I do not own either Torchwood, or Dr. Who. Because if I did, Ianto Jones would still be alive. In fact, in this particular fic., the whole original Torchwood team is still alive...

I'm attempting to weave actual history in with this plot. So forgive me if I stumble a bit, because that's new for me. I'm also new to this fandom, so forgive me for any mistakes I make there as well. Mea Culpa. That being said, some feedback would be nice. :)

Anyway, on with the actual story...

The Resurrectionists

Chapter 1: A Small Trifle

Edinburgh, Scotland, 1827

A chilled November wind cut through the cobbled square, the square where two men trudged uncertainly in the fading afternoon light. They paused, seemed to bow their heads together in low conversation, or perhaps argument, when a loud, tolling bell sounded somewhere nearby, neatly cutting off their words. Bing! Bong! Bing! Bong! And then, as if this were a signal, the great double doors of the large brick building in front of them opened up, and a flood of young men filed out like a swarm of ants leaving a hill, tramping down the steps, with books under arms, in clusters of two or three. The two men, in dull gray wool, looking somewhat worse for wear in their frayed laborers' caps, waited in the center of the square as the group of young men dispersed, flowing away in various directions, cutting around the two laborers as if they were but rocks in a river stream. The younger of the pair shifted nervously from foot to foot; he looked as if he wanted to turn and bolt. But the older man looked determined; his jaw was set and his stance was rigid, unmoving. And when a figure, dressed in a fine dark suit with a crisp white collar appeared at the top of the steps-well, the older and taller of the two broke away and swiftly approached the stairs with a straight, purposeful gait. He ascended the steps and said directly to the well-dressed young man standing there:

"Excuse me, sir, but would this be the establishment of Dr. Munro?"

The young man blinked and looked at the other questioningly. "This would be Dr. Munro's lecture hall and surgical theater, yes."

"Well, the good Doctor wouldn't happen to be about, now would he?"

The young man shook his head. His eyes went from the taller man in the green cap, to the other, obviously younger man who was hovering just behind him at the base of the steps. When his eyes met the younger's, the young laborer's gaze dropped like a stone to the earth.

"Dr. Munro is never in his theater at this time of day; the light is too poor," the young man explained, and he watched a flicker of disappointment cross the older man's face. So he added quickly: "But if it's an anatomist you are looking for, then you could try Dr. Knox's offices; his lectures run well into the evening. Number ten, Surgeon's Square?"

The other man's face brightened considerably. "Yes, sir-we will try Dr. Knox's establishment. Thank you, sir." The man in the moss green cap abruptly turned and went down the steps, grabbing the other man by the arm as he went. "Fear not, we'll be rid of that little problem of yours yet," he muttered to the shorter man as the two of them turned to go, making their way across the damp gray stones of the square, losing themselves in the thick shadows of the university's buildings. The young man on the stair watched them until they were completely out of sight, the two figures disappearing into the oily, failing light of a narrow close like specters into a swirling mist.

Tap-tap-tap!

The man in the green cap rapped smartly on the door with the number ten painted squarely on its center. Moments went by and no one answered. So he rapped again, louder: tap-tap-tap! A clomping sound and a rustling could be heard from within; there was the muted metallic screech of a bolt being drawn, and the door was suddenly shoved open.

"May I help you?" asked a young man with a copper moustache and brilliantined hair.

"Excuse me sir-we were wondering if Dr. Knox would happen to be in?"

The young man regarded the haggard-looking pair suspiciously. "And what business do you have with Dr. Knox?"

"We have-" and here the other man faltered, and seemed to consider the best choice of words. "That is, we have a...subject to dispose of, and we thought that perhaps-"

And here the young gentleman's face lit up with understanding, and he cut the other off: "Ah yes! A subject! Yes, Dr. Knox would definitely be interested." His eyes swept over the pair; they seemed to be searching for something. And, once seemingly satisfied with what they found-or didn't find-the copper-haired gentleman said: "Come back in an hour with the subject; Dr. Knox will be in residence then." The two men in caps nodded their heads vigorously, even cheerfully, at these instructions. They watched as the copper-haired gentleman turned to go back inside. He started to close the door, but then paused and added:

"Oh...and resurrectionists use the back door..."

Night was falling as fast as a shooting star across the gabled buildings situated around the Surgeon's Square near South Bridge. Out of a damp, darkened close stepped two figures in common laborers' caps, carrying between them a heavy burlap sack. They trudged with uneven, badly coordinated steps toward the large house with the number ten painted on its doorway. They passed briefly beneath a failing gas lamp, its light dimming and brightening capriciously of its own accord, due to either the burgeoning damp or lack of fuel or poor design. The two men angled their heavy burden around the side of the house-a house almost as big and grand as a manse-and they passed through a narrow cul-de-sac, coming to a stop at a basement stairwell.

The two dropped the sack with a dull thud.

With his shoulders heaving in the gloom in an effort to catch his breath, the tall man in the moss green cap turned and descended the short staircase, banging on the door at the bottom. His younger companion stood at the top of the stairwell by the sack, hugging himself against the growing chill. In the near dark the tall man might have smiled at him, and he said, in what was meant to be a reassuring tone:

"Not long now, Will. We'll soon be done with this, and all the more richer for it, besides." The taller man thought of the numerous drams of spirits that he would take by the fireside later. Later, when all this nasty business was well out of the way.

Without warning, the basement door flew open. The same copper-haired man from earlier was there; the golden light from within the room made a fiery halo around his head. "Right on time," the man said approvingly. "Please, come in."

Then: "Dr. Knox! It's here!"

The copper-haired man stepped aside, so the two laborers could bring in their bundle. "I'm Alexander Miller, Dr. Knox's assistant. If you would please put the subject on the table over there. Dr. Knox will be with us shortly."

The two men in caps heaved the sack onto a seven foot long metal table. A moment later a tall man with a graying beard entered the room. His impeccably starched collar, finely tailored jacket and air of ownership made it clear that this was Dr. Knox. "Good evening," he greeted them in a rough, but erudite, tone of voice. "I'm Dr. Knox. It's a pleasure to do business with you. And you are?" The doctor took each man's hand in turn, waiting for their answer.

The younger, blonder gentleman looked somewhat startled as he heard the man in the green cap give the doctor a pair of names that weren't their own. "Excellent," said the doctor. "Now, let's see exactly what we have here." The doctor waved a hand toward the burlap sack on the table.

The laborers began unwrapping the bundle, slowly revealing the thing inside: the corpse of an older gentleman, in his late fifties, unwounded, his flesh only slightly discolored by gathering fluids. Knox and Miller exchanged a look over the dissecting table; this was a lucky find indeed-good corpses were hard to come by. Miller leaned forward with a oil lamp as Knox examined the dead man, nodding approvingly. Yes, this was far better than any body packed and shipped in brine from Dublin-fresher, and more intact. An altogether perfect subject. The doctor turned to the two men, "I'll give you seven pounds, ten shillings for it."

The two laborers exchanged surprised looks. The amount that the doctor had just proposed equalled about a month's wages for the two of them. So the man in the green cap eagerly accepted the offer, not realizing that the anatomist had purposely undercut the price by about three pounds.

No matter. The two men were new to this.

But they wouldn't be for long.

In fact, as the two laborers departed the cellar-with the doctors parting words of, "I look forward to seeing you again, when you have another such subject to present," ringing at their backs-the man in the moss green cap had an idea. A kind of revelation. If a single corpse-or rather, a single day's work-equalled about a month's worth of wages, then why should he toil, day in and day out as a cobbler, when all he had to do to earn his porridge and whisky was find another dead body to sell? Of course, this first body had been a random accident. His companion had found the old man dead from natural causes in his lodgings-the lodgings which his friend owned-and he had not known what to do with the body. It was he, the man in the moss green cap, who had come up with the brilliant idea of selling it. And now the two of them were several pounds richer for it...

The taller, darker man clapped his friend on the shoulder as they ascended the murky, mist-shrouded stairwell of one of the closes. "See, Will. I told you. Ol' Burke came through for ya. That old man is gone from your rooms, plus, we have some fine silver in our pockets to show for it."

The younger, blonder man, whose real last name was Hare, said with a shiver: "I don't like it, William, carrying around a body like that. It's not natural. It needs to be interred; given the rites. What those doctors do-"

"-it doesn't matter what those doctors do, Will," said Burke, interrupting. "What matters is this..." And here, he took a shiny coin from his pocket, flipped it into the air and caught it with a laugh. "Come on-let's go celebrate at the pub! I fancy a warm fireplace and a dram or two."

Hare then smiled his first smile of the day. "Yes. I imagine some spirits will do a great deal to put me to rights." And so the two of them went towards the nearest pub, a noticeable, happy spring to their steps. Hare, with warm thoughts of meat stew and liquor on his mind, and Burke, with cold, dark thoughts of money and future corpses...

Cardiff, Wales, Present Day

Ianto was positive that someone had tampered with his espresso machine.

The shots were running too long. Well over thirty seconds; he had timed it by his pocket watch. Ianto sighed and took out the espresso bank in the center. He swabbed it delicately with a blond-haired brush, removing clumps of coffee grinds. Clogged-someone had ground too much and now the beans were all stuck together. Dammit. He had fine-tuned this machine to run perfectly; it spat out shots at a beautiful twenty-six seconds. Golden. Perfect. Just the way Jack liked it...

Until someone had obviously messed with it. And Ianto had a pretty good idea who the culprit was.

Ianto straightened and backed away from the machine, brushing away some rogue espresso grinds that were clinging to his waist coat-a grey silk waistcoat that had been purchased from the men's designer section at Harrod's for an ungodly sum. In fact, Ianto's whole ensemble screamed expense: button down Armani shirt in an impossible violet color (impossible for anyone except himself), silk burberry tie in soft lavender, Gucci slacks that were perfectly tailored, Italian shoes made of impeccably crafted leather. He may have been relegated to the sorry position of making coffee for the whole team, but-by God-he was going to look like a runway model while doing it.

And also because he knew Jack liked it...

Ianto left his office, designer heels clicking smartly across the catwalk through Torchwood's hub, heading for the dissection room. He passed by Tosh's office; through the glass he could see the Asian scientist dressed in a welder's helmet and gloves. She had a blowtorch in hand and was bent over what appeared to be a giant alien ray gun (and it probably was). Ianto click-clacked his way across the metal catwalk until he came to the entrance of Torchwood's medical facilities. He unceremoniously flung open the door and stepped inside.

In the glaring whiteness of the dissection room, Ianto found Owen, Torchwood's resident doctor, bent over a metal dissecting table, cutting into a creature that appeared to be half-human, half...blowfish (?). Owen was wearing his lab coat tricked out in various pieces of flair: a smiley face with a bloody bullet hole in its head proclaiming Have a nice day!, a button suggesting Kiss me, I'm Welsh! (no, thanks), a Beatles band pin, and one with a hammer and the slogan Kill 'em all and let a Norse god sort 'em out written around it. And these were just a few of many. Alerted by the slamming door, Owen stopped mid-dissection, a scalpel poised in one hand, a half-eaten bacon roll in the other.

Eating over the dissecting table, thought Ianto. How disgusting. Then he said: "I can't believe you're eating that over a corpse."

"Why not?" said Owen, shrugging insouciantly. "Our dead alien friend here doesn't mind a few crumbs-do you, pal?" And here he prodded the dead flesh with his scalpel. Ianto winced.

"Have you been trying to use the espresso machine again?" asked Ianto directly.

Owen looked like a weevil caught in headlights. Ianto smelled the distinct aroma of guilt. Still, while taking a sloppy bite from his sandwich the doctor said, "Nope, haven't touched it."

Ianto quirked an eyebrow. "You sure about that?"

"'M h'ure," said Owen around a mouthful of bacon.

"You know how Jack gets when he doesn't get his morning coffee-"

"-well, I'm sure you'll find some other way to keep Jack happy," said Owen insinuatingly, with a knowing smirk.

Ianto didn't dignify that with a response. Instead, he walked over to the medic's desk, grabbed up the empty espresso cup that Owen had been futilely trying not to look at, and he swept out of the room without a backward glance.

"IANTO! WHERE'S THE COFFEE!"

Jack's voice echoed down the Hub's metal corridor as Ianto clomped his way back to his office, irritation adding an extra loudness to his steps. Click-clack! Click-clack! "Coming Jack!" called Ianto, as he burst through the door to his own dark, meager office. From elsewhere in the hub, other voices called:

"Ooh, make one for me, too, Ianto!" yelled Gwen.

"And I want a chocolate thingy!" called Tosh.

Ianto rolled his eyes in frustration. "I'm not just the secretary, you know," he muttered to himself, though he was very much afraid that he was. At least the rest of the team treated him that way. Ianto was just about to give the espresso machine another go, when his computer screen lit up, and a cheerful bing! signalled the arrival of new mail. He walked over to his desk and clicked on a document marked URGENT! READ NOW! But that wasn't the thing that immediately caught his attention.

No, the thing that really caught Ianto by surprise, the thing that really grabbed him, was that the e-mail was marked from Torchwood, Scotland Branch...

End Chapter 1.