This is based purely upon the book and movie Mary Reilly. The characters of Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde, Mary and the Doctor's staff do not belong to me.

If you haven't seen it, see it!

What prompted me to write this was that there seemed to be so much more left to learn about Mary...what did she do after leaving the household of the deceased Dr. Jekyll? And what conclusions were drawn about his death? And can evil able to free itself from another truly every die? Which is stronger?

I hope you all enjoy this.

Much thanks to my beta Musique et Amour!

I told myself I wouldn't be afraid. That I wouldn't care what others thought of me. It wasn't true.

Maybe it was true that night that the Doctor died in my arms.

When I watched him die – God help my soul – I would have promised him anything. I would have died upon the table with him.

And when I left him there, on that cold slab, his face, their face, frozen forever in the last breath taken...I had felt that I was dead. That I had felt too much, and I couldn't live, knowing the things that I knew.

But I did...

I still dream about him...and in my dreams, I don't see his face.

I see...his.

God in Heaven...when will it end?

The fog rolling into the streets signaled the start of another morning, and I had already been out of my bed for sometime. I was usually up by five, but in my new place it was customary for the staff to be out of their beds and performing their duties by four. Sir Anthony Clive was a young gentleman on the Board of Governors and the heir of his father, a House of Lord's man with two generous town houses in London and one in Somerset. Sir Clive hoped to ascend to Parliament and serve directly to His Majesty, but I found it unlikely. He was far too much of a wastrel for that.

We were required to be up by four because of that very reason. Around that time is when the Master would come stumbling in from a night of whoring and drinking, his breath foul and his head pounding. Mr. Davies, the butler, would have a concoction, his nightshirt, his slippers, and the news-sheets ready for him. We had to have breakfast already on the kettle and stove by the time he made his way upstairs, drank that vile tonic, bathed his face and used medical drops in his eyes, dressed for bed, and settled himself on his pillows to read the sheets.

It was a lot of ceremony for little, if I was asked. He'd nibble on the food, then have us cast it out, only wear the bedclothes for a scant hour, then have Mr. Davies pick out his suit for the morning, and because the sheets would smell like the woman, or women, he'd bedded, he'd have us change them. It was all for appearances.

His father, Lord Clive, would visit at the exact time each morning, seven on the hour, to discuss the latest news with Sir Clive, arrange some meetings for the Board, and to insure that his son was not wasting his name, his blood, and his money. By the time he arrived, our Master would be arranged in a morning suit, situated in his library with another breakfast he'd had us prepare even though he'd just thrown out the meal he'd been too head-sick to eat, with the knowledge of the morning news set firmly in his mind.

During those 'conferences' in his study, I would be in his chamber, hurrying to have the new sheets and linens spread out upon his bed, a warm fire made up, and a full decanter of brandy set upon his night stand. For as soon as those meetings were over with, he'd drag himself back up the stairs, change into fresh bedclothes, and fall into bed with a tumbler of spirits and a gossip sheet, then sleep for the rest of the afternoon, until Mr. Davies had to pound upon his door and wake him for his appointments with the Board. Luncheon and tea would follow. Then cleaning the house and tending of the gardens for me while he was gone...then the supper, then getting him ready for another evening of debauchery. And the same pattern the next day and the day after that.

It was enough to leave me exhausted at the end of the day, my body sore and aching, my mind numb and sluggish.

But I welcomed that. If I was numb, if I couldn't think...then I couldn't think of...them.

But this morning, things were different. Sir Clive had not gone out the night before. Rather he had traveled to Somerset for two days to see his sister and her husband and the new child that had been born a fortnight ago. His father had traveled with him and the Master had plans to look at some property in the country for maybe a country home.

It was a secret hope of mine that he'd pick me to be on the staff. I wanted out of London...Every street corner was a memory, every hollow echoing cry in the night a reminder of the screams that used to wake me up, shuddering, in the pre-dawn hours...

Even though he was gone, Mr. Davies was as unerringly punctual and precise as Mr. Poole had been. The staff rose as usual and began their duties at four.

I was outside upon the front stoop, scrubbing off the dirt, grime, and oil from the pavement, the wrought iron railing the next item to be oiled up and shone.

As I rose, wiping the soap and dirt from my reddened hands onto the two layer apron I wore over my skirts, and bent to retrieve the canister of black wax and brush, a slight tapping sound down the street caught my attention.

I straightened, my brow furrowing and stepped off the stoop to look down the streets both ways. The only thing that greeted me was a small dog, sniffing along the gutters, its tiny, ragged tail wagging at the sight of me. The scruffy mutt trotted over and sat at my feet, its head tilting, one and a half ears perking in an adorable gesture.

I wasn't one for animals...truth be known the smaller ones scared me more than the bigger ones, but I knelt as it was and reached out one hand, scratching along the matted little head and behind his ears. Eyes sinking closed in canine bliss, it nudged into my hand for more and with a soft laugh, I gave it to him.

"You're a tiny one to be out by yourself."

Pink tongue lolled out in a distinct smile and I gave him a slight one of my own.

Setting down the brush and wax, I reached out to rub at both ears, the little dog's obvious happiness in my touches making me feel a bit lighter myself, but without warning, the fur under my hands rose in sharp, matted spikes. With a tremble, the tiny creature whimpered piteously and leapt from under my hands, taking off at a rapid clip, little claws chattering down the cobbles stones as it ran as if it's very life depended upon it.

What got into him? Shaking my head, I rose back up and reached for the wax and brush.

I felt eyes upon me.

Whirling, I looked up and down the silent, empty street again, the dawn just barely penetrating the thick fog. A pounding had set itself up, intense and heavy in my ears. With dismay I realized it was my own heart.

A familiar cool blanket of dread settled itself over me and coiled into my belly. My hand strayed there and pressed through the thickness of my apron, my skirts, and the unmentionables underneath. Lifting a shaking hand to tuck some loose strands of pale copper underneath my mob cap, my eyes searched for the sign of anyone... any thing, but there was nothing. Only the fog and the lonesome cry of a train in the distance.

A cold breeze cut through the thickness of my garments and I shivered.

You're being foolish, Mary. He's dead...he can't find you now...

As always, pain and regret followed that relief, and closing my eyes my eyes on a shudder, I turned away and picked up the items, then moved stiffly over to the railing, feeling far older than my twenty five years.

If I had begun scrubbing, I wouldn't even have heard it.

"Mary Reilly..."