Hello everyone! This is (obviously) not the next chapter of Surviving, but the plot bunnies attacked when I was re-reading one of my favourite poems and it just made me think of Harry. The poem is called Invictus by William Ernest Henley; the title means 'unconquerable' in Latin. I will warn you now, this not a happy fic-no miraculous tales of survival for Ruth here-but I hope you enjoy it.

Disclaimer: I do not own Spooks or the poem Invictus.

Invictus-William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be,

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance,

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeoning of chance

My head is bloody but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade

And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate

How charged with punishment the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

She was gone. He had lost her again. But this time there was no lingering hope of her return, no second chance. When she had come back to him, he had felt like the condemned man handed a pardon at the last moment. The happiness and relief... It had been overwhelming-the knowledge that he had a second chance, one he would not let slip away.

But he had. He had left it too late, only told her how he felt as he begged for her not to die, not to leave him a second time. And this time, there would be no reprieve.

He had visited the little house that she had bought, so full of dreams never to be fulfilled. As he walked into the cottage he could almost see the shades of what might have been; Ruth, sat on a sofa, curled up like a cat, totally content in reading a book, Homer, perhaps, or Virgil. Harry, in the small bedroom that they had turned into an office, writing letters. Both of them, walking together along the lane outside the little house. But then, reality had crashed down upon him and the future ghosts dissipated, leaving nothing but emptiness. He had left then, closing the peeling green door on his way out.

It was in that moment that he had realised that he could not live in the past, dreaming of what ifs and might have beens. Ruth was gone, a harsh truth, but truth nonetheless. He didn't have to return to Section D, it was not expected, by his team or Towers. However, in his mind, there was no more appropriate place to remember Ruth, to be close to her. The house was full of what ifs, but the Grid had been part of the life that had been.

He had not gone straight to the Grid when he got to Thames House. Instead he headed for the beautiful memorial garden. Standing in front of the window, where all of the names of the officers who had given their lives in the defence of the country they loved, Harry smiled sadly. His eyes lingered on the last name. R. Evershed. His beautiful Ruth. One day, Harry knew, his name would be there, with hers. One day, when he had made one enemy too many. One day.

Until that one day, however, his life had to continue. As he headed towards his office he could feel the gazes of his team burning into him. He ignored them for now, not quite prepared to deal with their hesitant enquiries about his wellbeing. He settled into his chair, it still was out of position from Erin's brief tenure as Head of Section D. He smiled at the memory of Ruth's joking comment: "I'll get Q-branch to have a look at it."

He stared straight ahead, memories of Ruth dancing across his mind. Even though she was gone, the place still seemed full of her presence. The ringing of his phone cut through his reverie. He took a deep breath before answering.

"Harry Pearce." Bloody but unbowed.

Threats to the safety of Britain would keep coming and Sir Harry Pearce would be ready for them. Unconquerable.

Unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality. Emily Dickinson