She knocks before entering, her concession to the gravity of the occasion. As expected, Harry is seated behind his desk, a glass of neat whiskey on the desk in front of him, the deepest of deep sorrow in his eyes as he lifts them to hers, acknowledging her presence by lifting his glass towards her in a toast.

"To absent friends," he says, before taking a healthy - or in his case, distinctly unhealthy - swig of his drink. "Would you like one?"

Despite not much liking whiskey, she believes Harry needs company at this sad and distressing time, so she nods, before sitting in the chair across the desk from his own. He lifts himself wearily from his chair, the tiredness emanating from him like cheap perfume. She doesn't know if he will survive another loss, another senseless death of one of his team. He sloshes whiskey into a fresh glass, and then walks around his desk to hand it to her. Expecting him to return to his own chair, she is surprised when he remains near her, leaning back to rest his backside against the desk. She glances up from the glass to note that his leg is only inches from her left knee. If only the circumstances were different, and they were here sharing a drink because of a victory, rather than another tragic loss.

A random thought crosses her mind, and Ruth smiles into her glass.

"Care to share?" Harry asks, and when she looks up, she is relieved to see a tired and lopsided smile on his face.

Ruth drops her eyes back to her glass. "I was thinking," she begins, "about something she said to me only a week or so ago."

They both know of whom she speaks. When one of their team dies in tragic circumstances, the remainder of the team speak of them without mentioning their name, perhaps in deference to their sacrifice, or - as Ruth believes - to continue living in a state of denial, since the loss of one of their own is just too painful to acknowledge, too senseless to contemplate for longer than a few seconds at a time.

Ruth lifts her eyes to see him watching her closely, his expression sad, but hopeful. "As you know, she and I were not terribly close," she begins. "I'd not forgiven her for ... turning me in, back before I ... left." Harry nods, takes another sip of his drink, and then continues to watch her. "She said - and these were her exact words: `If I had my way, I'd lock you and Harry in a room for a few days, and not let you out until you'd sorted your shit.'" When Harry's eyebrows lift, Ruth drops her eyes. She suddenly wishes she'd kept that recent embarrassing exchange to herself. The very idea of them being locked in a room together for any period of time is at once both exciting and terrifying.

When he says nothing, Ruth lifts her eyes to see him smiling. "Wise words," he says. "Had she lived she'd probably have done it, too." Ruth shakes her head, looking towards the door - anywhere but into his eyes. "She was an observant woman," he continues quietly. "Nothing got past her."

"I know you'll miss her dreadfully," Ruth says, hoping to guide the conversation into safer territory.

"I will. I miss them all." Harry contemplates his glass for a moment, tipping it sideways to swirl the liquid around and around, but never enough to spill. "I miss every one of them, and will until my last breath on earth, but ... not every distressing loss has been brought about by death."

Ruth lifts her eyes to see him gazing at her, his expression distant, unreadable. "You mean like ... divorce?"

"Yes. My divorce was like a mortal blow, although looking back on it, it was what I deserved." As though stalling for time, Harry takes a large gulp of his drink, savouring it slowly as he swirls it around in his mouth before swallowing. Then he turns towards Ruth, his eyes gazing directly into hers. "When you left London, it was ... akin to a death. I was certain I'd never see you again, and not being able to contact you was ..." He sighs heavily, taking another sip, and swallowing it quickly. "It was worse than had you died. It was excruciating. To salve the pain, I buried myself in my work."

Ruth drops her eyes. When she'd entered Harry's office, her intent had been to offer him some company and comfort. She'd wanted him to know that she cared, had cared for Ros, and still cared for him. She'd not expected this, and she's not altogether sure she's ready for it, but she has to be ready. She must be ready.

"Harry," she begins, eyes downcast, "I need you to know that, despite the way it appeared when I returned to London, there wasn't a day when I didn't think of you, wondering were you all right, and hoping you were still alive."

Feeling a movement in Harry's body, she looks up to see him slowly shaking his head, his eyes on his glass, now empty. Then he quickly stands upright, and strides to the cabinet for the whiskey bottle. "A top up?" he asks, turning to her. When she shakes her head, he sloshes some more into his glass, although Ruth is relieved that its only around two fingers worth, and not a full glass.

When he returns to her side of the desk, Harry carefully places his glass on the desk top, rests his bum on the edge of the desk, and folds his arms. The look he gives her is direct, confronting. "You see," he begins, "for me it was like this, Ruth. Unless I was occupied in conducting an operation, I thought of you every hour of every day. Each night I'd go to bed thinking of you, hoping you were well and happy, and each morning I awoke regretting that you were not beside me. I did more than think of you. I longed for you. I missed you, and I thought of you with love. So, you see what I mean when I say that losing you was like a death." Unable to look at her, he reaches for his glass and takes a sip, before replacing it on the desk.

Ruth again feels his eyes on her, but she just can't look at him. It is only now that she understands the level of hurt he'd been harbouring when she'd returned to London accompanied by George and Nico. "I'm sorry," is all she is able to say. She remembers him asking her whether she loved George, and she'd not answered him, not because she didn't know the answer, but because she did, and that had made her feel incredibly guilty. Ever since that day she'd been offloading that guilt onto Harry, when all along the guilt had been hers alone to carry. She had lived with a man she hadn't loved, and the guilt had almost eaten her alive.

Feeling that Harry is about to move away from her, she turns towards him, intending to - somehow - close the gap between them.

Then his desk phone rings, and he quickly moves to the other side of the desk to answer it. Seeing the moment as an opportunity, Ruth stands, and catching his eyes, she points towards the door, conveying her intention to leave. Harry is already in conversation with the Foreign Secretary, but he shakes his head and points to her chair, motioning for her to stay.

Ruth does as he suggests, grabbing her glass from on top of the desk, and taking a careful sip. The whiskey is warming, and she can understand why it is Harry relies upon it for comfort. Whiskey doesn't ask questions, doesn't scold him when he drinks too much, and never judges him, although when morning comes it no doubt mocks him.

Harry's phone call is over in less than five minutes, and he returns to perch himself on his desk close to her chair. This time his leg rests against her knee, and Ruth wonders is the move deliberate. "I'm free to go home," he says quietly. "All loose ends have been tied for the night, but I'll be visiting Jocelyn Myers in the morning." When Ruth nods, he watches her for a long moment, before again sighing heavily. "About us, Ruth -" Ruth opens her mouth to interrupt, but he is prepared, and lifts a hand to stop her speaking. "I know you no longer love me. I accept that. I just need you to know that ... should you ever change your mind, I'll be here ... where I always am ... waiting for you."

Ruth recognises this as her cue, her opportunity to put things right, but she is so shocked, so confronted by his confession that she is unable to say anything at all. She watches him, her mouth open ready to speak, but no words come. Then she glances down to where he has moved his leg a little so that it no longer touches hers. That small gesture, Harry's attempt to put distance between them, leaves her bereft. She reaches out with her hand and places it on his knee, very gently pulling his leg closer until it rests against her knee. She is relieved when he doesn't resist.

She looks up to find his eyes on her, their dark intensity reaching out to touch her timidity. Then she finds her voice. "I never once said I didn't love you, Harry."

They watch one another for a long moment, he absorbing the meaning behind her words, while she braces herself for his response.

Following her lead, he doesn't respond with words. With one hand he reaches out and places his palm against her face, cupping her cheek, and then, when she doesn't object, he runs his thumb across her chin, lifting it slowly towards her mouth, where he glances it back and forth across the flesh of her bottom lip.

Before she can talk herself out of it, Ruth stands, and moves so that she is standing between Harry's legs. The hand with which he'd been caressing her face is already at her back, preventing her from moving away. His eyes hold hers so that she can't look away.

"Is this all right with you?" she asks, and before he can respond, she places her lips on his. Her hands are grasping his shoulders, and it shouldn't surprise her that he feels sturdy and strong beneath her hands. She feels his other hand sliding around her back. They are in a loose embrace, and she is kissing him. It is a soft, gentle, careful kiss, and his full lips fit against her own. They are both tired, overwrought, and perhaps their confessions have come from shared grief, rather than love.

Feeling his lips parting beneath hers, Ruth goes with the kiss, and leans in closer, so that their chests touch. His tongue seeks hers, and she meets his with her own, a surge of warmth emerging from deep inside her body.

Then everything changes.

Without warning, Harry pulls out of the kiss, and after winding his arms more firmly around her, he presses his forehead against her shoulder. Believing he is after a cuddle, she pulls him closer still, which is when she feels his body shuddering against her, a quiet keening coming from deep in his throat. It is then she realises that his moment of letting his guard down had opened a door to his grief.

"Let it out," she says quietly, her lips against his ear. "Let it all out."

Harry's quiet grieving continues for some minutes, and Ruth holds him throughout, while his wide, rock solid shoulders shake under her hands. Eventually he pulls away, wiping his eyes with his fingers, while avoiding her eyes.

"Harry," she says, her fingers cupping his cheeks, "look at me."

When he does she sees a mix of pain and embarrassment. "I think I might have drunk too much," he says quietly.

"No, I think you've lost too much. You can't hold that in forever."

Harry nods, and when he takes a clean handkerchief from his jacket pocket, Ruth steps away and gives him a moment to blow his nose and generally tidy himself, while she takes their glasses to the cabinet, and places them on a shelf.

Nothing more is said until they are sitting in Harry's car in the basement car park. Without saying a word they have agreed to go home together, although what that means exactly they haven't yet discussed. Harry is about to start the car when he takes his hand from the key, and leans back in the seat, turning to look at her.

Ruth turns her head to face him, seeing his sad eyes watching her closely. "I think that we need to spend the night ... together," he says carefully, "but given everything that happened today, perhaps we need to just ..."

".. sleep," Ruth finishes for him. "We're both tired and ..."

"Overwrought?"

Ruth nods. "I understand what you mean," she says. "Our first time ... making love ... shouldn't be overshadowed by death."

Ruth is surprised when Harry smiles. It is a smile laced with weariness and sadness, but still a smile. They need to be together, and they need to provide one another with the comfort of their presence.

"Exactly," he says, then he starts the car and drives out of the car park, heading his car towards his house.