Chapter 10: Guilty Parties

Edinburgh, Scotland, 1828

The cold, colorless stones of the tiny room vibrated with the rumbling sounds of thunder, as a late Spring storm continued to rage across Edinburgh. Will focused intently on the tempest in a useless effort to block out the various, strange voices that called out from the numerous cells around him, in an effort to block out the chilling reality of the situation itself. Namely this: that he was stuck inside a prison cell in the jail house just off the High Street, his fate balanced on the capricious scales of justice's uncertainty.

His interview with the police earlier that day had not gone well...

"Mr. Hare, are you acquainted with Mr. James Wilson, otherwise known as Daft Jamie, who resides at Stevenlaw's Close?" asked officer Fisher.

"Yes."

"And have you seen this individual at any time over the past three days?"

Will hesitated. Unsure of what to do, he simply lied. Lied, because that was, no doubt, what his wife and Burke had done.

"No," he answered.

"What about on the 11th?"

Two days ago. Again Will hesitated before answering, his blue eyes staring down at the lines and whorls in the wooden surface of his kitchen table. "No, I didn't see him."

"What if I told you that I've already spoken with several witnesses who said they saw Mr. Wilson here at these lodgings on the 11th?"

"Then I would say they were mistaken."

"Are you certain of that? Mr. Wilson was a very...colorful character. It would be hard to mistake him for someone else."

"He wasn't here."

"Mr. Hare," a deep voice interrupted them, as Alexander Black cut into the conversation. He was still standing in the middle of Will's parlor, his head still bent over his ledger. "Upstairs in the second room on the right, there is a quantity of blood on the blanket, on the mattress, and on the floor. Care to explain how it got there?"

Will looked up sharply. Black was watching him intently, his eyes knowing, even as his expression remained perfectly blank. Will faltered. "I...I don't know anything about that."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Your wife said it was from a woman lodger who had lain there a fortnight ago. She said that the room, and the bed, hadn't been washed since then. Do you agree with her statement?" Black read the words directly from his ledger, firing off each statement like rounds from a cannon. Both he and Fisher turned to stare expectantly at Will, waiting for his answer.

Will felt the air leave the room. It was like someone had dropped an invisible noose around his neck, and it was slowly, so very slowly, tightening its length around his throat. He knew there was a look of fear, of uncertainty, on his face, and he couldn't dispel it. He wished he could simply disappear into the floorboards, wished he could vaporize into the ether. He wished that these two men and their questions would go away.

But they didn't go away. They both remained where they were, eagerly awaiting his answer.

"I...I suppose so."

"So you agree with her then?"

"Yes."

"What if I told you that such a thing was impossible? That the blood was obviously no more than, say, two days old at most?"

Will looked startled. He felt his hands gripping the edges of the table, unconsciously holding onto the wood as if holding a lifeline. He looked up to find Black staring at his fingers, at his straining, ghost-white knuckles. Will immediately dropped his hands back into his lap.

Fisher resumed talking. "We have located some of Mr. Wilson's personal effects at a pawn shop off St. Mary's Wynd. Things that he had on him at the time of his disappearance. A gold pocket watch and an inlaid snuff box with a copper spoon. The watch was placed there under the name Margaret Hare. Was that by your instructions-"

"-no!"

"And you're certain of this, Mr. Hare?"

Will's hands were shaking in his lap, shaking with both fear and anger. How could Madge be such a fool...

"The snuff box and copper spoon were deposited under the name William Burke," interjected Black. "Have you any knowledge of this?" Will looked up sharply, finally meeting the cold, calculating eyes of Alexander Black dead on. And what he saw there chilled his bones, sped up his heart. In that instant, he saw Black's true feelings about the situation:

He was enraged. Disgusted and enraged by everything that was going on here. And he was utterly, doggedly determined to put a stop to it...

Will's eyes dropped to the floor. Across from him, he heard officer Fisher say, "Well, I think that about does it for now. I believe further questioning is in order, considering all the contradictory statements we have heard here. Wouldn't you agree, Black?"

Black merely grunted in assent. Again, there was that feeling of rage, of disgust emanating from the man. As if he would like nothing better than to lunge forward and pound Will's head repeatedly into the surface of the table. And the only thing stopping him was the cold, hard letter of the law, his own sense of judicial order.

Fisher's chair scraped back like the squeal of a pig. The officer stood up and began to recite, by rote:

"Mr. William Hare, by the power of the Crown I will now commend you to the police offices on the King's Street, where you will be detained for further questioning regarding the disappearance of James Wilson, also known as Daft Jamie..."

Will stared down at the dirty floor of his cell, at the frayed, threadbare cot he was sitting on. He remembered every single word of his exchange with Fisher and Black. Remembered, and regretted. He had been such a fool, such a trusting, ignorant fool, and now he was paying the price for it. It wouldn't surprise him if all of their necks-his, Burke's, and Margaret's-ended up in the halter for what they had done, for all the brutal crimes they had committed. And in a strange way, Will was glad. Glad that this was finally all coming to an end. Glad that he could finally let go of the screaming accusations of his sleepless conscience. Glad that he didn't have to be in Burke's power anymore...

Loud, slapping footsteps cantered through the hallway outside of his cell, growing louder as they grew closer. Abruptly, the steps halted, their echoes falling away into a dead silence outside his wooden door. There was the clank of metal, the jingling of keys, and then a bolt was scraped back, its shriek enhanced by a simultaneous clap of thunder. The door to his cell flew open, and outside stood two police constables, their expressions as grim as a pair of morticians as their dual, blank stares fell upon him.

"Mr. William Hare, sir, if you would accompany us..."

Will's eyes grew round with fear. "Accompany where?"

The second constable answered. "To the interrogation room, sir. Where Mr. Black and Mr. Scott will be conducting an official interview, to decide whether or not there will be any formal murder charges levied against you..." With that scathing pronouncement, Will stood, and he just barely managed to swallow back his growing fear, one that was triggered by those two all important words:

"...murder charges..."

Edinburgh, Scotland, Present day

"Look Jack! Blue boxes!"

Jack watched the Doctor as he dipped in between two old standing police boxes, an effervescent, child-like expression on his face. "Ooh, the dimensions are off. Not nearly as streamlined," he commented. "Plus, I don't think they have that all important time-and-space traveling ability that is essential to every good blue box..."

It was dark out in Edinburgh, and the lights of the Old Town winked and shimmered all around them as they walked across the Cowsgate from the South Bridge. Over the horizon, in the distance, Edinburgh Castle stood, lit from below like an actress standing before the footlights, its majestic beauty shining like something out of a gorgeous, Gothic painting. The entire scene was like something out of a fairy tale-a lovely, enchanted fairy tale. It was the perfect setting for a night of romance.

And Jack was torn.

The Doctor was saying something about Van Gogh and starry nights and-quite possibly-monsters, as they went on walking, but Jack barely heard him. He was lost in the quagmire of his own conflicting thoughts, lost in his own personal labyrinth of indecision. And it was all the Doctor's fault. His fault for showing up, out of the blue, and saving Jack's neck-literally-from being broken about ten more times. His fault for being so utterly delighted and entranced by everyone and everything around him, and for making everyone else who encountered him feel that way, too. His fault for showing up with a new face and looking-gasp!-so much younger than Jack, and who could blame him for taking notice, for being just a little bit infatuated? It was all his fault...

It was all his fault that Jack had become a better man...

And that was the crux of it: the solid foundation of bedrock which lay beneath the ephemera of attraction. The Doctor was the one who had made Jack want to be a better man. A good man. So what, exactly, had Jack been before he met the Doctor? A petty con-man hopping around from place to place; a useless criminal with no real purpose or point or love for anything. And then the Doctor had come along and changed all that. He had shown him what it truly meant to live; he had shown him goodness. That was the reason Jack remained here, on this hulking rock of a planet, defending the oblivious-and often selfish, ungrateful-horde of humanity. Because the Doctor made it seem like the right thing to do. It was all because of him...

"Oh, that's lovely. Very nice, indeed."

Jack had been so completely wrapped up in his own thoughts that he hadn't noticed that they had arrived at Greyfriar's, that the church's stained glass windows were ablaze with vibrant shards of color behind the wrought iron gate. It was lovely. He and the Doctor walked along the path to the church, past the shadowy arches of headstones and the darkened slabs of tombs. They walked on to the secluded corner of Covenanter's Prison, down its narrow path, to the frosty, claustrophobic interior of the Black Mausoleum. As predicted, the Doctor marveled at the novelty of the mausoleum's reality projection simulator, his delighted chuckle bouncing off the cavernous walls of the elevator shaft. He and Jack entered the elevator and rode the confines of the antique cage into the hub of Torchwood Scotland.

You won't be able to hold him, Jack's mental voice warned as he stood against the elevator's metal door, watching the Doctor intently inside the small, cramped space. He's like air, an element impossible to capture or hold down. Essential, eternal. And he will leave again. Most definitely. Leaving is his one true talent...

True, Jack's internal voice answered. But I won't know, unless I try...

"...and then Queen Elizabeth said-that's Elizabeth the 10th, mind you-mmfph!"

The words were effectively cut off by Jack's suddenly questing lips and tongue. The elevator's metal grill creaked in cranky protest as Jack pushed the Doctor back against the wall, holding his body flush against his own. Try and mistake this for a revolver, thought Jack with a smirk. The Doctor, for his part, was neither responsive nor unresponsive. He managed to wrench his head to the side and said, in perfectly dulcet tones, "Jack, I hardly think this is appropriate-" before Jack claimed his lips again, intent on wrenching some sort of reaction out of him. Yield to me-please, yield to me! Jack let his hands wander beneath the beige blazer, fingers skirting over the contours of unfamiliar territory. Again, the kiss broke, with the Doctor squeaking, "Hands! Hands!" And then the elevator's bell chimed its bright, welcoming chime, the cage door was pulled back, and there, on the other side, stood Ianto, his face covered in a tapestry of confusion.

Oh, shit! thought Jack. Shitshitshitshitshit!

The Doctor sprang forward with his hand held out, his usually cheery greeting of, "Hello, I'm the Doctor," spilling forth. Jack could have banged his head against the elevator wall. The Doctor, for all his technological genius, was a complete idiot when it came to the particular nuances of relationships. The man was completely clueless. Jack wanted to take the elevator back up and start the scene all over again...

Ianto was staring down at the Doctor's hand with all the delight of an enraged weevil. Unsure of what to do, the Doctor merely dropped his hand, and then both men turned to look pointedly at Jack. Those twin stares made Jack want to shrink back into the confines of the elevator. That, or...

...suggest that they all have a threesome together back at the TARDIS! Fuck, yey! Skinny dipping party in the library swimming pool!

Of course, the look on Ianto's face dried up that suggestion faster than the desert on the Boeshane Peninsula...

"Uh, Jack, can I speak to you alone for a moment?" asked Ianto in a neutral tone of voice.

Shitshitshitshitshitshit! Oh, that blank tone of voice was like the calm before the storm...

Maybe if he was lucky, the poltergeist would bring the whole building down on top of their heads. Please? Pretty please? But as Jack dutifully followed Ianto into what looked to be some kind of kitchen/lounge area, Jack had a sneaky suspicion that he wasn't going to get any kind of reprieve from what was coming.

They entered the room, and Ianto closed the door firmly shut behind them. The camel-colored coat and scarf were gone, leaving him in his waistcoat and shirt sleeves. And, as he turned to face Jack with a cold, calm expression clouding his gorgeous blue eyes, Jack only had one crystal clear thought:

He's so beautiful...

"What's he doing here?" asked Ianto, his voice still perfectly neutral.

"I, uh, we ran into each other inside the vaults. He helped me escape."

"I see."

"No, Ianto, you don't. What you saw on that elevator-"

"-it wasn't what it looked like?" There was a vague sneer, the words lobbed at him like missiles of bitter disappointment. Such bitterness. Those six words caused Jack to hang his head in an unfamiliar feeling of shame.

And why do I feel this way? he thought. It's not like me to feel this kind of guilt. Ever. Unless-

Without warning, Ianto suddenly lunged forward and wrapped both arms around him, capturing his lips with his own. All thought ceased as Jack was pulled in by the other's heat, his mounting passion. Jack returned the kiss with eagerness, with burgeoning lust, as the two of them clung together in the center of the room. Slowly, deliberately, Ianto began to back him towards a sofa against the wall, and Jack allowed himself to be led, overcome, overwhelmed by the force of the other's desire. So goddam hot! Jack made no protest as Ianto pushed him down onto the sofa, his usually soft blue eyes hardened with an unfamiliar determination as he climbed on top of him. Then Ianto said, as he gently stroked the side of Jack's face:

"I'm not going to let him ruin this."

"No."

"It's going to be perfect."

"Yes."

Then there was a sharp, unexpected stab of pain in his left thigh, and Jack yelped, caught off guard by it. He looked down to see a needle sticking out of his leg, the plunger pushed all the way down. Confusion contorted Jack's face, and he looked up and said, "Ianto, what the hell?"

There was a calculating grin, and then: "I'm not Ianto."

And that image, those words, was the last thing Jack saw, were the last things he heard, before everything faded...

Before the whole world went silently, fantastically black...

End Chapter 10.

Hmm, I think that rock I was pushing rolled back down and smacked me in the face a few times. Oh well, I still managed to get the chapter in before the week was totally gone...(just barely)