Author's note: I apologize for taking so long to update - I've hit a bit of a block with this one…I cannot take too much credit for Ruth's epitaph from the last chapter – it was a quote from the postcard Ruth sent to Harry after 5.5, as included in "The Personnel Files" – I thought it was too appropriate not to use! I was going to split this up into more than one chapter, but as a reward for your patience, I've made this a little longer than usual.

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He seethed. The intensity of his anger when he fled – there really was no other word for it - from his therapist had scarcely abated as he watched the water flow under the bridge upon which he stood. He had no idea how long he had been there, but the crowds milling about on the warm, spring evening had thinned and the lengthening shadows had lost their sharpness to the twilight. In the past, the river had been a place of refuge for him – some peace in the midst of the teeming city, but it hadn't been like that for some time. Now it was a reminder of so many conversations that could have gone differently.

"I'll stand by you."

"Leave it as something that was never said."

"There will always be something else."

"Harry, this can't be the end."

The murky water was swirling in languid circles, rather than flowing in its appointed direction towards the sea – or was the tide coming in now? He scarcely knew.

The one thing he did know was that he was exhausted. He was bone weary with guilt and regret and loneliness and, yes, anger. Hampton may be annoyingly smug at times, but she had been right. Fury glowed in him; most of the time it was against himself, but there were times, especially as he stared up at his ceiling at night as sleep eluded him, against her as well. He would run through his list of grievances; how she paid more attention to what others' thought instead of her own feelings, how she thought herself undeserving of happiness. But almost immediately he would repent, and redirect his anger towards himself. He let her get on that bloody boat, he failed to protect her, he always let the moment slip by.

He woke the next morning with a colossal hangover, twenty-two unanswered calls, and a bloody hand. Shards of mirror glass covered his hall floor, and he had no recollection of having smashed it the night before. As he washed his knuckles, he listened to his messages. Towers secretary confirming a meeting for this afternoon. The CIA Liaison asking for a meeting. Erin with a few terse progress reports. Malcolm. The true still point in the turning world, asking him how he's doing, trying and failing to keep the concern from his voice. Many messages from Catherine, her voice increasing in both worry and annoyance . The CIA Liaison again. A few from Hampton. He deletes those without even listening to them. He forces himself to drink some water and eat some toast to settle his stomach before ringing Catherine, evading her questions much like he used to do with Jane, making plans with her for Sunday dinner. His head is still pounding as he leaves the house an hour later, having swept up the glass and thrown out the empty bottles.

It took him some time, but he eventually understood why she liked the bus so much. One could be part of the world yet still be anonymous, do some people watching without a surveillance van, she had said. As he rode into work, he thought of her, or more specifically what she would think of him. His anger from the day before may have burned itself out, but it was still smouldering. He thought he could throttle without hesitation the next person who said to him, "It's what Ruth would've wanted." He looked down at his hand, raw and painful, and knew. This is not what she would want.

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Eighteen months later…

He knows he should probably go to the bar and mingle with his French counterparts, but the thought repulses him. He's not feeling particularly social, and he's never been one for small talk, anyway. It's only day two of a five-day conference, and he's already bored to tears. He stretches his spine and loosens his tie in the lift, dismayed about how much older he's feeling lately.

As soon as he enters his room, some latent field training kicks in, and his senses are on alert as he tenses reflexively. Someone was here. Wait…someone is here. He has no weapon, but the light by the bed is on, so whoever it is isn't relying on surprise.

"Don't be shy, Harry."

It's the voice of Karen Morse, one of his colleagues at Six.

He turns the corner, and is taken aback by what he sees – Karen, stark naked, lying across the bed, leafing through Ruth's Ovid.

She has to give him credit - if he's surprised by her presence, he doesn't show it. He merely removes his tie and pours himself a drink from the sideboard.

"Interesting choice of reading, Harry. I hadn't taken you for a classicist."

"You don't look like you're here for a book club," he answers dryly.

She smiles, and he has to admit that she is beautiful. His eyes follow her long, smooth legs to her shapely hips, and up to her pert breasts. Her blonde hair, usually pulled back, is down and longer than he would've guessed, had he taken the time to think about it. She replaces the book on the bedside table, and pats the bed beside her.

"I won't bite, Harry," she purrs.

He drains his glass before perching precariously on the edge of the bed. Her usually solid confidence is starting to weaken a bit – she hadn't expected him to be so…distant. She'd rather hoped they'd be farther along by now, but instead he's just looking at her, rather academically.

"How long have we known each other?" she asks as she sits up and moves her hand towards the front of his shirt.

"Two years, give or take." His hand stops hers before she can undo a button.

It not that he isn't flattered, because he is. God knows it's been a long time; he resists doing the maths to figure out precisely how long and for a split second, he is tempted. But as he looks at her, the first thing that pops into his mind is that Ruth had a little freckle just there, above the collarbone, and he knows he can't do this. Releasing her hand, he stands up and pours another drink.

"Harry…"

He pours a drink for her, and brings it over, keeping his distance.

"My heart wouldn't be in it, Karen. I'm sorry."

"I don't want your heart, Harry," she smiles, thinking she may just win him over yet. She continues,

"Besides, neither of us is married."

"Maybe not on paper," he counters, and swallows hard.

It finally occurs to her that the rumours about him and a woman who died a few years ago may not have even scratched the surface. He always seemed rather sad to her, but she had always ascribed that to the work that they did and the responsibilities they took on. But now, she understood. She walks over to him and puts a hand on his arm.

"I'm sorry, Harry."

She kisses him softly on the cheek.

"Good night, Karen….and thank you."

He left the room, figuring if she could get in on her own, she could find her way out. Despite the cold, damp evening, he walked slowly around the hotel, hoping to clear his head. Without realizing it, Karen had brought up some painful thoughts that he had tried to bury long ago. He usually tried to concentrate on the happier memories of her; her gentleness, her smile, instead of thinking on what might have been. Would he grieve differently if she had, miracle of miracles, accepted his spontaneous proposal? He didn't think so. But he also wouldn't have thought it would be easier to stay faithful to a dead woman than he ever was to his wife.

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One year later…

"You sure about this?"

"Yes."

He nods as his daughter adjusts his dark blue tie – the brightest coloured one she could find in his wardrobe. She looks unconvinced. He takes her hands, and when she meets his eyes, he kisses her softly on the forehead.

"It's time. I started to forget who I am."

They are silent for a few moments.

"I just don't want you to get bored," she says "and fall to pieces," she thinks but doesn't say out loud, but somehow he knows what she really means.

"I won't. I have the Grand Tour, remember, and then I'll have Laura and the baby to keep me out of trouble."

As if on cue, the child she's carrying, due in two months' time, kicks forcefully, making its grandfather smile.

"Come on. It wouldn't do to be late for your own retirement party."

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