Apologies for the delay. I intended to finish it before the New Year, but real life got in the way. Here is the penultimate chapter.

After a higgledy-piggledy route from the hospital to lose any potential tails, Tom finally pulled up at what appeared to be a deserted airstrip. The wind was picking up, great, heavy grey clouds sending tiny droplets of rain pattering down onto the windshield. A small, battered jet stood a short distance away, awaiting its pilot. Harry scanned the vicinity, searching for any sign of life. But no, the place seemed to be quite literally abandoned.

"How exactly did you manage this?"

Tom shrugged enigmatically, "I have ways and means."

Harry rolled his eyes. Unless passionately discussing a case, Tom Quinn had always been a fairly unforthcoming individual. Perhaps less so when he had been dating Ellie Simm. During this period, he had been the most open Harry had ever known him to be. Otherwise, he was relatively internal, diligently focused and held his cards close to his chest. But even with this in mind, the drive to the airfield had been almost uncomfortably silent.

Harry guessed that Tom still held onto a certain amount of resentment regarding his dismissal. Yet the two had also kept in touch during the seven intervening years. Harry recruited him on the sly for the odd job. And in exchange, he provided Tom with information that the younger man needed to complete private cases – as long as it wasn't breaching the Official Secrets Act, or bordering or treason, of course. It was an arrangement that suited them both. They had reached a civilised truce, but their interactions were still very uneasy. Plus it probably didn't help that Harry had just nearly strangled him.

"Thank you for doing this, Tom." Harry began nervously. "You didn't have to help. Lord knows, you have every reason not to. But it means a lot that you did."

Tom didn't reply at first; just stared at the worn-out jet in front of them.

"Yeah... well..." He eventually replied. "The things we do for our friends."

"Are we... friends, Tom?"

Tom considered this, sucking his tongue around his teeth. "I suppose so. Or at least the closest thing to friends as we can get in our line of work."

Harry paused, then gave a grateful nod. "Good. I'm glad."

The younger man smiled wryly, "You know, I still remember a time when you used to tell me that no one could have friends within the service. That there were people you'd risk your life for – die for, even... but no friends."

Harry leaned tiredly back against the headrest. "Yes, I remember that time too."

"So what happened?"

He swallowed, subconsciously rocking a still-sleeping Charlotte in his arms. "Reality, I suppose. I realised that I couldn't keep denying the friendships we made within the Grid – not when we spent day in, day out with these; saw them more than they saw their own families."

Tom didn't nod; didn't make any indication that he had heard, let alone indicate an opinion. He just continued to drill his piercing eyes into the side of the plane. They lapsed into a silence that must have lasted a good five minutes before the younger man deigned to speak again.

"Just so you know, Harry. I don't blame you for dismissing me."

Harry blinked, quite justifiably surprised. Not only had the announcement come out of the blue, but for seven years he had reserved a certain level of regret; had spent sleepless nights wondering whether he had actually made the right call in firing Tom. The man had, after all, been one of his brightest and best. And, in fact, quite hypocritically, Harry had messed up many a time – far greater than Tom ever had. Yet in the end, he himself had risen into the highest ranks of MI5 and even earned a knighthood, whilst Tom Quinn had faded into non-existence.

"Really." Tom repeated, turning to look at him in earnest. "I don't blame you. I'm actually grateful – if you don't find that too hard to believe. Decommissioning me was... probably the kindest thing you could have done – even if I didn't see it at the time. Five was eating me up inside and had you not fired me when you did, I think I'd... probably have had a breakdown. Or ended up dead. Or both." He paused before reflecting darkly. "I seem to remember that most ended up dead in the end."

Harry's stomach swooped uncomfortably. The pain he had hidden – no, imprisoned – deep within the confines of his heart in order to help him deal with his grief, threatened to break free each and every time the subject was broached. He had to physically stop himself from going over all the officers, young and old, that had died on his watch. That way, madness lay.

"So this..." Tom stated, indicating the plane in front of them. "This is me returning the favour. You've gotten yourself into one hell of a mess. But you're actually really lucky, do you know that? You're getting a chance to start again. In every way." He gestured to the sleeping baby in Harry's arms and poor Ruth who was passed out in the backseat.

Now that Tom put it that way, Harry realised that, yes, he was indeed extremely lucky. Despite the hard road ahead for him and his family, he had, in many respects obtained the winning hand. He had the kindest, cleverest, most beautiful woman as his partner, and would now have the privilege of watching the sweetest little girl on the planet – their little girl – grow up. He had the chance to strive for that all-elusive normal life, and become the parent he wanted to be. Who knew what the future held? Perhaps leaving the service would be the making of him

"Which brings me to Ruth." Tom carried on, his eyes darkening as he glanced in the wing mirror at the petite female.

Harry was immediately on the defensive. He was sorely tempted to declare that his relationship with Ruth was none of Tom's business. However, he had already tried to strangle the man today, and he could see how being obstinate might continue to rub him up the wrong way. So considering how important it was to keep Tom onside, he just mumbled a suspicious: "What about Ruth?"

"You'd better treat her right."

It was Harry's turn to smile wryly. "She's not the naive girl you knew her to be, Tom."

"That may be so. But I did know you a number of years before Ruth did. No offence, but I was well-acquainted with Harry Pearce, the serial womaniser."

"I won't do that to Ruth." Harry vowed, his cheeks burning at the callous reminder of his past.

"Are you sure about that?"

"I've never been surer of anything."

"Your plan is to start a new life abroad, yes? But what's to stop you from dropping her and the baby the moment you get bored?"

Harry could feel his patience starting to wane, and his temper starting to rise. Exactly what right had this man to make presumptions about his private life? His feelings for Ruth had been cross-examined by nearly everyone in the last nine months – and he was thoroughly sick of it.

"I won't do that." He growled, his eyes boring into Tom's

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because I love her!" He finally snapped.

He heard Ruth stir upon his outburst, and he glanced anxiously in the wing mirror. Fortunately, she did not wake; merely frowned and nestled her head a little closer to the window.

"I... I bloody love her, Tom." He repeated, and although his voice was quieter than before, both men heard it break.

Tom stared him down. For a moment it looked like he might argue. Then, without warning, he smiled.

"Good. I know. Just wanted to make sure."

"What do you mean 'you know'?" Harry snarled, in no mood for games.

"Oh, come on, Harry." Tom scoffed. "Even seven years ago, the two of you were making eyes at each other. You frequently ranted about how infuriating she was. Yet at the same time, you were softer on her than anyone else; gentler. In your own oblivious way, of course. I don't think anyone else would have got away with staying on the Grid after being rumbled as a GCHQ mole."

"I – " Harry muttered faintly, unsure of really how to reply to that. "I was really that obvious?"

"Yep. I'm afraid so." Tom answered bluntly. "To be fair, I don't think either of you realised, back then. And to be honest, I wasn't sure it went beyond lust. Then after the incident with Joyce... and my shooting you – "

" – Thanks for that, by the way – "

"After that, I thought I saw a shift in the dynamic. Ruth clearly adored you and you were softer with her than ever. But it was when you were strangling me in the hospital just now that I knew – really knew. You stopped the instant she asked you to." Tom shook his head. "I've never seen anyone have such a profound impact on you... exert so much control. You've always been a maverick, Harry – and despite having been a soldier, you're not very good at doing what you're told. And yet, even though you were intent on squeezing the life out of me, you were willing to stop, immediately and without question, for her. Men only do something like that in the name of love."

"Wow." Harry muttered dryly. "You make me sound so romantic."

"I suppose you are in your own way." Tom shrugged, earning him a glare. "Come on, Harry, with you two being who you are, it was never exactly going to be the most conventional love story, was it?"

A whimper suddenly sounded from the backseat, a noise that immediately put Harry on high alert. He twisted around in his seat to get a proper look. Ruth was extremely pale, a few beads of sweat forming along the top of her brow, and even in sleep, her face was contorting in pain. The questions was: was the pain physical or emotional? Was her recovering body causing her grief or were her nightmares starting to plague her once more?

"She really should be in the hospital." Tom commented reproachfully. "They both should be."

"Don't you think I know that?" Harry snapped, his worry for Ruth getting the better of him. "As soon as we're out of the UK, I need to get them both to the nearest hospital. Preferably one that won't ask too many questions."

Tom hummed, reaching into the pockets of his heavy black peacoat. "That reminds me. Your colleague, Erin Watts, passed these onto me, courtesy of our old friend Malcolm."

Harry felt a huge weight lift from his shoulders. Malcolm. Dear Malcolm had come through for them. He smiled slightly as he watched Tom handed him three chunky paper packages.

"Passports, cards and emergency cash. Plus details of a hidden bank account that will tide the three of you over for a while." Tom recited fluently.

"Good old Malcolm." Harry murmured, wishing he could thank the man in some way. Perhaps once he and Ruth had found a secure location, they would be able to send him a coded postcard.

"And." Tom added distractedly, pulling out a thick wad of pink woollen fabric. "He sent a blanket for the baby. Apparently, his mother knitted it – or so I'm told."

"Oh, Malcolm." Harry muttered, really rather overwhelmed.

As he ran a free finger over the textured material, an odd, somewhat macabre thought occurred to him. It spawned from the incident with Viktor Sarkisian three years ago; when his team had believed him to be dead.

"I wonder what Malcolm will read at our fake funerals."

If Tom was shocked by the morbid thought, he didn't let it show. Without missing a beat he answered, "Something poetic, I shouldn't wonder. Pretentious but fairly understated."

"Yes." Harry said quietly. "You're probably right."

He wondered idly if there would be a joint funeral, and if so, how many people would come now that they believed him and Ruth to have been traitors. How many of the people he had considered to be friends or family would actually go? He knew that Malcolm would. And probably Dimitri, Erin and Calum. And... Graham and Catherine? Maybe. But he definitely wouldn't lay money on it. The fact that he was leaving without having properly reconciled with his two eldest children was undoubtedly one of his biggest regrets. And it broke his heart to know that he would probably never get the chance. He could only hope that they knew, deep down, how much he loved them.

Tom consulted his watch, frowning. "We should be going. Time's getting on."

Shaken from his reverie, Harry glanced once more at the tiny plane. "When exactly is our pilot arriving, anyway?"

"Your pilot's already here."

Harry scanned their surroundings again, confused. "Where?"

"Sitting next to you."

Harry couldn't hide his surprise. "You?"

"Me."

"Since when have you been able to fly a plane?"

"Since I got my pilot's license. Comes in handy from time to time."

"Well then, what are we waiting for?"

"Your mate." Tom said, angling his head to look in the wing mirror.

"My mate?" Harry repeated, his brow furrowing.

But Tom wasn't listening. He was too preoccupied by something that had just caught his attention in the mirror. Something moving behind them.

Calum twirled a pen idly through his fingers, flicking aimlessly through a tottering pile of paperwork. Now that Ruth wasn't there to pick up the slack, admin seemed to take so much longer. Plus there was a great deal more of it. He had to hand it to her: she was a force to be reckoned with when it came to files.

He had returned half an hour ago from Doghouse 3, having successfully eliminated any incriminating CCTV footage. Only a select few would ever know what truly happened down by Erith Pier. And those were the people involved. Currently, Erin was identifying the bodies, Malcolm was on his way back to Hastings, Beth and Steve (who wasn't Steve) were on the move to an unknown location, and Dimitri was running an errand. And now, like nothing had even happened, like he hadn't just been involved in the escape of two wanted criminals, he, Calum Reed, was sitting rooting through mundane, everyday paperwork.

He had bandaged and set his arm in a sling to keep up appearances, and had already played the sympathy card with a few of his young female co-workers. They had lavished him with attention, and he had shamefully played up to it. He wasn't often lucky with the ladies and he revelled in this new opportunity. One of them had even given him her number.

However, despite all of this, Calum couldn't help but feel quite sad. It was the end of an era after all. He hadn't known Harry that well, but the man was a legend within Section D. He hadn't known Ruth much better, but he had liked her. She had been a surrogate mother to them all at some point, never short of a kind word to those in need, or indeed a harsh one to those who stepped over the line. She did it quietly, without fuss and without an audience, and in many cases her actions went under the radar. But it was safe to say that Section D would not be the same without her. Or Harry. And despite the fact that he and his colleagues had been tasked with apprehending them, it seemed like a hollow victory. The quiet, solemn atmosphere on the Grid conveyed how cut up everyone was. Despite their alleged betrayal, no one had wanted Harry and Ruth to actually die. A couple of the young ladies had offered him a shoulder to cry on, even though, ironically, they themselves were in tears. He had half been tempted to tell them the truth; had almost blabbed at one point, but stopped himself just in time. No. Better not.

Calum sighed, leaned back in his seat and stretched his aching muscles. He was just considering making himself a coffee when he heard the pods open. The familiar sound of heels meeting the hard polished floor told him that Erin had finally returned. He glanced up in time to see her pause, her eyes casting over the people in her charge, her mouth opening a closing slightly, as if debating whether or not give some sort of speech. The workers also looked up, stopping and waiting for instruction; silently daring her to deliver a rousing rhetoric that would drag them out of this unexpected grief. For a moment, she looked like a rabbit in headlights; like she might crumble and dart silently into her office. Then she caught sight of some of the miserable faces in the room, and this seemed to give her the courage she needed. She straightened up, narrowed her tired eyes and addressed the room at large.

"I suppose the news has spread, and most of you now know," She began gravely. "Harry Pearce, Ruth Evershed, and their newborn daughter... are dead. They fled from St Anne's hospital as we were in pursuit, and there was a terrible accident. They lost control of the car and drove into the Thames. I'm very sad to say that they weren't able to escape underwater and... they drowned."

There was a general rumble of horror from the workers, as well as number of sniffs. Calum did his best to look as crestfallen as the rest of his colleagues.

"Now I know that... towards the end of their lives... they made some very, very bad choices," Erin continued. "But I want it to also be noted that for a long time, they made a good and positive difference. They are traitors and we cannot condone that. But I think you will all agree that the way they died was distressing and unsuitable for two people who gave their lives to the service for many years. And I want you, if you can, to remember them as they were – and not who they became."

Mumbles of agreement rippled through the crowd. Had Calum not known what a load of garbage her oration really was, he would have either stood up to applaud or allowed himself to be really moved. He never knew Erin had such a way with words. And it was quite poignant that she was encouraging their colleagues to remember Harry and Ruth with the respect that they deserved.

"We believe that the conspirators of the Anglo-Russian plot have now all been apprehended. They will serve their sentences in whatever way the judicial system sees fit. As for us... we move on from this. We learn the lesson from Harry and Ruth... from William Towers and Carl Bilberry... that the good can go so spectacularly bad. We will conduct ourselves in a way that will never allow such treachery to breed in our midst again. We are MI5. We protect this country from terrorism, espionage and sabotage. We do not consort with terrorists, and we most certainly do not become them. I want you to do your jobs as conscientiously and as passionately before. And I know I can trust you to do that."

With that, Erin turned on her heel and silently strode into her office.

The room erupted into a barrage of noise, women gossiping, men trying not to but doing so anyway, and nearly everyone admiring Erin's powerful speech. Calum sat amongst the throng, slightly bemused by it all. He almost wished that he wasn't in on the secret so that he could join in with the enthusiastic hubbub. He gazed around the room longingly. The Grid was a fairly lonely place. His only real friends in Section were absent – Erin was in her office as his now boss, Dimitri was off-Grid somewhere, and Ruth was, most likely, leaving the country. He sighed, bit the end of his pen and cracked on with his admin.

All of a sudden, he saw a shadow pass over his desk as someone sat down beside him in Erin's old seat.

"Hey, Calum."

He looked up and was astonished to see that it was 'The-Idiot-Who-Makes-The-Tea'.

"Hey...er..." He trailed off lamely.

"You still don't know my name, do you?" The man gauged in his deep voice and thick brummie accent.

At well over six foot, the man towered over him. Had Calum not known from experience that he was a gentle giant, he might have seemed incredibly imposing.

"'Course I do." Calum blustered. "It's... erm... er..."

"Caractacus."

"Yeah, that's it! Caractacus." Calum took a moment to think about this. "Wait, your name's... Caractacus?!"

"Yeah."

"As in the 1st Century Chiefton?"

"As in Caractacus Potts. My parents were big fans of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang."

Calum shook his head bewilderedly.

"Not what you expected for a guy you nicknamed 'The-Idiot-Who-Makes-The-Tea'?"

"Well I..."

"Don't worry." Caractacus shrugged. "I hate my name. Why else do you think I let people refer to me as 'The-Idiot-Who-Makes-The-Tea'?"

"You'd rather be called 'The-Idiot-Who-Makes-The-Tea' than Caractacus?"

"Wouldn't you?"

"Okaaaay." Calum muttered, thinking that this conversation was more than a little surreal. "So what's your last name? Toot Sweet?"

On reflection, the man could have easily been offended by his brash humour and punched him straight in the teeth. Fortunately, he just grinned.

"Nope. It's Bartholomew."

"You're called Caractacus Bartholomew?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I bet you were bullied at school."

"Not so much." Caractacus smirked slyly. "Being tall comes in handy. Not a lot of people want to call you names if they think you might break their jaw."

"Yeah, I can see that." Calum smirked back. "Well, if you hate your name so much, how about I just call you Bart?"

"As in Simpson?"

"As in Bok, the astronomer."

Caractacus considered this, his face breaking out into a grin. "Sure. I like it."

"Awesome. What can I do for you, Bart?"

"Nothin' much. Just thought you looked lonely here by yourself."

Calum hesitated. "I'm never lonely." He lied.

"As someone who's separated from the rest of the team because they just fetch tea and coffee all day, I know what lonely looks like."

Calum reddened, busying himself by bending pointedly over his work. "Yeah, well, I'm fine."

"How's the arm?"

"Fine."

"Nice make-up job on your arm, by the way."

Calum froze.

"At least, I assume it was a make-up job that made it look broken." Bart continued quietly. "My brother broke his wrist and he didn't have nearly so much movement in his arm as you've had in the last half hour."

Calum found himself lost for words. How had he already let things slip? If Bart knew he was faking his injury, what else did he know?

"You, Ms Watts and Mr Levendis were quite close to Harry Pearce and Ruth Evershed weren't you? And the three of you have been going off together an awful lot lately." The man observed under his breath so that no one nearby could hear. "It's fine. I don't think anyone else has noticed because they had better things to do. But like I say... when you're on your own, doing nothin' but fetching drinks all day... standing on the sidelines, like... you tend to notice things. And if I was really into conspiracy theories, I'd bet that you faked their deaths so that they could get away."

Calum swallowed, sitting stock still, wondering how he could possibly get out of this one.

"It's cool." Bart shrugged breezily. "I'm not gonna tell anyone. I liked Mr Pearce and Ms Evershed. Ms Evershed, especially. She was kind to me when no one else was. I don't believe for a minute that they were traitors. I don't get why you guys had to make out like they were. But I s'pose it was for a good reason."

"What... what you're suggesting is ridiculous." Calum muttered, finally finding his voice.

Bart regarded him, then nodded. "Yeah. 'Course it is. Don't mind me. I'm just rambling. But I meant what I said. I won't tell anyone my 'ridiculous' theories. I... I s'pose I just wanted to let you know... helping Harry and Ruth – which you didn't – it... it was pretty cool. And I think most people here would agree with you – if they knew. They don't believe they were traitors either. They'll never say so because they don't want to be seen as being sympathetic to... like... known terrorists. But I know that's what they believe."

Calum frowned, pondering whether he could truly trust this man. He didn't know him that well, and his name, Caractacus Bartholomew, sounded like a highbrow law firm. Plus Calum had never been amazing with people. But as he looked into the other man's eyes, he could see the genuine warmth there, the honesty and sincerity. And though he would never divulge what had truly happened to Harry and Ruth, he decided that perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to get to know 'The-Idiot-Who-Makes-The-Tea'.

"You seem to read a lot in people." Calum commented.

"I like reading people." Bart agreed. "They're interesting."

"I'm surprised you didn't apply for a proper job here." He realised what he had said as soon as he said it and mentally kicked himself. "I mean – "

Bart chuckled, "It's cool, I get what you mean. But actually I quite like my job. It's not too stressful, I don't get killed, and I get to tell my parents that I work for MI5. It makes my brother jealous and that can't be a bad thing."

"Fair enough."

Bart tapped the table lightly, and got up from Erin's old seat. "Well. I'd better get back to it. Unless I can get you a tea or coffee? Or more gobstoppers?"

Calum smiled blandly, "No. No it's okay. Thanks."

Bart nodded and made to move. He was stopped short by Calum.

"Hey... erm... Bart..."

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry for calling you... well... you know..."

Bart chuckled again. "It's fine. Behind closed doors, I call you 'The-Idiot-Who-Works-The-Computer."

Calum snorted. "Okay, fine. I guess I deserved that."

"You're not so bad, Calum." Bart stated shrewdly. "At first, when you and Erin arrived, everyone thought you were the DG's lapdogs. You'd been fast-tracked through the service and seemed to be up yourselves. But the both of you... I reckon you're actually alright."

Calum shuffled uncomfortably. "Er... thanks." He muttered.

"But I think you're both still up yourselves." Bart deadpanned mischievously, before walking away. As he passed by, Calum heard him hiss, "Don't move the arm too much." And then he was gone.

Calum sat frozen in his seat, a little befuddled by his conversation with 'The-Idiot-Who-Makes-The-Tea', a man he hadn't previously considered might have an actual, functioning brain. Only the fingers of his 'good' hand moved, fiddling mechanically with his pen. He raised his head to scan the Grid. Could it be that Bart was right? Had a good proportion of his colleagues been secretly behind Harry and Ruth all along? It would certainly explain why it had taken the country's brightest analysts so long to locate them.

He smiled. Perhaps the Grid wouldn't be such a lonely place after all.

This was originally the final chapter, but it became way too long so I've had to split it. Fortunately, that means the last chapter is already written and I will upload it very soon.

Thank you to everyone who keeps reviewing this fic, and has stuck with it throughout its (very long) journey. You've encouraged me to come back and keep writing and that means a lot to me. There are plans for a sequel if anyone would like one. But I'll leave that up to you.

Happy New Year folks, and all the very best x