Thanks to everyone for reading, and for the lovely comments. I hope you enjoy this final chapter :)

Chapter Three

Blood, at some point, had seeped through the bandage on her back and had since dried, colouring the otherwise white fabric with small spots of deep rusty reddish-brown.

Elizabeth stood in front of Henry, looking up at his face while he looked at the reflection of her injury in the mirror behind them for a long minute, before he reached up with one hand to trace his fingers lightly around the bandage, watching his own actions as he did. He swallowed heavily.

"It's not that bad," Elizabeth murmured, her words almost lost under the sound of the running water from the shower.

Needing a closer look before deciding whether to believe her assertion, Henry gently turned her around and then crouched down behind her, smoothing his hands over waist to steady her. The area around the bandage was slightly bruised and swollen and was no doubt tender to the touch. He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from disagreeing with Elizabeth. Rationally, logically, the injury was obviously not that bad compared to what might have been. She was still standing and coherent and her waist beneath Henry's hands was soft and unblemished, if a little streaked with superficial dust and grime. But the wound was clearly bothering her, causing her pain, and the fact the surrounding area was bruised and she had bled through the bandage suggested that it wasn't entirely nothing, either. He stopped himself from saying any of that, instead lightly touching the edge of the bandage and saying, "Can you take this off to shower?"

He glanced up to see her face in the mirror. She nodded. "There are… extra dressings in my suitcase."

Henry carefully picked at one of the edges of tape that held the gauze to Elizabeth's skin, gently working it loose before peeling back the bulk of the dressing. He was so intent on removing it without hurting her further that it was only when he pulled the gauze free of her back that he saw the wound it had been hiding. "Babe," he whispered.

It looked to be the result of debris or shrapnel – something sharp, something sharp enough to tear through her flesh, and fast enough and with enough impact that it left bruising in its wake, too. The stitches holding her skin together were expertly done, small and neat but all too fresh, still raw and vivid against her skin, no doubt tugging uncomfortably with every movement. There was no doubt it was going to scar.

Henry stood, reaching around Elizabeth to drop the slightly-bloody gauze on the countertop before standing behind her, fingertips resting on her hips. He looked at their reflections in the mirror to find her watching him closely, gauging his reaction, her face carefully impassive to avoid revealing anything until he delivered his verdict. As far as he was concerned, there was only one response. Henry dropped his head and pressed a lingering, desperate kiss to her throat. "I love you," he said, hands sliding around to her abdomen, gently pulling her back towards him, wanting her close, to feel her pulse beating healthily against him.

She lifted one hand to stroke his hair, still watching him in the mirror; he could feel her eyes on him even as he buried his face in her neck, not knowing how to express how grateful he was that she was home and mostly OK other than by clinging to her in something approaching desperation.

"I love you, too," Elizabeth said. She tugged lightly the short hairs at the base of his neck to make him lift his head. "I need to shower."

He could feel the urgency in her movement and he knew that she had to be desperate to get clean after the heat of Iran and the explosion and the blood and the travelling, all of it clinging to her skin – and beneath her skin. Of course she wanted to wash it off. He loosened his hold on her and nodded, watching as she pulled off the bandages that were covering the smaller injuries on both her arms, being not nearly as careful as he had been as she tugged at the tape and gauze. Henry winced in sympathy but Elizabeth didn't flinch. He supposed that ripping off a plaster didn't really compare to the pain of what had caused the injury in the first place.

She looked down, dropping her gaze from his in the mirror and looking at the countertop instead, appearing suddenly nervous and unsure.

Henry ran a gentle hand down her arm in encouragement.

"Will you stay with me?" she asked, like it was a question that actually needed to be asked, like he wouldn't be there no matter what, always.

He was a little surprised, though, thinking that she would have wanted at least a few minutes alone. He wasn't unaware that his wife hadn't yet told him everything that had happened in Iran, and he had thought she might have wanted some time by herself to process and deal with it in her own way without him there to probe her with questions she wasn't ready to answer. Failing that, he had thought that maybe she'd want to be able to break down and cry without anyone to witness it. It worried him a little that she showed no signs of wanting that; she was clearly exhausted and distressed and not herself, but Henry could already sense her starting to stitch her fragile emotional state back together like the doctors had stitched her skin, pulling herself together before she was ready, before she had properly dealt with everything. Because that was what she did: she carried on.

He realised that he hadn't answered her question and that Elizabeth had once more raised her eyes to look at him in the mirror. "Henry, I'm sorry," she said when he realised she was watching him. Her voice was soft and held a genuine apology.

"For what?" His voice cracked slightly and it seemed at least one of them would be crying in the shower in a minute.

She considered the question for a moment before answering. "For making your face look like that."

"Like what?" He genuinely wanted to know; he wasn't sure what name he'd put to it, but if his expression was anything like the emotions he was feeling, no doubt he looked a mess.

"Like… sad."

Elizabeth had thought that Henry might attempt a smile for her at her words, to try and prove that he was fine.

He didn't.

Instead, he turned her urgently to him with his hands on her hips, lifted one hand to thread it into her hair, and kissed her.

She could feel in his kiss everything he wanted to say but couldn't quite put into words, the worry and anguish and relief he was feeling, and the need for affirmation, to reconnect and find again their solid ground. She gave as good as she got, pushing back against him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders, letting the solidity of him anchor her. The stress and sorrow and anger bubbled low in her gut, still present, but kept at bay by the security offered by her husband. Then her stomach brushed against his, the fabric of his shirt against her bare skin, innocent and intimate, and without thinking she pulled back, tearing her mouth from his and gasping in a breath.

She shouldn't be giving him this burden. It had been her decision to go to Iran. She knew Henry hadn't wanted her to, and he had been right, but she had gone, because she had to. And look what had happened. Bodies were hanging in the streets. Fred had died because of her. She had worn his blood on her skin all the way to Landstuhl where a nurse had cleaned her up, sympathy in her eyes that Elizabeth hadn't been able to look at without feeling shame. And Abdol… She couldn't tell Henry about Abdol. She couldn't tell anyone.

How would she even start to put it into words? Properly express the culpability she felt.

No. Henry didn't need that.

But he did need an explanation, because he was standing with his hands lightly on her shoulders like he wasn't sure if he should be touching her, and his face was struggling not to collapse into full-blown worry and guilt, like he thought he'd done something wrong. "Babe?" he prompted, when she failed to say anything to explain why she had pulled away from him.

Then again, it was Henry, and he understood her better than anyone. She stared at him, dropping any attempt to conceal her emotions, and just let him look at her face for a few moments, just until he understood.

Understood that right now, she just didn't know. Everything was upside down.

She clung tightly to his arms, willing him to understand that she didn't want him to pull back from her even though she had just pulled back from him.

His face softened and he gave her a tender smile. "Come on," he said, sliding one hand down her arm and around to her shoulder blade, applying gentle pressure to direct her towards the shower.

"I'm so tired," she found herself saying without realising she was going to do so, the unprompted words seeming to cover a multitude of sins.

Henry's thumb rubbed across her skin. "I know. It's OK."

Thank God. He got it.

Elizabeth pulled off the rest of her clothes and stepped under the stream of running water, feeling the sting of it against her minor abrasions and the way it felt like hot knives against the stitched-up slash on her back. Curiously, she welcomed it, turning her face up into the spray and letting it wash over her, aware that the remains of blood and dust and grime would be pooling in the shallow tray and then swirling down the drain, diluted by the water until they were barely even noticeable, dispersed and vanished.

She knew that. But they were still there, just beneath the surface of her skin.

A hand touched her hip and she turned to find Henry just behind her, water sluicing down his body as he stood with her beneath the spray.

How come the water washed him clean when she still felt so tainted?

The water around their feet gradually turned clear, the soluble remnants of Elizabeth's trip to Iran washed away down the drain. Henry used a washcloth to wipe away a stubborn bit of dried blood from her arm, and that was the last of it. It made him feel like a weight was lifting, even as she stood before him with cuts and bruises and her face hollow and exhausted: it felt cathartic, like healing.

It bolstered him, even as his concern lingered.

Henry stood in the shower with her while she washed her hair, resisting the urge to step in and take over when it was clear it was paining her to reach up for prolonged periods. He knew that she needed the control, the expression on her face when she had looked at him just before getting in the shower telling him that she felt off-kilter, out of control, and she needed it back. However small the action was, and however much he ached to step in and take care of her.

Once she had finished, Elizabeth stepped into him and wrapped her arms around his waist, squeezing firmly as she laid her head against his shoulder. Henry gladly returned the embrace, slightly unsure if she was actively seeking comfort or if it was the manifestation of her exhaustion taking over. Either way, he welcomed the contact after days of worry and empty arms, and it was several minutes before he was able to bring himself to draw one arm away from her so he could reach out and switch off the running water.

He shivered as the cool air hit, goosebumps forming on his skin and Elizabeth's, although she appeared not to notice the chill when the water stopped and Henry reached out to draw back the shower curtain, letting out the steam and replacing it with the cooler air of the bathroom.

Having something to do helped him, even if it was just reaching out to grab a towel off the rail so he could wrap it around Elizabeth, before reaching back to get one for himself. Next he manoeuvred them out of the shower and into the bedroom, where he sat Elizabeth down on the edge of the bed, water still clinging to her skin and dripping from her hair. The abrasions on her arms and her assorted bruises stood out vividly against her skin and the white of the towel now that she was washed clean.

She seemed to be lost in her thoughts as he stepped away, hardly noticing as he quickly dried himself off and stepped into sweatpants and pulled on a t-shirt before leaving her alone in their bedroom for a minute so he could run downstairs and retrieve her suitcase – and the fresh dressings - from the car where she had left it in the care of her DS agents.

Her depleted, wounded DS agents who had been with her in the line of fire.

In the morning he would offer them his commiserations over Fred and linger for a while to speak with those who remained, but for the time being he simply extracted the suitcase from the back of the car without meeting anyone's eye and gave them a guilty, grateful smile as he headed back inside to his wife.

One day he'd find a way to repay them for what they did to save her life.

Elizabeth could smell the smoke coming closer.

She was trapped under Fred's body and she couldn't get out, but the smoke was closing in, gathering around her in a shroud, and the flames were licking at the edges of her vision. And little Abdol was screaming.

The weight, the smoke, the panic, the noise… she couldn't breathe.

Hands touched her shoulders and she jumped, startled, her eyes flashing open to find Henry's face directly before her as he crouched down in front of where she sat on the edge of the bed – home, safe, where nothing was burning and the only screams to be heard were the memories in her head. But the breaths still struggled to come.

"Hey, Elizabeth, it's OK." Henry's warm, broad palms stroked over her shoulders, solid and real, encouraging her back to him. "It's OK, look at me." His head dipped to catch her gaze and make sure she complied. "You're all right. Just breathe."

She did as she was told, her husband's calm, steady voice helping to reassure her and re-establish her connection with reality. Reality, where she had things to accomplish, work to do. She couldn't afford to lose herself to visions of dead men and a screaming child in front of a backdrop of dust and flames. She needed to be present. She needed to build a barrier between herself and what had happened so that she could focus on her work.

The only trouble was she wasn't quite sure how to do that.

Instead she just focused on Henry, letting him soothe her, watching as his face gradually leeched itself of fraught worry and was replaced instead by the soft, loving smile she was so used to seeing on his features. It helped. He helped. "Sorry," she said.

He shook his head. "No need, babe. It's gonna take time."

She didn't have time. She couldn't afford to waste any time on her own demons when there was so much else to do, and not when she was still breathing and Fred and Javani were not. But she couldn't say that to Henry, because she knew he wouldn't agree. Instead, she said, "I know."

Not technically a lie.

"I got your suitcase," Henry said as he stood up, holding his hand out to her and encouraging her to join him.

She let him help pull her to her feet and gave him a smile. A tiny part of her wanted to protest at his close attentiveness, at how almost clingy he was being, but she knew that he needed the connection. He must have been so worried. She could read it on him, in every look and action. She had put that worry there, deep within him, and so if he needed to fuss over her to make himself feel a bit better, she'd let him.

It made her feel a bit better too, she realised. Being able to do something for him - even if it was just standing still in front of him while he wrapped fresh bandages around the cuts on her arms and taped a fresh piece of cushioned gauze to her back before pulling one of his own t-shirts over her head - made her feel more in control. It made her feel useful, to be able to help him so easily. It made her want to do more. She raised one hand to cup his cheek, feeling the slight tremor in her own arm as she forced her tired muscles to cooperate. "Henry, you can talk about it, you know. You can talk to me." She didn't want him to bottle anything up just because she was feeling on edge.

He turned his head and kissed her palm. "I know. And I will." He slid his arms around her, letting his forehead drop to her shoulder. "But after we sleep."

Elizabeth held his head against her, stroking his hair and breathing deeply – breathing deeply for the first time since leaving Henry and the kids to go to Iran. It made her think that maybe everything would be OK. Eventually. After some time. Elizabeth McCord didn't break, not for anything.

At the very least she thought that she would be able to put on a brave enough face to make it through work the next day without anyone suspecting the turmoil going on inside her head.

She kissed the top of Henry's head. "Henry, if you want to sleep, we've got to get in bed."

He released a long, hot breath against her. "I'm comfy here."

She smiled. "You'll be comfier if we're in bed."

He squeezed her gently. "Yeah."

Henry let her go and moved to close the curtains while Elizabeth climbed – finally – into bed. It was light outside, somewhere close to lunchtime, but she didn't care. She hadn't slept in almost two days, and she'd confidently bet from the look of him that Henry was the same.

He slid into bed beside her and turned on his side to look at her, one hand reaching out to slide across her stomach, his face close enough to hers that she could feel his breath on her cheek. "I'm so glad you're home," he said, his voice already heavy and drowsy as he let go of the tension he'd been feeling and let himself fall gratefully towards sleep.

She wrapped her hand around his on her stomach, enjoying the feel of his fingers curling firmly around hers. "Me too. Thank you for being amazing."

His nose nuzzled her hair and his lips pressed briefly against her temple before his head dropped back to the pillow. "Thank you for coming home to me."

Her heart ached as she remembered how she almost hadn't.

Henry fell quiet then and Elizabeth listened as his breaths evened out and he succumbed to sleep. She wanted desperately to join him. Her eyes felt gritty and her eyelids were heavy and drawn together like magnets, but still she couldn't seem to keep them closed for longer than a couple of seconds at a time. She was so tired she felt nauseated. She had to sleep.

She had to sleep because when she woke up, she would have to go to work, and once she got to work there would be no room for tiredness. She needed to get to the bottom of what was going on, deal with the aftermath of the coup attempt, and somehow try and atone for Fred and Javani and Abdol. She couldn't do that unless she slept.

Yet for some reason, sleep wouldn't come. Instead she stared at the ceiling, her thoughts unable to settle, her hand wrapped around Henry's, clinging on to him for purchase as he rested peacefully next to her.

Outside the sun was shining. She heard the sound of a car engine revving from the other side of the street and then the vehicle pulled away, casting moving shadows over the ceiling as it disappeared down the road. Her stomach lurched and her head swam as she watched them. With the car gone, the shadow on the ceiling changed to that of the lamppost outside the house, some trick of the light casting the perfect impression of it across the blank canvas of her bedroom ceiling, bringing with it the shadow of a memory of a makeshift gallows on the streets of Tehran. The bleak reminder captivated her.

If she looked at that shadow too long, she thought that she saw a body hanging there, tethered by rope and swinging slightly in the breeze. Elizabeth lay below the dead, unblinking, reliving that last drive through the streets of Tehran, weighed down by the guilt and mess of emotions coursing through her. She couldn't look away. She held her breath.

Beside her, Henry shifted in his sleep, reminding her of what was real. Elizabeth let out a long breath and blinked to clear her vision.

There was no body hanging from her bedroom ceiling, and the shadows there were only shadows. She was fine. She forced her eyes to close, willing herself to believe it.

Finally – finally - unconsciousness beckoned.

She took the memories with her to sleep.