Meant to have this up yesterday, but was delayed by my own disorganization. Also this was edited at like midnight, please forgive any errors.

It's been fifteen hours. It's been fifteen hours and Helena hasn't returned. She left at nine and now it's midnight. She had Farnsworthed, around two in the afternoon, saying she'd be back by now. Despite himself, Pete's a little worried.

He lobs a Kleenex-basketball. The shredded remains flutter to the ground but completely miss the trash can.

Okay, so maybe he's a lot worried.

Myka's fast asleep, has been almost since he, in a stroke of genius (if he does say so himself) pointed out the necessity of beauty sleep. He's worried about her, too. Seems like lately all he does is worry. Worry about artifacts, worry about his friends, worry about the gnawing feeling in his gut that comes and goes without explanation.

Freaking out isn't going to change anything, he tells himself. He looks at the Farnsworth, willing Artie to ring, willing H.G. to find the sword that whammied his partner. Either will do, he's not picky. He'd feel better if he was the one out in the field, doing something useful. This sitting around on a rocking chair just isn't good for his health. As a matter of fact, he kind of resents H.G. for calling dibs on the sword hunting. He resents her more as the hours pass and he gets increasingly restless, especially when it appears that locking Myka in the room might actually have prevented her from leaving. Myka seems fully capable of spending the day in front of the mirror. He should have listened to Helena, should have gone with her.

Answering his prayers, the Farnsworth buzzes obnoxiously. He nearly trips over his feet in his rush to answer it. The movie never showed what happened if Porthos was awakened abruptly, and Pete has no desire to find out.

"Hi," he stage-whispers, face too close to the screen in the way at which Myka always rolls her eyes in exasperation. "Boy, am I glad you called. I'm bored outta my skull!"

"Why are we whispering?" Artie asks, gruff as usual.

"Because Myka-who-is-becoming-a-musketeer is asleep," he holds a finger to his lips.

Artie rolls his eyes, and asks if H.G. has found anything yet.

Pete replies in the negative, and talk turns to what will happen once H.G. finds the sword. (And Pete steadfastly refuses to consider the possibility that neither he nor H.G. will be able to find it. It's just not an option.) Helena, in keeping with her tradition of dramatic entrances, chooses that moment to stumble into the room.

She, and the sword she's carrying, are greeted by cries of general relief quickly silenced by Helena herself when she spies Myka's slumbering form.

"How'd you get that?" Pete asks, hurrying over to her. Her jacket is gone entirely now, small cuts dotting her body, accompanied by a few darkening bruises, but he doesn't ask. Things haven't gotten to a place where they feel comfortable discussing wounds, physical or otherwise. She swats him away and looks pointedly at his hands. He sighs, puts on the gloves and waits eagerly.

With a roll of her eyes, Helena lets Pete take the sword in return for the Farnsworth. She pretends she doesn't see him wave it around. Helena also ignores the hushed cry of This is Sparta! She probably doesn't want to know.

"What have you found that might help us?" Helena wants to know.

"Well, we've been researching it but the last sighting of any of the four swords was in 1979, and they didn't like computers back then." The expression on Claudia's face suggests this was a great fault in their thinking. "So we've had to read reports made by previous agents, and can I just add, they had terrible handwriting."

"Have you seen yours?" Artie snipes. Leena tries to hold in a laugh, and receives a glare for her trouble.

"And?" Helena can't feel guilty for the impatience in her voice. She'd just gotten home to the Warehouse, sh e will not put up with some piece of metal trying to take Myka away from her now. (She's certain they can sort out whatever had been bothering Myka before the artifact influenced her. She has a sinking suspicion she knows what it is, but one thing at a time.) Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Myka raise her head and look around sleepily. It appears the raised voices had awoken her after all.

"Well, finding it was a great first step," Leena says, dragging Helena's attention back.

"Yeah, one down, three to go," Pete grouses.

"Actually," Leena interjects. "You should only need to the one, and the effects will probably go away."

"She's right," Claudia nods, words muffled through the chips she's eating. "For all the talk of the three musketeers, they pretty much did their own thing most of the time."

"Can you be sure?" Myka asks distractedly. She's more focused on the clothes in her overnight bag than the agents discussing her but Pete sees Helena suppress a smile. He knows how she feels – whammied by an artifact, and somehow Myka is still Myka.

"Only one way to find out," Artie says. "Let us know how things go." He cuts the connection.

"Well, this is it." Pete looks the same way Helena feels, anxious anticipation written into the lines of his body. He takes the sword and, with a deep breath, plunges it into the neutralizer canister.

They duck as sparks fly, and Helena's spirits rise. It's about time Myka returned to normal. She'll of course still be angry with Helena, but at least she'll be able to articulate the reasons why instead of throwing an assortment of nearby objects. Helena will take improvement where she can get it.

"Myka?" Helena ventures. "How are you feeling, darling?"

Myka doesn't look away from the small mirror in her hand and Helena's stomach rolls.

It didn't work.

But it was an artifact, the sparks caused by contact with the neutralizer are proof enough of that. Yet Myka is still unable to tear her eyes away from the mirror, still caught in the artifact's spell. Helena clenches her jaw against the wave of disappointment – there's no time for it.

"Call Artie," she orders. "Find out why that didn't work."

Pete is already on the Farnsworth, his face determined but worried. Behind him, Myka is mesmerized by her reflection.

"Is there anything we could have missed?" Helena asks, almost before their faces appear on the Farnsworth. "Anything that might explain why neutralizing the sword didn't work?"

"It didn't wo – " Claudia stops herself. "Of course not. That'd be way too easy. We should drag this out for a week or two more, why not."

Trailer whines somewhere in the background. "So no sparks?" Leena asks.

"No, there were sparks, that's kind of the rub." Pete scratches his head.

There's a startled pause as the team back at the Warehouse consider this.

"Are you sure it was the right sword?" Steve asks. Helena looks up in surprise; she doesn't see him in the office. A second later, he strolls by on screen, waving.

"What do you mean?" Pete asks.

"Oh. Of course. Of course, how did I not see?" Helena paces as she thinks aloud. "While you were correct, Claudia, in that the three musketeers mostly 'did their own thing', they were always in the same general area: nearby inns or apartments in the French countryside. It makes perfect sense that Aramis and Athos's swords would be in the vicinity of Porthos's."

"Yikes, those names are a mouthful," Pete mumbles. He turns to Helena with a curious expression on his face and she knows what he's going to say before he says it. "Hey, H.G., how did you get this sword in the first place?"

"I fought a man. With a sword of my own."

"A man. With a sword. Of your own?"

"His name was Johnathan Kanold, I believe," she replies, almost cheery.

"...and how do you know this?"

Helena gives him a look. "His name was Jonathan Kanold," she repeats firmly.

"Right," Pete shakes his head warily. "Right."

Artie watches their exchange with eyebrows high on his forehead, but blessedly refrains from comment. "Claudia, run a background check on Jonathan Kanold. Steve, check for any available information on how the other three swords affect people. Leena, Tray, come with me. We're going to check if we still have Athos and D'Artagnan's swords in the Warehouse."

"We'll stay on the line until you – " Pete's cut off by Artie slamming the cover on his Farnsworth. "Good idea Artie you let us know when you actually have concrete information very smart." He rolls his eyes, throwing himself down on the bed.

Meanwhile, Helena doesn't know where to look. Not at Pete, with whom she's still not entirely comfortable. Not at Myka, who's slowly getting out of bed – she can't bear the reminder of her failure. So she develops an intense interest in the tacky, too-bright jumble of colours masquerading as a painting on the wall. She sees her reflection in the frame and wishes she couldn't.

"C'est tellement laide," Myka mutters at her side. Helena sucks in a sharp breath – she hadn't heard Myka approach.

"The painting? Indeed." She attempts a smile, but even that vanishes when she realizes Myka had spoken in French. It's no reason to panic, she tries to tell herself. Myka is fluent in many languages, French foremost among them. This isn't the artifact. This is Myka showing off her intellect. For no discernible reason.

"I will get you back," Helena promises Myka, apropos of nothing. She herself didn't know she was going to say it until her lips were forming the words. Pete pretends to be absorbed in the pamphlet on the nearby shopping centres and Helena is grateful.

Myka looks up from adjusting her shirt. "Okay," she agrees easily. She turns away to smooth down her hair.

"Okay," Helena echoes, smiling stupidly at her back.

As if on cue, the Farnsworth buzzes. Helena watches Pete frantically search his pockets for it until she takes pity on the man and points discreetly at the bed. With a grimace, he picks up the Farnsworth from its hiding place in the jumble of sheets and flips the lid.

Steve appears, rifling through pages of notes. He gets straight down to business. "Okay, so Athos was a calm, even-tempered kinda guy. Married to the antagonist of the novel, but other than that really nice. D'Artagnan was the protagonist, very brave, very easily provoked. Now, Aramis," he holds a finger up in the air. Helena suppresses the urge to roll her eye in a manner unbecoming of her – she gets the feeling he's leaving the most pertinent information for last. "Aramis was a religious scholar. He would often say he wanted to be a priest – even his servant was super religious – but he never managed to quit the musketeers."

"We know all this," Helena snipes.

"Patience," Claudia chides. "Check out what I dug up on Jonathan Kanold. He was a choir boy, from age eight to eighteen. And his father was a priest, held sermons every Sunday at the local church."

"And that's why it was Aramis's sword that came to Kanold!" Helena enjoys it when pieces of information start forming a whole picture.

Pete still looks confused. "But why did Porthos's sword appear to Myka in the first place? I mean, don't get me wrong, Mykes punches me like, a lot, but she's not an angry person. Not really."

Helena's eyes close against the memory of Myka's lips on hers, followed by the confusion, the heart-wrenching confusion, when Helena wouldn't give her the answers she begged for. Not really an angry person, true, but recent events...

Yet how can Helena explain to the most rule-abiding of them all Artie's use of the Astrolabe? She herself doesn't know quite what had prompted such a drastic response but the circumstances must have been dire indeed. Myka couldn't possibly understand how sometimes an artifact was the last course of action left to take. She doesn't want Myka to understand; it would mean Myka had gone through excruciating pain, pain she was wholly undeserving of.

Steve notices her silence and calls her name. Helena smiles absently at the agent she never got to know, firmly silences the voice that creeps about in her skull, whispering of the metronome.

"I believe Myka has been on edge lately," Helena murmurs carefully.

"Yeah, but so have we all," Claudia says.

Her stomach lurches. This is the first time she's hearing of any discontentment within the Warehouse team. Was it possible that they could subconsciously feel the effects of the timeline reversal?

"Myka's always tightly under control," Steve muses. "So maybe the suppression of anger led to an artifact being attracted to her." Helena is surprised – either he and Myka have become good friends while she wasn't looking (while she wasn't here) or he's more observant than she's realized. She resolves to get to know the man better. (Then she remembers Christina's smile and Helena's traitorous mind supplies an image of the metronome and all the what-ifs come rushing back to her.)

"Well. Okay, then." Claudia looks curiously at Steve. "But how do we get Porthos's sword back to Myka so we can neutralize it?"

"Leave it to me," Helena says confidently.

"This."

A flash of silver in the dim light.

"Isn't."

A shadow scampers backward.

"Working!"

Damn, but she hates being wrong.

"Just – just keep trying, 'kay?" Pete yells, safely out of the way.

Helena grits her teeth and lunges again at Myka. It's midnight, and she's in an alley, gallivanting about with a sword in hand, fighting her closest friend (her unarmed closest friend) with a personal cheerleader who is cringing more than he is being useful. She can't stop imagining what her mother would say.

"Look, Porthos was all about protecting his pride," Claudia coaches, voice slightly distorted from the Farnsworth. "He was always getting into duels, and the dudes he fought against were always really ticked off."

"So you gotta make this convincing," Pete pipes up.

Helena makes an utterly undignified sound somewhere between a whine and a groan.

"Geez, you'd think I was telling her to kill Myka or something," Claudia mutters.

"She's not saying you have to actually hurt her, H.G.," Pete says at almost the same time. "Just make Myka think you might so the sword'll show up again." There's a pause as he watches Myka expertly dodge Helena's strike. It seems Myka has learned a lot since she having to evade Garcia earlier in the day. "C'mon," he encourages. "I miss being able to use the bathroom! And the mirror. She's even hogging the little hand mirrors, man. I haven't gotten a look at this fine bod – " he gestures at himself. "All day."

Helena fervently wishes she couldn't hear him.

At least getting Myka to comply with the fight hadn't been too difficult. A slight hint that perhaps Myka wasn't competent enough to handle a sword fight without a sword and she had agreed almost instantly. Now all Helena needed to do was goad Myka into the right amount of anger and simultaneously convince her that Helena was out to hurt her and hopefully the sword would show up to help the kindred spirit it perceived in Myka. Pete was standing at the ready with a canister of neutralizer and then things would go back to normal until the next artifact.

A sense of forced calm washes over her. This is her duty, and she must do it. "I do hope you can forgive me," she murmurs, clutching tightly to her sword. She pretends to ignore the sudden stiffness in Pete and Myka's bodies.

She pushes aside memories of Egypt. Feint. She doesn't think about the betrayal in Myka's eyes. Parry. The world around her goes out of focus as she concentrates solely on keeping Myka off-guard. Remise. Then suddenly there's a clang as Myka counters Helena's strike with her own, the sound of metal upon metal ringing clearly in the night.

Elation makes her steps light and she easily dodges Myka's next jab. It takes a few tries, but she does disarm Myka, sending her sword skittering along the pavement. Pete rushes to collect it, a dark outline amidst the shadows of the alley. Sparks sparks fly out of the canister as the sword is dunked inside.

Myka gasps sharply, freezing in place. She looks around, eyes wide and uncertain.

Helena grins, exhausted and relieved. "Welcome back, darling."

They've been back at the Warehouse for almost a week when Myka gets up the courage.

She finds Helena rummaging through the desk Artie has at Leena's. Helena has the grace to look somewhat ashamed when Myka announces her presence, so at least things between Artie and Helena haven't gotten that friendly. It makes Myka feel a bit better, a bit more in control.

"I have to know," she explains softly, twisting her fingers together. Helena straightens slowly, like she has been expecting this.

"I will answer your questions," she agrees affably. Her expression is carefully neutral.

"Let's sit?" Helena courteously pulls out a chair, gestures for Myka to seat herself. "Thank you."

It's awkward, this new formality. Besides the hug she'd received after Porthos's sword had stopped affecting her, she and Helena haven't really occupied the same space. Artie had given them a new mission almost immediately after. (Myka didn't go (hadn't been allowed), but Helena did.) Despite the fact that it took Helena, Pete and Claudia maybe two days to find and neutralize the new artifact, neither really made an attempt to hold a proper conversation upon her return. Myka's been agonizing on what to say, what words to use to say it right.

"It's perfectly fine, you know." Helena breaks her out of her reverie, smiling. "Ask me."

"I have to know," she repeats. She can't stress the importance of this enough. She knows Helena won't want to tell her. But she wouldn't ask if it weren't important. Helena just smiles again, takes a seat across from her.

"How did you get the sword from Johnathan Kanold?"

Helena blinks at her for a few seconds until the question sinks in. "How did I get the sword from Johnathan Kanold?"

Myka nods tensely.

"This is what you wish to know?" Helena checks. Her mind is at work searching for any hidden meanings within the question.

The corner of Myka's lips twitch up. "Yup." She knows Helena has been expecting a question about her absence. She won't be getting one.

It's not that Myka isn't curious anymore, because she is. She's just thinking more clearly, now that she's had time to regroup after the shock of Helena's return and any lingering effects of the artifact. Myka knows Helena, she should have remembered pushing for answers would never get her any. So now she will be patient, wait for Helena to come to her.

But Myka is completely as to mystified how Aramis's sword was snagged in the first place. Pete doesn't seem to know (she thinks he didn't even ask). Artie's been over the moon excited to finally have the quadfecta of the Musketeer swords in the Warehouse, and Myka doesn't have the heart to spoil his good mood by making uncomfortable inquiries. And of course she couldn't ask Helena. Not until now, anyway.

"Well. It wasn't anything too exciting." Helena demures, sitting back in her chair. She looks more relaxed than Myka's seen her in a while. Myka grins, aware that she looks like a goofy idiot but Helena doesn't seem to mind.

"So does that mean I need to bribe the police into covering up whatever you did?" she teases. She reaches out and pokes Helena on the knee, just for the feeling of her there under her fingers.

Helena traps Myka's hand underneath her own. "Oh darling, it's as though you don't believe me!" Helena raises an eyebrow. The coy smirk she flashes makes Myka's heart leap in her chest, and she flips the hand underneath Helena's, tracing light circles onto her palm. She can't help the laugh that escapes her, delighting in the rapport they've so easily reestablished.

"Wow, it must have been bad," she murmurs.

Helena shakes her head. "Just doesn't trust me," she sighs theatrically, looking up at the ceiling as if for guidance.

"I trust you."

And just like that, the conversation turns serious. This wasn't her intention, but she doesn't know how to lighten the mood and not trivialize the verbalization of her earnest belief in Helena so she doesn't say anything.

Helena's lips curve upward invitingly. Myka tries not to notice.

"I know," she says simply. She squeezes her hand and Myka is a little bit in love with the feeling of Helena's cool fingers wrapping around her own.

"To answer your question," she begins. At Myka's raised eyebrow, Helena rolls her eyes. "To answer your question honestly." She corrects, and looks for approval. She finds it in the lightening of Myka's eyes. "I utilized the web search apparatus – "

"Google," Myka corrects automatically.

"Yes, of course. Utilizing...Google made it easy to locate the nearest fencing studio. I then looked for a man, a quiet place and hoped for the best, quite frankly."

"Why would you need a fencing stu – oh my God you stole a sword from a fencing studio." Myka looks properly scandalized.

So she truly had been wondering how the sword arrived in their possession, Helena realizes sheepishly. No hidden meanings.

"And then you got a poor man off the street and duke it out with you but you had a sword and he didn't – Helena."

"To be fair," she protests immediately. "Kanold was by no means poor and he had been, as a matter of fact, been drinking too much and picking on a few young men that night!"

"Theft of fencing equipment and fencing with an unarmed drunkard," Myka says dazedly. "Dear, sweet God."

Helena pouts. This doesn't seem to attract Myka's attention so she switches tactics.

"Used to fence you know," Myka is saying when Helena swoops in and presses her lips against Myka's open mouth.

Unlike before, this time there's no startled pause, no waiting around to get their bearings. Myka's arms wind about Helena's neck and tug her down roughly. Helena gasps into her mouth and slips onto Myka's lap as gracefully as she can while threading her fingers through curls and holding her in place with a hand cupping her cheek. Myka's not going anywhere of course, but it never hurts to ascertain these things.

The sun streams merrily through the curtains they forgot to draw. It shines behind Myka's shut eyelids and she squirms in place, checking for ferrets in the bed. She doesn't come into contact with any long furry rodents and feels safe enough to wrench her eyes open.

She slams them shut almost immediately upon completion of the action. The sunlight is brighter than she realized. She can't appreciate the warm golden glow it gives the room just yet. Maybe when she's more awake and can feel her arm.

...why can't she feel her arm?

Myka opens her eyes again (more carefully) and is rewarded with Helena staring back at her, amused.

She makes sleepy look good, is Myka's first thought. Following it closely is oh she's not wearing any clothes.

And neither is Myka.

Suddenly she remembers and she's lost in the sensation memory of slick heat, in her and all around her, encompassing every corner of her world and claiming possession of it – and her gleeful surrender.

Helena shifts, hums against her neck and Myka can feel the smile on her face. Myka laughs a little at the tickling sensation and Helena pulls away, only a little. Just far enough to look properly at her and smooth a few curls behind Myka's ear.

Myka leans down to press a kiss against sleep-warm lips. She closes her eyes, enjoying the petting Helena seems to think she needs.

Then Helena pulls back, cold air where her body was keeping Myka safe and warm. Myka whines at the loss. She should be embarrassed at the sound, but it gets Helena's fingers back in her hair, so she really can't bring herself to feel too bad about it. At least she's regaining feeling in her arm, she thinks grouchily.

"Magellan's astrolabe." Helena's voice isn't loud enough to be a whisper. It would more accurately be described as an exhalation of air.

"Bless you?" Myka's smile fades away at the serious look in Helena's dark eyes.

"When I was away from the Warehouse, after we destroyed Sykes's bomb. The Regents had me complete various exams and errands, yes. But I was also researching Magellan's astrolabe." Helena takes a deep breath, tries not to let the sudden stillness of Myka's body stop her confession. "I believe Artie used it."

Myka sits up, holding her breath.

"I don't know why, but you must understand," Helena follows her until she can look Myka in the eyes. "Artie would never use such a dangerous, unpredictable artifact unless – "

"Unless he thought it was serious enough." Myka's voice cuts through her like a chill.

"Yes," she says softly. She reaches for the shirt draped over a bedpost. Helena can't bear it, the look on Myka's face, and the fear in her eyes as she struggles to make sense of this, her imagination conjuring terrifying scenarios, each worse than the last.

After a small eternity, Helena's shaking fingers manage to button her shirt. Halfway through, she realized it is Myka's blouse, but she can't stop now. She needs to get her clothes on and leave, let Myka have the time and space she'll need to process all this.

Helena feels thoroughly childish for missing her already.

She's almost done dressing, and is looking now for her left boot. It doesn't appear to be where she left it and she's about ready to give up and leave anyway when an arm winds around her waist, holding her in place. Helena freezes, and Myka's warmth presses into her back.

"Don't go just yet," she whispers, and the warm air against her ear makes her shiver. "You've not properly wished me a good morning."

Helena twists in Myka's arms. She studies Myka's face carefully, looking for the minuteness hint that Myka is not really okay.

She finds it. It's visible, right there in the lines on her forehead and the set to her jaw.

But she also finds something else, something that warms Myka's eyes, something that stretches a smile across her lips. A small one, to be sure, but genuine. Helena's heart swells at the sight.

"Plagiarism," she pronounces, and melts into Myka's embrace.

Myka laughs softly. She buries her face in the crook of Helena's neck and breathes in the clean sweet smell of home.

This is the last chapter, so please let me know what you think!