The house was unusually dark for this time of night. The colder months were drawing ever nearer, so the fire place should've at least been lit, the flames playing across the couch, causing even the most ordinary objects to take a shadowy, deathly glow.
Any light gave Sweeney that type of look, but no one ever really noticed it.
He moved quietly through the parlor, yet its own silence was so thick his attempt at stealth had as much success as a fish trying to live outside of water.
The door to the hallway was closed. It was never closed. Internal heat flared inside him, fueled by an unexplainable feeling that something was wrong.
Where was Mrs. Lovett?
His hand clenched into a fist, neatly trimmed nails digging into the flesh of his palm. He didn't notice the slight pain he was causing himself; he just reached out and turned the knob, thursting open the door.
Even though the force he had put into opening the door was great, it seemed to move on its own accord, swinging slowly open with an un-oiled creak.
The hallway seemed to be more shadowy than the parlor. The man pressed himself against the wall, slinking towards her bedroom door. His mind told him that Mrs. Lovett wouldn't be there; no, she had no reason to be there without him. But deep in his gut he had the feeling that if she wasn't in this room, he would never find her again, no matter how hard he searched, no matter how many people he slaughtered.
It seemed to take hours before the oaken door to her room was in front of him. His hands were dripping, sweat seeping from glands hidden under skin, blood oozing from the cuts his own nails had caused, the salts mingling together to make his palms sting dreadfully.
But he didn't notice. He never noticed.
The door. It needed to be open. He needed to see her standing there, smiling at him, ready for him to take her once again.
He knew she wasn't going to be there. She let off such a cheerful feeling that he could've felt it through the door.
And he felt nothing more than the cold fury he always gave off. He shoved the door open with his shoulder, and it fell from its hinges, dust rising in clouds from the dirty carpet. Todd jumped back a few steps, the sudden noise of the door lighting his frazzled nerves.
The door. It was just the door.
The room inside was darker than the barber's heart, which was beating furiously. He remembered the packet of matches and where they were always kept, and stumbled back through the house to get them, feeling like the clock had suddenly sped up, as if it had decided that there should be thirty seconds in an hour instead of sixty minutes.
Cold hands found the little packet of wonder, and he struck one.
There was a spark, but no flame was produced. He hit it again, and the frantic beating skipped over notes as a flame flickered from the small red head.
He didn't try to be silent as he ran back down the hallway, cupping one hand around the small flame to keep it alight. He hesitated once more in her doorway, a sense of dread falling over him.
Hastily, he dislodged a candle from its bracket on the wall, pressing the flame to its wick in order to light it. He shook the match to clear the blaze from it before letting it drop to the floor.
The dim candlelight shed knowledge to the first few feet of the room. He took a step inside.
His heart gave up and stopped beating all together; his breath caught in his chest. The only sound in the room was a rhythmatic drip drop.
Something sloshed about his feet.
He breathed, and looked down to see the well-known puddling of blood. It formed a lake around his feet, fed by an unknown source. The blood was ironically comforting to the demonic barber, and his eyes followed the stream of dark liquid to its begining.
Blood followed the seam of the bed sheet, the corner of the material already a bright crimson. He scuffled forward, the raising of his foot causing a sucking sound. The trail of blood carved its path over the mattress, outlining a familiar curve, gushing from a neck Todd had pressed his lips against so many times.
She was dead. Mrs. Lovett was dead. His mind seemed to rip apart into thousands of pieces.
Who could have done this? Who would kill the pie-maker, the only light in his life?
Longing for revenge coursed through his veins, setting his heart to pounding again, until he noticed the cause of her death.
A long cut ran across the woman's neck. A cut made by one blade and one blade only.
The razor. It was in his hand now. He didn't remember it being so before. It dripped the same metallic liquid as the sheets did, testifying to its crime.
He had done it. He had killed her.
He screamed.
And then Sweeney woke up to the real Mrs. Lovett shrieking his name.
"Mr. Todd!"
He blinked several times, the bloody scene of his dreams lingering in his vision, keeping him from what he really wanted to see.
A warm hand rested on his chest as she sat up, using her other arm for support.
"Are you alright, love?" she asked rather loudly.
He struggled into a sitting position, shuddering as the image finally disappeared.
"Yes, Mrs. Lovett," he replied, masking the fear and unsurity that had decided so inconveniently to rage through his system. "I'm fine. It was just a dream."
He watched the horror stricken look that masked her face for a split second before she hid it behind a veil of relief.
"Well that's good."
He knew that she thought he was having nightmares of Lucy again. She didn't know that she was the one now haunting his dreams, dreams that had changed from being about his beloved Lucy to visions of her own death.