A/N: Whilst this fic bears some resemblance to a previous story of mine - "Coming Home" (published mid June 2013) - and the story arc appears similar, it is a different story altogether. This story is just an excuse for some HR fluff.


First step: Take a taxi to the right address. Done.

Second step: Walk up the pathway to the front door. Done.

Third, and final step: Ring the doorbell.

Ruth hesitates on the third step, because once it is done, it cannot be undone. Is this what she really wants? It is what she has to do ….. what she must do. She has come all this way, and she cannot back out now. Be brave, she tells herself.

She rings the doorbell, and waits. Nothing. There is no dog barking, no clicking of canine claws on polished wood floors, no muffled footsteps approaching the door from inside …... nothing.

After all this – almost four years, over three thousand miles, and a (perhaps unwise) sudden decision to return to her home country – the very person she has flown all this way to see is not at home. She'd checked the electoral roll before she left Boston, and his address has not changed. She'd also checked the MI-5 personnel files, and he'd been listed as `retired', and she hopes that is not a euphemism for a more permanent exit from this life.

She repeats the third step, pressing the doorbell twice, just in case. She waits. And then she waits some more, and then just as she turns to leave, her whole body leaden with disappointment, the door opens.

Ruth turns, her heart beating rapidly as a bird's, her face flushing. It is then she remembers that she has always reacted to his presence in this way. How could she possibly have forgotten?

He stands in the doorway, his hand resting on the edge of the door. The years have been kind to him, and other than a thinness around his face and neck, his appearance hasn't changed. To say his face shows surprise is an understatement. "Ruth," he says, his voice croaky with unexpressed emotion. "I wasn't ….. Why didn't you ….?"

"It's rather chilly out here …... May I come in?"

"Of course," and he steps aside to allow her past him, before shutting the door behind them.

Together, they turn to look at the other. She is dressed in the same clothes she'd worn on the plane – a warm woollen skirt of mid calf length, a jumper which clings to her body, a jacket, and black boots. She also wears a black overcoat. He is dressed in faded blue jeans, and a cream-coloured cable-knit jumper, and on his feet he wears only black socks. His house is warm, after all.

Now she's here, Ruth doesn't know what to say. They haven't spoken, haven't set eyes on one another for almost four years. What if there's a wife or a girlfriend stashed away somewhere?

"Here, I'll take your coat," he says, reaching towards her, and she removes the garment, hands it to him, and he hangs it on a peg on the wall behind the door. Their fingers touch for just a moment when the coat passes from her hand to his, and the thrill which passes through her shocks her, surprises her …... after all this time.

"I'm sorry …... perhaps I should have …... I only decided to do this …... a couple of weeks ago, but I had to wait until there was a flight, and …... well, I missed Christmas …... but -"

"Ruth …... it's fine. You're welcome. Very welcome." His voice sets her cells tingling, another sensation long forgotten.

"I don't even know if you have someone …... a wife, or …..."

He smiles at her struggle to complete her sentences. It is one of the things he has missed about her, despite his frustration when trying to communicate with her. "There's no wife," he says quietly, leading her into his sitting room, where an open fire burns, and there are small signs that it is Christmas week – Christmas cards open on the mantlepiece, a small, artificial Christmas tree decorated sparsely, but tastefully. "And no girlfriend, either," he adds, noticing her looking around the room, for signs of …... someone sharing his home.

"Why is that?" Ruth stands in the middle of the room, looking around, and then turns to look into the face she has dreamed of almost nightly for nearly four years.

"You know why." Harry indicates she should sit on the sofa. "Tea, coffee, wine or whiskey? That's about all the choice I can offer you."

"Tea would be lovely," Ruth says, sitting on the sofa, smiling up at the man she'd loved for as long as she can remember.

When he leaves the room, she sighs heavily, allowing the tension to leave her. He's just a man, after all, and there is the strongest of chances that he has moved on from her, even if it's only that he no longer thinks of her with fondness.

"I seem to remember you having a dog," she says when he returns with a tray, carrying a teapot, cups, spoons, sugar, and milk, and places it on the coffee table between the sofa and his armchair.

"I had to give her away when she got old. I was busy at work, and couldn't care for her properly. It was just before Lucas died …... just before you …... I gave her to a nursing home."

"But you didn't say anything."

"Ruth …... you forget that at that time, we were hardly close."

Ruth sighs, remembering the day of Ros Myers' funeral, and how from that day on, things between them were never quite the same.

"They contacted me - I think it was a little less than a year ago – to tell me she'd died." Harry stops speaking while he pours them each a cup of tea, and they each add sugar and milk. "That was a particularly hard time," he adds, his voice barely audible.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Ruth says, knowing how much Harry had loved his little dog. "And your children? How are they?"

At last, he smiles, and she can see the old Harry in his eyes – the fire, the passion of the man she once knew …... and loved. "My daughter now lives in London. She's married, with a two-year-old daughter, and she's expecting her second child in five months. My son is still unsettled, but he has a steady job, which is a good start. He's currently between girlfriends. I see Catherine far more than my son, and I enjoy the time spent with my granddaughter. Sometimes I have her overnight when Catherine and Mark go out for an evening."

"What's her name?"

"Ellie. It's short for Eleanor." Harry stops suddenly. Ruth gets the impression that he has few personal conversations, and being in her company is beginning to open something within him …... some need for close personal contact. She reads embarrassment on his face. This man who sits across from her is a long way from the confident and talented section head of Section D in MI-5.

"You're retired," she says.

He nods, looking down at the cup of tea he holds in his hands. "After I went back to work after my suspension, it was on the proviso that I leave within three years. So I did. I retired …... before they kicked me out. Scarlet – my little dog – died a month later."

"Oh, Harry, that's awful." Ruth puts her cup on the coffee table, and leans forward. "You were so brilliant -"

"They didn't want brilliant, Ruth. Compliance is the order of the day. Initiative is now frowned upon. Thinking for oneself is considered dangerous. Following procedure is now the only acceptable pathway to achieving results. I was told there were boxes needed ticking, and I'd been used to ignoring the boxes altogether." He smiles a wry smile.

"Who is doing your job?"

"Erin Watts. She arrived -"

"I met her briefly before I …..."

There it is. The elephant in the room. Ruth had left London while Harry was on suspension after he'd given away Albany, and they haven't spoken, haven't seen one another since they met on the roof balcony of Thames House two days after Lucas North jumped off Enver Tower. Harry desperately wants to know why, and now Ruth is ready to tell him. It will have taken them almost four years – forty four months and twelve days, to be precise – to get around to having this conversation.

Ruth looks at Harry across the space between their chairs. She really looks at him – and finds him - beneath the neat clothing and the closely trimmed hair, and the veneer of middle class politeness. He holds his tea cup between his hands, and is turning it around, with more concentration than is necessary, but she senses his sadness. He has become accustomed to loss and defeat.

It is high time she came clean.

"Harry," she says, waiting for eye contact from him before she continues. "What do you know about my leaving? What were you told?"

He takes a deep breath before replying, and it is then she sees the deep pain in his eyes. Harry has the look of a man lost inside his own life... and from where she sits, it is all her fault.