Well, I watched the show because I'd enjoyed the books ages ago. For some reason the show made me want to write fiction which I haven't done for an age. Will I continue it? No clue. Maybe...? It's canon after The Empty Grave but I've tried to avoid major spoilers for anyone who has only seen the tv show and hasn't read the books. Anyway, here's the prologue in case anyone else enjoyed the silly little ghost-hunting show.
Lockwood stalked into the kitchen and turned on the gas under the kettle. As he reached for the Earl Grey his elbow nudged the charred skull that sat on the kitchen worktop and he smiled wryly at the incongruous domestic arrangements in place in Portland Row.  âAlas, poor Skull,â he murmured. âPeople always misquote that line you know, Skull.  âAlas poor Yorick, I knew him Horatio,â not âI knew him well.â  Idiots.â
He dropped a teabag into a mug and leaned back against the counter, waiting for the whistle of the kettle.  It wasnât worth making a pot; he was alone in the house.  Holly was at home, packing.  George was at the embassy poring over maps of the Paris Catacombs with the representative of the French MinistĂšre des EvĂ©nements Paranormaux.  Lucy was with Barnes at the passport office in Petit France. If Barnes couldnât pull some strings, that would be as close as sheâd get to France.  Lockwood and Co. would have to go without her.  It didnât bear thinking about.
âWeâve got a lot in common you know Skull,â he said as the kettle began to sing.  He knew he wouldnât get a response.  The Skull had made the ultimate sacrifice for them, given up his life⊠afterlife⊠whatever the hell it had had, to save them at the showdown at Fittes House.  Well, to save Lucy really. Heâd just been an unintended beneficiary of the Skullâs heroism.  He poured the boiling water into the mug and set the kettle down. He picked up the blackened bone, stared into its ruined sockets. âWe were both prepared to die for her.  I think Iâm a little bit jealous that you got to do it.â
Still holding the skull, Lockwood sat down at the table, waiting for his tea to brew.  Lucy would have been mashing the bag against the side of the mug with a teaspoon, or a fork, or whatever came to hand like an absolute savage.  He preferred to wait, to let the scent of bergamot pervade the warm kitchen on the steam rising from the mug. âEver been to Paris, Skull?â he asked.  âMy parents went there on honeymoon.  They had a guidebook. It must be in the library somewhere.  Art galleries and parks and cafes on the Rive Gauche.  I think they stayed in a grand hotel near the Luxembourg Gardens.â  He chuckled but there was no mirth in it. âThatâs what she should have of course.  She should be going to Paris with someone who can give her all that, order escargot in garlic at a fancy restaurant just to see her face when she realises what it is, walk hand in hand with her through the Tuilleries, kiss her breath away in front of one of those huge water lily paintings that make you feel like youâre floating. All that romantic stuff.  Instead, she gets me, a rapier and a guaranteed brush with death. Even youâd do better than that wouldnât you, Skull? Give her candles and rose petals on the carpet and a little chocolate in gold paper on her pillow.   I mean you couldnât do much else I suppose, couldnât follow through on any of it but then, I donât do that either, do I?  Never even kissed her. Iâm more of a ghost than you ever were, trapped behind silver glass, no idea how to get out.â
The skull said nothing.  Lockwood shook his head, appalled by his own mawkish foolishness.  He stood, snatched up his mug, grasped a corner of the scalding teabag and flicked it across the kitchen into the bin while heading out of the room. Behind him, on the thinking cloth, the skull flickered softly with a greenish flame.
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