Look! A longer chapter! (Oh, and I rewrote the first two parts a little bit.)
Godley:
Detective Sergeant Peter Godley of the Metropolitan Police sat hunched over a stack of reports on his desk, scribbling madly to fill the pages with pertinent information on the latest murder case but well aware of the fact that it was 3:30 in the afternoon and Inspector Abberline had not yet returned from lunch.
Lunch, he thought. Bloody unlikely. In the five months since the last Ripper murder and Mary's flight to Ireland, Frederick Abberline seemed to survive on absinthe and opium. Godley was amazed he was still alive.
He remembered the young Fred he had met six years ago when he was a junior officer. Lively, quick-witted, agile and bright, Fred was dogged in his pursuit of criminals, fueled by an inner sense of justice and, sometimes, rage. His skill as a detective was obvious to all but there was something more to him – something mysterious and a little dangerous. He rose in rank quickly, solving cases that had defied logic. No one knew how he did it.
It didn't bother Godley when Abberline was promoted over him and they stayed friends. His own brother had been killed in India and he found it easy to give his filial affections to the eccentric but good-hearted young man who became his boss. Still a bachelor at 43, Godley complained loudly about how difficult it was to find a good woman but, in fact, he had never wanted a good woman. He wanted Fred. He made excuses to work late with him or visit his rooms after hours to discuss cases. He would always bring beer and sausages, urging the slender Fred to eat more. And when Fred would fall asleep after the meal, faithful Sgt. Godley would let down his guard and surrender to the love he felt. He'd tuck a blanket around Fred to keep him warm, sitting by his side for an hour or more just to look at his exquisite face.
As he watched him sleep, Godley would lean close enough to breathe in the scent of him. Under the beer and sweat and sausages Fred always smelled like apricots. Victoria's perfume, Fred had once told him, smelled like apricots. Sometimes, if Fred had drunk enough, Peter would gently stroke his hair.
Fred married while Peter remained a bachelor. "Too old to change m'ways," he always said. And people believed him. He danced with Victoria at their wedding, though he feared his heart would explode, and gladly played the role of benevolent uncle to the couple. Fred's world collapsed when his wife died in childbirth. Peter tried to pick up the pieces, only to be rudely rebuffed. Bitter, angry and seeking only death, Abberline did not want faithful Godley at his side, watching him, saving him. It broke Peter's heart but he kept his emotions to himself, knowing he would meet with nothing but scorn and derision if he confessed them.
Godley and Abberline had a different kind of relationship after that. Close, and yet not so close. They were still partners and brothers but Abberline went his own way on his own time, spending long evenings in opium dens where his status as a police officer bought him free drugs. Godley sought out young men who looked like Abberline, but no one could replace Fred and he always sent them away after a day or two.
The Ripper murders had nearly killed Abberline. His visions (for that was the secret of his crime solving ability) tormented him day and night. He added deadly absinthe to his addictions and disappeared for days at a time. Worse yet, he ran afoul of government and the royal family, nearly paying with his life. Once again he found love, and lost it. And once again Godley's heart broke – but this time it was for Fred.
The clock chimed four and Abberline's chair was still empty. How long, Godley wondered, could he live like this? How many times can I save him? And what will happen the one day I'm not there to save him? These troubling thoughts drove him to his feet and out the door. He hailed a cab and raced to the Limehouse district, to the backstreet thick with Chinese opium dens. Burly guards stood at the doorway of each drug den but Godley used his own formidable bulk to shoulder past them. Recognizing the Sergeant, they did not try to stop him.
The first was an elegant Chinese pleasure palace frequented by aristocrats and minor royalty. He saw the son of the Duke of Buckingham there but no Abberline. The next was decorated in Victortian opulence and drew a moneyed clientele, most of whom were too lost in their own pipe dreams to notice the five naked women dancing in their midst. A popular place on the other side of the street was crowded with an Chinese men but Godley searched it thoroughly, knowing that Abberline liked it because no one would expect him to be there.
Ah, how was it that Fred always managed to be in the last place he looked, Peter wondered. No matter which place that was. Abberline's last regular haunt was a small, discreet opium den in a hard-to-find cellar. Taking in the whole place with a single glance, Godley immediately spotted Fred on a low divan in the corner. Eight steps took him there. The sight of Fred drugged insensible always unsettled him, but never more than today. The Inspector was as pale as paper, his thin skin drawn tightly over the bones of his face, the veins visible in his bony hands. Surely he was dead.
Love and concern quickly turned to anger – how dare he do this to himself. Godley shouted "Wake up!" and backhanded him hard enough to wake the dead. Abberline stirred. His long lashes fluttered and his eyelids drifted up, exposing those fathomless black eyes. Fred looked at him without comprehension, bonelessly inert on the divan. Still furious, Godley grabbed a handful of Fred's too-loose vest and hauled him to his feet.
Abberline was upright but could not find his feet. Only Godley's strong arm around his waist kept him from crumpling like a marionette whose strings had been slashed. Peter held him close and took a deep breath. He stilled smelled like apricots. Awash in this sense memory, he was shocked to realize that Fred was curling himself around him, molding his body to Peter's shape so as to achieve maximum physical contact. He tried to tell him they had to leave but there was no indication the drugged man understood him. Then he felt Fred's warm head on his chest, moving slowly as if to nuzzle him. No, no, that could not be right. Another touch – Fred's fine-boned hand on his belly. Touching him. Stroking him. He was wrong about that, he was sure. Fred had no idea what he was touching.
He checked for a pulse and found Fred's heart beating slowly but strongly. As Fred's eyes drifted closed again, Peter brushed his unruly hair back from his face. He wanted to say something. He meant to say something. But, instead, he picked his friend up in his arms like a baby and carried him out, meeting the stares of other patrons with a glare that warned them never to speak of this.