This is just a little speculative one-shot I posted on Tumblr a little while ago, since I have become convinced Lockwood will die at the end of the series and want everyone to be as miserable as I am. Enjoy! (Also, I apologize for the cheesy title. But hey, it's a good poem, so whatever.)

Warnings for death, suicide (of the self-sacrificing sort), and canon-level violence and gore (very minimal).

I peeked around the corner from my hiding spot. The portal seemed to be growing larger and larger as Visitors poured into our world. In an odd way, it reminded of when George tore a hole in a bag of sugar and the pressure of the spilling granules ripped the whole thing apart. Feeling a little sick, I looked away.

"These filings won't last forever," George said, crouched at my side. "If only someone hadn't forgotten the chains-"

"Lost, George. I remembered the chains!" Lockwood snapped, looking a bit sheepish. "But then I lost them."

I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Who cares?! We're dead regardless. There have to be hundreds of Visitors in here."

Both Lockwood and George nodded in understanding. "We have to close that portal," Lockwood said, voice surprisingly calm.

"And how the hell are we supposed to do that?" I asked. "Unless one you is a secret Orpheus member and that was all laid out in the instruction manual-"

George rolled his eyes. "Sarcasm isn't a good look on you, Luce."

I glared at him. "Too bad, it's the only look I've got. Better than being a smug know-it-all, because let me tell you how unattractive that is-"

Lockwood shushed us both. "Stop fighting, we need to figure this out."

"Well, as I would have said had Lucy not interrupted me- Ow! Lucy, that hurt!"

I grinned. "Good. Now, what were you saying?"

George huffed, but continued. "I read something about these kinds of portals. They're opened with Death, aren't they? By having Death in Life, they invert the fabric of reality and tear a hole – it's fascinating theory, isn't it?" Lockwood and I exchanged a look, then stared at George, eyebrows raised. George cleared his throat. "Well, the Orpheus Society sacrificed Steve Rotwell in a circle of Visitors, to summon Death to Life, right? What if we bring Life to Death? Reverse the process?"

I threw my hands into the air. "And how would we do that?! Bring someone back to life? That's impossible!"

Listen to Cubbins, Lucy. Sarcasm is unbecoming on a young lady.

The Skull Jar. Sometimes I regretted never following through on my threat to bury it six feet under. It whispered at me from George's backpack, voice cackling with glee. I opted to ignore him; after a while, he usually shut up.

Lockwood and George were frowning at each other. "I mean, maybe we could like, get someone to choke a donut or something, and then perform the Heimlich maneuver…" George trailed off, scratching his head.

"Hmm," Lockwood tapped his chin. "Maybe someone has to get ghost-touched, then…what? Saved? That doesn't seem right."

You all really are a bunch of idiots. Life in Death. IN Death. IN.

I turned to George's backpack, frowning. "What do you mean by that?"

Do I really have to spell this out for you? Use your brain, girl.

I frowned. Around the corner, the deep rumbling of the portal intensified, like the deep moans of some slowly waking beast. The shrieks of the Orpheus Society had long since died away; I was afraid to count the bodies, to see how few of them had escaped. The Visitors hadn't quite made their way to our hiding spot, all crowding around Steve Rotwell's body with mild curiosity.

What did the Skull mean, Life in Death? Were we supposed to somehow resurrect Steve Rotwell? Surely his ghost was one of the hundreds filling up the warehouse, but how were we supposed to single it out? And beyond that, reuniting body and spirit was impossible! And by the swollen, blue state of Steve's body, I gathered he wouldn't want to inhabit it now. Besides, the Skull said Life in Death, not Life renewed. I couldn't possibly imagine what he meant, unless…

I looked around the corner again, at the portal. Beyond the masses of Visitors spilling out, I could see what looked like clouds, black clouds swirling around…were those mountains? Tall, jagged peaks in the distance. There was ground, in the world of the Dead. Ground a living person could walk on.

Oh.

Oh.

My face must have given away my horror, because the Skull chuckled.

Finally figure it out, kid?

"Oh, no," I whispered. "No, no, no."

"What?" George asked. "Are you talking with the Skull Jar again?"

Lockwood reached out and clasped my shoulder. "Lucy, what is it?"

I didn't want to tell them. They would just try to stop me, and then we'd all just be dead. It wasn't that I particularly wanted to do it, but everyone left in the warehouse was either dead or someone I cared deeply about. George and Lockwood had gotten on fine long before I arrived at the steps of 35 Portland Row; they'd be fine without me. But I couldn't imagine a life without either of them.

Admit it, the Skull crooned. You just want to see what it's like. You can't help it, the Other Side is calling you. Can't you hear it singing?

And I could, I really could. The faint, howling, haunting voices of the other world tugged at my heart in a way nothing else ever had. I was curious.

"Lucy, stop talking to the Skull." Lockwood's voice snapped me out of my thoughts. "You have that look on your face like you're about to do something stupid."

"So, you mean how she always looks?"

"Not the time, George."

I stuck my tongue out at George. Both of the boys seemed consoled by that action, and Lockwood visibly relaxed. "Luce, what's going on?"

Clenching my fists, I took a deep breath before said, "The portal. To close it, someone has to go through."

George gasped. "Life in Death. It all makes sense."

Lockwood looked at me closely, dark eyes searching mine. His jaw clenched and his brow furrowed. He knew. I looked away, hands trembling.

"George," Lockwood said, voice hard and thick. "Plan L."

"You can't be serious-"

"George. Please."

George nodded, the most serious I'd ever seen him. I looked back at Lockwood. "What's going on? What's plan L?"

Suddenly, the Visitors were there, moaning and screaming as they pressed up against the feeble protection of our filings. One, with a gruesome, bloody face barred its teeth, hissing right in my ear. We all stood, scrambling closer to each other. George nearly took a couple of my fingers off drawing his rapier, and Lockwood teetered near the edge of our circle, but we held fast. The warehouse glowed brilliantly with the Visitors' Otherlight, blue and gray and ominous. It surrounded us on all sides, slowly seeping through the minuscule gaps in the iron filings. There was no escape for us; this was the end.

"George!" Lockwood called out, his voice forcibly calm and chipper. "I'm sorry for ever making you feel inadequate. You're one of the hardest working agents I've ever known, and we would have died much sooner if we hadn't had you." He reached over, behind my head, and grasped George's hand. "It's been an honor and a privilege to have worked beside you."

"Likewise," George muttered, voice much less composed than Lockwood's. "I'm sorry for ever insulting your intelligence. You are smarter than a banana slug. And I'm sorry for leaving the Skull in the bath. And I'm sorry for that time with the naked yoga-"

"George," Lockwood cut him off. "You've been a good friend. Thank you."

Then, Lockwood turned to me. He smiled sadly, taking my hand in his like he had done with George. Instead of shaking it, though, he just squeezed it, pulling me in closer. "Luce…you're incredible. You are the most brave, Talented person I've ever known. I am so lucky to have met you."

I felt tears pooling in the corners of my eyes. "Lockwood…" I paused, realizing I had nothing to say. How could I express how much Lockwood meant to me? I wasn't good with words, or feelings. George had once told me I was emotionally stunted, and while he had just said it to be a jerk, he had been right. So, with a deep breath, I squeezed Lockwood's hand and simply said, "Anthony."

The smile on Anthony Lockwood's face was radiant and heartbreaking. Pulling his hand from mine, he cupped my cheek softly and leaned down, placing a kiss on my forehead. Then there was an explosion, a flash of light, and he was gone, off through the gap in the Visitors George's salt bomb had created.

When I realized where he was headed, I screamed.

I lunged forward, to chase after him, but two strong, pudgy arms held me back, wrapped tightly around my waist. "Sorry, Luce," he murmured, voice thick and watery. "This is part of Plan L."

From where we stood, me struggling against George's grip, we could see Lockwood sprinting toward the portal, dancing nimbly through the Visitors with his rapier. I saw him get touched once, twice, three times – I closed my eyes, just for a second, letting a few tears fall. When my vision cleared, Lockwood was at the portal, standing to the left of Steve Rotwell's corpse. Anthony looked back at us just once, smiling, then dove into the inky darkness of the Other Side, the tail of his coat disappearing into the black.

As soon as he was through, the rumbling of the portal turned into a scream, a loud, warbling shriek. The Visitors dispersed, some deeper into the warehouse, some back through the portal. There was a bright light, a loud bang, and then George and I were blasted off our feet. We flew back against the warehouse wall, arms and legs tangled. The light blinded us, just for a moment, then everything went dark and silent.

George's rapier was stabbing me in the ribs, but the pain of it, the pain of all of it, was overshadowed by the pain in my heart, a deep, sharp pain like I'd had my chest cavity ripped open or something. I sat up slowly, pulling away from George. The Visitors that had once surrounded us were gone; the only things in sight were the swollen bodies of Steve Rotwell and the Orpheus members who hadn't escaped. I let out a little sob.

I felt George's hand on my shoulder, and I fell back against him, the tears flowing freely now. He buried his face into my neck, and we just sat there, crying and hugging, until DEPRAC arrived and rushed us off to the hospital.

George and I didn't speak for days. It wasn't that we blamed the other, not really. We just couldn't bring ourselves to speak, for fear of breaking down. At the memorial service, the tiny little thing we held at an empty grave, Flo came to pay her respects. Then she slept on our couch for a week, forcing us to eat and speak and clean. After that, things came closer to returning to normal.

Though the Problem had lessened since the closing of the portal, there were still jobs for us agents to do. Barnes, whether out of sympathy or actual need of our talents, hired the remnants of Lockwood & Co. to hunt down the Visitors that had escaped the warehouse that night. Though the subject of that night still pained us both greatly, George and I found that the challenge distracted us. Flo helped us more and more, until George and I were forced to offer a place at Portland Row. We hadn't expected her to say yes, so one sunny afternoon I was confronted with the task of cleaning out the bedroom of Emily Lockwood.

The place still reeked of lavender, and the walls were still lined with iron, but Emily herself was gone. She had been such a constant presence in our house for so long, that it felt twice as empty now that she was gone. Emily had never said much, just Take care of him, but her warm, loving existence had been comforting. There wasn't much to clean out, and I left the lavender to keep the place smelling sweet in spite of Flo's attempts at the opposite. I left the room that evening feeling sad, but I hope that wherever Emily was she was happy. I hoped that she was with Anthony.

The Skull was gone, too, or at least very quiet. I missed him a little, though I'd never admit it out loud. I sometimes blamed him for how the events at the warehouse went down; if he'd been more direct, I could have been the one to close to portal. Anthony would be alive, and Flo would be roughly shaking him and George back into normalcy, and I wouldn't have to live with this pain.

It was a chilly Tuesday night when the Skull spoke again. George was out at the Archives, as per usual, and Flo was down by the docks searching for relics that could lead us to the remnants of the Orpheus Society. I was supposed to be making dinner, but instead I was curled on the sofa, playing with the necklace that hung beneath my jumper. I was just contemplating standing up when I heard a whisper from under the coffee table.

Ooh, your feet are rather large, aren't they? How unfortunate.

I nearly fell of the sofa trying to pull the jar out from its resting spot. The grotesque, smirking face of the Skull was there, grinning at me. I sputtered, trying to form a coherent question. The Skull scoffed.

Still as eloquent as ever, Lucy Carlyle. Look, I don't have much time-

"What?" I nearly shouted. "How? Why?"

The Skull sighed. I was just getting there. My tether to my skull is almost broken. The barriers between the worlds are back where they're supposed to be, so I can't say much, so here it goes:

I leaned it, with bated breath. Was he going to reveal some secret of the afterlife to me? Or pass on some universal wisdom beyond human comprehension? Ooh, George was gonna be so mad he missed this.

Some girl named Emily wanted me to say, 'Thank you for taking care of him.' The Skull paused as I took in his message. Emily was there, and so was Anthony. They were together. I let out a breath, feeling as though I'd been holding it since the night at the warehouse. The Skull cleared its non-existent throat. So, there you go. I guess I'll see you on the other side, one day.

"Yeah, I guess. Er…" I ran a hand through my hair. "Thanks. For helping us out. On occasion."

Right, right, it was nothing. Er, stay out of trouble, then, girl. Teach Cubbins some manners. Not that you have them either. Maybe you two could take a class together.

"Alright, time for you to go," I said, feeling slightly annoyed. "Have a good afterlife."

Alright, I'm leaving. Oh! One more thing. Lockwood says to check the top drawer in his desk. Says there's a letter there, addressed to you and Cubbins. It paused again, its voice growing faint. Try not to die too soon, Lucy.

Then it was gone.

Not waiting for George and Flo to get home, I raced upstairs, hesitating only once as I reached for the knob to Anthony's room. It was the first time I'd been in there since his death. Taking a deep, calming breath I opened the door, striding directly towards the small desk that sat by the window. I yanked open the top drawer, where a worn-looking envelope sat, addressed to George & Lucy. I sat down on the edge of his bed, ripping open the seal and pulling out a neatly folded piece of paper. With trembling hands, I unfolded it.

My dear friends,

If you are reading this, then I've probably done something incredibly daring and stupid, and am now dead. In my will, I have left the house to the two of you, to share. Of course, by the time you've found this letter, you probably already know this. Do with the house and the Agency as you please; they are yours now.

I'm sorry for leaving you both on your own, but if there's one thing for certain, it's that you two don't need help from anyone. I only hire the best, you know that. You two are the best. And you're even better as a team. Never forget that.

You are the most important people in my life, and I hope that whatever act killed me was an act that saved your lives. You are my family now, and I hope you know that I would rather die a thousand times than live without either of you.

So I only have this to say: thank you both for joining me on this adventure called life. You are the best friends and fellow agents I could have ever hoped to know.

Here, the word "love" was crossed out.

With much respect and gratitude,

Anthony Lockwood

I sniffed, a lump building in my throat. Stupid Lockwood and his stupid melodramatic ways. I looked at the way he'd scratched out the word 'love,' imagining his flustered face as he penned the letter, cheeks flushing pink and hair hanging in his eyes. I let out a small giggle, then laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

I stood, wiping a tear away, and came face to face with a picture Anthony had tacked to the wall. It was a cut-out from one of our interviews, a picture of George, Anthony, and I standing outside Portland Row. George was grimacing at the camera, and I was squinting into the sun. We both looked tired and sloppy and second-rate, but Anthony stood between us, hand resting lazily on the hilt of his rapier, giving the camera a dazzling smile. My heart warmed at the thought of him cutting out the photo and pinning it to his wall, to see every night before going to sleep and every morning after waking up. I clutched the letter to my chest, feeling a rush of adoration and sadness.

Downstairs, the door slammed, and George's voice called out for me. I wiped my eyes and hurried to the door, looking back once before turning out the light. I closed the door behind me with a gentle click, then ran down the stairs to show George the letter. I slept well that night, the last thought in my mind the little black and white picture hanging on the wall, in the empty room the floor below.