Title: The Rip
Author: Fallenbelle
Rating: T for Suggestive Adult Themes
Characters: The entire core MM gang: William Murdoch, Julia Ogden, George Crabtree, Thomas Brackenreid, and Emily Grace. Special visits by Margaret Brackenreid, Henry Higgins, Edna Garrison Brooks, Simon Brooks, Lillian Moss, and Jackson. Who knows who else might make an appearance before this is over? ;)
Genre: Drama/Romance
Summary: His gut instinct told him that all was not as it appeared.
Spoilers: Everything in season 8 is fair game. Do NOT read if you don't want to be spoiled for 818, The Artful Detective. Major spoilers from that episode.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters-just having fun, and promise to put them back when I'm done. I'm making no money.
Notes: Title comes from the song of the same name by Portishead-who prove an excellent soundtrack to which one can write MM fic. Thanks to I'dBeDelighted for taking a look at this, and making a few suggestions, but this fic is unbeta'd and all mistakes remain mine alone. This story, while based on the events of 818-The Artful Detective, is pure speculation based on intuition, imagination, and interview with Peter Mitchell about what happen next season. Any similarities are entirely coincidental. I'm trying something new with this fic, and I suppose you'll let me know if it's worth continuing
George Crabtree sat alone in his cell, with only his thoughts for company. His friends were no more, and he figured that everyone else from the station house was too upset and shocked to see him at the present time, which suited him fine.
Besides, he couldn't bear to see to the combination of pity, disappointment, and shock in the other men's eyes. He was supposed to be affable George, the one you could count on for a supporting hand as well as a laugh to lighten the dark mood. He knew his role, and usually he performed it with aplomb, but not today or ever again for that matter. He was a dead man walking.
The looks of shock and disappointment in the Inspector's eyes had stung, but that had only been a fraction of the pain he felt when he saw the hurt, devastation and betrayal in Detective Murdoch's eyes; despondency writ across his face clearly. It made him feel guilty for this ruse, and he was sorry for the pain he had inflicted upon his old friend. But, it was his duty to protect Edna and Simon, and if this was what was necessary, then he accepted his responsibility without complaint. This was what men did, and he was no longer a boy.
Plus, the solitude gave him time to think about Edna and Simon. Were they safely ensconced where no one would find them as he had told them? Would they remain hidden when Edna realized that George would not be coming as he said he would? Would she figure out that he had instead opted to take the blame for her or Simon, and would she just accept it quietly and seize the second chance at life?
George prayed that she would. He was just sorry that he never had the chance to become a husband or a father, something he had always looked forward to. He thought that he would have been very good at those roles, but he knew that these things were simply not meant to be, and he unflinchingly accepted it, like a man should. Or so he tried, and he hoped he was successful.
However, he could still defend and protect Edna and Simon, something else a man should do, something that Archibald Brooks had never done. He understood why Detective Murdoch had been willing to lay down his life for Dr. Ogden, why he'd willingly suffered as he did. He did it for her, to keep her safe and make her happy-even at his own personal, painful expense. Previously, he'd thought their story tragic, but now he understood exactly why the Detective had made the decisions he'd made: love and honor.
There had been so much he'd hoped to accomplish with his life, so much he still wanted to do, but if there was anything he'd learned from working with William Murdoch after all these years, it was that maintaining your word and protecting those you loved from harm were the ultimate duties you could undertake as a man.
Such was this cruel life. In the end, he stood alone, having been abandoned by all those he'd ever loved, but perhaps facing it alone made the whole burden easier to endure. Or so he consoled himself as a lone tear streaked down his cheek.
It was late when Thomas Brackenreid staggered up his front steps and opened up the front door, immediately being greeted by Margaret. Before she could begin to harangue him about his late arrival, he put his hand up, stopping her before she could begin.
"Not tonight, Margaret. All right?" he patiently said as he put his hand up, but wordlessly letting her know that while he typically enjoyed their usual theatrics about his late return, tonight was not the night for it as he walked over and poured a large scotch before sitting on the couch and removing his jacket, cravat and unbuttoning his waistcoat.
Knowing her husband as she did, and sensing something was seriously wrong, she didn't say anything about his large drink or his strange behavior, but just sat next to him, hand on his knee.
After several minutes, she braved the question she'd wanted to ask. "What happened, Thomas? Did someone die?"
Taking a liberal sip of his drink, he shook his head. "Worse," he replied.
Margaret laid her head on his shoulder and ran her fingers through his hair, hoping to soothe his agitated state somehow.
Lillian had held her for several minutes, and silently stroked her hair while they sat there in companionable silence. Their argument about whether or not Emily should accompany her to London temporarily forgotten. But Emily knew her ladyfriend was persistent, and after several minutes of comforting her, Lillian broached the topic again.
"Emily about earlier, I'm hoping that in light of recent events you've reconsidered. Perhaps now you'll consider coming to London with me and actually doing something for the cause instead of remaining here, and that you'll…" Lillian began before Emily cut her off.
"Lillian, not now, all right? I know George Crabtree is just another man and symbol of patriarchal repression to you, but he's none of that to me, Lillian-he's so much better than the caricature you imagine in your mind. He was once my beau, and while things may not have worked out between us-largely because I let him down- he deserves my support and friendship and I'm going to give it to him as I know without a doubt that if the situations were reversed, he'd be doing the same for me. He's a good man, Lillian, not all men are evil-please understand that!" Emily interrupted.
"Well, seeing as you are not in the mood for my companionship or discussion tonight, perhaps I'll leave," Lillian replied.
"Lillian, I may not be in the mood for discussion of weightier topics this evening, but I most definitely need your companionship tonight. I don't want to be alone."
Hearing this, Lillian softened, and gathered Emily's coat and hat. "Let's go home, Emily, and have a nice strong drink, shall we?"
"Thank you for understanding, Lillian."
As William walked into the suite, coat draped over his arm, Julia immediately came to him, and after seeing the look of desolation on his face, immediately took him into her arms for a comforting embrace. Returning the gesture, he wrapped his arms around her, laying his head against hers for a few brief moments before burying his face in her neck, breathing in her scent and enjoying her warmth. They stood there holding one another for several long minutes before Julia kissed his temple and pulled back.
"Let me draw you a hot bath and have some food sent up."
"No. I'm not hungry…for food, Julia. The bath can wait until later," he stated, hoping she'd catch his meaning.
Nodding, she pulled her hairpins out and laid them onto the table, her hair tumbling down past her shoulders before untucking her blouse from her skirt and unbuttoning it.
Not particularly in the mood for niceties or even his customary romance for that matter, he grabbed her by the hips and lifted her onto the side table, unbuttoning the rest of her blouse with such force and speed, Julia was surprised that he didn't rip the buttons off in the process. Blouse quickly divested, he flung up her skirts and stepped between her legs, where she made quick work of his jacket and vest-pulling his suspenders down with them while he unbuttoned his trousers where they slid to the floor, pooling at his feet.
Sensing his current state of mind and knowing that it matched her own, she fully gave herself over to him-knowing full well what they both needed right now.
"William, please…I'm not a China doll, I won't break. Don't be soft or gentle with me tonight," she implored him.
"I wasn't planning on it," he answered, wrapping her hair around his hand and pulling her head back with it, fully exposing her neck to his teeth and lips.
Julia groaned in anticipation.
It was late-past midnight., to be exact, and Edna was starting to become worried-George should have been here by now. A couple of days ago he had said he had a couple of matters and some business to handle, and he would join them shortly as soon as he could. Not for the first time in the past couple of days, she had the sneaking suspicion that she was not in possession of the full picture of events.
She glanced at Simon, who was staring out the window of the small cottage George had rented for them. Turning to her he asked, "Something's happened to George, hasn't it?"
What did Simon know? What wasn't she being told? Taking a deep breath, she fought the urge to cry. She'd always strived to be a good person and help others, yet none of that seemed to matter as it hadn't prevented her entire world from crashing down around her through no fault of her own, forcing her to play the victim in a series of unfortunate events.
Considerably later, Thomas Brackenreid lay sprawled across his bed, Margaret draped over him, wearing only the locket he'd given her on the birth of their first child and wedding ring as their clothes were strewn about the room. For all the times he and his wife argued, disagreed, and bitterly fought, it was moments like this, when he held her in his arms and thought of the fiery moment they had just shared that reminded him why he had married her.
She'd always loved that he was full of piss and vinegar; he'd always loved her tart tongue and her refusal to be afraid of him; to stand up to him regardless of how much he shouted. Because even for all of his bluster and thunder, he'd never wanted a woman who would cower in front of him-he'd wanted a woman who would give him as good as he gave, and he'd found that in Margaret.
Because as much as they loved a good fight (and loved making up afterwards even more), they both knew when not to 'poke the bear' as it were, and accept one another at face value. However, in spite of all of her quiet acceptance and patience, he knew she was most anxiously waiting for an explanation, and knew she would be devastated to learn of George's fate. Hell, he wasn't looking forward to breaking the news to the boys either for that matter. But, his lady deserved the truth, and turning towards her, he took her hands in his and began, hoping that he'd relay the details without breaking down himself.
As he reclined in the bathtub, he held Julia in his arms, her face turned into his chest as her head lay directly over his heart (her favorite place to be, he'd noticed). Absentmindedly, she lightly traced the scratches along his torso while placing butterfly kisses amidst some of the deeper wounds-not including the scratches that still stung and undoubtedly covered his back. He hoped she felt no guilt at the marks she'd inflicted upon him just now, because he certainly didn't feel any regret or remorse at the teeth marks and love bites along her neck, chest, and torso. Instead, he felt pride at having been the one to make them as well as reflect upon the moments of passion in which they'd been inflicted.
As loathe as he was to get out, the water was rapidly cooling, and besides, William was desperate to show his wife that for all of the raw and primal lust he'd just shown her, he was still capable of being tender and gentle. He wanted to take his wife to bed and show her how reverential he could still be with her.
Besides, being with Julia forced his mind to think only about her, and wouldn't allow him to think about what had happened with George, or how all was not as it appeared with his old friend. Something seemed off to him, but he suppressed these thoughts and coaxed his bride out of the bath before picking her up and carrying her to bed. Tonight, he only wanted to love Julia to the point of exhaustion and tomorrow he would begin a discreet investigation of the case involving his friend.
As his mother used to say, tomorrow was another day, as he proceeded to cover their still damp and rapidly cooling bodies with the blanket before covering Julia's torso with kisses.