Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, my fellow Locklyle trash :)
“Lockwood!” Lucy gasped, tumbling slightly as she rushed forward towards him. Her hair was a mess on top of her head, and she smelled like she’d been using the River Thames to wash up everyday since she was born. There was a long rip on her leggings that started from her ankle to her knee. She had a small gash on her cheek that had just stopped bleeding. “Thank god I found you! You wouldn’t believe - What’s the matter? Why are you looking at me like that?”
Anthony Lockwood stood just a few metres aways from her, hair as dishevelled as always, the ends of his long coat dipped in the dark water of the sewers. Before Lucy could say anything else, he gave her a huge, playful grin that took her by surprise, but sent warmth flooding in her chest. All was right in the world again because Lockwood was here and everything is possible and nothing can stop them now, not really. And so Lucy found his next words confusing. “Remember that Annabel Ward case that we did? The one where we burned the client’s house down?” he asked pleasantly.
Lucy felt a bit wary. Something’s wrong. Is he trying to send her a coded message? Is there someone with them here in the sewers? “Yeah…?” she said slowly. “What about it?”
“Remember what you said,” he continued, and Lucy felt cold wrap around her like an oppressing blanket, “about the necklace?”
“Lockwood, what’s wrong?” Lucy asked, her chest constricting because suddenly she knows what this is all about but she wants to un-know. Maybe it was in the way he just stood there. Without his rapier. Without any injuries despite the explosion that had sent them sprawling in the safe confines of the London Sewage System. The murky water around his ‘submerged feet’ not rippling at all. How his chest stayed dormant, neither rising nor falling. How his hair, always so windswept, is ruffling along with a breeze that does not exist.
Anthony Lockwood smiled at her, waiting still for her answer.
With shaking hands, Lucy reached for the torch in her workbelt, pointed it at him and -
The light passed his chest. Almost as if he was just mist. Almost as if he was not really there.
“Oh my god,” Lucy whispered, the torch falling from her hands and they were once again plunged in darkness. “Oh my god,” she repeated over and over as Lockwood flickered in and out of her sight. Just like a ghost.
“What you said, Lucy,” Anthony continued patiently, seemingly oblivious to the river of tears Lucy is making for herself, “is that people wear necklaces with inscription on them so they can have their loved one’s messages next to their hearts.”
A sob wanted to escape from the deep recesses of her soul, but Lucy swallows it. And held her rapier in front of her. “Where is it, Lockwood?” she asked, her voice breaking slightly at his name. They’d talked about this, Lockwood, George and her, that if one of them had died, the others would take care of the Source. Immediately. No matter what.
Lockwood walked - no, floated - closer to her, one hand outstretched. His fingers pointed at the little slip of jewellery around Lucy’s neck. “Did you believe what you said, Lucy?” he asked quietly, and around them the air grew colder still.
Lucy didn’t say anything as tears fell silently down her cheeks and she backed away. Lockwood did not follow.
“Because I did,” he continued, quieter than before.
“Where’s the Source, Anthony?” Lucy asked, a bit firmer this time. They were an arm’s breadth apart.
Anthony Lockwood smiled at her. Sadly. Regretfully. Wistfully. “I don’t have one, Luce,” he whispered - or maybe he’d spoken aloud but was just starting to slip away.
“I just came to say goodbye.”