A/N: Apologies for the delay! When I started writing I and Love and You I hadn't intended to neglect this little fic. I humbly offer a bit more smut in the hopes that my negligence can be forgiven. This chapter is M rated.

Harry woke feeling warm, and rested, and very, very comfortable. Ruth had barely shifted during the night; her right arm was still slung across his chest and her right leg had snaked over his own, their feet nestled together under the duvet. Her tangled hair was at just the right height to tickle his nose, and for a moment he simply breathed her in, overjoyed to be waking up with her at last after months of quiet longing and half-acknowledged hopes. It had been such a long time since he last spent a whole, glorious, uninterrupted night in a lover's bed, and as he took stock that morning he decided it was experience he would like to repeat. Frequently.

She was a constant surprise to him, was Ruth; by turns hesitant and bold, she kept him guessing, never quite sure where they stood. Whatever she was feeling, the events of the night before had certainly solidified things for Harry. He'd known for a while that he was beginning to fall for her, that despite all the promises he'd made to himself he'd come to care about her (to love her, a little voice whispered in the back of his mind) and plans for long holidays and renting the cottage faded as he entertained thoughts of what it might be like to stay here with her, wrapped up in her and the happy little bubble they'd built for themselves. And as he lay there in her bed, her body infiltrating his every sense, he couldn't help but hope that she'd reached the same conclusion. For what did it matter, if people whispered about the pretty young florist and the grumpy old copper, so long as they were happy together? The shop was almost completely restored and Harry had the George situation well in hand; why shouldn't they try to make a go of it?

In the world beyond her darkened bedroom morning had dawned once again, and the first rays of sunshine began to slip through the cracks in the heavy cream-colored curtains on her window, laying gentle stripes along the smooth skin of her back. That soft skin called to him, and he was powerless to stop himself; without a sound he raised his left hand, running his fingertips along the curve of her spine, smiling when she reflexively pressed herself into him and hummed against his chest. That happy little sound was quickly becoming one of his favorite things about her, and he decided there and then to encourage her to make it as often as possible.

"Good morning," he murmured in a low voice, pressing a soft kiss against her hair. He felt her answering smile, felt her lips brush against his skin, her hand smoothing over the broad plane of his chest as she slowly woke.

"Don't want to move," she mumbled, and he couldn't help but laugh; sleepy Ruth, he decided, was utterly adorable.

"Then don't," he told her.

It was Sunday, after all, and that meant she had nowhere to go, nowhere to be, just a whole day stretching out ahead of her, ahead of them, full of possibilities and promise. For once the thought of spending long, lazy hours in bed did not fill Harry with dread; with Ruth there beside him, he found the prospect of staying exactly where he was rather appealing.

Their peaceful moment was shattered then, by the shrill ringing of his mobile, still tucked in the pocket of his trousers by the foot of the bed. With a despairing groan he pulled himself away from his gentle exploration of her skin, and shuffled down the bed to fetch it. When he glanced at the screen he felt his stomach clench in apprehension. He cast one last longing glance over his shoulder at Ruth before he rose and carried his mobile out into the hall to answer the call.

"You don't waste any time, do you?" he asked grumpily, leaning against the wall outside her door. From inside the room he could just make out the sounds of Ruth shambling around, no doubt heading for her en suite, and he felt a stab of disappointment at the thought that she might not be curled up in bed waiting for him when the call ended.

"You know me, Harry," Tom said on the other end of the line, "I don't like to let things linger."

"What did you find?" Harry asked. Curiosity warred with apprehension inside him; he desperately wanted to find some way to catch George, to lock him away not just for the destruction of the shop but for every cruel, malicious, violent thing he'd ever done to Ruth. He had never been a proponent of vigilante justice, but in this one instance he felt vindicated. Someone had once told him if you can't do something good, do something right, and it was with those words echoing through his mind that he first called Tom. And now, the wheels that he had set in motion were turning, and whatever the result, the responsibility rested solely on his shoulders. He thought of the beautiful woman in the room behind him, thought about her smile and her laugh and her heart, and he decided that whatever the consequences, it would be worth it to protect her, to set her free from the clutches of the man who had hurt her so deeply.

"Your friend's a real winner," Tom told him drily. "I arranged to run into him at a pub he frequents last night. Nasty temper on that one."

Harry could only imagine what Tom had done to merit a display of said temper, but he held his tongue. Surely Tom hadn't called this early on a Sunday to tell him that George had anger management issues; no, there was something more behind this call, and Harry was in no mood to play games.

"Tom," he started, but the younger man interrupted him, likely sensing his impatience.

"He's only been in London for about a year, looks like he moved around a lot after the divorce. There were a few men in the pub last night who say they've gotten to know him, and they didn't have anything good to say about him. Apparently he got into it with one of the local working girls. I've got two witnesses who say they saw him hit her, and that no one's seen her since."

Harry sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. Whatever he'd been expecting, it certainly wasn't this.

"Do you think-"

"I don't have all the details yet, Harry, I just wanted to warn you. I think this guy is serious. Keep a close eye on the ex-wife. I've got a bad feeling about this."

Explaining to Tom just how close an eye he'd been keeping on Ruth didn't seem like the best course of action, at the moment, so Harry simply said, "I will. You're looking into this girl's disappearance?"

"I'm on it. I've put in a call to your friend Malcolm, and he's helping me track her down."

"Good." He couldn't really think of anything else to say to that.

"I'll ring you back when I know more."

"Thanks," Harry said, and Tom ended the call without another word.

A missing prostitute and an ominous warning from Tom did not make for a happy morning. Harry sighed and ran his hand over his face, pondering his next move. This information had to be kept from Ruth for now, he decided. After all, Tom had no more than idle speculation at the moment, and it wouldn't do to frighten her (or inform her of the steps he'd taken without her permission) before he held all the cards. He made a quick trip to the guest bathroom down the hall, and then padded back into her bedroom, relieved to find her sprawled once more under the duvet, lying on her stomach and watching him with a little smile on her face.

"And who was that, then?" she asked, propping herself up on her elbows, her face lovely and more carefree than he'd ever seen it before. Harry dropped his mobile on top of his trousers, and slid under the duvet beside her, leaning over to kiss her. She indulged him for a moment but pulled back quickly, raising one eyebrow at him as a silent reminder that she hadn't forgotten her question, and she wanted an answer. He flopped back against the pillows with a sigh.

"That was an old friend. Tom," he added, when he saw the momentary flicker of doubt in her eyes. "We used to work together, back in London, and he had a question about one of our old cases. Nothing to worry about."

She hummed again and flopped her head down onto the pillows beside his, giving him an unobstructed view of her back, from shoulders to hips, and Harry seized the opportunity, rolling over so he could drape one arm over her and drop light, teasing kisses against the nape of her neck. Beneath him she gave a happy little sigh, and, feeling encouraged, Harry pressed on, shifting his weight slightly so that his rapidly growing erection throbbed insistently against the smooth skin of her thigh and his hands could wander the length of her body. There was no point, he decided, in hiding the way he felt about her, the way he needed her, and so he didn't even try. If there was one thing he'd learned in all his many years, it was that nothing was guaranteed, and no good thing lasts forever. The way Ruth made him feel was a very good thing indeed, and he was determined to enjoy every precious moment of it.

One of his hands slipped down low over the swell of her bottom, giving her soft flesh a gentle squeeze, and in response she reached behind her and pulled the sheets away, baring herself to him completely and lifting her hips, just a little, in silent invitation.

And how could he refuse? He was in bed with a beautiful woman, a woman who, against all reason, seemed to want him, seemed to care for him, seemed willing to offer him everything she had to give, and Harry Pearce found himself immensely thankful for the circumstances that had brought him here. His life had been far from perfect, but it seemed to him that every mistake, every heartbreak, every sleepless night and every soul-crushing day had been leading up to this, leading up to her.

He snaked one hand over her hip and down through her soft chestnut curls, and he found her swollen and wet for him, his fingers sliding over her folds of their own volition, drawing a low, breathy moan from her. He couldn't help but wonder at that, at the speed of her response to him, and for a moment he considered that perhaps she had woken like he had, with thoughts of the night before drifting through her mind.

"Don't tease, Harry," she told him sternly, turning to gaze back at him over her shoulder, her glorious eyes dark and shining with want.

He leaned forward and caught the edge of her ear between his teeth, eliciting the same response he'd found so fascinating the night before. She moaned and gasped and thrust back against him, begging him to do something, anything, to ease the ache inside her.

"Yes, ma'am," he breathed against the shell of her ear, sliding his thick cock into her welcoming heat with a sigh of bliss.

Sex was something he'd always enjoyed, something he'd been told on more than one occasion that he rather excelled at, despite his other personal failings in the relationship department, but it had never felt like this before. It had never felt quite this right, quite this good; burying himself inside a woman had never felt like coming home, before Ruth. Now, though, thrusting long and slow, feeling her wrapped around him warm and soft and perfect, kissing her neck and her shoulder and every bit of her he could reach, listening to her gasp and moan and feeling her match him thrust for thrust, that was exactly how he felt. He was home, here inside her, and he never, ever wanted to leave.

Beneath him Ruth began to make a soft keening sound, her back curving in a graceful arch, her head lifting up, turning to him, plump lips begging him to kiss her. He obliged, brushing her lips with his as he pounded into her harder, lifting her hips with one hand so he could reach that much deeper. He wasn't going to last long, but if the sounds she was making were any indication, neither was she. He shifted so he could reach beneath her with his free hand, and gently rubbed her clit until she clenched hard around him, her shoulders straining against his chest as she tumbled over the edge, whimpering. That soft sound of capitulation and the fluttering of her warm inner walls around his cock pulled him after her, and he came with a groan, his arms shaking with the strain of keeping his weight off her. As soon as the world stopped spinning around him he gave her one last little nudge, chuckling breathlessly at her answering moan before flopping down beside her, happy and spent. She curled against his side, and they lay there for quite some time, wrapped around one another and grinning in silence.

Eventually the rumbling of his stomach roused him, and he suggested they make their way downstairs for some breakfast. Ruth agreed enthusiastically, kissing him once before slipping away from him and heading for the en suite. He lay for a moment watching her progress, the soft swaying of her hips and the gentle movement of her breasts, a small bruise only just visible below her left nipple. Silently he chided himself for leaving a mark on her, and tried to ignore the surge of pride he felt at the sight.

He pulled on his trunks and his trousers and padded down to the kitchen to make tea. Unbeknownst to him Fidget had slipped into her bedroom at some point, most likely while he was out in the hallway speaking to Tom, and he found himself very thankful that Ruth wasn't there to see the blush that colored his cheeks as he realized that the cat had been in the room with them while they'd been doing…that. He didn't like the idea of an audience, even one of the feline variety.

Fidget for his part didn't seem particularly disturbed by what he'd just witnessed; he was too busy whining and begging for his breakfast.

"You'll have to wait for your mum, I'm afraid," Harry told him as they made their way down the stairs, doing his best not trip over the excited little animal as he went. "I've no idea where your food is."

Fidget just stared up at him, and whined some more.

What's gotten into you, man? Harry grumbled to himself as he turned the kettle on and rooted around in the cabinets for tea things. Talking to a bloody cat.

He was spared any further self-recrimination by the sudden appearance of Ruth, clad only in his shirt and a smile, and he was momentarily overwhelmed by the desire to push her up against the table and take her again. Though his spirit was willing, his flesh definitely wasn't up to the task just yet, and so he settled for drawing her into his arms, kissing her passionately as he cupped her face in one hand and the other drifted down to squeeze her bottom. She was warm and soft and perfect, pressed up against him, and he delighted in the feel of her, the taste of her, the simple joy of her.

"What do you want to eat?" she asked, dancing out of his embrace and heading for the refrigerator.

"Oh, you know me, I'm not terribly picky," he answered, turning his attention once more to the kettle.

"Bacon sandwich it is, then," Ruth decided, pulling the breakfast supplies out and stacking them on the counter, humming to herself all the while. There was something familiar about the tune, something that tugged at his memory, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it, and he was loath to ask her, and stop the gentle sound while he was enjoying it so. She hummed, and he fussed over the tea, and together they set about making breakfast.

Perhaps it should have been surprising, how easily they worked together, laughing and touching softly in the hazy light of a warm summer morning, but Harry refused to question it. He was enjoying himself far too much for that. She fried the bacon and he poured their tea and they spoke of little nothings, casting indulgent glances at one another all the while.

They had just sat down at the table, sitting side-by-side and close enough for Harry to feel the warmth of Ruth's bare leg through his trousers, when the doorbell rang.

She nearly jumped out of her skin, startled by the sudden interruption, and blushed scarlet as she realized that neither of them was in any state to answer the door just then.

"Ignore it?" Harry asked, knowing already what the answer would be.

"What if it's something important?" she responded, and he knew what she was thinking. What if it were Adam or Ros, come to talk to her about George and the shop? They couldn't ignore it, knowing how significant this early morning visit could be, but Ruth couldn't very well answer the door wearing only his shirt.

"I'll answer it," he told her, deciding that if one of them had to face the embarrassment of being discovered half-dressed, it might as well be him. He leaned over and kissed her cheek briefly, and then went off to see who the visitor might be.

He was all too aware of the picture he presented, his broad, somewhat paunchy chest bare, every scar and imperfection on full display, his hair mussed up and his trousers wrinkled and obviously left over from the day before. If it was Adam, he supposed they wouldn't have anything more than a few sly looks to worry about, but if it was Ros, he imagined he was in for quite the bollocking.

He unlocked the door and pulled it open, and his heart froze in his chest as he took in the sight before him. For a long moment he said nothing, stunned into silence as his brain stuttered to a halt and he struggled to process a million different things at once. After what seemed like an age he finally managed to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, and uttered a single, incredulous word.

"Catherine?"