thegentlemanthug | Ripper Street/Jack's Alley

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Ripper Street/Jack's Alley

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.

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Drake feels strangely light-headed and clings on to Jackson as they enter the relative warmth of the police station. There are other people around but his head's spinning too much to take it in.

"If the Inspector trusts you," he mumbles, "I trust you."

"Definitely time to stitch you up," Jackson jokes to hide his anxiety, all but dragging Drake the final few metres to his work space. He knows that there is animosity between them; the mumbled declarations of trust are more concerning than flattering.

Getting Drake to the room Reid had given him for his investigations, Jackson unceremoniously dumps Drake on the table before starting to gather what he needs. "How are you doing?" He asks as he works, keeping the Sergeant talking more than anything else.

Drake struggles to draw breath, one side of his chest a lead weight.

He coughs weakly, bringing his hand up like the gentleman he's never been. It's spattered with blood.

"Consumption..." he murmurs to himself, frightened beyond belief. He doesn't want to die like this.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," Jackson rolls his eyes, splashing ether over a hankerchief once he's sure he has everything else he needs at his disposal. He can't have the Sergeant playing nurse, tonight.

"Breathe this," he demands, pressing the hankerchief to Drake's face before he has chance to protest.

The fumes are intense, and Drake coughs as he inhales.

The blackness comes on swiftly now and he just has time to grasp at Jackson's shirt as he fades.

"Trust you..." he mutters, then he sleeps.

Jackson is as quick as he can be with the tools that he has, cursing the lack of light, the lack of assistance, the lack of suitable surgical equipment. Cursing everything. He's aware, dimly, at some point, that he's attracting an audience, but he doesn't let it distract him from the task at hand. Let them watch, let them see what their Yankee doctor can do under pressure.

By the time he's done, he's aching and tired, sweat beading his brow. But the wound is fixed, and Drake lies sleeping on the dead room table. Jackson turns to clean his equipment - and himself - with more than a little satisfaction at a job well done.

The first thing he knows is that it hurts to breathe.

But Drake has always fought things which hurt him, so he breathes in slowly and deeply.

Then something in his side catches and he coughs, opening up a whole new world of pain.

Jackson's been dozing, fitfully, in his desk chair, microscopes and beakers pushed aside to give him a place to rest his head. He's wide awake, however, at the first sounds from Drake, and he's at his side at once.

"Whoa there, steady now," he places a comforting hand on the Sergeant's shoulder. "Keep things slow."

Drake focusses on Jackson's face, consciously trying to match his breaths. He takes short, halting breaths at first, the hand at his shoulder grounding him as he fights against the pain in his side.

His head is thick and musty and he feels like he's freezing, but he's in one piece. Thanks to Homer Jackson.

"Not dead then," he rasps.

"'Course you're not," Jackson shakes his head, offering a smug smile.

"You've got the best doctor in all of London town at your personal beck and call. You've got just nothing to worry about, darling."

Drake feels that he should protest the doctor calling him "darling", but he knows it would just make the infuriating man use it more.

The infuriating man to whom he owes his life.

"Feel like I've been in a prize fight."

"Kind of wish you had," Jackson answers. "You'd be healing a damn sight quicker, if nothing else. You're not going to be prize fighting, or doing much moving of any kind, for quite a while if I'm not mistaken."

Moving away, he reaches for various bottles on his work surface. "How's the pain?"

"What?"

The idea of having to lie about for days on end sounds worse than death.

Stubborn to the end, Drake rolls onto his uninjured side and heaves himself up with his right arm. Pain explodes across his left side but he will not falter, even though his sweat-slick hand threatens to slide him back into an undignified heap.

"Fine. Never better. I need to...report for duty."

"Would you like me to tie you down?" Jackson asks, completely matter-of-fact. "I'm sure there's some rope around this place somewhere. You are not to move like that, do you understand?"

Changing his mind about making a draught for the pain, he reaches again for the ether. It seems that Drake will be one of those patients; annoying unless sedated.

As if suspecting Jackson's motives, Drake raises his left arm and points an accusing finger at his doctor.

"You knock me out again and I'll swing for yer. Cutting up me innards is one thing, but I'm not lying about here 'til Christmas."

"Then you can lie still until you start to heal," Jackson shoots back, his hand moving away from the ether all the same.

"Though you're not staying there for the next week. The Inspector will have to give up the use of his bed."

Drake's not sure he wants to be the talk of the station, but it's that or his pathetic upstairs room and his fussing landlady.

"It's a bit sore," he admits, which is as close as he'll come to saying he's in agony.

"Now that, I can help with," Jackson returns to his initial plan, locating a bottle of laudanum and passing it over.

"Go steady with that. It's strong."

Drake sips it cautiously. He drank all manner of foul spirits in the Army, most of it moonshine made on the march, but he knows laudanum can knock a man out as sure as ether.

He passes the bottle back but refuses to lie down. Drake plans to be up and working tomorrow, even if it kills him. Lord knows what the Inspector would do without him.

"Better?"

Jackson's hand hovers near the precious bottle, carefully watching how much Drake's putting away. The stuff is not cheap to come by.

Drake nods, as the liquid burns its way down. He shivers and sets the bottle down, swiping a hand over his forehead.

"Bloody freezing."

Reid's bed is ready and waiting, prepared in advance, so all Jackson has left to do is get the Sergeant to it.

"All the laudanum in the world's not going to make this painless, I'm afraid," he says in way of an apology, before starting to help the man to his feet.

The laudanum is already dulling his nerves and senses, but nothing prepares him for the wrenching in his side and the sickening feeling from a broken bone pulling apart. Drake chokes and grasps at Jackson's shoulder, before a painful bout of coughing starts up.

"Maybe...a couple o'days rest," he concedes, alarmed at how his words are slurring.

"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.

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

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