A/N – I was wrong last time, guys. This is number ten of this series (maths was never a strong point for me!) Anyway, the same things apply as last time – thanks to everyone who is reading and especially to those awesome people who are reviewing! I have the rest of this series mapped out now, it just needs writing.
What's left of my heart is forever yours…
He left a note for Mother, tucked under the teapot that would be the very first place she visited in the morning. It wasn't that Mother wasn't used to him disappearing at odd hours, citing 'the job' as the reason, but Malcolm always felt it was a courtesy to at least let her know that he was gone. He put the teapot in the middle of the scrubbed wooden kitchen table and eyed it wistfully, wishing he had time for a cup himself. As it was, he would have to settle for hospital tea.
At the front door, he unarmed the alarm with one hand and wrapped his scarf around his neck with the other. It was four days before Christmas and a stubborn layer of snow, the leftovers of an earlier and heavier fall, still lay upon the ground. It was more like frost now. On his way up the path to his car, Malcolm stopped and pulled a protective blanket a little tighter around the rose bush by the gate. He'd had more time, since he retired, to tend to the gardens that he loved so much and he was becoming quite the old fuss pot, as Mother called him. She was hardly less guilty of course; she had been jealously guarding her orchid collection for as long as Malcolm could remember. If he had learned to be a fuss pot, it had only been from her.
The roads at half past four in the morning were quiet, the cold weather having long driven any drunken revellers or poor homeless souls to find shelter. Malcolm drove slowly, an eye on the patches of ice and thicker frost that seemed to form despite the stellar work of the gritting trucks who combed the streets the moment ice was forecast. It was only a twenty minute drive to St. Thomas' when the way was clear of London traffic and he arrived a little before five. He reached into the glove compartment and took out the small but discrete parking permit, the one that was standard law enforcement issue. He should have handed it in with his ID card and his Thames House key card when he left the job but Harry had shaken his head and given it back, a sad smile on his face.
"I don't think anyone is going to begrudge you this, Malcolm," he'd said, "You've done enough for this country to be able to park wherever you want."
The hospital was bustling, despite the early hour. He didn't take the entrance for the emergency department, not wishing much to be surrounded even for a minute by the types of accidents and stupidity that drove people to hospital in the middle of the night. He never had been able to deal with vomit. Colin had been sick at work once, when he was suffering from a flu that he had wrongly self-diagnosed as a cold and Malcolm, despite being the first aid officer, had been entirely unable to help. Ruth had taken over, talking softly to the half delirious Colin and sending Malcolm away to summon the cleaning team. She hadn't even blinked. That was always the type of woman that Ruth was. Fiercely capable. Well, most of the time.
His made his enquiry, flagging down the nearest nurse to do so; the nurse was a bright, young thing who reminded him a little of Zaf. The young man led him to the nurses' station and coaxed an ancient computer into answering his question. Malcolm eyed the computer with an equal measure of distaste and amazement; amazement that such a model was still functioning and distaste that the NHS was treated with such contempt by those who claimed to defend it.
"Great Britain," he mumbled under his breath, "Indeed."
"I'm sorry, sir," the nurse cocked his head, "Did you say something?"
"Not at all," Malcolm shrugged, "Have you found him?"
"Marcus Ramsey, sir, yes I have. Admitted three hours ago. Ward F, room 104. Visiting hours don't start until 11am though. Perhaps you could come back later?"
"Yes, thank you. I will."
Malcolm waited until the nurse was out of sight and then took the lift up to the seventh floor. St Thomas' was the standard hospital for members of the security services to be taken to when they needed treatment but only a small handful of the staff knew this fact, specifically a small handful of staff from Ward F. Malcolm could not count the number of times he had been to this hospital. He did not want to count the number of times.
Room 104 was tucked away at the back of the floor and he was not stopped as he made his way there. Outside the door, he took a deep breath and slipped inside.
"Malcolm," Ruth got to her feet from her place next to the bed, "Thank you for coming."
"Not at all," he shook his head and accepted her brief embrace, peeling his scarf from around his neck and hanging his coat carefully on the hook by the door, "How is he?"
Harry lay in the bed, an IV taped to the back of his hand. He could have been sleeping or he could have been unconscious. It was hard to tell. The only outward sign of distress was an impressive and painful looking bruise that spread from his forehead, down his nose and under his eyes.
"He will be fine," Ruth resumed her seat and indicated Malcolm should take the other, "He's broken his nose and he's so heavily concussed he couldn't recognise me when he woke up briefly but the doctor says that he will be fine by tomorrow."
She didn't sound convinced and Malcolm reached over the bed, taking her hand. He squeezed it gently.
"He will be alright. You know the doctors here are brilliant."
"Oh, I know that," she sighed, "I know."
Her eyes never left Harry's face and Malcolm watched her carefully. He had spoken a little with both Harry and Ruth since she came back from Cyprus and he knew that things between them were not as they once had been. He did not know details of course; neither of them was forthcoming and he didn't ask, inferring instead from the little that the pair of them did reveal when they checked in to see if he was alright.
"Ruth," he murmured, "Why am I here? Not that I mind, and I am glad you phoned. I just wonder why I am here if –"
"If he is alright?"
"Well, yes."
"It's selfish of me."
"Ruth, you are incapable of selfishness. Tell me."
"You're here for me, Malcolm. I don't want to be alone. I think too much when I'm alone. I start talking to a god I don't believe in. I start making bargains."
"And," he felt carefully for each step before he made it, "Why are you here?"
She looked sharply at him and he ducked his head, wondering if he had gone too far, like that one terrible time three years ago when he had trampled all over their budding relationship. He had never forgotten the look on Ruth's face when she left Harry's office, having just told him – Malcolm presumed – that their relationship was over before it had even begun. He had rarely felt more guilty than he had then. He had rarely felt more like the ape that he tried so hard to keep hidden under good clothes and a mindful of literature.
"I had to come," Ruth murmured eventually, "I had to be here. I've treated him so badly, Malcolm and he might have died tonight. He might have died and he would have done it thinking that I hated him."
It was a big revelation for Ruth and Malcolm sat back in his chair, allowing his mind to take over and formulate a suitable response. One that wouldn't scare her into silence but also wouldn't make her think that he didn't understand the gravity of the situation, the courage it had just taken her to admit such a thing to him.
"What happened?"
Ruth was clearly surprised by the question but she answered it anyway.
"He was out in the field, with Ros. Undercover at a business meeting, we thought. An exchange of money for a weapons cache in Pakistan. They got found out. Ros got away with a few cuts of bruises but Harry took a beating. He threw himself out of the back of the car that they had him in. Ros said it was the stupidest thing she had ever seen. I don't know what he was thinking."
"He was thinking that he wanted to live, Ruth."
"Perhaps. Anyway, Ros went back to the Grid. She's there now with Lucas and Tariq, trying to track the group down. I said I would come and be with Harry."
At the mention of his name, Harry stirred and they both turned to look at him. He looked on the verge of waking but then his face went slack once more and he fell back into sleep. Malcolm could see the break in his nose, see the slight difference in the shape. It wasn't the first time Harry had broken his nose. The injury would mean nothing to him.
It clearly meant much more to Ruth. She reached out suddenly and took Harry's hand, the one without the IV.
"I've blamed him for George's death," she said quietly, so quietly that he had to lean forwards in his seat to hear her, "I blamed him. I told him it was his fault, everything that happened, and he just accepted it, Malcolm. He let me blame him for something that wasn't his fault and he didn't say a word to defend himself. Why, why, would he do that?"
She knew the answer to that question, Malcolm knew. He didn't need to spell it out for her, any more than she needed to spell out what she was feeling to him.
Instead, he said, "He was giving you time, Ruth, respecting your grief. You don't need to feel guilty now. He knows that you don't hate him, not really."
"Does he? I'm not so sure."
She seemed so certain, so thoroughly miserable, that Malcolm decided he couldn't make the situation any worse than it was. The time for tact and diplomacy had passed.
"I think you should be telling him this, not me. When he wakes, make sure you do."
He removed himself from the room then, to give Ruth time to think. He made a bee-line for the tea machine and bought two large cups. He had a feeling Ruth needed it just as much as he did. She thanked him when he returned, wrapping her hands around the cup and saying nothing more for a good long while. Malcolm sipped his tea and waited.
"What if he doesn't want to hear it? What if he can't forgive my behaviour?"
She sounded so young, so innocent, and Malcolm was reminded that she was actually a good eighteen years his junior. So often she seemed so mature, so collected, that he forgot she wasn't even forty years old yet. She had barely lived, not really.
"He'll forgive you, Ruth. I can guarantee you that. It's the only thing I am certain of when it comes to Harry Pearce."
Harry did come round then, falling into consciousness rather than gently waking, and he gasped.
"Ruth-"
"I'm here," she answered, leaning into his line of sight, "I'm here, Harry. And Malcolm too. We're here."
"Malcolm," Harry slurred a little, testing the name even as his eyes fixed on Ruth's face, "Malcolm, yes. And you, Ruth. You're here."
"I am. Go back to sleep, Harry. You've had a tough night."
He didn't do as he was told immediately, and Malcolm knew that he might as well not even be in the room. The two of them were focussed entirely on each other, neither speaking but saying everything that needed to be said anyway. Ruth's cool hand rested gently on Harry's forehead as she coaxed him into sleep. Malcolm wondered idly how Ruth had ever managed to convince herself that she felt nothing but contempt for Harry, because she had no one else fooled, not in the slightest. Her capacity for self-delusion must have been spectacular.
After a few minutes, Harry fell into an exhausted sleep and Ruth sat back, picking up her now lukewarm tea and drinking it more enthusiastically than she had when it was hot.
"Thank you, Malcolm," she said, "For being here. I know Harry will appreciate it, when he comes round for long enough to notice properly."
"Any time you need me, either of you, you know where I am," Malcolm nodded, "Any time of day or night, I will come."
"I know you will," she smiled, and it was the first time she had really smiled since he came into the room, "I'll go and get some more tea. You stay here."
Malcolm patted Harry's arm companionably, straightening his blanket a little and eying the IV critically.
"She's waiting for you," he said under his breath, addressing his friend, "You'd better notice soon. She's waiting for you, Harry."