Set a few months after the end of series 6, before the beginning of series 7. I haven't read the spoilers on Spooks Central, but have read Hermione's interview and Wylie's blog, as well as the BBC news.
This is my very own POV of what I would like to see at the end of episode 7:1, but sadly, this will NOT happen.
For my angel.
Nothing has Changed
Nothing has changed.
The same whirring sound of the first pods. Three steps. The second row of pods. A final whirr, and then the street. The sound of cars, buses, and the passers-by: a whole life in a City that never seems to sleep. It all reminds him that there is a normal life within his reach...so close and yet so far from his own.
The wind sweeping off the river causes him to raise his shoulders in a reflex to fight the freezing sensation. He frowns. The winter has come early this year, with the air already turning colder.
Same dark blue coat with black velvet on the collar. Same white shirt, grey suit, grey tie; grey as the hair he'd noticed that morning while looking at his reflection in the mirror as he shaved...the grey hair he didn't want to see, until now. Black scarf, black leather gloves, black shiny shoes; black as the colour of his still grieving heart.
Hands in his pockets, head bowed, he walks without knowing where his feet will take him.
Another day with business as usual. Another cell stopped: "Five men held under the Terrorism Act in the Birmingham area," said the press. Proof, once more, that the country is safer with his team working day and night to protect its people. He is proud of what he's doing...of what he has done. It is his life to serve and protect the country; the life he chose so many years ago.
Nothing has changed.
Yet, like so often after a particularly long and stressful operation, he seems to have lost the meaning of it. After the satisfaction of being so useful in his work, the void in his life envelops him like the London's fog. With a sense of self-derision, he ponders his own words: "Adrenaline withdrawal," he was so quick to say. Half a smile draws on his face at the memory of it.
A few months ago, when he was tied to a chair, looking at Ros' lifeless body, he thought that it was finally over; that he could not bear it one more time. The list was too long. Danny, Fiona, Colin, Zaf: dead. Zoe and Ruth: forced into exile. It was a price too hard to pay. At least Tom had made the right choice. At least he was the one living a normal life, with Christine and their two children.
Eventually, as ever, he had coped. After Ros' funeral, he and Adam had gone back to Harry's house for a drink. The drink had turned into several, until finally the whole bottle had been consumed. That's when Adam had finally opened up to him. He needed someone to hear his confession: he should not have taken his relationship with Ana so far; he had been blind to Ros' love. It was then that Adam admitted what he had done for Ros, by switching the syringes. Ros was not dead. Dozing on his couch, knocked by the alcohol, Harry had felt such relief at those words. He knew he had already forgiven her faults; after all, she was his outstanding officer. Now, since that drunken evening, she was proving it in the mission he had given her, far away from Thames House.
He walks slowly across Lambeth Bridge, hoping that something, someone, will help him to make a sense of his life.
Nothing has changed.
He is now on the other side of the bridge. He raises his head and looks at the building in front of him: the one where Christine Dale lived. He remembers Tom's relationship with Christine, and their departure. Then, at that moment, the thought occurs to him that, as sad as it had been, at least, like Tom, he was not alone. Someone was working alongside him, sharing a part of his life, and, with a look or a smile, she would always bring him comfort and warmth. Someone who cared so much for him, that she had left her country...her job...him...to save him. Once more, he feels the uncomfortable prickle of guilt still deeply embedded in his mind.
He stays there for a few seconds, momentarily lost in his thoughts, before turning left, towards the Embankment. He crosses the street, a few steps, and he is now on the quiet path that always reminds him of her.
He must do something about his loneliness. He cannot stay like this, erring in his own life, behaving like a ghost, having only a bottle of whisky and a dog waiting for him at home.
He thought it would be possible, at his age, to live entirely for his work. He thought that he didn't need the fuss of a loving relationship anymore. At least he has managed to start building a new relationship with Catherine and Graham; the poor kids he had never been able to love properly. That friendship is a bonus. He can live with a few friends: Adam, Malcolm, and Connie. Connie has been close to him for the last few months. He knows he can rely on her. She is always there for him when he needs her: she was the one who went with him to the Palace for his knighthood. So he is not alone, just lonely.
Maybe it's time; maybe now he has to find the time and the courage to trace her. Maybe it's time to admit that, two years after she's gone, he still loves her. Whatever she has done, wherever she is, even if she is married and living a new life in the real world, just like Tom, he has to know. Maybe she is still waiting for him, or maybe not. Whatever her situation, he cannot stand that uncertainty anymore. He needs to move on.
He leans on the wall of the Embankment, and his forearms and hands join in some kind of unsaid prayer as he watches the river. He hates feeling so vulnerable and can't bear his own weakness; he doesn't want to loose himself in self-pity. Shaking his head to get rid of the grey mood, he stands up, and resumes his stroll along the Embankment.
Something has to change.
He is a spook. A good one. One of the best in the country. He will look for her, searching in every corner of the globe until he finds her. That quest will be the reason why he wakes up in the morning and goes back home at night. He will ask Malcolm, and probably Connie too, for some help, and he will find her.
He is now near the bench...their bench...and he smiles as he notices that no one is sitting there...as if his guardian angel knew he needed to sit there today, to feel her presence.
He sits and closes his eyes, right hand on his lap, left hand on the wooden slats, breathing in the cold air. Visions of her smile appear behind his tightly closed eyelids, and he hears her voice softly speaking his name.
"Harry."
Her blue grey eyes are haunting him. The memory of her hand squeezing his arm seems to be burned onto his flesh. The taste of her lips on his is the sweetest memory of his days and nights.
Three years of a working relationship turning into friendship, and then friendship turning into something bigger, much bigger, are playing in slow motion in his head, and he is oblivious to the rest of the world around him. He has not noticed the chimes of Big Ben resonating through the city. He has not even noticed that someone is now sat beside him on the bench. He is still lost in his thoughts. He feels proud that this trip down memory lane has helped him make some progress, finally acknowledging that no woman has been able to take her place in his heart...that he has not been able to turn the page.
It's a starting point...admitting his own feelings that nothing has changed, and that he must do something about it: something has to change. He feels a calming sense of relief, and muses that he is now at peace with the world, and his life; he is ready for another day to come. Tonight, he will get home a bit earlier, and work from the beginning. He knows that Zaf had arranged her passage to France. He will start his quest from there.
Eyes wide shut, a half smile appears on his face, and he feels suddenly giddy at the prospect of one day standing in front of her again. His smile broadens as he realises this is the most vivid daydream of her he has ever had. He dreams that someone has gently rested a hand on his. He turns his own gloved hand upwards and squeezes the fingers, desperate to keep that wonderful feeling for a couple of seconds more. Then he feels a cold hand on his face, gently, softly stroking his cheek.
He keeps his eyes tightly closed. This dream is so real that he doesn't want to break it. The caresses on his face make him shiver. His heart is pounding in his chest, his breathing is heavier, and he can't hold back the moan escaping from his throat; the same desperate sigh he breathed out when she left.
The soft fingers are now exploring his lips, and caressing his hair. Then, finally, the perfect dream... he hears her voice, whispering.
"Harry, look at me! I'm here."
Something has changed.
BRING RUTH BACK Campaign