Jackson was pretty certain he hadn't tested anything recently that would make him black out long enough to find himself transported out of England, and this didn't look like any part of England he'd ever seen, or even heard about. No, this looked more like he was back in America, which brought its own specific set of worries along, beyond how he had gone from walking over to the Leman Street house after a summon from Reid to standing in a place that had nothing to do with the streets of Whitechapel. He did not feel as if he'd been drugged - and he knew the feeling well, for all sorts of reasons.

There was a building in the distance, and there was nothing but to make for it, so Jackson did just that, checking that his gun was loaded and had not been interfered with as he walked. The closer he got, the more something seemed off with the place. It was a hotel, wasn't it? And familiar in its own way, he thought as he reached it, looking warily around, a hand on the gun at his side in what could have been a stance of habit, but really was him being ready to draw.

It was a hotel, and familiar in its own way, but details here and there were out of place, things he didn't know or could not explain. His hand fell from his gun as he stood in the middle of the lobby, looking at the amount of electrical lamps on the walls and ceiling.