A/N: I'm not sure, but I think this should technically raise it to a T rating for the mild torture sequence. You've been warned.

This one has not been beta'd.

Hopkins:

I would have liked to say that this was all proceeding according to plan. I would have liked to say that, like mister Sherlock Holmes, I had accounted for every variable and had a neat little trap set to spring on my villain any second now. I would have liked to say a lot of things. Unfortunately, the foul-tasting cloth that had been tied into my mouth made saying anything rather difficult.

This was not according to plan.

The plan had been to set up a girl near the inn where the crew of the good ship Morwenna had put in for the last few days. She would make herself a convenient target - the way I knew Molly would have, the poor girl never had much sense - while I followed at a distance in a meager disguise. Meanwhile, the local patrol had been advised as to my presence, and were to set to arrive as soon as I raised the alert.

Anne, Molly's older sister, had agreed readily to play the part of the hapless girl. I admired her bravery as she walked down the wharf, smiling invitingly at the men that passed, knowing full well that one of them might be the man that killed her sister. Twice she was waylaid by potential clients, but neither fit the description Holmes had given me. She looked at me, I shook my head, and she made some excuse to hurry on.

The third time she was met at the end of an alley by a tall, burly sailor, and when I didn't shake my head she struck up a pleasant chat with him, showing not the slightest hint of unease. While she kept his rapt attention with the coy fluttering of her lashes and her alluringly sweet smiles, I studied him from halfway through the alley, trying to deduce if this was our mad carpenter after all.

So intent was I on my study that I all but forgot about the rest of my surroundings. I did not hear the slow footsteps behind me, did not feel the presence of another person at all until suddenly there was a weight on my shoulders, cloth over my nose and mouth and a sickly-sweet smell in place of air. I had only a few moments to struggle before I was gone, and my last coherent thought was for Anne's safety.

I have no idea how much time passed before I woke. The first thing I was aware of was a headache pounding against the front of my skull.

The second thing I was aware of was cold air on my back.

After that, everything else just sort of tumbled in all at once. I was stretched face-down over a hard surface, securely lashed at the wrists and ankles. I had been divested of my coat, waistcoat, shirt, shoes, and socks. I had been gagged. In testing my bonds I found that the crook of my right arm stung, as from an injection. I also found that the surface I was on creaked, and decided it was most likely a wooden table. The slight breeze smelled of wet wood and rotting fish, so I was still on the docks. There was a lack of movement around me, so I must be alone, and I took some momentary comfort in that.

I didn't want to open my eyes. Some childish part of me clung to the irrational belief that if I didn't open my eyes, it wouldn't be real.

Then there was the sound of a door opening from somewhere behind me, not far, it couldn't be a very big room. Footsteps approached and paused near the table. I stilled, hoping that if I still appeared to be under the effects of chloroform I would be spared. For a time, at least, but I clung to the hope that I could use that time to get myself out of this. Perhaps I could even hope for a rescue. Anne might realize I was gone and go to the constables. There was a chance they could find me, a chance they-

Sweet mother of god!

The gag muffled my cry even as I instinctively curled away from the pain. A knife, it had to have been, dull and ragged, slicing into my side and drawing a warm rivulet of blood to trickle down my ribcage. There was no denying the reality of the situation anymore, no fooling my captor. My eyes snapped open, just in time to see the flash of the blade as it made a mirroring cut on my other side. This time I stifled my cry, but strained again at the ship-knots that kept me bound. They wouldn't give, I already knew that, just as I knew that I would rub my wrists to bleeding before I stopped trying. I distracted myself by focusing on my tormentor.

He was tall and broad, with skin like leather from weather and work. His face was framed by dark, wild hair, and a pair of deep-set eyes met my gaze for a fleeting moment, all shadows in the dim lamplight - night must have fallen while I was unconscious. I expected him to smirk or sneer, to revel in the pain that he was causing, but the expression he turned on me was disarmingly soft. He regarded me like a painting, like fine china, like a prized show-dog. Somehow that chilled me more than all the threats and jeers of my career.

The moment passed, he turned out of my range of vision, and with a sinking heart I knew what he was going for. I squeezed my eyes shut again, but I couldn't shut out the sounds, and they grated on nerves already rubbed raw from fear and drugs. The metallic scrape of the hammer as he picked it up. The dull jingle of nails as the box was moved to somewhere near my hip. The rustle of one being drawn out. I could already imagine the feel of it shattering my shoulder blade or plunging into my spine. Some strange, detached part of me wondered where he'd start. I felt utterly helpless and the feeling made me sick.

A tiny point of cold metal pressed into my back. I snapped like a violin string wound too tight, began to thrash, trying madly to dislodge my hands, my feet, my mouth, just trying to make myself a more challenging target, anything to feel less totally at this madman's mercy.

The hammer was set down with a smooth, patient motion, and then the knife dragged another cut into my ribcage, digging in deeper than the others. I abandoned all sense of pride and screamed as loud as I could, hoping against hope that someone, anyone would hear me. The only response was another corresponding cut, more pain searing up my side. Perfect symmetry, just like Molly.

Just like Molly.

Dear God, I was going to die.

Stanley Hopkins does not belong to me. I'm afraid I do have to take responsibility for the deranged sailor, though.

Note: 'Tefached' is hebrew for 'be afraid', or so I'm told. The fact that it's hebrew has no bearing on anything.