Slowly sitting up, Pete clutched his head in his hands, a grimace of pain contorting his face. A headache unlike any other had gripped him, but the ringing in his ears was slowly giving way to another sound, one that urged the agent to recover quickly.

It was a sob.

Quiet at first and drowned out by the residual effects of the pocketwatch. A choking sob of indescribable pain that wrenched at Pete's gut. It was Myka's.

When he finally dared to crack open an eye, he was met with the sight of the woman sunk to the floor at the foot of Artie's bed. Hugging her knees tight to her chest, Myka had buried her face beneath her shielding arns, shutting out the world as she grieved for what had now twice been lost to her.

Although she had not thought it possible, the second time had been even more agonizing. She knew what was going to happen, and she had been powerless to stop it. Even with artifacts, she could not save Helena.

Pete stifled a groan as he shifted forward and half crawled, half shambled his way toward his partner. He gathered her in his arms and held her close to his chest, and for her part she welcomed it by pressing her face to his shoulder instead.

She would share this with him, lest it break her alone.

"Shh, Mykes, it's okay," Pete mumbled, petting those unruly curls in consolation. It wasn't a stretch for him to surmise what had happened in the time he was out.

"It wasn't far enough, Pete," his partner said, gasping for breath between her sobs. "It didn't take me far enough to save her."

He squeezed her just a bit tighter and shut his own eyes, as though trying to absorb her sorrow and shoulder its burden himself.

"I couldn't save her. I failed."

Myka gave a shuddering sigh and sniffed heavily. When she pulled her head back and looked Pete in the face, her own was reddened and glistened with moisture, eyes bloodshot. She finished in a hoarse, pained whisper, "Again."

"It's not your fault, Myka." His low voice rumbled in his chest, vibrations humming against her. "None of us could do anything. H.G. did what she knew she had to do. For all of us."

The woman clutched in his arms had grown silent, though periodically the shiver of a withheld cry still wracked her. In this shared instant she felt so small, so fragile, so unlike anything Pete had known Myka to be. And then she began to collect the pieces of herself. She wiped the back of her hand over her nose and gave a tight, humourless smile. "Maybe you were right. Maybe it really was pointless."

Her lips trembled. "She looked so...happy."

Placing a chaste kiss in her hair, he gave her a final squeeze before releasing and moving to stand. He was met with a sharp pang in his skull, reminding him of what he had pushed aside in the need to comfort his partner. Wincing, he layed a hand on his head and started the walk for the door, mumbling about needing aspirin as every jarring step resonated painfully between his ears.

Myka was alone once more. She stared after Pete and let her mind fall blissfully blank, a welcome, if short, reprieve. Then the agent summoned her resolve and rose to her feet to make the slow trudge back to her own room. The sheets on her bed remained undisturbed following another sleepless night, and even though she was exhausted, she avoided it again for fear of what sleep may bring her. And so Myka gathered an outfit from the dresser and tossed it on the bed, mechanically removing her clothing as she made her way for a hot shower.

Stepping out of the tub, the woman gathered her hair between her hands and carefully wrung it out, the rapid pattering of shed water the only sound in the bed and breakfast. She went about the task of drying and dressing herself with the machinations of habit but she was abruptly ripped to attention when she picked up her shirt and something fell to the bed.

A metallic gleam caught her eye.

The garment momentarily forgotten, Myka let it slip from her fingers and fall to the floor as she instead reached for the necklace upon her bed. She held it up and smoothed a thumb over its surface, feeling the engraving beneath her finger. Carefully she undid the clasp and opened it.

Helena's locket.

The last remnant that proved to Myka she had been real after all.

Staring back at her was the face of the Victorian woman's daughter, the uncanny resemblance sending a chill down the agent's spine; Christina had her mother's eyes. Myka snapped it shut and closed her hand tightly around it, clenching her jaw and trying valiantly to ward off the flood of emotions that followed. She had failed. Helena was dead, again. The warehouse was lost, again. In that dizzying rush, she knew she felt the same agony that the other woman had when she couldn't save her daughter a hundred years ago. They both, through their own folly, had been forced to watch their life slip through their fingers for a second time. Both had been forced to reconcile that what was past had been written in stone, the indelible ink, Helena had called it. For the author, it had been too much to bear.

With the way her hands shook it took Myka several attempts to undo the clasp on the necklace and fasten it once more behind her neck. As she lifted a hand to wrap it about the keepsake, just as she had seen its original owner do so many times before, she barely felt the tingling lurch in her stomach.

Myka blinked.

She sat on a bed, but it was not hers.

To her alarm, she found herself still shirtless, as well, and hastily bent down to look for the shirt she had dropped. The effort was in vain. Silently cursing herself under her breath, Myka gazed about the room, utterly baffled, a feeling of urgency settling upon her shoulders.

This wasn't her room at the bed and breakfast at all. The bed was a lovely four poster antique, the varnished cherry wood gleaming darkly in the low late afternoon light, the plush coverings pulled taught and neat just as hers had been. There was a dresser of matching make, and a vanity on the adjacent wall with an enormous oval mirror; a porcelain washing basin sat on its surface with a brush and various other primping tools set beside it. The door to the bedroom was shut and though some voices filtered through, the words were indistinguishable.

Something about it seemed familiar, but Myka couldn't quite put her finger on it. This worried her and compounded the icy anxiety weighing heavily on her chest. While she stared about herself, dazed, she became aware of footsteps on a staircase somewhere beyond that door. Slowly they climbed, growing steadily louder and closer. The agent's heart raced in a panic and she frantically cast her gaze about for something, anything, to hide herself with.

The steps ceased just outside the door and Myka's stomach fell as a hand was layed upon the doorknob. There was a voice calling from downstairs, fairer and higher pitched than the others, and whatever it said brought a laugh from the person about to discover her. In the back of her mind, biting through the frenzied thoughts, was a single revelation: she knew that laugh.

The handle twisted and the door began to swing inward as a woman opened it, her back braced against it as she called down, "I will be back in just a moment. Play with your cousin, Christina."

And then she turned her head and looked in the room. The light smile on her lips dropped instantly in favour of open-mouthed shock that was readily mirrored by the woman intruding in her bedroom.

"Myka," Helena breathed, surprise, joy and apprehension flitting across her expression in rapid succession. Upon seeing her predicament, that soft, rich laugh burst forth once more. "What on earth are you doing half naked in my bedroom, darling?"

Although it took several attempts at coherency, the agent finally managed to stammer, "I-I have no idea. I was in my room one minute and then I..." Her eyes opened wide and she groped for the locket at her neck. "Now I'm..."

For one of the few times in her life, although H.G. seemed intent on increasing the tally lately, Myka Bering was at a loss for words.

Helena stepped fully inside the room and eased the door shut gently behind her, shifting her weight off of it when the soft click of the latch sounded. The deep red dress the Victorian woman wore accented her beautifully, playing off both her milky complexion and the stark black of her hair currently drawn upward in an elegant fix. She hesitated only momentarily before taking half a step closer to the agent.

"My locket. You kept it."

She said nothing in response, both marveling at Helena being flesh and blood before her and sheepish that she had been caught with something so personal to the author. More than that. She had been caught clinging to it as though it were her last hope, coveting the only shred of Helena she had left.

Someone yelled from below again, wresting the woman's attention from Myka. She tilted her head, lips parted, as she listened before calling back, "Yes, yes, I will be back down in but a moment. I found something I thought I lost a while ago."

There was a reply but it went unheeded as Helena turned her dark eyes to the other woman, a coy smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Closing the gap between them, she strode forward and placed a cool hand between Myka's shoulder blades, guiding her toward the armoire.

"Come, darling," she insisted in that smooth, honeyed accent, "We cannot have you mingling with society in that, can we?" It went unnoticed by the shellshocked subject as Helena allowed herself a small indulgence and stole a glance at the topless woman beside her. And genuinely smiled.

Rounding the doorway into Artie's room, Pete found it vacated. He glanced down the hall; Myka's door was closed. With an inward sigh, he strode down the hallway and mentally willed the pain medication to kick in faster as he tapped his knuckle against the door.

"Mykes?"

No response.

"You in there?"

Still silent.

He frowned. Pressing an ear to the door, he heard no movement and no running water. Pete sucked in a breath and turned the handle, unsure of what sight he would be greeted with.

"Hey, sorry, but you weren't answering and I just wanted to be sure that-" The half-formed apology fell on an empty room. Sighing, he finished: "..That you were okay."

He looked around the room. Crumpled on the floor by the bed was Myka's shirt. A fine haze of steam still hung in the air, but this was the only indication that his partner had in fact been here.

In the pit of his gut, Agent Pete Lattimer felt the stirring of a very bad vibe.

Casting the shirt back to the ground, he turned and half jogged out of the room, taking the steps of the stairs two at a time. "Leena! She's gone!"

Myka put up nothing of a fight, figuring it was best to follow Helena's wisdom for the time being, given that she was truly in her element. As the dark-haired woman played the part of chamber maid, stripping Myka of her jeans to make way for the period clothing, not a word was uttered between the two. For all her initial surprise at finding the other in her bedroom, it had faded quickly in the face of her dutiful attentions.

"Did you...know I was coming? To here?" Her voice sounded too loud as it broke the silence.

"To my home?" The response came from behind as Helena laced the corset. Myka felt a hand brace against her back, and suddenly the other woman's mouth was at her ear, the heat of her words felt on her neck. "Be a dear and breathe out for me. This will likely be a touch uncomfortable." She retracted once more and gave a short laugh, adding, "Not that one ever truly gets used to it."

Air was abruptly crushed from Myka's lungs as Helena cinched the corset tight, leaving the agent gasping for breath and reaching out for something, anything to steady her as she pitched forward. She laughed again, the sound filling Myka with newfound admiration as she struggled to fill enough of her lungs to keep from passing out, let alone laugh.

"Well. I did try to warn you, darling."

It was somewhere in the midst of the experienced woman pinning her hair up that Agent Bering finally found the reserves to speak.

"You looked...surprised. But not at me." Myka watched as Helena's reflection in the mirror gave pause and glanced up. "Only at...my timing."

Lips parted with intentions of speech melted instead to an apologetic smile as a knock came at the door and the dark-haired woman left the agent to answer it. She heard the door open but for the moment she was marveling at the transformation the author had managed to pull off. They were close enough in measurements that Helena had managed to get her into another of her dresses, this one a dark green that brought out her hazel eyes brilliantly. After a moment she became aware of the silence and of Helena's own admiring attention reflected behind her in the vanity. Suddenly self-conscious, Myka turned and was greeted not only by her but by a new face as well.

"Wolly, this is Myka Bering," she introduced with a modest flourish.

The indicated forced a tense smile and swallowed, dipping her head as she replied, "Hello."

His brows arched but he returned the gesture nonetheless.

Helena offered smoothly, "A friend. From America."

He gave a soft "Ah" and turned once again to Myka, this time with a knowing smile that brought a faint blush to her cheeks. At a loss, she widened her eyes at Helena. The woman herself was grinning, though at the look she received she had the good grace to attempt to conceal her amusement.

"A friend," she repeated emphatically.

The young man layed a hand at his heart in sincerity and tipped his head toward her once more. "Forgive me, Miss Bering. I know of no other reason my esteemed colleague would have a woman in her room."

Helena cleared her throat and turned on heel to link arms with Myka, swiftly interjecting.

"Well! I do believe my guests await me downstairs. Perhaps we may remove ourselves from my bedroom and take our conversations to the foyer later, shall we?" Even as she spoke she was ushering the trio quite insistently to the hallway.

Letting herself be swept out and down the stairs, Myka caught a glimpse of those gathered and also of just how far in over her head she had managed to get herself.

The pair remained arm in arm whilst Helena donned the mantle of gracious hostess, introducing Myka and effortlessly playing between the groups of guests. Truly the woman at her arm seemed made for the task; no one was immune to her charms. Never much one for social events, the agent largely kept to herself and assumed the role of sidekick to the Victorian woman's tour de force. Such events made her nervous ever since Sam's death and so she spent most of the night disguising her unease. Her companion, however, saw through it easily, giving her a reassuring squeeze wherever she could secret one. They did provide some comfort, she admitted to herself.

Just when it seemed the night would drag on forever, the guests were on their way out and the hostess was by the door, thanking each for their attendance. By now Myka's ribs smarted every time she attempted to inhale and she felt more than a little lightheaded. How Helena and the other women of the party seemed to wear the things with such ease was beyond her.

When the last was seen out, only she, Christina and her mother remained in the opulent abode. Myka couldn't suppress the smile that came as she watched how Helena lit up around her daughter, so attentive and loving without fawning, and how the little girl returned the affection.

The dark-haired woman approached her, reaching out and gently touching fingertips to Myka's elbow as she confided, "Just a moment longer, darling, I must put Christina to bed. You may wait for me in the drawing room."

She made her way as suggested and was grateful to finally get off her feet by sinking into one of the high-backed chairs beside a table.

Agent Bering now found herself in familiar territory, surrounded by books. Countless novels lined the shelves of the private room and proudly displayed their titles on the spines; it came as no surprise when her eye picked out several classic pieces amongst them. She noted one of the author's own contributions with a smirk and soft shake of the head.

It was a pity that such a brilliant mind was forced to hide behind her brother's gender.

Only a handful of minutes later, she was at last joined by the woman herself. Helena beckoned her forward and spun her around gently, nimble fingers parting the dress and revealing the restrictive undergarment with seasoned expertise.

"Let's let you breathe a bit, shall we?" she murmured, unlacing it and finally pulling it looser with a small crack from the stiff corset.

Myka underestimated how good that would feel. The groan that came unbidden from her mouth was one wholly borne of relief in release and she immediately fell at ease. Helena's fingers smoothed over numbed flesh as the other woman worked her shoulders in a bit of a stretch.

"Now then. Shall we talk?"

The pair retired to their respective chairs, though not before the author retrieved two glasses and poured them both a bit of wine. Myka swirled the burgundy contents contemplatively and Helena's dark eyes watched her take a tentative sip over the rim of her own glass.

"This is the room where you magnetized Pete and me to the ceiling and made off with your things, isn't it?"

This won a laugh from her company.

"Yes, yes it is. Cavarite. Well done, darling, astute observation."

"And you knew I was coming here."

Helena pursed her lips and gingerly set her glass on the table between them. She considered her words at length while Myka watched her expectantly.

"No. No, not exactly."

The other woman arched her brows.

With a half smile, Helena dropped her voice and mused, "I suspected, but did not know for certain. And even if you did, I had not an inkling of when you would grace me with your presence."

Myka's brow knit together, drawing a chuckle out of the author. "Oh, I did miss that look of yours, darling."

Ignoring the comment as best she could, the agent pressed, "But how?"

The inquiry was met with a gesture toward the locket yet fastened around her neck.

"My locket. Obviously I do not have it here, as my Christina is still alive and well. I did, however, guess that you would still be in possession of it and I had...ah, hoped you may have remembered what I told you when I first showed it to you."

"You said it only had power over you."

"Yes. And in giving myself for you, Agent Lattimer and Artie, my life-"

"It instilled into this locket. It became an artifact." The words weighed heavily on Myka's tongue.

Helena closed her mouth when her companion finished the thought, a light smile on her lips as she tucked a hand beneath her chin. She watched as Myka's expression fell.

"So then none of this is real," she concluded in a small voice.

The author quirked a slender brow. "On the contrary, my dear Myka, it-I-am very much real. The energy stored in artifacts is immense; my life and my consciousness is inexorably bound to that little treasure around your neck."

The agent's head reeled. Still trying to make sense of it all, she ventured, "But, I'm not actually here in Victorian London. Am I?"

"In a sense. If you question whether you have traveled through time again, the answer is no." Helena drew in a breath and lifted her chin a touch. "If I may be so bold as to guess, I would say the artifact and my consciousness wove what you see here"-she waved a pale hand in a vague motion-"to tie it to the point in my life when I was happiest. I am in my own time. I work for Warehouse 12. Friends and family surround me. My Christina is yet alive."

"Then I'm just a visitor."

Still studying the face of the woman seated across from her, Helena nodded once.

Myka's own gaze fell to the carpeted floor and she wondered aloud, "Pete."

"I suspect Agent Lattimer is quite curious as to where you've disappeared to," the other woman supplied, her customary good humour tinting her words.

"I should go," Myka said quickly.

"Yes, I suppose you must."

The tone was too calculated and careful even for the author, but her guest was busy fiddling with the locket.

"Oh, and Myka?"

The way Helena said her name caught her attention and caused her to pause just before closing her hand on the artifact. Faltering now, the dark-haired woman dropped the pretense of her trembling smile, and with such sincerity and emotion that it threatened to steal her voice from her, she added, "Please do return."

Shifting forward in her chair, the agent took Helena's hand in her own and grasped it tightly while the other held the artifact.

With her companion gone, H.G. Wells sank back into her chair, muted by the suddenness of her solitude. In a few minutes she would rise, retire to her bedroom, wake up in the morning and do it all over again.

~