I come bearing Raffles fic! My first attempt, too! There simply isn't enough Bunnie/She-who-must-not-be-named, nor is there enough Bunny non-slash angst. So I did both ^^ This was partially inspired by how adorable and heart-warming what's-her-name's letter to Bunny was in The Last Word. Like, I was on the brink of tears it was so cute.

On the subject of WHN's name, I saw some people on Tumblr saying that Sophie was the definitive name for them (I think the play used it or something?) and I figured, heck, it's as good a name as any. I would have spent weeks trying to decide on a name otherwise XD

Hope you enjoy!

The moon descended
And I found with the break of dawn
You and the song had gone
But the melody lingers on
And on, and on, and on, and on, and on

-The Song is Ended by Anne Hannshaw

The fog was very light. Not enough to make seeing difficult, but enough to prevent Bunny from fully seeing the sun die low on the horizon, and this upset Bunny.

He stood leaning against the rail of the bridge staring at the vague red blur which he knew was the sun performing yet another spectacular sunset, one that he was not privy to see. He had always liked looking at the sky, with its sunrises, sunsets, moons in all its various forms, and stars. Stars were special, since the opportunities for seeing them in the grimy, foggy old Blighty were rare. But tonight, Bunny didn't get to see a sunset, and the way things were going, he wouldn't get to see any stars either. Just a blank black sky, probably.

Bunny was trying to ignore his cane, which rested against the same rail he was leaning against. With the rail to support him and by keeping most of his weight on his unhurt leg, Bunny could almost forget for a moment that he was hurt at all. In the frustration he felt at having the beauty of the sky hidden from him, Bunny forgot all about his leg and the pain and even the rejection letter in his pocket. The only problem he had in the world was just this fog, this obstruction of view. That was it.

Then he tried to put more weight on his leg and that was when everything came back to him. He gasped and switched his center of balance again but it was too late; the pain had been set off and receded very slowly. Bunny put his elbows on the grimy rail and his face in his hands. He was tired, so tired. Tired of dealing with it all, tired of wondering when or how he would get his next bit of money to keep him alive until the bit after that, tired of being afraid, hungry, and in pain, and ... just tired. When was the last time he had got a decent night's sleep? Bunny wondered. He couldn't remember. Not since he got back from the war, at least. Probably during the war. At least then he would have collapsed from sheer exhaustion and then been woken up before any nightmares could even think of invading his sleep. Was that considered 'a decent night's sleep'? It does to me, Bunny thought. Anything that doesn't have me awake with my heart pounding is 'a decent night's sleep', sad though that is.

A headache pounded in his head from lack of sleep and his leg throbbed, as if to remind him of his sins. Thief, his leg throbbed. Liar. Coward. Imbecile. Idiot. Criminal. Thief.

But all of that paled in front of the emptiness in his heart. It was what made his head bow and his feet shuffle. He could deal with pain. He could deal with hunger. He could fight for survival and try again and again to get money, but all that takes effort, and effort takes energy and a reason to do it. He couldn't think of a reason. Bunny stared at the small sliver of red that was about to go out in a minute and tried so very hard to think of a reason.

It was all too much.

The war was supposed to be over but he relived it every night in his mind. The fighting had been horrific and the treatment and recovery afterward not much better, maybe even worse. Raffles was ... dead. His dashing, daredevil friend was gone, for good this time. He had always been a fixed point in his life; even in prison, there had been some part of him, deep down, that knew Raffles was still alive out there in the world. But that was gone now. There were no more tricks; Bunny had seen the bullet go straight through his head. He had seen Raffles' unrivaled brains blown out of his head, splatter on the dusty plains of Africa. There was no faking that. Raffles was dead was dead.

The love of his life hated him. She knew him for the cowardly criminal he was and wanted nothing to do with him. Bunny had thought of Sophie often during the war, even though he knew it was hopeless. Any seed of hope he might have had to fuel him was crushed just that afternoon, when they bumped into each other on the street. Her manner had been polite but aloof, her eyes showing nothing. She had asked for his address, no doubt to avoid it.

Then, he was back in the horrible, dingy flat he hated with everything in him but was better than sleeping on the streets - God, anything was better than the streets - when he got the final blow. A rejection letter from the newspaper he had sent his poem to, in the hopes of making a penny or two. The moment he read the words 'We're sorry' he had just stopped reading and raced out the door.

So. Here he was. With a headache, a lame leg, and a rejection letter. His best friend and his parents were dead, and the love of his life and only living relative thought that standing next to him would blacken their reputation. The sun had set and there were no stars in the sky.

The flowing water below beckoned.

I just want to take away the pain, Bunny thought desperately.

He swung his gamey leg over the rail, then the good one. He sat there, staring into the black moving liquid, his nostrils filled with the sick smell of polluted water. He leaned forward, felt gravity begin to pull him forward...

But he found himself still on the rail, as if something was pulling him back. Bunny tried to throw himself off again but found he couldn't do it. He couldn't even move. He was paralyzed in place for almost a full minute. Something flashed in the corner of his eye. The shape of a tall figure with black hair Without thinking, Bunny swung his legs back over the rail and landed at a crouch on the bridge. The figure was gone. There was nothing and no one on the bridge that he could see, and even with the fog, this was quite far.

But he thought that ... and maybe he was just imagining it but ... he could smell the faint, far away smell of smoke. The smoke of a Sullivan cigarette.

Bunny sank to his knees and cried.

Two days later, a letter arrived for Bunny. When he read 'From: Sophie', Bunny fumbled and dropped the letter, picked it up off the floor with trembling hands, ran to his bedroom and slammed the door.

DEAR HARRY, [it read]

You may have wondered at the very few words I could find to say to you when we met so strangely yesterday. I did not mean to be unkind. I was grieved to see you so cruelly hurt and lame...