It was almost over. Everything had been completed, except for his final task. Tomorrow he would be on his final flight to France, where he would spend his last few months, or even weeks, with the woman he loved. Time spent with her always seemed to pass by too quickly.
His lie had been surprisingly well-received by the other three quarters of UCOS: he had anticipated more questioning, more attempts at persuading him to stay, but of course he would have deflected it. Since the moment he had been diagnosed, he had known that it had to be like this. Finally arriving at his destination after walking through the seemingly endless corridors of the Met, he paused for a brief moment before tapping on the polished door. Hours had been spent thinking this through: it needed to be him. She needed it to be him.
Upon hearing a weary 'come in' from inside the room, he entered. "Oh, Jack," Strickland looked up from behind his computer screen, seeming faintly surprised. Sandra was usually the one to liaise between her boss and her team. "Sit down, what can I do for you?" he asked, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. He seemed to have gathered that the older man's visit concerned something important, probably because it was nearing eight in the evening.
"It's about Sandra," he began, deciding that it was best to keep this short. Something flickered behind Strickland's blue eyes and he shifted slightly in his seat. "Is she alright?" he queried.
"Yes, she's fine," he stopped for a moment, carefully considering how to phrase what he was about to say to ensure that he didn't give too much away. He returned his eyes to the younger man's intrigued gaze.
"In a few months' time, maybe sooner, Sandra, Gerry and Brian will receive a phone call, or maybe a letter. When they get it, they'll all be upset, angry, confused…but especially Sandra. When this happens, I want you to be there for her- no matter how much she tries to push you away, just look after her. For me." He took a breath, having finished his little speech. Strickland quickly replaced the look of utter confusion on his features with one of seriousness.
"I'll do it, of course I will, but what…" he trailed off, realising that it was probably better not to ask questions in this situation.
"Do you promise?" Jack pressed, more serious than ever.
"I promise," he replied simply.
"Then all I can say is thank you." He nodded, standing to leave the room. He had his hand on the door handle when he was halted by the one question he felt Strickland deserved to know the answer to: "Why me?"
"Do you think I haven't noticed the way you've been looking at her for the past seven years? It's about time something brought you two together seen as you've never had enough balls to bloody ask her out!"
With that, he left the DAC's office, left the building that had practically been his second home for the past fifty years and returned to his true home, where Mary was, for the last time.
This rather odd visit was the reason why, on a dreary Thursday morning, Robert Strickland found himself holding a quietly sobbing Sandra.
He had glanced into the UCOS office from the corridor and been confronted with the image of a blonde figure sitting at her desk with her head in her hands. She moved her hands, seeming to sense his presence, and they locked eyes, hers bright blue and tearstained. Recalling the events of four months previously, he rushed to her instantly through the deserted office, their eyes still fixed on each other. Stopping at her office door, he asked the question which he feared he already knew the answer to.
"What's the matter?"
She flinched and looked away. Saying it aloud seemed to make it true.
"It's Jack, he's…dead." She choked, as another wave of uncontrollable tears moved through her body.
"Oh Sandra," was all he could manage to say as he pulled her into his arms, one hand on her back, the other stroking her hair. They remained like that for fifteen minutes, according to the clock on the wall, before they were interrupted by the rest of the UCOS team. They pulled apart to find Steve, Gerry and Brian staring at them.
"Sandra?" Gerry was the first to break the heavy silence. "What's going on?" he asked, bewildered at finding his boss in tears in the arms of Strickland, of all people.
She looked up at Strickland for reassurance. He nodded at her, worried at how she seemed to have been completely abandoned by her usual independence and composure.
"I got a phone call earlier this morning, from Jack's neighbour in France. He said that Jack passed away last night. He's dead." This time, she managed not to cry, for the sake of her boys.
Brian was the first to move, turning away to sit at his desk. Gerry followed, sitting down heavily on the small sofa in the corner of the room, placing his head in his hands. Steve remained stood awkwardly, not wanting to return to the desk which had once belonged to Jack; a man he had heard little about but had obviously meant the world to his three colleagues.
They lapsed into silence again, but this time it seemed to last for a lifetime, each person deep in their own thoughts about Jack, about the past, about the future.
Another four months had passed since that terrible day. It was now Summer, albeit a typical British rainy one, but Summer nonetheless. As he lay in bed, on a Sunday morning, Robert's thoughts returned to that grey Thursday evening, which had marked somewhat of a turning point in his life. He had made good on his promise to Jack: he had held Sandra as he cried, reassured her when she needed strength to deal with the loss of anther father, and ignored her when she told him she didn't rely on anyone.
As he watched her stir slightly, her golden hair catching the morning rays of sun filtering through the curtains, he thanked Jack, for he was the one who'd made him unknowingly promise to love her, knowing all the while that Sandra would love him back.