Hello readers! First off, I'm going to put it out there that, yes, this is a very bizarre idea that probably should not exist. It stems from my adolescent fascination with Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street, as well as my frustration with the last season of Downton Abbey. I know I'm going with the Henry-Talbot-is-a-complete-jerk in The Chance to Escape, but this scenario is more cathartic for me. I started with a couple of manips on my Tumblr, which got me thinking that I should write the complete story.

It's going to follow a similar premise to Sweeney Todd (specifically the Sondheim musical), so obviously this is going to be pretty dark (and needless to say bloody). And I realize that most if not all characters are going to be somewhat OOC, but again, this is more like catharsis for me, and a chance to do something fun. Who doesn't want to see their OTP go a little dark at times, eh? Especially when they've been horribly wronged.

So read and review, or tell me I'm crazy. Anything works.

Bleeders of London

Chapter One – Return to London

The evening the ship docked in the harbour was leaden and foggy, as if it was already the dead of night. The few lights winking from the buildings barely penetrated the mist, and the outline of the ship was barely reflected in the inky Thames. Earlier that day, a drizzle of rain had descended upon the city, leaving the air damp and the streets laced with wide puddles. Tonight, there was not much in London that was prepossessing or welcoming to those on the ship. For many of them, this was the end of a very long journey, but this destination was not a happy place.

Disembarking from the ship, a tattered duffel bag slung over his shoulder, Matthew Crawley stepped onto the cobbled streets of London for the first time in years.

In all the years he had been gone, and he didn't like to think just how many they were, what had changed in this dank, dim city? Had the layout of the streets been altered at all? Did stray dogs and alley cats still lurk down quiet streets, along with half-crazed beggars and streetwalkers?

The place should have felt like home to him. The smell of the streets near the docks, though unappealing, was once familiar to him, as was the faint tolling of the church bells marking the hour. And yet he did not feel that the sights in front of him were welcome. For as he stood in the street, the recollection of their arrangement slowly returning to his memory, he could feel a chill from ghostlike shadows lingering everywhere, including in the back of his mind.

A set of fingers tapped on his shoulder, but Matthew did not turn around. He knew who it was, and was unsurprised when the person asked, "Is everything alright, Mr Crawley?"

Matthew paused, still staring at the buildings and streets ahead. "I've been away from this place for far too long, Tom. Of course my mind is uneasy."

The face of Tom Branson, a sailor from Ireland, came into view. "I'd have thought you'd be pleased to be back in London. You used to live and work here, or did you tell me a lie?"

"I wasn't lying to you, Tom. This was my home," Matthew said, emphasizing the word 'was.'

Tom pivoted about, scanning the other side of the Thames and the buildings nearby as he turned. "I've been to so many places while sailing – plenty of cities included – but I can still say with confidence that there's no other place quite like London."

"No," Matthew said absently. "No, there's no place like London."

He turned to finally look Tom in the eye. "I think it's time we went our separate ways now," he told the sailor. "I must say, I have appreciated your companionship these last few weeks. I even think of you as my friend now."

Tom smiled. "I'm glad you feel that way, Mr Crawley, because I'm the same way with you."

"For goodness sake Tom, I told you to call me Matthew," Matthew said, though the good humour that should have been in his tone was missing.

"Alright then, Matthew. D'you think there's any chance of us meeting again soon?" Tom asked. "I can't be sure when I'll be called up again, but it could be any day, and I'd like to see you again, perhaps for a drink?"

Matthew hesitated. He knew that Tom meant well, and he was the sort of chap that needed connections in permanent places. But in the time to come he wasn't even sure if he'd have a proper place to live.

"Perhaps," he answered. "If that's what you want, you might find me. Around Fleet Street, I think."

"Do you have family down that way?"

Matthew had willingly spoken little about his past life to Tom, and on the occasion Tom had tried to bring it up Matthew cast his inquiries aside. "If they're still there. Which I doubt."

Tom nodded, tipping his cap to Matthew. "Then until later, Mr Cr- – er, Matthew. Time I found myself a room nearby."

And he went off down the street adjacent to the docks, in search of a warm bed to sleep in. After years of sleeping in cold discomfort, Matthew wanted that as well. But would he be able to find it, as he had told Tom, on Fleet Street?

Trusting himself not to get lost on his journey, he set off down a dimly-lit street, heading away from the docks. As he walked further into the heart of the city, all that he remembered of London slowly came back to him. He had feared that everything would be unrecognizable, but for the most part much was the same – if only grimier and darker, littered with filth at every corner. The lowest of the low leaned against brick walls covered with faded fly-posters and crouched inside archways, hands held out for a coin or a bit of bread. Street vendors struggled to sell what was left of their meagre wares. Rats scuttered in and out of gutters and broken pipes, and ragged children, much like rodents themselves, grubbed about for anything edible within the heaps of rubbish.

So many nights, while lying in a frigid cell, he had dreamt of his return to London, to his home, where he would be smiling at everything he saw and everything would smile back. But time had caused that dream, and any hope of coming back to a home, to wither away. He had actually dreaded returning, but there was one thing that had convinced him to come back.

As he walked down the familiar roads, glancing at the old storefronts and passing by the flickering street lamps, the real image of London emerged before his eyes. He had been naïve before, a fool to remember London as a golden city, filled with virtuous people, a world away from the evils that had cast him out. But now he realized what it truly was: a festering pit crawling with vermin and unfortunates, scraping to get by and survive in a decaying world.

When he passed first by the old St. Dunstan's church, then the imposing courthouse nearby, Matthew chuckled darkly to himself. A fat lot of good those were in this hellhole. What did God and the law do to help him, after all? And from the looks of the city, it had failed to do anything to help the rest of the poor inhabitants. No doubt the powerful still sat at the top, turning their backs to those in need – or worse, having a personal hand in destroying their lives.

Their greed was insatiable, so desperate to be fed constantly, and Matthew had absolutely no sympathy for them. There was simply no excuse those feeding those desires, especially if it was the less fortunate who suffered for it.

Engrossed in his morose thoughts, he continued to trudge silently down the streets, turning corners when his instinct told him to. He had hardly been in a good mood before, but walking through the great black pit called London, averting his stare from the degenerates sitting in the road and the vermin rolling by in their coaches, his disposition darkened substantially. The world he had returned to, along with the uncertainty of what the future held for him, left him with little optimism.

He started back to life when he reached a wide street, still being crossed by wagons and passerby. His gaze fell on one of the storefronts, reading the faded brown lettering on the woodwork above the door and windows. A single flicker of hope returned to his heart.

Mrs. Crawley's Pie Shop.

One of the most well-regarded establishments for the sale of meat pies on Fleet Street was Mrs. Crawley's Pie Shop. The owner, the young but skilful Mary Crawley, produced veal and pork pies that were celebrated by everyone – high and low, rich and poor. When the shop opened at twelve noon, and then in the evening after tea, there was always such a rush to obtain the freshest ones. The patrons would partake in these delicious pies and chat with each other, and Mary Crawley would almost always be in a pleasant mood as she baked and served, and so it was a cheery place to be at the end of the day.

Above this pie shop, reached by a set of outside stairs, was another shop, run by another Crawley. This was the establishment of Matthew Crawley, husband of Mary Crawley, and it was here that respectable men would stop by for a shave. It was never as bustling as the pie shop below, but it was of equally good renown, and Matthew Crawley was as skilled in his profession as his wife was in hers.

These two people, working close to each other so they'd never be far away, were so deeply in love – their affection was honest and unfailing, never obsessive and scarcely troubled. They lived together in the flat next to the shaving parlour, and though they were hardly wealthy, it was as cozy and loving as any home could be in the heart of London. For some time they were trying to have a child, perhaps several afterwards, but even without a baby in their arms they were content with their lives.

But everything changed for them when Judge Talbot entered the pie shop that one fateful evening.

A/N: I'm trying not to imagine everyone singing the songs from the musical, but of course I'm failing.