Cornwall, England. January, 1962

Even the salt in the sea air couldn't stop it from freezing in the crisp winter sunlight. From whipping across their noses, and stirring up even the most slicked-back locks of the young students, and their long, thin ties. The mourners could hardly hear the words of the priest where they stood, lined up along that perilous coast line, dressed from head-to-toe in black – and the violent crash of the waves below seemed oddly fitting somehow. Fitting for a man whose life had been so tumultuous, so often thrust into conflict against his will, un-listened to, unheard against the louder voices which surrounded him.

Helen Magnus relished the sting of that harsh wind evaporating her tears, passing through the short veil that reached from her pillbox hat and over her eyes.

It hadn't hit her until the funeral, in the small Cornish chapel just behind them. As the coffin passed, carried down the centre of the aisle, the nub of grief which had been lodged in her throat since James' telegram had arrived in Old City, simply flooded out. James had insisted on being one of the pall bearers, of course, leaving her to shake at the unexpectedly overwhelming wave of grief alone, at first, until he'd done his duty. Then his hand had slipped warmly into hers – gently, empathetically, squeezing it as she tipped her head to meet his understanding gaze. He'd lost his own tears then. Shed them shakily, silently, entirely against his will.

Not for the first time they had been weak together – sharing in a loss more profound than either could truly express.

Nigel Griffin: comrade, colleague, friend. He'd have added some less admirable titles to that list just to cheer her up: disreputable, alcoholic, thief. He may well have been that last, but he had, at least, never been much of a liar or a cheat. Not to the people he cared for – and when he neglected them, he had never failed to wear his guilt about it firmly on his sleeve. Now she felt as though she had been the one to neglect him. They'd barely spoken in ten years, but for all they'd grown apart since he'd settled down and found that 'normal' life he'd been longing for, what was ten years next to the other sixty? They had known Griff longer than most people had been alive, and now – he was gone.

It had to happen sometime – that's not what hurt. The inevitability of death never stopped the sudden shock of knowing you'd never see that person again. Nor did it make it any easier when their old friend had left behind a loving wife and daughter. Nigel would never live to see little Anna grow up, get married, bear his grandchildren. Out of all of them, he had so deserved to have those things in his life, and now, all of that, would remain forever closed to him. For all his extended, unnaturally prolonged years, he had been taken too soon. The fates, as ever, had been unkind.

Now they were stood at his graveside, against the crashing sea of the island he'd always been prouder to hail from the further he'd been from its shores. It made sense: that he was happier living on Britain's most southerly edges, that he'd be buried here. Where the air was bracing, clear of the urban smoke of his upbringing, where the sea and sky combined into a vast horizon of possibilities. Here, where the terrain was more continental than the quaint English countryside of Surrey or Oxford – and France was only a short boat-ride away.

She was still mildly surprised that Nigel had left Jeanette's home-country, to be honest. They'd moved about a year ago, apparently, from the French village which he'd called home since 1947; back when he'd finally tracked down Miss Anaise and asked for her hand in marriage. Last Helen had heard they were still living in that beautiful farm house, with Nigel teaching chemistry at the nearest lycée. She'd had the privilege of spending a couple of weeks there with them the summer before she'd left for her new Sanctuary in Old City, before Anna had been born. He'd been so happy then. They both had.

Helen's journey down to Cornwall had been… quiet. Introspective. Tense. She'd flown from Old City to London as soon as she could, but an abnormal crisis had put her a flight behind, so there hadn't been any time to stop off at her old home. They'd come straight here. Helen wasn't sure whether or not she was, in fact, mildly relieved about that. Being in a car with James for six hours had been enough of a return to her past as it was, and until they were sat in the church, she hadn't truly appreciated just how much she'd run away from with her 'fresh start'. As if she could pretend her first hundred years hadn't happened and start again, that she wasn't a product of everything she had lived through – for good and bad.

It wasn't that James had been upset at her, or cold, or overly close since she'd gotten here – far from it. He had been as composed and respectful as ever, but things between them hadn't been… as easy since the failure of their romantic relationship. Fact of the matter was they still cared for each other, very deeply. They just didn't know how to show it anymore without making things… very awkward indeed.

Wasn't it telling? That it took the death of their friend for them to put all that aside for just a moment. To be one hundred per cent honest, open, and compassionate towards each other, without the shield of their work, without fear of regret, or revisiting the past.

They had all grown so far apart.

God only knew what had become of John. She tried not to think about it – she really did. Dead or alive, neither would come without their own sadness, and she couldn't spend her life anticipating the day John Montague Druitt would return. All these years – she thought she'd been trying to live life without him, without dwelling on her mistakes and letting the past consume her, change her into a person she could no longer bare to look at. But she'd been wrong. She hadn't even realised she was doing it – waiting for him.

Waiting for the moment he would materialise in front of her and tear open old wounds afresh. As terrified of finding him half-dead at her feet, pleading for her forgiveness on his final breath, as of finding him clutching the body of someone she cared for, still-bleeding, eyeing her with that murderous passion.

It had been more than half a century since he'd become a murderer. Even now, here she was, waiting for him to show – to catch a glimpse of him lurking in the shadows, behind one of the wind-swept trees, silently watching the sad tableaux.

It seemed strange, even for John, that he wouldn't at least pay his respects. This was the first genuine funeral for a member of the Five, the first of their unique number to fall into death's clutches. No matter Nigel's repulsion for what John did, and no doubt continued to do, in order to satisfy his demons, there had – at the start – been a genuine friendship.

Which is perhaps why Tesla's absence was all the more galling: he and Nigel had always been thick as thieves. If the damnable vampire hadn't literally fallen off the map in '45 she'd have considered his absence a matter for concern, but oh no. Knowing that arrogant ass he was probably too engrossed in his own 'genius', holed up in a lab in some sequestered corner of the world, to even get the news, let alone show up to something so minor as the funeral of one of his oldest friends. He hadn't even sent some kind of message, just to let them know he was actually still alive – and it's not as though getting something to them would've been beyond his abilities, even if he was afraid of the CIA or KGB trying to tug at his strings. Frankly, Helen would be damned if she was going to seek him out when he couldn't even be bothered to say goodbye in the first place!

Typical, really… he'd always had an aversion to goodbyes. As if it were too final, too removed from possibility to be bearable. Magnus, however, saw it as a point of pride to face the finality of things, the consequences – to mark the end of something with as much respect as the start. No matter the nature of that ending. Whether tragedy or success.

Helen sighed beside James as Jeanette, clutching at her daughter's hand, stared numbly into the grave. Watching the first handfuls of earth scattered upon the lowered coffin lid. The poor girl was only seven… and though the memory was a distant one, Helen knew what it was to lose a parent. Knew what it was to stand at a grave, terrified of putting one foot wrong. Of misbehaving, and inducing the wrath of adults so clearly clinging onto their composure with the barest grip. Anna's wide eyes looked around her nervously, uncertain of what it all meant, of what she was feeling, of what she could sense in the people around her. Her mother was too composed, too still, to be reachable: a determined set to the woman's lips that reminded Magnus so strongly of their first encounter in Normandy that, despite fifteen years of lines gracing the corners of her face, it was like looking at a ghost.

When the priest concluded, as the mourners started to talk amongst themselves and drift towards the wake being held in the village pub, Helen headed straight for her. The widow stood like an island in a sea of people, muttering out polite responses to the few offering their condolences. She looked as if she couldn't wait for every single one of them to leave her alone, until she saw Helen, and it was replaced by a wry, knowing smile which was no less bitter.

"Helen."

"Jeanette," she didn't smile, exactly, but she let sympathy fill her features until the corners of her lips lifted meekly. "Et cela doit être la petite Anna?"

Anna stood dumbstruck, not only at the fact that this stranger knew her name, but equally by the fact that she'd asked in French.

"Dites bonjour au Dr Magnus Anna," Jeanette cajoled.

"Mais Maman, qui est-elle?" the girl whispered.

Magnus smiled patiently as the mother started to show some annoyance.

"It's alright Anna," the older woman said, leaning down a little and offering a gloved hand to the girl, "I used to work with your father – a… very long time ago."

The girl decided it was okay to shake the lady's hand and smiled, for the first time since Helen had clapped eyes on her. The sight of those little dimples brought a light into Magnus' expression, but as she straightened back up, the joy disappeared into deep concern for the woman in front of her.

"I know," Jeanette insisted, before Magnus could even utter a word of condolence. The Frenchwoman sighed, trying to start again but clearly uncomfortable with the constant hollow words that had surrounded her, and done nothing to ease her grief, "Thank you… for… coming."

Helen nodded, pressing her lips together, silently assessing her body language. "If you, or Anna, need anything, anything at all, we're… we're here for you." She unclasped her handbag, pulling out a card before holding Jeanette's gaze with absolute sincerity. She wished she knew her well enough to extend a comforting hand to her arm, but there were just too many years of absence between them for that, "Just call."

For some reason Jeanette's expression hardened as she handed her the business card, complete with her new address and telephone number.

"Of course," Mrs Griffin's tone was brusque, embattled, as if the suggestion was neither believed, nor sufficient, nor had any idea of what she was going through – which was odd. Considering Jeanette was not at all ignorant of what she did, or of the Sanctuary network, or of her husband's abnormality… or even a passing understanding of Magnus' association with Druitt. Griffin had trusted her with it all.

"Jeanette…" she started gently, holding her fiery gaze, "promise me you won't hesitate." She looked for assurance there, and all she got was the overwhelming sense that something was very wrong. "I know how difficult it can be," she continued, a little softer, "when someone's taken from you, so suddenly-"

"Ha!" She finally broke under a hushed exhale of breath, switching to a rapid, desperate French, "I'm supposed to believe that- that Nigel died of natural causes, of a heart attack?! I don't think so." Her eyes scanned over Helen's shoulders, as if looking for danger, for sharpened eavesdroppers, and when she whispered, she did so with all the ferocity of her conviction, "Nigel was murdered."

The accusation stunned Helen into complete silence, her mouth moving as if between words as she struggled to process it. Jeanette was already anticipating a string of mollifying reassurances, some insinuation that she was being paranoid. Which was why this was the first time she'd uttered the words.

"What?" Was all Magnus could manage to stop Jeanette from wandering off in a daze of fear and desperation.

She span on Helen – suddenly focused and concentrated as if in the grip of madness – the little girl still clinging to her hand almost forgotten as she urged, "You heard what I said."

It was a challenge. For the great Helen Magnus, leader of the Sanctuary Network, to put her money where her mouth was: to believe in the unbelievable. Helen wasn't about to baulk.

"I heard what you said, yes," she continued confidentially in French, "but I don't understand it. What makes you think-?" Jeanette scoffed, and Helen interrupted before she could throw up her defences. "I know you're not lying Jeanette," she countered evenly, dropping back into English. "You're an intelligent woman… or Nigel would've never loved you."

The mention of him crumpled his wife's features, the rise of sadness in her throat as she struggled to hold it all in, and hide her face from the departing crowd. She breathed in shakily, then out. It was almost cruel, Helen knew, but she needed Jeanette to hear her. To trust her.

"Please, tell me what happened."

Jeanette's eyes lingered over her shoulder and Helen didn't need to look – though she did anyway. James was there, watching astutely, catching enough with his keen eyes to register something was wrong. He had come over to investigate.

"Please," she urged again, gently taking Jeanette's spare hand in her own.

Mrs Griffin shook her head, wrapping an arm around the girl at her legs as if she wished she had the strength to carry her away. She couldn't go into detail around her child, and still, as her fingers drew through the hair upon her daughter's crown, she could suffer in silence no longer.

"He was behaving… strange. Secretive. He'd never been that way. Keeping things from me... then before I could even ask he-" She stopped mid-sentence, tears rolling down her cheeks, and Helen lost all self-consciousness, all sense of awkwardness, to pull her into a generous hug.

"It's okay," she hushed her, feeling her eyes well up, "It's okay."

James' attention, however, was on the little one. He smiled at the way her little mouth hung open, just a little, like Griffin's always had when he was non-plussed – but he wasn't focused on that. More on the way her mother had been so very protective. Murder or no, Jeanette clearly feared that they had become the targets of some malevolent force, and if Nigel's gifts had been hereditary… it was not too far-fetched to believe that they had.

"Might I suggest," James hazarded softly as the women finally parted, and Jeanette, though red-eyed and bleary, rediscovered her poise. "…that you and Anna stay with us for a few days, at the Sanctuary – to be safe? Just while we investigate."

Mid-way through wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, Jeanette shook her head and pulled away from Helen's support, as if she'd been asked to spend the night in a prison cell for her own safety. Like an animal desperate to avoid being trapped, even if it meant bleeding to death in the wild. She met his warm, reassuring gaze with an adamant, negative shake, "Oh no." She insisted definitively, "Merci," the words came out abrupt and cold, even though she meant it, "but we are leaving." There was a fine tremble in her pale skin, and a terrible finality to her words. Here, again, was the Resistance leader they had met. Prepared to do what was necessary to survive. She took in a deep breath, tipping her chin defensively, "After today… you will not see us again."

Helen was at a loss, she wanted to argue with her, but it was hard to muster the words in the face of that determination, that particular brand of stubbornness. Magnus had worn it often enough herself.

Which is perhaps why James spoke up unreservedly: "Jeanette," he sighed, eying her with a restrained concern, keeping his voice as low and hushed as possible as he attempted to reason with her. "Running will only lead to more running; it won't give you any answers. What kind of life is that-"

"A life," she growled, throwing her arm up angrily, "rather than being killed in the night by some invisible enemy." She flinched at the words, "I do not care what you think, what you say, Dr Watson. I must do, what is best – for my daughter. She's…" her voice became vulnerable at the realisation, "she's all I have." Jeanette looked very ready to put an end to the conversation, gathering herself, and Anna, in order to leave.

Helen and James were simply too stunned by the assertion to intercede – a rarity, in those who had lives so long.

"It is better if we… if we are the ones to disappear." She looked up to them again, saddened by the thought, and still trying to hold herself back. "But thank you – I mean it – for coming. I know it…" she took a shaky breath, her accent thickening, "I know it would have meant a lot to him."

The words on Helen's tongue wouldn't come out – she wanted to urge Jeanette to rethink. Remind her that Anna might well develop some form of abnormality, that she would need help learning to live with it, that hiding wouldn't change the fact – but the force of Jeanette's stare would brook no argument.

"Mrs Griffin I cannot advise-"

"Please," she cut James off with narrowed eyes, "if you were ever truly Nigel's friends, respect my wishes." She begged through those threatening tears, and Magnus found herself reaching out to take her arm in reassurance, "Please do not follow us. Do not try and find us." She retracted her arm, with a steadying breath, and a more assertive nod as she started to shuffle away, "Just find the bastards that did this."

They both watched in shock as Jeanette led Anna away, lingering on the sight of them as they meandered through the headstones.

Helen looked to James, at a loss, noting the raised eyebrow of concern, the same determination in his eyes too. Jeanette could run all she liked, the Sanctuary's doors were always open to them, but the Griffins wouldn't be running for long if they didn't find the people hunting them. Whatever these phantom pursuers were after – they had to stop them. They had to get to the truth.

Author's Note: So... this being Sanctuary, I figured… Nigel couldn't have just died of old age or anything. I mean, he was fit as a fiddle in the 1940s right? So how come he died in the 1960s hmmmmm? And so we begin our little foray into some non-Tesleny-fiction. Expect plenty of nods to cannon, and a little headcannon thrown in for good measure – this is all compatible with my Helen & Tesla adventures. Druitt and Tesla will both appear a little later into the story (I can't wait to write that bit, it's gonna be fun) – so this is a Five story and will remain Rated T throughout (unless I get really violent). Hope you enjoy!

The cover picture uses the pic of a lovely Cornish chapel by the sea that I found on Pinterest, and the rest was pinched from the Second episode, Normandy, and Revelations Part II. :)

Apologies if the French is icky - I ran it through Translate... which you can do if you're so desperate to find out what they're saying! :P

DISCLAIMER: I do not own, nor claim to own these characters or this fictional world owned by the creators/producers of the SyFy series Sanctuary. I am not making any profit from this, and I hope I'm not bringing anyone or anything into disrepute! This fic is a testament to my enduring love for the series and its endless epicocity!