Two part story consisting of missing scenes from the "gardening leave" period between 9:8 and 10:1. Inspired by the fact that Ruth thinks she and Harry have had worse nights out together than a black tie do shared with Harry's former Russian rival and his incredibly glamorous very disloyal wife.

All the usual disclaimers apply. Please be warned of the odd swearword.

We've Had Worse

It is August in London and Harry Pearce has been on leave for three weeks. The last time he had so much time off work he was running around Gaza, trying to find his documentary-filming daughter after a bomb attack.

This time there is no such dramatic distraction. His house is clean. He and his dog are remarkably well-walked. According to his doctor (the private one that the Service knows nothing about) his blood-pressure is lower than it's been since 2001. In keeping with the evidence that it is apparently not his time yet, and in preparation for tough times to come, he has shut the whiskey away in the drinks cabinet and restocked his freezer with a variety of casserole dishes, curries, pasta sauce, and even vegetable soup.

He has finally watched all the episodes of Sharpe and Hornblower ever filmed. He has reread battered paperback versions of 56 Sherlock Holmes short stories. County Championship cricket scores are scrutinised daily, and many hours have been spent watching the test side pulverise India. He is such a frequent visitor to the BBC news website that each new headline is greeted with something perilously close to joy.

He is worried, he is lonely, and he is bored. It's a toxic combination. So much so that on the morning of August 8th he opens the kitchen door, regards the fine weather with a jaundiced eye and pulls the key for the garden shed off its hook near the fridge. Just as he is about to start surveying his domain, and deciding if any of it needs weeding, the doorbell rings.

'Hi.'

'Hello, Ruth. Should you be here?'

'Yes, actually. At least there's no reason why I shouldn't be. The Home Secretary phoned me himself to tell me I'd got the all clear. He sends his regards.'

Unutterably pleased to see her, and equally determined to hide it, Harry casually holds the door open to invite her in. 'Did he tell you anything else?'

She shrugs apologetically and wanders down the corridor towards the kitchen, eyes darting around, busily collecting new data. 'Nothing you shouldn't already know. Tribunal in three weeks time; you're advised to have legal counsel present; he's still busy trying to pull strings.'

Harry tilts his head and pouts. 'How nice.'

'Are you busy?'

'I was thinking about doing some gardening.'

'Oh, God. Is it that bad?'

Only Ruth could understand exactly how dark things have got if he's breaking out the hand fork and trug basket. He can't help laughing. The unpractised bark and wheeze bring colour to his cheeks, lightening his heart by a hundredweight or two.

'What do you want?' Harry asks eventually, once they both have mugs of tea in their hands. They are standing on the terrace at the rear of his house (terrace, not patio, he has reminded her dryly).

'I've been thinking about things. About how I didn't really appreciate the way you tried to get through to me. Neither of us being emotionally forthright, and all that. I just couldn't understand why you were bothering. You'd been so angry! Not that you didn't have a right to be, although snapping at me for weeks on the Grid wasn't exactly professional ...'

'You're beginning to witter, Ruth.'

'I'm trying to speak,' she explains, as if such a happening is monumental. In her case, after the last few months, perhaps it is.

Harry mentally kicks himself. They are not at work now, there's no pressure to cut to the chase. 'I'm sorry. Please keep trying.'

'I want to say I'm sorry,' she replies. 'I really didn't know that Albany is non-functional. I feel terrible for being so unkind to you.'

It's an unexpected confession. He drinks his tea in silence as he processes her words until he realises she is staring at him, all mirror-eyed and twitchy with nervous expectation.

'The thing that strikes me the most is that even after all this time, you don't appear to know me very well,' he tells her quietly. 'You seem to think I'm liable to make every error in judgment possible.'

'But you have made errors!' she retorts, clasping her mug in front of her chest like a shield. 'You asked me to marry you, for Christ's sake. When we haven't even managed to eat a meal together since I came back to London, let alone anything that would constitute a relationship.'

'That was not an error of judgment, just a terrible case of over-optimism.'

She does her level-best not to smile. 'Harry—'

'The timing wasn't great. The words were dreadful. The feelings, though ... the desire to make you happy ... to be happy—'

'You should have made sure I was happy, and then asked—'

He waves an exasperated hand. 'Well I know that now!'

'You wouldn't let me help you deal with John Bateman. We should have done the thing together.'

'Ruth—'

'No. Listen to me. I was wrong to call you selfish. I was wrong to say that we couldn't ... we can't be more. But you've got to understand that we're in this together. More has to come from your side as well as mine. You've got to be able to trust me just as much as you demand my trust in you.'

'I trust you implicitly. More than anyone else. Ever.'

'Then for goodness sake, show me a bit more respect. Trust yourself to rely on me. You're a pompous, old-fashioned idiot sometimes, but that's no excuse for shutting me out.'

'Of course I respect you! Trying – albeit very unsuccessfully – to protect you from an almighty fuck-up is not the same thing as disregarding your opinion.'

'You could have fooled me.'

'I confronted him as soon as you spoke to me.'

'You let him go when you shouldn't have done. I would have stopped you.'

'I know. And I promise I'll listen to you next time there's a crisis.'

'Prove it.'

'How?'

'Tell me what you fear the most. Right now. Suspended from work and facing a treason charge. Let me help you.'

'Ruth—'

'I mean it, Harry. I'll explain everything. I'll answer all the questions I know you've been dying to ask. How I felt about George and Nico. What it was like when I left England. What it felt like to see you again. But you've got to go first.'

'Why?'

'Because you've been bottling everything up for far longer than I have.'

Harry recognises a crossroads when he's standing at one. He finishes his tea and gazes into the bottom of the mug. 'All right. But this is going to require two things.'

'What?'

'A plate of decent sandwiches, and a bottle of Ardbeg on standby.'

She glances sideways at him and giggles. 'It's ten in the morning!'

He turns to face her and puts a hesitant hand on her shoulder. 'But what a morning it is.'

'So there I was, faced with this entirely obese and sunburnt family from Milton Keynes, who expected me to perform some sort of medical miracle on the son's broken wrist – just because I was stupid enough to reveal the fact that I'm English!'

'What happened?'

'The boy was screaming the house down. The mum was threatening to sue – in between all the swearwords – and the dad just kept slurping away at his bottle of beer. I've rarely been so embarrassed for our nation, and I know just how dirty our foreign policy can be.'

Harry grimaces in sympathy as he chews the last mouthful of his ham and mustard doorstop.

'And then George appeared.'

'Ah.'

'He told the dad they'd be at least two hours, and there was a lovely bar two doors down. He told the mum that she'd have to wait in reception if she didn't shut up, and he told the boy that he could choose the colour of his plaster cast.'

'A knight in shining armour.'

'Yeah. I was rather smitten. I'd been so lonely.'

'I can imagine.'

'I did fall in love. I honestly did. Just not ...'

'Hook, line and sinker, bone deep and completely irrevocable.'

Ruth smiles with relief. 'Yes, that. I loved the life George gave me. He loved having a complete family again.' The smile turns self-depreciating. 'Someone to have the dinner on the table when he got home.'

'I'm glad you weren't alone. I was terrified for you. I used to check the Interpol reports for British females every day. I used to spend Sunday mornings looking at flights on the internet, but I never knew where to go.'

'Oh, Harry.'

'It would have wasted your gesture. Everything you risked.'

'I probably wouldn't have minded, except for Nico.'

'He's a sweet boy. It was nice of him to write to you.'

'He's a thoroughly spoiled brat. Always was. But I was learning how to manage him.'

'And you did fall hook, line and sinker for him.'

She sighs. 'Oh, yes.'

'I'm not sure how to explain how awful a father I've been. I just don't understand how it's possible to feel so much love and yet give it so badly.'

'You've done your best to keep your children safe. You've literally saved Catherine's life, and not many parents can actually say that.'

'But Graham ...'

'There's only so much responsibility you can take. Does Jane beat herself up over him?'

'No! She blames me entirely.'

'I bet that's been really good for his attitude.'

Harry grins. 'I think you might be a tiny bit biased in my favour.'

'Maybe a little bit where Jane is concerned.'

'Ruth?'

'Yes?'

'There are other things I should tell you.'

'I'm sure there are. And one day soon you will.'

'Do you fancy having dinner tonight?'

'Two meals together in one day?'

'Something like that.'

'Where shall we go?'

'There's a nice place in Clapham. I could give them a call?'

'Why not.'

'Have you got any plans for this afternoon?'

'Not really. Catching up on some sleep might be nice.'

'Been busy?'

'Our acting section head is doing her level best to get on top of things, which means a lot of requests for information.'

'So yes, then.'

'Very. She's good. Thorough. Not trying to change things just to make an impression.'

'And the threat level has been decreased.'

'A PR concession post-Osama, and no excuse for slacking off, in her own words.'

'Good.'

'But Beth's gone. She was John Bateman's recruit so she wasn't surprised. She told me she realised he kept her on so there was someone loyal and close he could push into doing his dirty work, if necessary.'

'Do you miss her?'

'I should, but I don't really. She used to eavesdrop on my phone calls, and she never cleaned the bathroom.'

Harry stands up and takes their plates to the sink. He leans against the kitchen worktop and watches Ruth stand too. 'Sleep, then,' he says. 'Dinner at eight?'

She tucks her chair back under the kitchen table with a clatter. 'Lovely.'

'Ruth—'

She picks up her handbag and checks her mobile phone.

'—I don't want to let you out of my sight.'

She puts the phone back in her bag and shoots him one of the burning looks that always make his heart turn over.

'Stay here? You can have a nap in the spare room? Or we could put a film on, and you could have the sofa?'

'What I'd really like to do is sleep in your room.'

His eyes widen. 'Absolutely!'

'But you're under surveillance. And they are going to question our relationship at the tribunal. It's probably best not to fan the flames by drawing the upstairs curtains and not coming out until evening.'

Harry is across the room and standing before Ruth in a flash. 'At the risk of sounding flippant, sod the bloody tribunal!'

She smiles awkwardly. 'We can't, Harry.'

'I'll think of something.'

'You do that. I'm off home.'

He follows her towards the front door, flipping the Yale lock open and stepping out after her. 'I'll pick you up at seven-thirty.'

A flickering glance shows she is aware of the grey Toyota across the street, and the directional microphone they are in all probability pointing at her. 'I'm glad you're doing so well, Harry. Thanks for the tea!'

He raises an eyebrow at her acting. 'Bye, Ruth. See you later.'

Author's note: What Harry fears the most, suspended from work and facing a treason charge, is strictly between him and Ruth ;-)

Part 2 soon. Reviews are, as always, extremely welcome.