A/N: It's been a while since I posted anything, so I thought I'd share this Ros one-shot that I wrote a while back. Reviews are always appreciated!

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The death of Adam Carter was a mere blip to MI5 as a whole. Officers die, or leave, or get the sack. There are many different departments each with maybe a hundred workers, totalling a number of spies into the thousands. Virtually untraceable secret agents, who you might pass in the street or sit next to on the bus. Statistically, Adam's death meant very little.

But when you begin to scale it down, to the department he worked in or the family members he left behind, it becomes apparent that his death meant rather a lot. There is evidence for this. Kachimov's body, for instance. A hotel room, with furniture smashed to pieces. Dark purple rings under eyes heavy with tears and heaps of flowers by a cold marble gravestone. A nine-year-old who can't comprehend that he is now an orphan.

It's been nearly a week since the funeral but I still can't quite be brazen about it. So long, Adam, I long to say, desperate to shed my grief as easily as a scarf. But it's got its claws in me, and the only way to shake it off is to work, keep going to the Grid which would never again carry the sound of his concise orders or authoritative footsteps. But Adam is still very much alive on the Grid in an ethereal way, which is oddly reassuring but also fatal. I can clearly visualise him coming through the pods, or pacing to his desk, and it comes as a shock when he doesn't somehow materialise. Whenever I start to picture him like that I force myself to tidy my desk, make coffee, grab any opportunity to distract my restless thoughts. Falling into the trap of longing for his presence would achieve nothing, apart from fuelling the grief.

I pushed Harry to give me the role of Section Chief so I could force myself into accepting that he won't return to claim the role. I give the orders now. But that doesn't mean I don't wonder if they are the ones he would have chosen, the way he would have dealt with an operation. The success of his reign over Section D, despite being punctuated with various emotional and operational disasters, caused me to doubt my decisions; they felt inadequate compared to his natural leadership skills. He had been a man of the people. Everyone doted on him, even if some of his relationships were rough around the edges. I could take a leaf out of his book - I am tolerated at best due to my operational record, but I doubt I'll ever be described as sympathetic or approachable. Adam had the knack of making alliances that I have never managed to achieve.

I think the most bizarre encounter I had that showed the depth of the connection that Adam had with his friends was when I emptied his locker and found a mobile phone. I had vowed to complete my task as quickly as possible, biting down hard on my lip to prevent myself from doing something ridiculous like scream or cry at the sight of the possessions that his hands would never hold again, but the phone snared my interest. It definitely wasn't his work or personal mobile, and I'd never seen it before.

There was no number saved in a contact, of course. Adam was too clever for that. It was stored somewhere on the phone. The speed dial.

I keyed in the number nine, the number of years that Wes has been alive, and held the receiver to my ear.

What followed was a strange, slightly hostile conversation with a male whose voice I recognised, and despite our less than harmonious encounter in the past I agreed to meet him. It may sound foolish, and definitely was outside of any professional parameters, but I trusted Adam's judgement indefinitely and decided to put aside my own reservations about the man I was about to meet.

"You must be Ros Myers," was his opening sentence when I met him at a café on a rainy morning. He laughed at my shocked expression. "Adam mentioned you. His description was spot on."

"What description?" I couldn't help but demand.

"A graceful blonde who could kill you with a single look."

I might have smiled had those words not come from a dead man.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you," he smirked, dropping down into the seat opposite me.

"Oh, we've met before. But I suppose when you were pumping tear gas into my flat there wasn't much time for pleasantries."

His weather-beaten face broke into a grin that was almost sheepish. "Sorry about that. At least I didn't put a bullet in you."

"Unlike Nico Grecic, who you gave a final three in Rio de Janeiro," I told him, noting the slight surprise on his face with satisfaction. "I did my homework too, Mr Dempsey."

We shared a brief smile before I decided to move the topic to the reason for my presence.

"I guess you've twigged why I'm here instead of him," I said.

"Yeah," he nodded, before his easy smile faded. "I never thought I'd see the day. I thought Adam Carter was immortal."

A part of me wanted to snort derisively, but I felt an odd sense of having had the same thought myself. It always seemed like death was for other people, and not something that Adam would ever have time for. His long list of near death experiences had almost convinced me that he was so skilled at avoiding death that I'd never have to deal with him actually dying, so when it happened it caught me off guard. I thought there must be a different ending to the operation, and that if I refused to believe that he was gone then maybe he wouldn't be. A childish train of thought, but a comforting one for those first few hours afterwards that I spent pacing the streets alone, not sure why I was walking so quickly or where I was going but adamant not to stop. When I finally accepted that there was no happy ending, I had a healthy helping of whisky before unconsciously smashing up my hotel room under the weight of insufferable grief and the realisation that he was really gone.

There isn't much else to comment on in regards to my meeting with Richard, other than that I warmed to him from then onwards because he took his coffee in the same way as me (even pushing aside the sugar bowl a little forcefully) and he told a few amusing anecdotes about Adam as a schoolboy. I thought hearing such stories would feel synonymous to having shards of glass pushed into my skin, but it was refreshing to know that Adam had been a kid who loved adventure who grew into an adult who loved adventure. He was passionate about his country. He had loved and been loved. In this business, that can be enough to say that someone has lived a good life.

Coffee dates with Richard Dempsey is not something that I will sign up for. In fact, I'd be very surprised if we were to ever cross paths again. I was going to ask what he does for a living, but he's got the aura of a Spook, the scars of a soldier and the muscles of a mercenary. Probably best not to push the topic, although my guess would be something combining danger and illegality. I could see why he and Adam had been friends.

Richard was another person to whom Adam Carter had mattered. Not many had known him, what he was really like behind the chivalry and suave facade. Richard did. It made him an ally in my eyes at least, and allies are incredibly valuable when facing the ongoing threat from the terrorists lurking in the capital, thirsty for hatred to run through the veins of this nation.

That's a scheme that I'm not willing to let play out to the bitter end: even if I have to do it without my closest friend by my side.

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