Letter from Nellie Lovett to Sweeney Todd: A Preview

Summary: Will be given with full story.

Disclaimer: If I owned Sweeney Todd, neither Sweeney nor Mrs. Lovett would have died. So needless to say, I don't own it.

Pairings: Swucy, Sweenett (But which will last? Well, that's the play, and he wouldn't want me to give it away, not Sweeney Todd), AnthonyJohanna

Author's Notes: I've been discussing my fantastic imagination and suspension-of-reality abilities with my psychiatrist. We have agreed that fanfiction is actually therapeutic for me. So I've decided not to quit fanfiction; I'll just have to be more careful about not neglecting my original fiction for fanfiction. Anyway, what you are about to read is (duh) a letter from Nellie to Sweeney, written under the conditions that Nellie is living far away from London, and Lucy never attempted suicide and is living at 186 Fleet St. with Sweeney and Johanna. It is part of a full-length (maybe longer than Blade of Madness...AAAHHH!!!) fanfiction tentatively titled A Rose by Any Other Name.

September 4th, 1841

Dearest Sweeney,

If you're reading this, it's quite likely I'm already dead. You see, it was a few months after I got here when I realized I was carrying your child. It's been hard since then. I've been in and out of the hospital many times what with all the complications of me being in delicate condition. There are even certain things I can't eat because they make me sick now though they never did before, can you imagine? The past few months especially have been rough. That's why the letters I've written to you of late have been so short. I do feel sorry about that. I hope you weren't worried…but why would you worry about me? I'm sure you didn't even notice. Look at me, rambling even in a letter, and I ain't even told you what's killed me yet! I suppose it's because I'm afraid. The reason I'm likely dead while you're reading this is because (as I write) my our child is due in a few days, and you know how slow the post is, and you know I'm too old for this. The doctor tells me I won't survive bringing my little girl (I know she's a girl, even though there's no way to tell for certain) into the world. She'll likely die too, poor thing. So this letter is to wish you one last farewell, and to warn you that you may possibly be getting a letter from the doctor soon. See, I asked the doctor to write you should I die but our daughter live. I know it's so much to ask, but I want you to take care of her, if you can. I don't want my little girl to be an orphan. Her name is to be Wilhelmina Rose (ain't that a sweet name?) if she lives long enough to get it.

I'm scared, Mr. T. I wish you was here. But there's no use crying over it. Don't try to come see me; just in case both me and our daughter die, I don't want you getting in a tiff with Lucy. Besides, they likely put me in the ground even before you read this. (It feels so strange and horribly melancholy to write that—and even stranger to be writing this letter in two different times, if that makes any sense! Do forgive me if I seem scattered, love, for all this quite upsets me.) If by some miracle of Heaven I survive, I'll write you again, and if you don't get the letter from the doctor, it means our daughter died, so you should only leave London if you hear from the doctor. If you hear nothing, obviously you shouldn't bother trying to come here.

I love you and always will. Maybe God will have a bit of mercy on me and let me look in on you once in a while once I'm dead.

Yours Forever,


A/N: Let me know if you're intrigued.