Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Usual disclaimers apply: I own nothing. Thank you again for reading and I hope everyone enjoys the story. Reviews would be most welcome.

Chapter Ten: Beyond the Call of Duty

As the blast of the gun sounded, Ros instinctively flinched, trying to pull apart her bound wrists. The plasticuffs dug deeper into her wrists, the pain the only thing keeping her anchored to the right side of consciousness. The dead man's blood was cold against her flushed skin, the sensation making her own, mercifully living, flesh crawl. It was nothing she hadn't seen before, but every time there was always a moment when she wanted to vomit. She gulped hard against the gorge as she shut her eyes, willing the nausea to subside. She clasped her hands tightly behind her back to distract herself momentarily from what had just happened. It was then that she noticed the loosening of the cuffs.

She froze, took a deep breath in case she had simply imagined it. She used the time to gage what everyone else was doing. Weir, who had just killed his colleague, was pouring himself a stiff drink from the optics behind the bar. If he looked in the mirror, he would be able to see her cuffs coming loose. The barman was already getting up to move Morris's corpse before it had any more time to spoil their mock-marble flooring. The Chief Superintendent, however, had turned completely white and was visibly trembling. No one was looking at anyone else, and Ros slowly, painfully, manoeuvred her thumb from within its bindings. That was easy enough, but getting her index finger out was going to be trickier.

Finally, Weir returned to the table, once the barman had dragged the corpse away. Ros turned to her right to admire the livid red streak Morris had left along the floor, a go-faster streak of gore leading out to the cellar. Then, her attention was caught again by Weir.

"That's one problem solved," he remarked to no one in particular. "Now, where were we?"

His steel-grey eyes flitted between Ros and the Chief Superintendent, daring one of them to make the first move. By now, Ros had loosed her cuffs to free her index and middle finger. She had fitted enough plasticuffs in her time to know their weak spots from here on in, and she was able to undo the catch, and then grab them with one hand before their hit the floor and caught anyone's attention.

Weir smiled ingratiatingly. "Looks like I killed the conversation as well as the opposition," he laughed mirthlessly. "Surely someone's got something to say?"

A half-smile twitched at the corner of Ros' lip. "There's something wrong with this table, you know," she said, nodding towards it. "It's very uneven."

Weir looked as though he'd missed the punch line in a bad joke. His smile froze into a scowl as he looked down in bewilderment. The Superintendent was still shell shocked. Ros then threw her whole strength into upending the table before Weir realised she was deliberately distracting him. It was heavy, it was cumbersome, but channelling every ounce of pent up anger and rage into it, she brought the whole thing down on top of her captors with a crash that resounded through the bar.

"Fucking bitch!" Weir shouted as he tried to push the table off him.

But Ros was already on to the Chief Superintendent who'd managed to jump clear of the table before she upended it. He was still slow, but he almost managed to punch her before she kicked him square in the stomach. He doubled over, crying out in pain and she slammed her fist into his face as he lurched forwards. Blood spilled from his busted lip as he hit the floor at Ros' feet. By the time he was done, Weir was back on his feet. His shirt was torn; his jacket loose and his hair a mess. He was in pain and breathless with the shock of the attack. Before she even knew what she was doing, Ros had grabbed a chair and swung it with all the force she could muster into Weir's head. He blocked the full weight of the blow with his forearm, but it was still enough to send him reeling backwards. His head bounced off the bar as he fell. It made Ros laugh.

"I should've known," she said, panting; getting the words out between ragged breaths. "You're no fighter, Charlie. You've got others to do that for you."

Outside, a car engine screeched to a halt. Her heartbeat raced, dreading who was turning up for the party, now. Either way, she was done. She couldn't arrest the man and now, she had no more strength to fight him as he had no will power to fight her. She lurched painfully towards the door, trying to play down the aching, nagging, injuries to her wrists. As she pushed herself through the swing doors, she heard the barman returning from doing whatever he did to Morris's body. She picked up the pace, fearing he would catch her up, as she made for the exit.

The all but threw herself against the doors, relishing the feeling of them giving way. She breathed the open air and looked up at the clear blue skies, stretching out endlessly over head. A surge of adrenaline let her know she was still alive. When she looked back into the street outside the bar, the occupants of the car were getting out in rather a hurry.

Ros smiled, recognition washing over her. The three people who got out of the car all stopped dead in their tracks as they looked at her. She didn't see them all at first. Just the first two: Harry, followed by Ruth. Then Lucas brought up the vanguard, and her spirits soared. There were no words to describe seeing them again, so she wouldn't bother trying.

"What took you so long?" she asked, feigning an air of nonchalance. "You missed all the fun."

The men in black materialised from the shadows. CO19. Ros sidestepped, clearing the doorway to let them in. It really was game over for Weir and his little helpers, now.

"Ros," said Harry, seemingly just for the satisfaction of saying her name.

She knew how she must look to them. She was covered in someone elses blood, battered and bloody (her own) and barely able to stand. However, her gaze fell on Lucas, taking in his whole appearance. She gave him a nod – gesture that brought a spasm of pain.

"That's a nasty cut you've got there," she remarked, just to give them all some irony to laugh at.

Lucas grinned that lop-sided grin. "Oh it was awful!" he replied. "You look great, by the way. That design really suits you."

He held out his hand to help her, and she gratefully took it.

The following day, and the headlines raged about corruption at the very heart of the Metropolitan Police force. Each sensational front page adorned with two pictures of Chief Superintendent Thomas Mortimer: a sort of before and after. One showed him at his all-powerful prime, the other showed him being led out of Charlie Weir's bar in handcuffs with a towel over his head.

Lucas had to admire the effect as he queued to pay for his morning chocolate croissant. Ros was right beside him, yogurt and apple in hand, careful to avoid looking at the tabloids. She kept looking down the queue instead, clicking her tongue impatiently.

"Where the bloody hell do all these people actually come from?" she asked.

Lucas pondered that for a moment. "It's London, isn't it," he answered, philosophically.

She pursed her lips as she turned her disdainful face to his. "That's not an answer."

Her wrists were bound, but her spirits were undented. The same applied to them both. Nothing would stop them, or so it seemed to each of them as they paid up and stepped back out into the early Spring sunshine. They followed the Thames on foot, the car they shared having been left outside Lucas' flat where they both spent the night, neither wanting to be alone. Together, they arrived at Thames House and stepped through the doors, wandered past the pods and greeted their fellow workers, just as they always did. It was business as usual.

As the meeting commenced, Harry was contemplative. He leaned back in his chair, surveying each of his Officers in turn. They were all present, all on time, normally he would have been pleased. However, he heaved a sigh and seemed resigned to some fate much higher than his own.

"Sometimes, in this life, I do wonder why I bother," he said, caressing the side of his coffee cup as though it would magically turn into a double whiskey.

Ruth, sat at Harry's right; Lucas, Ros, Malcolm, Jo and Ben all stiffened in their seats. They all waited for the calm waters of their boss to break, and for him to launch into some tirade of failures and frustrations from above. But, instead, he pointed first to Lucas and then to Ros.

"I did mention to you, and to you, that you should rest," he moaned. "Alas, here you are anyway. I don't know why I expected to be listened to-"

"Oh come on, Harry," Ros cut across him. "If we did that you'd be bored."

Ruth grinned, while the others relaxed visibly.

"Is this it, then?" asked Jo. "Case closed?"

"I think so," replied Harry, addressing the room as a whole. "We have the witnesses, Clara and Alexei, under heavy protection. We have our perpetrators behind bars. We know why the murders happened, and we know that the Gangland merger is not going to happen. All in all, well played everyone."

There was a moment of silence in which everyone silently digested the news.

"What next for our witnesses? Are they definitely giving evidence at the trials?" asked Lucas, eventually.

"They're already giving statements as we speak," Jo answered. "I'm still helping Clara and Ben's agreed to help Alexei. They both know they'll have to go into witness protection once it's all over."

They had the ringleaders, but they could never be naïve enough to think they'd rooted out the whole problem. There were dozens, if not hundreds, of career criminals waiting to step into the vacant shoes of Frankie Morris and Charlie Weir. Through greed or a lust for power and control, or a heady mix of all, they made sure the cycle continued. But for that moment, the east end had become a little safer – even if only for the time being.

Clara fumbled with her loose change as she tried to slot it into the drinks machine. Ever since the blast she'd been a bag of nerves. Maybe it was seeing all those bodies, or just the trauma of the last few weeks. But it was almost over now. She'd gone above and beyond the call of duty in her quest to bring the sorry matter to a close, and now she was going to spend the rest of her life in hiding. Somewhere else. Far from home. Her eyes filled with tears she refused to shed. She had done the right thing; there was nothing she would not do again.

She made another attempt at the change, and it spilled to the wooden floor in the lobby of the new Police Station she was in. Her guards were at the door, watching her in mild amusement.

"Thanks for all your help, lads!" she muttered as she bent down to collect her fallen coins.

Someone beat her to it. The young man stooped quickly, picking up the fallen pieces one by one and handing them back to her with a smile. It was Alexei.

"Allow me," he said, in heavily accented English and slotting coins into the machine with a much steadier hand. "If it were not for these …" he broke off, finding the right English words… "conditions they put us under, I would take you out for a real drink. To thank you for your hard work in getting me out of that prison; for realising they had framed me."

He sounded sad, his gaze was downcast. She thought him the gentlest man she ever met.

"Well, one day, Alexei, who knows," she replied, smiling from ear to ear.

She offered her hand, and led him to the canteen. She wasn't intending on going there, otherwise she wouldn't have bothered getting lukewarm ditch water from the vending machine. But now that Alexei had arrived in her life, she had a feeling she would better off getting to know him. Because surely, even something as bad as this can have a happy ending? He followed her in, probably thinking the exact same thing.

The meeting was over, but Ben lingered on. Seeing him, Ros and Lucas instinctively followed suit. Harry remained seated, anyway. He was like a teacher, sometimes, seeing his unruly pupils out after morning class. He looked up at Ben curiously, gesturing for him to continue.

"I've been on to some old journo friends about that Police Chief," he said. "The corrupt one, you know."

"Yes, I think I remember," Harry answered, half-smiling.

"Well, this has shaken the Government. They're telling me that the Prime Minister is facing a vote of no confidence."

Ros and Lucas moved to stand side by side, watching Harry's reaction carefully. He absorbed the impact with barely a shadow of a frown.

"It's not surprising," he finally replied. "If it wins, the PM will be force to ask Her Majesty to dissolve Parliament and there will be a General Election."

Ros' mouth twitched, a faint laugh as though trying to pass it off as a joke. "But surely they won't succeed? What Government votes itself out of power?"

Lucas ran a hand through his hair. "If the Opposition joins forces with the Independents and the Lib Dems, they'll swing the motion and force the PM's hand."

"And that's exactly what is going to happen," Ben concluded.

The clock was yet to strike Noon, and already a whole new can of national problems had been busted open. The Gangsters were forgotten already, and no one could say they were missed.

~The End~

Thank you again to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. I really appreciate it and it's made my first, rather experimental, Spooks fanfic a pleasure to write. Thank you again.