A/N - Thank you once again for following along and a warm thanks to those who have taken the time to review. Hope you enjoy the last chapter. Cheers!

Measure of last resort. How many times had it come to that? Harry ran his thumb ran over the slim volume of protocols written by an unknown bureaucrat who would never face the choices that he did. When all other avenues are exhausted, salt the earth and start over. He slid the book into the leather case and placed it back in his safe. The blinking letters scrolled across the display, signalling that the door was firmly closed. Secrets returned to the darkness. Keeping secrets locked away was easy, it was far harder to bury them once they had been revealed. He leaned his head against the metal casing, vainly trying to clear his mind, visions of what he had unleashed floating before him. No matter what he did, there would always be blood on his hands. The EMP was a huge gamble; its effects untested, the threat to civilian life unknown. Perhaps the gods would be kind for once and no lives would be lost. He sighed. The gods were never on his side. He was alone, no one to console him, only platitudes. Better one suffer than a nation grieve.

Straightening up from his crouched position, he winced in pain as his joints creaked. He took a deep breath, filling the hollow space that now resided between his ribs, his mind disengaging, pulling away from the emotion of the moment. It made it easier to deal with loss, with pain, with her. He ran his fingers through his hair, deliberating between a scotch and a coffee. A knot of tension worried at the back his neck, the dull throb of a headache rising to his temples. Caffeine would be better, the scotch he would save for a later hour. He stepped out of his office and into the controlled chaos of the Grid. Personnel rushed backed and forth, dealing with the rippling effects of his decision. Disasters, like miracles, always needed a plausible real world explanation. No one could ever know the truth.

Lucas and Tariq were in deep conversation by a bank of computers. Beth stood beside them, looking as though she had always been a part of the Grid. Too late to worry about upgrading her clearance. He crossed over to them.

"Anything to report?"

"There's been a lot of technical issues," Tariq explained. "Computers with fried circuits. Alarms set off, security systems down."

"Yes," Harry conceded, "We're certain to get an earful when the final cost has been tallied. Lucas, any word on casualties?"

"Accidents at intersections," Lucas filled in. "We're still waiting on reports from hospitals."

"Talwar?"

"She's in an interrogation room," Beth piped up.

Harry gave her a sideways look. "Still here, Miss Bailey?"

"Like a bad penny." She gave him a pert smile.

He hadn't quite decided if she was a blessing or a curse. He had asked for an agent to be delivered to him and perhaps fate had finally listened. He remembered her as a strong candidate but she was brash and cocky. Maybe that's what they needed. It was not his decision to make. He turned back to Lucas.

"I'm briefing the Home Secretary; get me as much information as you can." He looked about, a certain voice missing from the conversation. "Where's Ruth?"

Lucas and Tariq gave each other a look, the younger man shrugging his shoulders.

"We thought she was with you," said Lucas.

The words, said in innocence, hit a nerve. Harry kept his face immobile.

"Obviously, she isn't," he replied with a biting edge.

Lucas gave him a curious. Hopefully, the team would chalk up his remark to his usually acerbic manner and not divine the true cause.

He turned his head, his neck muscles protesting in response and he remembered his initial quest. Making his escape, he drove his hands into his pockets and headed towards the kitchen. Lucas had been off the Grid for most of the past week, Tariq was young and Beth new. Surely, none of them would suspect that anything untoward had happened. All he had to do was put one foot in front of the other, keep moving, hold on for a few more weeks. He reached the kitchen and stopped abruptly in the doorway. Ruth stood inside, leaning against the counter, a teabag poised over her cup, her brows drawn together in a troubled frown. He rocked back on his heels, intent on quietly turning around and leaving. The scuff on his shoes gave him away and her head snapped up. She quickly collected herself.

"You don't have to keep avoiding me, Harry."

He turned back to her. "I wasn't aware that I was."

"You've gone out of your way not to be alone in a room with me."

Whether or not she meant it as such, he took her observation as a taunt, that he lacked the fortitude to be in the same room as her. Earlier, she had accused him of feeling sorry for himself and along with that came the insinuation that he was weak. He could not let her assertion go unanswered.

"That's not true. We were alone in my office when you briefed me on Talwar's location." His hands dug deeper into his pockets. "And you stood beside me when I made the call."

She bowed her head and her shoulders stiffened. She had no reason to flinch. Her hands were clean.

"You know what I mean." Dropping the teabag in the cup, she kept her gaze lowered, not meeting his eyes.

Through judicious manoeuvring, he had managed to ensure all of their interactions centered on work. None of the personal was allowed to filter into their conversations. On the occasion when the subject had threatened to veer towards him or his motives, he had summarily dismissed her. There was no choice; he was her boss, after all, nothing more. Frankly, he had no idea what to say to her, indeed if anything could be said, any anger at her having dissipated on the drive to and from Scotland. He barely understood the feeling of desolation he carried around, let alone summon the capacity to explain it to her. In any event, he was not weak. He stepped into the cramped space, challenging her allegation.

"I'm here with you now."

He kept his voice as light as possible demonstrating that her proximity meant nothing to him. He reached across the counter and picked up a mug, coming as close as he could without touching her in an effort to underscore his point. Folding in on herself, she pulled her cardigan close around her chest, hiding her figure with the bulk of the black wool. He raised an eyebrow. There was more than one way to avoid someone. It didn't matter; he remembered every dip and curve of her body. The hollow of her throat, the indent of her ribs, the satin of her thigh, everything. He quickly looked away. None of that it mattered now, they were colleagues.

"I need a full breakdown for Towers."

"I'll put a report together detailing the repercussions."

He turned back to the pot and poured out a liquid that he presumed was coffee. "And we'll need to give them a line."

"Yes, we've already told them it was a power surge. Tube malfunction."

Having steeped her tea, she fished out the bag with a spoon and reached for the bin to deposit it, her manner hurried in an effort to get on with her work. At the same moment, he moved to the fridge, searching for milk. His shoulder brushed up against hers and all movement ceased. He didn't breath and neither did she, each held suspended in a fragile web, acutely aware of other. One slight twist and he could gather her in his arms. He closed his eyes, longing for the touch of her but fearing the consequence. By silent consent, they parted in the same instant, careful to maintain a calculated degree of distance in the confined space as they circled around each other. She stepped to go past him but he adjusted his body, crowding the exit. He wasn't finished with her.

"Find out if there is any chatter about Abib."

"Of course."

"And I need to know how Talwar managed to operate right under our noses."

"Alright."

"Put together a list of comprehensive steps going forward. How we can avoid this in the future."

She looked up at him, her eyes widening at the scope of his requests. "You're not serious."

"Did I say something to make you think otherwise?"

The muscles of her neck grew taut in an effort not to bite back against his demands. "I'll see what I can do."

"I'm going to need better than that."

He looked at her over the rim of his mug assessing how his words had fallen. If he was not to be part of her life, he would make sure she had no life. He drew himself up to his full height filling the room, forcing her to take a step back in order to maintain her distance. He took a sip of his coffee and grimaced at the bitter taste.

" And I need it all before tomorrow." He set down his cup; adding more milk to the concoction on the off chance it would sweeten the drink. He slowly stirred it with a spoon, stretching out the length of her captivity. "We're in for a long night."

Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. She was no innocent, she knew why he was making these demands. Deciding not to rise to his bait, she leaned against the counter and sipped her tea. The cup shook in her hand and she quickly raised her other hand to still it. With careful deliberation, she set the mug down on the counter. He wanted to ignore it, pretend that he had not seen a moment of weakness but he was curious to see if he had caused it.

"Are you alright?" he asked perfunctorily, manager to employee.

"I'm fine," she answered, equally cool.

"You're shaking."

"It's nothing."

His eyes pinned her to the spot, wondering if he could draw the reason from her through silence. Aware of his gaze, she crossed her arms over her chest. He always forgot how small she was, her intellect, her presence in his life, larger than her size. She drew an unsteady breath.

"How many people do you think we..." she trailed off.

"What?"

She shook her head. "Never mind."

He knew what she meant. How many people had he sacrificed? Her half question chipped away at his belligerence. He had feet of clay. She had used the plural, making herself part of the decision. Had she for once not cast the blame solely upon him? They had so many enemies, why was he fighting her?

"Tell me," he asked, his tone more conciliatory.

"It's nothing," she continued. "I'm bit shaky because I haven't eaten."

She reached up into the cupboard and attempted to extract an antiquated biscuit tin. Is that how she had survived all this time, by ferreting away shortbread? She stood on her tiptoes and he moved to help her, but her fingers latched on to the edge of the container, sliding it along the shelf and into her grasp. He leaned against the counter, she didn't need him. Setting the tin down, she attempted to open it.

"Have you set a date?"

He looked at her quizzically.

"Your resignation."

"Ah yes." He watched as she struggled with the tin. "Why? Are you planning a farewell party for me?"

"I was wondering if there would be a transition period."

"Of some sort, I would suspect."

Picking up the tin, she held it against her stomach, attempting to get better leverage, focusing on it rather than on him. Her fingers slipped on the rim, the lid remaining stubbornly closed.

"And what will you do with all your free time?"

"I haven't given that much thought."

Unable to pry apart the metal, she gave up, her motions ceasing. She stood perfectly still as she looked down at the tin. "It's probably a good idea not to think too far into the future without wholly letting go of the past."

The words caught him unprepared, any authority he had over the situation slowly seeping away. He had assumed she was trying to call him out on his resignation but her comment was coloured with something distinctly different. He didn't know what to do. Walk away, don't be pulled back in, leave her alone to struggle with the blasted tin. His feet remained rooted to the spot, fascinated by the workings of her mind, wondering if he was about to witness a rare glimpse into it. Her fingers clutched the tin as if she were pulling strength from the metal.

"I wouldn't want to think that you were leaving because of me." Her voice dropped to a whisper.

He swallowed. Of course, she was the reason he was leaving, how could he ever stay, forever cast in the shadow of her rejection. He would never admit that to her, that would be relinquishing even more power. His face remained impassive, reveal nothing, the surface must stay calm even if the waters were stirred beneath it.

"No, I told you, it's time for me to leave."

Her head wobbled but she didn't agree.

"Because if it came down to it, I think I should be the one to leave."

He tilted his head, taken aback by her words, the thought that she would leave had never crossed his mind.

"Nonsense. You still have so much ahead of you. I'm nearing retirement." He gave an internal wince at the last word.

Her finger circled over the top of the tin. A picture of a cottage was painted on the lid and she carefully traced over the thatched roof. "If you were to leave I don't know if I would want stay on."

Her words, said so quietly, fell on him with such force that he felt an acute pain in his chest. Where would she go? Who would protect her? Only a few days ago he had vowed that it would be him and now he was ready to walk away. The realisation slowly unfolded that he would not see her every day. Originally, the idea had held a comforting appeal, that once away from her he could mend his broken heart but now, confronted with the immediacy of never seeing her again it was too much to bear. He stood in complete silence, his arms hanging by his sides, not knowing what to say to her revelation. He couldn't help his voice from dropping into the special register he reserved for her.

"You can't leave."

"You're far more valuable than I."

No, she was of infinite worth to him. Her fingers stilled on the tin. He leaned in with the intention of taking the tin and opening it, but his hands rested on top of hers, lingering without thought to the consequence. He closed his eyes, the ridge of her knuckles under her smooth skin taking him back to that day in the church. She remained perfectly still letting his hands rest on hers. He had stood like this before, overcome by a desire to kiss her. In the end, he had done that and so much more. Images of her filled his mind, the noise of his senses blocked everything out. The touch, the scent, the taste of her. He brought his head closer to hers.

"Do you want me to stay, Ruth?"

She lifted her head slightly still not looking at him.

"I think...I think it takes a very special intellect, a man of rare quality to make the decisions that you make. There aren't many people like you in the world, Harry."

Was that it then, the closest they would ever come to declaring their love for each other? For the first time, it struck him that she was as ineloquent as he in the language of emotion. His hands pressed on hers and she looked up at him.

"We all have blood on our hands, Harry."

His grip tightened. Who else could she confess her sins to? Who would give her absolution? Apparently, forgiveness was another language they stumbled over. He took the tin from her hands, fingertips sliding gently across her knuckles. She stood with her eyes downcast as if awaiting his judgement. He opened the lid and put the canister on the counter between them. He nudged the tin toward her.

"When was the last time you ate?" he asked, genuine concern in his voice.

"I could ask the same of you."

Their eyes met and she froze, the corner of his mouth from twitching slightly. The implication of her words filled the room, the space between them compressing, rich with shared memory. The moment passed like so many before. They both reached for a biscuit at the same time, fingers brushing inside the tin. He pulled back and she selected one, the thin wafer falling apart in her hand.

"I've broken it," she murmured.

She delicately extracted the piece, flicking the crumbs off, licking the residual sugar from her fingertips. He watched her fingers against her lips, a hunger stirring deep in his belly, one that he knew he could never fully bury. He took a breath and the hollow of his chest filled with warmth.

"Not entirely." He reached in and withdrew the other half of the biscuit, taking a decisive bite.

What was he to do with this woman? He could not leave her. He could not be with her. He looked down at his feet, his shoes nearly touching her boots. He had cornered her once again. He stepped back and she inhaled deeply as if he had set her free.

She picked up her mug. "I'll get started on that report."

She slid past him, her hand touching his, fingers grazing over his knuckles. He didn't know if it was by accident of design, it didn't matter. He drained the remainder of his coffee, the tension having subsided from his neck, his head feeling strangely clear.

...

The lights of the city spread out beneath him as he leaned on the rooftop rail. The skyline was never completely dark, there was always a spark of humanity in the gloom, life ongoing. One day he would join them in their blissful ignorance of threats and barely averted dangers, but not today. He felt like a man who had walked through the desert not expecting to make to the other side, only to have completed the journey on resources he didn't know he possessed. He had meant to leave the Service, leave her but he could turn his back on neither. He inhaled one final bracing breath, wondering where summer had gone, longing for its return.

As he walked down the stairs, his shoes echoed faintly on the concrete and her words echoed in his head. His mind twisted with the mental gymnastics involved in her reasoning. It was true; they could not force an everyday romance on their extraordinary lives. Whatever happened between them would always be inextricably linked to the Service. How was he to exist in a relationship defined by the Grid and not by his appetites? He was in limbo, neither heaven nor hell. He stopped, his hand tightening on the rail, another conversation playing in his head. On the ride back from Ros' memorial he had been too preoccupied with his own battered feelings to understand what she was trying to tell him. Funerals were for the living, some people never get that closure. There had been no funeral for George, no chance for her to grieve. She had confessed in the darkness of her room, that if she lost him she did not want to start over again. She was the one who needed the parameters of the Grid to hold her life together.

He stepped through the pods, pausing to take in take in the Grid. Lucas was on the phone, tracking down Dimitri. They had made the right decision with that young man, he had held up remarkably well on his first mission. Tariq was off in his land of binary codes, a veteran with a year under his belt. The place was starting to come back to life. Beth would be a good addition, fresh, new, from the outside world. He was not completely without hope, he had rebuilt the team and they would all live to fight another day. He crossed to his office taking a moment to let his eyes roam over his desk, the shelves, all of it unchanging. This was his life, he couldn't leave. He had lost Ros, and a painful litany of others but he had not lost her. She had come back to him when he needed her the most. She had remained steadfastly by his side, urging him on, pulling him back from the abyss of introspection. He had been sullen and cantankerous but she had not flinched. She would always be there.

The hair on the back of his neck lifted and he slowly turned around. She stood framed by the lines of his doorway. His thoughts had summoned her.

"I'm leaving for the night."

His chest moved with the same swell of yearning that he had felt for her on the roof. Stay, he silently pleaded, stay with me, Ruth. If we are broken, let us be broken together. He closed his eyes. As much as he wanted to say those words, he couldn't, they were loaded with expectation and need. He chose a far safer path, one that still held possibilities.

"Can I offer you a lift?"

She shook her head. "It seems I've inherited Beth. Lucas wants her to stay with me so I can keep an eye on her."

She took a step into his office, moving forward even as she made ready to leave. The black of her overcoat swallowed her tiny frame

There was nothing left to say. Once again, he cast about his mind, looking for a reason to make her stay.

"I withdrew my resignation," he said, taking a step toward her. It was the only thought that came to mind, the one subject they had not spoken of on the rooftop.

She smiled, relief washing across her face. "I knew you would."

"And how did you know that?"

"It's who you are. Honour, duty."

"We lie, manipulate and interfere. There is nothing honourable in what we do."

"But we do it to save lives. No one else outside of this room would understand that."

No one knew them the way they knew each other.

They stood, wrapped in their coats, insulated against the cold and each other. She shivered and he remembered the heat of summer.

"Do you think we've seen the end of Nightingale?" she asked.

"We've sent them a message."

She nodded, knowing that he meant the death of Nicholas Blake.

"There's always a possibility it may resurface," he continued. "Some things never entirely disappear."

He looked at her obliquely, wondering how she would take his words. She swayed into him; her shoulder softly brushing his arm. The contact was enough, steel and flint, a tiny spark passing between them. Her eyes met his, blue and unwavering.

"It's never over, is it?"

She placed her hand on his forearm and squeezed it reassuringly, as she had done that night after they had gone to dinner. He looked into her eyes. Was it hard for her? Was it hard to walk away? As if she had heard his thoughts, she let out a long sigh and slowly turned her head, releasing his arm.

"Good night, Harry,"

He watched her walk towards the door, the words still circling inside his head that he could never quite say. I love you, Ruth. She hesitated and he held his breath, afraid that she had heard his silent words. She continued on without looking back. He let her walk away, making no attempt to her to stop her. He stood with his hands in his pockets as she moved on the other side of the glass, just out of reach. It was what they did, this endless circle, she stepping off before him, he slowing down to wait for her. Their world would turn round again. He had attempted, failed, and learned his lesson. He would lick wounds and salve his pride. In the ebb and flow of the Grid, she would come back to him. On that day, when she asked him, there would be no hesitation, no second-guessing, no searching for signs, he would grab onto her and hold her tight.