A/N: So, this is my first foray into fanfiction writing – I have lurked and occasionally reviewed but the beauty of Bering and Wells has forced me to do some writing too. What can you do? Anywho, be gentle but honest; reviews would be nice

Disclaimer: like pretty much everyone else on here, I own nothing but wishful thinking.

Finding the Light

Chapter 1

I was beginning to wonder if things would ever return to their normal state. Obviously, the definition of normality is a matter of some consequence for such a statement so let me explain what I mean. When I had first come back to the Warehouse, before anyone other than myself could be accused of true madness, there had been a glorious general atmosphere of joviality, only occasionally marred by the dark clouds of fear; it is this atmosphere by which I am defining my 'normality'. But after the Astrolabe, after Leena, the air became filled with deep and smothering loss, loss and grief and pain and underneath it all was poor Artie's inescapable sense of guilt. Oh we all know very well that he was no more guilty than any person under the influence of an artefact has ever been; even he began to at least admit the intellectual truth of his innocence, but actually feeling its truth is another matter altogether. Apparently guilt can eat away at you, no matter how illogical it is.

Mrs. Frederick, our ever solid rock of reassurance (and occasional terror, I might add in private), began to be a bit more present, popping out of nowhere on a more regular basis. I think she was trying to ground us all again, bring the team back down to earth before the whirling winds of grief could carry anyone too far away. Jane Lattimer was also a welcome presence for the most part, and I could see the positive effect she had on her son with every visit. 'Time is a healer' is what they were telling everyone, and I did find it interesting to see the different reactions amongst the team to such a statement. Artie seemed to accept it but reluctantly, as if holding onto hope that he would not heal; grief and guilt can be very convincing in their endeavours to assure you that you do not deserve to ever be healed. Steve would nod sagely, accepting his own powerlessness; the boy's wisdom in matters of substance is certainly far beyond his years. Pete, ever the optimist, grasped willingly onto the hope offered; I must admit that his determined positivity is a trait to be admired. Shock and confusion and a wish for time to 'just get on and heal us already' was Claudia's general attitude; I think she was still uncertain how to swim those deep waters of grief, especially knowing that there was no metronome for Leena.

And Myka? Dear Myka. She would just glance at me, her lovely green eyes filled with concern as if she knew the thought that tripped through my mind: there are some wounds that time alone cannot heal.

My own particular wounds had long ago left me with the nasty habit of waking suddenly from that dread reality, the nightmare of the past. The versions vary but the effect is the same: sweat, confusion, terror and the awful moment when all is clarified and I remember that the dream is in fact a memory. Depending on how in control of my faculties I am by this point, tears tend to follow if they have not already manifested as I sleep; my endeavours to keep them silent lack consistency in their success. One thing that is truly constant however, is my fulfilment of the oft-incorrect American stereotype of the British: tea is my ever faithful comfort.

And so it was, several weeks or so after things had gotten back near enough to some semblance of a normal routine, with all agents having been put back on 'active duty' as it were (somehow, myself included), I found myself trudging lightly down the stairs in search of tea, exhaustion battling my fear of waking the other house inhabitants. I had made such a post-dream trip enough times in the past to succeed without the aid of a light source, but it took my sleep hindered mind longer than usual to process the fact that detecting a dim light coming from the lounge meant I was probably not the only conscious person in the B&B this night.

"Myka?" I called softly as I discovered her prone form on the sofa, stretched out with a book open under the side lamp. I crept a step or two closer into the silence and saw that my slowly drawn conclusions had, in fact, been false as she was certainly no longer conscious. One arm was bent under her head, the other held a cushion to her chest, her hand splayed out across the book's page. My eyes skimmed a few lines and I felt a jolt of unexpected familiarity as my own words stood out from the page. Ann Veronica, how entertaining and frustrating had that novel been to write.

Before I could stop myself, I found my eyes beginning to wander back to the book's owner, across the sculpted planes of her face with its delicate skin and full lips, along her smooth jaw line and down the column of her throat, the beat of a steady pulse there capturing me for a moment as I waged a fierce war against the urge to look further at places my eyes were not invited to look. Never has a war been fought so hard with less desire to win. I forced my reluctant self to back away, but soon rediscovered the fact that turmoil is not the friend of gracefulness or spatial awareness. I crashed backwards over the coffee table, letting out a very undignified yelp, landing in a very undignified heap and responding to Myka's startled question with a very undignified 'ow'.

"Helena?" her confused and slightly incredulous voice floated gently across the room toward me, fatigue rounding its edges in a way that made my stomach clench pleasantly. This was nothing to the effect on my insides produced by the slow spreading smile which then began to stretch across her face and the tiny low giggle that escaped as her now awake brain caught up with the fact that I was in my undignified heap on the floor. "Are you ok?" She appeared now to be fighting her own battle, concern vs. mirth, but I think she fought a great deal less fiercely than I had.

"Uh," unfortunately my rapture at the beauty of her smile and the wicked kindness of her eyes had distracted me from the wisdom of thinking up any form of appropriate explanation for my current circumstance. "I, uh, just came to get some tea, darling. Nothing to worry about, sorry I woke you." Trying for the standard H.G. Wells nonchalance in that scenario really wasn't my best idea ever. And I really didn't think through the consequences of that response.

"What time is -? Why are you getting tea at three in the morning?" Genuine concern started to edge into her eyes as the Myka Bering Brain of Logic quickly arrived at the fact that this wasn't a normal person's usual hour for caffeine based liquid refreshment. She'd sat up by this point and was soon leaning toward me, squinting intently; I realised with a sigh that it was more than possible that evidence of my dream-induced tears still stained my face. Her gaze softened and I turned, not wanting her to see, not wanting her to feel the burden of my past in her already burdened present. I pushed myself to my feet, attempting to subtly rub my face clean in the process and summoned up the best self-possessed H.G. Wells smile I could find.

"Just a little thirsty, darling." I turned back to her, ramping the 'roguish charm' as high as I could get it. "I simply got a little distracted when I found you here, arranged so elegantly on the couch with-"

"Helena, cut the crap," she interrupted me suddenly. Apparently she'd decided to stop letting me believe she couldn't see right through my many bravados. As she rose and padded around the coffee table towards me, I detected a slight blush forming on her cheeks but I couldn't tell whether it was from addressing me so abruptly or from embarrassment that I'd caught her with one of my books. "Look, I can see you've been crying and I want you to know that that's ok. I want you to know that if you want to talk or if you want to just sit together and be quiet or you want a shoulder to do your crying on then that's ok. The only thing that's not ok is you pretending that you're fine." I opened my mouth to object, but soon discovered that that was a pointless endeavour.

"You know," she continued, her voice gentle again, "the reason I'm down here on the couch is that I couldn't sleep because all the crap of the last few months had just caught up with me. I couldn't deal with being in my room anymore so I came down here and I brought one of your books, because they're one of my greatest comforts, especially now that I know the person who wrote them." She paused, her olive green eyes searching me out and holding me still. "You and your books have always been there for me, evidently helping my mind to settle enough to catch some sleep tonight; let me be there for you." I felt her hands gently seek me out, sliding down my arms until they gripped my fingers.

How wondrous a creature is she? How wondrous a sight to behold, Myka Bering 'cutting through the crap' of the persona I think I've mastered. How terrifying and awe-inspiring and altogether holy. She cuts to the quick of me and I beseech any deities that will listen to let her always be there to do so.

I tried to maintain my regular breathing pattern as I felt the tears I thought I'd banished rise again, spilling over and shattering upon my cheeks. I closed my eyes, unable to bear the sight of her blurred by my own liquid grief, and gave up all my tense attempts to hold it in as I felt her arms surround me, holding me gently to her. Her grip tightened about my shoulders and I realised it was in response to my own arms having made their way around her waist, apparently without instruction. I made a mental note to thank them later and then realised the absurdity of such a thought. I think, perhaps, I can be forgiven an absurd thought or two in a moment like that however, a moment where the surreal nature of unexpected wish-fulfilment made me wonder if my brain had somehow been taught again the path to good dreams, whilst at the same time my body shook with sobs muffled in the hollow at her collar bone, the strength of her arms around me allowing release of some of the pressure that had built again in my chest.

She held me for the next eternity of ten minutes as my composure completely vanished and my tense body was allowed to let go of some of its stress. She never removed her arms from around me, keeping that comforting pressure constant, even as her hands moved. One found its way to my hair, stroking soothingly from my crown to the base of my skull; the other caressed my shoulder, firmly squeezing and drawing down to the shoulder blade and back up again. All the while her honeyed voice was in my ear whispering encouragement to let it out, that is was ok, that she was there, that she wasn't going anywhere as long as I needed her, that she'd got me.

She kept up her soothing ministrations as my weeping eventually began to subside, for which I was glad and not only because I wasn't sure my suddenly deeply exhausted body could actually be relied upon to stand by itself. The feeling of her strong arms around me, her hand in my hair, the warmth of her body encompassing me and the soft indefinable scent of her, maybe vanilla and some other balmily sweet thing that I could never put my finger on; this was the stuff of dreams. And not the historical nightmares of the dark, but the kind of dream that the waking mind conjures in moments it has spare, a dream made purely of things we actually, consciously yearn and ache for.

"I am sorry," my voice squeaked as I tried for some levity, "I appear to have made rather a damp patch on your jumper." I heard her snuff of amusement and managed to meet her eye for a moment, finding almost more grace, more compassion, more of all the best parts of human emotion than I could bear for her to show me. She gently but firmly pulled me back to her, holding me tightly as a low chuckle rumbled through her.

"I think I'll probably cope with that." She gave me a final squeeze across my shoulders before slowly disengaging, almost as if she wanted to give me the opportunity to hold on to her, to make her stay. Although I knew there was nothing I would want more than to hold on to that embrace, I recognised that I was in no state to judge how far I could stretch my own self-control. She didn't release me completely, sliding one hand down my arm again until she could grip my hand in hers, lacing our fingers together, and led me back to the sofa, this time around the coffee table rather than over it. We sat quietly for a moment, hands still clasped together in her lap.

"Thank you." I spoke quietly, but apparently my vocal cords had decided to behave this time, inflicting no squeak.

"Any time." I felt her looking at me until I met her eye, and she raised an eyebrow as if to stress the point. "And I do mean that; I don't want to have to keep a night vigil on the sofa down here, but I will if you don't promise to come to me when you need to. Or want to."

"Myka-" I tried to protest, but-

"I'm serious, Helena," she dropped her gaze, those beautiful eyes choosing instead to study our interlocking fingers. "I hate that the universe has thrown so much crap at us, at you. I can't stand the thought of you trying to keep it all inside, not asking for help, not feeling like you can lean on me."

I could feel my heart rate skipping and swerving all over the place, but brought all the steely force of my walls up against any such behaviour as soon as possible. It was out of the question that the way I felt about Myka could be reciprocated now, not after all the crimes I had committed against her and all the evils of my past; it was surely not possible for any human to be so gracious. And yet I could not deny that she cared. Of course she cared though; Myka Bering is a creature of endless compassion, she would care for the woes of any person.

"Promise me," her demand interrupted my tumultuous musings, green eyes imploring.

"Myka, I," I paused, uncertain how to proceed.

"Helena." The warning tone in her voice brooked no argument but-

"I just, well, if you're going to make me promise that, you should know that this, this isn't a particularly unusual event." She stared at me, as if incredulous that I thought that would affect the sincerity of her desire to help me. "I mean that, bloody hell this shouldn't be so difficult to explain, but this, really, it-" I sighed. "I have nightmares. Often." Her look offered the question. "Most nights. Every night." I felt her hand grip mine tighter, her other hand coming over to cover it too.

"Can you tell me about them?" Her question was gentle, almost as if she was worried she'd break me with such a request.

"I," I paused, breathing deeply and focusing on the fact that she'd squeezed my hand again and was gently caressing my knuckles with her thumb. "They're memories mostly. Sometimes of being told that sh- that my Christina had been killed; most often of travelling back in time to occupy Sophy's mind – my repeatedly failed attempts to fight them off and then horrific memories of what I did to those men afterwards. Sometimes it's the bronzer, just endless lonely blackness filled with my own poisonous anger and sometimes," I hesitated but couldn't really stop at that point, "sometimes I remember Warehouse 2 and Yellowstone, or the terror of that moment when Sykes made me shoot at you and put you in the chair," my recovered vocal cords had apparently regressed again, as my voice began to crack. "And sometimes it's a jumbled mess of all of the above." I felt her shuffle toward me on the sofa, one hand coming to rest on my back, outlining slow soothing circles across my shoulders, exerting a gentle pressure to bring me closer, encouraging me to lean against her. I couldn't really believe that I was saying all of this, that she'd somehow managed to make me loose my tongue when I'd been so determined to keep it in check.

I almost jumped in shock when I felt the softest pressure applied gently to my temple, warm breath flowing with it. I was fairly certain that she'd just kissed me, but was slightly concerned that I may have been hallucinating or gotten in contact with some kind of wish fulfilment artefact.

The silence returned, broken only by the soft sounds of breathing and the slight rustle of her hand moving slowly across my back.

"I still want that promise," her voice was quiet, but it reverberated through me as she'd leant her head against mine. "I want to be there."

"Myka, I can't do that." Really her request was ridiculous. "I can't come knocking on your door every night at whatever ungodly hour my demons decide to strike and force you to share in my insomnia. I really appreciate that you want to help, I do, but-"

"You're not forcing me into anything, Helena; in case you hadn't noticed, I'm the one making demands here." She lifted her head, leaning back to look me in the eye. "I, for goodness' sake, I won't allow it," her tone high and unquestionable, as if this authority was clearly hers, "I won't allow you to be left to fight your 'demons' alone." She practically huffed in frustration as she looked up and away, shaking her head. "I couldn't bear the thought." Peering at her in the dim light, I thought I detected a slight shimmering in her eyes. Myka was almost crying. For me. She cleared her throat. "I need that promise. If it helps, I'm fairly certain that I won't be able to sleep without it now – I'll be sitting awake, listening for you."

"Myka-"

"I mean it," she almost laughed, as if she realised that she'd found the winning argument, "it'll be cruel of you not to promise me."

"You realise this is emotional blackmail?"

"As long as it works I don't care. And don't think you can get away with 'promising' with your fingers crossed or anything because I will get Steve to check you're not lying if tomorrow night you're 'miraculously cured' and 'sleep through the night'."

"Fingers crossed?"

"Ok, perhaps a little juvenile, but the principle remains!" There was a genuine, if reluctant, hint of amusement in her eyes now and I was glad, even if she had managed to corner me most effectively. Beauty and brains. "Helena!" Her tone was somewhere between exasperated with me and amused or embarrassed by herself, but determined nonetheless.

"Alright, alright," I sighed, shaking my head. "I give in." I paused but saw she was about to chide me again and so hurried on. "I promise." Another pause and then a rush. "But only as long as you promise to tell me that it's not working out when you realise how insane this plan is."

"Helena!"

"Ow!" Yes, she had punched me in the arm, and yes it's quite possible that she didn't really hit me hard enough to merit such a response.

"Well fine," a smug grin erupted across her face, "I promise, but seeing as it's not insane, this promise won't ever need to be fulfilled."

"You realise I'm half expecting you to burst out with whatever the modern variation of 'ner nicky ner ner' is right now?" It had to be said, even if I recognised that I was putting myself in grave danger of being punched again. Instead I just received an exaggerated huff, which then descended into genuine, infectious laughter. The warmth of her eyes as she met my gaze sent hot tendrils of fire shrieking through my stomach, but I managed to ignore them admirably.

"No, 'ner nicky ner ner' is still the phrase of choice for moments like that." She smiled, and brought her punching hand back to where her other one was still clasped with mine in her lap, and gave them a gentle squeeze. "Well, did you still want that tea? Can I persuade you to go for something caffeine-free in an attempt to aim for sleeping again, seeing as it is still only 03.30?" Her face turned serious again. "Do you ever get back to sleep once you've had a nightmare?"

"Not really." I tried to smile reassuringly, but was fairly certain it wasn't very effective. "It's ok though; I still have a lot of reading to catch up on – being gone for over a century does leave quite the literary gap in my experience – and I always have projects to tinker with." She nodded her head; understanding was there, but so was sorrow. "But," I tried to sound bright and optimistic, "I've never had the opportunity to try sleeping post-Myka-therapy before, so who knows?" She snuffed, smiling and shaking her head. I could tell she knew I was trying to cheer her.

"Ok," she stood up, keeping my hand in hers and tugging me in the direction of the kitchen, only letting go once she reached the kettle, "well can I persuade you to try one of my herbal teas then? Maybe chamomile? It's supposed to be soothing." She turned hesitantly toward me and I had to fight a very strong urge to tell her there and then that there wasn't anything in the world that she wouldn't be able to persuade me to do.

"I suppose it couldn't hurt, even if I can't really believe anything to be as soothing as a real cup of tea." Except perhaps this so-called 'Myka-therapy'.

"You never know if you don't try," she grinned at me, evidently pleased that I'd succumbed to her will yet again. She bustled about and I looked on, knowing I was hers to command.