Jack Dawkins One Shots

The Basket

Jack found himself working with a sense of detachment tonight, as if his mind were adrift in the swirling chaos around him. A fierce storm had descended upon Port Victory, engulfing the town in a thick shroud of darkness that swallowed the moon and stars whole. The air was heavy with moisture, and the relentless rain poured down in sheets, battering against the cobblestone streets and hammering at the wooden facades of nearby buildings as if seeking to wash away all traces of humanity.

The wind howled like a wild beast, its gusts so powerful they rattled the shutters on the windows, causing them to bang against their frames with a cacophony that echoed through the empty alleyways. In moments of particularly fierce gusts, even the sturdiest gentlemen struggled to keep their footing, their hats swept away as they sought refuge from the tempest.

The streets lay deserted, the usual hum of life muted under the storm's roar. Every resident was tucked away in their homes, hunkered down against the violent weather, waiting for the tempest to pass. The storm had transformed the vibrant town into a quiet, eerie landscape, where the only sounds were the drumming of rain and the howling wind, creating an unsettling atmosphere that Jack felt deep in his bones.

Jack had resigned himself to the realities of his job that evening, he had lost the coin toss against Sneed, and now he found himself assigned to the night shift. While some might grumble about such a fate, Jack didn't mind it all that much. The night shift had a certain tranquility that the frantic pace of the daytime hours lacked.

Jack relished the stillness that enveloped the workplace. The vibrations of daily chatter faded into the background, replaced by an almost soothing silence.

With the solitude wrapping around him like a warm blanket, Jack felt a sense of clarity wash over him. He could tackle everything from organizing files to completing those detailed reports that often got pushed aside. The night shift, with its calm and quiet, was not just bearable; it was a welcome respite, a chance for Jack to find his rhythm and make progress on things. He had already finished his last rounds on the wards, finished his morgue work and all his paperwork before it had even it ten o'clock.

Jack worked diligently in the dimly lit theatre prep room, the air filled with the faint scent of chemical cleaners and metallic sparks. He stood by a sturdy workbench, his leather apron snug against his chest, and hummed a gentle tune to keep himself company. The soft sound of his melody mingled with the quiet clinking of metal as he tossed his assortment of scalpels and surgical tools from one hand to the other, meticulously cleaning each instrument.

As he held each scalpel up to the light, he took a moment to admire the precision of their blades, catching glimpses of his own reflection in their shiny surfaces. He knew he should devote more time to caring for his tools; after all, they were an extension of his skill and artistry in the operating theatre. Yet, with the demands of his job and the constant rush of life around him, he often found that such maintenance fell by the wayside. Today, however, he made an effort, sharpening the edges with a whetstone, feeling the smoothness beneath his fingers as he set each tool aside in neat rows.

Every so often, Jack glanced out the window into the dark theatre, as he'd left the door open to the hospital's entryway ensuring he would see if anyone arrived, or if anyone needed him for any reason.

Footsteps caught his attention, so he glanced up and smiled at the sight.

Nurse Y/n hurried into the theatre with a pile of freshly cleaned sheets in her arms, her grey nurse's dress shifting with her steps where it desperately needed a hem. She softly smiled in his direction as they met eyes.

Jack smiled back, watching as she hurried down the stairs under the theatre's standing rows to put the sheets away. As soon as she disappeared he fought back a wicked smirk and returned to his work with his tools, already thinking up plans for the rest of his night, if y/n wasn't too busy of course. He shook away such ideas... for now, and continued his work without much concern every so often looking out to the harsh storm's attack on the town.

But Jack perked up a little as he heard the front door open, the sounds of the storm rushing in as it was held open for a few brief moments then closed again. He looked out but only saw darkness, the storm had long since knocked out power and no doubt the door open so long blew out any candles that had lit the room.

He called out but found no answer.

He raised an eyebrow rather confused, so he set down his tools and tossed his apron on the counter stepping slowly out into the theatre.

Jack knew not why, but he felt a shiver up his spine. Something told him to move slowly and cautiously. He stepped slowly across the theatre the scent of blood long lingering in his nose.

He called out a second time but found no answer.

Jack gulped and stepped though the open doors out into the entry way. He looked in all directions, the corridor was empty, the desk had a basket, the doors' closed, the other corridor was empty, the stairs empty, and he just came out that door.

He stepped slowly across the stone floor keeping his breath steady as he kept looking for any sign of anyone before he froze up a little cold.

Why did the desk have a basket?

He turned back staring at the decently large wicker basket sat on the desk. He knew it hadn't been there before.

His mind began to flood with possibilities,

Maybe it was full of spiders!

Or Frogs!

Or a horrific curse totem!

Or maybe someone just brought cookies for a patient or something?

He called out once more but this time an answer came, but not an answer he had expected.

A loud cry began.

The loud and merciless cry of an infant.

Jack's blood ran cold as the sound hit his ears, without doubt, it coming from the basket.

He didn't hesitate to close the gap between himself and the basket, pulling open the wicker basket's lid to reveal.

A soft white blanket and cushion stuffed into the basket, with two little babies crying for attention swaddled tight.

A small letter was sealed atop their blanket.

All the air left his lungs, and his heart both broke and melted at the sight of the newborns.

He already knew his fears were true, these little ones had been abandoned by whoever had dropped them here tonight. He instantly felt a kinship with them.

His hand came to wipe the little tear from one of their cheeks, fighting back his own but still, a smile grew.

Y/n came up behind him to ask what was happening,

But Jack gave no answer merely letting her see was enough,

She gasped her hands in front of her mouth and tears welling up in her eyes, as she also came to soothe the little children.

Y/n took the small letter and opened it up hoping for an answer,

"Dear Hospital, Our mummy can't take care of us. She is very sorry but only wants what is best for us. Our names are Abigail and Albert, please take care of us." She read,

Jack and Y/n shared a look between them, exchanging a thousand words in silence,

Y/n knew of Jack's past and could see how he had already become attached so nodded softly.

Which caused Jack to smile as he picked up little Abigail and held her to his chest, "Don't you worry, we'll take care of you. We promise." He cooed,