Lockwood and Co was an eye-opener. Not just because this young-adult book had the strongest and best female protagonist written by a male author, but it also managed to capture the emotions and scenes so very well, that I could almost see and feel them. You had this heroine who was not quite one, a dashing hero who was actually a secondary character but felt protagonisty enough. All of them did. It would be no small confession to admit that, I consider these love-lorn, oblivious idiots my (or our!) responsibility to ship and set sail. HAIL LOCKLYLE!!!!!

This fanfic is from Lockwood's perspective and takes place 4 months after The Hollow Boy.

Lockwood woke up to see the ceiling. It looked like it always did - blank and white. The usual.

 If one were to lower their eyes, they would be sure to catch the sole attraction on the centre of the perpendicular wall - an unassuming painting of fields and the setting sun. Inconspicuous and absolutely mundane. 

Funny how 'she' had gazed so intently at it, as if hoping to discern the strokes of a painting so obscure that even he hadn't cared enough to wipe the sheath of dust on it.

 Dust.

 Lying on the bed, Lockwood looked over to the side of the window peering at the speckles of free-falling dust that glinted in the light of the morning sun. It coated everything in every way possible; from the seldom touched albums in his room to the dishes that George simply couldn't bring himself to clean at times. The only person to whom dust seemed as alien as whipped creamed was, was Holly. She was always the odd crayon, cleaning every possible cavity to banish away the incriminating evidence of life and loss. Even the stairs to the attic were spotless. So was the doorknob to the bedroom. But that was where the line was drawn. She wouldn't clean it out and George wouldn't let her. 

And neither did Lockwood.

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Lockwood and Co were doing well, not unusual due to the publicity they gained from the Aickmere haunting. They were titled 'The Best Agency' twice and did do well together as a team. Of three. Just three. Though they gelled together pretty well, there was always that something missing, or someone. 

It wasn't that they would call out her name, or moan in agony ( George looked askance at Lockwood at this) but it was at those simple, innocent, unconscious times that the emptiness was too apparent - when Lockwood would whip around, in training, to ward off his attacking opponent only to find thin air ; when Holly would place a slice of pie on an empty plate by an empty seat ; when George would look, as inexpressive as always, at he slightly dented oven door due to the bulbosity of a particular jar. When Lockwood would thoughtlessly grip someone's hand during a particularly pulsating moment of a chase only to find George blowing kisses at him, with his free hand.

But the worst was during the awards ceremony.

Lockwood was so in the skies that for a moment, he almost thought that she was beside him. He actually mentioned it in his speech too,"I would like to introduce you to a core member of the team, an exceptional and talented agent..." and handed over the trophy, which almost hovered for a moment before plummeting to the ground in a ear-splitting crash. 

George wiped his glasses on his buttoned suit while the rest of the world alternatively stared at the broken trophy, and Lockwood's beet-red face.

He kept it as a reminder, an icon for him to wrap away his memories for good. Yet every time he looked at it, he could only remember the sky meeting him as he and the girl beside him jumped, hair flying and coat flapping, her eyes holding brighter stars than the blanketing sky, before she closed them, careering closer to him as he led her on that wild jump of faith, of trust.

And she had trusted him.

He opened his eyed yet again, finally letting his senses come back to him as he idly looked at the various models of ghost-catchers as he waited to meet with Penelope Fittes. He hadn't meant to turn around, but as if an invisible chain was pulling him, he did a 180' to catch the familiar tramp of boots and the familiar bob, just winging out of his sight.

His heart stopped and rocketed at the same time.

She didn't look back at him. Why would she? She quit out of her own free will, and there was nothing holding her back.

He was nothing to hold her back.

He turned back as the leader of the Fittes Agency greeted him and proceeded with the meeting. And to think that he had seen the last of 'her'.

"I'm sorry, Ms.Fittes, but I don't see why it has to be her. There are countless other Listeners, and very talented ones in your very own agency. Why can't we just have Kat Godwin?"

"Anthony, please, call me Penelope. And I think I already told you about it. She is truly gifted, an amazing agent and a person.She must have had her reasons, but as a freelancer, she can very well join your team for a one-nighter. Her abilities and her methods are exceptional and she was part of the best, after all. I, for one, would not have anyone else but her on my team and you, of all people, should certainly know that she is one of a kind!"

And that effectively clammed him up.

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Holly merely looked on as Lockwood narrated the incident and the conditions. She was more interested in George as he changed through expressions so rapidly that Lockwood feared that he was being possessed by his mortal enemy.

After he had finished, there was a moment's silence as George licked the jam of the table cloth and glanced at Lockwood, in all his jammed up. spectacle-eyed glory.

"And what do you think about it?"

For the third time in his life, Lockwood couldn't get his tongue moving. The first time was personal, the second - even more so. But this time seemed to tower over all of them.

He couldn't. How could he?

After all that she had said, after all that he had begged, how could he when she had shut him out? He had tried to drown his thoughts and feelings, and yet, here it was being aroused again.He glanced at the empty seat, jaw clenching. Not being able to bear it, he walked up the stairs, barely touching the banister as he crept to his room.

"But she is, after all, a freelancer."

Two sides of his conscience kept warring with each other - the logic, unfailing ; and the heart, unyielding.

He looked across the room and up at the ceiling. It stretched bank and white, just as the gravestones that framed his blood. 

He could see them clearly in his head, in the hole of his heart, in his soul that was hollow. It had been hollow for so long.

Falling into bed and closing his eyes, he drifted into his usual dream of shadowy fingers reaching for him. He wanted to reach out to them too. So very much. But when he did try, there grasped his shoulder a hand. A hand tinged pale but sturdy, with the calluses spotting the usual places, small and warm. A hand that was as familiar to him as his.

He woke up looking at the ceiling, blank and white, stretching across his room and his life. 

It was there waiting to be filled. Just as he was.

His legs led him down the stairs and his traitorous hand ripped open the door for him, as he stepped out to the streets.

She had told him to go.

She had told him that she wanted to leave.

Then why bring her back?

His legs automatically walked to the address from DEPRAC, navigating skilfully through the crowd that hurried in the safe morning.

It was warring again, the two sides. One of the blinding sun, crashing through the roof in a scorching and abstract heat. The other, of starry skies, setting upon him in a sense of defined and sure calm. The starry skies that leapt to meet him. That and starry eyes, letting the feeling of longing wash over his entire soul as he mounted the stairs to face a wooden door. Just a door. Yet that would lead him to his happiness and sorrow.

 He absently fingered his tie as he stooped to pick a parcel off the doorstep, to hold as an excuse. He stepped forward, but how could he? 

He had boxed it and thrown it away. He had learnt is lesson the hard way. He didn't want to lose her forever just as he had lost the others. He had already lost her partly, and he couldn't bear more.  

But the thought of dampening it down again was almost exhausting, that single emotion that had kept hi alive through the years with her, that made him throw away safety after she had gone. That kept warring with him as he tried to step away and that hand that stopped him from giving himself up. 

And as if his conscience had a conscience, it brought forth one single thought :

"You love her."

Behind the door was Lucy , his saviour and sentence, is heart and home, his life and love, his self and his own. And he wasn't going to turn back unless she herself said otherwise.

And like the sun kissing the wintered field to give way to blossom spring, he allowed himself the tiniest of smiles as he thought,

"I love her."

He raised his arm and knocked.