Title: The Serpentine
Author: NoCleverSig
Summary: Druitt tracks Magnus to London in 1988 and discovers she has a child. His child.
Characters: Druitt, Magnus, Watson, and a young Ashley
Genre: Angst, General, Romance, and kind of Creepy
Rate: Teen
Season: Prequel/Set circa 1988, when Ashley would have been about 4 years old
Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sanctuary or its characters. I only play with them. I copyright only my words and plot.
Author's Note: This is a total John Druitt head piece. I tried my best to get inside the mind of a psychopath. I hope I succeeded? (or maybe I don't!) Reviews are very much appreciated! PS: I love London, so this is also a litle ode to that.

The Serpentine
(Copyright 2010, NoCleverSig)

He watched them from the patio as he ate his plate of Tandoori chicken and sipped his afternoon tea. The restaurant offered impressive views of the lake Londoners call the Serpentine, which stretches from Hyde Park to Kensington Gardens, offering a cool respite in summer and a playground for skaters and swimmers in winter brave enough to breach the icy cold.

Nostalgia overtook him, a rarity these days, and he thought back to his youth and his courtship with her. They'd spent many a day here in this park. In late spring it was picnics, the grass so green the sky so blue it looked like a painting. She smiled often then. The sunlight sparkled on her golden hair enticing him to run his fingers through its long, soft curls. But when he did, if he did, he did so discreetly. Times were different, and such public displays of affection were more than simply frowned upon.

In winter, they would bundle up, take a coach, and ice skate arm in arm on the frozen Long Water. He laughed to himself, remembering. Neither he nor she really liked to ice skate or were very good at it. But it was an excuse to be close, to hold one another openly, to touch, even if it were through layer upon layer of clothing. The memory of those innocent touches still burned his skin as hot as the torches that lit the frosty water of the Serpentine at night.

Oh, how she loved London's parks! And what Londoner didn't? But her favorite had always been Regent's. In summer, when the roses were in bloom, they would stroll for hours through the gardens soaking in the sweet scent of the flowers and the masses of colors that cascaded all around them. And later, when they had tired of walking, they would find a hidden nook where they could express their affections privately without having to worry about prying eyes and modern mores.

She was a passionate lover. Just as she was a passionate scientist, doctor, student, friend. The woman never did anything half-hearted. She certainly had given her whole heart to him. And he had crushed it completely.

Part of him felt remorse for the pain, the sorrow he'd brought her. Part of him, the more prevalent part, reveled in it. To hold such sway over a person was intoxicating. Like a puppet on a string, he was so good at making her dance.

But today, today he simply watched. Watched and reflected. It'd been how long? Forty years, perhaps, since he'd last seen her? She'd left London after the war, running away from him, or so he chose to believe, taking root in some other land, some other town. But he knew if he came back here often enough, he would find her. She would return home. Return to him.

So he'd waited. Knowing her precious London would call to her. And though he travelled the world over in search of her, in search of peace, he always came back to this city. And after so many years of seeking her out, she stood now not 50 feet from him completely unaware that he was with her, could see her, touch her if he so desired. He smiled at the irony of it.

Her hair was different, long still, but dark. It was strange to him. Almost like looking at another woman. A beautiful woman, no doubt, but not the woman he had known so long ago. Had she changed it in hopes of evading him? He wondered. But her eyes, her eyes would always give her away. Those ocean blue eyes a man could drown in, and at one time, he had. Until, of course, he came to his senses.

But the child, the child was unexpected. At first he thought it might be the child of a friend, someone they had brought with them to play in the water, feed the geese and ducks that begged for bread along the lake shore. But as the little girl turned to chase the birds, her golden hair sparkled in the sunlight and she laughed. He gasped. There was no mistaking it. The child was hers.

They had wanted children, she and he. Talked about it during their picnics, their skating, their lovemaking. Oddly, they'd both had wanted a girl. At least to start. He wanted masses of children. She'd just laughed and rolled her eyes, saying he wasn't the one who would have to birth them or tend to them. She'd do fine with just one, thank you very much. But however many God intended, one must be a girl, whether or not they had any more. A girl, she said, who would know no bounds like she had known. Who could study what she wanted to, do what she loved, be whatever it was her heart desired.

It was strange how the sight of this little one made his heart ache. It was a feeling he was unaccustomed to.

Rage. That was a feeling better suited to him. And as he looked at the father, he felt the rage grow and easily embraced it.

James Watson, his best friend, her dearest friend in darkest days, stood with mother and daughter playing along the shore. He'd always known Watson wanted her. Tesla had too, but he'd put an end to that soon enough. But Watson, Watson used his exceptional intellect, no doubt, to trick her into loving him.

They sat together on a park bench, talking and laughing, watching the little girl chase the ducks. She scolded the little one now and then for getting too close to the water or being too aggresive with the animals. Watson, he simply smiled and laughed, a proud papa. Bloody bastard! He'd stolen what was rightfully his. His woman and his child. And he would pay for his crimes. Oh yes, before the day was done, he would pay.

The two lovers were engaged in deep conversation now, too wrapped up in themselves, their infidelity, to be bothered to watch their little girl as she ran closer and closer to the patio, to him. The goose she chased went underfoot, under his table, and he picked it up with his lighting quick hands and held it in his arms. The little one looked up at him amazed.

"You caught it!" she said, her young eyes brightening.

"I did. Do you want to see it?" he asked, searching her face, seeing something there, something he couldn't identify that he hadn't noticed from afar.

She nodded her head vigorously. "Can I touch it?" she asked.

"Of course."

He leaned over and she stepped toward him and petted the goose, which tried to peck at her hand.

"Oh!" she said, and laughed. "Did you see that!"

"I did!" he answered, still trying to grasp what it was about her that seemed so familiar.

She turned and yelled. "Mommy! Uncle James! Did you see it? The man caught it! I petted it! Did you see?"

Uncle James, the girl had said. Not Daddy, not Father, but Uncle James. Quickly he put the bird down and shoed it away, pulling his hat down, lifting his paper, and returning to his lunch and tea.

He could see the girl look at him oddly, but as children do, she soon dismissed him, and ran off to chase the goose again.

The mother stood up, watching him. Her eyes bearing down on him.

"Ashley!" she called.

So that was the girl's name.

She ran to her mother. "What, mommy?"

Her mother spoke in hushed tones, but he could hear. "You know you aren't allowed to talk to strangers."

"But he was letting me pet the bird," she said sadly.

He continued to look down, the London Times in front of him. Waiting.

After a time, he folded his paper, and looked back up. They were gone. Strangely, his heart sank. Such an odd sensation.

He sat back in his chair, watching the Serpentine. Tourists taking pictures. Families rowing boats. Children chasing birds, feeding them bits of bread and crisps. Lovers having picnics along the shore. And realization dawned upon him like a knife plunging into his heart.

The little girl was his.

How…when…where…why…he couldn't say. But he knew. The moment she'd gotten close enough to look at, to talk to, to watch. The odd sense of familiarity fell in place. He was seeing part of himself. And the rage inside him grew again.

How dare she! How dare she keep this from him! How dare she keep his daughter from him!

He would find her, his little girl, and Helen too. And they would have their perfect family. The Serpentine would be their cool respite in summer. Their playground again in winter. And if it took a thousand deaths to bring it to fruition, he would kill a thousand times more.

All for her, his little girl, and for Helen too, because she loved London's parks. And what Londoner didn't?

END