Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Who-verse. That honour belongs to RTD and the mighty and glorious BBC.

A/N: The end has come. I'd just like to say a huge thanks to Orion Lyonesse for being the most wonderful beta. Without her guiding hand this story wouldn't have been half the story it has turned out to be!

And now to the review roll call, those who have read and taken the time to review. The ever faithful Orion Lyonesse, cjh4ever, Ravejna70 and specialfrancine. And the no less wonderful IsabelEmrys, Wildfire2, Quiet Time, McParrot, chironsgirl, Phoenixclara, Izzfrogger, Vladiemma, bbmcowgirl, Allons-y Allonso, thunderincrimson, ForestSprite, Stossle, Ianto'sCoffeeGirl, Georgiexx and deeta. Thank you all so much, you really made my day sing when I read your comments.

And thanks too to everyone who has read, favourited or alerted. I hope you enjoyed the ride.

Now enough with the blathering...on with the epilogue.

There was a clatter as the flap of the letterbox settled back into place. The sound barely registered in Ellen Thompson's ears. A cold mug of tea, clasped between even colder fingers, sat untouched on the plain pine table. She had sat there all night, just as she had sat there every night for the past week. Every night since they had brought the news. He had been a lovely man, the young policeman. Untidy brown hair and an unlined face, but his eyes had been older than time. It wasn't the first time he'd had to give such news, she could tell. The words were well practised but no less sincere. I'm afraid I have some bad news... Bad news. It had shattered her world. Her daughter was gone. Dead. And they couldn't tell her how, or why, only that she was never coming home. We're doing all we can... Meaningless words, earnestly spoken. He wanted her to believe them, but she could tell by the expression in those old eyes that she would never know the truth. They wouldn't even let her see Katie's body. Too upsetting, they'd said. Serious injuries to her face. Better that she remember Katie the way she was.

But she hadn't even raised her head to look at her daughter's face that last day. If she'd known that that morning would have been the last time she would see Katie, she would have studied her face, imprinting each of the freckles Katie had hated so much on her memory. Instead, she'd been so absorbed in the bill, the latest in a line of red letters dropping through her letterbox, that she hadn't spared her daughter so much as a single glance. So absorbed with debts she couldn't pay. Debts that meant that she couldn't even afford to bury her daughter. The loan she had taken out yesterday with the Cole Brothers, to cover the funeral, was one she could never repay. Not with money anyway. It didn't matter though. Her baby was dead. It didn't matter what became of her now.

Woodenly, she rose from her chair, stiff from the long period of inactivity. She moved across the kitchen like a woman in her seventies, rather than just thirty-three years old, and stooped by the back door to pick up the plain manila envelope laying on the mat. Typed address. Formal. Probably another demand. Not that it mattered. The days of fighting to juggle pennies and keep a roof over their heads were over. The house could crumble to the ground now.

Ellen sank wearily back into her still warm chair, running a finger beneath the flap of the envelope, freeing the contents. Two pieces of paper fluttered out, landing face down on the table top. A folded sheet of crisp white A4 paper and a slip of creamy heavier quality paper. Picking up the sheet of A4, Ellen turned it over, unfolding it. There was a curious logo adorning the head of the paper, a T-shape formed from hexagons but in perspective, as if viewed along the axis of the paper. There was no company name, no address, only a hand-written note in beautiful, flowing, copperplate script.

Dear Ellen,

Please forgive my presumption in calling you by your first name. I realise that nothing I can say will make the pain you are going through now any easier. To lose a child is the greatest pain any parent can know, and I know that pain first hand. Whilst I cannot do anything to return Katie to you, I can tell you that the person responsible for Katie's death has been found and will not be able to hurt another child ever again.

I know how hard you have fought to give Katie and yourself a good life, and I am sure that she would not want her death to mean that you give up that fight. The only way we have to honour our children's memories is to keep fighting. I hope the enclosed will help you in your fight.

My thoughts are with you

Jack Harkness

Ellen blinked. With a shaking hand she lifted up the second slip of paper and turned it over. It was a cheque for a sum of money that made her gasp, more than enough to clear every debt, including what she owed to the hateful Cole Brothers, with more to spare. She studied the cheque carefully. It seemed genuine enough. It was the same design as the cheques that were issued by her own bank. The issuing account did not belong to the mysterious Jack Harkness though, the signature, neat and precise, clearly said Siân Joeton. It appeared Katie had left her in the care of a couple of guardian angels. And, for the first time since PC Andy Davidson had knocked on her door, Ellen Thompson cried for the daughter she had lost.

Gwen Cooper came barrelling in through the cog door of the Hub at a run. She was late. She'd said she'd be in at half past seven and it was already after eight. That was what being married to an amorous Welsh man did for you. The smile Rhys had put on her face when they had woken at dawn was still plastered disgustingly across her features. Jack and Ianto would take one look and know exactly what she had been up to, she thought with a smirk. Still, it made a change from the last couple of days when they had been the ones wearing the happy, smutty, together smiles every time she entered a room. She didn't think she'd ever seen the pair of them so contented.

"Sorry I'm late," she called, shrugging off her leather jacket and tossing it over the back of her workstation chair. "Traffic was bloody awful."

There was silence, Jack and Ianto nowhere in sight. Gwen frowned. She glanced up in the direction of Jack's office and down to the kitchen area where Ianto's coffee machine stood. There was no sound, and more disturbingly there was no smell of Ianto's favourite blend of coffee in the air. They were out, and had been for some time. Damn, that meant she'd either have to make a dash to the coffee shop up on the quay, or break out the secret jar of instant she kept hidden in her locker. She was just weighing up the pro of better coffee from the coffee shop with the con of having to traipse out of the Hub to get it when her eyes fell on a yellow post-it note tacked to her monitor between the picture Rhys had taken on the beach two days before, and the one of Tosh and Owen laughing over some long forgotten joke.

Gwen,
Gone to retrieve Mr William's hitch-hiker from the hospital. We'll be back by nine. Jack
P.S. Ianto says don't you dare open that jar of instant. He'll know!

Gwen chuckled. He would too. She glanced at the clock. Half-eight. If she left now she could get coffees and bacon sarnies all round, and be back for nine. She patted her jeans pocket and swore. Bugger, she'd left her cash back at the flat. A further pat of her back jeans pocket revealed the reassuring shape of her debit card. At least she could call in at the cash machine and get out a couple of tenner's.

She picked up her jacket and looked about the Hub, smiling contentedly. It was too quiet, but somehow the absence of life was less threatening now, the ghosts just echoes of the past, looking on in silent approval.

Eventually new people would occupy the empty workstations, new voices would demand Ianto's magic brew to see them through the long night hours, but in the meantime there was Gwen Cooper, there was Ianto Jones, and most importantly there was Captain Jack Harkness, leading the charge. They were Torchwood, and even with just the three of them, they were still pretty damned unbeatable.

The End