On the Fourth Day of Christmas my true love sent to me...

Four Calling Birds

Angst/Family

London, 1890

This was her third Christmas without him.

The first had been hell – the stab of betrayal, and guilt, and regret, still fresh. His absence had been tangible. Her dreams on Christmas Eve had been bloody and dark, her eyes on Christmas Morning hollow and red with spent tears. She hadn't eaten much of the fine goose, and had forgone church, still bitterly ruing her choices and decisions, still devastated by her failure to stop him, to help him. Instead she had sat with Tesla in the parlour, in absolute silence, feeling very much like he had been told to keep an eye on her, and yet thankful for his presence even as she despised the thought of being monitored by her father and Watson from afar.

The second Christmas had been desolate, almost an out of body experience: as if she had been watching herself, from a great height, going through all the motions of the holiday – writing cards, giving presents. There she was, an empty smile, nothing more than an automatic response to expected stimuli. She'd spent every last second she could buried in research, until her father had literally shut the book and told her firmly she was to go downstairs and greet their guests. In the quietest moments of that December she had wondered why the one holiday she'd always adored had apparently lost its allure… but she already knew the reason.

This year, was the first Christmas since that terrifying encounter in the back streets near Spitalfields that she had felt some semblance of normality. Maybe it was the fact that life had, slowly but surely, gone on without John Montague Druitt. Perhaps it was the renewed determination she had for her research, or that kindling hope, that the future would not be so bleak as her past. Either way there had been a change in the air. The crisp snow that had fallen this winter had coaxed a genuine smile from her face. The thought of seeing her family and spending time with her friends, gathered under their roof and sharing gifts was something she had actually been looking forward to rather than dreading.

Her father had suggested inviting Watson, Griffin, and (begrudgingly) Tesla, on Christmas Eve this year. He'd stopped calling them her 'friends and colleagues' about the same time they'd injected themselves with Source Blood. Ever since the dust had settled on that particular revelation they'd become permanent features of any gathering in the Magnus household and for all his ire at his daughter's recklessness, Gregory recognised that this unusual coterie of brilliant minds had become her rock in these troubled times… a family of sorts. So he had welcomed them in as never before, hoping that they might steer her through these deep waters, to calmer and hopefully wiser seas. He was called out to an emergency, however, soon after they'd settled to dinner, leaving the remaining members of the 'Five' to their own devices. Helen had offered to go with him, Watson too – indeed they'd all but volunteered the four of them for the task – but Gregory had insisted it was nothing he could not handle, and that they not let the dinner go to waste.

The evening became somewhat nostalgic without him, almost as though they were at Oxford again… if one could manage to eliminate the single most glaringly obvious and central feature of those days. Helen was trying her damndest to do just that whenever the conversation lacked a wry, understated jibe, or one of John's warm, sarcastic chuckles. They'd finished with Brandy and cigars in the parlour, seen as though Helen was the only lady present and, really, who was going to tell Helen Magnus she couldn't possibly join the gentlemen in discussing politics and economics?

The fire roared contentedly, the mantelpiece covered in evergreens and ribbon, the tree, candlelit and twinkling in the corner. Helen breathed in the potent scent of alcohol, bit on an after-dinner chocolate, and closed her eyes in satisfaction. All that was missing was a little music, but she wasn't about to encourage one of Nigel's cheeky little ditties which – with nothing but a piano available – was precisely what they'd end up hearing.

"Mmm, it's a shame you didn't bring your violin James." She said, glancing towards his seat just across from her.

He smiled thoughtfully back, "I broke a string on her the other week."

"Oh?"

"Yes," he straightened out his jacket and gave her an engaging look, "it seems violins don't much care to be plucked for three hours straight."

Nigel chuckled, "God, am I glad I don't still share a flat with you."

"What was the matter?" Helen smiled, watching James turn unresponsively back to gazing, appreciatively, into the flames.

"Oh that Glebe case."

"The missing persons?"

He nodded. Even with his exemplary intellect it had taken Watson a good day to identify the whereabouts of Mr Glebe – a galling twenty-four hours that had stung his pride far more than they ought to have. He was distracted though, that was the thing. A fact he'd have liked to have pointed out, were it not for the nature of the distraction.

"I think I heard about that," Tesla mused over his glass, "wasn't he meant to be lecturing at the Royal Society?"

"Yes," Helen replied, "the police were called in when he didn't show."

James' eyes flicked to Helen while he thought she wasn't looking, taking in that spark that she'd recovered in the last year as she explained the case.

Knowing that the reason he'd been so thoroughly disturbed in the last week would undoubtedly rob her of that peace. He just couldn't bring it up. Even though it was news she would hate him for withholding, he couldn't do it. It was not worth another ruined Christmas. Not even for the briefest confirmation that Druitt lived, that somehow, somewhere, he had survived to kill another day. That he had seen him, evaporate from the docklands, and had reports from his Irregulars too that the Ripper was back in town.

The edges of Tesla's moustache twitched with amusement as he sensed an opportunity to tease, "You mean the great detective found himself stalled for an entire day? Watson, I must admit I'm shocked."

James eyed the half-vampire proudly but refused to rise to it. Not that he needed to.

"Mate, would've thought you were used to the sensation by now" Griffin took a sip of his whisky, "'mount of volts you voluntarily subject yourself to."

Tesla's eyes rolled towards the droll witticism in a manner which basically equated to a stuck out tongue, without actually being so uncouth as to physically do so. It was a far more offended expression than Nigel's comment had really merited.

"Gentlemen," Helen interceded before Nikola managed to snap out a comeback that would end with one of them stinging from the encounter and leave them bitter for the rest of the evening. She had noticed he'd become somewhat quick to set off in recent months, an ill humour she had yet to account for, and it was beginning to cause quite a rift between himself and Griffin. "Let's not start to bicker, please." The earnestness of those azure eyes, the gentleness of her plea, pricked all their ears, "It's been a… another challenging year."

They all grew sombre at the assessment, feeling the truth of it each in their own way.

"For all of us."

A silence grew about them, the fire crackling. It was oddly peaceful, considering the morose topic, but for the first time, Helen was beginning to feel stronger for the obstacles she had overcome, rather than overwhelmingly weary. She alone, of the four of them, looked into those flames with her forehead a little less creased with worry, her chin a little higher held. The others all had some weight upon their shoulders that showed itself bodily: Watson's head sank into his chest, Tesla's glance hovered introspectively upon the contents of his glass, and Griffin's face crumpled into a gritted twist of lip and nose.

"Huh, ain't that truth." Nigel took another swig, drowning the words he had really wanted to say.

He'd lost his sister this year, a suicide that he felt responsible for – no matter how much the others tried to convince him otherwise. Fact was, he could've gotten them the cash she'd needed in a heartbeat. If only she'd said something. If only she'd asked. He could've plundered from the Bank of England itself if they'd spoken up. Instead he'd been witness to his widowed mother's reproachful tears, his youngest sister's hollow wails, and the watery eyes of a brother so jealous of him he couldn't so much as rest a hand of sympathy on his shoulder.

She hadn't wanted him to steal, his mother had said when he'd finally spoken his mind… she wanted him to make an honest living, to use that mind of his, to do some good. He'd promised her, right then and there, that he'd find a way of supporting them. That he'd take better care of them and use the education she'd worked so hard to lend him.

Earlier in the month the answer had landed in Nigel's letterbox: an opportunity, for an excellent chemist such as himself, to work in the Orient for an expanding company, developing new formulae. The pay was good – far more than he'd ever managed for his research at Oxford, or since, and more than enough to support his family. He had reread the letter more times than he could count, and always, he kept coming back to that same disappointing thought. If he took it, he'd be leaving his only true friends behind.

Perhaps it was time, however. It's not like things had been quite the same since old Johnny had taken a shine to murder. Maybe it was better to move on.

"I don't know that I ever thanked you," she beat Griffin to any declaration he might've mustered the courage to make, shyly casting her gaze to the floor – nervous hands flexing around her glass.

All three of them looked to her, instantly, watching curiously for any indication as to why, exactly, she felt the need to thank them. Helen reached a hand across the gap between their chairs to gently rest upon James', her body leaning closer to Nikola on the couch even as she kept her distance. It was comfortable, comforting, and when Griffin put a hand on her shoulder, she glanced up behind with that smile that could melt a thousand frozen hearts.

"I'm not sure what I'd have done without you three, the last couple of years."

And there it was, thought Nikola, feeling the indelible sinking of his gut, the reason you've not said a word all night. How could he, when she kept making him feel like it would be a betrayal: to escape the gnawing evidence of how completely Druitt continually tortured her captive heart, to flee the frustration of being so close to her and yet so very far apart. He cared too much, more than a friend should, and yet, a friend he was. It wasn't enough.

Somewhere along the line he had lost himself, become dependent on her in a way she had never been with him. She had dazzled him with her brilliance and left him spun about, literally changed him into somebody new. He couldn't even get her to despise the man who'd ripped out her heart and tossed it alongside those of however many countless whores.

Where was the sense in torturing himself with the one thing he wanted and couldn't have: the reason in starting to resent the one person whose opinion actually mattered to him, the only one who'd been there, through everything? That was why he had hesitated last week, and when he'd gotten here this evening, over dinner, now – to make the announcement which excited and terrified him in equal measure.

He was growing desperate to vocalise it, more and more preoccupied with the fact that he was going. It was a done deal. Come next year he'd be sailing across the Atlantic for America and leaving the dank, obfuscated alleyways of London, the bitter-sweet tang of Oxford's oak-panelled lecture halls to the past. Permanently.

That way, at least, they could still be friends.

Then she'd thanked them, smiling with an ease he'd not seen in two years, and it all felt too much like he was abandoning her, them… but mostly her. Running away. Turning his back on the Five, and all the troubles they'd faced.

So he remained tight lipped on his plans for the New Year. He couldn't be the one to upset her, not when she had that happy glint in her eyes again, not when she was thanking them for standing by her.

He looked askance instead, studiously avoiding their gaze, even as he smirked at her endearing expression of gratitude, "Well, how did Dumas put it? Tours pour un…"

"English Tesla," Griffin joked, "we're not on your side of the channel now."

"You have to admit Griff, there is a certain poeticism to the original French."

"I would admit it, if I knew what the blinkin' hell he was sayin'."

Helen smiled contentedly at her three, argumentative musketeers – in far better humour than they had been all night – and watched the discussion snow-ball for the perfect moment to put them all to shame.

"What do they teach you in English schools?"

"Free schools." James corrected snobbishly, earning him a sour face from Nigel which thanked him graciously for not helping him out.

"Grammar schools."

James smiled at his friend's hasty defence, almost by way of apology.

"Actually," Tesla continued blithely, as if the exchange had never been had, "I'm not sure why I'm at all surprised. I can't recall seeing you ever read a thing that wasn't chemistry related."

Beneath their lively chatter James registered the sound of the front door closing, detected the chill in the air as Gregory admitted the cold.

In the hallway, divested of his coat by the butler, Dr Magnus senior reclaimed his cane, eyes glancing over the sideboard and noticing something new resting in the letter tray. He knew at once from whence it came.

He looked to the man servant, but he was busy sorting his outdoor wear which, Gregory considered instantly, was rather fortunate. Any expulsion on Neeve's part would have undoubtedly alerted Watson's exceptional powers of observation, or if not, perhaps the half-vampire would've heard. In which case, the detective would learn of it again and they'd be back at square one, where this interloping communiqué wreaked havoc on his household. James, for all his discretion, seemed incapable of resisting his daughter's wilfulness – just like the rest of their curious little crew. Even Druitt, it seemed… even now, after all that had happened.

Gregory snapped up the letter and opened it before he'd even contemplated the reasonableness of delving into that man's scattered psyche, his sharp green-hazel eyes darting left to right at break-neck speed to ascertain the ripper's purpose. What he found disturbed him more than an ode to murderous gloating, or threats on Helen's life could ever have done – more so, for it had clearly been left for them all to see. It was as much a taunt to Watson, a sneer at Tesla, a stiff dismissal of his friendship with Nigel, as a declaration of some twisted, sycophantic, damn near obsessive love.

He stroked a hand across his face and tempered his breathing, willing his blood to calm down – it was not good for his heart. Though he might have his health for now he was no spring chicken, and the last four years had made him feel it. The hike to Bhalasaam in particular, had been a rough reminder that his body was slowly, but surely, growing too old for him to keep patching up.

"Really?" Helen's voice carried into the hallway as it arched over Griffin and Tesla's playful snipes. Gregory couldn't quite make out the quieter comment which followed, but knew from its tone that his daughter was enjoying an opportunity to prove herself ever more than their match. A hubbub of laughter and one sullen complaint – the Serbian he presumed – soon followed.

It wasn't even a decision, to not give her the letter, to burn it. It was simply inevitable. Scrunching the paper tight in the hand grasping his stick, he shut down his nerves as though they were merely circuitry, obstinately denying their power over him, and made his way into the convivial atmosphere of the parlour.

"Got to give him his due though eh?" Griffin was grinning ear to ear in Tesla's face, like an adult might condescend a child (an apt comparison, Gregory mused,) "Edison sure knows how to fix up a light bulb."

"Oh, in the heat of an intellectual debate I see." The elder Magnus interrupted with something of a chuckle. Despite feeling genuine amusement, his face was hidden and tucked into his chest as he hurried to the fireplace. It betrayed him to the one person who could possibly notice that it was not a determination to get warm that drove him, hastily, across the room.

After all, Watson knew that Dr Magnus was more the kind of man to watch, as though it were some kind of spectator sport, as Tesla wound himself up into a real snarl, and faltered under his own hubris to come crashing back to earth beneath the weight of his own ineffectiveness. He knew that he enjoyed watching him get back up and act as if nothing had happened, because they all did, and it wasn't like him to turn his back on the show – even for the warmth of a fire after a cold December's night.

Yet turn his back the elder Magnus did, clearly, to Watson's eyes, throwing a paper into the flames once he thought no one was watching; a missive he obviously had no desire to relay, a poisonous gospel.

"Oh yes," their elder responded to his daughter's warm enquiry, "God willing they'll make it through but there is naught else can be done. They're in good hands at least. Perhaps the season will bring the poor man some luck in that matter. Though I fear he shall loose the use of his legs."

As he turned to address Helen, Gregory's eyes met James' and he knew, instantly, that the detective had spotted his feint. Yet the younger man held fast his tongue. There was a darkness there that had not existed before John had turned into Jack, Gregory noted. It possessed him so thoroughly that Dr Magnus knew, despite his fears to the contrary, that Watson would not say a word… not yet at least. He'd learnt the hard way, because of the Ripper, not to simply expound all his observations as he made them. He'd grown shrewder, out of necessity.

"Pour me a drink old boy." He smiled at him, wishing, and not for the first time, that the prodigy really had been his own flesh and blood.

Smiling wistfully Watson obliged, standing up to tip the brandy into a glass and hand it over to the one man he still admired more than any other. Even as the obsessive part of his mind grew ferocious in the knowledge that some vital clue to the Ripper's whereabouts was currently smouldering into soot, the rational part of him recognised that Magnus had his reasons, and they were to be respected. Especially if he wanted to remain welcome under this roof.

"I propose a toast," the old man raised his glass with a smile, admiring the sight of his daughter in her maturity, surrounded not by a half-hearted husband and a brood of well-loved grandchildren… but three grown men of the most exceptional intelligence, who each, in their own way, adored her. His little Helen!

Queen Victoria herself could not command men quite as she did, and though he often despaired of the path life had taken her on, of the choices she had made, he could not be prouder of the woman she had become.

"To what sir?" Griffin inquired amicably as Gregory allowed the sentence to hang unfinished in his parental reverie.

The old surgeon smiled a little wider, catching his daughter's eyes, her mother's eyes, burning with interest at her father's conspiratorial expression. "To the future."

The men's voices were a little sombre to the ear, introspective, but Helen barely noticed, smiling back at her father just as confidently and pronouncing with the fullest of feeling: "To the future!"

Perhaps there, she and John might be reunited again.

Author's Note: Four Calling Birds stand for the four messages or gospels of the New Testament: Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Roughly I corresponded them to the four unspoken/un-received messages that Nikola, James, Nigel and John have for Helen. :)

Interestingly each of the gospels have a symbol: an angel, Lion, winged bull and an eagle, and are associated with emphasising certain aspects or themes. Matthew for expounding the human nature of Christ and using reason to find salvation. Mark for emphasising Jesus as the King of Heaven, and the courage of his resurrection. Luke for emphasising Jesus' commitment and service to God both in life and in his ultimate sacrifice, and John for emphasising Jesus' divinity, his pristine holiness, and the miracle of his ascension. I am not at all religious but I thought that was kinda neat.

03/01/13 - Well folks that's it for Christmas-themed Sanctuary this year. I don't do Christmas beyond Epiphany – it's a rule I have – hell, I wouldn't have posted this at all if it wasn't called the 12 Days, and thereby still legit until the 6th January. :) Perhaps next year, if I'm still Sanctuary obsessed I shall continue with the Five Gold Rings. We will see. Hope you all had a great Christmas and wishing you all the best for this year!