Harry's office immediately post Series 9, post Lucas.
"How are you?"
"I'm tired, Ruth," he sighs, "Tired of death. Tired of watching countless colleagues sacrifice themselves. Tired of betrayal. Tired of wanting. Tired of fighting. Tired of self control, of self denial."
She opens her mouth to speak.
"And yes, I am feeling sorry for myself, Ruth, but I don't care."
He sits down, defeated, exhausted. Weary of his life, his job and the claustrophobia of his office pressing upon him.
"It will get better."
"Will it?"
"You know it will."
"Maybe I don't want it to."
"So what do you want, Harry?"
"I want ….."
"What? Or is it that all the things that you don't want are the only ones that you've actually known for the last thirty years?"
"Perhaps."
The silence extends between them.
His head rests in his hands, his heart heavy and empty.
"Harry."
He fails to move, speak or even look at her.
"Do you really want to wake up in the mornings with nothing to do, no decisions to make?"
"Yes, I think I do, Ruth."
"And what about the rest of us? Will you so easily leave us behind?"
Now his eyes lift to hers.
"I wouldn't choose to leave … any of you behind."
"But you would?"
"What do you want from me?" he snaps suddenly, "You don't want me to leave, but tell me, what is there for me here, Ruth?"
"There's work, there's what we do, the important things that we do every single day, there's Dimitri, Tariq … me."
"No. Not you. Not in any real sense!"
"Harry, I…"
"You what, Ruth? You what? Tell me something. Something real, for once."
The challenge now in his eyes, fuelled with passion and frustration, suddenly no longer lacking in energy.
"I don't want you to not be here," she says quietly.
"Why?"
She hesitates.
"WHY?"
Suddenly he is standing right in front of her.
"Because it's not the same without you…I'm not the same without you," she breathes.
He wants to enjoy the thought but he cannot.
"Maybe you just let yourself think that, Ruth. You managed well enough without me in Cyprus."
He knows as soon as he has said it that he has gone too far.
He knows as soon as her palm strikes his cheek that he has gone far too far.
Of all the times between them she has never struck him, never even had the thought to strike him and now that she has, she immediately regrets it, regrets that he has made her behave in such a way.
They both stand looking at each other.
All is silence.
"I can't do this anymore, Ruth."
"Neither can I."
"Then I should go."
"Yes, you should."
He turns to the door and leaves knowing he should apologise but failing to do so.
She remains, angry, knowing that she should not cry but yet she does.
Sorry for the angst, not sure where this came from.
Possible resolution if anyone fancies one?