The officer growled, and there was the sound of creaking leather as he wrung his strap in his hand. Jack braced himself, expecting at any moment to feel the next blow in spite of Jane's intervention. But it didn't fall.

"Who are you, to contest this beating?" the officer demanded instead. Jack and the officer were facing Jane, somewhat, because she had come from the cross street that put her slightly to the right but mostly in front of the pole Jack was currently attached to. Jack could easily look at her and she was looking back at Jack, expression a mixture of pure fury and something harder to pinpoint. Fear? Guilt? She was upset, anyway. Jack wasn't sure what his own expression held. His face felt tacky and uncomfortable and he rather thought slamming face first into the bar had given him a bloody nose. He didn't really feel it though. He was aware of pain, but he had a strange, fuzzy feeling in his head, as if his thoughts were going 'oh no, we're hurt, oh no' but the hurt hadn't quite registered yet. It felt like he was an outside observer and not the person the entire ordeal was about. He felt sharp pains in his wrists, wrenching pains in his shoulders, and a deep and horrible pain across the whole of his back. His face just felt uncomfortable, a pain that didn't full register. He must have looked a bit of a mess, though, judging from Jane's expression.

Jane looked Jack over, and her angry expression deepened, but so did the other upset feelings, and Jack couldn't work out what to do, how to rearrange his own expression to console her. If that was even possible. Then her eyes turned to the officer and they were like flint.

"I am Citizen Jane Banks. I am the one who interviewed the slave you are currently beating and had the report published in the paper. And I'm the person who will do it again if I need to."

Jack couldn't see how the officer responded to that. With anger, if the sound of tortured leather was any guide. Jane didn't back down, just stared intently and waited. The crowd watched. Not supporting one or the other. They waited to see what would happen.

"He's still getting two for lying and one for denying it," the officer growled at last.

"I…" Jane started to say, and maybe she did say more, but the officer struck the second hit at last and Jack wasn't able to hear her over the sound of the lash and the ringing inside his head, as if pain were audible and loud. He didn't hit the pole this time but he did lose his footing and the sharp pain at his wrists and shoulders almost overpowered the feel of the lash against his back.

If Jane and the officer argued, if the officer warned for the third lash, Jack didn't hear any of it. He'd only just begun to figure out where his feet were to try and stand again when the third lash struck him. It was just as well he hadn't stood because he'd likely have fallen again and wrenched his wrists and shoulders worse. As it was, he didn't find his footing at all until Jane was suddenly there, helping him.

Charlie was there too, somehow, and there was a long moment when the world refused to make sense and time jumped in strange ways. It felt like seconds after the final lash before Jack's friends were helping him free of the pole, but somehow in the intervening time the officer had not only left, but three beads had been applied to Jack's collar, all without Jack having any real memory of either happening. He did, vaguely, think he remembered a voice growling in his ear, "And when her contestation fails, I will deliver the final lashes, just you wait."

Then somehow Charlie was helping Jack back into his lower garments while Jane hovered, and Jack had someone's handkerchief in his hand and he vaguely knew it was for his face but was reluctant to use it because it was so white and fine a cloth that it seemed a shame to ruin it with his blood. The officer was nowhere in sight. Most of the crowd had dispersed too, except for a young girl who was sitting on the stocks but facing away from them all and shaking her small fist towards the empty street.

Nothing made any sense.

"There you go, Jackie-boy," Charlie said, "Now let's do the horses."

"Should do the stockings before the trousers," Jack answered, then wrinkled his nose at how rough his own voice sounded, and the blood he sensed on his face was so off-putting that he used the handkerchief in spite of himself.

"Nonsense," Charlie insisted, sounding oddly cheerful all things considered. "Should go trousers, then stockings." At any rate, Jack didn't have much choice as the trousers were already up, even if the suspenders weren't, and Charlie was already helping Jack into his stockings.

"We should get him to a clinic," Jane said, towards Charlie but about Jack, and it made Jack wonder how out of it he looked that they were talking around him instead of to him.

"Don't need the clinic," Jack answered, just as if he had been addressed. "I'm fine." Of course, he could already tell that doing the rest of his lamps was going to be painful, but painful wasn't the same thing as incapacitating. He carefully tested his arms and decided both shoulders were still in their socket; the soreness there was nothing like it would be if that had happened. His wrists were bruised but he didn't think anything worse than that though his left one gave sharp pains when he twisted it. His back…his back was as bad as it had been days ago when the first beating was fresh. Not as bad, worse, though he wouldn't admit it to anyone but himself. Ten lashes might well have left him unable to do his work. But three…he could handle three. He was fine.

"Of course you are," Charlie said, managing to sound exasperated instead of condescending, which was almost as bad but at least he wasn't acting like Jack needed delicate handling. Jack wasn't sure he could stand that. Even if he kind of did.

"For the documentation," Jane explained. "It will help our case. Especially when it comes to contesting a punishment. We can prove undo harm."

Jack did not want to go to the clinic. What he wanted was for everything to stop hurting so he could continue his job and meet up with his friends at the bank and not have anyone worry about him. He wanted the universe to be fair and for the officer to be found at fault without Jack having to do a thing. He wanted a world where he and his friends were not at risk every minute of every day because things outside of their control could unleash violent punishments on them.

He wanted a lot of things. What he got was Charlie carefully lacing up Jack's shoe while Jack ruined one of Jane's handkerchiefs and pretended he didn't notice Charlie and Jane's muttered conversation as to whether they should let Jack wear his shirt or leave his back to the open air, and how close was the nearest clinic and how could they get Jack there?

"Of course I need my shirt, so I can do up my suspenders," Jack intervened, when the whispered talk started to ominously offer suggestions of finding a stretcher. "And I can walk."

"Course you can," Charlie said, far too cheerfully considering the tones he had been using to whisper with Jane. He was placating him. Jack frowned and only didn't pout because wrinkling his nose felt unexpectedly uncomfortable.

But despite this, they did actually allow Jack his shirt, and his suspenders, but not his vest or coat, if only because Jack had begun to shiver and it was not like any of them would be paying for the blood stains. Everything of Jack's really belonged to the City, and ruining his clothes would more likely get the officer in trouble than any of them.

Walking to the nearest clinic was uncomfortable for all three of them. Jack because walking was uncomfortable; his legs weren't hurt but it took back muscles to stand up and walk, and that in turn made old and new bruising take notice. And welts. Jack couldn't see his own back but he could feel the way his shirt stuck and it wasn't sticking to bruises. The sticking of his shirt pulled at his back, too.

Jack walked, because he couldn't not walk, but it was so utterly painful that he had very little attention to pay to anything beyond making himself move forward and stopping himself from audibly sharing his discomfort to his friends. Charlie had hooked arms with him on one side, and Jane on the other, and they weren't carrying him but they did stop him from taking a fall a time or two.

Jack knew his own lamp route very well, and he also knew that there was a slave clinic fairly close by, five minutes' walk at most. It did not feel like five minutes, though, by the time they pushed through the doors. Closer to thirty.

Jack was parked in a chair where he clenched his fists and breathed heavily while Jane and Charlie explained to the receptionist. Despite this, Jack was clear-headed enough to recognize the man's bored, almost accusatory tone.

"The clinic isn't for nose bleeds," the receptionist said. He was the sort who always assumed a slave was faking first and foremost, and had to be convinced otherwise. The nurse at the bank was like him. He was the sort who would report a slave for falsely applying for aid.

"Sorry," Jack mumbled, "I'm…" whatever he was going to say, whether it was 'fine' or 'going now' or something as ridiculous as that, no one would ever know because Charlie shoved a handkerchief in his face, covering his mouth in the process.

"This man," Jane said icily over Jack's muffled attempts to speak anyway, "Was lashed with undo force. It is not only his nose that is bleeding. And you will inspect him, treat him, and report your findings or I will see to it that this entire establishment is fined for misconduct towards City property."

And Jane had no idea the minor miracle she had performed when Jack was actually taken back to be examined. Which was technically a good thing, even if it was decidedly uncomfortable from Jack's point of view. The first thing to happen was that they sent Charlie on his way.

"You are able bodied; we've no reason to keep you from your duties," said the receptionist.

"Well, can I have a note to explain why I'm late?" Charlie asked. The receptionist glared.

"I should think the City would like to know how he helped keep City property in working order by getting him to the clinic in a timely manner," Jane said, her voice deceptively sweet and just daring them to disagree.

They didn't disagree.

Of course, the end result was that Charlie still had to leave but at least Jack didn't have to worry about him getting punished for helping Jack. Jack also, belatedly, realized he never did get to learn how Charlie had known to come at all. His route was close to Jack's; maybe he heard the commotion and went to investigate.

The receptionist clearly wanted Jane to leave as well, but he didn't have an excuse to kick her out. She wasn't allowed to go in with Jack for the exam, though. And the exam was the very definition of 'not fun'. Almost worse than the actual beating in some ways. The beating had hurt, but it had been so awful his own mind had shielded him from it, in a way. He barely remembered receiving the lashes, almost nothing at all of directly afterwards, and the whole affair had gone quickly.

And the officer may have hated Jack, but that very hatred meant he saw Jack as a person. Not so for the doctor examining him.

"Get the slave's clothing off," he ordered his assistant. Jack, feeling alone and out of sorts, responded to the tone by obediently trying to remove his own clothes. He'd barely started on the buttons however, before a stranger came at him with scissors. The assistant was fast, thorough, and careful. What he was not, was gentle. His method of getting the shirt off where it had stuck to his back, for instance, was to quickly yank, like pulling off a sticking plaster.

The doctor only spoke to the assistant during the entire exam, telling him to move Jack this way or that. Even when the doctor was checking to see if something hurt he never asked outright, as if Jack were some insentient animal and the doctor had to rely on Jack's reactions to gage his pain instead of his words. And the doctor poked and prodded so that Jack reacted more than he would have liked. His back got a lot of attention, of course, but the doctor also had his assistant move Jack's limbs around, and spent a great deal of time examining Jack's wrists.

"I don't think there's any tearing here," he'd say, and then, "A lot of swelling here," and "I don't feel anything shifted here," and , "needs stitches here, I think five will suffice," and "let's get an x-ray." It wasn't until they were arranging Jack for the latter to take place that he knew it was for his left wrist.

And after the examination came the treatment. Neither the doctor nor the assistant bothered to explain to Jack what they needed to do to him before they did it. If the doctor needed Jack to hold a specific position, he either had the assistant hold him or used restraints.

"Prep the site while I ready the needle," was all the warning he got before the first stitches were applied. They weren't completely barbaric and part of the 'prep' was a local anesthetic, but Jack still felt the oddly uncomfortable sensation of a needle and thread stitching his skin as if he were nothing more than an old pair of trousers in need of a patch. They also didn't bother to explain why the bandages they applied next, wrapped around his torso, needed to be so unbearably tight. For all he knew, there was no reason, and they just didn't care that they were too tight. His right wrist got a salve and a wrap, too. His left got some sort of stiff contraption that left it feeling hot and swollen and twice as painful as it had felt before they started messing with it.

Making sure his nosebleed had stopped was almost an afterthought. And then they left him to lie on his stomach, still naked except for the bandages and without even a sheet to cover him, while they went out to do whatever they needed to do that didn't directly involve him.

All in all, Jack felt more raw and vulnerable than he'd felt in an age, and he desperately wished his friends could be there. And was glad they weren't; that they couldn't see him being raw and vulnerable. The assistant came back, without the doctor, after what felt like hours but probably was closer to thirty minutes.

"Here, sit up," He ordered, and, with some difficulty, Jack did. Still without explaining, the assistant clipped something to Jack's collar, then pushed a bundle of clothes onto him. Jack just stared down at the bundle for a long and bewildering moment.

"Get dressed," prompted the assistant at last. "You aren't bad off enough to need to stay here. Sleep it off in your quarters."

Which was the closest either the doctor or the assistant came to actually telling Jack the result of their examination. It was suggestive, though. Sleeping it off in the slave quarters was not a 'now go back to work' order. Jack's fingers unconsciously went to the new attachment, then he started to unroll the given clothes. They weren't his old clothes, which were more or less unwearable at this point anyway, but they were close enough that they might as well have been; standard City clothing for slaves.

Putting them on took some time, though the assistant did actually help with part of it; the upper garments at least. He let Jack arrange his lower garments himself. And then the ordeal was over, and Jack was staggering out to where Jane was still waiting, a fierce scowl on her face. She clutched the paperwork the doctor had given her (a copy, of course, because they also needed to file with the City).

Technically speaking, Jane didn't have the right to the paperwork. Nor did she have a right to take Jack away afterwards because she was not a City employee. But equally technically, having been deemed unable to work, the City didn't actually care where Jack went, so long as he was able to check in when he was supposed to.

In fact, Jane brought him back to SPRUCE, by taxi. Her own flat was too personal and could raise questions that neither needed about their relationship and the slave quarters were too impersonal. They'd be empty during the day and Jack would be left alone, completely alone. Maybe Jack somewhat wanted to be alone, but it wasn't what he needed. So, SPRUCE it was. At least he got to spend the morning resting, and not trying to climb up and down ladders when he was in pain.

Charlie's morning was less painful but almost as unpleasant in other ways. To start, as Jack had guessed, Charlie had been nearby, doing his own route, when Jack was being latched to the post. It wasn't the commotion that drew his attention to Jack's trouble, though.

"Charlie!" greeted a nanny as she accompanied three young children on an outing.

"Marie Poppins!" he greeted her in return, and then, "Good morning, children," because he knew how to be polite. The children clearly did too, even if Mary Poppins did not appear impressed with their shyly mumbled 'Good morning's.

He was always happy to run into Mary Poppins, but it so rarely was a case of actual chance and it so often meant something else that he had a hard time not turning about and looking over his shoulder to try and find what had brought her. After all, when Jack had 'randomly' run into her, she had arrived just in time to save him from getting run over. There were no wayward cars to be seen, however, just a quiet street and the usual morning traffic.

"Is something the matter, Charlie, are you looking for something?" Mary asked, and Charlie found himself blushing and very certain she knew exactly what he was doing and was amused by it.

"Just…happy to see you?" he tried, and even the children were looking at him with confusion now. "I wanted to make sure there were no more wolves jumping out of bowls just as you came by?" he tried next. That, at least, had the children grinning, even as Mary Poppins sniffed.

"What nonsense you talk, Charlie. Come along, children. Charlie has somewhere he needs to be." And she led the children away as if this really were just a chance meeting with no ulterior purpose and leaving Charlie feeling a mixture of elated, bereft, and embarrassed. But just before they fully got out of range for civilized conversation Mary paused and turned back. "And the place you need to go is down that street," she said, and pointed.

It was not the street he would have gone down if not redirected. It was a street he was familiar with, though. He tended to use it to cut over when he needed to do a bit of Jack's route for him. Charlie didn't know what to think as he pedaled down it. It might make him late in doing his own lights, but it never even crossed his mind to not follow Mary's directions.

He had a vague hope that he'd find Jack and they'd have some sort of fun adventure to tell about when they got to the bank. He did find Jack. There was no fun adventure though, just a horrible shock and then a sick foreboding as he processed the scene.

He understood at once why Mary had sent him; it would have been difficult for Jane to get Jack to a clinic all on her own at the very least, and also, if Jack was let off of work and Jane took him then it was only Charlie's 'chance' meeting that allowed the rest of the slaves at the bank to know what had become of Jack. And he did not doubt Jack would be let off work, because this was Jack, and if Jack acted that pained, that out of it, then it was bad.

Charlie was not late. Mary Poppins did not finish Jack's route for him, but Charlie found his own fully turned down. He got to the bank in good time, in fact, despite the detour. Which meant he had the very uncomfortable duty of explaining to everyone that Jack very likely would not be joining them.

He had to explain to Angus that Jack would not be joining them.

It is never easy to explain something that you know is going to hurt the person you are explaining it to. Even worse, it really brought it home to Charlie. Before, with Jack, he could do something. He could help Jack get dressed, keep Jack's spirit up, help him walk. And in turn Jack was able to at least somewhat reassure Charlie by acting like his usual self, pained winces aside. At least, he did after the first five minutes or so when he hardly reacted at all and scared Charlie half to death, because he had to be really hurt to act like that.

But Charlie did explain, everything, because he knew he would like to know if someone else had been the one to have the story. He did try to keep it as light as possible. It was three hits. Three hard hits but only three. Jack was able to walk under his own power. He had to be talked out of finishing his route, typical Jack. Mary Poppins knew about it.

Mary Poppins didn't stop it from happening. No one outright said that, but it was present in all their minds nonetheless. Since no one said it, no one could make excuses for her. Maybe she only realized what was happening after it happened. Maybe she stopped something worse and they would never know. Maybe…maybe she felt it had to happen. Why else was the officer not now another newt?

No one would ever ask her and no one would ever suggest she let Jack get hurt and they loved her still. But it was an uncomfortable truth.

Angus cornered Charlie afterwards.

"Tell me the truth," he said, hands clenched impotently, clearly feeling rage with no one to direct it towards, and fear, and anxiety, and a whole host of horrible feelings. "How bad is it."

"Bad enough I'm certain he won't be coming to the bank today. Not so bad that he won't bounce back."

"I should…" Angus said, then stopped and clenched his teeth. And Charlie knew perfectly well what Angus wanted to do. He wanted to run to the clinic and be with Jack. And they both knew Angus could not do that. Not without getting himself into more trouble than they could afford. Angus needed to be able to be there for Jack, and he couldn't do that if he earned himself the kind of punishment running off got. If his luck in who administered the punishment were bad, he'd end up lying alongside Jack. And that would be worth it, except Jack would be upset, and that would not help Jack in the least.

So Angus had to turn around and report for work, and so did Charlie, and every other slave, no matter how rough they felt.

How Mary Poppins felt about the entire affair, only Mary Poppins knew. But a new bottle of medicine found its way into SPRUCE that looked suspiciously like one owned by a certain nanny who was, at the time it was delivered, watching three children in the park and clearly not responsible. Wherever it came from, after a spoonful Jack was finally able to rest. In his dreams, there was no pain, only dancing and singing and fun. In his dreams, Jack was as free as any Citizen of London.