Chapter Text
With a great whoosh the world returned to Reid. Unintelligible, muffled noise rushed through his ears and his vision swam with blurred swirls of shadows and light and vague, fuzzy shapes. His body was numb and sluggish deadweight. His right cheekbone slammed into something flat and unforgiving, but he did not feel any pain. The rest of his body followed with a dull thud. The jarring collision jerked his body and he recognized the unfailing weight of gravity behind the impact, but could not recall why he had fallen.
An object flopped to the ground in front of his face. When it stilled, he realized, as the haze trickled from his mind and his vision cleared, that it was his own left hand. A pair of worn boots landed in the dust beyond his arm. They were neither Jackson’s nor Drake’s shoes, but Reid knew he had seen them before. The sight of them triggered a flood of memories. He remembered he was in a carriage warehouse, surrounded by a labyrinth of lumber and equipment, and their quarry - a delinquent named Vincent - had caught him by surprise and attacked him. Those shoes were Vincent’s, and they vanished from view as he sprinted away.
Reid tried to push himself up to pursue Vincent, but his muscles quivered under the strain. Pain splintered through his right cheek and across his left shoulder, as if he had been stabbed with an ice pick, and a blunt, deep seated throb pulsated across the middle of his back. Reid drew a sharp breath, and then sagged back to the dirty ground with a shocked, muted groan.
“Reid! You see him?” Drake yelled from somewhere beyond the piles of lumber, sounding like an excited hounddog in pursuit of its prey.
Reid opened his mouth to answer, but new pain blossomed over the left side of his head and grew stronger with each beat of his heart until it felt as though a hammer had been taken to his head. Reid winced and moaned, then blinked as something slithered over his left temple and ran down into his eye. It stung. Groggy, he lifted his head and clumsily wiped his eye on the bandage covering his right hand. The bandage turned bright red. Blood. His blood.
Drake’s shoes pulled to a stop at Reid’s side. Drake was breathing hard. “Sir-” The excitement in Drake’s voice melted into concern.
Reid did not lift his head to look up at Drake. He recognized they did not have the luxury of doting over his injuries. If they did not catch Vincent now, he would likely go to ground and take with him their lead and hopes of finding the Haynes child. “Go...Find Vincent,” he growled as a wave of nausea swept through his belly. Drake did not argue. The Sergeant sped off after Vincent and Reid listened to his footfalls fade into the distance.
Jackson was only a moment behind Drake.
“Jesus... Reid!” Jackson dropped to a knee beside Reid’s shoulder. “Reid, you alright?”
“Jackson…go with...Drake...” Reid breathed between sharp, inconsistent breaths.
“I think you nee–”
“Go,” Reid blurted, putting as much emphasis behind the word as he could muster. He turned his head and strained to look up at Jackson.
The doctor was out of breath and disheveled from running, but otherwise unscathed. One of Jackson’s hands was outstretched, as if to touch Reid, and his alarmed, wide eyes surveyed Reid’s face. Reid knew that look. He had seen Jackson use it many times before. It was the gaze of a battlefield doctor, one designed to masterfully assess and prioritize medical necessity as quickly as possible, but the seconds were flying by and Drake needed backup. Drake was the most formidable physical asset Reid had ever had on his team, but that did not mean he wanted Drake facing Vincent alone if it could be helped.
“You’ll go... Drake’s alone,” said Reid, trying to glare.
Jackson frowned, but then the concern in his expression faded and his features hardened. He rose to his feet, nodded, and raced away after Drake.
Reid let his head slump down to his right forearm, waited until he could no longer hear Jackson running, and then released an unhindered, raspy groan. He felt battered, broken, and ill. Pain reverberated through his body. His blood dripped onto the floor and he trembled as a shiver rolled through him. Part of him wanted to give in and rest. It would feel so delightful and comforting to slip into a deep slumber, but that would not do. A little girl was counting on them. Even if she were not, he could not remain on the filthy floor of some dingy warehouse. Begrudgingly, he gathered his fortitude and prepared to lift himself from the ground.
He drew a steadying breath, clenched his jaw, and tried to push himself up. He had scarcely begun to move before the pain in his left shoulder exploded again and the arm collapsed. Reid let loose a howl as he folded back to the ground and his face contorted with the intense discomfort. “Eeeah!” The intensity subsided as he stopped moving and he groaned low and long. Something was definitely amiss with his left shoulder, damage beyond what he could tolerate or repair on his own, and his frustration rose at the thought of enduring another round of medical care. Edmund Reid had already had his fill of doctors long ago.
If his left arm was useless, maybe he could use his right. Reid wiped a trickle of blood from his left brow and settled his weight upon his right elbow. Slowly, carefully, he pushed himself up until he could latch onto a sturdy looking crate and drag himself into a sitting position. Then he flopped back against a stack of wooden crates. A wave of chills and nausea washed over him. He leaned his head back against the crates and closed his eyes, hoping the sensations would pass, but in the darkness behind his eyelids, the world began to spin. He opened his eyes and drew in a long, slow breath through his nose to try and quell the nausea and vertigo. It worked, but it did nothing to alleviate the aches and pains thumping through the rest of his body. A line of blood oozed down his temple and then his cheek, but he did not bother to wipe it away. He did not want to chance stirring up that sick feeling again. The blood slipped down, followed the line of his jaw to his chin, and dripped off onto his shirt.
Reid took stock. A dusty layer of filth coated his front from the tips of his shoes as far up as he could see. His left arm was useless, as was his right hand, and his back was sore, but did not feel severely injured. The blood dripping from his pounding head was worrisome. He could not see the injury, but he reminded himself that head wounds tended to bleed beyond their fair share and it was a good sign he was conscious.
The frigid night air seeped into his clothing and licked at his skin. He shivered, hissing when it caused his left shoulder to twitch. He thought of his high-back chair in front of his fireplace - the one tall enough he could rest his head upon its cushion and doze to the cozy, warm tune of a crackling fire. Reid’s thoughts drifted to his bed and all the warm blankets which waited to wrap him up in a cocoon of soft warmth. He used to wrap himself around Emily at night. He recalled the easy rhythm of her chest rising and falling as she rested in peaceful slumber. Maybe Jackson would take her place? The scenes in his mind were ominously inviting, lulling, and it was with a quiet gasp that he realized he had nearly fallen asleep and snapped his eyes open. He could not fall asleep in the warehouse.
If none of Vincent’s cohorts followed their merry pursuit, it was likely he was alone in the warehouse. That was the best case scenario for, if one of the other delinquents showed themselves now, Reid was in no condition to render any manner of opposition. Thankfully, the only sound Reid heard was the muted ringing in his ears and it was quite possible he could unabashedly rest in peace until Jackson or Drake reported back. He imagined the disappointment in Drake’s eyes and the earful he might receive from Jackson upon their return. His undignified appearance was hardly becoming of leadership. The best option was to leave the warehouse. However, following after Jackson and Drake was not an option. Even if he located them, in his present condition he would only be a hindrance to their efforts, a liability, and he wanted to give them every chance at catching Vincent. Vincent was their only lead now. It was imperative Vincent be questioned. Reid decided to head back to the maria.
Keeping his back against the crates and using his right arm to steady himself, Reid pulled his legs up and, clumsily, pushed himself up to stand. The task, which should have been simple and relatively easy, left him mildly winded and a little dizzy. He stood still for a moment to catch his breath and ensure he was solidly on his feet. Then, cautiously, he turned and headed for the exit one careful step at a time. As he did, his mind whirred through the details of their case and the little shoe which had been dropped off at their doorstep.
It was a small shoe. Mathilda has once worn shoes that size, when she was about five years of age and more inclined to sit upon his lap. Occasionally, when their family would take carriage rides...he stopped beside a rack of lumber slats as the memory ignited his detective’s intuition.
Earlier, in the Dead Room at the station, Jackson had discovered it was cattle dung which soiled the sole of the Haynes girl’s shoe. That clue, when coupled with the linseed oil found on the shoelaces, had led them to the docks and cattle yards. However, Jackson had also said linseed oil might be used on carriages.
There were no cattle in the building that Reid could tell, but the uncanny coincidence of their arriving at a carriage warehouse nagged at Reid. It was their suspect, Vincent, who had led them there, presumably in an attempt to escape. Reid pondered whether or not the villain possibly had another motive. Curiosity made Detective Inspector Edmund Reid turn around and lumber over to a rack to inspect a shelf of tins. The words were tainted with shadows and difficult to read given the pain in his head, but he squinted and read the words aloud.
“Linseed oil,” he whispered.
Reid gasped. His curiosity roiled into instinct and he knew in his gut the Haynes girl, Emily Haynes, was closer than he could have dared to imagine only moments ago. He swayed unsteadily as he turned around to appraise the contents of the warehouse. He swept his gaze over its innards, hunting for clues as to where he should begin his search for Emily Haynes. She could be anywhere in the maze of lumber, crates, parts, tools and equipment, and half-completed carriages.
If she was here and Vincent had not located her during his escape, she had hidden herself well. Or, Vincent may well have found her and killed her as he fled capture, but Reid chose to believe she was still alive. He needed to believe it. However, if the girl was still alive after Vincent’s escape, it did not mean her life was no longer in jeopardy. This was a perilous area for children during the day, but now, in the darkness of night under the sinister influence of Whitechapel’s criminals, the dangers to children were multiplied.
“Emily.”
He could not remember the last time he had spoken that name; The name which belonged to his dead wife. Until now he had been referring to the child by her surname, calling her ‘the Haynes girl.’ The name left his lips strong, emphatic, but halfway through its pronunciation, a wave of nausea rolled through his belly and up his throat, and he all but mumbled the last syllable. He quieted and swallowed against the feeling of ill, hoping to pacify it. It abated. Once he was satisfied he could continue, Reid trudged back toward the interior of the warehouse floor and the half-finished carriages near the center.
Exhaustion slowed Reid’s feet. He swayed again as he approached the first carriage and leaned against it on his right forearm to steady himself. Then he leaned in to study the interior of the carriage. The carriage was nearly finished, but it was small and did not have space for even a small child to hide well. He checked twice to be sure. Then he pushed away from the carriage and lumbered on to the next. He studied the second carriage just as he did the first, and again found no clues of Emily Haynes’ whereabouts. By the time he reached the fourth carriage, he was winded again and stopped to catch his breath.
“Emily,” he rasped between breaths. “Emily Haynes. I am…” he leaned back against the frame of the carriage. “Detective Inspector… Edmund Reid.” Reid felt light headed. He slid down the smooth wood to sit on the floor and rest, grunting and wincing as his left arm was jostled in the process and pain bolted up to his neck. “Come out, child.” He allowed his head to fall back against the hard wood of the carriage. “I know villains stole you away… and... brought you to this place…” Reid straightened his legs, letting the soles of his shoes push lazily across the ground. “It is my intention... to return you to your home.” Reid’s mouth felt dry. “Thus, you must make yourself known to me… before the villains return.” He listened then, desperate to hear movement within the maze he had embedded himself in, but all was quiet. Reid could not think of anything else pertinent to say. His mind was fuzzy and his thoughts bordered on incoherent, and so he said the only word which came to mind.
“Please.”
Then Reid closed his eyes to rest. Only for a moment. Just for a few breaths. Just long enough to gather his energy so he could resume his search. When he opened them, a little girl in a blue dress stood by his feet.