Summary: Sweeney's sick. The doctor comes to bleed his sickness out and Mrs. Lovett can't help but pity him. My first fic.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sweeney Todd. Sondheim does. If I owned it the whole lot of them would be alive.
Sweeney Todd, was, unusually, sick. It had taken hold the Sunday before Michaelmas, with a runny nose. And then the coughing, and paleness. If, of course, he could get any paler.
It was Mrs. Lovett who had suggested it. She, in her sympathy, hated to see her business partner and, secretly, love, ill.
"Love, I'm callin' the doctor from Upper 19th. He'll fix you up righ' fast."
She had smiled, in the slight way that Sweeney had learned to love. It was her face that had gotten him through the past few days, the agonizing restlessness, the tiresome running nose. The missing presence of his razor blades. Mrs. Lovett had even helped him blow his nose a few times. Quite adorable, really. And she'd made soup Monday morning, the only food he'd had in a while that didn't contain human body parts.
And then the bell had rung. Sweeney's blood had run cold, and he shivered in the midst of his spiking fever. Mrs. Lovett touched her soft lips to his forehead. It was reassuring, in a way. The barber had always loathed doctors, the only people who had more power than he himself did. "Fever's still raging," the woman mused as she bustled through the parlor to the side door.
"Good afternoon," said the doctor politely, smiling from beneath his mustache. "Mrs. Lovett, I take it? I'm Dr. Winston Lewis." The baker bade him in, and she took his overcoat and bowler. His leather bag was placed on his arm, and Sweeney quivered as he heard the clink of metal instruments from inside. Suddenly, he felt very, very much unlike himself. He dragged a damp, shaking hand through the white splotch of hair which lay limply along his skull.
The doctor turned to Sweeney Todd, who was placed on Mrs. Lovett's bed, swathed in about seven layers of ladylike bedclothes. It was embarrassing, thought the barber in passing, to lock eyes with another man in such a state. A doctor, to boot.
"And you must be Mr. Todd? Sweeney Todd?" Murmured the doctor as he grabbed a bottle from the depths of his bag. Sweeney shrunk against the headboard as the man opposite him removed the contents of his bag onto the table. Dr. Lewis seemed cheery as he hummed an ironically haunting tune, washing his hands with an antiseptic over a metal pan. "What exactly are your symptoms, Mr. Todd? Mrs. Lovett said you seemed as though you might be catching influenza."
Mrs. Lovett entered the room as if to answer at the mention of her name. She quietly sat down in the squeaking chair at bedside. A bead of sweat rolled down Sweeney's forehead as he began his wavering reply.
"Er, let's see. Runny nose Sunday, then I got a sore throat and fever later on. I've got a headache boring into my brains, as well." The barber exhaled raggedly. Mrs. Lovett offered her calloused hand to Sweeney. He gladly took it and gave it a squeeze. The doctor continued to move about the bedside, looking at him from all angles.
"No facial depression or difference, that rules out any sort of concussion or head trauma," thought aloud Dr. Lewis as he plucked the stethoscope from the table. He placed the prongs in his ears and surveyed Sweeney Todd. "Shirt off, Mr. Todd, if I may ask. I need to check your heart's rhythm." Sweeney nodded sheepishly, as he unbuttoned the fastenings on the plain white shirt. It was sweaty from being stuck to his skin for the past three days.
Mrs. Lovett blushed and turned her face to the side at the sight of her partner's bare, pale chest. Hairless, muscular. For a mere barber. The doctor nor Sweeney noticed this as the freezing metallic instrument slid about his chest, back, and abdomen. Dr. Lewis made a few mental notes aloud as he checked the man's pulse points, lymph nodes, and spinal alignment. "Nothing out of the ordinary on the outside, saving for the fact it's practically burning," said the doctor, half-laughing. "I do believe you have the flu, in fact. The remedy of today is quite simple," he went on, turning to the table. He picked up a surgical razor. The barber almost retched.
Sweeney Todd hated the sight of his own blood. Any other person's was quite fine, almost arousing, perhaps. But the sight his own caused freakishly extraordinary reactions. Especially for the man who was used to grisly scenes and razor blades dripping ruby-red blood. His stomach turned and Sweeney could feel a whimper easing its way out of his throat. The doctor turned and blinked incredulously as he turned, razor brandished in his left hand.
"Are you quite all right, sir? Squeamish of your own blood, perhaps?" Dr. Lewis smiled venerably, turning to Mrs. Lovett. "Perhaps you can aid me, my dear woman? All I need is for you to keep him comfortable and quiet." His emphasis landed heavily on 'quiet'.
Mrs. Lovett's large eyes widened larger in mixed fear and nervousness. "Sir? What exactly are you plannin' on? Surely you're not going to-" She broke off, a nervous tinge of pink traveling up her pallid neck.
"On the contrary, Mrs. Lovett, the procedure is quite simple. If he's squeamish, I'll need you to placate him. It'll be fast, but the pain varies. I'll need to make several incisions." He rubbed the blade of the razor so that it shone in the hazy morning light. Sweeney Todd's stomach's turn. He felt pitiful as another whimper, this one definitely audible.
The doctor nodded to Mrs. Lovett. She sat unmoving as the man ran the razor smoothly across Sweeney's left wrist. The barber moaned, rolling his head into the crook of the neck. His hair ran limply into his eyes, and tears dribbled pathetically down his cheeks. He gasped as the doctor paused to make the next incision, his breathing shredding the air. Dr. Lewis stopped and sighed, rubbing his eyes.
"Mrs. Lovett, can you do something?" He demanded, blinking in mild frustration behind his spectacles. The woman opposite nodded unsurely, as if to say, 'I don't know, but I'll try.' The doctor sighed again, wiping his razor, then began again to the tedious task set before him. The razor began to slide down Sweeney's smooth, white skin, and he began to sob, chest heaving.
Mrs. Lovett almost wept herself. It was pathetic to see the man she'd leaned on for so long to carry on so. But... without a moment's thought, Mrs. Lovett pressed her lips to Todd's, and his tears ceased as his eyes popped open wide. He moaned into her mouth as the doctor drew the razor across his right wrist, and time seemed to drag on. The barber closed his eyes, and he blushed. So this explained why. She'd returned his obscured feelings.
Sweeney pulled away, breath heavy as his cracked lips descended on Mrs. Lovett's neck. Wonderful neck it was. How he'd ever thought of slashing it. It was beautiful, curving, softer than a length of freshly-cleaned satin. Oh, how he'd waited for this. The barber would never have admitted it to anyone but himself, the remnant of the human conscience that had been Benjamin Barker.
The left hand that had once been shaking so few moments ago found its way up the curve of Mrs. Lovett's back, came to rest and caress her neck as their lips met, speaking without words in a deeper way than Sweeney Todd had ever felt. No darkened thought of his lost, beloved Lucy turned about as they remained joined, oblivious to the doctor who slowly finished the job set before him.
Dr. Lewis smiled to himself as the two were locked perfectly at the lips, breathing quietly. It would have been that, he thought, or perhaps clapping her hand across the Mr. Todd's mouth. Ah, young love. The older man chuckled as he lifted the razor away, wiping it on the stained cloth. "It's done, Mr. Todd. You're done. You should start to feel the results in a day or so."
He sighed. "Really? I feel better already."