Ripper Street/Hung out to dry

[thirstforvice]

The day after Jackson pulled Drake from the boxing rings, neither of them go into the shop. Drake's too hurt to work, but the Captain knows he'd still try unless physically restrained. So that's what he does, keeping his lover as good as a prisoner in their own room. The day after that, he relents and they return to work together.

For a couple of days, all is fine, their arguings forgotten. They travel together both to and from Leman Street, taking advantage of the currently quiet calm of Whitechapel to stroll through the busy main streets, enjoying the market stalls and street acts. Of course, calms tend to come before storms, and after their few days of bliss, crime levels return to normal, and Jackson finds himself working in his dead room into the evening, with Drake headed home long since.

He makes his own way home long after the sun has set. Wanting to be in the warmth and comfort of Bennet's arms as soon as possible, he takes the quickest way home possible, cutting through the back alleys rather than walking the main streets. They're not always the safest of places, but he's well known in most of the local establishments and, as far as he's aware, no one (currently) bears him any grudges.

That's why he's taken so very much by surprise when the gaggle of men appear across his path, effectively blocking his path. At first, he assumes they must be waiting somebody behind him, but when he turns he finds himself quite alone, more men cutting off any hope of escape from behind. In the dim light, he notices a flash of colour on the breasts of his aggressors, and he remembers the boy who'd killed the toyseller, back when he'd first started working with Reid and Drake on a full time basis.

"I don't know what quarrel you good folks have with me," he tries his best to be friendly, hands raised high in submission. He does not see any reason for the Vigilance Men to target him, he's nothing but a good citizen (in public). "Perhaps you could explain."

"It's a sin, what you do," one of the men responds, bulkier than the others, clearly the ringleader. "These streets have sin enough without your sort adding to it."

"My sort?" Jackson drops his hands, defensive, not sure what these men mean but sure that he doesn't like it. "Y'know I'm far from the only Yankee walkin' these streets."

"We ain't talkin' about that," Ringleader spits. "We know what you get up to with that Sergeant. It's ungodly. It don't belong here. Not in London."

Jackson's blood runs cold. He doesn't know how these men know about his relationship with Drake, but he knows that they're serious. And that not only is he in danger, but Drake too. Maybe there's already another mob out after him, if they haven't found him already. Is he already too late?

He's one against ten, at least, and not made for fighting. He has his revolver, but he'd only manage to take down one or two before the others were on him. His only hope is in speed, reflexes. He'd survived many a beating back at Tenter Street thanks to those abilities. Slowly, he moves as if to raise his hands again, looking to submit, before at the last moment kicking his heels into the dirt and running full tilt for a gap between two mob members, hoping to break past and out into the main streets.

His ploy doesn't work, and next thing he knows he's on his back, heavy fists and heavier boots smashing into any and every body part they can find. He knows they mean to kill, and so only one solution now presents itself to him. Curling up as tight as he can manage, he forces himself to fall completely still, relaxing his muscles against the onslaught. It's agony like he's never experienced, but after a moment or two the battering stops. He hears the voices, discussing whether or not he's dead. One steel-capped boot finds his spine with a particularly hefty kick, and he bites hard on his lip to keep silent and limp. It does the trick, and after a few seconds the footsteps and voices start to retreat.

Jackson waits until he's sure they've gone, before slowly uncurling his broken body. Everything screams at him, and he knows a good many bones must be broken. But he cannot think on that now. He has to get to Drake, before the same happens to him. Or worse. Drake wouldn't think to play dead. He'd try and fight back.

He doesn't know how he makes it back home. He doesn't walk, he knows that, must have dragged himself along the ground. But then the door is there, and he manages to knock on it before the darkness takes him.

Comments

[thirstforvice]

"Fuck off," Jackson complains, forcing his body into a more upright position. The pain turns him pale as a ghost, but he manages to sit up enough to be able to see Drake in the next bed.

"Tell me what's wrong with him."

[thegentlemanthug]

Drake immediately tries to reach for him - to force him down to the bed where he belongs - but Mr Treves has a firm hold of his head and is not letting go. "Try that again, Sergeant, and I will restrain you."

Treves realises he will have to deal with the American after all. "There is extensive swelling of the laryngeal tissues and I am attempting to ascertain if his spine is broken. And he suffers the same litany of injuries that you yourself bear, Captain."

[thirstforvice]

"Well, can he move his toes, his fingers?" Jackson reaches for his pockets with clumsy hands, looking for cigarette case and matches, finding neither.

[thegentlemanthug]

Before Treves can respond, Drake obligingly wiggles his broken fingers and flexes his ankles, his toes scrunching unseen inside his boots.

"Evidently," the surgeon says, dryly.

[thirstforvice]

"They hung him over the sign," Jackson continues, feeling strangely detached from the emotion of the event as he slips back into his work role.

"You ain't gonna drop anyone from so precarious a perch. Only way you'd do that is to string him up, and that ain't gonna break anything. Not enough force."

[thegentlemanthug]

Drake is relieved to hear it, eyes straining to see his lover, check he's not dying on him.

"Any other pointers, Captain?"

[thirstforvice]

"I'd double check for broken bones," Jackson replies haughtily.

"You've missed my wrist. God knows what else you've failed to set."

[thegentlemanthug]

Treves shoots Jackson a withering look.

"I was seeing to your colleague's more pressing injury, Captain. If you would but lie still, I will have your wrist set directly. Keep on in this vein, however, and you may find your jaw wired shut instead."

[thirstforvice]

Jackson scowls at the other doctor for that remark, resenting him all the more for the fact that he is keeping him from his own duty to Drake. It feels like a violation, to have someone else tend to him.

"I do not need to be still," he complains, and rashly tries to remove himself from the bed. His right leg, however, has other ideas, sending agony screaming through him when he tries to move it. The pain is enough to silence even Homer Jackson.

[thegentlemanthug]

With a quick jerk of his head, two orderlies are dispatched to stop Captain Jackson going himself further injury. The bottle of laudanum is offered soon after, and Treves hopes the man knocks himself out with it.

"If you wish to remain in the same room as your friend, you will be still and quiet while I work."

[thirstforvice]

Jackson takes great offence to being manhandled back down into his bed, though he doesn't try to fight back. For a start, it hurts too much, and he knows he'd never win anyway.

He reaches for the bottle of laudanum without thinking, the bottle at his lips before he catches himself. He won't do that, not now, not with Drake lying right next to him. With considerable effort, he pushes the bottle away.

[thegentlemanthug]

Treves ignores Jackson, attempting to work out the best way to treat the patient in front of him.

"This will not do," he mutters to himself. "The swelling may yet worsen."

Drake does not like the sound of that.

[thirstforvice]

"What's wrong?" Jackson demands at once, forcing his broken body upright once more. If there are problems, he will not be allowing this quack to take charge. Not when he is alive and capable.

[thegentlemanthug]

"I am trying to save your friend's life!" Treves snaps, temper finally at an end.

"Lie down or I will remove you!"

[thirstforvice]

"What right have you over me?" Jackson demands, equally angry.

"You're not the only doctor in this room. Don't think you know so much better than me just 'cause you wear a hoity-toity suit and have a poker up your ass."

[thegentlemanthug]

Drake makes a small noise that tears at his damaged throat but has the desired effect of making everyone shut up.

For a moment.

"We must use leeches." Treves said, confidently. "It is the only way forward."

[thirstforvice]

"Is that meant to be a joke?" Jackson fights against his own agonies to sit up straight, getting a good look at his lover and his swollen throat.

"He needs ice. And for God's sake, he needs to be sat upright."

[thegentlemanthug]

Treves hesitates, then shakes his head. "Matron, fetch the leeches. And you orderlies, you must remove this man to another wing." His voice drops to a disgruntled mutter. "Or preferably another hospital."

But Drake has heard his instruction and, without warning, lurches upright with Treves still ineffectually clinging to his neck. His ribs and kidneys and stomach all protest, but he always follows his doctor's orders.

[thirstforvice]

"If you remove me," Jackson has seen what Drake is up to, and cannot help but grin.

"Then you will have to remove Sergeant Drake, too. He is under my care, as you have most likely noted."

[thegentlemanthug]

Seeing the futility of his actions, Treves releases Drake's neck and glares daggers as Jackson.

"I should like to see you tend him in your present state," he snipes.

[thirstforvice]

What Treves does not know is the depth of Jackson's feelings for his Bennet. He could not possibly realise that he would, honestly, tend him in his present state if that is what's required of him.

How he will make it to Drake's bedside, he is not sure, but he is determined as yet again he tries to force his body from its bed.

[thegentlemanthug]

Seeing that the American is determined in his folly, Treves waves to one of the orderlies. "Find the fool a pair of crutches, at least."

Drake slowly shuffles round so he's sat on the edge of the bed, his breathing coming in short gasps as he tries to catch Homer's eye. He wants him to rest, not run about on his account.

[thirstforvice]

"Lie down, Bennet," Jackson shakes his head, not expecting his lover to come to him. He is worse off, after all.

Tentatively, he presses his weight forward onto his feet, and at once utter agony shoots up his broken leg. There is no way it will bear any weight. And, with a broken wrist as well, crutches are not going to make life much easier. But there is a chair, just close enough for him to hook with his good foot and pull closer. With a deep breath, he lets himself fall onto it before he can talk himself out of it.

The pain, for a moment, makes him feel faint. But it passes, and he has succeeded in transferring himself off of his bed. From there, it's a simple matter of using his good leg to push himself closer to Drake's bed.

Genius, if he does say so himself.

[thegentlemanthug]

Drake does not lie down, keeping his eyes on his lover's progress with concern.

But now his breathing's easier, he's not lying back down, doctor's orders or no.

[thirstforvice]

Paler than Drake's sheets by the time Jackson makes it his lover's side, still he gives him a grin of triumph. Every defiance of Treves feels like a personal victory to him.

"Sit back around, at least," he gripes when he makes it Bennet's side, trying to help, one-handed, to get Drake's legs back up onto the bed. "No need for us both to be out of our beds."