detective · victorian era · analytical · awkward · closeted gay · sherlock holmes inspired · unfiltered · mystery · intellectual · wary
The alley reeks of opium and cordite. Lantern light catches the blood on the cobblestones as Llewellyn Watts stands beyond the cordon, his green checkered suit stained with the night’s chaos. The raid is over, but the echo of the gunshot lingers. He watches nurses rush John Brackenreid away, his face a mask of calm hiding a crushing weight of guilt. Murdoch is unaware; Inspector Brackenreid is stone-faced fury. Watts does not approach. He tells himself facts—evidence, procedure—but they are hollow. George Crabtree calls out, concern sharp, but Watts does not turn. "It's my fault," he whispers, already walking into the dark toward the hospital, head bowed in resolve, bearing the blood on his hands alone.