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Chapter Text

A heavy atmosphere hung in the air, which was not unusual by any means for Whitechapel, but the morning's latest discovery also had an affect on the Earth's gravity, it seemed. Detective Inspector Reid approached the body of a young girl that lay sprawled across the alley's floor with caution, followed closely by his Sergeant, Drake, and a sauntering Captain Jackson who clutched at the worn leather strap of his bag.

The sergeant was the first to remove his hat as a mark of respect for the girl, and that prompted the other two men to do the same. Behind them, a row of uniformed constables guarded them against the prying eyes of the gossiping residents of Leman Street, armed with billy clubs and the raw power of their combined strength; not that the three, higher ranking, men were all that concerned by the scene behind them. They were, however, positively enthralled by the scene before them.

"What happened here?" Asked Reid, turning the question to Drake, who had informed his superior about the body's discovery.

"There was no word on the girl's death, sir, but it is said that she was found by one of the uniformed boys while he was making his rounds." Replied Drake briefly glancing up at Reid.

"And he returned to the station to inform us of what it is he has discovered?" Reid bounced back, turning his gaze from Drake to the body that Jackson was currently looking over.

"Indeed, sir." Drake nodded. "The same as the other bodies found, he said. Incisions to the neck, but no blood other than that stained onto her skin and clothes."

"It's true... There are incisions here near her jugular, but very little blood." Jackson confirmed, crouching beside the body and using his smallest finger to point out the deep holes in the girl's neck.

"Which makes this girl the fourth this week to be found." Reid stated, a disappointed sigh escaping him.

"It does," Jackson agreed, placing his hat and his bag onto the ground as he turned to face the two men that stood over him. "See here, these holes, they're exactly like the ones we've discovered on the other three bodies. Deep enough to cause a lot of blood loss, and yet, this is the only blood seen anywhere." He returned his attention to the body and slowly moved his finger down the side of the neck, stopping where the stains ended, at the very edge of her dress. "Whoever it is we pursue, Reid, they are incredibly patient, accurate and clean in how they undertake this job."

"And still there is no lead as to whom it is we do pursue, Captain." Replied Reid, lowering himself to Jackson's level so that he may see the wounds more clearly.

"Perhaps another Ripper has reared his ugly head, sir?" Drake suggested, before immediately cursing himself for bringing up Leman Street's greatest adversary.

"That is what the media will have the people of Whitechapel believe, Drake, but this is not the work of the Ripper. I will not allow history to be repeated, either. The papers and their scaremongering must not be allowed to chomp at that bit again." Reid said sternly, angry at the mere idea of a second Ripper. He could already see the large print headlines: A SECOND RIPPER TEARS THROUGH WHITECHAPEL. He grimaced at the idea and straightened himself up, gripping at the brim of his hat. "We must bring this body back to the station so that our esteemed American may examine it more closely."

"The sooner, the better too." Nodded Jackson, rising from his haunched position. "Perhaps I can find something new on this girl's body that I may have missed on the other three?"

"We may only hope, Jackson." Said Drake, simply. "Perhaps then, we may have a lead to follow."

"And a potential suspect." Reid agreed.

"There may be nothing at all, Reid. I can't promise a break in the pattern." Said the American, shaking his head as he retrieved his belongings and came to Drake's side.

"No, I understand that, but we must try." Reid replied, placing his hat back upon his head and making his way down the alleyway and through the small gathering of people.

Drake and Jackson exchanged anxious glances then followed their friend and superior through the crowd. Drake paused briefly to order the uniformed officers to bring the body into Jackson's lab but quickly caught up with the other two as they reentered the police station.

Once inside, Reid swiftly made his way into his office, with Drake at his heels, while Jackson returned to his smallholding of bottled specimens and scientific equipment to await the delivery of a fourth body.

Reid removed his hat and coat, hanging them upon a stand tucked away in the corner then stood over his desk, where papers had been left there for his approval by an overeager detective constable in a neat pile beside a readied pen and inkwell. Drake, too, removed his hat and coat, but chose to place them upon the visitor's chair opposite Reid's personal desk chair and stood, as always, at attention, waiting for his superior to break the silence that fallen between them.

But the break did not come, as Reid decided to read a few of the papers that had been left for him instead of engaging in conversation with his sergeant.

"Drake, will you close the door?" He eventually asked, not once looking up from the leaf of paper in his hands as he sat down.

"Of course, sir." Came Drake's stout reply before doing as he was asked, closing the door with an audible click and the brief sound of the glass panes laid between the wood shaking from the force.

"Thank you." Reid mumbled, continuing his readings while Drake returned to his post by the second chair, clasping his hands behind hide back. A habit he had gained and never lost from his army days.

There was another long silence between the two and had it not been for the sound of Reid shuffling papers around, Drake would have sworn blind that he had been able to hear a pin drop. He wondered what it was Edmund was reading and whether they were related to the case they currently followed, and hoped that they, somehow, held some clarity to their peculiar situation.

Studying the other man's features, Bennett noticed a great intensity in Reid's expression, as if he were focusing all of his concentrations on these few sheets of paper. Perhaps, Drake pondered, that was simply how the inspector's face fell when reading and shrugged off the thoughts that had plagued him since his stupid suggestion of a second Ripper.

"What is it you read, sir?" He asked when he could no longer stand the quiet.

"Hm?" Came Reid's reply, before he was sprung into action once more. It reminded Drake of one those expensive children's toys that needed to be wound up, and at that he allowed himself a miniscule smile of amusement.

"My apologies, sir," he said quietly, "I was wondering what it is you are reading."

"Ah." Reid nodded, carefully laying the paper down again. "They are the notes to this case, Bennett. Or what has become this case."

"Notes on each of the victims, sir?" Bennett asked, frowning somewhat.

"Indeed. What was before a string of similar murders has come together to create a single case." Explained Edmund, glancing up at his sergeant. "This is clearly the work of one man, and one we must catch before our esteemed colleagues at the newspaper spread rumours of a second Ripper in Whitechapel."
"I see, sir." Nodded Drake, tightening the grip on his own hand.

"This case, Drake, it is a very peculiar one, is it not?" Reid said, interrupting a third silence between them.

"I should say it is, sir." Bennett replied with confidence. "The way these killings were carried out was, indeed, very peculiar. The lack of blood does not make sense."

"You are right, sergeant, it does not. Looking at each of the victims' neck wounds, you would expect a pool of blood to have formed and congealed around them overnight as they died, and yet, there is nothing more than a trickle left behind." Reid continued, leaning back into his chair. "Do you know of any tools that could create such holes and leave no mess?"

"No sir, I do not." Drake shook his head. "Jackson might, however."

"He may, that is true, but he has not yet graced us with an idea of what tools they may be." Reid agreed.

"Perhaps we should ask him if it is possible for any medical tools to create these incisions, sir?" Bennett suggested, it was better than the alternative; continue to sit here pondering over possible leads and suspects that currently did not exist. "While we await for the girl's body to be brought over?"

"A good idea, sergeant." Nodded Edmund, pushing himself up and heading towards the door. "A medical man should know the tools he uses and what they do, should he not?"

"Indeed, sir." Nodded Bennett, following the inspector out of the office and into Jackson's inner sanctum.

The room smelled strongly of chemicals and rotting meat, due to the warm bodies that lay on slabs and wheeled stretchers. Two of the current three in the room were covered by a pure white sheet, a sign of respect for the deceased, while the third was being scrutinized by the American, who had a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth as he worked.

"Jackson." Reid blurted, coming to a halt beside the Captain, who jumped at the sound of his own name. He had not expected to be disturbed until after the newest body was brought in, but sighed and shrugged off the intrusion.

"Reid." He replied, calmly, not looking away from the body he was reexamining.

"These incisions, might they be made by some form of medical tool?" Jackson had to stifle a sigh of frustration at Reid's question, and as punishment he allowed it to hang in the air for a moment.

"Not by any medical tool I've ever seen or handled, no." He retorted. "And before you ask, yes, I'm sure, Reid. Every single medical tool capable of these holes would have left a sea of blood on and around these poor souls, and none of them would be so perfectly accurate."

"I see." Reid replied, glancing over at Drake, who shrugged his response. "Might there, then, be another tool that could make them?"

"Again, no. Not to such perfection." Jackson replied standing upright and removing the cigarette from his mouth. "It's impossible."

"And yet, the evidence is here." Reid argued, pointing at the neck of the body, where two perfectly round, black holes were etched into it.

"Yes, but the disturbing lack of blood along with the width between, depth and precision of these holes doesn't support your argument or the evidence of how medical tools, in general, work." Jackson argued back, leaving Drake, once again to stand in the wings to try and understand them. "See, here, identical holes, with only a few centimeters between them. Same exact depth, same exact size, same exact perfection and yet," he continued, ranting at Reid with a fire in his eyes, pulling a tray of medical tools between them, "not one of these tools have two pretusions that match the size and measurements the body suggests. So no, Reid, a tool, medical or otherwise could not have done this."

"And what if there was such a tool?" Reid asked, already creating a hypothetical scenario in his head.

"Then it still would not explain the lack of blood." Jackson said, firmly.

"This is true." Sighed the inspector, frustrated by the fact that this case was going cold already. He could not stand this injustice nor it's cruel way of testing his skills as a detective. "Then what trail should we follow?"

"I don't know." Said Jackson, leaning against a table. "The bodies are saying nothing and that fourth one comin' in later will probably say nothin' too... And that's the God's honest truth, Reid, I'm sorry."

"Do not apologise. It is not your fault that these bodies have not given us any leads." Reid assured him.

"I appreciate it, Reid." Said the American, giving a single nod.

∆∆∆∆

By evening, there was still no leads as to how either of the four victims had died and Reid was growing more and more impatient with the case. Why were there no indicators, no signs, no leads? Why could they not figure out this puzzle? It was like trying to grasp at air and without any continuation to the case, Edmund found himself bitterly unimpressed and disillusioned by it.

Jackson, too was growing disillusioned by the case. More so by the fact that he, a borderline celebrity in Whitechapel due to his skills in his work, was unable to find anything more than those damned holes and a disturbing lack of blood left behind. He grunted at the body he had been examining and decided to take a short walk to the front desk, where Reid and Drake were still discussing possible leads they could follow. Reid moved slightly up the side of the desk so that Jackson was stood directly between himself and the sergeant and greeted the American with a single, solemn nod.

"You got any ideas, yet?" Jackson asked, shoving a thumb into the pocket of his silken waistcoat and taking a bite of his lower lip.

"Not as of yet." Drake replied, a look of disappointment etched onto his face.

"And not for the lack of trying." Reid agreed with a sigh.

"So we've hit a dead end, it seems." Added Jackson, clenching his jaw.

"Indeed." Reid nodded, adjusting himself somewhat.

As the silence fell between the three men, the everyday sounds of the station were allowed to provide a sort of background music for their current failures and their unlimited thoughts. Jackson sparked up a cigarette and offered one each to the other two men; Drake took his cigarette with gratitude while Reid took his with no more than a blip of a smile. Jackson struck up another match and held it out, allowing both detectives to light their cigarettes. As if they were a synchronized, well-oiled machine, all three exhaled at the exact same moment, lost in their own thoughts for a little while longer.

Without warning, the double doors to the station exploded with action. A young man, held by the very threads of his shirt's collar by a struggling police constable, was shoved into the room, shouting and cursing and attempting to fight off the officer with every ounce of his energy, causing the three high ranking men to turn their attention to the scene rolling out before them, standing on tenderhooks.

"Constable, what is the meaning of this?" Reid called over the noise, approaching the two younger men as Drake ran over to the other side of the criminal, grasping tightly at his arm and forcing the boy to hold still. Jackson simply stood, amused by the kid's gumption and seemingly impressed by his anarchic energy.

"This boy was caught attacking another man in the alleyway, sir." Breathed the uniformed officer, grateful to the sergeant's help with the particularly difficult arrested party.

"Attacking him?" Reid questioned, looking over the boy with an air of annoyance.

"I didn't attack 'im for no reason!" Shouted the criminal. "He's an awful man, sir! A disgustin' creature that should be put down!" At that, Reid snorted. Of course an angry young man threatened with homelessness would say such things.

"Your name, boy." Drake ordered. The boy glared at the detective then relaxed, knowing that his fighting was futile.

"McNair, sir. Tom McNair." Said the boy with an exhausted sigh.

"McNair. Tell us why you would accuse the man you attacked of being awful." Reid demanded, glaring at Tom with a glimmer in his eyes that warned the boy not to lie. "Does he threaten to evict you from your home?"

"No sir. He is not what he pretends t' be. He is not human, sir!" Tom persisted, knowing that his only way out was either to lie or ignore his late father's warnings and instructions by telling this policeman the truth about the existence of vampires. His words, however, did not stop him from blinking with surprise. He had hoped that he could speak to these detectives in private, but it was now much too late.

"Not human?" Laughed Jackson, unable to stay silent any longer. "What is it that makes you say that, kid?"

"Indeed, our esteemed American has a point, boy. Speak." Reid nodded, poking the boy's chest.

"Hal Yorke, sir, he's a... A..." Tom struggled, looking around the room anxiously. He could not make his claim aloud in here. "Let me talk to yas somewhere else, sir. Please. I'm beggin' ya. It's important."

"Drake, take the boy to a cell and we shall speak there." Reid informed Bennett, before they made their way to the more secure cells at the back of the building. Intrigued, Jackson followed the three and found himself peering at them from a perch in the doorway. He moved once, to allow the uniformed boy to pass him, but soon returned to taking up the entire doorway.

"Speak, boy." Barked Drake, clamping his grip on Tom's shoulder. The boy winced, then looked up at Reid with wide, pleading eyes.

"Drake, remove your hand." Reid requested, waving his hand. "Now, Tom, what is it you wish to tell us about this man, Yorke."

"He is a vampire, sir. An inhuman man, a soulless man, who don't have any compassion for no one, sir. He kills men and drains 'em. It's what vampires do, boss. I was tryin' t' help this girl by slayin' 'im. It's what me and me dad do, sir." Explained McNair, his body twitching nervously, desperate for the policemen to believe him. He was not ready to be sent to an asylum like Broadmoor. He was not prepared to deal with the consequences of lying to them.

"A vampire?" Snorted Drake, completely unconvinced by the lad's story. Tom nodded feverishly in reply.

"Vampires are a work of fiction, boy, that cannot be possible." Reid told him, sure in his convictions.

"No, sirs, they are very much real." Tom argued.

"Edmund, this boy is mad." Drake commented, glancing up at Reid with an expression of contempt.

"Perhaps, or drunk." Reid agreed, shaking his head slightly.

"I am not!" Tom insisted. "I can prove to you sirs, that the supernatural exists. This oncomin' night, I will change into a wolf at the full moon."

"And where do you intend to show us your evidence, boy?" Smirked Drake.

"Outside, sir, in t'woods, just outside of the park, sir." Replied the young werewolf.

"Oh no, you are not going to trick us, lad." Said the sergeant.

"Indeed," nodded Reid, "you will stay here until such time you become useful or you are sober. Come, sergeant, we have more pressing matters to attend to." He said, swiftly exiting the cage and allowing Bennett to close and lock it behind them. He noticed Jackson at the door and sighed. "Drake will you return the keys on your way home? I will stay here and watch this boy, McNair, see if his nonsense is, indeed, nonsense. It may keep his unhinged mind at ease."

"Of course, sir." Nodded Drake, shoving passed Jackson on his way out. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Drake." Replied Jackson, sauntering into the room. "I will stay with you, Reid. If this kid is insane, you may need me to sedate him."

"Alright. Those chairs, bring them over." Replied Reid. "I do not intend to stand while this boy rants about his apparent condition and fictional creatures."

∆∆∆∆

Jackson woke with a start, almost falling from his chair due to the sound of the boy he and Reid had been watching screaming in agony. He grunted and stood, before running to the side of the cage. Reid also stood, but farther behind, watching from a safe distance. Perhaps the boy had succumbed to a more dangerous form of consumption?

"Jackson, explain the boy's cries." Reid demanded, looking to his friend for an answer.

"I can't without getting in there to examine him, Reid." Jackson told him, firmly.

"No!" Screamed Tom from inside his cage. "You can't come in 'ere! You'll get bit or worse!"

Jackson looked to Reid then back at the agonized boy, who was now scrabbling along the floor. From where he stood, he could see claws beginning to emerge, breaking through Tom's nails and elongating his fingers. He could see, also, the clothes on the kid's back tearing and four long markings on the skin, looking like an enlarged version of a cat scratch. His eyes widened when he finally realised the moon peering into the room through a small square window placed into the wall and the light that bathed the dirty floor. The boy had not lied about his lycanthropy. The boy had not lied about the existence of supernatural beings. The boy had not lied.

The American looked to Reid again and saw that he, too, was stunned by the slow and excruciatingly painful transformation before them. Neither man dared speak a word, not that they would be able to hear one another over the sound of McNair's cries, grunts and growls, in fear of waking from what must be a shared dream or hallucination.

"Jackson?" Said Reid after a while, although the captain struggled to hear him. The inspector very slowly approached his friend, without looking away from Tom McNair as he began huffing and snarling animalisticly. "Would this be considered a medical marvel?"

"I would say so... It's. Reid, this is incredible." Muttered Jackson, watching as man-wolf stood upright, whining and grumbling. "Perhaps the boy wasn't mad after all, huh?"

"Perhaps not." Agreed Reid.

Without warning, the creature inside the cell howled. Jackson, the closest to the beast, winced at the noise, feeling a shiver run down his back and the hair on the back of his neck rise. He heard Reid take a step backward, but Jackson daren't move. He was frozen, fearful yet fascinated by this creature. It was both disgusting and beautiful, all at once.

"Tom?" He said, in a bid to get the wolf to respond. "Can you hear me, kid?" No response came from the wolf, apart from a steady growling erupting within it's chest. Jackson felt himself move closer to the bars of the cell and wrap his hand around the iron, exposing his forearm.

"Jackson, I would not approach that creature... You remember what the boy said before he became this monster?" Reid advised, his eyes flicking from the American's exposed arm to the creature and back. He could feel an anxiety building up within his chest, more so for his friend than due to the very existence of the monster. He was afraid of it, of course, there would not be a man alive who didn't find themselves frozen in the presence of it, but Reid currently feared for Jackson's safety. Something about Tom's warnings had struck a chord with him, but why he did not know.

"I know," snapped the Captain, gripping at the cell's bar. "But this is simultaneously the most disgusting and the most... The most beautiful creature I have ever seen. Don't you think so?" He turned to face Reid, a smile coming up from the depths of his fear. Reid returned the smile with an unimpressed glare.

"No, I do not." Said the inspector, firmly. "I think that it is a horrific monster, like those described in a book."

"Which book, the Hounds of Baskerville?" Even while gripped by fear and fascination, Jackson could not help himself when it came to messing with Reid.

"Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde." Reid retorted. "Please come away from that cell, Captain, for the love of God, before it attacks you."

"Are you this nervous around normal dogs, Edmund?" Laughed Jackson, quietly.

"I have never seen a dog this ugly or large, before." Reid said, shaking his head. "It's temper could change quite quickly, however, like a fighting dog when it is caged. Please, I beg you."

"N'aw," smirked the American, returning his gaze to the werewolf and willingly defying Reid as usual, "I just think he's a little rough around the edges. He just needs a little affection, is all." He said, releasing his grip from the bar and shoving his hand into the cell. "Come on, McNair, come and introduce us to this side of you, huh?" A low whistle escaped from Jackson as he rubbed his thumb against his fingers, waiting patiently for Tom to approach the human and get a good hold of his scent.

"Jackson! For God's sake, man, come away from the cell!" Snapped Reid, loudly, having finally lost his temper with the American's sarcastic behavior. This entire ordeal had gone on long enough, as far as the inspector was concerned.

As if the human's temper was contagious, the wolf snarled and pounced towards Jackson's hand. In a panic, Jackson jumped back, but was caught by the bars. The impact made him cry out in pain, but nothing could compare to the agony of being scratched by this creature. As soon as the wolf had backed off slightly, still growling and barking with fury, Jackson fumbled and freed his arm. The blood came seeping out of the wounds that now scarred his forearm like water. Thick, rust coloured water.

"God damn it, Reid!" He shouted at his colleague, examining the wound with angry scrutiny.

"I told you to come away from the cell!" Reid snapped back.

"Go and get me my bag from the lab." Jackson ordered, clamping his uninjured hand around the open wounds in a futile attempt at slowing the blood. Reid nodded once and hurried out of the room.

He hadn't been gone less than a moment before he returned with Jackson's bag. Kneeling beside his friend, he opened the bag and dropped it at his side, pulling out a series of white fabric strips and a small cardboard box of safety pins.

"Tell me what I should do." Edmund ordered, looking into Jackson's eyes.

"I can patch myself up, Reid." Retorted the Captain, rather stiffly, glaring right back at him.

"I know that, but it is my fault your arm is this way." Sighed the inspector, noting how the American's blood was oozing from Tom's claws and smacking the floor somewhere in the background. "Allow me to help you."

"Fine, but I ain't gonna like it." Frowned Jackson, adjusting himself so that Reid could effectively reach his injured arm. "And neither are you, my friend."

"If there was another way to rectify this, I would do so gladly, but alas, there is not and so taking orders from you will make do as a fitting punishment for my foolishness." Reid told him, removing his coat, uncuffing his sleeves and rolling them up to his elbows. "Now, what is it I must do, first?"

"Obviously, first, you need to clean the wounds, so that I may judge how deep the cuts go." Jackson said calmly, nodding at a water pail that sat on a wooden stool opposite them. "If the cuts are deep, then I will have to give you a quick lesson in sewing."

Reid scrambled up from the floor, retrieved the water pail and brought it back to where Jackson sat on the dusty, dirty floor. Again, he kneeled beside his friend, but this time used his coat as a form of cushioning for his knees.

"How do you know that I cannot sew?" Reid teased, grabbing at a fairly small white scrap of fabric and dunking it into the water.

"I meant sewing in relation to surgery and the human body." Jackson chuckled, biting at his lower lip, anxious not to look back at the beast that had caused this injury. What was the consequence for this? Why was McNair so irreverently afraid of either Jackson or Reid coming close to him in that form? The thought withered and died as soon as the wet cloth in Reid's hands slapped against his wounds. "Easy, Reid! Christ, you ever heard of bedside manner?"

"Sorry." Reid said weakly, now wiping at the American's arm a little more gently than he had done previously. "And what is the difference between a surgeon's stitching skills and that of a tailor, exactly?"

"A tailor takes great care not to mess up his product or face losing a few pennies, a surgeon, on the other hand, makes a point of sewing the wound as tightly as he can or face losing a patient." Came the grimaced reply. "Have you any stitching skills, Reid, or do you insist my wife's girls do that, too?" For that remark, Reid purposefully swiped hard at Jackson's wound, making him curse under his breath.

"I am able to mend my shirt collars, socks and ties if that's what you are implying." Reid told him, sounding almost sweet. "And I'll have you know, I can wash my own clothes, also."

"Ah, but lemme guess, you're too busy?" Jackson quipped. "Keeping the streets of Whitechapel safe?"

"Yes, and in return for their hard work, those girls are paid." Reid replied, almost absentmindedly, as he finished cleaning the wounds, dumping the sopping wet, stained cloth back into the bucket.

"If you said that to anyone else, Reid, your reputation would be in tatters." Laughed Jackson, pointing out the double meaning of Reid's words. Before Reid could retaliate by adding to his misery, though, the American snatched his arm away and half-pretended to examine it. "Luckily for you, Reid, you have no need to emasculate yourself by showing me your sewing skills -- or lack thereof. Just wrap it up as tightly as you can."

"Alright." Nodded Reid, taking a long length of white fabric from Jackson's bag and placing an end directly onto the wounds before beginning to wrap it, as best he could, around the other man's forearm. The wolf had begun whining again, grumbling and grunting. It's nose was pressed against the cell's bars, huffing and allowing saliva and snot to spurt into the air. Reid paused in his work and looked up at it, seeing the same big, brown eyes that had pleaded with him mere hours before this incident had occurred and felt a large pang of guilt, followed closely by sympathy for the boy underneath the beast. Tom McNair clearly suffered and his view of the beast before him changed.

Now, instead of a monstrous and destructive beast, Reid now saw a pathetic and sickly creature that was suffering. Like a starving stray or a frightened puppy that was to be used as a fighter. He saw fear, regret and loneliness in those eyes; all things that Reid, himself, had felt and that allowed him to humanize this beast.

"Reid? You alright, buddy?" Jackson's voice came through the fog of thoughts.

"I.. I was wrong, Jackson." Mumbled Reid, barely audible. "That creature is still that boy, McNair... And he suffers from such a horrid condition... He is still human, but the beast within seems to take hold of his entire life, even outside of the full moon."

"And now you understand why I said it was beautiful." Commented the American, now looking at McNair as well. "Poor kid." He added, tutting, before returning his attention to his arm. "I'll do the rest, Reid, you get rid of the dirty water."

"Are you sure?" Asked Reid, furrowing his brow slightly.

"Reid, I have a medical degree from the University of Virginia, I'm pretty sure I can wrap a bandage around my own arm." Scoffed Jackson, doing just that; finishing off the bandage as he spoke.

"Fine." Reid replied curtly, as he stood up, picking up the water pail, now contaminated by Jackson's blood and fibres of cloth. He sighed and walked up to a small hole at the center of the room, trying his best not to stare at the werewolf as he went. He then poured the bucket out and returned it to it's stoop on the stool by the doorway.

"Y'know, it's a good thing that there weren't any other criminals in here." Said Jackson after he finished off his neat, tightly wrapped bandage and using his uninjured arm to push himself up off the floor and dust himself off.

"Or other officers." Agreed Reid, finding it difficult to come up with a suitable excuse to give his colleagues and his superior. He also wondered how Jackson would explain his arm to others; to his wife, to Drake, to the overly impressed uniformed officers that sometimes followed the American like ducklings or puppies. "How will we explain this?"

"I say we tell Drake the truth... As for everyone else?" Jackson shrugged. "I don't know."

Chapter Text

The following morning came in slowly, with dawn breaking through what should be considered slats rather than windows, the yellow-orange light seeping into the room like honey and hitting the young werewolf that now lay, naked, shivering from the cold, square in the eyes. Reid, who had not slept that night, much too concerned by both Jackson's wound and the boy-wolf-creature he had in his custody to be bothered by the heavy weight of weariness, bit down at his lower lip, watching cautiously as Tom McNair steadily aroused from his slumber and sat up in the middle of the floor. Jackson, meanwhile, had taken to sleeping in what should be a Desk Sergeant's chair, leaning it's back against the stone wall. His wounded arm had been put in a makeshift sling in a bid to keep the blood from seeping through Reid's apparently unsatisfactory stitches, and it rested haphazardly against the Captain's chest, rising and falling slowly as he continued to sleep, unaware of the sleepy, slow action that occurred nearby.
"Is he alright?" Came a quiet, sheepish voice from Tom's cell.
With a sigh and a quick nod, Reid approached the bars. "He should be, yes." He assured the boy, quietly. "The Captain has overcome much worse things, I should imagine."
Tom huffed, shaking his head. "I don't think so, boss."
"Are you alright?" Reid asked, only half-ignoring the boy's rather morbid tone.
"Yeah, it's the change that's the worst part, so I'm alright." Shrugged the boy, glancing up at the inspector with big, brown eyes. Clearly this was not the first change and it would not be the last, either. "'M dead hungry, though."
"I see," Reid frowned, but still wore a sliver of a smirk, "I will see about getting you some food and clothes... Seeing as your clothes are now shreds of fabric, littering my cell floor."
"Thank you, sir." Nodded McNair, pulling his knees to his chest.
'Then you may tell me about this... Hal Yorke and why he should be accused of these recent kills." Edmund said, nodding once at the boy before striding towards the desk where Jackson slept. He slammed his hand against the wood once, causing Jackson to jump into involuntary action.
"Dammit Reid... What?" Whined the American wearily, frowning as he looked up at the inspector.
"McNair is awake and I am to fetch him some food and clothes." Reid informed his surgeon. "Watch him, Captain. Closely."
"Mmm fine." Huffed Jackson, using a hand to shoo Reid out of the room.
Edmund sighed, shaking his head at the American before he actually did leave the room, allowing the door to slam behind him, making both the boy and the surgeon jump.
"Shit, I hate it when he does that." Griped Jackson, pushing himself out of the chair with his good arm, searching for his cigarette case and what little matches he had left from the night before. Once there was a lit cigarette held between his teeth, he sluggishly made his way towards Tom's cell and stuck his hand through the bars again, this time without risk, offering the boy a well-deserved cigarette of his own.
"No thanks." Tom told him, not looking away from the doorway that the Inspector had just gone through to acknowledge the cigarette box. "Me dad says it's a bad habit."
"Dare ya to tell anyone with Asthma that." Mumbled the Captain, putting the cigarettes away in his pocket.
"It's alright for them, it's medicine, ain't it? Othweriwse, me dad says it's like biting ya nails or summat." Tom's counterpoint made Jackson want to burst into laughter, but he managed, just about, to keep his composure as he pulled his cigarette away from his face, exhaling it's trademark greyish smoke from his lungs.
"I guess so, but I'd be damned if I found anything better after a night like that." Argued Jackson, leaning against the bars. "Where is your father, anyhow? How come he ain't in here with you?"
"Cause he ain't here anymore." Tom said, if rather bluntly.
"D'you mean that he ain't here because he's away or because he's dead?" Jackson could be pretty pushy with his questions at times, but when he was given such a vague answer he couldn't help but be intrigued.
"The second one." Tom replied.
"I'm sorry," hummed the Captain, nodding slightly. He understood what it was to lose a father, so he chose to back away from anymore questions about the elder McNair from now on, even if he had a few more tucked away in the back of his mind.
"A vampire killed 'im." Tom commented.
"A vampire like you accuse this Hal Yorke man of being?" Frowned Jackson.
"Yeah, a vampire just like that." Tom said, weary from the amount of doubt this American man and the Inspector gave him. "It's what they do. Kill people and think nowt about the consequences."
"Right," mused the Captain, flicking ash.
"Sorry about your arm... I did warn yas." Tom said after a few moments of uncomfortable silence had passed between them.
"Hey, don't worry about it, kid." Jackson shrugged. "It's water under the bridge."
"You won't be sayin' that come next full moon." Tom told him, glancing up at the American.
"Why not?" It was meant to be a teasing quip, but Jackson could tell from the kid's eyes that he was being deadly serious.
"You're like me now, ain't ya?" Said the boy, shifting uncomfortably. "You're a werewolf... And from what I hear the first change is always the worst one."
"A werewolf, huh? Damn." Sighed the Captain, trying to process the word properly with a tired mind. "Do you not remember your first change?"
"No." McNair shook his head. "I was a baby when I first changed."
At that, Jackson finally woke from his half-slumber. "A... Holy Christ, kid, you've been in the ring a few times, huh?"
"What?" Blinked the boy, frowning some.
"I mean, you've been like this for a long time." Jackson explained, gesturing with his hand.
"Oh... Yes, I have." Nodded Tom, chewing on the inside of his cheek.
"So, you become a werewolf by a scratch?" Asked the American, his mind now racing and pacing with a sudden fear. If a scratch could infect someone with the curse of lycanthropy, then God only knew what Jackson was in for. He even toyed with the idea of cures for a brief moment, but with Tom having been a werewolf for most his life, there probably wasn't a single damn thing that he could do about it.
"That's the most common one, yeah, but if you get bit you become a werewolf too." Tom added, chewing at the corner of his lower lip.
"And am I right in thinking that there is no cure?" Despite shaking the idea from his head, the Captain found himself desperate for confirmation of it.
"Put it this way, I ain't met a former werewolf." Came the answer the American feared. Did this mean that he was to be a lycanthrope for the rest of his life, changing into a dangerous wolf-like creature once a month until one day his heart gave up on him -- or he was killed by a vampire the way this boy's father had been? Did this mean that he would be forced to hide himself away from the world once a month to avoid hurting the people close to him, infecting them in the same way that he had been infected by Tom McNair? Would Susan, if she found out about his newest affliction, be afraid of him?
The slam of the door broke his concentration, telling him that Reid had returned to the room and when Jackson looked up at the inspector he saw that he carried some folded clothes and a bowl of what the Captain could only assume to be a gloopy substance known as porridge.
"The good inspector returns." He murmured, pulling a drag of his cigarette.
"I do," Reid replied, approaching him. "Would you hold these a moment, so that I might unlock the door?"
Jackson nodded and, if rather reluctantly, took the clothes from the inspector, watching as Reid unlocked the cell door and entered, crouching down to Tom's level and handing him the bowl of greying mush.
"Thank you, sir." Tom mumbled, taking the bowl from Reid before he began wolfing down his unappetising meal.
"It is not much, but it will do." Nodded Edmund, briefly glancing up at the Captain as a silent request for him to enter the cell too. With a sigh, Jackson did just that, handing the clothes back to Reid, who placed them on the floor beside Tom. "These may be a little big, but they should accommodate you for now."
"Mm thanks." Hummed the boy in between mouthfuls of porridge, nodding.
"Jesus, kid, I ain't seen anyone eat that stuff that fast before." Jackson snorted. "Most prisoners like to complain about the quality or the colour before they taste it."
Licking his lips, Tom scraped the bowl clean then threw it to one side. "It's better than nowt." He shrugged, pulling on a pair of battered black trousers. "Besides, you get dead hungry after... Y'know. Sometimes you get it before too, amongst other things."
"Other things?" Blinked Reid, searching the boy's face for any indication on what he meant.
"I dunno if I want to talk about 'em." The boy's cheeks flushed, telling the two older men what he truly meant.
"I see." Nodded Edmund, allowing his fatherly instinct to take over his movements when he saw Tom struggling with his collar and did it up for him. Tom gave him a sheepish grin of gratitude and stood up, with Reid mirroring him, then moved around the cell, looking for his shoes... Or rather what was left of them. The leather boots he had worn the night before were torn apart in the same way his clothes had been. He picked one up and examined it with a fierce scrunity then sighed, dropping it to the floor again.
"I'm sure Reid's got some shoes tucked away for ya somewhere, kid." Commented Jackson, flicking his cigarette away.
"I will see about getting them to you in a little while." Reid agreed. "In the meantime, you tell us about Half Yorke and why you accuse him of killing those girls." Tom huffed, but nodded, returning to the spot he had been sitting in a few moments before. "My office should be private enough for our conversation," suggested Edmund, holding out a hand in the direction of the door.
"Reid," began Jackson, following the inspector and the boy out of the cell room and out into the foyer, ignoring the door as it slammed behind him.
"Yes, Captain?" Replied Reid, taking the lead over Tom and leading the way up to his office.
"Might I sit in?" It was an insecure tone he had used, one Edmund had never heard Jackson use before. The inspector paused just short of the office door, allowing Tom to shuffle his way inside and frowned at his surgeon.
"Sit in?" He queried, confused.
"Yeah... I think it might be conducive for me to be there. Maybe translate for the kid when you say something he doesn't understand, seeing as Drake ain't here yet?" Shrugged Jackson. Reid took a moment to process the request then nodded, gesturing for the Captain to enter his private sector, following him into the room and calmly closing the door behind him.
"Sit," he ordered the boy, taking a seat in his worn chair while Jackson took to leaning against Reid's file cabinet. Without thought, Tom did as he was asked and sat down in the chair opposite the inspector. "Now, Tom, you seem convinced that this man, Yorke, is behind the recent spate of murders. Why?"
Tom shifted uncomfortably. "Because I seen 'im with the girl... She was so frightened, and I tried to help her, but it was too late."
"You saw him with this last girl?" Reid encouraged, leaning forward in his seat.
"Yeah, but I smelt him first, like." Tom's voice had become quiet, almost illegible, compared to the way he had roused such a fuss the night before. Perhaps it was a combination of fear and tiredness?
Reid frowned. "Smelled him?"
Tom nodded. "Yeah, us werewolves have got this amazing sense of smell... And we can smell vampires within a mile of us."
"A canine sense of smell, huh?" Jackson mused aloud, pushing out his lower lip thoughtfully.
"You attempted to help her, you say? How?" Reid continued, tactfully ignoring the Captain.
"As soon as he got a whiff of me, he ran off, leavin' her behind and I tried help by seein' to her wounds, but like I said, sir, I got there too late." Tom elaborated, his brown eyes looking suitably puppy-like with sadness for the most recent girl's death.
"She died as you attempted to help her?" Reid sighed, leaning back into his chair. Tom nodded unhappily in reply, seeming to be fighting back tears. "And were you the one who reported the girl to one of my constables?"
Tom nodded again, sniffing hard. "Yeah."
"Explains how he knew about the murders and how we have been struggling with a clear solution to them." Jackson piped up, pointing toward Tom's general direction.
"Indeed." Agreed Edmund, sighing.

Elsewhere within the dank, dirty streets of Whitechapel, Hal Yorke was inspecting his watch with scrunity, watching as the thinnest hand flicked around the clock's face. Once satisfied with the time, he snapped the pocketwatch shut and put it away, leaning back into a large, leather armchair with a heavy sigh. He was bored, unsatisfied with the company of his kinsmen and even more unsatisfied with the blood that had begun to congeal within the crystal decanter that sat on the table beside him. Hal scanned the room then rolled his eyes at the scene that had been laid out before him.
Newly made girls and their partners, covered in blood, strewn about the place like lazy, blood addicted rats, sleeping the day away while he wittered away his thoughts. He looked down on them with an air of disgust and contempt then shoved himself out of the chair, striding towards his large, unmade bed and grabbed at the jacket he had dumped there the night before. He inspected it for blood stains and threw it aside when he found a large patch of the street whore's blood dried into the woollen fabric. In his haste, he shrugged off his jacket and waistcoat, went to his drawers and took out a clean shirt and a silken, deep black waistcoat. After shrugging them on, he went to the bloodstained waistcoat, pulled his watch from it's pocket and put it io the pocket of the clean one before leaving the room, slamming the door behind him. As he left his home, he picked up a jacket and his hat before he found himself out on the street, disguised amongst a crowd of people. Even if they were dirtier and poorer than he, Hal could hide amongst the writhing pit of humans and go about his business without having to deal with his vermin-like kinsmen or his commanders, wherever they might be hiding themselves.
He followed the street until he came to a sign that was infamous amongst those who sought out a little fun within Whitechapel; Tenter Street. He continued his journey, swiftly making his way into Long Susan's whorehouse, making a beeline for the woman herself, who stood at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in her usually finery, leaning against the handrail.
"Madam." Hal greeted, removing his hat and pulling out his best, politest smile.
"Good day to you, sir." Replied Susan, her face twitching into a smile of her own. "How may we be of service to you?"
"I would like to take one of your girls." Hal replied, watching as a dark-haired girl and her gentleman hurried their way upstairs with an air of curiosity.
"But of course, is there a girl that catches your eye?" Susan encouraged, pushing herself away from the stairs and approaching the man. She knew his face, as he had been here before, many times, but he took a different girl each time he visited and had lied about his name. As far as Long Susan was aware, this man was known as Thomas, but as someone who used a moniker other than the one she was born with, she knew it was not his true name. As long as he paid, however, she cared not for the reason behind his name change.
"Any you recommend should suffice." Said Yorke, quietly.
"Anna, then." Nodded Susan, looking over the man's shoulder and gesturing for a short, porcelain-skinned blonde to approach them. Of course, the girl did as she was told and approached them, giving Hal a broad smile and a flutter of her eyelashes, making a point of curtsying and offering a slender hand for him to take. Hal took the girl, Anna's, hand and kissed it before reaching into inner pocket of his jacket for the money he owed Long Susan and handing the thick pile of notes to her. She snatched the money and placed the wad into a pocket that had been sewn into her dress.
"Thank you, sir." She smiled, gesturing for Anna to take her gentleman upstairs.
The girl lead Hal to her room, but he allowed her to go first and waited until she had invited him inside before he entered too. He may have been inside the building before, invited by one of his lower ranking henchmen, but not into the girl's room and so felt it conducive to be safe than sorry. He threw his hat onto a chair then removed his jacket, throwing it over the chair's back while she safeguarded the door, bolting it locked before she crept up toward Hal with a confidence that seemed to be within all of the whores he had come across before her.
It was probably within his own mother, in the brothel he had been born in, while she lay with strange men and the young Hal Yorke ran through the house playing games with himself, at least three centuries before this girl, Anna, was born. It had definitely been in all of the whores he had laid with and taken the lives of since he had become a vampire, all those years ago.
He smiled at her, took her hands and pulled her into the sweetest kiss he could allow himself to give her. She broke a hand free and ran it through his thick, dark hair while he snaked an arm around her waist, moving the kiss from her lips down to the base of her neck. It was an instinctive move, especially when the quiet of this bedroom allowed him to hear her heart pounding and concentrate on the sweet, distinctive smell of the blood that ran through her veins, and found himself craving a taste of her. A taste no other man within these walls would ever crave for the way Hal Yorke did.
The kiss became a slow lick, that made the girl giggle, either due to nervousness or due to excitement, he couldn't tell. He broke his other hand free and placed it naturally against her breast, continuing with an alternating cycle of tender kisses and slow, gentle licking against her skin before the demon within decided that enough was enough and took over his self-control. With a muffled snarl, which at first, she seemed to find endearing and fun, but soon found herself fearful of, Hal sank his teeth into the girl, biting so hard that she inhaled the scream she was about to release.
And then came that familiar, sweet-tasting rush of blood, dribbling down the vampire's chin and the girl's chest. Warm, thick and soaking wet, fresh, combining the smell of iron and sweetness, making him crave more of it. Making him crave the idea of draining this girl dry of her life, the way he had done with the others, the ones that now lay as pale corpses in Leman Street station's dead room. He bit down harder, attempting to get more leverage and control over her as he picked the girl's legs up and wrapped them around his waist, moving her to the bed, falling with her as he dropped her there.
Hal pulled away from her, panting, attempting to catch his breath for a moment before he bit into her again, this time making her scream with a confused sense of pain and pleasure. My God, it made him feel good, getting the blood straight from it's source as opposed to the congealing cold version that his lackeys would funnel into a decanter. Her body tensing beneath him, her scared, panting breaths, her squeals and squeaks of pain, the taste of blood, the way it ran, dribbling against her piercingly pale skin and how she gripped at his shirt sleeves.
"Please... Sir, it hurts!" Gasped Anna, now in a desperate corner and attempting to fight back. Hal ignored her pleading cry and grabbed at her wrists so tight they were close to splintering, pulling her hands away from his body, pinning her to the bed as he slurped at the holes in her neck. Anna started convulsing against him, kicking and attempting to scream out, while Hal continued to bite into her neck, sucking the life she fought to keep from her.
After a few moments, her convulsions and fighting and screaming and her body relaxed. It relaxed so much that even her breathing had stopped. Hal pulled away from her, panting, gasping for breath and stared at her now lifeless body. He looked into her eyes and saw no lights, no life. He paused, listening, only to find that there was not a single beat left coming from her chest.
"Shit." He cursed, overcome with panic. He scrambled away from the body, but kept his eyes fixed on the dead girl that lay on the bed, stained in her own blood, entangled between the sheets. He scurried backwards, almost falling over the chair where his jacket and hat had been thrown earlier. He only meant to drink enough to quell his craving for a little while, not kill her. Killing a street whore was one thing, they would not be missed, they were unimportant while killing a whore that worked in a brothel? That was the ultimate sin. Long Susan would make the police aware of his existence, describe him to them... Then what?
It is not as if they could hang him for his crime, Hal Yorke could not die. Vampires cannot die. They couldn't keep him in a cell forever, as Mr. Snow and his merry band of followers would soon come to his aid once they knew of his imprisonment. Still, though, there wasn't much he could do otherwise, either. She was dead and it was much too late to have her drink his own blood and make her into a vampire, thus saving her... Sort of.
Hal's mind raced, trying to think of anything that could allow him to escape this scene. He glanced at the window and sprinted to it, looking through the smudged glass for a route he could use in his hasty escape but found no safe way down. He sneered, sighed then decided to use the nuclear option: grab this things and run. If he ran, no one would be sure it was him until they came looking for the latest victim of this gruesome fate. Without anymore thought on the subject, Hal gathered his things, pulling the jacket over his shoulders whilst holding the hat by it's brim between his teeth as he hurried downstairs.
He didn't pause once, not even to check if Susan had spied him leaving, and ran down Tenter street itself until he could safely hide himself within the labyrinth of alleyways between slums and streets.

"Inspector!" A constable called, knocking on Reid's door. "Sorry to intrude sir, but another girl's been found dead."
Tom, who was still sitting in the chair opposite the inspector, crumbled like a child in trouble, suddenly sat up straight. His instincts sparking the boy into life. He shared a glance with Reid who nodded then looked to the uniformed officer that stood in his doorway.
"Where?" He asked, standing and resting his hands against the surface of his desk.
"Tenter Street. Long Susan's place."
"What?" Jackson snapped, standing at attention when he heard his wife's name. "Which girl?"
"I dunno, sir. Miss Hart didn't say." Replied the officer, shaking his head.
"Constable, get Sergeant Drake, Jackson, you are with me." Commanded Reid, taking control of the situation. "Tom, I would like for you to come also... You seem more aware of the kind of kills these creatures are masters of than we are. An outside view of the scene may help us."
Tom blinked then nodded, scraping the chair as he got out of it. "Alright."