Thanks to those who read and the kind reviews for my last chapter. Apologies for once again posting an angst ridden filler.

Hospital

Approx 10.30pm

Another night, another hospital waiting room papered with admonitory posters, another anxious wait for a medic to arrive with tidings. And considering the condition of Harry when last seen Jane wasn't sure she wanted to know. If she had needed any reminder of the gravity of the situation she was wearing it. With every flexing of her leg muscles the blood stiffened fabric of her dress scratched against her knees. Harry's blood; spilt as a result of saving her life. Warm when she'd knelt in it, and now ... was he winning his fight for life...or... was his corpse gradually cooling in some grim unlit side ward while she sat here cocooned in ignorance. The very thought that he might have died alone was haunting her. The philosophy that everyone was alone at the moment of their death might be true in its essentials, but as she struggled to comprehend the notion that Harry might have died at the very least, considering why he'd received his fatal injury, Jane felt that she ought to have been present, holding his hand as he expired. That she in her turn had done her useless best to save him was no consolation whatsoever. She was still hampered by disbelief at the speed with which events had transformed from relaxed slightly alcoholic celebration into gore ridden tragedy.

The instant she'd registered the severity of his injury she'd crashed onto her knees beside him. Providentially he'd fallen onto his back. The blood which seemed to flowing with a dangerous freedom an indication that at least he was still alive – for now. With the less than adequate knowledge obtaining from her first aid certificate - the training course for some unaccountable reason had failed to include instructions on dealing with close order gun shots fired by a raving nutter – she'd not known precisely what to do, but anything had to be better than standing by watching his life ebb away along with his blood. So first step; check the patient. Knowing that the primary concern was to keep him breathing and his heart functioning she'd hastily ripped off his black tie and fumbled for his top shirt button. She'd just managed to ease any constriction on his throat and was debating whether CPR would be in order, she was weighing up the probable risk involved of squidging yet more blood out of a wound that gave no visual evidence of clotting, when the cavalry had arrived in the form of Nat and a couple of paramedics. Despite a reluctance to leave Harry she'd given place to them, observing with combined relief and horror as the trio produced an oxygen mask and other life saving items that looked more appropriate for the torture chamber. If the sound of Nat shouting, "Come on Harry don't let that little git win," didn't exactly thrill her, she was certain that Harry, if conscious would have endorsed the sentiment.

A slight touch on her arm had startled her, turning around she'd seen Towers standing just behind her. The human being replacing the politician, he'd culled a glass of brandy from the bar which he was holding towards her. His concern contrasting favourable with his protection team, undercover officers who'd stampeded in at the sound of gunfire, one of whom was positively champing with impatience as he declared,

"Sir, we really must insist that you leave for your own safety."

If 'must' was not a word that should be used to princes it became apparent, very quickly, that it was also inadvisable to use it to the Home Secretary. For someone who'd spent a career deliberately cultivating the public image of an avuncular teddy bear Towers could, when occasion demanded, maul like a grizzly. She'd heard him saying in a steely tone, so unlike the one he'd used earlier in the evening.

"I am quite safe thank you. The assailant is being removed and Sir Harry would be furious if Ms Townsend is left on her own."

Leaving the officious minion to digest his displeasure, Towers renewed his attentions to Jane, thrusting the glass into her hand with the command,

"Here Jane, take this and sit down."

Jane, not normally one to follow peremptory orders, as Harry would have willing testified, on this occasion took Towers' advice. Now that she'd been reduced to the status of a spectator, redundant in as far as undertaking any further practical action was concerned, she'd found herself shuddering with shock. In the past she'd had to cope with the aftermath of Harry's injuries when he'd flopped home, patched up, wincing with pain as he sported yet another scar for his collection all the while vocally objecting to any fuss, but not even the appalling events at the Clink had prepared her for this ringside face to face witnessing of the full blood spattered, terrifyingly violent reality of his world. A world that he had, until this week, efficiently protected her from. Fighting down fear for him, ridiculously, despite being married to another man, and without having effected a complete reconciliation with Harry, she was reacting as if she expected imminent widowhood. Struggling to get her emotions under control she'd only been vaguely aware of some background shouts and a scuffle at the far end of the room, followed by a blurred figure clothed in black and white, Jason she thought, streaking out of the door in a frantic pursuit of something, or someone.

So absorbed was she that she'd hardly noticed Towers who, true to his intent, had stayed all the while. The sounds of swearing from the team working on Harry stretched to a five minute eternity at the end of which Nat had announced that they had to get Harry to hospital now! From the urgency in his tone Towers, seeing her begin to shake again, had asked the key question of a grim faced, blood speckled Nat.

"How serious Doctor?"

"I won't know until we can get him properly checked. He's just about stable and we've managed to halt the bleeding for no,w but he's lost a dangerous amount of blood. The bullet seems to have avoided a main artery but it's still lodged somewhere. "

Jane had felt as if a commensurate amount of blood was draining away from her face as she took in the gravity of this announcement. She'd averted her eyes from whatever they'd been doing to Harry, it wasn't likely to have been dignified, and as they'd long since ceased to be intimate watching would have been an intrusion, an invasion of whatever little privacy remained to him. Towers had noticed her despair, privately he was equally sickened, the House of Commons might be red in tooth and claw but the brutality was verbal, the whipping metaphorical. The sudden sight of Harry spinning to the ground in a whirl of blood letting was seered into his brain. He had no difficulty in empathising with Jane's sense of helplessness. Wondering what else he could do to support her he'd scanned the room for anyone he recognised from Section D. Having failed in the first instance his eye lighted upon an unknown young woman hovering at a distance, but watching Jane with every sign of anxiety. Towers, taking a security risk that would have had Harry foaming with fury, beckoned her over with a question.

"Young lady, are you by any chance part of Harry's team?"

"Er yes I'm Laura Dixon. Sorry Sir. Did you want Miss Watts?"

"Not necessarily, but I do want someone to escort Ms Townsend to the hospital. So Miss Dixon can you call up a car and stay with her?"

"Errr yes Sir." Practically stuttering with nerves Laura informed him. "Well Sir, actually Sir, Sir Harry's driver arrived a few minutes ago and is waiting for instructions. I could ask him to take us."

She hadn't made that suggestion a moment too soon. With a repellent squeak of the wheels that was shredding Jane's over taxed nerves –couldn't the NHS run to a can of oil - the paramedics began to steer the stretcher bearing Harry towards the door, negotiating their way around displaced chairs and tables with deftness that bespoke practice, and a swiftness that underlined the emergency. A sombre Nat prepared to follow as he promised, "I'll let you know how he is as soon as I can." With that he exited. Her eyes drawn to the space vacated by the medical party automatically noted that Harry's black snake of a tie was still lying where she'd thrown it in her earlier panic. She'd bent down to pluck it from the floor...

... and was now sitting in the relatives room twisting it into knots as she waited...waited...waited.

The opening of the door presaged the arrival of no one more important that Laura who, taking seriously the order from Towers, had gone in search of a hot drink and was now shoving under Jane's unwilling nose a polystyrene cup containing a chemical compound whose cousinship to an actual coffee bean was several times removed. Jane took it reluctantly while pondering why everyone believed she needed drinks to soothe her, first Towers, now Laura. A bursting bladder was of no comfort, requiring her to either visit the toilet and the risk of missing Nat's promised arrival, or to sit crossing her legs with an increasing urgency.

Before she could burst with either impatience, or excessive liquid intake, the door opened yet again, this time to reveal Nat. As he moved to sit down beside her she was trying to read his face. At the moment, in comparison to the medic, Harry's habitual impassive mug would have looked as expressive as an actor in a melodrama. The only thing she could discern was that the Nat was exhausted, and that was due to his body language as he almost slumped beside her. His first words related not to Harry, but to the untouched drink she was still gripping.

"Wise move Jane, we don't want you poisoned." Watching Jane gulp he added, "They'll be taking him down to theatre in about a quarter of an hour. I wondered, he's not exactly conscious, but would you like to sit with him until then."

"Well it's got to be better than drinking this slush."

Nat, having done all he could for Harry in the short term recalled, that Jane was also his patient in part. "I've been told that Harry gave you quite a shove, are you alright?"

In a desperate attempt not to betray her fear, she had her pride, besides which the ex wife of Harry Pearce did not collapse all of heap in adversity, she attempted the sketch of a smile, "Well I'm in better shape than Harry."

"So is the average road crash victim."

With that stark comment Nat indicated that it was time they headed outwards and onwards. Remembering Laura was still in the room Jane threw at her, "If anyone arrives from Section D tell them I've gone to see if Harry's finally succeeded in getting himself killed."

Nat, while noting the would be asperity, detected a real sense of emotion underlying that statement. Not waiting for Laura to reply Jane followed Nat out of the room, trailing behind him as he trekked down a labyrinth of antiseptic scented corridors towards an area ominously signposted as ITU. It occurred to Jane as she passed notices directing visitors towards the Children's Unit, Maternity Unit, Men's Surgical, Chapel, Radiography, Gynaecology, Oncology and the umpteen other ologies no one ever gave a thought to - until age or accident began to demolish the body corporeal - that the only department not to be accorded the dignity of a sign was the mortuary. An understandable omission, the whole atmosphere of illness and disaster was depressing enough without reading the advertisement of inevitable failure. A thought intermingled with thankfulness that at least Harry wasn't yet a candidate for that particular destination, although she had a number of questions for Nat when they did eventually reach his bedside.

As Nat ushered her into a small room, acknowledging the inevitable guards standing sentinel, she wondered if he'd been overly optimistic. Harry was lying so quietly that for a heart chilling second she wondered if he'd passed away in Nat's absence. It was only the bleep of the machines monitoring his body functions that told her otherwise. After the experience of sitting by Catherine's bedside two days ago she could identify most of them, heart monitor, blood pressure, oxygen and life giving drip.

Seeing him so still was unnatural, he'd always exuded energy, even when sitting it radiated from him like a beacon. Asleep he was more often than not restless, and certainly not silent. Oh to hear his musical snoring once more! Nat looking at Jane even on his limited acquaintance with her thought roughly the same, Jane and silence were not an obvious mix. Knowing what she'd be asking next he staved off her inevitable queries with the updated medical bulletin.

"As I thought, the bullet missed the major arteries and just avoided his lung. However his shoulder is a mess, due in part to a previous injury when he was shot about eight years ago. He could have damage to nerves and muscles making him permanently incapacitated."

That Harry had previously had a like injury was news to Jane but not a paralysing surprise. That he'd received it so recently, years after he'd been translated upwards into a desk job, was more shocking, but knowing Harry she'd have been astounded if he'd never put himself into danger. Of more concern were Nat's final words.

"What exactly does that mean – the implications?"

Nat knew it was a reasonable question, but the professional issue he'd always found the worst to deal with was the assumption that at any given time he could give an exact and accurate prognosis. Something of that must have been indicated by his face as Jane pleaded, "Your best guess will do."

"I don't have one. It could heal completely, it could mean total paralysis of the arm, or anything in between. We'll not know until we open him up. Also his blood pressure is yo-yoing. If he has a bleed on the table and we can't stop it, that could lead to further damage." He avoided the addendum 'Or the worst case scenario.'

Jane barely repressed yet another shudder. Not specifically at the thought of Harry being operated on, but at the likely long term consequences. Harry was a difficult patient. Difficult as in impatient. Impatient as in unbearable. Unbearable as in bloody impossible. What he'd be like if he was handicapped to any great degree didn't even bear thinking about. And neither did the state he'd reduce any unfortunate carer too into within days.

Nat noting the agony expressed in her face added gently, "All I can tell you for certain is that the surgeon is a top man. That's why I insisted we brought him here instead of the hospital we took Catherine too. Would you like to stay with him until he's taken down to theatre?"

Fighting back the tears Jane was wordless, other than giving him a nod. Nat left silently, deciding as he went that there was one thing no one had thought to do as yet. Once outside the door he hastened towards an unoccupied cranny in the corridor leading to the 'Ears, Nose and Throat' ward knowing that it was highly unlikely anyone would seek that department at this time of night. In total defiance of all regulations – having made a surreptitious assessment of the risk of encountering Sister Rogers 'Rottweiler Rogers' as she was unaffectionately known, and deciding it was minimal – he flipped his mobile open and punched a number.

"Malcolm Nat here...good man I was going to ask that anyway...that's okay I'll ring and square it with them. Harry – well he's still alive but his circulation is causing concern – we're taking a chance with the operation."

Back at Harry's bedside Jane was willing him to keep breathing with an intensity that would have had him laughing if conscious. Not quite sure what she should do Jane sat down, reached out and gently stroked his hand, interweaving her fingers with his stilled ones. From the unexpected bleep emitted by one of the machines he may have registered the sensory feel. Beyond that nothing. No indication that he knew she was present. Remembering Nat's advice a couple of days earlier about patients who, while seemingly inert, still processed sound she leaned over to whisper into his ear.

"Harry just stay with us. You told me the other night that Catherine and Graham needed me. That might be true but they also need you." Not entirely sure if he was reacting, and feeling just a little foolish she added, "And so do I." With a small gurgle at the back of her throat, a cross between a sob and a laugh she informed the unreactive ear. "And yes I don't believe I've just said that either."

She had no time to murmer more sweet unheard nothings as the steady tread of feet approached, followed by a halt, a pause and arrival of a couple of porters plus Nat. It was time for the triple orbits of Harry, fate and the operating table to intersect.

Back in the relatives room Laura was being joined by a small trickle of Section D staff. First to arrive, about ten minutes after Jane's disappearance, were Erin and Calum. Erin's first words, on noting the absence of Jane, verged on the accusatory as she demanded.

"Laura you're supposed to be looking after Jane. So where is she?"

Unusually Laura didn't preface her reply with an apology. The worm wasn't so much turning as revolving on the spot. Having been entrusted by Towers her confidence had risen, plus she was getting just a little narked by Erin's constant carping. If Sir Harry, who hadn't actually handpicked Erin as his Section Chief, considered Laura good enough to be on the staff of Section D then she was good enough, whatever Erin might think.

"She with left Dr Reynolds. She wanted to see Sir Harry before they took him to theatre." In a firm voice for Laura concluded sharply, "And before you ask that's all I know."

Reading Erin's fury at this lack of deference Calum, like the majority of males unfortunate enough to caught up in a cat fight, was considering his available options. He had two, either disappear into the Gents on a prolonged call of nature – was it possibly to spend all evening having a pee - or arbitrate. He decided to attempt the latter, saving preserving the former as his escape option.

Before Erin could pull her metaphorical Section Chief hat out of the designer evening bag she persisted in clutching, Calum reminded them both, "No point in you asking that Laura, they'll only give such information to the next of kin."

Erin was frowning, temporarily distracted from Laura's insubordination, as she pondered that thorny question, "And who is Harry's next of kin, I forgot to check his file – it can't be Jane."'

Hiding his own worries about their boss behind a laconic pose Calum opined, "I wouldn't tell her that. Not when they've just tried to save one another's lives."

The door swung open again, this time to produce Dmitri and Jason. The latter looking as if he'd been used to sweep the floor. His dinner suit, previously pristine, was severely rumpled, his shirt streaked with grey dust trails and his trousers in possession of several creases and a rip that would make a tailor weep. Their arrival provided a temporary change to the topic of conversation as Erin asked, "Prisoners secured."

Dmitri gave an affirmative nod adding, "Coaver completely collapsed. I think he was stunned at being caught."

"Nothing to what Harry would do to him if he was here." This last came from the direction of the corridor. Turning around the gang were astonished to see Nat standing there, his silent entrance a tribute to his long practised skill in the art of entering the hospital areas quietly.

It wasn't however the appearance of Nat that surprised them as much as the arrival of a tall slim blonde, last seen by most of them being stretchered away from the Clink. Padding immediately behind her came Malcolm, seemingly her designated bag carrier for the evening, as he stowed a small sports bag tidily away under an unoccupied chair. Before anyone could even consider teasing him about this perceived demotion even more surprisingly, and alarmingly, he was followed by Graham, clad in biker's leathers and flourishing his crash helmet in a manner that suggested he viewed it as a weapon rather than a safety precaution.

Erin's raising of her eyebrows gave Malcolm his opening. "As soon as I'd packed up and handed over the equipment I went to fetch Catherine. Nat was good enough to take responsibility for her discharge."

None of which explained the presence of the truculent looking Graham until Catherine, on seeing their faces and reaching the correct interpretation that at some point Graham had expended the full force of his amiable personality on assorted members of the ensconced throng, interjected,

"Graham was visiting me so..."

"I followed on the bike." By way of further elucidation he added, "In case Mum needs me."

Throwing his full skinny weight into the nearest plastic chair and casting a baleful glance, so like Harry's it drew breath from more than one person, Graham accosted Nat, "Now you, what exactly is the damage to Dad, and no rubbishy medical terms to obscure the truth."

Nat, having had a difficult evening would more happily have given Graham a few lessons in basic civility, but recognised that the savagery Graham had adopted was masking a concern for his father that belied his frequent protestations of hatred. The sarcasm was after all just a more extreme example of the sparring he'd already witnessed between Harry and Jane. DNA had a lot to answer for. The answer he gave was brutal and succinct, as requested.

"The bullet blasted into his shoulder. He's on the operating table now while they dig it out. His shoulder seems quite badly damaged and he may not recover full mobility. We won't know if the withdrawal of blood due to the shock of the bullet has damaged any vital organs until later. Also at his age and with the amount of blood he's lost it is possible that he may not survive the operation."

Graham suddenly felt sick. He'd always thought of his father as an indestructible malign force. True he'd been alarmed by Harry's collapse a couple of days ago, but after a good night's sleep the indestructible old git had bounced back as commanding as ever. Now shockingly he was confronted by the truth that his father was approaching sixty, even in the normal way he was heading towards the edge of mortality. Graham didn't even need to turn his head to see how his sister was reacting. Wanting to blame someone for Catherine's distress he directed his hostility toward Erin, the inefficient tart who was apparently in charge.

"So how the hell did Coaver get into an event crawling with bloody spooks, let alone near enough to shot Dad?"

The Section D gang of three who'd previously had the pleasure of dealing with Graham, while not relishing his tone, were forced to admit that he'd unerringly put his finger on the very question that Harry would ask upon recovery, none of them being prepared to contemplate the alternative. Erin, as the most senior member present, knew the explanation fell to her, especially since no one else was displaying any inclination to intervene.

"We'll investigate further, but it seems that Coaver was smuggled in by the American delegation. They insisted that their operatives were responsible for their own people."

It was Catherine's turn to be incredulous, "After what had happened previously. You knew that they were in the plot up to their eyeballs."

Malcolm listening on the sidelines thought it a great pity Harry couldn't hear this. He only wished he'd been able to tape it for future playback. For years Malcolm has sat beside Harry during sundry whisky soaked evenings when Harry, lacerated by guilt and maudlin with it, had voiced the depressing conviction that his children didn't really care about him. His belief that Catherine merely tolerated him, while Graham wished him dead. Now faced with the possibility that Harry was on his deathbed here they were, furiously united in giving the Section D management a not entirely undeserved Hell for failing to protect their father. Nor, despite being one of the least malicious of men, was Malcolm desperately upset at the sight of Erin struggling to deal the questions arising from an operation that had, by any definition, gone pear shaped. If Erin really aspired to the Section D succession, at what for the sake of Jane, Catherine, Graham and the country, Malcolm trusted would be a long time hence, she still had much to learn. Faced with a similar situation Harry would have taken instant control, announced, resolved and closed down discussion. Erin's contrasting response to this operational disaster was to delegate responsibility by gazing imploringly at Dmitri with big pleading eyes.

Riding to her undeserving rescue Dmitri tried appeasement, "It wasn't the whole contingent of Yanks. Jefferies vanished outside the hall during the performance and let Coaver in by a side door. As he's senior none of his officers could have intervened." Seeing that Graham was now silenced Dmitri extended the tale, "Coaver collapsed entirely when he was caught, literally he was in hysterics yelling 'Don't shoot, he said it would be okay'."

Calum picked up the narrative. "As soon as Jefferies heard that he was on the way out, heading for the Embassy and asylum. I've got that piece of timing on the security camera, although we might have problems getting him to talk"

An unmollified Graham snarled, "So with all these bloody spooks around the bastard still got away."

Calum smirked, "Not exactly. Jefferies had reckoned without Jason here. " Seeing he'd caught Graham's interest, "Jefferies was trying to avoid Dmitri's gun but what he didn't know was that Jason was an Oxford blue at rugger, and still does a mean tackle. More work for your department Nat."

Wearily Nat had to enquire, "Such as..."

"The concrete floor and his jaw bone had an argument. We left him with one of your colleagues and an instruction to take him cuffed to X-ray."

Graham's habitual scowl lightened, briefly translating into an almost smile, as he commented with an appreciative throb to his voice, "On behalf of Dad, thanks mate. Nice one."

Catherine had been listening quietly all the while. Being a film maker she wanted the conclusion, preferably neat. "So what happens now?"

Erin was quite clear on that. "We'll interview them, and we certainly have enough to charge Coaver but we need to see what the outcome of Harry's operation is." She swallowed as she forced herself to say, "If he dies it's a murder charge. If he survives then the decisions will rest with him."

A small sob escaped Catherine. Graham moving over to her put an comforting arm around her shoulders, as seeking to convince himself as much as anyone he informed her, "Chin up Catherine. Can you seriously see the old control freak giving up the chance to best the CIA!" His well meaning efforts at cheering his sister spiked by a clumsy unthinking collapse into cliché, "He'd rather die first...oh God I didn't mean that, sorry."

Unsurprisingly Graham's attack of foot in mouth disease produced an inevitable symptom. Catherine's face was becoming increasingly damp. Watching Graham fumbling inadequately around the various pockets of his leathers for the necessary, it was Malcolm who came to the rescue, proffering a handkerchief in Catherine's direction. As she wiped her eyes she asked plaintively,

"But where is Mum?" A statement that was responsible for putting a small wrinkle across Nat's brow.

"She wanted to stay with your father as long as possible. While she walked down with them to the theatre entrance I went to sign some papers and my initial report, but she should have been back by now." Heaving himself out of his chair he suggested, "Unless she's sitting in his side ward waiting for his return."

As Nat made to investigate, Malcolm, with the thought that Jane should be warned that her offspring had arrived, made to accompany him. "I'll come with you."

The walk to the side room previously occupied by Harry was accomplished in silence. Both men were drained physically and emotionally by the events of the night, and they knew each other well enough to dispense with inane small talk. When they reached their destination neither needed to enter, it was apparent from the open door and absence of the guard, missing presumed grabbing a prolonged comfort break, that the area was unoccupied.

Two minds, one thought, as Nat reflected the utter exasperation felt by everyone tasked with tiptoeing around the recent Harry and Jane dealings.

"Where on earth has she gone to now?"

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