A/N: Thank you all who are reading and reviewing these little one shots. I appreciate all comments. This one is (unintentionally) a companion piece to last week's one shot, "In Dark and Brooding Mood," since again one of them is intent on rescuing the other.

It is unusual for Ruth to worry about Harry. He is a man who has endured many losses, including her own almost four years earlier. She'd believed him to have been inured to loss, but today's loss may be the one which will ultimately have him unravelling. She had not found him on the roof balcony, so she has walked back and forth along the Thames embankment, eventually admitting to herself that he is not there. He wouldn't have gone home. She knows he'd rather be alone, just another face in a crowd; somewhere he'd be surrounded by others while remaining anonymous.

Finding an empty bench beside the river, Ruth sits, before taking her phone from the cavernous Tardis of a bag she has slung over one shoulder. She scrolls through her contacts and presses the name of the person who, in her opinion, is in the best position to be tracing Harry. While she waits for the call back, she sits gazing across the Thames. The day had been one of those awful days, filled with threats and strategies, and ultimately a tragedy which had taken one of their own.

Ruth had not been close to Ros, but she'd admired her, and had at one time envied her, with her focused attention to her job, accompanied by an easy ability for putting others in their place. And Harry had depended upon her, perhaps as much as he'd depended on his senior analyst. Strangely, Ruth had not been jealous of Harry's close association with Ros. Harry had grown to depend upon Ros in the same way he'd once depended upon her. He'd needed someone he could trust implicitly, and in her absence that someone had been Ros. And now Ros is gone, and Harry is again having to come to terms with the loss of a woman for whom he'd cared deeply.

Ruth's thoughts are interrupted by the ringtone of her phone. It is Tariq, and he has news of Harry. "The phone is stationary," he says. "He's in a little pub in King's Lane, a short walk from the hotel ... the one ..."

" .. where Ros and the Home Secretary died," Ruth finishes for him bluntly.

"Yeah. The pub's called The Bushelers Inn. Weird name."

Ruth is barely listening. "I'll need an address, Tariq," and so Tariq rattles off the address, and then she leaves the embankment in search of a taxi.

It takes the taxi an hour to reach The Bushelers Inn, during which time Ruth keeps her mind off the hotel bombing by thinking about Harry. Since her return from Cyprus they have grown closer, the kind of closeness to be nurtured by working together, as they had before she'd left London. While Harry appears solid and strong, the kind of person one needs beside them in a crisis, she knows that just beneath the surface, he is as fragile as a bird. All it would take is one loss too many, and he'd snap like a twig, which is why she knows she has no choice but to go to him.

The Bushelers Inn is an anachronism - a narrow, ancient building of three storeys tucked between a modern office block and a Chinese restaurant. Inside the building the lighting is muted, the carpets a dark blue, and the clientele unnaturally quiet. Walking behind a group of office workers, she detects the words, `hotel', `bomb', and `casualties' amid the murmur of their conversation. Less than a kilometre away people died today, and this has those who had been close enough to hear the explosion reflective in the aftermath. None appear to notice her, a woman on her own, a little stressed, and rather worried.

She looks around the room, and at first can't see anyone sitting or standing alone, but on moving further into the room, she sees him. In the far corner of the room Harry sits at a small table for two, between his hands a glass of something amber in colour, his expression grim. Ruth takes several steps towards him, and then stops, her eyes never leaving him. What if he won't welcome her company? He may consider her seeking him out to be an act of interference. `I am capable of looking after myself, Ruth,' she can already hear him saying.

As if sensing her presence, Harry turns his head towards her. While they hold one another's gaze Ruth can feel her heart beating rapidly. It's too late to be backing out, so she covers the remaining distance to his table, standing across from him. "I just thought .." she begins, not really knowing what she'd thought. She'd been worried about him, and that had been enough reason for seeking him out.

"You thought I'd do something stupid, like drink myself into oblivion," he says in a monotone. "You may as well sit down, Ruth .. now that you're here."

"If you'd rather I leave, I will," she says, with faked forthrightness.

"Sit, Ruth," and this time Harry appears resigned.

So Ruth sits, and it is only then she realises that, having not answered her many calls to his mobile phone, not having returned to the Grid, and now isolating himself in an out-of-the-way pub, Harry's desire for solitude has outweighed his sense of duty, and she has stumbled into that solitude, probably upsetting him more than he is prepared to say. "I'm sorry," she says lamely, eyes downcast, "I hadn't thought this through."

"You've been worried about me."

Ruth nods, lifting her eyes to see an expression so much gentler than the tired, resigned man she'd seen on first arriving. "If you'd rather I leave -"

"I'd like you to stay .. now you're here." Harry's voice is quiet and soft, and his eyes seek hers, his expression the one he reserves just for her.

Ruth's smiles, a little embarrassed. "I've put you on the spot."

Harry nods. "But it's not such a bad spot to be in. I'd rather you here .. with me .. than almost anywhere else."

Ruth nods. She suspects he's just being polite.

What follows is a long silence, during which Harry's fingers slide up and down the sides of his whiskey glass, as if he's contemplating the wisdom of taking another sip, while Ruth watches him, searching for any sign that he's humouring her. It's becoming apparent to her that he's spoken truthfully.

"I'm not here on my own to avoid company, you know," Harry continues, his eyes still on his glass. "I'm here because I don't trust myself to not lose control completely, and that's best done ..."

".. in solitude," Ruth finishes for him. "So have you .. lost control?"

Harry shakes his head, a wry smile turning one edge of his mouth upwards. "You know me, Ruth. Tough on the outside, concrete on the inside."

"I don't believe that for a moment, Harry. You're ..." and she can't continue her thought. She could say he's a good man, but that would be skirting the issue. She could have said he's more a real man than any man she knows, a man with deep feelings, and a heart which breaks when he loses someone he cares about. She could have said he's soft on the inside, but a statement like that could come out all wrong.

"What, Ruth? What am I?"

"You feel just like any other person feels. I saw it in your eyes when Danny died, and Colin, and Jo. I saw it when ..."

"When you left London?"

Ruth nods. She knows that Harry has lost many women in his life - his mother, his wife, he has lost her once already, and then Jo, and now Ros. She looks up to see his eyes on her, drilling into her very being. "I was sure I'd never see you again. Once the boat took the bend in the river, it was as though you'd died."

As much as Ruth believes they need to address her leaving of London, and then her return, laced with tragedy and loss as it was, she is not yet ready to discuss these events with Harry. As if able to read her mind, he changes the subject. "Drink, Ruth?" he asks, his gently spoken words cutting short her musings.

Ruth nods. "I could do with a coffee," she replies, and Harry gets up from the table to order.

Ruth is surprised when two coffees arrive at their table - a black for Harry, and flat white for her. "I've had enough alcohol," he explains, seeing her surprise.

"You don't seem ..." She can hardly say `pissed'. People like Harry become inebriated, not pissed.

"I'm not, but any more and I could be well on the way."

They're back to discussing practical matters. They do that well, the practical, day-to-day stuff. They could probably live together quite successfully, that is, until one of them forgot the other's birthday, or left the soap on the floor of the shower alcove. And Ruth's not about to examine why her thoughts are galloping into `living together' territory.

"I'm really sorry about Ros," she says at last. After all, Ros died today, and Harry is distressed. He nods, lifting his eyes to hers, then quickly dropping them. Ruth notices him swallowing, and she knows that she's just ground her thumb into an open wound. "I know she meant a lot to you, and ..." Ruth decides that she has said enough. With every sentence spoken about Ros, she is picking at that wound.

"She did, Ruth, and she always will. No-one can possibly take her place."

"She was a lot like you."

Harry's eyebrows knit together in a frown. "Is that how you see her?"

"It's how everyone saw her. She gave you a run for your money. She was ... blunt, and effective."

"So now I'm ... blunt and effective."

"Only on the surface. I know you well enough to know that you are ... much more than that." This time it is Ruth who quickly drops her eyes, swallowing, hoping to hide her rapidly beating heart.

"You must have gone to a lot of trouble to find me, Ruth."

"I got Tariq to ..."

".. trace me?"

Ruth lifts her eyes to find he is leaning forward, his eyes on her, his pupils dilated. It's probably all that alcohol kicking in, she thinks. But she doesn't even know how much he's had. For all she knows, he may have had only one or two. Pull the other one. "Yes," she almost whispers the word.

"So you see," he continues quietly, "this day of tragedy suddenly has a silver lining."

"We shouldn't be thinking this way," she scolds.

"Why not?" Harry's expression is belligerent. "Why shouldn't a day of horrific loss be a day when we acknowledge the fragility of life?"

"I don't think we should become .. distracted."

"I've spent the last two and a half hours sitting here looking into my drink, hoping for a distraction, and then you walked in. I'd call that Divine Intervention, wouldn't you?"

Ruth knows where this is leading, and she wishes she had the strength to bring this runaway train to a halt. But she doesn't want to. She nods slowly. For a long moment Harry watches her, perhaps looking for any sign she is just humouring him.

"Then I vote we take a taxi - together - to my place, where I'll order us something to eat, and if by the time we finish eating we both still agree, you should stay over ... for the night ... with me."

So it's happening at last. They are on the cusp of spending a night together. Ruth doesn't know what to say. To say no would be cruel to a man who is grieving, and to say yes sounds like she is giving in without resistance on her part.

"This is not a difficult decision, Ruth."

Easy for him to say. "But what about Ros? She died today."

"I'm well aware of that." He is staring across the table at her, as if willing her to deny them this simple pleasure. "I'd like to think that were Ros still alive, she'd be applauding the idea."

"She was not a fan of me," Ruth says, and she's annoyed that her voice sounds whiny.

"Only because you wouldn't .. you know."

"Sleep with you?"

"Perhaps not that direct. I think the words she once used were, `she enjoys pulling your strings, Harry'. But it means the same thing."

Ruth is momentarily shocked. She drops her eyes from his, and stares into her coffee cup, now empty. She could get up and quickly leave, hoping to find a taxi before Harry finds her standing alone at the kerb, or she could simply acquiesce.

In the end, acquiescence was easy. They sit together in the back seat of a taxi, their bodies not touching, each staring ahead, perhaps each expecting the other to make the first move.

Ruth can't wait any longer. When they are around half way to Harry's house, she reaches out and grasps his hand, sliding her fingers between his. She watches him as he gazes at their hands as they rest on his thigh. He turns towards her then and his eyes are so sad that she could weep for him. They have agreed to grab this moment of happiness at the end of a day of such tragedy.

They are almost to his street when he speaks, his voice quiet, so that Ruth has to lean closer to hear him. "You must know that this is what I have wanted for some time," he says, and she nods. She'd have to be completely clueless to not know that. "And it means something. This isn't something .. casual."

"I know that," Ruth replies, just as quietly. How could anything which happens between them possibly be casual? Their interactions are always so layered, and intricately woven with meaning. Then she hesitates, carefully choosing her words. "So .. why now? Why today?"

It is at that moment that the taxi stops in front of his house, and after sighing heavily, Harry busies himself paying the fare. It is not until they are in his living room, and he has turned on the gas fire that he turns towards her to answer her question.

"Why today?" he asks, and Ruth nods. "Because we lost one of our own today, and were the next person to be taken to be either one of us, I wouldn't want to have wasted this opportunity." Ruth opens her mouth as if to speak, but he holds up his hand to silence her. "And this will not be the last time we .. do this, Ruth. Not unless it's truly terrible for us both, and even then, I'm a firm believer that practice makes perfect."

His statement has them both smiling, so that Ruth takes a step closer to him, reaching up to cradle his face between her hands before she places her lips on his. The kiss is careful and gentle, so that they both find they are smiling against the lips of the other. They pull out of the kiss, still smiling.

"I can't believe this," she says, both palms now pressed against his chest. Given Harry's hands rest at her hips she is unwilling to pull away, "and all because Ros died today."

Harry nods, his hands still on her hips, and she detects sadness in his eyes at the mention of Ros. "We should think of .. this .. what we're about to do .. as a celebration of her life."

As odd as that sounds, Ruth knows what he means, but first things first. "I could eat a horse, Harry."

"The local Indian has had to remove all equine products from the menu, but they do a rather fine Rogan Josh."

"Then let's order," she says, "not that I'm in a hurry, or ..."

"Me neither," Harry replies, taking his phone from his pocket, and waking it up, "but ..."

They both know they're about to eat their meal in record time, and the lovemaking to follow will be slow, and no doubt a little bittersweet. But Ros Myers died today, and they are celebrating not only her life, but their own.