One week later…

It was a Saturday evening, and Harry Pearce was sitting very still in a pew in St. Martin-In-The-Field, all but holding his breath as the music washed over him. The very air in that place had taken on beatific, rarefied sort of quality, and if he closed his eyes he could almost see the ghosts of old friends come to sit alongside him. They had not come to haunt him with bloodstained faces and accusatory eyes; when his thoughts drifted to those he'd lost - and Ros most especially as that wound was freshest - he felt only a peaceful sort of lament. They had given their lives in sacrifice so that others' lives might be saved, and as he sat in that place, thinking of that sacrifice, thinking of St. Martin who had with his sword cut his own cloak in two so that he could give half of it to a beggar on a cold winter's day, he felt profoundly grateful. He was grateful for their sacrifice, grateful to have known such brave souls, grateful to still be living, to take up their charge. He was grateful for this place, and this moment to sit in quiet contemplation.

And by God, he was grateful for Ruth.

She had as it turned somewhat undersold the sophistication of her choir, for they were at present performing the entirety of Beethoven's Ninth with grace and vigor. His eyes sought her out through the cool dimness of that room, finding her at once. Ruth and her compatriots were all dressed in black, his lover wearing a soft dress that tucked in neatly at her waist and flared around her hips, the sleeves stopping just beneath her elbows and the demure cut of the neckline showing off a modest amount of her pale skin. Her eyes shone, as she sang, her dark hair curling gently around her face, and as he watched her it seemed to him that he found the answer to his every question in her glorious eyes. She was beautiful, was Ruth, possessed of a loveliness that was all her own, made all the more remarkable by his knowledge of her spirit, her heart, her resilience. To Harry it was almost as if the room were empty save for himself and his love and their memories, so wholly did she command his attention. He spared a moment for wondering if anyone else in that place was as captivated by her, if any of the people standing alongside her had any idea what sort of woman sang in their midst, the life she had led, the grand and terrible things she had done. He supposed not; to them she was likely just Rachel - for he had collected a program as he entered the building, and saw that none of the singers was named Ruth, but one was called Rachel Evans, and he was dead certain that was her legend - quiet and retiring and utterly unremarkable. Poor bastards, he thought, counting himself a lucky one indeed to have been blessed to share her life so intimately.

As the music swelled and burst around him he pondered his Ruth, and the state of affairs between them, and the condition of his own battered heart. She was everything to him, was Ruth, had stood by him in his darkest hour, had led them all through calamity, had shown dignity and grace under pressure, had demonstrated a capacity for leadership that he knew no one had previously ascribed to her. That was the thing about Ruth; she was terribly unassuming, but when the moment called for it she could rise to any occasion, and completely trounce any previously held notion as to the limits of her determination. There was no institution in the country safe from her intellect, and there was no problem too big for her gentle hands.

The last few months had been riddled with chaos and doubt and grief, but the end of the Nightingale fiasco - for in truth the key players had all fallen like dominoes once the Pakistani President had returned home and placed the leader of his army in prison - brought with it a welcome respite, a chance to reflect. And as Harry thought back over that tumultuous time, the one truth he came back to, time and time again, was that he was certain their efforts would not have been half so successful had Ruth not been by his side. He was doubly certain that he personally would not have been able to hold himself together, to toe the line, to do the right thing, had it not been for her gentle guidance. It was Ruth who counselled prudence, who gave him a safe place to voice his misgivings, who sat up with him many a night and talked through whatever problem they were facing when no one else on his team would have - or could have - done the same. It was Ruth who held him, when his heart was breaking, Ruth who had slowly begun to mend the fissures in his very soul.

It was Ruth he could not - did not want to - live without.

At last the concert drew to a close, and Harry shuffled outside with the rest of the throng. The choir would remain behind for drinks and a bit of a party, but Ruth had confessed that she had no interest in attending, and agreed to meet him just outside the church when the music was finished. So Harry lingered there on the edge of Trafalgar Square, looking out upon the fountain and the statues and the twinkling lights of his beloved London. For the most part the throngs of tourists that throttled the square in the daytime had departed, and Harry was allowed the opportunity to gaze out across the plaza, to think. In the darkness he picked out Nelson's Column and the great lions, thinking about Nelson, about Bloody Sunday, about the hundreds of demonstrations that had taken place in the square, the people who had come together on that ground to lift their voices for freedom, to howl their dissent, to demand more from their government. Harry had, in his own way, committed his life to similar goals, and he wondered then, tucking his hands in his pockets and breathing deeply of the crisp night air, how he would be remembered by those who had known him. There would be no songs for Sir Harry Pearce, he knew, no public displays of gratitude for all that he had done - besides the knighthood he had quietly received for reasons left unspecified, standing next to an aging pop star - but he worked hard and tried his best not for glory, but for the sake of the people he led, all those who had placed their confidence in him. He hoped that he done them proud, that one day they would remember him fondly, as he remembered Ros, and Jo, and Adam, and Fiona, and Danny, and Colin, and Bill, and all the rest. He hoped that, years from now, Ruth would still be proud of him.

In the midst of this reverie she came to him, silent as a shadow but smiling at him softly in the darkness. He could not help but return that smile when she slipped her arm through his and sidled up close enough for him to brush a kiss against her temple.

"You did beautifully, Ruth," he told her earnestly. Ruth had performed a solo in the piece, and all but stunned him with the sweet clarity of her gentle voice. At his words she shone, and an idea that he had been wrestling with for weeks now began to solidify in his heart.

"Thank you," she murmured. "Now, how about that drink?"

Harry had promised to take Ruth for a drink after, and so they set off on foot, to cross the square and make their way down to The Admiralty for a pint and perhaps a bit of food. With each step they took Harry's heart beat harder, and faster, until he could hardly think for the rush of blood in his ears. It had to be now, he told himself, in this moment while her steps were light, when they were not thinking of death and loss but instead buoyed along upon a wave of hope. They drew level with the fountain, and Harry stopped in his tracks.

Beside him Ruth stumbled, unprepared for his abrupt movement, and he caught her with both hands on her hips, drawing her close to him once more. Trembling now, Harry bowed his head so that their foreheads were touching, gently, his lips so close to hers, his eyes closed lest the sheer glory of her stun him at such intimate proximity.

"Harry," Ruth breathed, her hands rising up between them to grasp at his lapels, draw him closer. Perhaps she thought he meant to kiss her, and to be fair he did, but there was something he had to say first.

"Marry me, Ruth," he whispered, his voice only just carrying above the splashing of the fountain.

It was rash, he knew, to ask her such a thing when they had not even discussed it, but the truth was he had loved her for years, and now that he knew that love was returned he could not spend another moment without her by his side.

At his words Ruth gasped, and he rushed to explain himself, not releasing his hold on her, taking some comfort from the fact that she did not step away from him.

"I love you," he said, thinking that was probably the best place to start, "and I don't want to waste another moment of our time together pretending you don't mean absolutely everything to me. Ros died, Ruth, and it could very well be me next. I don't know how much time is left to me, but I do know that I want to spend every minute of it with you. Marry me, Ruth."

"Harry, I know losing Ros has shaken you," she began slowly, but Harry just shook his head, and pressed on.

"It's made me see clearly. You and I, we've lost so much time, because of our circumstances, because of what other people might think. I don't give a damn what anyone thinks but you, Ruth. I love you. Most completely. Why shouldn't we be together and happy for as long as we can?"

In his arms, Ruth was shaking. She was warring with herself, he knew, her tendency towards self-preservation battling against the desires of her heart. For a moment he was terribly uncertain as to which side of her would prevail; oh, he knew that she loved him, knew that she had laid down beside him in his bed and whispered her love, her devotion to him, had casually remarked once that things might be a bit easier if they lived in the same place, had returned to him amidst grief and yet given him everything she had without reservation. He could only pray that, just this once, she would listen to her heart, would allow herself this opportunity to be happy, to cast aside the sorrow that had marked her for so many long years now.

"Oh, Harry," she said, her voice choked by tears, and his heart began to sink, but then she was speaking again, "Are you sure?"

A cautious sort of hope rose up within him.

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life," he swore.

Ruth leaned back in his arms, reaching up to cradle his cheeks in her palms, forcing him to look at her, at the tears sparkling diamond-bright in the corners of her eyes, the smallest of smiles begin to light upon her full lips.

"Then yes, Harry," she whispered. "Yes, I will marry you."

There was nothing for it then but to kiss her, and so he did, with great relish, his hands still clasping her hips, clinging to her for dear life as the fountain played beside them and the lights of the city twinkled all around them and together they cultivated a small seed of hope. Yes, she would be his wife, and he would be her husband, and he would do whatever he could to make her happy, all the rest of his days.

He could not kiss her indefinitely, however, not in such a public place, and so he slowly withdrew, catching her bottom lip between his teeth for just a moment, nipping lightly, a promise for later.

"Well, then," he said, grinning somewhat foolishly. "Would you still like that drink, Lady Pearce?"

Her eyes widened at his teasing, and then she choked out a tear-soaked laugh, and shook her head.

"Take me home, Sir Harry," she said breathlessly.

And so he did.