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Lucy was curled up on the couch in the library, indulging in one of the first free days she’d had since starting at Lockwood and Co. three months earlier. Their client had called last night to cancel on account of their kid being sick. There was an awful flu running around the city, typical for winter in London, Lucy supposed. It was her first winter in the city, and so far Lockwood and Co. had managed to avoid most of the illnesses going around, minus a couple of head colds they’d passed among themselves.
Despite the cold weather, sunlight streamed in the windows of 35 Portland Row, and she could hear George clanging together pots and pans in the kitchen, preparing lunch. She hadn’t yet seen Lockwood, which was odd - usually he was the first of them awake, and could be found in the library or at his desk in the basement office. She would have brushed it off as nothing - after all, Lockwood could just be using the rare day off to catch up on sleep - but she couldn’t ignore the handful of worried glances George kept making in the direction of the stairs.
At some point, Lucy heard George begin to set the table, so she uncurled from the couch and wandered into the kitchen. Grabbing silverware from the drawer, she asked, “do you think one of us should go wake Lockwood?”
George frowned. “I’m not sure. Usually if he sleeps in like this, it means he’s not feeling well.”
Lucy set the forks and spoons on the table, setting three places as usual. “Do you think it’s anything serious?”
George shook his head, reaching to fill the tea kettle in the sink and placing it next to a big pot on the stove. “No, no, I suspect it’s just whatever ordinary bug is going around London.”
Lucy hummed in agreement. Thinking back, she had noticed Lockwood becoming more distant and withdrawn over the last day or two. She’d chalked it up to a long week of cases, but illness-driven exhaustion made sense too. Looking at the thinking cloth, too, she noticed a grocery request in Lockwood’s scrawl for peppermint tea, something she’d never seen him drink before.
“George, did you pick up peppermint tea at Arif’s yesterday?” she asked, grabbing everyone’s favorite mugs.
“Of course I did,” he said, reaching into the cupboard and pulling it out. “That plus the sleeping in is what tipped me off - Lockwood never drinks peppermint tea unless he’s ill,” confided George. “I hate to wake him when he’s like this, but he should eat something before it gets worse.”
Lucy looked up sharply from her teabags. “Gets worse? What do you mean by worse, George?”
George fidgeted with the potholder he was holding, then placed it in the middle of the table. He moved the pot that had been on the stove onto it, and Lucy noticed for the first time that George had been making soup. She knew George was observant, of course - that was his specialty - but clearly he was even more in touch with Lockwood’s behavior that Lucy had given him credit for.
George continued, “it’s just…I suppose I can tell you this, since you live here now and will figure it out soon enough…but every time Lockwood runs a fever, he ends up sick to his stomach. Like, without fail, if his temperature is high, he’s throwing up. So on the infrequent occasion that he’s sick, I usually try to get him to eat before he really spikes a fever, cause after that it’s a lost cause.” In his usually ramble-y way, once George had started, he couldn’t seem to stop talking. “Of course, if he’s still sleeping, that’s good too, ‘cause fevers also make his nightmares worse.”
Even after only 3 months at Portland Row, Lucy was no stranger to Lockwood’s nightmares. The first few times she’d woken to him screaming, she’d come barreling down the stairs, expecting a ghost or some burglars, only to be met with George saying that Lockwood was having a nightmare, and that it was normal. In that non-negotiable tone of his, George had firmly told her not to go into Lockwood’s room, and she had listened. Even though it broke her heart to hear him scream, she was still new, and Lucy knew better than to intrude where she wasn’t welcome.
But now it seemed she would end up entering Lockwood’s room while he was asleep for a different reason. Having agreed it was best to wake Lockwood and try to coax him to eat something, George sent Lucy upstairs (“into the land of germs”) to rouse him. She paused outside Lockwood’s door, listening for signs of wakefulness, but heard nothing. Knocking softly, she called, “Lockwood?”
When that got no response, she knocked a little harder. After another moment of silence, she gently turned the handle and crept into the room. The curtains were drawn, so it was still relatively dark despite the midday sunshine. Lockwood was sprawled on his bed in the corner, dead asleep. It was always surprising how young he looked in pajamas, Lucy thought, but it was particularly shocking to see him asleep, hair mussed and with the slightest fever flush just beginning to show on his cheekbones.
‘Ugh, snap yourself out of it,’ Lucy thought to herself, ‘this is no time for staring.’ She stepped towards the bed, bending slightly to place a hand on Lockwood’s arm, which was flung on top of the covers. He felt a little warm, but not alarmingly so. Sitting gently on the side of the bed, she shook him gently and called his name again. Lockwood stirred, half rolling towards her, but didn’t wake fully. She shook a little harder, and he jolted awake.
“Lucy?” he mumbled, voice still blurred with sleep, “what’s going on?”
“I’m sorry to wake you, Lockwood,” Lucy apologized, “it’s just, it’s past noon and George and I were beginning to worry. Are you feeling all right?”
Lockwood blinked at her. “Is it that late already?” She nodded. He started to open his mouth to answer her next question, then paused, and Lucy knew he was debating if he could get away with lying to her.
Eventually, he flashed her a wan smile. “Maybe a little under the weather, but it’s not too bad yet.”
Lucy gave him a look that said she definitely didn’t believe him.
“Ok, definitely under the weather,” Lockwood admitted, “but it really isn’t that bad. Just a 24 hour bug, I’m sure, nothing to worry about.”
Lucy hummed in agreement, though she wouldn’t bet on that. “Well, George and I thought it would be best if you came down to have some lunch, if you’re feeling up to it.”
Lockwood nodded, pushing himself upright slowly. He paled slightly on becoming vertical, but didn’t seem terribly unsteady, so Lucy stood up and grabbed a sweater Lockwood had left draped over the desk chair at some point. It was warm, one of those chunky, knit jumpers that looked homemade. For all Lucy knew, it might have been - Lockwood didn’t wear it much, only after particularly tough cases or when he was sick. She presumed it had belonged to a family member, most likely one of his parents, but she knew he’d only be angry and upset if she asked, so she didn’t. As much as Lockwood’s refused to open up irritated her, Lucy knew that relieving her own curiosity was no good reason to bring up painful memories for Lockwood. She tossed him the sweater, and it landed in his lap.
“I’ll meet you downstairs in a moment,” she said, and stepped out of the room. She headed downstairs and popped into the kitchen to update George. She heard Lockwood shuffle into the bathroom, and made her way back out into the entryway, trying to look inconspicuous while making sure Lockwood didn’t need help with the stairs. He had seemed balanced enough, but she’d rather not take any chances.
Lockwood, emerging from the bathroom, gave her a slightly knowing smile, but said nothing as he wandered down the stairs with no issues.
“Morning, Lockwood,” said George, who was placing a slice of bread next to each of their soup bowls. He didn’t mention anything about Lockwood’s illness, though Lucy saw George scan Lockwood and knew he was carefully inventorying visible symptoms. That was just the way George was. She’d only been there three months, but George (who had a few sisters) already seemed to know what her tells were for her period, and silently stocked up on pads and chocolatey snacks at that time of the month without being asked. Sure, George could be prickly, but that was quite possibly one of the nicest things anyone had ever done for Lucy. It was quite endearing, really.
They sat down to lunch (well, breakfast for Lockwood), and Lucy could almost pretend everything was normal. George and Lockwood were arguing about a case from the week before, and whether or not they could’ve avoided what George called ‘excessive salt bomb use’ by building in more time for research. Lucy chose to ignore that recurring argument by resuming work on a thinking cloth doodle she’d started yesterday - a particularly cute dog she’d seen while fetching groceries from Arif’s one time. So everything was normal - except if you listened to the way that Lockwood kept having to cut sentences short to take deeper breaths, or the way he was stirring the soup more than eating it, or the fact that the fever flush was becoming more prominent the longer the three of them sat there. Lucy knew George was noticing too, for he ceded the argument (reluctantly) and offered to do the dishes. Lucy offered to walk Lockwood back upstairs, but he was adamant about wanting to stay up.
“I’ve slept half the day away already!” Lockwood complained. “I’ll just sit and read in the library, I won’t do anything strenuous, I promise.”
So the three of them settled back in the library, Lockwood in his favorite chair with a soft blanket over his lap, reading a book Lucy knew was one of his favorites. George was hunched over a book and a notebook, taking notes for their next case. Lucy herself returned to what she had been reading that morning, a novel from the pre-problem era that offered an escape from reality for a little bit. Except this afternoon she found that she couldn’t quite focus on the book, and instead kept sneaking glances at Lockwood. Over the two hours or so that they sat there, she noticed increasing pallor and fever flush, and also that Lockwood kept fidgeting and swallowing hard more and more frequently.
She was just about to ask how he was feeling when Lockwood set his book down, stretched, and announced, “I think I’m going to go lay down for a bit. I’ll see you both at dinner?”
Lucy and George exchanged a look that said they certainly didn’t expect to see him then, but George mumbled an assent and returned to his notes.
“Would you like to take a cup of tea up with you? Or water?” Lucy asked, standing from her own chair.
“Maybe peppermint tea, if you’re offering, Luce, thanks,” Lockwood said.
Lucy smiled. “I’ll bring it up in a bit.”
Lockwood shuffled upstairs, and Lucy heard the door to his room close. She wandered into the kitchen and set the kettle on the stove, then returned to her book. The water wasn’t even boiling, though, when she heard Lockwood’s door reopen, followed by hurried footsteps, the slam of the bathroom door, and muffled retching.
Lucy looked up from her book with a grimace, to which George only gave a pointed look and said “I told you so.”
“One of us should probably go check on him,” commented Lucy.
“You can,” replied George, “I don’t really do germs.”
Lucy sighed and rolled her eyes at him good naturedly. Before heading upstairs, she turned off the stove - tea would have to wait, it seemed - and grabbed a glass of water instead.
Hesitantly, Lucy knocked on the bathroom door. “Lockwood? It’s Lucy. Can I come in?”
Only a dry heave answered her. Well, like it or not, Lockwood needed help, and fortunately for Lucy, in his rush to the toilet, Lockwood hadn’t locked the bathroom door. She stepped inside, pulling the door closed behind her, and scrunched up her nose against the foul scent of vomit.
Lockwood was slumped up against the toilet, head hanging over the bowl. He looked up when she entered, and his face was pasty white and clammy, though the fever spots from before were brighter than ever.
“Lucy,” he croaked. “I…you don’t…” he broke off to gag weakly over the toilet, but nothing came up other than a string of bile.
Lucy set the glass of water on the counter and crossed to his side in two quick steps, crouching down to rub a hand across his back. “Hush, Lockwood, I don’t mind. People get sick. It’s entirely normal, and nothing to be ashamed of.”
Lockwood slumped back against the tub, wiping a sleeve across his mouth. Lucy resisted the urge to make a face about how unsanitary that was - the front of his shirt was splashed with sick as well. At least he’d changed out of the jumper at some point before this first round of sickness, so it had been spared.
“Here, I brought you some water,” she offered, reaching for the glass. Lockwood gave her a weak smile and reached for it. His hands shook slightly, but nothing spilled when she handed it over. “Just rinse your mouth out a bit, maybe.”
Lockwood rinsed and spit, set the glass on the floor, and then reached over to flush the toilet. He sat silently for another minute or so, taking deep, steadying breaths, then announced, “I think I’m done for now.”
“Good, then let’s get you cleaned up a bit. I’d to check your temperature, then maybe if you’re feeling up to it we can try a little tea and paracetamol,” said Lucy, offering him a hand.
Lockwood took it, and she helped pull him to his feet. He swayed, so Lucy put an arm around his waist to guide him out of the bathroom and up to the landing between his and George’s rooms. They were met with the sight of George, standing there in elbow-length rubber gloves and a surgical mask with a bottle of bleach spray in one hand.
“I put a sick bowl in your room,” George said to Lockwood. “If you need me, I’ll be de-germifying the bathroom.”
George headed down the stairs to the bathroom, while Lucy and Lockwood muffled a snicker. “George is like that about germs, generally,” Lockwood laughed. “In his defense, it does seem to prevent him from getting whatever hell-bugs I bring home about half the time.”
“I suppose George must have told you,” Lockwood continued, slightly out of breath from the climb up the stairs, “this tends to happen a lot when I get sick. Awfully embarrassing, really.”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Lucy said firmly, squeezing her arm around Lockwood’s waist. “It’s simply how your body responds to illness. We’re agents, a little vomit isn’t going to scare me off,” she laughed.
Having made it into his room, Lockwood sat down heavily on the bed, and Lucy went over to the closet to grab another one of Lockwood’s soft long-sleeve t-shirts. She tossed it to him, and he caught it, albeit with less grace than his usual reflexes.
“You get changed, and I’ll go grab the thermometer and some paracetamol. Does peppermint tea sound all right? It might help settle your stomach.”
“Well, we can try, I suppose,” Lockwood said, though the face he made said he wasn’t so sure. Lucy figured that was probably about as good as she was going to get, so she left him to change and gather supplies.
Ten minutes later, she returned with a cup of hot tea, a cool wet washcloth, meds, and a thermometer. The tea and paracetamol went on the nightstand next to the bowl George had brought, and Lucy took a seat on the bed facing Lockwood.
“Here,” she said, draping the washcloth over the back of Lockwood’s neck, “I thought this might help with the fever and the nausea.”
Lockwood shivered when it made contact, but hummed appreciatively. “Thanks, Luce. It feels nice.”
“Now, stay still a minute,” Lucy said as she brandished the thermometer in his face. Lockwood rolled his eyes, but turned so she could put the device in his ear. It beeped, and Lucy looked at it with a frown.
“What’s the verdict?” asked Lockwood, sounding exhausted.
“38.6,” said Lucy (101.5 F), as the worry line between her brows deepened.
“Hm. Explains why I feel so rotten, I guess,” joked Lockwood halfheartedly.
Lucy gave him a halfhearted smile. “Do you feel up to trying some tea and paracetamol? I’m sure you’d feel better if we can get your fever down some.”
Lockwood grimaced. “I’ll give it a try, but no promises that it doesn’t come right back up.”
Lucy hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but they had to try. She handed Lockwood the mug of tea, then shook two pills out of the bottle and handed them to him. He downed them with a swig of tea, making a face as he did so. He sat very still after, taking deep breaths as his eyes fell closed. Lucy reached out and took the tea from him, putting it back on the nightstand and putting a hand on the sick bowl, just in case.
Sure enough, she was right. Only a minute or so later, Lockwood’s eyes flew open and his hand came up to his mouth as he mumbled an urgent “Luce!”
Lucy brought the bowl under his chin just in time for a gush of tea to come back up. She could still see the pills, disgustingly mushy but mostly whole. Lockwood hacked over the bowl, then heaved again, another watery surge of what looked like mostly last night’s dinner splashing into the basin. Lucy grimaced, rubbing a hand up and down his spine in hopes to offer some minimal comfort. He sat there panting for a second, then leaned away. Lucy took that as a signal to put the offending container on the ground, then grabbed for the washcloth that had fallen onto the bed during Lockwood’s vomiting spell.
She used it to gently wipe at his mouth, and he blinked at her in surprise.
“Well, you tried, at least,” she offered, setting the washcloth on the floor as well.
“I’m really sorry Luce. I did warn you, though,” Lockwood said, offering a wan smile.
“That you did. How about I go empty this,” Lucy offered, with a pointed look at the bowl full of sick, “and bring back a new washcloth, and I’ll leave you to try and get some rest.”
“You don’t have to - “ Lockwood began, but Lucy cut him off. “Yes, I do. You’re in no state to be getting up, and I don’t mind. Now you get comfortable, and I’ll be right back.”
Lockwood must’ve been exhausted, because by the time Lucy got back after rinsing the bowl (a disgusted George had quickly fled the bathroom when she showed up with it), Lockwood was asleep, chest rising and falling rhythmically. She draped a new washcloth across his forehead and replaced the bowl at his bedside, hoping he wouldn’t need it any time soon. With that, Lucy crept back out the door, leaving it cracked so she and George could hear if Lockwood needed anything.
“Sleep well, Lockwood.”