Roots
Author's Note: In my mind, Harry was at Leo's funeral.
Disclaimer: Property of the BBC.
There is nothing intrinsically 'Harry' about his desk. There is a computer of course, a mess of files from the post-mortem he's currently writing up, a telephone and a text-book on fungi but that's about it.
His secretary, Allie, has decorated her ply-board cubicle with hundreds of postcards of British landmarks and famous scenery as well as posters of a thin teenage boy with red eyes and pale skin the colour of a corpse because he's 'proper fit' apparently.
She's originally from Manchester though so why she has a mouse mat in the shape of a London phone box is anyone's guess.
Everyone else in the department has at least something; photos of their children graduating or a comedy mug or even just a couple of concert tickets pinned up, something to make their desk theirs.
Harry's desk looks like he's just here temporarily and not staying for any great length of time. As if he's reluctant to make himself comfortable.
The thing is, he's been working here for more than six months. If his short, agonising trip back to London last week has shown him anything, it's that the city has managed just fine without him, thank you.
So maybe it's time he makes it look like he's actually intending to stay here?
Sighing, Harry rests his cardboard cup of coffee on his desk for a moment whilst he shrugs off his coat. It's drizzling outside. The air is cold and wet and his cheeks are stinging at the contrast of coming in from outside to his warm office.
It is his first day back at work since Leo's funeral. He has only been off for a few days but with everything that has happened it feels like longer. He doesn't know whether he is relieved to be back at work or not. Whether he is glad of some normality to occupy his mind or whether he feels like it's an insult to Leo to carry on with the daily grind as if nothing has happened. It is this thought that has been bobbing up and down on the surface of his mind ever since he woke up at 5am.
It is for this reason that he is at work more than an hour earlier than he has to be. He had taken a slow wander in to work, stopping off at the Italian café for a large Americano to takeout on the way.
Even now, six months on he hasn't got used to the feeling of watching New York wake up around him. The hustle and bustle, the smell of exhaust fumes and street meat, the cracked sidewalk, the cars and so, so many people who all have somewhere they need to be…
He takes a mouthful of coffee as he sits down and flicks his computer on.
Leaning back, he taps in his username and password on autopilot and waits for the system to log him in.
He casts a casual glance around his office to refamiliarise himself with his surroundings. Everything is exactly as he left it five days ago, apart from the very fine specks of dust gathered on top of his monitor and his bin has obviously been emptied but that's it.
It really does look like this office doesn't belong to anyone in particular. It looks like it's in use of course but no, there's nothing in here to make it feel like it's his. There's something quite forlorn and pathetic about that, really.
He looks at his coat hanging from the back of the door, thoughtfully. If he's right, and he thinks he is, then he's left something in the inside pocket...
He crosses his office to the door but before he can get to it, the door opens, inwards and a tiny blonde almost walks into him. Backwards.
She lets out a muffled squeak of surprise at the sight of Harry. She can't say much else, though as she has clamped a brown paper bag between her teeth. He can only suppose that the reason for this is that she has a handbag swinging from her right elbow, a sports bag over her left shoulder, a large coffee in her right hand and a polystyrene pot of something labelled 'Syrup Oatmeal' in her left. He's guessing that she had to bump the door open with her hip.
"Morning Allie," he says with a slight snigger, holding out his hand for her to drop the paper bag into it and raising his eyebrows at the wet saliva half-circle at the top. "How are you?"
Allie hurries to his desk and abandons the coffee and oatmeal on the first surface she can find, waving her hands about in a frenzy.
"Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow! I think I've burnt my palms off but other than that I'm all right," she says, dramatically, sitting herself down in the empty seat opposite Harry's and letting her bags fall to the floor with two loud thumps. "What on earth are you doing in this early?"
She eyes him suspiciously over her coffee cup as if she's half-expecting him to keel over.
"Jet Lag," says Harry, darkly, placing the paper bag in front of her with a flourish and walking back around his desk to sit down.
Allie looks down, her expression uncharacteristically sombre.
"How was it?" she asks gently.
Harry takes a sip of his own coffee and nods, slowly, searching for the right words.
"Hard," he decides at last, in a strangled sort of voice. "The hardest thing I think I've ever had to do in a very long time."
Allie nods, looking uncomfortable.
"You can talk to me, you know. If you want?" she offers brightly. "I mean, I know I don't know him..."
Harry tries to look vaguely like he's considering this offer, even when he knows for a fact that he will never, ever want to talk to her about Leo.
"I know," he says gratefully, crinkling his eyes at her. "Thank you."
Allie shrugs, embarrassed and shoves the paper bag across the table at him to draw an end to that conversation. "Here, you, I got you your breakfast. It's a surprise Welcome Back present," she tells him. "Just for today, mind. You can get lost if you think I'm doing this for you every day."
Harry snorts at her typical blunt, down-to-earth manner and peers into the bag. The inside is spotted with translucent spots of grease from a flaky Danish pastry about the same size as a CD with a shiny glaze and a heavy coating of soft icing sugar.
"Aaah thank you, You really didn't have to," he reminds her, feeling slightly touched at her thoughtfulness. He tears off a large chunk and bites into it. He hadn't thought he was that hungry until now.
"Nah, I know I didn't," she agrees. "But I'm just that pleased to have you back," she explains getting to her feet. "I've had no one to wind up all week."
Harry rolls his eyes at her and clicks open his Outlook as Allie gathers up her breakfast and clip-clops to the door in her impossibly high heels. No doubt he'll have about fifty emails to sift through.
"I'll come back in about half an hour to go through your diary, right?" she says loudly over her shoulder as she walks out.
Harry gives her the thumbs-up, his mouth full of pastry, the icing sticking to his teeth and gums like sugary putty.
His taste buds complain at the sudden sweetness overload and he takes another swig of coffee to balance it out.
Go through his diary? No, he still isn't used to having a secretary, either. He finishes his breakfast whilst deleting half a page of useless emails; service updates from the IT desk and copies of the minutes of the last finance meeting.
His eyes keep straying back to his coat so he wipes the grease and sugar off his hands as best he can with a paper napkin and crosses over to his coat.
The first pocket he tries is empty; his fingers brush nothing but the silky lining. He can't quite fit his hand into his other pocket; there's a wad of folded-up, thick card wedged inside, nearly straining the seams. Definitely this pocket, then.
He pulls it out and unfolds it at his desk. On the front were the words, "A great soul serves everyone all the time. It brings us together again and again." He had read them somewhere before. He didn't know who would have chosen to have those words on the front of the Order of Service but he knew that it definitely wouldn't have been Nikki. They weren't her style.
Harry smooths it out with a lump in his throat and pins it to his bare noticeboard. It's a memento of a great man and good friend and...a time he has left behind.