Author: Jessie-chan

Pairing: Will / Jack; Will / Frederick

Rating: R

Warning(s): AU; Crossover with From Hell

Summary: Sequel to "To Heaven." Jack has taken Will away from London for his own safety, and all Will can think about is Frederick.

Disclaimer: I don't own Will, Jack, or Frederick Abberline. They belong to their respective owners.

Feedback: Welcomed and appreciated.

Beta: none

Author's Notes: Well, here we are, finally at the sequel to "To Heaven." The bunnies weren't biting until a couple of nights ago, so I started with the tried-and-true method of writing it by hand. And boy is this story going to be wild.

The bunny in question comes from this short poem I stumbled across as I was flipping through my Honors Literature I book for this Fall's class:

"What, still alive at twenty-two,
A clean, upstanding chap like you?
Sure, if your throat 'tis hard to slit,
Slit your girl's, and swing for it.

"Like enough, you won't be glad,
When they come to hang you, lad:
But bacon's not the only thing
That's cured by hanging from a string.

"So, when the spilt ink of the night
Spreads o'er the blotting-pad of light,
Lads whose job is still to do
Shall whet their knives, and think of you."

(Hugh Kingsmill, "What, Still Alive at Twenty-Two?")

What are the chances I'd stumble across a poem so appropriate and NOT get a bunny?

Anyway, enough rambling. Here's the first chapter. I hope you enjoy it.

Warmer Waters

Chapter One

Sunlight filters in through the small porthole, casting bright light across the mahogany walls and the bed shoved unceremoniously against the far wall. I moan and shift as the light brushes my closed eyes. Deep, even breathing thankfully returns.

There is a clatter from somewhere near the cabin; I shift again, exposing my naked thigh from beneath the sheets. The next clatter rouses me from my sleep, and I lift my head from the sheets. Wiping at my eyes and pushing touseled curls from my face, I slowly turn from my stomach to my side and fumble for the gold pocketwatch I know is resting somewhere on the nightstand. I squint blearily at its slender hands. 11:58.

Rolling onto my back, I rub at my face and attempt to orient myself. I sigh, the soft sound seeming louder than it should have in the otherwise quiet cabin.

The clock ticks over to 11:59.

I stretch, throwing my arms above my head and arching my back. I grimace at the foul taste in the back of my throat; it seems that last night's rebellious excursion into the world of smoky pubs and free-flowing alcohol is determined to make itself known. Sniffing, I sit up, shaking messy curls from my face again, and examine my surroundings.

The size of the room gives me the impression of a small suite: all economy, with just enough space to make living here comfortable but not claustrophobic. I notice the small details before the larger ones. The painting--likely oil-based--that hangs on the wall. The pocketwatch, its second-hand ticking slow circles around the watchface. The book on the table nearby--The Vicar of Wakefield--with the wire-rimmed eyeglasses resting on top. The small flask of rum sitting near that.

Another clatter comes forth as the watch ticks over to noon. My head turns, almost involuntarily, in the direction of the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice my trousers in a crumpled heap on the floor. After a moment's hesitation, I slide from the bed, the sheet wrapped tightly around my shoulders and falling to puddle around my bare feet. I adjust the sheet to make it easier to maneuver in, and a painful jab in my temple makes me wince. Closing my eyes, I remember what led me to drink so much last night: a vain effort to forget.

Shaking my head harshly, forcing myself to feel the pain, I open my eyes to see a man standing before me. Startled, I take a step back before recognition kicks in.

"How are you feeling?" Jack asks softly, standing just inside the door; he doesn't move, even after I step back.

A slight smile breaks across my face before being replaced by a frown. "My head hurts."

"You drank an awful lot last night," he says, stepping fully into the room. "I had a hell of a time getting you back to the Pearl to sleep it off." He leans over and picks up the clothes littering the floor, draping them over the arm of a chair. "Why did you drink so much, Will?"

"It's the nightmares," I mumble, sitting on the edge of the bed and letting my head fall into my open palms. "They won't go away."

"That bad, huh?" Jack asks, sitting beside me. I feel him place a hand on my back gently and begin softly rubbing it, trying to comfort me. I find myself leaning into the touch almost unconsciously. I rest my head on his shoulder and sigh. "What are the nightmares about?" This is the first time he's asked me this question, and I am surprised that he even has to ask.

"About...about what happened in November," I hedge, closing my eyes tightly as I am once again assaulted by memories. They're not as bad when I'm awake, though, and I manage to withstand them this time.

Jack nods slightly, his thick dreadlocks barely moving. I notice, once again, just how truly attractive he is, and I wonder why he tries so hard to hide it behind all the dirt and grime of piracy. Then I remember another face, one just as handsome, hidden behind the smoke and mirrors of politics, and my eyes narrow a little at the memory of shared cigarette smoke and talk of missed opportunities.

Jack stands, and I can tell he is not going to press me on the matter this time. He knows about the bad memories and the vivid nightmares I suffer from, and I suppose he realizes that to push me to talk about it outside of my own time will only serve to distance me from him even more. As I dress, I admit unhesitatingly to myself that I am, indeed, distanced from the man I have long considered a friend. Ever since our first meeting on the docks flanking the Thames River when I was fourteen and just hesitatingly beginning the necessary work to survive in Whitechapel, we have been close, allies in our difficult lives, compatriots in our shared miseries. I was enlisted by my mother, not to sleep with the men but to seduce them into being seduced by her; Jack was enlisted by the then-captain of the Black Pearl, to seduce and be seduced by him. Barbossa, I think he said his name was.

Whatever happened to Barbossa, I do not know, but I highly doubt it was something very pleasant. Especially if Jack had something to do with it.

Thoughts of my mother, sparked by my passing sense of nostalgia, flood my mind, and I stagger to the edge of the bed and sit down heavily. I fight down the rising guilt--a familiar feeling--and force myself to think of nothing but her pretty smile, her loving attempts at making our small pairing into a familiy and our cramped, dirty cellar room into a home. She had tried so hard to make our lives better than most of those around, and for what? For her to meet her end at the point of a knife, as I was forced to watch by the very man I had brought home to help my mother earn enough money to pay our nightly board.

Perhaps the only bright spot in the nightmare was the kind eyes and gentle soul of the man who first looked upon me in that wretched space my mother had always called a closet. When those eyes set themselves on me, I felt like my entire world could be safe and happy, that there was nothing in the world that could hurt me. And when the same man selflessly allowed me to stay in his home those days before the party, not knowing who I was or what I was capable of, I had begun to grow a respect and admiration for the man. In the weeks and months separating me from him, that respect for Frederick Abberline has grown to almost mythic proportions.

I head up to the deck, into the late January sunshine, where the ship's crew bustles about, preparing to make landfall on the shores of a distant island. I see Jack standing near the rudder wheel and head towards him, scurrying up a small flight of steep steps before reaching the captain of this very prestigious pirate vessel.

"What is that?" I ask, gesturing in the direction of the island.

"That, my lad, is the Isle de Muerta, a hideout the crewmembers of this ship have long used," Jack replies.

I don't know why, but I like it when Jack calls me a "lad." Especially with such a possessive inflection.

Jack and I have never really been in a relationship, much to the surprise of the few who know us as friends. At least, in an exceptionally SEXUAL relationship; in other words, we have never actually had sex with one another, though we are close enough to each other to explore and experiment to a slightly limited degree, mainly for curiosity's sake. Though I find him attractive, I don't know if I could ever truly be willing to have sex with him.

I turn my attention back to my friend, who is rambling on about the many assets of the island he says we will be on by midday. As always, in order to get a word in edgewise, I have to interrupt.

"Jack, I am sure the island has everything we'll need to survive, despite its rather off-putting name. What I'd really like to know is how long we'll be gone from London."

I bite my lip as he seems to mull the question over a bit. "I'm not sure we're ever going back, Will. Why so eager?"

"The only life I've ever known is back in London, and I'm not sure I'm willing to give it up yet."

"Your only life?" Jack repeats. "Will, there's nothing left for you back there. How do you propose to make a living without your mother there to sleep with the men you pick up for her? Are you going to take up prostitution yourself? You're not one cut out from the same fabric as those who work street corners and pubs, lad."

His mildly scathing critique of my abilities leaves me absolutely infuriated, to the point of speechlessness.

"Or is it that inspector you're more interested in? I'm sure you'd whore yourself to him in a heartbeat."

Instantly, my fist flies out, and I strike Jack firmly on the jaw. With that one blow, all my anger diminishes, and I find myself wondering where the caring Jack of fifteen minutes ago has gone. Seeing the hurt look on his face and the bruise rapidly forming, I look away and hurry back down the steps to the captain's quarters, where I throw myself on the bed to sob against the strange twist of cruel fate that brought me to this point.

Warmer Waters

Chapter Two

Late afternoon sunlight is shining through the porthole by the time I finally decide to leave the cabin and head back topside. The heat of the afternoon is fleeing with the sun, and I shiver slightly and hug my arms around myself in a vain attempt to ward off the coming coolness of evening. The island is almost within swimming distance, and I can begin to make out individual trees.

Jack is still standing at the rudder wheel, staring stonily out towards the island with one hand resting on the wheel and the other at his hip. He looks very dashing and handsome, but ruggedly so, and I think the look suits him. I approach him gingerly, but a soft smile crosses his face as he sees me coming up the steps. When I reach him, he throws an arm around my shoulders.

"I'm sorry about what I said earlier," he begins, glancing at me out of the corners of his eyes before looking back towards the island.

As a way of accepting his apology, I change the subject. "How much longer do we have until we get there?" I ask, looping an arm around his waist nonchalantly.

"Judging by our speed, I'd say about half an hour," Jack replies.

There is a comfortable silence between us. When he finally speaks again, I am surprised by what he says.

"Maybe, in a month or two, we'll take a trip back to London," he says quietly. "No guarantees, though. I can't promise anything."

Smiling, I lightly brush my lips against his high cheekbone. "Thank you, Jack."

He seems almost embarassed by the display of friendly affection, especially in front of the crew, some of who are trying to look up at the two of us without making it obvious that they are doing so. I drop my arm, suddenly aware that I could somehow jeopardize the captain's leadership over the crew, and head over to the railing to look down at the water.

The realization that I hold so much power, enough to create a wedge between Jack and his crew, gives me a strange, heady feeling. Using Jack's obvious crush on me, I could conceivably cause a rift to form, and a mutiny could occur; I may have to begin watching what I do. It is obvious that Jack is in love with me, but I do not feel the same type of love he thinks he feels. But I can definitely sympathize, though; it is likely the same situation between Frederick and me.

A heavy sense of melancholy falls over me, and I sigh forlornly as I lean against the railing, my elbows resting on the salt-scoured wood. Large gray fish are swimming alongside the ship, twisting and twirling. It looks like they're very happy and are having a lot of fun, and I wish I felt the same, but I don't. Perhaps there is a way I can feel so free.

I beckon to Jack, and he turns the wheel over to his first mate, a dark-skinned, beautiful woman named Anamaria. He joins me at the railing, a questioning look on his face, and I point down to the gray fish. "What are those? I've never seen them before."

"They're dolphins," Jack answers. "Large fish that live in warmer waters. See that hole near their heads?" I squint down and nod as I spot the opening he is referring to. "That's their blowhole, so to speak, a lot like what whales have. They breathe air, just like we do, so they live near the surface, where they can breathe in the air they need."

His explanation seems over-simplified, even to me, but maybe that is because he doesn't know a whole lot about them. However, I can't deny the obvious beauty of these sea-bound creatures.

"The stories say that dolphins swimming before a ship like that is a good omen, a symbol of a good journey," Jack adds, staring down at the animals, a tranquil look on his face.

I look up past Jack. We're not too much further from the island, and the ship is definitely within swimming distance. With no warning, I climb up onto the railing of the ship, which is slowly coming to a standstill as the crew hurries about the deck, performing a practiced, controlled stop. Jack reflexively reaches his hand out towards me, and I grasp it, giving him a mischevous grin. When he tries to tug me off the railing, though, I pull my hand away and, without warning, jump off the railing, clearing the ship itself by almost six or seven feet as I plummet towards the water below. I land in the water, clothes, shoes, and all; the cool liquid envelops me, and I find myself hanging in a beautiful world of blue. My eyes wide open, I look around the watery landscape, seeing the faint outlines of the dolphins I'd pointed out to Jack.

Realizing that I am running low on air, I kick towards the surface, my lungs burning slightly. As I break the surface and reach up to push my soaked hair from my face, I hear shouts, and I look up towards the ship to see Jack standing at the rail, his coat half off, looking frantic. I laugh at his reaction and with sheer joy, lifting an arm to wave at him as I tread water.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Jack yells down. I see him pull his coat off and toss it on the railing.

"Just cooling off!" I reply, splashing the water slightly.

A grin crosses his face, and he shakes his head, the beads in his hair swaying with the movement. "We're lowering the boats. I'll get one to pick you up."

I shake my own head. "No, that's all right," I reply. "I'll swim. It's not too far." Before he can form any sort of protest, I turn in the water and begin a slow, leisurely swim towards shore.

***

Afternoon has fallen to evening when my feet finally touch the pearly white sands of the Isle de Muerta. Jack stands, arms crossed and impatient, on the shore, waiting for me as I wade through the water towards him. The wind ruffles his hair and his baggy shirt, and I shiver slightly as my own shirt clings tightly to every curve I possess.

"Hey," I say as I come within earshot.

"Have fun?"

I shrug. "I definitely needed that," I say. "My muscles feel so stretched out." The end of my sentence is rattled by a large shiver, and I wrap my arms around myself and smile at Jack sheepishly.

Jack's mother-hen instincts seem to take over, and he hurries forward to help. "Are you all right?" he asks, searching my face.

"December is not exactly the greatest time to go swimming," I explain as he tugs at my shirt.

"We need to get this off of you," he says, unfastening several buttons. I allow him to remove my shirt as I merely stand there, my eyes closed as I attempt to not shiver. He drapes his heavy coat over my bare shoulders, and my nose is assaulted by a mixture of scents: rum, sea salt, and fresh air; the essence of Jack, so to speak. I inhale deeply, still not opening my eyes, as Jack takes my elbow. "Come on. I'll take you to your new home."

***

The cabin is exceedingly small, but very cozy and comfortable. There isn't much furniture in here, but it is more than my mother and I owned in our small cellar room in Whitechapel. This thought brings a sharp pang with it, but I quickly suppress it, and turn to look at the bed. It is small, just large enough for one person, and I look at Jack in confusion.

"Where will you sleep?" I ask him, my forehead wrinkling.

"In my own cabin," Jack answers. "Why do you ask?"

I shrug. "I just thought...you would be staying in here, with me...like on the ship," I explain hesitantly.

"Oh." Jack blins, then says, "I can't, Will. You'll monopolize my time, and I have to work with the crew to finish getting set up here."

I swallow and nod, looking away to the tiny table and chair beside the bed. "Are you about to leave?" Jack nods. "Do you have any paper and something to write with?"

"Are you thinking of writing a letter to Frederick?"

Reluctantly, worried that he will forbid me from doing so, I nod.

Jack studies me for a moment, then digs in the bag at his hip and removes a thick sheaf of wrinkled paper. He peels off several sheets and hands them to me, along with a fountain pen. Before leaving, he turns and says, "Don't tell him where we're at."

After making sure the door is firmly shut, I sit down at the desk, adjusting the flame in the gas lamp, then begin writing.

"Dear Frederick,

"We've finally reached our destination: a small island across the ocean. It has a Spanish name, one I can't pronounce, but it is very beautiful. The trees are really tall, and their leaves look like umbrellas; they don't provide much shade, though, at least according to Jack.

"Jack is being very good to me. I've been very well fed, moreso than when I lived in Whitechapel. The small cabin I've been put in is very clean and comfortable; I'm by myself, though, and I'm not used to that. I've always slept with someone else in the room.

"Despite my relative comfort here, I really miss London. Please tell me when things have cooled down enough for my return..."

I send my letter with several members of the crew to find someone to deliver it to London for me.

One month later, I receive a short reply, scribbled furiously on a scrap of paper in a hand that is obviously well adapted to writing formally and gracefully. I am disappointed when I see the length of it, but my disappointment quickly flees as I read it.

"William,

"It is no longer safe where you are. Return to London as soon as you are able to. Be careful, and keep Jack with you at all times.

"Frederick."

The next morning, I emerge from my cabin to find one of Jack's crew members gutted and nailed to a tree outside my door.

Warmer Waters

Chapter Three

The entire hideout--indeed, the entire island--is in an absolute uproar upon my discovery of the dead and mutilated crew member. I haven't spoken since finding the poor man, except for the loud scream I'd let out that had alerted everyone to trouble. I can see Anamaria retching in some nearby bushes while another man turns away from the gory scene. People keep asking me what happened, but I cannot answer. My mind has been taken back to my mother's murder and the sight of her broken body on the floor. I shudder, almost feeling like my entire body is ready to just shut down.

"Move!" someone barks, and I turn my head to the right to see Jack pushing his way through the crowd of gathering pirates. He sees the body, and I can almost swear his face goes exceedingly pale. He hurries up to me, wraps an arm around my shoulders and another arm across my front to hook around my waist, and begins to lead me away from the scene while telling someone to find people to clean up the mess.

We enter Jack's cabin, which is a little larger than mine, and he immediately sits me down on the bed, which is large enough for two. He runs his hands through my hair, pushing it back from my face, then gently kisses my forehead. "Lay down," he instructs, and I obey, stretching out on my back, looking up at him and wondering what he will do.

Jack reaches down and carefully removes my shirt. He folds it and sets it on the bedside table before beginning to remove his vest and his own shirt. Cool hands find their way onto my skin, and I sigh as Jack lightly rubs his hands up and down my sides.

"You're not going to panic on me, are you?" he asks me quietly, moving a hand to draw circles on my stomach.

"Not if you keep doing that," I reply. He gives me a little grin, one that shows the faint glint of a gold tooth, then he turns serious.

"Will, tell me what happened."

I consider his request for a moment. It is not unlike a request Frederick made of me once, when he wanted to know what had happened to my mother. But this one is different; I did not know this man, and I am, as far as I know, completely uninvolved in this. Except for the fact I found the man outside MY cabin.

"There isn't much to tell," I say uncertainly, struggling to focus completely on Jack's hands, which are slowly moving closer to my hips with each pass.

"Tell me anyway," he insists.

I shrug. "I walked out of my cabin this morning, and found him..." I hesitate, not wanting to describe it. Jack has seen it anyway. "Like that," I finish lamely.

"You didn't hear anything last night?"

I shake my head. "Not a thing," I add, emphasizing myself.

Jack opens his mouth to say more or perhaps to ask me another question, but a sharp rap on the door interrupts him. Heaving a sigh, he gets up, tugs his shirt back on, and opens the door. Anamaria stands in the doorway. She begins speaking to Jack in a low tone, apparently in an effort to keep me from hearing, hands him something furtively, and leaves.

It is a bloody piece of paper, I notice as Jack unfolds it gingerly. His beautiful, dark eyes skim over the paper, then he looks up at me sharply. I sit up and frown.

"What is it?" I ask.

Jack approaches the bed and sits down, still looking concerned. "Anamaria wants me to keep this from you. But I don't think that's right."

"Keep what from me? What's going on?"

"There was...a note found on the body, a note addressed to you." I feel my breath catch in my throat as he holds it out towards me. "Do you want to see it?"

I bite my lip uncertainly, then take the note from him and hold it in trembling hands. My eyes slide over the dark brown, crusted letters, letters written in blood long-since dried, and I gasp.

"It's all for you, William Turner."

I look back up at Jack. "Do you...do you think this has anything to do with...with what happened in November?"

Jack shakes his head. "Likely not. We killed that bastard, remember?"

"I'd rather not," I mutter. "But Jack, Frederick sent me a letter."

"I thought I told you to not tell him where we are," Jack jumps in.

"I didn't," I say defensively. "He sent the reply through the man who delivered my letter to him." As I'm speaking, I take Frederick's letter from my pocket and hand it to him. "He wants me to come back to London."

Jcak reads the short letter. "Well, whatever you said in your letter about me, he seems to trust me a lot more than he did when we left London."

I ignore his statement. "So when are we going back to London?"

Jack is silent for a moment, obviously in deep thought. I wait, anticipating his agreement with Frederick, his decision to give the orders that will prepare us for a cross-ocean voyage.

But Jack shakes his head slowly. "Will, I'm not going back to London, and I won't take you. If it's dangerous for you here, it's likely much more dangerous in London, where there are people who know you and will recognize you."

"But Frederick said--"

"Will, I don't care what Frederick said. He's pretty much asked me to protect you, and I can do that much better here than in London, an area that I don't know as well. You're staying here."

"But--"

"Don't question my decision!" he barks, and with that, I know the conversation is over.

But with his words, Jack has given me another option. "I'm not going back to London, and I won't take you," he said. HE won't take me, but the Black Pearl isn't the only ship that occasionally makes berth at the Isle de Muerta.

***

The next evening begins as a quiet one, but things escalate into chaos rather quickly when Jack and I find the second victim.

The two of us are walking along the beach, where the water can wash over our feet in cool waves, when I trip over something and fall, sprawling ungracefully in the sand. I push myself to my knees, then look down to find myself face to face with the corpse of another one of Jack's newer crew members. I let out a shriek and scrabble backwards in the sand; Jack's hands find my waist, and he pulls me to my feet. I turn and bury my face in his neck.

Jack rubs my back comfortingly, then breathes in my ear, "It's all right, Will. It can't hurt you."

He is wrong, and I ache to tell him so. The dead CAN hurt you, just not in the way the living can. The two victims from the past three days can't hurt Jack; he felt nothing truly personal towards them. But I loved my mother, very deeply, and she hurt me more than I will ever let on when she died.

I glance at the body, then gasp. There is another piece of paper pinned to the man's bloody shirt, addressed to me in bold black letters. "Mr. William Turner," it proudly proclaims. I slowly pull away from Jack and hesitantly lean down to retrieve the note.

It is folded over once so my name shows, and I gently straighten the damp paper. The black letters have run slightly, but it is still legible. I read it, then wordlessly pass it to Jack. He reads it aloud in a shaky voice.

"There is no happiness without tears, no life without death. Beware! I am going to make you cry."

Jack crumples the piece of paper in a fist and shoves it at me. "Back to the cabin," he says shortly. "Now."

I turn and start hurrying up the beack, with Jack right behind me, making sure I get where I intend to go. After making sure I'm safely in the cabin, he disappears outside to find Anamaria, and I'm left alone in the cabin.

***

More than an hour has passed since Jack left the cabin when he returns, his face concerned. He immediately comes towards me and embraces me, and I rest my head against his shoulder. I have gotten into Jack's store of rum again, and I feel more than a little tipsy. Jack rubs my back soothingly, making quiet shushing sounds. "You're shaking," he comments.

I nod silently and press myself closer, inhaling Jack's scent deeply.

"You want to lay back down?" he asks me, still rubbing his hands over my back.

I nod. "I want you to lay down with me," I request, just a bit breathlessly. "I want you to lay down on me, and I want you to kiss me and touch me and make me feel better."

Jack's eyes meet mine, and I can see the indecision in his eyes. He wants to do what I've asked him to do, but some sort of moral war is being waged inside him, likely because I'm drunk. I try to sway his decision; I close my mouth over his in a searing kiss. Jack moans and digs his hands into my hair, his fingers entangling themselves in my curls. He tilts my head back and slides his lips gently along my throat, and one of his hands moves down to my hip. He kisses me once more, then unceremoniously dumps me backwards on the bed.

"Get some sleep," he orders before leaving the cabin once more.

Infuriated, I slap the pillow beneath me, then flop back with a sigh of annoyance--both at Jack and at myself. I close my eyes and try to drift off to sleep.

Chapter Four

The third and fourth victims are found the next morning by the very young boy who stood in the small crow's nest aboard the Black Pearl. His frantic knocking on the cabin door rouses me from sleep, and I see Jack getting up from a chair, where he'd obviously been reading. As I drag myself from the bed and as Jack answers the door, I somehow know what has happened; it doesn't take much to guess. Jack pales considerably as the boy quickly relates what he saw, then he motions to me.

"Will, I hate to ask this of you, but I need you to come with me," he says.

I smooth my crumpled clothes uselessly, then reluctantly follow him out the door and down towards the cliffs at the coast. The boy leads us out towards the scene, and upon first sighting it, I begin gagging.

The two men have suffered a cruel fate, butchered almost unrecognizably. But it isn't the brutality of their deaths so much as the position they were placed in after death.

One of them is tied to a tree, so thoroughly that he stands almost upright, with only a slight bend to the knees. The other is meticulously tied to the other, with his legs wrapped around the other's waist; their arms are draped over each other, and both are naked.

Another note is nailed to the tree, only inches from one of the dead men's heads. Jack eases forward and rips it down, then wordlessly passes it to me. I open it and read.

"Only tears of sorrow can wash out the stain of shame."

I give the letter to Jack to read, then turn and wlak numbly towards the cabin. I decide that it is time for me to leave. No more should die on my account.

***

The early morning is cool and foggy as I hurry along the path leading to the beach and the Black Pearl. Another ship, the Dauntless, is beside it; I can see a small boat at the beach, patiently waiting for me. I am helped into it, and I smile gratefully at the three men and situate myself on the wooden seat in the rowboat.

"Thank you for meeting me here," I say quietly to the man who isn't rowing.

"We've been waiting for you, ever since we got your note about needing a ship to take you to London," the man replies. "We've been preparing to go, so we waited for you before setting sail." He holds a hand out. "I'm Gillette, by the way. First mate of the Dauntless."

"William Turner," I say, shaking his hand. "What's the captain's name?"

"James Norrington."

***

Captain Norrington is a stern, no-nonsense type of man who leads his ship with a firm, heavy hand. He is somewhat tall, slightly taller than me, with dark hair and pretty eyes. He doesn't look entirely put-out with having me aboard, thankfully; I was worried that he wouldn't like having me aboard.

After a quick exchange of introductions, Norrington tells Gillette to take me to my room, which he does promptly, without any fuss. The space I've been put in is small and cramped, with barely any room to move around. The bed is tiny, with a small table beside it and a trunk at the foot of the bed. I drop my one bag onto my bed and sit down near the headboard. I open my bag and stare inside it forlornly.

This bag holds all that remains of my worldly possessions, and as I open it and look in, I feel the same nearly-ashamed feeling I always get upon seeing the shabbiness of the little I own, especially when I'm being exposed to things that are better than mine--which this room decidedly is, despite the size. I pull out a folded, battered piece of paper that has been carefully wrapped around a small photograph. I carefully open it and stare at the fuzzy black-and-white image. A young couple stares back, somber yet happy. The man is dressed in a formal black tuxedo, while the woman is wearing a luxurious wedding dress, adorned with flowers and jewels. My mother and father on their wedding day.

My father was a very handsome man, and I've been told that I look a lot like him. He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, as the saying goes, and had disgraced his family by marrying for love instead of money. My father's family forgave him after a few months, and they even attended the wedding. I suppose they thought that the only redeeming quality of my mother was that she was a good Catholic woman, devout and highly religious. When I was born a year after their wedding, I had been my father's pride and joy.

My thoughts go back to a story my mother told me, of something that happened when I was a baby, though I don't remember it. When I was about a year old, I was playing in the yard outside our beautiful home when I went missing. My mother said that my father was wracked with guilt, believing there had been something he could have done to prevent my disappearance, and he had poured every pence he owned into the search for me, pawning his things and my mother's jewels and her beautiful wedding dress before finding me wandering the slums of Whitechapel. How I'd gotten there no one knew.

But in his frenzied search, my father spent every coin to his name, and once I was found, he no longer had the money to support my mother and me. He appealed to his family for help, but since they were still somewhat angry that he'd married outside his class, they rebuffed him. A few months later, he disappeared, leaving my mother and me behind. From there, we moved to the same slums I'd been found in, and my mother had been forced to take up one of the basest forms of employment for us to survive.

As I stare down at the photograph in my hand, I wonder if the newly-wedded Madeline Turner ever suspected that she'd meet her death at the blade of a knife.

***

The Dauntless docks on the Thames too weeks later, and I disembark onto the cold, foggy pier beside the ship. The haziness of the London air is nothing like the crisp, clean air of the Isle de Muerta, but it is home, and I am happy to be here.

I adjust the bag on my shoulder and begin walking down the street, in the general direction I think Frederick's flat lies. On the way, I take in the by-now-familiar sights of London in January.

The faces of those I see look weary and exhausted. Many have the look of someone who has given up on life and is now going through the motions, counting the minutes until their deaths. Everywhere I look, there are starving children, mothers aged before their time, and men struggling to make ends meet. These sights, which are so hauntingly familiar to me, nearly bring tears to my eyes, and I feel somewhat guilty--I have spent almost two months living in the lap of luxury compared to this, and while I did so, these people, people who are just like me, fought merely to survive.

I manage to work my way out of the slums into the richer parts of London. The air here, while not entirely better, lacks the stench of the poorer districts, a stench I have never noticed until today. I vaguely recognize the flat buildings and homes and businesses around me, fleeting glimpses caught through the window of a moving carriage.

And speaking of moving carriages, there is one coming towards me right now.

A familiar face peers out a window and sees me, then with a shout calls for the driver to stop. I smile as the door opens and Frederick's friend Peter emerges from the carriage.

"Mr. Turner," he says, somewhat soberly. "I was just on my way to the docks to see if you had arrived yet."

"I never sent confirmation that I was coming," I reply, slightly puzzled.

"Frederick trusts in your good sense. Every day, either he or I have been coming to the docks in search of your arrival," Peter says, stepping aside and gesturing to the open carriage door. "Come along, now. Frederick will definitely be pleased to see you."

***

I follow Peter as he leads me through the back door of the Metropolitan Police Station at Scotland Yard, glancing all about me, trying to take in the sights. I don't get much of a chance to do so before finding myself standing before Frederick's office door. Peter raps on it sharply, then opens it and motions for me to enter.

Frederick is sitting at his desk, deeply engrossed in a wrinkled piece of paper before him. He looks up, and I see a genuine smile cross his face as he rises from his seat and circles around the desk. "Will, I'm so glad to see you're all right," he says. "Obviously, Jack did his job well." He peers past me, arching an eyebrow curiously. "Where IS Jack?"

"He's...he's not here," I say quietly. "And he doesn't know I'm here."

"Where is he?"

"Somewhere that way," I say, pointing in the general direction of west. "On the island."

His eyebrow goes up a little higher. "You snuck off?"

"I had to," I try to explain. "Jack didn't want to bring me to London--kept saying it was more dangerous here than on the island. But I knew you wouldn't have asked me to come back to London if you hadn't meant it, and I wanted to come back, especially after some of Jack's crew members were found dead."

"What?" Frederick's eyes widen. "What happened?"

"We found four of Jack's new crew members dead," I stammer. "With notes pinned to them."

"Do you still have these notes?"

"I might." I set my bag on his desk and start rummaging through it. Soon, I come up with all three notes. I wordlessly hand them over to Frederick, and his dark eyes skim each one in turn.

"'It's all for you, William Turner'?" Frederick reads aloud. "'There is no happiness without tears, no life without death. Beware! I am going to make you cry.'" He flips over to the third note. "'Only tears of sorrow can wash out the stain of shame.'" He looks up at me, obviously puzzled. "What are these supposed to mean?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," I admit, biting my lip. "I honestly don't know."

Frederick nods slowly, seemingly to himself. Then he looks to the notes again, turns around, and rummages on his desk. "We've received quite a few disturbing letters, too," he informs me, shoving a couple of books aside and picking up a piece of paper. "Granted, we started getting these around August, and most we're dismissing as fakes, but we believe this one is genuine." He sets the paper on the desk where I can see it, and I read it carefully.

"Dear Boss,

"I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the _right_ track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper _red_ stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha. ha. The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good Luck.

"Yours truly
"Jack the Ripper" (1)

Finishing the letter, I shudder and look at Frederick in concern.

"We got this letter at the beginning of October," he tells me. "There are several others, including a postcard and another letter that has, instead of a date, the words 'From hell' at the top."

I raise my eyebrows. "I believe it," I say. "I doubt someone from anywhere BUT Hell would be sick enough to do things like this."

"Good observation," Frederick says with a slight smile. Then he becomes serious again. "The past six months have been nothing but a mess when it comes to this case. We've got five, maybe six, confirmed victims, and we're studying several other deaths from before that. Another woman was killed on the twentieth of last month, and the inquest was just completed yesterday. On top of that, a week and a half ago, Montague John Druitt--one of our suspects--was found dead in the Thames, so we had to have an inquest into that. We figure it's suicide."

I sit down in one of the chairs that rests in front of his desk. "What about the womann you mentioned?"

"We determined that she was not a victim of the Whitecapel murderer."

"Oh." I look back at the letter on Frederick's desk. "Jack the Ripper?"

"The newspapers picked up on it quick when they found out about this letter."

"No wonder. I don't read newspapers," I say, leaning back in the chair and trying to get comfortable but finding it almost impossible to do so in this leather-bound chair.

Frederick sits on the edge of his desk, clasping his hands together and staring down at me with some measure of concern. "Will, what has happened since you went away?"

"Jack took me to a tiny island, and I really enjoyed myself there. But after the first month, the night after I got your letter, the first crew member was murdered, and then it sort of progressed from there."

"How many did you say were killed?"

"Four."

"But there were only three notes. Did one of them not have a note?"

"Oh, no. The last two were found togehter," I say, consciously making an effort to block the image of the scene from my mind.

Frederick looks back at the notes, which he has stacked next to the Jack the Ripper letter. I follow his gaze, and frown, wondering what has caused the look of comprehension on his face. "Will, one more question. How were they killed?"

"I don't know. With a knife or something. I remember..." I trail off, feeling slightly sick.

"You remember what?"

"Their throats had been cut," I manage. "The second one was so bad, his head was almost cut off. And all of them were gutted."

Frederick stands, spreads out the notes, and leans close to the papers. Then, with a stricken voice, he says, "Go find Peter. Quickly."

"What's wrong?" I demand, standing from my chair.

Frederick turns his upper body towards me. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say that this letter and these notes were written by the same person."

"You're joking!" I explode, gazing at Frederick in sheer horror.

"No." He slowly shakes his head. "I think that the Whitechapel murderer and your island killer are one and the same."

(1) Courtesy of http://www.casebook.org, a very indepth website on the Jack the Ripper crimes.

Chapter Five

I stand in the empty entrance hall of Frederick's new home. In the month after I left, the inspector bought his own house, and though somewhat small, it looks to be very comfortable.

Frederick leads me into the living room and through the kitchen to a small bedroom situated beyond the kitchen. "Sorry it's so far from civilization," he says apologetically.

I grin as I get a look at the room. "I like it. It's nice." I drop my bag on my new bed and sit down on it, testing the mattress. It is almost sinfully soft, and I lean back, relaxing into the comfort of the bed.

Frederick looks concerned. "I don't like this," he says.

"You don't like what?"

"I don't like you being this far from my room," he informs me. "I can't keep an ear out for you if you're all the way over here."

I give him a sharp look. "I'm not a child, Frederick," I say irritably.

He immediately backs off. "Sorry," he mumbles, taking a couple of steps back. "Why don't you get some sleep? It's late, and I'm sure you're getting tired."

I nod, realizing that my sharp comment has caused a massive amount of tension to suddenly develop between us. As he leaves, I mentally curse myself. I'm apparently getting really good at screwing things up.

***

The struggle to the waking world is like walking through a thick sludge, a murky cesspool that will not yield. Cool air seems to hit me in a welcoming wave, and I sit up in bed, gasping for air. Sweat plasters my curls to my forehead, and the sheets have stuck to my skin. I peel them away, brush my curls back, and get up from the bed to go in the kitchen in hopes of getting something to drink.

Frederick is sitting at the kitchen table when I walk in, bent studiously over some papers, occasionally making notes with a pencil. His hair is somewhat dishevelled, and his tie is loosened with his shirt partially unbuttoned. I rub at my left eye as I slip past him to the sink and pour myself a glass of water.

"What are you doing up?" he asks without looking up at me.

"I had a nightmare," I say after a few swallows. "And I wanted some water."

"Oh." He continues studying his papers, paying me no attention.

I set my glass on the counter and step up behind him. "You look so tense," I say, putting my hands on his shoulders and gently rubbing. I see his pocket watch on the table and ask, "What time is it?"

He sets his pencil down and picks up the watch. Looking at its pearly face, he says, "It's almost three a.m."

I frown. "I hate it when I wake up this early," I mutter.

"This isn't the first time?" He twists around to look at me.

I shake my head. "Afraid not. I've been getting up this early at least once a week, sometimes more often. There were a few nights where I couldn't sleep at all."

He gives me a frown of his own. "You must have been stressed."

"Not half as bad as you, apparently," I comment, leaning over his shoulder to read a paper arranged in front of him. It is, upon closer inspection, a postcard, and as I read it, I bite my lip in hidden disgust. I shudder and quietly say, "This man is insane."

Frederick shrugs. "You can never be too sure. Even sane men can do sick things."

"Then they were never sane," I say, stepping back a couple of feet. I stretch and head towards my door. "I think I'll go back to bed."

"I may not be here when you wake up," Frederick says. "I'm planning on heading out to the station, do some more work. If I'm not here, just stay inside, keep the doors locked. Everything you'd need is in here."

I nod, take one more quiet, long look at Frederick, then step inside my room and pull the door shut behind me.

***

When I wake up this time, it is a comfortable, easy waking. I yawn and stretch, rubbing gently at my eyes, then throw the covers back and swing my legs off the edge of the bed.

As soon as I step into the kitchen, I know the house is empty save for myself, and this emptiness gives me an uneasy feeling. I shake it off, then notice a plate with a towel draped over it on the clean kitchen table. Next to it is a note, scrawled in Frederick's gracefully messy handwriting. I pull the towel off and smile as a plate full of food is revealed. Sitting down in front of the plate, I start eating as I read Frederick's letter.

"William,

"You haven't awoken yet, so I am leaving you a note to let you know that I am going to the Station to work some more. A maid should be coming at nine to clean the house--she is the only one allowed in. I have already sent her a message to let her know you are here, so do not worry about frightening her.

"I will return around five o'clock."

"Frederick."

He cares enough to leave a note. I smile and fold the note. It is going to be put in my satchel, along with my other precious possessions.

I finish shoveling the food into my mouth, then get up and wander into the living room. A small fire is blazing in the fireplace, and the lamps have been turned down. Another door leads off the living room, and I stick my head into that room to see shelves upon shelves of books. Grinning, I step fully into the room and go to the nearest bookshelf. One of the first books I see is Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, and I pick it up and leaf through it. Several pages have been dogeared, and it looks much more worn than the last time I saw it. I tuck it under my arm and continue skimming over the shelves. I spot a copy of The Vicar of Wakefield, the book Jack has been reading, and I trace a finger over its spine wistfully.

Jack is so much smarter than he acts, and his taste for high literature proves that. I had tried to read this book during my second week on the Isle de Muerta--unsuccessfully; I usually got confused once I got two or three paragraphs read. But Jack not only reads it, he understands it, on a level the author likely never anticipated. According to Jack, the book is about a rich, morally strong family who loses all its money and must live like the poor. Definitely a tale my family could have related to--assuming we could have understood it, of course.

I move along the shelves a little further to see what else there is. I am just picking up a copy of Sir Thomas Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur when I hear the front door open and someone call out.

"Mr. Turner, I'm here to clean the house!" a woman calls.

This must be the maid.

I go into the living room, where a pretty young woman about my age is pulling a feather duster from a bag she has set on the floor near the sofa. "Hi," I greet.

She turns and grins at me. "Good morning," she returns. "I'm Elizabeth Swann. My mother is Mr. Abberline's maid. She's sick this morning, so I came in her stead."

"Nice to meet you," I say, grasping her hand and smiling. "You obviously know my name, so I don't think you need a real introduction."

Elizabeth steps away from me and begins dusting the living room. "My mother received a note from Mr. Abberline letting her know you were here. She told me about you before I left the house."

I stand awkwardly for a moment, watching as she flits about the room, running her feather duster over the different knick-knacks scattered about. "Well, I'll leave you to your work," I say after a moment, heading for my bedroom to read.

***

"Mr. Turner, I thought you were in the living room."

I look up from where I am lying on my stomach on my bed, when Elizabeth walks into my room and jumps, startled, before speaking. I frown. "What do you mean? I've been in here almost since you got here."

"No, you haven't," she insists. "I just spoke to you in the living room. You were talking about carving Christmas hams, and you said something about Jack the Ripper and holiday murders. I was spooked, so I excused myself and came in here to clean."

After her strange explanation, I feel my skin grow cold, and I look up at her with my eyes widening.

"Mr. Turner, what's wrong? You're really pale, and you look as if you've seen a ghost."

I put my book down and slowly rise from the bed. "Elizabeth, go with all speed you can manage to the Metropolitan Police Station. Ask for Frederick Abberline, and tell him I need him to come home immediately. It's an emergency."

Elizabeth nods and hurries for the bedroom door. Before she can open it, someone on the other side flings it open; the door catches Elizabeth in the chest, and she falls to the floor, the wind knocked from her lungs. A tall, masked man bursts through the open doorway and lunges at me. I leap backwards and throw myself onto the other side of my bed.

"Mr. Turner, this is no time for games," he snarls, wielding a knife in one hand. "I'm not in the mood to play today."

The man takes a menacing step towards me, then seems to notice Elizabeth on the floor, struggling to catch her breath. He grins wickedly and leans down.

Lewis Carroll saves Elizabeth's life. I snatch up the first object I can find--Alice's Adventures in Wonderland--and hurl it at the man. It hits him directly in the face, and in his momentary daze, I throw myself on him and grab the wrist of the hand that holds the knife.

"Elizabeth, go!" I shout, struggling against the man's superior strength. Elizabeth, half-crawling, half-stumbling, gains her feet and flees from the house. Momentarily distracted by her flight, I do not notice that the man's grip on his knife shifts, but I do notice when the blade of the knife sinks into my arm. I shriek in pain and wrench free before running for the living room, clutching my arm in my free hand as blood oozes out.

Once I am in the living room, I whirl around, snatching up the fireplace poker and holding it ready as the man emerges from the kitchen, shaking his head, knife still in hand.

"What do you want from me?" I demand as I take a swipe at him with the poker, trying to keep him as far away from me as possible. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I have to," the man replies. "Because your whore of a mother ripped me off, so I ripped her, and I'll rip everyone like her until I'm satisfied. I'll rip everyone she ever loved and cared for. And that includes you." He takes a step towards me. In that instant, I throw the poker at him with all my strength, then turn and race for the front foyer.

Once I am near the door, I stop and turn, expecting the man to come lunging out of the thin shadows of the living room to finish me. But the room is silent save for my own frantic breathing.

Voices at the door catch my attention, and I turn and throw it open, falling into Frederick's arms.

"William!" Frederick exclaims, righting me from my sagging position against him. "What's happened?"

"He's here! He's inside right now!" I cry shrilly. I see Elizabeth standing nearby, tears streaking down her cheeks, while Peter stands guardedly near her.

Frederick starts, then nudges me in Peter's direction before taking out his pistol. "William, stay here. Peter, keep an eye on both of them."

I bite my lip nervously as he disappears inside the house. Shivering, I wrap my arms around myself and look around the yard. The wind is rattling in the leaves of the trees around the house, and the sun is shining brightly. Everything seems grossly at odds with the mood I am in.

Frederick emerges from the house, shaking his head as he tucks his pistol back in his pocket. "There is no one in there," he reports. "I thought maybe he went out the kitchen door or the back door, but both are still bolted. None of the windows are unlatched or opened, so the only way he could have gotten out was by going right past us. Which he didn't do." Frederick seems to notice my bloody arm then, and he gasps as he reaches out. "My God, you're hurt!"

Peter steps forward to take a look himself. "Looks pretty bad. We should take him to the hospital for sutures, because he'll likely need them."

I swallow nervously. "Sutures?" Those don't sound too good.

Frederick steps inside and comes back out with a large towel. After firmly wrapping it around my arm, he takes my elbow and begins leading me to the carriage sitting at the gate. "Miss Swann, come along. I have a few questions I'd like to ask you."

"I'll stay and keep an eye on the house," Peter offers.

"Thank you, Peter," Frederick says gratefully as he helps me and Elizabeth into the carriage. I shift uncomfortably, trying to ingore the stabbing pain forming in my arm. Frederick says something to the driver, then climbs into the carriage and takes a seat as the carriage begins to move.

"How do you feel?" Frederick asks me, his voice thick with concern.

"My arm hurts like hell," I mutter, resisting the urge to rub my forearm.

Frederick looks to Elizabeth. "Miss Swann, are you well?"

"I'm a bit shaken, and I think I'll have a bruise on my chest, but other than that, I think I'll be fine," she replies. "I'm more worried about Mr. Turner."

I smile at her, but I do not feel the smile reach my eyes.

"I won't ask what happened until we get your arm taken care of," Frederick says to me. "Let's just worry about one thing at a time."

Continue...

TBC

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