Disclaimer: Spooks belongs to Kudos and the BBC although I'm not sure they deserve it…

A/N: Like a lot of people, I wasn't happy with some aspects of the conclusion of Spooks, as beautifully filmed and acted as it was. I didn't want a fairytale ending or even anything particularly overt, just something subtle and ambiguous because they used to be good at that. I'm not entirely sure this fits that description but at least I tried.

*Spoilers for S10.*

They're just two sheets of writing paper – proper writing paper, as only she would use – but you can feel them resting against your heart. You know every word written on those pages. You have committed to memory every thought, hope and desire. You cried the first time you read it, even more than when she was lying on that rough grass, the life ebbing out of her. But you kept on reading and re-reading until it was imprinted on your soul, like her.

Out of habit, you reach into your jacket to check her words are still there and you hold on to the thick vellum as you look across the river. Your eyes aren't focussed on the familiar buildings or landmarks; you don't see the lights beginning to appear on the South Bank. You see her.

Dear Harry

You and I know full well what this letter is without me spelling it out. I wish I'd been brave enough to say these things to you but I never seemed to find the courage, or the right moment. You're not the only one who has problems with timing, it seems.

All these years, Harry, it was you. Only you. Even when I was in Cyprus. I did care for George, loved him I think, in a way, but he wasn't you. And you're not him. That's not a criticism; it's an observation. Always an analyst, eh?

And on the subject of analysing things, you knew, didn't you? When I was first seconded to MI5, you knew that it was on the proviso I reported back. I always thought Tom told you but I was never sure; I think you'd already worked it out. But you didn't send me away and I was grateful for that. Always grateful.

Please don't think that my love is given out of gratitude, it isn't. I give my love to you because I want to; because you deserve it. Not that it's been easy. But worthwhile things are never easy are they? And I don't imagine for one moment that loving me has been easy.

I'm so glad we had that night together and I'm sorry I wasn't daring enough to take the opportunity to know you as a lover. Forgive me and know that, in time, I would have dared; I would have been yours, completely.

You were right about neither of us being emotionally forthright but I think we could have learnt to be, enough anyway, for us. We could have had a life in Suffolk, you and me. I expect we would have argued over wallpaper and washing up but we would have been happy, I know we would. The timing was right, finally; our timing, but not fate's.

Try to keep going, as hard as it will be, for my sake if not your own. I'll leave you to decide how because I trust you to make the right choice. And remember that I love you, Harry, completely. You will always have that.

Ruth.

The city comes back into focus and you take a deep breath. The scent of autumn is becoming more noticeable and this has become your favourite place to watch the familiar buildings take on the warm orange and pink tints of sunset. So you watch, and wait.

"You read my letter."

"Yes. Are you angry?"

"No. It was meant for you."

"I keep it with me all the time."

"I know."

"Did I make the right decision?"

"Does it feel right?"

"Yes."

"Then you have your answer."

The sun has almost gone now and the sky is streaked with purples and reds, promising a beautiful day tomorrow. But you won't be here; you have packing to finish, and wallpaper to choose.

Thanks for reading.