Disclaimer: All characters in this work of fan fiction are owned by Kudos and BBC

Set between episodes 5 and 6 of series 7 so obviously *SPOILERS*… and written before I've watched episode 6!

Happy Birthday Claire

Pretending

Chapter 1

Pushing the door open, she stands in the hall, looking blankly at her home sweet home, which is nothing like a home, let alone a sweet one. She doesn't know what to do. She guesses that throwing things and destroying a few pieces of furniture, as she did after Adam's death, would achieve nothing– not this time. What could perhaps help her would be to hit that man's face, repeatedly and forcefully, to permanently erase his smile, but she knows that is a luxury she cannot afford.

Slowly, she takes a few steps into her room while playing with her keys in her hands. After another few minutes of indecision, she throws the keys on the coffee table, and grabs the TV remote control as she collapses onto the couch. She pushes the on button, hoping that the images on the screen of one of those stupid reality TV shows will help her to forget what she has done today for the greater good... for the operation...for her own safety.

She needs to talk to someone. She needs to get rid of the images that are popping in her mind every few minutes, and the very real feeling of the cold metal on her skin. She needs someone who is able to make her think that she can still have a normal life; not the kind of life where you are forced to have sex with your enemy to win the battle over him.

She holds her phone in her hand as she ponders whom to call.

Friends? They have mostly all fled at some point or another. Joining MI6 just after university does little to help you develop a social network or a social life. She was always away: far away most of the time; too far away to return phone calls or to be there on time for Birthday parties. One after the other, the friends of her youth and student years had given up on her.

Her mother? Oh yes, wonderful idea! "Hi Mother! You know what? I had a gun pointed on my temple today and I told my boss that there was no gun. I would be dead by now if I was not so bloody good at my job! I'm proud of me. And you? Are you proud of me Mother?" No, you can't inflict the realities of your job on your family: you can't tell them what you have to deal with day after day.

Boyfriend? The last one is dead. Shortly before his death, he had cheated on her with an asset in an op, breaking all the rules of the job while doing it. Then after that, he had saved her life by switching syringes and making her a dead person for six months. But she can't afford the luxury of moaning about the Yalta operation, her fake death, or Adam's death either. It is her life; the one she has chosen; the job she wanted to do; the job that she loves.

She allows herself a rare moment of introspection before coming to the conclusion that she can no longer pretend to family and friends that she has a normal life. She acknowledges that the only people she can rely on, the only ones who can understand what is in her head at that moment, are the colleagues she works with. Not all of them though: she doesn't know Lucas well enough yet; Ben is too young; Jo is fighting her own inner demons; and Malcolm is already comforting Connie. She knows that tonight there is only one person she can completely trust; one person that could help her without her having to explain every minute detail.

She switches off the television, takes hold of the keys, and rushes to the door as the realisation suddenly hits her: she hates her flat.

&&&&&

He puts on his coat and, grabbing the leash, he calls Scarlet to come to him so he can fasten it to her collar. The little dog is so glad to get out that she bounces up at his ankles to show her appreciation. As he walks through the dark streets of London, waiting for Scarlet who is inspecting each lamppost and several cars, he thinks that walking his dog is probably one of the last remaining things that help him pretend he has a normal life. As so many of his bosses in his early years at Five, he has become what he was mocking: not a man, just a job. He is his job. He knows that he is good at it, therefore, he knows that his intuition rarely fails: something is going to happen. He doesn't know what it is that is making him feel uneasy; he only knows that he would like to be a few weeks older so that, whatever it is, it's over.

The drizzle makes the pavement shine with the reflection of the moonlight. The streets are quiet; he can only hear the piercing sound of a police car siren a few streets away. He breathes the moist air, as he does almost every night, pondering what his life looks like when he is not at work: empty. He needs to go home.

He pulls on the leash: "Come on Scarlet, time to go home!" He glances at his watch while waiting for her to catch up with his hurriedly pacing feet. It's already 10:45pm and he doesn't want to be late, especially not tonight.

Twenty minutes later, he is sitting on the couch with Scarlet snuggled beside him, waiting for the anticipated ringing sound. He has taken off his jacket and tie, opened the first buttons of his shirt, and poured himself a large tumbler of his favourite Oban whisky.

The ringing noise he hears is not the sound he had expected: it's just someone at the door. Surprised and slightly nervous of the unexpected visitor, he calms Scarlet before taking hold of the small gun he always keeps in the credence of the hall. He opens the door slowly, and then smiles at the sight of Ros standing on the threshold.

"Are you going to let me in Harry, or should I have asked for permission to visit you first?"

He opens the door widely to let her enter his house.

"Of course Ros. Sorry, I just wasn't expecting you… or anyone else."

"And you always welcome your guest with a gun in your hand?"

"No, not always. Only my outstanding officers," he answers with a smirk.

As they walk to the living room, she looks across at him. Outwardly, he is smiling, but she can instinctively feel that he is tense.

"Harry, what is it? Is there something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong Ros," he lies. "I'm just being cautious or probably a bit paranoid with my old age. Do you want a drink?" He gestures with his hand for her to sit on the sofa.

He would like to trust her, but she has already betrayed him once: betrayed or played a complex game of double bluff; even she didn't know for sure. Anyway, he pondered, it was too big a secret to tell her about Sugar Horse...not now...not yet.

Watching her as he pours a glass of wine, he tries to figure out why she has called on him at this late hour. He watches the emotions crossing her face, and guesses that she is probably having some difficulty coping with the aftermath of the recent op. She told him during the debriefing what had really happened the night before, and about the gun confrontation in the office. He knows from experience that she must talk to someone. If it's not him now, it will be the shrink in a few days.

With his tumbler in hand, he sits in his chair, still watching her, while they are silently drinking. He knows that he has to give her some time to let her speak, but he also knows that in a few minutes his phone will ring. In an impatient move, he looks briefly at his wristwatch.

She sips her white Burgundy, enjoying the taste of it, and remains silent as she ponders what she is going to tell him. Her stare is locked on the glass as she realises she doesn't know what to say. She is unaware of Harry's questioning gaze on her.

"Ros?"

"Yes…" she hesitates, but she knows that it's now or never. "Do you ever question your life, Harry? I mean, don't you have regrets about your life?"

His eyes fall on her trembling hands. It is the first time he has seen her like this. Even when Juliet was pointing the syringe at her neck, he only saw fear of death, not the fragility he can read in her eyes now. He guesses that asking about his life is her way of avoiding the real issue: it helps her resist from admitting that, at that particular moment, she is not his cold, manipulative, outstanding officer, but simply a human-being, questioning the meaning of life.

"Do you mean about me becoming my job, and losing my sense of self in the process?" he answers.

She nods.

"I have some regrets, yes. I know I failed with my children and my relationship with Jane, and that still haunts me at times, but apart from that, I cannot afford to dwell on past mistakes."

Harry takes a sip from his glass, lowers his hand heavily on the armrest of his chair, and sighs quietly before continuing.

"Regrets are not compatible with our work, Ros. We make choices: good ones and bad ones. At the end of the day, you have to ask yourself, what is our purpose? Do we achieve something? I happen to believe that we do. Of course, there are other more personal things that I haven't done yet, but I will have plenty of time to do those when I retire."

Leaning forward in his chair, Harry chooses his words very carefully.

"Ros, if you think that what we're doing doesn't justify the sacrifice of our own lives, the only option left is to leave the service." The tone of his voice is a perfect blend of calmness and confidence. There is no place for doubts in what he is saying. He knows she is unsure; that he must instil as much support as he can in his words. That is what she needs to hear...not his own doubts, regrets, and fears.

"I know all that, Harry, and I don't want to leave the job. I just..." she hesitates. "I can't understand what's happening to me tonight. I've already been killed once, and I've been in delicate situations so many times in the past, so why now?" She is still looking at the drops of the golden wine sliding down the inside of her glass as her eyes fill with unshed tears.

Softly, very softly, he responds.

"Was it the first time, Ros?"

This time she raises her head and looks at him, obviously surprised by his question.

"First time for what, Harry?"

"First time you were forced to have sex with a target for the purpose of an op," he specifies as he refills her glass.

Her eyes fall again on the glass in her hands, as she cannot bear his interrogating but caring stare. A slight move of her head to say yes is enough to break her last defence, and a lone tear rolls on her cheek.

"This was the last thing left to you," he explains. "...your body, I mean. Last night, you had to give that to the service too, along with all the other sacrifices you have made, such as your family and friends. What you feel now is that there is nothing left of your integrity: nothing mental or physical left to give up. But you're not lost Ros. You have saved the country from certain disaster today; a few weeks ago, you saved the lives of hundreds of people. That is your job, and you're good at it...very good. You can be proud of yourself Ros; you have done a fantastic work today. I'm proud of you." His voice is really sweet, almost caressing. He doesn't have to hold her hand, or pat her shoulder: his voice is enough to give her the explanation and comfort she was craving.

There is nothing more to say. Tomorrow will be another day: other enemies to defeat, other threats to fight. She will carry on and do her job, again, with the conscious decision that nothing will hurt her anymore. She just answers, quietly, with a small smile.

"Thanks, Harry."

She already knew everything he just told her, but she had to hear it from someone she respects and admires...from her best friend.

Scarlet's head on her lap, the warmth of the wine, and the warmth in his voice, are all diffusing her nerves, and she's now much more relaxed than she could have imagined possible earlier that evening. Raising her head, she notices that Harry is looking at his watch again and he seems to be wriggling uncomfortably in his chair. Sensing the difference in his behaviour, she is about to ask him again what is bothering him when the mobile phone on the coffee table rings.

"Sorry, I have to take this," he says as he stands up, grabs the phone, and quickly disappears upstairs.

She notices that the phone he is holding is not his usual one. Watching him walking quickly to exit the room, she worries that Harry might be in some kind of trouble. A few weeks ago, he disappeared during an op, and had let her down a few hours later in the middle of the street after another phone call. Harry is not usually so secretive with her, and her spook instinct tells her that something is wrong.

Ten minutes later, Harry is back. He resumes his position in his chair, while asking her if she wants another glass of wine. Nothing on his face tells her what has happened; in fact, it is one of those occasions when she can't read his face at all.

"Harry, if you are in a caught up the middle of something serious, I can help you. You know you can trust me."

Their eyes lock for a moment as Harry is pondering what to tell her. All of sudden, he stands up and paces his carpeted floor while rubbing his hand on his face in a gesture that the whole Section D recognises as his pondering signature.

"Yes Ros, I do trust you, don't doubt that. I…I just don't know where to start."

He doesn't have time to say anything more before they both hear a very slight noise coming from the back of the house.

Ros is up in split second, but Harry doesn't look frightened. Instead, he pats her arm in a re-assuring gesture.

"Nothing is wrong, Ros. Believe me."

He walks across the room.

"Stay here and I'll be back in two minutes," he says, as he disappears through the back door of the room.

Ros is now standing alone, struggling to hear some indeterminate whispers, soon followed by silence. Someone is in the house, and she is feeling more and more puzzled. After another half a minute of silence, she decides to disobey Harry's request and walks silently towards the main door of the living room, which leads to the hallway.

She steps cautiously towards the door. There is no light shining in the hallway, so it makes it easier for her to tilt her head around the doorframe to watch without being seen. Her breathe is immediately caught in her throat as her eyes and brain instantly spark with the crazy realisation of the scene unfolding in front of her.

At the end of the dark corridor, Harry is standing, holding a woman closely against him. The only noise Ros can hear is the sound of their passionate kisses. She can't see the woman's face because Harry's broad shoulders hide it, but she has no doubt who it is likely to be.

Ros smiles as she walks back into the light of the living room. She assumes that they would be grateful for some time alone, but she doesn't want to leave without finding out what is going on. Re-taking her seat, she finishes her wine in startled silence, pondering her next move. Having finished the glass, she eventually chooses to leave, and turns on her heels at the precise moment when Harry and his friend enter the room. Ros smirks at the sight of Harry's arm holding his guest tightly around her waist and at their broad smiles.

"Hello, Ruth."

"Hello, Ros."

Second and last chapter very soon.

My beta reader is fantastic.