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almh · 08-09-2009, 07:41 PM

Based on the song of the same name by Lost Prophets, set post series 7.

It was 21st August 2007. It had been just over a year since Ruth had gone. He still regretted letting her go, he should have done something, anything, to keep her on the Grid. He'd loved her so much, (not that he admitted it to anyone else,) and had been certain that she loved him back, yet he could do nothing. He still could do nothing except wait for the bombs to drop in Iran and try and protect the country as best he could from the repercussions.

To say he had moved on would be a mistake. He was certainly no closer to moving on than he had been the day she left, (three hundred and eighty days ago, he said to himself internally,) and was not sure he ever would be. His fingers gripped the wall tightly as he remembered how she had sacrificed herself for him. He could have made sure she was still here, doing her job... but she had never let him. It had changed him, or maybe that was just her. Now he couldn't tell. Outwardly he appeared unchanged, as in control as ever. Inwardly, he screamed at all the injustices that he had absolutely no control over.

The air was cold, although he barely noticed. He leant on the wall, looking out over London, in particular towards the Embankment, a favourite meeting place for spooks, two in particular. The view was spectacular, the sun painting the city with a burnt-amber gloss. The Thames, normally a dull brown now appeared as a glistening cesian beryl, a jewel contrasted against the night sky and the chains of lights that partially illuminated the area. He could remember clearly the first night he came up at sunset, as it was the night that Ruth left. He could not stay on the Grid, but was in no mood to return home. Instead he had headed for the rooftop, for the tranquility that was rarely achieved anywhere else. He had looked for a small dark shadow sailing along the river in the horizon, but found none. She had been long gone. Spending over an hour staring at the river, he had left, only to return a couple of days later. It had become his ritual, his way of remembrance. Every couple of days (or even every day some weeks, if things had gone particularly badly,) he would come up to the roof to be alone and he would check for boats, as though the moment he found a boat he would find her. He did see boats, large Thames Clippers mostly, with the odd small boat. He never saw her though.

Exactly two years later...

He had retraced familiar steps back up to the rooftop, standing in the place where he had normally stood, and reacquainted himself with the sight of a city bathed in the sun's glow. He had not been up for six months, although little had changed in the view. He had changed. He had had experienced torture by the people he worked for, betrayal by one who worked for him, then capture by the Russians. One thing he still had though, was hope.

Footsteps quietly echoed behind him, and he could feel a person's presence behind him, almost seeking permission to join him.

"Hello," he told them, acknowledging them. They stepped next to him, looking out with him over the city.

"I've watched you coming up here for months," Ros told him, explaining his unspoken question. "You only came up here in the evenings after Ruth left."

"Yes," he answered simply.

"I don't regret telling someone that Ruth was doing something she shouldn't," she told him bluntly, "But using this irritating thing called hindsight I think I should have told Adam or you. I pretty much told her as much when I was taking her place at her house." She paused, "I also told her that I never said sorry. I realise now... that that may have been wrong." Ros's usually steel exterior had been softened since Adam, and Harry had never noticed it more than he did then. She turned round sharply and walked away, making him smile. She may have unfrozen slightly, but she was still Ros. He turned his head slightly to see her walk away then turned it back to the city, still smiling. He kept smiling as he looked out, and allowed himself one last look of the city before he turned away, going downstairs to the underground car park. He drove straight home, alone, with only the radio for company. Pulling up outside, he walked up the steps and opening the door. He picked up the pile of letters that lay addressed to him and closed the door, quickly flicking through them.

"Still looking for a postcard?" someone asked him quietly, stepping out of the sitting room and smiling. He put the post back down on the table where he had found it and walked slowly over to her.

"No," he answered equally quietly, "I don't think I need to look anymore. I think I've found something much better than a postcard."

"Something?" she answered back, pretending to be insulted.

"Someone," he said this time, "Someone better than a postcard." His hand gently touched her face and they both leant slightly forward, meeting halfway, their lips connecting as he kissed her.Two years ago all he had was hope. Now he had her.