A/N: This is a one-shot based on the first couple of chapters of a rather long multi-chapter fic I am currently writing. I thought it might work well as a stand-alone, set some months after the end of S.10.

London – Thursday April 12th 2012 – 5:52 am:

Harry rolls over in bed, and comes face to face with the woman he loves – has loved for more years than he can count. Her very blue eyes watch him as he focuses on her face – her eyes, nose, her lips as full as his own – and then he leans closer and closer until his lips touch hers, while under the duvet his fingers glance across the soft skin of her abdomen, exposed by her camisole having slid up during sleep. He closes his own eyes then, and leans into the kiss, pushing his body against hers – chest to breasts, belly against hers, his genitals pressing into the cleft between her legs. He feels himself swelling against her, and he moans into her mouth, just before she jerks away from him.

His eyes fly open.

"Harry, we can't," she whispers. "We were never meant to have those things."

This is when he opens his own eyes for real. This is the point at which he always wakes, still hard from wanting her, the tidal wave of disappointment washing over him, the grief from losing her sitting at the back of his throat, where he holds it, once again denying it expression. He could lie in for a while, feeling sorry for himself, or he could swing his legs out of bed, and head for the shower. He chooses the latter, and while under the shower he allows a few tears to escape. It is not easy coming to terms with not ever again being able to see the woman he loves. It has been almost six months since her death, and while he functions well in the world, inside his house - inside himself - he is still a broken man.

London – Sunday April 15th 2012 – 10:55 am:

Watching Harry Pearce from across his dining table, Catriona Findlay found it hard to connect the rake of a man she'd met in 1989 with the sad and diminished figure she saw before her. He was much older, of course, but then, so was she. He was neatly dressed in light-coloured slacks and a dark sweater, the latter of which was just loose enough to not cling to his body … a body which had spread over the years. She guessed his age to be late 50's – a few years older than she. Compared with Patrick, the years had not been kind to him, but there was still a certain something which compelled her. Like Patrick, Harry was used to being listened to and respected. Unlike Patrick, Harry was still alive …... well, almost.

To the casual observer, six months after Ruth Evershed's death, Harry appeared to be on the mend – a man on his way back from a very dark place. Very few people knew how deeply he still grieved. One who did know was Malcolm Wynn-Jones. While closely watching Harry's face, Catriona could see the signs of emotional shut-down. As she saw it, what she was offering was happening just in time.

"I heard about Patrick," Harry said, looking up at her from where he'd been contemplating his mug of coffee. "I'm so sorry. He was one of the best."

"He was. His death was senseless."

"I heard. Did they get those who did it?"

"Two lads. No more than thirteen or fourteen. They were each carrying knives, and they killed him for his mobile phone, and the twenty-five pounds he was carrying in his wallet. He'd been through so much ….."

"He made it through Northern Ireland."

"And the Balkans …... which was just before he went private, and just before we met. He and I had nineteen years together."

"You were lucky to have had that."

They both understood what he meant. She was lucky to have had that many years with Patrick, when Harry and his Ruth had not even properly begun. Malcolm Wynn-Jones had told her their story, and she still found it hard to believe. The Harry Pearce she'd known over twenty years previously would not have waited around for a woman he wanted. He'd have let her know he was interested, and had she said no, he'd have moved on to someone else. There had been no sign of sentiment in that Harry Pearce.

Catriona looked up, but Harry was back to staring into his coffee. She knew he'd prefer something stronger, but Malcolm had suggested she steer him away from the whiskey. For what she was about to tell him, he'd need all his senses.

It was time she addressed the reason she was there – in Harry's home of a Sunday morning. She leaned down to where her shoulder bag rested against the leg of her chair. She opened the bag, and lifted out a manila folder, and lay it on the table in front of her.

"As I told you on the phone earlier," she began, "there is information in this folder which will interest you."

Harry lifted his eyes to hers. She was shocked by how lifeless they appeared, as if when his loved one died, he had decided to join her. He seemed totally disinterested in listening to anything she might have to say.

"Harry …... I don't know where to begin …... but …..." She hesitated while she removed two photographs from the folder. "You need to know that both these images were captured during the past two weeks. You also need to know that they are authentic."

With that, she lay the two photographs on the table between them. Harry watched her for a moment longer before he dropped his eyes to the pictures on the table. Cat Findlay watched his face. He really had no idea at all. She watched as his expression turned from disinterest to shock, and then to pain, and joy, and finally to immense relief.

She watched as he passed his hand down his face, eventually grasping his jaw tightly between his fingers so that his palm covered his mouth. His eyes never once left the photographs.

She watched as Harry Pearce tried to rein in his warring emotions.

Reykjavik, Iceland – Sunday April 15th 2012 – 11:42 am, local time:

Malcolm Wynn-Jones had flown to Iceland on a fact-finding mission, which had then quickly turned into an extraction. Had anyone suggested to him two months ago where he'd be at this moment, and why, he'd not have believed them. Still, as the son of a vicar, he was not averse to a miracle or two. He had come to believe in them, although in his own life, miracles had been few and far between. He was about to deliver a miracle to an old friend – one for whom miracles have also been rather thin on the ground of late.

He sat at a table in the corner lunch bar, a cup of coffee in front of him. The person he was there to meet was already five minutes late, which did not overly concern him. She had said that it would be difficult to give him an exact time, since her plans for that day depended on so many other factors, most of them out of her direct control. He gazed through the window at the people on the street, all rugged up against an icy wind.

Malcolm made a pact with himself that he would never again complain about the weather in Britain. Outside the lunch bar the temperature was a balmy 3°C. The weather app on his smartphone told him that the current temperature in London was 16°C. He knew where he'd rather be, and he hoped so did the subject of his extraction.

Sixteen minutes later, a woman in a pale grey hooded woollen coat turned the corner, and pushed open the door. When she saw Malcolm, she flicked back her hood, revealling her shoulder-length dark hair.

"Hello, Malcolm," she said, her smile wide. "I'm relieved to see you've waited for me."

Malcolm stood, taking the hold-all from the woman's hand. "Our flight leaves in a little over two hours," he said, smiling back at her, "but we have time for a cuppa."

"I'm terribly nervous ….. but excited."

"A cup of tea will settle your nerves."

London – Sunday April 15th 2012 – 11:09 am:

Cat watched and waited while Harry quietly dealt with the shock of seeing the photographs.

"Do you want me to leave the room while you look through the rest of the file? Do you need privacy, Harry?"

He shook his head, and then looked up into her eyes for the first time since he'd been shown the photos. "I've had my fair share of privacy these past six months," he replied quietly, his voice surprisingly steady, given the redness around his eyes. He lifted his fingers, and wiped his eyes, although she could see no evidence of tears.

"How …... how is it even possible?" he asked.

And so, she told him the whole story.

First there was his not accompanying Ruth in the helicopter after she was stabbed, and then his not visiting her body in hospital.

"I hadn't wanted to see her like that," he explained. "I didn't want my last image of her to be of her lying still and white, her skin cold. I needed to remember her as being alive, and ….. vibrant."

"The CIA saw an opportunity," Catriona explained. "I'll leave the file with you. You can read it in your own time. In private. They were planning to allow her to come home once you'd retired."

Again, Harry passed a weary hand across his face. "I'm so damned tired. I haven't had a decent night's sleep since she …. left."

Catriona wanted to hug him, but under the circumstances, such a gesture might not be appreciated. Harry would be alright now. She stood and watched him while he traced a forefinger around the image of Ruth Evershed, her body rugged up against the Icelandic cold.

"Before you go," he said, standing and rounding the table so that he stood in front of her, "I'm assuming she's coming home rather soon."

"Yes," Catriona said, slipping her bag over her shoulder. "Today. She's due home early this evening. Malcolm plans to ring you as soon as they land."

"I'm sorry I didn't answer your earlier calls," he said wearily. "I just …."

"It's alright. You did this morning, and that's all that matters. She smiled up at him as she held out her hand for him to shake. "You still have plenty of time to ... spruce yourself up a bit."

Then she turned to walk back down the hallway to the front door. Her small role in Ruth's extraction was complete.

London – Sunday April 15th – 7:56 pm:

Harry was restlessly pacing from room to room, moving things on shelves to other shelves, putting things in the bin, and then taking them out again, when he heard the doorbell. Malcolm had said they'd be no later than 7:30, and yet it was already almost 8 o'clock. Harry began rushing towards the door, but he stopped to check his reflection in the mirror on the wall in the front hallway. He couldn't believe the change in him, just in a few hours. He looked tidy, had changed into dark slacks and a pale blue jumper. He had spent longer than necessary under the shower, where he had had a cry, feeling the tension gradually leaving him, and then he'd soaped himself all over, and shampooed his hair. He had shaved very carefully, and applied the same cologne he'd worn for years, but just lately had sometimes overlooked using.

When the doorbell rang for the second time, he called out, `I'm coming', and after turning on the outside light, he opened the door. There she was, standing in front of him, her dark hair falling to her shoulders, her lips turned upwards at the edges in a nervous smile. Malcolm stood discreetly at a distance, Ruth's holdall in his hand.

"Hello Harry," she said quietly.

"Ruth," he said, just loud enough for her to hear, as he took a step back to allow her inside. Before he turned his full attention on her, he looked past her to Malcolm, and asked him did he want to come in.

"I don't think so," Malcolm said, before waving to them both. "Oh, and I believe Erin Watts has suggested that you'll not be needed at work until Wednesday at the very earliest," he said, before he disappeared once more into the dark.

"Malcolm!" Harry called, and the other man turned, and slowly stepped back into the light. "Ruth's bag. She'll need it."

Malcolm smiled, and handed Harry the holdall, and then he turned and left.

"Thank you," Harry called after him, "for everything, Malcolm."

Malcolm stopped and turned to face his former boss. "It's been my pleasure, Harry. Look after her."

And then he left. Harry stepped inside the house, closed the door, placed the holdall on the floor just inside the door, and stepped closer to Ruth. While he'd been speaking with Malcolm, she had removed her coat, and hung it on a hook next to his own coat. She wore a dark red woollen dress which clung to her curves in a way which had him raking his eyes over her. He didn't quite know how best to greet her, so he just stood there, looking into the eyes he'd believed had closed forever.

"I don't know what to say," he said, reaching out to grasp her hand, in much the same way she'd taken his hand in hers on that fateful day at the Thames estuary. "I'm …... speechless. Even though I knew you were on your way here, I still …... can't quite believe it."

Ruth nodded, and squeezed his hand, and then stepped even closer to him. "I don't often express myself well with you, Harry, but I need you to know that it's so very good to be home …. with you, and I …... understand how difficult this must be for you."

He decided that words were not enough – not this time - so very slowly, he let go of her hand, but only so that he could slide his arms around her, and pull her against him. "Not nearly as difficult as the past six months," he said, his mouth close to her ear.

Ruth responded by putting her own arms around his waist, and pressing her face into his neck. When he felt her lips on the skin of his throat, a shudder passed through his body. He felt her palms travelling all over his back, so he tightened his arms around her shoulders. It felt so very good to be this close to her, and to feel the steady rhythm of her heartbeat against his body. They stood like that for a long time, enjoying the simple pleasure of being together again.

"It's so good to have you home, Ruth," he said, before he pulled away a little, so that he could cast his eyes over her face. He noticed a few tears rolling down her cheeks, so he wiped them away with his thumbs. He then moved one hand, and very gently and reverently touched her cheek with his fingers, then traced the curve of her her cheek to her jaw with his fingertips, and thence to her lips, which he lightly stroked with the pad of his thumb. He was relearning her. He reached down, and pressed his lips to hers. It was barely a kiss - more a touch - but she took his face between her hands, and kissed him back. Her kiss was equally gentle ….. and brief. He lifted his head, and they smiled into one another's eyes.

Once Harry was satisfied that this was his Ruth, and that she was alive and well, her heart beating strongly, he took her hand in his, and led her towards the kitchen. He watched her as she stood close beside him, and the thought crossed his mind that she appeared to belong in this house …. with him.

"Tea?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.

"I think this occasion calls for a proper drink, Harry. After all, neither of us has work to go to tomorrow."

"Quite right," he replied.

Harry leaned down to place a quick kiss on Ruth's mouth before he dropped her hand, and headed to the living room to get the whiskey and some glasses. If this wasn't cause for celebration, then he didn't know what was.