Harry, dressed in the suit Ruth brought for him, sat uncomfortably in a wooden chair while evidence was presented against him by the prosecution; he noted that Allen seemed to take great pleasure in all of it. He reached a hand up to his head; the pounding of a headache that he couldn't shake was growing worse, and he felt as if his fever was barely being kept at bay. Ruth glanced over at him and worry filled her.

"Harry?" She whispered, "Harry? Are you all right?"

"Yes," he whispered back. "Fine. Just a little headache."

The "judge" appointed for this tribunal, one Oliver Marx from MI-6 bellowed at them, "There will be no talking during the presentation of the evidence."

"Sorry," Harry muttered.

As Allen continued to talk, Ruth sized up the proceedings. A heavy, wood-paneled room with a long table of twelve chairs filled with Harry's "peers;" this thought made Ruth almost laugh as the only thing she was sure of is that they didn't look particularly peer-like, much less friendly. The witness stand, which she would have to put Harry into later was next to the table where the "judge" sat.

Her attention was suddenly seized by Harry's death grip on her forearm. She turned toward him and all the color had drained from his face.

"Ruth, I…I don't feel well."

"I can see that, Harry." She stood. "Your honor, I beg your pardon, and the pardon of the crown's prosecution, but I'm afraid my client is not feeling at all well."

Oliver Marx looked over. "I should say not, he looks dreadful."

"May we have a brief recess?"

"Yes. See to him."

Ruth carefully lifted Harry by the arms and helped him out of the courtroom and to the gentlemen's down the hall. She waited for some time, but Harry did not reappear. Ruth asked a guard to check on him. The man came out a moment later, his own face slightly ashen.

"He's not well at all, Miss…"

"Bugger it all…" Ruth muttered as she charged into the men's room.

Harry was on the floor in a stall, leaning on the toilet seat.

"Harry…"

He turned into the bowl and once again vomited.

"Oh Harry…" Ruth knelt next to him. "Here, let me hold you up…"

Ruth took Harry from behind, holding his torso as he was violently ill. Following the siege, Ruth let him lean back against her for a moment. She felt his forehead; his fever was back with force. After several minutes, Ruth helped him up.

"Are you going to make it, Harry?"

"No choice, Ruth. I'll need you to steady me though."

"I'll be right beside you."

She braced him around the waist and helped he move toward the door. Harry reached for his own neck which felt horribly stiff. Ruth reached her hand up and rubbed his neck for a moment, eliciting a groan from him.

"Better?"

"Mmm…"

"Okay, let's go, Harry."

Ruth helped him back to the room and into his seat, but she noted that he looked frightfully pale and miserable.

Marx glanced at Pearce and shook his head. "You really look awful, Sir Harry."

"Yes sir."

"Should we postpone?"

"Yes," Ruth said.

"No," Harry said.

The two MI-5 officers looked at each other.

"Let's just get it over with," Pearce said.

"But Harry…"

"Please Ruth. I feel so awful. Let's just get this over with."

"All right." She faced Marx. "We'll continue, your honor."

"Very well."

Marx looked down at Sir Harry Pearce, and was none too sure that he would last…

Ruth glanced at Harry sitting in the witness chair and she swallowed hard; he looked like he would pass out at any moment. She swallowed hard before asking the next question.

"So you have no recollection of any of the events that Mr. Allen described?"

"No, none."

"Your honor, I would like to present exhibit A, an analysis of blood taken from Harry Pearce. It shows traces of the date rape drug gamma-hydroxybutyric acid. Mixed with alcohol, Sir Harry would have been rendered unconscious during the period of time he was supposed to have been raping and killing Meghan Miles."

"So entered," Marx responded.

"And Sir Pearce," Ruth continued, "please describe for us how you awoke the next morning and what you felt."

The look on Harry's face was one of utter embarrassment, but he knew Ruth had no choice.

"I awoke on top of my own bed at home with Scar—erm, my Jack Russell Terrier next to me. I was groggy and had a terrible headache…."

"And?"

He swallowed and had to look away from Ruth. "And my…groin area felt sore."

"Describe what you mean by 'sore,'" she said.

He glowered at her but continued, "I felt as if I had been mishandled."

"Please be specific, Sir Pearce," Ruth prodded.

"Oh really, isn't there any other way to do this?" Harry groused loudly.

"No, Harry, there is not. Now get on with it…"

He let out a huge sigh of air, and pressed on…

Ruth sat quietly next to Harry. She had presented all of the evidence that she had; everything that should have, in a normal court of law, planted enough doubt not to convict him. But this was a secret tribunal, not a court of law. There was no telling how it was going to go. She stared at the twelve men chosen to judge Harry. She glanced at the man sitting next to her; the man she cared so very deeply about; the man whom she thought she might love, although she would sooner die than admit it to another living soul. Harry looked like being pronounced guilty in that moment would be easier than feeling the symptoms of whatever illness had him in its clutches. She reached her hand over and felt Harry's forehead: even hotter than it was before.

"Hang on, Harry," Ruth said gently. She then reached behind his neck and massaged the muscles there. "Your neck still hurt?" He nodded and lowered his head so she could rub out the stiffness. "Try and relax."

Marx set down the files he was holding. "We have heard everything we are to hear, it is time to take the vote." He looked down at the "jury." "How say each of you? Number one?"

"Guilty."

"Number two?"

"Guilty."

"Number three?"

"Guilty.

Ruth swallowed hard. How could they be voting guilty? She had presented plenty of facts that proved Harry had been drugged, aspirated and sperm removed, and framed. How could they vote guilty? She could feel the man to her right tense with each voice echoing, "guilty." She glanced at him, and the sweat was running down his cheeks, and she could see a slight tremor in his hands and arms.

She leaned in close to him. "It's all right, Harry, we'll appeal this… It's not over by a long shot."

"You don't understand, Ruth," he whispered, "there is no appeal in one of these things."

"What are you saying?"

"Punishment is carried out immediately."

"Punishment? What about sentencing?"

He shook his head. "If you're found guilty at a tribunal, Ruth, the sentence is always the same." She looked deeply into his eyes and he said, "Death."

She felt tears begin to sting her eyes…

"Number eleven?

"Guilty."

"Number twelve?"

"Guilty."

Oliver Marx turned to face Harry. "Please stand, Sir Harry."

Harry found that his knees were buckling and Ruth had to help him.

"You have been found guilty by a secret tribunal of your peers. Punishment in these matters is swift." Marx looked toward the wood panel on his right and nodded; the panel slid open revealing a chair and an IV next to it. "I'm sorry, Harry."

Two burly guards stepped forward to take Harry from Ruth.

"No! No! This isn't right. He isn't guilty! You mustn't do this!"

"Ms. Evershed," Marx said, "you must calm yourself. It is over. You did your best, but it's over."

When Harry could see that Ruth was preparing to fight them off, he jerked free from one of the guards and took her by the arms.

"Ruth… Ruth, you did everything you could, and for that I am eternally grateful. But there's nothing more for you to do."

"But Harry, they're going to…"

"Yes, I know." He smiled his special smile for her, and leaned in, kissing her softly on the forehead. "Don't grieve, Ruth. Not for me."

He let the guards move him across the room and into the chair, strapping him into it. A doctor standing there rolled up his sleeve and slid the needle into his arm, preparing to release the valve on the IV.

Ruth ran toward the table of jurors. "Are you going to just sit there and do nothing? You're going to allow this man to be killed in a country that 'doesn't execute prisoners' right in front of you?" Ruth's hysteria was growing. "This is wrong. It is totally and utterly wrong. My God, what's wrong with all of you? Will not one of you stand up for him?" She leaned toward juror number five. "Charles… Harry risked life and limb to pull you from the op that went wrong in Tabriz… are you just going to sit there?"

The man looked away from her. She moved on to juror number eight.

"Alex… my God, Harry moved heaven and earth to free your wife and daughter, breaking every rule in the book to save them when they were taken. How can you allow this to happen?"

She backed away from the table. "Dear God, is there no one here who will stand up for English justice? Is there no one here who will wave this man who is not guilty?"

"Ruth," Harry's voice stopped her. "Ruth…"

She looked at him as the doctor's hand turned on the valve of the IV.

"Ruth, it's all right. I'm sorry you had to go through this, but thank you." His liquid amber eyes bore into her blue ones. "Thank you for trying. It means a lot…"

And as the drip took hold of him, Harry Pearce passed on from this world, and the wooden panel slid shut.