Author's note: My sincerest and profuse apologies about the amount of time that has passed since an update…life has been very, very crazy. I hope it is worth the wait!

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The prompt on the computer screen blinked dispassionately at him. He typed in the search again, and once again, the results were a jumbled mess. He had been rather pleased with himself at first, for he had realized pretty early on that there was some kind of algorithm running in the background that was producing the false leads. But that seemed to be where the progress stopped. Every time he seemed to isolate the source, it would disappear. Every search for Sir Harry Pearce, KBE and his dozen or so known aliases (he tried to quell the nagging doubt he had that there were many more that they didn't know about) had produced an impossible number of hits. Searches for Ruth Evershed, or indeed just about any personnel currently or previously employed in Section D, had the same result. He is not looking forward to his meeting with his superior in less than an hour, because that would be when he had to admit that in over 72 hours they had only managed to definitively determine that a medivac helicopter had taken the two targets from the MoD site, heading west. And unless someone at one of the local hospitals starts to talk soon, the whole team may find themselves sorting mail at Langley before the end of the week.

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Bloody Harry Pearce, he can't help but think as he approaches the conference room. If it weren't for his service record, he might not be even bothering. That's not quite true, he corrects himself. The truth of the matter is though he may be a bit of a pain in the backside, he genuinely likes Harry Pearce. God knows why, but he does. Maybe because unlike most of the people he deals with every day, he doesn't have to second-guess him or his motives. He's not a sycophant, and it's refreshing.

The American contingent is already there, he can feel the sabers rattling as he crosses the threshold. It certainly doesn't help matters that the Russians have been involved in this as well. This is going to be the start of Cold War II if he doesn't play this just right. There's a part of him that is relishing the challenge, but another, more insistent part, that really wishes he could hole up in his club with a good scotch and pretend this never happened.

"Gentlemen."

His eyes scan around the table, and before he can start the speech he has in his head, the door bursts open like a scene in some West End comedy and one of Harry's officers whom he vaguely recognises as a protégé of Erin Watts' places some sort of player on the table.

"Home Secretary, I think you should hear this."

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He drifts up, ever so slowly, as if he were at the bottom of a deep blue ocean and he is floating up to the surface again. He is warm, and comfortable, and for once in a very long time, quite rested. He had slept the deep, dreamless sleep of sheer exhaustion. Memories of the previous night gradually filter through his sleep-addled brain, and gently and tentatively he flexes his fingers. It is as he remembered, as he hopes. She is still beside him, the soft curve of her hip under his hand. At that moment, she stirs slightly, and her body presses more fully against his.

It has been a very long time since he has shared a bed with a woman. Aside from the early days of his marriage, he rarely spent much time in this situation. His past affairs (more than he was proud of, but still fewer than were rumoured) were such that more often than not he found himself in a cab on the way home in the small hours of the morning after an encounter, rather than curled in the arms of his partner.

She stirs again, this time settling on her back with a little sigh. He instinctively keeps his arm around her, although he is careful not to put pressure on where she had been stabbed. Her hair, fluffy from sleep, falls around her face and he thinks she has never looked so beautiful.

The first thing she is aware of is a thumb, softly moving side to side on her hip. He feels solid and warm, and she feels a pang of guilt that she denied them this for so long. All the obstacles that seemed so insurmountable in the past now seem to fade as they lay beside one another in the weak early morning light. It is a long time that she lays there, matching her breaths with his, but the pain in her side becomes insistent, and she needs to move although she is reluctant to do so.

She opens her eyes slowly as she turns her head and looks at him. He is adorably rumpled, and even though it is painful to do so, she can't help but reach over and kiss him. His lips are soft and gentle, but a few moments later, she pulls back.

"Don't kiss me like that, Harry."

"Like what?"

"Like you're saying goodbye."

"Old habits," he smiles.

Neither says anything for a long time, but merely settle into one another.

"OK?" he asks softly.

She nods, ignoring the dull ache in her side.

He shifts slightly and, reassured by the sparkle in her eyes, kisses her firmly. She responds in kind, arms around his neck. The kiss is long and passionate, and when she sucks on his lower lip, he can't help but hum with pleasure.

Suddenly, she pushes him away. Confused, he's about to ask her what's wrong when he realizes that she's gasping for breath. She shakes her head at his panicked look.

"Too much?" he asks quietly.

She nods slowly, as her breathing becomes more regular.

"I'm sorry."

He moves to leave the bed, but her grip on his shoulder prevents him from doing so.

"Don't ever…apologise…for kissing me…like that," she gasps, with a wide grin.