Back on the Grid, Ruth tried to focus on her work, tried to ignore the doctor's words swirling around her mind in an endless refrain. High-risk…hardly the size of a peanut…appear to be healthy…

She felt a familiar prickling, a certain sense of being watched, and raised her gaze just in time to watch Harry's eyes slide away from her and back to his computer screen. The Grid had undergone many structural shifts, over the years, the desks arranged a dozen different ways as HR tried to come up with the best method to make the space more work-friendly, and yet, no matter how the pieces were moved, her desk remained always well within Harry's line of sight. For a moment she indulged herself in wondering whether this was by design, and if it was, who was behind it all. She couldn't quite imagine Harry making the trek upstairs to insist that Ruth needed to be kept close to him; no, it seemed much more likely that whoever orchestrated each rearrangement of the Grid had heard about the symbiotic, almost codependent relationship between the boss spook and his chief analyst, and had quietly decided that some things were better left as they were. Strangely, that thought didn't terrify her quite the way it would have years ago; now, she found herself biting back a smile at the thought of a bunch of faceless bureaucrats looming over a blueprint of the Grid and bickering about how best to keep her close to Harry.

Harry's eyes flicked back towards her and she realized with a start that she was the one who was staring now, as his gaze caught hers and held for a long moment. With a subtle nod of his head he beckoned her towards him, and she responded without hesitation, on her feet and halfway to his office before it occurred to her just how well-trained she was, jumping whenever he asked, never questioning why. The thought was bitter, and black, and what little good humor she'd entertained a moment before quickly evaporated.

"Everything go all right, with Beth's new asset?" Harry asked her as she slid the door to his office closed behind her. She leaned back against the door, desperate for some sort of support as her stomach clenched and her mind spun. This was the moment she'd been dreading since she first came up with her little plan, the moment when she'd have to face Harry, and lie to him.

"He didn't tell us anything we didn't already know," she settled on finally. "Beth thinks he was just trying to get a feel for us, that he's not ready to trust us yet. She wants to meet him again in a few weeks."

Harry nodded, steepling his fingers together on the desk and regarding her with dark, hooded eyes.

"And what do you think?"

"I think another meeting won't hurt. Either he gives us something next time, or we cut him lose."

This earned her another pensive little nod, but Harry did not say anything further. Silence fell, lush and thick, a treacherous garden full of lurking dangers. Ruth prayed Harry would not push her for more details; she had nothing more to say to him. In the silence he watched her, something questioning in his gaze, words just waiting to rush past his lips, never quite breaking through his defenses. What is it? Ruth wanted to shout. What more can I give you? Still he said nothing, and seconds turned into a full minute, Ruth shifting uncomfortably under his stare, wanting to leave, not sure if that was the right move.

"Are you feeling all right?" Harry asked finally, and her eyes jerked back up to his face, horror rising in her chest.

What do you know? She wanted to demand, what have you heard? Had she been that obvious? Of course Beth had noticed her unusual behavior lately, but they lived together in tight quarters, and such perception was to be expected. No one else had mentioned anything, no one else had so much as looked at her askance, but no one else knew her the way he did.

"Fine," she lied through her teeth. "I've been a bit tired lately, but I'm rostered off for the whole weekend. I'll be good as new, come Monday."

Harry nodded. "That's good," he said.

I'm worried about you, she heard.

"Lucas, can I ask you something?"

Beth had been trying to work up the courage to approach him since the first night she'd spent in Ruth's flat, and now seemed as good a time as any. The Grid was quiet; Ruth was sequestered in Harry's office, in the midst of conversation with the man himself, Tariq had slipped off for some coffee, and Dimitri was in the loo. All the other analysts, the other teams were off doing whatever the hell it was they did, and, for a moment at least, she was alone with Lucas. The dark haired man had been, not kind, exactly, but encouraging, slowly warming to the idea of having her on his team. That good will might not survive her question, but she had been bursting with it for weeks now, and after the revelation at the doctor's office, she needed to know.

"Sure."

It wasn't the most enthusiastic response, but it would do.

"I saw this code, and I was wondering if you could tell me what it means."

Beth scribbled on a piece of paper, jotting down the same string of letters she'd found on the boxes in the closet of Ruth's spare bedroom.

R.E./Dec./5-D/Eyes Only.

For a long moment Lucas said nothing, merely staring at the page she'd handed him, his breathing steady and his face unreadable. While she waited for his answer Beth felt every muscle in her body tense, certain she'd overstepped the mark, miscalculated his growing fondness for her. Or perhaps it was Ruth she had misjudged; perhaps whatever was in those boxes was dangerous, a secret Ruth wasn't meant to possess, and perhaps Beth had just gotten her flatmate into a heap of trouble.

"Where did you find this?" Lucas asked, lifting his head and turning the full force of his piercing gaze on her.

"On a box, in Ruth's flat," Beth answered truthfully, swallowing hard against her fear. No going back now.

"It's a code, used by Section X. Internal affairs," Lucas began to explain in a deadly quiet voice. "When an agent goes rogue, or disappears, or dies, Section X seizes all their belongings and searches through everything, looking for incriminating evidence. The process can take months." Beth sucked in a sharp breath, but before she could ask, he continued, stabbing a thin finger at the paper as he read, "R.E. - Ruth Evershed. Dec. - Deceased. 5-D – MI-5, Section D. Eyes only - pretty self explanatory."

"But Ruth's not a rogue agent, and she's certainly not dead," Beth protested, confused.

"For two years, she was. Accused of murder, treason, conspiracy to commit torture. They fished her body of out of the Thames. Her mother held a memorial service. For all intents and purposes, Ruth was dead."

Murder? Treason? Torture? Dead?

None of it made any sense to Beth, and her mind swam as she tried to process this information. That couldn't be true, not of Ruth. Not Ruth, solid, steadfast Ruth, Ruth of the unwavering devotion to her job. To her country. To Harry.

"That's how things stood when Harry brought me back to the team. She'd been gone almost a year at that point. I never could get the whole story, just bits and pieces. They said she jumped, when she was found out. Couldn't stand the thought of going to prison for her crimes, and committed suicide instead."

"No," Beth said quietly, dismayed.

"I agree, it doesn't sound like Ruth. But whatever happened, Harry managed to clear her name, gave her back her life and her job."

Lucas was watching her, she realized, like some sort of massive, lazy jungle cat, keeping his eyes on his prey, waiting for any sign of weakness. She'd overstepped, by asking this question, had revealed herself as a potential threat to Ruth and to the stability of the Grid by her simple inability to keep things to herself, to be content with what little information was available.

"How?" she asked softly, trying to convey with just one word that she supported Ruth, that she would never be the cause of more pain in her friend's life.

Lucas just shrugged. "That's not my story to tell. All I'll say is this – it was nasty, and the simple fact that she manages to crawl out of bed and come into work every morning speaks to how strong she is." His tone was surprisingly gentle, full of honest admiration. Did he feel a kinship with Ruth? Beth wondered. The pair of them having been forced out of the fold, somehow finding their way back, emerging through grief and pain to forge some semblance of a normal life; perhaps no one understood how much they had suffered, quite like someone who had suffered the same.

Without another word Lucas stepped away from her, leaving her alone to contemplate what little he'd shared with her. With sudden clarity, she recalled Ruth's words, spoken in a dead little voice as she sat on the table in the examination room.

He died, rather unexpectedly.

Maybe Ruth had been telling the truth, after all. Maybe the loss of her husband was the something nasty she'd endured upon her return, maybe that was the key to the sorrow in her glorious blue eyes.

That night, they made the trip back home together. Beth ordered Chinese, and they curled up in the sitting room together, Ruth perched in her favorite armchair with her legs tucked up underneath her and her laptop balanced precariously on her knees, Beth sprawled across the length of the sofa and quietly flicking through the channels on the telly as they waited for their dinner.

Throughout their commute Beth had been quiet and unnaturally reserved, stealing glances at Ruth out of the corner of her eye when she thought she was unobserved. It was disconcerting, to say the least, knowing that the girl was watching her, not knowing why. Ruth tried to force the fear away, focusing instead on the numerous journal articles she'd pulled up with the intent of researching the amniocentesis.

The words slipped past her eyes unread, however, and finally she simply couldn't stop herself from asking, "Is everything all right?"

Beth jumped slightly at the sound of her voice, but pulled herself together quickly, turning off the telly and scrambling upright on the sofa.

"I'm fine. I just...I heard something, today, and I was wondering if it were true, but I don't want to push you, if you don't want to talk about it."

Ruth's heart stuttered in her chest. There were a million things Beth could have heard about her, each more damning than the last, but she'd rather set the girl straight, if she could, than have her go on believing in suppositions and bitter gossip.

"What is it, Beth?"

Before she could answer the doorbell rang.

"That'll be dinner, then," Beth said, giving her an apologetic smile and rushing off to pay the deliveryman.

Ruth sighed, and shut her laptop.

When they were settled at the table with the food all plated and ready to go and the cat winding nervously around Ruth's ankles, Beth found her voice.

"I heard you died."

Ruth's fork fell to her plate with a clatter, and Beth winced at the sound. Cautiously she stole a glance at her flatmate over the rim of her wine glass, searching Ruth's face for some sign that she was about to receive the bollocking of her life.

The harsh reprimand never came; to Beth's shock, Ruth simply laughed, a sharp, hard, mirthless sound, and took a long sip from her glass of water.

"No one's ever said that to me before," Ruth said wryly, leaning back against her chair. She was watching Beth now, in much the same calculating way Lucas had before, and somewhere deep inside Beth felt a growing resentment at the manner of treatment she'd received since first stepping foot on the Grid. No one trusted her; Ruth, in a moment of vulnerability, had allowed her to shoulder some of her burdens, no doubt thankful to have another woman to lean on, but when it came to operational matters it was as if Beth had the word "traitor" written in block letters across her forehead. How long would she have to suffer, would she have to accept their sidelong glances and their whispers and their tactical omissions before they would finally concede that she was a member of the team? Beth wasn't the sort of person who enjoyed having to prove her worth; she knew her own value, and up until now, that knowledge had been sufficient.

"You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to," Beth managed, forcing the words out from behind clenched teeth and trying not to choke on them.

"I've never really spoken to anyone about it. Not even George, not really," Ruth began, and her eyes grew far away as she spoke. Who the hell is George? Beth wondered, but before she could ask, Ruth found her voice again. "It all just sort of happened, and then when I came back, Ros and Malcolm and Jo were there, to explain things for me."

Jo, again. Last night Beth had promised herself she'd go looking for the dead spook's personnel file, that she would find out as much as she could about the girl whose place she'd usurped, but somehow, between filing reports and going out on adventures with Ruth, she just hadn't found the time. Tomorrow, she decided.

There was something in Ruth's face, in her posture, that was thoughtful, and rather sad; whatever spark of doubt or defiance had lit her features a moment before was gone now, replaced by a deep sense of melancholy. Maybe she needed to talk to someone about it, Beth realized; maybe keeping all of her memories locked inside her head like the boxes tucked away in her closet was hurting her more than she cared to admit.

"It was the only way, really. It was Harry or me, and I was nothing. Just an analyst, not anyone important. Harry had to stand on the wall. I was expendable."

She spoke in a pensive little voice, her sentences short and rather clipped, an unusual tone for a woman who so often let her words run away with her. For her part Beth was mortified by what she heard, and couldn't keep herself from asking, "Harry made you leave?"

Ruth leaned forward, focusing her gaze on Beth, her posture once more present and engaged.

"Harry tried to go to jail for me. He stabbed the chairman of the JIC with a wine glass; slashed straight through his arm, cut some tendons, did all sorts of damage. It was such a noble, bloody stupid thing to do." She shook her head as if even now, however many years later, she still couldn't quite understand it. Beth certainly didn't understand it, couldn't wrap her mind around the idea that Harry could do such a thing, and keep his job. She needed details, and Ruth wasn't really providing them.

Whatever Beth had been expecting, it certainly wasn't this. She knew that Ruth and Harry were close, but the thought that they had been close for years, that they had been doing this dance for years, and still were not together, but still were not apart, simply boggled her mind. God, she thought, how must Ruth feel? To have such history with him, to go through so much grief and pain, to still care for him so deeply, and yet still find herself unable to truly be with him. Theirs was either the most tragic or the most inspiring romance she'd ever encountered in real life, and she couldn't quite make up her mind which.

"I was being framed for something I didn't do, in an effort to bring Harry to heel. I couldn't let him go to jail for me, so I took the fall. Life in a new direction, and all that."

"Where did you go?" Beth asked.

Ruth looked at her for a long moment before she answered.

"Hell," she said finally.

Perhaps that was a bit dramatic, but it was the best way she could think of to describe what she'd been through. Where had she gone? Where hadn't she gone? Ruth went to Paris, and cried for a day or two, curled up on a thin mattress in a dingy hostel, crying for Harry, crying for herself, crying for her mother. Her poor mother, her poor step-father; they'd already buried one child, one child who had taken his own life when the weight of the world grew too much to bear, and now they had to face that pain again, because she loved Harry too much to see him dragged under.

After that, Ruth went to Florence, and though her tears had run dry, her fears had festered. Everywhere she looked she saw enemies in the shadows, constantly on the alert for dangers, real and perceived. Her documents were fake, and every time she crossed another border her heart beat harder in her chest, certain that this time they'd catch her out, clap her in irons and send her back to London to answer for her crimes. On and on she'd traveled, doing odd jobs, until she washed up in Cyprus, drained of energy and funds alike.

She'd been so utterly alone, so completely adrift; back in England, her life had been small and quiet, but she had convinced herself she wasn't entirely alone. She'd receive the odd email from a university acquaintance, she'd call her mother, she'd chat to her friends on the Grid, wave at her neighbors, and though no one truly knew her, she believed she was doing all right, playing at that farce of a life. Now though, she had no one, no connection, however tenuous, and the weight of her isolation was suffocating. Where could she turn, in a moment of grief and need? She didn't really even exist.

Cyprus was beautiful, warm and pleasant and far, far away from England. Slowly she began to build her life there, and as she grew comfortable in her new legend, Ruth began to consider the possibility that this was her second chance. Perhaps now, with a new name, a new job, a new country, a new life, she could forge those connections she'd never had in London. She could make real friends, take a lover, find a bit of peace.

So she did. She found George, falling into his bed quite by mistake. A few too many drinks, a few too many over-familiar brushes of her arm against his, and the next thing she knew she was flat on her back underneath him, making all the appropriate noises and wondering when he'd finish. Sometime that night though, after he'd fallen asleep and she'd dragged herself off to have a shower and get her thoughts in order, Ruth had given herself a rather stern talking to. Harry would always be something wonderful that was never said, a dream never realized, a hope never kindled, and Ruth wanted more from her life. George was something else entirely. He was a man, a living, breathing man, one who cared for her, who offered her more than longing glances and unconsummated desires. She could have a life with him, could have friends and a family and a story that didn't begin and end with her job.

So she took a chance, and built a life with George.

It wasn't perfect, but it was simple, and elegant in its own way, beautiful because it was so far removed from anything she'd ever imagined for herself. She'd loved her life in Cyprus, loved feeling as if she belonged, as if she were truly living, for the first time in a long while. She threw parties and helped Nico with his homework and gossiped with her friends, and staunchly refused to read the newspaper. She made love with George, and bought a lovely little house with him, and told herself that she finally had everything she ever wanted.

Like a cancer, though, fear grew deep within her heart, shifting and sliding around inside her, never ceasing. That life was a dream, and she knew better than most that all dreams must come to an end. So it was that even in her happiest moments she was deeply troubled, and her worries clouded everything in sight. George had come to recognize that about her, the way she sometimes seemed to be someone else entirely, short tempered and anxious, but he never asked her why. And so she worried, and regretted, and waited for the end to come.

And when it came, she was ruined by it.

Hell was sleeping with George, wishing he were someone else. Hell was playing with Nico, wishing he were her child. Hell was walking to the market, and looking over her shoulder for Mace and his cronies. Hell was sitting in a dingy flat with George, as he demanded to know what she had done, to put his family in danger. His family, never hers, never truly, only given to her on loan, to be taken back the moment she revealed her true colors. Hell was seeing Harry again, and feeling relieved, despite the horror she had brought down on George and Nico. Hell was a cold hospital bed, and a sweet girl holding her hand, lying as she said, it's not your fault. Hell was falling asleep warm and safe and loved in Harry's bed one night, and lying down cold and alone and weeping in her own the next.

Maybe it was melodramatic, to offer such an answer to Beth's question, but as she thought about everything she had been through over the last few years, it was the only explanation she could give.

Where did you go?

Hell. And I never left.