"Oi! How long are you gonna sit here and snivel, huh? Some of us have work to do!"

George looked up.

A Nightwatch kid was standing over him - young, large ears, shaggy sandy blond hair, and great big liquid eyes. He could have been the poster boy for Nightwatch Kids everywhere if not for the hideous scowl splitting his face, liquid eyes pinched in a glare. That didn't usually go over very well for attracting prospective employees George had found. The kid shook his stick impatiently at him.

"Are you deaf as well as stupid, huh? I said to scram!"

George lumbered slowly to his feet. Normally he never would have stood for anyone talking to him this way. Let alone a snot-nosed Nightwatch kid who was barely one step above talentless. But he didn't feel like himself. His face felt blotchy and swollen, hot from all the sobbing he'd done. It left him feeling strung out and worn. He was exhausted. Mentally, physically, emotionally. He didn't have the energy to argue.

The kid tapped his foot impatiently.

George went.

At some point, dusk had transitioned into night into dawn. The stars minuscule pinpricks against the blooming expanse of pink and orange and yellow heralding the sunrise. In the distance, fog blanketed the skyline, the vague silhouettes of buildings looming around him like shrouded sentinels.

He trudged down the street, hands in his pockets, barely paying attention to where he was going.

They hadn't come.

He'd thought-

He had even stopped and left them that message, letting them know where he would be and who he was seeing.

They would have seen it. They must have seen it.

And, what?

Chosen to ignore it?

Brushed it off as George wasting his time when he could be doing something useful? Like researching the cases they had now or sorting the laundry.

He felt sick to his stomach. He isn't sure which possibility he hates more.

He hates that he feels like he has to hide his interests from his friends, that he constantly has to check and recheck his thoughts before he says them for fear of setting Lockwood off, that he doesn't feel like he can discuss his ideas out loud. All this time at Lockwood and Co had left him almost aching with the desire to just talk to someone without fearing the backlash. How many times has he been forced to hold off on explaining theories and occult experiments until he had all the information? Only been appreciated for the end result? It was hypocritical of Lockwood and Lucy to want answers to their questions yet shot him down whenever he tried to talk about it. After a while it became easier to just wait and deliver all the information at once - it hurt less that way. When they would inevitably interrupt him and demand he 'get to the point'.

Joplin had soothed that ache for a while but, George sighed, it hadn't been true companionship. Joplin had just been using him for his own gain. And that made George hurt in ways he didn't know were possible before tonight.

He walked in the direction of Portland Row, lost among his meandering thoughts and the twisting streets. Walking like it was possible to outpace the despondency and the malaise creeping over him. He was simultaneously filled with both too much and not enough emotions. Like a deflating balloon.

He struggled to keep his head above the depression threatening to drag him in but it was exhausting work. He clung to that. Focusing on the monotony of the dull, repetitive movements of walking - step, step, step, one foot in front of the other - instead of his racing thoughts.

He had walked halfway back by the time the first night cab passed him.

He hailed it absentmindedly.

The night cabbie drives off as soon as he's paid and George stands motionless, staring at the house. Despite the early morning hour, a dull golden glow shone through the windows of the kitchen. Barely enough to illuminate the path, the misaligned iron strip awkwardly raised in the center of the footpath, the crunchy brown grass that lined its edges. It reflected awkwardly off the sign, a shining spotlight on 'Lockwood', the 'and Co.' is cast in darkness. George snorted derisively. How fitting.

The steps creak under his weight, bemoaning their fate. He pushes open the front door bracing himself for the long-awaited exclamations of worry.

Nothing happens.

The foyer is empty.

His shoulders slump as he stands in the darkened doorway.

He can see Lockwood's coat and Lucy's jacket hanging on the coat stand. The bags they had stored in the train station lockers lined up against the wall. They made it home fine then. A tendril of unease loosens in his chest. He hadn't realized how worried he had been that maybe something had happened on their mission until the worry was gone. But in its place, his hurt grew. If nothing had happened then why hadn't they…?

Dreading every step, he dragged his feet toward the kitchen. Shadows danced on the hallway carpet, mocking him in their irritatingly joyous dance. As carefree as shadow and light cavorting on a wall can be as they engage in an endless game of tag, hide-and-seek; ebbing and flowing like the tide as they chase each other across the wallpaper.

He pauses just before the entryway. He had never entertained the thought that he would need this much, or any, courage to see his friends.

Taking a calming breath, he plasters his usual undecipherable expression on his face.

Stepping into the light he stares at Lockwood and Lucy eating a very early breakfast. The tableau creates a wave of resentment to wash through him. An unintelligible sound pushes up his throat.

Lockwood and Lucy both looked up and sent him blinding smiles.

"Hey George," Lockwood twisted in his chair, throwing an arm casually over the back of the chair. "Where've you been? You've missed out on some of Lucy's homemade waffles. They were delicious, too."

He sends his infamous wolfish grin at Lucy.

"I made eggs and we even managed to find some orange juice tucked away in the fridge. Can you believe it? Isn't orange juice just the best? The pulp is the best part I'd say. Though Lucy doesn't like orange juice, do you, Luce? I'm sure we have some other drink stored away somewhere if you want something else," Lockwood yabbered on.

"Sit down with us. I'm sure we can find you some toast or something. Maybe I can make some dippy eggs and soldiers real quick." Lucy invited. She looked tired. Her hair more out of control than usual. It looked like it did in the mornings after she had taken a shower.

George sat down stiffly.

"What happened with your mission?" He gritted out.

They really hadn't noticed? They'd been here eating breakfast while he'd been tied to a chair and antagonized by a madman. Maybe it was for the best. If they didn't know then he didn't have to tell them. He'd just use Lockwood's Patented Plan J and sweep everything under the rug and pretend that none of it had ever happened. Everything would be fine so long as they didn't ask what happened. Yeah. That was a good plan.

Neither Lockwood nor Lucy seemed to notice his tone.

"We met one of Winkman's buyers, it was that man who was talking with Penelope Fittes at the party just before we broke into the library. A real toad. Tried to kill us, along with Winkman and his gang. We couldn't find the office that we had climbed in through so we ended up trapped on the roof. Can you believe that Lockwood made me jump off a building? Absolutely ridiculous. You know I hate heights."

Lockwood jumped in "But that's beside the point right now," he brushed it aside. "Anyway, what happened on your end? Did you catch the mirror? I didn't stay to see. Where did you go after getting your stuff from the locker? I would have thought you'd have made it home before us. What took you so long?"

Aaaannnndd there went Plan J.

Well, George thought, I guess this is how I'm gonna die. Might as well bite the bullet.

"I was with Joplin," he mumbled.

A light was flicked off in Lockwood's eyes. The previous good humor evaporated. "What?" Lockwood asked flatly. He rose slowly, methodically, from his chair. It reminded Lucy of Bickerstaff, a giant rising from his grave to engulf those unfortunate enough to be near him.

"I was with Joplin," George repeated. "Did you not see my note?"

Lucy looked up from her place by the stove. The pot of eggs merrily bubbling beside her, she opened her mouth (no doubt to ask about the note he'd supposedly left) and then abruptly closed it again. Her eyes darted to the counter to look at the whispering skull, her lips twisted into a grimace, eyes widening with surprise at whatever it was saying.

Lockwood didn't seem to hear him.

"I can't believe you! Did you not listen to a single thing Lucy said? Well in case you hadn't realized Lucy and I were off risking our lives tonight for the stupid mirror and you were off playing happy researcher with that idiot Joplin? That was your first priority!? Really?!"

George stopped, he swallowed, his throat bobbing up and down. His heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest, it was beating so fast. "Well, I-"

Lockwood shook his head in disgust and anger; Lucy shifting uneasily from foot to foot behind him as she stood by the stove waiting for the eggs to finish boiling. It was almost funny and at any other time, George would have laughed. But his confession had yanked all the cheer from the room, leaving a cold, shuddery emptiness in its wake. Her eyes darted between the furious, frustrated look on Lockwood's face and George's crumbling expression.

'Lockwood," she started uneasily. "Maybe you should let George explain before-"

"No!"

He whirled to face Lucy, jabbing a pointy finger in her direction. She glared at him. Her grip tightened on the spoon she had used to lower the eggs into the pot like she was contemplating using it to catapult the half-cooked eggs at Lockwood's face.

Lockwood looked worried for a second, his anger giving way to trepidation, but the expression disappeared as quickly as it came.

"No," he repeated, softer. "I want to know how he could act so stupid!"

He whirled back around to George. His voice deadly quiet, "What were you thinking? The mirror had already been stolen twice and the first thing you do is go to Joplin. What happened to following the plan? Where were you that was more important than being here for your friends, huh?"

George started hesitantly as if he thought Lockwood would just plow through his words again. "I did get back before you. I got back here with the mirror and I- I just- I don't know what came over me. But suddenly Joplin was here and he was spouting all sorts of theories and ideas about the other side and- well, he wanted to go to the cemetery. I didn't really want to, I wanted to wait for you guys, but I did anyway. I took the mirror-"

His voice broke. Dying away with an awful croak when Lockwood looked up sharply at the mention of the mirror. The expression on his face was terrifying. George had never seen him look so angry. His eyes were nearly black, the pupils dilated with rage, his jaw clenched in a hard line, his mop of dark curls looking more like an omen of death rather than the boyish tousled style it usually was.

For the first time, he seemed to notice George's bedraggled state. His expression darkened further, "Where is the mirror? Where is the whole reason we went on this insane mission? Where is the reason that Lucy and I almost died? Do you have any idea what you put us through tonight?"

Something seemed to snap inside George. His expression of guilt morphing into self-righteous anger. "What I put you through? What I put you through? Are you kidding me?" he exclaimed, standing so abruptly that his chair tipped over with a clatter on the linoleum floor. "You wanna know where I've been? I've been tied to a chair in a catacomb by someone I thought I could trust. Someone who I thought was my friend. But instead, he turned out to be a maniac who was manipulating me. Almost like you. Only there when you need me. I was expecting you and you didn't come. Kipps was the one who came and tried to help. He was there with me. I told him you'd come but you didn't," his voice broke. "You didn't come. DEPRAC was the one who came to save the day! If they hadn't Kipps and I would be stone dead and you have the- the nerve to accuse me of..." George's eyes were glassy, he furiously swiped his eyes.

"Kipps was there. So where were you?"

Lockwood looked like he'd been slapped. The anger drained from his face as he gaped slack-jawed at George. He opened his mouth, then immediately closed it again. He swallowed convulsively. He tried again to speak but all that left him was an indiscernible strangled noise.

The eggs were forgotten, Lucy stood wide-eyed at the counter. Her knuckles white with the force she gripped the counter. As if that support was the only thing keeping her from collapsing onto the floor. "Wha-" she breathed.

George looked at them for a moment, his eyes hard, before turning away and running from the room and thundering up the stairs.

Lockwood and Lucy stood stricken, staring at the place George had stood.

The smell of burnt eggs triggered Lucy to move. She turned off the stove and stared down at the eggs before slowly turning back to Lockwood. "We've messed up."

"We've all messed up." Lockwood countered.

"Maybe so, but us… you more than anyone."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know what I mean," Lucy replied. "Who's the one who spent weeks bringing George down? You." She looked down. "I've messed up too. I know that and I'm gonna make it right. But, Lockwood," she finally looked at him, eyes shiny with unshed tears. "What kind of friends are we? How could we have...I don't really know what he was talking about just now...but it, it sounded terrible. Was he talking about Joplin?"

The counter let out a squeak as she forced her hands to let go of its edge.

"And that stuff about the mirror. Do you think that Joplin really tried to make George look into it?" she continued frantically.

Lockwood exhaled shakily. "I don't know...when we first met him the answer would have been no but now...Lucy, I'm not so sure."

He forced himself to make eye contact with him, grimacing when he saw the stunned grief and horror reflected back at him.

He'd done that.

"I never told you about my theory about Joplin. Everyone noticed how he always had that gray stuff in his hair. I didn't think it was dandruff. George just confirmed that. I think it's grave dust. Ol' Joply has been spending an awful lot of time down below in the catacombs digging around for any valuable looking artifact he can get his hands on. And we led him straight to his biggest find yet. And yet..."

Lockwood trailed off, his eyes were distant, his mouth tugged down in an unhappy frown. Lucy looked at him impatiently before urging him to go on.

"We've seen what the mirror can do. It killed both Jack Carver and Duane Neddles; it killed Wilberforce all those years ago and it would have killed George if he'd looked into it. But I have to wonder...for all that Bickerstaff was obsessed with the mirror and its construction he never looked into it. He always had others do it for him. Sounds like Joplin is the same way. So a part of me wonders if it's not Joplin in control but instead-"

"It's Bickerstaff," Lucy finished for him, quickly catching on to what Lockwood was getting at. She sat down heavily at the table. "You think Joplin's been possessed this entire time?"

"I don't know about the entire time. But, yeah, it does explain a few things anyway. Bickerstaff's MO at any rate."

Lucy's eyes widened.

"Do you think the same thing happened to George? We knew that he was affected by the ghost, by the mirror. He'd never normally do something like this, would he - go off, and leave us alone. Poor George...Lockwood, we've been so blind!" Lucy said hoarsely. "We noticed, but we didn't pay attention. He's desperate to investigate it. He's been obsessed with it all this time. And you just kept criticizing him, slapping him down."

"Yes, of course, I did!" If Lucy's voice had risen, now Lockwood's did too. "Because George is always like that! He's always obsessed with relics and old stuff! It's just how he is! We couldn't possibly have known." Lockwood's face was ashen, his dark eyes hollow. His shoulders slumped.

"But the whole reason he was with Joplin in the first place is because you never have listened to what he has to say. I haven't known him as long as you have, and I can be the first to admit that I didn't like him, but even I can tell that he looks up to you, Lockwood. He'd follow you anywhere. And he tries his best to help and he does so much good work but then he makes a single mistake and suddenly that's all you can see. The bad things about him."

"Yeah, well," Lockwood folded his arms defensively. "His mistake could have gotten us all killed! I'm only trying-"

"And that's not all," Lucy interjected hotly. "I've noticed that even when he's not messing up and is just fiddling with his new Rottwell device or the skull or his research into the problem you have no patience for him. He can't even have a hobby without you criticizing it."

She abruptly stood, her chair grating against the floor, as she angrily began to clear the table. She paused briefly when she plucked up her plate and uncovered George's note. Gone to see a friend about the mirror. Back soon. G.

She stared at it for a long moment.

The innocuous note filled her with anger. It had failed its one purpose, stupid, useless, little-. They needed a new thinking cloth or she would go insane looking at it and imagining all the what if's.

She stalked across the room and dumped all the dirty dishes in the sink before stalking to the door.

She paused on the threshold.

Looking over her shoulder she directed a stern look at Lockwood who was standing frozen in the middle of the room. His arms still wrapped defensively around himself. She sighed wearily, her hand coming up to rest on the doorframe. She returned her gaze to the inky blackness in front of her and sighed again. She suddenly felt so much older than her fourteen years. "So….We've messed up. Now, what are we gonna do to fix it?"