Disclaimer: Spooks belongs to Kudos and the BBC. Title's borrowed from the Rolling Stones.

A/N: Spoilers for 7.1 and 7.2 Some of the dialogue is taken from 7.2.

Harry rises, wearily, from the worn leather chair in the Headmaster's office. "I'll be in touch as soon as I've contacted Wes' Grandmother. In the meantime, please let me know if there…" He stops, aware how inadequate any words will be to complete the sentence.

"Of course, Mr Pearce. We'll look after Wes. Sadly, he's not the first of our boys to have lost a parent."

"No, I don't expect he is." Harry extends his hand. "Thank you, Mr Lockwood."

As he walks back to his car, some instinct makes Harry turn around and look back at the school. It takes him only a moment to locate the window of Wes' dormitory and the small, blond boy peering through the glass at him. He stops and lifts his hand in farewell.

xxx

Dusk is falling as they get to the motorway and Harry is glad of it, in the same way he is glad to have his regular driver who knows not to attempt unnecessary conversation. He closes his eyes and replays the afternoons events, wondering how a nine year old boy becomes astute enough to know his father is dead before being told. One, he concludes, who having lost his mother, expected his dad to be taken from him prematurely as well. It's a sickening, frightening thought, such loss of innocence. Wes hadn't even cried at first; he'd been too concerned about who was going tell his grandmother what had happened. The tears had come later as Harry got ready to leave.

"Please don't go Uncle Harry, please."

"I have to Wes, I'm sorry. There are things that have to be sorted out."

The look on the boy's face had broken him and he'd held him tightly as they both cried. Eventually, after repeated promises that he would visit him again as soon as he could, Wes had let go of him. It is a promise he intends to keep.

"Do you want to go back to Thames House, sir, or home?"

The question has to be repeated before Harry replies. "Neither. St. Luke's Hotel."

xxx

"I've had a lot of time and I've done a lot of thinking, Harry, and I've made my choices. I made them a long time ago and, as it turned out, they were the right ones. This is what I am." Ros turns to look at him. "I want it back. Give me Section D."

"Ros, there's nobody more capable of running the Section, I know that-"

"But you think because Adam died, I'm going to go to pieces, well I'm not, I'm ready-"

"You might be. You might be ready to leap into the fray, Ros, but I'm not even sure I can trust my own judgement at the moment." Harry stares straight ahead but is unseeing. "My friend is dead and I want nothing more than revenge. I want to take the Russian operation in Britain, shoot it through the heart and watch it bleed to death."

And the idea that had begun to formulate during the drive back to London has now been voiced.

xxx

He can't feel the rain or the wind. He can't feel anything. He doesn't even realise Ros has slipped the gun out of his hand.

"Get in the car, Harry."

He turns to look at her.

"Get in the car. Don't worry," she nods her head towards the body sprawled out in the rain and the dirt, "it'll be taken care of."

When he doesn't respond she tugs on his arm and his feet start to move, seemingly without any conscious thought.

They go back to the Grid, 'just to show our faces', she tells him. He goes through the usual routine, smiling at the security guards, nodding at the admin staff. He sits in his office, attempts to read his emails, catch up on messages, but it all feels alien, unreal.

Ros drives him home and he considers inviting her in but she saves him from making the offer by telling him to get some rest.

"And you? You should rest too, Ros."

"I will, Harry."

xxx

Harry leans against the window frame and looks out onto the street below. It's some ridiculously early hour but he is restless. He knows from experience, bitter experience, that it will be several days before he can get even a few hours sleep. His mind is racing as he considers his actions. It's not the first time he's been responsible for someone's death, not the first time he's pulled the trigger but there had always been moments of self-doubt. Now, now he feels surprisingly at ease with what he's done and it is that, paradoxically, that is preying on his mind.

He watches an empty fast food container blow down the road, ricocheting off the parked cars, and wonders if this job he's given so much to, given up so much for, has finally taken his soul.

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