"Wait for it."

The words floated to him on a whisper, slipping into his ear, sending a sigh through his veins. A flutter stirred in his dormant heart, chambers opening, one slow beat and then another, falling into a steady rhythm. He inhaled, filling his lungs with an achingly familiar scent, memories blossoming as he suspended his breath willing the sensation to linger. The weight of her body pressed down on his chest, warm and supple, skin against skin. A wave of satisfaction rippled through him and a smile grew on his lips, the last drop of sadness vanishing. He would trade his soul to remain in this place forever. A sound hovered on the edge of his bliss, a buzz, like a fly, pricking at the corners of his contentment. He frowned, willing it away, coaxing the sense of peace to return. Her cheek moved against his, and he turned his head searching for her mouth. So close. Arms leaden with exhaustion, he stirred in an effort to embrace her, but he could not rouse his limbs. The dark shadow of panic eclipsed the sun, and his breath drew sharp in his lungs. Something was wrong. If he did not hold her, she would leave. The sound intruded once more, harsher, threatening to tear her away. No - he would not let her go.

Buzz.

The ring of his mobile cleaved through the layers of sleep, ripping through the gauze of his dream. A moan of despair left his lips and his fingers moved in the air, clutching at the wisps of her image. The fragrance of her skin still filled his nostrils. It was real, it had to be; she was with him.

"Stay with me," he whispered, but it was too late; his entreaty was lost in the darkness of his room.

Technology, cold and unfeeling, had no stake in remembrance. The device rang louder, driving away the last vestiges of her ethereal form. Cold reality stole in and spread across his chest. Contentment vanished giving way to the all familiar ache of loneliness.

The phone buzzed again.

Flinging an arm over his eyes, Harry growled at the intrusion.

"Leave me alone."

The phone did not listen. He knew who it was - Erin Watts, attempting once again to reach him. Let her try, he had been ignoring her calls for days. He was on leave; he didn't have to speak to anyone. The official designation was compassionate leave but the truth of it was there was no compassion to be had in this cruel world. It made no sense. With every other loss, he had successfully buried his grief in his work; careening emotions kept in check by the guardrails of ever demanding national emergencies. This time it was different. He had lost a part of himself – the better part. He had been cut off at the legs, and like Ozymandias he was nothing more than the decay of a colossal wreck. His descent had not happened overnight, in fact, he had prided himself on how quickly he had returned to work, the bindings of self-control completely intact. He ignored the fissures of grief but they grew deeper, pieces falling away. The authority in his voice wavered, the sharp knife of his memory dulled, and the once clear command of his decisions - diluted. Railing at everyone, he had sat in his office and salved his wounds the only way he knew how - excessive amounts of alcohol. Until one morning, still under the influence of the bottle from the night before, he had arrived late and found the Home Secretary sitting in wait. When Towers had diplomatically suggested that Harry recuse himself to find his equilibrium, he did not protest. The desert of loss had overtaken him and he was done.

Buzz.

"Go to hell."

Voice hoarse from lack of use, Harry rolled toward the sound and gave the device and angry swat, knocking it off the bedside table. It hit the floor with a soft thump, followed by the deeper thud of a crystal tumbler. One eye cracked open. An empty bottle of scotch stared back at him.

"Don't look at me like that."

The phone, chastised by his swat, stopped ringing. Muscles groaned in protest as he sat up, blinking as the uncooperative world tipped on its axis. Through the shroud of darkness, an annoying sliver of sun forced its way between a crack in the curtains. The air hung close around him, stale with perspiration and despair. He closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face, the stubble of uncounted days growth scratching his palm. He couldn't recall when he had last had a shower, or indeed, what day it was. He searched the ground with his foot, his toe finding the offending mobile. He bent over and picked it up. One eyebrow lifted in surprise as he read the call display. Towers. It was one thing to ignore his Section Chief, another thing entirely to ignore the Home Secretary. His thumb turned off the phone with a definitive push. Hang them all. Unable to move any further, he remained sitting, head bowed, arms resting on his knees, the phone dangling limply in his hand. He should get up, he should eat, but the chances of finding any food in the pantry were slim. Beneath his foot, something pressed discreetly through his sock. He bent down and searched with his hand. His fingers found the links of a delicate chain and he hastily retrieved it. He examined it in the dim light, assuring himself that it was not broken. Clumsy fool. In his irritation, he had knocked her necklace to the floor, the one tangible connection that he still had with her. Holding it as if it were a lifeline, he clutched it to his chest. The chain had sat around her neck and touched the skin that his fingers would never trace, the charm had rested in the hollow of her throat, the taste his lips would never know. It was far too precious to be mishandled. He had not been able to protect the owner; he would do a far better job protecting her memory. He opened the small drawer on the bedside table and carefully laid the necklace inside.

A chime from the front doorbell peeled through the house. Harry scowled at the empty room. He would not answer it. If he waited long enough they would give up and leave. Undeterred, the visitor persisted. The sharp rap of a knock had replaced the bell. Harry silently commended the bravery of the soul who dared to knock on his door.

"Go away," he muttered.

He would shun the world. He could live like this for the rest of his days. Whiskey and solitude. He had been far too quick to judge Alec White when he had found the man living in abject squalor after being tossed out by the Service. There was a comfort to be found in the lack of order, free from a schedule, beholding to no one, finding solace in the numbing embrace of alcohol. All Harry needed was a nubile young woman asleep on his couch and his descent into the degenerate world of a disgraced spy would be complete.

The polite rapping on the front door turned into a banging fist. Harry heaved himself off of the bed. If the visitor was intent on receiving his wrath, he would certainly oblige. In all likelihood, it would be Erin, sent by the Home Office. Or Callum - he had seen the young man lurking about outside the house, no doubt having drawn the short straw to keep an eye on his erstwhile former boss. Harry descended the stairs, and with one final step, grabbed the door handle, angrily opening the door.

Towers stood, his hand in the air, poised mid-knock, a look of surprise on his face.

"Jesus wept, Harry, you look terrible."

Mouth drawn in a grim line, Harry reduced his full displeasure at Tower's appearance into one louring gaze. Towers at least had the grace to look chagrined.

"May I come in?"

Giving no reply, Harry turned and walked back into the house, leaving the door open and the decision up to Towers. The click of the door and the sound of footsteps told Harry that the Home Secretary had decided to follow behind. On the kitchen counter stood a tower of takeaway containers, and Harry rummaged through their contents. Rewarded with a half-eaten egg roll, he sojourned his pride and took a bite.

"Christ, Harry, what's happened to you?" Towers looked about the room, disdain on his face, hands still gloved, lest bureaucracy be sullied.

Harry gazed about the room, seeing it through Towers' eyes - dishes piled in the sink, doors half open, dirty clothes strewn across chairs. He shrugged his shoulders and took a bite of the eggroll.

"I'm on leave."

"You were supposed to get yourself together."

"This is as together as it gets."

Towers inhaled a fortifying breath. "I need you back."

Harry finished chewing the cold eggroll and licked the crumbs from his fingers before he answered. "You told me to take as much time as I needed."

"The world moves on whether we're ready or not."

"You missed your calling as a counsellor." Harry poked through the cartons searching for more food, the eggroll sitting unpleasantly in the pit of his stomach. A band of steel tightened around his head and the taste of cotton wool filled his mouth. God, he needed a drink.

Ignoring Harry's comment, Towers continued. "Events have unfolded. It seems that your countermeasure to Miss Evershed's death has had some unforeseen repercussions."

Harry froze. The cavalier mention of her name stung like a whip, his chest caving in from the pain. The need for alcohol increased tenfold. Beneath the debris, he found a glass and a bottle. His hand shook, the neck of the bottle clinking against the glass. He would be fine once the scotch was in his system.

"Harry, you can't live like this."

"I'm leaving the Service."

"We can have that discussion at a later date." Eyeing the drink in Harry's hand, Towers inched closer.

Harry looked down into the glass. "I told her I would step down after the mess with the Gavriks was over."

Towers reached out for the glass. "The mess with the Gavriks isn't over."

Unwilling to relinquish his hold, Harry tightened his grip on the tumbler. "I'm done with them."

"The Russians aren't done with you. Lavarov was a powerful man, he had high ranking friends. The shadow of his death falls over you."

"I recall a phone call where you tacitly approved of whatever measures I might take."

"Someone needed to pay for the whole sordid mess. I was very fond of Ruth too."

Harry's fingers flexed on the tumbler. No one else had the right to say her name. She was his.

"It would seem with this whole debacle, Gavrik has also made some enemies." Towers straighten the lapels of his coat. "He is now persona non-grata in Moscow."

"I don't give a tinker's damn if Gavrik can't go back to Russia."

"They blame him and you for Elena's death."

"Me?" Harry asked astounded by the accusation.

"You were there."

"But it wasn't my hands around her neck." Harry raised the glass to his mouth. "Though the thought had crossed my mind."

"The Kremlin has put out an Interpol warrant on you."

Harry halted the glass before the alcohol touched his lips.

"There is a concern that you might be in danger. Come back under the umbrella, Harry. We can protect you."

"I find it hard to believe that your only concern is my safety."

"Gavrik wants protection. In return, he's willing to talk to us." Towers gave Harry a level gaze. "More specifically - to you."

"I'm done with him." Harry slammed his glass on the counter. "With everything. I want out."

"To do what, Harry?" Towers waved his arm in a sweeping gesture about the room. "Good god man, she wouldn't want you living like this."

Harry turned away, unable to answer the question. He could find no words to refute the man, not because Towers was wrong, but because he was right.

"I'll give you a month," Harry relented.

It was thirty days more than he would have liked, but if he was to live in purgatory he might as well stay busy.

...

The door hinge gave a low groan of protest as Harry stepped out of his house. The cool air nipped at his ears and he drew the collar of his coat tighter, adjusting his scarf around his neck. Instinct bade him scan the street, and he gave a cursory glance to a dog walker and a cyclist. Assured of no immediate threat, he walked toward the waiting car. The gunmetal sky lorded overhead, its grey weight bearing down on him. Do it by rote until it all comes back. He slid into the backseat of the car and gave the driver a curt nod. It was a new man, perhaps a sign of a fresh start. Closing his eyes, Harry sank into his seat, the energy for small talk eluding him. There was no sense in creating a connection with a new person - everyone left him in the end.

The ever-grinding bustle of the city moved past his window. The same route to the same destination, some things had not changed. The car squeezed through the crush of morning traffic, and Harry gazed out the window with an unseeing eye. A group of commuters stood huddled around a bus stop, shivering in the early morning frost. Dismissing them, Harry looked away silently thankful that he was in a car. His mind though held onto a piece of the picture, and as it sifted through the scene, a detail revealed itself. Harry swung his head back around.

"Stop!" he ordered the driver.

Without asking for a reason, the driver slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road. Before the car had come to a full stop, Harry opened the door and jumped out. Shoes barely touching the pavement, he pushed his way through a wall of oncoming pedestrians, straining against the tide of people until the pole of the bus stop came into view. On the far side of the group, wrapped in a grey trench coat, stood a woman. Her dark head was bent low over a book, the curtain of her hair falling forward, obscuring her face. The beat of his heart doubled, banging against his ribs. It had to be her. He stood torn between reason and desire. Logically, it didn't make sense unless the acute ache of his heart had manifested her. Yes, fate must have taken pity on him. Three more steps took him closer. He reached out and lightly tapped the small shoulder. The woman turned around. His heart sank, falling like a ball of lead into his stomach.

"Sorry," he murmured, "I thought you were…" The rest of the sentence faded away.

The woman gave him an angry scowl and stepped back into the protective anonymity of the crowd. A bus pulled up and the crowd jostled around him. The door hissed open swallowing the mirage and spiriting her away. Harry stood with his arms hanging limply at his side. It was an affliction to which there was no cure. In the dark, it was always the echo of her voice, but during the day he saw her everywhere - a glimpse of dark hair, the flash of a coat, the tilt of a head. Always on the periphery but never in his arms. Destiny did not care - heaven would always be tantalisingly out of reach. He walked back to the waiting car.

"Everything alright, sir?" the driver inquired.

Harry could only nod, afraid that his voice might crack under the weight of disappointment. Towers was right; he could not live like this. Locked away, conjuring up the dead. He had not fought so many battles to give up now. Harry straightened up in his seat and set his gaze determinedly forward. He would reach down and pull out his old self, kicking and screaming if need be. It was not the end for him, he had merely pressed paused. He would go forward, slowly.

The towering doors of Thames House rose before him, and Harry stood beneath their arches, a wave of nerves overtaking him. Pull yourself together, man. Adrenaline, that's what it was, not nerves. He crossed over the threshold, an actor stepping onto a stage and into a familiar role. He had only to speak a few lines and it would all come back. As he crossed the floor, the click of his heels gave a reassuring echo, and the speed of his gait increased, each step working to rebuild his confidence, reminding him of the man he was.

Stepping out of the pod doors, he paused, taking a moment to acclimatise himself and scan the Grid. Nothing had changed in his absence. Good. He gave a silent thanks to the Fates. There was always the chance that the place would fall victim to some iteration of an efficiency expert, walls moved, partitions erected, desks changed - but the layout was reassuringly familiar. Three desks sat empty, their monitors glowing with the department's screensavers. They were already here, his team, consistent, dependable - an underpinning that would brace him until he was fully back to normal. Enroute to his office, his eyes fell on two other desks. They too were empty, but their computers were dark and blank, their owners destined never to return. They needed to have a memorial service for Tariq; he had been a fine young man. But her….his throat constricted. Keep moving, don't look back.

His office had remained in state, undisturbed since the day he had left. He had spent more time within those walls than the rooms of his own house. This was his home. Muscle memory took over, as he undid his overcoat, his reach finding the coat rack without sight. He crossed to the credenza and grabbed a decanter. The scotch sloshed around inside the container and he studied it with a wary eye. Saliva grew in his mouth as the back of his throat anticipated the burn of the liquid. He lifted the decanter and placed it neatly inside the cupboard. Out of sight out of mind. Pleased with his first act of reclamation, he sat in his chair and smiled as he noted its comfort. The chair had not been altered. Erin had not sat at his desk while he had been away. He flipped open a folder and scanned the notes. He had to face his team at some point - better to rip the bandage off in one go.

The chatter of voices stopped abruptly as Harry walked into the briefing room. Forgoing any greeting, he headed straight toward an empty chair and gave no sign of acknowledgement as he took his seat. The weight of three pairs of eyes sat on him. Taking his time, he straightened his tie, realigned the cuff of his shirt with his jacket sleeve, concentrating on the ritual. Weaving his fingers together, he placed his hands on the table with the solemnity of a judge. Only then did his eyes scan the assemblage gathered around him.

"I assume that we are all here to work."

The team released a collective sigh. Papers shuffled, chairs moved, postures were relaxed.

"Good to see you too, Harry," Callum quipped quietly, but not quietly enough.

Harry's lip twitched as he dampened a smile.

"Bring me up to speed, Ms Watts."

Erin shuffled in her seat and opened up a file. "Gavrik wants to continue with his intelligence sharing, albeit without the blessing of the Kremlin. I suspect he might be more forthcoming considering his former associates are now out to get him and he needs us."

"Do we have a course of action?"

"There is a meeting arranged for this afternoon," Erin continued. "We're ready to act on any useful information that may result from it."

Harry nodded. "The boy..." Strange how he still referred to him as a child even though the man had displayed a callous viciousness. "What's happening with Sasha?"

"He's been remanded," said Callum. "There's a debate about diplomatic immunity."

"There will be no immunity," Harry stated with an eerie calmness.

The room grew quiet and a chill descended. No one dared speak until Harry broke the silence.

"Any thoughts on a memorial for Tariq?"

"Yes, I'm looking after that," Callum volunteered.

"Good."

Erin took up the conversation. "I'm willing to look after the one for-" Her voice broke off unsure if she should say the name.

"Ruth," Harry finished. The name crossed his lips with the heaviness of a foreign word though he had uttered it countless times in his dreams. His eyes rose to the crest that dominated the far wall of the room, the letters of the motto echoing in his head.

Regnum defende. Whatever the cost.