Disclaimer: BBC, Kudos; they own it all.
Warnings: *Spoilers for 8.1, but most possibly AU from thereon. Characters deaths implied (some more directly than others).
A/N: Because Malcolm's story post-8.1 has immense fic potential. Rushing to put this out there before the rest of series 8 airs and negates my AU. Reviews, as always, are most appreciated.
It is via the little green letterbox outside his house by the Dover coast that Malcom discovers, to his mild amusement and milder surprise, that Harry has a fondness for postcards.
The first is from Majorca, telling him of Ruth's return to the Section, in as many words, and he smiles at the wry slant that Harry's penmanship seems to have taken on. He wishes he could reply to ask about Nico.
He misreads the one from Kiev and nearly spills tea down his bathrobe when he finally realizes that it's not Jo who is getting married, it's Ros. He wonders who the groom is, and if he knows what he's getting himself into, poor man.
A blank card with glittered borders around the domes of St Basil's could mean anything, though he believes- he knows, Harry had meant it for something. He briefly considers a trip up to Cumbria, and an inconspicuous visit to the Ambleside Parish, on behalf of a friend.
-
Time slips by, and there is a subtle languor to the seasons' changes as he begins to settle into this simple, simplified life. He still appreciates the odd postcard from his seemingly well-travelled acquaintance, but he secretly hopes that with time, he can leave that part of him well and truly behind.
-
Just after Easter, he learns through the Madonna Litta ("Hermitage Museum, fascinating place.") that yet another friend had died; he is not told the circumstances of her death, only knows that she is gone, and that the Grid has become that much more alien. He also learns, to his dismay, that time does not erase a memory as completely as he had hoped it would.
The next two obituaries come a year later in quick succession. Words as few as ever on the cardboard souvenirs from island nations with exotic names, but Malcolm can sense the weariness in the salutations, even as he stifles his morbid laugh at the Dodo staring morosely at him from its Mauritian perch.
His little team, dying, slowly and surely. His colleagues, his friends, there had been… so many of them. So many, then. Now, there are three.
-
He is working through The Gift in the early months of a chilly spring when a newspaper dated from five days ago is shoved through the little green letterbox.
The codes are early 2000 vintage, but he's not as out of touch as he thinks he is. So when he reads of the shooting of a man in Birmingham, he finds himself all of a sudden sliding down the wall, numb with the realization that Sir Harry Pearce is dead at sixty-two from, of all things mundane and ordinary, a heart attack.
Now, there are only two.
The next morning, he packs a bag and heads for London. Nabokov sits, dog-eared and quiet, on the coffee table and waits for his return.
-
-
-
Ruth comes to stand beside him in front of the imposing greystone building.
"You said you weren't ever coming back. After-"
"After Harry? Old times' sake, I suppose. One last look at this frightful old place."
He watches her take in his appearance, even as he takes in hers; grey hairs and wrinkles on them both.
"I found this a year ago." She hands him an envelope. He feels the card through the paper as he takes it. "He never had a chance to send it to you."
He fingers the seal, but doesn't break it, doesn't quite dare open it yet.
She smiles at him. "I'm so glad to see you again," and he hugs her tight.
"Thank you."
"Goodbye, Malcolm."
And he can't fight a quiet laugh as he walks away from London this one last time.
There are still two. There are, still, two.