(no subject)
It was the smell that first got through to him. Phnom Penh, especially the slums, had a very distinct smell to them. As did Victorian London. John Druitt was familiar with both of those smells, and even through his drugged haze, he realized that something was different.
If it had been any other shift, from Phnom Penh to tropical, or even to a major city, he would have just assumed he had teleported without recalling it. He had never done that before, that he could recall, but with the drugs in his system it could have been plausible.
Phnom Penh smelled of people, so many people so close together mingled with food and animals and the dust on the streets. London though, his London from so long ago, was a heavier smell. Damp with fog mixed with the stink of the Thames assaulted his senses and a strange sense of belonging came over him.
A sense of nostalgia and pain washed over him all at once. His time with Helen, perhaps the closest they had ever been, and in a way the happiest time of his life, all took place during that time in history. There were other, darker memories lurking there though. Blonde women cut open, muffled screams in the night, and so very much blood. Worst of all, he could remember how good it felt, how much he had enjoyed the killing. Yes, it had been the creature inside of him that had driven him to do it and it was the creature who had taken pleasure in it, but the memories of those things were as clear as day to him. Even knowing what had been responsible, it was difficult to differentiate his own feelings of horror and guilt from that of the creature.
For a moment, John was afraid that the setting would awaken the creature more strongly than ever. Not only were the normally overpowering sensations of the energy being not there, he felt completely devoid of any of its influence. Purged of them.
He could have given a strangled cry of joy, but already his mind was reeling with the ramifications of this fact. He had no way to locate the creature now that it was free, and while he knew that must be a priority (it was far too dangerous to be allowed to roam free) he currently lacked the resource to do so. Besides, if he was in Victorian London and this wasn’t just some sort of drugged induced dream, there was something more pressing to take care of. Helen.
He had to find her. Druitt had to warn her about himself, about who he really was. Depending on precisely when this was, he might not have started his murderous career of Jack the Ripper just yet. Even if he had, if he could just find Helen he could convince her to act now, before any more had to die. If not Helen, then Watson would believe him. Watson was analytical enough to be able to accept what John was saying and once he explained, once he entered the possibility into Watson’s head that John Druitt was Jack the Ripper, Watson would connect the dots.
But Helen, Helen would be the first he would look for. Had to be. It was always Helen that he sought out, who he came to when she called or when he needed something. If they could find his younger self and trap him, free him of the creature, then John might have a chance at the life he had always wanted. Helen wouldn’t reject him and everything that had happened as a result of that would be fixed. They could have a family, they could run the Sanctuary together… all of it would be changed.
But first, he had to find her. All he needed was a moment to get his bearings. He had to be careful though, he knew how out of place he must look and the last thing he needed was to be picked up by the Constabulary, especially in his current state. He couldn’t risk teleporting, not when the creature might reenter him, but that didn’t matter much. Even after all this time, he knew London and he knew Helen. He would find her soon, and then he would put things right.
The old ways came to him naturally, and perhaps it was more rote memory than anything conscious that lead him to Helen's doorstop. His mind was still addled, but he couldn't spare the time to sober up. He had to convince her now, before it was too late.
"Helen!" he called out, pounding on the door. "Helen, it's John..."
If it had been any other shift, from Phnom Penh to tropical, or even to a major city, he would have just assumed he had teleported without recalling it. He had never done that before, that he could recall, but with the drugs in his system it could have been plausible.
Phnom Penh smelled of people, so many people so close together mingled with food and animals and the dust on the streets. London though, his London from so long ago, was a heavier smell. Damp with fog mixed with the stink of the Thames assaulted his senses and a strange sense of belonging came over him.
A sense of nostalgia and pain washed over him all at once. His time with Helen, perhaps the closest they had ever been, and in a way the happiest time of his life, all took place during that time in history. There were other, darker memories lurking there though. Blonde women cut open, muffled screams in the night, and so very much blood. Worst of all, he could remember how good it felt, how much he had enjoyed the killing. Yes, it had been the creature inside of him that had driven him to do it and it was the creature who had taken pleasure in it, but the memories of those things were as clear as day to him. Even knowing what had been responsible, it was difficult to differentiate his own feelings of horror and guilt from that of the creature.
For a moment, John was afraid that the setting would awaken the creature more strongly than ever. Not only were the normally overpowering sensations of the energy being not there, he felt completely devoid of any of its influence. Purged of them.
He could have given a strangled cry of joy, but already his mind was reeling with the ramifications of this fact. He had no way to locate the creature now that it was free, and while he knew that must be a priority (it was far too dangerous to be allowed to roam free) he currently lacked the resource to do so. Besides, if he was in Victorian London and this wasn’t just some sort of drugged induced dream, there was something more pressing to take care of. Helen.
He had to find her. Druitt had to warn her about himself, about who he really was. Depending on precisely when this was, he might not have started his murderous career of Jack the Ripper just yet. Even if he had, if he could just find Helen he could convince her to act now, before any more had to die. If not Helen, then Watson would believe him. Watson was analytical enough to be able to accept what John was saying and once he explained, once he entered the possibility into Watson’s head that John Druitt was Jack the Ripper, Watson would connect the dots.
But Helen, Helen would be the first he would look for. Had to be. It was always Helen that he sought out, who he came to when she called or when he needed something. If they could find his younger self and trap him, free him of the creature, then John might have a chance at the life he had always wanted. Helen wouldn’t reject him and everything that had happened as a result of that would be fixed. They could have a family, they could run the Sanctuary together… all of it would be changed.
But first, he had to find her. All he needed was a moment to get his bearings. He had to be careful though, he knew how out of place he must look and the last thing he needed was to be picked up by the Constabulary, especially in his current state. He couldn’t risk teleporting, not when the creature might reenter him, but that didn’t matter much. Even after all this time, he knew London and he knew Helen. He would find her soon, and then he would put things right.
The old ways came to him naturally, and perhaps it was more rote memory than anything conscious that lead him to Helen's doorstop. His mind was still addled, but he couldn't spare the time to sober up. He had to convince her now, before it was too late.
"Helen!" he called out, pounding on the door. "Helen, it's John..."