SAVING MISS SYBIL

So this was something I had randomly come up with on tumblr, and thanks to a few of my followers…I'm looking at you Yankeecountess, Broadwaybaggins, Shana-rosee, Cassiemortmain and Darlingsybil I've decided to take a shot at actually writing this story. I don't know anything about the UK's police system and homicide investigations so I apologise in advance if I make any blunders.

"Branson we've got another one!" Chief Inspector Charles, "Charlie", Carson bellowed in his baritone voice as he stormed across the room in a few long strides.

Detective constable Tom Branson jumped out of his chair and quickly snatched the piece of paper out of the Chief Inspector's hand, the address of the latest attack scribbled out in what Tom could only describe as chicken scratching. "Whitechapel," Tom uttered; quickly looking up at Carson for confirmation that he had in fact read the paper correctly.

Carson solemnly nodded his head at Tom, "just down the road from the Royal London Hospital…another nurse I'm afraid" the Chief Inspector explained while they both ignored the groaning sounds coming from Tom's partner Detective Constable Barrow.

"Whitechapel" Thomas Barrow cried out in disbelief, "the press is going to have a field day with this."

"Thank you for that piece of unsolicited commentary Detective Barrow" Carson barked at him with his usual 'no-non-sense' look plastered across his face.

Tom shook his head with a smirk, if looks could kill Thomas Barrow would have been dead within 72 hours of his transfer into Scotland yard. Barrow and Tom had gotten off on the wrong foot from the get go. For Tom it was the fact that Barrow was a smart-ass motor mouth, who seemed to have a comment for absolutely everything. While Thomas couldn't seem to quite get over the fact that he was being partnered up with a younger Irish man who had managed to reach the same rank in a shorter period of time.

But when you've been cornered in the back alley of an underground brothel, have two goons with .45 pistols sneering at you in triumph and no way out Barrow learnt quickly that age was no measure for wit. In one fell swoop Tom had managed to take out the fat, bald 40 year old who looked like he had just stepped out of a bad 80s 'mob-film'. While that had given Barrow enough time to take out the scrawny kid who looked like he was barely out of diapers, let alone old enough to carry a gun.

"I'm just saying," said Thomas holding his hands up in surrender, "we've got a young female attacked in Whitechapel…"

"Who didn't survive" Carson confessed reluctantly.

"Oh this just gets better and better" Thomas laughed sarcastically. "How long you think it's going to take 'em before all the conspiracy nut-jobs out there start spouting off rubbish about 'Jack the Ripper'".

Tom shook his head in disbelief. They might have been partners for the last three years, but that didn't mean he was any more use to Thomas' crass sense of humour. "Really?" Tom questioned him, is right eyebrow raised in disbelief.

Thomas shrugged his shoulders, "oh come on…it's not like I'm saying something that you two weren't already thinking."

"Well perhaps Detective Constable you could try doing your own job for a change instead of doing the press' job and actually make it to the crime scene before this all turns into a circus" Carson bellowed. He didn't think twice of sticking around to hear Thomas' response. Instead the Chief Inspector turned and stormed back into his office, slamming his door in frustration.

"You know one of these days that mouth of yours is going to get you killed…or worse," Tom warned him for the hundredth time. And with his back turned away from Thomas he quickly reached for his jacket, his badge and his gun; but he didn't need to look at his partner to now that he was rolling his eyes at Tom. That was the stock standard response.

"Yes mummy" answered Thomas with his usual brazen attitude. It was one of the things that annoyed Tom the most about his partner. If there was a will then there was always a way for the Detective to make joke out of everything.

Tom didn't dignify the comment with a response, a lot of the time he knew he was better of just ignoring the man. So instead he tossed Barrow his badge, which he had a bad habit of leaving lying around in the pile of mess on his desk that he referred to as 'organised chaos'. "Move it Barrow unless you want the Chief Inspector to sick the dogs on you…" Tom warned with a lingering smile as he made a dash for the door.

"Bloody hell what did I ever do to him that he'd make me suffer through one of Gregson's 'lectures' on professionalism" Thomas jogged on over to catch up to Tom. "The man is a real right bore…and that would just be cruel and unusual punishment".

Tom finally gave in to Barrow's theatrics and laughed at the last comment. Because if there was one thing he was right about then it was Michael Gregson. Tom had never met a duller human being in his life…and this was coming from a man who had spent a year working under Joseph Molesley, the 'bumbling fool' as a lot of the senior inspectors liked to refer to Old Molesley.

"We've got a body and a crime scene now lets move it" Tom ordered pulling Thomas onto the elevator as soon as the doors opened.

"Well, well, well; aren't we the bossy one today" Thomas smirked as the doors closed; he loved ribbing Tom because he knew how much his partner hated it.

'You get used to it', 'It gets easier after a while' had been the mantra that Tom had heard a lot of homicide detectives say over and over again. But it never did get any easier, he never did get used to seeing the bloodied bodies splayed out across the floor…or in some instances beds…marking the horror of their last few hours in this world.

"Bloody hell!" said Thomas as he pressed his fist against his mouth to try and hold back the bile that climbed up his throat, "whoever this sick bastard is he did a real number on her." Barrow looked around the cordoned off street, trying to decided which one of the police constables looked at least competent enough to have done some canvasing before they had arrived. "You" he cried out pointing to one constable in particular, this one was rather tall and lanky with strawberry blond hair; "what do you know about this?"

"Mason Sir, it's Constable Mason," the officer introduced himself with a slight nervous stammer. "And according to her identification we found in her wallet the victim's name is Crawley…Sybil Crawley".