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Title: To Heaven

Author: Jessie-chan

Pairing: Will Turner / Frederick Abberline

Rating: R

Warning(s): angst; blood; gore; dark themes

Summary: Frederick Abberline makes a startling discovery in a closet at a possible Jack-the-Ripper crime scene.

Disclaimer: The characters don't belong to me. If they did, I wouldn't be writing fanfic. Instead, Will Turner belongs to Disney. Frederick Abberline is a character in the movie FROM HELL, and he's played by Johnny Depp. The character also appears in the comic From Hell, of which the movie is based. However, Abberline was a real person and one of the real investigators of the Jack the Ripper serial killings. So I'm not sure who I can attribute him to. Himself, maybe? Anyway, I own neither the movies nor the comic. Damn.

Feedback: Welcomed, appreciated, and I swear I'll fawn all over you if you do ^_^

Beta: my dear friend Grey-bug.

Archive: I hereby bequeath permission to archive this to Characters In Bloom. Anywhere else, I beg you to ask.

Author's Notes: This takes place during the events of the movie FROM HELL. I got the bunny while watching the movie, and I thought it'd be interesting to write. And trust me, it's being a challenge!

This is mildly, vaguely AU; it's from the point of view of Frederick Abberline (played by Johnny Depp); it takes place between August and November 1888, during the Jack the Ripper murders (to be exact, the story begins on November 13, 1888), so I had to shift Will to another time frame (but I think he'd fit in well with Victorian England). Also, I'm going with a more factual approach when it comes to the Jack the Ripper case, rather than the "facts" portrayed in the movie. There will be slight manipulation of some of the information, but I will make note of it if and when it happens.

Oh, and this version of Frederick Abberline has a little of Ichabod Crane's klutzy-ness in him. It was too tempting. ^_^

Anyway, enjoy the story!

To Heaven

I gingerly step into the small cellar room in the Whitechapel district of London, experiencing a strange feeling of déjà vu. It has only been four days since the body of Mary Jane Kelly was found on this very street, and I still hold dreadful, vivid images in my mind of the crime scene and her brutally mutilated body. I sweep my eyes over the crime scene, expecting another Ripper case to be added to the five I am already investigating, expecting another brutal, gory murder, but the differences between the Ripper cases and this case are obvious from the start. I raise my eyebrows and look to Sergeant Peter Godley, asking him, "You brought me here for this, Peter?"

"You're the investigator, Abberline," Sergeant Godley replies, taking care to not look at the scene before us. "No one else was available. And it looks like it may be another murder by our good friend the serial killer. Seeing as how you're investigating those, I figured you might be able to guess something about this one."

I sigh and move towards the body sprawled on the floor. I glance momentarily at the coroner--who looks as calm as I feel--and at the detective--who looks as if he'll be as sick as Peter--then the coroner begins to give his analysis of the scene as I move around the room.

"The victim is female, around her late thirties," he begins. "There is bruising around the neck, indicating the possibility of strangulation. The throat has been cut; blood is pooled under the neck and head of the victim. There is minor mutilation to the abdomen and chest, and there are multiple stab wounds. She..."

I hear a strange noise and hold up my hand to stop the coroner. Looking up at Peter from my crouched position near the body, I ask, "Did you say something?"

"No," the sergeant replies, frowning.

I glance at the coroner and the detective in turn, putting the same question to them. They both answer in the negative.

Confused, I open my mouth to ask the coroner to resume when I hear the noise again. It is soft, a murmur and a whimper together. Peter seems to hear it also. I stand from my position over the body sprawled haphazardly on the floor and listen carefully. I hear the sound again, to my left. There is a door, slightly ajar; the sound seems to be coming from behind the door. Creeping quietly towards it, my hand on the small revolver in my pocket, I hook my fingers into the crack between the door and the doorframe and slowly ease the door open.

My eyes behold a young man, roughly eighteen years of age, crammed into the small linen closet, his knees pulled to his chest and his arms covering his head defensively. Thick, coarse rope is wound about his thin wrists and ankles. He has dark, curly brown hair and olive skin, and both are streaked with blood. Kneeling down before the young man, I reach out and touch his knee, and the young man--almost a boy, really--whimpers and shoves himself further back into the closet.

"It's all right," I say softly. "We're not here to hurt you. We're the police. Scotland Yard. We're here to find out what happened." I hope to God I am being comforting. I'm definitely not used to handling situations like this.

The young man whimpers slightly, and chocolate brown eyes, framed by two olive and red forearms, meet mine. I hold out my hand and gesture slightly, attempting to make it clear to the boy--I can't help but call him that in my mind--that it is all right for him to emerge from the closet; I can sense Peter standing behind me, and I wonder if his eyes are as wide as my own.

Eventually, after several moments of tense silence, the boy slides a little closer to me, and I am able to untie his bonds. I carefully help the blood-covered young man to his feet. "Are you injured?" I inquire.

The young man shakes his head, staring down at the floor. I can see tears welling in his dark eyes as he stares at the body. He must know the woman. Probably his mother. The woman seems as if she were old enough to have a son about his age.

Peter frowns and asks, "Got a name?"

The young man doesn't answer.

I sigh. This boy is a possible witness--or suspect--to a very horrendous crime; I don't need him staying around mucking up evidence, so I say, "Sergeant Godley, take him to the Yard. Get him cleaned up, have him questioned, and find SOMETHING to do with him. I have a crime scene to investigate."

I watch as Peter leads him towards the door, asking questions that the boy refuses to answer. As the detective does his best to take pictures of the crime scene in the dim lighting, ones that will hopefully develop, I can't help but suspect that the boy has something to do with this murder. It's already becoming very clear that this isn't another murder by the Whitechapel serial killer; he never kills when someone else is present. And why would he tie the woman's son up and stash him in a linen closet?

Sighing again, I return to the body on the floor as the coroner begins to rattle off more observations to me.

***

I am dreaming of shining red hair and pale blue eyes when a sharp knocking at my flat's door rouses me from sleep. Groaning, I open my eyes and blink a few times before sitting up and fumbling for a shirt.

The candles beside my bed have burned low, and I attempt to light a fresh one as I tug on my shirt. Buttoning it with one hand, I manage to make it out of the bedroom and into the sitting room unscathed, but I then proceed to ram into a table and knock over an open bottle of wine. Cursing, I set the bottle upright as more knocks sound at the door. "Give me a moment!" I call irritably, passing through the room I use for my office. Pictures of murder victims are tacked on the wall near the window, their dead faces looking down at me and seeming to beg me to solve their murders.

Tearing my eyes away, I reach the door and pull it open to find Peter standing before me, a tired look on his face. "Evening, Frederick," he greets.

I wrinkle my forehead and ask, "Is there something wrong? You never come to my flat." I step back to let him in my cramped flat.

"It's the kid from the crime scene today," Peter starts.

Almost reflexively, I ask, "What? Did he confess?"

Peter's strange look makes me mentally check myself. "No. He won't talk," he explains, stopping to look at what he calls my "Ripperwall." He just sits staring at his hands. We haven't managed to get him cleaned up, mainly because he won't let anyone touch him."

I set the candle in a candleholder, picking up another candle to light. "Have you even gotten his name?"

Peter shakes his head. "We haven't gotten a word. The occasional whimper or another strange noise, but no actual words. We're beginning to suspect that maybe he's mentally defective."

"So why come to me with all this?"

"Because this is now your case," Peter replies, pulling a large envelope from underneath his coat and passing it to me. "Those higher up in the chain believe this is another Ripper case."

I shake my head. "I don't think it is," I say, opening the envelope. Ah. Pictures. I turn to tack them onto the wall with the other pictures and clippings.

"And yet you put the pictures with the others," Peter observes.

I look back at him. "Can't rule anything out yet. Not until the boy talks."

"Which is why I'm here," Peter says, returning to the original subject. "The aforementioned bosses who put you in charge would like for you to house the boy here in your flat until he DOES start to talk." I stop in the midst of studying the pictures to look at Peter with raised eyebrows. He's got to be kidding. He notices my look. "That's what my reaction was."

"They expect me to house a potential murderer, just to see if I can get him to talk?"

I think my superiors have finally been driven insane by the complexity of the Whitechapel murder cases.

"Obviously." Peter smirks. "You'll be fine. I swear. And if it's any consolation, I don't think he did it."

I roll my eyes. "That's a LOT of consolation," I say sarcastically.

Peter claps me on the shoulder, and I wince; sometimes, I believe the man doesn't know his own strength. "Get dressed. We're going to the Yard to pick him up."

To Heaven (2/?)

The carriage ride to the Yard is silent. I spend the entire time staring out the window, pondering the particulars of the serial killer. My thoughts go back to the evidence and photographs, hastily pulled from the wall and sorted into small boxes by me and Peter.

This case is so complex. And gruesome. With absolutely no leads or connections between the victims--other than the obvious commonality of their being prostitutes--I fear the case may go unsolved; this isn't something I want to happen.

The Yard looms before us as I climb the stairs and enter the building. Peter and I are directed to Chief Constable Williamson's office, and we enter to find the Constable seated at his desk, the boy huddled in a chair before him, staring at his hands silently, just as Peter described.

After the perfunctory greetings between the three of us, Constable Williamson tells me what Peter told me at my flat--he would like for me to take the boy to my home to live until I can get some information from him. Reluctantly, I agree. I really have no choice.

The carriage ride to my flat is as silent as the one to the station, except it is a tense silence, and my companion is an unnamed boy and a possible murderer. The tension in the carriage is almost thick enough to strangle me to death. I feel like I can't breathe.

I lead him to the door of my flat and unlock it. As we enter into the darkness, I ram into another table and let out a muffled curse. I manage to get a candle lit, and I glance at the boy, who stands staring in wide-eyed beauty.

I lead him to the bedroom and take out a fresh shirt and trousers. "You need to get cleaned up," I tell him, handing the clothes to him. "The washroom is in there," I point to the washroom door, "and the towels are in here." I open a closet door and gesture to the scant few towels I own, neatly folded and stacked on a shelf. "I'll be in my office. Please come in there after you've finished." I leave him to it and walk through the sitting room to my office.

I am thumbing through the papers that accompanied the photographs when soft footsteps make me look up. I see the boy standing in the doorway, clean and dressed in my clothes, and I have a strange reaction.

His damp, curly hair hangs down to lightly brush his shoulders. Chocolate eyes look shyly at the floor, his dark lashes casting shadows on his olive cheeks. His slender waist and somewhat broad shoulders bring to mind images that I quickly shove away. I rise to my feet, closing the folder, and motion to a chair. "Please. Have a seat."

He cautiously lowers himself to the chair, pressing his palms together and pinning his hands between his knees. He is obviously uncomfortable, so I seek to put him at ease.

"Are you hungry?" I ask. He looks it; his cheeks are a little hollow, and he has dark circles under his eyes. He replies to my question with only the barest of shrugs. I bite my lip and try another tactic. "Do you have a name? You'll be staying here for a while," God, I hope not, "and I need to call you something."

His lips part, and he murmurs, "William Turner." Glancing at me for only a second, his gaze returns to the floor.

"William?" I repeat, picking up my pencil. I discreetly scratch WILLIAM TURNER onto a piece of paper. He doesn't seem to notice.

He murmurs something else, and I strain to hear it. "Just Will, please."

I sit up straighter, twirling my pencil on my fingers. I'm surprised and secretly pleased that I'm actually getting somewhere. "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions, Will?"

"It depends on what the questions are."

I clear my throat and pull the sheet of paper with Will's name on it closer to me. "What was your mother's name?" I ask cautiously.

"Madeline."

Surprised that I actually get an answer, I say, "Madeline Turner?"

"Yes, sir. But everyone called her Maddie."

I write MADELINE TURNER on the sheet, then write "MADDIE" below it. "Who is everyone?"

Will shrugs. "Her friends."

I sense he is holding something back. I glance up at him momentarily, then return to watching his body language before suggesting, "Her clients?"

Hesitantly, Will nods.

"Will, did you know a woman named Mary Ann Nichols?" I ask suddenly, crossing my right leg over my left. "She usually went by the name Polly."

I notice a momentary pause and a twitch. Will bites his bottom lip and murmurs, "I didn't, but my mother did."

"Did you or your mother know Annie Chapman?"

"My mother did."

"Elizabeth Stride?" With this name, I can see his eyes tear up, and I mentally make note of this.

"We both knew her," he mutters.

I sit up again, more attentive, and say, "Catherine Eddowes?"

He merely nods.

"Mary Jane Kelly?"

"She lived near us," he says quietly, his voice slightly choked.

Looking through my notebook, I pick a random page and ask, "Where were you on the night of September 30th?"

He faintly shrugs. His feet shuffle as he nervously crosses them at the ankle and tucks them under the chair. "I don't remember."

Frowning, I observe him for a long moment, watching his nervous movements. Suspicion begins to rise in my mind, and before I check myself, I ask, "Why can't you remember?"

"Because it was over a month ago," he mutters impatiently.

Nodding, I look at my notebook. "How about November 9th? That was only four nights ago."

He looks up at me, and I can see a fire beginning to kindle in his chocolate eyes. He flies out of his chair to his feet, his fists clenched at his sides, his face flushed. "Are you trying to suggest that I'm Jack the Ripper?" he demands.

I rise from my seat, holding my hands up in a placating gesture. "Please, Will, I'm not trying to--"

"Shut up!" he yells, staggering backwards a couple of steps, bumping into the arm of the chair. Huddling up against the wall, he slides down to a crouching position and wraps his arms around his knees. I stare in amazement as he begins rocking back and forth slightly, trembling and murmuring, "I didn't do it," over and over.

I move a little closer to him, straining to hear his quiet mutterings. As I listen to him murmur things about pain and hear him beg for some unseen person to not hurt him, I feel shock pervade my system. This boy is obviously traumatized, in my office, on my floor, and I honestly don't know how to handle this. I run my fingers through my hair in frustration.

Someone knocks at the door, and I quietly slip out of my office to the front door. I open it to find Peter standing in the doorway again, two bags in each hand. I wordlessly step aside and let him enter.

"Evening, Frederick," he greets.

I pointedly take my pocket-watch out and look at it. "Peter, it's almost four in the morning."

"Still feels like evening to me. And I figured you'd be up." He lifts the bags a little. "Where can I put these?"

"Is that food?" I ask, leading him into the kitchen.

"Yes," he answers, setting the bags on the table. "Chief Constable Williamson sent it. He said the least he could do is buy food for the two of you until otherwise specified. Speaking of, where's the kid?"

"In my office." I catch him by the sleeve as he turns to go into the office and say, "I've got a name."

"He spoke?"

"A bit." I look up at Peter. "His name is William Turner. The woman was Madeline Turner. Maddie."

"Was she like the others?"

"In profession? Yes." I think back on the questions I asked and say, "There's a connection."

"I thought you said there wouldn't be," Peter replies. "What is it?"

"Both William and Madeline knew Elizabeth Stride, Mary Kelly, and Catherine Eddowes. Madeline knew Polly Nichols and Annie Chapman."

"Well, that's strange," Peter admits. "Is that all he said, or did you get more out of him?"

"Other than, 'I'm not Jack the Ripper'?" I smirk wryly. "He wouldn't talk after that. Right now, he's curled up against the wall."

Peter gives me a strange look, then goes into my office. I follow, expecting to see Will still huddled against the wall. Instead, Will is sagged loosely against the wall, asleep or unconscious; I can't tell which.

"We should get him off the floor," Peter suggests after a moment, moving towards him. I agree and slide my hands under his arms. Peter grabs a hold of his knees, and we both lift him from the hardwood floor. "Where to?" Peter asks, adjusting his grip on the undersides of Will's knees.

"My bedroom," I instruct. "He can sleep there tonight."

"It's almost four in the morning," Peter replies snidely.

I ignore his sarcasm, focusing instead on getting Will into the bedroom. We lower him to the bed and step back.

"He is a pretty one, isn't he?" Peter says as we stand observing the boy. He looks at me when I don't reply. "Did you ask him why he was in the closet?"

I shake my head. "I'll ask him later." I motion to Peter, and we slip out of the room, leaving the boy to his rest.

To Heaven (3/?)

The next morning, I startle myself awake, feeling my breath come in short, harsh bursts. The remnants of my dream cling in shredded cords to my mind, and I shake them free as I work through the haze of disorientation settling over me. I realize that I have fallen asleep at my desk again--it is beginning to become a regular habit. I lift my head from the desk and pull the sheet of paper stuck to the side of my face off. Skimming over it, I set it aside and take out my pocket-watch. Two in the afternoon.

I drag myself to my feet and shuffle to the bedroom, where my nice, somewhat soft bed awaits me. But as I come into sight of the bed and the boy who lies there, the events of the night before rush back to me. Sighing, I stare at him for a long moment.

His olive skin--which seems to be a constant marvel to me--is glistening slightly with a faint, almost nonexistent, sheen of sweat. His eyelids are closed, dark lashes resting lightly against the rise of his cheeks. His head rests against the back of his left hand, and his right arm is resting on the curve of his waist, his hand hanging over his stomach. His dark, curly hair is tangled, hanging in his face and sticking to the sides of his face is random places. I feel a stirring below my stomach, beholding his seeming innocence, but I shove it aside and go to the closet where I keep my towels. I grab a couple and step into the washroom for a long bath.

As if by second thought, I turn, rummage quietly in a drawer, and emerge with absinthe and laudanum. I go into the washroom and softly close the door behind me.

***

Once again, soft knocks rouse me from sleep. I open my eyes to find myself sitting in a tub full of cooling water, an empty glass threatening to fall from my hand. Will is standing in the doorway, looking tired and slightly sheepish.

"You fell asleep," he explains simply.

I wonder if he is as vapid as he sounds. I grunt and sit up straight.

He ignores my grouchiness, lightly running his fingers down the doorframe and averting his eyes. "I was hungry, so I made some food. I hope you don't mind."

Tempted to tell him that I do mind, I grunt again and put the glass down while I fumble for a towel with my free hand.

"I saved some for you," he adds, shifting from one foot to the other.

"That's all good and well, William," I begin.

"It's Will," he interrupts.

"But could you step out so I can get out?" I finish.

He blushes slightly, which I find more than a little endearing, and backs quietly out of the washroom, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft click. I wait a moment, then haul myself out of the tub. After quickly toweling off and dressing, I head into the kitchen, still rubbing a towel through my hair.

Will is sitting at a now-bare kitchen table, a half-eaten sandwich on a plate in front of him with a glass of milk beside it. Another plate with another sandwich sits nearby, and as I enter, he looks up at me and gestures towards it. "I saved you some," he says again, picking up his own sandwich and taking a bite. "And I put up the groceries that were on the table."

I sling the towel over my shoulder and pick up the plate. "What is it?"

"Beef," he replies with his mouth full.

I pick the sandwich up and take a bite. Not bad. At least it's edible. I eat it quickly in moody silence, and when I'm finished, I look to Will again. He's eaten all but a few bites, and he sits staring at the remaining food in silence.

"Will?" He looks up at me. "I have a few more questions I'd like to ask you."

"Not now. Please." He rises from his chair and heads into the bedroom. Through the open doors, I can see him curl up on his side on the bed.

I heave a sigh and call, "I'm going to go to work. Can I trust you to stay here?"

He nods, closing his eyes.

I sigh again, grab my coat, and head outside to find a carriage to take me to work.

***

As soon as I arrive at the Yard, Peter flags me down as I walk towards a side door, catching up with me and matching my brisk pace effortlessly after years of practice. He greets me as usual, then takes a small notepad out of his pocket. "I've been doing a bit of research on your murder suspect and his mother, Frederick," he begins, flipping through the pages as if searching for something.

"What did you learn?" I ask, my curiosity piqued.

He finds what he is looking for and shows it to me. "Your William Turner has a bit of an arrest record with the Yard. He's been arrested four times for attempting to solicit himself to uniformed Yard officers."

I feel my eyebrows raise of their own accord. There's apparently more to Will than meets the eye. "So he's an--"

"Unfortunate? (1)" Peter interjects. "In a manner of speaking."

Then it clicks. "The Yard doesn't have any female officers," I comment.

The little grin playing at Peter's lips is almost nauseating. "Exactly."

"So he was trying to solicit himself to MALE officers?"

"Apparently so. They arrested him for public indecency."

I shake my head. "And the mother?"

"Surprisingly, nothing. As far as I gleaned, she was never arrested for anything." Peter clears his throat. "Apparently, we have a bit of a trouble-maker on our hands."

"There's no telling what sort of arrest record he has in the London Proper," I say, stopping and starting to turn. "Let's head over there now and see if they'll give us the information."

"They probably won't," Peter says derisively. "You know how those boys can be sometimes."

I sigh and turn back. "Has anything happened since yesterday?"

"A woman came by. She was convinced her husband is Jack the Ripper. He turned out to be nothing but an opium addict."

"Did you question him?"

"When he wasn't falling asleep. I think they're both just a couple of nuts. Florence and James Maybrick. (2) Do you know them?"

I shake my head as we enter the Yard and head for my small office. I pick up an outdated newspaper from the desk and skim over it. The paper, dating from November 13th--two days old, now--features quotations from the inquest of Mary Kelly's death and a review of the Jack the Ripper case. I pick up a pair of scissors and begin trimming the article out of the newspaper.

"Here's today's paper," Peter says, setting it on the desk before me. I look down at the headline and groan. "RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN," the black text proclaims. "The press has been waiting outside for a statement. You missed them by coming in the side door."

I sigh--for what feels like the millionth time--and stand. "I can no longer find peace for myself, can I?"

"Apparently not."

(1) Bit of a historical note for you: in the 1880s and 1890s, Londoners referred to prostitutes and the like as London's Unfortunates.

(2) Florence and James Maybrick--two people involved in another high-profile murder trial at the same general time as the Jack the Ripper murders, in which Florence Maybrick was accused of murdering her husband James, found guilty, and sentenced to fifteen years in prison; however, it is now suspected he overdosed on opium. A diary, "discovered" in 1992, was purportedly written by James Maybrick, in which he confesses to have been Jack the Ripper. However, the man who discovered the diary revealed that yes, it was a hoax. Many people, however, do not believe his revelation, so quite a few believe that James Maybrick was, in actuality, Jack the Ripper.

To Heaven (4/?)

It is dark by the time I get home, and I wearily let myself into the flat. I'm exhausted--I spent hours answering questions, insisting this murder case is NOT related to the Ripper cases, and no, I do not have the Ripper in custody. I dump my coat onto a chair and head through the flat to my office. I see Will on my bed, his eyes open and staring emptily at nothing. I am reminded of the questions I need to ask him, so I grab a notepad and a pencil and head into the bedroom.

He blinks as I enter, then looks up at me with wide, hopelessly lost eyes. I sit in the chair near the bed and cross my legs. "Will, I have a few questions to ask you, ones I desperately need you to answer so we can find your mother's murderer."

"All right." He lightly runs his fingers along the edge of the pillowcase upon which his head rests.

"I need you to tell me exactly what happened," I say.

I can see his throat convulse as he swallows nervously. "I wasn't home when it happened," he begins softly after a long moment of silence. "I got home from work really early that morning. And he was still there."

"What was he doing?"

"Kneeling over my mother's body."

"Was she still alive?"

Will shakes his head. "I thought so at first, but when I saw how much blood there was, I knew she was dead."

"What did he do when you walked in?"

"He looked up at me and made a strange face, almost like just looking at me disgusted him. He got up and grabbed me by the hair and shoved me into the room." Will's voice is gradually becoming monotonous, almost as if he is reciting the alphabet rather than an account of a murder. "I stumbled and fell onto my mother. There was blood everywhere." His voice cracks, and he stops talking, closing his eyes slowly. I can see a line of dampness along his eyelashes.

"What happened after that?" I ask, the tip of my pencil pressing against the paper. I make no move to write.

"He hurt me," Will's throat chokes out. A tear trundles out of his eye, rolling off the side of his face, and his arms come up to cover his face. "He hurt me, he hurt me, he hurt me," he murmurs repeatedly.

I feel a lump in my own throat; it doesn't take a genius to guess what sort of hurt Will is talking about. I rise from my chair and sit on the edge of the bed. I let him cry for a bit before opening my mouth to ask him another question, but he continues speaking before I can. I shut my mouth and listen.

"After that," he says in a shaky voice, the words coming out in a quick gasp of air, "he pulled me to my feet and tied me up before shoving me in the closet. He said that it'd be a waste to kill such a pretty whore, and that he'd be back for more of my services later. Then he shut the door, and I heard him leave.

"I stayed in there for hours until I got the nerve to just crack the door a little for air. I had almost gotten the courage to crawl out of the closet and find help when I heard voices again. I thought he had come back to hurt me again, until I heard your voice."

My eyes move to his face, and our eyes connect. My brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

His liquid eyes shine slightly in the candlelight. "When I heard your voice, I knew I was safe. I knew that he wouldn't come back to hurt me again." His voice drops even further, to where I must lean close to hear him. "When you spoke, I was home."

Fingers tickle against the side of my neck, brushing lightly through the ends of my hair. I shudder as he lifts his head and grazes his soft lips against my cheekbone. I brace my hands on either side of him and push myself back to a sitting position. I look down at Will; his dark eyes, filled with lust, glitter up at me; his lips are slightly parted, warm breath passing from between them. His cheeks are flushed slightly, and, I can imagine, warm to the touch. He reaches and hand up towards my face, but I interrupt its journey, catching it with my own hand and setting it on the blankets.

"Don't," I say simply as he tries to lift his hand once again. His free hand lifts and brushes against my hair. I catch both of his hands and press them to the mattress. "Don't," I say more firmly. I stand, attempting to ignore the rejected look on his face. "One more question, and then I'll leave you be," I say. "What did he look like?"

His eyes stare past me. "Tall, white hair, blue eyes, pale skin. Rich," he says in a monotone.

"How do you know he is rich?" I ask, jotting the description down.

"Because his clothes were well-made, and they were expensive fabrics." He looks up at me. "You're going to catch him, aren't you?"

"We'll try," I say as he rises from the bed. "I can't guarantee anything, but we'll try."

He steps close and lightly presses his lips against the side of my face. "Thank you," he breathes out, his eyes staring into mine.

I break eye contact and clear my throat. "I'll leave you to your rest." I turn and slip out the door, incredibly disturbed by the feelings stirring within me.

To Heaven (5/?)

The days pass uneventfully; rain falls on the eighteenth and nineteenth, but it stops on the twentieth. Will and I, after being cooped up in the flat for two days, decide to go for a walk and discuss what he remembers of the fourteenth.

The young man has undergone a change in the past few days; comparing him to when I met him, he seems more open and willing to talk about his mother and the life she led in the months before her death. He neatly avoids any questions I put to him about his own life, and is very careful to not mention his former profession--if, indeed, he has quit, which I doubt.

As we stroll down the damp streets, umbrellas in hand but unopened, a carriage rolls to a stop beside us. We both stop as the door opens and Peter sticks his head out.

"I've been looking for you, Frederick," he starts, his gaze looking from me to Will and back.

"Has something happened?" I ask, stepping closer to the carriage.

"Get in. I'll tell you on the way," he replies, moving aside and pushing the door open. I help Will into the carriage and climb in myself. After the door is shut and after the carriage begins moving, Peter looks at me and says, "There's been another attack." I raise my eyebrows and gesture for him to continue. "The woman who was attacked survived."

"Well, that's a first," I comment. "Do you know her name?"

"Not yet. We'll find out when we get there."

"Where is there?"

"The Whitechapel district."

I hear a sharp intake of breath from Will, but I don't look over at him. As Peter fills me in with the little he knows, I only half-listen, wondering how a woman can manage to survive strangulation and mutilation.

I find out when we get there.

The small crowd of constables on the sidewalk is gathered around a somewhat diminutive woman, who is speaking and gesticulating wildly. One of the constables is writing on a notepad and nodding along with her words.

Will, peering out the window of the carriage, makes a noise of comprehension.

"What is it?" I ask as the carriage rolls to a stop.

"That's Annie Farmer," he says.

"You know her?" I ask, sliding out of my seat and moving towards the door.

"Yes. I suppose you could call her one of my mother's friends."

I nod and step down to the ground. I make my way through the crowd of constables to the woman, smiling pleasantly. "Ms. Farmer," I greet, pocketing my notebook. "I'm Inspector Frederick Abberline; I was sent for to talk to you about the attack on your person."

Ms. Farmer looks me up and down, then begins talking in a strangely slurred speech; I can't help but wonder if she's drunk. "I was in my room," she gestures towards the doorway behind her, "with a man, when suddenly he pulled out a knife and tried to cut my throat. I screamed and yelled, 'Murder!' and he up and ran."

"May I see your neck?" I ask politely.

She smiles winsomely and unties the scarf around her neck. I tilt her head back a bit and see a few shallow scratches on the right side of her neck; small drops of blood are gathered on one of them. The wounds are superficial--indeed, they remind me of paper-cuts--but I decide I'd rather have a doctor examine them before I make judgement.

As I release her chin, Peter tugs on my coat sleeve and gestures. "Will said he'd like a word with you."

"Can it wait?"

"He said it's important."

Sighing, I excuse myself from Ms. Farmer and head back towards the carriage. Will meets me at the door of it. "What is it?" I ask.

"Look in her mouth," Will tells me, attempting to stay out of sight.

"What? Why?"

"Because she's a crook. Trust me. Look in her mouth."

Sighing, I turn and head back to Ms. Farmer. "Ms. Farmer, could you open your mouth please?" She bluntly and somewhat rudely refuses, so I ask again, adding, "Please don't make me force you." She continues to refuse, so I have two constables hold her arms while I pry open her mouth. Seeing a glimmer under her tongue, I inwardly grimace as I reach in and pull three shillings from underneath the slippery muscle. Taking out my handkerchief, I wipe saliva off the coins and my fingers and hold them up so she can see them. "Care to explain this, Ms. Farmer?"

"Where I keep my money is my business!" she snaps. "I'm telling you, I was attacked by Jack the Ripper! Why aren't you going after him?"

I turn away from her and hand the coins to Peter. "Sergeant Godley, take care of this. Have a doctor examine the scratches on her neck, and have a full report on my desk tomorrow morning."

"No problem, Inspector."

I go back to the carriage and Will. After climbing back in, I ask him, "How did you know about the coins in her mouth?"

"She told me about it once," Will explains. "It's how she steals money from her clients. She must have gotten caught this time."

"Must have," I comment, leaning forward. I direct the driver back to the flat, then glance at Will, who is staring out the window as the street slowly roll by. "Thanks for helping out back there."

"You're welcome," he replies softly, twisting his fingers together nervously. "Frederick, I have a, um, confession." He pauses, biting his lip. "Um, I'm a...rentboy."

"A rentboy?" I repeat.

"A, um, a male prostitute," he unnecessarily clarifies. "But, um, I don't do it that often," he reassures me hurriedly. "Only when Mother couldn't make enough money to pay for our bed for the night."

I nod, completely understanding. With many landlords, the tenants pay on a nightly basis--at least, in the Whitechapel district--and if they don't have the money, they're turned out onto the streets. For both of them to have to work is completely understandable. Of course, the manner of work is what makes me uncomfortable.

"So, um, I have no money, so I can't pay you for renting your bed," he is saying as I snap out of my thoughts.

"What? No, that's okay. You're not renting from me," I say.

He blushes slightly, then says, "Well, I feel uncomfortable living on charity."

"It's not charity," I insist.

"It feels like it."

I sight. "I'll tell you what," I say. "You keep the flat clean, and I'll call that your payment for staying there, all right?"

He nods, seemingly satisfied by my solution.

The carriage stops outside my flat building. I dig the key out of my pocket and hand it to Will. "You go on to the flat. I need to head to the Yard for a bit."

He takes the key uncertainly. "All right, see you later."

I watch as he slides out of the carriage and shuts the door. I instruct the driver of my destination, then sit back as the carriage rolls away.

To Heaven (6/?)

It is late in the evening when I return home, several envelopes and a newspaper tucked under my arm. The flat is warm, a welcome heat after the biting November chill. I carry the items under my arm to my office and set them on the desk. Lighting a candle, I sort the papers in the envelopes into their proper boxes. Pausing, I look down at a paper I have just pulled free from an envelope and skim over it. It is a coroner's report; I sit back in my desk chair and read over it with some degree of sadness, knowing the son of this woman is somewhere in my flat. After a long moment of thought, I sigh and deposit it in the box labeled "Madeline Turner."

The quietness of the flat registers in my mind, and I rise from my seat, wondering where Will is. I slip out into the sitting room and pause in the doorway. My hand unconsciously reaches over to grip the doorframe, and I stare at the scene before me.

Will is sitting before the fire, on his knees and rocked back onto his heels, a towel wrapped tightly around his waist. A book rests in his hands, and he fervently reads it, completely immersed in whatever he is reading. His hair lies tangled and damp against his shoulders, dark against those plains of nearly flawless olive skin. I shift slightly and catch sight of the words printed on the cover of the book in his hands. Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Of all things. I'm not entirely sure why I have that book, exactly. I've never read it, and children's books really don't interest me.

But I suddenly find myself glad that I own it.

I shift again and clear my throat. He jumps and drops the book with a thud and a flutter of pages. He looks up at me, brown eyes wide, then sucks in a deep breath and presses a hand to his chest. "You scared me," he says, reaching down to pick the book up.

"I'm home," I inform him, the muffled thud of the book hitting the carpet seeming to knock me out of my stupor. "I'll be in my office if you need anything." I turn to go but look back and add, "Oh, could you put some clothes on? You'll catch a chill."

He nods, but as I turn back, I think I see a small grin on his face.

Several hours later, I emerge from the office with a headache raging in my skull and my eyes stinging slightly from the poor lighting in my office. I stand near the doorway and sweep my gaze over the room. Will is reclining on the couch, book still in hand; thankfully, he is dressed, though his shirt is unbuttoned and he is shoeless, one knee drawn up to his chest. I collapse onto the other end of the couch and politely ask, "What are you reading?"

"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland," he replies without looking up. He softly turns a page. "Lewis Carroll is a genius."

"He wrote a children's book," I comment.

"That doesn't make it any less amazing," he admonishes, finally looking up at me for a moment before returning to the book. "Alice is so confused, so misguided," he starts softly as I take out my cigarette case and begin to roll one. "She followed the white rabbit with the pocket watch, thinking she was following it into grand adventures. When she arrived, she found adventure, but not what she was expecting. The entire world in the rabbit-hole was so different from what she knows. She doesn't know what she wants, exactly; she doesn't know if she wants to be a big, powerful person in the rabbit-hole world, or if she wants to be as small as a mouse, unnoticed and uncounted."

His hands, which are shaking, grip the book tightly. I reach over and pry the book from his trembling hands. "You got all of that out of a children's novel?" I set the book on the cushion between us, its pages face-down, the covers spread.

"It's not just a children's book, Frederick," he replies. "It's a book about decisions and choices, and being thrust into a world you don't understand."

I take a long drag off my cigarette, attempting to hide how throughly disturbed I am by his observations. "So, since you seem to see so much in this story, what is the white rabbit?"

He thinks for a moment, his head tilted to the side and his eyes closed. Finally, he says, "An opportunity. A choice Alice is given: to not follow the rabbit is to continue the same regular, mundane life she has always led. If she follows the rabbit..." He turns his head and looks at me. "She begins a life completely different to the one she has always known." He picks up the book and closes it, setting it on the table beside the sofa, and slides a little closer to me. "And she follows the rabbit, choosing a new life, when she's absolutely terrified of what will happen to her, when she knows that to start a new life means leaving all her loved ones behind."

"A lot like you," I comment through the cloudy haze of smoke gathering about my head.

"No." He shakes his head softly, pulling his feet underneath him and shifting a bit, seeking comfort. "See, there's one difference between Alice and me. Alice had a choice between leaving and staying; I didn't."

"So no white rabbit for you," I say, a little unnerved at the closeness of him.

Will sighs and takes the cigarette from my mouth. He steals a long drag and blows the smoke above his head. I am, for some reason, mesmerized by this action. "I find myself presented with another white rabbit as of late," he murmurs softly, twisting to face me. He hands my cigarette back, and I take it. He seems to watch carefully as I place it between my lips. There is a foreign taste on the end of the cigarette. Not a bad taste. Just unusual.

The cigarette is suddenly plucked from between my lips, and I find myself with a lap full of Will, our lips crushed together. Fingers run through my hair; knees clench against the sides of my thighs. And my mouth is filled with that unique taste that was on the end of my cigarette. A faint whimper escapes his throat, and his lips press down harder. His hands come down to clasp my biceps, tugging slightly. My arms, of their own volition, rise and encircle his waist, pulling him a little closer.

His head pulls back, and he stares down at me, flushed and slightly breathless. My head, which had been spinning only moments before, finally stops and staggers around. As it regains its footing, I realize precisely what has happened, and I stand, dumping Will onto the floor. He utters a cry of protest as he hits the hard floor.

"What was that for?" I demand.

"I was following my white rabbit!" Will cries.

"What?" I find myself stuttering nonsense before managing to get out, "What kind of rabbit is this?"

He bites his lip and looks down at the floor, ashamed. I shake my head and wordlessly go back into my office, stubbing my cigarette out in an ashtray on the way.

"Frederick, wait!" Will calls. I turn to see him kneeling on the floor, his hands in his lap. He stares up at me, wide-eyed, curls hanging in his face, and I'm struck by how much the look on his face resembles the look he had when I found him. "I...I'm sorry," he says softly. "I'm not used to sharing a flat with someone other than my mother. And..." He trails off, obviously embarrassed.

"And what?" I ask curiously.

He rises to his feet gracefully, maneuvering around to stand before me. His cheeks flush, but he stares at me steadily, his liquid eyes meeting mine. "And I'm not used to sharing a flat with someone as obviously attractive as you are."

I swallow hard, staring back at him, then clear my throat. "I've got some work I need to do in my office. You'll be all right in here?"

He nods and backs off, going to sit on the couch. He picks up Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and starts reading where he left off. I watch for a moment, then turn and go back in my office.

The envelopes I have yet to open lay on the desk. I pick up a small one and open it. A heavy card embossed with gold is pulled free, and I skim my eyes over it. It's an invitation to a formal dinner being held by William Gull in two days.

I sit in my chair and read over it again. Then I pick up the notepaper on which I wrote the description Will gave me of his mother's murderer. My eyes light on two words: "well-dressed" and "rich." I lean back and ponder the odds. What are the odds that Dr. Gull invited Madeline Turner's murderer to the dinner, and what are the odds that Will, if in attendance, will be able to identify her killer?

Whatever the odds are, I'm willing to try and work against them if need be.

Chapter Six

Though Will is highly resistant to the idea at first, he eventually caves and agrees to give it a try. After a bit of bickering at the revelation that he owns no formal wear, I dig a suit out and throw it at him. "Wear that," I say before walking into the kitchen to prepare dinner.

Will walks into the room as I stir the small pot of soup on the stove. I turn to look over my shoulder at the shy young man hovering uncertainly near the doorway, then put the spoon down and move toward him to get a better look at him.

"The sleeves are a little short," he says sheepishly, tugging at the right cuff with his left hand. "And it feels a little tight across the shoulders."

I run a hand along the back of his shoulders and nod. "Do you think you could wear it for a night?"

"It's tolerable," he admits, lifting his arms a bit. "My arms won't lift very high. Just up to here." His arms, bent at the elbow, don't evne reach up to shoulder-level. "But it's just for one night."

I move over to the stove and start stirring again. "Go change into your other clothes. Then come in here. I need to teach you how to eat at a formal dinner."

Will grimaces and begins taking his coat off and unbuttoning his shirt. "My mother tried to teach me that once. We went to a dinner, and I muddled things up badly. I made up for it, though."

I pick up a bowl and begin ladeling soup into it. "How did you do that?" I ask, a little curious and only slightly disinterested.

"I slept with the son of the man we were having dinner with."

It literally takes all my strength to not drop the bowl I am holding. I turn, an incredulous look on my face.

He gives me a cheeky grin. "I'm just kidding," he says with a laugh. "Seriously, though, we didn't get invited back."

I shake my head and turn back to the soup. Will steps out of the room to change as I fill up another bowl of soup and put both on the table. I sit down to wait on Will, fiddling with a soup spoon.

***

One hour later and three courses later, I lean back in my chair in defeat. "You're right. You're hopeless."

Will bites his lip and tugs at his shirt. "I'm sorry," he mumbles. "I'm trying my best. But I keep getting them mixed up." He picks up a salad fork and a dinner fork. "I can't really tell the difference between these. Why not use just one?"

"Because it doesn't work that way," I say in exasperation.

He growls in frustration and slams the utensils onto the table. "Why can't rich people eat like normal people?"

I smirk at his outburst. "Because it's so much more amusing to annoy the normal people by not eating the same way," I joke.

Will picks up a leg of chicken with his fingers and bites into it. "This way is so much more efficient," he comments with his mouth full. "You get more food, faster, so you don't have to worry about going hungry."

"The wealthy aren't concerned with hunger because they've never experienced it," I say, picking up a chunk of bread and soaking a corner of it in my soup. "They've always had the money to buy more when they need it."

"Then they're lucky," he replies, picking up a random fork. Seeing that I'm allowing him to eat his own way, he begins using his salad fork to shovel potatoes into his mouth. His free hand goes for the bread, and he shoves a bite of it into his mouth.

"Slow down!" I exclaim, gaping at his frantic pace of eating. "You'll choke!"

"No, I won't," he says, his words muffled by bread and potatoes. "I'm used to eating this way." He swallows before adding, "Besides, it was a struggle to keep from attacking my food with the way you were teaching me to eat."

I chuckle and take a sip of tea from my cup. "I suppose all I can tell you to do is follow my lead," I say, setting my cup down. "We won't be there to worry about manners, though. We'll be there to catch a killer."

***

It is late the next evening, and the sky has fallen dark, when the carriage stops outside the large home of Dr. William Gull. Will squirms a little uncomfortably next to me, tugging at his coat sleeves and biting his lip. As his hands lift to tug at his collar, I catch his hands with mine and smile. "Calm down," I say, releasing his hands."

"Sorry," he replies. "I'm just nervous. And a little scared."

I nod. "That's understandable," I say, reaching into my coat pocket. I take out a small knife in a soft leather sheath and hold it out to him. "Here. Put this on your belt, underneath your coat. You won't need it, but it'll make you feel safer."

"Thank you," he says, taking the knife and unbuttoning his coat. After securing it to his belt and re-buttoning the coat, he makes sure the knife can't be seen before looking back at me. Already, I can see confidence growing in his dark eyes, and then he smiles unwaveringly. "Shall we go inside?" he asks.

Astonished by the change in his character and unsure if I can attribute it to the knife at his waist, I nod and step out of the carriage. After turning to make sure Will doesn't need any help, I go to the door, the younger man on my heels and the invitation in my hand. Both of us are admitted into the house, and as we step inside, I hear Will take in a sharp breath at the eloquence of the home. We cross the foyer, and I leearn over to murmur in his ear, "Keep a sharp eye. If you see him, let me know immediately."

He nods. "No problem. I can do that."

We are then swept up in the world of decadence and over-dressed people and are promptly separated.

***

It has been almost two hours, and I haven't seen Will since we were separated. I've traversed the entire ground floor by now, running into Dr. Gull sevral times and being reassured each time that Will isn't upstairs, because no one is allowed upstairs. Biting my lip in frustration, I head for the front door, crossing the foyer floor in quick strides and dodging anyone who tries to stop me.

The man letting people in the door is different from the one who admitted Will and me. I stop and quickly describe Will, asking if he's seen him.

"Yes, sir. He went outside for some air. He said it was too stuffy inside for him. He's a very handsome chap, if you don't mind my saying, and very polite."

I nod and slip out the door. Randomly picking left, I go down the sidewalk, looking into the face of every man who passes me. As I reach the small alley between Dr. Gull's house and the neighboring house, I hear the sounds of a scuffle and voices coming from the alley. I put my hand on the revolver in my pocket and slip into the darkness. When I get to a point about halfway down, I stop and gasp.

Will and a man I don't know are lowering a third man to the ground; a knife, the same knife I gave Will, protrudes from his chest. The man helping Will lay the dead man down sweeps thick dreadlocks over his shoulder and looks up at me. His dark eyes narrow, and he has a pistol out and pointed in my direction in the instant it takes me to realize he has done so. I start to take out my own gun, but Will steps in, putting a hand on the stranger's arm and pushing down. "Jack, no," he says quietly.

"Jack" lowers his arm but doesn't put the pistol away. "Who are you?" he asks me, standing near Will protectively.

"Inspector Frederick Abberline," I reply. "Who are YOU?"

"Jack Sparrow," the man says guardedly.

"He's the captain of a merchant ship," Will adds vaguely, attempting to use this excuse to explain Jack's particularly...odd fashion sense. I raise my eyebrow, disbelieving, before glancing at the body on the ground. Will follows my gaze and says, "It's him."

I move closer and kneel beside the body. I look at the man's face and recognize him as the man who admitted us into Dr. Gull's home. "Are you absolutely sure?"

"Yes." Will looks up at Jack, who is still standing near him a little protectively. "He attacked me. But we should go. I'll tell you what happened on the way to the flat."

Though I am reluctant to leave the crime scene, I rise and hurry to the valet, asking him to bring my carriage around so I can leave. Moments later, the carriage rolls around, and the three of us get in and wait until it moves a sufficient distance from Dr. Gull's home before speaking.

"What happened?" I ask, watching Will through the darkness.

"I went outside for a breath of fresh air, when he attacked me and pulled me into that alley," Will explains. "I wasn't able to defend myself, because I couldn't get to the knife you gave me, but then Jack showed up."

"And I find your timing rather suspicious," I say, looking at the so-called merchant captain.

He looks directly at me and says, "I've spent the past week looking for Will after I heard what happened to Maddie. I saw your carriage go by earlier this evening, and I saw Will in it. So I followed you." Jack shrugs and crosses his legs casually.

"Anyway," Will interrupts, stepping back into the conversation, "after Jack showed up, I was able to get my knife out, and I stabbed him. That's about when you showed up."

The carriage reaches the flat, and I lead Will and Jack inside. Jack looks around as I light some candles and lead them into the sitting room, and I notice a rather impressed look on his face. He quickly wipes it off when he notices me looking, and attempts to be nonchalant. Gesturing to the sofa, I reluctantly offer Jack a seat. Jack takes it, flopping into the seat and crossing one leg over the other. I frown slightly at his lack of gentlemanly conduct, then turn to Will, who has taken the seat in the middle of the sofa. "Are you okay?" I ask, kneeling in front of him and resting a hand on his knee.

"I am unharmed, if that is what you're asking," Will replies a little stiffly. "But emotionally, I'm a bit shaken up," he admits, looking away from me and in Jack's direction. I can see an obvious softening in Will's eyes as he looks at the supposed merchant sitting, relaxed, on my sofa. Then Will turns back to me, his face serious, and bites his full bottom lip. He says softly, "Frederick, I can't stay here any longer."

To Heaven

Chapter Eight

"Frederick, I can't stay here any longer," Will says softly, biting his full bottom lip.

"What? Why?"

"I've...I've killed a man, Frederick. And I'll be honest with you--I don't want to face murder charges."

"But it wasn't murder," I protest. "It was self-defense, perfectly admissible in court."

Will shakes his head. "No. It was murder."

"The man was subdued," Jack interrupts. I look over at the man; he is sitting with his head propped casually against two fingers of his left hand. He looks down at me, his dark eyes glittering in the warm, faint glow from the candles, and only then do I notice his dark eyes are lined thickly with kohl. Seeing the look on my face, a grin quirks at the corner of his mouth, and he continues. "The man was completely subdued and was begging for mercy when Will stabbed him." Jack spreads his hands and shrugs. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but that crossed the line between self-defense and murder."

I nod slowly in acknowledgement and look back up at Will, who now has tears swimming in his eyes. "Frederick, I can't go to jail. I can't." He chokes up then, and Jack reflexively reaches out and begins running a hand up and down Will's back. Will visibly relaxes, leaning into the touch, and breathes deeply several times, attempting to calm himself. "I've been arrested before," he admits, fidgeting uncomfortably and glancing repeatedly from Jack to me. "Mother made me promise her that I would never get arrested again. I intend to keep that promise."

I nod thoughtfully, shifting as the pain growing in my knees becomes more pronounced. "What do you propose to do?"

Jack speaks up, moving his hands about loosely. "I've offered to take young William with me when I depart for warmer waters tomorrow. I've got the space, and I could always use another pair of hands."

I regard Jack with a long, serious look before turning my gaze back to Will. "What is your opinion on this?"

"I have nowhere else to go," Will answers after a moment of heavy silence. "I can't stay here; I may get you in trouble. That's the last thing I want to do. You've been very kind to me, almost kinder than I really deserve, with no expectations of return payment. I've taken advantage of that, and the best thing I can think of to repay your kindnesses is to leave. I'm inclined to accept Jack's offer and go with him when he leaves, wherever he goes."

I rise from my position on the floor. "Very well." I look at Jack and gesture for him to stand. "Follow me. We've got a few things to discuss." Picking up a candle and motioning for Will to stay in the sitting room, I lead Jack into the office and close the door. "Where do you intend to take him, Mr. Sparrow?" I ask, circling around my desk and sitting down.

"To the lovely waters of the Caribbean seas," Jack replies smoothly, sitting down in a chair on the other side of my desk and propping his feet on the desktop. His dark eyes, staring at me over the small boxes lined up on my desk, are swallowed in the black kohl painted across his eyelids and below the eyes themselves. I think fleetingly of masked bandits, thieves, and rogues.

"You're not a merchant captain, are you?"

Jack smirks; a glint of gold tooth flashes in the candlelight. "As far as you are concerned, I am a merchant captain, mate."

"You're a pirate," I say.

"Touche," Jack returns, making an odd, arcane gesture in my direction. "You're quicker than you look."

"You'll not hurt him," I say warningly.

"Quite taken by the lad, are we?" Jack says, crossing his legs and steepling his fingers. I splutter in outrage, but he interrupts me, adding, "No worries, Inspector Abberline. Your secret's safe with me."

I ignore him as best as I can, clenching my jaw and grinding out, "You'll not hurt him," again.

"And if I do?" Jack asks, not in total seriousness.

I put my own feet on the desk and kick one of the boxes in his direction. It strikes his foot and falls to the floor. Jack leans over to pick it up, but stops himself. Leaping from his chair and staggering back with a harsh cry, he puts his hand over his mouth and gags.

I calmly rise from my desk chair and go to the box. The lid has come off, and its contents are in a pile on the floor. I pick up a photograph and hold it up. Jack looks away, but I stand, getting right in his face and forcing him to look at the picture. "This is Mary Jane Kelly. She was murdered last week, presumably by Jack the Ripper. This was the bloodiest, most gruesome crime scene I've ever seen in my entire career. You hurt William Turner, and I'll do worse to you. I'll cut out your intestines and strangle you with them. Got that, MATE?"

Jack swallows, averting his eyes from the black-and-white image, but he has nowhere to look except for my eyes. Nodding, he takes a short step back and makes a placating gesture with his hands, pressing his palms together as if in prayer. "You have my word that I won't touch one hair on the boy's head. And I'll not let anyone else do so, either," he adds as if by afterthought.

"What good is the word of a pirate?" I ask, lowering the photograph.

"My word and my honor are all that I have," Jack replies, glancing at the door before looking back at me solemnly. "On my word and my honor, I will never harm William Turner." He extends a hand. "Do we have an accord?"

I grasp his hand firmly. "Yes."

***

Will is still sitting on the sofa when we emerge from the office, his dark eyes wide and a little curious. I give him a slight smile before excusing myself to my bedroom.

I can hear them talking as I move about, feigning a search for something--I don't know what. I cannot make out what Jack asks Will, because he is speaking in a very low, soft voice. Will lets out a peal of laughter and says, "It sounds like fun! I'd love to do that." After he quiets down, Jack asks him something else, and he makes a concerned sound. "Frederick is a good man," he says, and I duck my head in embarrassment. "He took good care of me, and I of him."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jack asks in a slightly louder voice.

"Nothing like what you think," Will chastizes; I can hear the laughter in his voice. "I'll be honest--I tried. But I don't think he likes men." Will lets out a sigh. "It's a shame, really. He's so handsome."

"And I'm not?" Jack asks indignantly, but there's a teasing quality to his tone.

"The handsomest." Will's voice is completely serious as he says this.

There is a long moment of silence, which worries me slightly, so I set the candle I am holding down and slip into the sitting room.

Will startles as I walk in, and he disengages his lips from Jack's. A blush coloring his cheeks, he rises and hurries into the kitchen, obviously embarrassed. I bite my lip as I watch him go, then glance down at Jack. The pirate looks up at me and winks. I shake my head and turn back to the bedroom, shutting the door behind me.

***

The next morning, I wake up early, while it is still dark. Stretching, I fumble for and light a candle before sitting up and shivering. I look at my pocketwatch, wondering why I've waken at five in the morning. Then I smell the scent of bacon and eggs frying and drag myself out of bed.

Jack and Will are in the kitchen, Jack at the stove cooking and Will sitting sleepily at the table, a plate of toasted bread near his elbow and a cup of aromatic coffee before him.

"Morning," I greet, picking up a mug and pouring coffee into it. I measure a liberal amount of sugar and cream into it and sit to Will's left. "Sleep well?" I ask him, pointedly ignoring Jack; despite his reassurances that he won't hurt Will, I still don't trust the man, especially after learning that he is a pirate. Pirates aren't very common nowadays, but the rumors say that the ones who ARE around are cruel, ruthless, callous men--and everything involving my instincts told me to not let Will go with Jack. But I apparently have no say in the matter.

"I slept hardly a wink," Will admits, staring down into his coffee cup. He picks it up, takes a sip, and clears his throat. "The couch wasn't very comfortable."

"Not with two people on it, anyway," Jack mutters, scraping eggs out of their pan and onto a plate, forming a mountain of buttery yellow and white. Bacon soon follows onto another plate, and he sets the two plates on the table. After quickly handing out tableware, he strattles one of the two remaining chairs, a bottle in hand.

"You're not going to eat?" I ask as Will uses his fork to put food on his plate. Will then allows me to serve myself from the remainder as Jack answers.

"After forty years of life, with about twenty of that spent onboard a ship, I've decided to never eat the food I cook."

I cock an eyebrow. "Why?"

"It's much healthier and safer that way," he replies, taking a large swig from the bottle in his hand. "My cooking has been known to kill people."

I pause in lifting a forkful of egg to my mouth. Will stops in mid-chew, looking up from his food across the table to Jack. Then he shrugs and continues eating.

Jack rises from his seat, circling around the table and stopping behind Will. He leans down to whisper something in Will's ear, and Will flushes and giggles. The washroom door shuts behind Jack, and I look at Will.

"You're leaving today, right?" I ask.

"As early as I can manage," he says. He hesitates, then adds, "I'd like it if you could come with us."

I shake my head. "I'm sorry, Will. I can't." Seeing the disappointment in his eyes, I continue. "I have a life here, a good-paying job--and that's something difficult to find. I have a home and a woman very dear to me, who is waiting for the right moment to return to me. I can't just throw it all away to go with you. And besides," I shrug, "do you really think I'll be able to compete with Jack?"

"You could," Will suggests softly, looking into my eyes.

"No, I couldn't," I correct. "Jack Sparrow is a lot like you--he comes from a lower-class society. I could never fit in well in a society like that, and you will always feel like you aren't living up to any expectations I may hold for you. We...we come from--"

"Two different worlds," Wil finishes. He nods and adds, "I understand."

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right." There is a moment of silence. I hear Jack groan from the washroom. "You'll at least come with us to the docks, Frederick?"

***

I knew there was a reason I hate going to the docks.

The heavy smell of fish invades my nose, and I refrain from pulling a handkerchief from my pocket to cover my nose with. Will seems only slightly affected by the smell, and Jack is obviously completely at home. He stops and inhales deeply.

"Ah, what a sweet perfume--the best in the world," Jack says happily. He then gestures towards a large ship docked nearby. "That's our ship. The Black Pearl." He starts towards it.

Will hesitates, turning to look at me. "Well, I guess this is goodbye," he says quietly, his eyes turning down to stare at the wooden planks below our feet. I gaze at his thick lashes, resting against his glazed caramel skin, and swallow hard.

"You're a good man, Will," I finally say. He looks up at me, chocolate eyes filmed over with a thin sheen of tears. "Remember that, and don't do anything that would disappoint your mother." Or me, I add silently.

His shoulders droop. "Frederick...thank you for being so kind to me. And for putting up with my...idiosyncrasies."

"You're welcome." I draw him into a tight hug. "Stay out of trouble."

He breaks the hug a moment later. "Well, goodbye," he mumbles.

"There's no such thing as goodbye," I say.

He looks up at me once more, nods, and walks away, towards Jack's ship and a new life.

***

I have only just returned to my flat when someone knocks at the door. Peter stands in the doorway, a grim look on his face. "We found Madeline Turner's murderer dead this morning," he says.

I cock an eyebrow and feign surprise. "Tell me," I say, turning to put my coat on.

"He was found in an alley beside Dr. Gull's home with a knife in his chest." Peter pauses and looks at me. "Your knife." Then he looks past me into the flat. "Where's Mr. Turner?"

I shrug. "I haven't seen him since early yesterday evening," I say. "Is there a problem?"

"We're having reason to believe that he used one of your knives to commit murder. But he managed to kill his mother's killer."

"How do you know this man was Madeline's killer?"

"His journal. We searched his room with Dr. Gull's permission. We found the journal, along with a few pieces of Dr. Gull's clothing, which, he says, have been missing since early last month. We also found blood-stained clothing. All the facts, including his very own confession by his own hand, point to him as the murderer." He pauses again. "A dissatisfied customer. He accused Madeline of stealing from him."

I pull the door shut behind me, then slap myself on the forehead. "I forgot something," I explain, unlocking the door and going back inside. I go quickly to the bookshelf and search frantically. Finally finding the book I am looking for, I tuck it into my coat pocket to read later and learn about Will's missed opportunities.

The End

To Be Continued in WARMER WATERS.

AUTHOR'S NOTES

It's just shy of nine-thirty in the morning of April 23, 2004, and it's finally finished. The story takes up exactly fifty handwritten pages, which have taken me over a month to write. And, despite real-life interference and the biting of other bunnies, the story, I believe, wrapped itself up nicely. Of course, there are several open plot threads left in the story, but a sequel, focusing more on Jack and Will--from Will's point of view--is in the works; it will be titled Warmer Waters (unless, of course, I come up with a better title), a reference to Jack's explanation to Frederick of where he was taking Will.

I'd like to take a moment to thank, once again, all of those great readers who sent me feedback--and those who didn't. Your comments and feedback, and your reading of the story, helped push me to complete To Heaven, and for that, I can't thank you enough.

A special thank you goes out to Grey, my beta and friend, who read all my rough chapters and pointed out problems--which, upon rewriting, were made so much better. Love ya, Grey-bug!

Another special thank you goes out to Ethan and Janet (aka Witchlace) for serving as a sounding board for my ideas, telling me which ones would work and which ones I should avoid. Thanks, guys, and I'll talk to all three of you on the phone this evening!

See all you guys during the sequel!

Jessie-chan

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