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1.
Frustration sparks off of him as he storms through the entrance of his apartment, the door swinging shut behind him.
And Helen—sweet, beautiful, patient Helen with her lovely smile and outstretched arms is already there to greet him. He feels the high-strung energy fizzle into nothing as her strong hands come to rest on his shoulders.
John lets himself be fussed over and she flits around him, gently removing his file-filled backpack and unzipping his jacket, pushing it down his arms and tossing it effortlessly unto their coat rack. He’s long since given up on trying to wrestle his work bag out of her insistent arms; heavy as it is, his fiancée is a nurse of high calibre and he’d be lying if he said her strength wasn’t frightening.
“I’ve already run a bath,” she tells him with a look of warning. After nearly a year of living together, Helen knows better than to leave John to his own devices once he returns from work—he’ll go right back to it!
“Thank you, doll,” he smiles wearily and leans down to press a soft kiss to her temple. He makes his way to the bathroom under Helen’s watchful eyes, feeling her stern gaze on his back all the way. Upon reaching the doorway, he pauses, turning to shoot her a grateful smile. “I’d be long dead without you.”
The satisfied quirk of her lips evokes a flutter in his ribs.
Still standing in the foyer with arms clutching his weighty backpack, she just huffs a laugh in response. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”
2.
“Helen?” When John returns from work that evening, it’s dark. “Honey?”
It’s eerie: The blinds are still open, as if the last occupant of their flat relied on sunlight to light the rooms. But the sun has long since set. As his eyes adjust to the dimness, he makes out a formless heap of laundry spilling onto the floor from a toppled-over hamper. Helen is too particular about her freshly dried clothes being folded while they’re still warm—it’s impossible that she would just leave them to cool and wrinkle.
Eyes wide and steps quiet, he approaches the hamper.
Behind it, the glass surface of their coffee table reflects weak beams of moonlight that filter through the unshuttered blinds. Upon the tabletop, a half-empty cup of tea rests forebodingly, its rim stained with the deep cherry kiss of his fiancée’s lips. The tea has cooled completely—there isn’t even a single whisp of steam catching the faint light. But John can still smell it— chamomile —she was stressed.
He turns a hundred and eighty degrees to face their kitchen. The L-shaped counter is littered with seasoning shakers and an array of ingredients that John can only name a quarter of, and a soiled cutting board balances precariously where the sink meets the countertop. A quick scan of the island reveals nothing of interest; it’s just as clean as it is during any other hour of the day. Despite the messy state of the rest of the kitchen, the island always remains spotless at Helen’s vehement insistence.
He is about to head for their bedroom when a low whine disturbs the silence.
It comes from his office.
He changes his course, a hand brushing the empty holster at his waist as he stalks toward the source of the noise.
The shadows are deep and paint this corner of their flat nearly black: It’s impossible to tell whether the door is open or closed. His free hand reaches out in the darkness—
—open. The door is open.
Then there comes a breath.
There is someone inside.
Faster than a flashbang he flips the light switch and trains the gun on the figure at his desk.
It’s Helen, asleep.
Sprawled over his desk with her honey tresses carving rivers into the mahogany wood, she lies face-down and knocked out. He doesn’t want to disturb or wake her, really, but it’s half-passed eleven at night and by the steady rise and fall of her back, she won’t be waking up anytime soon.
He knows she has a morning shift tomorrow and a stiff upper back and neck will only make her morning grumpiness worse.
“Helen,” he smooths a hand over the tangle of locks that have gathered around her arms. “Dear, wake up.”
She hums and lifts a hand in her sleep, batting his away with a twitch of her eyebrow. John can’t help the snort that escapes him. Fiesty, even subconsciously—his fiancée is a handful for sure.
“Hon,” he nearly pleads. “Do you really want to spend the night at my desk?”
Suddenly she jerks up, and his hands reflexively fly to his holster.
“John?” She asks, now seemingly between wakefulness and slumber. “What are you doing here?”
“Dear, I just got back from work—didn’t I tell you not to wait up?” Though, even if she had wanted to wait for him to return, Helen almost never came into his office. And she had work early the next morning—things weren’t adding up.
“Right,” he watches her blink the bleariness away before focusing on the time displayed on his little Seiko desk clock. Immediately, she straightens up and her eyes fly to his. They’re wide with worry. “It’s almost midnight !”
“I know, that’s what I said.” He wants to laugh but concern eats away his amusement. Clearly, there’s something troubling Helen. He watches, wary, as her eyes flit around the room while her face twists with confusion. Does she not remember how she got here? Perhaps she sleepwalked while searching for him in her sleep. The possibility pinches his heart and he’s quickly awash with guilt.
He begins to reach for her in an attempt to calm her down when her face clears with a sudden realization.
“You’re so busy these days.” The statement catches him off guard. It's true, but a bit out of the blue.
“Pardon?”
“You’ve had no time to organize your desk—and it was such a mess —I couldn’t just leave it.” She gestures at a pile of neatly stacked folders that he’s only now beginning to notice. And true to her word, his desk really does look a lot cleaner than when he’d last seen it.
“So you were in here…cleaning?” John says aloud, not quite able to piece it together. A sombre reminder of his employment contract’s confidentiality clause weighs heavily on his mind. Besides, Helen is busy enough with her own demanding schedule—he’d never expect such a thing from her. And he says so as much.
But instead of telling him to shut up and accept the favour like she normally would (he’d quickly discovered into their relationship that she had no patience for people refusing her help), she grasps one of his hands and looks him earnestly in the eyes.
“I know you’ve been stressed with that situation at work that you won’t tell me about,” she starts, and her hazel eyes are so warm and welcoming that he finds himself drowning in them. “And I just thought that a tidy office would take off some of the frustration—especially if you’re trying to squeeze in some extra work at home.”
“Honey…” Is all he can say. Truly, he’s lost for words.
She seems to take that the wrong way and her smile falters for a second. “I hope you don’t mind?”
“No— no , how could I?” He stumbles to rid her face of dejection. “You’re even better than my own secretary!”
By the small giggle that overtakes her hesitation, it looks to be the response she’s hoping for. “I suppose my time as a receptionist wasn’t all for naught,” she sighs, referring to the part-time job she held before her nursing career.
And she starts to say something else, but a yawn abruptly tears through those first few words. John is quickly reminded of the hour and wastes no time in pulling her to her feet.
“C’mon,” he’s interrupted by a yawn of his own as he guides her towards their room. “We can continue this in the morning.”
Helen wraps her arms around his waist and follows without a word.
3.
Helen is entering their flat when John steps out of the bath that evening. It was the quickest bath he can remember taking, but there’s a reason for that: He has important news to break. In fact, he’s in such a rush that all he’s managed to do in his haste is pull on a fresh pair of pyjama bottoms and throw a towel around his neck.
“Where’d you go?” He asks, puzzled, because the last he’d seen her she was stashing his backpack in his office and then ushering him to go freshen up. She’d made no mention of needing to head out.
“Oh, I completely forgot—Mrs. O’Connor had told me to come by at seven to pick up some biscuits.” His fiancée raises the tinfoil-covered paper plate that she’s carrying to make her point.
John silently makes note of the flush that dusts her nose and cheeks. It’s chilly outside in the evenings due to autumn’s quick onset, but their building is relatively well-heated. He lets it go, though, because she uncovers the foil and the strong aroma of freshly baked biscuits all but knocks him out of his senses.
He closes the distance between them and tosses one in his mouth before Helen can protest.
“You brute,” she levels him with a fake glare. “Are you trying to catch a cold?”
The biscuits are rather large— and oddly familiar — so he settles for giving her a crumby smile while trying to swallow them (and figure out what’s tickling his mind).
Shaking her head, she takes a seat at their dining table and tries one herself.
“Oh, these are lovely!” She exclaims, covering her mouth. Her smile is bright until she catches John’s curious frown. “What’s wrong?”
“Are you sure these are homemade?” He asks slowly, unsure if he should voice his suspicions.
“What do you mean?”
He’s not a connoisseur by any standards, but perhaps he may have kept his addiction to a certain bakery’s biscuit menu a secret from his fiancée. In his defence, it was located conveniently close to the office and remained open late enough to offer comfort to him and his fellow overworked agents.
“It’s just that these biscuits look and taste an awful lot like the ones I buy from a bakery near work.”
“Is that so?” Helen bites her lower lip, looking deep in thought. “You wouldn’t happen to be talking about Poilâne would you?”
He stares at her for a few moments, shocked because he doesn’t recall ever mentioning it to her before, then nods. “Er yeah, that would be it.”
The tension on her face dissipates instantly and she relaxes into her seat. “Mrs. O’Connor’s been trying to crack their recipe for ages. You should tell her she succeeded—she’ll be thrilled!”
“Why me though?” John doesn’t even think he’s ever met the woman. Shouldn’t Helen be the one to tell her since they’re apparently acquainted?
“Well, it only makes sense that someone who loves Poilâne as much as her should be the one to do it,” Helen gives him a cheeky look. “Besides, she always tells me how handsome she thinks you are, so I imagine a chat with you will make her day.”
With how placid Helen is about the woman’s opinions of him, he assumes she must be elderly. But before he can even think of confirming that with her, she’s already moved on to the next item on her agenda.
“You said there was something we had to talk about when you got back from work?”
“Right,” John drags his feet towards and flops onto their sofa with a weary sigh "The SIS has a mole.”
She's quick on the uptake and is at his side within seconds.
"Is that what's been keeping you at work?" Her hands find his, and she squeezes them with reassurance. "You could have told me earlier."
John can't keep the guilt off of his face.
"What?" Her eyes, still brimming with concern, narrow suspiciously. "What else aren't you telling me?"
"They were checking our paper trails and running background checks on every agent's family and close friends." He admits. "That's why I couldn't tell you—we were validating your reliability."
"I was a suspect?" The blankness of her face and tone sends a shiver down his spine. It's hard to know when Helen is angry, but a lack of expression is one way to tell.
The panic must show on his face because a tired smile breaks through the stiffness of her features.
"I'm not mad John, it's part of the job—I get it."
He stays silent because he’s expecting more out of her. And he’s right.
“I just wish you had told me, aren’t we supposed to trust each other?”
And at that, he sighs, because there’s nothing else he can do that won’t provoke her.
“You’re right.” He squeezes her knee and tries to look as placating as he can manage. “There’s no one I trust more on this Earth than you.”
She looks relatively satisfied at that, but nevertheless, still raises a pinky finger. “No more secrets?”
“No more secrets.” He obliges and hooks his own little finger with hers. “I’ll keep you updated from now on.”
“Good,” she gazes up at him with such intensity that he feels his heart skip a beat. He leans in, anticipating more— again —but instead, she pushes him away and gives him a pointed look. “Now go put a shirt on.”
4.
He steps through the non-emergency entrance to the hospital after a long flight and an even longer mission abroad. He’d told Helen he would be arriving tomorrow and had found out—through clandestine means, of course—that she was working late tonight. In his hands are two bags of take-out from their favourite place; her shift would be ending soon and he thought it would be a sweet surprise. It’s not much, but as of late, they’ve hardly had the time to do much together.
“Temperance,” he greets the receptionist. “Is Helen still in?”
“John!” She looks surprised to see him and he doesn’t blame her—it’s nearly midnight. But what she says next has him a bit surprised as well. “Helen finished quite a few hours ago, around 7 if I’m not mistaken.”
“Are you sure?” He feels his eyebrows furrow as the tiniest whit of anxiety blooms in his gut. “She told me she was working late tonight.”
“Oh, Helen’s here—but she’s not working,” Nancy, another nurse, chirps from behind the counter. The worry subsides but his confusion lingers. What else would she be doing here so late?
“Where can I find her?” He asks Nancy who’s already halfway out of her seat.
“In the study commons,” she waves a farewell to Temperance. “I’ll walk you there!”
The study commons? Helen had mentioned it to him once, and as far as he remembers, it’s where the hospital’s residents and student researchers study or store their resources. And to his knowledge, his fiancée doesn’t fall into either of those categories.
John doesn’t even have to ask because Nancy begins chatting away like she can read his mind.
“We have a world-famous researcher visiting us this month—did Helen not mention it? His name’s Benz, Benz Witteberg—she’s gotten awfully close to him while he’s been here—he’s actually leaving very soon to head back to the United States!” Nancy chatters, sounding a bit too cheerful for someone who’s working the graveyard shift. “Today was officially his last day, how unfortunate, the time really flew!”
He can’t even interject with any of his thoughts—not that his mind has settled on any with how fast she’s speaking—because she carries right on.
“He’s giving his last lecture tonight and oh, the residents absolutely adore him—the nurses too,” and for once she pauses. He looks down to see what causes her to stop talking and he realizes she’s nervously watching from the corner of her eye. When their eyes meet, she quickly looks away and continues, albeit a bit hesitantly. “Anyway, the lecture should be over by now, though, so I wonder what’s keeping her.”
The thought of Helen being alone with an apparently attractive and charismatic man who isn’t John leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth. Especially considering the fact that, according to Nancy, it seems the two are on quite friendly terms—friendly enough for the staff to have noticed.
“Right then, here we are.” Nancy interrupts his brooding to gesture at a brightly painted and decorated door. “Take a look inside, and if she’s not there then I’ll page her.”
“Thanks,” John waits for her to swipe her keycard before stepping into the room.
The study commons reminds him of a children’s library with its light yellow walls and fuzzy carpets. He’s immediately surrounded by rows of short red metal shelves all crammed with books, journals, and other paraphernalia. Some look on the verge of collapse with how crowded they are and he can almost hear how the brackets must creak whenever new materials are loaded onto them. The walls are decorated with portraits, news articles, and pictures of students and doctors who John can only imagine to be medical celebrities at various conferences and labs. He makes his way down the nearest row, glancing down each aisle in hopes of spotting Helen.
However, it’s only when he reaches the end of the row that he finds not just the desks and lounge area, but Helen.
His heart drops.
She’s not alone.
Sitting next to her, close enough that he could easily wrap an arm around her shoulders, is a tall, red-haired man dressed in a tight-fitting black turtleneck and loose white pants. Abandoned next to him is what John presumes to be his physician’s lab coat; it’s tossed so haphazardly over the back of his chair that it looks seconds from slipping off.
From where he stands, it’s difficult to gauge the man’s age as his face is covered by Helen’s. The two are seated on a bench with their heads leaned. They look deep in discussion with various files spread open over the coffee table before them. Things seem innocent enough, but there's an invisible grip around John’s throat that threatens to suffocate him.
Worry, anxiety, jealousy—and an inkling of ire threaten to overwhelm him. If it weren’t for the rigorous months of training he’d endured, his self-control would have snapped the second he’d laid eyes on the two. Alone, at this hour of the night. Why—what is going on?
Instead of bursting out from where he’s hiding—no, not hiding , observing— John takes a few moments to compose himself before stepping out to approach them politely like the gentleman he is.
“Good evening,” he smiles pleasantly. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything too important.” But by the way, Helen’s head snaps up with blatant alarm in her eyes, he certainly is. If she had nothing to hide, the most she would have reacted with is surprise at his unannounced arrival. Instead, her eyebrows are raised and her lips are parted with something almost akin to guilt. Except, he doesn’t quite know what guilt looks like on Helen—he’s never actually seen her with such an expression.
He turns to the man next to her since his face is finally visible. He’s easily in his forties—a full decade older than him and Helen. Up close, there’s no doubt that this man is built . The black of his shirt deceptively covered any and all traces of muscle that he had. John’s eyes zero in on a badge reading ‘Dr. Wittenberg’ over where his heart should be.
“You must be John.” At the mention of his name, John’s eyes dart up to meet Wittenberg’s. His voice is smooth and his eyes, curious. His posture betrays nothing; confidence and composure radiate off of him in waves.
“You know who I am?” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. So much for the strong, gentlemanly impression he was going for.
“Of course,” and with the grin he gives John he could be one of the most handsome men he has ever seen. “Helen has told me so much about you.”
Wittenberg turns to her, smiling all the while. “He looks exactly like you said.”
Then back to John; he begins to stand up. “Allow me to introduce myself, I’m—”
“—Dr. Wittenberg,” John finishes. “Looks like we already know about each other.”
Surprise flashes in the man’s eyes when he’s recognized. Curious. Was he expecting John not to know of him?
“Nancy had a lot to say on the way here,” John answers before he’s asked. “She was telling me all about you and what great friends you two,” his eyes flicker between Helen and Wittenberg, “have become.”
“Oh Nancy,” Helen’s giggle is strained. “She’s such a gossip.”
Wittenberg answers like he doesn’t even hear her. “Helen is indeed a great friend, she’s the most hospitable nurse I’ve had the pleasure of meeting during my stay here.”
“That she is,” John agrees. “If you don’t mind me asking—you two just looked so invested in your discussion—what are you doing here so late?”
“Dr. Wittenberg’s most recent research is on cancer—specifically its epigenetic links,” Helen answers quickly. She and the doctor’s eyes meet briefly before both of them turn back to John. “I was just asking some follow-up questions from today’s lecture.”
“And I couldn’t refuse,” Wittenberg adds swiftly. “After all, it’s my last day at the hospital so when else would I get the time to satiate Helen’s curiosity.”
“Right…” That last line is a little too playful to John’s liking, and judging by the glare that his fiancée shoots the man, she can tell.
“Anyways,” Wittenberg says brightly, clapping his hands together and utterly ignoring the mood of the room. “I won’t keep you two any longer. Seeing as you’ve come all this way at this hour to pick her up, it would be rude of me to do so.”
Helen looks at him sharply. “But we’re not do—”
“Perhaps we can arrange for a phone call if there’s anything else.” The doctor cuts her off and the finality in his tone dares her to challenge him.
Before either of them can react, Wittenberg bids them goodnight and leaves. And when John looks down at the table where they were both seated, the files are gone.
5.
Mrs. O’Connor is a ghost.
John stands before her door—Unit 405, as per Helen’s advice—for the fourth time that week, knocking.
He’s tried morning, noon, and night, and now, dusk.
How busy was the woman that she wasn’t around at any one of those times?
A dark thought suddenly strikes him—perhaps she’s fallen down or passed away, and as she does live all alone in her flat, there is no one to help her or spread the news. The idea of a rotting corpse waiting for him behind that very door is perplexing. It makes him want to just tear the door down and barge right in to check if she’s alright.
He feels his heart rate quicken with worry, but before his thoughts can best him, O’Connor’s neighbour steps out of her flat. She, too, is elderly and eyes him with a frown.
“Are you waiting for someone?”
“Er, would you happen to know where Mrs. O’Connor is?”
“Matilda O’Connor—my old neighbour?”
Old? She is elderly, yes, but so are you , he banishes the intrusive thought.
“I suppose so, Unit 405?
The woman’s eyebrows fly into her hair so fast that John nearly reacts out of pure instinct.
“Dear,” the woman begins slowly. “Matilda moved out eight months ago.”
+ 1.
“Did your fiancé enjoy the cookies?” A shudder of disgust runs down John’s back as Wittenberg’s voice enters his ear.
“For the last time, Sinclair, they’re called biscuits .” Helen huffs, sounding positively annoyed.
Sinclair, not Wittenberg, John observes. He and John Crawley are parked in a black sedan around the corner of a café where Helen is meeting the doctor. John can’t even be sure if that’s what he even is if the change of name is anything to go by.
Helen had mentioned the day before how the nurses and some doctors were throwing the man a farewell lunch before he left for the States. A few months ago, John would have thought nothing of it. Yet due to the recent events and perhaps a tiny inkling of jealousy that had bloomed as of late, he’d begun to plot the second Helen turned away after sharing the news.
First, he’d called the hospital and spoken to Nancy, inquiring on behalf of Helen (allegedly) what she was wearing to the lunch. The chatty nurse’s confusion had been the first sign that things were not as they seemed.
He’d rung up Crawley next and called in a favour.
Then, when he’d offered to drive Helen to her destination, she’d declined, stating that she was meeting a few of her nurse friends at the hospital where they would carpool. However, upon leaving their building, she’d walked in the complete opposite direction of the hospital.
Finally, when he and Crawley arrived at the restaurant, they’d witnessed Helen and Witten— Sinclair stroll into the café just adjacent to it. Of course, he’d bugged a few of his fiancée’s belongings in advance; this wasn’t his first improv mission.
“Damn,” Crowley whispers next to him. “Do you think she’s having an affair?”
John tries not to entertain the idea. Instead of answering, he holds his breath and listens for more.
“Not once have I pretended to be British and I won’t be starting now,” John can practically hear Sinclair’s eye-roll. “Anyways, do you have the files?”
“One moment,” John hears rustling and can imagine Helen searching through her messenger bag. “Here.” There’s a thud. The files. The question then becomes, what files? Are they journals? Research? Notes? Perhaps they’re meeting up so he can answer the rest of Helen’s questions. John sincerely hopes that is the case—he doesn’t think he can bear the worst-case scenario.
“They’re maps this time,” Helen continues. “I used to take my own notes before, but these are far too complicated for me to replicate.”
There’s a pause.
“So you brought the actual files—” Sinclair’s tone is frigid. “— MI6’s original documents —when I explicitly told you not to?”
John’s heart stops.
He feels winded—like he’s been punched in the gut.
Crawley turns to look at his friend and his eyes are so wide that if he stretches them any further, they’ll pop right out of his skull.
“All the more reason for us to be quick about this,” Helen snaps back.
“You couldn’t have scanned them? Or taken photos?” Sinclair offers alternatives with such an attitude that one would think he was talking down to a child.
“Are you daft?” She hisses, as if afraid of being overheard. “I already told you they know there’s a leak—and I’ve already been a suspect. I’m not leaving any paper trails if I can help it.”
“What if John notices it’s missing?”
“I reorganized his desk again last night,” Helen’s voice has dropped so low that John has to turn up the volume to hear it. “So if he can’t find something, he’ll just assume it’s due to my organization.”
“Clever.” John’s heart thuds heavily in his chest as Sinclair hums with approval. “His faith in you is admirable. It’ll be a shame to see it shatter when this all comes to light.”
“I’ll take the blame—all of it.” Her voice shakes but she still sounds so strong.
Why are you doing this? John wants to wail. He knows his knuckles are white with how tightly his fists are clenched. He can feel his nails carving half-moons into his skin, but the pain in his chest outweighs anything he could ever feel physically.
It’s torture: The memories of every instance where Helen could have possibly been betraying play back in his mind. When she would lovingly embrace him and all but chase him into the bath before putting his backpack and coat away. Was she using that time while he was out of the picture to peruse his files? To take notes for Sinclair?
Or when she’d find excuses to leave their flat for brief periods of time—to run little errands and visit their neighbours? Is that what she was really doing? Or was that when she would pass on her notes to the man?
Or the hospital—the fake cover of Dr. Benz Wittenberg. Was that for them to meet and discuss their findings without raising suspicion? It was smart: There were always people watching—any obvious and recurrent contact with a man who wasn’t her fiancé would invite questions. Assumptions.
“That’s brave of you,” Sinclair’s response to Helen’s declaration hauls him back to the present. “But you know it won’t be enough. There will be consequences for your fiancé whether you like it or not.”
“I doubt anything could be worse than sending him to work deep cover in SCORPIA.”
“Fair,” the man sighs. “But I should warn you, Blunt will not be kind.”
“Let him do his worst,” Helen says boldly, firmly. There isn’t a tremor in her voice this time. “As long as you hold up your end of the bargain and keep him out of SCORPIA’s reach, I’ll take whatever comes.”
“I assure you, my organization will take care of that.” Multiple shutter sounds trickle through the speakers. John assumes Sinclair is photographing the evidence Helen has produced. Site plans, likely, detailing the inner workings of Malagosto. That was the most recent file he’d been working with.
“Thank you for your help, Miss Beckett.” There’s the scrape of chair legs against a tiled floor as one or both of them get to their feet.
“I look forward to hearing of your progress.” Helen bids primly.
“I’ll stay in touch.” Sinclar answers.
The two say nothing more as they exit the café together. They part ways, with Sinclair walking towards their hideout and Helen heading in the direction of her and John’s flat.
Crawley jerks in his seat, and John knows the man will bound out of the car to apprehend Sinclair the instant that the opportunity presents itself.
But John grips his friend’s arm, holding back. Crawley looks over in surprise. Sinclair walks past, unfettered.
They watch him go.
What has Helen done?
But more importantly:
What will he do now?