A/N – I don't care how OOC this might be. I dedicate this to one of my best friends, who just lost her dad. I don't know how hard it is firsthand, but I cried my eyes out when when I found out. May he rest in peace.
The morning that Mrs. Lovett had found his stiff body beneath the sheets of his bed, and touched his deathly white, icy skin, she'd known. And she had screamed. A long, wailing, heart-wrenching scream of grief that had echoed through the building and sent chills up the spine of the barber upstairs.
Sweeney, at the sound of it, had run as quickly as he could down the stairs to see what had happened. Throwing open the door, he had found Mrs. Lovett on the floor with her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with violent sobs. Glancing over at the bed, he was stricken at the sight of the innocent face of a young boy: still, cold, and colorless in death, as it has been vibrant and happy in life.
The doctor had not been able to determine the cause of death, which seemed perhaps worse than if he had been able to. It was not a common sickness that had killed the boy, and neither the baker nor the barber had enough money for diagnosis of any rarer diseases.
The day of the funeral. Aside from the caretaker, only two people attended.
Everything was melancholy and lifeless that day. Rain fell in the cemetery, darkening the sparse patches of green on the ground between the tombstones. Mrs. Lovett was miserable. Sweeney was withdrawn.
The casket began to lower into the shallow grave. Mrs. Lovett let out a soft whimper and began to sob into her black gloves. Sweeney pulled her to him, impassively, and let her cry on his shoulder. He held her tightly, his face expressionless, but his heart heavy with sorrow.
He understood. He knew how it felt.
No matter how much you sobbed, wished, screamed, or blamed yourself, it would change nothing. When someone was gone, they were gone forever.
Mrs. Lovett could feel her heart breaking. Her boy, gone. She would never see him again. Never hear his voice, never see him smile, never play games with him. Never cuddle him. Never kiss him, hold him, tell him how much she treasured him, how much he meant to her, that she thought of him as a son.
Never tell him how much she loved him.
She couldn't even remember her last words to him, which created a horrible feeling inside of her, and made her weep all the harder.
She couldn't even begin to think of all the things she'd miss seeing him do. She would never be able to watch him grow up. Begin to notice girls. Begin courting. She would never see him get married, or have children of his own. Never see him as an adult, at all.
Mrs. Lovett's legs shook when she stepped away from Sweeney, and he caught her arm to steady her. To reassure her. To let her know that he was here for her, and that he knew what she was feeling.
She threw a rose onto the mound of fresh, wet earth, and turned away, new tears staining her wet cheeks. The barber put an arm around her trembling shoulders as she sobbed, pressing his lips softly to her temple in a gesture of sympathy. He began to lead her home, the rain beating a monotonous, cheerless beat on the ground and the cobblestones as they left the cemetary.
With one last glance at the small, sad looking grave, he finally noticed the words that Mrs. Lovett had picked out for the headstone.
Here lies Tobias Ragg. Forever Gone, Forever Loved.