Chapter Text
One this day, November 12th of 1893, Helena Wells was handed a curiosity nearly two days ago now to investigate. A simple caretaker was reported missing by his family. A man whose life consisted traveling from his work to his home without delay for over twenty years and he vanished with nary a trace over a week ago now. Mr. Wolcott is Helena's partner and normally it would just be the two of them for this mission. However, at the Regents request, not to mention that of Helena's other superiors, the team of Wolcott and Wells were assigned another fellow agent to accompany them to acquire the artifact, that is likely the cause given what they know thus far. Helena has quickly learned that things are not as simple as they seem on the surface, since becoming an agent of Warehouse 12.
Helena has no objections to another temporary partner, given that sometimes with rotations being what they are, Warehouse agents may be required to take an alternate partner from time to time. However, Helena still protests such protocols here and there but not for this mission. Helena's mindset is that the task she and Wolly were handed, would go faster and smoother with assistance from an agent that has been doing this work longer, than Wolcott and herself combined. Helena has not forced herself to grudgingly accept this development of a third set of eyes and hands, seeing as things could always be worse or tedious. In point of fact, Helena has spent more time contemplating how slowly the journey is progressing. There simply needs to be faster and more efficient means of travel invented.
The journey began with a train ride to cover the most distance to their very rural and final destination. Then upon disembarking at the railway station; just off the platform, a first-class carriage, with two added Warehouse extras was awaiting the small collective of agents. One of the extra features of the carriage being a secret purple lined storage compartment, designed for transporting artifacts, and the other a lantern that burns endlessly to light the interior. It was Helena's introduction to such measures hiding in plain sight, which is the most deceptive means in which to maintain secrecy. In this moment though, and a great many hours later, Helena consults her pocket watch to see that it's one and a quarter hour before the witching hour, as it is called arrives and tomorrow will become today. The 13th day of the month.
Helena sighs and replaces her timepiece inside of her vest's front pocket. The lateness of the hour is not troubling to Helena but still she closes her eyes for a moment; in her mind it has been several cumbersome hours since their last rest stop, when she last stretched her legs. A sudden chill abruptly invades Helena's person even in the confines of the carriage, so she pulls her waistcoat tighter around her body before tugging her unbuttoned overcoat closer together. The night air is cold and unforgiving this time of year in England, but then again the cool rains that will eventually reside in this area are none too appealing either. Helena could do without the stench of early morning London but it has a charm that keeps her there all the same.
An aggravated and decidedly masculine huff of discomfort ends the tedium of the silent, that is not purely thanks to the sounds of the carriages wheels upon the uneven road. Helena's traveling companion scoffs, "Why must all the ghostly artifacts always fall into my hands to deal with?"
Helena slowly opens her eyes, and then turns to look at her temporary field partner for this mission, who surprisingly has remained quiet for a good five minutes. Arthur Conan Doyle, is also an aspiring writer like Helena, but he is as of yet unpublished where Helena has managed such a feat but on the terms that society would accept. Doyle is also nearly seven years Helena's senior, a Scotsman and also a brilliant man of many skills while being a Warehouse legend. All those feathers in his cap aside; traveling with him the last two days has been interesting. The absolute highlight thus far in Helena's opinion was Doyle driving the carriage earlier to relieve Wolcott for a spell. Doyle initially refused a rotation. Helena may only drive the carriage when not among the populated areas. So sexist and bloody useless society's standards are and Helena also wouldn't hesitate to call them a nuisance in the same breath.
Helena chuckles and shifts in her seat, "You do like to exaggerate don't you, Mr. Doyle? I would hardly call the one mission to snag the rigging rope from the Mary Celeste, as all the supernatural curiosities being forced upon you."
Doyle scoffs as the carriage bounces him to the side in his seat slightly, "I snagged that artifact before you even saw the doors that open to the Warehouse's floors, Wells."
Helena is amused but she refrains from anything more than a smirk. She doesn't know Arthur to the degree that she can tell if he is genuinely offended by her words, "I wasn't belittling your skills, Mr. Doyle." Helena tilts her head to the side and grins. "In fact that rigging rope is a rather nasty piece of work. But I wonder how exactly did it become a ghost ship in the first place?"
A moment of silence permeates the air and then Doyle huffs out a short laugh, "Apologies Wells, I'm just taking a piss out of you. I thoroughly enjoy the supernatural aspect of this work, otherwise I wouldn't be here." Doyle smiles and tugs on the front of his waistcoat. "Also, I consider myself duly bound to inform you that even the lateness of the hour and the chill in the air do nothing to dampen my jovial mood." Helena arches an eyebrow since the sudden shift to a mild flirt is unexpected. It has only been two days and while Helena considers her charms to be highly effective she has made no advances. "But to answer your question, and it's merely my opinion mind you, I believe that the ship became a cursed vessel because it was possibly built from lumber harvested off an Indian burial ground from America."
Helena grins and nods her head at the clever deduction, "A sound theory."
Doyle grins and Helena turns her head to glance out the portal on her side of the carriage into the darkness as the carriage toddles on along the road. The movement of the carriage occasionally jostles Mr. Doyle and Helena over the gravel path that is only moderately rutted out by the rainy weather as of late. While Helena is not overly familiar with Arthur Doyle on a personal level, she is very aware of Doyle's growing affinity on spiritual matters, and that there is even talk within the Warehouse circles that he will retire from being an agent within the new year. Helena wonders how many years she has to give the Warehouse. How many years she can spare of the other precious elements in her life. Endless wonder is it's own allure but there are things more glorious in this world such as it is.
Doyle pivots in his seat, "Tell me something, Wells. Does it bother you that your brother absolutely bathes in your literary glory like a pig in its morning slop?"
Helena smirk's at the jest evident in Doyle's tone and because of its truth, no matter how blunt and plainly stated. Charles does relish his petty victory that is won in name only. The part that chafes is the part where it comes to hear him talk while entertaining guests is more than Helena can bear at times. Then there's the women of course and how they swoon over Charles' brilliance and though he is not without charm, Helena has made it much easier for him to assist those ladies in shedding their virtue. Helena is also guilty of such pursuits too but she must be more covert and less brash. Charles has London's society under his thumb thanks to her.
"I won't lie and say that it doesn't sting. But that's only the case when I have to listen to his preening in my parlor amongst guests." Doyle laughs and Helena chuckles in turn. It's freeing to be able to speak plainly with a peer, and perhaps a man after her own heart. "However, I care very little even then because I live a far more enriching life than Charles will ever deign to."
The horse whinnies and then carriage halts abruptly. Helena swiftly reaches out to brace herself against the seat. Doyle on the other hand almost slides off the carriage's seat altogether but then rights himself quickly. Doyle glances at Helena incredulously but then turns towards the door and then slides open the glass window, "Wolcott, what on Earth is the problem! Or were you simply taking upon yourself to make sure Wells and I don't fall asleep since you can't!"
Helena has to stifle a laugh at the sight of one of her partners sticking his head out of the window to yell at her other partner. Thus far the dynamic between the two of them has proven amusing for Helena and at the very least it has staved off any impending boredom during their travel. Not that discussing what they might be encountering once they arrive is less than perplexing and intriguing at the same time. But those notions seem improper with the knowledge that a life has likely been lost but Helena hopes that is not the case with the missing caretaker.
"It's nothing...the horse just spooked." Wolcott yells out which in turn causes Doyle to scoff. "And we're almost there, so your suffering has nearly run it's course!"
Helena chuckles under her breath at Wolly's rebuttal and without further pause the carriage begins to move forward again, only at a much more clipped pace. Doyle leans back inside and then closes the portal's glass with some force. Silence falls in the cabin once more, save for the rocks crunching under the carriage that is in a perfect cacophony with the horse's shod hoofs, which are making their own distinction on the artful cadence on the rubble. Helena would let the silence stand at any other time but she abruptly feels as though she's being studied; weighed and measured if you will. Not to mention Helena is curious by nature which makes her an ideal fit for this work or pointed conversation.
Helena turns to meet Doyle's inquiring gaze, "Do you still practice medicine?"
Doyle seems to reluctantly grin, "Of course. And it would appear that the Regents have no objections to me having a day job or two." Helena smirks and why not since it's a fair observation seeing as she too has more than just the Warehouse as a vital part of her life. "Otherwise, they would've erased my memory and run me off by now."
Helena takes a moment to consider Doyle, who although is a stocky man, he is not at all unattractive and she considers him an intellectual equal. Helena has found that conversing with him over the last few days; albeit sporadically, their introduction and interactions has been pleasurable. Though Helena thinks that the damned mustache, so like Charles' own, is just as equally ridiculous. For the life of her, Helena cannot fathom why must the men of her time feel it's necessary for such an adornment. Where in their thinking do they equate facial hair with being the pinnacle of masculinity or a boon to their perceived good looks. Helena finds that most men barely pass for attractive and that is with the standards set far from high.
Helena thinks scratchy kisses only leave a rash on your cheek and are nothing to be desired never mind being encouraged. But then again, Helena rather prefers the intimate company of a woman over a man on a great many occasions. Also, she has it on good authority that Doyle is to be engaged soon to a woman named Mary Louise Hawkins, so his obviously increasing interests in her may just be for sport. Helena, however will not entertain such a folly with him nor any other man that she's employed alongside of. Helena has rationalized that such an endeavor cannot be anything but a mistake. Relationships so rarely last and the thought of working alongside a former lover is not appealing to Helena. Finding her one outside of the Warehouse with which to share her life is a much better use of time.
"Apologies again, Wells." Doyle breaks the silence that had been lingering though not to the point where Helena was discomforted by it. "I promise my intentions toward you are not of a lecherous quality. In truth, I have come to admire you greatly for your keen reasoning and deductive logic." Doyle shifts in his seat. "So much in fact that I'm not conflicted by telling you that you have inspired me to rewrite, modify if you will, a character I created a while ago in my detective writings."
Helena arches an eyebrow, "I beg your pardon?" Helena feels as though her new partner has read her mind. But then she also wasn't attempting to hide behind a mask. Though perhaps she should in the future seeing as a look can convey so much if words should fail. "What precisely have I inspired?"
Doyle smiles to a degree that his mustache seems to enhance it, "Sherlock Holmes, is the name of the main character. And of course he must have a worthy partner in his adventures, thus Dr. Watson, who is fashioned mostly after myself." Helena's mouth begins to curve up into a smile at the notion Doyle is presenting her with. "But the more I pour over my ideas up here." Doyle reaches up and taps the temple of his forehead. "The more I felt Holmes was missing something, such an oversight had to remedied, and you have been unknowingly providing me with the character traits that he was lacking."
Helena smirks at being someone's muse and to think the man confessed his doesn't secretly covet her as a lover, "What the devil are you going on about?"
Doyle chuckles, "Don't be daft, Wells. You are becoming a legend in your own right and on many levels, and by that right what could possibly be so bothersome with you being a worthy muse?"
Helena shakes her head because while she is a writer too she has not used any portion of her personality in any of her characters as of yet, "The character is a man. So why must I be made into yet another version of the male species?"
Doyle laughs and the sound fills the carriage, "That's another trait Holmes has inherited now courtesy of you. A razor sharp wit and humor."
Helena purses her lips and just as she's about to respond Wolly loudly announces that they've finally reached their destination as the carriage comes to a halting standstill. Doyle is still looking far too pleased with himself as he adjusts his hat. Helena thinks that the interruption came not a moment too soon. Helena scoots to the end of her seat and reaches out to grasp the wooden latch on the carriage door to open it. As Helena twists the latch she hears Doyle lowly chuckle. Helena pays him no mind and steps out into the brisk night air. Helena's breath shows with each exhalation. The dark isn't pure seeing as this is a somewhat moonlit night with clouds passing overhead shade the view at times. Helena glances around to take in the sight of well hedged fields off in the distance to her right.
Mr. Wolcott urges the horses forward and moves the carriage off the roadway to park it. Once Wolly has moved their mode of transportation, a rather unkempt and derelict looking cemetery is in Helena's line of sight. The action of the moment lends itself to the notion that the cemetery was just born out of the shadows. Helena continues to take in her surroundings and the sounds of the night. She also listens to Doyle and Wolcott off near the carriage conversing about whether or not they will need their firearms. Helena has no need or want for such a ghastly weapon. Helena moves closer to the cemetery's gates as her partner's square themselves away. Two tall twisted trees frame the ends of a high wrought iron gates that are decorated with dead vines that are weaving themselves into their well-placed spaces, while the lock on the once proud gates are broken and rust-coated.
Clearly, the cemetery is a private burial plot but all that remains of it's exclusivity is the family emblem which is an ornate 'B' in flowing iron script. By the state of things Helena surmises that it would appear there are no longer any surviving and wealthy family members in these lands to ensure its upkeep, so it has fallen into disarray by default. A faint wind stirs which causes a few stray locks of Helena's hair blow across her forehead, but she quickly tucks the runaway strands back behind her ear. How the seemingly mighty have fallen and yet she'll not shed a tear for those kinds of people. Who in Helena's eyes only ever achieve their monetary wealth off the sweat and toil of others. That is how it has always been with mankind. The rich do not dirty their hands when they can offer scraps to their lesser to do such chores for them.
Helena turns away from the deathly view and walks towards a path in the distance that leads to the estate. Doyle and Wolcott also approach; their movements are easy enough to track due to the kerosene lantern Wolcott is carrying aloft. Helena does hope they're armed accordingly and to their satisfaction. She is always armed but not in the way her partner's prefer to be, but to each their own.
Helena lowly clears her throat, "Alright gentlemen, once more into the breach." Helena quickens her pace walking towards the fine graveled path ahead that will no doubt lead to the house's main grounds and eventually the front door. "And no dawdling behind me, Wolly."
Helena's partner Wolcott smirks at her as he matches her pace upon the path. The clouds above begin to part and then thin out more and Helena looks up to the now more lightened night sky to notice that the half-moon is a rather pale yellow in color. As the moon lights their way to a degree, it fully dawns on Helena that she has thrown herself into harm's way on many occasions, as it is the very nature of her job, but as of now she feels that this mission will be just as colorful as the ones before. There is never a dull moment when one is a Warehouse agent. Even doing something most would perceive as mundane; such as inventory, can be perilous. Thus by that standard, Helena has recently been considering how long her service to the Warehouse will endure. The risks have been high from the beginning but things are different now. There is even more to lose. To be taken if Helena were to fail to be vigilant, if for only a moment.