DISCLAIMER.
I DO NOT OWN THE CHARACTERS USED HERE. FROM HELL AND IT'S SCREEN STORY ARE THE PROPERTY OF TWENTIETH CENTURY FOX. SLEEPY HOLLOW AND IT'S SCREEN STORY ARE THE PROPERTY OF PARAMOUNT PICTURES. NONE OF THE CHARACTERS ARE MY OWN AND I USE THEM ONLY FOR NON-PROFT FICTION.
I don't know the movie 'From Hell' like the back of my hand, so do forgive me if my knowledge is a little off. Other then that, I hope you enjoy the read.
These sable streets.
The pitch black streets were only suggested by the dim lampost lights. Despite the dark, the night was young. The winter bringing on the days early retire. Lingering in a discreet alleyway, was a coach. The horses patient. Watching, waiting.
'Enjoy th' change, ye' filthy harlot.' An aging, brutish man sneered, dropping a not-so generous handful of coins onto the cobbled road with a satisfied smirk on his face. The woman before him adjusted herself to cover her modesty, sweeping her mattered hair from her damp face. The man took a moment to savour her haste, then turned to walk away. His needs met.
The bangtail quickly forgot him, dropping to her knees and scrabbling at the dark road for her reward.
'Generous of ye',' She muttered sarcastically, tucking the few coins into the front of her worn dress. 'Twat.'
A shadow slowly cast itself over her form, making her halt in her actions and slowly look up. Before her, was a dark-cloaked gentleman with a gentle smile.
'Hello, miss.' He offered. The woman looked at him skeptically.
'Ain't in no mood for more sods t'night.' She mumbled, though loud enough to hear as she slowly stood, dusting herself down. The gentleman shook his head, maintaining the smile.
'No, miss. I was sent for you.'
'What did I just say? Aint in the mood.' Her tone becomming irritated.
The man, Netley, shifted awkwardly. His mission was to tempt her to the coach and it was proving difficult, but it must be done no matter how uncomfortable he was with it. For his gentleman's wishes. There was a pause, then his smile deepend.
'Do y'like grapes?'
A torpored state of emphathy. The stupor slowly succumbling to reality. Soundless, cold, weightless, and dark. That is until, the eyes fluttered open to only see the base of a bowl and the body registered how tight the chest was, aching for air.
With an almighty pull, the head was lifted from the water. Chest rising heavily as it inhaled.
'Nice of you to join us, Inspector Abberline.' Godley said with heavy sarcasm, standing beside him. 'Was starting to think I'd have to leave a note.'
Abberline grunted, unamused as he reached for the ready cloth and wiped at his sodden hair and brow. His state disturbed.
'Came to tell you that theres been another murder.' The sargeant said promptly. The Inspector before him slowly lowering the now-damp cloth from his brow.
'Th' Ripper?'
'Hit the nail on the head,' Godley nodded, producing a thick pile of paper work and placing it down infront of Abberline, beside the bowl. 'The Governors reckon you need a little assistance.'
Abberline sank into the chair behind him, ignoring the paperwork. 'And what kind of assistance d'they 'ave in mind then?'
'They're having someone brought over from New York, reckon he's what you need.' The man stepped forward, glancing away. 'Apparently he managed to solve a murder case in some village in Westchester County.'
'That right?' Abberline replied bluntly, somewhat uninterested as he leaned forward to flick through the pile of paper. Notes of how things were not progressing, how people were still dying, and how the Ripper was still at large. The next page, details on the person they were having brought over. His occupation, position. He let the paper fall from his fingers, releasing an aggrivated sigh as he leaned back in the chair.
'Just what we need. Another fuckin', head up 'is own arse constable.' He muttered, glaring up at the ceiling.
'Ah, let's not be quick to judge, Inspector.' Godley suggested, beginning to near out of the doorway and let him alone. 'He may be just what you need.'
This fic is for Randi.
