A/N: I like calling Sweeney Todd Mr. Todd, because that's how everyone addresses him in the movie. Calling him Sweeney seems weird to me. Just thought I'd say that before we begin here. Oh, and please don't flame me if my accented writing isn't perfect...

Disclaimer: No, I don't own it. Don't be silly.

Wait...

Something wasn't right.

Sweeney Todd stood alone in the barber shop, having just pitched a bottle down the chute in the floor deep into the cellar, Mrs. Lovett's jurisdiction. A customer had come in drinking a bottle of gin, and judging by his behavior it was one bottle too many.

Mr. Todd had made short work of that.

But he had left behind the bottle, and Sweeney had decided to simply pitch it into the cellar atop the body. Mrs. Lovett hated it when he did that, and true, keeping her happy was necessary for his plot of revenge, but it stank, and he couldn't have the customers thinking he'd been the one drinking, now could he?

But Mr. Todd had become accustomed to the faint sound of the pie-fillers hitting the grimy floor, and something was wrong.

He'd pitched the bottle, expecting a thud as it hit the body, or a crash as it hit the floor. Instead, there was a dull thud, a faint cry, a crash, and another, more faint thud.

He opened the trapdoor again. He peered down, curious.

Mrs. Lovett was lying on the floor partially across the unfortunate drunkard, facedown in the shards of glass. She appeared to be unconscious.

Mr. Todd cursed. What's wrong with 'er? She knew never to be in the way of the falling bodies. What on earth was she doing?

But he knew what had happened: she'd seen the drunk fall, figured that it would be a bit before the next victim, and had gone to drag him away to the grinder. She hadn't been expecting a plummeting gin bottle to fall on her.

"Mrs. Lovett!" Mr. Todd shouted down at her. She didn't respond.

He sighed frustratedly. It was nearly closing time, but there was still plenty of time for potential customers. He couldn't just leave her there, though... And even if he'd left her there in order to kill more customers, what would he do with them? He couldn't just send them crashing down on top of Mrs. Lovett.

So, Mr. Todd closed up shop early. He left the tonsorial parlor, went down the steps outside, and stepped into Mrs. Lovett's Meat Pie Shop. Of course, she wasn't there, but the place still seemed oddly empty without her. He passed the shop into the back rooms, found the door, and descended into the cellar.

Mrs. Lovett hadn't moved. She lay facedown on the ground, one arm stretched across the dead man's back. Luckily, she'd missed the pool of his blood.

It occurred then to Mr. Todd to check her pulse. In spite of himself, nervousness fluttered in him as he grabbed her wrist. But her heartbeat was definitely there.

I need 'er alive for the plan to work, Mr. Todd thought, to explain away his sudden bout of anxiety.

He thought about just leaving her there on the floor until she woke, but the remains of his better self, Benjamin Barker, wouldn't let him.

At least move 'er to the couch, in 'er parlor.

First, in case the lad Toby came down, Mr. Todd moved the dead body into the meat grinder, as he had seen Mrs. Lovett do. Most of the blood had dripped away into the stinking sewers, leaving only dampness and broken glass. With a bit of difficulty, he managed to get Mrs. Lovett up the stairs and into her parlor. He set her in her favorite chair, the one by the fire, and started to leave. However, as he was leaving, the glint of firelight alerted him to something about he'd missed.

Mrs. Lovett's chest, neck, and right cheek were spotted with blood. Tiny ruby rivulets were starting to snake down her skin around the dark, shining shards of glass embedded in her skin. She had fallen face first into the broken bottle after it hit her. Mr. Todd was no physician, but he knew about infections and the like. He couldn't just leave them in her skin to fester.

He went into her shop and located a cloth and a bowl of water, hoping she would wake up and do this herself. But she didn't. The bottle had hit her hard, and she was still completely out cold. He pulled up a chair next to hers, and sat in it.

Piece by piece, Mr. Todd pried all the fragments of glass out of her face and throat, wiping away blood as he went. He tilted her head upward, scrutinizing his work in the dim firelight, making sure he had gotten it all. He removed all the glass from around her collarbone and to the top of her dress. Then he encountered a little problem.

Some of the shards had torn through the cloth of her dress and pierced the skin beneath her clothes. He could see glass glittering through tiny tears in the dark, laced-up dress. Blood spotted the material.

Mr. Todd hesitated.

He could easily unlace her dress and remove the last pieces, but he didn't want to. It seemed to immodest, semi-undressing an unconscious woman. Even if it was for medical purposes. Still, leaving it there to become infected couldn't be a good idea... He wondered briefly whether she'd be upset about it before recalling that, knowing Mrs. Lovett, she probably wouldn't care if he entirely undressed her.

Bloody, wild-haired woman, thought Mr. Todd frustratedly. It's for 'er own good.

Gingerly he began to unlace the top of her dress, feeling like he was doing something shameful. He glanced over his shoulder at the door behind them, hoping nobody was coming, though he couldn't think of anyone who would be. He dragged down the fabric until he was certain he could see the last of the glass. Now, Mrs. Lovett sometimes wore dresses that were daringly low cut, but never had she worn something that showed that much. He couldn't see everything, but he could see the top of her corset digging slightly into her pale skin.

She had a very, very nice figure...

But Mr. Todd declined thinking about that. He pulled away the last stubborn pieces of glass and wiped up the last bit of blood. He was about to lace her dress up again, but something stopped him.

Mrs. Lovett was pretty in a strange way, lying there, her head tilted to one side, her dress so revealingly low, her eyes closed. He watched her chest rise and fall with her breathing. Without realizing what he was doing, he softly traced her collarbone with his fingertips.

Such warm skin. Pleasantly so.

It was true that Sweeney Todd was moderately fond of Mrs. Lovett. They did live in the same building after all, and killed and served people in an efficient show of teamwork. They would sometimes have lunch together, and though he rarely smiled, sometimes she could make him laugh. But still, finding himself looking at her like this, feeling slightly guilty for accidentally hurting her... It was unexpected. Thoughts of Lucy swam in his befuddled mind, but he was still staring at Mrs. Lovett, at her slightly parted lips, her messy hair.

It had been so long. So long since he'd held a woman close to him, warm in his arms, and felt her gentle lips on his. He wondered how long it had been since someone had kept Mrs. Lovett's nights from being lonely.

Behind them, the door creaked open, and a child walked in. His curious expression turned quickly to fear at the sight of Sweeney Todd leaning over an apparently dead Mrs. Lovett, holding a bloodied cloth and a fistful of broken glass.

"She's fine, Toby." Mr. Todd said, noticing the panicked expression on the boy's face. "She got struck in the 'ead, out cold, but she'll come 'round soon. She fell on a broken bottle. I already got out all the glass. Just patching 'er up a little before she wakes."

Toby skittered closer to Mrs. Lovett, to inspect her injuries himself. Suddenly, the nervous expression he always wore around Mr. Todd was infused with anger.

"Why's 'er dress pulled so low? Were- were you trying to take advantage of 'er, while she's passed out? 'Cause I, I won't- "

"No," Mr. Todd snapped, interrupting. "There was glass under 'er dress and I was getting it out."

Then Toby threw him for a loop. "How'd she 'it her 'ead? And why was there a bottle down there?"

Toby had been in the cellar a bit, to fetch trays of pies, but Mrs. Lovett didn't let him stay down there for long. He wanted to help her, but she didn't let him, of course. He didn't know about the trapdoor: how could Mr. Todd explain that she'd been hit in the head by him with a falling gin bottle from a drunk man he'd just murdered?

"She, uh," began Mr. Todd uncomfortably. "I don't know. You'll have to ask 'er when she wakes."

That was the best you came up with? That you didn't know? Mr. Todd groaned inwardly. But it was not a pressing issue. Mrs. Lovett would make up some story for him. She was pretty good at keeping the boy naive of their sinister plot.

"How did you know she was 'urt, then?" Toby asked confusedly.

"I... 'eard the bottle smash. Thought I'd see what made the noise."

Toby wasn't buying it, Mr. Todd could tell. But there was nothing for the child to do about it, and he wanted Toby to leave and stop breathing down his neck about the whole affair. So he mustered the gentlest tone he could, which wasn't very gentle but still, and said, "Don't worry about Mrs. Lovett, lad. I'll take care of 'er until she wakes."

Toby didn't want to leave her alone with him, Mr. Todd could tell, but he had no choice. He'd heard the dismissal in Mr. Todd's voice. So Toby turned and exited the room, turning back once to give him one last warning glance before shutting the door with a snap.

For a few minutes, Mr. Todd just waited. He thought of the ring of Mrs. Lovett's laughter, and the expression she wore when she was exasperated with something. He thought of the way she smiled at him, a mixture of curiosity and longing beneath it, and the feel of her hand, resting ever so lightly on his shoulder. He thought of her singing to herself as she worked on something in the kitchen, a melodious tune which he could never really place as one he knew. He watched her chest rise and fall rhythmically. But he didn't lace her dress back up.

Just when he was beginning to worry, Mrs. Lovett woke.

Her eyes skimmed her surroundings in confusion, and she murmured dizzily, "My 'ead 'urts." Mr. Todd chuckled softly.

"I'll bet, love. You were in the cellar, and I pitched a customer's gin bottle down the chute. It fell on your 'ead."

She frowned. "And the bottle couldn'ta gone in the rubbish bin instead, I suppose. Bloody idiot..." She was exasperated, and his smile grew slightly wider at the expression he knew so well.

Then she looked down. She saw how low her dress had been unlaced.

She looked up at him, back down at her dress, and then straight into his eyes. He felt a stab of embarrassment. Was she angry?

"Why'd you unlace my dress, Mr. T?" she asked quietly. She didn't appear upset or annoyed, just genuinely curious.

"Glass. In your skin. You fell on the bottle after it knocked you out," he said, slightly unnerved by her eerie calm. "Are you angry?"

"No," she said. "But why didn't you lace it back up again?"

Mr. Todd opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. There wasn't really a response, and least not one he could easily put into words. She suddenly understood, as a rush of comprehension flooded her brown eyes. She blushed like a schoolgirl, but didn't look away from his face, and he held her gaze as well.

Her blush faded, and the look in her eyes changed. He couldn't place her new expression. It was like she was asking a question that he did not fully understand.

Mrs. Lovett must've seen his confusion, because she smiled at him. He smiled back, suddenly at ease. For the first time ever, neither of them had to guess at what the other was thinking. It was obvious.

Their thoughts circled around the same strange new possibility.

The question had been answered.

As if on impulse, Sweeney Todd leaned forward. He reached out, paused, and then continued. Picking up the hanging strings with gentle fingers, he began to lace up her dress again.

Mrs. Lovett watched, seemingly in fascination, as his hands moved across her chest. When his fingertips brushed her skin, she closed her eyes, savoring his touch.

"You should get some rest, pet."

Her dress was the same as it had been before. She nodded slightly, looking a little breathless. He walked out of her parlor, shutting the door behind him.

Now alone, Mrs. Lovett tilted her head back on the chair, and did not sleep but just stared at the ceiling and wondered.

She'll never replace Lucy, Mr. Todd thought as he climbed the steps into the barber shop. All the same though...

Meanwhile Toby, sweeping up broken glass in the cellar, had the insight that their lives would never be the same again.