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The heavy oaken doors of the Royal London Hospital swing open and the stretcher is rapidly carried into the wards with clusters of people breaking apart as they see it coming. A mixture of horror and sympathy takes over their faces as they gaze upon the unconscious man before them. ‘ Poor wretch ’ and ‘ unfortunate soul ’ she hears some of the onlookers mutter to each other and she cannot think of a better description for him. His eye lacerated. His ribs cracked. The bruises on his back. Unfortunate, indeed.

Quickly the nurses rush him into the operating theatre and close the doors behind them so that Evie can no longer see him. It pains her the second he is out of sight, but she knows that she must let the doctors and nurses do their job and that he is in the best place. Yet having not seen him for so long she can hardly bear to be apart, not even for a second. ‘ I should never have left you ’; she thinks sorrowfully to herself as she is seated on a rickety wooden chair just outside. A young student nurses stare at her with looks of pity and sympathy. She doesn’t want their pity yet. That would mean that he is already gone and she is unwilling to let go just yet. She will wait. As long as it takes. 

After some time, a man with greying hair in a white coat emerges from the room that Jacob was taken into, grabs his large metallic surgical tools from the desk, and walks back towards the double doors. Evie gulps at the sheer size of them. If there is a God, she prays that he is with her brother now.

“Will he live?” she jumps up off her seat and asks the man, just before he can return to Jacob.

He turns to look at her and frowns, with a hint of melancholy. Evie knows that look. She saw it before when her father died. The ‘I want to give you good news, but I don’t want to lie to you ’ look. “I cannot say at this moment. It is imperative that I close Jacob’s wounds immediately. If I cannot stop his leg from bleeding then I fear we may have to amputate. Excuse me,” he says and rushes into the other room with a frown.

Evie starts to pace the floor, unable to keep still for a single second from the agitation that she feels waiting for her brother to come around. If he does come around, that is. She stares at the array of needles and scalpels on display in the anteroom, none of which look pleasant, trying to distract herself from the deafening silence that torments her mind. She can hear no sound of what is going on behind the doors, no sign that he is alive. Even the muffled sounds of talking from inside have died down and the rest of the crowd has scuttled off back to their duties. She is left in silence, all but for the ticking of the grandfather clock next to the winding stairway. It is slowly killing her. She wishes she were in his place. She would give anything to take on his pain and hurt and bear it for him. She is his sister, and she was supposed to care for him but what did she do? Abandon him all those years ago. ‘Why did I go? Why?’ She has been in and out of these thoughts since she returned to England and she does not know if she is truly to blame for all of this but the one thing she does know is that she needs her brother.

The noise of the entrance door opening startles her, removing her from her spiral of negative thoughts, but she is calmed when she sees that it is just Abberline who is walking in. It seems he had managed to keep the press off their backs, for now at least, to which she owes her old friend a lot of gratitude.

“Any news?” he asks, removing his hat and coat and shaking off the droplets of rain. 

“None,” she states matter of fact. “They’re sealing his wounds but…they may have to amputate his leg if the wound is too deep. His career as an assassin will be over, that much is clear.” She shakes her head and shrinks away but Abberline reaches out to pat her on the back.

“What matters is he survives, Miss Frye,” he replies with a faint smile. “Jacob is a fighter. If anyone can get through this, he can.”

“I am glad you’re so optimistic.” She sighs and stares at the ground. She stares at his shoes profusely before lifting her head back up to meet his eyes. “Mister Abberline, no one can know what happened. Jack, the order, everything. If people were to find out about the assassins and the templars we could have a full-scale war on our hands. I know it’s a lot to ask but-”

“I understand,” he cuts her off and steps closer to her once more. “Yes, I am going to get my arse handed to me by the press, but I know that the issue is much bigger than that. Even if I do not always agree with your… shall we say questionable methods I do know that the Brotherhood does what is necessary for the sake of peace and I would not want to compromise that. And despite the fact I may have lost touch with Jacob he is still my friend and I care about him greatly.” He smiles fondly and she joins him momentarily. They were all different people back then. 

“Thank you. Truly. I am glad he still has friends like you,” she takes his hand and shakes it generously. She pulls away and returns to her seat and Abberline takes the chair next to her. “I must speak to the council soon and ask them to send someone to watch over London temporarily while I tend to my brother,” she tells him. 

“You will not run the brotherhood yourself?”

“Looking after Jacob is my priority now. I abandoned him once before, I will not do it again.” She means it. She will be there for him in his recovery, every step of the way.

“Miss Frye, you cannot blame yourself for that,” he says, a sympathetic expression on his face. The same as the nurses had for Jacob before. 

Evie shrugs in response. “But if I was here, I could have-”

“No one could have possibly known what that monster would do. If they did, I am certain that Jacob would have left him in that wretched asylum in the first place. You are too hard on yourself, my friend.”

She smiles at the compliment, even if she does not fully believe it. The despair she feels now is suffocating her and if there was even the slightest chance that it could have been avoided by her staying in London, then she cannot help but view herself as at least partially responsible.

“So, I assume you will not be heading back to India for some time then?” he asks curiously.

“Not until Jacob is fully recovered. And I would be lying if I said I had not missed London. What about you? What’s next for Frederick Abberline?”

“An early retirement to Bournemouth if Mrs Abberline gets her way. Though after the past few months, it doesn’t seem like such a terrible idea.”

Evie chuckles, only momentarily before her grey cloud of fear and misery returns, and they wait in silence for the doctor to tell them everything will be alright.

“He’s in safe hands you know. I have just sent word to an old friend of mine who owes me a few favours so they will be discreet. They can be here within the next few days to take care of Jacob at home if you so wish. This doctor is the best I know,” Abberline says.

“Yes. Thank you,” she replies. That reassures her a little. When she found him in the cell in Lambeth Asylum, he was so weak and lifeless. At first, she was not sure if he was even alive but when she held him in her arms, she felt his faint breathing and saw his breath in the freezing conditions. Then he awoke and was only able to open one eye as it had been slashed and beaten so badly it was like it had been glued shut. Oh, and the way he looked at her. So much sorrow in those hazel eyes of his, like he wasn’t sure if she was truly there or if she was merely another torturous dream, giving him false hope. When she saw what that evil bastard had done to him, she was more than joyful to have been the one to put him in an early grave.

Suddenly, the hospital doctor emerges from the surgery room and removes his gloves. Evie jumps up quickly and strides towards him with intent. “How is he? Can I see him?”

“He is still sedated from the anaesthetic so we must wait for him to come around, but I am happy with the progress he's made and I am certain he will make a full recovery in time. Though I do suggest that he refrain from any vigorous activity for quite some time,” he says, matter of fact and the biggest wave of relief washes over her. “When he wakes up,” he continues. “I will give him some medication for the pain and later we will see if he can keep any food down.” The doctor pauses and folds his arms across his chest, looking down at the ground briefly.

“I’m sensing a ‘ but’ ,” says Evie, observing his body language closely.

He looks back up and nods. “In time his injuries will heal.” He takes in a deep breath and appears concerned. “But what I have examined from his body concerns me greatly. Mister Frye is severely malnourished and there are marks on his wrists and ankles where the skin has been ripped off, as if he has been restrained and struggled against it. He also looks like he has been beaten fatally and regularly. All this leads me to believe he has been kidnapped and tortured. Is this correct?”

“I am unsure,” Evie says, hesitating. She has no idea what to say. To the doctor, to anyone. How would she tell his friends? His family? She had not even thought about how Jack must have starved him of food and water while he left Jacob for long periods alone in the dark. Her eyes well up and she is glad when Frederick talks on her behalf because she can no longer find the words to articulate.

“We will look into it, thank you, Doctor. For now, I think we should move him to somewhere more comfortable where he may recover if this is possible?”

“Very well,” the Doctor says with a curt nod. “I will make the necessary arrangements when we are able to move him.”

Evie and Frederick thank the doctor and leave the hospital. She would rather stay with him at all times but at present there is a more pressing matter of finding somewhere to live if she is to make London her permanent residence once again.

Evie swirls a silver spoon around in circles repeatedly, absent of mind. The tea presents a whirlpool in the centre as she guides her wrist, her thoughts tumbling down through it and losing control. It is cold now but she still stirs, hoping something miraculous will happen. She had always been told that a cup of tea could solve everything but she was not so sure. She slowly breathes in the musty smell of a room deprived of fresh air for years and a carpet full of dust. Still, her mind is entirely somewhere else. She has killed Jack. Saved her brother. But from what? He lay upstairs now, in their newly rented house: lifeless, bruised, beaten, drained. He had not said a word since she brought him here with the aid of nurses and Abberline. The Detective had found them a place to stay temporarily, suggesting that it was not wise for them to return to Jacob’s home in Whitechapel as Jack could still have lackeys that were out for blood, and with just one room it lacked any privacy. This place lacks curtains, comfortable furniture, and a toilet but it is a safe place at least. And they are alive, that has to count for something. Over the past few days, she had checked his bruises and wounds as much as she was able but he had improved very little since his return from hospital. She does not expect him to come home and feel normal again immediately but she did not quite expect this impenetrable silence from him. She wishes she just knew what he was thinking so she could help. She has to admit that she is out of her depth and this doctor that Abberline had sent for cannot arrive soon enough. She is no nurse. She knows only how to kill and not how to care. And she fears that she no longer knows her brother.

There is a sudden rapping on the front door and Evie quickly abandons her tepid tea to answer. As she opens it, a woman stands there with a warm smile on her face. She is quite beautiful, Evie notices, and wonders if she is an… acquaintance of Jacob’s. She wears a lilac dress with a white apron and her Y/H/C hair is tied up in a neat bun resting on the top of her head, with a few wisps gently falling around the curve of her face. Leather bags are gathered around her feet as the chipped teal door opens and she smiles at Evie. Evie gawks back at her, confused, as the woman appears to think that she is expected. “Ah, you must be Miss Frye. Or is it Mrs Green? Fred did not make it clear,” she says, with a soft accent.

“Miss Frye will suffice,” she says, perhaps a little too sharply as she is still in a state of confusion. “Sorry, who are you exactly?”

“I thought you were expecting me. I’m Doctor Y/L/N. Abberline sent for me,” she says, extending her arm, and Evie feels wildly stupid. She shakes her hand, trying to hide her surprise.

“Oh! Forgive me, I was expecting-”

“A man?” The woman cocks an eyebrow but takes it with good humour. She picks up her luggage and Evie helps her bring it inside to the hallway.

“Yes, I’m terribly sorry. I did not realise that women could be doctors. I meant no offence,” she replies, attempting to fumble her way through an apology. She is glad the Doctor is female though. With Jacob’s current state perhaps a calm and caring woman who isn’t his sister is exactly what he needs to nurture him back to health. 

“And none was taken, I am quite used to that,” says the doctor as she enters the new Frye residence and closes the door behind her. “We are not supposed to be doctors but some of us find a way. Much to the dislike of men.”

“I shouldn’t think it matters much what men think,” says Evie which earns a chuckle from her.

“I could not agree more, Miss Frye.”

The two women are seated on a verdant green sofa in the front room, which is one of the few pieces of furniture that was left for them. The house possesses two beds, a kitchen table, and a stove but that is about it. “Will you be staying with us? It would be no trouble” asks Evie but she secretly hopes Doctor Y/L/N says no as she is unsure where all of them will sleep and what they will manage to eat. Not to mention, she is a little ashamed of the peeling floral wallpaper and the faint smell of rotten eggs.

“Thank you for the offer, Miss Frye, but I already have my accommodation sorted. It is close by so I will be able to tend to Mister Frye regularly.” Evie offers her some tea but the woman declines and she is again thankful because she is lousy at making tea. Jacob was always the best at that. She almost visibly smiles as she remembers the times when he would scold her for making it too milky. What she would give to grimace as she watched him add four cubes of sugar to his tea again and fill the cup up so much that it almost spilled over. Now, she can barely get him to drink water. 

“Detective Abberline has told me some of your brother’s condition,” continues the doctor as Evie is on the brink of losing focus. “But I will need to assess him myself. Where might I find him?” 

“He is upstairs, on the left. But he is sleeping now. He does not get much sleep at night; he usually wakes up screaming. I try to comfort him, but he orders me to leave and I hear him sobbing through the walls.” It pains her, like being stabbed a thousand times by a thousand pins and needles, listening to him mentally torturing himself each night with nothing she can do to help. She is sick of being helpless. Useless. At fault.

“I see. I will try not to wake him.” She gathers her things and strides towards the stairs, stopping just short of the first step and turns back to Evie. “He will be fine, Miss Frye. Wounds of the body as easy to heal. Wounds of the mind, however, take much longer and there may always be scars but he can recover, in time. Don’t give up on him just yet.”

Evie nods as the woman heads up the stairs, each one creaking as she goes no matter how quiet she tries to be. When she is gone, Evie pulls out some paper and pen and begins to write. She gets as far as writing ‘ Dear Emmett ’ before faltering.

“Jacob,” a voice calls to him hauntingly through the mist, though he cannot tell exactly in which direction it is coming from. There is nought but darkness around him, swallowing him whole, and there is an unquenching feeling of emptiness within every part of him. “Where are you? Come out come out wherever you are...” The voice is taunting him now, scaring him easily into submission. His body does not know what to do. Does he run from the darkness or does he stand his ground?

The street is illuminated, the gaslights flickering like ballerinas made of flames, and now he can see the man before him. London’s tall buildings loom over the streets below like branches of old withered trees and the moonlight pierces through the gaps in the brickwork. So much beauty and so much despair in just one small place. The concealed man has not noticed him yet. Jacob decides to hide around the corner, trying not to expose himself to his skilled hunter.

“I will find you, Jacob. And rip you like a butcher does a pig!” The man laughs in a ghastly manner, sending shivers down Jacob’s spine as the words cut through him like a hidden blade. The man walks down the street, searching in the alleyways along the way. He gradually gets closer to the damp, poorly lit cul-de-sac that Jacob is hiding in, the soles of his boots smacking against the cobblestones as Jacob’s breathing quickens. 

“Come on, Jacob,” the approaching voice says, elongating his vowels and emphasising his consonants. “How long must we continue this dance?” Jacob can hear his voice more clearly now and he cannot be more than two metres away. 

All of a sudden, he stops and takes in a deep breath. Jacob shivers, trying to keep his composure.“Maybe this is some incentive for you to show yourself,” he says, and Jacob can just see the man grabbing a young woman by her black hair and shoving her roughly to the ground. She whimpers as she tries to pull herself back up, but he grabs her again and yanks her head backwards, exposing her bare neck to the autumn breeze. He pulls out his knife and holds it close to her throat, drawing a few drops of blood as the tip of the blade presses into her. They trickle down her neck like nectar. 

“No!” Jacob cries helplessly and reaches for her, but he is too late.

And then Jack is slashing her throat, blood spurting out and running down her chest. When she falls to the ground, limp and lifeless, he stabs her body continuously. He stabs her again, and again, and again, and again. He laughs manically. 

And then Jacob runs. Like a coward, he runs from the scene and he flees back to the relative safety of his home. He shuts the door and locks it behind him, pacing up and down his Whitechapel apartment like a distressed caged animal. Then he hears him again, knocking at the door furiously. He has nowhere left to hide.

“Jacob. Why do you run from me?” the voice yells through the door.

“Leave me alone!” he screams back but Jack does not listen.” Leave me! Leave me be!”

Jacob awakes with an abrupt jolt, sending a spasm of agony down his entire body. He winces, clutching his chest with his shaky hands, and his breathing gradually slows. As the pain subsides a little, his nostrils are flooded with the gentle smell of some kind of plant that he cannot quite put his finger on and there is a soft breeze that dances gracefully across the bare skin of his exposed chest. He tries to open his eyes but still only one of them will, yet it is enough to see that he is in his bed and rays of sunlight cascade into the centre of the room. The mattress and blankets still feel unfamiliar to him, as does that scent . He wonders if this is yet another dream, but his senses are too strong for it to be so. For a moment he forgets the pain but as he tries to sit up it comes crashing back down upon him in abundance. He finally manages to open one eye fully and looks down at the shape of his broken body underneath the tartan throw, recoiling at the thought of how hideous he must look without it. He has been stripped of his clothes so that he could be patched up but the large stitches across his chest serve as an ugly reminder of something he would rather forget. He still cannot believe what happened, what Jack did. Suddenly, he panics as he thinks of Jack, still out there and roaming the streets of Whitechapel. He tries to get up but it’s no use; no life is left in his mangled legs. As he flops back down onto the bed he remembers the news of Jack’s death but that does only little to quash his anxiety. 

The door creaks open gently and a woman he has never seen before enters. She is dressed in a light purple dress and wears a white apron tied around her waist at the back with a bow which rests upon her bustle. Her hair is loose at first but then she ties it up into a slightly messy bun without having to look in a mirror to do so. She hums a gentle tune to herself as she puts some medicinal jars on the table at the foot of the bed, facing away from him, having not yet noticed that he is conscious. 

He glares at her curiously, unhappy with a stranger being in his room and so at ease. He wants to be left alone, is that too much to ask? Once she has finished labelling the bottles she finally turns around and sees that Jacob is staring at her with one eye. “Oh, good you’re awake,” she says calmly, fetching one of the jars for him. “I have some medicine I need you to take and if you are feeling up to it then I shall make you something to eat. How does porridge sound?”

“Revolting. Who the hell are you?” he asks bluntly, ignoring her question. He finds talking painful. His throat is so dry and raspy, having not had much access to water, and now drinking hurts too. 

“Ah, forgive me. I am Doctor Y/L/N and I’ll be taking care of you for the foreseeable,” she says sweetly and walks over to the bed before sitting down on the edge of it. If she was Evie he would have kicked her off. If he could move his legs, that was. 

“I don’t need looking after,” he snaps and half rolls over to avoid her gaze and instead stares at the faded white wall which is infinitely less irritating. 

She does not indicate an ounce of annoyance at him and simply walks around to the other side of the bed and joins him in staring at the wall. “I think you do,” she says and opens the jar, pours some of the reddish-brown liquid onto a spoon, and holds it towards Jacob’s mouth, waiting patiently for him to open it. “Laudanum. This will help to dull the pain.”

Jacob grabs the spoon from her hand and throws it across the room in anger. It makes a thud as it hits the opposite wall, and the liquid leaves a dark stain on the worn-out carpet.

The doctor walks over to the spoon, picks it up, and sets it on the table with the medicine jars, unperturbed. “Mister Frye, I understand what you have been through but-”

“You know nothing of what I have been through!” he snaps at a much louder volume than before, his patience wearing extremely thin. It feels as though he has torn a vocal chord but he cannot contain his rage any longer. He knows he is directing it at the wrong person but the person he should be directing it at is not here. 

She nods, not at all taken aback by his abrupt outburst. What must it take to get a reaction from this woman? “You are right. I do not. But if you do not take the medicine I give you, your wounds will not heal and you could die.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” he mumbles under his breath without a real conscious thought. But the thoughts were there. In every waking moment. 

“Do not say that,” she replies placidly, having heard what he said and he immediately regrets saying it out loud. He does not need another lecture. “You have a sister who has not left your side this entire time and a friend who has risked his career to help you. You have plenty of people who care about you. Do not forget that. Ever.”

He is silent. Everything he has ever done he has failed at. Being an assassin. A mentor. A friend. A father. He sees no point in being alive when his days have been filled with nothing but intangible darkness, even long before Jack was in his life. None of them should waste their time on him any longer, he thinks to himself rather than voicing that particular thought. He knew there was little point and that no one would understand him. He is alone in this. 

“What exactly did they tell you happened?” he asks her after a moment. He cannot help but wonder if she knows what he has done. What he is . Surely if she did she would not be standing here, so sweetly and as if butter would not melt; instead, she’d be helping someone more deserving of her time and energy. They should just let him rot like the rest of Whitechapel.

“Well,” she starts and attempts to take a seat on the bed again wearily and this time he lets her, too weary to argue any longer. “I cannot say I fully comprehend what you or your order are but I was told that you and your sister are protectors of the peace and that London owes a great debt of gratitude to the two of you. Your sister said that you are a good man who tried so hard to save someone who could not be saved. Freddy agreed and I trust that man dearly. Are they both wrong?” She raises an auburn eyebrow at him. 

‘A good man?’ He ponders. That isn’t the adjective that usually springs to mind when he thinks of himself. A selfish man. A reckless man. A weak man, maybe. Everything his father had once said about him had come true. A self-fulfilling prophecy. He shrugs at her, unable to formulate a good enough response. He wants this conversation to end now and he wants her to leave but if she is Freddy’s friend then she would likely be sticking around until they deem him well enough to go back into the real world. So he'll have to get used to it.

“Will you take the medicine?” she asks again with a smile, noting his unwillingness to answer any more questions.

He finally nods and begrudgingly allows her to feed it to him, if only so that he can have some peace, though if truth be told he cannot bear the searing pain that is creeping its way through his entire body any longer.

“Good,” she says, satisfied as he sucks on the silver spoon and gulps the revolting mixture down his throat. “I shall leave you to rest then.”

And with that, all is silent again and he at long last recognises that scent she has left behind. Lavender . 

“Mr Abberline, what a wonderful surprise,” Evie says as she opens the door and welcomes in her friend. The smile she gives him does not reach her eyes.

He removes his hat and passes her a rounded. “I just got off work. It’s been hell lying to everyone, I’m hoping they’ll drop the case soon. Anyway, my wife baked a cake for Jacob. Lemon, his favourite, I think. I know it’s not much but it’s her way of helping.”

Evie takes the item from him, knowing that Jacob will not eat it or even paint the walls with it if it’s a bad day. Another bad day. He has barely said two words to her since he regained consciousness and she got the impression that her presence merely angers him so she has tried to keep her distance, however difficult that may be for her. Yesterday she had persisted and tried to tell him how sorry she was, but he had snapped at her and told her to leave, blaming her for what had happened and confirming her guilt. She could not hate him for it. She deserved it all. 

“Oh, well tell her thank you. It’s a lovely gesture,” she says.

“How is he?” asks Abberline with genuine concern. How she wishes Jacob could see how many people cared about him. 

“Still much the same but Y/N is certain he will get better soon.” Evie has to admit that the young woman has been doing a good job of caring for him thus far, even if Jacob has been unresponsive. She knows what she is talking about at least and Evie cannot fathom how she manages to stay so stoic all the time. In another life, she could have been a good assassin.

“Good. The Frye’s are known for their stubbornness,” he jokes and Evie chuckles, remembering the many times when she and Jacob had butted heads because neither of them would back down. She misses those days so dearly. How much she would give to have a silly argument with him over the Rooks right now. She longs to return to the simpler days. “Is he awake?”

“He is sleeping at the moment.”

“Ah, I will return when he is awake. Give him my love, will you?”

“Of course.” As Abbeline leaves, Evie takes the cake upstairs to leave by Jacob’s bed for when he awakes and tries to tiptoe out of the room as quietly as possible so that she does not wake him.

“Evie,” he croaks just as she is about to leave. His voice is hoarse and dry, like he has not had a drink in days. She had not realised that he was awake already but she is happy to hear him call her name.

“Yes?” she walks back hurriedly, fearing something is wrong. "Don't move Jacob, you'll hurt yourself. Have something to drink instead." she says as he is trying to push himself up so that he can see her. She hands him the glass of untouched water but he ignores her.

“I’m sorry,” he all but whispers.

“What for?” she replies as she sets the water back down on the side table.

“What I said yesterday. I’m just so…it’s infuriating being like this. Not being able to move or eat or drink. I can’t even piss by myself!” His voice is still raspy but it raises to an almost shout and she feels her heart tighten. 

“You don’t have to be sorry, I understand. And it will get better Jacob, I promise.” She takes his hand and squeezes it tightly and for a fleeting moment his expression softens and she thinks she might be getting through to the old Jacob.

He looks at her blankly for a moment before fixing his gaze on the ceiling. He sighs deeply, slowly pushing the air out of his mouth. “What’s even the point in being alive?”

“Don’t you dare say that!” she says in anger, pulling her hand away. Not anger for him, but for how he feels. How could he say that? All she cares about right now is him and getting him better. She does not even want to think about life without him; the solitude that she already feels without her twin being amplified. She needs him as much as he needs her but she cannot say it. How can she ask for support when her brother is like this ? She is drowning in invisible water. 

“I have nothing.”

“You have me! I know that may not count for much but...”

“For how long?” he interrupts and is staring at her with such contempt again. 

“Forever. I meant what I said Jacob, I’m not going back to India. Ever. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

He does not respond for several moments before taking the deepest breath she has seen him take. “Morse the pity.” For a brief second, the corners of his mouth turn upwards and it is the first sign of Jacob, the real Jacob, she has seen in years. A small gesture but it shows that he could be making progress and he could become the man she knows and loves again. But then she is hit with the realisation that she doesn’t know what Jacob is like anymore. Who he even is. A lot can change in fifteen years. Here she is expecting it to be how it used to be, back in their twenties, but he could be a totally different person now. She knew that he had used alcohol to function a lot, before and after she left for India. She knew he struggled with his own mind, the legacy of their father, and the constant feeling of disappointment. He’d always struggled to find love; his true love being self-sabotage. She is only now realising how lonely his life must have been. Had he been feeling like this long before Jack began terrorising him? Had he been too proud to ask for help? Had she left him to the wolves?

Before she can torture herself with these thoughts any further, he asks her a question. “Could you get me some laudanum?”

“I don’t-”

“The doctor said I could have one more dose today. Please, Evie, it hurts.”

Evie agrees and spots Y/N’s bag where she has left the medicine that Jacob needs, as well as some fresh bandages. As Evie rummages through, looking for the laudanum to give to Jacob, she pulls out a newspaper, dated to today. The front page depicts a horrific hand-drawn cartoon of Mary, the subject still hot on everyone’s tongues even over a week after the last murder. It makes her blood boil to think back to the crime scene that she had examined with Mr Abberline. Jack hadn’t just killed her. He’d butchered her. Why? Why did he need to do that? What kind of warped view of the creed does he have? Did he have? 

“Is that today’s newspaper?” he asks, having seen what she is looking at.

“I… um…” she shoves it in the bag quickly so that he does not have to witness the horror. Y/N must have figured out Jacob’s…situation but Evie is unsure if that is a good or a bad thing.

“Show me,” he demands bluntly. 

“Jacob, it won’t help-”

“I said show me!” he yells. She relents and passes it to him, hoping perhaps that being faced with the truth will help him to move on. She could not have been more wrong. He takes the paper and starts to read the article. ‘Perhaps it will give him some peace of mind’, she thinks. She hopes . “Mary,” he mutters. “Oh, Mary. What has he done to you?” He begins to sob and shakes violently. Evie goes to comfort him, but he pushes her away with strength that she did not expect him to have.  “Get out!” he cries but she does not budge. How can she leave him like this? This is her fault. “Get out!” he repeats, this time with a higher volume and a venomous tone.

Evie hurries out of the room before he can get any angrier at her. She runs down the stairs, collapses on the chaise longue and cries, head in her hands. She weeps and weeps until sleep finally takes her and she is dead to the world.

He stares at the paper. The headline: Ghastly Murder. The cartoon depicts Mary Kelly’s corpse. She was the worst by far. Jack had mutilated her so severely that if not for reading her name at the top of the page, Jacob would not have been able to identify her. He looks at her face, trying desperately to look for any distinguishing features that resemble her before, when her face would light up a room, but she is completely unrecognisable now. Her throat had been slashed, like the others, but also her internal organs had been ripped out and her breasts cut off and placed around her body. It is like he saw his work as some kind of sick art.

Jacob reads the tagline, blaming the police for not doing their job properly when in truth the only person to blame is himself. He should have seen it. How could he not have known? Even his own wife had expressed her concern that the lad may ‘not be entirely right in the head’. But what did he do? He told her she was imagining things and that Jack was just merely enthusiastic to be in the Brotherhood.

But he took the creed too far. Twisted Jacob’s teachings to fit his own psychotic ideology. He should have expected this, and been more vigilant. That is his job, is it not? All those lives he put in danger, and all because he thought he was rescuing a little boy and giving him a better life. His father had always said he was naïve. He had told Jacob many years ago to not let personal feelings get in the way of a mission. His father had been right. All those years hating him, resenting him, thinking he knew better. And what did he have to show for it?

He had found the women on the streets of London, plying their unfortunate trade. It pained him to see them, so desperate to offer their bodies to strangers just to pay for their rent money. So he gave them a job. Thought he was giving them something to live for. A purpose. But in truth, all he had given them was an early grave. Polly, Anne, Elizabeth, Catherine and Mary. All dead because he was so blind to the truth.

Jack had blamed him for his mother’s death and the abuse he suffered in the asylum. Jacob was meant to protect London from the Blighters, after all, and yet he could not even protect the boy's mother. Perhaps he was right too. In the asylum, he saw an innocent boy, traumatised by the loss of his mother, a loss Jacob could relate to, and he thought he was giving him a second chance. What he was really doing was giving a troubled child the means to kill anonymously. He had doomed Whitechapel to this fate. He had killed them. No one could deny that Jacob Frye had blood on his hands and as far as he was concerned, he belonged in the ground too, right next to Jack.

Jacob’s nights are filled with terrors again. When he does eventually get to sleep, he sees visions of Jack; the havoc he wreaked, the darkness closing in. Some nights are better than others. When Y/N is here her presence can soothe him a little and help him to find comfort, temporarily at least. She sings sweet songs which lull him into a false sense of security.

But tonight is different. She is not here. She asked him if it was okay if she visits another patient tonight, a  boy with consumption, and he had said yes though he wishes he had not. He cannot settle. A full-grown man, unable to sleep without a lullaby. How pathetic, he thinks.

When sleep finally takes him, he dreams again. This time he is on a ship with Jack when he was just a boy. This vision is hazy, and it seems discoloured like he is watching the scene through tinted spectacles. Jack is excitably running around the ship, anxious to see India having never journeyed outside the English capital before.

“Jacob! Jacob catch me!” the young boy shouts, causing some heads to turn.

“Jack, quieten down now. You’re disrupting the other passengers,” Jacob scolds, though it is a younger version of himself. A version he hardly recognises.

“But I’m so excited Jacob! Come on catch me! Catch me!” The young boy runs in the opposite direction to Jacob.

He relents and goes to look for Jack, if anything to make sure that he is safe and doesn’t do something stupid like fall overboard. Clearly, Jack has forgotten that assassins have eagle vision. He follows Jack to below the deck and can faintly hear the sound of childish giggling underneath one of the tables.

“Hm I wonder where he could be?” says Jacob, trying to humour him. “Not here.” He checks behind a curtain, keeping up the act. “Nor here?” he says checking underneath a pile of linen. “I have absolutely no idea where he can be.” The giggling gets louder and as Jacob gets closer, he can see Jack’s feet poking out from under the table. “Or maybe,” he gets as close as he can. “He’s under the table!” He pulls Jack out by the feet, both of them laughing hysterically as he starts to tickle the boy relentlessly.

“Stop! Stop! You win!” Jack cries, still laughing. Suddenly his voice shifts, becoming deeper. “You win Jacob.” The scene changes. It becomes darker and hazier. He can smell burning and rotting flesh. “You’ve won and I have failed.” Jacob and Jack are no longer the younger versions of themselves and Jack stands opposite him, his face covered with a white sheet as he cleans the blood from his blade. “How does it feel? To have won, yet to have so little? Except my name will live on forever. Jack the Ripper. But what will they say of you?” Jack strides towards him, causing Jacob to take a step back. “Coward!” Jack yells in his face, making him jump in fear. “That’s what they’ll say. The man who sat back and did nothing while Whitechapel burned.”

Jacob feels himself backing away but Jack is faster and lunges at him, slashing his knife madly. He feels the pain of the knife cutting his eye as if it is real. He feels the pressure of Jack’s bodyweight upon him. And then he feels nothing but emptiness.

“Jacob,” he says, taunting him again. “Jacob. Jacob. Jacob”

“Jacob. Jacob, can you hear me?” Y/N says as he is thrashing in his bed, the sheets coiling around his overheated body. She tries to hold him still in case he tears out his stitches, but his strength vastly outweighs hers.

“Go away! I want no part of this,” he sobs. A slick sheen of sweat is covering his skin, despite the fact the room is freezing as he had insisted on sleeping with the window creaked open.

“Jacob it’s just a dream. Can you hear me? Jacob?” she persists, trying to break him free from his trance.

His eye flickers open and he sits up quickly, pushing her away violently but entirely accidentally. She falls back, hitting the back of her head on the corner of the side table.

“Shit…” she says as she sits up. She touches her head and sees that there is blood on her hand.

“I…I didn’t mean…” he says, panic rising in his voice as he realises what he has done. He tries to get up and help her, but the pain is too strong for him. He slumps back down, rubbing his temples. “Wh-why are you here?”

“I left my bag behind,” she says, wiping the blood from her hand with a cloth.

“I’m sorry, I…”

“It’s alright Mr Frye, I know you didn’t mean to hurt me,” she pulls herself up off the floor and fetches him a fresh wet cloth to wipe away the sweat from his brow. She is not angry. Only sorry for him, not even having the solace of sleep to take away the hurt that he feels when he is awake. He despises her pity, and she must know that she is out of her depth with him. She should just let him go. They all should.

Can they even heal him? To heal a wound of the leg you can stitch it up, apply heat, douse with carbolic acid, and wrap in fresh bandages every day. In time only a scar will remain. The leg will function as it did before. But how does one heal a wound of the mind? There is no disinfectant to solve that problem. He would never be the man he once was. He would never be Jacob Frye again.

“Are you not going to sort your head out?” he asks, waves of guilt washing over him.

“In a moment. It’s not a deep cut, it’s fine.”

“I’m sorry, I thought you were-”

“I know who you thought I was.” She rummages through the bag she left and offers him a small vial of laudanum. She holds it to his mouth, and he opens reluctantly. “Go back to sleep, Mr Frye. I will check on you again in the morning.”

The following morning, as promised, Y/N enters his room, opening the creaking door and carrying a tray, to find that Jacob is staring up at the ceiling, his breathing slow. He has tried to clear his mind of Jack, the women, his friends, but he simply cannot. No matter how hard he tries the dreams persist. She sets the tray on the bedside. “Feeling any better this morning?” she asks, hopefully.

“No,” he replies bluntly, disappointing her yet again. “I’m not hungry.”

“Please?”

He sighs and tries to sit up, Y/N helping him and placing the pillow behind his back. She slowly feeds him, and he takes in a few spoonfuls before declining anymore.

“Tea?” she asks him.

He shakes his head in response. “How is your head?” he asks. His guilt was so overwhelming the previous night and he feared that she may never return. And he was loath to admit it, but he was glad of her company sometimes. Her presence kept him grounded in reality, just when he felt as if we were on the very the edge of it, losing the will to keep clinging on.

She is taken aback by the question momentarily. There is a softness in his voice that he has not used with her before, only anger and bluntness. Oddly, with his guilt for harming her, he feels a sense of his humanity returning. He could do nothing for those he had mistreated in the past, but he could do something in the present, for her.

“Healing. Don’t worry yourself about it. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“I…” his voice trails off and his cheeks flush, still embarrassed that he cannot do it alone. “I need to piss.”

“Alright,” she says, reaching under the bed and retrieving the chamber pot. “I need you to swing your legs over the side of the bed,” she asks.

He nods and tries to move his legs but recoils when the pain is too much.

“Here, let me,” she says and proceeds to move his legs for him. It still hurts him, but he is at least in a position where he will not wet the bed. She begins to unbutton his long johns and pulls them down just far enough. She reaches for the pot and holds it in place.  When he is done, she rebuttons him up and helps him back into the bed. She picks up the pot and walks towards the door, trying not to spill anything onto the carpet. She had done so once before, tripping over her bag, and he was surprised to find himself laughing with her over it. She manages to bring out the best in him and he has no idea how. Or why.  “I have the most glamorous of jobs,” she jokes, and a faint smile appears on his lips again. “I will leave you be for the evening,” she says, and he feels himself wishing that she would not. Could he ask her to stay? Keep him company? Or was that overstepping? Was their relationship merely professional? “Sleep well, Mr Frye.”

“Now Mr Frye,” says Y/N as she enters her room. “I am wondering if you are strong enough for a bath today?” He grunts in response which she takes to mean ‘yes’. She brings the metallic bath up to his room and starts to fill it up with hot water.

When the bath is ready, she strips Jacob of his clothes and helps him into the tin tub. She begins to wash his wounds that are now starting to heal with a cloth, grazing over them gently. He is taking much less laudanum than he was before, slowly weaning himself off the horrid stuff. Physically he is healing well, if remaining at a standstill mentally. The swelling around his eyes has gone down and he is starting to gain a little weight, which is something. She pours a little lavender oil into the water, the pleasant smell easing his tension a jot.

As she moves further down his body, a sensation is awakened in him and he feels his cheeks turn a crimson red.  “Mr Frye, don’t be nervous. I have bathed men a thousand times before,” she says in reassurance. That was easy for her to say, he thinks, as he recalls that she is the first woman to touch him in a very long time. Although there is nothing intimate about this act, he knows that, the feeling he gets from it is a clear indicator of just how starved he is. His wife had left a long time ago and there had not truly been anyone else since. He is not even sure if he had ever really loved her in the first place but simply had to marry her for the sake of their son. It only now occurs to him that he has never had strong feelings for a woman, or a man, in his entire life.

His body reacts in response to her, ignoring his inert protests, and he wishes to die once more as it is impossible for her to not notice. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean…” He turns away, looking embarrassed now that she has seen him and his arousal.

“It’s fine Mr Frye, you would be surprised how often that happens,” she jokes, laughing a little to try to lighten the mood but his anxious expression does not change. “It’s nothing to worry about.” But he does worry. How can he not worry? She smiles and helps him out of the tub, sitting him down and drying him with a towel. She helps him back into his nightclothes and into his bed, giving him his last bit of laudanum for the day. She sits beside him for a moment.

“Thank you,” he says when all grows quiet.

“What for?” she asks, her face as radiant as ever.

“Everything.”

She pauses, and he wonders if he has made her uncomfortable. That was certainly not his intent and now he feels mortified as ever. However, her demeanour changes. Not of unease but of sorrow. “I do know a little of what you are going through, Mr Frye. My child died. She was only four years old. There was an accident on a boat. She drowned and I could not save her.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, unsure how else to offer comfort. “Is that why you choose to save others now?”

“Yes, I suppose. I have no family left so it is easier to throw myself into a job. One that may bring happiness to others, if not myself. Even though it is supposedly not a job for women." She sighs and rolls her eyes and he realises that her gender had never even occurred to him. Why others thought that it was their place to judge what a woman could or could not do was beyond him and she was by far the best doctor he had ever encountered. Many would say that women could not fight either but Evie was living proof of that utter lie. 

"Bollocks!" he exclaims, which earns a giggle from her.

"You are unlike the other men, Mr Frye. There is a kindness in you. Our situations differ but I do know what it feels like to have a gaping hole in your heart. To only feel like half a person. It does get better in time, trust me.”

She is about to leave him in peace, as she normally does, but as she draws away he grabs her wrist, almost instinctively, and gently pulls her back. “Stay,” is all he says. He knows he is going too far. He knows what he asks is going beyond what she is required to do. He knows she can never want him.

But she does not pull away. She nods and moves closer to him, sitting on the side of the bed. His head falls natural into her lap. He closes his eyes and she softly strokes his hair, making light circles with her fingers. She sings to him again, making him feel completely at peace as he breaths in the familiar smell of lavender, now on him as well as her, and that is the last he remembers before drifting off to sleep.

Time passes and they enter the season of winter, the autumn of terror now a distant memory. As distant as it ever could be. Y/N was nursing him back to health and he was close to being able to walk on his own without assistance again. His nights were still plagued with anguish, but the horrors were becoming less frequent as when he woke, he was able to distinguish fiction from reality. He had grown closer to her. He was able to make her laugh and she always smiled for him. She began to sing Christmas carols to him, read to him, stay with him and talk about anything and everything. He found himself growing less reliant on laudanum and more so on the sweet scent of lavender.

A man lingers in the doorway. He looks up and for a moment he thinks that it is Jack. The ghost of Christmas past come to haunt him. But he was gone, and Jacob would let him pervade his thoughts no longer. He looks again, really looks, and sees a man who looks much like a younger version of himself. Top hat, sideburns, arrogant smile. It is almost like looking in a mirror. “Emmett?” he asks the figure, sitting up in his bed and grabbing a shirt to cover his bare chest.

“Father,” the man says, rather coldly which tugs on Jacob’s heart. His son had gone off to India years ago, chasing the dream of becoming a master assassin. Yet another person to leave Jacob. Alone. Though the fault was not all his, Jacob had made little effort to stay in contact after he left, feeling hurt. And now the boy, no longer a boy, stands in front of him and Jacob would not have recognised his own child if not for the physical similarity between them.

“H-how?” Jacob stutters, not sure how to talk to him. Not sure if he even cared.

“Aunt Evie wrote to me,” the younger man tells him. He had not wanted his son to see him like this. Evie had no right to send for him. But he was here now.

“I hear the bastard is dead. It’s just a shame that it took you this long to figure it out.” His voice is sharp but lacks the rage that Jacob would have expected of him.

He is right though; Jacob should have seen it sooner. He takes in a deep, cool breath. “I know,” he all but whispers, no immediate words coming to his defence.

“I never understood why you preferred him.”

Jacob looks at him, knotted brows and a sombre frown. “What? Is that what you think? That I loved Jack more than you?”

“Is it not true? Did you not devote more time to him? Care for him more?”

Jacob shakes his head vehemently, creaking his neck as he does so. “He was always getting into trouble. Always bothering someone. You were good, like your mother. I apologise that it felt that way, but I assure you, Emmett, I have always loved you. And always will.”

“You never loved mother, did you?”

He shakes his head more softly now, recalling the woman he was once married to. And thinking about his feelings now. “No. I did not. But I respected her. I am sorry things have turned out this way son. Truly. I wish I could go back and change things. To not lose you. You deserve so much better than a father like me.”

Emmett pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs heavily. He takes a few short strides towards Jacob’s bed and sits on the wooden chair, where Y/N reads her stories to him. “I’ve hated you for so long. I came here to give you a piece of my mind. But now that I am here, I cannot see the point. It seems that you have suffered enough.”

“Would it be too much to ask to start over?” he asks. Begs.

“Maybe. Maybe not. We’ll see.” He will take that, he thinks. It is better than a ‘no’. He will make damn sure this time that he does not make the same stupid mistakes.

“Jacob?” says Y/N as she walks into the room to find him on his feet without any assistance. The month of December had seen him improve greatly to the point that he is now mobile enough to walk short distances on his own. And he has not had a nightmare for a week now. Jack was finally being swept away in the fog and he is just about ready to move on with his life. “You’re standing!” she exclaims, rushing over to him excitedly.

“Will you accompany me somewhere?” he asks her, and she looks unsure for a moment before nodding.

“Of course, if you think you’re up to it,” she says but hands him a cane, just in case. Little does she know that the cane has a blade inside. He had told her a little of what he does. Or did, before this whole ordeal. She had seemed a little apprehensive of the brotherhood at first but soon acknowledged that it was a necessary evil and that himself and his sister did what they did for the protection of others.

They walk through the London market, on this cold Christmas Eve, arm in arm, as the first flakes of virgin snow fall around them. She asks him multiple times where they are headed but he will not give her what she asks for. He wishes it to be a surprise.

“You are really doing rather well at walking, Mr Frye,” she says as she watches him put one foot in front of the other. A feat that he thought impossible two months ago. “I did not expect you to be up and about so soon. But then I suppose it helps that you were physically fit beforehand.”

“Oh really? You think I am fit, do you? Noted,” he says in a coy manner, joking with her, but nevertheless makes a mental note that she only giggles in response and does not object to what he insinuated.

They walk on, listening to the carol singers- who are most definitely not in the right key, as they continue onwards to his destination. Finally, he stops in front of a market stall selling Christmas trees. Y/N stares at him curiously. “You want a Christmas tree?”

“Why not? It is Christmas, after all. You’re looking at me as though I’m trying to buy a tree for Easter,” he says, with a smirk.

“No no, there is nothing wrong with it. I just got the impression from your sister that you were not celebrating Christmas this year,” she informs him.

“Evie never likes Christmas. And well,” he pauses, shifting on his feet and rubbing his hands in the cold. He breathes out a long breath, seeing the steam coming from his mouth before him. “I think I am doing a lot better now. Physically I am fine. The nightmares are beginning to fade. I have a relationship with my son again. And there’s you,” he says, and he swears he can see her blushing. “My point is, why not celebrate?”

She smiles widely. “I happen to agree with your assessment, Mr Frye.”

“I think you can call me Jacob now,” he assures her. She was always so formal which made him wonder if she did in fact see him as anything more than a patient or if he had merely painted a false picture inside his own head. Because it often felt like something more to him.

“All right, Jacob. Which tree shall we buy?” He smiles at the use of his first name, his fears quelled.

“You can choose,” he says.

She looks around for a few moments, feeling the pines in between her fingers before she lands on the perfect tree. “We’ll take this one please,” she says to the stall owner and passes him the money.

“That one?” asks Jacob as he looks at the smallest tree on the stall, slightly wonky and with half of the pines missing. Hardly the most beautiful one there.

“Yes. Let’s take this unfortunate soul and make it look marvellous again,” she says, and he nods in agreement. The tree was much like him, decrepit with parts missing. But with care, it could be whole again.

The tree looks wonderful when they are finished decorating, and he feels like a boy again when Christmas was the most exciting time of the year. They had purchased some baubles on the way back, stumbling along the street with as much as they could possibly carry. They gaze at the almost completed project now, feeling a little bit brighter. Only the star is left. He hands it to her, shimmering silver, and gives her the honour. She climbs atop a chair and places it at the head of the tree. The chair fails to support her and soon she loses her balance, stumbling backwards and into his arms. “Thank you, Mr- erm, Jacob,” she mutters as he helps her to her feet.

“It looks perfect,” he says, smiling more now than he has smiled in months. 

Suddenly, the front door opens, allowing the cold air from outside to invade their home. Evie and Emmett enter, carrying bags of food from the market with them. Both gaze at the tree with great surprise. “I thought we agreed we would not be celebrating Christmas,” Evie mumbles as she puts the bags in the kitchen.

“No, you said we weren’t so that meant we weren’t,” Jacob argues back at her, almost feeling like they were children once more.

“It’s Christmas Eve, Jacob. We’re hardly prepared.”

“I suppose you don’t want the present I got you then,” he says and when Evie notices him grinning at the thought of festivities, she gladly relents.

That evening they spend some time together: drinking, chatting, and playing games. Just like old times. Later on, Abberline joins them and wins a few rounds whist against Jacob. “You dark horse!” he says, as Freddie smugly takes his winnings. It is nice to reconnect with Freddie again, he thinks, and he owes the man a huge debt of gratitude for taking the fall for him. Emmett beats him at whist also, and Jacob vows in the new year he will not let that happen again. As the night goes on, Abberline returns to his own family and Emmett goes to the pub, leaving Jacob jealous that he cannot go as both Evie and Y/N tell him that he is not ready for that. And that another new year’s resolution of his should be to never drink again which he knows to be sensible, but he can still sulk about it, nonetheless.

After some time, Y/N goes upstairs for a nap, leaving just Evie and Jacob alone. “You seem so much better, Jacob. You seem yourself again,” Evie says to him as he shuffles some cards.

“I am not completely there. But I am trying,” he replies with a half-smile.

“I’m grateful. For a moment I thought I’d lost you for good.”

“I suppose we should make the most of the time we have left together,” he says to her. She had said that she would stay in London, but he presumed that meant until he was able to look after himself. Now that he was getting there, she was likely itching to get back to Greenie. 

However, she is now looking at him puzzled as her brows are furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“You must be needed back in India soon?”

“Jacob, I meant what I said. I am never leaving you again. I should never have left in the first place.” He feels the sincerity in her words as she takes both his hands in hers and holds them tightly.

“Evie, you should stop blaming yourself. You had the right to have your own life, we’re not joined at the hip,” he assures her.

“We are now, so get used to it. I’m here for good. With you.”

“And Henry…?”

“Will have to cope without me.”

“Could he come here?”

“We were not getting on for some time, even before I left. I think it is for the best that we remain separate.” Her eyes drop down and he can see the longterm suffering in her expression. He had no idea things had gotten so bad between them.

“Oh. Evie, I’m sorry.”

“It is fine. Sometimes things just don't work out," she says sadly but her demeanour quickly changes, as does the topic of conversation. "But speaking of love, have you told Y/N how you feel yet?”

Now it is his turn to be puzzled. He knows what she is getting at and he knows, deep down, that she is far from wrong. But how did she know? Had he truly been that obvious? Did Y/N know? Then why had she not said anything? Was she trying to preserve his feelings? “How I feel?” he asks her, pretending to be ignorant.

“Don’t be a fool, Jacob. You’re my twin, I can tell when you’re in love.”

“I um…”

“You what?”

“Evie, come now. I’m in my forties. She’s young, beautiful, intelligent.”

“You’re…all right you’re none of those things. But I think the feeling is still mutual.”

“She said something to you?”

“No. She is very private. But Jacob, she was only meant to be here for a week or two. That’s all Abberline paid her for. When her time was up, I expected her to go and leave the rest to me but she never said anything so I let her stay. She was the only one who could get through to you, so I wasn’t prepared to turn away any help. You needed to talk to someone.”

“It was easier to talk to a stranger,” he replies, feeling a tad guilty over how he had treated her in the earlier days. She had not deserved his anger. Nobody had. He had been angry at himself and she had taken the brunt of it. For her perseverance, he vowed to repay her.

“It’s all right Jacob, I’m not upset that you didn’t talk to me. That’s not the point I’m making here. I’m saying she went far beyond her payroll in helping you. That must tell you something.”

“That she is very committed to her job?”

“Jacob Frye, you are impossibly stubborn! Where do you get it from?” she says, in that old coy tone that she used to have and that he has missed so very much. Could they really go back to how they were? In the old days? He had thought it impossible but now he is not so sure. Perhaps they truly could be the infamous Frye twins once more.

“Same place as you, Evie Frye.”

That night, as midnight approaches, Jacob notices Y/N slip silently out of the front door with her luggage in tow. This is his only opportunity. He has to tell her now. He follows her out of the door and onto the street where she is loading her belongings onto a carriage. “Y/N, wait! You’re leaving?” he says, perhaps a little too loudly as the few other people on the street stop and stare.

She turns to him with that beautiful, warm smile that he has grown so accustomed to. The smile that his days will be much darker without if she leaves him. “You’re healing and happy, Mr Frye. My work here is done. You should spend Christmas with your family.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” he says, taking a few steps towards her.

“I’m not supposed to get attached to my patients,” she replies, unembracing. "I have already outstayed my welcome."

“Ah. I understand,” he says, looking down at the snow beneath his feet. He takes in the deepest of breaths, shivering underneath the moonlight with no coat on his back. He exhales, bracing himself. “Except I’m in love with you.”

She stares, her eyes giving nothing away. “Jacob…”

“No, I know what you are going to say. I know that I am old and undesirable, but I just wished you to know. You saved me, Y/N. I would be still wallowing in a pit of despair if not for you and I may even be dead. I will always be grateful. And I will always love you. I er, got you a gift. Wait there.” He quickly goes back inside the house and emerges with a lilac box covered in a glimmering aureate bow.

“What is it?” she asks as she takes it from him.

“Open it,” he replies, watching eagerly as she unties the bow and opens the box. “Lavender perfume. I noticed that you had run out.”

She looks pleased as she examines the exquisite bottle and places it in her bag. “Jacob, I don’t know what to say...”

“Then don’t say anything. Would it be so bad to spend Christmas with us? You can leave after that. I will pester you no longer.”

“I really shouldn’t.”

“All right," he nods, not wishing to push her any further, and stuffs his freezing hands inside his pockets. "Goodbye, then. Safe journey.” He takes the hint, sad that she will be gone but happy to have had the time with her that he has. He waves to her. She waves back and this time he can see a hint of a glimmer of misery in her Y/E/C eyes. He turns his back to her, walking back to the door when all of a sudden he feels a gentle hand take his. She spins him around and places a gentle kiss on his lips. He pulls away a moment, unexpecting, before taking her in his arms and kissing her more passionately, vigorously. She drapes her arms around his neck, and he pulls her as close as he can, feeling the warmth of her body against his. She smiles against him, the smell of lavender permeating the cold Christmas air. He releases her from the kiss, cupping her cheeks with his large hands. “You will stay?”

She nods accordingly. “You have helped me too, Jacob,” she says, almost a whisper. “Caring for you has made me realise something about myself.”

“What is that?” he asks.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

A group of carol singers emerge in the park opposite the house, with handbells and drums, singing Silent Night. He takes her hand again as they dance slowly around the lit street, underneath the moonlight and falling snow. He will make the most of this fresh start. He will make the most of her.

The clock tower of the nearby church chimes for midnight. Christmas Day descends upon them. A new year would permanently say goodbye to the events of the last. Jack was gone, a memory of another life, and he would never return. “Happy Christmas Doctor,” he says.

“Happy Christmas Jacob,” she replies, and, after some time, they take her belongs back inside the house.