An addendum for oldmule: You know, I almost edited it out, well, knew I should have, and then left it in. Seems to me that she would have in her head at least a pet name for him that would slip out at some point, so I floated it to see how it would go. In the end, any good editor would have removed it of course; I must remember that I can't leave things for the editor to remove because I'm the editor. LOL. Sorry espiyo, but out it goes - in the end this tighter version will be better all round! :)

Chapter 10

Lucas rolled onto his side once again. He couldn't stop thinking about the phone call with Towers; the man had been distant, evasive regarding Oil Rigger, and he had strongly indicated that any further investigation into the unknown assassin was unwelcome. And when Lucas tried to get the home secretary to at least discuss Harry's memorial, the man suddenly had another call he had to take. Lucas had a difficult time believing that Towers neither cared nor respected Harry's sacrifices over the years to MI-5, and the team had already waited for their time to grieve, so his reticence had to be stemming from somewhere else.

Something was off; Lucas could feel it in his bones. Although it was still early, he arose and padded into the kitchen to make coffee. He glanced at the time; he could easily be on the Grid by 7am. The home secretary might not care who set about killing the 20 names on a list so top secret that no one seemed to know of its existence, but Lucas North did.

Ruth had finished closing the exit wound in Harry's lower back, and was about halfway finished with the entrance wound in his abdomen when the local anesthetic and morphine appeared to be wearing off. He stirred with a painful moan.

"Damn," Ruth muttered, as she tried to hurry along the process.

She finished a few more stitches and Harry grimaced again. Ruth couldn't help but hold her breath; she hated seeing him in such misery, and to know she was inflicting it was almost more than she could bear. As she finished another stitch, she pulled a little too tightly on the nylon and Harry cried out, his left hand striking instinctively out to stop her. She gently stilled his hand.

"Shhh, Harry, calm down, it's all right." She soothed his brow with her hand. "I'm almost finished."

His eyes fluttered open, and she saw they were colored with pain. His voice was tight with anguish, "Morphine..."

Ruth glanced at the clock on the nightstand. "Too early yet, Harry."

"Please Ruth," he pleaded, his breath turning heavy, "please..."

She continued stroking his brow, her voice soft, "Just a few more, Harry, I'll go as quickly as I can."

He fought against reacting to the pain he was experiencing, but a broken sob escaped from his throat, and Ruth closed her eyes against his agony, letting out a long breath of air trying to stay calm enough to finish.

"Ruth…" he whispered her name like a plea.

She bent down letting her head touch lightly against his, whispering softly into his ear, "It'll be all right, Harry, we're almost done, I promise."

He murmured something incoherent, and Ruth moved as quickly yet carefully as she could, forcing herself to ignore every grimace and cry that emanated from Harry. When she had finally finished bandaging the wounds, she tossed the soiled instruments into the bathroom sink and washed her hands. Gently she cleaned the blood from Harry's body with a washcloth, injected him with amoxicillin, pulled the duvet out from under him, then the sheet, and then angled him back under the soft cotton. She tossed the blood-stained duvet to the floor, went to the closet, and fetched a clean one, which she put on top of him, making sure Harry was snuggled properly under it.

He moaned, fighting the pain of consciousness; Ruth sat on the edge of the bed as she prepared another injection of morphine. She pulled back the duvet to expose his thigh and plunged the syringe into him, once again rubbing the area she injected, this time lingering there a moment longer than was really necessary to lessen the sting. Covering him with the duvet once again, she set the used syringe down on the nightstand, and felt his eyes on her. She looked into the sea of hazel that was still clouded with pain.

She wiped the sweat from his brow, as she said, "Hi…"

His voice was low and laced with exhaustion, "Hi…"

"Morphine'll kick in shortly, Harry. You should try and sleep." She smiled at him, running the backs of her fingers down his stubbled cheek. "You did fine. The wound's closed, and I shot you up with enough morphine to put down a very large bear." She patted his arm as she stood. "Go to sleep."

With that Ruth started away, but Harry's hand reached out from under the duvet catching the edge of her sweater. "Stay," his warm voice was lazy with morphine, "please…"

She sat back down, squeezing his hand but returning it under the covers, tucking him securely back under the warmth of the duvet.

"I'll sit here 'till you fall asleep, okay?" He nodded, swallowing hard to clear the lump that had appeared in his throat. She frowned at him slightly. "What is it? Is it the pain, Harry?" He shook his head no, but she could see he was fighting the tears pooling in his amber eyes. "Harry?" The worry in her voice was apparent as she cupped his face within her hands. "You're frightening me, tell me what's wrong."

"S-sorry," he finally managed to whisper, "I just..." He swallowed hard again trying to push back the emotion that was bubbling to the top. "I'm just very...grateful to you, Ruth."

She wiped away the tears streaming down his cheeks. "Harry, you poor little bear, you're overwrought with the morphine right now." She smiled gently at him. "You've been through too much in the past few days; just close your eyes and rest now." He nodded, but she could see him battling the droopiness in his eyes. "Stop fighting it, Harry, and sleep."

"Are you ever going to forgive me, Ruth?"

She stared at him. "For what, Harry?"

"Everything."

She patted his forearm through the thick duvet. "Let's talk about it, later, Harry. You really do need to rest right now, and not worry about anything, all right?"

And he knew then in his heart that she had not forgiven him for anything, and to his mind she probably never would; this was all just a momentary reprieve because he had been shot. He slammed his eyes shut against the tears that once again threatened to rain down his face, and finally, as the morphine gripped him in its fog, he looked at her with tear-filled eyes, and softly asked, "Sing to me, Ruth?"

"What?" Her voice held a touch of incredulity.

His words were beginning to slur slightly with the effects of the drug, "You've sung in a choir for years," his soft voice pleaded, "but I've never heard you sing."

"The morphine's making you slightly touched, Harry." But the soft look of sincerity in his eyes made her feel vulnerable to him suddenly, "Don't look at me like that," she warned.

"Just this once, Ruth," his low voice breathed, "for me."

He hadn't asked her for anything non-work related since that day in the churchyard; he had, as a matter of fact, slowly been cutting her off from him. And she couldn't bring herself to say no to him in his current state. She sighed, glaring at him.

"If you ever so much as breathe a word of this to anyone, I'll shoot you myself—"

"—I would never."

"I'm only doing this so you'll sleep." She looked him in the eyes. "And you will go to sleep, Harry."

"Yes," he agreed drowsily.

"Close your eyes then," she said tenderly as she stroked his forehead with her hand. And she sang softly, "Of all the money that e'er I had, I spent it in good company… and all the harm that e'er I've done, Alas it was to none but me… And all I've done, for want of wit, to mem'ry now I can't recall; so fill to me the parting glass, Good night and joy be with you all."

And Harry fell fast asleep under Ruth's watchful eye.

Lucas had searched for hours looking for any correlation between the 20 people killed by the unknown assassin. Other than they were all in service at public places, as Ruth pointed out, and none were British-born, he could find nothing that tied them together. He ran his hand through his hair, letting out a long sigh of air. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something just beyond his reach; something he should know, something familiar. The pieces just didn't fit.

And then it dawned on him: an assassin who for 19 shots hit 19 targets, cleanly, with delicacy and perfection suddenly couldn't hit two people 20 yards away. And, all of the bullets had been propelled through a silencer, yet the shots that were fired at Beth and he rang out loud and clear. The conclusion was simple: the sniper didn't want to hit them; he fired warning shots to distract them. Lucas' stomach turned at the thought; it had to be someone from British security services, there was no other explanation for why he and Beth were spared.

The sound of the pods made him turn and look in time to see Tariq and Beth stepping onto the Grid, Beth wearing the same clothes she had on the day before.

"Didn't make it home last night, Beth?"

She looked down, guilt filling her. "Stayed on Tariq's couch last night." One of his eyebrows arched in her direction and she continued, "I thought Ruth might need some time alone."

He nodded, not thinking ill of her choice. "Probably right." Then it struck him. "Have either of you heard from Ruth?"

"Not since she called in last night," Tariq admitted.

"Lucas?" Beth's voice held tension, "What are you thinking?"

"That something is just not quite right here…" He looked at Tariq, "Get Ruth on the phone, now."

TBC