A/N: Life has been continuing at a rapid rate of knots, as seems to be the rule rather than the exception this year; my thanks go to my readers for their patience and forbearance where long gaps between updates are concerned. Note that this one is M-rated.

Any scientist worth their salt knows that is one thing to identify the most logical, rational solution to a problem, but quite another to transmute it from theory to reality; factor in the great unknown of the human heart, with all its attendant emotional complexity, and the equation may become too unbearably difficult to solve, even if one already knows the answer. All of which is my shamefully cowardly attempt at justifying the otherwise inexplicable inertia that comes over me regarding Ruth, in the days following Harry's return to work, fully reinstated, vindicated, and one up on Juliet. It is a lamentable failing on the part of the Almighty that most of us do not come equipped with the ability to switch off our feelings at will, especially such long-running ones as those I have cherished for her; right or wrong, rational or not, I cannot just stop loving Ruth based on a nebulous sense of impending doom, and my own insecurities where Harry is concerned. And quite right, too; what sort of man would I be if I could?

Part of my hesitation, too, comes from my natural instinct to preserve the status quo, such as it is: I have never been good at change, even when it is change I have chosen. I was dreadfully homesick for the entire first year I was up at Cambridge, when most of my peers were revelling in their new-found freedom. I have been in love with Ruth for almost two and a half years, and intimately involved with her for nearly half that time, and there is part of me that still hopes against hope that she might one day reconsider her attitude towards marriage. I'm not such a fool as to expect it, of course, but it is human nature to hold on most tightly to our fondest dreams. Besides, I have grown accustomed to being with her, even to the clandestine nature of our relationship, and I know the alternative only too well. I will be forty-eight this November, and the odds of meeting another woman are slim to none; I know perfectly well that I am an anachronism, an anomaly, in today's world, and that I have spent almost my entire life alone as proof. The idea of voluntarily initiating the circumstances that would see me returning to that solitary state, and over nothing I can pin down, or nothing definite, anyway, is almost unthinkable, the act of a madman. I can just imagine her open-mouthed surprise and sheer astonishment, the look in her eye telling me that I am about to let go of my only lifeline, and drown in a cold and lonely ocean.

There are other reasons, too, for my reluctance to act on what are, after all, suppositions, or worse still, suspicions, and one very compelling one is the incredible gift that I consider intimacy with Ruth to be. I know that what we share together is special; I have witnessed enough empty sexual transactions and awkward fumblings over the years to recognise that compatibility, tenderness and passion such as ours is exceptionally rare. There is a bond between us that goes deeper than mere physical connection; I cannot help but feel that I have cleaved unto Ruth, and that she is now part of my very soul. How can I tear myself away from her, leaving us both bleeding? But perhaps the biggest reason of all is also the simplest: I have so few real friends that I can count them on the fingers of one hand, and I do not want to lose her friendship. Still less do I want to lose her friendship, and then have to endure working alongside her every day. The environment is stressful enough, and I'm not at all sure that I could maintain my focus and composure if faced with an angry, hostile, hurting Ruth, while knowing that I am the cause of her pain. All things considered, it is an impossible situation that I find myself in.

And yet…and yet, there is the Tessina, and its mysterious comings and goings; there is the Midsummer Ball at Toad Hall last June, and all that has unfolded since; and most of all, there is Harry bloody Pearce, who has hardly taken his eyes from Ruth since his return. For her part, Ruth neither encourages nor discourages him, but simply accepts that things between them seem to be shifting gradually and inevitably, like a ship rising with the tide. The memory of her sitting at her desk on the half-darkened Grid after the Khurvin op haunts me, even though rationally I know that it is perfectly reasonable, professionally expected, even, for the section head's chief intelligence analyst to be on hand to brief the boss after his leave of absence.

Even so, the air of anticipation, of suppressed excitement with which she was so obviously awaiting his return, has awakened a far more primitive consciousness within me, bringing an instinctual awareness of his intentions which I can no longer ignore. Sooner or later, I am going to have to confront the situation, and the knowledge fills me with a sickening dread, not unlike the first time I was taken shooting on a distant cousin's grouse moor in the Scottish Highlands, at the age of fifteen. I had spent the entire night in the bathroom, queasy with fear and revulsion at the thought of killing anything, but knowing that this was a family tradition, an ancient coming of age ritual through which I must pass. My father had found me there, huddled on the floor, my face as white as the porcelain lavatory bowl I was hugging grimly, and had sat on the edge of the bath, rubbing my back patiently until I had finished dry-retching. "Like that, is it?" he had asked me in Welsh, and I had replied in the same tongue, my voice breaking for emphasis, "I d…don't think I can do this. Kill something, in the name of sport. It's barbaric, and cruel, to blast innocent birds out of the sky!"

My father had hmmmed thoughtfully. "It's a difficult thing, son. I felt much the same way too at your age, you know, and that when we were raising and killing our own meat on the estate, too. I begged to be let out of going up to the moor, but your grandfather was adamant. 'If you can't think of it as sport, then think of it as a skill; there's almost nothing harder to hit than a game-bird on the wing,' he told me. That made it a bit easier, but the first bird I shot I only wounded, and then I had to finish it off…that was the worst thing of all." I had stared at him in horror, unable to imagine my gentle, scholarly father killing anything. "W…what did you do?" He had sighed, staring down at the black-and-white tiles between his feet. "My father told me to wring its neck, kill it quickly, but I couldn't, so I held it, feeling the wildly beating heart beneath its soft plumage, and wept for what I had done, until one of the gamekeepers saw me and said, "Och, laddie, will ye no' put the puir thing oot o' its misery?" And he had taken it from me, and done what I hadn't been able to. "This one's nae use tae th' cook, it'll be as tough as auld boots," he had said, dropping it in disgust, before saying something that helped me: 'Kill 'em neatly in the air, laddie, an' ye'll no' be havin' any o' this carry-on.'

Appalled, I had sniffled, "But I don't want to kill them, anywhere!" My father had patiently explained, "Malcolm, these birds are going to be shot by someone. It's a grouse moor; people come here to shoot grouse. The way I see it, we can either shoot well, and make sure they die instantly; or some other incompetent fool might wound them and let them die in agony." That was the day I first understood that what some call cruelty, others may see as kindness; my father turned out to be a crack shot, not through love of killing, but from his wish to prevent needless suffering.

So, as it happens, am I, but I still cannot bring myself to train my sights on the fluttering, failing thing that I fear our relationship has become. And yet each man kills the thing he loves… Shaking my head to clear it of such poisonous thoughts, I check my watch – it's nearly six-thirty p.m. – and look up to see Harry standing in front of her desk for the umpteenth time today, speaking to her in a low voice that does not carry. The only part of her I can see is her feet, twined around the base of her chair; one of these beats a tiny tattoo, of nervousness, or impatience, or… He finishes what he is saying and steps away, and her face as she gazes at his departing back is like one who has stared too long into the sun. A tiny smile turns up the corners of her mouth, her eyes are glowing, and there is a dreamy expression in them as she looks down again, unaware that I am watching. It's a Saturday night, the twenty-ninth of April, and we have a booking at eight o'clock for dinner at a restaurant she has chosen called, ominously, Dans Le Noir; today is her thirty-sixth birthday.

Feeling my gaze on her, she meets my eyes, mouthing "Thirty minutes?" I blink, nod, go back to the surveillance recording I have been advancing through, frame by frame, in a vain attempt to see whoever it is who is covering the city with strange graffiti: DJKARTA IS COMING! the boldly rendered letters proclaim, looking not like a bomber's tag, but like a news bulletin. The strange slogan has been popping up all around the place lately, and we are helping out the Metropolitan Police with their investigation, as the perpetrators seem to be targeting government buildings and monuments: this latest example was found on the plinth of the statue of Boudica, just near the Houses of Parliament. It is an area exceptionally well-served by CCTV, but I can find nothing, not even the slight flicker which would suggest that the vision has been interrupted or looped.

Harry has taken only the slightest interest in this odd occurrence, even though we have now logged over a hundred separate incidents, which have recently begun to increase in regularity. "It'll be students, trying to come up with the urban equivalent of crop circles," he had remarked off-handedly to Colin, when the latter had attempted to bring up the matter at this morning's security briefing, before returning to covertly ogling Ruth; she seemed unaware that her blouse was unbuttoned lower than usual as she read the weekly status report. I had flushed with annoyance and focused without seeing on the papers before me. Next to me, Colin's long, agile fingers had repetitively and silently tapped out the Morse for help, I'm bored rigid on the polished surface of the table, while Jo had looked kindly at me until I couldn't bear it any longer. I was the first from the room when the meeting ended, and have hardly spoken with anyone for the rest of the day, preferring to hide in the tech suite or behind my screens. Even Colin had known better than to try and talk to me, although his concerned glances and uncharacteristic silence have not escaped me.

When I step out of the lift at quarter past seven, and walk towards the Rover, Ruth is there, waiting for me in the shadow of a pillar. She has changed into an elegant black dress, with a wine-coloured shawl of figured Oriental silk around her shoulders, and put her hair up the way I like. Her favourite Bohemian necklace gleams in the low light, and she is smiling, her eyes conveying her anticipation of the evening ahead. She is stunning; and taking a deep breath, I try to relax, dropping my shoulders, smiling back at her as I unlock the car and open her door. As she slips into the passenger seat with a murmur of thanks, I catch her perfume, the evocative scent of flowers after rain, and despite all my misgivings and unspoken fears, a very primal part of me stirs in response. We haven't been together in more than a week…perhaps, I tell myself darkly as I start the engine, that's all this is. Perhaps all that's needed is a really good…

"You're very quiet tonight… actually, you've been quiet all day. Is everything all right, sweetheart?" Ruth asks, tucking her feet beneath her and resting her hand lightly on mine as I change gears and pull out onto Horseferry Road. I steal a look at her as I change lanes, setting course for Clerkenwell Green. Her beautiful eyes rest on me patiently, and my heart contracts in shame for all the awful things I have been thinking since the security briefing this morning. If only I hadn't seen Harry looking at her like that…if only, if only… Aloud, I reply, "Sorry. It's been a long day, and I feel like I'm going round in circles on that 'Dkjarta is coming!' stuff. Four different security cameras cover that corner of the Embankment, and none of them captured anything…it's very frustrating." Ruth makes a noise of sympathy. "Perhaps you're reading too much into it. Harry's most likely right, it'll be some student prank, or something like that." I choose to overlook the bit about Harry being right – he's not always, as the Khurvin debacle so abundantly demonstrated – and instead bring my concerns back to the technical aspects. "Even if it is, how can they keep doing it and not be picked up on any CCTV cameras at all?" She shrugs, and her hand slips from mine. "Oh, let's not think about work any more, not tonight. I want to enjoy my birthday. Have I told you about this restaurant? It's a bit…different."

I enquire warily, "Different, how, exactly?" She laughs at my cautious tone, and answers gaily, "There are no lights, everything's done in the dark." I resist the impulse to stare at her, instead keeping my eyes on the road as I navigate round Ludgate Circus. "I'm not sure I understand," I tell her, trying to envisage a restaurant in complete darkness. "Just what I said; there's no lights. We eat in the dark. The idea is to experience what it's like not to be able to see, I think. The place is staffed by visually-impaired people. The food's very good, from what I've heard." I make a right turn, then a left; we have arrived. I park in a side street, and as we walk over to the restaurant, I reach into my jacket pocket, and extract a small package, neatly wrapped in gold marbled paper. "I'd better give you your present now, then, while you can still see it. " She reaches up to kiss me, and the primal part of me takes note of her proximity, her warmth, the way her body moves beneath the satin of her dress, the feeling of her mouth on mine… Ruth tears off the thick Italian paper, and looks curiously at the little oblong box of green Morocco leather. "Open it," I encourage her, and she does, rather too cautiously. "Oh, Malcolm, they're wonderful!" she cries, on seeing the antique Roman glass earrings inside, set in oxidised silver. "Wherever did you get them?" She unhooks the earrings she is wearing, and puts the new ones on; they look exactly as I had imagined they would, when I commissioned them many months ago, a good match for the necklace she is wearing tonight.

I cough, embarrassed. "I worked on some architectural digs in Italy in my gap year, and the volunteers were allowed to keep a few of their finds, a shard or two of pottery, say, or a bronze coin, if it was of a very common type. I chose some broken pieces of glass that no-one else wanted, because I liked how the chemicals in the glass had reacted over time to become iridescent. I thought they were beautiful; and as ancient history is a particular passion of yours, I asked one of the jewellers at Hatton Gardens to make two of the fragments into these. The colours in the glass remind me of your eyes." She takes one out, looks at it closely in the evening light. "It's all flecked with blues and greens and greys," she observes, and I reply, smiling, "Exactly. Now, shall we venture inside?"

As we are led into the pitch-black interior of the restaurant, my hand on her shoulder and hers on the shoulder of our waiter-cum-guide, I say a silent prayer that there are no hostile elements or unknown agents there with us in the dark; logistically, this place is a security nightmare. A total blackout prevails; no light of any kind, not even from the luminous hands of my wristwatch, is permitted. Grumbling, I remove it, while Ruth turns off her mobile phone. I gasp in shock as her hand accidentally brushes across the front of my trousers, and she giggles. "This could be fun," she whispers near my ear, and my heartbeat increases in response, recognising the shift in her mood. If I could see her now, her pupils would be eclipsing her irises, making her eyes look huge and black, her skin would be flushing with excitement, her nipples would be hardening…this could indeed be fun, I concur, as we are guided through the heavy black velvet curtains and led to our table.

It is. Once I adjust to the utter blackness surrounding us, and the unnerving fact that all around us are other diners that can't be seen, and accept the slight sense of disorientation when it comes to trying to use something as simple as a knife and fork without the benefit of sight, I relax and begin to enjoy the experience. Ruth's voice has taken on a timbre I'm more accustomed to hearing in the bedroom, and she soon abandons her cutlery for fingers, unable to jockey peas onto the back of her fork or get a decent bite of the roast chicken we have been served. I fare somewhat better; years of working in the semi-darkness of the tech suite and the observation van stand me in good stead, and my sense of proprioception does not abandon me as seems to be the case with most of our fellow diners, judging by their muffled laughter as they too eat with their fingers, trying to identify what's on their plates by touch. Ruth, hearing the familiar sound of silver on china, says in astonishment, "You're surely not still eating with cutlery, are you? How can you even find your plate, much less the food on it?"

"All those years toiling away in darkened back rooms, I expect….ooohh!" I exclaim, surprised, as Ruth's stockinged right foot makes contact with my calf, and then slides up beneath my trouser-leg. "It seems I can still find large objects in the dark, then; that's good," she murmurs, and removes her foot, only to reposition it higher still; I jump in my chair as she wriggles her toes with satisfaction. "Well, hello, there," she purrs, and I catch hold of her ankle before she can wreak any more havoc in the immediate vicinity. "You and I could be anyone, here in the dark; two strangers, or lovers meeting under cover of darkness like Romeo and Juliet…who would you be if you could be someone else?" Before I can muster my wits enough to give her a coherent reply, the waiter returns to clear away our plates. "What do you suppose they'll give us for dessert?" I ask in as near to normal a voice as I can manage, under the circumstances. Ruth speculates, "How about Eton mess?" and prods her other foot into my shin, making me release my grip on her. "That's better," she says demurely, and her right foot resettles itself in its previous position, tormenting me with just the right amount of pressure. Dessert arrives, some sort of mousse, but I barely taste it; my mind is on other kinds of indulgence. "How do I ask for the bill?" I wonder, and Ruth's toes wiggle thoughtfully. "I suppose they just bring it," she says, and a few minutes later we are once more being led out through the dense curtains and into the deepening twilight.

I make all haste for Hampstead, with Ruth's head on my shoulder and her hand resting purposefully on my inner thigh; her hot breath tickles my ear, and the pleasant ache of anticipation increases as we draw nearer to home. I forget my fears, my suspicions, my uncertainties as the blood pounds in my ears and throbs throughout my body; by the time we arrive, my hands are trembling with desire on the steering wheel. We abandon the Rover in front of the house in our eagerness to get inside, and leave a trail of garments from the front door, up the stairs, and down the hall of my wing of the house. By the time we reach the bedroom, Ruth is wearing nothing but her jewellery and her knickers, and I am down to my blue-striped boxers. We fall onto the bed, entwined, her breasts maddeningly soft against my chest, except for the rosy nipples that rise in response to her excitement, kissing every inch of skin that we can reach, breathing our desire into each other, building to the moment of joining, with Ruth writhing impatiently beneath me, her silky knickers tossed onto the floor, arousal rising like steam from her body, her dark eyes beseeching me, now…now…now…

Only it's not…nothing is happening, now or at all, as I realise, horrified, that the thing that every man dreads more and more with each passing year has finally struck. My mortification knows no bounds, even though Ruth reacts philosophically. "We can still have fun," she tells me, and in my distress and embarrassment, I think I hear a tiny note of relief in her voice; but I am so caught up in my own failure that I cannot be sure. I know I'm not getting any younger, I realise I have been under stress lately, but this…this is a horrible shock, especially when everything had been working normally when we were at the restaurant. My body, while not much to look at, has at least served me reliably where Ruth is concerned; and for it to fail so utterly now…my desire dies and I turn away from her, huddling miserably on my side. I feel the bed shift as she sits up, and when she reaches out to take hold of my shoulder, I shrug her off unhappily. "Don't," I mutter, and she withdraws her hand. The bed shifts again, and I decide she must be getting up; but instead, her body moves across mine, and I turn back toward her in surprise, so that she ends up astride me, her soft thighs against my sides. I close my eyes against the sight of her, unable to bear it. "Malcolm?" she says softly, and I feel her weight shift slightly above me, and then the tickling sensation of the ends of her hair trailing across my abdomen. "Sweetheart, what if I…" she breathes, suiting actions to words, and my eyes fly open: I can't bear the idea of her trying and failing to rouse me, thus completing my humiliation.

Seeking to stop her downward progress, I seize her hips; she looks at me quizzically, and adds huskily, "Unless you had something else in mind?" I nod, not trusting myself to speak; but it is her birthday, after all, and her pleasure is still uppermost in my mind. I run my hands again and again along her flanks; she tips her head back in delight as my thumbs glance across her breasts until her nipples are standing proud again. None of this has any effect on my traitorous flesh, that had earlier been so ready and willing; but as I hold Ruth between my hands, and she leans forward to kiss me, I am profoundly grateful that for her, at least, there are other ways and means. "Come here," I murmur, drawing her closer; and she does, twice, the second time with a shuddering cry that curls my toes reflexively. I have not yet finished, though, and soon her thighs are vising my ribcage again; she quivers, panting in ecstasy as I use all my skill to bring her to a final peak. She arches her back, giving herself to me entirely, vulnerable and desperate for release, her skin glistening with perspiration, her necklace glinting in the moonlight; suddenly her whole body tenses, an unearthly sound rends the air, and she bucks and heaves against me, falling forward to grip the headboard for support as she rides the waves of her climax.

Spent, she slides down to lie on my chest, and soon she is asleep, her damp hair fanned out around her. I grope for the duvet, untidily heaped on the other side of the bed, and drape it over us; she makes a small noise of contentment, and I cautiously ease myself out from under her. Seeking solitude, I get up, pull on my old blue wool dressing gown, and cross to the window seat. Even though I wasn't…didn't…couldn't, I think she enjoyed herself, which is more than I can say; all the way through, I was unable to lose myself as I normally would in the thrill of satisfying her. Instead, my mind was plagued by the dreadful reality of what has happened, or rather, not happened. Is this how it's going to be from now on, I wonder dismally, as she sleeps and the faintest of lights creeps into the eastern sky. Eventually, exhausted and miserable, I return to bed, and Ruth curls into me, seeking the familiar comfort of my warmth; but I roll over, my back to hers, and fall into a fretful slumber, punctuated with falling interludes, the sort that jerk me awake in a cold sweat, heart pounding, legs flailing, hands gripping the mattress-edge, certain that I am plunging over a cliff to my death; and then I have a most disquieting dream…

We are again at Havensworth; lively music is playing as we enter the ballroom, Ruth's diamond pendant sparkling in the soft light of the chandeliers. We are dancing a Viennese waltz, spinning effortlessly past the other couples, the feeling of Ruth moving with me as she follows my lead making me as light-headed as though I had drunk an entire bottle of champagne. We move faster and faster, and suddenly Ruth twirls out of my arms altogether, away into the glittering crowd of beautiful women and distinguished-looking men in black tie. I gasp in dismay and make to follow her; the crowd on the dance floor closes in about me, and I cannot get past; in every direction, there are hostile, sneering faces looking at me. I begin to panic, my lungs heaving like a leaky bellows as I fight for air…I sink to my knees, struggling to breathe, when the crowd parts unexpectedly, and at the far end of the room, I see him. Harry. He looks at me, face impassive; and then Ruth appears from behind his back, and seeing me, she rises on tiptoe to whisper something in his ear. Harry shakes his head, and she seems to implore him…with an impatient gesture, he reaches out towards me, and I find myself hoisted into the air as though by an unseen force; my breathing steadies, and I attempt to move towards them, only to find I am trapped; looking about me, I see that gossamer threads are attached to each of my limbs, extending up towards the ceiling. I am suspended as if I were caught in a spider's web, terrified, and unable to move. Helpless, I watch in agonised anticipation as Harry and Ruth step onto the floor.

The other couples move off the floor in deference to them, and the musicians, who have hitherto been playing Strauss, strike up a tango. I am shocked to see that Harry is an excellent dancer, despite his bulk, and he and Ruth appear to be well-used to dancing with each other. This is no sanitised ballroom version; they are moving as though welded together, bodies almost obscenely intimate as he leads her through the sinuous figures of the dance. I can't bear to see it, yet am unable to look away…as the music crescendos, Harry bends Ruth backwards like a willow twig, and kisses her at the base of her throat, now bare…her eyes close, her hands caress Harry's back even as she seems to swoon at his touch: they're lovers! I realise, horror-struck. There's no mistaking the look in her eyes, nor the assured way in which he kisses her as the dance comes to an end. They saunter across the floor to look at me with detached curiosity, and with another gesture as they walk off, arms around each other, Harry releases me, and I fall to the floor like a marionette whose strings have been cut. I can faintly hear Ruth's voice, floating back to me over the rising chatter of the crowd, who like me, have been held spellbound by their performance…do be kind to Malcolm, he's made of finer stuff than us, and then the deep boom of Harry's laughter.

I wake trembling; the duvet has slipped off as I thrashed about, trying to free myself from the web. Surely Harry wasn't at the Ball? He could hardly have arrived unnoticed. He's too distinctive, and well-known, a figure in the intelligence community... Slowly, though, reason reasserts itself; this is just my subconscious, fearful by nature, already overwrought, and then stirred up further by the evening's (non) events. Lying back down, I close my eyes, not intending this time to sleep, but simply to rest until it is time to get up – by my bedside clock, it is five a.m., and we are due back on the Grid in less than four hours. Ruth flops over, groaning, "I'm cold," and I automatically gather her in to me while pulling the duvet up again. She nestles in my embrace for a few breaths before forcing one eye open with a heavy sigh. "What's wrong?" she asks, voice smudged with sleep, "why were you thrashing about?" I don't want to talk about any of it now, not my newly-minted anxieties about my ability to perform, certainly not the nightmare I have just had, and definitely not my longest-held and deepest fears. "Oh, just an odd dream," I tell her, my voice steadier than I could hope for, and she grunts in perfunctory acknowledgement, before peering blearily at the clock. "Three more hours?" she mumbles, already drifting off, wrapped in my arms as is our custom.

Not that holding her helps much; I am badly shaken, both by the dream, and my body's betrayal, and any possibility of sleep recedes like the outgoing tide as the sky lightens. In the old oak outside the window, birds begin to whistle and sing. Birds…my mind flits back to my fifteen-year-old self, crouched on the floor of the bathroom, sick, cold and miserable, and my father recreating the Scottish game-keeper's gruff voice: Will ye no' put th' puir thing oot o' its misery? If only someone could put me out of mine with the same rough compassion as the gamekeeper had shown that wounded bird. But I am too much of a coward; so I lie here with Ruth snoring gently in my ear, and wish that everything could go back to the way it was, just twenty-four hours ago, when at least I was still a man in her eyes.

It is the thirtieth of April, a date that will shortly be seared into my memory forever.

A/N: Malcolm is quoting from the Ballad of Reading Gaol, by Oscar Wilde, when he thinks of each man killing the thing he loves.