He rarely came here, but he made an exception for today. It was later than he had planned, but she would've understood after the day he'd had. It was a picture-book spring day, and on the way he couldn't help but notice more people out and about walking, pushing prams, riding bicycles, enjoying the sun and a brief respite from their daily cares. He appreciated the sentiment, even if he could not share in it.

It gladdened him that she had already had visitors today, as evidenced by the many flowers already there. He placed his small bundle of violets against the stone, beside the other offerings. In the shop, he hesitated. The roses, although beautiful, seemed too obvious and perhaps a little gaudy. The violets had seemed more her somehow, beautiful but understated. When the girl in the shop told him that violets symbolized "faithfulness", he knew he had got it right.

He remained crouched there, oblivious to the damp from the previous day's rain creeping through his shoes. He flicked a tiny bit of lichen from one of the letters of the inscription, which he knew by heart:

RUTH EVERSHED

1970-2011

Quos amor verus tenuit, tenebit.

"I'm sorry. I should have given you flowers long before now, before…this. I always wanted to, but something always got in the way. Loving you has been the easiest and the hardest thing I've ever done, Ruth."

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see a figure approaching, tentatively. He does not move.

"I miss you…but I'm sure you already know that."

He smiles wanly, briefly. She was always right. Well, except for one thing. The figure is close enough now to be identified, and he clenches his jaw in annoyance. He traces her first name gently with his fingertips.

"Happy birthday, my love."

By the time he straightens up, Dr. Hampton is beside him.

"Not here," he growls and storms away.

The doctor follows him, having to take two steps to his one until he collapses upon a bench on the Embankment. She sits down slowly on the other end of the bench.

"You've missed two appointments in a row, Harry."

"I've been occupied."

Now that she can get a proper look at him, she notices the fading scratches and bruises to the side of his face. It must have been one hell of a week.

"Going to tell William?"

"Is that what you want me to do?"

He merely shrugs.

"Do you visit her often?" she asks.

"Once in awhile."

"My non-clinical Latin is a little rusty. 'Quos amor..?"

"It's a quote from Seneca. 'True love will hold on to those whom it has held.'"

"Appropriate."

"She wrote that to me once, a long time ago."

They are quiet for a few minutes. He seems to her grateful for the silence.

"So how are things?"

He almost laughs at her casualness.

"Well, we stopped someone from blowing up central London, so not too bad, I suppose," he says sardonically.

"Harry…"

"I've been eating sometimes, and sleeping occasionally. I haven't thought about offing myself…seriously, at any rate…is that what you mean?"

She nods. Taking on Harry Pearce has not been easy, but she can at least be thankful that she hasn't had to deal with any denial on his part.

He's quiet again, and she's just about to prod him when he speaks, barely above a whisper.

"I miss her, so much."

"Tell me about her."

After all this time, she still doesn't know much about Harry's Ruth. What she knows she's gleaned from files and accounts from other members of Section D. It took weeks for him not to glare at her for merely saying her name. She understands what he's been trying to do, unconsciously or otherwise – he doesn't want to share Ruth with anyone. But she knows that he needs to talk and seeing him murmuring at her grave was a good sign.

"Harry…"

"How can I…?"

"Begin at the beginning. How did you meet?"

So, they talk. He falters often, trying to find the words. She asks questions, but mostly just listens as he follows his train of thought. Exhaustion, both physical and emotional, is starting to catch up with him and he starts to tell her of his failed proposal before he can think better of it.

"Harry, it's OK to be angry with her."

"I didn't say I was angry."

"You didn't have to."

His eyes met hers as she continued,

"All she had to do was listen to you, for once, and get out of harm's way. Instead, she challenges you once again and gets herself killed, leaving you alone to pick up the pieces. Of course you're angry, Harry. You're pissed off beyond belief and you have every reason to be."

He shakes his head vehemently but she is relentless.

"It's OK to be angry."

Without another word, he stand sup and walks away.