Mistaken Judgment

Harry gripped the seat of the chair he was sitting in as he watched the CCTV live feed in horror.

"Dimitri, Beth, Lucas! Get out of there, get out now!"

"Harry," Beth's tense voice crackled through the comms, "it's unclear if everyone's out of the building yet."

"You need to get out, Beth, before detonation." His stomach tightened into knots as he thought of Ros, and he swallowed, trying to regain calm. "Beth, I need you to do as I've asked. Right now."

"Hotel staff say there's a little girl unaccounted for, Harry, a six-year old, I can't—"

"—Beth!" The tension in Harry's voice was palpable, "you're running out of time." He looked at his watch; less than 30 seconds. Better him to have to live with the decision to sacrifice a six-year old, than Beth. "I am your commanding officer, Beth, and I'm giving you a direct order—"

"—This isn't the military Harry—"

"—No, Beth, it's Her Majesty's secret service, which has an even more stringent chain of command. Now get out of there immediately!"

Tariq bit down hard on his lip as he, Harry and Ruth watched the monitors trained on the entrance of the upscale hotel in dreadful silence. Mere seconds later, Dimitri and Lucas came out the front at a dead run, but Beth wasn't with them. Harry's hands covered his nose and mouth, the tension having drained all color from his face. Finally Beth came out of the lobby door, diving for the nearest car to shelter her as the hotel exploded into shards of debris and shrapnel.

Harry's eyes closed, partly from the relief of seeing Beth leave the building, but mostly in remorse for the missing six-year old girl, who had presumably just been killed in the blast. He ripped the comm from his ear and buried his head in his hands. A moment later he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, but realizing who it had to be, he shrugged it off and abruptly stood. As he turned, she was standing right in front of him, staring up at him with concerned blue eyes.

"It's not your fault, Harry," she said softly.

He glared at her. "I'm the one who gave the order, Ruth, the bloody order to abandon a six-year old in a building that exploded." She laid a hand on her arm, and he yanked it away. "I don't want comfort, Ruth, especially from—"

He stopped himself, but it was too late. The distress that flashed in Ruth's eyes felt like a knife in his chest, but he had found that he could no longer tolerate anything even remotely personal from her; it hurt too much. Before Harry could say anything else, Ruth turned and stalked away, leaving him alone.

It was a bitterly cold night in London, and owing to his dreadfully dark mood, Harry had no idea how long he'd been aimlessly walking. He had long since shaken his security detail and anyone else who might have been tailing him, he was quite certain. He pulled the brim of his hat down a little lower, and shrugged inside his heavy coat, a shiver running up his spine. No matter how long or far he walked, Harry knew the guilt would follow him. The guilt of killing a six-year old girl. He wondered if she looked at all like Catherine had when she was that age; and that thought flooded his eyes with tears. Somewhere tonight, two parents were mourning an impossible grief. Harry couldn't begin to imagine the pain of losing a child. Tears filled his eyes until he couldn't see, and he stopped and sat on a bench, leaning on his knees, his hands covering his face. And he wept.

He had no idea how long he had been on the bench, except to know that he was chilled to the bone, and shivering uncontrollably. He looked around and saw a pub across the road. He walked over, went in and took a seat by a small table at the very back, in a relatively quiet corner. It was late, and there weren't many people still in the pub, a fact for which he was thankful. He shivered again, and pulled his arms across himself, trying to hunker further down into his coat, his hat still almost covering his eyes.

"What are ya drinkin'?"

Harry glanced up at the sound of the brogue, and met bright green eyes staring at him. "I'll have whatever single malt's around…"

"We have a lot of them, ya know, ya might want to be more specific, sir."

Harry couldn't keep the annoyance from his tone, "It really doesn't matter, miss, whatever you fetch is fine."

She sized up the stranger bundled in a long black coat, still wearing his gloves and hat. What little she could see of his face looked cold and pale, and while he tried to hide the shivering, she could see how chilled he was by his demeanor.

"I'll make it a good one, then. It'll help warm you."

He nodded and watched her head over to the bar, exchanging a few words with a man in black who had just walked in. The man ordered a beer, which she poured, he paid her and then she set about finding a scotch. She returned shortly thereafter to Harry with a generous pour of a quality single malt. He downed it in one swallow and set the glass down, staring at her.

"Another one then?" She asked.

He nodded and she once again fetched a glass, setting it in front of him. She walked away and observed him from the bar, noting that this time he drank it slower, although it was still gone in a matter of minutes. Without asking she brought him one more and set it down in front of him. He looked up at her and she saw beautiful hazel-bronze eyes that were more haunted than any she had ever seen.

"Thank you," was all he said.

She smiled at him. "You're welcome."

She made her way back to the bar and watched him slowly sipping this one, noting that he had removed his gloves, and that his hands trembled as he raised the glass to his full lips. He seemed burdened, as if he was holding up the weight of the world on his shoulders, and the way he seemed to stare into the floor made her think he had recently left someone behind or worse. She slid her hand into her pocket and fingered the 50-pound note, smiling; it wasn't such a bad job, this. She glanced over at Harry again, straightening her hair and clothes, and she observed that he looked so very lonely; no, worse, he looked so very alone. Once more she walked over to his table, and he glanced briefly up at her, but he said nothing.

"My shift's almost over, if you want to go somewhere…"

His eyes darted up to hers, quickly sizing her up, his voice barely a deep whisper in response. "I don't think so, love," he intoned, "and you should be more careful about approaching men in pubs… I could be some kind of weir—" He stopped himself as the pain of the memory stabbed his sad heart. He looked down into his drink, finished with whatever else the petite Irish barmaid might have in her head. "You know nothing about me; I could be a dangerous criminal," he finally said, "you shouldn't be so bold."

"But you're not."

He glared at her. "You don't bloody know that."

"Yes, yes I do." He rolled his eyes and sighed in exasperation, once again turning his attention to his drink. She sat down next to him. "Don't you want to know how I know?"

He looked up at her, the irritation in his eyes apparent. "Not particularly, no."

He noticed for the first time how young she was, how her ruby lips pouty in their youth, and how her form-fitting clothing left little to the imagination about the firmness that lie beneath. He inwardly chastised himself for even allowing such a brief train of thought, realizing that he had perhaps taken too much scotch already.

She laid a hand on his forearm, rubbing it lightly. "You're some kind of undercover policeman," she smiled as his eyes met hers. "I can always tell, because you lot carry your remorse around with you like a big ball and chain. That, and ya always look like ya just lost your best friend." Pain flooded him and he looked away, his eyes closing when he felt her hand squeeze his thigh. "It's all right, I like undercover policeman." He said nothing as she slid her hand into his larger one and began caressing his palm. "You don't say much, do you?" When he still said nothing, she continued, "I like to talk…but you don't have to answer."

She took his hat off and set it on the table. She put her hands on either side of his face, caressing it gently until he finally met her eyes with his.

"Why do you like undercover policeman?" He finally asked softly, the amount of scotch he had consumed having lowered his voice.

She leaned in then and kissed him gently on the lips, lingering on their softness before lifting away. "Because they don't kiss and tell."

He smiled then, and she smiled back. "You have a sweet smile, you know," she said, "it speaks of a man who is hiding behind the face he presents to the world; a man who hides a responsibility and a grief that are too much for any one person to bear."

He frowned slightly at her, and she leaned in again, this time kissing him more openly, her lips exploring his, her tongue pushing softly into his warm mouth. Harry moaned softly as her hand seductively slid up his inner thigh while deepening their kiss. He leaned his head back against the wall as she continued to move her lips against his, allowing himself to enjoy the comfort of a nameless soul. Until her hand went too far. He grabbed her wrist, suddenly more sober.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, his breath gasping from stifled desire, "I'm sorry, but I should go." He stood, suddenly realizing he was merely a red-blooded male after all, and he sat back down quickly, embarrassment coloring his face. "Damn."

She took his chin in her hand and gently kissed him again, which did nothing to help calm him. "Let yourself go, Mr. Undercover Policeman…" She stood and held her hand out to him. "I live close by…"

The human part of him, the part of him that ached to be with a woman – and as inebriated as he was, even an inappropriate woman – wanted simply to take her hand, follow her to her flat and lose himself in her body. But his heart wouldn't let him be so shallow, anymore than it would allow him to betray Ruth. And that realization made him sick to his stomach; no matter how many times she rebuked him, he could neither tolerate her kindness nor stomach giving himself to anyone else.

He stood, taking the young woman's hands in his, very lightly kissing her lips. "You are lovely," he smiled sweetly, "very lovely indeed…"

"But you're not coming with me."

"No, I'm afraid I'm not."

"Someone waiting for you at home?"

He shook his head sadly. "Just my little dog."

"It's a shame, you know."

"Probably," he kissed her cheek. "But I'm too old for you anyway." He kissed her forehead, moved past her and walked out of the pub.

She smiled as she watched him go. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you," she mumbled as she cleared his glass from the table.

Harry left the pub and began walking. For a brief moment, he thought about calling his driver to come pick him up, but decided against disturbing the man so late at night; besides, his head felt foggy, and a long walk in the night air would help to clear it. As Harry walked on, he failed to realize that his steps began to fall heavily and out of sync, until they degraded into a stagger. His head started to swim in dizziness and he leaned against a building, trying to regain his balance. He again pushed on, but after a few more steps, with his stomach threatening to revolt, and his equilibrium totally gone, Harry Pearce blacked out.

TBC