Another multi chap fic from me. AU, set post S10 and has some sci fi elements, so probably not the story for you if you want realism. Thanks to TheChicaChic for giving me a helping hand with this one.

25th December 2011 1:03am

Time had ticked on by and another Christmas day had come. Harry sat in his arm chair, a glass of whisky in his right hand. He was coming to rely on the drink these days, even though he knew it was a slippery slope. She was dead. She was gone. She was buried in some cold graveyard in Devon. And there was nothing he could do to make things right. It was far, far too late. Her face came into his mind of the last time he'd seen her. Happy and alive. Alive in all senses of the word. Then Sasha had… Harry shied away from even the thought of it. He couldn't contemplate it. Forming the words, even in his thoughts made them true. The rational part of himself knew that he was in denial, even though she'd… left him two months ago.

Harry turned to the whisky glass and it was empty. When had that happened? He poured some more from his decanter and took another large sip. He knew perfectly well that Ruth would hate him doing this to himself. Drinking himself into oblivion, but it was the only way he ever managed to drift into any kind of sleep. And it was hardly like she was here to stop him after all. Harry kept thinking of her as he kept drinking. The ache of her loss, especially when they'd come so close to having what they'd both wanted for so long.

Those thoughts were still whizzing around his head when he fell into the first deep sleep he'd had since Ruth had died.

He awoke in a complete haze, totally confused as his mind tried to catch up. He stood up, his back almost creaking in protest at the night spent in his arm chair. That's when a file of papers slid to the floor, scattering pages everywhere. He picked them up out of habit and organised them back into the file. It took a moment for his eyes to connect with his brain, and for him to make sense of the papers. No, this couldn't be right. This was from the enquiry into his MI5 career nearly five months ago. These were the beginnings of the defence that himself and… Ruth had been organising. Why had that file been on his lap? He hadn't touched it since his name had been cleared, and he was almost positive it had remained within a locked drawer in Thames House.

He frowned and put the file on the coffee table. He stretched and looked at the decanter. It was full. He took the stopper off and breathed in the aroma. Yes, definitely whisky. A 12 year old Macallan from the smell of it. He knew he'd had a bit to drink last night, or more than a bit really. How could it be full? How long had he been sleeping for? Had he missed some days? Or maybe he'd drunk so much that he had blacked out his memory, he thought darkly.

Coffee would fix it. Yes. He was in his hallway when the letterbox rattled. Today's newspaper had been dropped off and fallen onto his doormat. Scarlett ran towards it, yapping excitedly as Harry bent to pick it up. He rarely read the paper these days. He just glanced at the cover to be sure the world was still standing and London hadn't been bombed while he slept.

His eyes were stinging with tiredness and he knew they'd be bloodshot without even looking in a mirror. He switched the kettle on, looked at the headline and frowned. No. That couldn't be right. The headline was about Amy Winehouse's death… this had to be an old paper. Yes. He looked at the date which read 25th July 2011. A very old paper then. Why had that been dropped off to him today? He shrugged, feeling incredibly confused as the kettle boiled. Maybe he was simply becoming unhinged by Ruth's loss. That was probably the most rational explanation.

Making himself coffee, he groaned as he felt the muscles in his back begin to stretch and wake up. He felt old today. Old, tired and ill. His doorbell rang and he sighed. He wasn't up for company today. Maybe he wouldn't be ever again. He ignored it, but then it rang a second time. Harry sighed, and went to answer it, hoping whoever it was would just go away quickly and not bother him with a long conversation. Or even worse, a request to come inside and bother him from his depression.

Then he opened the door. Ruth. She stood there on his doorstep, clear as day. He froze and stared at her. She was really in front of him. Her shoulder length hair blowing gently in the breeze, her wise intelligent eyes watching him. It really was her. She stood on his doorstep, files in her hands as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn't had a shard of glass puncture her lung. As if she'd never been stabbed in the first place. Was he hallucinating? He had to be. Then she spoke.

"Harry, I have the files you wanted to prepare for the inquiry," she said, indicating the bundle in her arms. "Can I…" She didn't get any further, because Harry had fainted, falling onto the hall carpet.

Please leave a review if you have a chance. More in the next few days.