AN: A very short one-shot, following last night's sad events. It was a fitting, if poignant, end to a wonderful ten years.
He visits her grave nearly every week in those first few months. It becomes a sort of pilgrimage for him.
A simple tombstone in an Exeter graveyard – her mother's request, which he had no right to gainsay. But he had insisted on the bench just opposite it, in the shade of an oak tree, and on the inscription on the tombstone. Simple. Elegant. He hopes it's what she would have wanted.
Ruth Evershed
1970-2011
Loyal Friend and Comrade
He lays the red roses he's brought with him down on the earth above her, all part of his routine. He sits down on the bench, hands finding their accustomed position, clasped on his knees, as he leans forward to talk her. "Hello, my darling." He only allows himself these intimacies, terms of endearment, terms of affection, now that it's too late. "Sorry I'm late. Traffic was murder..." His voice cracks slightly and he has to swallow. "We've been busy. Got a new analyst in from GCHQ. You'd like him – he's a bit like Malcolm. Tells God-awful jokes."
He pauses, wonders what she'd say, imagines her dark head inclined towards his as she earnestly listens to his words. She'd laugh, probably, make some joke about bloody Cheltenham mathematicians. He takes a breath. "Erin and Dimitri arrived together this morning. I think they've become something of an item. Good for them to look out for each other."
If he closes his eyes, he can see her standing in front of him. Her brown hair shines in the late afternoon sun, her old necklace hanging over a loose white shirt. Her baggy jeans suit her even more than her work dresses did. He likes to imagine her this way, likes to imagine that she is happy somewhere. "I'm glad," she says smilingly. "They make a... good couple."
He exhales, opens his eyes, allows her image to fade.
"Fidget's settled down now. He remembers Scarlett, I think, which helps. He's got quite a liking for tinned salmon. I'm probably spoiling him."
He can imagine the roll of her eyes, the exasperated, "Oh, Harry!" she'd probably utter were she here and he unconsciously ducks his head sheepishly.
"I went to see that house, in Suffolk. You were right – it is beautiful. But I can't face living there without you, Ruth. We were never meant to have a real life without each other." This is the closest he's got to talking about real things since her death. He's brushed off Erin's concern, Dimitri and Callum's uneasy hesitancy, but he can't lie to her. Not now.
He shakes his head, rises. "I'll be back next week."
Hesitantly, he looks around, checks no one else is in sight. Still so private, so guarded, after all that has happened. He is alone. He kisses his fingertips briefly, presses them to the white stone of her grave. "Love you."
He turns and walks away. He is alone.
AN: A review would be lovely...