Disclaimer: I do not own Inspector Abberline, Sgt. Godley or any other characters from the movie From Hell. I make no money from this.
Abberline:
""Frederick Abberline. Police Inspector. Age 34. Widower."
Drifting pleasantly in his opium haze, Fred dispassionately enumerated all the paltry details of his life.
"Not a husband. Not a father." Ah, best not to pursue that line of thinking.
"This is a very good day," Abberline told himself. "Three pipes in five hours." He floated high above the scarlet silk of the cot where his body lay, high above the embroidered gold dragon on the pillow, flying through that misty green dreamland he knew so well. And all the dreams had been wondrous today – sensual and soothing and deeply satisfying. He had lost all track of time. What was time when he could live in this other place without pain or sorrow or memory?
A voice. Harsh and demanding. "Wuh uh!" He tried to shut it out. It came again, even louder, followed by pain as something struck him. Pain? This was the place without pain! He recoiled from the blow. He should respond to that, he thought. And he would, later, when he had the energy. Fred let his eyelids drift open, seeing a large brown shape looming over him. A massive hand grasped the loose cloth at the front of his vest and pulled him to his feet with one powerful yank. "That's brute strength," he dimly thought. "I wonder if he means me harm?"
Abberline maintained his newly-achieved upright position only with the help of the strang arm holding him up. His knees began to buckle and he found himself leaning against a mountain draped in wool cloth. Godley. Of course. It was Godley. Abberline felt a smile tickle his lips. Still in the grip of the opium, his world was reduced to senses. Godley smelled of tobacco and ale, sausages and soap. His heavy wool suit scratched Abberline's hypersensitive skin as he sagged against Godley's bulky body. Warm. He was so warm.
Abberline's legs could not support him but the Sergeant's strong arm held him close. He went limp, letting his body mold itself to the curve of Godley's massive belly. Soft…and yet firm. Flesh, all flesh. So real and earthly. Godley was speaking and he could feel that deep voice rumbling through the barrel chest. He wanted to sink into Godley's warm, generous flesh and let that rumbly voice soothe him. He laid his head against Godley's chest to breathe in his warmth and his scent and his life, feeling his pounding heartbeat. He let his left hand rest on Godley's belly and stroke it softly. He ached to be touched – to feel Godley's large, soft hands on his bare skin – and trembled when he felt the Sergeant's fingers on his neck to feel a pulse, sighed when the meaty hand then brushed the hair out of his eyes.
He should be humiliated to have Godley pick him up in his arms. He should be ashamed to be carried like a baby out of this den of drug addicts. Instead he relaxed into the giant's embrace and used his shoulder as a pillow.