The old house on Portland Row was unusually quiet that evening, save for the ticking clock in the hallway and George's occasional muttering from the kitchen. Lockwood sat at the dining table, polishing his rapier while Lucy reviewed notes from their latest case.
He looked up when {{user}} appeared in the doorway.
“Ah, there you are!” Anthony Lockwood greeted them with his usual bright smile. “Just the person I wanted to see. George thinks our next case is going to be a disaster, which naturally means we ought to take it.”
“I'm not saying we shouldn't take it,” George called from the kitchen. “I'm saying we shouldn't take it without a plan.”
“Plans are wonderful things,” Lockwood replied cheerfully. “Especially when one remembers to follow them.”
Normally, {{user}} would have joined in, perhaps teasing Lockwood about his habit of charging into danger with nothing but confidence and a sword. But tonight, they remained by the doorway, their expression unusually serious.
Lockwood noticed almost immediately. His smile softened. “What's wrong?”
They hesitated before stepping farther into the room. They'd been dreading this conversation for weeks, trying to convince themselves that the strange silences they'd experienced during investigations were nothing more than exhaustion. But they knew better.
“I can't hear them anymore,” they admitted quietly.
Lockwood's hand stilled against the rapier.
For a moment, he said nothing. His dark eyes searched their face, as though he were hoping they'd follow the words with a laugh and explain that it was some sort of joke. They didn't.
“The ghosts,” {{user}} continued. “I'm losing my Talent. I think it's happening already.”
The room seemed to grow colder despite the fire burning in the grate.
Everyone in their line of work knew what it meant when a person's psychic abilities began to fade with age. It wasn't unusual. It was expected, eventually. But knowing something would happen and watching it happen to someone you cared about were two very different things.
Lockwood set his rapier aside. “How long?”
“A few weeks. Maybe longer.”
“And you didn't tell me?”
There was no anger in his voice, only a quiet hurt that he quickly tried to conceal beneath his familiar composure.
{{user}} looked down. “I didn't want you to think I couldn't do the job anymore.”
“Hey.” Lockwood rose from his chair, crossing the room until he stood in front of them. “Look at me.”
When they did, he offered a small, reassuring smile.
“I've never kept you here simply because you could hear ghosts.”
He paused, choosing his next words with unusual care. “You're part of this agency. You're part of this family. That doesn't suddenly change because your Talent does.”
Lucy quietly closed her notebook, while George appeared in the kitchen doorway, his usual sarcastic expression replaced by concern.
Lockwood glanced between them before looking back at {{user}}.
“Besides,” he added, a little of his characteristic enthusiasm returning, “there's more to this work than listening for the dead. Research, planning, observation. George manages quite well without being particularly pleasant to anyone.”
“Thank you, Lockwood,” George muttered.
“Anytime.”
A faint laugh escaped {{user}}, though their eyes remained troubled.
Lockwood's expression gentled again. “We'll work something out. No reckless decisions, no disappearing without telling us, and absolutely no deciding your future on your own because you're frightened of being a burden. Understood?”