Additional Note: Takes place just after 4x01 A New Hope.
Disclaimer: I own neither the characters nor the rights to Warehouse 13.

Day One

The woman strained to reach over her head. She planted a foot on the bottom shelf to give herself a small boost.

Just one more inch.

Fingers brushed against a rough surface.

No, not that.

She twisted her wrist to feel to the left and her palm was met by smooth porcelain. Her fingers danced across the etchings on the neck of the vase, interpreting the language in her mind.

"Aces!"

She got a firm hold on the artifact and slid it towards the edge of the shelf. The artifact bumped up against something solid and the sound of rolling reached her ears. Out of the corner of her eye came a black blur which she followed to the floor.

"Oh, bullo –"

Before she could finish the boot clad toe supporting her weight shifted. Already strained fingers slipped from their hold. The next course of events flashed before her eyes within seconds of them occurring. Her breath caught in her lungs at what was to come.

With arms stretched in front of her she saw the shelf moving away from her. Wisps of raven back hair flowed past her face, reaching for the ceiling as she plummeted down, down, down.

She was swallowed into the void.

Her fall was halted with a dull thump. She groaned from the blaze of pain coming from the back of her head. While gasping for air her eyes opened to reveal spinning lights. It was like she had dropped onto the floor of a carousel going round and round. However, this place (wherever she had arrived) was not a carnival for there was no laughter of children or music of a circus waltz. In fact, all the inventor heard was silence. A wave of nausea hit her suddenly. Rolling onto her side she curled into fetal position and clutched her stomach.

After inhaling and exhaling a few calming breaths she stole a second look at her location. A chest of card catalog drawers ran against one wall along with a table littered with books and papers. To her left was a spiral staircase and on her right were a swivel chair, a desk, and some interesting contraptions atop it. Her surroundings reminded her of the Warehouse, in yet…

"Hey, are you guys back already?" The question echoed from an open door across the room. "I thought all flights were delayed."

The source of the female voice revealed itself in the presence of a tall, 30-something woman clad in black skin-tight pants and loose button down. Half buckled boots scrapped lazily across the office floor and stopped abruptly when green eyes lifted from reading a file to meet the fallen, dazed inventor.

"H.G." the brunette gasped. The file dropped forgotten on the floor and in seconds she was beside the other woman. "Are you alright? What happened?"

The woman named H.G. stared at the hand on her shoulder and felt the gentle pressure of a palm cradling her cheek.

"Helena?" The name was spoken with concern and a hint of affection.

The vertigo disappeared to reveal a truer sight of the woman bent over her. An odd, yet familiar feeling of fear and adventure coursed through her blood. It heightened her senses to 'agent level' as she gazed at the mystery surrounding her. There was also a peculiar sense of recognition. "Do I know you?"

The odd feeling that asserted itself within H.G. was something akin to déjà vu.

Have I met this woman before?

The curly haired brunette still had her hands on H.G. who still had not pulled away from such unfamiliar contact. The inventor had been held by many lovers in her time (as many women as men), but never had she felt the soothing comfort that the mystery woman was giving her. She had a strong desire to solve this puzzle.

"Have we met before?" H.G. asked with more wonder than confusion.

"Very funny. Did Pete put you up to this?" The woman slapped her own thigh and shook her head violently. "I knew it! He's getting back at me for finishing the rest of the Chunky Monkey!" The tall woman was met with a furrowed brow at the name 'Pete' and an equally perplexed expression at 'Chunky Monkey.' She cocked her head. "Exactly how hard did you bump your head?"

Her agent training told her not to trust the woman. It was entirely possible that she was an American spy who had broken through Warehouse security and captured Wolcott and Chaturanga. Yet the feeling of déjà vu and the way the woman was looking at her compelled her to speak truthfully, for the time being. I can incapacitate her later if it comes to that.

H.G. propped herself on her elbows to scrutinize her surroundings. "This is not Chaturanga's office, but there is something about this place that is distinctly Warehouse related." Her gaze returned to the stranger who looked like she was experiencing an epiphany.

"Oh no," the woman said in a low voice. "H.G. … what time period do you think you're in?"

"Well, I would say the turn of the 19th century, however," she looked around the room again, "from my surroundings and my keen interest in time travel I would conclude that I have seriously mistaken the date."

"What is the last thing you remember before waking up on the floor?"

H.G.'s eyes moved up and to the left, trying to retrieve the memory. Things were still a bit hazy from whatever trip she had taken. "There was an artifact… yes, I was reaching for a particular artifact relating to a case and then something fell from the shelf. The impact blew a hole in the floor and I fell in. There were a few minutes of blackness, like I had been knocked out, and I woke up precisely where I lay now."

The tall woman listened patiently to H.G.'s story. Her forehead wrinkled with every detail that was recounted, her breathing growing steadily faster. As H.G. continued to sit on the floor calm and collected it was clear who was more startled by the turn of events. Something is clearly not right with the way this woman is reacting.

"Okay, we should get you something more comfortable to sit on," the woman proposed. H.G. could see the hardened expression on her face and the wheels turning in that head of hers. The stranger went for the office chair and when she turned to wheel it around she was met by the point of a gun.

"I think it is time we introduced ourselves properly," the inventor exclaimed, Tesla in hand. "You first."

This was not her H.G.

If it was she would have happened upon that charming smile and those eyes that shined with warmth only meant for her. Instead, Myka saw a time traveling Victorian who had no memory of the perils they had experienced, the mysteries they shared, the secrets kept. There was obvious suspicion across the inventor's face. H.G. did not know who she was and more importantly did not know who Myka was to her. The narrowed, hesitant eyes burned into Myka's. No, this was definitely not her H.G. Myka knew this because she wouldn't have expected to have met H.G. at gunpoint – a fourth time.

"So, what will it be: a quick and precise explanation or a paralyzing shock of electricity to the nervous system?"

The woman looked from the Tesla to H.G. and back. Arms went out in surrender. "Calm down, this isn't what you think. I'm a Warehouse agent just like you. Here." She slowly reached behind to her back pocket.

"Ah!" H.G. cocked the Tesla in warning. "Hands, let me see them." She pushed herself up off the floor and to her feet. Balance did not come easily and she staggered. The tall woman took a step forward to steady her, but was halted by a threatening stare. H.G. extracted the wallet and flipped it open to reveal a badge.

"I used to work for the United States Secret Service before my recruitment to the Warehouse. I now use it as my cover when I go on assignment."

"This doesn't prove anything." The inventor laughs mockingly. "You might be the U.S. government, but I know a Warehouse agent when I see one and you, darling, are not pinging my radar."

The brunette smirked despite the offensive remark. "Can I put my hands down?" She indicated with her raised palms. "This is getting kind of ridiculous, even for you."

"You say you know me, in yet you refuse to answer my questions. If you know me so well then who am I really?"

The woman caught the knowing stare and dropped her arms even though the gun was still on her. "Helena G. Wells," she began, "born September 21, 1866 at Atlas House in Bromley, England. Unlike your brother, Charles, you are the true H.G. Wells; artificer, writer, creator of the most impossible ideas known to man, and prophet of things to come. Just before apprenticing at Warehouse 12 you attended the World's Fair in 1893 and met Nikola Tesla with whom you helped design that fine weapon you are pointing at me." The woman took a deep breath and finished with a cock of her head, "And you hate cats."

She didn't blink or hesitate. This stranger who claimed to be an acquaintance of the inventor didn't miss a beat. H.G. was dumbfounded. There was one aspect about her life, however, that the woman failed to mention. A lump formed in her throat when she asked, "And what of my daughter?"

The tall woman hesitated as if waiting for some sign. H.G.'s chest constricted at the silence. Anticipation caused her to swallow over the growing lump.

"Christina Wells passed away –"

The interruption came in the form of a rasping cry that was quickly stifled by a shaking hand. The nausea that H.G. thought had passed came back with a vengeance. She could taste the bile at the back of her throat. Air passed in and out of her nose and she squeezed her eyes shut, praying for relief. The shaking gun rattled in her tightening grip. When she found her voice again it came as a whisper. "Continue."

A few moments of silence and then a low voice spoke, "You were staying with family in Paris. There was a break-in. She was caught in the struggle. She was eight-years-old."

H.G. felt for the object around her neck and clutched it fiercely until her knuckles turned white. "And what else about her?"

"You keep a locket holding her picture. She shared your same black hair. Christina was…"

Goddamn it. The Tesla was growing so very heavy. The image of the female imposter began to blur through watery tears. Her chest rattled under the weight of tragedy. "Finish!" she shouted. H.G. couldn't tell if she was pleading or demanding with the woman.

"Christina was your happiest place on earth."

The gate had opened unleashing a pain so great the raven haired woman collapsed back to the floor. The stranger who did not seem to be a stranger no longer stepped over the fallen Tesla to hold the convulsing body.

"I'm so sorry."

H.G. could barely hear the words over the sound of her agony.

It took her more than a few minutes to collect whatever sanity she had left. Christina had passed away only a month ago, the loss still so fresh in her memory. H.G. couldn't recall where she was when she found out or who came to her with the news. What little remained after was the horrible pain in her heart, that pressure so great that oxygen wouldn't come and the only conceivable remedy was to shut down. Hours upon hours the writer had spent locked away, forgoing nourishment and sleep. There was just insurmountable staring; out a window, into the fireplace, down on the floor, but never a book, never her smiling face within a locket.

She refused to see family members or receive comfort from the grieving because there was no one on earth who was as inconsolable as she was. It would almost seem that her pain had been numbed by the solitude, but every time she saw behind closed lids there was the face of her Christina, that image of her daughter so alive and happy. Soon the image began asking her why had not she not saved her, demanding of her why she had been out gallivanting with the notorious bourgeois when she should have been home protecting her child. This pain - not simply of loss but of regret - haunted her at every waking moment.

That excruciating pain was still present as she lay in the woman's arms. It couldn't be let go. She didn't want it to disappear, not yet. Not until those responsible felt her same pain, if not more so.

"I'm sorry."

There it was again. This woman was clearly sharing in her remorse as if she could feel what H.G. was feeling. Whoever she is she couldn't possible understand what I've been going through, how wretched my heart feels.

H.G. slowly disengaged herself from the arms encircling her once trembling body. Turning away, she wiped away the tears and sat up. "So you really do work for the Warehouse? That has to be the only possible explanation for how you know my true identity."

"I do," the woman confirmed, "and I'm willing to forget that comment about me not acting like an agent."

H.G. blushed and for a moment the pain was forgotten. She was then aware of how alone they were. "Where are the other agents?"

As if arriving on command, a bark sounded from the back room and a rambunctious border collie bounded into the office. He nuzzled the brunette's outstretched hand before approaching H.G.

"And who might this be?"

"This is Trailer. We found him during a mission. He's kind of our Warehouse mascot."

He padded hesitantly to H.G. and then halted still as a statue. His head bobbed up to meet the writer's eyes and then panned down to her toes. He sniffed the air around her. Ever the Warehouse mascot he seemed to be sizing up the intruder. When he was finished with his examination the dog opened his mouth in a smile, tongue lolling out. He was obviously satisfied.

H.G. patted the head that was offered to her and ran her fingers through the long caramel coat. Admiring the animal with a wry smile she asked the woman, "So is this your partner?" H.G. lifts the dog's head so they were nose to nose. "Do you go on assignment, Agent Trailer?"

The collie woofed in response and gave her another lopsided smile. The two women laughed on cue.

"No, I think this one is too house-trained to go on missions," the American agent exclaimed. "That or he just sticks around here for Artie's cookies."

"Ah-tee?" H.G. pronounced in her charming British accent.

"Oh, sorry, I'm obviously not very good at introductions. Arthur Nielsen, he's my boss. We call him Artie. He's the one who runs this place." H.G. nods her head in comprehension. "My partner, Pete – he was the one I mentioned earlier with the Chunky Monkey – we've been working together for three years now. Pete is… well, let's just say Trailer is more house-trained. Then there's Claudia, our youngest agent. She's a wiz at computers and technology. Kind of a mini-you. Steve, he's our newest addition. He's a great asset when interviewing witnesses because he has this ability that allows him to detect when people are lying. And lastly, Leena, who owns the Bed and Breakfast where we all live. She can read auras. I don't know how, but trust me, she's really good at it."

"Well, it certainly sounds like a full house. But I must inquire where is this colorful cast of characters? Has there been some kind of artifact crisis?"

The woman chuckled. "You know, it's funny you should say that seeing as we have managed to avoid talking about this little artifact crisis." She gestured with her hands to emphasize that H.G. was the "artifact crisis" in question.

"Yes, I do suppose my traveling into the future constitutes as a crisis."

"Maybe we should have this conversation somewhere a little less intimidating. I'm sure it must be confusing being here."

"That is very kind of you." H.G. panned around the office with a slightly withdrawn expression. "And a change of scenery would be much appreciated. I may have a passion for time travel, but now that I've actually experienced it… well, let's just say it is not as stimulating as I imagined it to be." She held a hand to her still queasy stomach.

The brunette nodded grimly. She led H.G. to the door leading out of the Warehouse. Hesitating before opening it she turned to reveal a shy smile. "My name is Myka by the way." She extended a hand towards the other woman. "Myka Bering."

H.G.'s hand stretched of its own accord, grasping the one before her. Her fingers curled around the other woman's. She felt instant warmth creeping through her skin. The journey through time left her body a chilly temperature and the sudden change in sensation made the hair on her skin stand on end. H.G. wondered if that was the only reason for the giddy lightheadedness she was experiencing.

Her thumb grazed slowly over each of the woman's knuckles, leisurely taking in the hills and valleys of the bone. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Myka."

It took H.G. about an hour to make an adequate examination of the automobile. With Myka as commentator H.G. was able to understand the basic mechanics of four wheel drive.

"Oh, I do miss the horse and buggy days."

"This is just too weird, " Myka muttered under her breath.

"Pardon?"

There was a cough. "Uh, I said 'This must be weird for you.'" Myka raised her brows in mock excitement.

The writer nodded. "Yes, well, I have to admit with the number of scraps I've gotten myself into this has to take the biscuit." She abruptly looked curiously at the driver. "Is that still a usable expression now, 'take the biscuit'?"

After a long discussion on 21st century idioms and expressions and an even longer talk about the importance of seat belts they finally arrived at the bed and breakfast.

"I do not see the point of wearing a harness when you are being propelled at 65-miles-an-hour. How can anyone feel that spectacular rush when you are strapped down to the seat like a mental patient?"

Myka closed the door behind them and let out an impatient sigh. It would seem that reasons of safety and the law didn't get through to the Victorian. She let it go as they had more important things to talk about.

"What a splendid home!" H.G. commented as she took in the appearance of the foyer.

"We should have it to ourselves for a while. Pete and Claudia are on assignment, Artie is having dinner with his girlfriend, Vanessa; I don't expect him back until the end of the week," Myka adds jokingly, "and Steve and Leena are held up at the Warehouse doing inventory."

Myka directed the writer through the glass paneled doors to the dining room. They sat across from each other at the round table and waited. The air was stagnant with uncertainty. Neither of them quite knew how to begin such a conversation for it was not every day that a notorious Englishwoman traveled through time.

The brunette started, "So…"

"So…" H.G. replied. Her hands were clasped together politely on the table. Her fingers still felt the lingering warmth that had been transferred during their introduction.

"You mentioned a hole of some sort, a portal that the artifact created after it fell?"

"Yes," the writer said, suddenly entering 'agent mode.' "I was reaching for something on the shelf. It was quite a high reach. I was rustling about and something sphere-like was dislodged. The impact of the artifact created a time-space vortex. I slipped, fell, and…" H.G. shrugged, "here I am."

"You seem pretty sure that it was this sphere artifact that is responsible. Do you have any idea as to what the origins of this artifact are? Or maybe the sector you were in? That could narrow down the possibilities."

H.G. opened her mouth to reply, but paused. "I was well aware of the sector in which I was occupied. It was… it was in the time travel section."

Myka's body turned rigid at the candid testimony and leaned forward. "What were you doing there?" She already knew the answer to the question, it was written on H.G.'s face and was a burden fused to her shoulders every step of the way.

H.G. couldn't sit any longer. She stood up and paced the floor. It would do no good to worry herself into a state. It was best to focus on the task at hand. One problem at a time. "It has been a month – a month for me – since Christina's passing. I was trying to find a way to get back to her. If I could somehow get a hold of an artifact that could alter time there would have been no need for what happened to happen." H.G. gazed through teary eyes, slightly guilty. "She doesn't have to die."

The other woman bit her lip, trying in vain to come up with something reassuring to the grieving mother. Her wounds were deep and the pain was still so fresh that there was no telling how H.G. would react to what words Myka had to offer. A litany of assurances came to mind, no doubt. Devouring books upon books over the years shaped an impressive vocabulary for the young agent. Like her favorite author Myka had a fondness for the written word, but none of them matched up to the emotions the woman before her was suffering under. She knew from experience that there was literally nothing she could say that could comfort one who lost a loved one. Myka knew this from experience. So instead of using words she remained silent, giving the raven-haired woman the time she needed.

When H.G. found her voice she continued. "I had already been working on designs for a time machine, but there were a few setbacks that led me to seek out the time travel sector of the Warehouse." Myka perked up at the mention of 'time machine.' "That area does not consist of actually working time travel objects, though, some were collected under the suspicion that they were operational; they were stored there simply as a safety precaution. While there I was searching for something that could assist in the proper construction of my machine. I was just looking for… I don't know inspiration."

It was becoming more difficult by the minute to remain impartial and as a result Myka's patience was drying up just as fast. Anything she might say or want to say about H.G.'s future could lead to extreme consequences for the natural universe and, more importantly, could endanger the Victorian.

"What makes you so sure that this time machine could work?" Myka asked as objectively as possible. "I mean, it seems evident that the sphere artifact is operational, but it sent you to the future not the past. You are a Warehouse agent, so you know how unpredictable any object in the Warehouse might be."

"If I can be propelled into the future I can certainly find a way to reverse the effects of the artifact so it sends me back through time. A specific time."

"H.G., this is dangerous. It only takes one mistake to start a paradox or worse, kill you in the process."

"I am well versed in paradoxes and causality violation. The years of research I have dedicated myself too… if anyone could pull it off it is I," the Victorian lifted her chin with pride, "a rather world-class expert on time travel."

"And you became obsessed with it! It led to your bronzing!" Myka said it without thinking. With eyes as wide as the Grand Canyon her mouth hung open in shock. She closed a hand over her mouth in an attempt to shut anything further from coming out.

H.G. raised a brow and tipped her head. "I beg your pardon?"

Myka shot out of her chair. Shaking her head she whined, "I shouldn't have said that. There are things you can't know."

Crossing her arms across her chest H.G. replied, "Things? What more are you not telling me?" More inquisitive than ever the writer squinted at the curly haired woman. "And how on earth did I end up in the bronzer?" she scoffed.

"I – I want to tell you, H.G., I really do, but there is more at stake here than you being bronzed."

"What could be more important than me being bronzed? That is, besides me traveling 112 years into the future?"

"You should know more than anyone else how wrong it is to screw with past and future events. You built the time machine for god's sake!"

She gaped at the woman who slapped a hand to her mouth a second time and slammed down her foot in frustration. "So it worked?" H.G. took a step forward, eyes wide and dancing. "My invention, I got it to work?"

"Damn it, Artie's gonna kill me," the agent mumbled while the inventor just smiled at the thought of her machine. "No, I take that back, first the Regents are going to fire me, but not before Mrs. Frederick shoots those dagger eyes at me, and then Artie's going to kill me." Myka fell into a chair holding the head that she predicted would soon be detached from her body. "Oh god."

Still glowing from the news H.G. kneeled in front of the sitting figure. "If what you are saying is true, that I succeeded in building my time machine… that would mean my Christina is alive. I saved her didn't I?"

Myka looked up to witness the smile. It was the happiest she had ever seen the Victorian, cheeks flushed with excitement, eyes sparkling, hands clasped together as if in prayer. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight. She would gladly give her life to keep that expression alive; however, it would disgrace Christina's memory to make H.G. believe something that wasn't true. She had suffered so much and now H.G. would lose her daughter all over again.

"No," Myka whispered softly. A solitary tear escaped and ran down her cheek, "you couldn't save her."

The beautiful look of hope vanished slowly with drooping lids and falling cheeks. Bright eyes darkened into midnight pools while her unsteady hands fell. H.G. had paled back into her normal grieving state.

"Oh," H.G. said, voice cracking.

Myka couldn't take it anymore. Without thinking she kneeled down on the B&B floor, embracing the figure that was frozen in shock. Arms immediately wrapped themselves around the taller woman as if they should have been there all along. H.G. wasn't crying or showing any signs of outward emotion. Instead, the brunette could feel the aching sadness throbbing beneath the breast pressing to her own.

Myka buried herself into the billowing darkness of hair, breathing in the distinctly Victorian scent of H.G. Wells. The raven strands released the scent of tea, ink, and coal gas. This is what she smelled like in her time, Myka thought. An image came to mind of a woman writing by the light of a gas lamp with fountain pen in hand and a steaming cup of Earl Grey at the ready. All of sudden she began to feel the familiar sensation of loss stir from within. The present H.G. was god knows where and no longer a part of the Warehouse (or at least that was what she was told). There was no telling when she would show up, if at all, and in what kind of state.

But if being in the arms of her friend again didn't have a calming effect on her nerves then the remaining molecules of tea leaves certainly did the trick. Regardless of the time period she arrived from, the body did smell like her H.G. In an effort to make the moment last she hugged the woman closer. Maybe if she held on tight enough and long enough this H.G. wouldn't leave her