Ripper Street/Jack's Alley

[thegentlemanthug]

Bennet Drake isn't as young as he used to be.

When he was no more than a boy, but wore the uniform of a man, Drake could outmatch any private in his unit in a sprint or in the ring. While he's still got his boxing fists, his legs aren't up to scratch and that's why their suspect is getting away.

The Inspector took the right fork when Drake took the left, and their maverick doctor with a gun is somewhere nearby. And while Drake thinks Homer Jackson is a law unto himself that no self-respecting copper would touch with a barge pole, he's grateful for another man on their side this night.

Whitechapel is cloaked in fog and Drake is running blind.

Right into the lad he's chasing.

One minute later, he's on the ground. He doesn't remember the fall, as he watches the lad disappear into the fog.

But his hand is clasped tightly to his side and, when he lifts it away, his palm is red.

Comments

[thirstforvice]

"I think that would be wise," Jackson nods, sensibly not going for the 'I told you so' approach.

"The more you cooperate, the faster you'll heal," he can't help but add.

[thegentlemanthug]

"I'm cop'rative," Drake says, slowly putting one food forward. "Model patient, me."

[thirstforvice]

"Sure, you are," Jackson agrees with a laugh, helping Drake over to the makeshift bed.

"Just stay where I put you until you're healed."

[thegentlemanthug]

"Few days an' I'll be right as ninepence," Drake insists, leaning on Jackson more than he'd like. "Been cut before."

[thirstforvice]

"Not like this, I'd imagine."

Getting Drake to the bed, Jackson helps him to lie down before checking his handiwork, making sure no stitches had burst on their brief walk. Satisfied, he pulls away with a gentle pat on the shoulder.

"Rest now, Sergeant."

[thegentlemanthug]

"Don't you worry, Doc," Drake says, with a sleepy smile. "Won't undo your good work."

[thirstforvice]

Jackson smiles despite himself, leaning back over the bed.

"I think I like you better when you're drugged to the eyeballs," he comments. "Far more... complimentary."

[thegentlemanthug]

"Fuck off, doctor," Drake says, but his smile spreads and his voice is warm, almost affectionate. He must be drugged.

"Don't you have another corpse waiting?"

[thirstforvice]

Jackson shakes his head.

"No corpses tonight. Not even you."

[thegentlemanthug]

"Should I feel special?"

Drake shivers again. "Whysit so cold?"

[thirstforvice]

"You lost a lot of blood," Jackson explains patiently, retrieving blankets from wherever he can find them.

"And you've had quite a shock as well. It's to be expected."

[thegentlemanthug]

"Oh," Drake says quietly. He forgets sometimes how much smarter Jackson is than he is.

As the doctor piles more and more blankets on top of him, Drake catches the man's wrist. "Tryin' t'suffocate me?"

[thirstforvice]

"If it'll stop your complaining."

Jackson doesn't go for any more blankets, letting his wrist be held. "You tell me, now, if you're still too cold. Or too hot."

[thegentlemanthug]

Drake feels exhausted, sleep slowly dragging him down.

"Just right," he mumbles. "You were right about that...personal service."

[thirstforvice]

"I'm the best Doctor in London Town," Jackson announces.

"And you can't say any different, not now."

[thegentlemanthug]

"And inflate your ego further, Doc?" Drake coughs weakly. "Next it'll be Her Majesty - and who'll remember the poor seargants of Whitechapel then?"

[thirstforvice]

"Kind of you to think so highly of me," Jackson grins, though he doubts the royalty will be knocking on his door any time soon. Not for any good reason, anyway.

"You should sleep."

[thegentlemanthug]

Drake's still holding Jackson's wrist. It's warm under his freezing hand, and he's strangely reluctant for the doctor to leave. He remembers the last time he had laudanum, and the nightmares that followed him into the darkness. He had no wish to wake those shadows tonight - not alone, in the police station.

"Not tired," he lies, his eyelids drooping.

[thirstforvice]

"For a Sergeant, you're a terrible liar," Jackson tells him, making himself comfortable as he realises that his wrist isn't going to be given back to him any time soon.

[thegentlemanthug]

"M'the most honest bloke in the town," Drake says, smiling. "It's my wholesome upbringing and the way I go easy on the crooks."

[thirstforvice]

"Wholesome, sure," Jackson continues to talk, if only to provide some sort of comfort, his bedside manner well and truly in play. No matter their professional relationship, he knows as a doctor that the Sergeant needs to rest. If talking to him's the only thing that's going to make him do as he's told, then so be it.

[thegentlemanthug]

"'Bout as wholesome as yours, I'd say," Drake mumbles, his eyes falling closed and staying shut. His grip loosens on Jackson's wrist.

"We've more in common...than you'd think."

[thirstforvice]

"Oh, really?" Jackson doubts that, somehow.

"You can explain why, some time."

[thegentlemanthug]

Drake drifts off before he can reply, his head thick like syrup.

But it isn't dark and quiet for long, a red burning welling up behind his eyes, the familiar drums beginning their tattoo...

He is in Egypt and he is afraid.

Still drunk on victory, they had been caught sleeping. But soon Kassassin is a bloodbath, and it is all Drake can do to stay alive.

He runs through the field, looking for an enemy and hoping not to find one. In his heart, he is a coward. His left arm is dead, the shoulder forced out of joint by the man who tried to slit his throat. But Drake's bayonet ripped apart his chest before the man could finish him, and so he lives. Alone.

Drake sees his commander - dead. His best friend, dying. He cannot help them. He is running.

He hears the refrain in his ears: coward coward coward deserter deserter.

Then he falls.

Drake falls into the canal, the waters red as Moses' Nile. And he cannot fight anymore, the water pulling at his limbs, dragging him down into the bloody depths.

He is drowning. He is dying.

It is what he deserves.

...

Drake chokes. He rockets upright, struggling to breathe. He coughs up the water of the river, red and red again, desperate and wild-eyed.

And then he realises he's not alone.

[thirstforvice]

Jackson has been watching his patient sleep, less confident when no one is watching him, needing to be sure that nothing adverse happens throughout the night. And so, when Drake starts to shift and stir, and suddenly lurch upright, he's ready to catch him and hold him close before he tears at his stitches.

"Breathe," he suggests, too slow to retrieve a basin for the blood that the Sergeant's bringing up. "Nothing to worry about."