A/N: It's over, pets. Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews, hits, and favorites. Hope you enjoy this final installment and see you all next time (if there is, indeed, to be one).
Mrs. Lovett had found the bed empty bedside her, not even a warm indentation on the mattress to provide some comfort, some promise of a return. Throwing on the same old dress, the same old boots, she'd pursued him, plunged into the night. Bewilderment brought her to the side of the sea. Her thoughts always flew there.
And strange that's where he'd chosen to die: the place where she'd set all her dreams.
So this is what he felt? she wondered. This nothing?
The blood that flowed freely from the gash on his forearm mingled with the ocean water, turning it a gentle scarlet, a hue she almost admired. If possible, he was paler than before. The blood—the brilliance, the life—gone from him, he was a ghost. She realized, somewhere in her consciousness, that he'd been that pale since they'd left London.
A few more minutes, she knew, and the tide would come far enough onto the shore to cover him, to take him away. Perhaps she'd let it. What else was there to do?
She began to turn from him, feeling no inclination to touch him, to try to shake him back to life. He'd been gone. As she turned back toward the humble town, a lifetime of sleepless nights awaiting her, she couldn't help but notice how, among all the pale and nothing, the razor shone, demanded her attention if for but a moment. Blood coated its blade. It was vibrant, fresh.
It was beautiful.