Just a little late night introspection. I know it's only short...but there is more on the horizon.

Thames House - 0200 Sunday 15th January

Harry took a mouthful of whisky and savoured the smoothness of the amber liquid. A glance at the clock on the wall told him that he really should think about calling it a night. The office was empty; Adam had left an hour earlier, but not before eliciting a promise from him that he too would make the effort to go home for at least a few hours and get some rest.

Harry raised the glass to his lips again. He couldn't go home, it felt like something akin to betrayal to even contemplate closing the door on the case until the morning...he glanced at the clock again and corrected himself...until later in the morning.

In the last three years, whenever he'd got himself involved with a case there had been someone there, at his shoulder, telling him that he should go home. He'd not always appreciated the interference, hadn't always taken the recommendation with good grace, but now he felt as though he'd give anything for there to be a gentle tap on the door accompanied by hesitant footsteps into his office.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back to lean against the cool leather of the chair. Why did it have to be Ruth? Why did he have to be the person who had sent her out on that journey? She'd not wanted to go, yet he had taken perverse pleasure in telling her that she had no choice. He had wanted to trigger some emotion from her; even if that emotion had been a negative one.

They'd been existing in a strange kind of limbo since she'd told him that she couldn't have dinner with him again. She'd tried to get out of going to Havensworth, and once there had done everything she could to keep out of his way. He wasn't sure he understood what was going through her head, and if he was completely honest with himself he wasn't entirely sure what was going through his. She'd become an important part of his life without him even realising it. She'd snuck under the radar somehow and now he found that he couldn't imagine a day at work without her being there. It seemed a natural progression somehow, to imagine her outside of work as well...but it was a step that he was cautious to make. Yes he was older than she was, yes she was undoubtedly smarter than he was - her intelligence was something that sometimes unnerved him, he didn't mind admitting that. It seemed impossible that one person could hold so much inside their head – but there was more to his uncertainty. There was the fear of failure. The fear that one wrong word, one misplaced sentence would lead to a loss of the relationship that they currently had.

Sometimes it was better to play it safe; to not take the leap of faith and to at least have something in your life that was reassuring...Now, now he was scared that he'd never get the chance to tell her how he felt. He'd never been one for 'what ifs' or 'what might have beens', but now, sitting alone in the dark of the office, and nursing the second tumbler of whisky, he wished that just once he'd had the courage to tell her how he felt.

He felt a wave of tiredness wash over him, and in that moment felt every one of his years. He wasn't sure just how they were going to do it, but they were going to bring Ruth home. One way or another they were going to bring her home.

Littleton Farm - 0200 Sunday 15th January

Ruth shivered in the freezing air and wrapped her arms tightly around herself. She leaned against the cold stone of the basement wall and wished that there was at least a little light to alleviate the darkness that surrounded her on all sides.

The patience of their captors was beginning to run out, that much had become apparent.

She worked her jaw and winced at the throb of pain from her swollen lip.

It was becoming clear that the men holding them didn't have any idea who al-Hassan was. As far as she could make out, they were under the impression that he was some sort of rich businessman with a fortune stashed away.

What hope she had clung onto since the car had been run off the road was now fading. She'd already lost track of time and understood only too well the reality of the situation. The gang who had snatched them were not well-schooled in the art of interrogation. Their efforts had been clumsy and inconsistent at best. She theorised that they had probably learnt everything they knew about interrogation techniques by watching examples in films or on television.

She feared however for the health of Azhar. The man was in pain - that much was clear. She could hear him calling to her through the wall that now divided them and wished that there was some way to shut him out. There was nothing she could do to ease his pain and listening to his laboured breathing and whimpered cries only made matters worse.

She looked down to her left and saw the ventilation brick that let Azhar's voice filter through to her.

Fleetingly, she wondered if their captors had sat in this adjoining room during their first night of captivity, listening in to their conversation and hoping to hear some exchange in English. Perhaps listening in and not understanding a word had led to them splitting them up. She doubted that they realised the effect that isolation would have, otherwise it was a technique they would have employed sooner.

Her eyes burned with tiredness and her head still throbbed angrily. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift to thoughts of the Grid. She pictured everyone seated at their desks...Harry in his office, one eye always on the work that was going on beyond the glass partition, watching his charges and making sure that none of them strayed too far over the line. Her mouth curled into a slight smile at the thought; it gave her a sense of peace to think of them all out there, working away. They would be coming to find her...wouldn't they?