Based on Sanctuary, created by Damian Kindler

Spoilers for Revelations, II, End of Nights, II, Haunted, Into the Black, and Tempest.

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She didn't mourn the death of Montague John Druitt, not at first.

She had cried when Nigel Griffen died. She cried when James Watson died. Had his death not occurred during an important mission, she would have cried much more than she did.

She cried when Ashley died. When Ashley sacrificed herself, she had cried for hours. She could remember sitting on the floor in the lab, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Magnus," Will was saying her name. She could hear him speaking, she knew he was speaking to her. She couldn't move. She couldn't see him, only the empty spot where her daughter had stood.

"DON'T touch her!" John's voice.

She knew he was standing in front of her, but she couldn't see him. Ashley was dead. Her daughter, her sweet daughter . . . Flesh of her flesh . . . Heart of her heart . . . Child of the first man, other than her father, she had ever really loved. Second, perhaps, after James. The greatest love in her life and the most important thing in the world was dead.

She felt arms around her. She was suspended . She was moving. What did it matter? Ashley was dead.

She was seated. Her vision started to return. John was in front of her. He was cutting off her jacket. It didn't occur to her to wonder why. He just was, and her daughter was dead. Their daughter was dead.

Something touched her lips, a glass. She forced her eyes to focus, John was holding a glass to her lips. She opened them and he gingerly poured the liquid into her mouth. Water. It was just water. Tasteless, like her life now.

Her view of John faded in and out. Her mind was lucid enough for a moment to tell her that she was experiencing tunnel vision. John wasn't leaving her, he was still there. He was still there, even though their daughter was gone.

Feeling slowly returned to her arm as the sobs slowed to silent tears. Her arm hurt, she could tell it was being cleaned. It was being stitched as well. John. John was stitching the wound on her arm.

She looked up at him, suddenly seeing him. He made eye contact.

"She's gone, John," she said. The wracking sobs returned. "My . . . My . . ." she tried to finish, but she couldn't.

He pulled her to his chest and held her tight. "I know, Love. I know."

She hadn't been angry with him then. She thought he was rehabilitating. She had thought the rage inside him was gone, that he was trying to become the man he had been when they were young.

Had he been killed that night, she would have cried for him then.

But, as it was, he died after sacrificing himself to try to make her happy. At the time, she had been furious with him because he betrayed her and then conspired with her enemies in order to change the past and force himself back into her life and bed.

John was the reason her father was dead. The greatest man she had ever known. The man she had loved the most. Out of all the people so close to her, the people she considered her family, she was left with Nikola Tesla and an energy elemental possessed John Druitt. Not exactly her first choices. She blamed John Druitt for the losses.

When she saw him in 1898, she was still angry. She was still furious at him and the fact that he was more Jack The Ripper in 1898 than he was John Druitt made it extremely easy to hate him. It made it easy for her to take advantage of the element of surprise and physically beat him. Press a knife to his throat as he had done to her; the younger copy of herself.

At the time, she had relished the look of complete and utter bafflement on his face. Bafflement mixed with fear.

But now, some 86 years later she had perspective. He was as much a victim of the energy elemental as everyone else. He was a puppet used for pain; a marionette of murder. She felt guilty for hating him. She felt guilty for not seeing that he had been possessed and turned into a vicious monster.

She felt guilty for assuming his actions with Adam had been solely selfish. No, for once in a very long time he was lucid enough to formulate a plan to erase all the pain he had caused her and everyone else. Yes, he was being selfish because he wanted to be with her. But, he was being more selfless. He wanted to erase what he had done to her, bring love back into her life, and save their daughter's life.

Helen looked out over the night sky. 100 years ago, or 227, depending on how one was counting, she would have been married this night. She would've been in the arms of her lover, completely unconcerned with the world around her.

It was this night that she truly cried for John Druitt, who - even under the power of a great evil - was a man concerned only for her happiness. He had once promised to make her happy, for all eternity.

He lied.

But he had tried. For that she mourned.

. ~ . . . ~ .