A/N: I have more to say at the bottom.

Disclaimer: My luck has not changed and will not change in regards to SweeneyTodd. So no, I don't own it.

The Crow and the Butterfly

It takes Sweeney Todd a fortnight to even notice that there is something wrong with the baker who lives below him. It is only when she ascends the stairs to collect his untouched breakfast that he realises she keeps sniffing back mucus, sneezing every so often despite there being nothing to provoke them. Disgruntled that she is disturbing him even more than usual, he turns around to bark "what the hell is up with you, woman?" at her.
And he gets the shock of his life when he does.

It is the first time that he's truly looked at her in weeks, and taking in her appearance now, he surmises with a sort of confusion that she's looking even worse than she did when he returned to London, despite her having money now. Her hair is scraggy and more unkempt than ever – it appears that she hasn't even attempted to tame the locks in several days. Her eyes are far too bright, the whites bleeding red. They are ringed with such deep shadows that it looks like she's been beaten. Her usually far-too pale skin is beginning to look sallow and more unhealthy than ever.

Somehow, she looks even worse than he does.

For a moment he can do nothing but stare open-mouthed after her as she moves around the room stiffly, moaning a little under her breath when she has to bend to pick up his tray. Her hands begin to tremble.

Hating that he has to pretend to be concerned when all he really wants to do is snap at her to bloody well hurry up, he says, "are you ill?"

She doesn't even bother to turn towards his voice, ducking her head as she mutters, "no, I'm not." Before he can say anything else, she steps across the room and disappears.

The floorboards creak musically beneath his feet as Todd paces restlessly through his tonsorial parlour. He has not had many customers today, and this has left him feeling irritated and melancholy. He has not been able to lose himself in the oblivion of that heady rush of the kill, his thoughts muted by the spray of hot blood. But, instead of mourning his Lucy as he usually does on days like this, Sweeney has found himself unable to get the baker out of his head. He is not worried in the slightest about her – he barely even likes her – but there was something about her this morning that caught his attention, something that he has never seen in the vivacious Mrs. Lovett.

He had looked into her eyes and seen the look of a woman who had given up all hope of everything. It wasn't the look of the living. It was the look of the dead.

He believes that she'd been telling the truth when she'd claimed to not be ill. After all, although she has some of the symptoms of a cold, it is June in London, and although England is not renowned for having the scorching weather that he had experienced in Australia, he knows the weather has not been cold enough recently to make her ill. The boy she insists on keeping has also been moving around downstairs with the strength of youth (a sound that has Todd gritting his teeth and curling his fingers around his razor, itching to make the noises cease), and surely if Mrs. Lovett was ill then there would be a high chance of the boy also being ill? And yet there is something very much wrong with the pie maker.

Something is not adding up.

Unsheathing one of his razors from his holster, he slumps down into the barber chair and stares sightlessly at the perfect silver. The final grey light of the day reflects from its surface, sending glittering specks dancing across the floorboards. For how long he sits there, motionless, he does not know; the next thing he is aware of is the groaning of the door to his room as it is pushed open, the bell tinkling harshly in the quiet.

Mrs. Lovett moves stiltedly into the room, heading for the trunk where she always leaves his dinner. Sweeney rises from the chair, knowing that he has to speak to his landlady but not knowing quite what to say to her. She takes no notice of him however; placing his dinner down on the trunk (decidedly burnt, as though she'd barely been paying attention when she'd been preparing it), she makes to leave once more. Determined not to let her pass without speaking to her, even though conversation is certainly the last thing he wants with her, Sweeney strides over to the door, barring her way. She slowly lifts those dead eyes to stare at his face. An uncomfortable silence descends upon them as they stand in front of each other, broken only by her sniffles. Usually the baker is more than happy to fill any pauses with the first things that pop into her head, chattering on aimlessly whilst he sits by blankly, blocking her voice from his mind. Now she says nothing. It is as though she is an animated corpse.

This is finally the thing that makes him decide that he has to get to the bottom of whatever her mystery ailment is.

"I want to know what's wrong," he growls at her. "You've been acting strangely all day."

"Nothin's wrong," she replies sullenly, fidgeting with her dress. "Now, I've got things to be doin' downstairs, Mr. T, an' I would be very grateful if you'd let me get on wi' 'em."

Sweeney is tempted to stay where he is and continue to prevent her from leaving, but one last glance at her blank face shows him that he'll get nothing out of her by asking her so directly. He needs to come up with a new strategy. Mutely he begins to step aside, and she hurries to squeeze past him, her hand brushing against him accidently.

That's when Todd gets his second shock in one day.

Christ, what the hell has she been doing…?

Luckily she has not made it over the threshold as his own hand flies out to close bruisingly around her wrist. She gives a yelp of surprise and pain as he yanks her backwards, kicking the door closed after him. Dragging her over to window where a weak light still filters through, he holds up her hand to inspect more closely.

Mrs. Lovett has always had short nails, presumably because of her work as a baker. But these…they've never been like this before.

Dried blood cakes the cuticles around her nails. The skin around them looks painfully raw, as though something has been gnawing on it. Her nails themselves are far below the length they should be. As he scrutinises them a little bubble of blood blossoms at the surface and begins to run down her finger like a scarlet tear.

She wrenches her hand away then with a gasp, backing up without turning around, her red eyes wide and accusing. He starts to open his mouth to question just what the hell is going on, but before he can so much as utter one syllable she has fled from the room and away from him, leaving him with nothing but the memory of her fingers searing into his brain like poison.

Something has to give.

The next day finds Sweeney Todd sitting bolt upright in his chair, his razor hung loosely by his side, his mind working feverishly. In all of his time back here in London, he has never once witnessed the baker in such a state. There is something rather sinister about the way she has been acting, and just thinking back to the way she had looked last night has the hairs on the back of Sweeney's neck rising. It is not that what he had seen disgusts him; it's more the fact that whatever it is does not suit Mrs. Lovett.

As though she knows he is thinking about her, he hears the tell-tale clump of her boots on the wooden staircase. He can tell from the way she ascends slowly that she is hesitant, probably nervous about facing him after the discoveries of last night. So he does not move from where he is when she slowly pushes open the door and peers around the frame, does not even acknowledge her presence when she hobbles over to the chest and places his breakfast down on it. It is not until she reaches the threshold again that he even opens his mouth to speak.

"Send the boy up," he orders quietly when he hears her about to close the door. "I've got an errand I'd like him to run for me."

She obviously pauses in the doorframe for a moment because her footsteps stop, and he imagines that she is searching for a way to answer him. However, in the end she only continues on her way out silently.

Yes, Sweeney muses to himself as the pointed silence resounds around the room, something definitely needs to give.

The boy materialises in his room ten minutes later, wiping his palms nervously onto his trousers. Todd is standing by the window as is customary, but he spins to face the lad when he enters the tonsorial parlour.

"Mum says ya wanted me to run an errand for ya," the boy says when he's cleared his throat. His eyes dart around the room as though they are seeking out some sort of trap, never thinking, of course, to give the innocent-looking barber's chair a second glance.

Sweeney moves away from the glass, slipping his razor back into its snug niche at his side.

"Actually," he grunts, "I wanted to speak to you, man to man."

"Sir?" Toby is on his guard at once, taking a couple of cautious steps backwards.

"It's about Mrs. Lovett," the barber continues. "She's been acting a little…strangely lately."

The boy freezes, his eyes widening with an undisguised horror. "'Ow do you know about that!"

"I don't," the barber growls in return. "Otherwise I would have said that I know what's wrong with her. I don't. From the way you've just answered me, you obviously do. So enlighten me, boy."

Toby is shaking his head frantically. "I ain't tellin' you anythin'! You can't make me!"

Noting that his voice is raising to a hysterical level, Sweeney lowers his in an attempt to calm the boy. "I think she needs help. Don't you want to help her?"

For a moment the boy seems torn between answering the barber and staying loyal to his mother. But then he cocks his head and listens intently for signs of life below, and this strengthens his resolve. Voice quivering slightly, he says, "listen, what can you 'ear?"

Quirking his eyebrow a little in frustration, Todd decides to humour the lad. If it will get him to open up about Mrs. Lovett's mystery ailment, then it has to be done. "I don't hear anything."

The boy looks up at him then, and Todd is hit with painful nostalgia as he looks at the eyes which mirror the ones he had seen last night – eyes that are dark and accusing and sad as they stare at him. "Exactly. There's nothin' to be 'eard." Toby sighs, glancing down through the floorboards as though he can will Mrs. Lovett into life with his thoughts. "She's in the pie shop now, bakin', but you wouldn't know it. There was a time when she was always singin'. She never used to stop. Surely even you noticed that."

Now that the boy has mentioned it, Sweeney Todd realises that it is agonisingly true. It seems like forever ago, but there had been a time when Sweeney would sit up in his room all alone with his silver friends, the irritating, melodious sound of his landlady's dreams of the seaside ringing in his ears as he'd gazed upon his razors…

…When had she stopped?

The corner of Toby's mouth quirks sardonically. "She's gone mute, sir, an' there's nothin' what'll make 'er sing again. I've tried. She won't listen." Despite his obvious fear of the barber, he begins to move back towards the door, signalling that their conversation is over. At the doorway, however, he turns one last time to face him. "'Aven't you ever wondered why she stopped?" he asks.

Silence for a moment. What can Todd say? It's only in the last few moments that he'd noticed at all.

The quiet seems to give Toby a satisfactory answer. "She stopped," he says, "because of you. This is all your fault."

And then he is gone, leaving Sweeney Todd even more confused and irritated than before.

She stopped because of you. This is all your fault.

Toby's final words resound mockingly in Sweeney's head as he begins to pace the tonsorial parlour furiously. The notion is ridiculous. Ever since returning to London he has treated her no differently, and she has always been fine with that. It's not like he's ever told her to shut her mouth when she'd been singing away in the pie shop.

It's all your fault.

How can it be when he hasn't done anything to her?

Abruptly he stops his pacing when he hears the murmur of voices below his feet. He strains his ears intently, attempting to decipher the soft hum, but it is all in vain. The words are slurred and muffled, impossible to work out. However, seconds later the shop door opens with the tinkling of the bell, and Sweeney moves over to the window, expecting (hoping) to see Mrs. Lovett making her way down the street towards St. Dunstan's market, as is customary on a Thursday.

It's Toby. His hands are shoved deep into his trouser pockets, his head bowed as he makes his way out towards whatever his destination is. This mystifies the barber even further. Mrs. Lovett never sends her boy out on a Thursday. She always closes the shop and goes herself. How long has this been going on for? Why hasn't he noticed this peculiar behaviour sooner?

It's all your fault.

It's not, he tells himself firmly. It's nothing to do with me. I've done her no wrong…

…Haven't I?

The deafening silence below his feet is the answer to his question.

It is precisely two hours and twenty-three minutes later when Todd spots the boy making his way back down Fleet Street. His head is still bowed, but now his arms are folded across his chest, as though he is hiding something in the depths of his shirt. The barber can tell that the boy is nervous; he hastens his pace for the final few metres, almost running towards Mrs. Lovett's meat pie emporium.

Todd moves away from the window at once, deciding to go downstairs right now and confront the two of them together. They are as thick as thieves, but he has every confidence of breaking them. Pulling open the door to his tonsorial parlour, he steps out onto the wooden landing in time to see the lad slipping back inside Mrs. Lovett's quarters. Stashing the razor which he has been unconsciously running his fingers over in the time since Toby's emergence onto Fleet Street, Todd makes his way down the stairs two at a time, determined to catch the pair in the act.

He wrenches open the door quickly just as Toby is saying, "I got what you wanted Mum, just like ya asked me to."

The violent tinkle of the bell alerts them both at once, and Mrs. Lovett whirls around with a strident expression on her face, and Sweeney is struck once again by how ill she looks. In the harsh hours of London's midday, she looks even worse. He swears her skin has taken on a greyish hue. Toby's own expression mirrors hers.

"Got what?" he asks her, stepping forwards.

She flinches visibly as he moves, something she has never done before. However, without taking her eyes away from him, she says, "Toby, be a good boy an' put those away. You know where to put them."

"What's he got?" Todd growls even louder than before, moving to sidestep his landlady and grab the boy by the scuff of his neck. Before he can do so, though, Mrs. Lovett has blocked his path, and Toby ducks into the parlour.

"What do you want, Mr. T?" she asks him, and he finds himself unable to do anything but look into those bloodshot eyes.

"Let me pass," he snaps at her. In any other situation she would do as he commanded at once, but instead she tilts her head up defiantly and stands her ground.

"I won't 'ave you orderin' me around in me own 'ome," she snaps at him, drumming her mangled fingernails against the bodice of her dress. "Now, if there ain't anythin' that ya want from me, let us alone. In case you 'aven't noticed, I'm very busy."

He sees it is futile to try and argue with her (and, he realises, arguing was something she never did a few weeks ago), changing his demeanour and backing off. However, he does not leave the room until he has barked, "send the boy up when he's done in there; I want a word with him. Make sure you do."

"Yessir," she replies sardonically, and her haunted eyes burn into his back as he returns to his lair.

The waiting game begins, but it doesn't last long. The boy appears sullenly, fearfully, at his door only ten minutes later. He steps slowly into the room, loitering by the door as though he is waiting for the first chance to bolt. For a moment neither of them move, their eyes fixated upon the other.

Todd is the one to break the stalemate. "What did you go out for?" he asks quietly.

The boy shuffles his feet, determination shining in his eyes. It is clear that the woman he regards as a mother has asked him not to reveal anything to the barber, and he knows the boy will honour this until death. Todd grits his teeth.

Nevertheless, he knows he has to try. "Where did you go?" he prompts again.

The lad's answer is immediate. "Went to the shop for some toffees."

Sweeney smiles sarcastically. "And that's why you were hiding them, eh?"

"Yeah, that's right. They're a treat just for me an' Mrs. Lovett."

He feels very much like the honourable Judge. "What, because you thought I'd want them?" Sarcasm drips off of his every word. "Now, what did you go out for?"

Toby scuffs his shoe against the old wooden floorboards, refusing to look up and meet his cold gaze. "'S'none o' your business, wi' all due respect, sir."

"But it is," he shoots back. "I live here too, I pay the rent, and I don't want my money wasted on something ridiculous. Now tell me what you bought." He has never paid a day's rent in the six months since his return, but the boy needn't know this.

Still, Toby juts his chin defiantly and says, "it's 'er money now, she can spend it on what she wants."

Seizing his chance of catching him out, he pounces triumphantly. "So she is spending her money on something she shouldn't?"

Realising his mistake, the boy pales to an even more pasty white. Neither of them move. Then he begins to back away again, perspiration breaking out on his brow, eyes widening with horror – he has let Mrs. Lovett down.

"She only does it to stop the pain in 'er 'eart, she told me 'erself," he blurts out, before skittering out of the room like a deer hunted in the forest.

She only does it to stop the pain in 'er 'eart.

Somehow that makes the strange feeling in his chest that he has had since the boy had accused it of being his fault intensify, and he can do nothing but stare at the space where the boy had been standing.

She only does it to stop the pain in 'er 'eart.

What does he mean?

Night falls. He paces. And paces. And thinks.

It's all your fault.

She only does it to stop the pain in 'er 'eart.

A worm of apprehension spreads through his insides. The candles were snuffed out a while ago in the pie shop, suggesting that his landlady has retired for the night. This would be a perfect opportunity for him to find out what she is hiding. There is no question that he can be deathly silent – Mrs. Lovett often comments that he moves like a ghost, and he silently agrees with her, because without his Lucy he is dead inside – and he knows the lad will pose him no threat because he is more than likely in a drunken stupor, as is his nightly ritual.

Todd slips the razor he had unconsciously been handling back into his holster, crossing the room and opening the door, wincing slightly when the bell trills shrilly into the still evening air. There is a chilly breeze whistling down Fleet Street, but the cold does not touch him as he descends the stairs with a steely determination in his eyes. As he had thought, the door is still unlocked, and he enters with ease. As his eyes adjust to the blackness of the little shop, he realises that there is still light flickering in the parlour. It would seem that Mrs. Lovett is still awake.

Cautiously he moves towards the door, intending to peer around the doorframe to make absolutely sure that his landlady really is in the vicinity.

The smell is the first thing that hits him, a heavy, pungent stench which has his eyes watering and his nose wrinkling with disgust. The smell is oddly familiar…

Suspicion piqued further than ever before, he reaches the doorway and waits for his eyes to get used to the candlelight. The smell still burns in his nostrils.

At last he can see again.

And he sees her.

The stench intensifies.

Everything falls into place.

She only does it to stop the pain in 'er 'eart.

It's all your fault.

Oh, dear God.

She's lying on the loveseat with her head lolled to one side, her eyes wide and glassy. Her body seems relaxed, her legs resting casually on the little stool propped in front of her. She is laxly holding a long, wooden pipe between her hands.

The stiff muscles.

The runny nose.

The watery eyes.

The hidden bag of something.

The chewed nails - a sign of anxiety.

She only does it to stop the pain in 'er 'eart.

She's been taking opium.

He should have known. He's been around long enough to understand the signs, has even watched men waste away on Devil's Island, deluding themselves until the end. As Todd he had always regarded such behaviour as weakness, refused to be beaten to his knees and forced to submit to the oblivion that the opium pretended to offer. Now his heart twists strangely.

She only does it to stop the pain in 'er 'eart.

Perhaps it isn't weakness. Perhaps it's just the agonising crawl to oblivion that she craves so much – he has learnt since that oblivion can be so much better than reality – hasn't he himself imagined his Lucy sitting beside him, singing softly whilst their daughter sews quietly in a corner of the tonsorial parlour?

Without realising it, his feet carry him forward to stand before her. There is no recognition in her eyes as she turns to glance sluggishly up at him with those red, watery eyes. The boy is nowhere in sight – Todd assumes she has given up the comfort of her bed to the lad she he does not have to witness such horror.

His hands gently pry the pipe from between her clasped hands, but she offers no resistance, just allows him to throw it unceremoniously to the floor. He briefly wonders where she'd picked it up, but it is not important. He can find the answers to his questions later. For now he has to concentrate on her.

She is broken. And somehow, he knows that he has broken her. His callous behaviour towards her has shattered her will to live.

Suddenly he feels a stab of sadness, for she is the only one who has ever shown him any kindness. Is it too late? Can she be fixed?

Uncharacteristically gently he slides onto the futon beside her, tentatively reaching out to wrap his arms around her lolling body. Her head rolls back uselessly as she gazes up at him sightlessly. There is nothing behind that look, no soul left inside.

He simply sits there. Ritually he takes lives, feels nothing for the scum of London that he wipes out. But somehow he knows that without the constant cheery presence of Mrs. Lovett that there will truly be nothing good left in London. Now he has truly seen what it is like without her warm presence in his life, he doesn't want to live in the cold for the rest of his inevitably short days.

Morning finds him still sitting there, his arms around his landlady, waiting for the effects of the opium to wear off. Perhaps all is not lost; perhaps she can still be saved.

His lips press roughly against her matted hair.

He resolves to try and fix her.

A/N: I'm sorry if this seems a little disjointed/too much in too little a space. I know Sweeney seemed to change his mind and stuff pretty quickly, but I'm basically running on empty and don't have the strength to deal with this anymore. I'm just going to be a bad workwoman and blame everything on the fact that I haven't written comprehensively in quite a few weeks. :P

The idea for this cropped up actually last year when I was thinking of a way to tackle prompt 19, Found for Against All Odds. My friend told me I should write a story about Sweeney finding a bag of weed, but instead I wrote what finally became the chapter. However, her words returned to me whilst I was listening to the Shinedown song, The Crow & the Butterfly, and thus this was born. It's perhaps OOC and stuff and didn't quite turn out like I'd first imagined, but what's done is done. Leave me a review to let me know your thoughts. :)