Beechworth Caravan Park had been closed for the foreseeable future; the guests sent packing amidst many arduous complaints and refund demands. Refunds had been issued and complaints taken on the nose, because what else was there to do? It was a small price to pay to secure everyone's safety. Harry and Ruth's beautiful little cottage had been shut up, with most of their possessions left to gather dust.

Despite the compulsion to get out quickly, there had been surprisingly little panic involved. Harry and Ruth had calmly divvied up the tasks and done what needed to be done. Ruth had resigned from the museum, and Harry had closed up the Park. She had packed up their belongings, while Harry had thrown out the perishables. Their emergency plan had been in place ever since they moved in. They'd just hoped to never have to use it.

Lottie had been horrified to be told that she could only fill up one tiny suitcase, forcing her to abandon a lot of her precious books and stuffed animals. She hadn't understood the sudden chaos as her parents hurried to move out. She hadn't understood why she couldn't just go to school, why she couldn't say goodbye to Jamie or Alfie or any of her friends, why any of this was happening. Entirely overwhelmed, she had spent the majority of the taxi ride to the airport blinking back tears. Ruth had gently promised that she and Harry would explain everything soon, but told her that the time for explanations was not now. For now, they just had to concentrate on leaving Beechworth. Today. Immediately.

And so now, here they were sitting at the gate bound for home, and oh boy, was Melbourne Airport a surreal sight after so many years. The last time they had been here, they'd just flown in from Marseille after a close encounter with some field officers from Six. They'd been lost and frightened and spurred on only by the thought of putting as much distance between themselves and the unfriendlies as possible. Like Catherine, they'd taken the shuttle bus and ended up in Beechworth. The rest, as they say, was history.

Except it wasn't history. Not now. Not really. In fact, it was a horrific feeling of history repeating itself. Their happy five years in Beechworth had come to a calamitous conclusion, and here they were again, on the run and frightened for their lives. It was enough to make them question whether they were ever truly destined for happiness. Fate was unkind... unscrupulous... cruel even, to have teased them with the sweet taste of the life that could've been, only to so mercilessly snatch it away.

Harry glanced across at Ruth, who was sitting opposite him. Lottie was nestled in her lap, one hand clutching Moo and the other fisting Ruth's coat as she rocked her gently from side to side. He wasn't quite sure whether this motion was to comfort her daughter or herself. Perhaps a bit of both, he decided.

Ruth had said very little since leaving Beechworth. Her eyebrows had knitted together into a steady frown, but aside from that, her face was blank, closed-off, distant and unreadable. And that frightened him. It frightened him more than he could say. Over the last six years, his beautiful partner had learnt to ignore her skittish instincts and let him in, even in the face of adversity. And now, seeing her retreat back inside herself broke his heart. He could only hope that the loss of their life in Beechworth wouldn't strip Ruth of all the confidence she had regained. Because the Ruth who had shared his heart and his bed for the last five years had been everything he could have ever wished for and more. She was passionate and loving, witty and quirky, sassy and smart, radiant and resplendent and utterly, utterly alive. She had found her old self and matured into the glorious mother she was today. She still had her wobbly moments, was still inflicted by the occasional nightmare, but they occurred in private and no one outside of Harry would ever suspect all that she had endured.

He could only pray that returning to England wouldn't trigger a regression into the poor, haunted soul who left; who had suffered at the hands of rapists and kidnappers and power-hungry terrorists; who had been teetering on the edge of a breakdown and who had only just managed to step back from the brink because of the abundance of love Harry had been able to show her during their time away. And oh, but how Harry loved her. He loved her unconditionally, whoever she was, however she was, forever and always. He'd love her even if she did spiral back into depression. But he also wanted her to be happy – and he had never seen her as happy as she had been in the last five years. He could stroke his ego and claim that that was partially down to him– and Lottie, of course – and perhaps some of it was. But he also knew that a big part of it was the change of scene, the change of climate, the escape. Beechworth was a world away from London, from MI-5, and that in itself had made her feel safe. Just as Cyprus had probably made her feel safe. And now, for the second time in nearly a decade, that illusion of safety had been shattered, and she was having to flee back to the place that had always seemed to cause her so much pain. That heartbreaking thought was just one more bullet point on a long list of reasons for Harry to want to kill Ollie Kinkaid.

Another was the current state of his eldest child. Catherine sat beside him, her hands twisting, her knee jiggling, her eyes wide and fearful. Her whole body was thrumming with trepidation as they waited for their flight to be called. They had been lucky to acquire seats so last minute, but then he supposed they were due at least some luck. By a happy coincidence there had been four seats left on an otherwise booked-up flight, and they had snatched them up, irrespective of the expense. It had been an opportunity they couldn't afford to pass up.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a porter suddenly rattled past with a baggage trolley. Catherine squeaked in surprise and rocketed up from her seat. A few passer-bys turned to stare, and Harry flashed them his best convincing smile before gently tugging her back down and placing his hand atop of hers.

"It's alright," he soothed, and she nodded even though they both knew that it wasn't.

He himself was jumpier than usual; casting eagle eyes around the space every other minute to check for potential threats. It had been so tempting to bring along the handgun that still resided in his and Ruth's underwear drawer. But he knew that he wouldn't stand a chance of getting it through security and he didn't wish for any hold-ups. He had no idea how this Kinkaid character had managed to smuggle a gun into the country, but he rather suspected Catherine's boyfriend was the reason for the airport's heightened security. Screens and notices everywhere were reporting the shootings of several airport employees a few nights prior, and there appeared to be double the personnel on each gate and help desk. A policeman or two were even carrying out checks at entrance.

His stomach suddenly lurched and for a horribly brief moment, he thought he might be sick. The manic security reinforced just how dangerous Olli Kinkaid really was, just how close he, Harry, had come to losing the people he loved earlier that morning. Had Lottie responded differently to Kinkaid's questions, and had Ruth not noticed Lottie's absence when she did, things might have ended very badly indeed. His gaze fell on his girls as they sat huddled together, and for the fifth time that hour he was filled with the overwhelming urge to fold them in his arms and never let go. But he couldn't. Catherine was shaking like a leaf beside him and he couldn't abandon her. So he kept a tight grip on her hand; all the while silently willing Ruth to look up at him.

A slight crackle over the tannoy interrupted his maudlin thoughts:

"Flight 217 is now boarding at Gate 5."

That was their flight. And Ruth did look him then. All three females did. They looked towards him, the patriarch, the leader, the fearless knight standing on the wall, waiting for guidance; for reassurance that, yes, they were really going to go through with this. Harry stole one last glance at their surroundings before taking a deep breath and standing.

"Come on, then. Let's go."

Dimitri absently twisted the thin silver band around his ring finger as he skimmed through the intel on Alfurasan Alarbe. The morning briefing had seen his analysts bring him a slim volume which contained next to no valuable information – and certainly nothing concrete they could use to bring the organisation to its knees. Calum had explained that they'd intercepted zero chatter on the Horsemen since their name cropped up seven years ago. The group had clearly gone underground; become clever... sneaky. And Dimitri hated sneaky. He bloody hated it.

He sighed, peering out at the fresh-faced analysts working diligently at their computers. He felt a little guilty for the sudden embittered thought that took flight in his mind. Ruth Evershed would never have presented such meagre pickings during a briefing. She would've already hacked into some database somewhere and found out the front-runners of the group. Then he stopped and considered the irony of that thought.

Ruth Evershed. Mama Bear. A ghost from the past, a friend, a mentor, a gentle yet guarded presence, who had been dealt such a brutal hand during her time at MI-5. And what an astounding coincidence that it was she (and her beloved Harry Pearce) who had brought the Horsemen to their attention in the first place. He still couldn't wrap his head around it. They had made contact, after so many years of silence. Ruth Evershed and Harry Pearce, who had disappeared into the clouds on a grim, grey April's day almost exactly six years ago. Ruth Evershed and Harry Pearce, who he never thought he'd hear from ever again. Ruth Evershed and Harry Pearce whose reign on the Grid seemed like yesterday, and yet also a lifetime ago. So much had happened since then. So much had changed.

His dull eyes caught sight of his wedding band and he immediately stopped fiddling. Sorrow swooped through his stomach and tore once more at his ravaged heart. When he had waved goodbye to Harry and Ruth, his relationship with Erin had been just starting out. Despite all the crap incited by Levrov's plot, life had been promising. Erin had been so beautiful, so vivid, so full of life. She had adopted the role of Section Head (the second time around) with gumption, morality and class, and he still swore that she had been far better at the job than he. If it hadn't been for the stupid Incident, she'd still be here, sitting in this chair, this office; sharing his bed, his world, his life. But now... now everything had gone to shit, and he rather felt as if he was moving blindly from one day to the next – existing but not really, truly living. Was this how Harry and Ruth had felt towards the end of their time at Five? Was this why exile had seemed such an attractive option? He could only hope the last six years had been kinder to them than they had been to him.

A brief knock shook him from his morose reflections and he turned to find Calum hovering uncertainly in the doorway. The younger man's eyes were brimming with awkward concern. The old Calum would never have bothered with sentiment, but then he supposed neither of them were much like their former selves anymore.

"Yeah?"

"I er... just wanted to see if you were... well... how you were doing because... you know..."

"Sweet, Calum, but I didn't think tea and sympathy was your style," Dimitri muttered, feeling only a little guilty when the officer winced in response.

"Oh, you know... it's not. I just..." he cleared his throated awkwardly. "I know this is probably a bit of a shock. For both of us, really. We didn't think we'd ever hear from them again and yet here they are embroiled in yet another hot mess. Déjà vu or what? Trouble just seems to follow them around."

"Trouble seems to follow us all around," Dimitri pointed out bitterly. "It's par for the course in this job."

Calum hummed non-committally and picked at the hem of his suit, "Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

A heavy silence settled between them, one man not quite knowing what to say and the other refraining from saying something he knew he'd probably regret. Calum continued to dither in the doorway, his eyes flicking between Dimitri and the corridor, as if debating whether or not to make a tactical retreat. Dimitri's patience finally wore thin and he slammed the file down onto the desk, turning to face his officer with a raised, expectant eyebrow.

"Was there something else or were you planning on becoming a regular fixture?"

Calum blinked. Sarcasm wasn't usually Dimitri's forte, and for a moment the younger man looked rather tempted to bite back with an equally acerbic reply. But then he shook his head and managed to reel himself back in.

"Er... no. No. Well, yes actually. I just... I know the last time we spoke to Harry and Ruth, you and Erin were... And Erin was still..." Each rambling sentence tapered off into bland oblivion, lame and unfinished, as if Calum couldn't quite summon the courage to follow them through. For some reason, this only angered Dimitri, and he found himself longing to silence the man with a punch to the face. Every mention of Erin was like a dagger to the heart: a reminder of who she had been, what they had had, what had happened that awful day, and what Calum had done (or rather not done). "I... I know that it must be hard – "

"With all due respect, Calum, you know nothing about how hard it must be," Dimitri ground out.

Calum quietened immediately at that. He clamped his mouth tight shut and gulped, staring back at him with wide, guilt-laden eyes. Again, Dimitri was filled with the irrepressible urge to clock him one. The only thing that stopped him was that he knew he couldn't be seen slugging his officers in public. So, exercising what he considered to be admirable restraint, he just tamped down his rage, curled his hands into fists and turned his back on Calum.

"You know nothing," he repeated coldly. "So just stop prodding around wounds that've already been closed."

There was a beat, and then Calum said stoutly, "But they haven't closed, have they? Far from it. You wonder around like a bear with a sore head all day. You drink excessively. You treat me like a leper. You treat your team like a bunch of incompetent teenagers. You never even try to see Rosie anymore."

Dimitri whirled around, "Don't. Don't you mention Rosie! Don't you dare!"

"I do dare. I'm the only one that does. I'm the only person in this entire building that's not prepared to tread on eggshells when they're around you. Everyone else is so bloody frightened of losing their jobs."

"I could decommission you!" Dimitri threatened wildly, though they both knew a personal entanglement wasn't viable grounds to do so.

"Do it," Calum shrugged. "I don't care. Hell, you think I like being called 'Grandpa' every day? You think I like watching the light leave the eyes of kids who should never have been out in the field in the first place? You think I enjoy this crap?!"

"Well, if you're so unhappy, why don't you just leave?!" Dimitri snapped.

"For the same reason you don't!" Calum shouted back. "Because this job's an addiction! We keeping coming back, time and time again, telling ourselves that we can save one more life, prevent one more crisis, stop one more bastard terrorist. And all the while we're reminding ourselves how much we hate this job, how jaded we are, we're actually hiding that deep, dark, terrifying truth that actually... actually, we don't want it to end. Because if it ends, = we'd notice just how empty our lives actually are. We'd remember everything we've had to sacrifice. And what sort of a life would we lead without Five? Gardening? DIY? Tea parties with the neighbours? A cushy office job? Everything would seem so fucking mundane!"

Calum finished his passionate diatribe, panting and emotionally spent. Dimitri stared back at him, astonished. Calum wasn't the most passionate man in the world, or the most articulate. He liked to poke fun and act the cocky office boy (even at thirty-seven). He still maintained the breezy 'don't-even-worry-about-it' attitude, still had a bizarre obsession with gobstoppers and still had an overzealous love for all things tech. At one moment he could be the world's greatest man-child, and within the space of a minute he could switch to the seasoned spook he now undoubtedly was. It was at times like these – like now – that Dimitri hated to admit that Calum Reed was probably right. MI-5 filled a hole for both of them – a fissure that had slowly been widening in Dimitri's heart since the Incident, and a cavern that had never even been filled in Calum's.

Another heavy silence fell between them. Dimitri was reluctant to say anything that might give Calum the satisfaction of thinking (knowing) he was right.

"Look," Calum continued gently, and from the tentativeness on his face, Dimitri immediately knew where this was heading. "She was my friend. My best friend. I miss her too."

"Oh, for God's sake, Calum!" Dimitri snapped, irritated by his once-friend's persistence. "She's not dead! She might as well be, but she's not! So there's no need to – !"

"Don't say that."

"What?"

"That she might as well be dead," Calum frowned. "You don't mean that."

"I do. And so does she. They're her words, not mine."

"She's a proud woman. She's just struggling to – "

Dimitri shot dagger eyes at his subordinate, "And what would you know about it? You haven't seen her in God knows how long."

Calum's face hardened. He swallowed then folded his arms protectively across his chest, "She didn't want me there. She made that quite clear."

"Yeah, well guess what? She doesn't want me there either," Dimitri muttered bitterly. "So that goes for both of us."

"But you're her – "

Dimitri had had enough. He turned his back on Calum once more and waved a dismissive hand.

"We're not talking about this anymore. Go do some work. And only come back if it's something relevant to the operation."

He picked up the file and feigned interest in its contents, despite having no room for anything in his mind other than Erin's pain and his dysfunctional personal life. Out of the corner of his eye, he could feel Calum staring.

"So that's it?" the younger man challenged. "We're just going to sweep it under the carpet again; pretend it didn't happen? Not talk about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about," Dimitri ruled. "Erin's gone. It's done. We move on, we find out about these bloody Horsemen and we see if Harry Pearce and Ruth Evershed's intel is good."

Calum snorted, "Come on, Admiral. Wherever Ruth Evershed was concerned, the intel was always good."

"Calum, in case it'd escaped your notice, I'm now your superior," Dimitri growled, not even deigning to look up from his file. "If you call me 'Admiral' one more time, I feel I'm entitled to have you shot."

"I feel like that's a teensy bit of an overreaction."

"Not the way I'm feeling today," Dimitri muttered.

And yet, much to his ire, he could still feel Calum's presence lurking in the doorway. He whipped around, intending to give the man a piece of his mind, only to find that he was fully engrossed in his phone. Sometime in the minute since Dimitri had turned away, Calum had managed to retrieve his mobile and appeared to be flicking through his text messages.

"Calum?" Dimitri frowned, perplexed by the other man's sheer lack of courtesy. "Are you for real?"

But Calum didn't seem to be listening. He was far too absorbed in whatever it was that had just popped up on his screen.

"Calum? Seriously?!"

The younger man finally looked up, his eyes round; a tiny, almost imperceptible frown contorting his pale face.

"I've just had a text from Malcolm."

Dimitri's anger evaporated. Malcolm had been staying at a safe house with Harry's family. He had been instructed to communicate only when absolutely necessary. So if he had texted, what did that mean? Had something happened? Had the Horsemen found them?

"And?" he prompted quickly.

"Harry and Ruth have made contact again. A member of the Horsemen found them and they've had to make a dash for it. They're coming back here. They're coming home."

The journey was long and hard and fraught with tension. As there were no direct flights from Melbourne to London, there had been a brief transfer at Hamad International. Qatar took them far too close to Syria for comfort, and Catherine had been a nervous wreck the entire wait. However, the exchange had gone smoothly and before long, they were back in the air and bound for Heathrow.

Of course, due to the lateness of their booking, claiming four seats on the same row hadn't been an option. However, they had managed to grab two lots of two, and it was decided rather quickly that Harry would sit with Catherine, and Ruth with Lottie. Harry's guilt at leaving her to cope with a six-year-old alone on a seventeen hour flight was plain in his face, but Ruth had assured him that it was okay. She didn't mind. She was glad, even. It gave her valuable time to reflect on the whole Kinkaid affair, and ample opportunity to reassure herself that Lottie was still here, with her, safe and sound. She could clearly read the distress in Harry's honeyed orbs, and knew that he was dying to talk to her about the museum. But Ruth wasn't ready for that. Not yet. She knew what he'd say. For all of the mystery and intrigue surrounding Harry Pearce, his reactions were infinitely predictable. He had that telltale softness in his gaze that made her feel rather like a bird with a broken wing; like a fragile china doll that was to be treated with the utmost care. He'd probably tell her that Lottie's brush with Kinkaid wasn't her fault; that she couldn't keep their daughter glued to her side forever, however much she might want to. But Ruth didn't want to be fobbed off with gentle platitudes – not when the awful, gnawing guilt was still so raw; not when the chasm of darkness and self-loathing was still so deep and impregnable. In fact, she'd almost prefer it if Harry shouted at her, swore and cursed her ineptitude as she'd heard him do with so many others in the past.

However, as the flight wore on, the shock and the fear and the overwhelming guilt began to fade, and instead, she was filled with a deep-seated sense of relief. What had happened had shaken her to her core, but actually, she realised she had been lucky. They had all been lucky. Lottie was still here. She was safe and well, albeit rather unhappy and being dragged away from her idyllic life in Beechworth – the only life she had ever known.

The sudden leap into the unknown was understandably terrifying for a child who, for the past five years, had lived comfortably in the knowledge of what each day was going to bring. Now, however, her world had been turned upside down. And so, rather than spending the flight pressing her mother for answers about Catherine and Kinkaid and why they had left – for which Ruth was eternally grateful – she'd asked her about England. What was it like? What would they eat? Where would they stay? What would happen about school? Would she be able to make friends? And the hardest question of all... 'When do we get to go home?'. That had flummoxed Ruth into silence. She'd had absolutely no idea how to answer. She had no clue when or even if they would ever be able to return to Beechworth. And it was a question she'd sooner not answer in the presence of ear-wigging strangers.

In sheer desperation, she'd distracted Lottie with her new Quadratics textbook, and for a good few hours, the little girl had tuned out the horrors of their current calamity and allowed herself to be swept away into the comforting world of Mathematics. Eventually, she'd fallen into a fitful sleep, her head resting lightly against Moo; her book slipping slowly from her fingers. Ruth had caught it before it hit the ground and slid it deftly into her shoulder bag. Then she'd covered Lottie with her coat, nestled down in her seat and watched over her as she slept. She'd reflected on how big her baby had gotten since their last big flight. She'd reflected on how Lottie was losing some of her freckles and how her eyelashes seemed to be growing exponentially day-by-day. She'd reflected on all the questions that Lottie had asked her, and forced herself to remain calm in the face of overwhelming anxiety. After all, she was just as much in the dark about what would happen as Lottie was, and had been unable to give her daughter anything more than bland reassurances. Harry had messaged Malcolm their ETA from Qatar in the hope of him sending someone from Five to greet them. Beyond that, they had no plan.

After what seemed like a lifetime, the plane landed. The moment it touched ground, Ruth moved to rouse Lottie. However, the little girl wouldn't be woken. She groaned, rolled over and snuggled desperately back into her seat. Ruth sighed. Jetlag and an emotionally spent six-year-old were probably an unwise combination, anyway. She'd just carry her. The other passengers left their seats and began shuffling off the plane amidst a general hubbub of noise. Ruth shrugged on her coat, stuffed Moo in her shoulder bag and lifted a sleeping Lottie onto her hip. By the time she had battled her way into the aisle, most of the passengers had gone, including, it seemed, Harry and Catherine.

Thankfully, it didn't take much searching to find them. They were waiting just outside. Harry's eyes lit up as soon as he saw her, and he quickly darted forwards to collect their daughter from her arms; pressing a brief chaste kiss to her cheek as he went.

"Alright?" he asked, concern practically radiating from every pore.

Ruth awarded him a small smile, in part to confirm that, yes, the flight hadn't been a total shambles, but also to reassure him that she felt better now; surer that she wasn't going to fall apart on him just when he needed her to be strong.

"Alright," she agreed, squeezing his arm and hoping he understood.

It seemed he did. He smiled softly, his hazel eyes boring into hers and surreptitiously melting her heart in a way that only Harry could. The moment came to an abrupt end, however, when a sudden loud, pointed cough had them springing apart. Catherine was standing there with her arms folded, unimpressed by the public display of affection and clearly anxious to leave. They couldn't blame her. Standing in full view of CCTV only increased the likelihood of them being found. Their names were now apparently clear in the UK, and thus, they didn't have to worry about hiding from the law anymore. But it had taken Kinkaid next to no time at all to get hold of CCTV footage back in Melbourne. They didn't want to make the same mistake here. Within seconds, Harry's 'Grid-face' had slotted into place, and he was ushering them all towards the exit.

The first thing they saw after leaving the gate was a massive melee of people. Passengers were fighting, pawing, shoving one another in a bid to reach their respective destinations; all with the kind of bold tenacity that only true Londoners possessed. Harry raised a sardonic eyebrow and harrumphed under his breath.

"Welcome home, ladies."

Ruth smiled at his obvious distaste. She patted his arm lightly and cast around for the baggage carousel, spotting it lying only a few feet away. She was about to step forward when something else caught her eye. Or rather someone.

It was a man – a middle-aged man with a rather tired face, thinning strawberry-blonde hair, and a distinctive mole beneath his right eye. But his most defining characteristics were his eyes, and the infinite kindness that was present within those rather bewildered orbs.

"Malcolm?" she whispered, her heart leaping.

Harry stopped beside her and blinked, as if unable to quite believe his eyes. Malcolm had already spotted them, and was staring back, equally disbelievingly. It was he who broke the spell first, slowly stepping forward and clasping his hands behind his back with a familiar air of awkwardness. Yet his lips broke out into a small, sincere smile and they were left without any doubt at all that he was happy to see them.

"Hello, my old friends."

Many thanks everyone for your support - thanks to wolfdrum, Gregoriana, fcpatechies and Eggwhisker for your reviews. I hope everyone is doing okay and that you're all staying safe and well at this time. All the best x