Haunted

Chapter Twelve

A/N: Here it is, the last installment of Haunted! I thank everyone for their continued support of this story, and in a few more days, I should probably have up the first chapter of my next Sweeney Todd work! Haunted has been a journey, and I hope to spend a lot of time in this fandom in the future. 

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Fleet Street granted no solace to either the baker or the barber as they pulled up their horses in front of the shop. Johanna's tears had mellowed, her face stark and pale, lips pressed into a thin line. "Toby, tie the horses behind the shop and see if you can't find some water for them." He grunted heavily in pain as he dropped to the ground, breaths shallow and wheezing. I'll live. "Hurry, get inside before anyone sees," he urged the two women. Nellie smoothed Johanna's hair down out of her eyes; the teen moved in a trance after her.

Once in the pie shop, Nellie locked the front door. "Into the parlor, lass, so we can pull the curtains," murmured the baker, inviting eyes soft on the blonde. "Warm us some tea and have some bread and butter, then we'll make us both look a little less like ourselves." She lifted her head to Sweeney. "Bring us down some pants and shirts, would you? I look like a blooming rose in the street in this dress, and they're sure to recognize her if we don't pin up her hair."

The gems on the bosom of her dress had lost their sheen, too streaked with blood to cast the lustrous reflections onto the floor. Her hair frizzed out in all directions. He wanted to smooth it down with his hands and kiss her. "Absolutely," he replied, a slow nod following.

"And put something on yourself with a high collar." She gestured around her throat. "On account of all those bruises, yeah?" She smiled at him, grim and sad but still a comfort. He nodded again, eyes transfixed upon her. The rush had abandoned him, and he desperately wanted to drop dead in sleep. He needed rest. But rest was still many hours away, perhaps days.

Heading upstairs, he gazed at his haggard, black eyed self in the mirror. He had never planned on returning to the barbershop. He had stripped it bare, barer somehow than before, and had not even a razor on his person, as Johanna still had it. Only a few sets of clothes hung in his closet, what he couldn't pack. From it, he took a high-collared shirt and buttoned it up to the top to cover the purple discolorations around his neck where the beadle had seized him. I wish I had made him suffer more. His jaw clenched. I hope he was afraid. I hope he was in a lot of pain, bloody agony. Gentle Anthony lay with his brains splattered on the sidewalk, waiting for discovery. As a dawn lark lifted and chittered outside, he knew he didn't have much time—a few hours at best before the judge would arrive.

He could only pray that the judge would come alone. Surely he would have to; otherwise, he would have to confess his involvement in the beadle's kidnapping of Mrs. Lovett. But if Sweeney had learned anything, he had learned that the empowered men of London would go to any lengths to pervert the law, the officers serving as pawns in a sickening game of chess.

After changing his clothes, he returned to them, having a pair of pants, a shirt, and a hat for each of them. "Hide your hair," he mumbled in a flat voice. Then, extending his hand to Johanna, he focused on her. She gazed back at him in a question, pale and shivering and so small. The ferocity, the intrepidity, that she had demonstrated so aptly earlier had faded away. She was a shadow. "My razor," he prompted.

From her hand to his the shiny blade transitioned, unused and clean. He pocketed it. "You both hide. When he comes, I'll pound three times, and three times again once he's dead."

"You're going to kill him?" whispered the girl faintly.

Nellie squeezed her hand. "Just doing what has to be done, dear."