“What the hell’s this?” he finally managed to say, once again regretting that he hadn’t gone to Lucy’s flat sooner.
When she dismissed the nasty injury as “just a cut,” it took all of Lockwood’s reserves of self-control to stop himself from spiraling through the worst case scenarios. Explanations weren’t important; what mattered was that Lucy was by his side. He could keep her safe now.
After he woke George, they spent the next hour patching Lucy up and debriefing about what had transpired. Lockwood tried not to show his overwhelming relief when Lucy asked if she could stay at Portland Row.
Holly had changed both Lucy’s sheets since he’d stayed there the night before, as well as his own since she’d slept in his bed again, so everything was already in place. Lucy narrowed her eyes and asked some pointed questions about where Holly had slept, but Lockwood sidestepped them, avoiding her eyes and tossing his own sharp look at George.
He wasn’t going to explain the complicated sleeping arrangements they’d devised over the past few months, all because he couldn’t bear the idea of Holly sleeping in Lucy’s room. And he certainly wasn’t going to admit that he had been sleeping in Lucy’s bed like some kind of lovesick fool. After all, it had been his bed first, even if he hadn’t used it in almost a decade until recently.
As they continued talking about the skull and the Winkmans, he could tell Lucy was fading, so he made a point to wrap up the conversation as quickly as was reasonable. George headed upstairs first, and Lockwood paused to help Lucy out of her chair, his arm coming around her body again as he saw her sway on her feet.
“No need to fuss over me. I’m fine,” Lucy said, but she didn’t make any effort to move away, instead leaning further into his side.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to humor me for the moment, Luce,” he said as they walked through the hall and started up the first flight of stairs. “You’re in my house after all. Let me help you.”
She gave him a tiny smile. “Thank you again. Really. For all of this.”
“It’s the least I can do,” he said softly.
She nodded in return, her eyes tired but soft. They continued in silence up to the loft, where Lucy settled heavily on the edge of the bed, sighing in relief.
Lockwood stood there awkwardly, looking for yet another excuse not to leave. “Can I get you anything else? Blankets? Water? Medicine?”
“No,” Lucy said, yawning again as she slumped further back into the blankets.
“Oh,” he said, noticing her dirty clothing again. “You shouldn’t sleep like that. I’ll go get you some pajamas.”
Lucy blinked at him. “Huh?”
But Lockwood was already halfway down the stairs, quickly locating an old gray t-shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms from his own drawers. Lucy’s eyes were closed when he came back up to the attic.
“You can borrow these,” he said gently, setting them down next to her. “Sorry they’ll be a bit big.”
Lucy cracked her eyes open and looked at the pile of clothing suspiciously. “These are yours, Lockwood.”
“Well, beggars can’t be choosers, Lucy.”
“You don’t mind?”
“I insist actually. Change and you can go to bed. I’ll wait to make sure you don’t need anything else.”
“Okay,” she said, flashing him a look of gratitude as she stumbled into the bathroom.
When Lucy emerged, Lockwood had to stifle a laugh at how long his pajama pants were on her, despite the fact that she’d clearly rolled them up multiple times.
“I’m injured. You aren’t allowed to laugh at me,” she said grumpily.
That shut him up immediately. “You’re right, Luce,” he said soberly. “But I’m glad I was here to help. Are you all good?”
Lockwood snuck another look at her form, as she climbed into bed and started situating herself under the covers. He hadn’t considered what it would be like to see Lucy wearing his clothing, and—well, he couldn’t say he disliked it.
Lucy gazed up at him, as he absentmindedly unfolded another blanket. “Are you tucking me into bed?” she said softly.
“I suppose so.” He flashed her what he hoped was a charming grin to cover his own awkwardness as he draped the blanket over her. Their eyes met, and Lockwood felt like his feet were glued to the floor. “I’ll let you sleep now,” he said, clearing his throat. “See you in the morning?”
Lucy surprised him by reaching out and squeezing his hand. “Yes. Goodnight.”
Lockwood squeezed her hand back, unable to stop the smile from creeping across his face. “Goodnight, Luce.”
Here they were, together again. Right here, right now, Lucy was home.