A/N: Completely random nonsense. Not to be taken seriously


The thudding inside his skull was met suddenly by other sounds, barely a disturbance in the air around him. And then he heard words – `coming around'; `be gentle with him'; `respiration'; `honeymoon'; `head wound'. The last two words stayed with him, explaining as they did the percussion section of the London Symphony, which seemed to have taken up residence inside his head. Perhaps I've passed out on the floor of the Albert Hall.

"Mr Pearce …... can you open your eyes?"

The voice was female, unfamiliar to him, but kind and gentle. He tried to open his eyes, but nothing moved. He was tired …... so very tired …... and he felt himself fall back into the comfort of the pillows as he again lost consciousness.

When Harry again awoke, the percussionists seemed to have gone home, having left behind a metronome, ticking away with irritating regularity. He tried to imagine a tune inside his head, but the only one which seemed to emerge from deep inside him was `Ob-La-Di Ob-La-da' by The Beatles. He'd rather have heard just the metronome.

"He's surfacing again," he heard a quiet voice, male this time.

"Mr Pearce. Harry. Open your eyes."

He felt a hand on his arm, and then fingers touching his fingers. He grasped those fingers, hoping they belonged to someone he knew, someone he loved – or who loved him.

He opened his eyes.

And all he saw was furry light, interspersed with darker shapes which appeared to dance in front of his eyes. He was reminded of a lava lamp, only one in black and white, not purple and lime green. He felt fingers, hands on him, as the head of the bed was raised, and someone was taking his temperature.

"That'll be all, Nurse Wridgeway," he heard an authoritative male voice from close beside him.

The man's face emerged from the gloom, young, Asian, slim, handsome, no doubt a doctor. Harry stared at the man's face, and nodded, his way of saying he was ready to listen. He was still too tired to speak.

"Mr Pearce. Harry," the man said. The man's voice faded in and out, as Harry tried hard to concentrate on what he was saying. He'd heard the man give his name – Dr Murali Rao – but the rest was a jumble of sounds. And then he heard some words spoken very clearly indeed. "I have some bad news for you."

Harry frowned. Bad news?

"You were in a car accident, and you sustained head injuries. With bed rest you will heal. I am sorry to be the bearer of such sad news, but Mr Pearce, your wife didn't survive the accident."

Accident? Wife? I have no wife (although not from lack of trying.)

Harry's fingers grabbed the bedclothes, and it was then he felt something he'd not noticed before. He lifted his left hand to see the gold ring on the third finger. He was married …... but to whom?

"Did you hear me, Harry? Ruth – your wife – she died in the accident. I'm so very sorry."


Harry awoke with a rapid intake of breath, and sat up, almost falling off the bed. He was in his own bedroom, in his house in London. He was alone in bed, and there was no indentation on the pillow beside him. He lifted his left hand, and looked – there was no wedding ring. He lay back against his pillow, and breathed out heavily. His head hurt, but that was probably the whiskey he'd drunk the night before. He could remember the whiskey clearly, but had no recollection of anything else …... anything which would induce an hallucinatory state.

He arrived at work a little later than usual to see everyone where they should be, and that included Ruth. He called his team to the meeting room, but only half his mind was on the briefing. His dream had been too detailed, too real to have been just a dream. He began to formulate an idea.

"Tariq," he called to the young technical wizard, as he crossed the Grid. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" Tariq rose from his chair and followed Harry into his office.

"Harry, can you look at this, please?"

"Not now, Ruth. See me after I speak to Tariq."

He briefed Tariq for no more than five minutes, and then sent him on his way. Hot on Tariq's heels was Ruth, a printout in her hand, her eyebrows knitted together in a frown. Harry indulged himself for a moment, and watched her while she shuffled through the papers in her hand. He liked the idea of being married to her, but he had no idea how they could ever reach that state of bliss, given the stalemate in their relationship …... if avoiding one another, and being painfully polite could be considered a relationship. He'd marry her tomorrow, given half a chance. They could sort out the relationship side of things after the nuptials. Plenty of people did that, and often rather successfully.

She'd been talking for the best part of four minutes, and he'd not been listening to a word she said. He'd been thinking about kissing those lips, running his hands over those hips, lying next to her in bed, their bodies …... Jesus, Harry, give it a rest. She said no! Whatever she'd said, it would be a few minutes before he'd be able to stand up and step away from the desk.

Ruth was still talking, oblivious to her employer's mental meanderings. "These are the accounts that I think are the source of the transfers," she said, "and Tariq is still running a search on the accounts at the other end. There seems to be an absence of a pattern, and that worries me."

"Ruth," he interrupted, because he wasn't really listening anyway. He knew she'd only come to share this information out of habit, and the excitement of her find. He was very proud of her, but perhaps she was not his to be proud of. "I trust you with that information. I'll act in whatever way you consider wise."

Ruth's face could not have been more surprised. "Alright," she answered. "I just wanted you to remain …... in the loop. You know?"

Harry nodded, and she left, bewildered by his lack of questioning. Harry always asked questions.


Everyone had left for the day. Everyone except Harry, Tariq and Ruth. Ruth had buzzed in and out of Harry's office all day, and had he not known better, he would have been forgiven for believing that she was attempting to heal the rift between them. Throughout their long day on the Grid, she'd brought him one cup of coffee, and three cups of tea, not all at once, of course, but at regular intervals. When she'd left the Grid for lunch – and he'd been busy, so had remained at his desk – she'd brought him a sandwich and a latte from the lunch bar across the street. He'd wanted to ask her to stay with him while he ate it, but she'd left his office before he'd plucked up the courage to ask.

Just before 7 o'clock, Tariq knocked on Harry's office door, waiting just inside the door until Harry had finished his phone call.

"Harry, I got that information you wanted."

"And?"

"There is a Nurse Jessica Wridgeway working in ICU at St Thomas' Hospital. She began there 6 months ago, having finished her training only a month earlier. There is no Murali Rao at that hospital, or any other in London, or outer London."

Disappointed, Harry pursed his lips and twisted them in a `tough shit' kind of expression.

"However …..." Tariq put undue emphasis on the word. "There is a Murali Rao finishing postgraduate studies in trauma medicine at Queen Mary, University of London."

"Internship?"

"He's currently filling in at St Bede's. But in March, he's due to complete his internship at -"

"St Thomas'?"

"The very same."

Harry sat back in his chair, feeling like he'd been punched by a prize fighter. "Thank you, Tariq," he said quietly. "That was very good work."

It was as Tariq silently left the office that Harry knew what he had to do.