August - December 1888
Perhaps it was the hot, humid August weather. More likely it was the increasing population and the resultant increasing workload. One of Spears' senior collection agents had been promoted to management of another branch. His partner had transferred with him. A cocksure Junior had been killed by a demon after disobeying a direct order to stay well back. He had been unteachable from his first day, but his mentor was nevertheless upset after having to Reap him. Desperately shorthanded, the London branch was stretched very thin indeed. Now, Sutcliff was missing. He had been increasingly moody for some time. There had been wild outbursts and temper tantrums in the office and in private. Spears' responses had been increasingly severe.
Grell loved Spears and wanted love in return. Spears, distant and repressed, found displays of affection to be offensive in public and embarassing in private. Grell wanted a grand passion, or at least a pretense of warmth. Since only public drama got Spears's attention, Grell continued it and steadily escalated. The colder Spears was, the more Grell pursued him and the more repressive he became. It was a vicious spiral which ended in a vicious fight.
Suddenly, Sutcliff was gone, untraceable, vanished. He had removed his glasses and deserted into the human realm.
Spears, furious, divided Grell's duties among the remaining staff and took a share of the Reaps for himself. All Reapers were put on alert to watch for Sutcliff in London. It had been getting harder to cover Sutcliff's derelictions over the last year. As overtime increased, his coworkers became less able to pick up the slack. The new crop of trainees would not be ready to work independently for years. Fatigue was causing injuries and botched Reaps. Demonic interference began to increase as Hell realized how short-handed London was, and that the terrible Sutcliff was missing.
Spear's repeated appeals for additional funding and staff were denied. The Administrator considered that the honor of being a London Reaper more than compensated for overwork and substandard pay. The employee turnover demonstrated personal laziness and disloyalty to the team. The casualty rate was merely the result of incompetence or carelessness. Moreover, the measles epidemic in Staffordshire meant all available resources were spoken for. Spears was officially reprimanded for his unreasonable petitions.
One day in November, Spears realized that his staff had suddenly increased by one. Sutcliffe had put on his glasses. He immediately ported into an alley in Whitechapel. There were two women to be reaped, a mortal boy of high rank, a demon bound in Contract, and a crazed, raving Sutcliff. He found himself having to extend an apology to the demon—infuriating! He took Sutcliffe into custody and sent Humphries to do the Reaps. If he had not been so angry he might have noticed that Humphries was hollow-eyed with weariness. But then, so were they all.
Sutcliff had formed a passion for the Phantomhive demon, Sebastian Michaelis, whose chosen humanoid form resembled Spears in height, coloration and demeanor. Spears found it unnatural, vile and disgusting. He did not recognize his anger as being caused by jealousy. Grell did, and increased his drama accordingly. In retaliation, Spears ceased all efforts to protect him from prosecution. Sutcliff was tried and sentenced for his desertion and the Jack the Ripper murders. The punishment was light, as all the souls had been Reaped, but London lost his services for another six months.
In December Slingby and Humphries were assigned a murder-suicide. It involved the poisoning of a large group of humans and should have required two senior teams to Reap. Humphries was injured by a Cinematic Record, Slingby by an opportunistic demon. Two weeks later, Humphries collapsed after completing a particularly heavy schedule. He was examined but no problem was found other than exhaustion. He was allowed a single day's rest. It did not help. A week later Slingby dragged him, protesting loudly, back to the Infirmary. There he collapsed again.
Alan rose up from darkness into an unfamiliar blur of white. It smelled like soap and disinfectants. Someone was holding his hand and shouting for a doctor. Eric. "He's waking up, come quick, he's awake—" The sharp stricture around his heart had relaxed. It was possible to breathe. That was good, wasn't it? Rapid footsteps. Something cold pressed against his chest. That would be the doctor. "Shut up, Slingby, I'm trying to to listen." Definitely a doctor.
Alan squeezed Eric's hand. Eric did tend to get excited when Alan was in trouble. Alan had known he was in trouble. Evidently he no longer had to worry about telling Eric that something was wrong. That whatever it was would not have an easy fix. The pain returned; the light faded. Eric called his name from a great distance. Alan fell away.
This time a diagnosis was made. The doctor documented a rare case of rapid-onset Thorns of Death.