Chapter Text
Lucy Carlyle stood in the street, the cold wind biting at her cheeks. Portland Row loomed ahead of her, more shadow than structure, its windows like hollow eyes staring back. For weeks, she’d walked past it without stepping inside. She’d tell herself she’d go tomorrow, then the next day.
But today, she couldn’t walk away.
Her hand hovered over the brass knocker, the polished surface catching the faint glow of the streetlamp. How many times had she stood here, listening to Lockwood’s voice echo inside as he shouted for someone to get the door?
A lump rose in her throat. She couldn’t stay out here forever. Taking a deep breath, she turned the knob and stepped inside.
The familiar scent hit her immediately: wood polish, faint traces of tea leaves, and something sharp and fresh, like the faintest hint of mint. His scent. It clawed at her chest, dragging her back into a thousand memories.
The door clicked shut behind her, sealing her inside.
The house was quiet. Too quiet. No clatter of mugs from the kitchen, no footsteps descending the stairs. The absence pressed in on her, heavy and suffocating, but she forced herself to move forward.
Her boots creaked on the wooden floor, each sound too loud.
His coat still hung by the stairs. For a moment, she reached out, fingertips grazing the sleeve. The fabric was stiff and cold, but her mind tricked her—it almost felt warm, as though he’d just shrugged it off.
She jerked her hand back.
She couldn’t do this.
Her legs carried her to the sitting room almost on autopilot. The room looked exactly as it had the last time they’d been here together. The cushions on the sofa were slightly dented, his chair pushed back just so. A forgotten notepad sat on the table, his familiar slanting handwriting marking the last case they’d worked.
Lucy stared at the armchair, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. He’d always sat there, lounging as though he didn’t have a care in the world. She used to roll her eyes at the sight of him stretched out, his endless confidence filling every corner of the room. Now, she’d give anything to see him there again.
Her legs gave out, and she sank into his chair, the worn leather cool beneath her hands.
“You promised we’d have time,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
The words echoed in the empty room.
Time.
They’d spoken about it, once. Late one night, after a particularly brutal case had left her shaken and trembling in the kitchen. Lockwood had sat across from her, his hands curled around a mug of tea he hadn’t touched.
“You’re allowed to be scared, Lucy,” he’d said softly.
She’d scoffed. “I’m not scared.”
His gaze had been steady, unrelenting. “Liar.”
The truth had clawed its way out of her then, jagged and raw. “I just—I don’t want it to end like this. I don’t want it to end.”
He hadn’t said anything, just reached out and wrapped his hand around hers. His grip was warm and sure, anchoring her as she crumbled.
“It won’t,” he’d said finally, his voice as steady as the ground beneath them. “We’ve got time. We’ve got so much time, Lucy.”
She’d believed him.
Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms. She was shaking, her breath coming in short gasps.
“You lied to me,” she said aloud, her voice breaking. “You said we had time, and you—you left.”
The room didn’t answer.
“I wasn’t done being mad at you,” she said, her voice rising. “I wasn’t done yelling at you for being so bloody reckless. You were supposed to let me stop you. You were supposed to let me save you.”
Her voice cracked, and she bit down hard on her lip to stop the sob building in her chest.
The silence wrapped around her, suffocating and unrelenting. She couldn’t stay here, couldn’t sit still while every inch of this house screamed his absence.
She stumbled to her feet and climbed the stairs, her hands gripping the banister like a lifeline. The house felt too big, the walls too close. When she reached his room, her hand faltered on the doorknob.
The door creaked open, revealing the space she’d avoided for weeks. His room. It was painfully neat, every item in its proper place. The bed was made, the duvet tucked in with military precision. His books lined the shelves in that maddening, half-organized way of his.
And there, on his desk, was the letter.
Her name was written on the envelope in his handwriting.
Her knees buckled, and she had to grip the edge of the desk to steady herself. Slowly, she reached out, her fingers trembling as they brushed the paper.
She broke the seal and unfolded the letter, her eyes scanning the words through a haze of tears.
Lucy,
If you’re reading this, then I’m not there to say what I should have said long ago.
You once asked me why I was so reckless, why I always threw myself in first. I didn’t know how to answer then, but I think I do now.
It’s because I wanted to protect you. From everything. From ghosts, from danger, from the weight of the world. But I was selfish, too, because I knew you’d always pull me back, no matter how far I went.
You’ve been my anchor, Lucy. My reason for fighting, for living.
I hope you forgive me for leaving. I hope you know how much you mean to me, how much you’ve always meant to me.
Keep fighting. For me. For George. For yourself.
And if you ever doubt how extraordinary you are, just know that you made me believe in something more than survival. You made me believe in life.
All my love,
Anthony
Lucy pressed the letter to her chest, her tears soaking into the paper.
“I hate you,” she whispered, the words crumbling as they left her lips. “I hate you for leaving me. I hate you for making me love you.”
Her legs gave out, and she sank to the floor, curling into herself. The grief came in waves, crashing over her, dragging her under.