They swarmed over her desk like a plague of locusts, shredding, devouring, not one secret left behind. He stood in his office, protected from their flurry by a pane of glass, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his face immobile. What did they know of sacrifice, these insects from Human Resources? To them, death was merely paperwork, a form to be boxed up and filed away. It was far more than that. It was a scar, deeper than any that cut across one's skin. Bruises were badges of honour, but wounds like these needed to be hidden away lest they be seen as weakness.

Harry let out a long, slow sigh. It was a lack of sleep that caused these maudlin thoughts. The entire city lay under a blanket of heat - no one was sleeping. When he did manage to find a respite from his wakefulness, it was only to see clouds of dust and ash, the faces of the fallen rising before him, leaving him no more rested than when his head had hit the pillow.

It was this inability to sleep that had led him to the Grid in the small hours of the morning, arriving before the world cracked open, giving him ample time to carry out his own search of Ros' desk; there were secrets not even HR should not know. It was his ritual to sweep the desk of departed agents, an act he had practised far too many times. He would sit in their empty chair, holding a place for them, one last farewell; touching and sorting their possessions, affording them the honour they were due. Strangely, his sweep of Ros' desk had turned up nothing personal; no mementoes, no photographs, she had been a ghost in her life. It was for the best, get out quick and leave nothing behind. Over the years, there had been only one desk where he had not completed the ritual; Ruth's. Clearing that desk would have been to acknowledge that she would never return and that had been a hope he could not do without.

A soft voice filtered through his musings.

"Are you alright?"

Ruth stood framed in the doorway as if his thoughts had conjured her. There was something different about her appearance though he couldn't quite pinpoint what it was.

"Is there something you need?"

"Yes, HR needs your signature on these forms."

He crossed over to his desk and she followed behind him as she always did. Placing the papers on the desk, she leant over and showed him where to sign. Her arm brushed his shoulder and a cloud of fragrance enveloped him, a concoction of whatever lotions and unguents she used, always particularly potent early in the morning. She left her finger on the line and he wanted to grab her hand, touch something fresh and alive and shake the spectre of death that clung to him.

"It's just to release her personal effects and files," she explained, assuming that he had paused to read the document.

"I know. I've done this many times."

He scrawled his signature on the papers, keenly aware that she was scrutinising him. Ordinarily, he would welcome the opportunity to look into her eyes but not today. It was easier to lock away the pain by being a closed man. He moved the papers towards her but she didn't leave. Her presence was comforting and irritating at the same time. He vacillated between telling her to leave and wanting her to stay by his side. She cleared her throat.

"About Ros' funeral-"

"I'm sure whatever you've decided is fine."

"Did you want to do the reading?"

"No."

His answer came out far harsher than he intended and he could tell by her lack of response that his tone had wounded her. She stepped away and he instantly wanted her to come back. The faint rustle of her skirt was her only reply as she left the office, the door sliding closed behind her.

The window framed her as she moved across the Grid, walking towards Deborah Langham. How could that woman still be here when so many others gone had before her? Of what they were talking about, he had no idea. He was content to stay in his office and let her deal with the intricacies of Human Resources. His throat was scratchy and dry, the after effect of swallowed grief. A decanter of scotch sat in the corner, patiently waiting to be of service whenever he needed it. It was too early in the morning. Besides, he had made a pact with himself to ease off the drink. His attempt to find oblivion after losing Ros had failed, the amount alcohol needed to numb the pain had increased exponentially with each passing death. He would end up succumbing to cirrhosis of the liver while all his agents had gone down fighting. He drummed his fingers on the desktop, the scotch silently calling his name. He distracted himself by flipping through a file. Turning his wrist, he glanced at his watch. He would have to leave his office at some point. Setting his shoulders straight, he stood and walked out onto the Grid.

His heels tapped ominously as he passed the scurrying HR insects and, not for the first time, he wished he hadn't given up wearing a waistcoat. That extra layer of tailored fabric always served to intimidate and insulate, creating an added buffer against the fray of the world. He resorted to adjusting his tie instead. Rounding the corner into the briefing room, he came upon Lucas and Tariq in the middle of a conversation. He looked around the table, his eyes alighting on each empty chair in turn. The room echoed with loss. He ran his hand over his face as if the motion could wipe away everything that had gone on before.

Tariq looked up at him, his eyes young and uncluttered. "Where's Ruth?"

Harry waved his hand in the direction of the Grid. "She's dealing with..." He didn't know how to complete the sentence.

"We can wait." Lucas relaxed back into his chair.

"And sit here making painful small talk with the two of you? We'll start without her."

The two men shared a look but Harry ignored it. He sat down and opened the file folder in front of him.

"In rather Sisyphean fashion, we've been giving the task of overseeing the former Home Secretary's funeral. There will be a number of dignitaries present-"

As he spoke, Ruth hurried through the door, a large pile of folders in her arms. She deposited the files on the table, the top one sliding off, a piece of paper coming loose and floating down to land on Harry's shoe. It reminded him of that first day when she had stumbled into his life, wide-eyed and innocent. He had not thought she would last a week yet here she was years later and at the same time nothing at all like that young woman. She was more assured, wiser, the spark of effusive innocence doused by the Service. His nostalgia-tinged thoughts fled as he leant over to pick up the paper, giving a slight grimace as he handed it to her.

"As I was saying, we'll be monitoring Andrew Lawrence's funeral. There will be a number of politicians in attendance, rumours that the Pakistani Prime Minister wants to come. Ruth, I'm going to need you to acquire a full list of attendees as well as a rolling threat assessment."

"Why us, Harry?" Lucas asked. "We're stretched thin as it is."

I think it's more of a probationary call, as the Home Secretary was lost on our watch." Harry closed his eyes. "My watch."

"It was all of us, Harry," Ruth asserted.

He nodded in her direction. "We need to make sure any remaining tentacles of Nightingale are, if not severed, at least exposed."

Ruth pulled out a file containing her notes. "Russell Price and Sarah Caufield," she paused for a moment but did not look at Lucas, "are gone but we could be dealing with a Hydra."

"We're going back through the guest list at Basel," said Tariq "See if we can make any more connections there."

"I think our prime objective should be to cut off the money," Ruth continued. "The six billion that was transferred to Pakistan has now vanished."

"Do we have any word on Hans Lindemann?" Lucas asked.

"We still have the bugs in his office that you planted," said Tariq.

There was a sighting of him on this man's yacht." Ruth produced a picture from her file. "Italian financier, Antonio Romaldi."

Lucas took the picture from her, his eyebrow raised as he observed the scantily clad women surrounding the man. "Obviously, he needed a little vacation after his failed bid for geopolitical realignment."

"We don't know if it has failed." Harry tapped his fingers on the table. "It may still be ongoing. And we have no concrete trail to him."

"Innocent people don't leave the country," said Lucas.

"We don't know who all the players are so we need to keep this as contained as possible," Harry cautioned.

"We're going to have to pull from other sections," said Lucas.

"Agreed. Only for the funeral, not for any investigation into Nightingale." Harry nodded. "Lucas, I'm instating you as acting Section Chief until we sort out our personnel shortage."

"I can do the job, Harry"

"We'll see..."

Ruth indicated the pile of folders. "I've got possible candidates here."

Harry eyed the pile with suspicion as if the papers held poison. "We don't have time to wade through the detritus sent from HR."

"We have to rebuild the section," Ruth pointed out.

"I am well aware of that." His fingers closed in on one another as he held in his anger.

"We never replaced Jo,"

"I know the needs of my own bloody section!" His fist came down on the table with a resounding thud.

Ruth jumped as the table shook. The room was unnaturally quiet, his words reverberating in the silence.

"Getting angry at Ruth is not going to bring anyone back," Lucas said calmly.

"It's fine, Lucas." She busied herself with her papers, looking down at her notes and refusing to look at Harry.

Harry clenched his jaw. He had no idea why he had snapped at Ruth other than the fact that she was there. In the ever-dwindling circle of people he could trust, she was his most valued and should be treated accordingly but his anger had a fuel of its own and it would not let him apologise. The best tactic was always to concede nothing.

"Lucas, set up an operation file and get some eyes on the church, take Tariq if you need to." He rose from his chair, an ember of anger still smouldering in the pit of his belly, looking for a target to burn. If they wanted to rebuild the team, so be it. "I'm going to need a short list of candidates on my desk by tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!" Lucas sat up in his chair. "That's a bit tight."

"If you can't handle it..." Harry gathered up his files to leave.

"I'll help you," Ruth quietly volunteered.

Harry turned to her, taking her offer to help as a slight against his authority. "You have your own job."

"We need to help each other." Her voice remained steady as she looked up at him. "We're a team, Harry."

He battled the urge to tell her that it was not a democracy, he was the leader, and his decisions were final. A small voice in the back of his head cautioned that it was better to leave; she had born enough of his anger that day. He directed his fury into his stride, leaving the occupants of the room with nothing more than the echo of his angry heels. He had every right to be angry. He had lost his best officer, the one person so closely aligned with his thinking that they shared the same mind. It was of little solace that he had told her as much, the first time he had lost her during that whole Yalta debacle. How dare she leave him again? Damn her stubbornness and her refusal to desert Andrew Lawrence. Circling amongst the rage that he felt at Ros, the Service, the world in general, was an inchoate anger at Ruth and for the life of him, he couldn't figure the reason for it.

He walked back into his office, greeted by the incessant blinking light of his phone, and immediately lost himself down the rabbit hole of voice messaging.

...

The pen in his hand stopped when the growl of his stomach became too loud to ignore. He glanced at his watch. It was well past dinnertime. The Grid sat in half darkness, dotted by the occasional desk lamp. He leant back in his chair, rubbing his neck. Odd, she hadn't come to him as she usually did, to see how he was fairing, to talk him out of his anger. That's what the old Ruth would have done, or rather the young Ruth. This Ruth was not as predictable. If he were a more reflective man, he might think that could be the reason he was angry. She was not the woman he wanted her to be. But that would take a level of introspection he was not ready to delve into. That sort of self-analyse would require an entire bottle of scotch.

He walked out into the quiet of the Grid, the only sound Tariq diligently tapping away at his keyboard. The light was still on at her desk so she had not gone home yet. The top of her desk was littered with worn down pencils, scraps of paper covered with illegible writing and a half-empty cup of tea. A tiny jar sat near the edge of the desk and he picked it up, rolling it over in his palm, the faint scent of berries reaching his nostrils. Makeup, perhaps? It had been quite some time since he had encountered that sort of paraphernalia. The entire space contained little clues about Ruth, a stark contrast to the emptiness of Ros' desk.

The sound of voices came from the briefing room and he went to investigate. As he neared the door to the room, he heard Lucas' low voice, answered by a soft laugh from Ruth. He stopped outside the door overcome by a spate of irrational jealousy. He should be the one to make her laugh. Of course, the likelihood of that happening after the way he had treated her today, after all the sadness they had accumulated between them from days past, was depressingly small. He entered the room. The table was covered with the file folders from earlier that morning, Lucas and Ruth sitting side by side, deliberating over their contents. They both looked up when they heard him enter.

"Anything the matter?" Lucas asked.

"It's late," he pointed out.

"We have a deadline."

"I'm willing to extend it in the interest of not burning out the members of the section I still have."

Tariq came up behind Harry. "Lucas, Six is on the phone for you."

"Right." Lucas rose and strode out of the room.

Ruth had remained quiet during the exchange, focusing her attention on rearranging the contents of a folder. He walked up to where she sat and leant back against the table, stretching his legs, settling himself in as he crossed his arms.

"Any potential in that pile?"

"A few." Her fingers remained busy sifting and sorting.

"I'm sorry about earlier."

She nodded and continued to align a stack of papers.

"I didn't mean to be curt. It was uncalled for."

"It's fine, really." She flipped through the pile, organising the folders in an order known only to her.

Her ability to find objects to divert her attention when faced with anything remotely personal fascinated him. She stood up, the motion bringing her body closer to his and he found her proximity reassuring. He had missed her presence during the day and he quickly searched for a way to recapture it.

"Could I buy you a drink?"

The words fell from his mouth completely unpremeditated, surprising even him. Her back stiffened and her hands stilled on top of the folders. He had her attention at least. The words continued to come of their own accord.

"As an apology."

She bit her lip in thought and kept her eyes lowered, her eyelashes casting dark shadows against her cheek. She was a shadow now, dressed all in black. Not quite black, dark blue. That was it, her clothes were different. The fit of her jacket outlined her form and her belt was cinched tight at her waist giving definition to her hips. Her lips were darker, perhaps from what was in that little jar. These little discoveries made him want to know more and a familiar wave of longing ran through him, pulling him towards her. Since her return, he had not made any overtures towards her, apart from his words on the bench after Jo's death, fearing that once he set himself on that course he would not be able to change direction. Their relationship had existed on some tenuous plane that he dared not disturb. She, on the other hand, had twice bestowed touches of comfort and had offered to go for a drink with him after Blake's resignation. The offer he was making now, he told himself, was merely an extension of hers.

As he waited for his response, he dipped his head towards her, his thigh close to the file where her hands lay. A warmth stole through his tired bones, easing into his chest, coating his once dry throat, giving his voice a mellow quality.

"The apology isn't complete unless it's accepted."

She looked up at him and tilted her head.

"Alright."

It was all she said. Plain and simple but it was enough for him.

"Come by my office when you're done."

He pushed himself away from the table and headed out the door and down the corridor. With each stride, the tension eased from his body, his face relaxing and, for the first time in days, the corners of his lips tipped in a tiny smile.