Later that day, Harm's MRI, venereal tests, and x-rays came back negative. The positive news eased some of their worries but couldn't overcome all the challenges ahead. Even so, a routine of sorts soon established itself for the remainder of the week.

When he wasn't nibbling at the meals Mac prepared him, or enduring Lenny's daily check ups, or complying with the private, mostly one-sided sessions with Connie that followed, Harm spent a lot of time lying in bed. Not because he was physically incapable of otherwise functioning, but because he was drawn to the seclusion the bedroom offered. The seclusion he hoped would help unravel the swirling vortex in which he could so easily become lost.

His once expressive eyes were dulled by the pictures he insisted on studying, by the wall mere inches from his face that inexplicably morphed into a trail of lipstick, and by the still orphaned ring that stared accusingly back at him from the bedside table. When he added it all together, he felt dirty, damaged, and dishonest.

Occasionally he ventured out into their living space and tried to act as though things were normal. If for no other reason than to convince himself it was time to move on, and that he was fine, whether that was true or not. For her part, Mac let him drive the bus, but stood ready when he wanted to talk.

"Webb called again," Mac shared during one of the lengthier discussions she and Harm had the past five days. This one had just surpassed the two minute mark and had veered into meatier topics than the status of the honeysuckle vine that needed trimmed.

Harm continued puttering around the small kitchen. "What did you tell him?" he asked warily.

"What you told me to -- That you'd be in touch if you remembered anything of importance. Okay?"

"Yeah … thanks … Umm … Lenny cleared me for work. I'm returning tomorrow."

"Are you sure you're up for it?"

"The ribs don't hurt as much, and my face has healed. Besides, I'll go crazy if I lay around here any longer."

"It's good to hear you say that. I was getting worried."

Harm finished putting away the dishes, not knowing what to say. Looking for something else to keep himself occupied, his eyes fell upon a photograph sticking out of Mac's purse.

"Mac?"

"Yeah?"

"Is this her? Is this Cynthia McPherson?" he asked helping himself to the photo.

Mac bit her lip and nodded before answering. "Constable Wickham of the London Police Department gave it to me when we first started looking for you. It's a screen capture from the CCTV near the Kensington parking lot."

"I know. I recognize my SUV."

"But not her?"

Harm didn't answer. Instead he stared at the photo. Again it was one worth a thousand words. So much so, the turmoil he'd managed to hold in check resurfaced as his mind's eye manufactured his version of the video from which it was taken. Though the view was frequently interrupted with mental white noise, it was sufficient to see the scene unfold.

Beads of perspiration formed on his upper lip while watching the woman slip behind him with open familiarity. When she leaned in and her hand snaked around to his front to cop a feel, his groin physically betrayed him. And when he saw himself responding to the seduction with equally casual assurance, another piece of his heart fractured as more of the fragmented echoes fell in place.

"Harm, do you recognize her?" Mac asked again.

His answer came out as a strangled gasp for air. "I'm sorry!" he cried, running from the room and out into the darkness of the night.

He straggled in later to find Mac crying in their bed, giving him the space he needed. Half of him wanted so badly to take her in his arms and ease her pain with love; while the other half added hypocrite to the litany of sins he attributed to himself. Intellectually, he knew the latter feelings were based on a cruel fabrication. Still he couldn't muster an intimate gesture to soothe his heart or hers. So instead, he just sat on the bed and said again, "I'm sorry, Mac."

"It's okay, Harm. But can you tell me why? Is it because of the picture of me and Webb; or the one of me with my colleagues in Paris?"

He jumped up. "No! It's not your fault! It's mine!"

"Tell me." Mac's hand snared his and held on tight as she pulled him back down.

"I can't."

"Because you don't remember?"

Unable to face her, Harm turned his back to her. His shoulders slumped when he answered, "No, because I do."

Mac rubbed the center of his back. "Really remember? Or are you just experiencing the thoughts she put in your head?"

"Don't you see! It doesn't matter. For me, they're real. And you deserve better."

"Oh, Harm," she cried, finally understanding.

------------------

And so it pretty much went for the next two weeks. While he successfully returned to his job, the echoes of his infidelity continued like a bad dream that would not end. Consequently, there were no late night love making sessions, no creative morning awakenings, no spontaneous reasons to be late for work, and no 'name that tune' strains coming from the bathroom.

Still, every morning Mac tried to free him from his shell, reaching just a little bit closer, holding just a little tighter, and praying just a little harder each time.

In the end, he knew she scooted from the bed so he wouldn't see her cry. He knew she headed to the bathroom, wanting to get their before he used up the hot water while trying to remove the stain from his soul.

But slowly her patience and persistence paid off, and she made some inroads. And then one morning he mustered the courage. And they tried. And he failed miserably.

"It's okay, Harm. It'll just take time."

He squirmed out of her embrace and turned so she couldn't see the tears pooling in his eyes, and to spare himself the same. "Go take your shower, Mac. You shouldn't be late."

Her heart ached, not wanting to leave him alone like this. "What about you?"

"I'll take the train. I have a late morning appointment to see Lenny at Lakenheath."

"About getting your flight status reinstated?"

"Yeah."

"Don't be late. It won't help your cause."

"It won't matter anyway. I'm a basket case."

"Don't you dare say that again! You'll get through this, Harm. We'll get through it."

"Mac—"

"Don't say it, Harm!"

When she was out of earshot, he finished the thought as the cold rain of the mid October day pelted the window. "I'm sorry."