AN: 'Goodbye' was supposed to be a One Shot but after writing and posting that this morning, my mind kept going onto what Harry's response would be. How would Harry react to that letter? And so I came up with the below to not only appease my mind but also as a thank you to those of you who read 'Goodbye' and left me feedback. Hopefully this makes up a bit for that one.

Five months. Five long, tedious months in which she slipped further and further from his grasp, thinking he'd somehow moved on after what he'd thought was her untimely death. Five months in which she settled into a new life; away from him and everyone else she knew. Five months they could have been together.

He'd been angry with her at first. Angry that she apparently thought so little of him that she believed he could even contemplate moving on so soon. Hurt that she didn't seem to care enough to see him one last time in person. That a letter delivered anonymously would be a good enough goodbye.

But those five months gave him time to think. Time to realize that exuberant amount of physical and emotional stress she'd have been under. To think about how she must have felt waking up alone. In a cold, stark hospital room thinking she was alone. That no one truly loved her. And it gave him time to forgive her for something that wasn't even her fault; something she'd had no control over.

He'd had five months to get his affairs in order. To say goodbye to the few friends he had. To pack up the belongings from both their houses he'd had since her "death". To prepared their mutual animals for travel. And to see his children before leaving. To elicit a promise that they'd come to visit him when he'd finally found her; when he'd settled into what he hoped would be their life.

He'd also needed those five months to ferret out as much information as he could. To find out how he'd been lead to believe she'd died in his arms that afternoon in the field. Because that's what he'd believed. That he'd held her; kissed her; as she took her last breath. That her blood had covered his hands. That she'd died because of him.

There was nothing on Earth that would have forced him to leave her side had he known she was still breathing. Too painful, too difficult or not. He'd have been there with her. He'd have held her hand and read to her. He'd have talked to her and stroked her hair. He'd have been able to love her; to ensure she didn't awake alone. Instead he'd been left with grief. Just as she had.

But he'd eventually found out. And as angry as he'd been, he understood the reasoning too. Understood he did; forgive he did not. How could someone take the decision away from two people? To keep them separate on the belief that in the short time they'd known someone, they knew what was better for them.

Because that's what the Home Secretary had done. He might have thought he was protecting Ruth; keeping her from the constant pain that she seemed to be privy to since the lone date they'd gone on all those years ago. Might have been protecting her from "death" yet again but in the end all the Home Secretary did was hurt them. Caused Ruth to think that he had moved on; that the love he felt for her was somewhat superficial. And caused him to grief; to believe he'd had a hand in the murder of the woman he loved.

It'd been eleven months since he'd last seen her. Since he'd last held her in his arms and kissed her goodbye. But she still looked the same. Even from a distance.

He'd found her. It'd taken time and a considerable amount of his skills but he'd found her. In a small town outside of Portland, Maine. In the United States. Safe. Alone. But alive.

It was here that he stood now, watching across the park. Her hair blowing in the wind as she pushed a child on a swing, a smile lighting up her face. The smile he missed. The smile he wanted to bring to her face again.

Thirty steps. That's all he estimated it'd take to cross to her. To stand next to her. Thirty steps and he'd be with her again. Ready to fight for her. To show her what she meant to him. To show her how he loved her. To never let her go.

But he stood still. Watched as a man crossed towards them, as the little girl jumped off the swing as Ruth stopped it and ran towards her father. Watched as Ruth tucked a flying wisp of hair behind her ear and tucked her hands in her pocket. Crossed the playground towards the other two.

Harry felt no jealousy though. Because he knew. Knew that this man posed no threat to Ruth and him. That Ruth hadn't moved on with someone else. That for all intensive purposes she was a quiet, single woman who'd left someone behind in England. Because she was. And she had. But he was here now.

As he'd said, he'd found her. Knew everything he could know about her new life. That this man was the husband of the woman Ruth worked for in a small bookstore. That the little girl was their daughter. That Ruth took her to the park at least once a week, spent time with her while her parents worked on having another child. Because of that he felt no jealousy. But he did feel pain.

Pain that this option was taken away from them. That chances of them having a child of their own were slim. That she'd probably never be a mother in her own right. That there'd be no child created out of the love they shared. No miniature Ruth they'd push on that swing together or tuck into bed at night. No little Harry that they'd take to Football practice on a Saturday morning or chase around the house. Time had taken that away from them. Time would take no more away from them.

He watched as the man and girl left. Watched as Ruth watched them. Watched as she turned towards him and started across the grass. Watched as she noticed him for the first time. Watched as shock, as joy, as sorrow filtered across her face, as her step faltered. Watched as she squared her shoulders and crossed to him, stopped in front of him.

She was close enough to touch. He could smell the subtle hints of her perfume. Feel the heat from her body in the cool autumn air. See the mix of emotions behind her cerulean eyes. It took all his restraint not to reach out, to pull her to him and never let go. His heart raced, breath fell short. Words failed him. The speech he'd practiced for minutes, for hours, for days slipped from his mind. And he was left with only one thing to say.

"God how I've missed you."