Archive of Our Own ^beta

There are, of course, a great number of our cases that didn’t make it to The Strand, and indeed many details were left out of those that did. Both changed to protect those involved and to keep our own privacy. There were enough rumours circulating about myself and Mister Ramon- an unmarried man and woman sharing accommodation- without adding in details that would encourage perceptions. Cisco had worked tirelessly for his reputation as a respectable gentleman and thorough detective, and he was the first to take me seriously as a journalist. It would only take a second of me standing next to any other reporter in London to see just how different we were, and Cisco had no intention of letting rumours of my becoming his chronicler through anything other than my own skill stand.

In reality it felt more happenstance. As I wrote in my first published tale, we were introduced by Mrs Caitlin Raymond, then still Ms Snow, who regaled me with the tale of the American who helped find her fiancé when all others had counted him a lost cause. My curiosity was piqued, as you know, and Cisco’s work fascinated me. My own father had been a detective, my once fiancé too, and there was a time I had wished to follow in my father’s footsteps, to try my luck in Scotland Yard, but it had never come to pass. Writing had merely been a hobby of mine before I met Cisco, but his work was inspiring, he was brilliant and compassionate and far too modest to seek out fame himself, but still many journalists were as intrigued as I was. My writing as his partner would allow us a reason for me to accompany him on his cases, it would grant me an income to cover my share of the rent, it would grant Cisco more influence on how much of his life made it to the papers, and it was new and different and exciting and it pulled me away from the loss of Eddie to a new life.

And so I became Cisco’s biographer, and we shared a set of rooms at Baker Street where we could both be available at a moment’s notice.

Though the rumours were not entirely unfounded. While I was barely out of mourning when I first met Cisco, it would not be possible for two people to share all we did and not develop strong feelings of some kind towards each other. For a long time we were both reluctant to act on our mutual feelings, for many reasons, and once we had we wished for that to stay private and no one to know of anything other than the professional relationship you may have been told of already.

Which is why, my dears, I have chosen to start my tale to you here, not with the first case I worked with Cisco on, nor one of a great number of tales of excitement and adventure, nor even the details of much of the case, but the case with perhaps the most missing details, the case which finally put an end to the rumour of Cisco and myself, the case where I first met the man who would become my husband.

It was late March, and I remember it being a typical dreary London day. Cisco and I had just returned to Baker Street from a case which had taken us all the way to Edinburgh, and the knock came early. As usual, our landlady, Mrs McGee, had shown the young gentleman upstairs to our flat.

The romantic in me would love to say I was struck by his eyes, or I felt a connection between us I could not explain, but my first impressions were neither, I am afraid, my first thought was he was a fool for travelling in this weather without a coat. He looked quite bedraggled, and Cisco wasted no time in ushering him over to the fire before he caught a chill.

Second impressions, according to Cisco’s theory, are far more important than first. If you should not judge a book by its cover, neither should you judge a person by their appearance, no matter how dishevelled and drenched they are at barely nine in the morning.

And Bartholomew Allen- for that was the name he introduced himself by when Cisco returned with a fresh pot of tea- was incredibly dishevelled which was swiftly explained when he admitted to sleeping on a train rather than in a bed. He’d travelled to London from Brighton with nothing more than the money he required to purchase the ticket, his shoes, and his coat, and he’d given his coat to someone who looked far colder than he had felt.

As Cisco said, second impressions are far important, and Doctor Allen gave the impression of a man who was desperate, and yet still kind.

His mother had been found dead, Mister Allen told us, some years ago now, and his father had been arrested for the crime, but he was certain of his father’s innocence. He had been attempting to prove it himself, and asked us for the fee early.

“I judge that at the end,” Cisco said, as I had heard him before, when he was aware someone would struggle to pay him. “University could not have left you with much.”

“My fees were covered by my uncle,” Mister Allen admitted. “In truth he is not my uncle by blood, he was my mother’s employer, and he took pity on me after the loss of her and took me in as his ward. I am a doctor, sir, I do have some income, but most goes to my uncle. He has always been better with money, and he worries I would spend everything on trying to clear my father’s name. I have not given him much reason to doubt that.”

“Still,” Cisco said. “I always judge my fee at the end. Tell me more about your uncle.”

“His name is Professor Harrison Wells,” Doctor Allen said.

“I think I know the name.”

“He was once employed by Oxford University,” Doctor Allen said. “He runs his own small laboratory just outside of Brighton now.”

“Working on what?”

“I don’t know. Finishing something he and his late wife worked together on, I believe, though he doesn’t like to discuss the details with me. He has his assistant, Mister Hartley Rathaway, I may have pushed the hiring when I left to begin my studies though it took him quite some time to settle on someone. He has been very good to me, Mister Ramon, and I do believe it was Uncle Harrison’s words that saved my father from the noose. He only wishes for this not to consume my life and my father wishes the same.”

“You did not tell him where you are, I presume,” I said.

“I studied in London, ma’am, he believes I am visiting friends,” Doctor Allen said. “I do have some duty calls to make today, should he decide to check.”

“Does he often?”

“He worries for me. I understand. It was the loss of his wife and his daughter that drove him from Oxford and for much of my childhood it has only been the two of us. He has a handful of staff, but he keeps his distance, and my mother was his housekeeper, so I manage most of that for him now. He is already preoccupied by something, I have not convinced him to tell me what, but I do not wish to add to his burdens.”

“But something has forced you here,” Cisco said.

“My father is sick,” Doctor Allen said. “I have read your stories, Ms West, and heard a great number of things about you, Mister Ramon, I know it has been a long time and it may not longer be possible, but I do not want my father’s last day to be in a place he does not belong.”

“I will see what we can do,” Cisco said.

“Thank you.”

Doctor Allen departed swiftly after Cisco’s promise, along with an umbrella Cisco had insisted on lending him.

“It may be difficult without involving his uncle,” I said.

“Quite simply impossible,” Cisco said with a look in his eye I had long since learnt to grow concerned about. “But I have an idea.”

You may have read this part, my dears. It was the favourite story of your parents when they were young. Cisco and I had been staying in Brighton for a few days, at a hotel that overlooked the beach, when we were sent for to investigate an attempted burglary at a nearby laboratory.

Professor Harrison Wells’, naturally. He gave us the details of everyone that had access- himself, his assistant Mister Rathaway, his housekeeper Ms Gideon Thompson, and his ward, Doctor Bartholomew Allen. He maintained his composure well as Cisco introduced us as if we had never met before, not a hint of betrayal in his face, though he only stayed a few moments before rushing off to the local lifeboat station.

“Might I enquire as to how your ward came to live with you, Professor?” Cisco asked when we were alone with him.

“I fail to see how that is relevant to this,” Professor Wells replied.

“He called you Uncle and you called him your ward,” Cisco said. “I’m a very curious person by nature and I like to know every detail of my case.”

“I see,” Professor Wells said. “I moved here as a new widower and Barry’s mother was my housekeeper. She was a kind woman, and I cared for her as a friend. She died, Barry was the one who found her body, and his birth father was thought responsible. There was not enough evidence, I argued in his favour at the court case, I could not bear to see a young boy lose both his parents in such an awful way. And Barry had no living family, we were both alone, so I took him into my care. He is my son in all but name. Barry is not responsible for whatever has happened here, Mister Ramon. Truly, this is a waste of your time, there is nothing missing, and I do believe you are meant to be on a holiday doing what you enjoy.”

“I enjoy solving mysteries,” Cisco said. “Thank you, Professor Wells. I will see what we can find.”

Cisco and I spoke with Mr Rathaway and Ms Thomspon before we left, neither able to give enough information to glean much more from. And together we walked through Brighton towards the lifeboat house.

It was on the shorefront, not far from the Bedford where we had taken a set of rooms, and the West Pier. The tide was in when we walked along the prom, the sea air bringing with it a biting chill as waves crashed upon the pebbles. It was not the season of holiday makers, but there were locals walking along enjoying the fresh air.

There were laughs, as we approached the boathouse, until we were spotted. Then Doctor Allen was nudged, and he nodded and walked out to join us on the shingle.

“You volunteer,” Cisco said.

“I do,” Doctor Allen said, and I noted his natural accent rather than the received pronunciation he had been using before. It appeared he also noted the change and sought to correct himself as he continued. “My father was a fisherman, I used to accompany him sometimes when I was a young child. I take it you aren’t here by coincidence.”

“You did not want your uncle to know you had spoken with us,” Cisco said. “This seemed a fortunate opportunity to be asking questions without implicating you.”

“Did it,” Doctor Allen said. “Or did you break into my uncle’s laboratory.”

“I would never do such a thing,” Cisco lied, and Doctor Allen’s disapproving look did not last long before he laughed.

“What questions do you have?” he asked.

“He called you Barry,” Cisco said, of all the things he could have said.

“Yes, that is my name,” Doctor Allen said.

“An unusual shortening for Bartholomew.”

“My father’s family are Irish,” Doctor Allen said. “It was a name given in a nod to that.”

“It’s a good name. May I use it?”

“Yes, I suppose,” Doctor Allen said, as bemused as Cisco so often left people. “Is this an American custom?”

“Mister Ramon is a singular person,” I explained. “Thank goodness.”

Cisco spluttered protests at that, and Doctor Allen- Barry- laughed yet again.

“There are other questions we need to ask you, Doctor,” I said. “Your uncle said you found your mother’s body.”

“I did, yes,” Doctor Allen said. “I had finished school and walked home, and the door was ajar. My mother was lying on the floor, with a knife in her chest. My father arrived only moments after me, but he often did.”

“Do you remember anything else?” Cisco asked.

“For a long time, I thought I saw a shadow,” Doctor Allen said. “And I thought I heard a window slam, but we lived in a busy part of town, it could have been from anywhere. I know she had not arrived at work as expected. Uncle Harrison always insisted it was more convenient for her to come to him, our home was closer to the sea for my father, and it was nearer the school for me. He didn’t do that afterwards. He felt guilty, and I believe he thought if he had moved all of us to his then she would have been safe.”

“He agrees with you,” I said. “He does not believe your father responsible; it was not just to protect you.”

“No one truly believed my father responsible,” Doctor Allen said. “But they could not have a murderer running around the streets unidentified.”

“I am sorry, Doctor Allen,” I said.

His smile was sad. I wished for it not to be.

“Perhaps, while we are here, we could look around the lifeboat?” Cisco asked. “That is not relevant, it just seems interesting.”

“Of course,” Doctor Allen said. “I can introduce you to the others.”

You know much of what happened after this, my darlings. There were moments I changed- even after the truth was revealed Cisco and I had vowed not to reveal Barry had come to us prior to our arrival in Brighton- but the details of the case itself followed as I originally wrote. Cisco spoke with Mister Rathaway in private, who confessed to some details he had discovered while working for Professor Wells, Cisco revealed he had sent a telegram to Professor Harrison Wells who resided in New York City with his daughter Jesse- alive and well- the both of them having emigrated after the death of his wife, her mother, and we found ourselves upon the beach at dawn, a storm blowing around us, Cisco facing down a gun.

“She found out the truth, Professor Thawne,” Cisco said. The masked gunman did not lower his weapon. “Brighton is a long way from Oxford, but somehow, Mrs Allen discovered the truth, and you could not have it getting out. You killed her for her silence, then took in her son to ease your own guilt.”

“Which did not work,” I said. “It only added to it. Every time he missed his mother, you had to face that you were the reason he did not have one.”

“I gave him opportunity,” Professor Harrison Wells said. “He would have ended up in the workhouse without me. I gave him an education Nora and Mister Allen would never have dreamt of.”

 “And you took his mother from him,” Cisco said.

“We fought,” Professor Wells lowered the pistol. “I was a fool and left a letter lying around and she noted the name and then saw a photograph. I was a widower and a father mourning a daughter and Nora hadn’t asked why I had no pictures before, but after she did. I didn’t go there with the intent to murder, Mister Ramon, Ms West. I went to ask her to keep my secret, but she demanded a reason, and I could not admit to my only friend what I had done. Why I had run. You faked your own death once, didn’t you, Mister Ramon?”

“That was a very long time ago,” Cisco said. “Simon Stagg was killed, and you were the suspect, but you died alongside Mrs Tess Wells in an explosion that also almost killed Harrison Wells. I take it that was not an accident.”

“No, it was not,” said Professor Wells, or as we now knew him, Eobard Thawne. “It was meant to kill them both. I was determined to start a new life here, Mister Ramon. I should have known I could never escape my actions. But I cannot let you tell this to Barry.”

He raised his gun again and I stepped between Cisco and Thawne.

“I believe I have proved I have no qualms of killing a woman, Ms West,” he said. “All I need to do is push both your bodies out to sea, and no one will ask questions.”

“I know,” I said. “You love Barry. He is your son in all but name.”

“I had no regrets about leaving my family,” Thawne said. “You knew my cousin Edward, Ms West, you know the people they are. But Barry, if you tell him, I will lose him. I will not let you take him from me.”

“Secrets will out, Professor,” Cisco said. “You cannot run forever. You were going to again. Mister Rathaway and Ms Thompson have noted your strange behaviours as of late, and Barry has noted you have been worried about something. You heard word Professor Harrison Wells is due to give a speech at Cambridge University. Perhaps from an old associate, perhaps from Mister Rathaway, but you know Barry never took to your isolated life, he made friends at university, he will learn the truth. You planned to run, and you wanted to take him. How were you planning on explaining to him?”

“How were you planning on convincing him to leave his father behind?” I asked.

“He wasn’t,” Cisco said. “Henry Allen doesn’t have consumption. He’s being poisoned.”

“He’ll die in two days,” Thawne said. “I calculated the dose exactly. It was meant to give us time, for him to die, for Barry to bury him, and for us to leave before Wells arrives. But you had to stick your nose where it wasn’t wanted. Your disappearance will be much more noted than Barry and mine, but I have enough time for you both to walk off the pier and to take Barry on the next ferry from Newhaven.”

“And he will have questions,” I said. “You know it. He will ask, and he won’t stop until he has answers. You have killed people for this secret, you are willing to again, and we have a duty to prevent that. But you know how much it will hurt him to have to exchange one father in prison for his other. You know what you have to do, Professor.”

I felt Cisco pull me down before I heard the gunshot, and then I could not feel him. I turned and saw him and, my dears, I so hope you never have to face what I felt in that moment, seeing Cisco lying there, his breathing so laboured, and blood staining the rocks beneath him. I barely noted Thawne running, my hands pressed desperately to Cisco’s side, crying out for any help at all.

Hartley Rathaway was not who I had expected. I would later learn he had followed Thawne, knowing something was wrong, and we both carried Cisco along the shore, towards the lifeboat station.

Barry was not alone there. And Cisco protested weakly. Protested the idea of being taken to a hospital.

“We do not have time for that,” Barry said, all traces of received pronunciation gone. “Hartley, go get me my bag, Frankie, Ralph, do not let anyone in this building. Ms West, I need a nurse.”

And so I ended helping with my first- and sadly not only- surgery on the floor of the lifeboat house, with Barry ensuring no one entered, and no one saw Cisco in his state of undress.

Secrets will out, Cisco had told Thawne. Not even he could hide his forever.

You know he lived, of course. You know this story has a happy ending. But in the moment, we did not.

Barry redressed Cisco before allowing anyone else entry. He insisted taking Cisco up to our rooms in the hotel with me.

And he insisted on visiting at dinner.

Cisco appeared unable to speak. We had given our tale to the officer Mister Rathaway had brought, and I had informed Barry of Thawne’s true identity, but when alone with Barry Cisco grew afraid in a way I had never seen from him before.

Yet all Barry did was take his temperature, listen to his heart, and replace the dressing on his side.

“You were very lucky,” Barry said. “You will have a scar, I expect, and you look pale, you have lost a lot of blood, but it skimmed your side without hitting any major organs. I am going to recommend bed rest, Mister Ramon, for at least a week, and regular check-ups, though I presume those will be harder to convince you of.”

I rested my hand on Cisco’s shoulder at that. Cisco had always avoided doctors. He would not be convinced, and from Barry’s face, he understood.

“Mister Ramon,” he said, stressing his title. “My father will be freed swiftly due to your actions, and not only that, but you have also saved his life. I owe you everything. Your secrets are safe with me.”

“Secrets?” Cisco finally managed to croak out a question.

“I told you my mother was a housekeeper and I have at points run the household,” Barry said and the smile then, my dears, I have fallen in love with that smile a thousand times since. “I know the difference between a bed that has been slept in and a bed that has been messed with and made to look as if it has been slept in.”

I remember Cisco’s bashful look so clearly at our being caught.

“I have a question I wish to ask you,” Barry said then, and drew an envelope from the lining of his coat. “Uncle Harrison, or Eobard I suppose, tells me he is heading to Paris. He wishes for me to join him. What should I do?”

“Do you want to go?” I asked.

“He killed my mother,” Barry said. “And he tried to kill my father. I do not believe I can forgive that. And yet he raised me, and I love him. I don’t want to see him. Not yet. He killed people for this. Should I turn this in?”

“You do not have to decide yet,” Cisco said. “You could burn it just as easily.”

“Perhaps.” Barry looked down at the envelope. “You told me you would tell me your fee once you had solved my case.”

“You saved my life,” Cisco said. “I think that’s payment enough.”

“You do need more rest before you count your life saved,” Barry warned. “And you will be needing your stitches out eventually, so you will be needing to see a doctor.”

“He’s truly terrible at that,” I said. “Do you know how long it will be?”

“I’m quite certain longer than you will be here for,” Barry said.

“Then perhaps could ask you to come to London?” I asked him. “There have been a number of times Cisco refused to see someone when he should have, knowing we could call upon someone we can trust would be most helpful.”

“Hmm,” Barry looked curious. “London. I could certainly visit.”

You know the rest, my darlings. Barry did indeed visit, and move with his father, and eventually we began to court, and then we married, but my dears, the truth I left out of all was that Cisco was included in every moment. He was at our side as Barry’s best man at our wedding, and we went home together, the three of us, to a bed we all shared. Your Aunt Nora was born first, then our twins, your parents, Dawn and Don. Cisco and I continued to work together, and Barry ran his own practise in the city, but he missed his hills, and Eastbourne is a wonderful town, though I am quite certain retirement will not suit your Uncle Cisco, but it does allow Barry to resume his work with the lifeboats, and we will visit you as often as we can. I hope we do, dear Jenni, darling Bart, but this letter, this book I leave to you for you to read after we have long gone, when you are old enough to know all the truth. I leave it in your hands to do with as you see fit but know the most important thing of all is this: I love you both so much more than I can ever say.

With love, always,

Your Grandmother