End to Begin

by sistersin7

A type of "what happened next", in 6 parts (but 7 chapters). Starts in the not-too-distant-future and is canon compliant. This is a B&W, so there be angst. But there also be good times (and some fluff, too). Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy the ride. (Huge thanks to Roadie and Rachel452 for all the feedback and support, and Redlance for the good intentions).

6. Chapter 5: Darkness

The drive back to our cottage is silent. I study Myka for the duration and she is uneasy, distressed. The relief that pulses through me now, that invigorates me, is not showing on her. Perhaps she hasn't fully registered this ordeal is at an end. Perhaps it weighs too heavily on her. I reach my hand to her shoulder and she tenses at my touch, clenching her jaw and tightening her grip on the steering wheel.

I know that what she is feeling now is powerful, harsh and quite possibly all consuming. I know that all too well. And because I know that, I am not hurt – or phased – by her rejection. I recall the last time I sat across the console of a car from her like this, back against the door, my hands in my lap, watching her intently; we were on our way to a priory near Bath, to celebrate my birthday.

Oh, how different these feelings are to then.

Over the decade (and some) we shared with each other, I have grown to appreciate that Myka's intensity is a quality her colleagues and friends – close as they may be – do not often appreciate in her. She makes light of it with them, she even hides it from them. I had witnessed a number of occasions when things were said to her in jest (and were taken as such) that painted her ability to be absorbed so completely in a task in a somewhat negative light. And while I am well aware of how this ability can become a very negative force, I also know how positive it is. Especially in her.

Myka and I share this intensity, a talent for sustaining complete and total focus on a goal and being driven by its achievement. It is this talent, I believe, that makes us so compatible, not least because it is the source of my darkness, and the source of her success. I think of this often, how we feed off the same pool of motivation, and how – over the years – have managed to yield such drastically different results from it.

But now, observing her demeanour, I wonder whether something over the past three days changed her.

She and I had extensively discussed her understanding of my darkness over the years. She had said more than once that she believed herself to be capable of falling into it, given she was pushed hard enough. I never dismissed this notion, yet – admittedly – I always placed great faith and trust in Myka to never wander too closely to it.

I realise she had been through a lot over the past few days – over the past few hours alone. I have yet to hear her side of it, but having only observed her, and having made assumptions of what she will have faced (knowing her, knowing the team, knowing the protocols), I reckon she found herself in impossible places, making impossible decisions, taking impossible risks – none of which she will have willingly chosen to engage with.

I wonder whether all that transpired over the past three days culminates in sufficient force that would constitute her being 'pushed hard enough'.

I wonder just how dark her darkness is right now.

The Rover comes to a halt outside our cottage and she remains still. I stay with her. "Do you want to talk?" I ask tentatively.

Her jaw clenches again and she closes her eyes, drawing in a deep breath and releasing it equally slowly. "I don't know if I know how to talk about it," she says eventually, her eyes focused on her hands, resting in her lap.

While relief is absent from her, exhaustion, anger and what I reckon is guilt are palpable.

After Myka finished neutralising the dust in the substation and ensured we are rid of extinct Mediterranean languages, the Warehouse team opened the gateway and sent Steve over with two junior agents in protective gear to verify the substation is safe.

Then, Vanessa arrived through the gateway with a small CDC team and Arthur. The latter debriefed (or questioned) Myka behind closed doors for the better part of three hours. During that time, Vanessa's medical team tended to the four of us, and we – taking turns – gave our statements, were debriefed and handed the substation over to Steve and the agents.

Whether purposefully orchestrated, I do not know, but it was only once all of us were congregated at the Helm that Vanessa's team passed through with the two body bags on their way to the gateway. Myka, who was leaning against the wall at the far end of the Helm, took two steps backwards, practically walking into the wall behind her as the stretchers were wheeled in. She straightened her back, crossed her hands tightly to her chest and pressed her lips shut. Her discomfort with this particular outcome, or consequence, was evident to all of us.

And yet, no one spoke to her in comfort or reassurance even though any of us would done the same as she did.

After a brief summary of the events and concluding that the investigation as to who the responsible party is still on-going, Arthur dismissed us with strict instructions to remain contactable, but rest away from the substation. Myka made sure the rest of the team had arrived at their residence safely before she allowed us to leave.

Just as she and I were heading off, Arthur grabbed hold of me and said, "take care of her."

I intend to do just that.

We sit in the car for a long while. The day outside is turning into a bright and beautiful, sunny day of late summer. Such stark contrast to our mood, to Myka's.

She is not showing signs of movement. I reach out for her hand. "Myka, darling," her left hand clenches into a tight fist under my touch. All these years after her incident, her fist still responds to stress triggers. I cannot help but worry that my touch induces stress in her, consider what could have happened that makes her react to me like this. "Come in with me." I massage the back of her fist gently with my fingers.

She nods, short sharp nods, but remains still. I get out of the car and walk around it to open her door for her. She complies and follows me into the cottage silently, her arms wrapped around her own abdomen. I close the door behind her. She is standing still in the middle of the foyer without indication of going anywhere in particular, or wanting to go anywhere in particular. She simply stands.

I place myself in front of her. She stares idly at the floor and I stare intently into her eyes. They are bloodshot and tired – three nights' worth of sleep deprivation and nearly four days' worth of stress, of loneliness – catching up with her like a speeding train.

Unlike her, who rushed to comply with every protocol and order, who rushed to chase every emerging lead in the investigation, the protocol for us, at the substation, dictated we had plenty of rest.

There was also little we could do other than find ways of busying ourselves. 'Ourselves' being a key element in our success – there were a number of us, we were together. It is exceptionally rare that I am grateful for the incessant presence of people in such close quarters, but in this case, I believe it was this presence that kept us more or less sane.

While unable to communicate beyond the most basic of needs, the varied personalities of the team transcended the need for language which gave us – each and all – great comfort: we had Jade's love of games and Martin's exuberance. We had So's care and Mac's practicality.

Our success as a team was evident in what we had achieved: we worked out the lockdown protocol without understanding half of it. We constructed an artefact neutralising air pump from scrap. We calculated air volume replacement requirements in six different mathematical paradigms.

Dangerous as this experience was, hard as it was, lonely as it felt – and odd as it is to admit – a part of me enjoyed it.

But Myka… Myka was alone. She was remotely connected to and with, clad in that plastic suit for god knows how long. She was receiving and passing orders, a slave to protocol; working as intensely as only she can to resolve the situation. Without knowing the details of her experience, I can guess there were at least three points over the past three days at which she had our lives in her hands, three times in which she made life and death decisions. These will have been decisions she made based on limited information, based on instinct, based on protocol, based on trust; with little time to process or rationalise, little time to dwell and no one with whom to share them – none of which adhere to her preference.

The neutralising protocol alone, the execution of which she shouldered on her own, amounted to a heap of risks which placed each and every one of us in danger. That is probably why she chose to partake in it: Myka will never ask anyone to risk something she wasn't willing to risk herself.

I must be honest and admit I was truly angry with her for making this choice. I was thinking, at the time, this is a pointless risk for her to take: no one would gain if she were to perish with us. Reading her note in broken Aramaic made me realise – once more – how her nobility stands in bold contradiction to my selfishness.

But this is a conversation she and I will have another time. Now, as Arthur so eloquently put, I need to take care of her.

I reach up to cradle her face with my hands. "You learn how to talk about it," I say quietly. "I learned how to talk about it," I add after some careful thought, my thumbs gently caressing her dusty cheeks.

"I don't even know where to begin," she says and her eyes lift from the floor to find mine. "How did you-" she runs out of breath. "Where did you start?"

Trust her to ask me this question. The romantic fool in me has an answer at the tip of her tongue, 'I started with you, darling'. But Myka is not interested in lip service or romancing. She needs the truth. She needs my truth. Where did I start learning to talk about my darkness? What made me open up about how it felt?

Colleagues, friends and loved ones from before the bronze did not wish to engage with it. For all its wonders, glory and progress, Victorian society and its decorum did not approve of topics to which reductionism or dissection could not be applied as methods of investigation, heaven forbid of those topics were sourced in the mind or, gracious, the soul of a woman.

After the bronze, however, came a string of unfortunate events: misunderstandings, misuses and abuses of my darkness – my own included. MacPherson preyed on it; Arthur feared it, hated it even, with a passion; Myka was angry at first, then she forgave it; Pete resented it, or me, rather, and everything that came with me; Irene, Adwin and Jane saw it for what it was – a deep character flaw that is often mistreated; Other regents were less forgiving and viewed it as an criminal tendency; Lena was cautious, Claudia too; Sykes attempted to rekindle it, unsuccessfully. Nate was unaware of it and the glimpses of it he did manage to catch resulted in antagonism; every normal person I had interacted with thereafter had no awareness of my past, or my darkness.

The life I attempted to lead outside the Warehouse was guided by permanent sins of omission, only to be reminded too often that one simply cannot wish such truths away, no matter how hard one tries, or how adept one is at reinventing oneself. Every attempt I had on my life or freedom since then were a stark reminder my darkness will always be there. Like a shadow. Like gravity.

So where did I start? "I started with a person I trusted," I say, "when I trusted that person forgave me, when that person placed trust in me".

It is odd that sometimes the romantic fool is instinctively correct.

She falls silent for a while. "I don't feel like I need to be forgiven," she mutters through gritted teeth and drops her gaze again.

"Neither did I," I whisper back.

Her face wears a stern expression, her eyes seem dark and weary. I can recall seeing her this way only a handful of times before. She inhales deeply, stretching her neck, looking up and away from me. My hands fall to her shoulders and slide down her arms as a result of her slight and pointed moves.

I want her to know I am here for her, that I am not leaving her alone. I want her to know that I will not let her follow her survival instinct of retiring from everyone and everything around her, I am not leaving her to her own devices.

I gently pry her hands from around her and walk into the space they create. I hold them to my hips, resting my hands atop hers.

There is a long silence in which her short, sharp breaths is the only sound I hear.

"The past few days..." she starts but falls silent. "I'm scared of what they've done to me. I'm scared of what I'm becoming," she says quietly, her jaw still tightly clenched. "All this…," she is searching for words, attempting to match phrases to feelings, "mortal danger…," she tries to take a deep breath but it catches in her throat, "is ruining me," she struggles to finish the thought. "It's ruined me already," she wells up, "I don't like who it turned me into," she whispers and wraps her hands around my waist, pulling me to her. My arms wrap around her, palms resting at the small of her back. I can feel how tense her muscles are, how tightly wound she is – even through the layers of clothing she has on. She leans her forehead against mine. "I want to stop," she whispers. "I want it all to just stop," she runs out of breath before she finishes.

This very moment, as she stands in front of me, lackluster and short of breath, she feels as though she is lost. I understand how she feels. I felt it too – a cold and gloomy emptiness, a vacuum in which there is nothing. No one.

I know the importance of this feeling, though, for it is followed by the want – nay – the need to be found again.

Yet, Myka feels so far away from me that I cannot reconcile that distance with the heat of her body against my hands, the softness of her breath against my lips, the pressure of her forehead against my own. Because she is right here, so close, and I am suddenly, and painfully, reminded of how much I had missed her. How much I miss her, still.

Her breaths are flat and small, long seconds between one and another, as if she is willing herself to not breathe. "I need to give in, Helena," she speaks, with the last remains of a shallow breath. "I need to give in to you," her eyes burn into mine with a simple request. "Please."

I nod gently, acknowledging her plea.

I peel her hands from me so I can divest her of her jacket. It's an old leather jacket of mine, tan coloured. It is not soft anymore, it is hardened with water and dust and mud, I can feel how dry it is, badly scratched and scraped, as my fingers travel up her front and to her shoulders. I tuck my hands under it, lift the jacket from her and push it outwards and back. It slips off of her and lands at her feet with a soft thud.

I take both her hands in mine and guide her up the stairs to the bathroom. I stand her in the middle of the room and step away from her for a moment, to measure her, gauge her. Top of her head to the tips of her toes and back again.

Her hair is mussed, strands stuck to her forehead with dried sweat. Her eyes are red and sunken, crows' feet more visible in the soft light, grime collected in them. Her nostrils flare lightly with every shallow breath she takes in, lips pursed together, teeth grinding on inhale and releasing on exhale. Her chin – stern. The tension in her jaw gives the illusion that her face is angular.

The strain of her muscles is visible in her neck. The usual smooth and regal column is flanked by stiff lines of stretched tendons that accentuate her collarbones and the hollows above them. The collar of the white top she is wearing is practically brown with grit and sweat; it jots proudly, stiff, where her neck meets her shoulders. The top itself is sullied with faint marks of moss and mud. It appears to be stuck to her left side, tucked – uncomfortably, I could only imagine – under her right arm and breast, pulled up slightly above the waistline of her trousers.

Her hands are limp at her sides, their skin hard with dehydration and dust, dirt stuck around and under her short fingernails. I have never seen Myka's hands so still. They hang lifelessly by her thighs, bearing a non-human grey-ish tint that blends with the dark grey material of her trousers.

Those are marred with ash and sandstone residue. There is a tear, just below her left knee, a few inches above where her boots tightly hug her calves, faint blood stains mark the frayed edges of the fabric.

The middle fastening of her right boot is torn off – I cannot imagine the sheer force it would take to tear leather like this. Her black boots are no longer black. They are richly dashed with scores and scrapes outlined with light edges, testament to what they have gone through.

"Take off your boots," I order quietly, and she complies with no hesitation. She doubles over, legs straight, unfastening three straps of the left boot, two on the right. Then she straightens; nudges the heel of her left boot with the toes of her right, then shakes it loose until it lands on the floor. She then pulls her foot out like a magician pulls a rabbit out of a hat. She repeats the process with her other foot. All the while her tired eyes not leaving mine.

I turn on the hot water in the shower and the room fills up with vapour. Standing in our bathroom, in the humid heat of a clean room, the past few days feel considerably longer than they had been. It is only now that I am finally beginning to feel better.

Myka inhales the damp air, allowing her eyes to fall shut and rest. I unbutton her top and walk around her, reaching for the hardened collar to pull it off her, gently prying it from where it had caught under her bra on her right side.

I trail my fingers lightly across the high ridges of her shoulders, sand and small pieces of branches falling from skin. She is the artefact now. I trace the outlines of her biceps down to her elbows. I can feel and see her muscles straining under her skin. I press my palms to the outskirts of her ribs and up to where her bra is digging into her sides.

Oh, how I've missed her, my Myka. I cannot resist the need to press my lips to her shoulder blade. The muscles in her back flex and the metallic and salty taste of earth and sweat on her skin lingers on my lips.

I walk around to face her and drag my hands up hers, to her shoulders and down her chest, searching for signs of injury. She bears few marks: a bruise at the top of her left arm; one above her right elbow. That's all.

I walk into her space again, my palms at her waist, up her sides and to her front – all the way around and back again. My touch is too purposeful to be considered gentle, and although it is placed lovingly, it is not sympathetic: I am checking for cracked or broken bones. She stretches her back and pulls her shoulders and chin up, allowing me better access for a thorough search. Once I am satisfied she is not hurt, I lean into her with an embrace, resting my head against her chest.

It is clear to me and I hope it is clear to her as well that I am no longer assessing my colleague. I am holding my Myka who has been through more than I know. More than I dare imagine.

It is early morning. Early enough to still be considered late last night. We are in a car park of a supermarket in a small town outside Boston, Massachusetts. Myka had just incapacitated three goons and beat their leader into an unconscious pulp.

Once they are down, she breaks into the van in which they hold me. She wrenches open the loading door at the back of the van, holding her gun and flashlight up while scanning the inside of the small and rather empty space. There is nothing in it but me.

I feel a hint of relief at the sight of her, but it is just out of my grasp; like a scent of something scrumptious baking some distance away, but I cannot imagine its taste yet.

She presses her index finger to her lips, motioning to me to keep silent and still. She inches towards the van, so she can take a better look inside it, but doesn't climb in. She meets my eyes again and repeats her motion, nodding to me, seeking my understanding. I nod back at her.

She walks around the van, small, cautious steps. I can track her flashlight as it scans the outside of the van. Then the light disappears and I can hear light rattling underneath me. She is inspecting the undercarriage.

She is thorough in her work.

She comes back around to the door, only her flashlight in her hand now. She climbs into the van, crouches in front of me and places the flashlight in her mouth. I am the subject of her thorough inspection now: hands in my hair, checking my head for trauma; thumbs and fingers across my cheekbones and brows, gently along my left temple, where I was struck.

Her face softens as she runs her fingers across the thick tape covering my mouth and she reaches its sharp edges. She takes the flashlight out of her mouth and whispers "sorry" to me and I close my eyes and nod my approval for her to rip it off. Her fingertips chase the pain, replacing it with a light tingling sensation.

"Thank you," I say quietly, my throat dry and voice cracking.

"Coast is clear, cops're on the way," she presses her hands against me, using light yet persistent pressure to check my upper body and limbs for harm. "How are your legs?" She reaches behind my back, feeling for the Scotland Yard issued cuffs in which my hands are bound. She shuffles behind me, to gain a better angle at them and starts fiddling with their lock.

"Being folded uncomfortably against an unforgiving metal surface for the better part of fifteen hours…"

She angles a look at me. That's her way to ask me for a simple, honest answer.

"Nothing a good stretch and a stiff drink won't fix," I summarise as I hear a click and feel blood easing its way back to my hands. I clench and un-clench my fists to hasten the circulation to my extremities. She wraps her hands around mine, stilling them for a moment so she can remove the restraint from me. She shuffles back around me and gives my arm a quick squeeze on her way out of the van. I follow her with some difficulty as my legs take a little while to regain a full range of motion.

By the time I climb out of the van, Myka is about twenty feet away from it, scanning the car park and its perimeter diligently, hand on her holstered gun. I can hear sirens in the distance. I walk towards her and she turns to face me just as I am an arm's length from her.

Her eyes are sparkling in the orange lights as she smiles. I am seeing Myka now, not Agent Bering. "Hey," she places both her hands on my shoulders, giving them a gentle rub. "Are you okay?"

Frankly, I am not okay. I've been drugged, kidnapped, struck and bound, threatened, approached and touched by creatures unfit to be categorised as humans in ways I care not to remember. Every time one of those men got close to me, touched me with a hand or a weapon, I could feel being nudged further into darkness. Oh, the plans I hatched in my mind to escape and maim or kill them have been all I could focus on over the past few hours. Had Myka not arrived when she did, I would have probably resorted to putting one of them to use.

But the fact she is here, acknowledging me, makes the experiences of the day feel lighter. Not gone altogether, but manageable. I nod stiffly as three police cars and two ambulances race into the car park, circling us and the van.

"It's up to you how you want to play it with them," she instructs me, "but I would like to have the truth from you later."

"Thank you," I whisper.

"I'm just your security detail. Your bodyguard. I followed your GPS here," she says as Police men and women flood the scene, securing it; Paramedics get their gear out, running towards us.

"Not a word of a lie there," I acknowledge her statement and she gives my shoulders another squeeze the moment a paramedic and a police officer flank us.

"Which one of you is Bering?" The officer asks sternly.

Myka flashes her Secret Service badge and walks off with the officer, leaving me to the graces of the paramedic who treats the scrape on my forehead and a female officer who questions me about what had happened.

Not much later, after statements and evidence were collected from us both, and not least because of Myka's assurance to the local police that I will be available and contactable through her at all times, we leave the scene and head off to a hotel.

It is a different kind of hotel to the places we usually occupy: an upmarket boutique hotel along the banks of the Charles River, overlooking downtown Cambridge and on – onto Boston. We are facing each other in the tastefully decorated room, first rays of sunrise creeping in through a patterned curtain.

I am still stiff with thoughts of executing revenge on the men who abducted me. My darkness has crept within me throughout the day, occupied my mind while being held hostage for what turns out to be a case of mistaken identity. I am finding it hard to subdue the anger and pain, to subdue the darkness.

She is holding my hands in hers, her thumbs tracing gentle circles at the inside my wrists.

"I would have killed them," I declare confidently, threateningly. "I would have killed them in horrible ways if you hadn't turned up when you did."

"But you didn't." She reassures me.

"Put me close enough to one of them now and I shall," I hiss.

"Put me close enough to one of them now and I may do the same," she speaks quietly.

I look at her, weighing her statement carefully.

"Let me help," she says and her hands drift to my thighs as she settles on her knees and leans back on her heels in front of me. She reaches for the zips at the backs of my boots and pulls them down. She then takes my right hand and places it on her left shoulder; coaxes me to lift my right foot so she can pull the heeled boot off. She places my foot on her thigh and begins massaging my calf muscle and shin, encouraging muscle movement and blood flow.

I can feel my breathing beginning to ease, and my stiffness leaving my shoulders and neck – as if she is siphoning anger and pain out of me with her firm, insistent movement. After a while she replaces my foot, and swaps my hands on her shoulders. She does the same to my left foot and leg, and as she rubs the darkness out of me, I begin to recount the day to her in as much detail as I can.

I pause after I recall the first time one of the goons attempted to force himself on me, to collect my thoughts and let go of the memory of his coarse breath, touch and language. She replaces my foot on the floor, straightens herself and holds me, pressed against me, on her knees, her head against my belly. I continue telling her about them – everything about them – but also about me. What I was feeling, what I was thinking, what I was planning.

All the while, she is on her knees, holding on to me, not letting go, not moving.

"And then you turn up," I place my hand at the top of her head, "saving me from myself as much as you saved me from them."

Her hands shift behind me, restlessly caressing the small of my back over my jacket. She wants to say something, but is holding back. I spin one of her curls around my finger, waiting for her to find a way to say what's on her mind.

"Saving you from them is my job," she starts and looks up at me, "saving you from yourself – that's all you. I take no credit," she pauses. "I'm sorry it took me so long to get to you," she says.

"Nonsense, darling," I do my best to reassure her. "I know you got there as fast as you could." And I know she did.

"Thank you for telling me," she says, still on her knees, in front of me.

"Thank you for forgiving me," I answer.

Oh, Myka. I missed you so.

For a while she does nothing but stand in my embrace and breathe, albeit a little too slowly. I can feel the muscles of her left hand contracting violently, it's her fist again. She raises her right hand and rests it across my lower back. Tentatively at first, but then she commits to the embrace and I can feel her shifting her weight and leaning into me.

As she returns my touch I feel reassured, even though I know that has she, indeed, stepped into her darkness. I know there is little I may demand of her. It is her, and only her, who could start the journey to be found. All I can do for her is remain steady and within reach.

I press my lips to her chest gently and look up, along her shoulder, up her neck, along her jaw, across her cheek to her eyes. The tension has lessened. Her eyes are closed. I whisper her name, and she opens them. "I would like you to finish undressing," I speak.

She takes a step back and removes her socks, a small piece of rock falls rather loudly onto the slate floor. Next, she unbuttons her trousers and shakes them off of her. As she straightens, I can see that her left knee is grazed and muddied, evidence of the chase up the mountain.

Then, she unhooks her bra. She winces as she peels it off of her skin, leaving deep tracks where it had dug into her flesh over the past three days. Lastly – her pants.

"Step in," I motion towards the shower.

She obeys and walks in to stand under the hot water. I undress and follow her in, reaching with my hands to her shoulders, sweeping down them gently, washing off dirt, angst and trepidation. I wash her fastidiously, with great care and attention, lathering every crevice, touching every recess.

My touch is functional and assertive like before, but softer, caring. Yet, it is not sensual. It is not exciting. I take no pleasure in it, for no reason other than this touch is not mine to enjoy. She gives in, and I take what she gives.

I walk around her and wash her front with every bit of diligence as I had her back. Her left hand is still fisted tightly and I pick it up, pushing my thumb inside it and rubbing – harshly – under the hot water. She winces at the pain, biting on her lips. For a moment, her fist clenches even tighter, but then it relents.

I then wash her hair – probably the most difficult task – not only because of the height difference between us, but because her hair is thoroughly tangled and matted. I place her directly under the shower head for the water to work the knots from her hair and back.

For the first time in four days I hear her sigh in relief.

I wash myself quickly and head out of the shower, beckoning her to me, wrapping her up in a towel as she steps out before wrapping myself in one.

I am facing her again, measuring her – tip to toe – again. She looks less dishevelled, but no less exhausted. She looks less angry, but no less anxious. Her breathing is more even, her muscles more relaxed, but still a ways away from her usual pace.

"Follow me," I say and walk to our bedroom, where I turn down her side of the bed, waiting for her beside it. She walks into the room and I motion with my head to the bed. She removes the towel from her, folds it in half and places it across her pillow. She sits down, shoulders slumped, hands limp in her lap. After a moment she turns slightly, tucks her legs under the duvet and lays back pulling the duvet onto her.

On my way around the bed, I switch off the lights and draw the curtains shut. I climb into bed and curl against her – my head on her shoulder, my palm atop her abdomen, my shin touching hers. "I missed you so," I whisper into her skin and press a light kiss.

She inhales sharply and releases her breath slowly. "Helena," she whispers, "I give in."

"You have," I contemplate her insistence on using this specific phrase. I wonder if she had crossed a line from which there is no return. I contemplate which line it may be for her, as that may mean it isn't forgiveness she seeks, but penance. Or absolution. "And you will," I speak against her softly, "but for now you rest."

I fight my own tiredness to ensure she falls asleep. While I wait for her breathing to even out, I consider forgiveness, penance and absolution. I reflect on my time with her: I repented for my transgressions. Myka forgives me, but I struggle to forgive myself. Absolving me of them, is – perhaps – my responsibility, and mine alone.

Soon her breathing falls into a familiar pattern, sleep descending upon her like heavy snow, enveloping her completely. For a long hour I lay against her, contemplating my darkness, my penance, my absolution. All the while she is still.

Eventually, I drift off as well.

I wake up a few hours later when I hear a vehicle on the drive. I hear Steve's voice, then Arthur's. I raise my head slightly to check - Myka hasn't moved. She is rested in the exact same position in which she fell asleep.

I press a light kiss to her shoulder and slink out of bed without making a sound. I don a dressing gown, closing the door behind me and head downstairs to greet them before they knock on the door or – heaven forbid – ring the doorbell.

I get to the door and usher them into the kitchen. Steve is taking the long way around, peering into Myka's office. He doesn't linger and follows us in.

"Myka is asleep. She only went down a few hours ago," I say, hushed. "Care for a drink?"

"Tea," Steve smiles an appeasing smile.

"The same," Arthur nods and smiles. There is something different about him. He appears to be amicable, somehow. He wears it awkwardly.

I put the kettle on, bring out a teapot and look for mugs – there are none in the cupboards.

"Myka was drinking a lot of coffee," Steve says.

I smile at him. Of course she did. "I will be right back". I walk across the foyer and into her office. I am standing in the doorway, not able to or not willing to step inside. It looks like a war had been fought in that room, with no clear victors. A small grin blossoms across my lips as I take a brave step inside.

I realise Myka had been through a lot, but not even in my wildest dreams, had I ever imagined her to be capable of producing such incomparable mess.

I scan the room and manage to locate a few mugs here and there. As I walk around to collect them my attention falls on evidence of her research: history books and references for the Tower of Babel myth; alphabets, syntax and glossaries for dead languages of the Mediterranean; stills from surveillance footage, logs from the locator system for the hours preceding the artefact activation. She cross referenced any data she could allay her hands on – I admire her resourcefulness and sharp thinking – her analysis establishes the precise location of each team member.

She checked which access codes were used across the substation to look for suspects: she highlighted some codes that, as I understand in the brief moment my look is cast on her printouts, had been used in the vicinity of the systems that were breached in order to disperse and activate the dust. There are only three access codes highlighted: Karl's, Jade's and mine.

The small grin I grew in affection of Myka's mayhem fades from my lips faster than a midwinter sunset. I feel as though a dark cloud descends on me in a single moment. I had been a suspect. I may still be considered one. In their minds, in Myka's mind, I am capable of doing this.

To be fair, I decide to apply cold logic for a moment, if capability were the guiding principle, then, yes – I am most certainly capable of carrying such a plot out. I have the technical ability, I have the Warehouse knowledge, I am intimately familiar with the substation's mechanisms so to create a menace that would penetrate them.

Last but not least – I've carried out a plot of similar complexity in the past.

As I consider my capability, I spend a moment placing myself in their shoes. If I were a battle-worn, hardened and aging supervisory agent who refuses to retire, I would probably suspect me, too. One may never know when darkness creeps into another's heart.

And if I were in Myka's shoes? I take a deep breath to briefly let go of the hurt. Myka, a seasoned agent with impeachable ethics, on an unwavering quest for the truth, would search for evidence to guide her towards a suspect. I look down at my code, marked by a green highlighter, a shred of evidence uncovered. While I can't imagine this was easy for her, I can't help but wonder how quickly the highlighter skimmed the page over the alphanumeric sequence that points to me. I brush the tip of my finger across it, as if the touch will evoke the memory of the page being kissed by a highlighter; and I feel for her.

I marvel ever so slightly at my own nobility. It so rarely takes solid form in me. I so rarely grant others the benefit of the doubt. Even Myka, if I'm perfectly honest. So – for the time being, I choose to focus on the fact that there are other names on that list; and I know too little at this point to reach rash conclusions as to how highly I rank in the team's suspect pool, or, alternatively, how low I rank in the list of colleagues who lack scruples.

I pick up another mug and make my way back to the kitchen.

The kettle finishes boiling just as I finish washing three mugs for us to use, and I tend to the tea. Brewing loose leaf tea is a relaxing art and I find that the scent of tea and sugar have an immensely positive effect on my state of mind. I have almost let go of the fact I was suspected of being a villain. Again.

I place the three mugs on the counter along with some milk and pour freshly brewed tea into them. They each pick a mug and for a long while we simply sip tea. My eyes dart between them, trying to fathom why they are here, as they are giving me no clues.

"It's not Myka we came to see," Arthur finally speaks as he fidgets with his now empty mug.

"Oh?" I raise my eyebrows. The benefit of the doubt slips away with my nobility as it loses its form, reverting back to its natural, fleeting, gaseous state. I can feel a distant, animalistic part of me is awakened, stretching in preparation for a fight or flight instruction. I try to soothe that beast, calm it.

He clears his throat. "I don't know how much Myka told you."

"Myka told me nothing," I overturn his assumption.

"We realised fairly early on that somebody here did it," he speaks quietly. "We narrowed down a suspect pool and you were in it."

Never had vindication carried such a bitter taste. I nod stiffly at him.

He looks up from his mug. "Some of the evidence pointed at you and we," he stops abruptly, "I followed them very aggressively," he says, but then his face softens. His expression turns loving, it is one I have never seen him give anyone but Claudia. The last time that happened was before she turned 20. "You were being framed, HG, and I'm sorry that I didn't trust you, against my better judgement."

What evidence was this? What does 'very aggressively' mean? How far did this investigation go? What orders were dispatched while I was at the top of the suspect list? How much of this did Myka know? How much did she know and not tell me? Who would frame me? Why?

Questions race through me at a much faster pace than I'm able to recall, and then they stop. They cease as suddenly as wind dies down in the eye of a storm, when I realise that this is why Myka gave in. Myka gave in to me, laying herself as sacrifice, this is the sin for which she seeks absolution.

I remain silent for a moment, recalling phrases Myka used earlier today: being ruined, disliking what she's turned into, wanting to stop. I had assumed she was referring to her actions when managing the crisis, only I didn't realise these included investigating me. Suspecting me. Losing her trust in me.

"Myka wasn't part of the investigation," Steve adds. "She…" he pauses "we thought it would be best if she focused on dealing with what was going on here," it is rare that I wish I had his talent for telling whether people are lying. Now is one of those rare moments. "She didn't know who we were investigating or how. She still doesn't know the details."

"I'm really sorry, Helena," Arthur says again. "Truly and deeply sorry." He looks me straight in the eye as he says these words, speaks them with such honesty.

Arthur has never apologised to me before. Never like this. So explicitly, so heartfelt. His apology is so sincere, it places a small, niggling thought in me: he must have well and truly suspected me as the culprit for him to be well and truly sorry for having been wrong.

As this niggling thought rises through me, it echoes old thoughts within, thoughts and feelings that made so much sense when I left the Warehouse over a decade ago, but have not made sense since. Namely, the realisation that trust – the strong, unmovable foundation upon which relationships lay – can crack so easily in spite of its robustness and bulk, shatters something in me, again.

This is why I left the Warehouse for Boone, for a quest for a normal, suburban life. This was the reasoning that convinced me my place is outside the world of Endless Wonder: because to those within this wondrous world – irrespective of time gone by or sacrifices made – I will always remain a suspect, a potential villain whose darkness is too close for comfort.

The beast within shakes its mane, paces impatiently, waiting for an opportunity to flee.

I smile at the both of them, softly. "Thank you," I say demurely then look at Arthur. His face full of regret. "I appreciate your honesty and accept your apology," and then I fall silent.

The niggling thought – the fact I had been so seriously considered to be the offender – tugs at my consciousness like a hungry child, begging to be fed with attention. With anger. I will only be able to withstand it for so long.

Steve shifts uncomfortably in his seat and clears his throat after a few moments of tense silence. I do not look at him, but rather, keep my eyes fixed on Arthur.

I try to ignore the beast and the hungry child, pretend they are not there. I am not sure what I should do next, so I try to consider what others I know would do in my stead. This is, however, unexplored territory, new grounds we are yet to cover. I have no evidence of how others would respond in a case such as this. This holds true to everyone involved: those at the substation, those in South Dakota, those in this house.

/ /

I open my eyes and sit up, startled. I shouldn't be asleep, there is still so much to do. My brain kicks in and fast forwards through what I remember.

At the same time, I'm trying to understand where I am, exactly.

This is our bedroom. How am I in our bedroom?

Then my consciousness catches up, and I remember that the whole thing is over now.

I ease back down into the bed and try to take a deep breath in or out, but the best I can do are short and shallow ones. Somehow, in the ten seconds of panicked brain work, my body became hyper alert, tense and rigid.

I try to relax myself. I change my breathing, change my position. I go through every trick I can think of, but nothing works. I'm just too worked up now to be able to relax, and – god – I just need to go back to sleep.

I close my eyes and try to convince myself, with a lilting, soothing voice, "go to sleep, Myka, it's fine. You can go to sleep," and I try to breathe in again, but I can't, not all the way, and I cough.

I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. I've never been one for counting sheep, but there is always a first time. I picture one of the meadows nearby, it's a big field between our cottage and the substation. In the spring it was littered with sheep. I could count them from the top of the substation's mountain, right next to where…

And like that, the sense of calm vanishes from the image. The meadow dissolves and is replaced with Karl holding a gun to Mac's head, a second before he tapped his trigger.

My breath catches and I cough again.

I try to empty my mind, but I can't. That second is looping in my head, over and over and over. I turn to my side, and start describing everything in my field of vision to take my mind out of the loop: the bedroom door, stained pine, a dark colour because I liked the contrast to the light walls. My bathrobe is hanging off the back of it, it appears to be teal, but that's because it's been washed so many times. It used to be purple. Helena's dressing gown is not there, so there is an empty brass hook, mock Victorian, grossly overpriced at a County Fair. There's the dresser, an Ikea thing that Helena made into a one-of-a-kind piece by building it differently to the instructions. There's a pile of folded clean laundry on top of it. I can pick out the luminescent lycra of my running gear.

A run.

A run would unwind me. But just at the thought of it, my calf muscle cramps. Hard. It's like my body is responding to the ridiculousness of the idea of running now. I hiss and curse and curl up to massage my leg. This pain is really intense. It takes it a few minutes and it relaxes enough for me to straighten out.

I turn over to the other side, facing Helena's side of the bed.

That's a good point: where is Helena? I listen to the house for a few minutes, but it's silent. There is no sound whatsoever.

It makes me a little bit worried. I don't think I was very coherent when we got home earlier, I don't know what she made of it. I remember standing downstairs, in the foyer, telling her I'd had enough of being in danger, apologising for doubting her, apologising for killing Mac and Karl.

On second thought, as I recall fragments of the actual conversation we had, I'm not sure that's how it came out. My breath shortens even more at the thought of fucking everything up so royally.

I arch my back and stretch my neck, they both crack loudly. The mild relief doesn't last for long, because everything seizes up again. It feels like the cramp from my leg is travelling through me. The little air I release from my lungs comes out as a groan.

I close my eyes and focus on my sharp breaths. There must be something I can do to release the tension. If not a run, there is only one other thing that will unwind me, even though I'm in the completely wrong frame of mind for it. But seeing as running is out of the question…

I grumble into my pillow and turn over. I'm on my back, one hand under my head, the other across my abdomen. I close my eyes and think up an image of Helena: her mouth open slightly, teeth snaring her bottom lip, eyes screwed shut, dark hair ripples on either side of her face. Her eyes snap open suddenly and they are deep and brown and full of want.

This is from Bath, the evening of her birthday party. I can work with this. I close my eyes and think of the details in this image of her: the slight crease between her eyebrows, strain showing across her face. Her triceps are quivering a little as she's holding herself above me. Tiny beads of sweat forming on her chest, glistening in the soft light. They are shiny and bright, an opposite to her dark freckles.

My hand travels down my abdomen in small, gentle, circular motions and I take a breath – it isn't deep enough for me to really appreciate the sensation that passes through me but it's good enough. It's working, I can feel it.

I just need to keep thinking about that image: her chest rises and falls quickly, she bites her lip again and lifts her head. Her hair is pushed back, over her shoulders. I map the constellations of freckles on her neck.

I reach my sex and start working myself up, slow and light. I think it's working so I tighten my movements. I'm getting close.

But it's not working.

The image is gone from my mind, and is replaced with 'what happened?' and 'what now?' and 'what have I done?' and 'what next?'. It isn't the substation I'm thinking about. Or the Warehouse. It's Helena and me.

I betrayed her trust. I betrayed my trust in her. I thought I was better than this, I thought I forgave her everything. I did forgive her everything. I love her, for Christ's sake. How could I have done that to her, to suspect her like I did?

I suspected her because she was there, and they were all suspects, and that was the right thing to do, it was protocol. I suspected her because there was evidence. I suspected her because she could do it. I suspected her because I knew the guys in South Dakota would do, too.

Even though it makes sense, none of these are good enough to excuse how bad I feel about it. None of these are good enough to excuse my betrayal because underneath all this, behind all the suspicions and suppositions and evidence, even, I don't believe she could do this. I trust her with my life.

I trust her implicitly.

But it's not helping. I try to relax myself through my breathing again, but it's like my ribs are tied and I can't expand my chest cavity. I shift in the bed, so my head is against Helena's pillows. I can smell her on them. I can do this.

Think of another image, Myka, I convince myself, you have hundreds of these.

I close my eyes again, already touching myself. This time, Helena's eyes are a couple of inches away from mine. They are a deep, dark, warm brown. Her irises are crossed with lighter lines, like bicycle spokes, in alternating shades of chocolate brown and hazel. Her eyes are smiling, she is relaxed and contented.

My, Helena, you are so breathtakingly beautiful.

I recall the taste of her lips, because that's what happened next after that image was seared into my memory. I wet mine and bite down on them.

I'm close. I'm so so close.

/ /

"More tea?" is all I can say after a few more minutes of a tense silence.

Arthur smiles uncomfortably. Steve purses his lips.

The silence is stirred by a light creak from the floorboards upstairs. Myka must be up. Steve straightens in his seat, rubbing his hands against his knees, trying to catch Arthur's attention.

Arthur is somewhat oblivious of Steve's effort at subtlety, until Steve gives up altogether and places a hand on his shoulder. "Artie," he says softly.

Arthur is shaken by the touch and mutters as he gets up. I stay still, looking at them make their way out of the kitchen. After they leave the room I let my shoulders slump and run my hands through my hair, shaking off the paralytic cobwebs of doubt that have taken hold of me during this most silent of conversations.

I head out of the kitchen to reach them in time to see them out the door. Arthur turns around again and looks at me. "I'm so sorry, Helena," he says.

I smile what I can only hope is a soft smile and nod at him.

Steve braces my shoulder with smile, which I return. "I'll call you tomorrow," he mouths after Arthur walks out.

I lock the door behind them and think about doubt and the cobwebs she weaves around me so artfully. I can feel her hard at work again, her poisonous web digs deeper into me.

I wonder what it felt like for Myka, when she realised that I am to be considered a wrongdoer in this? Was she the one who suggested it? I think about her ruin, as she put it. About her submission. About her need to be absolved.

The floor upstairs creaks again and I go to check on her.

/ /

It's not working. Why isn't working?

I'm so close, I'm so so close, I've been so close for so long.

Why can't I ––– I'm jolted into the room by the sensation of a weight on top of my hand over the covers. My eyes, that were tightly shut for god knows how long take a second to adjust. It's Helena. She's sitting next to me, on my side of the bed, leaning over me with her hand over the covers, directly over my hand that's... Not. Not touching anymore.

She is looking into my eyes, her face is expressionless. I honestly don't know if she is angry or hurt or happy or what. She brings her right hand to my face and caresses it softly. She leans in for a kiss. It feels chaste and cool and distant. Then her hand travels up to find my left that's just above my head, on her pillows. She laces her fingers with mine and presses her weight into me.

"You gave in," she whispers against my lips.

I nod. My short, restrained breaths coming out as wheezes.

"You gave in to me," her whisper is harsh. Her eyes are looking into me with a fierceness I haven't seen in her in a very long time. It looks like fear.

I nod again and try to reach up to kiss her, but she pulls back just enough for me to fall an inch short.

"You gave in," she says coldly and looks at my lips, "so you are mine," she takes my bottom lip in her teeth and bites down. It's too hard to be seductive – she is giving me pain. She pulls until I wince, then releases it and runs her tongue over where her teeth dug in.

I gasp and hold my breath. I can't release it even though I try. I can't think of anything to say to release it with. The only thing that runs through my mind now is that I need to breathe. The way she leans over me makes breathing even harder.

Her eyes remain fixed into mine, expressionless, distant, fearful. I have no idea what made her feel this way. I don't know where she's been, who she's seen, what she knows now that she didn't know a few hours ago. There is something, though. I just don't know what. I don't think I've ever seen Helena like this.

Her left hand creeps under the covers and pulls mine away. "You are mine, Myka Bering," she whispers and replaces my hand with hers, then leans in closer, harder into me.

I stretch to try and reach her again, but she pulls back.

"I am not yours to kiss," she speaks, her tone is unlike anything I had ever heard from her. It's muted and cold. "I am not yours to touch," she tightens the grip of her fingers on my left hand that's over my head.

It hurts. "Helena, you're hu—"

"You gave in," she cuts into me, and leans in for a kiss. It's hard and bruising and long. She breaks away for a deep breath. "I can absolve you of your sin," she whispers as the fingers of her left hand slip over me, pointedly.

I gasp and hold on to the tiny breath I managed to take in, unable to release it.

She moves slowly, brushing her fingers along the length of me with a touch only she knows to give. "I can undo your ruin," she speaks into my lips.

I can't breathe. I could barely breathe before, but it feels like I can't breathe at all when she's pushing into me like that, when she's touching me like that. "Helena…" I try to say, but it's barely a whisper.

"Your ruin," she says, her strokes are long and slow, like she's making a point that I feel her everywhere, "is mine," she presses into the top of my sex. "Your absolution," she pushes back down, "is mine". I try to breathe in again, but I can only gasp. "Your penance," my whole body is tense. I thought it was tense before, but now I feel like I'm entirely solid, "is mine." Pain starts to pulse through me and it increases with every heartbeat. "The whole of you," she slows even more and every single one of my muscles cramps, "is mine," I release the last of my breath in agony, because it hurts.

Everything hurts. Everywhere hurts. It hurts so much.

It hurts like that – more pain than I've ever known – until I break. I break into a million pieces, and it's like whatever was keeping me tied just disappears and I can breathe again. It feels like I've come up for air after being under water for too long.

She lets me take one long, deep breath and she pushes in, pressing into my abdomen and chest, forcing me to exhale, and she kisses me, hard and long and searching.

She made me breathe just so she could take it away.

She doesn't ease off until I well up, until I'm shaking. And when she does, she stays close, but she's not pushing against me anymore. She's not hurting me.

I can breathe again, freely, unrestricted, and I start crying. For no reason, or for a thousand reasons.

Her right hand lets go of my hand and she pulls her left out, placing it over the covers, around where my waist is. The tip of her nose touches mine and I feel her tears streaming down it. I look up at her through my tears and wait for her to open her eyes.

She does, after a long while, after she stops crying.

"I need you to tell me," is what she asks of me.

So I do. I tell her without holding back a single thing. I tell her every detail, every thought, every feeling. Every minute facial expression I observed, every change in tone of voice. I take her through the whole thing, from beginning to end. The whole time she is resting on top of me, not moving, and not actually touching me either, the covers keep us apart.

I tell her about checking in with everyone right from the get go. I tell her how quickly we think this is an inside job. I tell her about realising the infection is internal. I tell her about narrowing the suspect pool. I tell her about the timeline and the locator logs. I tell her about Dr. Calder's orders and my decision. I tell her about designing the solutions. I tell her about the mountain. I tell her about decontamination.

I tell her about Artie debriefing me afterwards. I tell her it started with giving him a full report, and how it turned into an interrogation, almost, him asking me about what I knew, what I had noticed. I tell her he then spent quite a bit of time asking me about her, how she's been, what she's been up to, what and who she's been involved with.

I tell her that after all his questions Artie tells me she and Karl are the prime suspects. I tell her what he told me, that there is a lot of obvious evidence mostly pointing at her, but some – less obvious stuff – pointing at Karl. I tell her that I don't know what those are, that I haven't seen anything. I tell her that through the whole thing I was quiet. I tell her that I wasn't surprised, that I didn't challenge anything.

Then I stop.

She is quiet for a long time.

"How do you know it wasn't me?" she asks quietly.

"I don't," I answer without even thinking.

"Why do you trust me with all this, then?"

I trust you, Helena, because I always have. I trust you because that's what you and I had agreed we'd do. I also trust you because it's the most logical thing to do and because the alternative is too painful. "I just do," is all I wind up saying.

"Would you still trust me if I told you that not a half hour ago I was contemplating the practicalities of leaving?" she sounds like she did before, when she sat down next to me, fearful and empty.

Her words feel like a sharp scratch, like having a blade to my skin, not hard enough to cut through skin, but hard enough to feel a jagged, icy edge. "What do you mean 'leaving'?"

She sighs heavily and moves off of me. She curls up against my side, places her head on my chest.

"I don't want to leave, Myka," she says once she is settled, "but this is not good for me. This is not good for you." Fear seems to have left her voice. It's replaced with concern.

We've been through conversations like this before, but not for a long time. Well, we kind of did in Bath, before I took the job, before she decided to come back. There is a big part of me that wants to say 'I told you so', because having a conversation about her leaving is exactly the kind of thing I was worried about back then. I'm sure that one day this specific 'I told you so' will come out, but for now, I need to understand exactly what makes her say all this. "Helena," I run my fingers through her hair, "I need you to tell me now."

"Arthur was here earlier," she pauses. "He came here to apologise."

I think I can guess, but I want to be sure. "What for?"

"Apparently, as you were told, I was at the top of the suspect list for quite some time," she answers.

I acknowledge her statement with a thoughtful hum.

"Was I at the top of yours?" is her next question.

Never one to be beating around the bush. "Not at the top," I say quietly and think very carefully about what I should and shouldn't be saying next. I opt for full disclosure. "But I had to consider you. It hurt. It was confusing. It was really hard," I say with long pauses in between. It all feels very raw. I can still feel it.

"Myka," she lifts her head and looks into my eyes, "making you question your ethics and weighing them against your loyalty to me is quite possibly the last thing I would like to induce in you."

Loyalty? Is that what it is? Is she shying away from 'love'? Whichever it was, or perceived, I won't lie to her. Doubting her was one of the hardest things I had to do over the past few days. One of the hardest things I ever had to do.

"I would never want to put you in that position again," she says and places her head on my chest again.

"I don't want to be in that position again," I say after some considerable thought, because saying feels like I'm mirroring Helena's want to leave.

"So long as I am part of the Warehouse," she starts fiddling with the covers under my chin, "I will always be a rehabilitated villain."

Eight years ago I would have lashed out at her, given her one of my 'I was right, you're a good person' speeches, but I'm not going to now. It's not that I don't believe that anymore. I do, with all my heart. Helena is a great person. But I know she's right. She's always going to be a usual suspect. "So when you said 'leaving', you meant the Warehouse?"

She exhales a frustrated sigh. "I am angry," she says, but doesn't sound it, "and hurt, and feeling skittish," she rests her hand down on my chest. "And when I feel those things my instinct tells me to run," she remains still for a moment. I feel her breathe against me. "So I faked kindness. I faked forgiveness and nobility for Arthur. I faked them so he would believe I forgave him."

"Faked?" I'm not sure I understand.

"I am borrowing them because I have none in me."

I shift my head to look at her.

"I am borrowing them from you because they were needed to close the book on this messy chapter," she looks up at me for a second, her index finger touches my cheek hesitantly. "I know that if I do not source them from somewhere, there will be no fight left in me and instinct will win," her fingers still before sliding down again, "instinct will win and I will run."

"So you're not running," I'm summarising my understanding.

"I'm trying very hard not to," she looks up again, "but surely you know how hard habits are to get rid of."

"This is you kicking a habit?"

She nods. "This is me picking a page off your book, dearest Myka, choosing to place my complete trust in you," her gaze turns to her hand at my chest, idly playing with the covers again. "Note how I've not opted for an apocalypse," she mutters dryly.

I feel uneasy with her mentioning Yellowstone. Possibly because there is an underlying suggestion that us losing faith in each other may trigger a cataclysmic shift in her.

"Helena?" I ask after a few minutes of silence.

"Yes?"

"You know how I said I didn't feel like I needed to be forgiven?"

I feel her nodding against me.

"I think I do now," I whisper.

She lifts herself, resting her head on her folded arm so we are facing each other, "What do you wish me to forgive you?"

"Forgive me for doubting you."

"I forgive you," she responds without giving it any thought.

"Is this the same forgiveness you've given Artie?" I ask tentatively.

"No," her response is swift and categorical. Like her forgiveness.

"I don't want fake-forgiveness," I feel the need to clarify. "So you can take your time. You don't have to forgive me now."

"What if I do forgive you now?" she challenges me.

I open my mouth to answer, but I don't know what to say. "Thank you," I say, or ask, quietly.

"My pleasure," she smiles.

"Can I ask for another?" I hesitate.

She quirks an eyebrow.

"Forgive me for taking a life."

She looks at me questioningly. "You did not take a life," she argues.

"There are two people in body bags who beg to differ if they could," I say, "and don't get technical on me."

"Fine," she exhales. "I forgive you."

"Forgive me for making all my decisions based on protocol."

She narrows her eyes, takes a breath to say something and stops herself. "You are a strange and confounding creature, darling," she says after a moment, "and I forgive you."

I think that's about it for now. I'm sure there will be more tomorrow, and more the day after that.

"There is one thing I will struggle to forgive you," she mentions, off-handed.

I'm feeling tired all of a sudden, and I don't want to get into a fight or an argument or a philosophical debate. "What?"

"Your decision to use the compound."

I exhale heavily. "Are we really going to do this now?" I ask quietly.

She eyes me with pity. "Not now," she reaches to comb hair from my face. "But soon."

"Thank you," I whisper.

She smiles broadly at me.

I look into her eyes, and they are that rich, dark brown; like in that image of hers I recalled earlier. For the first time in four or five days I feel relieved. Really relieved. Like the weight of all that's happened has suddenly become manageable. My body relaxes into the bed and the pillows, my eyes feel heavy and fall shut. Sleep begins to take hold.

"Myka," I hear her whisper.

I open my eyes and look into hers.

"Kiss me?" she asks.

/ /

We kiss long and reverently, languid and tenderly, in spite of being utterly exhausted. As lips softly press against lips, her words echo through my mind, her actions cast reflections. For all my anger and hurt, none of what she had said or done rings of doubt. She spoke of it, she may have felt it, but she did not act on it.

Her lips catch mine and I sigh as I'm filled with longing and love. And I am filled with relief for I truly do not know – nor do I wish to even contemplate – what will become of me without her trust. What will become of me without her. So I reach for the nape of her neck and hold her to me to give back all she has given me.

And only I know just how much she has given me. Possibly more than she ever intended.

/ /

I spend a whole day sleeping and the day after I'm ready to actually do something. It's 6am and I'm up. I think I'm ready to get out of the house.

I put on my running gear and head out. I turn towards the back of the cottage, up the hill towards that farmer's field where the sheep were grazing in the spring. It's a fairly steep hill, so I don't run fast and enjoy the view instead. The sun is coming up over the other side of the valley, mist is rising from the trees. These are the markings of a hot summer day in the making.

The sheep aren't grazing, but they will be soon. The grass is about knee high now and looks ripe for stock to feed on. It's hard to run through, but the smell is revitalising. I suppose that after three days in a HazMat suit, three days of barely breathing and a couple of days indoors, all this freshness is waking me up.

Before I know it I've run across the field and am running through woods. I'm not following a path. I haven't followed one since I entered the field. If I am where I think I am, I should be hitting the substation's perimeter fence any minute now. And sure enough – it's there. And even though I know the fence's specification, I've never actually seen it.

I stop and reach my hand to the fence, hook my fingers into the wire mesh, as I catch my breath. It's the first three layers. The outer fence is old and a bit rusty. Other than being tall and uncomfortable to climb, it isn't much of a barrier.

Then, there is a ten foot wide track that the adjunct troop patrols. There are also movement and pressure sensors all the way up and down it. Crossing the track unnoticed is hard. Not impossible, but hard.

Behind the track, there's the second fence, which looks brand new. It has high voltage warning signs on it and a trained eye will know this fence is electrocuted. It's two feet lower than the outer fence, and even if it weren't electrocuted, it would be an unpleasant climb.

The last layer is a thick, three-foot spool of barbed wire. So if you managed to climb the electric fence, you'd practically land in the wire. Approaching the electric fence from the other side will be a really painful experience that will leave loads of evidence.

I'm not sure what I'm looking for. I'm trying to check if someone could get in or out through here. Or pass something over the fences. All in all there are about 15 feet worth of barrier, end to end. Even if someone did get in, finding the substation from here isn't easy. I'm not sure I could tell where it is. And if someone's thrown something over – it wouldn't be easy to find. The ground is covered in broken branches, ferns, old pines and leaves.

I start walking down the mountain, along the fence, listening to the birds, looking in to the substation's perimeter. My mind tracks back to the second with Karl and Mac up here. I'm sure it was up here somewhere, I'm not sure where – exactly.

Everything was dark, and happened so fast. I was trying to focus on getting to them, and my mind wasn't taking in any landscape markers. I stop at some point, it must have been ten minutes since I started the walk down, and I just stare in, blankly. There is nothing special about this spot. Nothing unique.

I stop because I feel the weight of my gun in my hand. I feel the pressure of the trigger against my finger. I feel my right biceps twitching against my cheek and a bead of sweat resting above my left eyebrow. I feel the recoil of two quick taps and I didn't even blink between them.

I feel a little dizzy, so I reach for the wire fence and grip it tightly with both hands. I breathe deeply, taking in the smell of grass and pine and damp moss and listen to birdsong filling the valley. It takes me a few minutes, but my strength is back, and I'm upright again, and jogging back down the mountain, across the bottom of the field and towards our cottage.

When I come in I can smell tea and toast - Helena is up.

"Hey," I announce, taking my shoes off.

"Good morning," she calls from the living room.

I hold on to the doorframe and swing in to the room, she's sitting on the sofa, book in her lap, Dickens at her feet. "I'm going in the kitchen to get water, do you want anything?"

She looks at me with a smile and points at the table. My bottle is already there.

I smile back at her, "Ah, thank you," I walk in and pick the bottle up before sitting down past Dickens.

"You were up early today," she comments as she picks up her tea.

I gulp water down, and catch my breath before I answer, "yeah, it felt like a good day for it."

"How was the run?" she asks and gestures towards the tea.

I nod and she leans over to pour me a cup. Apparently, I don't know how to pour a decent cup of tea. "It was good," I fall silent after saying that.

She looks at me, knowing there is more to it than that.

"I ran up the field," I say, "up the mountain."

"You don't usually go up there," she hands me the cup, "I seem to recall you dubbing that direction punishing and the fifth circle of hell for knees and quads," she quotes me perfectly.

"I did, and it is, but I just wanted to go up there," I know she's looking at me, piercing, questioning, waiting for me to explain. I know that without even looking at her. "I found the perimeter fence and walked down along it for a while," I am quieter now, "and I could feel it."

She is quiet. She isn't pushing me to say more than I have. She isn't challenging me.

"I could feel that second again, when I shot him," my gaze is fixed nowhere in particular, somewhere on the coffee table in front of me, my hands squeeze the water bottle.

She clears her throat, "and how did it feel?" she asks gently.

"I don't know how it felt," I say, "It felt like it did then." I look up at her. "How was it supposed to feel?"

She shakes her head lightly, "Only you know how it felt."

"It felt like firing two rapid shots," I answer, my voice borders on whisper.

"Then that is what it felt like," she smiles and holds the cup at me again.

I take it and put it on the coffee table, where my gaze had been. I look into it for a while thinking whether I should be feeling something else. I know that I should. Maybe at some point. I guess I'm not entirely ready to deal with it yet. Helena looks at me for a while, and then goes back to reading her book.

I'm thinking about Karl on the ground, the haunted look in his eyes. How the fact that he shot himself could have just been a twitch – he wasn't left handed and he was in shock from the gunshot wounds I inflicted. His hand could have just slipped, his finger could have just seized. This could all have been an accident.

I shake my head, take a deep breath and finish the water in the bottle. It could all be so many different things. It's confusing.

I look over at Helena, she is so peaceful. Her eyes scan across the lines on the page, she breathes steadily through her nose, occasionally releasing a breath from between her lips, and then she wets them.

Her hair flows down her left side, creating a backdrop for her crisp profile. On her right side, her hair is tucked behind her ear and cascades along her neck.

"What did it feel like to you?" I ask.

She looks up at me. "What?"

"Going through it, being inside, not understanding anyone."

She closes the book and places it on the coffee table, then looks up before closing her eyes. She's recalling memories.

"It was challenging and lonely," she summarises and opens her eyes. "The challenge was both intellectual and social," she looks at me. "You know how I am with other people," she raises an eyebrow, "I am not the most patient when it comes to the foibles of others in close quarters."

I chuckle. That's an understatement and a half. Helena is one of those people who needs their own space, and lots of it. Without it, she turns into an irritable ball of anger. That's one of the nice things about our cottage. Unlike our living arrangement in the US, for the first time we have enough space under one roof to satisfy her need. People think my office is for me, but actually it's for her: I have that office so she can have the rest of the house.

"The intellectual challenge was quite inspiring at times," she muses.

"Inspiring?" I wonder at her choice of words.

"Every task we had to perform was a puzzle. Every time we needed something from each other it was a code," there is a twinkle in her eye. "It was marvellous to watch and partake in activities that did not require a language to communicate, where the activity in itself was the language," she wears a small, excited smile.

"The card game?"

She nods, "And building the pump."

"That was fascinating to watch," I beam at her, recalling how involved she looked, how eager.

She smiles back at me and blushes a bit. "I do believe, however, that had it gone on for much longer than it had, I would have lost my temper."

"I can imagine," I say.

Then she falls silent and the smile falls from her face. "Loneliness was just that," she says and her gaze falls to nowhere in particular, somewhere on the coffee table. "So many quotes about loneliness," her mind wanders. "A cure for vanity, the ultimate poverty, a sign of bad company, the lack of one's own friendship," she pauses. "The simplicity of it was I've quite got used to sharing my thoughts with another and the possibility of never having that again burrowed a great loss in me."

I should have known that that's how she would feel, and I'm angry with myself for not picking up on that sooner. I feel like I've let her down. "Is there anything I can do?" I ask, my throat closing up.

She looks at me and there is a glint in her eye, "You are already doing it."

I walk over to where she sits and place myself on the floor in front of her.

"You've never stopped, in fact," she tucks stray curls back into my ponytail. "Not even when physical contact and language evaded our grasp," the smile returns to her lips.

I give her a questioning look. I am not sure I can recall making efforts to dispel her loneliness. But I think I'm struggling to remember things clearly already.

"'Myka says hi'?" her smile widens and she sips her tea.

My lips quirk into half a smile. "Did you understand that?"

"Not at the time," she chuckles. "When the girl in the protective suit said it, all I understood was 'Myka'. The rest was code breaking, based on other words I heard you use."

My smile broadens. My side of that memory is the two girls in the HazMats walking up the hill, into the substation, just before Captain French put me back in my Rover.

I'm trying to think back to other times throughout those three days, when I had missed her. When I really felt the pain of not having her to talk to, to work with. I'm trying to think whether I did anything for her. I can't remember. Everything about those three days is becoming a great big mess.

The image that springs to mind is the opposite of being attentive: Helena, Jade, So and Martin are sitting on the bench at the back of the infirmary that looks like a hurricane tore through it.

Sometimes I just admire how the brain works, finding problems and inconsistencies without the conscious mind even noticing.

"Helena," I start and I know I'm not waiting for her to acknowledge, "I need you to tell me about what happened before I came in to the infirmary to take the body bags."

She takes a deep breath, bows her head and closes her eyes:

"We were playing the nth iteration of Jade's card game. Karl was a reluctant participant for two rounds and the boys seemed to agree between them that he was to be dealt out of the next round. He got up from the circle and started pacing at the back on the infirmary, where he and I slept. He did not look comfortable and was checking his watch incessantly.

"After two more rounds of the game, Martin got up to try and calm him down, but I do not believe he had much success. Karl's tone and behaviour turned even more erratic, if anything. He kept gesturing towards his watch and the door. At the time I assumed he was getting claustrophobic, seeing as it was unlikely he was late for a pre-arranged rendezvous. All of us were suffering a form of cabin fever, but something seemed to have fractured in him.

"Martin forced him to sit down on his bench, got him a drink of water and dispersed the game. We each settled down for a rest before you were due to return.

"A while after the room had fallen silent, I heard a distinct digital sound from Karl's direction. It isn't a sound I had heard before or since. He fumbled with his watch, walked to the infirmary door and began keying in code after code in the hope one would enable him to exit.

"By his third attempt everyone was up, Martin and So took the initiative to try and stop him. It did not take long for the situation to escalate and for them to attempt to forcibly drag him to the back of the infirmary. If you can imagine that tight space, the three of them fighting in the doorway, Karl in all his six feet of height, So and Martin attempting to subdue him. It looked like a scene out of Gulliver's Travels. In the haze of the struggle, they managed to turn one of the stretchers over, knock a few chairs. Jade, Mac and I remained frozen in our spots.

"I cannot speak for them, but I could not fathom a single action that would have brought that situation to a resolution without causing or incurring serious injuries I would not have been able to manage given our resources. So I chose to not step in.

"Karl then struck Martin who fell backwards onto the overturned stretcher, clawed So off of his arm and shoved her to the back of the room, towards us. She slipped on a wayward sheet and fell to the floor. He finished punching a code, which opened the door. He walked out, and we rushed towards Martin and So, to collect them, to check them.

"From where I was, I could see Karl putting on a protective suit and heard him unlocking the armoury's door. Mac must have noticed the same, because not a second after she lunged out the door after him.

"Once we took Martin and So to the bench at the back, I went out to the helm to see two protective suits, a gun and a Tesla missing. I locked up the armoury, locked up the Helm, went back in the infirmary and locked it up as well.

She opens her eyes and looks at me, "the four of us stayed sitting there until you came for the bags and the extinguisher."

I take a moment to put all this together. "That's odd, right?" I am thinking out loud.

"I'm afraid you will have to be more specific," she demands.

"I mean…" I'm processing as I'm speaking, "If all Karl wanted was to get out, why put on a suit? Why take a gun?"

She nods, "I was considering it at the time, which is why I locked everything up behind them. Whatever his motivation was – it was more sinister than a breath of fresh air."

"We know now that he is likely to be involved in this somehow," pieces are falling into place, "so maybe there was someplace he had to be?" I check my logic with her.

"Somewhere up that mountain," she echoes my thoughts.

"The missing Tesla…" I mumble to myself. "You told all this to Steve, right?" I verify with her, she nods, I bounce to my feet and rush upstairs. "Where's the Farnsworth?" I yell down to her.

/ /

Myka is somewhat disappointed to find out that the team had not only started following up her line of enquiry during the day she caught up on her sleep, but had actually walked quite a distance along it.

It turns out the missing Tesla is – indeed – the key to the mystery, and the team tracks it to a makeshift short wave radio transmitter hidden within the trunk of a dead tree, just under a mile from where Myka's stand-off with Karl had occurred.

Within the hour the core team assembles in our cottage for lunch and a briefing: Irene, Arthur, Pete, Steve and Claudia. Arthur chooses a seat as far away from me as possible. I clock Myka giving him a scowling look that makes him shrink in his seat. I scan the faces in the room, and they all seem a bit worse for wear. The past few days have been taxing for everyone.

Tense chatter is brought to a halt as Irene speaks.

"Karl was brought on board the team with the recommendation of a number of Regents," she speaks slowly, making eye contact with each and every one of us, "and you may notice that The Regents are not represented in this room. It is therefore required that the contents of this conversation remain within the confines of these four walls." She looks directly at Pete. "Am I being clear, Agent Lattimer?"

"Crystal," he answers quietly, avoiding her piercing eyes.

"Agent Donovan managed to scan and collect a handful of recordings of short wave frequencies in the area at the times the Gilgamesh Whip and Babel Stones were activated and we believe we have managed to locate a string of messages passed across an underground network of short wave radios that relayed news of the activation and their outcomes from the substation and out."

"Very Smokey and the Bandit," Pete comments.

"Very smart, actually," Claudia nods at him. "It was a pain in the bucket to track."

Irene eyes Claudia sternly.

"Sorry," Claudia mouths and sits on her hands.

"It would appear that Karl's presence at the substation was not accidental. He was placed there with the purpose of reporting on substation and Warehouse operations to those who placed him there."

"The Regents?" Pete whispers to Steve who sits next to him.

"Some Regents," Steve nods the distinction and shushes him.

"The code used in his encrypted transmissions resembles the syntax of Demotic Egyptian which some of you may recall is associated with early Warehouses," the chill of her gaze is focused on me. My sympathy to Arthur grows, having suffered the same sensation from Myka earlier. I dart a look across the table to her, catching her already looking at me.

"Just giving it a little Da Vinci Code flavour," Steve jokes quietly.

"Love a good sect with a code," Claudia pipes up and they chuckle.

"Which comfortably links to the findings from our research into the means of activating artefacts remotely," she builds up to somewhat of a dramatic crescendo.

Myka straightens her back and her eyes light up. She has a plan, or an answer.

"We believe that an identification tag that was worn by Agents of early Warehouses and then passed on from Agent to Agent has been imbued with the ability to control artefacts from the Warehouses in which it was worn."

Pete appears slightly shocked. Steve as well, but less so.

"How long have you known about this?" Steve asks, his eyes scanning all the faces around the table.

"We only pieced the whole thing together over the past couple of hours," Arthur admits quietly. "Myka had actually done a superb job with…" he mutters and his voice fades as all eyes, including mine turn to him.

"We," Myka draws the fire towards her, "we were researching this since Pete's…" she looks at him, "…since the Gilgamesh Whip incident, and that's one of the theories we came up with. So far it's the only one that still hasn't crumbled."

"How come this isn't on our Most Wanted list?" Pete asks.

"Because we didn't know it existed," Myka answers. "The accounts of it are so sketchy and vague… and it's such a simple explanation, which made it feel very unlikely."

"But in Artefact speak it makes it a solid bet," he iterates what we are all thinking. "So where do we find it?" he asks her.

"I don't know," she shrugs.

"Artie?" Pete turns to him.

He shrugs as well.

"If we knew that, Agent Lattimer, there would be no need for this cloak and dagger approach," Irene gestures at those present at the table. "But all our evidence points at the Regents who have formed the dissident junta."

"The what now?" he asks.

"A breakaway faction," Myka tries to help, with limited success.

"Splinter cell," Claudia offers and the metaphorical eagle lands.

"What're they getting at?" Steve asks.

"It would appear the evolution of the Warehouse is not to their liking," Irene explains.

"Ooh," I exclaim. "Fundamentalists".

"And how do we know this?" Myka challenges.

"We've been investigating the Regents who brought Karl in and we are aware of other Regents being approached with a message," Artie says.

"Whoa, hold up there," Pete raises his hand, "pull the emergency break please."

The room falls quiet and we all look at him.

"My Spidey Sense is tingling. Where's my mom in all this?" concern floods his voice.

Myka gets up from her seat and walks to the sink. She fetches a glass of water.

"Jane has her instructions," Irene says.

"What?!" Claudia exclaims in disbelief.

"You have got to be kidding me," Pete leans into his chair.

Myka places the glass of water in front of him and stands by his side, her arm wrapped around his shoulder.

"Jane volunteered," Artie picks up, his voice booming through the room to calm the children. Myka and I exchange a quick look, 'volunteered' rings familiar, "to see if she receives a message from-"

"The woman is pushing eighty, man, are you out of your mind?" Pete cuts into him, close to losing his temper.

Myka presses her side into him, pulls him into a hug, and jumps to his aid. "Is there another way where she doesn't get involved?"

"That's insane, Artie," Claudia adds, and with that the conversation descends to a loud and angry free for all.

When Myka and I were discussing my lack of patience to the foibles of others – this is a prime example. This conversation is too intense for me to observe, let alone contribute to, so I walk out through the French doors into the garden.

It is hot and slightly humid outside, the heated voices of the discussion match the temperature of the air just past midday. The team's voices carry, but ten steps away from the cottage and their overly emphatic tones become white noise. I look up at the trees that mark the end of our garden, mountains framing them in patches of slate grey and forest green, gleaming in the bright sunlight.

"How are you holding up?" Irene asks from behind me.

"As well as could be expected," I turn to face her.

"And just how well is that?" she insists.

"Another day, another danger," I pun, "such is the life in the Warehouse, is it not?"

She smiles a knowing smile. "I am concerned you are getting more than you bargained for, Ms. Wells."

I chortle and drop my gaze. "Perhaps I have," I muse, "Though I am not yet sure which of the lot of us is the one with the raw deal."

She smiles her knowing smile as she approaches me until we are facing each other. "You are not obligated to stay," she looks at me from above the rims of her glasses.

"And who are the 'you' to whom you refer?" I ask flippantly and am mightily surprised by her answer.