Last chapter; in other words... that's all, folks! I hope that everyone who's been reading has enjoyed it! This has been my first attempt at a story of this length. I didn't think that I could manage it, but I got there in the end after several months and a lot of background research. I'd be so grateful for even a short comment saying what you liked about it - or what I got right, and where I went wrong.

-oOo-

It isn't until Oliver walks with Jack in the City some evenings later that they have the chance to speak of personal matters.

"You never told me," Jack says, "what you was intending to do with your share of the money. 'Cause a third of it is yours. Two hundred and fifty pounds. If you still want it, that is."

"I thought that I might divide it between worthy charities. Perhaps the Bloomsbury Dispensary for the poor. Or a military benevolent fund. The latter would be very apt."

"I despair of you," Jack says, with a shake of his head. He's got up stylishly in a well-cut frock coat with peaked lapels and a large pair of gold buttons to the back, and a flash-looking silk waistcoat with a lot of bird and foliage designs. His cravat is more pretentious than ever. The clothes having been bought with the ill-gotten gains, or Jack having the mettle to stroll about wearing that which he's stolen, are both equally likely and possible. Even after all that's occurred, a part of Oliver can still hardly believe his audacity. But Jack is entirely untroubled about such things; rather, he looks supremely contented. If he seems to walk a little closer to Oliver than would be proper and usual for what should be two gentleman friends taking the air together, it might be Oliver's imagination and might not. Either way, he has no objections; quite the opposite, in fact.

"You always did," he replies.

"Not always." Jack gives him a sidelong look from beneath his dark lashes, and for all the rough quirkiness of him, Oliver is struck by how, in odd moments, he can be so very lovely. He only realizes now what makes it so. There's an undeniable sensuality about him. "In fact, there's skills of yours what have left me distinctly impressed."

"I hope that you're not disappointed when I say that I won't be trying my hand at picking pockets again. That isn't a deviance that I intend to make a habit of."

"Not as much as I might be." Carefully, this next, out here in the open air, although there are no obvious listeners, "Be disappointed if you wasn't intending to make a habit of some other deviances, though."

Oliver feels warmth stir slowly in him. "It's sodomy," he says, as much to himself as to Jack.

"When you put your prick in me, was you thinking that it felt like a crime?"

"No."

"What did it feel like?"

Oliver considers his answer, and realizes that there is only one that he can truthfully give. "Love," he says.

"Well, now," Jack says, after a pause, "that sounds nice to me. Can't go far wrong there, can you?"

They're on Upper Thames Street; one can see the lamps on the bridge as they draw nearer. From a long way off they are visible, pinpoints through the falling darkness. Oliver had once read of how, in years gone by, the severed heads of traitors to the crown were shown on pikes above the gatehouses. The marshalmen had brought them there, to where the eye would have been drawn and made it an impossible thing not to look with fear as one approached, as a warning to men who might harbour similarly black intentions. The blank eyes of the tar-dipped heads would have stared as sightlessly at the bridge as Nancy's had after her own pretty red-haired skull had been caved in by Sikes's bludgeon, unyielding wood connecting with and mashing through flesh and bone. In the nightmares that had visited Oliver afterwards, the blows raining down had crushed her head into powder, or taken it clean off her shoulders. Always, London Bridge by dark seems to him to have an air of menace to it.

True to his promises, they travel as far as the guild, Fishmonger's Hall. They pause, near by the steps, that pedestrian ascent onto the bridge.

"I got some business over the river," Jack says. "Like to come with me a bit further? I've a couple of good pals what'd be happy to make your acquaintance."

"Thank you for the offer, but I think that I'd rather go back to being a dull gentleman physician for the rest of the night."

"Thought you might," Jack replies, but without resentment. Then he falls silent, following Oliver's line of sight to where the great grey stone arches of the bridge span the street and start out across the water. Black as pitch beneath, they stand like crypts; like mausoleums.

Here, Oliver thinks, the world had once been divided between heaven and hell. Above, where the lamps shone, his uncle had stood waiting for him, risking his own safety by coming alone. Below, the demons had been let loose as Sikes enacted his bloody revenge on the woman who had loved him. And then somewhere in the streets nearby there had been Jack, who seems to belong not to the dark, nor quite the light, but to walk a path all his own. For all his analytical brain, Oliver had not understood until now what it is that consistently draws him to Jack. The answer is that Jack is the mirror of a part of himself; the part that is bold and defiant and seeks to carve out his own way in life.

"Oliver?"

"Yes?"

"Nance would have thought you was worth it. She'd be pretty happy, seeing how you turned out." Wryly, Jack shrugs. "Me - p'rhaps that's another story there."

Oliver feels a strange tightness in his chest. He reaches out, just to touch Jack a little. "You're not such a bad sort," he says softly.

Something glints in Jack's eyes. "You believe that?"

"It's up to you to prove me right or wrong. We've been friends for seventeen years. Now I'd like to get to know you."

"You're dafter than what I gave you credit for."

"And I'll credit you with being a scoundrel. But one who's very dear to me."

Jack turns to him; takes hold of the lapels of Oliver's coat. "Come here, then," is all that he says, and he's pulling Oliver, and Oliver's pushing him, and they're moving together, sinking deep into the shadows that have haunted Oliver's dreams, where the fog settles around them like a cloak. The stones are cold and hard against Oliver's back, but Jack's lips are warm, and he kisses him, as though he's burning for it; as though he's willing to jeopardize everything. He kisses him right here on the rough, dirty street, like a whore, their fingers digging bruisingly into one another's flesh through their clothes. When and if they might have stopped he almost fears to imagine, but their activities are subtly disturbed by a low and suggestive whistle. His body stiffening in response, Oliver braces to thrust Jack far from him, to save both their skins, and would have done so had he not, glancing swiftly about him, abruptly met the eyes of the taller of the two men.

The fellow flashes him a grin, and wraps his arm tightly about the waist of his companion, and the two of them withdraw, their shapes melting into that of the bridge until they can no longer be distinguished from it; into one of the nooks where the wall is darkest.

Beside him, Oliver hears a throat being cleared, in a way that doesn't sound especially perturbed by the turn of events; certainly not anywhere close to as much as he feels.

"I told you it happens," Jack says, by way of comment. "Anywhere fellers can find themselves a bit of privacy, it happens."

"You're determined to introduce me to an entirely new world," Oliver says, trying to keep his tone light, and unconvinced of how successful he is.

"We'll take things as they come," Jack says. He steps back just far enough to allow himself room to lift his hands and pat Oliver's clothes into place, as he had done in his house, setting him straight, making him decent. "But," he adds, "it's definitely going to be interesting."

As they regard one another, an ache about the heart reminds Oliver both that they are at the point of parting company, and that he minds losing that company more than he has ever before. That Jack alone will see to it that they are not away from each other for long seems certain, but wherever this new course that they have set may take them, Oliver does not see himself as a passive bystander. He does not think that he will wait a great deal of time for Jack to propose another encounter. Rather he thinks that he will be the one to seek out him.

"Take care of yourself," he says.

For a single, fleeting moment, Jack's face holds such a strange expression that Oliver cannot make it out. At length, he realizes that the strangeness is only so because of how surprising it is to see it. If Oliver were to be asked to describe how Jack's gaze fell upon him, it would be shyly. "Oliver," he says.

"What is it?"

Jack hesitates. "I ain't half fond of you," he says, finally. "You know it, dontcher?"

Oliver exhales, a breath that he's been unaware of holding, as if he's releasing either laughter or tears. Perhaps it's both, at the same time. "I'm fond of you, as well. I'm sure that I'm damned for it already, but I am."

"Took me 'til that night a few months ago to really work it out. Couldn't find anyone else what measured up after that. Probably why I was so bloody randy."

"I think that I worked it out sooner than you."

"You must know more about tossing off than what you do about medicine."

"I shouldn't be surprised."

Jack cocks his head. "You're all right, then? About everything?"

"Yes," Oliver answers. "I'm all right."

Jack kisses him again. Then he's gone from Oliver's space with only a lingering warmth left behind him, climbing the steps, jauntily, taking them two at a time. Oliver sees the shape of him step onto the bridge, and then it halts in the pool of light cast by the first of the lamps and there is a movement above the balustrades. Jack has taken off his hat, and, as Oliver watches, waves it to him a time or two. He had thought to see banners flying after they robbed Richard Manns. And this is Jack's personal banner, hoisted as if in salute to the city that deems him a scourge, but that Oliver suddenly feels him to be as much a part of as the chime of the bells that once drew Whittington back to it; a lifeblood, like the dark, endless roll of the river.

As he turns, a sound floats back to him. Jack is whistling as he strides out in the direction of the Surrey bank, something quick and cheery, sending his pleasure out into the evening. Oliver is still listening to it even as he begins to walk, now brought close by the wind, now indistinct; thin silvery notes dropping through the air as a torn pocket scatters sixpences.