Disclaimer: I do not own Sanctuary characters. I do not own the lyrics to this song, or the song at all for that matter. All credit must go to the creators of these wonderful artful pieces.

A/N: Alright, I know this had happened before. Writers are suddenly struck with this need and desire to relate their music to a fiction. Unfortunately, I have as well. Sorry! I just couldn't help it. I was literally just sitting at my desk listening to music and this particular song on my iTunes list just popped up (I was on random shuffle mode), that I had not heard in almost a year (darn you extensive music list!).

This is not an alternative universe story, I think I have dabbled too much into that AU and must show some respect to the original plot line. It deserves the lovin' too! This is a one-shot. I most likely will not extend this beyond one chapter. As for setting and timeline, well time might be a huge IDK here. I can only give a very general outlook on that. So shall we say…after "Haunted" and before "Into the Black". I know, I know. A very LARGE gap. Sorry! I can, however, tell you that the flashback that occurs in this story is during 1992-1993ish.

My last side note is this: The song being portrayed is called "No Volveré" by the Gipsy Kings. I highly suggest listening to this song whether or not you understand or even enjoy Spanish. It has a beautiful rhythm and the words are very simple. In fact, it is the rhythm and melody that I thought captured the intensity and melancholy of the relationship between Magnus and Druitt.

Again, even if you do not understand the language, the music is beautiful and the voice of the singer easily captures the pain and struggle of the words with the perfect tone of pleading. "No volveré" in Spanish roughly translates to "I won't return" or "I will not come back".

Enjoy this piece.


Helen Magnus shuffled through papers upon her massive desk. She recently returned from another mission that left her drained of all mental energy. It was not an action-filled, heart-pumping, adrenaline-rushing mission. That would have left her pleasantly exhausted and allowed her to pass out the moment she entered her Sanctuary. Instead, it was a purely diplomatic mission. The head of Sanctuary in Japan requested an extension in both time and financial resources to their budget, claiming that the damage the Cabal had wreaked upon them months before was far more devastating than they had originally estimated.

Knowing that the Japanese Sanctuary had a tendency to splurge on their facilities, one being the unnecessary glass dome of their corporate headquarters which ironically led to their rather easy destruction, Helen had to personally fly there to ensure that they were not increasing their funding in an attempt to build some decadent employee lounge. The moment she had reached the Sanctuary there the nightmare had begun.

Never had she ever met a more stubborn unyielding group of people in her entire life. And she had over 150 years of experience and memories to draw upon! The real kick in the pants was the fact that she was Head of all Sanctuary Networks, the top boss, and they argued with her like she was a common bloody delegate! She was close to committing murder in that damned country. After weeks of negotiations, which in her mind should have been entirely unnecessary given her position as the purse holder, she allowed the Japanese Sanctuary to build a down-sized version of their indoor tropical jungle. A setting, they claimed, meant for the abnormals who needed a climate and environmentally controlled setting similar to their original habitat.

She snorted at that statement, appalled that they would use such a disgusting excuse to fuel their own desire to have an indoor tropical vacation stop. Sighing, Magnus dropped the papers and rubbed her temples in a futile attempt to stave the headache she knew was lurking just underneath the surface of her frazzled mind. Sleep eluded her tonight, all the pent-up energy and frustrations coalescing into a distraction that haunted her every time her eyes slipped closed.

She knew the other were fast asleep. Unlike her weeks of constant negotiations and arguments – Will, Henry, Kate, and Big Guy had been traveling around gathering different abnormals from various areas of the world. Their more recent capture was a Targelian wilder beast. A creature that looked very much like an oversized hyena with teeth akin to a saber tooth. These creatures were thought to be nearly extinct but apparently one survived and was living in the Rocky Mountains. Kate had been tipped off that something had mauled a bear and the wounds were more similar to an animal attack than that of a human, something big enough to take down a bear and rip its head off. From the rashes and bruises she had seen on her team, the capture of the creature was quite volatile and they had trudged up to their respective rooms with only a small wave in acknowledgement of her return.

She would not begrudge them their rest, despite the boiling need in her psyche to force them all to sit down and listen to her rant about the past few weeks just too simply get it out of her system. With a final huff, she tossed the collected sheets of paper back onto her desk. After showering and changing into a more comfortable black peignoir with a matching lacy, almost see through robe, she had gone to her office in order to catch up and organize on the daily routine of running her Sanctuary after a half hour of restlessly tossing and turning in her bed.

The work was simply irritating her more. With one mental decision, she tore herself off the leather chair and marched towards her liquor cabinet. Throwing open the dark wooden doors; she quickly perused the different decanters that sat along the shelf. After hesitating, she reached for a familiar decanter as well as a glass that was settled at the bottom right hand corner. The last time she had seen this particular liquor out, John had been at the cusp of his vengeance. Sitting there in all his blood covered glory, sipping idly at the scotch in his glass.

It was a vice that they shared. Although hers would only show at the height of frustration and weariness, as was the case now, John's would appear only at moments of great victory. "A glass to congratulations," he would say in that charmingly wry tone. Neither of them ever drank in excess, well good liquor that is. Being raised as they were, the teachings of appreciating fine liquors were far too ingrained. However, she was sure that John had, on more than one occasion, partaken on nights of drunken debauchery at the local pubs with James, Nigel, and Nikola. The trouble the four of those men could get into would make a veteran sinner cross themselves. Making her way back to the desk, Magnus settled the decanter next to her unruly heap of papers, the glass followed suit.

She poured the amber liquid, not a generous helping, but more than the usual amount widely accepted in social settings. Lifting the glass, she inhaled the ambrosia of the single malt scotch whiskey. There was a story behind this particular drink, which was why she rarely drank from this decanter and most likely the reason why he had chosen this particular liquor out of all the other available ones in her cabinet. Too much history.

Sighing in a rather derisive manner, Magnus pressed the edge of the cold glass against her bottom lip. Before taking that first tentative sip, she turned and made her way to the radio tucked amongst her private collection of leather bound tomes in one of her many bookshelves. She never could just drink without setting some sort of ambience in the large room. Channeling through different stations, she paused when she heard the familiar strums of a Spanish guitar. She knew this song, knew it very intimately.

Closing her eyes, she leaned against the bookshelf, one arm hugging her stomach as the other kept the glass raised and pressed to her lips. The introduction was long, deep, and rhythmic, setting a stage for heartbreak. She remembered when she had first heard this song. He had found it, by pure accident, and introduced it to her in an unforgettable manner. 19 years ago, to be exact. Information of a girl with empathic abilities had made its way to her Sanctuary. Magnus traveled to Paraguay, South America herself to see the girl. She was young, 9, a few years older than her own daughter.

Living under extreme poverty, the girl was under nourished and her family was having a harder time than the others. Her abilities manifested at an early stage of her youth and other children had grown wary of the little girl, neighbors warning their children not to speak to her and in the long run shunned the family for giving birth to the 'hijo del Diablo'. Cruelty had no limitations, especially in the poverty ridden streets of Paraguay. The girl did indeed have empathic abilities, the full extent of her abilities were unknown at the time. The father was more than happy to give the child away, no longer able to take the strain of being ridiculed from job after job. The mother, on the other hand, would not part with her daughter.

So Magnus gave them the opportunity to talk things over and left their home, returning to the seedy hotel she had acquired hours earlier. If the girl continued to live where she was, the possibility of death would be high. At the Sanctuary she would be able to learn to control her abilities and understand that she was not, as other's have claimed, the child of the devil.

Amor mío

Amor mío, por favor

Tú no te vas

At the sound of the lead singer's voice, Helen fell farther into the memory. The stench of stale alcohol and the unclean musk of sweaty gambling men and their cigars as fresh as it had been 19 years ago in the hotel room. She had returned - leather coat spotted with droplets of rain, dropping her bags onto the floor and stripping off the heavy material. She had only just made it before the downpour of rain began. Her room had been chilly and an attempt to turn on the lamps proved fruitless in chasing away the darkness, they barely had enough light to brighten even a corner of the room. Having been so caught up in her thoughts, she did not realize the dark figure seated in one of the dingy wooden chairs that surrounded the small coffee table which served as the dining table.

Yo cuentare a las horas

Que la ya veo

It was his voice that had startled her. The deep, rich, intoxicating baritone of his that had broken the silence of her cheap hotel room. She had whirled, faced him, shocked that after decades of believing he was long dead from the bullet wound in Normandy, France, he was still indeed very much alive. The open-mouthed, wide-eyed look of shock that had overcome her features brought forth that dark chuckle. Helen remembered how she had shivered, and it was not from the chill that the pervaded the room. A chill had never made her nipples peak and her stomach flutter with anticipation. Only John's voice was able to do that.

Amor mío

Amor mío, por favor

Tú no te vas

Moving away from the book case, she finally took the first sip of the liquor, enjoying the burning path it led down her esophagus, instantly warming her entire body. She crossed the room, steps long and thoughtful as the liquid settled comfortably in her stomach. Her legs carried her towards the large windows of her office; the sun had long ago dipped below the horizon, casting that shroud of darkness along the expanse of her Sanctuary grounds. She had a view of the bay and saw the reflection of the half-crescent moon along the glassy, unperturbed surface. The image before her faltered, blurred, and rematerialized into the face of the man who had broken her heart over a century ago. A second sip was taken.

Yo cuentare a las horas

Que la ya veo

He had stood then, his full, towering height dwarfing the meager room instantaneously with not just his physical measure, but his simple bearing. That aura of confined danger that seemed to wrap itself around him like a cloak, made the room feel almost claustrophobic. His attire was different from his usual choices. Magnus had always been used to seeing John dressed impeccably. At Oxford he wore only the latest of gentlemanly fashions. Even at London, during their chase of the notorious Adam Worth, John had always worn pressed and proper clothing carrying himself with the aplomb of an aristocrat ready to attend a dinner and theater invitation with the Prime Minister.

James had worn clothing that befitted his role as a detective. Clothing that was easily maneuverable and could take a healthy dose of damage with being constantly worn through the most abrasive sections of London. Nigel dressed like a card shark. A gentleman who could be spotted easily in a pub or club with other men of similar wear, ready to gamble in a round of poker. Nikola, well Nikola had been the most self-conscious of the four men when it came to his clothing choice. While John had retained the image of simplistic professionalism, Nikola always dressed to impress. From his overcoat to his shiny black shoes, Tesla spared no expense in his image. His clothing was the second most expensive splurges, the first being wine.

That night in South America, John was dressed in jeans, dirt caked worn down tennis shoes, and simple black three-quarter cut sleeved crew neck shirt with a v-shaped cut at the center, exposing only a small hint of the muscles at his chest. She noticed the leather thong around his neck, wondering where he had gotten such an item. Most likely from a local somewhere in the surrounding area. Many kids were known to make jewelry from scraps they found to sell to tourists, claiming them to be local fineries. The though brought a searing pain through her heart. Had he bought the necklace from an orphan? An image of Ashley entered her thoughts, four year old face bright with that mischievous grin framed by long, straight blonde hair. Would he have worn her scrappy arts and crafted jewelry as well if he knew she was his daughter?

¡Vuelve!

No volveré, no volveré, no volveré

No quiere recordar, no quiere recordar

Another sip was taken from the still full glass. Magnus leaned against the window frame, not from exhaustion, she would not be so lucky tonight. She was reveling in her memories. So much had happened, and so little had changed. Seeing John that night, over a decade ago, had brought back such relief, such pain. She had wanted to strike him, to slap him, to scream at him for all the hardships she had endured. Yet at the same time, her heart had seized with such tenderness at seeing him breathing, staring at her, simply being alive. She had regretted saying nothing to him in France before he teleported away, still bleeding and in pain, leaving her only to guess at what had happened to him.

She had regretted many things that night. The monumental one being the truth she had hoped he would never discover: her current affair with James. She saw the truth in his eyes, right before he was shot and dragged away. In those blue pools of his, the guard he had always kept around to mask his emotions had shattered when he had seen her. And she saw it. All of it. The pain was so blatantly clear in those sapphire orbs, betrayal mixed with jealousy, and hurt. She had yelled his name when the gun was fired, but they both knew it was not fear of the bullet slicing into his flesh and organs. It was a plea for him to listen, to understand, to forgive.

His words from that evening still rang clear in her mind. His voice had been so hoarse and laced with carefully suppressed growls of pain.

"John, what have you done?"

"What I always do. What you can't."

It was the second half of the statement that struck her. James had assumed that John was referring to his mindless urge to murder, for it was an act that her lover had always shunned John for. But Helen knew her ex-fiancé much better than that. His words had cut her far deeper than any knife he could physically wield.

"What you can't."

He was speaking of forgiveness. There, kneeling and bleeding, John had forgiven her for betraying their love with his closest friend. His next statement was proof of that, "Treat her well, James."

He had heard her earlier plea, understood her choices, and forgave her. And there she stood; quiet with the man that John had always considered his best mate and brother standing next to her. Speechless.

"What you can't."

It was true. She could never forgive him for what he had done all those years ago. Perhaps, she never would. Having the truth brought to her with such callous grace had left her momentarily stunned.

¡Vuelve!

No volveré, no volveré, no volveré

No quiere recordar, no quiere recordar

The guitar continued but, no words were spoken as the music simply flowed with strums of the Spanish guitars interjected with spikes of violins. The arm that had been wrapped around her stomach lifted to press against the cool glass of the window. Her scotch half way down and currently working to drop her mental barriers, Magnus once again plunged back into her memories. There he stood, less than five feet away. He had looked so different; his usual pale visage was now slightly tanned, giving him a healthy glow. His hair was now slightly longer than it was in France, still short, but now seemed to have a wild partially spike like quality to it. He also sported a closely trimmed circular beard that made him appear rather rough. If she was shocked, she did not verbally register it.

Words were exchanged, a few snippets of conversation she could only half remember flittered across her thoughts. He was civil that night. No trace of anger, no hint of rage against her. He had revealed that he was currently "slumming" it in Paraguay. Avoiding detection and doing a few odd jobs here and there, which explained his current attire, and he had caught sight of her the moment she had entered the little city. "It would have been quite rude of me to not stop by and say hello," he had quipped good naturedly.

They sat together at the poor excuse of a table, sipping tea she had packed. She had wanted to hate him that night, wanted to walk away and never see him again. But the memories of believing he had been lost years ago were still fresh in her mind and so she remained there, exchanging news and stories as if they never had a past together.

When they had finished a pot of tea an awkward silence had fallen between them, John had stood up and made his way to a radio that was situated on the shaky nightstand next to the moth eaten mattress. He fiddled with the dial until a station with minimal amounts of static was found. The quality was poor at best, but compared to the other stations, it was as clear as one could hope for. That was when she first heard the song. He commented on the melody, how it invoked deep emotional feelings to convey the sadness of the singer.

After yet another awkward silence, John had sighed and closed the distance between them. Fear had not been present at the moment. She held many feelings for that man, but fear had never been one of them. With a dramatic bow at the waist, he extended one hand to her and asked in a playfully light tone, "may I have the honor of a dance with the lady?"

By all rights she should have said no, should have stood and pointed to the door, should have grabbed her gun and shot him dead there. And she did stand. She stood and took his hand.

¡Vuelve!

No volveré, no volveré, no volveré

No quiere recordar, no quiere recordar

The singer returned, his voice conveying the raw passion he felt for the unnamed woman he was pleading for. Hand dropping from the glass window, Magnus' eyes shuttered closed. She remembered how he had taken her hand in his own, tugging her closer to his body as his other arm slid across her back and held her in place, pressed tightly against his own frame. He had been so warm, so comforting, so physically there. It was then that she decided that he was no mirages of her fantasies come to taunt her. It was really John. Alive.

He led her through the steps, body gently swaying against the other. The hand that held hers was lifted in the air, poised just above his shoulders as they circled the dirty room of her hotel, moving to the slow rhythm of the song coming from the radio. Helen remembered laying her head on his chest, hearing the reassuring thump of his heart against her ears. Her free hand had rested against his shoulder, clutching almost, afraid that if she let go, he would simply disappear.

She nuzzled his chest, inhaling that familiar scent of clear fresh mountains and sandalwood, tinged with that unique scent of his natural body oils. She had always loved the scent of John; it was a comfort for her when the stress of working with her father's Sanctuary grew too much. Pressing even closer, Helen suppressed all the negative memories, not wanting to think, just wanting to feel the shelter of his body. No one would know what happened tonight, no one would see her moment of weakness. Only they would know.

When the instrumental section of the song began, both of John's arms had wrapped around her. Her arms were securely fastened around his neck, but her head remained pressed to his chest, right above his heart. John rested his chin atop her silken covered head, effectively tucking her into his neck. Their movements were no longer circles around the room. Instead they swayed in one spot, bodies pressed so tightly against each other they seemed to have become one being altogether.

No words were spoken that night. All that was needed was touch, physical contact; it became the language they communicated with in that hotel room. Her head had moved, shifting to look at him and their eyes met once again in that dark space. Before either of them could take notice of what was happening, their lips met in a tender passionate kiss.

¡Vuelve!

No volveré, no volveré, no volveré

No quiere recordar, no quiere recordar

What happened afterwards was a mixture of memories and sensations. A blur of heated kisses, warm breaths, and sharp gasps. An exchange of teeth and tongue. Lips clashed against each other, mouths suckling on the other's tongue, invading as much space as possible. Another long drink from the glass of scotch was taken. Magnus could not recall who had led them to the bed, but she remembered falling onto the mattress, heard the protesting groan of the metal frame as it took on the weight from both their bodies. She remembered how easily he had shed her clothes. It was one of the things that had always awed her about John, how his body could move with such fluid grace and made any task look sensually easy.

James had been so different. Although she would not say that James had been an awkward lover, his attempts at seduction never quite had the finesse John's did. Nor were his movements as graceful as his. James had struggled at times during his moments of stripping Helen of her clothes, the machinery he had to wear in order to survive had always been a hindrance, and more often than not, Helen was usually in charge of stripping them both. That night, she was aggressively reminded of the skill John possessed. He had divested them of both their clothing without her even noticing until she felt the heat of his aching cock press into her nude sex.

Magnus shivered at the memory. She could almost feel the way his mouth had latched onto her breast, suckling and tonguing the nipple until eat peaked and pebbled under his ministrations. His hands had been so confident. Caressing every inch of skin, rubbing and massaging the areas of her body he knew drove her mad and wild. 130 years and he still remembered every detail of what aroused her. His fingers had slipped into her dripping sex, stroking and rubbing the sensitive walls until she had peaked and gushed onto his palm.

Magnus' heart raced when the memory of how John had dropped down onto his knees, buried his face between her legs, and feasted on her dripping mound until she came once for him. He did not stop there; one was never enough for John. He continued to taste and nibble at her soaked core, teasing and taunting her engorged clit until she came again for him. His eyes had burned into her; those expressive blue eyes had remained fixated on her face, never once breaking away.

And when he had finally merged their bodies, sliding his cock into her moist cavern, Magnus almost dropped the glass of scotch. He had been so gentle that night, yet passionate. His strokes were long but very powerful, impaling her with every thrust. He had been so thick, so heavy, filling her in ways she had missed. His arms, which were threaded underneath her body and grasping her shoulders, kept the pace steady. Her legs had been wrapped around his waist, giving him full control of their lovemaking. His face buried into the side of her neck, inhaling her scent.

That night, John had been powerful, tender, and attentive to her needs. Her orgasm was breathtaking, rocking her to the soul, her scream of pleasure bouncing off the walls of the small hotel room. His own roar of completion mingled with hers. Afterwards, they had heard the patter of rain against the dirty window, and again they made love. Both lost in the sensation of the other.

Lo laon, lo la, lo la

Lo la, lo la

Lo la, lo la

Lo la, lo la

Magnus opened her eyes, staring unseeingly into the bay once again. Standing there, dressed in her nightgown, scotch warming both her mind and body, she could practically feel the heat of John's body as it was when he had pressed it close to her that night. Warming her completely, driving away the cold of the hotel room and leaving her blissfully happy. She had fallen asleep that night. Not haunted by memories, not plagued by guilt, not tortured by responsibility. Just loved. Loved and held by a man who understood her far better than any other being in the world.

When she had awoken that morning, John was still there. Pressed against her back, his arm strewn over her waist protectively, he looked peaceful - content. She remembered turning over and tracing his face, trying to memorize every detail. For one brief moment, she contemplated waking him and telling him about Ashley. About his daughter, their daughter. How healthy she was, how she had attained his sense of curiosity about every minute detail in the world, how she seemed to take everything that happened with stride, how beautiful, and how vibrant and full of energy she was.

Instead, she slid out of bed and dressed in her clothing, pressed one final kiss to his lips before grabbing her bag and leaving the hotel. She had gone back to the girl's family, whisked her away onto the chartered plane and left South America. Through the entire flight over Paraguay, Helen kept her eyes locked onto the chair in front of her. She refused to look out the window until all she could see was the ocean.

Lo laon, lo la, lo la

Lo la, lo la

Lo la, lo la

Lo la, lo la

Magnus lifted the glass one final time; taking a huge gulp and downing the remainder of the scotch whiskey in one go as the final strums of the guitar ended. The voice of the radio host echoed in the room as she made her way back to her desk. Stoppering the decanter, Helen carried the crystallized glass back to her liquor cabinet and placed it back in its proper place. She locked the cabinet and moved to close the radio. The silence in her office was a contrast to the cacophony of sounds in her mind.

Moving towards the exit, Helen reached out to tap the switch off but she paused. Turning, she looked back to her desk at the glass she had poured her scotch in. With blinding clarity she realized that the glass she had chosen was the one at the bottom right hand corner of her cabinet. It was the glass that he had used the day he had begged her to give Ashley a proper funeral. She had placed it there herself months ago.

Fleetingly, her hand lifted to press against her lips. Closing her eyes, she switched off the lights and closed the door to her office. Perhaps now, sleep would not elude her.


A/N: Okay, glad I got that out of my mind! So here are the complete lyrics with translations in case any of you were curious.

No Volveré

By: The Gipsy Kings

Amor mío [My love]

Amor mío, por favor [My love, please]

Tú no te vas [Don't go away]

Yo cuentare a las horas [I will count the hours]

Que la ya veo [Until I see you]

¡Vuelve! [Come back!]

No volveré, no volveré, no volveré [I will not return, I will not return, I will not return]

No quiere recordar, no quiere recordar [I don't want to remember, I don't want to remember]

Lo laon, lo la, lo la [Musical gibberish…]

Lo la, lo la

Lo la, lo la

Lo la, lo la

And that's it. I hope you guys liked it! I definitely enjoyed writing it. I know it's a complete 180 of what you have read so far of my other John/Helen pieces. Honestly, I wanted to portray Magnus in a different light by analyzing different scenes I have seen her in Sanctuary. I mean, if you really look into the episodes, you notice that the verbal exchange between characters are filled with open possibilities and hidden subtext. I thought Normandy was just filled with various subtexts. What do you guys think of my interpretation?

Again, you should definitely look into the song!

Read and review please!

-two finger salute-

Entrenched out.