A/N: This story is set post "Spooks: The Greater Good", and although I have not seen the movie, I have discovered some of the outcomes. Thus, there may be minor spoilers for the movie.

Early June 2014:

Malcolm Wynn-Jones stood on the high deck of the small private jetty watching the just-beyond-middle-aged man as he wearily stepped from the small motor launch. It had only been just over a week since they'd last seen one another, but Harry Pearce looked neither rested nor revived. Malcolm took the few steps down to the small jetty beside which the boat was moored, intending to help Harry with the items he was attempting to carry in one hand.

Harry had seen Malcolm before he'd turned off the launch's motor. The man's presence could only herald bad news back in London, and he had no stomach for more bad news. The very least they could have done was send young Will Holloway. The two of them could have had a few drinks at the pub and then rolled home to his rented cottage for a few more. Bloody Malcolm would no doubt prefer a pot of tea, and he was fresh out of Earl Grey.

"Do you need help with that?" Malcolm asked, grabbing the fishing tackle box from Harry's grasp. He was surprised when Harry didn't object.

They walked side by side up the hill in silence to the small cottage Harry had rented for the next three months, after which – who knows? - he may have a change of heart. Harry had looked Warrender in the eye – no mean task, given the younger man had been standing close to him, his presence powerful and perhaps a touch menacing. It was clear to Harry that they were pushing him out the door slowly, so he had decided to take extended leave from which he would most likely not return. Not yet. He'd actually found some parts of the last few months enjoyable ... being on the run, suspected dead, avoiding detection. There was incredible freedom in being dead – a non person. There was also incredible freedom to be had from simply disappearing from London to this bolt-hole, a place where no-one would think to look for him.

The last hundred yards of the path from the marina to the cottage were steep, with steps cut into the rock face. Malcolm slowed his pace to give Harry time to climb the steps. His gait slowed and his shoulders sloped with fatigue as Malcolm stuffed his free hand into his pocket to prevent himself offering Harry a helping hand. Harry told Malcolm to leave the bait box outside, and then he unlocked the front door to his cottage and invited him inside. Their brief exchange outside the front door was the longest verbal exchange they'd shared since Malcolm had joined Harry at the boat's mooring.

"You may as well sit down," Harry said as they reached the cramped kitchen at the back of the house. "I have tea and coffee."

"Nothing stronger?"

"I gave it up."

"Oh? When?"

"This morning. I had such a headache that I swore off whisky for the rest of my time here."

"Which will be?"

"If I have my way, forever. I can't do it any more, Malcolm. And if I can't do my job without the anaesthetising effects of alcohol, then perhaps I shouldn't be there in the first place" Harry said, adding tea leaves to the teapot.

"It's been a difficult few months."

Trust Malcolm to state the bleeding obvious.

A few minutes later they were sitting across the small kitchen table from one another, sipping their tea. Malcolm smiled to himself. There had been occasions when the two of them had shared a good single malt, but here they were each sipping their tea. How very English. It was Harry who broke the silence.

"You know," he began, "I rather liked being dead. It was freeing – no expectations, no rules, no-one to remind me of all the many ways in which I was failing. I rather liked the feeling ….. so here I am ….. dead to those in the service. You?"

To Malcolm that appeared to be the perfect opening. "I'm here for a reason, Harry," he began. "I have something to tell you which can only be said face to face."

"I can't see you being the one sent to tell me I'm needed back in London."

"No. It's nothing like that. It's much more …... personal."

Twenty minutes later:

In the time it took for Harry to come back inside, Malcolm had poured himself a second cup of tea. The older man had stood up so suddenly that his chair had tipped backwards, leaving it to clatter on the slate tiles as he struggled to open the back door, gasping for fresh air. Malcolm watched through the window above the sink as Harry stood at the edge of the terrace, hands on hips, head back, his shoulders heaving with each breath he took. It took several minutes for Harry to calm, and then he stood still, his face turned upwards, and several minutes later he suddenly turned and headed back inside. He lifted his chair to its upright position, sat on it, and then folded his hands on the table in front of him before looking Malcolm in the eye. It was as though he had never left the room.

"So ….." Harry began, "I'm assuming you have evidence to support your claims."

Malcolm had always felt a deep and enduring responsibility for the difficulties Harry and Ruth had had in their time working together before she had left London after the Cotterdam incident. From his perspective they'd been a couple, and what that had meant in real terms he couldn't even guess. They'd been a couple while on the Grid, and had it not been for his clumsy words to Ruth back in 2006, he was sure they would have become a couple while away from work. Harry's tragic and emotional response to Ruth's death had only served to consolidate Malcolm's guilt. He had sat next to Harry at Ruth's funeral service, and on top of his own rather deep grief he had also felt a level of responsibility for Harry's pain. In Malcolm's estimation Harry had not moved on. His `suicide', followed by his one-man crusade to find Adem Qasim, accompanied by the lad, Holloway, was testament to his suspicions. He believed Harry to be fast headed for a breakdown.

"I have what you need here," Malcolm replied, pulling open his tweed jacket to retrieve a bulky manila envelope from the inside pocket. He slid it across the table towards Harry, who looked at it like it was timed to explode within seconds. "You might prefer it were I to leave the room while you …... peruse the contents."

"No ….. I'd like you to stay while I …..." Harry looked up at Malcolm sheepishly while his hands fiddled nervously with the envelope in front of him. "I might have questions."

Malcolm recognised a plea from a desperate man when he heard one. He stayed seated – silent and still – while Harry upended the envelope, spilling the contents onto the table in front of him. He sifted through a number of photographs, not lingering on any of them until he reached a hand-written letter, which he unfolded and placed flat on the table. With his palms he ironed out the creases in the paper; over and over he moved his hands over the paper on which Malcolm could see written the bold scrawl of Ruth's handwriting. Harry reached into the top pocket of his shirt, drew out his reading glasses, and began reading. It was as he was reading the third and last page that Malcolm noticed tears rolling slowly down Harry's cheeks.

"Harry -," he began, to which Harry responded by holding up his free hand in a `stop' gesture, so Malcolm remained where he was, silently observing his former boss letting slip his ever-present guard.

When Harry reached the end of the letter he paused for a moment to wipe his fingers across his cheeks, and then retrieved the first page, beginning to read it from the beginning. When he finished his second read through he put aside the three pages of the letter and picked up the photographs. Malcolm had taken the photographs himself and had chosen the best dozen for inclusion in the envelope. He had to hand it to Harry. For a man who was witnessing evidence that the love of his life had not died almost three years earlier, Harry was remarkably calm.

"You'll want to be visiting her," Malcolm suggested quietly.

"I guess so."

He guesses so! Calm to the point of catatonic. "You'll be wanting her contact details."

"They're in her letter."

"Right. Perhaps I should go now." Malcolm had a sense that Harry was teetering on an emotional knife edge.

"As you wish."

"And should you need anything ….. anything at all ….. you'll contact me."

Malcolm noted a slight lifting of Harry's eyebrows before he spoke, his voice giving nothing away. "Of course."

Harry waited until Malcolm reached his car and drove away before he returned to the kitchen table and sat down, having first made himself a fresh mug of tea. He knew he should have asked Malcolm to stay a while longer, but he simply couldn't, and he could only hope that Malcolm had understood why. He had no energy for social niceties, not when his whole world was being turned upside down and inside out.

He took the photographs – all twelve of them – and arranged them on the table in front of him. Three rows of four – orderly and neat, just the way Harry liked things to be. Then he sat back, mug of tea in one hand, while he gazed at each image in turn. All were images of Ruth, all were taken only two days earlier, and in nearly all the photographs she was smiling shyly at the camera, her grey-blue eyes striking in their direct gaze into the lens. He put down his tea, and began picking up each photograph in turn, closely examining each one before placing it back on the table – in its place in the grid of twelve – and then picking up the next one.

Then he did what he'd been itching to do since he had first glanced at each photograph, but felt unable to due to Malcolm's presence. With his free hand, Harry swept all twelve images of Ruth and the three pages of her letter to him onto the slate floor of the kitchen. Then he stood, tipped the remainder of his tea into the sink, and then poured himself a generous measure of Scotch. The occasion called for the familiar oblivion which only whisky could deliver.

Next morning Harry awoke with a dry mouth and a thumping headache. He looked down to see he'd slept on top of the duvet, still fully dressed. After he'd showered, shaved and changed into fresh clothes he headed downstairs. There he found his bottle of Scotch slightly less than half full, his glass with a fingerful of amber liquid in the bottom, and the pages of Ruth's letter and her photographs strewn haphazardly across the kitchen floor. First he gathered the photographs and the pages of the letter, and placed them in a tidy pile on the table. Then he disposed of the bottle and glass, and made himself a cup of strong coffee and two slices of buttered toast. Other than sustenance of the liquid variety he had skipped dinner, and so was rather hungry.

He sat at he table munching his toast and sipping the coffee while he again read Ruth's letter. This time his response to it was gentler, but he was still angry with her, and despite her inviting him to visit her in Oxford, he couldn't. Not now. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. He still loved her, had never stopped loving her, despite believing that she had left him forever, but he could not help feeling a deep level of rage towards her …. a rage so deep that it would not be safe for him to be around her.

So Harry did what he always did when confronted by his most powerful emotions. He escaped, and this time he had the whole ocean at his disposal.