I am convinced that it is not the fear of death, of our lives ending that haunts our sleep so much as the fear that as far as the world is concerned, we might as well never have lived. – Harold Kushner

xxx

"Get some sleep, Mr. Todd."

And sleep he did. For circle upon circle, he slept, so deeply that at times she found herself wondering if he had died. Which she knew was stupid. Which she knew wasn't possible.

Still, the worry that she hadn't arrived soon enough – that his soul was soon to vanish completely – festered in her mind, a constant sore in her brain. Circles went by without change in his rotted, wasted appearance.

And no matter how she tried, she could not rouse him from his heavy slumber for even a moment.

She stayed by his side at all times, save for when she would hurry off to the toilet, or fetch him some water or broth (he never woke up and opened his mouth for her to give him these substances, but she kept trying, spooning an occasional swallow into his dry mouth). She did not go to work, nor did she roam the halls. She worried that her disappearance might raise some suspicions. But she could not leave Sweeney unattended, and she couldn't tell anyone what was going on, because she was fairly certain that it would get both her and Sweeney in trouble. Though she'd not had it confirmed to her, Is spirits traveling to Earth for any length of time was not tolerated by the law. The idea of what they would do to Sweeney should they see him in such a wrecked state scared her witless.

So she kept to herself and hoped that no one would notice her absence – and that if they did, they would assume she was merely taking a few circles for herself. She supposed that she didn't have to stay at Sweeney's bedside circle in and circle out – that she could, and had, confided in Grey, and that he would be able to take over for a little while – but felt that this wasn't his problem. Sweeney Todd was her burden: she was the only one who wanted him around (though why she did still flummoxed her), so she should be the one to nurse him back to health.

Or try to, at least.

The dawning of the seventh circle – with Sweeney still not stirring – alarmed Nellie more than the other circles had . . . perhaps because on Earth the number seven signified a week. Is time was not measured in weeks, of course, but even so. He had not roused in seven circles, and she still could not wake him.

The thought that she never would be able to wake him seemed more real than ever.

Trembling, Nellie reached over from the desk chair her rear end had been practically stuck in the past seven circles, and clasped his hands in hers. His fingers were limp and cold. He was not going to vanish on her. He was not.

Without realizing what she was doing, she slid from the chair to his bed, leaning her back against the wall and positioning herself so his head rested in her lap. She laid a palm against his cheek and stroked his hair with her other hand, fighting tears. Benjamin Barker had died long ago, but Sweeney Todd still lived, needed to live, please whoever-the-hell-was-up-there, let him live –

You fool. Both men are dead.

And this was true – but she could not imagine an existence for herself any longer without him by her side, annoying her, angering her, flustering her, soothing her, warming her, the silent and solid presence she had somehow come to depend on departing, leaving her alone. The thought was unbearable – impossible – but not impossible at the same time, which was why she was so terrified . . .

She put a finger against his throat. A pulse. He had a pulse. It was faint, and it was slow, and it was hardly anything to be proud of, but it was there.

And it was fading . . .

She tucked her chin against her chest, sweaty fingers placed against either of his cheeks, cradling his face. An incoherent murmur of pain burbled up her throat, fizzing in her mouth, escaping in wisps from her lips, and – not conscious of it initially – she began to sing.

"Nothing's gonna harm you . . . not while I'm around . . ."

The words were broken, had always been broken – she'd never been able to keep such a promise to anyone close to her. Still, she sang on.

"Nothing's gonna harm you – darling . . . not while I'm around . . ."

xxx

He was surrounded by smoke. Thick, black torrents of vapor that shrouded him so deeply he could scarcely see a foot ahead, could hardly make out his own outline. Lifting a hand, he attempted to wave some of it away, only succeeding in blowing a puff right up his nose. He coughed.

Gradually, the smoke began to thin, a dark veil rather than an unyielding wall, though he still could not see much of his surroundings. Where was he? He couldn't remember . . . he strained to recall what had happened . . . but all that came to mind was a flash of him holding his razor in his palm, and –

"Oh, Anthony, it's beautiful!" says Johanna, spinning in a circle, admiring the way the skirts of the new dress swish and billow around her like the sails of her husband's ship. "But what's the occasion?"

"Do I need an occasion to buy my wife a gift?" Anthony questions, perplexed, and then smiles. "You look lovely."

Yes. Johanna. Of course.

But where was she? Cautiously, he took a step forward, and then another, hoping to catch a glimpse of something other than black fog.

Soon he began to make out walls – old walls made of tired planks and peeling wallpaper – and the shape of a room. Eyes squinted against the fumes, Sweeney ventured further. He was hit with the thought that he was back in his barber shop. No, that couldn't be: Johanna lived in Plymouth, miles away from here.

But as he came closer and entered the room, there became no question about it. Somehow, he had ended up back on Fleet Street in what used to be his establishment. The room looked as though nothing had been touched since his death, which struck him as odd: surely by now the police would have figured out his and Lovett's business partnership and done a thorough inspection. Yet all was the same, from the bureau, to the trunk in the corner, to the chair, to his razors

– my friends –

He was at their side in an instant. Their case lay open upon the bureau, each one exposed to the cold world, smiling up at him. He had thought he would never be reunited with them again. And yet here they were, sitting, resting, waiting.

("once it bubbles, then what's to do?")

He reached a trembling hand towards them – then stopped. They were not supposed to be here. They were Johanna's now; they were her friends, not his; he had seen them in her possession with his own eyes. Had Anthony persuaded her to return them to here? Had the authorities become angry with her? Had she merely bought replicas? No, no, those had been his razors – he was sure of it – he would recognize his companions anywhere.

Deciding it did not matter so long as they were together again, he closed the final distance between his hand and the blades, fingertips gracing against cool silver, prickling with delight at the familiar contact. With utmost care, he scooped one into his hand and flicked her open; even through the fog still lingering, his razor caught the light, and she gleamed for him.

"I know I promised that you would sleep evermore," he whispered. "But I couldn't resist. I hope you understand."

She did.

Each of his friends was spotless, entirely free of blood. Who had polished them after his death? The law? Johanna? Anthony? What had ever happened to Tobias, anyway? Not that he cared – but, well, the fate of one's murderer is often a subject of mild interest. Maybe the boy had cleaned them?

Not that it mattered. They were together again, and that was the important issue. Striding to the middle of the room, he relaxed into his barber chair (careful, as always, to not accidentally trigger the lever leading to the bakehouse). Absently, he watched the friend in his palm, sifting her between his fingers as filtered rays of sun danced against her surface

"Why don't you put them away?"

Johanna casts him a glance. "Anthony, I thought you said you weren't going to say anything further about this."

"About keeping them, yes," Anthony agrees. "But leaving them out all the time as you do, always resting upon your nightstand? And then polishing them every few weeks? Johanna – " he takes her hand " – what you saw that night – the horror of watching two people killed in such a gruesome manner – I don't pretend to understand what it's like to witness that. But surely continually reminding yourself of the event – well, it's not going to help you move on. It's not going to help you forget."

"I don't want to forget, Anthony," she says. "Move on, yes . . . but not forget. I'll never forget. I can't. It wouldn't be fair – to me or to them."

and threw beams of light all along the walls and across the floor, but the sun outside his window was beginning to fade, the light dimming. A breeze blew across his face . . . which was odd, considering no windows were open. Ignoring it, he resumed contemplating the razor, enjoying her company – but then the breeze brushed against him again, running along his jaw, almost like the phantom hands of a lover . . .

Lucy –

He whirled his head around only to discover what he already knew: he was alone. Lucy, as always, was only in his mind. He turned around and slumped in the chair, closing his eyes, her nonexistent hands still brushing against his face. Except – Lucy's nails had not been so long – nor her fingers so spindly – nor her skin so callused –

"Get away from me, woman," he snarled, but of course she was not there either, merely a cruel trick of his mind, so his words had absolutely no effect. He was not sure who he hated more in that moment: her, or himself.

Fist clenching around his friend, he glared out the window. Night was starting to descend, stars appearing; the moon

("on a string")

was nearly full, missing only a tiny sliver from one side

"I wonder if there really is a man up there?" Johanna ponders, dazzling in the moonlight. She tilts her head up to the sky, eyes upon the luminescent orb hanging there. "How do such stories even begin, anyway?"

"The same way as all others, I suppose," says Anthony, looping an arm over her shoulders. "Someone tells it."

and now there was a disembodied voice to accompany the disembodied hands, a voice close to his ears, singing. The words were soft, and muffled, as though the singer had a cloth pressed over their mouth. But soon the words became clearer, louder . . .

"Nothing's gonna harm you . . . not while I'm around . . ."

"Well, that's a relief to know, isn't it?" he asked his friend. She made no reply, knowing as well as he did that the words came far too late, but not quite as willing to divulge a sarcastic remark in return. He could not distinguish the owner of the voice, for it was rather smothered, nor could he recognize the tune, however distantly familiar both seemed.

"Nothing's gonna harm you . . ."

The tendrils of inky vapor still hovering in the room began to move, joining together, thickening, swirling in dizzying patterns. Confused, forming a tight fist around his razor, Sweeney stood, backing slowly away from the fumes. He turned around to head for the door – only to realize that the fog was closing in on him from all sides.

" . . . darling . . ."

The smoke was different than last time; before, it had hovered, thick and steady as cement – now it was nearly as impenetrable, but it was also revolving around itself in thousands of small tornadoes, making it seem crueler, angrier, almost as if it meant to smother him –

" . . . not while I'm around . . ."

Waves of the stuff squeezed up his nose and into his mouth, making him cough. Was all this from a fire? He should try to get out before he suffocated.

Don't be stupid – you're already dead.

But from the way his throat was coughing, his body convulsing, it sure didn't seem that way. . . . He dropped down to the floor, friend still in hand, and began to crawl in the direction he believed the door to be in. The smoke continued to twirl and condense as he went, making the task near impossible.

And then a new thought occurred: why was he bothering? Why was he fighting to try and exist? Didn't he want to escape this pathetic existence, this so-called life? Hadn't he had enough?

What about Johanna?

What about her, though? She – and the thought hurt more than any razor ever could, but that didn't lessen its truth – didn't need him anymore. He was no use to her like this.

("Life is for the alive, my dear.")

The smoke closed in so tight around him that he could not see anything, not hear anything, but he could smell the horrid fumes and taste their bitterness as his throat hacked against them, and he could still feel his razor in his hand, his beautiful razor, his loyal friend . . .

"Demons'll charm you with a smile . . . for a while . . ."

"But I am the demon," he snarled at the voice that was not there, despite that it sent a fresh wave of coughs spluttering through his already-wracking body. He smiled then, sardonically, satanically, deliriously. "How can you expect to save me from myself?"

No sooner had the words left his mouth did he find himself paying the price for his brief speech: the coughs felt as though they were being ripped from his throat, one after the other, barely giving him an instant to breathe –

" . . . but in time . . ."

And then the smoke was fading, and he was falling, or flying, or maybe there was no difference between the two, and the world was nothing but a blot of dimmed colors and faded lights, and everything was disappearing expect the hands on his face were becoming more solid, and the crooning voice was growing louder.

". . . nothing's gonna harm you . . ."

And then the only thing he could see was her, but he supposed that was fitting, for he could not escape her, it was always her in the end: his perverse voice of reason, his distorted guardian angel, his devil, always lurking in the dark corner beside his or looming above him as she did now. Her hands, her voice, her everything. He could damn her, he supposed, but there was no point to that. They were both damned. Or not damned, considering they weren't in hell. Why weren't they in hell, fiends like them?

It was now that he remembered why he had thrown her into the oven and not cut her throat. A slice upon the neck was simply not appropriate for her. But fire suited her: she had been nicknamed the Devil's wife by those who disliked her, after all, and what better way for the wife of Satan to pass into the next world than through flames? It suited her to die by her oven, just as it had suited him to die by his razor. They had died by what defined them.

Too, he had wanted her death to be distinguished, different from the rest, for she was different, and it infuriated him to no end how different she was, how strange and peculiar, and that she had betrayed him –

Some part of him knew that he was deluded, or drunk, or something; that his thoughts were not traveling linearly or sensefully and hadn't been since he arrived at his barber shop – how had he gotten there, anyway? and how had he left? – and the other part of him did not care, too preoccupied with his various contemplations.

" . . . not while I'm – GOD IN HEAVEN!"

Mrs. Lovett, apparently taken by surprise at seeing his eyes open, jumped back with a shriek; he winced as her legs, which his head must have been resting upon, twisted, shoving against his already- painful skull.

"Still believe there's someone up there, do you?" he tried to ask derisively, but his mouth was parched, his lips thick and heavy; it came out sounding more like, "Sill ehhuheve hare hunun uhphh aere, goo ouo?"

"Hush," said Lovett, and before he knew what was happening she was bringing a spoon of water to his lips, lifting his head up so he wouldn't choke on it. He drank it down urgently, as with the next dozen or so.

"Slow down," she finally said, putting the spoon down despite his protests, lowering his head back to her lap, "or you'll give yourself a stomachache, after hardly eating and drinking nothing for so long. How're you feeling?"

A "fine" was all he managed to choke out. He glanced around the room, brow furrowing. "Where – am I?"

"Your room. As you've been for the past seven circles, mind you."

Circles . . . so they were back on Is. So the black smoke, the barber shop, his friends – all of that had been a mirage. He supposed he would have realized that if he'd been analyzing the situation, seeing as it had been nothing short of bizarre and improbable. Besides, he wouldn't have been able to sit in his chair or touch his razors if they'd been real. Spirits couldn't touch anything on Earth.

He could feel her eyes scrutinizing him, and turned his stare towards her, where she still hovered above him. "Mind if I – sit upright?" he asked.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Mr. Todd. You've been terribly ill and a relapse is the very last thing you need right now, seeing as how close you were to – " a hesitation " – to getting even worse." She bit the inside of her lower lip, making it seem smaller than her upper one. "You – you do remember what happened, don't you?"

Johanna. Watching over Johanna. Living with Johanna for weeks on end. Lovett. Lovett, interfering as she always did. Lovett, disrupting the beautiful dream his existence had become.

Lovett, saving his life . . . or lack, thereof.

Yes. Yes, he remembered. He nodded.

Her eyes crinkled. "And you're not – mad at me?"

How could he be mad at her? He wanted to be mad at her – wanted to add another reason to hate the vile little she-devil huddled over him – but he couldn't summon the energy.

Because she had been right: Johanna didn't need him. Johanna was happy without him.

"No," he said.

She continued to squint at him for a moment, dubious, then her wrinkles smoothed, gaze softening. "I'm sorry, love."

He didn't need her pity. He didn't need her help, either. It was because of her that he was still here, after all – it was because of her that he had lost the chance to finally end his existence – but, of course, she had stolen this from him too, just as she had stolen everything else –

Don't blame this on her. You're the one who dived to the floor when the smoke thickened. You're the one who wanted to live.

Live? He barely repressed a snort. No, he had not wanted to live; flattening himself upon the floor had been an animal gesture, the natural instinct to survive at all costs, nothing more. The verb to live was no longer one that he could achieve. That was why he wanted to escape this place.

"Are you hungry?" Mrs. Lovett asked, breaking into his thoughts. "You still look sicker than a dog, but you don't look quite so peaky as you did before, so we could probably chance you sitting up. And you haven't eaten in quite some time, so it might do you a lot of good."

As she babbled, she eased him up into a sitting position next to her, the pair of them leaning against the wall. "I managed to get a bit of water or broth down your throat every now and then, but I was afraid to try something more solid seeing as you probably would've choked on it. I don't have anything ready, but I could go fix you something right quick, if – "

"You look pale," Sweeney told her.

Lovett gave him a quizzical look accompanied with an arch of one eyebrow. "Seen a mirror lately, love?"

"You're paler than normal."

It wasn't just her pale complexion that was abnormal. The faint wrinkles on her face were more pronounced than usual, her features weary and drawn, dark pouches dangling under her eyes. She looked as though she hadn't had a proper meal or sleep in quite some time . . . as though, while tending to him, she'd forgotten to care for herself.

"'S'not proper for a lady to get browned by the sun," Mrs. Lovett retorted. "Not that there's much of that 'round here anyway."

Why was she pretending that she was fine? Bloody infuriating woman.

"You're too pale," he affirmed, glowering at her.

She rolled her eyes as she slide off the bed. "And you're half-delirious. What should I fix up? How's soup sound to you?" When his glare did not lessen, she added, "I'll make enough for both of us – will that make you happy, you big grump?"

Sullenly, he nodded.

A/N: You guys. WOW. I'm absolutely blown away by the number of reviews I received on the last chapter! Thirteen reviews for a single chapter that didn't have any smut and for a fandom that is slowly dying? That is unheard of. xD

No, but in all seriousness. Y'all rock.

Please keep your beloved starving authoress happy and continue to leave feedback, whether good or bad?