Sweeney Todd breathed the death on the sheets swathing the fellow patients rotting away on their beds, prepared to die alone. He gazed at the sickened souls, knowing as well as they that when they close their eyes tonight, they'll never awaken. Mr. T vaguely wondered if that would be his fate. Birth and death for them would be over, and they'll be carried to Heaven or thrown into hell.

Mostly hell, mused Mr. T.

He lifted his hand, flexing his bony fingers. They looked so weak and vulnerable, as if it was slowly crumbling away into dust. He hated it with a passion. Mr. Todd didn't care that he was sick. No, he had been sick for fifteen years. The only thing he hated was how it made him feel so feeble.

Sweeney attempted to swallow down painful coughs, but failed. He was wracked with hacking coughs that made his throat sear with pain. He growled, feeling the blood froth in his throat. Bloody doctors and their medicines. They didn't make a difference. He closed his eyes, wondering what would happen if he could die right then and there. He wouldn't be afraid. He was never afraid of death. Why should he? Everyone was going to die in their lifetime...

No, he thought fiercely to himself. No dying now, not yet. Just a little longer...

"Mr T?" a voice asked softly. Sweeney opened his eyes into paper-thin slits, peering at the person through his lashes. Of course. Mrs. Lovett. Mr. Todd opened his mouth to speak, but only coughs were emitted.

"There, there," Mrs. Lovett whispered, rubbing his back. "'ere, drink some soup, all righ'? Or wa'er? Which one?"

Mr. Todd didn't speak. He swallowed the excess blood and wiped the trail of rubies from his lips. He felt a cold liquid slide down his throat as Mrs. Lovett helped him drink a glass of water. He sputtered, spraying water with red hues back into the cup.

"S'okay dear, jus' drink it an' you'll feel be'er," Mrs. Lovett said tenderly. Mr. Todd obliged, forcing down gulps of water. It soothed his battered throat for a moment. He leaned back, resting his torso on the wall. Mrs. Lovett smiled bashfully, hugging a covered bowl close to her body. Sweeney tilted his head slightly, scrutinizing the woman before him.

"Why?" he rasped. Mrs. Lovett frowned with puzzlement.

"Why wot, love?"

"Why are you doing this?" he demanded. "Helping me and visiting me. Why?"

Mrs. Lovett's eyes softened as she raised a hand to stroke his cheek. He shied away from her touch uncomfortably.

"Coz I care abou' ya, Mr. T. I don't wan' you dyin' or gettin' worse, or think I don't want t' bother meself fo' ya."

Mr. Todd was perplexed. Why did she care for him so much? It was an easily realized fact that he was cold towards her, acknowledging her whimsical dreams as impossibilities. Yet this woman would smile kindly at him and lend a helping hand whether he wanted it or not.

"I brough' ya some soup tha' Toby an' me made," Mrs. Lovett added, uncovering the bowl to reveal a broth. "I though' tha' the 'ospital's food would be downrigh' awful."

Mr. Todd couldn't help but agree. It seemed as if hospitals didn't care whether or not their clients died, as long as they paid their hospital bills first. He hesitantly sipped some of the toasty broth. Though it didn't show on his face, Mr. Todd was...satisfied with it.

"Mrs. Lovett?" he asked quietly. Mrs. Lovett perked up, watching him with round and hopeful eyes.

"Yes, dearie?"

"...I-" Mr. Todd attempted to say, but was suddenly interrupted by agonizing coughs. He felt the boiling blood trickle down the side of his mouth and drip into the sloshing soup. Mrs. Lovett gasped as garnet red blood sprayed onto the graying quilts. Mr. Todd clutched Mrs. Lovett's slim fingers rightly as the coughs slashed his throat like a knife pummeling inside him. His head spun and throbbed painfully, fearing that he would just collapse.

The coughs soon died down, but his throat still scorched with agony. He felt extremely lightheaded, the blood leaving a metallic aftertaste in his mouth. His eyes flickered back to the blankets to find them blood-drenched.

"I'll ge' the doctors," Mrs. Lovett hurriedly declared. She made to leave, but Mr. Todd grasped her bony wrist.

"No," he breathed. "Don't. Stay."

Mrs. Lovett hesitated. She knew she could probably wriggle out of the man's weak grip and dash for the doctors, but there was a melancholic loneliness and pain that glossed his inky eyes. She obliged and seated herself on Mr. T's bedside, stroking his cold hand. This time he didn't avoid her warm touch.

"Are you sure you don't need 'em, Mr. T?" Mrs. Lovett asked.

"Yes." Mr. Todd closed his eyes. "They don't do any good, anyways."

Mrs. Lovett stiffly nodded, biting her lip. Mr. T sighed, his hand twitching slightly under hers.

"Mrs. Lovett...where is Lucy buried?"

"P-pardon?" Mrs. Lovett stuttered, her heart clenched with fear.

"Where's my wife buried?"

Mrs. Lovett ceased stroking his hand. She shifted in her seat, licking her chapped lips and her eyes darting around.

"I uh...I dunno, love," Mrs. Lovett muttered. "I was too sad t' attend the funeral...I didn't want me last sigh' o' 'er as 'er layin' there in the coffin...M'too scared t' see the grave."

Mr. Todd merely nodded. Mrs. Lovett fiddled with her gloves nervously, gnawing her lip continuously.

"Ya...ya aren't plannin' t' try lookin' fo' it, are you, Mr. T?" Mrs. Lovett questioned. "It'll be too painful, Mr. Todd."

He didn't respond, which sent Mrs. Lovett whirling in a storm of culpability. Suppose he did wish to seek Lucy's grave and found out she had none?

"Has the Judge been coming around the shop lately?" Mr. Todd inquired. Mrs. Lovett gave a sigh of relief.

"No, 'e 'asn't ye', love," Mrs. Lovett said. "See? Ya not missin' a thing."

Mr. Todd nodded absentmindedly, stirring the yellow soup with his spoon and vegetables swirl in circles.

"Did ya eat your medicine, Mr. T?" asked Mrs. Lovett.

"It isn't considered medicine. It's a poor excuse of a remedy. Probably took a leaf out of Pirelli's book, but worse."

"Always so negative abou' things, aren't ya, Mr. Todd?" sighed Mrs. Lovett. "Maybe if ya 'ad a 'appier perspective o' life, you wouldn't be sick."

"I'm not too sure that a happier outlook in life would be a no-fail cure, Mrs. Lovett."

"Well..." muttered Mrs. Lovett. Why was he always so stubbornly pessimistic? What happened to the optimistic, cheerful Benjamin Barker?

Oh wait, she thought bitterly to herself. He's dead. Mrs. Lovett inattentively smoothed the wrinkles on Mr. T's quilt, her fingers rubbed raw after patting the coarse blanket repeatedly.

Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, Mrs. Lovett saw something out of the window. She crept closer, pressing her nose against the thick glass, her warm breath fogging the window. Soft, pearly fluff drifted from the clouds onto London, as if bits of clouds were crumbling off and shrouding the city. Mrs. Lovett gasped, her mournful mood immediately brightening.

"Look, Mr. T, look!" she squealed. "It's snowin'! My eye, it's finally snowin'! I though' it would ne'er come this year!"

Mr. T blearily glimpsed out the window. Delicate snowflakes were dusted off the heavens and drifted lazily to the ground like feathers, luminous against the night sky. He sat up straighter, his eyes drinking in the pure sight. He hadn't seen snow for fifteen years. He had almost forgotten what snow was like. Even memories of it were faded and smudged, so all of it was unrecognizable. Mrs. Lovett exclaimed excitedly over it, declaring that she would teach Toby how to make a snowman when there was enough snow and teach the lad how to taste the fragile ice. Sweeney closed his eyes as memories cleared and played before him. They were still foreign to his mind, as if he was watching someone else's life through a looking-glass.

"Johanna won't be too cold, would she?" Lucy asked worriedly, bundling the eight-month old baby with layers of blankets and knitted hats. She hugged the small baby close to her bosom, rocking her softly. Benjamin smiled and planted a soft kiss on his two angels' foreheads.

"She's snug and warm, Lucy," he whispered, his soft lips tickling Lucy's ear. She giggled and pecked Benjamin's nose. He smiled lovingly, oblivious to the fact that his worst nightmares would come to life in less than half a year.

"This will be her first Christmas in three weeks," Lucy murmured. "How grand it would be! Our first Christmas with our beautiful girl."

"I've already got everything I want," Benjamin said. "A beautiful and virtuous wife and a lovely baby." Lucy smiled and cuddled in Benjamin's warm embrace.

Without warning, loud footsteps rang out from behind them. Nellie Lovett bounded up the stairs, her face gleaming with glee.

"It's snowin'! Look ou'side, it's actually snowin'! S'abou' time too, s'already December!"

"Really?" gasped Lucy. She hurried to the window gazing outside. There it was: the crystalline snowflakes floating down to the ground like fairies. Lucy's face glowed with happiness at the sight of it.

"Come on Benjamin, let's go outside!" she exclaimed. Benjamin followed Lucy and Nellie outside the barber shop into the crisp cold. The air smelled clean and pure, and the snowflakes were like kisses from angels. Lucy twirled in the thin sheen of snow, the hem of her dress soon laced with the delicate frost. Mrs. Lovett laughed and shouted with happiness as the two women danced and sang in the snow.

"When Johanna grows older, I'll teach 'er 'ow t' make the most dashin' snowman!" declared Nellie. Her eyes discreetly darted towards Benjamin Barker. Lucy didn't notice a thing; she was helping Johanna catch little snowflakes in her pudgy palm.

"S'already snowin'?" a deep voice yawned blearily behind Benjamin. Albert Lovett waddled outside, rubbing his eyes. He eyed the two joyous woman and chuckled to himself. "I say, I 'aven't e'er seen anyone 'appier than these two in me lifetime."

Benjamin beamed as Lucy rushed towards him, embracing him tightly. Benjamin clutched her fragile hands and twirled with her, clouds of snow billowing at their ankles. Nellie watched with a smile frozen to her features as she rocked Johanna in her arms, trying to teach the babe how to catch a snowflake on her tongue. Benjamin danced with his beloved for what seemed like an eternity, losing himself in a winter paradise with a snow angel. He swore to himself that moment that he would always dance with Lucy every winter, when the first snow fell.

He didn't know that this would be the last time he would ever dance with his dear Lucy.

Mrs. Lovett watched Mr. Todd as he peacefully slept. She smiled sadly, gently taking back the lukewarm broth from his hands and pecking him softly on the cheek. She cast a fleeting glance at him before descending down the stairs and exiting the hospital.

"Poor man," she sighed to herself as the snowflakes gently kissed her skin. "Mus' be exhausted." She craned her neck towards the sky as snowflakes tickled her eyelashes, breathing in the fragrance of pure air. The pearly moon glowed in the velvety blue sky, bathing in a sea of stars. It was so beautiful it hurt.

Mrs. Lovett froze abruptly. There she was again, that madwoman, the devil girl. Lucy was crouched in the corner of the sidewalk, rocking back and forth. The snowflakes seemed to stab her and freeze her blood. She wasn't singing this time, thank goodness, and was barely noticeable in the night. Mrs. Lovett grew stiff and stride hurriedly past the beggar woman.

But out of the corner of her eye, Mrs. Lovett could tell Lucy was shivering under those ragged clothes. Her teeth chattered as puffs of her frigid breath billowed from her mouth. Mrs. Lovett felt pity towards the poor woman, and it was an unspoken fact that Lucy had no meals today. Mrs. Lovett sighed, glancing down at the bowl of tepid soup in her hands. She hesitantly approached Lucy and awkwardly handed her the bowl of soup.

Lucy stared at Mrs. Lovett with wide brown eyes, as if with disbelief. Mrs. Lovett felt the disapproving eyes of aristocrats burning her back and silently begged Lucy to take it. Lucy slowly reached out a shaking hand and accepted the soup, still gazing at Mrs. Lovett curiously. Mrs. Lovett backed away before hurrying towards the pie shoppe, refusing to look back.

If you review, you get any pie you want. I won't even bother putting up a menu. However, please try to get a REAL flavor of a pie (priest, fop, shepherd, etc. DO count as real) and not something like "poop pie" or "leaf tart".

I typed this chapter while listening to Relient K's Deathbed. It's a wonderful song, and my most favorite lead singer from Switchfoot is featured at the end :D.

If you don't review, a love-stricken baker will be thrown into an oven.