A.N.:
Sorry for the stupidly long wait for an update! Writer's block, house hunting, apartment fire, more writer's block, etc., kept me from finishing sooner, but I promise updates will be more regular in the future! Full notes and disclaimers at the end.
Chapter Three
Jack the Ripper is Actually a Stand-Up Guy
As it turned out, Victorian London was more or less exactly like everyone always portrayed it. Dean stepped out of the TARDIS into a night filled with sickly yellow fog. Nearby gas-lamps failed to make a significant dent in the darkness, and his boots made strange, muffled clacks on the cobblestone pavement.
"Cheerful place for a bunch of murders," he said quietly, eyes scanning the area. They'd landed in an alley, and thankfully no one was around. The street beyond it also seemed deserted. Dean wondered what time it was—and then he wondered what the date was.
Before he could take two steps towards the main street, the Doctor grabbed him by his coat sleeve and began to rattle off a list of rules. "Rule number one," the Time Lord said imperiously, "Don't wonder off! And I mean it! If you wonder off and end up in another universe, you'll likely be lost forever, or just dead or sucked into a black hole or something. So don't wonder off!"
Dean sighed and freed his arm. "Fine, sorry. For a second there I thought I was a capable adult and not a five-year-old—"
But the Doctor didn't hear the hunter's grumbles; he was already talking again. "Rule number two: you all look terrible and you'll have to change clothes. You can't go walking around Victorian London dressed like lumber jacks," he waved vaguely at the Winchesters, "and trollops," a motion to Amy, who looked scandalized.
Dean was going to say something concerning the hypocrisy of the Doctor—who was wearing a bow-tie and suspenders—critiquing other people's outfits, but the man was already herding everyone back into the TARDIS, towards the hall.
The two men who Dean was reluctantly beginning to think of as the real Sherlock Holmes and John Watson didn't like being herded and told their clothing was insufficient.
"Oh, dull, you let us have a tiny glance outside onto that little mock-up of Nineteenth-century London, then hurry us away. What is this, Doctor," Sherlock spat the title like a curse, "some sort of game? I don't see the point, and I have the murders of dozens of people to solve, so kindly show me to the door. The one we came through."
"You still don't believe him?" Amy asked, incredulously. "Did you not see the swimming pool in the library? Not to mention the books about your lives. Think about it, smarty-pants, why would we lie about something as ridiculous as time-traveling aliens?"
Sherlock's arrogant expression faltered, and he turned to look at his friend. Something completely unknown to Dean passed between them, a silent conversation—the type people who've known each other for a long time are capable of—and apparently they decided, for the time being at least, to go along with it.
The ridiculousness of the situation was still hovering around Dean's own mind, but he'd been through so many impossible things that by this point impending doom of all universes and time-traveling aliens was almost normal.
A few hallways and turns later, the eight of them arrived in an expansive room that was completely lined with clothing.
"Ladies' section is in the back, Amy," the Doctor chimed.
"You have a collection of women's clothing?" Sam asked, laughter in his voice.
"Yes. Doesn't everyone?" Before Sam could answer, the Doctor was off again, telling Rory he had just the outfit for him.
That left the Winchesters, Cas, and the two from Baker Street standing around awkwardly, idly scanning through the randomly placed clothing on the racks.
"So," began John Watson, "all this is real? And we haven't all been drugged or something?"
"Do you feel drugged?" Dean asked, pulling a very puffy shirt off its hanger with a grimace. "When would anyone need to wear this? Nah, sorry to say this is happening."
"Right. Great." John's voice was beyond sarcastic. "And we're really going after Jack the Ripper?"
"Problem?" Sherlock asked, picking up a deerstalker and dropping it on the floor with disgust painted over his sharp features.
"No, just wondering if I'm somehow trapped in your dream," John responded, selecting a plain white button-down shirt and a brown vest and jacket. "I mean, you get to tackle Jack the Ripper and prove once and for all how clever you are."
"Jack the Ripper wasn't a single person," Cas said, examining a bright red toreador outfit. "A few demons decided to start killing prostitutes."
"That was our universe," Sam said, "It has to be different here—I mean, there aren't any demons in this world."
"No heaven either," Cas agreed, and Dean was reminded of the angel's limited power. He was practically human.
A mean stray thought floated through the man's mind, How the mighty have fallen. But he sent it away. Castiel had been trying to help. That was the mantra he kept repeating.
Eventually everyone cobbled together something resembling period costuming, though of course it was easier for Amy, who only had to find one dress and a pair of shoes. In the end, Dean had to keep Cas from picking a pale lavender ensemble.
"Less Oscar Wilde, more average Joe, okay?" he said, putting the foppish clothing back and handing Cas a plain black suit, a dark blue cravat, and a dark greatcoat.
Once everyone was properly Victorian in appearance (save the Doctor, who for some reason didn't change, the hypocrite) they set out for the exit. Amy was swishing gracefully along with them, but Dean himself felt out of place in the stuffy, high-collared shirt, and his younger brother looked equally uncomfortable. Cas seemed indifferent to the change; somehow, he'd messed up his cravat already, but at least he was more himself in a coat. Sherlock had that same dickish expression of arrogance, and even John didn't seem too put out by the wardrobe change. Rory kept tugging at his collar, at least. That made Dean feel better.
Early morning light was muddling its way through the foggy air as the group left the TARDIS. The Doctor checked his watch and proudly exclaimed, "We made it! Just in time, too, assuming the dates are the same across our universes. It's the morning of November the ninth, 1888!"
"The last murder," Sherlock mused quietly. "Though I'm still not certain this is real."
Out on the street, people were walking by, probably on their way to work in some dismal factory or something. They were all shabbily dressed in comparison to the time-travelers, especially Amy.
"We're gonna get mugged," Dean lamented.
"All eight of us? We have guns. We'll be fine." Sam sounded sure of himself, but Dean checked to be certain he'd stowed his gun in his belt again, and touched the box of extra bullets in his pocket.
"Well, we are in Whitechapel," John said, "This place was supposed to be rife with thieves."
Sherlock began to make his way towards the street. "We need to get to the scene of the crime as soon as possible. He won't kill again, probably, so this is the only chance we have. I want to get to Kelly before the police arrive and destroy all the important evidence."
13 Miller's Court had no security to speak of, but still, no one thought it would be a good idea for all eight of them to go walking right up to where a dead woman would be found later that morning, so the Doctor—who seemed to be in charge, despite his youthful features—agreed that everyone but John and Sherlock should just hang out nearby.
To John that seemed almost as suspicious, but it wasn't like there was CCTV or anything, so he didn't protest as he followed his friend into the building where Mary Jane Kelly lived. Used to live, John corrected himself. She was already dead by now.
The scene of the murder was more horrible that the doctor expected. Seeing a black-and-white photo and dry old reports hadn't properly prepared him for the reality. He wasn't a stranger to carnage, but scenes of gruesome deaths never really got old.
The smell of the blood hit him first; it was too soon for the body to begin decomposing in earnest, but there was so much blood. The poor woman's face had been destroyed as well as her abdomen.
Stuffing the pity that was welling up inside him down ruthlessly, John stepped closer. With a bare hand—not that it mattered, forensics being what it was at the time—he gently touched Kelly's neck. "She's been dead three, maybe four hours. Rigor mortis starting."
Sherlock made a noise to signify he'd heard John, but the man didn't spare his companion a glance. John moved to the doorway, letting the consulting detective work. It took almost half an hour, but finally Sherlock was satisfied with whatever he'd seen, and of course he didn't bother telling John anything.
"Well?" Watson finally asked as the two left the building.
"I need to speak to whatever passes as an inspector here. I have a few ideas, but I'll need their help," he spat the words, obviously not happy about admitting his limitations. He had no web of informants here in this time period.
The Doctor greeted them excitedly. "Solved it, then?"
"Not yet." Sherlock sounded annoyed; he always hated the attention of his fans unless they were extolling his amazing intellect or his clever little analysis of tobacco ash or something. "We'll need to wait until the body is discovered, then talk to the inspectors who arrive. I have information that they may be able to use."
A moment of silence passed, then Dean asked, "You gonna tell us what that is?"
"He's just like in the stories," Rory laughed, "Bet he won't let onto anything until he's totally sure, so the solution seems like magic or something."
"What if he says the thing?" Amy bounced on her Victorian heels. "Sherlock, say the thing!"
"What thing?" he sneered. John wondered just how similar those books were to their own lives. The knowledge the others might have made him vaguely uncomfortable. Clearing his throat, he decided to try to change the subject.
"How about breakfast?"
"Can we go to a less shady part of London to eat? I don't wanna catch syphilis from my eggs." John wasn't sure if Dean was making a joke or not, but he decided to just let it go either way.
"You mean salmonella," Rory suggested.
"No, I didn't." Dean turned and began to walk in the general direction of the TARDIS, and everyone else followed, the Doctor catching up to him and taking the lead.
"We've got almost three hours until we need to be back." He turned and grinned at all of them. "So, breakfast, then some exploring! But don't wonder off!"
The group ended up on the west side of town, which was only slightly less shabby than the East End. Everywhere John looked he saw the poor, shoved into alleys or begging in the shadows of buildings. The smell was awful, too, in a different way than his own London. Instead of car exhaust it was horses and mud and people who weren't keen on bathing.
But still, London in the past. Pretty cool. John still felt a little like he must be dreaming, as real as it all was. Time travel! Parallel worlds! Jack the Ripper! The smile on his face faltered a little as he remembered the sight of that poor woman on her tiny little bed in that sad, one-room hovel.
Glancing at Sherlock, who seemed perfectly in place in his dapper clothing, John was hopeful; they would find that serial killer and bring him to justice. Perhaps they themselves were the reason Jack the Ripper claimed no more lives after Kelly.
"This looks promising," the Doctor exclaimed, bringing John out of his thoughts. They were standing in front of a very posh hotel; there weren't many people around, and John supposed that was because it was too early for lordlings to be up and about.
"We haven't got any money," the army doctor said. "How are we going to pay?"
"On credit, of course!" The Time Lord pulled out what looked like a leather wallet; flipping it open, he displayed a blank sheet of paper. Everyone but Amy and Rory looked confused or (in the case of Cas and Sherlock) extremely underwhelmed. "It's psychic paper—it says whatever I want it to say! Isn't that clever?"
When no one spoke up telling the Doctor how very clever his blank paper was, he frowned and turned away from them, practically storming up to the hotel entrance. John and the rest of the group followed, and they arrived in time to hear the doorman welcome them, saying something about a noble family from Venice.
The dining room was almost empty, and they were seated quickly. Only one other table was occupied; a man who looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties sat near the window, reading a paper and smoking a pipe. John paid him little mind, but Sherlock kept glancing in his direction, piercing grey eyes flickering over the stranger's body in a way that would have been something like checking him out if Sherlock were the type to do that. Watson, of course, knew better; the consulting detective was deducing the man.
No one else seemed to care about him. Dean and Sam were trying to figure out what would be safe to order; Cas was ignoring the menu, looking down at the table as if lost in thought; Amy and Rory were practicing Italian accents for the hell of it; the Doctor was talking to their waiter, but he was asking for something called a hypersonic pancake and the waiter was obviously perplexed.
John turned to say something to his flatmate only to find that the man had gotten up and was approaching the other diner. He felt a disaster approaching.
Don't make a scene, Sherlock, he silently pleaded. Whatever you're doing, you probably shouldn't.
"Good morning!" Sherlock said in his fake, I'm-a-nice-normal-person-not-a-sociopath-at-all voice. "Enjoying your smoke, Jack the Ripper?"
John Watson's first thought was that Sherlock had somehow gone off the deep end on the sly and was going to be wondering around London accusing every man he met of being Jack the Ripper until he (Sherlock) was institutionalized. Holmes had spoken loudly enough for everyone else at the table to hear, and the entire group fell silent and stared at him.
The man Sherlock had accused stared up at him with confusion. "I'm sorry, sir, what?" He folded his paper neatly and placed it on the table. "Are you accusing me of being Jack the Ripper?" A smile appeared on his face. "Have the boys from the club put you up to this?"
Sherlock's expression was blankly unyielding. "No, and don't pretend. I have enough evidence to convince the police and a courtroom, though I doubt you'll make it quite that far." His cold eyes met John's, then moved briefly over the Winchester brothers; John immediately understood. He wanted them to carry out the sentence of execution themselves, to keep history the same, but John wouldn't allow it without absolute proof.
"Solved it before breakfast!" Sherlock smiled. "A bit disappointing, but it was blind luck that brought us to the same establishment."
"Sir, I would like you to stop this joking at once! It's no longer funny."
John stood and moved to stand beside Sherlock, whispering, "Are you sure he's the one?"
"Absolutely. Look at his shoes."
"They're just shoes—" But Sherlock was already rolling his eyes and sighing as if John had told him two plus two equaled seven.
"There's blood on them, and the right heel is damaged on the left edge. The prints in Kelly's room are a perfect match."
The man's face was pale as he stammered, "I—I stepped on some glass yesterday. I meant to have them repaired soon. But I don't—I haven't—I am not a madman! You're making a mistake! I don't even know anyone by the name of Kelly!"
"Where were you this morning around two or three?"
"At home asleep—!"
"Can anyone confirm that?"
"I live alone—"
"Thought so." Sherlock's mouth was turned up in a cold and triumphant little smile.
"Hold on," John said, "We need to be sure. All of us." He glanced back at the Doctor, who was standing to come join them.
The accused man stood huffily. "I assure you, I am not a murderer! Perhaps we should consult the police on this matter?"
"No dice." The rest of the party had joined them; Dean's expression was light-hearted, but there was a hardness in the man's eyes as he spoke. "We aren't exactly from around here, no time to deal with red tape."
"You—you ruffians!"
"Now, now, Sherlock," the Doctor admonished, trying to smile in a friendly manner but missing his mark because of the faint worry in his eyes, "Perhaps we should be civil? Hello, I'm the Doctor," he leaned forward and awkwardly kissed the air near the man's cheeks, much to everyone's confusion. "And you are?"
"A-Arthur," he admitted reluctantly, eyeing Sherlock with open distrust. "Arthur Conan Doyle."
To John, the name seemed vaguely familiar, like one he'd heard on the news in passing or read in a history textbook. Everyone else let out a gasp, save Sherlock, who merely looked puzzled.
"No," Amy said, drawing out the word. "You can't be! Sir Arthur Conan Doyle cannot be Jack the Ripper!"
"I'm not Jack the Ripper! And I don't have a title," he added in a small voice. "I'm just a doctor!"
"If you're not the killer, prove it," Sherlock said icily. "The body still hasn't been found; come with us and we'll compare the footprints. We should also be able to get more advanced information?" His words were a question to the Doctor.
"Yes, the TARDIS is more than capable of running DNA tests and fingerprint analyses." He bounced on his heels a little, clearly proud.
With only a little bit of further ado—consisting mainly of cancelling their breakfast orders and convincing Arthur to follow a large group of strangers to the bad side of town—the nine of them set off.
Arthur didn't seem the killer type, but John knew murderers didn't always telegraph what they were. The man's sincerity could have easily been an act, but John had a natural sympathy for him; they were both doctors.
The crime scene would have the final word either way, John thought as they walked down the street, dodging other pedestrians and the odd horse-drawn cab. He tried not to make judgments, and he tried doubly hard to avoid getting to know the man.
Everyone but Sherlock and the Doctor waited outside the building; Arthur stood awkwardly on one foot, as they'd taken his shoe for comparison. Conversation was spotty and half-hearted as they waited.
The Doctor looked grim as they returned to the group, but Sherlock was smiling coldly. "Sorry, Arthur," the Doctor began, "Footprints are a match."
"That's not possible! I've never been here in my life !"
"Well your right shoe was here."
John rolled his eyes, feeling the familiar urge to punch the arrogance off Sherlock's pale face. "There are such things as coincidences."
"If the blood on the shoe is hers, will that convince you?"
All the color suddenly vacated Arthur's face. "It can't be hers! I don't know how the shoe print got there. This is all—is this a joke? Because it's gone too far!"
Everyone was silently staring at Conan Doyle, and no one's expression was very hopeful. Amy, Rory, Sam, and the Doctor had touches of pity around their eyes and mouths; Castiel merely looked somber, as if he were about to attend someone's execution—perhaps not far from the truth. Dean had a similar expression on his features, a sort of resignation that they had found the right man.
Sherlock looked like a child who'd just been informed that Christmas was now going to occur every weekend.
"We should head back to the TARDIS," the Doctor said at last, gently touching Arthur's arm, leading him in the right direction.
"Wh-what's a TARDIS? I can't believe you brutes are doing this—taking me hostage!"
"If you're innocent, we'll let you go." The whole group was moving down the street now, forming a sort of herd around the suspected man.
Arthur's name nagged at John; he knew he'd heard it before, and the others seemed to recognize it. Eventually his curiosity got the best of him and he asked Sam, who was walking beside him, what the significance of the man was.
"He, uh. Well, in our universe, and in the Doctor's, he's the man who wrote your story. He invented you guys."
"Oh." That was all John could think to say; it was a bit off-putting to be referred to as a figment of someone's imagination, especially when that someone might turn out to be one of the most infamous serial killers of history. "Some coincidence," he added after a moment, and he meant his words. Out of all the people Jack the Ripper could have been, it was a man who but for a few differences would have imagined Sherlock Holmes.
John could believe his friend worthy of being a storybook character. His flatmate was an extraordinary man, if an equally extraordinary ass most of the time.
"It's not a coincidence," Castiel said, making John jump despite himself. The man—angel, if he were to believe his strange companions' claims—was so reserved most of the time that the doctor forgot he was there, and he'd been walking just out of John's vision. "This is destiny."
"Destiny?" asked Rory, sounding doubtful, "It's our fate to have Arthur Conan Doyle thrown in jail? I loved those books. I don't want him to be Jack the Ripper—do you know what that'll do to my fond childhood memories?"
"I'm sure our Conan Doyle wasn't a murderer," Amy insisted. "When we get back to our universe, we're checking, just to be sure!"
"I'm not a murderer!" Arthur insisted miserably.
"You really think this is destiny, Cas?" Dean asked, ignoring Arthur's pretests that he was innocent.
"Yes. The odds against this sort of thing happening are astronomical. We were guided here for a reason."
"We're here because Sherlock insisted," John interjected. He wasn't sure if he believe in destiny and fate.
"And we crossed paths due to a seemingly random event. I know we were meant to meet—you're meant to help us."
"Help you with what?" For a moment, Watson experienced a moment of acute disbelief; he'd been in London only a few hours ago—his London, 21st-century London—and now he was more than a hundred years in the past, walking around with an angel, an alien, and people from parallel universes. They'd traveled here in a blue box that was bigger on the inside, too, with a library that featured a pool and a collection of books about Bizarro John and Sherlock. The disoriented feeling passed as quickly as it came, and he had to accept that what was happening was real.
Cas looked confused for a moment. "The Doctor explained on the roof of that building. We must stop the Voidsong before they destroy all of reality."
"Sorry, what? Y-you were serious about that?" Laughter tinted his words, but he knew the mad people he was with probably weren't joking. "Some song is going to destroy reality? Sherlock, are you listening to this?"
"You're all complete nutters," Arthur insisted, but no one bothered responding.
"I heard them, John. One problem at a time. We need to prove this man is guilty."
"I'm not—"
"We heard you the first time, Conan Doyle," Sherlock cut him off sharply. John sighed, wanting either a hot cup of tea or a strong drink—or perhaps both. The group trudged on through London, drawing a surprisingly small amount of attention for one that contained an angel, an alien, and a serial killer.
The Doctor read the monitor, frowning. They'd been back in the TARDIS for about fifteen minutes, and all the readings had come back. Neither his nor Sherlock's keen eyes had discovered any fingerprints in Kelly's room, but they'd taken a sample of her blood, and it matched the blood on Arthur's shoes—not to mention the footprints were also a perfect match.
As much as he hated to admit it, all signs pointed to the almost-author as being the murderer.
Across the room, Jack the Ripper was still staring around in wonder, mumbling about how it was bigger on the inside and about how marvelous the lighting was. Normally, the Doctor would have found this continued behavior concerning, but they had sort of kidnapped him and accused him of murder before he'd had a chance to finish his morning paper, and Dean was currently holding a gun in his general direction. Fixation on the coolness of the TARDIS was understandable under the circumstances.
Sherlock caught the Doctor's eye, and the latter motioned him over. "The blood's a match," he said quietly. "I suppose we should turn him over to the police."
"Won't that create a paradox?"
"What? Why would it?"
Sherlock's tone was authoritative and a little condescending, but the Doctor allowed it because he was Sherlock Holmes after all. "If Jack the Ripper was arrested and tried, there would be no reason for me to want to solve the crime, so we wouldn't come back here, and I wouldn't catch him, in which case, he'd never be caught—don't you see?"
The Doctor shrugged. "Time can be rewritten; remember that. You can muck it all up as much as you want with no paradoxes as long as you don't mess up your own timeline." He gave Sherlock his most serious look, though of course the bow-tie softened it. "You mean to kill him, and I won't allow that. He deserves a fair trial."
"He's a murderer!"
"And I won't be like him, and neither will you, not in my TARDIS!"
"I say we take him out back and shoot him," Dean commented, making the Doctor realize they'd left whispering quietly in the dust sentences ago.
"No one's shooting anyone!"
"I agree!"
"Shut up, Jack," Rory spat, "He didn't say anything about breaking that nose, did he?"
Conan Doyle was silent after that, still chalk-white, but seeming a little closer to hopeful. The Doctor wondered if the seemingly gentle man was really a brutal murderer.
"Can there be any other explanation?" the Doctor asked Sherlock, remembering to keep quiet again.
"Perhaps, but in my experience, the simplest answer is usually correct."
"Usually. That good enough for you? All we know for certain is that the man's shoes were there. No fingerprints, no other DNA, no murder weapon, no witnesses. This is Jack the Ripper we're talking about—do you want to go home wondering if you got the wrong man hanged?"
Uncertainty flickered in the detective's cold grey eyes. "I suppose we could investigate further."
"Excellent!" the Doctor clapped his hands and strode over to where Arthur was sitting with his head in his hands. "Let's start by asking the man himself if he knows how his shoes found their way to a crime scene."
"On his feet?" Dean muttered sarcastically, but the Time Lord was not put off by the convictions the humans had that Conan Doyle was guilty.
"On someone's feet. Arthur, do you have any enemies who might want to frame you for murder?"
"No! I don't think so. I assumed I got on well with everyone." He looked lost, eyes wide and seeing nothing. His expression sharpened after a moment, though. "Well, I suppose Robert Stevenson might not care for me."
"What's he, coworker?" Sam asked, earning a mean look from Sherlock.
"He's a member of my club," Arthur said. "The Prometheus Club."
"Will he be there now?" Sherlock asked sharply.
"Probably."
"Take us."
Dean wondered, as their large group once again set out through the busy London streets, why the Doctor didn't take his oh-so-convenient space/time ship to the different locations they'd visited. Why all the walking (and running) around? Just as he'd made up his mind to ask the alien why they'd taken a half-hour long stroll instead of a ten-second journey, Arthur spoke.
"Here we are, the Prometheus club. I can get everyone in, except the lady, of course."
Amy was none too pleased to hear this. "Excuse me? Why can't I come in? Afraid all the cigar smoke and brandy will give me dangerous ideas?"
"No—but you aren't allowed in. No women are."
"We'll see," she said darkly, linking arms with Rory fiercely and practically pulling him to the entrance.
Dean let out a low whistle. "If we stay here any longer, she might start the feminist movement early."
"Technically, it's already started," Sam informed him irrelevantly.
"B-but it's the rules," Arthur cried after them.
"It's also the rules not to murder people," Dean said with a fake smile before following the Ponds.
"I'm innocent!" he stammered, hurrying to catch up with everyone else.
The interior of the building was lit with warm lights; fires were crackling away in all the rooms they passed, though there were few people there. Everything was very Victorian and expensive-looking.
"What do you guys do here?" Dean asked, thinking that the place looked about as entertaining as a library.
"Well, the club is devoted to the improvement of human society. Scientific advancements, mostly, but we also care about moral and ethical advancement."
"And you're in the murder department?"
"I didn't kill those women! I couldn't!"
"Stop it, Dean," the Doctor said, "We haven't got all the evidence yet. There's a slim chance he's telling the truth."
"Excuse me!" exclaimed a man who's features were rendered practically invisible by the presence of an impressive handlebar mustache. After the initial shock the facial hair gave him, Dean pegged the man as being in his late thirties or early forties, and by his accent, he was Scottish as well as Arthur and Amy. "Who let a woman in here!"
"R-Robert! Er," began Arthur, "I tried to stop her—"
"Who are these people?"
"Oh, just some people I met at breakfast." Conan Doyle was an extraordinarily terrible liar, which Dean found unsettling. Either he was faking being a bad liar at the moment, or he was telling the truth about being framed for the Ripper murders.
"Actually, we're here to ask you some questions about where you were last night." Sherlock's smile was icy to say the least, as cold as his eyes.
"Where I was at any given point is none of your concern. I'd like you to take that woman and leave. You're disrupting an experiment—"
"Oh, a man of science are you?" Sherlock asked as he pushed past the man, entering a room that looked like a lab of some kind. "I am as well. What are you researching?"
"Several things," Robert responded vaguely, "I am involved in many of the club's endeavors. But those are not secrets we share with the public, not until we publish the results, of course."
"Do you have an alibi for your whereabouts last night?"
"You sound as if this is a police investigation."
The Doctor stepped up to Robert, pulling out a wallet and flipping it open. "This is an investigation. I'm Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard."
"I was here last night," Robert finally answered after inspecting what appeared to Dean to be a blank card. "A few other members can verify that. I went home some time after midnight."
"Back here already?"
"My work is very important to me."
"But not important enough to brag about to us?"
"Have you never met a modest man?"
"A modest man, yes, but never a modest scientist."
Sherlock and Robert were glaring at each other by this point; everyone else was just watching. Dean himself was waiting for someone to start throwing punches.
"Your secrecy does not lessen my suspicions."
"Suspicions that I did what, exactly?" Robert crossed his arms over his chest, glaring up at the taller man.
"Murdering an innocent woman."
If Dean hadn't been looking carefully at the mustached man as Sherlock spoke, he would have missed the brief flicker of alarm that flared in Robert's eyes. His expression became defensive, then blank.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I am certainly not a murderer!"
Feeling a tug at his sleeve, Dean turned and saw Sam, who nodded in the direction of the door. Dean followed his brother into the hall as surreptitiously as possible. He doubted anyone noticed their absence; he could still hear Sherlock and Robert arguing.
"That guy was lying," Sam whispered.
"Duh. This place gives me the creeps. They have to be up to something."
"I think that as well." Cas had followed them into the hall, his steps soundless. "We should investigate. If Arthur is telling the truth about being framed for the murders, more than one person in this establishment could be behind it."
"But why?" Sam glanced at the partially-closed door behind Dean. "What's the point of killing a bunch of prostitutes?"
"Maybe their deaths were a cover for something. Organs were missing, right?" Dean didn't know many of the details about the Jack the Ripper case, mostly just what he'd seen in movies and on TV.
"So you're thinking these people were, what, experimenting on people they found expendable? Then they mutilated the bodies and made it look like some sicko did it?"
"Maybe." Dean shrugged. "We should split up and look around this place."
"Okay, Shaggy, you and Scooby go check out the kitchen."
"Who is this Shaggy and Scooby, and why does the kitchen matter?" Cas asked, making both Winchesters sigh.
"I was—it's a joke man. I wasn't being serious, we need to stick together. You know what the Doctor said about the universes being in flux and stuff."
"Fine, we search together," Dean allowed. "But they gotta be hiding something major around here."
The three men slipped down the hall, opening doors as they went. Most of them revealed rooms that looked like labs similar to the one Robert had been in, and the humans quickly became bored with riffling through hand-written papers and charts.
"What, like they're just going to have a big sign that says 'We're evil' hanging up somewhere?" Sam asked, throwing a stacks of papers down. "These guys are into every type of science known at this point in time, even psychology."
"Any human experimentation?"
"No records of it so far, but this place is huge."
"It isn't likely they would keep delicate matters out in the open. Perhaps we should look for a locked room, or a hidden one." Cas stopped flicking through a stack of papers, sighing.
Sam nodded. "Alright, Scooby, lead the way."
"Pft, I'm not Scooby," Dean scoffed.
"I was talking to Cas." Both of them began to follow the angel as he walked towards a staircase that led down. "You're Shaggy."
"No, I'm Fred. Without that stupid scarf thing though."
"It's an ascot."
"You're an ascot, and you're Shaggy." They reached the lowest floor that the staircase had access to. Fortunately, there was only one way to proceed, so Cas made for it, humans in tow.
"No, I'm Fred, you're Shaggy, he's Scooby."
"Why?"
"Isn't it obvious?"
"This room is locked," Castiel said, bringing the brothers out of their argument. The angel closed his eyes and sighed. "Perhaps I should learn how to pick locks. I'm practically human."
"Don't sweat it," Dean commented, looking through his pockets for his lock-pick kit—there were so many damn pockets in his clothing he'd forgotten which one he'd used. "You'll get your mojo back soon." He didn't want to think about that not happening; it reminded him too much of the possible future he'd seen, of a Cas who had completely given up.
Soon the door was open. The hallway was deserted, so they entered without hesitation. The room was empty of people but filled with clutter—papers, books, lab equipment, specimens in jars. At first glance it seemed no different than any workspace, but the first paper Dean picked up made him realize that they were done searching.
"Check this out," he said, handing the page to his brother, who scanned the words, eyes growing larger and more alarmed with every line.
The Doctor was not an unobservant Time Lord, if indeed any Time Lords could be said to be unobservant by human standards. He was brilliant but not perfect, and he was ashamed to find that three members of his rather large group of companions were missing. How long they'd been missing he could only guess; he'd been distracted watching Sherlock work.
The man certainly had a presence about him, grey eyes cold and shining as he talked to Robert, searching out every secret he could. The Doctor watched him eagerly—it was the Sherlock Holmes, after all, a genius among humans.
The conversation between Sherlock and Robert had yielded little in the way of useful information, but the Doctor had quickly realized that Sherlock didn't much care about the man's evasive replies; he was using the time to inspect the room on the sly.
But that didn't matter now—Dean, Sam, and Cas had run off, like his friends inevitably did, warn them however much he wanted, and he needed to find them before they got whisked away to some horrible universe populated by crazy cat ladies or something.
"Amy, Rory, stay with Sherlock and John. I'll be back soon," he said to them quietly, slipping out the door.
The soft, expensive carpet left clear footprints for him to follow (the boys had kept their own boots on, and he recognized the modern tread) so he pursued them hastily, preparing his speech about how important it was not to stray from the group when in a strange universe. The prints stopped at a wooden staircase, and the floor was uncarpeted at the bottom of it.
The hall he now stood in had the underground, secretive feeling of a basement, though it was just as meticulously clean as the rest of the building. There was no handy layer of dust to leave footprints, so he had to resort to his normal methods of doing everything—blunder around hoping that blind luck and his brilliant mind would work things out nicely.
On a whim he chose a door but found it locked. Not to be put off by such trivialities, he got out his Screwdriver and opened the metal lock easily. The room he entered was filled with papers and equipment, but no wayward travelers who couldn't follow basic instructions about sticking with the group.
The Doctor turned to leave, but something caught his eye. In this room there was a layer of dust, which told the Time Lord that the room was too secret to let the cleaning staff into, and it told him that someone had been here recently. Some of the dust was disturbed around the papers, and there were smudges and fingerprints on the glass vials and jars.
Stepping slowly towards the nearest table, the Doctor noticed a single sheet of paper lying on the floor. If the disturbance in the dust had been caused by someone who did research here, he doubted they would have left papers lying carelessly on the ground.
Because he stooped to pick up the page, he failed to notice a book shelf behind him move noiselessly, or the silent steps of someone behind him. The Doctor had time to see just the first few words on the page before a blow to the back of the head sent him into darkness.
"Well," said Sherlock suddenly, turning away from Robert and stepping towards the door. "This has been enlightening! We should be going."
John hadn't missed when half the group went missing. He'd kept glancing at the hall, expecting them to come back, but it hadn't happened. Now if they left, there was no way to tell everyone where they'd gone. Not as if his mobile had reception in the Nineteenth century.
"Er, Robert, some of our, um, friends seem to have wondered off."
"I'll find them, John," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, then prodded the doctor, Arthur, Amy, and Rory gently but firmly towards the door and into the hall. Once they were out of earshot of Robert, Sherlock began to speak, his voice low but completely certain.
"Robert and the people he works with are obviously hiding something. Arthur, have you never noticed this before? They have something unethical going on here to say the least. It might even be criminal."
"N-no!" Conan Doyle insisted, "We're all devoted to helping the human race. Nothing bad is going on here!"
"Obviously they don't let certain members in on it. We need to find the Doctor and leave."
"Leave? I thought they were evil?" Amy crossed her arms. "We're not bailing on this case if these people are hurting others."
"I came here to solve the mystery of Jack the Ripper, which I have done, not to solve the world's problems. They're so dull." Sherlock sighed heavily, as if all the stupid in the building was getting to him.
John found himself siding with Amy. "Don't you want to know what they're doing?"
"I already know. Unethical science is nothing new. I solved the case I came here to, and we really should be getting back to our London."
"Well," snapped Amy, pulling out a silver key and shoving it at Sherlock, "You can go back to the TARDIS. We're going to find the Doctor and shut this operation down. Coming, Dr. Watson, Arthur?"
"But he's Jack the Ripper," Rory protested, "You really want him helping us?"
"Allegedly Jack the Ripper," Amy said fiercely, glaring at Sherlock.
John looked at his friend, asking silently for the man to follow them and help. Sherlock's face was blank.
"See you at the TARDIS, John," he muttered, then turned, flipping his coat collar up.
The doctor didn't watch him leave, instead he joined the others as they walked in the opposite direction.
They walked down hallways and up and down flights of stairs for about twenty minutes before John decided to ask if Amy actually knew where she was going.
"Maybe it's like being lost in the forest," Rory supplied, "Maybe we should just stop and wait in one place so they'll find us."
"Where would the four of them have gone?" she asked, looking at her elaborate skirts. "And after all that talk of not running off."
"They didn't leave together," Arthur said. "The Americans left first, then the Doctor noticed and went after them."
"The question still stands. Where did they go?"
"Arthur," John said suddenly, "Is there any place here that's out of bounds to most members?"
"Um, just the rooms on the lowest level. Something about being unsuitable for—Where are you going?"
"To the lowest level," Rory answered, hurrying after his wife and Dr. Watson, who had a head start on him.
Several flights of stairs later, the four were standing in a boring hallway that was lined with boring doors. John let his eyes slip over his surroundings, but then he remembered himself and began to focus, to actually see.
The bare wooden floors told him nothing, so he looked at the doors. They were identical to each other, all with fancy golden knobs that shone as if they'd just been polished. John glanced at the nearest one on the right again, noticing something slightly different about it. The handle had minute scratches on it.
"Someone picked that lock," he murmured, getting his companions' attention.
"Not the Doctor, he doesn't have to." Amy and Rory both came to examine the door, but Arthur hung back.
"I don't like this place," he half-whispered. John turned to face him and found the man's eyes flickering about restlessly; a bead or two of sweat was forming on his brow. "Feels as if it's haunted."
"Oh, don't be silly Arthur," Amy reassured him, "No ghosts, only evil scientists. Anyone know how to pick locks?"
"I'm guessing the Americans know how," Rory replied. "They seem sort of…"
"Yeah," John agreed, "Guess when you live in a world filled with monsters you learn all sorts of interesting skills." He didn't bother mentioning he'd seen Sherlock pick locks more than he wanted. "Who's up for kicking in a door?"
Everyone was very excited for that option, save Arthur, who just looked ill, but it proved to be more difficult than the movies made it seem. Eventually, though, John gave it a good enough kick to crack the frame a little, and with the Ponds' help he pushed it open.
There were a half-dozen armed men standing on the other side; they'd clearly been waiting for the little group to break into the room. Standing slightly in front of the others was Robert.
"Should have left with your tall, cheekbone-y friend," he drawled. "But we can always use the test subjects."
"Cheekbone-y?" Rory asked, crossing his arms. "That's the best descriptor you could think of?"
Amy shrugged. "He does have some cheekbones on him. So what's your game here, boys? Gonna lock us all up?"
"Not all of you." Robert's smile was void of mirth, and his eyes moved to look at something behind Amy, Rory, and John.
A noise that could only technically be called laughter erupted from Arthur. It was a cruel sort of giggling. John knew his expression must've been much the same as the Ponds'—absolute shock. Conan Doyle had been pretending all along.
"Good to see you, Jack," Robert said, his voice amicable enough but his eyes filled with disgust as they gazed at Arthur. "I'm afraid we don't have any work for you just now, unless you'd like to help tie them up."
"But there's seven of them." He was actually pouting, John saw, the serial killer was pouting! "You can spare one, right? The girl?"
"Leave, Jack, go find another whore."
"Wait, wait, wait," John said, ignoring the angry looks he got from the gun-wielding men, "So you, Arthur, have been pretending to be all nice and innocent this entire time, when in reality you are a murdering wanker?"
Arthur merely smiled in reply, then left the room.
"Well," huffed Amy, "I'm not ever reading another Sherlock Holmes story again."
"Our Conan Doyle wasn't like that though," Rory insisted as a man with a large mustache roughly tied his hands behind his back. "When we get back home, we'll have the Doctor take us to meet him just to be sure."
"You're never getting back home," Robert sneered, binding John's hands with little care for the doctor's comfort.
Dr. Watson was too distracted by the empty feeling of betrayal that was swirling around in his chest. He'd believed that Arthur was innocent. The man vowed that if he got out of this ridiculous life-threatening situation, he'd never assume a possible criminal was innocent based on the person's actions and words again.
Worst of all of it, though, was that Sherlock had been right, and John would have to put up with his smugness, assuming they ever met again.
"So you knew all along that Arthur was a killer," John began, both to buy time and to satisfy his own curiosity, "And you let him get away with it?"
"Such a quaint theory." That was all Robert would say on the subject. Once the three travelers were restrained, the men led them through what appeared to be a secret passage behind a bookshelf.
"Very original," John muttered, then wondered if at this point in time hiding a passage behind a bookshelf actually was novel. Time-travel was so confusing. He made a mental note to google the first mention in literature of a hidden passage like the one he was being forced into.
Dean Winchester stared at the wall opposite him, frowning as he wriggled his wrists around in an attempt to loosen the ropes that bound him to the chair he was in. He gave up the effort when he felt a trickle of blood slip down his hands; the skin of his wrists had long since gone numb, but he didn't want to cause too much damage to himself.
Beside him, Sam was still trying to get out of his bonds, but he didn't seem to be getting anywhere.
"Can't believe those nerds jumped us like that," Dean muttered. "We got kidnapped by a bunch of scientists with muttonchops. I'll never forgive myself."
Cas had long since given up trying to escape. At the moment he was sitting quietly with his eyes closed, probably wishing that his magical angel powers would return so that he could be useful to the escape effort.
Sitting on the opposite side of Cas, the Doctor groaned, returning to consciousness after a good half-hour of being knocked out. "Mmmmpf," he commented, then shook his head and started over. "These scientists are obviously hiding something big. Where are we?"
"Looks like some kinda torture chamber," Dean answered grimly.
"Or a lab," Sam added. "At some point the two are the same thing."
"Pretty cliché actually." Dean sighed. "Bunch of evil Victorian scientists with crazy sideburns doing unethical experiments on people. Go figure."
"This universe does seem to have an unusually high concentration of literary motifs and clichés," the Doctor agreed as he squirmed against his bonds. "Interesting, but not really the issue at the moment. Castiel," he turned to the angel, who at last opened his eyes. "Do you think you could reach my breast pocket if we tip over both our chairs?"
"That'll pin your arms down," Dean interrupted, shaking his head. "Might even break 'em."
"The backs of the chairs are wider at the top than the bottom," the Doctor rejoined. Their hands were bound behind the backs of the chairs, close to the bottom where the backs and seats joined. "If we fall right it should be fine. Cas?"
"I'll do my best. What's in your pocket?"
"My Sonic Screwdriver, I can use it to get out of these ropes. Ready?" The Doctor moved his chair a few inches back, grimacing. "Stupid heavy chairs."
"Good ol' Victorian craftsmanship," Sam said sarcastically.
After a few minutes the Doctor had moved enough so that Cas would theoretically be able to reach his jacket if they both fell in the same direction. Dean watched them, expecting the falling bit to go horribly awry.
With a loud crack the Doctor tipped his chair over, miraculously not pinning his arm. Cas followed suit, looking more determined than worried.
"Fantastic!" the Doctor exclaimed as Cas landed next to him, close enough to stretch his pale hands out and touch the alien's jacket.
A minute passed, during which Cas remained absolutely silent as the Doctor gave him bits of encouragement and advice.
"The pocket's bigger on the inside so you might have to get around some other things—No, that's the toy mouse—Oh, I'd forgotten I brought Jenga with me today—Where did I pick up that Han Solo action figure? Ah!" he said at last, "That's it! You've got it now?"
"Yes. How do I use it?"
"Turn the dial until I tell you to stop. Okay, that's the setting for rope. Pass it to my mouth."
Dean couldn't help but laugh at the sight of the Doctor with the Screwdriver between his teeth, pressing the button on it, aiming it at the ropes that were tied around Cas's wrists. As if by magic they broke, and the angel quickly untied his feet and stood, moving to help the Doctor.
Half a minute later, the four of them were free, but still in a locked room devoid of weapons. They'd all been thoroughly searched when captured—those damn nerds had even found the knife in Dean's boot—but they'd missed the Screwdriver.
"Do you have a gun?" Dean asked the Time Lord, who looked offended at the question.
"No. I don't carry weapons. I don't need them."
"Let's get the hell outta here then, before they come ba—" Sam's words were cut short by the heavy sound of footsteps approaching, and the unmistakable voices of their fellow time-travelers. From what Dean could hear, they seemed to be having a discussion on whether or not bookcases were a cliché way to hide a secret passage.
"It is a bit Scooby Doo, isn't it?" Dr. Watson was saying. "But I'll not call it a cliché until I know who was the first to do it."
"Clichés are all about perception," Amy insisted, "We all think of the bookcase thing as overused, so it's a cliché. Doesn't matter when the first one was. Perception is everything."
"I don't think it's cliché if these people invented it," replied Rory, but before the discussion could go further, a man—probably one with a gigantic moustache—began to shout for them to shut up.
Everyone in the room began to look around for a hiding place; not even the Doctor seemed to think of a viable plan for a moment, then he hissed, "Back in your chairs, pretend to be tied up!"
That was the only option, really, so they all did it quickly and without question. Dean put his hands behind his back just before the door opened. Half a dozen scientists entered, holding Amy, Rory, and Dr. Watson at gunpoint.
Glancing at everyone else, Dean was relieved to see that they all looked more or less how they had before the escape attempt—Cas's cravat was a little more disheveled than it had been, somehow making the angel look more like himself despite the strange clothing.
"Where's Sherlock? And Arthur?" the Doctor asked sharply, drawing Dean's attention back to the scientists. He turned back to them in time to see his friends' faces darken at the mention of Conan Doyle.
It was John who spoke. "Arthur is Jack the Ripper. He's been lying all along and I—" Watson shook his head. "Sherlock left. He'd already solved the case and didn't see the need in investigating these people." He spat the word like an insult. "But they apparently knew about the killings—"
"That is quite enough," Robert interrupted.
Dean missed the rest of the man's vague threats about what he'd do if they weren't quiet; he was too busy digesting what he'd just heard. So Arthur had been the killer all along. That was surprising to the hunter. Conan Doyle had seemed sincere, kind, a bit inept perhaps, like a normal slightly awkward bookish type. Serial killers were good at hiding their true natures, though.
Being as surreptitious as possible, the older Winchester brother flicked his eyes towards the Doctor. Cas was in the way so it was hard to be sure, but he thought the Time Lord was still holding that Sonic Screwdriver in his hands. In this situation, a normal screwdriver probably would have been more effective as a weapon, but at least it was something.
The odds were terribly against them: six armed men against seven unarmed and uncomfortably dressed time-travelers. Amy would likely be especially constrained by her clothing—she was in a whalebone corset and about a million yards of fabric.
Still, they had to do something. Talking, Dean decided, was the best course. Smart people loved to brag about how smart they were.
"So did you put ol' Jack up to it, or did you just find out about him later and think, what the hell, might as well study his crazy ass for the good of mankind?"
Robert frowned, leveling his revolver at Dean's skull. "We did not create that monster, merely took advantage. Now be quiet—"
"What's the point in shutting up if you're gonna kill me either way?"
"It's true what they say," Robert sighed, "The only quiet American is a dead American."
Leaning back in his chair, Dean gave the man his most sarcastic smile. "Then go ahead and shoot me. But before you do, I'd love to know why you let that monster kill innocent women."
"Innocent?" Robert snorted. "They were whores, a disease of society."
"So you wanted him to kill them?" the Doctor asked, sounding repulsed. "How, exactly, does this help anyone?"
"He has to kill someone," Robert shrugged. "He can't seem to help himself. That's part of the results of studying him. We are beginning to understand things about the human mind that no one has ever discovered before."
"Oh, yeah, that makes up for it," Sam muttered, rolling his eyes. "You guys are dicks."
"You know," began John, bitter sarcasm tinting his words, "if you want to help people, you might try actually helping people instead of murderering them. Just a thought."
"We tried helping Arthur," Robert responded, seeming a little angry, his icy expression giving way to something more emotional. "But his condition cannot be cured, so it must be directed."
"Ever think of having him arrested?" Rory asked snarkily.
"They wouldn't understand him. You've seen it yourselves—you believed Arthur to be an innocent man, partially because he is innocent." Robert actually lowered his gun.
"What?" Amy asked, "You can't expect us to believe that! We saw him, he practically confessed!"
"You were speaking to Jack, not Arthur."
"No," the Doctor's voice was half exhalation. "He has dissociative identity disorder."
"What?" Dean asked.
"Multiple personalities. Dear God."
Robert looked a little perplexed at the Doctor's use of the term. "Yes, on the one hand he's a nice enough fellow, a caring doctor, and on the other he's a monster. Locking him up would only punish part of him, and the other part would suffer needlessly."
"Does Arthur know?" the Doctor seemed angry; Dean noticed the alien's knuckles turn white around his Screwdriver. "Did you bother to tell him he's been killing people?"
"Of course not! What purpose would that serve?"
"Oh, I don't know," Sam interrupted, "He might want to keep himself off the streets?"
Most of the other five scientists had dropped their guard significantly, Dean was pleased to notice, and Robert looked like a man who was under a personal attack.
"Poor Arthur," the Doctor whispered, "He thought you were setting him up, did you know that? Because of the way you look at him—like he's a monster. Yet you let him walk free just so he can be your lab rat! You're all partially responsible for those dead women."
There was something terrifying about the Doctor in those moments; for the first time Dean was able to see through the youthful appearance of the man to what he really was: something much more than human.
"Let us go," the Doctor implored, his voice gentler now. "Arthur is out there, we need to find him and stop him from killing again."
Robert shook his head. "I can't let you leave, you know too much. Rest easy knowing that your deaths will serve a higher purpose."
"I don't think they'll be dying just yet."
Dean glanced up sharply; somehow he'd missed Sherlock's arrival. The man was standing behind Robert, gun aimed at the back of his skull.
"Put your weapons down or I'll end him. Do it now!" The other scientists did as they were told, and John quickly gathered their guns.
"Rory, Amy, untie—"
"No need for that," said the Doctor brightly as the four of them got out of their chairs. "We've been free for ages, just waiting for the right moment." He turned on Robert. "I'll deal with you lot later. Right now we've got to find Arthur."
None of the others needed to be told to follow the Doctor as he dashed up the passage. A few minutes later, the eight time-travelers were out on the London streets.
"If I were Jack the Ripper," Dean began, looking around in vain, "where would I go?"
"It's the middle of the day," Sherlock said, seeming far more at ease than anyone else. "He won't kill anyone until long after dark, and since he's just killed, it's unlikely that he will do so again this soon."
"I'm not looking for the murderer, Sherlock," the Doctor said, "I'm looking for Arthur. Come on, back to the TARDIS!"
John had no time to question Sherlock about his actions while they were sprinting through the streets of London, following the Doctor, who didn't want to waste time with merely walking about. But when they finally reached the TARDIS and the Doctor was busy fiddling with the controls, Dr. Watson confronted his friend.
"You left. Why was that?"
"I never left, I merely needed them to think I'd left. I assumed that the Americans had stumbled into trouble, and that none of us would be allowed to leave if we kept searching for them. I went out, then snuck back in and found the passage."
The TARDIS began to move violently, preventing John from asking Sherlock why he had to be such an ass all the time. When they landed, the Doctor wasted no time in running out the door, leaving everyone to follow him or be left behind.
John dashed out just after Sherlock, surprised to find that they seemed to have landed on the middle of a bridge, though they were to one side of it at least. The time of day had also changed somehow; it was night, probably late night by the lack of traffic.
As he ran, John could make out the figure of a man standing a few dozen yards down the bridge. Nearing him, the doctor saw that it was Arthur. He seemed to be just staring out at the black water of the Thames as it flowed by underneath them.
Conan Doyle turned to watch them as they came to a stop. His face looked sad and lost.
"I." He turned away. "I don't remember walking here," he murmured, and the group was close enough to hear it. The Doctor stopped a few feet away from the man.
"Arthur, there's something you need to know—"
But Conan Doyle was shaking his head. "I don't want to know. I don't want to. Just leave me alone!"
The Doctor stepped forward, but Arthur whirled on him, pulling a revolver out of his coat. "S-stop! I didn't kill those women! I can't have—I would never—"
"We know," the Time Lord's hands were raised, and he inched closer. "You have a disorder, a mental disease, it wasn't your fault."
"I don't remember doing it." Arthur's voice was faint, cracking with emotion, and his hand shook. "But the blood was on my shoes. I don't remember leaving the club. I killed them all, didn't I?"
"Well, yes, and no."
"That's not an answer!" Arthur was screaming shrilly now. "Am I a monster, Doctor?"
"We can help you, Arthur—"
"Help me? What about those women? Who will help them? How can I ever do enough to outweigh their deaths?"
"You're a doctor, you've helped people, saved lives. You just have more than one personality floating around in there. But I can help."
Arthur began to laugh awkwardly. "If I'm more than one person, how do I know which one is real? Who am I?"
"This is the real you, Arthur—"
"You don't know for certain! I'll kill again unless I'm stopped. And if you won't do it, I will!"
With resolve and speed that surprised John Watson, Arthur turned the gun on himself, pressing the barrel to his temple and firing before the Doctor could get to him.
There was a collective outcry, but loudest and most desperate of all was the Time Lord's shout of "No!" even as the blood spattered across his face and torso.
Conan Doyle had been standing on the edge of the bridge, and as his body fell it tumbled over the railing and into the river with a strangely quiet splash, as if the Thames couldn't be bothered to care about one dead man.
Silence filled the space between the eight people, strained and painful. The Doctor was turned away from all of them, staring after Arthur's body, but the straightness of his back and motionlessness of his body told John that the man felt about the same as he himself did about Conan Doyle's death: absolutely horrified and stunned.
"I guess that's why there were no more victims," Dean said after several minutes. "Jack the Ripper executed himself. What a stand-up guy." The elder Winchester brother was obviously the type to try to lessen tension with humor, however misguided and inappropriate those attempts might be.
Dean's words made the Doctor turn around; his eyes were bloodshot. "Back to the TARDIS, everyone. You'll remember that we have to save modern London from vampires. You're satisfied that we are who we say we are, Sherlock? John?"
"Yes," Dr. Watson answered, finding the words came easily to his lips. He did believe, even though it was all mad.
Vampires in London. That had to be easier than Jack the Ripper, right?
The eight travelers slowly walked back to the TARDIS, all quietly preoccupied with their own thoughts. John glanced at his flatmate, surprised to find that though Sherlock had been right about the case, the man didn't look triumphant, only a little sad.
Once inside the space/time machine, the Doctor seemed to brighten, jumping about, pulling levers and turning knobs, but even his energy seemed hollow.
"Here we are!" The Doctor exclaimed as Sexy landed, "London! Now let's go save the day!"
He knew his attempt at seeming his usual bouncy self wouldn't fool Amy or Rory, but he had to pretend to be alright, if not for everyone else's sake, but his own sake also. The trick to not being sad was to actively try to be happy. So he tucked away the death of Arthur Conan Doyle, saving it for when he had time to grieve (and he made sure he never had much spare time at all.)
He was, as always, the first to the door, and as he opened it, something sped past him, ruffling his hair. The Doctor was only dimly aware of the noise outside—shouting, screaming, explosions and gunshots—because something hot and wet had just sprayed all over him, trickling down the back of his neck and onto his favorite shirt.
Before the Doctor had a chance to turn he knew that the liquid was blood, he could smell its sharp metallic scent, and he heard Amy scream and John and Sherlock gasp, Rory exclaim a curse and Dean shout, voice frantic, "Cas? Cas!"
The Doctor and His Companions Will Return In
Four Score and Seven Vampire Hunters
A.N.: First, thanks so, so much to all the lovely wonderful people who reviewed this! Your words of encouragement really inspire me! Also a big thanks to my darling betas!
Secondly, the versions of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Robert Louis Stevenson in this are purely fictional and not at all based on facts, so to those of you out there are are experts on these men, sorry for the inaccuracies.
Thirdly, sorry about the cliffhanger ending, but on the bright side, there won't be very many of those for the rest of the story! Thanks to all of you for reading, see you next chapter!