Disclaimer – Spooks belongs to Kudos and the BBC. The title is borrowed as well.

First part of the Series 4 'If you could read my mind' trilogy. This is set between 4.3 and 4.4.

For Em. Belated Happy Birthday. xx

Ghost From A Wishing Well

If you could read my mind love
What a tale my thoughts could tell

Gordon Lightfoot

Harry is surprised to see the Grid's lights already on as he steps from one of the pods. Despite their propensity for long hours, he wasn't expecting any of his team to be working today. They were in a rare lull – still busy but not hellishly so – and he'd made it clear they should make the most of the opportunity to have an entire weekend to themselves. His gaze comes to rest on a familiar coat draped over the back of a chair. Apparently, he hadn't been as unambiguous as he'd thought and Ruth has applied her own interpretation to his entreaty, although at the moment, she is nowhere to be seen. He sighs, wearily, and crosses the floor to his office, vowing he'll try to persuade her to go home the minute she reappears.

Ten minutes of trawling through his inbox is enough to convince Harry he is in desperate need of caffeine. He traipses back across the Grid and, as he nears the poky kitchenette, he can hear the sound of running water.

"Which part of 'have a good weekend and try not to think about this place' did you not understand?" he asks, conversationally, as he enters the kitchen.

Ruth, clearly startled by his arrival, turns to face him, a delicate pink blush staining her cheeks. "I er, I thought I'd finish off a few things…seeing as it's quiet."

"Is that so?"

She nods. "Mm, just some paperwork and a couple of other bits and bobs."

Harry's gaze shifts from her face as something beside her catches his eye. In the sink is a plastic bucket, half-filled with flowers. There are more blooms on the draining board, awaiting attention.

"Secret admirer?" he quips, one eyebrow partially raised.

"Sorry?" she replies, momentarily puzzled by his question. "Oh, no. I-I'm going to the cemetery after I'm finished here. That's what the flowers are for."

Harry silently berates himself for his flippant remark as he realises what her intentions are. "Danny?"

Her head bobs up and down. "I haven't had a chance to go."

He can see so many emotions in her expression; grief, anger, guilt, and a weary acceptance that this is their lot in life. They don't get time to grieve; she didn't get time to grieve despite his promise. They don't get time to love, either, and that is something that troubles him a great deal these days.

"They're from my garden," she announces, obviously feeling the need to say something. "I didn't see the point of buying flowers when I have my own." There is a defiant edge to her voice, daring him to argue, to accuse her of being a cheapskate. "I know they wouldn't win any prizes but that's not the point."

"I think it's a lovely idea. Something you've nurtured, something you've given love and attention. I also think they're very beautiful, all of them."

She shuffles about, embarrassed by his comments, before returning to the task of sorting out the flowers. "I should finish this," she mumbles, briefly glancing over her shoulder at him.

"OK." He pauses. "I was going to make a coffee. Do you want one? Or would you prefer tea?"

"Um, tea, please," she replies, without looking at him.

"I, ah, I need to…" He holds the kettle up, waiting for Ruth to acknowledge him.

"Oh, sorry." She moves to one side to allow him to get to the sink. "Anyway, it's not just me who didn't take your advice," she remarks as he turns the tap on. "About enjoying the weekend."

Harry smiles, ruefully. "True. But I'm the boss."

"Even so, there must be things you'd rather be doing," she comments, an insistent note in her voice.

"Right now, Ruth, I'm perfectly happy where I am."

She slowly digests his words, unsure how to interpret them or whether he's expecting a reply. Deciding silence is her best option, she moves back to the sink.

Surprised by his own admission, Harry also chooses to stay quiet and contents himself with watching her as she carefully sorts through the flowers. It's a typically Ruth selection. Delicate purple asters; white carnations with crimson edged petals; slightly wind blown delphiniums that are beginning to droop; pale yellow chrysanthemums and bright red freesias. He picks one up, inhaling the familiar scent.

"My mother loved freesias. I used to buy her some when I could. Although," he adds, a slight smile tugging at his lips, "she always thought I'd been up to something when I came home with them."

"And had you?" Ruth asks, the words tumbling out before she can stop them.

"Sometimes," he says, amused by her question, "and sometimes not."

-x-

They have retreated to their desks, both pretending to be dealing with the tasks they have ostensibly come into the office to complete but each distracted by the other's presence. Ruth raises her head just enough so that she can discreetly look into Harry's office. He has his phone pressed to his ear and is rummaging through his desk drawer. She continues to watch him until curiosity gets the better of her.

She lightly taps on the doorframe before walking into his office. "Is something wrong, Harry?" she asks, when he has finally completed his call.

"The DG's in. Sod's law. The day I turn up without a tie, the old bugger demands to see me." Harry opens another drawer. "I thought I had a spare one in here."

"Can't you go as you are?"

He stops, mid-search, and looks at her. She's right, of course, but he can't quite shake off the irrational thought that he won't feel properly dressed for his meeting if he isn't wearing a tie. But this is not a fear he's about to share with Ruth.

"You know how it is," he states, vaguely, resuming the hunt for the elusive neckwear. "The DG gets a bit sniffy about that sort of thing."

Ruth frowns; she is certain that the DG probably couldn't care less about what Harry is wearing but she keeps the thought to herself. She turns on her heel and leaves his office muttering something about the forgery suite.

When she comes back a few minutes later, she's carrying three ties. "One of these should be suitable," she says, holding the items out for inspection.

"Which do you think?" Harry asks.

She blushes a little, thrown by his question. "Um, well…maybe the black one? N-no. Too funereal." Overcoming her usual reticence, she moves closer to him. "This one, I think." She holds up a blue and grey striped tie, her hand resting lightly against his chest.

"Perfect," he replies, and takes the tie from her. There is a moment, an all too brief moment, when their fingers touch and both of them entertain the idea of voicing certain thoughts that are usually kept safely locked away.

"I-I should…get back to, ah, what I was…" Ruth stammers, looking everywhere but at Harry.

"Hang on a minute." His hands work nimbly as he does the tie up. "Will I do?" he asks, quietly, folding the collar of his shirt back down.

Ruth is fully aware of the context of the question but she still has to think carefully how to word her response. "I'm sure you'll meet with the DG's approval," she says, smiling.

"I'll take your word for it," he answers, dryly.

-x-

The Grid is in darkness when Harry returns and it seems remarkably empty without Ruth. The prospect of spending a little more time alone with her had kept him going through his longer than expected meeting and her absence provokes a familiar emotional response. He's almost ready to admit to himself that it's no longer just her company he desires. Almost ready.

He wanders slowly back into his office, the overhead lights flickering on as the motion detectors sense his movements. He's halfway across the floor when he spots something on his desk; a tall, glass tumbler, half filled with water, a crimson red freesia standing proudly in it. When he's within reach, he lifts his hand and lets the petals lightly brush over the back of his index finger. As the velvety softness caresses his skin, he smiles. The thoughtfulness of her gesture is deeply touching and the idea of thanking her in person, irresistible.

He knows she was intending to visit the cemetery and reasons she will go there first. He checks his watch. Depending when she left and, assuming she went by public transport, she might still be there. It takes just a few minutes to go back through the CCTV to find her departure time. For a moment he wonders if it is right to follow her; she may want to be on her own, but he'll take a chance that she'll be glad of company; specifically, his company.

-x-

Harry finds a parking space close to the cemetery gates and he takes this as a sign he's doing the right thing, although fate, as an abstract concept, is not something he truly believes in. He's all too aware that people have the ability to make choices that influence the paths their lives take; to decide whether to be selfish or selfless. The Service is littered with plenty of examples of both. Danny made a choice and it led to the ultimate sacrifice.

The gravel path crunches under his feet and he realises he isn't entirely sure where Danny's grave is. He stops by a plan of the cemetery and studies it for a few moments. He knows the plot number, he always remembers them – a rather macabre talent, he thinks. Once he is certain where he's going, he starts walking again.

A simple wooden cross with a small brass plaque marks the grave. Ruth's flowers have been carefully arranged in two small stone jars but she's not there. Harry looks around to see if she's close by and spots a small figure sitting on a bench a couple of hundred yards away. He watches as she wipes her eyes, and wonders if he should go and comfort her. He waits for a few minutes, giving her time to gather her composure, and turns his attention back to the grave. There are other flowers, including a pot that contains some bright orange dahlias. The vibrant mix of colours are a fitting celebration of a life.

He wanders slowly along the path towards Ruth and sits down beside her.

"If you want me to leave, just say so," he offers, by way of greeting.

She shakes her head. "No. It's fine. I'm glad you're here," she adds, quietly.

He doesn't have an answer to that, at least, not one that won't lead to a difficult conversation.

"I'm sorry," he eventually says, breaking the silence that shrouds them. "For making a promise I couldn't keep."

"You mean after…" She stops, unable to say it.

"Yes." He turns to look at her. "I'm not sure it was my promise to make."

"Perhaps not." She smiles at him; a beautiful, serene smile that make his heart ache. "But you meant it, that was the most important thing. And you kept us going, Harry. Without you…" She gives a small shrug of her shoulders. "Without you, we would never have got Fiona back."

He looks away, embarrassed.

"It's true." Her fingers rest lightly on his arm and he finds his gaze drawn back to her. "You helped us to focus on what was important, at that moment."

"I wish I'd done more," he replies, his voice thick with emotion. "I should have done more."

She squeezes his arm. "We did all that we could, Harry. All of us."

He lets himself take solace in her words but feels guilty. He should be the one comforting her.

"Harry?"

"I can't help thinking…" He hesitates. "Another life cut short."

There was a time when Ruth would have been surprised by this kind of admission from Harry but not any more.

"And the real reasons for it known only to a handful of people," she says, thoughtfully.

Harry nods. "What's that Shakespeare quote? The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones."

"Rather fitting for our line of work," she comments, wryly.

They remain sitting together, in silence, until Ruth announces that it's time for her to go home.

"I can drive you."

She considers refusing his offer but decides she's not ready to say goodbye to him just yet.

"OK, thank you," she smiles.

-x-

Scarlett greets Harry excitedly when he opens the front door.

"Hello girl," he says, patting the dog affectionately. "I know I've been a while and you want a walk but I need to sort these out first."

He lays the newspaper-wrapped bundle he's carrying onto the kitchen worktop and takes his coat off. A thought strikes him as he slips his feet out of his shoes and he heads into the sitting room.

Returning to the kitchen, he carefully rinses out the vase he'd retrieved from the top of the bookshelf and fills it with water. It belonged to his mother and is, he thinks, very fitting for the flowers that Ruth gave him. When he's finished arranging them, he places the vase in the centre of the kitchen table. The scent of the freesias is already beginning to fill the room, and he smiles.