Don't own.

Hope you enjoy.

There was a soft groan, a wince here and there, steady, rapid breathing… This was the doctor's third day visiting this particular patient and he could see little to no improvement. "Damn city surgeons, think they know everything…" he muttered as he checked over the stitching in the man's neck.

After he applied some ointment and fresh bandages, he took up the man's scarred wrist and pressed two fingers against it. The pulse there was stronger, but its rhythm was worryingly fast. It felt like the beat of someone in the throws of emotion, rather than the half-corpse he was tending.

He was troubled too by the patient's temperature, no matter how much good Sarah's nephew insisted it was normal.

Speaking of whom…

"Dr Hobson, sir," whispered Anthony as he let himself into the room, "how is he?"

"Not much better, lad," grunted the grizzled man. "The wound doesn't look bad, but I don't care what you say about this fever a' his, he's got himself some illness."

Anthony looked over the prone, sweat-soaked form with a complicated expression before asking, "Could it be that thing the surgeon did?"

"The transfusion? T'hell if I know. Ruddy unnatural thing to do… kills more 'an it saves. Did you have to take him to a charlatan?"

The young man shrugged. "He was dieing, and Dr Blundell was good enough to take him in the middle of the night. Johanna knew… Mr. Todd?" He noticed that Sweeney's eyes were cracked open.

The doctor was nonplussed, and simply said, "My, my. Welcome back to the living, sir. How do you feel?"

Sweeney stared at the man, at first in confusion, then apprehension. Eventually he averted his eyes to the side and answered with a withering sigh.

Dr Hobson was anxious about the muddled look and said, "Sir, are you awake? Can you hear me?" There came no answer. To make sure the man was still lucid, he leaned over and snapped his fingers in the patient's face.

This caused Sweeney to snap. He raised himself almost to sitting and opened his mouth to yell something at the Doctor, but all that came out was a hoarse choke. He struggled with a painful fit, his eyes shut tight, face scrunched, teeth bared, and fingers clutching at his blankets. Swiftly there came a hand on his shoulder and another on his brow. He tried to jerk them off, but it did no good, and he was pushed back onto the bed.

"Calm down now," said Hobson. The doctor may be old, but a lifetime of tending to patients who wanted none of it left him as tough as an aged tree. Sweeney's struggles were nothing to him, and were soon replaced by wheezy breathing and exhaustion. "There's a good man," still he kept his hands on the patient. "You must keep still. You're stitched up good, but if you rip them you could bleed to death within ten minutes."

When Sweeney tried to respond to that, the Doctor cut him off. "You shouldn't speak either. There's a lot of swelling going on. It's going to make talking, and swallowing a mite painful."

"Bug off!" the man growled defiantly, a look of such savagery on his face that the Doctor drew back his hands in fear of losing a finger.

"Very well," said Hobson, "We'll leave you to rest. Anthony." He picked up his bag and headed to the door, waving his hand for the sailor to accompany him.

"Would you say a reaction like that is normal, my boy?" he asked, once the door was shut.

"No sir," answered Anthony, "He's normally very calm and well mannered… though that's changed a bit since we came to London."

"Hmm, leastways he's awake. Looks like you're lady-friend's blood did the trick." He rummaged in his black leather bag as he spoke. "How is she, by the way? Still light in the head?"

"Not as much."

Anthony's voice was oddly grave for such good news, and this earned him a calculating look over by Hobson. "But?" ventured the doctor.

"She's not sleeping well, and…" He gazed his elder with an odd sheen in his eyes and said, "It's nothing. She's fine."

Hobson nodded wisely and said, "Even so, I'd best take a look at her. Where is she?"

"Out on the grounds, last I saw her."

The doctor continued nodding as he started into his bag again. "Mr. Todd's health is still tedious. He's had no food in him for days and he needs to keep still, as I've said. Can he be trusted to stay in bed and rest?"

Anthony contemplated for a moment and said, "I don't know, sir. He's a restless one, but I've seen him stay in one spot for days. It could go either way."

Hobson found what he was looking for. "Well, if he's less than willing, you can use this." He held out a small bottle with a fancy dropper for a lid. "A drop in his food or drink will knock him out for a good two or three hours, and keep him weak for several after that. If it doesn't, try two drops, but be very careful and don't exceed four in one day."

Anthony took the bottle hesitantly and regarded it with distaste. "You want me to drug him?"

He smiled at the boy and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "If he tries to move about he'll kill himself, so you can either use that, or tie him to the bed." Turning to leave, he said, "Now, I'm going to speak with Miss Johanna. I want you to stay with your friend for now, give him some comfort. I'll ask good Sarah to make him up a broth and send it by, and you know what to do. I'll check in again before I leave. Now go."

The sailor slipped the drug inside his jacket and said a quick, "Thank you," before slipping back into Sweeney's room.

The barber was laying much as he'd been left, but his head was turned to the side and his eyes shut… he was asleep, or at least looked like it. Anthony only glanced at him once before moving to a window in time to see Dr Hobson crossing the yard to where Johanna and the boy, Toby, were sitting beneath a tree.

He practically lived in that particular tree when he was a child…

"Anthony…"

He looked over at Sweeney, who still had his eyes shut, but continued to speak. "Who was that man?" His voice was small and delicate, ready to break.

"Dr Eric Hobson," Anthony answered. "You needn't fear him. He's very kind, I've known him longer than I've had teeth."

Sweeney looked at him and then peered at the room. It was a small country affair, bright, warm, and practical. "Where are we?"

"My Aunt Sarah's," answered the sailor, his gaze returning to the window, "It's in the countryside, not far out of Crawley."

"How… no wait…" His hand came up and tentatively felt the bandages on his neck. "Not a dream, then?"

"No, sir. You are not dreaming, nor were you before."

"Then why am I alive?"

The silence in the room went on a long time before Anthony answered. "I don't know," he said. "I couldn't kill you… a friend, without knowing what possessed you to…" Again he fell silent.

"Is the Judge dead?" Anthony didn't answer fast enough so Sweeney started trying to sit up. He resisted angrily when the sailor pushed him down. He simultaneously sank back into his pillow and grabbed Anthony's shirt. "Tell me!" he seethed, dragging Anthony till their faces were almost touching.

Anthony regarded the anger in his eyes and said, "Yes." Sweeney let him go, the momentary strength and fury vanished, allowing the sailor to find his nerve again and continue, "The Beadle is dead as well, and Mrs. Lovett, and at least a score of innocent men…"

"And Lucy…" Anthony was startled by the tone of the barber's voice when he said that old hag's name. It was a tone that only came out when he talked of his past, and it was full of an agony that had nothing to do with his injuries.

Anthony wanted very much to question Todd's connection to the woman, but held back, saying only, "Yes," instead.

Sweeney shifted, a new and even stranger pain in his eyes when he asked, "What of Johanna?"

Anthony looked away at that, his face darkening with restrained anger. "Why do you even care?" he snapped. "Toby told me of the letter you sent. You were in league with Turpin all along… I trusted you and you sold me out."

"I had no intention of ever letting that abhorred bastard lay his claws on her again… but yes, I sold you to him…" Sweeney exhaled every bit of air he had in his lungs and tried to keep it out as long as he could, before saying, "All the more reason I deserve to be dead. You should kill me now, son, do the world a favor."

Anthony swallowed. His heart was softened by the amount of hatred and despair in Sweeney's words, though he knew it was wrong to take pity on a murderer. "I can't do that," he whispered.

Sweeney didn't press the issue. He lay there, breathing and staring into space like he so often would. "Than tell me," he said, "What of Johanna?"

Anthony didn't answer right away. He could feel his anger and betrayal brewing once more as he said, "She can't sleep because your face keeps haunting her nightmares. Every night she sees you coming to slit her throat." He didn't expect the amount of venom that managed to seep into his voice, but he didn't regret it either.

"What!?" Sweeney's eyes went wide as he swung his disbelieving stare at the boy. "Why would she-"

"Because she was hiding in your shop when you murdered her guardian. You turned your blade on her, Mr. Todd. You almost killed her."

Todd's voice was barely able to squeak out, but still he yelled, "No! She wasn't there. I didn't-"

"She was disguised as a boy," Anthony finished.

Sweeney made no response to this. Comprehension crossed his features and then… nothing. He turned away from Anthony, no longer able to look at him. There was no emotion on his face, but his eyes shone with moisture, which collected at their edges. Though the tears didn't fall, it was the closest Anthony ever saw him come to crying.

"Why do you care so much about a girl you don't even know?" Anthony asked slowly.

Sweeney took a deep breath and said, "I'm-"

He was cut off by a knocking at the door, and fell silent.

Anthony answered it, and came back into the room with a tumbler of warm, savory smelling broth. He placed it on the vanity, next to the pictures and doll that had been taken from Todd's room, took out the bottle from his pocket, and said, "Dr Hobson gave this to me." He was staring at it, contemplating. "It is a drug to put you to sleep, keep you calm, but I can't give it to you under false pretences." He looked at Sweeney and said, "I think you need it, though."

Sweeney's head went down and up in a single nod. Anthony opened the bottle and carefully squeezed a bead of the clear liquid from the dropper into the broth. He helped his 'friend' drink without letting him sit up, and though he took only tiny, aching swallows, it was soon empty.

Within minutes, he was fast asleep, and Anthony was back at the window, watching his beloved from afar.