You guys are THE BEST. Seriously, thank you so much for all the kind words and support. And a special thanks to the guest reviewers I haven't been able to reply to personally.

Hope this chapter meets with approval.

Chapter Ten

A shot had been fired.

That was what they had said, and it was all that they said for the longest five minutes of Henry McCord's life.

He had been sat in the Chief of Staff's office watching Russell Jackson make increasingly irate phone calls to the Department of Defence when the head of the President's Secret Service detail had entered unannounced, without even bothering to knock, to tell them that a shot had been fired down at the State Department and the armed response team had gone into Elizabeth's office and he was very sorry but that was all the news he had right then.

It had been Russell who had blown up at the man. Henry had hardly noticed Russell's frantic anger, which had been loud enough to draw the President from the Oval Office to see what was going on. Instead he had just sat there, slightly numb, heart practically humming it was beating so fast, hearing over and over in his head a shot has been fired a shot has been fired.

He might have sat there indefinitely thinking that one solitary thought if not for the fact that Conrad had slumped down next to him, looking wearier than Henry had ever seen him, and somehow the look of blank grief on the President's face had made him feel the tiniest bit better, had at least helped him feel slightly less alone for all the time it took Russell to terrorise the Secret Service man into radioing his colleagues at State so that the Chief of Staff could yell at them himself.

Then the woman who came on the line said, "Peter Grosvenor is dead."

And Henry's heart stuttered.

"And Elizabeth?" Russell demanded.

A long pause of radio static. "We have the Secretary." More static. "She's OK."

And his heart started beating again.

The armed response team stormed into the room three seconds after the shot was fired, just in time for the guy at the head of the formation to see Peter Grosvenor hit the floor, the back of his head torn apart and his blood and bone and brains splattered along the wall.

Grosvenor hadn't fallen straight away, some weird conflation of physics and ballistics keeping him upright for seconds after he had shot away his life, until his gun arm had dropped heavy back to his side and without a functioning brain to counter the effect, he had given way to gravity.

The Secretary of State stood just behind her desk, stock still, staring at the dead man, not reacting at all to the presence of eight armed agents kicking down her door and bursting into the room.

The guy in front approached her warily. "Ma'am?"

She looked at him slowly, but he was sure it wasn't him she was seeing.

Three minutes later they were standing outside the office. The Secretary seemed have come back to herself slightly when one of the team had shouted out to announce that the room was secure, but she still hadn't said a word. She had stepped around the desk to step back into her shoes and then gone over to pick up her briefcase before heading out the door. Ready to go home for the night.

She was still holding the dagger in her hand.

The armed response guy tried again. "Ma'am, we need to get you medical attention."

Nothing, but she did let him have the dagger, slightly smeared with blood, when he reached out cautiously to take it. He placed it gently on the nearest desk.

"There are paramedics downstairs. I'm going to call them to come up, OK?"

"No." She looked at him properly for the first time. "I want my husband." It sounded very much like an order.

He looked her over. She didn't look like she needed a hospital immediately, although protocol and common sense – and the blood stain seeping through the sleeve of her blouse, among other causes for concern - dictated it. She was still standing, mostly lucid and defiantly adamant. He made a judgement call, figuring that if ever there was a time to suspend the usual rules, this was it. "OK. Come on."

Elizabeth was aware of hundreds of camera flashes going off as she sat in the back of the car driving away from the State Department. She knew that the reporters would be able to see nothing; the vehicle's tinted windows put paid to that, but she couldn't stop herself from shifting uneasily in her seat at all of the attention.

She could feel the shock starting to wear off, but she could still hear the echo of the firing gun as Grosvenor had wrenched his arm away from aiming at her and moved it up to press the gun into the soft flesh beneath his chin, not even hesitating before he pulled the trigger. It had happened in less than a second.

He had looked right at her while he did it, and she would swear that he had held her gaze even as his brains hit the wall and he did that strange, slow slide down until his body eventually just crumpled in on itself and hit the ground.

She felt untethered, and out of herself, an observer of her own actions. She wanted Henry. He would help. He would ground her, make her feel safe, quell the panic.

The agents were taking her to Henry. That was good.

The agents.

She was in a car full of Diplomatic Security agents and their silence was practically physical.

Elizabeth breathed in slowly. "Guys?" she said softly.

Four heads tilted towards her in acknowledgement.

"I'm really sorry," she said. They must all be in shock, too.

Then, even though it didn't start to cover what she wanted to tell them:

"Thank you."

It had only been seven minutes since they heard – seven minutes of which he had deeply felt every single, agonising second – and Henry was already wondering what the hell was taking them so long. The Department of State was only a few blocks from the White House. He wanted to see his wife – no, he needed to see his wife. Had to.

He had done his best to keep a lid on his terror but now it was over he could admit that, yeah, he had been properly terrified. He could still feel it, digging inside him like jagged glass. When Blake had told him that Elizabeth was in trouble, Henry had felt like everything had been suspended while all around him the foundations of his world had started to creak. Now he could feel life straining to get started again, but he still couldn't let go of the tension, not until –

"Elizabeth," Conrad said, standing from his seat and then stopping, stilled with uncertainty as to what to do.

There she was.

Standing in the door to Russell's office, backed by four Diplomatic Security agents, Elizabeth immediately sought him out, appearing not to notice the presence of the President and the Chief of Staff. Henry stood and crossed the room to her in four long strides, stopping in front of her and taking in the darkening, swollen bruise on her face and the look of lost despair in her eyes. He lifted one hand and gently touched the small bit of dried blood on her lip, skated his fingers carefully up her bruised face like he could take the injury away from her and into himself. If only. Her lip trembled, just the smallest amount, unnoticeable to anyone but him. He let go of the breath he'd been holding and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her firmly against him, careful not to jostle her. He didn't know how much she was hurt.

His wife sank into him, her arms coming around his waist and her head directed to lie on his chest by the soft pressure of his hand against her hair. Henry was vaguely aware of everyone else beating a tactful retreat from the room, the door closing softly behind them. He kissed the top of Elizabeth's head. He opened his mouth to speak.

He didn't know what to say.

They stood like that for long minutes and Henry would have stayed that way for many more, warm and contented and his world slowly righting itself. Elizabeth said, "I killed him."

"What?" His voice was a rumble deep in his chest. He looked down but all he could see was the top of her head. "No, babe. He shot himself." That was what the President's Secret Service man had said.

"Yeah," she agreed. "But if I hadn't…" She sighed. "I just wanted him to admit what it was really about. He could have left in handcuffs, he didn't need to take the bullet."

He was sure that they would be talking a lot about what had happened – and soon, for this was something that couldn't be allowed to fester – but when Elizabeth didn't say anything else, he dropped it temporarily.

Almost. "It wasn't your fault," he said, because he was sure of that much, even as he wasn't sorry at all that the man was dead. "I'm just so glad you're safe now. I love you."

"Love you," she mumbled into his chest, pressing her forehead against his sternum to better feel the beat of his heart.

With her face buried against his chest, she didn't see the connecting door from the Oval Office silently open or the President standing unmoving in the doorway, watching them. Henry caught his eye, and along with the relief and affection that he knew the man felt for his wife, he was also sure he saw something else in the President's expression. He wore the face of a man who'd been let off the hook and his release at having saved his own skin was palpable.

Henry turned away from him. The President's problem might have gone away, but he wasn't the one who'd paid the price.