"Welcome back, you."

All he could do was sling an arm around her shoulders, tug her close, and sigh in relief. He felt - not whole again, precisely, but but balanced. Safe. Barbara was back in his life, back by his side. They had to talk, he knew - he owed her the mother of all apologies, not to mention an explanation - but they would be all right.

He hoped.

"I probably shouldn't say this," she continued, seemingly unruffled by her latest brush with death, "but... d'you fancy a drink?" He heard the irony in her voice, but she sounded as relieved as he felt that his period of insanity seemed to be over. He was back, and back to stay.

She looked at him with that oh-so-familiar combination of exasperation, amusement, and undisguised affection - and no small amount of relief - and he felt his heart settle.

Oh, yes. They would be just fine.

He wondered, briefly, what had possessed him to push her away for so long - but then, he hadn't exactly been rational at the time.

They continued in comfortable silence to the pub, settling down with whisky and chips, and the familiar routine of it settled him even more. This was the balancing point of his life, and had been for over half a decade; sitting in a pub, with Barbara, chips, and a good drink. No matter what else happened, he'd always have this, have her.

Thank God.

As much as he'd like to think the worst was over, he knew this was only the eye of the storm, knew he'd need her more than ever in the weeks and months ahead.

But if he was to have her then, he needed to apologise now.

He owed her that much, at least, if not more.

"Barbara," he said at last, "I owe you an apology."

Those grass-green eyes of hers fixed on him, and she responded, just as low.

"Yes," she said, "I believe you do."

"What happened, sir?" she asked him quietly, still gazing at him with an almost unnerving directness. "I thought you'd let me in, after the funeral, but then..."

"I wish I had a good answer for you, Barbara," he said, "but I don't. All I can do is tell you I'm sorry."

"Oh, no," she said firmly. "It's not that easy any more. We're going to get to the bottom of this. You went completely off the rails and I had to stand by and do nothing. No more of that. Why didn't you let me in?" Her voice was unforgiving, unflinching, and he realised with a flash of terror that he had nowhere to hide.

"I..." He fought for the words. How to explain the tearing grief and guilt of the last six months? "I think... perhaps because to let you in would have meant facing what I felt? Or maybe..."

"Maybe," Barbara said softly, "because almost as soon as you began to let Helen back into your life, she was killed right under your nose. And a part of you feels like it's your fault. And that same part of you was terrified that to let me in would mean losing me, too, especially after I got shot."

He stared at her in simple amazement, completely at a loss for words.

"And then," she continued, "you felt so guilty, too - so completely sure her death was your fault - that part of you was sure that if you didn't lose me the way you lost her, you'd lose me because I'd walk away, the way she did once before. Is this sounding familiar yet?"

Still stunned, he just nodded.

"Which," she said, jabbing an emphatic finger in his direction, "you should have known was a load of bunk, because I have been your partner for seven years and I've seen you at your absolute worst and I'm still here, and I am not going anywhere. Ever."

"How did you..." was all he could manage. How did she always see him so clearly?

She smiled, a little sadly. "Seven years, remember? I know you, better than I think you even realise."

"Yes," he said wonderingly, "I believe you do." And he had to laugh and shake his head in amazement. Trust Barbara to eliminate six months of fear in a single stroke! Oh, he knew he'd more to face, knew it wasn't that easy, but if she wasn't going to walk away...

"Not that I'm not still angry," she continued, "because I am. And I'm hurt. I'm really, really hurt, Lynley. But I can't say I don't understand. And if you think I'm leaving you over this, you're mad."

"I really don't deserve you," he breathed, and she smiled.

"You're an idiot," she informed him fondly. "And anyway, it's not like I haven't been a right cow in the past."

"This is true," he agreed, and she narrowed her eyes at him and stuck out her tongue. The sight was so familiar, so normal, he felt a knot in his chest loosen - a knot he hadn't even known was there.

He felt lighter than he had in weeks.

"You really won't..."

"Never," she swore, and he felt his heart tighten - in gratitude, and in affection for the woman beside him.

"Good," he said, and looked her directly in the eyes. "Because I need you, Barbara, now more than ever."

"Then you've got me," was all she said, the simple words belying the absolute joy in her eyes.

He covered her hand on the table with his own, and no words were needed.

He wasn't alone, not any more.

Barbara stood with him.

He'd been right that his brief reprieve was only the eye of the storm. He leaned on Barbara more heavily than ever; she submitted without complaint to a new level of overprotectiveness in the field, knowing what was behind it, and she became his constant companion even off duty. He turned up more than once on her doorstep in the middle of the night, unable to bear the memories, and she always let him crash on her sofa, then fed him brandy and listened to him ramble.

If he had ever doubted just how deeply his cranky, fiery, devoted partner cared for him, or how badly he needed her, he certainly didn't any more.