Lockwood was sitting at the table with his feet propped up on a stool as I entered the kitchen; before him, a bulky newspaper lay outstretched over the cooling remnants of his breakfast. He didn't seem to notice me bounding in, and neither did George, who was sprawled at the other end of the table with a giant book in his lap and pieces of egg clinging to his chin.

I crossed the tiled floor with three quick steps and swung myself into the chair beside George's. He gave a quick start, a sharp inhalation of breath; the grubby glasses on his face jerked forward and pitched toward the ground.

I leaned over and caught them in one hand. "Ooh, watch out there. Almost broke the object of your pride and joy."

George muttered something under his breath and snatched the glasses away from me. He slipped them back onto his face without further ado. "You're just like Lockwood. Can't even eat breakfast without causing a scene." He flipped a few pages through his moth-eaten tome and then glanced up again, raising an eyebrow at the lounging boy across the table. "Eh, Lockwood?"

Anthony Lockwood slouched further in his chair and raised the newspaper so it shielded his face. "I've already apologized." The newspaper fluttered down again and Lockwood looked at me with an aggrieved expression. "Multiple times."

I blinked. "Uh . . . what are we talking about, exactly? What did Lockwood do?"

And, higher on my list of priorities, where was breakfast?

"Oh, it's more like what he didn't do." The pages of the tome were flipped fiercely through. "Which was enter the kitchen in a normal way. In a normal way is all I'm asking."

"It was a perfectly normal way!" Lockwood protested.

"You catapulted over the kitchen table. And then broke our best tea set."

My stomach rumbled. "All right, all right. Calm down. What's for breakfast?" I squinted at George's messy chin. "Scrambled eggs?"

"Yeah. It's on the stove." He turned his attentions back to his book.

I got up and returned a few minutes later with a plate full of scrambled eggs and sausages. Lockwood had disappeared; his chair was noticeably empty, although his crumpled newspaper and plate still lay on the table. George hadn't moved an inch, although as I watched him, one hand moved downward to scratch at his bum.

I sat down and began to eat in silence. My plate cleared fast; I leaned back a while later and fussed a bit with my hair. After a few lousy attempts, I gave up and let it fall back against my neck. Then I cast a cursory glance at George, who still hadn't budged.

Silence reigned from the rest of the house.

"Do we have any cases today?" I asked at last, clearing my throat.

The sandy-haired boy rubbed his eyes. "Nah. Lockwood's bought some new, techy gear, though; we'll take a trip to Victoria Street later and pick them up."

The fork fell out of my hand and into a puddle of ketchup. "That's on the same street as the DEPRAC headquarters, isn't it?"

"Mm-hmm. Unfortunately, that means it's within breathing distance of Barnes . . . why do you ask?" George turned to slurp at a cup of orange juice.

"Oh . . . nothing." I stared at my plate for a moment. The air was quite warm around me, and the clock was ticking noisily on the wall; golden rays of sunshine cascaded in from the kitchen window, melting across the kitchen table and reaching out toward me. I dangled my fingers in the light, a brief wave of loneliness suddenly crashing down on me; memories of my dream last night circled round and round in my head like an eerie merry-go-round. I got up abruptly and set my plate in the sink, then turned away. Maybe I'd find Lockwood, and we could work on that sparring thing again—

"Hey. Lucy."

I glanced back. "Yeah?"

George was twirling his fork with a casual skill. "You all right?"

Not really.

"I'm fine."

George studied me carefully, but before he could say anything else, I walked off down the dark hallway.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

I found Lockwood in the library, hunched over, his hands balled into fists under his chin as he gazed moodily across at the painting over the fireplace. It was one of three green pears resting against each other, their colors subtle and overlapping. His face was nostalgic, almost serene; as I observed, he let out a small sigh and closed his eyes.

I shifted my weight. A floorboard creaked underneath me. Lockwood's eyes snapped open and latched onto me before I could do anything but straighten in a panicked alarm.

"Luce?" he said. "I thought you were eating breakfast."

"I was." I crossed my arms and leaned against a nearby bookshelf. "Are you full? I think there were still some sausages left."

" . . . But you left them alone with George?"

"Yeah."

"Then I'd say there are no more sausages." His eyes twinkled briefly at me, then slid slowly back to the painting. My own gaze trailed after his.

"I've always wondered why you had that painting," I said. "You're not the type to have pears over the fireplace."

Lockwood smiled wanly, and the warmth of his eyes guttered out for a moment. "It was my mother's."

"Ah." An awkward second passed. Then I stepped into the room, skirting past one of George's many experiments that was propped up against the wall. A dribble of melted cheese was pooled alongside it; I hopped over it with amazing skill.

"Anyway," Lockwood said suddenly, with a forced lightness, "What do you think of it? The painting."

I tore my gaze away from the cheese, which was now curling threateningly towards my toes. "Well . . . I think it's subtle in beauty," I said thoughtfully, hopping past the cheese and toward him. "Like . . . it's hard to see, but it's always been there. You know? But they're just pears," I added hastily.

"Don't you go underestimating the value of pears," Lockwood said dryly. "But . . . as for the other stuff . . . I think you're quite right." He propped his chin back onto his fists.

I hopped up onto the couch and grabbed at a magazine that was lying forgotten on its armrest. It was mostly cheap advertising for everyday items from laundry detergent to obviously fake (at least, from an agent's perspective)"fail-proof ghost catchers!"

The next page, to my surprise, contained a small feature on the Callahan Case. I began reading with spiked interest, sitting up straighter in my chair and leaning closer to the glossy pages, only to flip past in disgust when it spelled our agency's name wrong (Locke, Wood & Co.) thrice in only one paragraph and went on to babble about the paranormal security of unused homes.

Meanwhile, Lockwood was still staring tiredly at the same painting.

"What're you thinking about?" I asked idly.

One shoulder flopped up and down in response. "Not much." An eye swiveled in its socket and scanned my face. "And too much."

"Getting all riddle-y, are we?" I tossed the magazine away and slouched down deep into the armchair. "Let me know when you reach equilibrium."

He didn't seem to hear me.

"So, what's one thing that you're thinking about?"

Lockwood lifted his head slightly. "Well . . . Lucy, are you angry with me?" he asked suddenly.

"Angry? What for?"

"You know. That promise I made you give back at the supermarket."

Oh. The one where I'd sworn not to contact Meredith or Carla Callahan, and that I would stay out of the case. Yes. That one.

Ahem.

" . . . Sure, I remember," I said, avoiding his gaze and concentrating instead on smoothing out all the wrinkles in my skirt. "But I'm not mad. I understand."

"Good." Lockwood's tone was one of relief. "I never meant to . . . I just thought . . ." He shook his head. Then he turned around on his seat and faced me, seeming a bit lighter and relaxed. "Also, I've been meaning to congratulate you for that job the other night. Excellent work."

I coughed lightly. "Oh, it was all right. Nothing that was too hard to handle."

"Ah, modesty," Lockwood said, grinning at me. "It's a waste of time."

"Right. Well, at least I'm not a cocky, arrogant—ack!" I stumbled back a few paces and grabbed the furry object that had gone flying onto my face. It clung harder, claws digging into the sides of my head, and as I breathed in fur and dust I fought the urge to scream. "GET OFF!"

With another ferocious yank, I finally managed to pull it off me and send it barreling into the hallway.

At that very moment, George stepped into the room; a flying mass of black fur fell into his arms, scrabbled for a moment, and then lay there limply.

We all froze.

I leaned forward. Took a closer look.

"Lockwood," I said, as casually as I could manage, "what's a cat—over there, don't pretend like you can't see it—doing in our living room?"

Lockwood smiled winningly. "Ah, come on, Luce. He was only stopping by."

"Right. And mauling my face while he was at it." I spotted an open window out of the corner of my eye and marched over to close it. "What, was it pawing at the window in dejection again? Did your tender heart bleed with pity?"

"Detecting rising levels of sarcasm," George muttered under his breath. I glared at him.

As the cat curled and weaved around our legs, Lockwood abruptly shook back his coat sleeve and glanced at his watch. "We have to leave now if we're going to take the Tube," he said. "The crowds get even worse at lunchtime."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

A/N: Bleh. This was awful. The only thing I manage to write after two months is a breakfast scene and a contemplating-a-pear-painting scene. It felt like I was writing through mud.

As ever, thanks to all of you for your reviews!

(Any advice on how to write an action scene?)