London,1890

Six years ago, Gideon Hartwright had stepped into a boxing ring for the first time and been named the champion after defeating several opponents in a row.

He'd only fought that one night, trying to get his hands on enough money to keep him going rather than venting any real aggression, but tonight was different.

Tonight he was going back in the ring, and this time he didn't care about the money.

It had been two weeks since he and Isaac had parted ways, since he'd quietly packed up his little life in Stratford-upon-Avon, and returned to London.

Last time he'd come here, he hadn't really known why he'd come back.

This time, he knew exactly why.

He wanted to fight.

He wanted the anger and the violence and the pain because, with any luck, it would knock the problems right out of his head.

Every night since saying goodbye to Isaac, had been spent going over their last conversation, again and again and again, trying to see if there was any way things could have gone differently.

Gideon would never have been comfortable rushing things, even for Isaac, but at the same time he didn't understand why it would have felt like rushing. He hadn't felt that with Nicholas or Howard, and the confusion over what was wrong with him and the pain of losing Isaac had manifested into bone-deep rage at himself.

In the ring, two men battled it out while a crowd cheered around them, their faces twisted with bloodlust.

Nearly thirty years had passed since Gideon had first become a boxing champion in the dark depths of a different underground gambling den. That night he'd only meant to fight once, to win enough money to keep him going, but after winning his first fight, he'd been challenged by someone else. And then someone else, and he'd won every fight until he finally came to his senses and realised that drawing this much attention to himself was not wise.

It probably wasn't wise to start fighting again, either, but Gideon no longer cared.

He needed this.

One of the men in the ring crashed to the floor, unable to fight anymore. Gideon waited until money had exchanged hands, as people celebrated their wins and bemoaned their losses, and the winner beat his bloodied fists against his own chest and the loser was dragged away.

Then he stepped up to the ring.

This time, it had been a lot harder to find an underground den that still allowed bare knuckle boxing. It had always been illegal, even though everyone knew it happened, but it seemed that the social acceptability it had gained was disappearing. Intense religious beliefs were taking hold of the country, and boxing was considered a sinful pastime, especially because it was associated with gambling and drinking, both of which were rife in these underground dens.

Perhaps it was only a matter of time before this form of boxing disappeared altogether, and if that was the case, then Gideon should take advantage of it while he could.

He eyed up his opponent – Ernest Felton, current champion. He was an older man, his hair receding from his temples, his belly starting to slump into a paunch, but he'd just taken out two opponents in a row. Clearly he knew how to fight.

A line was scratched in the dirt, dividing the ring, and both Gideon and Ernest stepped up to it, putting their toes against the line to prove they were fit enough to fight. Anyone who couldn't toe the line like that wouldn't be allowed to fight.

Theoretically.

This rule should have been in play the last time Gideon fought, and it hadn't. Illegal moves had still been allowed. Matches were supposed to be fought in rounds, but there hadn't been a break for either fighter.

So Gideon wasn't sure what to expect from this fight. It was probably better to be prepared to fight dirty.

He stared into Ernest's eyes, dredging up all the anger and hurt he felt, channelling it into his fists, until he felt ready to burst out of his skin.

But when the match finally started, he did what he had done that first time. He let Ernest hit him – not to manipulate the bets, to try and ensure more money was placed on his opponent so there would be more for him to win. This time, he wanted to be hit. He wanted the pain, and he got it.

Ernest's fist caught him below the eye, and he reeled back, blinking. Ernest followed up with a flurry of punches, and Gideon took those too, feeling them crash into his face and ribs, until his mouth was filled with his own blood, and the crowd was screaming Ernest's name.

Then Gideon fought back.

One punch knocked Ernest out cold, and a ripple of surprise ran through the crowd.

Gideon spat blood on the floor.

He didn't curry the favour of the crowd, or try to play up to them like Ernest had done. He just retreated to one corner of the ring and waited for someone else to step up.

Within two nights, Gideon had established himself as the favourite of the underground boxing scene.

Other boxers could bloody him up, and sometimes they really did, but no one could beat him.

Idly he wondered what would happen if another vampire ever stepped into the ring, someone who could match him in strength, but it never happened.

The nights started to bleed together.

During the day, Gideon rented a room at an inn close to the gambling den.

When it started to get dark, he searched the streets for fresh blood.

Then he went to fight.

When the boxing was over, he collected his winnings and went back to the inn to start healing his injuries – cracked ribs or a broken nose, or the endless bruises.

One problem that he encountered immediately was that he had to feign some of the injuries the next time he went to fight. If he left a match with a black eye, then people would definitely notice if he returned the next day without one. So he started using ash from the fireplace in his room to repaint the bruises that he had since healed, and by the time he was back in the ring, he'd let his opponent get in enough jabs that the false bruises were quickly covered by blood.

It wasn't perfect, but once the crowd was whipped into a frenzy, they didn't look closely at things like that.

Gideon wasn't happy, but the fights helped distract him from thinking too much about everything, and though he knew that this kind of behaviour was dangerous and self-destructive, he couldn't seem to stop.

It gave him a purpose, even if it was a bloody, ugly, painful one.

But one thing that Gideon had learned over the decades of his life was that nothing lasted forever.

The night his fledgling career as a boxer turned bad started out like any other.

He arrived at the den, allowed some of the spectators to shake his hand, and then he stepped into the ring to meet his opponent.

The man was bouncing on the balls of his feet, his breath angrily huffing, and the second he saw Gideon he grinned. It wasn't a nice grin.

Gideon didn't smile back.

They both stepped up to the line drawn in the dirt, just like Gideon did every night, but Gideon's opponent didn't wait for him to toe the line. He lunged forward with unexpected speed, slamming one fist into Gideon's chin and the other into his stomach. When Gideon doubled over, his opponent clubbed him on the back of his head with two clenched fists, knocking him flat to the ground, then he stamped on Gideon's back.

Gideon felt the hot flare of pain as a rib broke.

Quick and brutal – if Gideon had been human, the fight might have been over in those few seconds. Unfortunately for the other man, Gideon hadn't been human in a long time.

He rolled over, and the next time the man stamped down, his foot hit the floor and sent shock waves up his leg. He swore and backed off, one hand clasped to his knee, but Gideon didn't give him time to recover.

If the other man had played fair then Gideon would have, too.

But he hadn't. So Gideon wouldn't.

He delivered a series of punishing blows to the man's ribs, until he heard a distinct crack, and the man sharply gasped, trying to shove Gideon back, but Gideon knocked his hands away, pulling on the anger that boiled deep inside, letting it fuel him.

His fist crashed into the man's mouth, and a spray of blood and teeth scattered across the floor. Gideon hit him again, and again and again. The roar of the crowd sounded far away, as if he was in a tunnel and they were at the end of it, and he took another swing at his opponent, only to find that the man wasn't there. Gideon's fist swung through empty air, and he almost over-balanced from the force of his attempted punch.

The other man lay on the floor, faintly moaning.

His jaw was completely distended, blood and drool dribbling from his mouth to mingle with the teeth on the floor. His nose was a bloody smear across his cheek, and his eyes were glazed and unfocused.

All the anger that Gideon had been carrying around was snuffed out in one instant as he looked at what he had done.

Whenever he'd fought before, he'd been careful not to use his full strength – he could kill a man that way.

His opponent wasn't dead, but . . . those injuries were serious.

And Gideon had done that.

He had lost control, and now this man was paying the price.

It didn't matter that he was a boxer who was prepared to bleed in the ring. He had expected to go up against a human man, not a vampire, not someone who had an advantage that he could never match.

The man continued to moan, his eyes rolling in his head, one hand twitching, and vaguely Gideon was aware that someone was declaring him the winner since his opponent clearly couldn't fight anymore, but what did that matter now?

He had started this to cope with everything that was going on inside him, not to hurt people.

This couldn't be him.

This angry, dark, violent thing – it couldn't be him.

He looked around at the faces of the crowd, chanting his name, their faces twisted with glee and cruelty, not even caring that a man was so badly injured at his feet, and his stomach turned to stone.

He had to leave.

He'd gone too far and he couldn't be part of this anymore.

The crowd parted to let him through, people clapping him on the back and expressing their glee over all the money he was bringing in, but he didn't go back for his own winnings.

The money meant nothing.

All that mattered was leaving.

And this time, he swore as he stalked out of the gambling den and out onto the streets of London, would be the very last time he came back to this city.

Friday will be a double-update day, and we'll be starting with some Gideon/Jason fluff :)