10.

Arthur Kirkland was no stranger to nightmares. His whole source of income centered around the things from nightmares, so why in God's name could he not get over the idea of the dreams that were no doubt going to be triggered from the events of tonight? He expected the nightmares, he knew there would be little remedy for them not to happen, especially considering the heavy information he was having to process regarding the potential resurgence of the New Order and his 'deal' with Francis.

He twisted himself onto his back and stared dumbly at the high ceiling above him. He just wanted to sleep, wanted to clear his mind of all of the ideas and memories that were waltzing about his head and just...rest. He attempted closing his eyes, but a particularly gruesome image crossed his eyelids and immediately he was sitting up, unable to take the unfocused thoughts which danced behind his eyelids every time he dared to shut them.

He ran his hand over his face and pulled himself from his bed. Well if he couldn't sleep he may as well put his insomnia to use. He stood and made his way to the living room where his desk resided. He fumbled in the darkness for the lantern and turned the key igniting the light. A dull flame lit his workspace and he found himself staring at the emptiness of his wooden desk, debating his next step. He could review Amelia's case, consider why she might be a potential victim in what could be a cult. But instead he felt himself reaching for the compartment in his desk which held a key to the drawer on the bottom left of his desk. A key to a journal very similar to the ones Francis had produced earlier, on what he assumed to be the same subject matter as well. His fingers closed on the brass key and he felt almost mechanical and set in his movements. Key, drawer, open, take out journal. His hands lingered on the tired leather of the journal before tossing it onto the desk before him.

It had been years since he had used this sad diary or had even laid eyes on it. The events recorded were ones he didn't care to address again and he couldn't help but feel a chill go down his spine as he stared at the old book. He closed the drawer and the key was placed promptly back in its hiding place, Arthur's focus on the book. He couldn't bring himself to open it, just stare at it, working up some form of bravery to recount evidence that would no doubt aid him with the new direction the case seemed to be taking.

Cautiously he plucked the book from the desk and held it gingerly in his hands, as if it were a bomb ready to explode at any moment. With a quick sigh he opened the book and began his journey to the past.

Alfred's shoes clicked sharply on the wood floor of Matthew's apartment as he paced the length of the living room. He wasn't going to sleep, he knew better than to think that he would have that luxury tonight of all nights.

His eyes flickered to the diaries that Francis had allowed him to have and he shook his head, turning to make his march the opposite way. Part of him just wanted to turn the books over to Arthur, wipe himself clean of the ordeal and step away from this aspect of the death. Maybe he could go back to the police station with Matthew and talk to the Commander about working the case the best way he knew how.

However, he knew the only way he could feel like he had avenged Amelia's death was to continue this odd, curious path that Arthur Kirkland was taking him on.

He crossed his arms and kept moving. If he stopped he'd start reading the diaries and something about them...unnerved him. Arthur hadn't made any mention about them, and Alfred had made it clear he had the journals with him, but the older man seemed to either ignore them or chose to not realize they were there.

Halfway through his parade through the living room, the door to Matthew's bedroom opened and the bleary eyed detective stumbled through. Alfred smirked at the sight of his partner, and the other man blinked hard, trying to at least appear in order. Finally the quiet man desperately said, "Please just sit down," and closed the door.

Alfred sighed, but agreed and began making himself comfortable on the makeshift couch bed. His eyes fell on the books and his fingers twitched. He wasn't going to sleep, the nightmares he had been dealing with since Amelia had been brutal to his sleeping patterns. Sleep evaded him and only twice has he successfully managed to pass out. But he couldn't bring himself to look into the books. He vaguely knew they address whatever this "New Order" thing was, but the way Arthur and Francis looked back on it, as if it almost pained them to think of it.

He curled up on his side, turning his back to the table. It wasn't anything he needed to address, or at least not like this. Perhaps he could talk to Arthur get a more precise summary? But as he turned over, his eyes once again landed on the leather journals. He was a detective and part of him knew that despite how sincere Arthur seemed he wouldn't give him the complete story. He was a man he found himself trusting, but still barely knew or understood.

He rubbed his forehead, Arthur was a stranger and part of him felt that reading this book would reveal things about Arthur he may not want to address. The young man figured Francis had given him the books because it would enlighten him on the New Order...but now as he lay here late at night, it occurred to him that maybe it would address his partner. Shed light on who he was, his past and his connection to the Bleeding Rose, particularly Francis.

He found himself reaching out, his fingers taking the book into his hands and placing it on his lap. It was dark, but the dingy lamp on the street and the startling bright moon gave him enough light to make out the dates on the journals.

It was then he heard a knock on the door, interrupting the reading before he could even begin. He heard Matthew begin to shift, but Alfred made it to the door. He pulled it open and was startled to find Commander Braginski at the door.

"Ah, good evening Commander," Alfred said, puzzled by the late visit. He glanced over his shoulder and spotted Matthew shuffling toward the door. The other man once realizing his boss was at his home, quickly finished waking up and made his way beside Alfred.

"Commander," Matthew said. "What can I do for you, sir?"

The Russian smiled and Alfred felt himself grow cold. The man had always been rather...unnerving to the him. His blank, distant, false smile was always the worst.

"I'm needing to discuss with Jones," he stated, motioning for Alfred to join him in the hall. Alfred paused, but felt Matthew nudge him.

"Right," Alfred muttered and made his way into the hall with the large Russian. Ivan reached out and bid Matthew quick good night, shutting the door in the man's face.

Braginski began walking and Alfred, despite his gut saying not to, found himself following, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"So, Jones, how is it?" the larger man asked, making his way down the steps.

"Uh, what sir?"

"Kirkland, his side of the case?"

Alfred paused. "Uh, fine, I suppose. We at least kind of have a lead, I think."

Ivan raised his brow at this. "Really?"

"Something about potential cult activity."

Braginski smiled and Alfred shoved his hands into his pockets as the two made their way out of the building.

"The New Order?" he asked and Alfred looked at him, startled.

"How do you-"

"I'm familiar with the work. Granted it was before my career, but it was a unique time in our city's history."

Alfred frowned. "I mean fifty people died, I don't think it's quite right to refer to it as 'unique'."

Ivan just chuckled and kept walking.

"I hate to sound rude, sir, but what exactly is going on? It's a bit late to be checking on my progress with Kirkland, don't you think?"

The Russian shrugged. "Mm, perhaps, but it appears you two are attached at the hip during the day."

"So?"

"I do not like Kirkland, and I do not wish to deal with him on the matter of this case."

Alfred's frown deepened. "But it seems to be the only way to get results," he argued. "Matthew says that nothing new has been showing up your way."

"We did the autopsy," Braginski said.

Alfred paused. "And?" he asked.

"Amelia didn't have any tattoos or markings, correct?"

The young detective shook his head. "No...why?"

"We found markings on her back. It's indecipherable, of course, but something important to note. It was a similar tell of the New Order," Ivan explained, "but I'm sure Arthur had already told you that."

Alfred gave his head a small shake. "Not yet, we only got put on this lead tonight. Hasn't had a chance to fill me in."

Braginski nodded staring curiously at the other man.

"Ah, I see. He must have also brushed over a number of things with you."

Alfred glared, his hands curling into fists.

"Not that I'm surprised he's a very isolated man. Never really told people much. Even when their lives depended on it."

"Why are you telling me this," Alfred asked, stopping. He found his hands shaking at his sides.

Ivan paused as well. "Arthur Kirkland is a dangerous man, Jones," he began, turning to look straight on at the younger man. His eyes were dark and Alfred noticed the slight twitch in his lip. When Alfred failed to respond to this, the larger man gripped him tightly by the shoulders. Alfred struggled to pull himself free, prepared to attack him, but Ivan just leaned in close. Those dangerous almost purple eyes staring at him. "He's caused the deaths of many, because he is a coward. He has no concern for anyone other than himself." Ivan's fingers dug deeper into Alfred's flesh. "This may seem like you being the hero on some big, strange adventure with this man, but he will not protect you. When it comes to it the only one he'll care about saving will be himself."

Alfred shook his head. "I trust him," he growled, trying to pull away.

The Russian barred his teeth and gave Alfred a hard shake. "Don't be an idiot, Jones. You know nothing of him," he spat. Alfred shoved Ivan off and his Commander almost looked like he was about to hit him. Instead he took a slow breath and straightened up, the mask he wore and that awful smile coming to his face. "I suggest you leave him to his own demons before you become one yourself."

With that Ivan turned on his heel and walked off down the street towards a waiting carriage.

Alfred let out a shaky breath. He shook his head, trying to get the words from his head. I trust Arthur, he reminded himself, taking a step away from the spot of the confrontation.

Slowly, he started to make his way to the apartment. He was shaking, exhaustion and the fleeting adrenaline causing him to grow weary. He managed to make it up the steps and back into Matthew's apartment where he was waiting.

He quickly assured Matthew he was fine, he was just tired and sent his friend back to bed. He slid onto the couch and his eyes fell on the books that were waiting for him. He took a breath and quickly took them in his hand and walked over to the closet. He shut his eyes and shoved the books on the high shelf. He'd get rid of them later, but for now he needed to sleep. He shut the door and stumbled onto the couch, his eyes closing. "I trust Arthur," he said to himself. "I have to."