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Homer Jackson was the last man standing at H-Division. The moon hung high in the sky and the only sounds of the night were the distant clopping of horses pulling carriages or an occasional drunk mumbling down the street. Susan was back at the brothel on Tenter Street with the other girls, presumably managing their nightly work. He smirked at the thought.

Jackson was bent over a mangled corpse. The fellow was a portly gentlemen in his middle age with greying hair. His pale skin was covered in purple and red bruises and his ribs were broken in thirteen different places. The mortician brought the body late in the day, causing Jackson to remain as well. Though Jackson tried to smuggle his way out and back to the brothel, Reid ordered a completed autopsy from Homer, the surgeon-at-arms, by the time he returned.

"Come on, Reid," Homer rolled his eyes, "the body will still be here in the morning."

Reid rejected his request, as he went to investigate the murder scene with Drake.

Jackson cut into the body, sniffing, "If you think an autopsy is so easy then be my guest," he mumbled under his breath.

The corpse just stared at the ceiling, lifeless, as expected.

Jackson observed the vast array of bruises on the man's body. He took a step back, shaking his head, "What happened to you, pal? Jesus, someone really wanted you dead."
He bent down to return to work, scalpel ready, about to cut-

CRASH!

Jackson flinched. He was an experienced veteran, he knew when he heard a frantic sound like that his senses would automatically kick into high alert.

That wasn't a drunkard from the street or a horse-drawn carriage.

The noise came from the front of the station. Jackson wielded the scalpel like a knife and kept one hand on his gun belt. He approached the doorway, ready to tackle the threat.

"Who's there?" he demanded, "You gotta be damn near stupid to break into a police station. Show yourself!"

Jackson rounded the corner and was in the main station, armed and ready. He approached the door carefully. The crash definitely came from right outside it.

BANG!

Jackson drew his gun and pointed it to the door.

He heard muffled voices. Male voices, distressed, yelling, harsh.

"Come on out!"

He was a foot away from the door. The hilt of his gun was hot in his hands.

The door burst open.

Jackson's jaw dropped and so did his gun.

It was a gruesome sight to behold.

Drake was hoisting a crumpling Reid upright as the Detective Inspector attempted to keep his legs from buckling beneath him. His left arm was draped over Drake's neck, while his right arm was pressed against his bleeding side. His hand and skin were covered with blood and his face was as pale as a sheet.

"Drake, what the hell happened?!" Jackson raced forward towards the two, sidling up to Reid's other side and helping him stand.

Bennet was covered in sweat, grime, and Reid's blood. He was panting, probably due to his exhaustsing journey back to H-Division.

"Gang…," he said in between heavy breaths, "ambushed us...in the alley...caught Reid in the crossfire."

Jackson didn't need to hear any more, "Come on, Reid. Hang in there, buddy. We'll get you fixed up, okay? Just hang in there."

It was as if the Detective Inspector had not even heard him. Reid was unresponsive and Jackson knew that was a worrying sign.

"Quick, Drake! To the tables!"

The two men hoisted Reid towards Jackson's autopsy room. An empty metal table glistened under the dim light. It was usually reserved for corpses prepared for autopsies, but they were limited in their options at the moment.

"Get him up! Now!"

"I've got his legs!" Drake shouted as Jackson positioned himself to grab Reid by his arms and lift.

"One," Drake started the countdown, "two…"

"This is gonna hurt, Reid," Jackson muttered to the fading Detective Inspector, "I'm sorry."

"Three!"

As Jackson and Drake lifted the injured Reid, their friend's painful shouts filled H-Division. They laid him flat on the metal table, but Reid weakly lifted his head to groggily stare down at his bleeding side.

Jackson tried to shove his worry deep within him and focus on his patient. Reid was his patient, not his co-worker or friend.

"Come on, Reid," Drake was bent by the Detective Inspector, gripping his shoulder, "Stay with us, you hear me?"

"Talk to me, Drake." Jackson ordered as he gathered his supplies to operate.

Bennet ignored him, "Reid, stay with us."

"Drake!"

"Alright, alright!" the man cleared his thoughts and took a breath, "A bullet hit him in the side. Just below the ribcage. I-I can't remember if it passed clean through."

Homer was already at work having gotten some background. First, he had to find the exit wound. If the bullet was still in Reid, he'd have to find it and dig it out. Jackson rolled up his sleeves, preparing to operate.

"I need a bowl of sterilized water," Jackson instructed, "now."

Drake ran out of the room obediently as the surgeon gathered his tools. Upon Drake's return he soaked his instruments in the sterilized water and began to cut away at Reid's vest and shirt.

"Help me lift him," Jackson ordered, "I've got to find the exit wound."

Drake glanced at the alarming amount of blood already pouring from Reid's wound, "Would he survive it…?"

"He has no choice," the doctor grit his teeth.

Drake nodded darkly and positioned himself to hoist Reid upright, "I am truly sorry, my friend…"

Jackson gave one sharp nod and Drake lifted Reid with effort. The Detective Inspector groaned with pain and a fresh wave of blood spilled from his wound. Drake was turning pale as a sheet and had to turn away, but Jackson quickly got to work. He ran his fingers over Reid's side, trying to feel for the bullet's exit wound. His heart sank as he realized there was none.

"Put him down!" Jackson helped Drake lower the bleeding Detective Inspector back onto the slab. Reid was still hovering between consciousness and unconsciousness.

"And?" Drake pressed, "Did you find it?"

"No," Jackson said curtly as he reached for his tools, "I'm going to have to find it and fish it out."

Drake's face fell. If the bullet had made exit, it would be a matter of cleaning and stitching the wound and slowly nursing Reid back to full strength with better hope that he would live. Now they had to proceed with a dangerous surgery that would result in further blood loss with even less guarantee he would survive.

Jackson could not process the thought. They had to proceed with the surgery.

He donned his surgical apron, pulled up his sleeves, washed his hands thoroughly and removed his clean tools. Drake stood listless at Reid's side, covered in his blood.

"Drake," Jackson snapped, "I need you present if Reid is going to survive this. Are you with me?"

Drake took a moment, then cleared his throat, "Yes."

"Good. We don't have chloroform. Strap him down."

Drake nodded once and grabbed the leather restraints they used for belligerent prisoners. He secured Reid's arms and legs much to his displeasure; however, the pain of the surgery would cause Reid to move abruptly and create possible further damage if he was no restrained.

"Get liquor. All you can find."

He returned with some heavy whisky from the sergeant's concealed cabinet.

"Open up, Reid," Jackson lifted his friend's head and coaxed the alcohol down his throat.

"Can he have that in this state? Is it alright?" Drake wrung his hands together in worry.

"Trust me, this is the least of his worries," Jackson set the bottle down, "it was a trick we used in the war. I need blood, Reid is losing too much of it. Check that ice chest over there, Drake. I might only have one unit, but it'll have to do."

Drake returned with the valuable pint of bagged blood. Jackson grabbed it and expertly injected Reid with wires to pump it into his system.

"He's strapped tight?"

"Yes."

"Good. Stay by his head. If he wakes up, give him more alcohol and keep him calm. He cannot move, or I risk hitting another organ."

"Alright," Drake shakily stood by Reid's head.

"Here we go."

Jackson used his forceps and began to dig in for the bullet. Reid's pained shouts filled the department.

"Keep him steady!"

Drake pressed his body weight onto the struggling Detective Inspector.

"Come on, come on," Jackson was sweating, trying his damndest to find this bullet. Blood spilled onto the table, staining his hands and sleeves.

"It's alright, Reid," Drake tried calming the struggling man, "Jackson's almost got it. Any moment now."

The metal forceps tapped against something hard. Jackson stiffened. The bullet!

"Got it!" he angled the tools to grip the edge of the bullet.

Reid yelled, fighting against his restraints.

"Hold him, Drake! Just a little longer!"

Homer felt the sweat bead on his forehead. The bullet was slipping from the edge of the forceps. The blood made the metal slick.

Reid was slipping in and out of consciousness from the pain. His skin was a deathly gray.

Now, Homer! You're losing him!

Jackson took a deep breath, pushed the forceps in once more, grabbed hold of the bullet with all of his might, and yanked it out.

He stumbled backwards and dropped the metal projectile into a tin. Blood stained the surface and dripped onto the floor. The forceps fell from his hands and onto the surgical tray.

Drake looked at the bullet in the tray with a mixture of relief and shock. It was out, but there was still much work to be done.

Without hesitation, Jackson was at Reid's side again. The Detective Inspector was unconscious thankfully. It made his job much easier.

"Is he alive?" Drake asked carefully.

"Barely," Jackson said sternly, "but we've got work to do if we're gonna save Reid."

Next chapter coming soon!