Author's note: Thank you all for the lovely reviews – I am truly humbled! I hope this chapter continues to live up to your praise! Beware some potty language coming up…

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Dr. Sarah Hampton sighed as she put the folder down on her desk. She could see now why the DG had warned her this might be a difficult case. When she had been approached about it she had been annoyed. What case isn't difficult? She wanted to spit out at him. But she reluctantly took the file, and cursorily glanced through it later that morning. Much to her husband's irritation, she brought it home with her that evening and read it through again, this time much more carefully. She only started writing notes on her third close reading.

Sir Harry Pearce was a legend at Thames House, even she, in her more insulated posh office on the sixth floor knew that. There were rumours of all sorts surrounding him that she had been quick to dismiss, but after spending the last week doing nothing but reading the files of all of his operations that she had the clearance to get her hands on, she wasn't sure she could discount any of them entirely. He was intelligent, surely, but he was also sometimes very lucky. With all he had been through over the years, she was astounded that he hadn't cracked before now.

To her surprise, he arrived at exactly the appointed time, although it was obvious that this meeting was the last thing on earth he wanted to do.

"Have a seat, Sir Harry."

He sat, with barely disguised disdain. For a spook, she could read his face like a book, for the moment at the least.

"You know why you're here?"

"I think I could speculate with some accuracy," he answered dryly.

"But you don't think you need to be here."

"No, I don't."

"Why is that?"

"I've got better things to do. Like catching terrorists."

"So, you're fine."

"Yes."

"Sir Harry, showing up to work in a perfectly knotted tie does not automatically mean you are fine."

No response, his eyes trained on the wall behind her.

"This conversation is off the record, Sir Harry. But you're not leaving here until you talk to me, and depending on my report to the DG you may or may not go back to work. So, you can be obstructive all you want, but surely you must know…you can't continue like this."

He sat impassively, and she decided to press on.

"What do you do for fun?"

She could tell the question wasn't one he expected.

"Fun?"

"Well, what do you do when you are not working?"

"Eat, sleep, do the shopping."

She was skeptical.

"What about hobbies, family, friends?"

"This job isn't conducive to friendships."

"But you have family."

No response. She decided not to press it – for the moment.

"Your medical…you've lost weight, blood pressure's down for the first time in decades…"

"You say that like it's a problem."

"I'm like you, Harry. I look for patterns. And here I find a great big change in your pattern. Now, if I had to venture a wild guess…and mind you, this is just a guess, I would say that you rarely eat and you're overdoing some activity…boxing probably."

She could tell by the tiny change in his face that she was right.

"Why boxing?" he asked.

"A few reasons. Your knee is probably still dodgy, so you wouldn't be doing much running. You're so angry at the shitty hand you've been dealt; it must be a relief to beat the crap out of something. You blame yourself, so it has the added benefit of self-punishment."

He didn't reply.

"Do you cry?"

He didn't respond, and she repeated the question. It took a long while before he responded.

"Not for a long time."

"How long?"

Six months, nine days, and eight and a half hours…

She pressed on.

"Since Ruth's death?"

His eyes, which had not met hers since he entered, now shot up at the name.

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's a luxury I can't afford in my position."

"But you didn't come back to work right away, did you?" She pretended to look at the file in her lap, but she knew its contents backwards and forwards.

"It was two weeks before you came back."

"Yes."

"And you didn't cry that whole time?"

"No."

"Why not? You're mourning. You don't have to maintain any façade in front of your team…"

He merely shrugged.

"Where do you go?"

The question took him aback.

"When?"

"You know. Last Thursday afternoon, Monday mid-morning…" she flicked through some pages, "… early evening on the 14th…"

"That's none of anyone's business."

"You know that I can't possibly accept that answer."

"Nonetheless."

"OK…Why do you go?"

"I just need some air, sometimes."

"But you have the rooftop for that. You're not to be found."

"Maybe I don't want to be found."

It was her first experience with the famous Pearce confidence bordering on arrogance.

"Your team worries about you."

It was only there for a brief moment, but she saw a grimace.

"Why do you go, Harry?" she pressed.

It was a few long seconds before he replied softly,

"I can't take it."

"Can't take what?"

"The sympathy. Everyone walking on eggshells."

"Why not?"

"I don't want it. I don't deserve it."

"So you should wallow in your misery forever, without anyone to help you…"

He shrugged.

"That's what Ruth would want for you, is it?"

He stood up with so much force that the chair flew backwards. For the briefest of instants, she thought he might actually strike her. She felt the familiar pang of satisfaction. At least he's showing some emotion. White knuckles from clenched fists were visible as he furiously paced around the room. She would have given most patients some time to calm down, but her instincts told her she had to press what little advantage she had to keep him talking.

"Tell me about Ruth."

"No."

"Harry…"

"No."

He continued to pace.

"Twelve minutes."

He stopped, as if shot.

"What?"

"Tell me what happened during those twelve minutes."

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