A/N: A small departure from Hook, Line and Sinker, this popped into my head while I was scrubbing the potatoes tonight, and simply would not leave me alone. Warning: it's sad. And there will be more.
It's the silence that nearly undoes her, she decides. The terrible, unnerving silence as he stands next to Ruth's body, still holding her hand, as she lies on a metal gurney in the morgue. Erin checks her phone for the fiftieth time in the last fifteen minutes. Come on, Dimitri, how long does it take to get hold of two personnel files? she wonders, supremely uncomfortable that she is witnessing the legendary Sir Harry Pearce going to pieces. Silently.
ooooo
It's the handwriting that nearly breaks him. Funny, that, when he considers everything else he's endured: and yet the familiar scrawl, all loops and blurred vowels, typical of someone who spends – spent – her life writing at a furious pace, at briefings, during teleconferences, in cars on her way to meetings, nearly brings him to tears, even though he had not known her as well as some of the other members of Section D. She must have done it just before she left the Grid for Towers' office, he deduces, looking at the bright red ink. Bright as…no, don't think about that, not now… On the Next of Kin form in her file, Ruth has written Harry's name and private mobile number, placing them above her mother's contact details; and in Harry's own file, she has done the same, adding her name and all her phone numbers at the top of what looks like a brand new form. Dimitri frowns and looks closer: there are no other contact details for his Department Head. No family members, no relatives. He notices a tiny asterisk after Ruth's name, and looks down the paper to see what the little mark is referring to. Beneath the official footer, Ruth has added a couple of lines in one of her favourite ciphers, based on the Greek alphabet: he puzzles it out, then pulls out his mobile phone and dials.
Erin answers immediately, and in spite of everything, Dimitri smiles, imagining her holding the phone in her hand, staring at it, willing it to ring. Once he has told her everything, he waits for orders, but Erin merely thanks him and tells him to clock off; she will take care of the rest. "Do you need me to come down to St Thomas' and wait with you?" he offers, and there is a pause on the line, as he holds his breath. "If you want," she replies, after what feels like an eternity. He wants, all right, and is heading for the pods even as she ends the call, while the personnel files lie forgotten on Harry's desk.
ooooo
It's the call he never, ever wants to get, the one that brings it all back to him, and for a moment he toys with the idea of ignoring it, or better yet, flinging the insistently buzzing unit far away, and into the inky blue water; but he has never been one to shirk his duty, and so he answers it with his heart in his mouth. "Harry?" It is not Harry; and at first, relief washes over him, until his brain begins to make sense of what his ears are telling him. The clipped female voice on the other end says, "You're down as next of kin, and there's been… been an incident." He shivers, although the sudden icy feeling he is experiencing has nothing to do with the late Autumn evening, and asks hesitantly, "Are you sure I'm listed as next of kin? Not his daughter, or…" The clipped voice cuts in, "Sorry. All I know is, there's a new form in his file, and you're the second name on it. So, will you come? Now?" And all of his worst fears coalesce sickeningly, knotting his gut as the horrible truth seeps through his handset: he was too long in the Service to misunderstand her thinly veiled meaning. No, oh no. Not her. Not Ruth… I should have thrown the damn phone away, while I still had the chance. Oh, Harry. My God. Not Ruth, not after everything else… his chest starts to feel too tight and too heavy, and he begins to wheeze as he gropes through his pockets for his inhaler.
Standing outside the morgue of St Thomas', Erin listens in dismay as the soft voice, cultured (Oxbridge, she guesses) and yet with the slightest hint of a Welsh lilt, shakily informs her that its owner is currently on the island of Anglesey, doing some research at the Tai Cochion Roman archaeological excavations near Brynsiencyn; he can't possibly envisage being in London before the next morning. Erin looks at the silent, still figure of her boss, holding a dead woman's hand and stroking her hair back from her face, over and over again, and makes a decision that is so far above her pay grade it's not funny. But then nor is any of this, she tells herself, as out loud she says, "Look, how soon can you be at RAF Valley?"
ooooo
It's not our usual sort of mission, and it's not our usual sort of passenger, either, the tall young pilot thinks as he and his crew scramble to the big yellow Search and Rescue Sea King helicopter, twenty minutes later; jogging alongside them, and very out of breath, is a seemingly unremarkable middle-aged man in corduroys, a tweed cap and a well-worn Barbour jacket. If anything, the pilot thinks as he goes through his pre-flight checks and the huge rotor begins to whap whap whap, getting up speed as it starts to bite into the air, he looks a bit like an older version of my uncle Edward… The pilot speaks into his comms, "Everything all right back there?" and the man replies through his own headset in an unsteady voice, "Oh yes. I've never been in one of these before, that's all." That is most decidedly not all, the young man thinks as the Sea King begins to lift off; he has seen that look before. Hell, he's worn that shocked, stunned, it-can't-be -true look himself, just as he too has surreptitiously wiped away tears when he thought there was no-one to see. Once they have cleared the base, the pilot increases the rotor pitch on the bright yellow whirlybird, climbing higher, and sets course for London. If we're there overnight, I might even pop in and see Grandma, he muses, and then turns his attention fully to the job at hand. It's just another mission, even if this one's for Five…
ooooo
It's hardly unusual to see a chopper touching down on the hospital helipad: what is highly unusual, though, is for one to arrive without a trauma team standing by, ready to rush a critically injured patient inside. Instead, Dimitri watches from the rooftop entrance as the big machine's landing gear kisses the concrete; he ducks out towards it while the rotors are still turning, and slides the rear door open impatiently as soon as the locks are disarmed. "Thanks, fellas, I'll take it from here," he tells the crew, only to do a double take when he catches sight of the pilot's name, emblazoned across the front of his helmet. "Oh, er, Sir!... Your…" he fumbles, and the pilot grins, amused at his discomfiture. "Flight Lieutenant will do nicely, thanks." The older man has unstrapped himself now, and with a deferential handshake and a word of thanks to the pilot, he disembarks, and stands at the edge of the parapet, hands buried in his pockets, looking towards a rather distinctive building on the other side of the river, waiting for the tall, powerfully built young man to escort him inside, and into the very heart of darkness itself.
ooooo
It's the waiting that is worse than anything else, Erin concludes, glancing between the double doors and the glassed-in viewing room of the morgue, where Harry has now been planted, unmoving as a standing stone and as silent as one, for over three hours. All she wants now is to see Dimitri reappear, with the man she hopes will somehow be able to get through to her boss, in his wake. She's bone tired now, and cold, and hungry. More than anything, she is desperate to go home and watch her little girl peacefully sleeping, until the world starts to make some sort of sense once more, but she won't leave until she knows that Harry is in good hands. Finally, she sees them; Dimitri, swinging along with his long, easy stride, and an older man, hastening to keep up. He has such a kind face, like everyone's favourite uncle; whatever was he doing in the Service? is her initial thought as she observes them approaching, and then Dimitri is pushing the doors open and the gentleman – for such he is, she senses instinctively– walks towards her, right hand outstretched, even as his eyes cut towards the morgue; he blanches as he removes his cap out of respect, and his step falters, before he gathers himself determinedly, and she recognises the quiet strength that lies beneath his rather timid outer seeming. Oh, now I see why she chose him…he must have been the heart of Section D, in his day…there's always one who never becomes completely hardened and immured to this life we lead in defence of the nation. One who reminds us all of what it is we are fighting for…
"Miss Watts. I would that we were meeting under better circumstances," he greets her, and she wishes she could crawl inside that mellifluous, warm voice and stay there, safe and secure, forever. A pair of grey-blue eyes, curiously set, scrutinises her shrewdly, noting the crumpled clothing, the bloodstains spattered across her blouse. Finally he says, "You're exhausted. You should go home. Have a hot bath and a hot toddy, and go to bed." She shakes her head. "I'll wait until you've spoken to him…he won't let anyone near them, that's why I'm out here. Thank you for coming." He smiles at her, a real, heart-warming smile, even though it's jagged with pain at the edges, and says, "I'll see what I can do." As he turns from her to stand in the entrance of the tiny viewing room, she catches the tightness around his eyes as he blinks nervously, the apprehension in his movements, the stiffening of his shoulders, and she realises with shock, There's history there, and not just between him and Harry… dear God, what have I done?
ooooo
It's not the losing her that's killing me, Harry tells himself, as he holds her hand and smooths her hair, exactly as he has longed to do since the first moment she came stumbling into the briefing room, all those lifetimes ago…it's the senselessness of it, the waste, the tragedy, the loss…no, it's the losing her, when she was finally within my reach… maybe if I lost my mind instead, it wouldn't matter quite so much, wouldn't feel as if my heart has been torn, still beating, out of my chest, only to be squeezed harder and harder by the steely fingers of some ancient, inexorable god, exacting vengeance and justice and punishment all in one act of the most breathtaking cruelty…Ruth would know which one I'm trying to think of. Ruth, my darling… my love, my soulmate, my life.
It's not the losing her that's killing me, Harry tells himself, it's the thought of living for one more second without her. Now all those Shakespearean tragedies that I once thought so melodramatic make perfect sense. It's the only logical answer, when the love of one's life is killed before one's eyes…one should die too. I know a hundred ways to kill a man, but I need only one to join her in the peaceful dark, beyond...
" 'For fear of that, I still will stay with thee,'" says a familiar voice from the doorway, gently and in a tone of infinite sadness. Harry raises his eyes in disbelief: "Malcolm?!"
A/N: Malcolm is quoting from Romeo's deathbed soliloquy, in Romeo and Juliet.
