The day of the rally was clear and bright, almost in defiance of the usual grey pallor that covered the city. Whether impelled by unconscious intention or sheer coincidence, Jet's wanderings led him to a road parallel to the square. At first he thought nothing more of it than that the roads were becoming unusually crowded, then he heard the drums echoing off the walls of the alleys. "It's the Salvationist rally." he said to no one in particular "Well," he resolved. "Let's go have us a look." He turned into an alleyway and quickly found himself pushing and dodging through a mass of people, almost entirely people of the lower class - the dregs of society - some were interested in the message but more, it seemed, were there for the spectacle. As he approached the center of the square he saw the crowd had left a small circle around the Salvationists, of which there was only a small number, easily less than twenty, and at the head of the group, the good book firmly in her hand and loudly proclaiming the merits of the Kingdom of God, was the Sergeant Major.

"She's a fiery one, she is." he smiled, watching her perform from his vantage point.

"The house of the Lord has many rooms; enough for each and every one of you!" she announced. Two young men approached her, from their clothes Jet guessed if they held any job at all they were simple laborers as they wore faded, dirty overalls and only their shirtsleeves, flat caps crowned their heads. For a moment, looking at these men, Jet could not help but recall he and Arthur on that day three months back. All at once he felt a knot of unease in the pit of his stomach. The men called out something Jet couldn't understand as it was obfuscated by their heavy accents and the general roar of the crowd but from her reply, ringing clear as a bell, he was able to guess at the content.

"I thank you, but better men have tried and failed." He let a sharp laugh escape his lips 'I suppose she's referring to Artie and I.' he mused. These were not the words the men wished to hear, there could be no doubt such a pronouncement of their fitness (or lack thereof as it were) had wounded their pride. The events that followed seemed to occur in painfully slow motion to Jet and yet so quickly he scarcely had time to perceive them as they happened. The man on the right appeared to lean far to his right side, as though he were falling, but only so much that his hand brushed against the ground. That very hand, holding something square and grey, came up again in a great arc that passed across the side of the sergeant major's head. Her bonnet abandoned her head for the air above, the laces trailing across her face. Her head twisted sharply at an unnatural speed and angle in opposition to the hand. Her body leaned right and then crumpled slowly to the ground. Jet cried out and ran towards her shoving people from his path roughly. It seemed to him he was moving preternaturally slow, like he was running through molasses. The two men were laughing over the crumpled form of the woman, joking. The man on the right let the paving stone drop from his hand to return to the road which had supplied it. Finally, after what seemed an eternity but was measurable only in mere seconds, the mass released Jet in front of the men. In that moment time regained its normal pace.

"Oi!" He yelled to the men who turned. He caught the man on the right with a blow to the face hard enough to send him flying into the drummer who immediately expelled the unconscious form from his drum to the ground. The other man, seeing this display turned to flee but Jet caught him by his overall straps and threw him into the crowd where the man picked himself up and ran as one being chased by the devil himself. Jet knelt down at the side of the Sergeant Major's still form.

"Bertie, Bertie, wake up!' he shook her gently forgetting all formality. "Bertie are you all right?" She only lay in front of him, not moving. Jet turned her head to examine where the stone had hit and recoiled in horror. On the left side of her head was a large, deep gash. It almost looked as if her skull was dented. Her blood matted brown hair was plastered to her scalp. It seemed the sanguine substance kept bubbling up from the wound. Jet stared wild-eyed at his hands and saw the fingers of the left were coated in her warm red blood.

"Oh no Bertie!" He murmured. "Oh no no no. I need a Doctor!" He yelled. He tore at his coat searching for his inside pocket from which he produced a brown bottle. Holding it tightly he gripped the cork in his teeth and yanked it out. "C'mon Bertie, hold on." he pleaded emptying the contents of the bottle on the injury which still bled freely. He stripped off his coat entirely and bunched it up, pressing it against the ruined scalp. "Is anyone a Doctor?!" He looked up at the crowd. They were staring at him as though he were some strange and possibly dangerous creature. He became vaguely aware of how he must appear to them - a man, clearly a gentleman by dress, running into a crowd and violently assaulting two men as though he were possessed and then personally tending to a badly injured Salvationist woman bloodying his fine clothes in the process. Yet, at the moment, he could not bring himself to be self-conscious. "You there!" he pointed to a small boy who, in shock, pointed at himself. "I'll give you three pounds if you go fetch a Doctor and coach." The child's eyes grew wide as saucers at the promise of such instant wealth. He ran off as fast as his legs could travel ducking around people and crawling between legs. A few of the Salvationists approached the wild gentleman.

"Is there anything we can do?" the bespectacled man from before asked; clearly speaking for the group.

"Are you medically trained?" Jet inquired.

"No." the man answered solemnly.

"Well then," Jet spat sarcastically. "I would recommend you start praying." Then a thought crossed his mind. "Give me your glasses." The strange request startled the man.

"What?"

"Glasses please." without looking Jet raised his hand and twice made an opening and closing motion with it. The man placed his glasses into Jet's waiting palm. Jet examined them without a word and then put them in front of the Sergeant Major's lips. A very faint fog appeared on the glass. "Well, she's breathing." More of the Salvationists had gathered around her mouthing solemn prayers. "Move back!" he commanded. "If she's breathing you should let her have some air!" The Salvationists were taken aback by his caustic words, but he really didn't care - if they couldn't be of practical use he'd prefer they not be present at all.

It felt like an hour before the Doctor arrived, though it could not have been more than a quarter of one. He was an older man, slim, with wavy grey hair topped by a black bowler hat. He had a grey mustache, and wore small, round Pince Nez spectacles. In his hand he carried a sizable black bag which held the tools of his trade. The child was not to be seen, no doubt he was fervently securing transport. Jet stood to greet the Doctor. "Chester Jenkins Moore." he said, extending his hand.

"Dr. Julian Lang." the Doctor replied, taking it. "Where's the patient?" Dr. Lang was not a man to mince words. Jet indicated towards the prone body of the Sergeant Major. Dr. Lang knelt down next to the woman and placed his bag on the ground next to him, snapping it open with one swift motion. "The child told me she was hit by a man -"

"Yes, with a paving stone." Jet interrupted.

"Where is the injury?"

"It's under my coat - the left side of her head. I poured a bottle of laudanum on it -" The Doctor shot him a look. "- You can castigate me later. How serious is it?" Dr. Lang carefully removed the coat from the injury, by now it was heavily bloodied and some of the dried matter had begun to crust and stick to her skin. The wound looked easily as bad as Jet had remember, if not worse for its temporary removal of blood.

"My my." the Doctor mumbled as he took a pair of tools from the bag and prodded the area. "this is a very grievous injury indeed." He applied a clamp to the spot that was burbling blood. He looked to Jet, "I can clean it and stitch it - but I cannot guarantee that she will live to see the morrow. Even if she does, it may still become infected. What is the patient's name?"

"Sergeant Major Bertha." Jet answered.

"And her family name?" Dr. Lang inquired.

"I- I don't know." Dr. Lang raised an eyebrow. He turned to the woman and patted her gently on the cheek.

"Bertha, Bertha." he gently called to her. There was no response. "I'll need to operate as soon as possible."

"Whatever you can do, sir."

"We need a place to do the surgery, somewhere stable where she can rest for a few days."

"I have an apartment at the Great Western Royal. You can do the procedure there - I'll make all the necessary arrangements." Jet supplied. The sharp ring of hoofbeats on the paving stones alerted Jet to the coach's arrival. He looked to the sound to see the beaming boy guiding the coachman's dalmatian to the square where he stopped. Jet strode up to him, "That's a good lad, here's what I promised plus one for speed." He let four gold sovereigns drop from his hand into the child's eagerly waiting cupped hands. "Now be off with you, this is no place for a child." Jet returned to the Doctor.

"We'll have to travel slowly so she isn't badly jostled. I'll need a few men to carry her." Dr. Lang stated. Jet faced the Salvationists:

"I need six strong men to lift her, who volunteers?" a dozen men raised their hands to volunteer.

"Alright," Jet looked them over. "You, you, and you four, come with me." he pointed to five men as well as the man who had formerly worn the spectacles which Jet returned as he passed. "What's your name?"

"Jim Reed, sir." the man replied adjusting his spectacles.

"Mr. Reed I'll need each of you to take a limb and two to lift her body on either side." Jet explained.

"We're going to take the patient to the coach and lay her on the floor, be very careful. I'll hold her head so it doesn't move too much." Dr. Lang ordered. "Positions!" he called out. The men lined up, three to a side with Dr. Lang at the head. "Lift!" he ordered. The men lifted her body and began to slowly walk it to the coach. "Place her in feet first, I need to make sure we don't lose control of the head." The men rotated so that her feet faced the coach and took her to the threshold. "Mr. Moore, get in the coach - I need you to help guide her in. You will need to bend her legs to fit." Jet jumped up into the coach and did as Dr. Lang instructed. Between the eight of them they were able to safely guide the Sergeant Major in with no great incident. Jet sat lengthwise across the seat, unable to move for the cargo on the floor. Dr. Lang poked his head into the door, "I'm going to ride up front with the coachman. Watch her to make certain she doesn't move too much. Here." He said placing Jet's ruined coat under her head as a pillow. "If she rouses try to keep her from moving." He carefully shut the coach door, leaving Jet alone with the unconscious woman - 'if she rouses' as much as he wished her conscious the idea of being solely responsible for her life left him terror stricken.

Jet had never before realized just how many bumps their were in the streets of London; but now he felt every jostle and jerk as the coach slowly made its way to the Hotel. A sudden lurch caused him to brace himself against the wall. He heard the soft moan of a woman from the floor. "Oh no, don't wake up Bertie - we're not home yet." he whispered. But it seemed in slumber she was just as willful as when awake and she moaned again and rolled her head slightly.

"Da?" she murmured.

"Stay still Bertie, don't move." Jet's voice shook as he gave the order. They went over a large bump that caused Jet to momentarily lose contact with the seat. "Goddammit! Does he have to hit every bump in the road!" he exclaimed.

"Da, what was that? Why can't I move?" Bertha sounded more a helpless child than the formidable woman Jet had known.

"Bertie, you- you hit your head and we're taking you home to get it fixed." Jet attempted to explain.

"Oh." she was quiet for a moment. "Da, my head hurts." 'You don't say!' Jet thought to himself.

"It'll be aright Bertie, just go back to sleep." He tried hard to sound calm.

"Da, will it be mush longer? I'm tired."

"Just go back to sleep now, we'll be there soon." Jet was grateful when he heard next the sound of soft snoring. It seemed an eternity before the coach stopped and Dr. Lang opened the door - the sound seemed so loud! Yet she did not wake.

"Now we just have to get her onto the Hotel's stretcher, are you ready Mr. Moore?"

"Oh thank God, yes!" Dr. Lang reached for her shoulders - at his touch her eyes flew open. And she screamed.

"Woah woah, calm down Bertie!" Jet exclaimed. Bertie tried to get up but the Doctor held her shoulders down.

"You! What are you doing to me?! Let go of me!" She screamed lashing out with her fists.

"Bertie, you were hurt during the rally, you need to stay still!" He ordered. She looked up at the man holding her shoulders down.

"And who is this? Another one of your 'friends'?" she struggled. "Let me go!" She shouted.

"This is Dr. Lang - he needs to operate on you, now be still!" Jet shouted the command.

"Operate!" Her screams became more hysterical.

"Jet, hold her down - she needs to be sedated!" the good Doctor ordered. Jet fell on top of her - his knees on her waist and his hands pinning her shoulders to the floor. She pummeled him mercilessly with her fists which thankfully, due to her position and condition lacked the force necessary to remove him. Dr. Lang returned with a white rag and placed it over her nose and mouth. She fought a few moments longer and finally settled back into slumber. Jet relaxed his hold. "Chloroform." the Doctor replied to his unasked question. "I take it you and the lady are not on the best terms."

"No, not especially." Jet winced cradling a sore spot on his gut where she had landed a particularly effective punch.

"Are you certain it's a good idea for her to stay here with you?" Dr. Lang queried.

"I'm beginning to rethink the notion," Jet smiled tersely. "But can you think of a better place?" Dr. Lang shook his head.

"No."

"Then we are in accord. Let's get her inside before she wakes again." Jet, Dr. Lang, and the footmen helped lift the Sergeant Major from the coach and place her on the stretcher. They quickly carried her into the building where her room was waiting.

Jet watched the Doctor attentively as he prodded about the wound with his forceps. The Doctor removed a small grey speck, almost invisible to the naked eye, and placed it on a silver plate. He had been at this for the better part of an hour. Without looking up from his work he stated, "I need more water." Jet answered the order by taking a bowl to the sink and filling it as he had done dozens of times since the start of the surgery. He set it on the end table beside Dr. Lang who poured a small amount of Phenol into it and began rinsing the wound again. Jet looked at him questioningly. "The wound is very deep and there is a good deal of dirt from the stone in there - if I don't remove as much as I can before I suture it then it is very probable that she would develop a very serious infection." He set back to his labor. It was some time before he spoke again. "Out of question, where did you learn to pour laudanum on an open wound?"

"Our family doctor used alcohol to clean the break in my skin when my arm was broken in a riding accident when I was ten; he said alcohol could prevent infection. Laudanum is mostly alcohol so I figured it couldn't hurt the situation any, I suppose. I can't say I was really thinking at the time." Jet recalled.

"He was correct and so were you. Using an antiseptic, like alcohol, immediately likely prevented a good deal of infection from setting in before I could arrive, I imagine the opium helped keep the inflammation down. You may have saved her life." Jet smirked,

"I doubt she'll thank me for it." The Doctor smiled at his remark; though remained focused on his task picking out piece after piece and putting them on the plate.

"Judging from her reaction to you in the coach, I would not wait on it. But you never can tell." He took a good final look into the wound. "That should about do it. I'm going to stitch her up now - you may want to go down for supper; I won't need you for this part." Dr. Lang took the needle and began to thread it. Jet, who had until now managed to keep his composure, felt his stomach lurch at the sight of the threaded needle. He quickly retrieved a tailcoat from his closet and put it on.

"I believe I will. Send for me if you need anything."

"Very good." the Doctor replied examining the needle just as the door closed.

Jet sat in the dining area stirring his soup; lost in thought. In the events of the last few hours he had seemed so unlike himself - the self he had known himself to be that he had so long cultivated - that he could not recognize himself. And yet the germs of his actions felt familiar, as though they had been his constant companion from youth. But such strange fruit they bore! Barking orders wild-eyed and mad in a crowded public square? Rushing to the aid of a woman whom he had every right to, if not scorn, at the very least ignore? A woman whom association with not only failed to benefit him but would injure his reputation? Who had never so much as given him a kind word or a friendly smile? He placed his head on the palm of his hand. "And to what end!" he mumbled to himself.

"Is their something wrong with the soup, sir?" the kindly voice of the waiter inquired. Jet looked up, startled, from his reverie. He pushed the soup away.

"Oh no. No, it's quite fine. I just don't seem to have much of an appetite I'm afraid." He tried to smile reassuringly at the man. "You can take it away."

"Very good, sir." the waiter removed the bowl from the table and walked away. Jet watched him out of the corner of his eye. The waiter was met by his compatriot who whispered to him and pointed at Jet. The waiter whispered back indicating the full bowl of soup. Jet let out a deep, silent sigh - he must be the talk of the staff bringing in a strange woman (a Salvationist: they would know the uniform without doubt) who was gravely injured. The surgery, the bloodied sheets and towels, there could be no doubt every member of staff was trying to solve the mystery this presented them with. It screamed of something: scandal or heroism - the nature of it had yet to be determined. Even Jet felt at a loss to determine what had led to his present circumstance. He sighed once more and stood up, straightening his coat. He sat down again and summoned the waiter for a glass of wine. With the laudanum gone; wine would have to suffice. He was nursing his second glass when a maid came down and met the host at the entryway. She whispered something and pointed to Jet. The host nodded his head and dismissed the woman. The host walked over to Jet and addressed him.

"Pardon the interruption, sir, but Dr. Lang requests your presence." Jet was almost thankful for the reprieve from his own company. He stood and, in one swallow, downed the remainder of the glass and put it on the table. He straightened his coat.

"Thank you." he replied and strode quickly from the room.

He knocked before he entered the Sergeant Major's quarters. "Come in." Dr. Lang replied. Jet opened the door and was startled to see Bertha propped up on a small mountain of pillows, her eyes open, and looking not much worse for the wear aside from a large gauzy, white bandage wrapped about her head. On her forehead and on the edge of her left eye a large bruise was blooming. She allowed a weak smile upon seeing Jet. He could not even begin to describe the warming effect that small gesture immediately produced. He flushed. Dr. Lang approached him carrying his medical bag. "I have been called away to attend to another patient, she made it out of the surgery well but I will need you to keep her awake until I return." He continued, lowering his voice to a whisper, "I told her what you did for her; she is grateful - even though she may not show it."