A/N: NatesDate suggested that it was possible to add a follow-up to "Another Christmas". I internally hummed & hah-ed, and then thought it was worth doing, so here it is. It's a tad long for a one-shot, but I didn't want to split it, so pour yourself a tea/coffee/wine/water ...(water?) …. and relax and read.

I've rated it M to be on the safe side – a bit of language, some `adult themes'.

Monday April 29th 2013 – 11.13 am:

"Da-ad! You're as bad as Mark. He's chairing a four-day think-tank on refugee housing and he's been ringing me around ten times a day to ensure I'm resting and eating properly. I've only been on maternity leave for a week and I'm being harassed by the men in my life. If I answer the phone every time you and he call there won't be any time left in my day for eating or resting."

"This is only my second call today. I consider that quite restrained."

"Don't you have any work to do?"

"Yes, but I'm attempting to create distractions."

"Why, Dad? Isn't the country in some sort of imminent danger?"

"Not today." Harry hesitated before he continued, not sure of how much he should share. "Today is …..."

"What?"

"Today is …... would have been Ruth's forty-third birthday. I'm trying to distract myself."

"Oh Dad, I'm so sorry. And here I am complaining about you ringing me. Would you like to meet somewhere for lunch? Perhaps we can visit her grave together."

"Thanks, Catherine, that's a lovely thought, but I took flowers to her grave on my way to work. If you want to go I'm happy with that, but I can't accompany you. I have a one o'clock meeting with the DG, and there's an evening operation which I have to be here to monitor."

"Are you alright, Dad?"

"I am, yes. But I was the one who rang you to check on whether you're alright."

"They say that children end up parenting their parents."

"Jesus, Catherine, I'm not yet ready for the knacker's yard."

"Sorry, that was a tad insensitive."

"I dare you to try that parenting-the-parents line on your mother."

"Not if I value my life."

"There you go, then. I have to go," Harry said, "one of my team needs to speak to me."

"Bye then, and …... Dad …..."

"Yes?"

"Thanks for caring."

Harry hadn't anyone needing to speak to him. He'd just needed some time to himself to think. Things on the Grid were quietly busy, and he relished the space to think of Ruth, to imagine what they may have been doing today had she lived. There were times when he needed to indulge himself in this way. Perhaps he would have taken her out to dinner. Perhaps they would have had a meal at a pub and an early night. Perhaps they would have celebrated with a weekend in Paris. His most fanciful imagining was that perhaps, like Catherine, Ruth would have been heavily pregnant, and so they would have had a quiet meal at home in Ruth's cottage, and an early night. He knew such fantasies were not the most healthy way for him to be occupying his time, but they were something he needed. Some days, especially the anniversaries – of her birth and her death – had to be lived within dreams of what might have been, otherwise they would surely have been unendurable.

Harry had faced many personal challenges in the time since Ruth had died. Whilst on paper he was single, in his head, in his heart, he was not, and he believed would remain so for life. He was not available should an `appropriate' woman enter his life. He had been tested only six weeks earlier when Section D had covered the security for a meeting of EU delegates at a large hotel in Kent. The woman's name had been Liviana, PA to the Italian delegate. He'd noticed her watching him, and had paid little attention until late one night he had entered a lift on his way up to his room. The lift doors had almost closed when this woman's heavily bejewelled hand had grasped the edge of the lift door while she slid inside to stand in front of Harry.

Liviana's eyes never left his, and as soon as the lift door closed her intent became clear. She pushed her knee between his legs and grasped him through his trousers, and pressed her mouth against his. His thirty-year-old self would have been up for it; his fifty-nine-year-old self was repulsed. His initial response was shock, and being slow to act, Liviana took this as assent. The fingers of one hand opened his zip, while her other hand slid inside his trousers, pulled down his trunks, grasped him, and quickly began to slide her hand up and down his length.

"I see you are sad," she'd said, "so I am here to bring happiness."

His body had quite liked it, and he'd moaned. Then, recognising how much he didn't want this from this woman whom he barely knew, and whose face he found grotesque with its heavy make-up and fake desire, he moved his hands to push her away.

It was when she said, "You wanna fuck me, no?" that he fully came to his senses and pulled away from her, adjusting himself and then zipping up his trousers.

"No," he said as the lift doors opened, and he stepped around her and left the lift. Had he been watching Liviana, he would have seen a look of shock on her face, followed by rage, clearly a woman not used to being turned down.

Back in his hotel room, Harry had sat on his bed and drawn deep breaths into his lungs, realising that he had been so close to succumbing to Liviana's will. In his heart he was still in love with another, but his body had wanted the attention Liviana had offered. In the end it had been his self-respect which had saved him from doing something he'd later regret. He'd sighed heavily, stood up and stripped off all his clothes, careful to remove his phone from his jacket pocket and put it on the small bedside table. He'd walked naked to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stepped under the hot stream of water, soaping his body all over. His intention had been to luxuriate in the heat and the steam, to feel pain from the water so that he knew he was alive, and still capable of feeling. He'd heavily soaped his chest and underarms, and then his stomach, and then his hands had wandered down to his genitals, and he'd been again reminded of how much he enjoyed the feeling of hands on his body, even if the hands were his own. It hadn't been his intention to do so, but he soon found he was soaping himself rather fast. His own hands were kinder and less demanding than those of a stranger. It wasn't long before he'd felt the welcome release of his orgasm, as the water washed away his cries of anguish as he came. He'd rested his forearms on the tiles, and leaned his forehead against his arms, and wept for the loss of this part of his life, and the loss of the woman whose last breath he'd witnessed. In between his sobs he'd said Ruth's name over and over. Would he ever again be able to take a breath without wishing she were still with him?

Thames House, The Grid Wednesday 15th May 2013 – 6.42 am:

Harry was first on the Grid most mornings. He missed the days when he'd arrive at work to find Ruth already at her computer, head bent in concentration, files spread around her in apparent disarray, but according to an order only she understood. His senior analyst for the past thirteen months has been a man called Serge Russo, who to his credit was skilled and trustworthy, but rarely started work before 8 am. Despite the shorter hours he worked, Serge was a team player, and Harry has decided that if he couldn't have Ruth working as his senior analyst, then Serge was a reasonable replacement. While Harry had frequently been gobsmacked by the brilliance and sheer speed of Ruth's lateral thinking, he had to also give credit to the thoroughness of Serge's logical, step-by-step approach. Serge had one important thing in common with Ruth – he was fast, and so because of that, Harry hadn't yet had the heart to give him a bollocking for getting in late to work. But despite that, he still wasn't Ruth.

Suddenly Harry's mobile phone rang, and he tucked his hand into his coat pocket to retrieve it. The person on the other end of the phone was last person he'd been expecting.

"Dad?" Catherine said, her voice wavering near tears.

"Catherine, what's wrong?"

"It's the baby."

"Is something wrong with the baby?"

"No …... but she's on her way."

"Jesus Christ!" Harry's first thought was to wonder why Catherine was ringing him. "But, what about ….."

"Dad, I need you here. With me."

"Where's Mark?"

"He's in Kenya inspecting refugee camps, and he's currently out of range of mobile phone reception. Dad, the baby's coming early, and before you mention Mum, she's in hospital in Oxford having her veins done, and Mark's Mum doesn't arrive back from Canada until Friday night. You're all I have, Dad. You have to be my birthing partner."

"Jesus Christ!

"And you can stop invoking Jesus. I know you're not religious. I need you here. Can you come now?"

Harry dropped everything, and rang Erin, who was preparing her daughter's breakfast.

"Go Harry. Don't worry about the Grid. I'll take care of things, and if your daughter needs you to be with her for a few days, then Section D will still function. It will survive without you, Harry."

Erin spoke the last sentence slowly and with emphasis, as though Harry were a small child who needed a simple explanation.

St Bede's Hospital, Maternity wing. 15th May 2013 – 9.52 am:

By the time Harry and Catherine arrived at the hospital, Catherine's water had broken, and her contractions were quite strong, and ten minutes apart. She was given a private room, and nursing staff monitored her regularly. Harry hoped they knew what they were doing, because he didn't have a clue. As much as he wanted to confess to Catherine how he wasn't going to be much help, he knew she needed him to be stronger than that. Harry Pearce, hard man of MI5, was being brought to his knees by his as yet unborn granddaughter. Just like her namesake before her, he thought.

"Now, what do you need me to do?" he asked Catherine.

"You need to hold my hand and encourage me, and give me drinks, and anything else I demand of you."

"You need me to be in the birthing room?"

"Why else did you think I needed you here?"

"But I'm your father. Isn't that a bit …... off?"

"Yes, I dare say it is, but I'd rather curse at you than some nurse I hardly know, and who is only trying to help me."

Two hours later, Catherine was led into the birthing room.

"Are you the father?" the attending nurse asked Harry.

"I'm Catherine's father, which makes me the baby's grandfather," he replied, secretly hoping he'd be asked to leave. "I'm all she has at present," he explained. "Everyone else is -," but the nurse was no longer listening.

As Catherine's labour progressed, he soon got into the swing of things. His job was to take care of Catherine from her shoulders up. He wiped her face with a soft moist towel, offered her drinks, moistened her lips, and gave her his hand for her to squeeze during her contractions. Privately he was concerned by how much pain she appeared to be enduring.

"Are you alright?" he asked her after one especially long and difficult contraction.

"Of course I'm not bloody alright. My body is slowly breaking in two, for fuck's sake!"

Once Catherine was told it was fine for her to push, she uttered words that Harry had never heard her say in her life, and he wondered from where she'd learned them. Between contractions he asked her.

"From you, Dad. You are without doubt the best swearer I've ever known."

When Catherine pushed baby Ruth out of her body and into the world, Harry was busily clenching his teeth as Catherine gripped his hand, practically drawing blood. The last thing he needed to be doing was asking Catherine not to grab his hand so hard because it hurt him! He silently cursed Mark for getting his daughter in this condition – something she had already expressed a number of times – but mainly for not being there to help her through the birth. It was after he'd said `bloody Mark' for around the fifth time that he recognised the irony in his comments, since he also had been an absent parent each time Jane had given birth. He was always off somewhere else, finding something more important, more exciting to grab his attention.

Harry's attention was drawn away from his daughter when he heard his granddaughter's first cry. Still holding Catherine's hand, he turned to see the midwife clamping the umbilical cord in two places.

"Mr Pearce ….. Harry ….. would you like to cut the umbilical cord?" the midwife asked, and he turned to see baby Ruth, still covered in vernix from when she was inside Catherine's body, being held in a blanket by another staff member.

Harry suddenly had no words. He felt strange, like something deep inside him, in his belly, had twisted, so that he would never again be the same. He'd not felt this kind of rebirth within himself since Ruth had been alive – his Ruth – and then he had felt it so often, that need to put aside his grab-bag of usual responses, and to open himself to a whole world of new possibilities. He knew it was love which was realigning him, asking him to be the best he was capable of being, this time for another Ruth. He knew he would still have enough love within him to honour the memory of his Ruth. He was being asked to open himself up to this new family member, this other Ruth. He was having to open his heart to her.

He took the surgical scissors from the tray and cut the baby's umbilical cord, before she was bundled in the blanket and handed to Catherine for her first feed. He watched for a moment as his daughter performed her next important act as a new mother. He was immediately overwhelmed – with awe and wonder and love. His little girl had just given birth to a little girl. Harry suddenly wished that his Ruth could have been beside him for this important milestone in his life. His eyes filled, and he put his head down and quickly left the room. Catherine was busy feeding her daughter, and hadn't noticed him leave.

Harry remembered there being a balcony off the visitors' lounge, and so, closing the door behind him, he stepped out and gulped a lungful of air. He gripped the railing which ran along the top of the balustrade, and used it to steady himself. He felt dizzy with the stirrings and changes which he was currently undergoing. Briefly, he was aware of another roof, another balustrade, another handrail, where he and Ruth had spent so many of their private moments, cocooned by their isolation from the activity inside the building, and the cacophony from the street below. Harry closed his eyes in an attempt to still his mind and his heart, which was beating rapidly. Something had happened to him as he'd cut the baby's umbilical cord, something powerful. He steadied himself and tried to imagine that Ruth was there beside him, watching him, waiting for him to make his decision. He imagined her hand resting on his arm, her bright blue eyes on him, waiting …... waiting. Her imagined presence calmed him, and eventually his body settled.

Remembering Erin's words to him only hours ago, he knew what he had to do. It was so easy, really.

He had to do for this new Ruth what he'd not quite managed to do for his Ruth.

He had to resign. Now. Today, if possible. He'd planned to do it with his Ruth, but then after she'd died, he couldn't bear to not go in every day and spend most of the day in the place where they'd met, become close, and despite themselves and their shortcomings, fallen in love with one another. He knows now that the truth is that Ruth was with him wherever he was. She was always standing right next to him, watching him, waiting for him, about to touch his arm, about to chastise him for some loss of temper, or bad decision, about to tell him that all the woes of the world were not his fault, and were never his alone to bear. He no longer needs to be on the Grid each day in order to be near her. She is with him. She always was, and always will be. Until his time comes and he joins her, she will always be beside him.

He took his phone from his pocket and rang Towers. They organised a meeting for eight in the morning. He breathed out, feeling lighter already.

Harry walked back to Catherine's room feeling like a man reborn. Inside the hospital room, all was quiet. Catherine appeared to be asleep, while baby Ruth was in her bassinet beside the bed. He crept around to stand beside the bassinet, hoping to get a better look at her. He was surprised to see that she was awake, her dark blue eyes appearing to look at him, her mouth working, her tongue sliding around inside her mouth, uttering tiny snuffling noises . It was hard to determine whom she resembled, with her being so tiny. Harry put his hand towards her, and brushed her cheek with his finger. He again felt the tears spring to his eyes, and he wiped them away with the back of his other hand. I will always be here for you, he thinks, trying hard to send his thoughts straight to baby Ruth. I will look after you, and play with you, and love you. For the rest of my life. You will be able to depend upon me.

"Would you like to pick her up?"

Harry looked up to see his daughter gazing at him sleepily.

"Can I?" Catherine nodded her assent.

Harry carefully picked up baby Ruth, securing the blanket around her, nestling her into the crook of his arm, and holding her against his body. "She's exquisite," he said.

"Yes, she is."

"Are you still calling her Ruth?"

"Of course, Dad. That was what we decided. Ruth Anna Jane Clifford."

"After the grandmothers," Harry said quietly, his eyes never leaving little Ruth.

"Yes, the two grandmothers, but the woman who would have been her step-grandmother gets pride of place, and do you know why?"

Harry looked up to see Catherine's eyes on him, a gentleness in them. "Because your Ruth made you a better man, Dad. She helped you to grow up, showed you who you really are. Without her, you'd be at this minute at work, attending to some crisis or other, believing your presence was necessary to the safety of the nation. She changed you for the better."

Harry nodded and smiled, too choked for words.

"Thanks for …... being my birthing partner. You were great. Sorry I was a bitch."

Harry nodded and smiled, not sure that at that moment he'd be capable of speech.

"Graham's coming in to see me after work," Catherine continued. "He should be here soon, so you can go home and get some rest."

"I'm handing in my resignation," Harry said quietly, unaware that he was gently rocking his granddaughter against his body, and that she'd closed her eyes in sleep. "It's time."

"Yes, Dad, it is. You've done enough. It's your time now."

Harry nodded, and then watched Ruth sleeping, as he continued to rock her. She was worth waiting for, and it would be his job to protect her. He now knew he wouldn't be alone in protecting her. His Ruth would be beside him ... always.