Lockwood never took failure well. Which was a problem when, on the latest case, someone died. It was an out of control situation; they’d recklessly ran back into the building, right in front of the ghost and had gotten ghost touched. And, of course, Lockwood would take it upon himself. He showed everyone that he was fine, because he was Anthony Lockwood - of course he was fine - but he wasn’t. And that only showed when he got himself alone in his bedroom and didn’t even make it to the bed. He just collapsed against the wall, slid down and found himself struggling to breathe with the day’s events hitting him like a freight train.

His hand clutched at his throat, head falling back against the wall with a thump as his breaths came from his throat, rasping and desperate. He was just a boy. The deceased was only a kid. A kid who didn’t deserve to die- why did he die? Because Lockwood wasn’t fast enough.

Lockwood didn’t notice the gentle creak of the floorboards of the stairs as you walked up them. “It’s all my fault.” He managed to rasp out and nothing more, practically choking on his own breath as he struggled to keep it. No. He was fine. Anthony bloody Lockwood was always fine.

“It should’ve been me.” Lockwood didn’t notice the door opening while he looked to the ceiling, his lungs constricting as he swallowed in a desperate attempt to take anything in. Even a small amount of oxygen would do before he started getting dizzy. Anything.

But he was Anthony Lockwood. He was fine.