A/N - I have had a plan of this fic lying around for months, now, and thought that this was probably the most appropriate time of year to write it up properly and release it. It shouldn't be too long and there will be some Christmas H/R in there, for anyone who is interested. =) For purposes of the plot, please consider what happened at the end of season 9 to have happened in September, making Harry's tribunal in early December. All my best. -Silver.

Chapter 1 – Trials and Tribulations

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Monday 5th December, 2011

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There was a man speaking French on the radio and the coffee mug was growing cold in his hand, as the clock ticked steadily over to two o' clock. Harry Pearce stared up at it mournfully. Time seemed to have slowed to an almost stand-still. He had been sitting here for the last two hours, staring blankly at the television screen. He was not really watching anything. He was not really doing anything at all – mostly because there was nothing much left to do. There was nothing on the television that he had not watched a dozen times before, there were no books on his shelves that he had not read and he had finished all the projects he had started, around the house.

Experimentally, Harry stretched one foot out, rubbing the pad of it across the carpeted floor. His socks were mismatched – a slightly different shade of grey which had looked the same in the half-light of the morning. He should really go and change them. The MI5 driver would pick him up in an hour or so, in preparation for his final tribunal, this afternoon at four o' clock. He could not quite bring himself to get up off the couch, however. Lethargy had overcome him, effectively gluing him to the seat. Eight weeks of temporary suspension had left him morose and despondent.

He had not been expecting it to be this way. After the initial bad feeling about the situation, he had rather come around to the idea of taking a break and having some time to get his head around things. Indeed, the first week of his leave had been almost pleasant. He had pottered about the place, enjoying the freedom of not having the nation's security on his shoulders, not having to worry about bombs going off in public places if he was not on the ball. He had slept in, he had gone for walks, and he had painted the downstairs bathroom.

As the days stretched into weeks, however, the loneliness had set it – far more intense than he had ever been expecting it to be. The time he had wanted, to get his head around things, suddenly seemed like too much time. The thoughts he had wanted to ponder seemed too many, too dark, too sad. As the days passed, Harry began to yearn for the human contact that his job inevitably gave him – the contact he had always thought he despised. The team, the Section, his colleagues and superiors – even the bloody politicians would have been preferable to no one. And no one was what he had, in his private life. Days passed without him speaking to another living soul. Almost a week passed, without him uttering more than a perfunctory word to a shopkeeper or a taxi driver. It was only when his daughter called, one morning, and Harry had answered with a voice coarse from disuse, that he realised how ridiculous the situation had become.

He was pathetic. He was alone and miserable. And god knew how much worse he would be if this tribunal went badly. After all, if he couldn't cope with eight weeks of enforced leave, how was he possibly going to survive permentant removal from the service? How could he possibly keep himself amused for seven days a week, fifty-two weeks of the year? What would he do with weekends and full nights of sleep? What would he do without seeing Ruth every day?

The thought of her was enough to make him stop, mid-thought, and run his fingers through his fast-thinning hair.

Ruth.

He had to stop thinking about her if he was going to make it through this afternoon's trial. It was bad enough that she would be there, to watch him get sentenced; he did not want to be tripping over his words, when he should be presenting a case before the panel. It was down to him to get her out of this. As the situation stood, now, Ruth would probably lose her job over the Albany fiasco. After he was permanently dismissed, she would be quietly removed from the Service. Either that, or be pushed back to GCHQ, where her career would stagnate. Harry had prepared a report and submitted it to the panel a week ago, outlining her contributions to national security. It was a fairly impressive document – he just hoped that and not the love with which it was written. He just hoped they would see how brilliant she was, how that alone should save her.

Standing, Harry took leave of the couch and paced through to the kitchen. His jacket and shoes were waiting for him, alongside his keys on the table. It was time to get dressed, he told himself firmly, time to go. His was not the only career hanging in the balance today. After dressing and momentarily missing Scarlet, for his not having anyone to bid goodbye, Harry made his way out to the front of the house, let himself out and locked the door behind him. The driver was waiting at the side of the street, early as always.

"Morning, sir," he greeted Harry as he slipped into the back seat of the car.

Harry wondered, vaguely whether he would still have his knighthood, after all this was through. Probably not was the consensus he reached.

"Good morning, Mike." He nodded to the road, with a sigh. "I suppose I should get going. Don't want to be late to my own party."

A nod from the driver and they set off, in silence. Harry supposed he would have to get used to people not knowing what to say – and to the silence. Once today was over, he might be spending the rest of his life in it.

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