A Meeting with Ghosts

by elfmaiden4legs

I'm not happy with the title so it may change in time. Following the deaths of his two best friends and a rift in his relationship with his daughter a seriously ill Reid thinks himself now alone in the world, and resigns himself to his fate. Little does he he know that help will come in the form of a face from his not too distant past - the only thing its someone thought to be dead

Inspector Reid was sick – sicker than he'd ever been in his life before, with the exception of the aftermath of the 'Prida Whopping' steamboat accident which had stolen his little girl away from him, and had almost snatched his life away, dragging it into the dark depths of obscurity just as it had her name. The fever had left him bedridden for the past three days since, writhing – his body wrapped up in bedsheets sodden and left stinking with his own sweat. He'd continued to work for as long as he could, pushing himself for as long as he felt able – even after the symptoms had first presented themselves – until his body had simply given out on him and he'd awakened one morning almost too weak to drag himself out of bed. He'd dressed in a haze of dizziness, throwing his dressing gown on over his pyjamas, and struggling to coordinate his aching arms to tie it around his waist. His journey downstairs had been a perilous one – Reid leaning heavily against the wall for support, the room swimming around him and drifting out of focus as he'd reached out with flailing arms to steady his descent. Finally he'd set his foot upon the bottom step – a sweating, shaking shell of a man. The effort had drained him, and he'd sat himself down for a while, taking a few deep breaths to compose himself and try and ease some of the queasiness which had settled in his stomach, before throwing the front door open and offering the first street urchin he saw a few coins from his pocket to deliver a message to H Division that he was sick and wouldn't be in work for the next few days. He doubted anyone would miss him – although his innocence of all charges laid against him had been established, and his name cleared, Reid couldn't escape his nagging insecurities that his men's faith in him had been shaken, and he knew that those with ambition enough to replace him would be several in number.

He'd then retreated back upstairs – making slow progress, sometimes sinking down onto all fours as his legs failed to support his dead weight – and collapsing breathlessly back into bed where he'd remained ever since.

As he'd predicted nobody came to visit him, with Matilda having left the soiled streets of Whitechapel far behind her, and his two best friends Drake and Jackson now also gone, Reid was left alone with no one to care or notice his absence. His condition had remained unchecked and untreated for days – his most basic on needs unmet. As he'd sweated into his nightshirt there'd been little hope of him finding a way to replenish the fluids he'd lost, and dehydration had quickly set in. The pounding of his head was a testament to his body's need of water, and despite the absence of it his bladder protested with the need to alleviate itself of even more. He'd tried to get up, the first time he'd felt the burning urge to urinate, had tried to make it to the toilet, but as soon as he'd tried to stand his legs had buckled from under him and he'd cried out in pain as his knees had hit the floor. He didn't know for how long he had lay there shivering, but it was to his utter humiliation that he'd felt his bladder alleviate itself of its full load – warm liquid absorbing into his underwear before going cold against his skin. It chilled him and it had taken every ounce of strength he had left within him to claw himself back into bed. The key to his salvation – what little comfort he could now hope for – stood but a few inches above the ground, but he may as well have been attempting to climb a mountain for all the effort it required of him, and when he'd finally succeeded he knew he would not be strong enough to try again. The next time he felt the protest of his bladder he struggled to hold onto its contents for as long as he could, until the vague burning sensation erupted into a fire in the pit of his stomach, and although degrading the release of urine had also come as a relief – so much so that when it happened for a third time he made no attempt to stop himself from soiling himself again.

The curtains in his room were still drawn, obscuring his view to the outside world – he could not deny that to see its images play out from behind smeared window panes might have provided him with some welcome distraction for a while, but in here it was not a world he felt a part of. For him time moved slowly, the days measured only by a changing state of light and dark. During his worst moments, when sickness seemed to overwhelm him and pain took a hold of his body, he prayed for the death which he knew was approaching. He thought to lay still and accept that which could not be changed, but when he closed his eyes to sleep he saw his daughter's face projected into the darkness and this gave him some little strength to fight.

Reid was afraid – so afraid of languishing alone, of not knowing how long it would take for the sickness to run its course – but it wasn't until he awoke unable to breathe that fear really found a home inside his heart. As he lay in bed choking he kicked out with his legs in a primeval fit of panic, trying to raise himself up a little – his feet slipping upon the unmade sheets until finally he found his footing and must have succeeded in his task because his breathing eased, and eventually he fell asleep. When he tried to recall later he wouldn't be able to remember very much of what happened after that – his fever continued to climb and he slipped in and out of consciousness – sometimes delirious, but there were also a few brief moments of lucidity which served little to reassure him, but rather enable him to feel the full ravishes of the sickness on his body. His fevered dreams often took on a nightmarish nature, but there was also some comfort to be found in those he had of times gone by – of roaming the streets of Whitechapel with Drake and Jackson by his side, of all the cases they'd worked on together, and the criminals they'd doggedly pursued in their quest for justice.

Whitechapel could be a dangerous mistress and didn't give up her secrets lightly, but the three men fancied they'd had her tamed. He missed them – the death of Bennett Drake had torn a hole in his heart the likes of which he was likely never to heal from. There were few men better than he in his opinion, and a more loyal friend he could not hope to find again in his lifetime. They'd shared a pain which had brought them closer together, but could so easily have torn them apart. Drake had been witness to both the best and the worst of Reid – he'd seen him in the deepest throws of despair in the weeks following his daughter's vanishing, when the black cloud of melancholy had threatened to consume him entirely. He'd witnessed his rage and embittered outbursts, and had not faltered when these had been directed at him and it had been demanded of him that he leave. He'd visited him everyday whilst he'd been resident at the London Hospital – staying longer on days when the man's own wife had refused to see him – unable to look him in the eye because of the blame that festered within her own heart. Even the rift, fuelled by hurt pride and untamed ego, which had developed between them in later years, could not completely extinguish the ties which bound them.

It had only been a few months since news had reached him of Jackson's demise, and he'd barely had time to grieve his loss. His heart still lay heavy with the pain of it – and it was a pain he'd found himself unable to express. He'd been sick with grief long before his present illness had taken hold, but his enforced loneliness had been his self-imposed punishment for the crimes he'd committed. For him there may have been no judge or jury to pass sentence on him, but his own conscience kept him a prisoner none the less.

He didn't eat, doubtful that he could keep anything down even if he'd had a hunger for it and strength enough to procure himself a meal. The fact that his belly remained empty seemed to do little to ease the discomfort of his unsettled stomach however, when nausea turned to vomiting, and the ache to diarrhoea – his heart pumping like the bellows of a steam engine inside his chest. The sicker he got it seemed the faster it beat in some autonomic attempt to keep him alive for as long as it could – delivering only partially oxygenated blood to organs which were already slowly failing.

The world grew gradually darker as he descended into a waking slumber, haunted by the ghosts of his past. All he could do was holler out helplessly as he was met with his demons, which barged down his door and called out his name. Their talons reached out for him, beckoning to him to join them. When he refused they changed in shape – the voice which called his name taking on a familiar southern drawl – but it was one which he knew could not be real. They were trying to lure him. He felt a tender touch upon his forehead and he recognised this to be another trick. The talons softened.

He fought against hands which probed at him, that lifted him from his bed, cleaned him, undressed him and returned him again to fresh sheets which smelt vaguely of lavender. At intervals they taunted him with the image of his daughter's face – the sound of her voice like sweet music which soothed him to sleep – the touch of her lips upon his brow. The hand upon his forehead was tender and gentle, and when a cold cloth was pressed to it to douse the fire which burnt there he sobbed with the relief of it.

He could almost have forgiven his fevered mind for playing such a cruel trick on him if the images had remained familiar and comforting – but the evil within could not keep the illusion constant, and he was again left screaming and thrashing to keep the claws which reached out for him at bay when their true intent was made clear. He fought the hands which held him down – pointlessly resisted the bitter tang of their potions as he was spirited to a more restful sleep where the monsters could no longer reach him, and it was there he remained for the next few days – either to allow his body time to rest and recover or to go to his death in peace, shielded from the horrors which otherwise haunted his dreams.

He did not think on it at the time – his mind too muddied – but had he been of sounder mind it might have occurred to him that ghosts could not procure him drugs to heal his body, nor administer cold cloths to stem the fever.

Whilst he slept unseen hands tended to him – doing what they could to try and bring down the fever – whilst he remained oblivious to the anonymous figure which kept watch over him. When Reid next awoke it was late afternoon – although of the day he couldn't be sure. He could tell that it was late afternoon because he could see that the sun was lower in the sky through the open window. He felt groggy and slightly confused, struggling to orientate himself through the thick fog which had settled within his mind. He looked around – his neck stiff and sore – failing to recognise his own room at first. Everything seemed so unfamiliar to him, his senses dulled and distorted by the fever. He flinched as he felt the pull of a particularly painful muscle in his neck, and his hands immediately reached up to massage a pain this sent shooting like a bullet through his mangled left shoulder. It no longer plagued him as it once had – either that or he'd just grown accustomed to the sharp ache. Being reunited with his daughter, and the realisation that he was going to have to get to know her all over again, had provided a welcome distraction which had certainly helped – the move to the seaside even more so – until eventually he had stopped feeling it altogether. It only really troubled him now during the cold winter months and on days when the air was damp, or when sickness weakened his resolve.

He squinted to try and make out his surroundings – searching for something he recognised to help him identify where he was. His spectacles sat on the bedside table – his vision had deteriorated quite significantly in the past couple of years and he'd found himself needing to wear them for more than just reading these days. The lead in his limbs made it feel like too much effort to reach for them however and so he strained to focus without them, feeling the tightening of his temples as he forced his eyes to focus beyond the natural capability of his vision. His nose wrinkled slightly as he detected the faint scent of tobacco in the air – somebody had smoked recently, although he ventured to guess not in the room he currently occupied, and he theorised that the smell could have drifted in from the street outside had the bitter tang of the burnt leaves not smelt quite so fresh. It dawned on him that the clothes he was now wearing were both clean and dry, as were the sheets on which he lay, and whilst the rest of his body still burnt beneath the blankets he welcomed the cold of the wet cloth somebody had applied to his forehead.

As he forced his eyes to focus he managed to make out a plethora of familiar things – the Bible he'd inherited from his grandmother on which his spectacles sat, the sampler his own mother had made and given to Emily and he as a present on their wedding day, and the small music box with the enamel bird, which popped out to sing at the end of it's tune, and which now sat on his bedside table. He'd brought it for Matilda as a present on her fifth birthday – she'd spent weeks admiring it in the window of 'Wilson's Toy Shop' and he'd saved his cigarette money to be able to surprise her with it.

They hadn't been poor, but they were also by no means rich, and it had cost more than they could normally afford to spend on a policeman's salary. At the time it had been a once in a lifetime gift for the daughter of a man on a policeman's salary, and she'd taken care of it well. Even at that tender age she'd seemed to understand the value of such an object and it still looked as new, and the paint just as fresh as the day she'd unwrapped it. The appeal of brown paper tied together with string had been dwarfed by the beauty of the small enamel bird, and he'd taken it from her room as soon as he'd been strong enough to leave his bed after his discharge from the hospital. It had remained on his bedside table ever since – the first thing he saw when he woke up in the morning. It was as a constant reminder of everything he'd lost, but also a symbol of hope. He'd never allowed himself to completely believe she'd gone, there'd always been a burning ember of hope he'd kept alive within his heart – or perhaps it had simply been a father's intuition, as the last man to see her, to reach for her, to call out her name before she'd been torn away from him. Emily had asked him to have it removed and returned to Matilda's bedroom too many a time to count – she'd raged over it – but to look upon it had been a source of comfort to him and had been all that had kept him going some days when Reid had feared that he'd started to forget the sound of her voice, the exact tone and shade of her auburn hair, and the things she'd used to say which had always made him smile. He could never bring himself to part with it, despite his wife's insistence, and even now that he no longer had need of it – his daughter having been returned to him two years since – the sight of it still helped him feel close to her now that she lived so far away from him. Although it was only Cheltenham Spa she may as well have moved to the other side of the world, circumstances being what they were.

His fear that she hated him, had somehow lost faith in him, and that she could never again bring herself to look upon him with nothing but love in her heart had kept them further parted. He'd only heard from her once since the day she'd left the streets of Whitechapel behind her – after she'd had the baby – to let him know that she and his grand-daughter had settled with Drummond, that he was now a teacher and that she planned to write a novel – but had made no mention of writing again, and so it was that the line of communication had remained silent between them.

Her final words to him still resounded – still cut deep – "He won't come, he won't ever. He cannot."

She hadn't wanted him to visit her, she had no need of him anymore. She had made a new life for herself with her husband and a daughter of her own, and Reid no longer had a part to play in her future. His job was done, and he'd endeavoured to respect her wishes, regardless of how badly it broke him to do so.

He wanted to reach out and turn the tiny key, to hear the enamel bird sing its song once more, but his arms were like lead beneath the blankets – rendered completely useless by the infection which had ravished his body, and he was too weak.

He looked beyond the silent music box, towards the light which streamed through the open window – the curtains now parted to reveal a grey sky outside and clouds rendered black – there was a storm brewing, the heavens above mirroring the turbulence of the streets below. There was a chair beside the window, its profile angled with intent to face outward. Reid sometimes liked to sit and look down at the streets which had been placed in his charge, the streets which it had once been his choice to protect, and which now shackled him to this place. They served as a constant reminder of days gone by when there'd been others, close to him, striving for the same peaceful cause. He hardly knew any of the men now working for him, and they in turn had little interest in knowing him.

Sleep beckoned to him once more and he fought to resist the instinct to let it take him, when he noticed a faint flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. He felt his heart begin to race and squinted so that he may cast some clarity over his vision the better to see the human form he could now make out sitting in that very armchair. The man – for he was sure the figure must have been that of a man judging by the form the outline took – turned to look at him as though sensing he was awake and upon seeing that he was began to make his way over.

As he approached Reid fancied he could smell the familiar scent of cigarettes and whisky upon his person, the grief which had as yet remained unexpressed swelled in his heart and brought tears to his eyes. His resolve had already been weakened by sickness making him more susceptible to the influence of his emotions, and he let out a sob. As the sound escaped him the figure leant over him and Reid was met with a ghost – brown eyes gazed down at him, a face framed by a mop of darkened hair, and a chevron moustache – but it was a face belonging to a man he knew to be dead and therefore could not possibly be standing before him now.

"Jackson?" He whispered.

The man reached out a hand, placing it against his forehead and grimacing when he felt the fire of the fever which still raged within him.

"Is this death?" He asked weakly.

"No Reid." Jackson spoke in a familiar drawl – it was a voice Reid had thought himself never to hear again, and he could think of only one explanation for it. But if this was death he wondered at the suffering of it, why his body still ached deep in the very marrow of his bones, his lungs still burned from the infection which bubbled and festered within them, why he struggled for every breath and fought even harder to keep from coughing up the much needed air, why his stomach still churned and his head still throbbed.

"Although a man as sick as you might be forgiven for thinking it so." Jackson said as he re-soaked the cloth in a bowl of cold water on the bedside table on which had once sat Reid's wife's things, and which was now laid as bare and cold as her side of their marital bed. When it was thoroughly dampened Jackson rung it out and replaced it to Reid's forehead.

"An hallucination then." Reid concluded – realising that he could no longer trust the validity of his own senses.

Jackson sighed.

"With a fever as high as yours has been Reid you may also be forgiven for thinking me an hallucination, but I can assure you that I am very much real." He assured him.

"Then how can it be?" Reid frowned. His forehead puckered in disbelief and confusion at the sight of the man, causing a faint throbbing sensation behind his eyes.

"Shhh…" Jackson soothed him softly. "There will be time enough for talk later, but what you need now are fluids and sleep. Here…" He said, holding a cup of warmed water to the man's cracked and shrivelled lips. Reid lifted his head a little, but he was too weak to support himself and unable to assist the American much in helping him to drink as he took a couple of tentative sips before falling back against his pillow – exhausted. The water soothed his parched throat, but his stomach – recently unaccustomed to having it's starving pangs satiated – rebelled, and made it's protest of the tepid liquid known. Reid had no desire for more, fearing that he may vomit, but clearly not satisfied by the man's enfeebled attempt to drink Jackson held out the cup for him again, this time more forcefully, but the Detective Inspector made a weak shake of his head and turned away.

"Well, I suppose it's a start Reid." The surgeon sighed, placing the cup down on the table beside him with a gentle clink as he watched his friend's eyes close, and slipping a stethoscope beneath the man's nightshirt. Reid's body still burned, his chest a sweaty furnace as he listened to the festering rattle of the thick fluid which filled his infected lungs – which crackled like the flames of the fire which now danced in the hearth of the downstairs sitting quarters. In the two days he'd already spent keeping vigil at his bedside there'd been more than one incidence when his difficult and laboured breathing had given him cause for concern. His diagnosis of influenza, complicated by double pneumonia, needed no second opinion, and Jackson grimaced at the sound of Reid's cough as he sank back into his chair. There were some small signs of improvement – the fact that he had recognised him was promising – but his breathing was severely compromised and his body temperature still dangerously high. Jackson knew that the danger had not yet passed, and that despite his best efforts Reid was not out of the woods yet. The sad thing about pneumonia was that it could steal a life away just as a person appeared to be turning a corner, and there could be no way to predict such an outcome until it happened. He watched him carefully, using the stethoscope to listen to his lungs periodically as Reid slept.

When Reid next awoke he thought still that the spectre of Jackson must have been a fevered dream. The memory came back to him slowly at first, the image of the man bleeding through to consciousness. It just wasn't possible, he told himself, as much as he wished it so the American was dead. He lay still, his eyes still closed, and listened for a while – the silence of the room almost as deafening as the violent crescendo of the putrid and stinking streets below. The sounds were muffled – the bedroom window now closed – but he could still hear members of Whitechapel's orchestra – her people, and her prisoners – playing out the notes of her daily overture as they went about their business.

His lungs ached. There was a heaviness in his chest, and hearing no other sound he slowly opened his eyes and looked about him. A chair had been drawn up to his bedside as he slept, and Reid frowned at the figure of the man who occupied the seat. The spectre of Captain Homer Jackson still haunted him it seemed, and Reid watched as he took a large gulp of the dark amber liquid in his hand, savouring the taste and burn of the drink as it slipped like silk down his throat, before placing his glass down on the bedside table and leaning forward to put a warm palm to his forehead. His mind now felt a little clearer and much more like his own, but his temperature still sored and in his fevered state Reid still expected the man's hand to pass straight through him, so when flesh met with flesh he almost recoiled with the shock of it. Beads of cold sweat trickled down his face and when he tried to speak his lips moved soundlessly, his voice having deserted him it seemed. He waded through the thick fog which had settled over him like treacle, making his thoughts slow, and when he finally found some semblance of a voice which was vaguely akin to his own he was surprised by how weak and hoarse it sounded.

"How can this be?" He asked of the man.

"Well your fever's down a little." Jackson declared, evidently pleased by the progress he observed in his patient, but he remained vigilant to the man's condition – his complexion pale and white as the freshly laundered sheets on which he lay, his cracked lips characteristic of severe dehydration, and his eyes darkened and sunken inside their sockets. "How do you feel Reid?" He asked him.

"Tired." Reid confessed, still sceptical that he could trust the evidence of his own eyes and ears, but growing in confidence with each passing moment that he spent in his friend's company that he was in the presence of a man and not a ghost. "It's a little hard to breathe, but fit enough for talk." He was quick to add.

"Just let me be the judge of that Reid." Jackson told him.

In truth talk was the very last thing he felt fit for. Any explanation as to how Jackson currently came to be seated in his bedchamber when Reid knew him to be not yet two months in the ground, and halfway across the world, was bound to be complicated and his energy was already waning. There was a lead to his limbs, and he could not shake the weariness, but he felt his spirits rattled and knew he'd be unable to rest until he had knowledge of it.

Jackson too seemed unconvinced. He placed a hand against the side of Reid's neck in order to feel for his pulse before taking the stethoscope from his pocket, where he had placed it some hours since. He placed the bell of the instrument to his friend's chest. The congestion there was still audible, and the laboured wheeze he heard told him of how hard Reid was having to work to breathe. His elevated heartrate was suggestive of the strain the organ was under, and he was concerned about the potential consequences of how hard his heart was currently having to pump, but Jackson ultimately concluded that talk would not pose any additional threat to his life, and chose to grant him insight into this matter – settling back into his seat at the man's bedside.

He was silent for a while – the story evidently difficult for him to tell, and he considered how much of it Reid was ready to hear whilst he was still so weak – how much energy could the man expend for listening before it tired him.

"America wasn't safe for me Reid." He tentatively began to explain, taking up his whisky glass again from the bedside table, and swallowing down the last reaming dregs of the prized liquor. A small smile crossed his lips as he savoured it's taste on his tongue – but no amount of spirits could numb the pain of what had transpired in his life since he had left England for America, and the surgeon sighed. His was a story no man should ever wish to tell, and Reid listened as well as he was able. His focus occasionally drifted, but he stubbornly resisted the will of his body to sleep.

"Swift's men, they knew I'd had a hand in his death, and they weren't going to rest until they'd put my cold, dead body in the ground." Jackson explained. "We moved around a lot at first, never staying in one place long enough for them to find us. Eventually we arrived in Helena. The town had been born of the gold rush not yet forty years before, and men seeking to find their fortune there. I sort to find ours there too, although whilst most sort their ticket to wealth and prosperity all I sought was a home for myself and my boy. I certainly wasn't expecting to meet someone there." He shook his head, turning his gaze towards the ceiling as he ran a hand over his bristled chin, the difficult memory evidently sitting uneasy with him. "She was a woman of real beauty. I hadn't felt that way about anyone since Susan." He mused, smiling as he reflected on her, although whether for the memory of his first wife or his new love Reid could not decipher – perhaps a little for both.

"Connor doted on her." He said, twisting the now empty whisky glass around in his hands as he spoke, and watching as the cut glass cast reflected light beams on the floor at his feet. He ceased to speak, appearing mesmerised by the kaleidoscopic shafts for a moment, or perhaps they simply afforded him a welcome distraction from the painful retelling – his gaze absent, or his attentions occupied by a thought so deeply confined to consciousness that Reid could not reach him. Then, as suddenly as it seemed to take him, the spell was broken, and as he looked back at Reid the Inspector bore witness to the barely concealed pain in his eyes. Jackson sighed. "And she on him." He continued.

"At first it hurt me to know that my son would never know the love of his real mother, Susan – my Susan, who birthed him in a stinking cesspool of a prison…" His voice broke as he spoke her name. There appeared to be more he wished to say on the matter, but the words seemed to lodge in his throat before he could speak of them, and he turned his face away. He swallowed hard to try and rid himself of the lump in his gullet, and blinked back the tears which the thought of his dead wife roused – the pain of her loss evidently still felt as raw as the day she had gone to the gallows. He drew in a shaky breath in an effort to compose himself.

"But she became the only mother he'd really ever known," He said, once he found strength enough to continue, "and I knew that Susan would have approved of her. She was kind to us both, at a time when I was not sure I was deserving of such kindness bestowed upon me, and it was almost as if Susan herself had sent her to fill the void in both our lives.

I didn't want to run anymore. I was weary of running, and so I made the mistake of staying a little longer than I knew we aught. I stretched out our time there for as long as I could – then one day I awoke and saw her in bed beside me. It dawned on me then that I'd made a home for us there. Connor had found the stability a child needs to be happy – it was a stability Susan and I could never have afforded him here in London – and I knew then that there'd be no more running, at least not for him.

For me though, it wasn't to be. They found me, and when they did they were angry – they threatened my son, told me they would kill me before they set their sights on him. I knew I had to disappear – quickly and with permanence. If I ran again they would take Connor – use his life to barter for a shot at mine – but if they believed me dead he would be safe. There would be no cause for them to kill a child in cold blood if no profit was to be gained by their revenge. So I decided to fake my own death."

As he was talking Jackson noticed Reid grimace and reach for his injured shoulder. He bore his fingers into the joint as he clumsily massaged the damaged muscle with the uncoordinated digits of his left hand. His breathing seemed erratic – the air softly draining out of him in a barely audible groan. The American frowned, regarding him critically as though seeking to diagnose the cause of his sudden distress, but as he did so Reid appeared to notice the change in his friend's demeanour, and the fact that he ceased to speak. His eyes had been closed as he drifted somewhere in the space between sleep and wakefulness – taking in fragments of Jackson's story but unable to afford him his full attention. He opened his eyes, giving the man a tentative shake of his head.

"I'm fine Jackson." He assured him, his lips stretched tight over his teeth as he spoke. "Pray, please continue."

The surgeon hesitated, his eyes remaining fixed on Reid as he observed his sallow complexion – his cheeks seemed a little pinker and he reached over to place the back of his hand to his forehead, but he felt no hotter than he had done when he'd awoke. Even so he re-soaked the cloth in the bowel on the bedside table, wringing it out and pressing it to the Inspector's brow, before continuing.

"Between us we hatched a plan." He explained, as Reid's eyes drifted closed again – although Jackson could tell that sleep still evaded him – he'd merely returned to linger restlessly in insomnious purgatory. "The woman I'd made my new home with was a widow. She had two daughters. They were the two girls I was said to have laid down my life for in the river that day. I made sure Swift's men knew nothing of them. I made sure they would be safe. I'm sorry Reid but I had to make it believable. If they'd intercepted my mail, or had even the slightest inkling of my deception…"

"What was her name?" Reid asked him.

"Ivy." Jackson told him. "The two girls were Clara and Elsie. I could not put it in my will that she was to adopt Connor, otherwise if they found out they would know what we had planned between us. Connor was to be awarded a charge of the state, but she would seek to adopt him as soon as I was out of the country. It was a risk, but I suspected the state would not object – she is a woman upstanding, and a mother already to two girls. They will be sisters for Connor and the state will be grateful to have one less orphan to feed. They will not question the motives of a woman when she seeks to adopt the son of her daughter's saviour."

"But how can you be sure they will permit her to adopt him?" Reid's eyelids parted open and his voice caught in his throat as he spoke, but he managed to stifle the cough which threatened.

"I can never be sure." Jackson shook his head sadly. "It would have been too dangerous for her to contact me after I left America. They would not have been fooled by an alias. But at least Connor is safe now, with whomever he may be."

Reid's chest was burning, the cough he fought to suppress forcing festering fluid from his lungs which set thick and sludgy in his windpipe. It greedily sapped the oxygen from the air he breathed and he felt his ribs begin to contract as he fought to expel the poison from his body. He suddenly found that he could supress it no longer and a violent coughing fit threatened to choke him as he painfully hacked up the fluid. He felt Jackson's hands grip him beneath the arms, setting his shoulder aflame as they lifted him until he was sitting upright, one warm palm coming to rest reassuringly upon his back.

"Shhh, shhh, shhh…" He soothed him whilst Reid sat silently once the fit had eased, concentrating on breathing until his lungs had recovered sufficiently enough that he no longer felt quite so breathless.

"Here Reid, breathe this." He felt a cloth placed to his face and resisted against the strong smell of chloroform. "No Reid, do not fight it." Jackson implored him. "Just breathe it in nice and steady. It will help relieve the bronchial spasms. There we go." He eased him as he noticed the Inspector's body slowly beginning to relax. He lifted the man's own hand to take the cloth from him to continue holding it to his face, and as he did so Reid felt the bell of the surgeon's stethoscope as it was again pressed to his chest. Jackson noticed to his relief that the man's ribcage was no longer heaving and straining with the effort of breathing, and the wheeze was not as severe as it had been.

"How long have you been here?" Reid gasped once he was strong enough to talk.

"Not two days since." Jackson replied, lifting Reid's hand which still held the cloth back up towards his face as he drew it away the better with which to speak – he had not recovered sufficiently enough to do without the vapor just yet.

"I knocked on your door but when I received no response I thought you must have been at the station house. I would have taken my leave if I hadn't heard your screams." He explained. "Jesus Reid, I thought you were being murdered in your bed – instead I find you wrestling with your bedsheets, burning up with fever and in the throws of what must have been one hell of a fever dream."

"How did you get in?" Reid asked him weakly. His eyes were now beginning to close, leaded with fatigue, and he eased himself back down in bed. The chloroform had done it's job, it had relaxed the suffocating spasms, but whilst not enough to knock him out it had still been enough to make him feel drowsy for a few hours, and he was too exhausted to support himself to sit for more than a few brief minutes.

"Had to break the door down." Jackson told him, his tone now hushed as he hoped Reid might fall asleep. "Don't worry Reid, I sent for a locksmith… looks better now than it did before."

Reid simply looked at him and nodded weakly, there was a dullness to his eyes and his lack of protest simply confirmed Jackson's suspicions that the man was not yet strong enough to indulge in protracted conversation. He reached across and brought the back of a hand to rest against one brightly flushed cheek – feeling the fire which still burned within, and now raged further still, the flames fuelled by his exertions.

"Damn it Reid!" He cursed. "You are not yet fit for this." He said, taking a glass from the bedside table and filling it from a jug of pale, cloudy liquid. The light from outside cast a beam through it and the darkness of the room further augmented its dirty illusion – it reminded Reid of the murky waters of the Thames. In that moment he was dragged back there, his fevered mind held firm by the claws of the hallucination. He could smell the stench of the putrid waters as it filled his nostrils and feel the burn of the silt in his lungs.

"Here Reid, drink some of this." Jackson told him, as he felt the surgeon lift his head from the pillow and the glass was placed to his lips. He recognised the taste upon them to be barley water, and drank instinctively – unaware of how thirsty he was until the liquid flooded over his tongue, soothing its parched burning. When it was withdrawn he almost whimpered for its absence, for he had not yet taken his fill of it, but his stomach made its objections known with a vicious cramping, and he allowed himself to be lowered back down to his bed. Jackson then replaced the glass on the table, and took a measure of powder, mixing it with water in a small vial before proffering it to Reid. The man eyed it curiously and with some degree of reluctance, but he offered no resistance when it was placed within his hands and guided towards his lips.

"What is this you prescribe?" Reid asked him as he took a sip and recoiled at the salty taste of the liquid, before draining what remained of it.

"Bromide of potassium." Jackson explained. "It will aid you to sleep and calm the fever dreams."

"Jackson, I feel quite unwell…" Reid breathed a sigh, managing to lift one heavy hand to come to rest against his throbbing head. "I have felt the hand of death upon me, the strength of which to spirit me away to a place from which I cannot return – from where all I know and love is lost to me. Even now I feel its shadow stalks me still, yet no longer so close I feel its influence imminent. I fear the oblivion of sleep and yet I cannot deny that to rest a while, free of the demons which have haunted me, would be welcome."

Jackson nodded. He rose steadily to his feet and made his way over to the window. Reid deduced that the afternoon must now be late as the light was already beginning to fade outside, the sky fading to black through the grey smoke clouds – and he watched as Jackson drew the curtains, and turned on the gas, igniting the wall lamps. He adjusted the valve to dim the lights, before returning to take up his seat at Reid's bedside. Leaning forward he gently took his friend's face in his hands, carefully drawing down his lower lids with his thumbs to take a look at his eyes, before moving them downwards towards his neck to gently feel at the glands there.

"Tell me Reid," He questioned him thoughtfully, "When did this sickness start? How long ago was it that you first felt the hand of the fever upon you?"

"I don't know." Reid frowned. "What date is today?" He asked him.

"It is January tenth, nineteen hundred." Jackson explained. "A new century I doubt will be any better than the last, but we can but place our hope on it."

Reid thought, endeavouring to wade through the thick treacle which had settled like a blanket of fog over his mind, set to obscure the memory from him. He remembered being expelled from Mimi's playhouse – she had of course not been there. She had left to meet the master of her would be misery, to marry a man many times her years, and if their union was to be one lacking in affection it would be one to guarantee her future financial security by the end of it. Survival necessitated her sacrifice as such. From the playhouse he had made his way to the station house – there had been a chill then in his bones too easy to put down to the nip in the air – and had made his way up to his office. He had raised a glass to a misery of his own and seen the new year in alone, placing the cause of his headache at the feet of the men who carried on their jollities below, oblivious.

"It was New Year's eve. I took in a show at the Alexandria. Mimi's show." He recalled. "They were singing Mary Kelley's song. There was snow on the ground outside, but it was so hot within – the air so thin as could be cut by a knife. I'm afraid I made rather an exhibition of myself."

"Christ Reid!" Jackson sighed. "There is yellowing about your eyes, jaundice." He declared. "The permanence of its damage I doubt, but you should apply yourself to rest if you wish to recover – and plenty of it."

Reid nodded, his eyes beginning to close – lulled to sleep by the sedatives in his system and the clean sheets. He felt Jackson press a fresh cloth to his forehead, and sank deeper into the bed, letting the soft mattress take his weight and trusting it to support him. Jackson had propped his pillows up following his coughing fit, and he felt his breathing easier for it. He heard Jackson rise from his seat and detected him dim the lights further from behind closed eyelids, before the man resumed his position at his bedside. The American surgeon's presence was reassuring, and Reid was already half asleep when a noise downstairs startled him and prompted him to open his eyes again. Jackson's head was turned in the direction of the bedroom door.

"Who's downstairs?" Reid frowned.

Jackson looked at him, and observing that his eyes were now wide open when he would have preferred him carried nearer to sleep than wakefulness, he sighed. Reid perceived that there was evidently something the American hadn't intended to tell him, and regarded him with a interrogative eye which drew the answer from him.

"Matilda." The American sighed.

"Matilda… you sent for Matilda?" Reid asked, his hands grappling weakly behind him as he tried to use them to anchor himself to the bed, and then started to try to sit up.

"Reid, I don't think you realise just how sick you've been brother." Jackson told him in a hushed tone, as he gently took him by the shoulders and lowered him back down into the bed again. He made a gentle "Shhhhh" sound as Reid allowed himself to sink back into the protective cushion of blankets. Part of him wanted to remain there, warm and relatively comfortable, if not still feeling quite unwell. "You have been and still are very ill." Jackson explained. "When I sent for her I could not be sure that you would live. When I found you your fever was dangerously high, and climbing, your lungs so full of infection it had forced the air from within them – you were choking. Hell, I had to sit you up so you didn't suffocate in front of me. I paid a street urchin to send your daughter a telegram, as this is something you clearly didn't see fit to do so yourself!"

"I did not want her here… the poison… it spreads." Reid shook his head weakly. "I did not want her exposed to infection."

This was of course a falsehood on his part, but this duplicity was at least underlined by a mirror of truth. Despite the fractures which had appeared in their relationship he felt sure that she would have come had he appealed to her – if there had ever been any doubt in his mind her presence now assured him of such – but he would not have wanted her exposed to the infection.

"Hell Reid, another couple of days and the next time Matilda walked these streets it would have been on her route to put her father in the ground." Jackson told him.

"I want to see her." He whispered.

"Later." Jackson told him firmly, and Reid could see by the look in his eyes that he was unmoving in this persuasion. "Your girl waits for when you are strong enough, and she will not leave until you have laid your eyes upon her, but you are not yet well enough for this."

Reid sighed. He felt inclined to agree, but whilst his body forcibly compelled him ever closer to sleep, his heart longed to see his daughter – her absence from his life had been a deep emotional ache, which seemed to hurt all the more to know that she was presently so close by. He yearned to hear the sound of her voice and see her face once more – not simply a picture of her in a photograph framed by mahogany.

"Will I live?" He asked him.

"You are not out of the woods yet." Jackson declared. "But you are nearer to living than you are to dead, and with rest you should recover."

Reid nodded, relieved. His eyes once again started to close, and this time he allowed himself to succumb to sleep, and the influence of the drugs on his ailing body. He rested peacefully for several hours, awaking only briefly but remaining on the periphery of consciousness. He thought he heard Jackson's voice, whispering softly to someone else in the room – with a tenderness of tone he had not had much cause to associate with the American – but it was a comforting reminder that he was no longer alone, after becoming accustomed to a loneliness of his own making.

"Those months spent in hiding, the beating he sustained." He heard him say. "I suspect it weakened him. When the sickness took hold he couldn't fight it off. But its more than that – there is a despondency in his soul. Matilda, I don't think he wanted to."

Matilda? So Matilda was in the room also. Reid wanted to open his eyes, to lay his sights upon the face of his daughter, but whilst his heart was yearning he was not yet strong enough in body, and he was dragged back to sleep again.

When he next awoke Jackson was no longer at his side. As he opened his eyes slowly he sluggishly searched the darkened space around him for any sign of anything that was familiar and comforting. The wall lamps were still burning but the room was darker now than it had been earlier in the day, and Reid surmised that the hour must have been late. His eyes still felt heavy, but he no longer felt as exhausted as he had done and he carefully shifted his position beneath the blankets, grimacing as he felt the ache in his bones. His vision was muddied but he could just about make out vague colours and shapes with fuzzy edges, lacking definition. His field of vision came into view slowly – ebbing and waning like an ocular pulse – until it finally came to settle upon a different figure to the one he had become accustomed to. This was a softer presence, and he felt the gentle brush of a tender hand against his forehead as he struggled to focus on the person's face. He blinked and squinted, frustrated by his inability to focus, until gradually the image became clearer – a soft countenance framed by a crown of auburn hair. It was his daughter who now occupied the seat at his bedside. One of his hands was gently clasped within hers, and as he fixed his gaze upon her she smiled at him and drew his hand up to rest lightly against her cheek.

"Matilda?" He whispered weakly, tears in his eyes as he frowned and swallowed. His mouth was dry and he was somewhat unsettled by the hoarseness of his voice – which did not sound like his own. Seeing this the young woman raised a glass to his lips for him to take a sip, and Reid savoured the mild taste of the barley water over his gums. When his thirst was sufficiently quenched he pushed her hand holding the beaker of liquid away and she replaced the glass on the bedside table, guiding him to sit back against the many pillows Jackson had placed at his back, to support him and help keep him upright.

"Why did you not send for me?" Matilda asked him once he had sufficiently recovered himself and she was reasonably assured of his moderate, if not total comfort. His tears escaped the dam he had constructed for himself as a means of surviving the lonely sentence passed upon him, and she squeezed his hand comfortingly as she dabbed at his wet face with a handkerchief, her glistening eyes a reflection of his own heartbreak. A strangled sob eructed from his chest, but he managed to hold himself together with weak resolve.

"You have a life of your own now Matilda," He tried to explain, "a life I thought myself no longer a part of."

"But why father?" She pressed him.

"What you said, that day you left Whitechapel behind you, 'he won't come, he won't ever, he cannot.'" He said sadly, "I thought your faith in me shaken. I thought yours a future in which I had no part to play."

Matilda flinched at these words as though he'd slapped her in the face, and it hurt Reid to think that even now he should be the cause of his daughter's pain. Unseen to the man in the bed Jackson, who remained close by, too grimaced at this revelation. She looked heartsick.

"It is true that I was hurt, and stirred to anger." She confessed. "But it was an anger which was not entirely directed at you, and should not have been so cruelly expressed as such. My faith in you had been shaken." She continued, but despite the fact that her words contained a harsh sentiment – a painful reminder of Reid's failings both as her father and as a police officer – her voice was soft and gentle, carrying no hint of judgement. "You remain so an officer of the law, and my daddy, and as a child I always took pride in the knowledge that it was you who kept the streets of Whitechapel safe. To think that you would see to take rather than preserve life, felt like a betrayal I did not know how to even begin to forgive, but I have a child now – a daughter of my own – and I think I finally understand, for I too can see myself turned to murder in the name of her protection."

"How is she?" He asked her. "You have not written since your letter to inform me of her birth. I have wondered how she was fairing. I thought to write many times but I did not know if it would be welcome."

"She is well." Matilda beamed as she thought on her daughter, and Reid could see the same love and pride in her eyes which he had observed in Emily's when she had had occasion to speak of her as a little girl. "And she will love her grandfather, as I do." She said.

"You have not brought the child with you?" He asked her, his anxieties overcoming him as he thought of such a young child being brought into a house of infection – of the fact that he may have infected her discursively. He could never forgive himself.

"No, but Samuel is waiting on my telegram. He will bring her to meet you once you are well." She assured him.

Reid hung his head sadly. He knew that he had let her down. He had not been a good father to her. He had not been around enough when she had been growing up – always so focused on his work that he had taken for granted that she would always be there – until one day she hadn't. Her spirit lost to the Thames, swallowed by the murky waters, and in those early days he had doubted he would ever see her again. He should never have taken her to the boat that day, if he had not been so caught up in the apprehension of the man he had marked for Ripper then she would have been safe at home the afternoon the boat had gone down. He could have left it to other men to oversee but the anguish the case had caused him – the unspoken bitter turmoil arising from the brutality of the man – had compelled his need to be there. He could have gone alone, but in his desperation he had not paid enough heed to the peril he had been putting her in, and he could not have foreseen that the real danger would come not from the man himself, but from the boat onto which they had followed him. What had happened to Horace Buckley had been an unforgivable act – a crime which marked him as no better than the other thugs and ruffians who stalked Whitechapel's streets, and one for which he would surely have swung if Drake and Jackson had not perjured themselves for his cause.

He hated himself for what he had done in taking Matilda with him that day and so in turn he had hated him. The belief that she may have escaped one peril to fall straight into the talons of another had driven him almost mad with rage. To think that he had labelled the man for a predator when he should have welcomed him her saviour made him sick. By Matilda's account he had always been good to her, but the fact that he had known her true identity and kept her from him – during which time Matilda's mother had turned to drink to drown her despair at the loss of her child, until her downward spiral had sent her to the asylum in which she had been incarcerated, and slowly disintegrated until her life had ebbed away from her – had been a deed which Reid still could not forgive. Suddenly his chest hitched, another sob escaping him, and he began to cry – a desperate weeping which constricted and tightened around his chest, and he struggled to breathe through the ache of it. Matilda's reaction was immediate as she gathered her father up in her arms and held him close to her imploring him not to give into his despair – that he had no cause to anguish. He could smell her perfume of roses – a subtle taste she had obviously inherited from her mother – which reminded him of Emily – his Emily. He missed her.

At that moment Jackson appeared from behind Matilda and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. She inclined her neck to look at him and smiled.

"I think your father needs to rest now Matilda." He told her, and she nodded, kissing him lightly on his burning brow as she unwrapped her arms from around him.

"I do feel weary." Reid confessed, leaning back into the pillows which bolstered him, although he felt a need to lie down so that he could sleep. Jackson, seeming to sense this, moved forward and past Matilda, adjusting his pillows and helping him to lie flat. Reid groaned as he felt the stiffness in his bones.

"Sleep then father and all will be well." She smiled, stroking his hair soothingly, with tears in her own eyes. "I'm not going anywhere until you are better."

Jackson began mixing something in water beside him and Reid recognised it to be the same powder from earlier. The surgeon gently lifted his head slowly so that he would not choke as he swallowed his dose of the medicine, and as the glass was gently placed to his lips Reid drank on its contents. Matilda stood, worried as she watched her father's eyes fall closed, before withdrawing from the room.

When she was gone Jackson soaked another cloth in the bowel on the bedside table and gently placed it to Reid's forehead. The water was no longer as cool as it had been – tepid as he dipped his hand in to test the temperate of it – but it was still cold enough for its intended purpose. He could still hear the slight wheeze upon Reid's breath as the air rattled in his lungs, but it was quieter than it had been before – a promising indication that the infection was receding. The gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath the blankets showed that he had fallen asleep again, and the bromide would ensure it was a restful one.

Jackson leaned back into his seat and settled himself in preparation to continue his watch, for his vigil was not yet over. It would be several days before Reid could be determined as over the worst of it, and an indefinite number more before he would be well enough to get out of his bed. The chair was uncomfortable but he had slept in many less agreeable places in his time. Whilst he was as assured as he could be that Reid would eventually recover the man's fever still raged and the danger had not yet completely passed. He had lost his wife, he had lost his son and his lover, and there was not another man or woman alive save for Reid that he could bestow upon the name of friend. Jackson was not a sentimental man, but sentimentality did not equate to care – an outward lack of demonstrative emotion did not amount to indifference – and the surgeon would not leave Reid's side until had declared him well again.