Title: The Fear
Rating: T (may change)
Summary: Death was always a part of their life. Those who lay upon the metal table, cold and empty, had a story to tell. One that they were going to tell.
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters of Ripper Street. All OC's are mine.

Chapter One

The moment Harriet Blackwell walked through the doors of Whitechapel H Division all eyes had turned towards her, the slivers of conversations all but disappeared. Officers dressed in smart black uniforms turned their attention towards the auburn haired woman, as well as those confined within the cells. The clamour in the station seemed to disappear into nothing as Harriet walked towards the desk, her shoes slapping loudly against the stone floor.

She reached the desk, placed her doctor bag upon the floor closely to her. A sweet smile etched across her lips as she acknowledged the ginger haired man. The man, noticing that his colleagues' attention wasn't upon their l work, clicked his fingers harshly and glanced around at the quietened room before his eyes landed on the youngish woman standing in front of him in fine clothing.

"Yes, ma'am?" He asked, confidently. It wasn't every day in which he was graced with the presence of a woman of high class, especially one who was dressed in such elegant attire.

"I have an appointment with Detective Inspector Reid," She said, her voice husky. "It's regarding a case I believe his team are working on."

"Can I take your name?"

She nodded. "It's Harriet Blackwell."

The man, also known to his colleagues as Sergeant Donald Artherton, looked through the large book of inventory and signatures. He scanned through the names before furrowing his eyebrow in confusion.

"I do apologise but your name is not on the list of visitors in which Detective Inspector Reid is expecting today," he said, quickly. "However, I can check with him personally. He's just in his office."

"That would be perfect," Harriet said. "Thank you."

Harriet watched him pull the hatch up and make his way in the direction of where Reid's office was situated. She picked up her doctor bag and held it closely to her, her eyes glancing at all the sights and sounds Whitechapel had to offer her. She had heard stories from her father about Whitechapel going under regarding the loss of control in which the Division was experiencing, and when she had told her father that she would be going to assist on a case at Whitechapel, the drop in his expression was one that she would never forget. She glanced towards the open corridor where the man had gone, and craned her neck to see if anyone was coming. Unfortunately, her patience was getting the better of her and she had to fight the urge to follow the man.

She could hear chatter coming from a room just off to the left of the corridor. A thick American accent filled her ears before four men, including the kind receptionist, exited the room and advanced towards her. She took note of the big burly man who took the lead: his hat in his hands, his suit a little uneven and his tired eyes masking the pain of something unknown. The second man: a dark auburn haired man with a goatee to match was walking just a little behind him, who, like the first man, seemed a little lost. The third man walked behind the two of them and Harriet could see that he liked colours due to his colourful attire: his hair was slicked back and hidden underneath a hat. Smoke was billowing from his mouth and he puffed on a cigarette. The men reached her, and she coughed a little as the smoke filled her senses.

"Hello, Doctor Blackwell," The first man spoke, his voice soft yet stern. "It is a pleasure to be in your company."

He offered his hand and she took it, shaking it gently. He motioned towards the two men. "This is Detective Sergeant Bennet Drake, and this is Captain Homer Jackson."

The two men took their hats off to her, though the latter placed his back onto his head as soon as the introductions were over. Harriet watched him for a moment, before turning her attention towards Reid.

"How was your journey? I do hope it was faultless."

"It was, sir." Harriet spoke.

Reid seemed to notice that the people standing within the main reception appeared to have had their attention captured by the young woman. He motioned for her to follow him, and she quickly slipped into the middle of the three men. Reid pushed open the door to his office and allowed her entry to his tomb, before following after her and walking towards his desk where he waited for her to sit. When she did, he sat.

Homer sat upon the bookshelf behind him as Bennet closed the door.

"I called for you to join us as we need your expertise with a case we are currently working on," Reid began. "It involves a young girl who looks as if she has been-"

"You do not have to continue," Harriet interrupted. "I understand."

Reid nodded swiftly, and glanced at his two male colleagues who shared a look. He ignored it, and pulled open his drawer where the pictures of the deceased woman were. He handed them to her and she scanned through them. The girl was young, probably between the ages of twenty and twenty three.

"I hope I don't come across as rude, but I do believe you employed me to look after the deceased and give you the information regarding their deaths," Homer Jackson piped up.

Reid nodded. "I do, Jackson. It is clear to me that Ms Blackwell has clear understanding with cases like this one. I do, however, appreciate your work."

Homer rolled his eyes at Reid's comment and continued puffing on his cigarette.

Harriet stood up from her chair, sat her doctor's bag upon the floor, and walked towards the pictures of the Ripper victims. She studied the photos intensely until her eyes became blurred. She had seen these photos every day since the last victim was named and buried, and every day the pictures haunted her. She had seen them enough to last her a lifetime and yet, every time she would look at them, she would find something new or something she hadn't noticed before, like a birth mark or the painful look on the victims faces.

"May I take a look at the victim?" She asked, her eyes darting between the men. Her eyes landed on Homer, who narrowed his eyes at her before he tipped his head in a curt nod and stood up.

"I hope you've got your sick bag, lady."

The victim was April Evans, aged twenty two who lived ten minutes away in what could only be described as a slum. Little was known about the victim other than her parents had died when she was young and she was left in charge of taking care of her younger siblings. Her body, despite the rigor mortis, gave Harriet many answers to her questions the minute she laid her eyes upon her corpse.

"Do you have a precise time of death?" Harriet asked, glancing at Homer who was located not that far away from the body.

"I would say, roughly, about thirteen hours ago."

Harriet looked at the body again, as if attempting to confirm the man's estimation. She bit her lip and walked around the table. She touched the woman's forehead and pressed. The scalp was soft, which indicated that the victim was killed just under the twenty four hour mark.

"Try twenty three hours," Harriet said. "Feel her scalp."

Homer stubbed out his cigarette just as it began to burn his fingers, and felt the scalp of the deceased woman. The scalp was soft to touch but had a slight crunch to it.

"Her skulls broken," he said, to which Harriet nodded.

"If we go into the skull, the brain will be in the process of turning into liquid. But it seems to me that your victim was hit across the head with a sharp object."

Homer furrowed his brow, and scratched his head. He glanced at Reid who was noting down everything that was happening and being said within the room.

"Was that how she died?" Reid asked.

Homer shrugged, unsure at this stage. "She has lacerations upon her stomach, thighs, breasts and genitals. She could've been tortured before succumbing to her injuries. If she was hit across the head and taken somewhere where she experienced this torture, then perhaps. These lacerations wouldn't have killed her."

Harriet shook her head. "The wounds are not as deep to kill her. They would cause a great deal of pain but it would not be enough to kill her. The only thing that seems to be different from the Ripper victims is the fact that this woman has not had her throat cut. There's a wound close to her throat but that is it."

"Have you seen this before?" Bennet asked Harriet. The woman glanced up at the man, glanced back down to the victim, before nodding.

"Yes, unfortunately."

"The same wounds?" Reid asked.

Harriet nodded, tears stinging her eyes. "Though the blow to the head is the only difference."

Harriet quickly regained her composure before the men could see her emotions and quickly glanced at the medical records in which Homer had conducted.

"Which means that there's a murderer on the loose?" Reid asked.

Harriet glanced up, and nodded. "I do believe so."

Authors Note: Hey guys. I've just finished watching the first series of Ripper Street and I am addicted. I had this mysterious character come into my mind when I was watching it and I just had to write everything about her down, which led to about five pages of ramblings and story ideas. This will be a Jackson/OC fiction. I am so excited to share this story with you!

Let me know what you think! Reviews are welcome and appreciated.