A/N: Ok, y'all, here we go! I think there's just the epilogue left, after this. This story could very well go on indefinitely, but as much as I've loved writing it, I think the time has come to put it to rest. Thank you, as always, for your enthusiasm and your continued support, despite this fic reaching epic proportions. You're lovely, every last one of you.


Ruth was asleep, when Mary came to take Sophia away. Harry had been sitting in the armchair by Ruth's bed, holding his sleeping daughter, marveling at her tiny face, the flutter of her eyelids, the steady rise and fall of her chest. She was breathing a bit faster, a bit shallower than he would have liked, but she was breathing. She'd kept her supper down, and barely made a fuss at all over the last few hours. That was a bit of a surprise, to him; what he could remember of Catherine and Graham as newborns was a nearly constant wailing. Sophia, though, Sophia barely made a sound.

"Time to go, love," Mary said softly, startling him with her nearness. Harry couldn't bear the thought of handing his daughter over, even to someone as capable as the inestimable Mary, and he made no move to release his hold on the baby.

"She's sleeping," he said in quiet voice. "Can't she stay, just a bit longer? I'd hate to wake her."

Mary chuckled a bit at that. "She'll be all right, you'll see. You should try to get some rest yourself, dad, this will be your last chance for the next eighteen years."

The nurse reached down, and neatly scooped Sophia out of his arms, leaving Harry bereft in her absence, and slightly troubled by her words. Mary was right, he realized grimly; Catherine was nearly thirty, and he still lost sleep, worrying about where she was and how she was doing and if she was safe. Chances are, he'd spend the rest of his life worrying about his children, but he'd already had rather a lot of practice at that.

"Oh, I think someone needs her nappy changed," Mary said, wrinkling up her nose in distaste as she carted Sophia off to the little changing table in the corner. "Would you like to do the honors?" she asked.

Harry shuffled to his feet; it had been more than twenty years, since he'd last changed a nappy. What if things were different now?

"It's been quite a while since I've done this," he murmured as he carefully unwrapped Sophia's blankets. Christ she's so small, he thought. He still couldn't quite get over that, how something so small and fragile and delicate could be his responsibility. Harry had boxer's hands, big and battered, scarred and a bit arthritic, these days; he didn't entirely trust himself with her, yet, but he knew there was no one else who could ever love her, ever protect her the way he could.

"I thought she was your first," Mary observed as she watched him over his shoulder. It was a bit like taking an exam, he thought as he fumbled with the nappy; he could almost see her with a clipboard in hand, giving him marks based on his technique and how long it took him to get the job done.

"Well, she's Ruth's first," he explained. "I've got two, from my first marriage."

He quite liked saying that, first marriage, as if there was a second. If he had his way, there would be, but he needed time first. Timing means everything, she'd told him, and he meant to learn from his mistakes. Harry had every intention of asking her again, but when that happened, he'd make sure the moment was perfect. No bloody funerals, no bloody intrigue, just him, and Ruth, and a nice bottle of wine. Maybe some candles. Probably ought to get some candles.

"And how old are they?" Mary asked with a little smile.

As deftly as he could manage Harry did up the fresh nappy, and started wrapping the blankets around Sophia again. She'd not made a peep through the whole process, watching him through heavy lidded eyes as though she were mildly bored by the proceedings.

Harry had been expecting the question, but he was still a bit hesitant to answer. How must they look, to someone who didn't know them? Ruth was closer in age to his children than to him, and without knowing what all they'd been through together, he supposed it must look a bit like a midlife crisis. It wasn't though; the way he felt about Ruth, the way he'd felt about her since day one, defied all logic, and he was profoundly grateful to have ever experienced such a love at all, and damn the timing.

"Catherine is twenty-nine, and Graham is twenty-six."

Mary whistled. "There's a…bit of an age gap, then," she said dryly.

Harry supposed he ought to get used to comments like that. He was much too old to have a newborn baby, and Ruth was much too young to be stuck with a grumpy old bugger like him, but this was their life, and he couldn't bring himself to regret having Sophia, not once, not for a second.

"We didn't exactly plan it," he said as he lifted Sophia back into his arms, holding her close against his chest. "But we're happy."

"That's all that matters, then," Mary said. "Now, I've got to take her, Harry. Try to get some rest. I'll bring her back when she needs feeding."

It was with a heavy heart that Harry finally relinquished his hold on his daughter, his mind awhirl with numbers.

Before he could get too morose thinking about his own mortality, though, Ruth stirred on the bed behind him, and murmured his name in a sleepy little voice. He crossed the room to sit at her bedside once more, smiling as she gazed blearily up at him.

"Sophia?" she asked, a worried little frown creasing her brow.

"She's fine, she's with the nurses for a bit. They'll bring her back; right now they just want you to rest."

Ruth nodded, yawning.

"Are you feeling all right?" he asked her. In all the madness surrounding Sophia's arrival, it seemed to him that he'd been given very little information about Ruth and her condition. This worried him more than a little; the doctors had told him she'd lost a lot of blood, that the surgery hadn't been easy for her, and he had no idea what that might mean, long term.

"Yeah," she sighed, reaching out to squeeze his hand. "I'm fine. Hurts, a bit, but I'll live."

He reached out and smoothed one hand across her brow, brushing her hair back from her face. It was a face he'd never grow tired of seeing, a face so full of life and hope, a face that showed her every thought, that nearly shone with the brightness of her very soul, and he loved every inch of it.

"You need to rest," he told her softly.

"We need to rest," she told him, smiling.

His heart did a funny little summersault, at those words. That was precisely the conversation they'd had the night he'd first taken her to bed, though they'd switched the lines this time around. Every moment of that night was burned into his memory, the hopelessness, the fear, the joy, the rebounding ecstasy of finally, finally having her, the way he'd always wanted to. It would be fairly accurate to say that their entire lives had changed, because of those four little words. And in the soft creases and gentle lines of Ruth's face, he saw her having the exact same thoughts. We need to rest, he thought as he watched her, watching him. Not just to sleep, to recover from the last few days, but to rest, to give their hearts a chance to mend, to recover from the years they'd spent walking the wall, watching in the darkness. They had done their time in service to Queen and country, and now it was time for them to rest.


When the nurse brought Sophia back for her feeding, it was getting on towards four in the morning, and Ruth was wide awake. She couldn't sleep, couldn't bear to close her eyes; though she was completely exhausted, her mind tossed and turned with a million chaotic thoughts. Everything had been going so well, now that Sophia was here; Harry had announced his plans to retire and held her hand and told her that he loved her, and she had echoed his words, had finally managed to tear down the last remaining wall that kept her heart separate from his.

At the moment he was fast asleep, lying on his side, his face buried in the crook of her shoulder and his arm slung out over her belly, the way they'd slept every night they'd spent together during her pregnancy. Ruth had wrapped her arms around him, half terrified he might fall off the bed that wasn't quite big enough to hold them both.

"You know they're not really meant for two people," the nurse told her with a twinkle in her eye as she came to stand beside the bed.

"He's so tired," Ruth said softly, running one hand fondly through his sparse hair. She knew he was tired, not just from lack of sleep, but from the years he'd spent living and breathing the service. Now that he'd drawn a line under that part of his life, he deserved a chance to rest.

"How long have you been together, then?" the nurse asked as Ruth shuffled around, wanting to hold Harry and Sophia at the same time, if she could.

Seven years, or eight months, or about six hours, depending on how you reckon it.

"A very long time," she said aloud.

The nurse chuckled a bit, and tucked Sophia against Ruth's skin where the baby happily began to nurse.

It was fascinating, really, to watch her, to know that she was driven purely by instinct, that the DNA Ruth and Harry had passed on to her carried instructions for everything from the beating of her heart to the silly little snuffling movement she made as she searched for her supper. One day this tiny, soft bundle in her arms would grow up, would learn to speak, to read, to write, would ask questions about her mummy and her daddy and the world around her. Ruth scolded herself for thinking that far ahead; each moment with Sophia now was precious and new and fleeting, and she was determined to enjoy every second of it.

She was worried, though. What would she say, when her daughter asked how she and Harry had met? What would she say, when asked why on earth she'd had a child, so late in her life, with a man like him? How could she ever begin to explain the way their hearts had bound themselves together, quite without their permission?

Maybe it doesn't matter, she thought as she watched her child nursing happily. Maybe there doesn't need to be a why, just this once. Maybe it just is, and that's enough.


It was three days, before Ruth and Sophia were cleared to go home. Three days of tests and anxious waiting, watching Sophia's tiny face for the slightest trace of discomfort. Three days of pain for Ruth, as her body slowly adjusted to the absence of the peanut. Three days during which the very axis upon which Ruth's world turned shifted. Harry had been the center of her life for years, her touchstone, her guiding light; now, he was still there, right in the middle of everything that mattered to her, but he was holding Sophia in his arms.

As they drove home to his she caught him casting frequent worried glances at the baby in the rearview mirror. She had half a mind to chide him, for not paying more attention to the road, but she couldn't really blame him; it was just as difficult for her to keep her eyes off their child as it was for him.

When they reached the house he waved her off, telling her to go on inside, and let him worry about fetching Sophia and her carrier. Ruth didn't mind his solicitousness, just now; the carrier was heavy, and she still felt a bit off, after everything. Let him do the heavy lifting for now; she'd go and make some tea, her first proper cup of tea since that dreadful night when she and Beth had sat together in the bathroom unraveling this mystery together. Ruth simply couldn't wait.

Scarlet greeted them with all the excitement she could muster, when Ruth walked through the front door. Beth and Malcolm had been looking after the little dog, and there was a bouquet of fresh flowers on the table in the entryway, and a little card, too. It was rather a nice gesture, she thought, but her thoughts were so focused on tea that she didn't even stop to read the card.

Ruth made her way into the kitchen, smiling as a thousand fond memories of nights spent in this room washed over her. Every inch of this space was familiar to her now, and she moved about with a sense of purpose, losing herself in the domesticity of making tea, in Harry's home. Their home now, she supposed; while she'd been in hospital Beth had overseen the transfer of her belongings. Ruth had agreed to move in with Harry, and though initially that thought had filled her with a sense of foreboding, now it only made her feel…happy. It was right, that they should be here, together. Sophia's things were here, and there was room enough for all three of them, and a little garden for Sophia to play in, when she was older. This was a fine old house, and she thought they could have a happy life, here.

"Home again," Harry sighed as he came waltzing in the room. Over the last few days he'd seemed so much lighter than he'd ever been before, smiling often and easily, cracking little jokes the way he used to do when they first met and he hadn't been completely broken by the job, by life, by her. As she watched he gently set the carrier on the floor, and scooped Sophia out of it, bringing her to rest against one shoulder as he crossed the kitchen, and wrapped his free arm around Ruth's waist, drawing her close against him.

Ruth sighed happily, and rested her head against his shoulder. He held them both, and she reveled in the warmth of his body wrapped around her own.

"Home again," she agreed with a smile.