An old man stood on the opposite side of the road, one hand full of groceries, one hand curled loosely in his pocket and his gaze misty with recollection and a deep enduring sadness. The years had piled up into a crashing tsunami and unleashed themselves suddenly, nearly knocking him off his feet and back in time.

He hadn't meant to come this way, but he had without realising or checking himself, and now he was standing across from a ratty little building in Whitehall who stood completely alone apart from the silver-grey barriers surrounding it. So it was going to be pulled down. For a moment the recollections were overwhelming and he had to swipe his free hand across his eyes, searching for tears that weren't falling. He was not a sentimental man; at least that was what he had told everyone. But deep in his cantankerous heart he knew that wasn't true. There were memories and moments enshrined in that place, memories that he doubted anyone else would remember or even care about. Little moments, that he'd witnessed without knowledge at the time of how important they would seem years later as ghosts of memory.

But still, he thought as he finally managed to drag his feet away from the pain of the little lonely building, time moves on and things become obsolete, even people. Even him.

Especially him.

The man walked on, still fairly lean but growing fatter, hair resolutely clinging to the sides of his head and white-silver. It had never really lost its colour, just become shinier. One hand was kept free from the numerous bags of shopping and when people walked past the majority of them would not know what that meant. The ones that would know would nod to themselves and continue on their way, maybe treating him a little kinder. War veteran, they would think, but they would never guess which war he had been in. It seemed sometimes like he had hit sixty five and stopped aging, except on inside. And he was so old on the inside. He was so old and weary now.

It took a while, but he finally reached his house. Panting a little from climbing the steps (he was so unfit now), he unlocked the door and strode in. He managed to put away all his shopping automatically, without thinking of the lonely Whitehall building and was sitting down in front of a roaring fire with a glass of Scotch in his hand before he allowed the painful memories to creep back into his mind. Cowley let his gaze wander across his mantelpiece and a familiar warring between delight and grief pounced on him.

There was a large, slightly grainy photo positioned in pride of place; there were seven subjects all leaning on each other, hands everywhere, genuine grins on all of their faces, the green of a park blazing behind them. Cowley leaned forward in his chair, gaze searching every face.

Anson was on the far right, a cigar perched jauntily between his lips and striking a heroic pose. Next to him was Ruth, one thumb pointed at Anson and rolling her eyes exasperatedly, but there was a one sided grin on her face. There had always been a rivalry between those two. Next in line was Benny, one arm around Ruth's shoulder, the other around Susan, pointing at the camera. Susan wasn't looking at where Benny was pointing; she was smiling at him and cuddled up against his chest. Cowley hadn't exactly forbidden agents to have relationships per say but he had always been wary of the concept. It seemed have been OK for those two because they hadn't been partnered very often. After those two was Murphy, towering over the other agents and doing bunny ears behind Benny's head. Murphy: the peacekeeper, the shadow behind all of these bright stars. Privately Cowley sometimes wondered how long the others would have lasted without him picking up the pieces and working behind the scenes. Finally, Bodie and Doyle were laughing at the end of the line, play fighting with each other. One of Bodie's hands was tangled in Doyle's curls, the other arm gripping him around the waist. Doyle was leaning on him, both hands holding handfuls of Bodie's shirt as he attempted to stay upright. Those two had been closer than friends, closer than partners, closer than brothers. As he always did when he got to that part, Cowley felt a tinge of sadness. There was so much energy in the photo, so much life. Bodie and Doyle were the most vivid, the utter joy in that moment captured forever. It hadn't been long, as Cowley recalled, since Doyle and Benny had been found after two weeks of being M.I.A. The relief and excitement was clear to him, even if an onlooker who didn't know the story behind the photo couldn't have sensed it.

Briefly Cowley wondered who had taken the photo. He couldn't remember. He also couldn't remember how it had fallen into his possession either – possibly it had been up on the communal noticeboard or something.

There was so much life in the picture.

Not anymore.

All of them, all seven, were dead and buried in the same graveyard.

A bullet, a bomb, a knife, a drowning, a fall from a building, a car crash… Cowley couldn't even remember who had been what. He could barely remember who had gone first.

That was the price of getting old, of course, you remembered the past and not the present.

All were gone and dead before him, an old man with no family and few friends. They had given their futures in service to Joe Public and they were never rewarded or thanked in life. That might change… there was talk in higher circles that CI5 should maybe be given a plaque or statue or something. It was only talk, of course. CI5 was an embarrassment now, a relic of a bygone age.

Just like him.

But somewhere in his heart, Cowley knew that a statue or a plaque could ever replicate or capture the friendship, the desperate clinging to each other for protection and understanding, the knowledge that at any moment someone would have to let go that shone out of the photograph in his hands. Cowley let his fingers trail over every face, every one of his surrogate children. Anson and Ruth, Benny and Susan, Murphy, Bodie and Doyle. All gone.

He put down the picture before he could cry and began to climb the stairs.

In his room he had a locked drawer, barely ever opened. It was filled with normal things that a man like him had always found to be part of a world to which he had never belonged. To anyone else it might seem like tacky rubbish and sentimental keepsakes; five watches, a woman's necklace, Ruth's lucky pencil, more photographs, a set of a silver chain and matching bracelets, snippets of reports with jokes that he had carefully clipped and kept, a dog-eared Father's Day card that had been shyly pushed under his door with Bodie's strong hand on it and a bottle of scent that had been jokily given to him one Christmas. There was still a faint smell of roses and lavender when he found the courage to open that drawer. They were the relics of a bygone age.

Taking a gulp of Scotch to fortify his emotions and to chase away any of the dreams, George Cowley climbed into bed.

He could not remember their deaths.

All he remembered was their lives.

And what lives they had been.