Disclaimer: Must I state the ugly truth? Fine if it must be done: I don't own the characters that I'm using for my enjoyment and our collective mental health betterment, Syfy owns them.

A/N: This is so very AU but I don't see how that's a bad thing considering how this story will play out. So how about we just label this as H.G. being her 'Holy Wow-Wow' self back in her Warehouse 12 days, along with some friends. Also, this story will be told exclusively in H.G.'s POV.

[Howlin' For You]

I. Traveling Expense

Today is November 12th of 1893 and I 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, vanished a week ago. Mr. Wolcott is my partner and normally it would just be the two of us. However at the Regents request, not to mention that of my other superiors, we were assigned another fellow agent to accompany us.

I have 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, I still protest such protocols here and there but not for this mission. My mindset is that the task Wolcott and I were handed would go faster and smoother with assistance from an agent that has been doing this work longer than Wolcott and myself combined. I've not forced myself to like this development but things could always be worse or tedious.

Our journey began with a train ride to cover the most distance to our very rural and final destination. Then upon disembarking at the railway station; just off the platform, a first-class carriage with an added Warehouse extra was awaiting us. The extra feature being a secret purple lined storage compartment designed for transporting artifacts. In this moment and a great many hours later I consult my 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.

With sigh I replace my timepiece inside of my vest's front pocket and close my eyes for a moment; it has been several cumbersome hours since our last rest stop. A chill abruptly invades my person even in the confines of the carriage, so I pull my waistcoat tighter around my body before tugging my overcoat 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.

"Why must all the ghostly artifacts always fall into my hands to deal with?"

I turn to look at my other field partner for this mission; who surprisingly has remained quiet for a good five minutes. Arthur Conan Doyle, who is also an aspiring writer like myself, but he is as of yet unpublished. He is also nearly seven years my senior and a Scotsman, but also a brilliant man of many skills and a Warehouse legend. Traveling with him the last two days has been interesting, but I must say the absolute highlight thus far was driving the carriage earlier to relieve Wolcott for a spell. Doyle refused a rotation and I may only drive the carriage when not among the populated areas. So sexist and bloody useless society's standards are and I also wouldn't hesitate to call them a nuisance in the same breath.

I chuckle, "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."

"I snagged that artifact before you even saw the doors that open to the Warehouse's floors, Wells."

"I wasn't belittling your skills, Mr. Doyle." I say while glancing at him. "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?"

"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 says laughing. "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. But to answer your question and it's merely my opinion mind you, but I believe that the ship became a cursed vessel because it was possibly built from lumber harvested off an Indian burial ground from America."

"A sound theory." I say turning back to look out the portal on my side as our carriage toddles on.

The movement of the carriage occasionally jostles Mr. Doyle and I over the gravel path that is only moderately rutted out by the rainy weather as of late. I'm very aware of Doyle's growing affinity on spiritual matters and there is even talk in our circles that he will retire from being an agent within the new year.

"Tell me something, Wells. Does it bother you that your brother absolutely bathes in your literary glory like a pig in its morning slop?"

I smirk at the jest evident in Doyle's tone and because of its truth, no matter how blunt and plainly stated. My brother does relish his petty victory in name only, but to hear him talk while we entertain guests is more than I can bear sometimes.

"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." I say. "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 the carriage halts abruptly and I brace myself against the seat. My counterpart almost slides off the carriage's seat altogether but rights himself quickly.

"Wolcott, what on Earth is the problem!" Doyle questions loudly, while moving aside the glass window and then sticking his head out of the portal on his side of the cabin. "Or were you simply taking upon yourself to make sure Wells and I don't fall asleep since you can't?"

"It's nothing...the horse just spooked." Wolcott replies. "And we're almost there."

The carriage begins to move forward again, only at a much more clipped pace. Doyle leans back inside, reaches over and closes the portal's glass. 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 rubble. I would let the silence stand at any other time but I feel as though I'm being studied; weighed and measured if you will. But I'm also curious by nature.

"Do you still practice medicine?" I say to my traveling companion in the seat across the way from me.

"Of course. And it would appear that the Regents have no objections to me having a day job or two." Doyle replies and I smile at his use of charm. "Otherwise they would've erased my memory and run me off by now."

Although Doyle is a stocky man, he is not at all unattractive and I consider him an intellectual equal. I've found that conversing with him over the last few months; albeit sporadically, since our introduction has been pleasurable. But that damned mustache, so like Charles' own equally ridiculous one. Why must the men of my time feel it's necessary for such an adornment? Where in their thinking do they equate facial hair with being the pinnacle of masculinity?

Scratchy kisses that leave a rash on your cheek are nothing to be desired in my mind, but then again I've preferred the intimate company of a woman over a man on many occasions. Also, I have it on good authority that Doyle is to be engaged soon to a woman named Mary Louise Hawkins, so his increasing interests in me may just be for sport. I, however will not entertain such a folly with him nor any other man that I'm employed alongside of.

"Apologies again, Wells." Doyle says in my silence. "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, so much so as you have inspired me to rewrite, modify if you will, a character I created a while ago in my detective writings."

"I beg your pardon?" I ask making eye contact with a now smiling Doyle.

I feel as though the man read my mind, but I also wasn't attempting to hide my emotions behind a mask. Sometimes a look can convey so much more than mere words.

"Sherlock Holmes." Doyle says. "Of course he must have a worthy partner in his adventures; thus Dr. Watson, who is fashioned mostly after myself. But the more I pour over my first drafts, the more I felt Holmes was missing something and you have been unknowingly providing me with the character traits that he was lacking."

"What the devil are you going on about?"

Doyle smirks, "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?"

"The character is a man." I reply. "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; razor sharp wit and humor."

"We're finally here." Wolcott announces loudly as the carriage comes to a halting standstill.

"And not a moment too soon." I say while reaching for the wooden latch on the carriage door.

Doyle chuckles under his breath as I open the door and step out into the night. The air is brisk enough that my breath shows with each exhalation. And on this somewhat moonlit night; clouds passing overhead shade the view at times, I can still see well hedged fields off in the distance to my right. Wolcott urges the horses forward and moves the carriage off the roadway to park it. Once Wolcott has moved our mode of transportation a rather unkempt and derelict looking cemetery appears in my line of sight. The action of the moment lends itself to the notion that the cemetery was just born out of the shadows.

I hear Doyle and Wolcott off near the carriage conversing about whether or not they will need their firearms. I on the other hand have no need for such a ghastly weapon, so I move closer to the cemetery as my 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, and the lock on the once proud gates are broken, rust-coated.

Clearly it's a private burial plot but all that remains of the family emblem is an ornate 'B' and it would appear that there are no longer any surviving 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 my hair blow across my forehead, but I quickly tuck the runaways back behind my ear. How the seemingly mighty have fallen and I'll not shed a tear for those kinds of people, who in my mind only ever achieve their monetary wealth off the sweat and toil of others.

I turn away from the deathly view towards a path in the distance. I notice Doyle and Wolcott approaching; their movements are easy enough to track due to the kerosene lantern Wolcott is carrying aloft. I do hope they're armed accordingly and to their satisfaction.

"Alright gentlemen, once more into the breach." I say while 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."

My partner Wolcott smirks at me as we start walking, and then looking up to the lightened sky I notice that the moon is a rather unsuspecting pale yellow in color. The moon lights our way somewhat and my companions cover ground to match their pace with that of mine. I have thrown myself into harm's way on many occasions, as it is the very nature of my job. However, as of now I feel that this mission will be one of the more colorful and that it will stand out amongst the others for the rest of my days to come.

Soundtrack:"Planet Telex" & "My Iron Lung" by Radiohead

Parting Words: I chose to write this differently than my usual 'style'. So this story is more minimalistic and old-fashioned (this is a period piece after all) which roughly means more blanks for your imagination to fill in.