Ruth sat perched in the armchair opposite Harry and Catherine, her mouth hung wide open in shock. When Harry had called her at work, she had known immediately that something was wrong. Harry never called during work hours, except for the time when Lottie's school had sent her home sick. So, of course, her panicked thoughts had immediately turned to her daughter. Harry had been quick to reassure her that Lottie was fine, but that he and Catherine needed to speak to her as a matter of urgency. Now, sitting there opposite father and daughter, having just heard Harry regurgitate most of Catherine's tale, she could see why. She had sensed that something was troubling the young woman. But there was no way she could have predicted this.

"Wow," she whistled, still working hard to digest all that she'd been told.

"Is that all you can say? 'Wow'?"

"Catherine, please," Harry warned.

Catherine rolled her eyes but made no more snide remarks. It was an interesting yet somewhat confusing dynamic to see Harry back in control; even able to rein in his daughter's temper. Clearly they had had a good talk, and possibly resolved some of the issues plaguing their relationship. Ruth was a little unnerved to find out how cross he would be with her later, when they inevitably discussed her huge indiscretion with the letters. She hoped he'd see that she'd only been trying to help. But that had to be put on the backburner for now, because Catherine's news was very disturbing indeed. Harry had been right to call her. They needed to act fast.

"What do you think?" Harry put to her quietly.

His eyes were wide and uncharacteristically lost. It was at that moment that Ruth knew she was going to have to jumpstart the proceedings. Out of the three of them, she was probably the most objective, and she could see from the anxiety in Harry's gaze that he was depending on her to help him make a rational decision. She could do this. She could analyse the information and advise the best course of action. It had been six years but that particular skill never really went away.

"What did you say this faction was called?" she asked.

Something about its name had struck a chord with her and she wanted to solve that particular mystery before deciding what to do next.

Catherine folded her arms across her chest; the picture of a grumpy teenager, "Alfurasan Alarbe,"

Ruth nodded, "Yes, that's what I thought you said." She gulped then glanced warily up at Harry. "It's Arabic."

"No shit," the blonde muttered. "I thought you were supposed to be some kind of genius."

This time, they ignored her. Harry just motioned with his eyes for Ruth to carry on.

"Translated, it means The Four Horsemen."

Even Catherine dropped the sulky teenager act to look anxious at that. Harry's face slowly drained of colour.

"As in: of the Apocalypse?" he croaked.

Ruth nodded, alarm bells starting to ring uncomfortably in her gut, "Yes."

"Well, that doesn't sound good."

"No," she agreed, screwing up her face as she tried to remember why the name seemed so familiar. She was sure she had come across it somewhere before. And then she remembered. "We picked up chatter on a group called 'The Four Horsemen' less than a year before we left."

Harry frowned, "I don't remember that."

Ruth flashed him a wry smile, "You weren't there at the time. You were still on enforced leave because of the tribunal."

Harry rolled his eyes at the memory.

"What chatter?" Catherine piped up, in spite of herself. "You said you picked up chatter. What did it say?"

Ruth bit her lip. Trying to think back seven years to that tiny blip on the Grid's radar was rather difficult.

"It was just little titbits of information," she recalled slowly. "A little bit here, a little bit there – nothing concrete and nothing the bigwigs up in their shiny offices thought it worth concerning ourselves over. The Horsemen just seemed like another crackpot bunch of theorists. They had an ideology, but no actual means of bringing their plans into fruition."

"Well they seem to have been allowed to succeed on that front, don't they?" Harry grumbled. "What exactly were their plans?"

"Basically, they aspired to bring about chaos and destruction within the UK."

"There – that's it," Catherine nodded, momentarily forgetting her resentment towards Ruth. "That's the sort of thing they were talking about."

"But there was no mention of any Syrian connections."

"When would this have been?" Harry frowned, narrowing his eyes as he fought to remember. "2011. So the UK government were already expressing displeasure at Syria's regime, even if the conflict hadn't yet started."

"I suppose that would explain why it didn't throw up any red flags at Five or Six," Ruth nodded. "Back then, chatter was all it would have been. The beginnings of a faction of Daesh, developed due to dissatisfaction at the UK's interference."

"An organisation that's flourished in the last few years," Harry continued. "And now they have everything they need." He paused and cast a small smile at the blonde sitting next to him. "Well... had."

"But now they're coming after me," Catherine reminded him tightly. "And as you said, they might go after Mum and Gray. So instead of yakking our backsides off, can we actually start doing something about it?!"

The younger woman looked as if she was only just about holding herself together, and Ruth felt for her. She wanted to take her in her arms and hold her as she would console Harry or Lottie, but she knew the gesture would not be welcome. Not from her.

Ruth wasn't happy about this new revelation herself. If the blonde was as careful as she claimed, then it would probably take a while for anyone to track her to Beechworth. But once they did, it wouldn't be hard to find her. It was a small town and people talked. Someone would have seen Catherine down on the beach talking to her and Lottie, and that would lead the trail straight to the Caravan Park... to them. And Ruth was damned if she was going to let any harm come to any of her family. She should have known that the last six years were too good to be true; that their old life would catch up with them eventually. It seemed Harry had been very wrong about the bloody Jabberwocky. The question was, what could they actually do about it?

"Do you still have that email address for Malcolm?" she asked Harry.

"Yes, though I don't know if he still uses it."

"Surely it's worth a try?"

"That's what I was thinking: get a message to Malcolm. He can contact Five and get Jane and Graham to safety."

Ruth failed to hide a small smile. She wondered vaguely why he had been so desperate for her help in the first place. She could see some of the old Section Head persona slipping through, and with it came the instinct to know exactly what to do.

"And you needed me here to help you with that decision because...?" she trailed off amusedly.

"Because I just wanted to check whether you thought it was a good idea," he answered sheepishly, returning the smile. "What with me being rather... emotionally compromised, I didn't know if I was being too... hedonistic... irrational."

For some reason, it saddened Ruth to hear Harry feel so unsure of himself; so hesitant about his decision-making. He had rarely faced such inner-conflict back on the Grid. True, he had always valued her opinion, yet he had also be stickler for following his own gut, and had had no trouble making the final call. But then, she supposed, things had changed over the last six years. They had changed. They had become a team. They had grown used to making decisions together, not as boss and subordinate, but as equals – partners. For them to stop doing that now simply because the conversation held a flavour of their old working rapport would probably be insulting to the relationship they had worked so hard to build. And so she stopped allowing herself to feel sad and smiled at him instead.

"I think it's perfectly rational under the circumstances."

"Good," Harry nodded, relieved. "Well, I suppose there's no time like the present."

And with that, he got up from the sofa and strode from the room to go and fetch a laptop. His fingers brushed lightly across Ruth's shoulders as he passed, and she shivered delightedly at the touch. Catherine didn't fail to notice the obvious display of affection. She narrowed her eyes at the older woman, her gaze mutinous once more. Of course, Ruth noticed that she was being glowered at, but didn't have it in her to pass comment. It was pretty uncomfortable being the object of such scrutiny, however she had known as soon as the blonde's parentage had been revealed that this... alliance... wasn't going to be easy. That was okay. She could cope with that for now. At least the rift between Catherine and Harry didn't seem quite so wide anymore. That was what mattered.

For a good few minutes, the two women just sat there in heavy silence. The tension in the room could have been cut with a knife. Ruth tried to think of how she could phrase what she wanted to say without setting Catherine off again. In the end, she flashed the younger woman a somewhat awkward smile.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, trying to communicate how genuinely horrified she was. "I'm so sorry that you've had to go through so much in the last few days... well... in the last six years, actually."

Catherine's defences immediately shot up.

"I don't want your pity, thanks very much!"

Ruth paused and ducked her head, "It's not pity, Catherine. I care."

Catherine scoffed loudly, "Care?! How can you care? You don't even know me!"

"That's true, but that doesn't mean I don't care."

"Yeah!" the younger woman spat. "You care so much that you dragged my dad halfway across the world to play Happy Families, whilst you let his real family believe he was dead!"

Ruth felt like she had been punched in the gut. She had quietly hoped that Harry classed her as part of his real family too. But what could she really say to argue? The blonde was right. She had been largely responsible for Harry's departure from England, and thusly, his life. She chewed her lip and stared in mock fascination at the coffee table, hoping the guilt wasn't visible on her face.

"Thank you for talking to him," she offered in the end.

"Yeah, well... I didn't do it for you."

Ruth nodded. She had been under no illusions there. She was just pleased the letters had helped. Hopefully they had shown Catherine that Harry was not the heartless bastard she and so many others misconstrued him to be.

"We er... we told Lottie this morning," she murmured softly. "about who you are. She's rather excited to have a sister... and she really liked you."

Catherine grunted and looked away. Realising she couldn't continue an earnest conversation whilst gazing at a coffee table, Ruth gathered her courage and peered back up at the younger woman. The blonde's body was thrumming with something she couldn't quite define. Anger, maybe? Fear? Confusion? Or maybe a mixture of all three?

"I... I'm not expecting you to like me," she began softly. "Not at all."

"Good. Because I don't. I think you're a selfish, interfering, know-it-all bitch, and I think you're way too young for my dad."

That stung as well, but Ruth persevered. She was a big girl now. It had taken years, but she was now able to live life without worrying what other people thought of her.

"Just... if we could just try and be civil – for Harry and Lottie's sakes – I would be very grateful. Harry thinks the world of you – "

" – Well, that's news to me," Catherine interjected bitterly.

"He does," Ruth assured her. "Believe me, I know. He's not always very good at saying how he feels, but he really does adore you. And I think very possibly, Lottie might wind up adoring you too, and I don't want either of them to get hurt by any ill-feeling between us. And with everything that's probably about to happen, we need to be coming together rather than splintering apart. So please. If we could just try. Try and make it work."

Catherine huffed out a reluctant sigh, glaring back at Ruth with distrustful eyes.

"Fine."

"Thank you."

"But I still don't like you."

"Fine," Ruth nodded curtly, not having expected this opinion to have changed in the last minute.

It was obvious that this alliance was not going to be easy. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

Malcolm Wynn-Jones was just whistling a modest rendition of 'La donna è mobile' to himself, as he carted a fresh cup of tea upstairs when he heard it. A sharp bleep from his computer. With a little effort, he jogged up the remaining steps and hurried along to his office.

That had sounded suspiciously like an email alert. He rarely got emails – just occasional notifications from his magazine subscriptions, or infrequent messages from Calum Reed enthusing over the latest in technological outputs. He always welcomed the opportunity to talk all things tech – it was something he had rather missed since Colin died. And as sad as it sounded, he even found some mild interest in reading spam from his various subscriptions. However, it immediately became apparent that this email wasn't from Calum or his magazines. It was a notification advising him that a message had just been sent to a connected email address – the emergency email he reserved for ex-MI-5 officers who had gotten themselves into a tight spot. He hadn't had cause to use that email for about five years.

Heart thumping wildly in his chest, Malcolm extracted the little notebook he kept concealed beneath his desk. He rifled through its pages and found the right password. It took no time at all to type it in. The email was encrypted, of course, but that was a good sign; the sender had obviously been well-trained. It didn't take him long to decrypt it and when he did, his thundering heart actually stopped. He read the email once, blinked, swallowed, then read it again. It wasn't any less shocking on the second read. He had long ago learnt to expect the unexpected. But this... this he hadn't seen coming.

Calum Reed twirled his pen deftly between his fingers, skimming though what felt like the billionth file that morning. His eyes were starting to water; a combination of the harsh Grid lighting and the obscenely small print of paper-based intel. He vastly preferred their current digital filing system. At least then, he had the delightful option of zoom button. But every so often, all case officers were required to do routine 'shopkeeping': reading through old transcripts before cross-examining them with current intel, to see if any danger zones just happened to pop up. It was boring, dogsbody work, and he hated it. But it was his job, so what choice did he have?

He tore his eyes from the page, tutted loudly and propelled his arms into the air to stretch his aching limbs. He stole a quick glance round at his colleagues and sighed. On busy days he could blind himself to the fact that he was now one of the oldest on the Grid. But on days like these, when there was nothing else to do but read and watch, he couldn't help but notice the age gap. These kids – and some were scarcely more than kids – seemed so fresh-faced and excitable. He experienced a rare swoop of envy as he remembered that he too had been like that once. Then he realised himself and shook his head. That way of thinking was paradoxical: it only made him feel older and thus, act older. Some of the young analysts already called him 'Grandpa' and yet he was only thirty-seven. Thirty-seven was still quite young! It just so happened that this was a young man's game – a very young man's game.

If he was a wallowing man, he might have declared that he felt a teeny-tiny, eensy-weensy, itsy-bitsy bit lonely. Maybe. Most of the people he had come to know during his seven years on the Grid had gone. All that remained was himself, Bart (AKA Caractacus Bartholomew; AKA The-Idiot-Who-Makes-The-Tea) and, of course, Dimitri. Yet his and Dimitri's on-off friendship had soured since the Incident. And it had become virtually non-existent since the older man had been promoted to Section Head. Now, the Admiral was white-faced, stressed and haggard-looking by default, and he, Calum, didn't even have the energy to get on his nerves anymore. It was like they'd become a shadow of their former selves. And as for Erin... well... they didn't even mention Erin.

He sighed, tugged open his desk drawer, and withdrew a half-empty bag of gobstoppers. He was just about to pop a juicy red one into his mouth when his mobile rang. He groaned, dropped the gobstoppers back into his drawer and picked up the call.

"Yeah?" he snapped, not even bothering to hide his irritation.

"Hello, Calum?"

He frowned. Despite recognising the voice, he couldn't really place it, "Yeah?"

"It's Malcolm. Malcolm Wynn-Jones."

"Malcolm!" Calum cheered, his mood lifting slightly. "Long time, no hear! You didn't have to call. You could've just emailed me back. Not that it's not nice to hear from you, but – "

"Yes, er... I'm er... I'm afraid this isn't a social call. I'm... I'm not quite sure how to..."

Calum frowned. In the few times he had met Malcolm, it wasn't rare for the older man to become somewhat tongue-tied. Social interaction definitely wasn't his strong suit. But his tone seemed to transcend all ordinary awkwardness now. In fact, there was a definite edge to his voice; something that sounded suspiciously akin to fear. Plus his breathing was distinctly off, coming in frequent, short, shaky pants.

"What's up? You okay?"

"Yes. Oh yes, I'm fine. It's er... it's just that I've had an email from... well, you're not going to believe this..."

"Believe what?"

"Is... is Dimitri there?"

"No, he's in a meeting with the Home Secretary."

"Right... right, um... well... I'm not quite sure how to proceed."

"Proceed with what? You're being pretty damn vague here, Malcolm."

"Right, yes... sorry," the older man rambled, and Calum could practically see the retired techie shaking his head at his own ineptitude. "I suppose I'm still in shock."

"Shock?"

"I've... I've just had an email from Harry Pearce."

For a moment, everything seemed to stop. The general hubbub of the Grid faded and all Calum could hear was Malcolm's shaky breathing reverberating against his eardrum. Memories of six years ago flooded to the forefront of his mind; recollections of a gruff, middle-aged man and his gentle-hearted analyst, and the love story that had become something of MI-5 legend.

"Wait... what?" he croaked.

"I've had an email from Harry Pearce," Malcolm repeated, sounding just as bamboozled as before.

"As in Harry Pearce, former Section Head?"

"Do you know another Harry Pearce?"

"Okay, okay," Calum snorted, some of the shock melting away at Malcolm's uncharacteristic sass. "Well, where the hell did he spring up from?"

"Where, I don't know. Last I heard, he and Ruth had settled somewhere out of reach of Six. But there was no way of replying because their slave email account was deactivated – presumably by Ruth to avoid being traced."

"So they don't actually know that their names were cleared like... four years ago?"

"If they had, I suspect they would've come home by now."

Calum absently pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to get his head around this perplexing new turn of events.

"So why has Harry suddenly contacted you now?"

"His daughter's somehow crossed paths with him."

"His daughter? But wasn't she with him?"

"No, his oldest daughter. Catherine. You might have met her at the funeral."

Calum shrugged, forgetting that Malcolm couldn't actually see him. He hadn't really taken in much of the funeral, to be honest. He'd been there to keep up appearances and to show respect, but he had left immediately after the service. He hadn't felt comfortable watching people mourn a man who he knew to actually be very much alive.

"Anyway, Catherine seems to have found herself in some serious trouble," Malcolm continued. "Harry needs us to get his ex-wife and Catherine's brother to a safe house."

"A safe house?!" Calum spluttered, his eyebrows shooting to his hairline. "Exactly what 'trouble' is she in?!"

"Big trouble," Malcolm supplied, rather unhelpfully. "And apparently it spells even worse trouble for national security too, so we need to take it seriously."

"Are you actually going to tell me what this trouble is, or are we going to have to play Twenty Questions?"

"I don't want to do it over the phone," Malcolm insisted, a sudden strength emboldening his voice and reminding Calum just why this dear, sweet, awkward man had been able to thrive in the cutthroat world of MI-5 for so long. "I'm going to drive up to London and collect Catherine's family. Could I bring them back to the Grid? I'll explain everything when we get there."

Still rather bewildered, Calum couldn't see he had any choice but to answer in the affirmative.

"Yeah, okay. Are you setting off now?"

"As soon as I've called Jane and Graham. I can be with you in about three hours."

"Yeah... yeah okay."

And with that, Malcolm rang off. Calum was left staring at his phone in a stunned silence. Somehow, in the space of the last ten minutes, his day had been knocked completely out of kilter. Harry Pearce, Ruth Evershed and their baby girl had disappeared into the abyss six years ago, never to be seen again. And within a year of them leaving, Calum had resigned himself to the fact that he never would hear those names again. But how wrong was he?

He sighed, dropped his phone onto the desk and delved instinctively back into the drawer for his gobstoppers. Right now, he was craving a much-needed sugar rush. As he shoved one in his mouth, his eyes flicked eagerly towards the pods, awaiting Dimitri's return. He could only imagine what the Admiral was going to say about this.

Ruth leant against the doorframe and watched her baby sleep. She cherished these rare, peaceful moments. Lottie had such an angelic little face, especially in sleep. She was all soft lines and cute dimples, and every so often she would let out an adorable little snuffle that made Ruth's heart swell with a fierce, insurmountable love.

It was nice to see her sleeping so peacefully after the disturbance the night before – and indeed, following the tribulations of the day. The little girl had been delighted to see Catherine sitting in the front room after school, and had immediately started yammering away to her about anything and everything. This included her Family Tree Project, which had made the blonde visibly uncomfortable. Yet Catherine, for all her anger and heartbreak, had made a laudable effort to engage. Her patience waned thin, however, when Lottie made the blunt inquiry: "Why did you say your name was Ava when it wasn't?" The woman's face had soured and she had excused herself to the bathroom, leaving Lottie to stare after her, aghast.

"I upset her, didn't I?" she fretted, her big blue eyes wide with alarm.

"Don't worry, darling," Ruth had tried to reassure her. "She's just got a lot of grown-up things on her mind."

Lottie had insisted that now she was six, she was grown-up enough to understand. However, Ruth had managed to steer her away from that particular topic by suggesting that they make dinner together for Catherine and the family. Of course, Lottie had jumped at the opportunity. She loved helping her mother in the kitchen, and was even more thrilled to cook for her new big sister.

Dinner had been a sedate affair, with everyone, including Catherine, trying to put on a brave face for the sake of Lottie. But despite being young, the little girl was incredibly perceptive. She had read the tension in the room and realised that her attempts to brighten Catherine's spirits had fallen very flat indeed. In the end, she stopped chattering altogether. They lapsed into a solemn silence that lasted all night long.

Catherine kept excusing herself to go to the bathroom. Had she not returned with a red, blotchy face each time, Ruth might have inferred she had a bladder problem. It pained her to see the poor woman have to physically sneak off just to have a good cry. Catherine had wanted to return to Caravan 5 for a bit of privacy, but Harry wouldn't hear of it. Having been told that the psychotic Ollie Kinkaid was after her, he had told her in no uncertain terms that she was to stay at the cottage with them. He had made up the sofa for her, and by that stage, Catherine had been too tired to even argue.

Lottie's bedtime had eventually come about and without a second's thought, she padded over to Catherine and slipped her twig-like arms around her middle. Catherine had frozen in bewilderment. For an instant, she seemed to be on the verge of tears. Then her eyes flicked nervously towards the door, as if contemplating whether or not to bolt. In the end, she came to her senses and reciprocated the hug. Harry and Ruth had shared a tender glance. The embrace gave them hope that maybe – just maybe – their family stood a chance at coming together.

Now, Ruth relished in watching their baby sleep for just a few seconds longer, before shutting the door and creeping back along the landing. She hadn't come very far when she heard it. Crying. No. Not crying. Sobbing. Soul-crushing, gut-wrenching sobbing: the sound of a woman gasping, fighting, straining to come to terms with the agony of a broken heart. Ruth's own heart shattered just listening to the poor woman's plight. She stood there, debating whether or not to leave the blonde to her solitude. She quickly decided she couldn't. She just couldn't. So, wary of what she might find, she tiptoed slowly down the stairs.

The sitting room was shrouded in darkness, save for the standard lamp in the corner which was casting dim shadows against the wall. Catherine lay curled up on the sofa, weeping beneath a thin woollen blanket. Her whole frame was shuddering with the force of her sobs, and the elderly sofa seemed to be shaking with her.

"Catherine?"

Ruth inched into the room and hovered by the arm of the sofa, but Catherine barely acknowledged her presence. She curled further in on herself, sobbing still. She looked so young, so vulnerable lying there, and this time, Ruth didn't even try to stop herself from offering comfort. She reached out and laid a gentle hand on Catherine's ankle.

"Catherine – "

"Fuck off," the blonde choked out, hiding her tear-stained face in her hands.

"I don't' – "

"Fuck off!" Catherine repeated, louder and more irate this time. "Leave me alone."

Ruth sighed and lifted her hand from Catherine's ankle, stepping back to give her some space. Catherine had made her feelings quite clear, but that didn't make her any more willing to leave her when she was in such a wretched state.

"We'll be upstairs if you need anything."

Catherine gave a watery squeak, but made no further effort to reply – not even to chivy her away. And as her body began to spasm with more wracking sobs, Ruth just stood there, upset and awkward and feeling utterly, utterly useless. She desperately wanted to comfort the girl; to help her see that she didn't have to cry alone. But it was obvious that Catherine's grief was still too raw to be shared. And so, with a heavy heart, Ruth did as she was bidden, backing out of the room and trudging back upstairs.

Harry had already changed into his pyjamas by the time she entered their room. He was folding his clothes meticulously over the chair by the bed, the neatness of his actions contrasting sharply with the tumultuous emotions on his face. He glanced up as she entered. It took him less than a second to see her distress.

"Everything alright?"

Ruth shook her head and silently began to strip off. Harry paused, his eyes lingering on her for a moment. Then he crossed the room, picked up her nightie and began to help her change. His touch was light and tender, and not a word was said between them the whole time. He could see that she was upset and equally, she could read his devastation. Though he always did his best to shield his emotions from her, his heartbreak was plain to see. She knew him well enough to know that he was still beating himself up over the whole sorry mess.

The clothes she had been wearing ended up being strewn haphazardly over the floor, but neither lover cared. He had scarcely finished buttoning up her nightgown when she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder, breathing in his strong, reassuring scent. Harry wound his own arms around her smaller frame and they clung to one another fiercely. This wasn't about sex. Not tonight. It was about grief and a mutual need for the comfort that only they could give one another. It was about two people who loved each other immeasurably, and had just been forced to crash land from the blissful Cloud Nine, on which they had built their lives for the past six years.

They couldn't resent Catherine for her sudden appearance. They were both glad she had found them, of all people. Their training had served them well and they knew, theoretically speaking, how to handle this. But they had both been in the service long enough to know that it only took one small catalyst like this for the scum in the universe to come crawling out of the woodwork. Not only was Catherine (and possibly Graham and Jane) at risk, but they all were. Anyone who found Catherine staying here would inevitably come after them too.

Ruth was terrified because this was exactly what she had been trying to avoid. It had been a major reason for leaving England. She hadn't wanted Lottie to grow up in danger. She hadn't wanted her to have to look over her shoulder every minute of every day, just because of who her family were. Now, it was like her worst nightmares were coming true.

They didn't have long to decide what to do. They had contacted Malcolm, and to their eternal relief, he had replied almost immediately, telling them that he was going to get Graham and Jane to safety and then hand over their intel to the Grid. He had also advised that they come home, citing the shock revelation that their names had been cleared long ago, and that there was no reason for them to live a life on the run anymore.

Except in many ways, Ruth didn't want to go back. Moving to Beechworth had been a fresh start; an opportunity to leave behind the pain and the raging guilt. She had been able to lay so many of her demons to rest. She had been able to let herself love and be loved; she had stopped feeling guilty about pursuing the relationship with Harry that had always seemed so impossible London. She had been allowed to raise Lottie in a non-hostile environment, and their daughter had grown up happy and healthy as a result. Would going back just reverse all of the progress they had made? And what about Lottie and her little circle of friends? What about the Caravan Park they had worked so hard to keep afloat? The life they had built for themselves in Beechworth wasn't perfect, but it was nevertheless a good and happy life.

But then she looked at Harry and saw the adoration in his eyes as he watched Catherine. He had missed her – utterly and completely. And whatever the outcome of this mess, Catherine would probably return to England. Her mother and brother were there, and she would need their support. Ruth couldn't ask Harry to bid them goodbye again. Plus, over the last six years, she had seen the longing that filled his gaze as they discussed old friends and the life they left behind. Neither of them missed the death or destruction, but Ruth was very much aware that Harry had spent a large proportion of his life working for MI-5. He had been an intelligence officer for over thirty years and soldier before that. He was used to being useful. He thrived off serving his country. That sheer unbridled nobility ran through every atom, every cell, every drop of blood that filled his body. It was just who he was, and to keep him running a Caravan Park for the rest of his life when they actually had the option to go home... well... surely that was just cruel?

It was a debate with no easy answer, but after another emotionally-charged day, neither lover was willing to discuss it now. The time would come when they would have to make a decision. And soon. But for now, they just wanted to crawl beneath the covers and hold each other until they fell asleep.

Harry glanced down at Ruth and gently tucked a wayward strand of hair back behind her ear.

"You're thinking very loudly."

She gave a small, self-conscious smile, "Am I?"

"Yes," he said simply, stooping to press a tender kiss to her forehead. "You are."

Ruth loosened her arms from around his neck, "Sorry. Force of habit, I suppose."

"Don't be sorry. We've all got a lot to think about."

She nodded minutely. They just stood there for another moment or two, their hands gradually finding each other's.

"I'm glad Catherine came to talk to you."

"Mmm... thanks to you."

Ruth froze at that. She didn't sense any ire in his voice, but she was still hyper-aware that what she had done had been a despicable breach of his privacy. She wouldn't blame him for being ticked off. She bit her lip and glanced up.

"Are you angry with me?"

"No," And she could see from his soft smile that he meant it. "I was. I was bloody furious. But now I realise why you did it. And if it wasn't for you, we might never have known about this bloody Ollie Kinkaid... or the Horsemen."

Ruth nodded. He was probably right there.

"But how the hell did you know about those letters in the first place?"

She hesitated, failing to see how helpful it was to divulge that she had actually known about them from the very start. She had found the first one tucked away in a rusty old coffee tin back when they were living in the caravan. But to admit this would probably embarrass him, or damage his status as a super spy, so she just shrugged evasively:

"Oh, you know... psychic."

Harry stared at her disbelievingly for a moment, before breaking out into another soft smile, "I always suspected."

Ruth was surprised but glad that he didn't push the issue. They both chuckled, then silently came together again, rocking slowly on the spot, her head pillowed against his shoulder; her arms wound tightly around him.

"I'm sorry Catherine was so rude to you," he offered after a while.

"Don't worry. I've been in her shoes. I think it's probably a rite of passage for daughters to hate their parents' new significant others'."

"Still, that doesn't give her the right to be so unkind."

"She's hurting, Harry," Ruth reminded him gently.

She thought of the poor young woman sobbing her heart out on the sofa downstairs, and felt her stomach clench painfully. Although she couldn't see his face, she could sense Harry's already flailing spirits dampen. His hold of her tightened imperceptibly, and his breathing began to stutter out in short, sharp bursts against her hair. She traced a soothing hand up and down his back in the only gesture of comfort she knew she could give in that moment.

"She's not a little girl anymore," he murmured sadly. "Far from it – she's getting towards her late thirties, and yet... somehow, I... I just want to protect her like I did when she was Lottie's age – "

"And that's okay," Ruth assured him softly. "It's okay to feel like that."

"But it's not okay that it's all a little too late. I can't help but wonder 'what if'? What if I'd stayed in England? Would she have still gone to Syria? Would she have still met this Kinkaid character?"

"If you'd stayed in England, you'd most likely have ended up behind bars," Ruth reasoned, still trying to curb that horrible pang of guilt. "You wouldn't have been much good to her in prison. And anyway, Catherine seems like a pretty strong-willed woman. I get the impression that if her heart was truly set on Syria, she'd still have gone – with or without your consent, and whether you were still around or not."

Harry sighed, "Yes... yes, you're probably right."

His shoulders slumped and he suddenly broke away from her, trudging over to the bed and collapsing down on the edge with a frustrated grunt. The worn bedsprings groaned beneath his bulk, but Harry didn't even flinch. His hunched posture and weary expression depicted a man very much struggling to balance the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"I just... I don't know," he swallowed, running a hand over his tired eyes. His fingers ended up steepled in front of his mouth in a motion of prayer. "I can't bear seeing her so despondent. And as for what she saw... and what she did to get that information. She should never have had to bear that burden."

Ruth paused, then came and sat down next to him on the bed, reaching out to gently squeeze his knee.

"She's got her father's strength. And his innate goodness."

Harry snorted darkly, "I fear you think far too much of me, sweetheart."

"And I fear you think far too little of yourself."

"I was a terrible father. I still am a terrible father. I let this happen to her."

"You had no control over this," Ruth told him firmly, bringing his steepled hands down from his face and holding them tightly in hers. "She's a grown woman. She made her own choices." Harry looked as if he was going to interrupt so she hurried on before he could. "As for being a bad father... you're an amazing father to Lottie. Catherine and Graham's childhoods just so happened to fall into the time when you were working for Five. Believe me, I know – the very nature of that job means you have to sacrifice everything and everyone you love. You had to choose between being a good father and a good spy. It was an impossible, impossible choice, but there's no way you could've have done both. In the end, you realised that you had to choose being a good spy over anything else – for the sake of the greater good."

"But that doesn't make it right. That doesn't make up for all the crap I've put her though – and Graham, for that matter."

"No," she agreed softly. "But you have the chance to make things right; to take care of Catherine and Graham; to show them that you regret what happened in the past and that you love them just as much as I know you do."

"You make it sound so easy."

"Definitely not easy," Ruth murmured, thinking of the painful purple bruises hiding beneath his pyjama shirt. "But doable. You've already made a good start."

Harry scoffed, "The only reason she's not running for the hills right now is because she's upset."

"Yes, precisely. She's upset. And because of that, she needs her dad – probably now more than ever."

"And she's got me. It's just..." he trailed off, blinking as he realised that he wasn't actually sure what he had been going to say. For a moment, silence enveloped the room as he struggled to label his own emotions. Then he sighed and shook his head, as if suddenly realising that beating himself up like this wasn't helping. So he swallowed down the rest of his frustration and gave a sheepish smile before uttering a simple, firmer, "She's got me."

Ruth planted a small, chaste kiss on his cheek, "I know."

Harry's smile softened once more, and he lifted a single finger to stroke gently down her own cheek, "What would I do without you, hmm?"

She shrugged, "Luckily, you won't have to find out."

His eyes turned serious, "I know I promised yesterday that the Jabberwocky wouldn't find us here – "

" – You didn't know what was coming. You couldn't possibly have known – "

" – But I will protect you, Ruth," he vowed, his eyes glued solemnly to hers. "And Lottie. And Catherine. And Graham. I won't let anything happen to you. Any of you."

His quiet declaration was sweet and unnerving and rather old-fashioned. Uttered by anyone else, it would have sounded like a bad case of White Knight Syndrome. But Harry had always been a man outside his time. His moral compass and intense desire to do the 'right thing' had been what set him apart from the other morally-questionable, high-grade MI-5 officers. That goodness had been one of the many reasons she fell for him in the first place. So hearing those words spill from his lips was actually rather unsurprising. And yet whilst deeply touched, his vow incited a prickle of terror up her spine. The sincerity in his tone left her with absolutely no doubt whatsoever that he meant it. And Harry didn't do anything by halves. She knew that he would fight till his very last breath to protect her and his family. But it was the prospect of that very last breath that terrified her.

"I appreciate that. I do," she murmured slowly. "But if you're busy protecting us, then who's protecting you?"

Harry blinked, as if this thought hadn't even occurred to him. And for some reason, this irritated her a little.

"We're a team, Harry. Partners. We do this together. We look after Lottie, Catherine and Graham together. And if you insist on looking after me, then fine. Just as long as you understand that I'll be there looking after you right back."

"Ruth – "

" – And don't you even think about doing something stupid or reckless, Harry Pearce – "

" – Ruth – "

" – Because if you get shot... if you get killed trying to be noble, I will kill you!"

"Ruth!"

Harry interrupted her passionate tirade mid-flow, and she had to physically restrain herself from continuing beyond a small, irate, "What?!"

It took her a couple of seconds to come back to herself and when she did, she realised that Harry was staring at her with the biggest 'heart eyes' she had ever seen. She flamed red and ducked her head.

"Okay."

She glanced up at him in astonishment, "What?"

"Okay."

"Okay what?"

"Okay, I won't do anything stupid or reckless. Okay, I won't get shot. And okay, partners. I'll look after you. You'll look after me. We'll both look after the children."

It took her a second to get past the word 'children', especially given the not-so large age gap between her and Catherine. It took her even longer to overcome her surprise that he'd agreed. Whilst he no longer treated her like the fragile china doll she had been six years ago, he could also be a little overprotective from time to time.

"Really?"

"Really. Now come here, you bloody bonkers woman."

She allowed herself to be folded into his arms and tugged backwards until they were lying on the bed. They were facing entirely the wrong way, with their feet dangling off the mattress, and she still needed to brush her teeth. But for the moment, they didn't care. They just rested against one another, silent and scared, but thankful to at least be together in the face of uncertainty.

Ollie Kinkaid entered the boundaries of Beechworth Caravan Park. It had taken far too long, far too many bribes and a decent number of dead bodies for him to find Catherine bloody Townsend, but he was hopeful that he had finally succeeded. A local sitting at a barstool in some random pub had confirmed seeing her just this afternoon talking to the owner of the local Caravan Park. So here he was, in the dead of night, searching for his pest of a girlfriend – and he didn't care if he had to break down the doors of each trailer. He would find her. He would. He had come too far not to.

Apologies again for the late update. The world is crazy at the moment! Thank you wolfdrum and Gregoriana for your reviews; they inspired me to keep writing! Question to readers as I'm increasingly aware of the length of my chapters: would you prefer shorter chapters, or are you happy with the length they are now? Many thanks for your continued support. Take care and stay safe xx