Author's note: Thank you all for the reviews (keep them coming!) This was originally going to be a separate one-shot, but I think it works better here (It also gives me a bit of time to work out the next chapters!) Beware of some adult language in the first paragraph…

The sun was warm on his back as he walked towards the café. It was nearly five years since he had last been in Cheltenham, on much the same errand, except this time there could be no prevarication, no veiled reassurances. She was dead. He never hated his job more than when he had to break the news to the families, but it would never occur to him to pass the task on to someone else. It was his guilt, his responsibility. The least he could do was look them in the eye and take whatever punishment they gave him. Most knew something was wrong the moment they opened their door to him. Most tried to keep it together while he was there, asking questions about how it had happened. Invariably when he left, he would hear unrestrained crying on the other side of the door. Danny's mother crumpled to the floor and prayed. Jo's father practically beat him to pulp before offering him a cup of tea as way of apology. Ros' father, still in prison, merely told him to fuck off and turned his back. Wes had been the hardest. They cried together for what seemed like days, no questions, no explanations. There was just a boy suddenly more mature beyond his years facing the realization that he was an orphan.

This was something he did in person, but for some reason, this time he rang. Maybe it was because he had met her before. Or maybe it was because he was too much of a wreck himself that he couldn't bear it.

"Ms. Bickley? This is Harry Pearce."

"Has something happened?"

He tried to get it out, just say it, but the words stuck in his throat. He could only manage a muffled sob.

"She's dead, isn't she? I mean…really this time."

"Yes…I'm afraid so."

As usual, he was early, but found that Ruth's mother was already there. As he approached, he couldn't help but think that had things been different, he would've been meeting with his mother-in-law. Would they have gotten along, unlike he and Jane's mother? Perhaps they would've shared the occasional Sunday dinner in Suffolk. His composure threatened to dissolve again, and he forcefully pushed those thoughts from his mind. She looked much the same as she did the last time he saw her, if a little grayer. As he sat down and they exchanged generic greetings, his heart ached a little more as it struck him again how little Ruth took after her mother physically.

She could see him coming towards her from down the street. It was apparent, even from a distance, that he was a different man from the one her daughter used to talk about. The certainty that bordered on arrogance was gone. He looked much the same as he did those years ago, with his impeccable tie and those sad eyes. She remembered how grief-stricken he was then, so much so that she didn't quite believe him at first when he had let slip that Ruth was still alive but in exile. Then she understood.

They were silent for awhile, neither knowing what to say.

"How did it happen?"

He met her eyes for the first time since he sat down.

"She was stabbed…protecting someone else. Her lung collapsed before…"

"I hope you got the bastard that did it, " she said with a vehemence that surprised both of them.

"Yes." In an hour or two Tom would arrive in Moscow and take care of Leverov. Erin and Dimitri would see to Sacha.

"You were there." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes."

He looked away again, and blinked back a tear before continuing.

"She was one of the bravest and strongest women I have ever known."

She merely nodded, before sipping her tea and asking dispassionately about the funeral arrangements. He wondered, not for the first time, how people could so easily sign on to a job that required one to outline their own funeral arrangements on a form on their first day of work.

"Mr. Pearce, I know you think that I'm unfeeling…"

"I never said that."

"You don't have to, it's written all over your face. It's just that…" She started fidgeting with her napkin and his heart broke all over again.

"I grieved for her already, you see, all those years ago." she continued.

He nodded.

"We were never very close, but it doesn't mean I didn't love her."

He didn't know what to say to that. He couldn't help but think of Catherine and Graham.

"It was my fault, really. She was so much like her father, both brilliant but quiet. When he passed, we were both devastated. She reminded me so much of him, I couldn't stand it. So I sent her off to school, thinking the change of scene would help her get over things. I just made it a hundred times worse. Everyone grieves differently, I think. She wanted to go to all the places they had been, be around his things, live with his ghost. I just couldn't…."

She looked up at him, and saw some understanding in his tired eyes.

"I'm glad she had you, at least. You understood her better."

"I'm not so sure of that."

"I am," she insisted. "Even if she wanted to, she could never talk about her work with me. I'm glad she had you for that."

They sat in silence for awhile longer. People filed in and out, oblivious to the sadness at the corner table.

"When did you last speak to her?"

"A few weeks ago."

He nodded, slowly.

"I…we…she was going to buy a house…in Suffolk."

She looked questioningly at him, and he continued,

"Before this happened, we were planning…to have a life together."

She smiled.

"I'm glad of that. She loved you."

He looked surprised, and she felt the need to elaborate.

"A mother always knows. She mentioned you too often to be just a colleague."

They left soon after, walking slowly together. It was she who eventually broke the silence.

"She wouldn't want you to feel guilty …I'm sure you did what you could."

"But I do. I am…guilty. I just…" He swallowed hard before continuing,

"I want you to know that I would've done anything to make her happy."

"I know, Harry."

And with that, she turned away, but not before she gave his arm a little squeeze.