AN: I'm meant to be working on the plan for the Regency fic in my spare time, but other ideas just keep popping up. This is going to be really short though - only three chapters. The title comes from the first line of Shakespeare's Sonnet 97. I don't own anything (and after this chapter, I think you might be glad of that fact!). Enjoy...

"Ruth Evershed speaking." It was early on Monday morning, and she wasn't in the best of moods. Yet again, she and Erin Watts had clashed in the middle of Section D's daily briefing, and she could feel the beginnings of a horrid headache pulsing away at her temples. Her voice was perhaps sharper than necessary, so her caller hesitated before announcing herself.

"Ruth... it's Catherine," she began. "Catherine Townsend. I'm – "

Ruth interrupted quickly, keeping her voice low. She was alone at the moment, but Harry Pearce wasn't exactly MI-5's flavour of the month, after all. "Harry's daughter." Ruth frowned in puzzlement. Why would Harry's daughter be calling her? Catherine gave a sigh of relief that crackled, very audibly, down the telephone line. "Oh, you remember, thank God!"

"How can I help, Catherine?" asked Ruth calmly. "You're... you're not in any trouble, are you?" Catherine was a filmmaker who had worked in some highly dangerous countries, and she was also Harry's daughter, which provided her with the temper and stubbornness of an irate mule. Visions of Catherine in some foreign jail cell flashed briefly across Ruth's mind, before Catherine reassured her, "No, no. I'm fine." She hesitated again, and Ruth suddenly had a dreadful premonition of where their conversation was heading. It was inevitable, of course. "Actually... it's Dad," Catherine murmured.

Ruth gritted her teeth, unsure of what to say. How did you speak of a man who, not six months ago, had given up a state secret and (almost) his life to save yours, and had since been sent packing in disgrace for the offence? "How is he?" Ruth asked at last, her voice croaky. She swallowed nervously, waiting for Catherine's reply. Crackling again, this time in a sigh of fear and distress. "He's been better," Catherine replied bluntly. "Significantly better. I visited him last week, Ruth, and he practically threw me out. Said he didn't want sympathy or people fussing round him..." Harry's daughter trailed off tearfully, clearly upset by what had happened. Ruth closed her eyes briefly in pain. No matter how many times she had shied away from thoughts of Harry, she hadn't been able to completely stop herself from imagining what his life was like now. How he was coping. What he was doing.

She cleared her throat with a slight cough, and told Catherine gently, "He lost everything a few months ago, Catherine – his career, his knighthood... The wheelchair can't help matters, either." There, she had said it. Harry, in a wheelchair. Harry, a cripple as a result of Lucas' misplaced bullet, meant for his brain, which had shattered part of Harry's spine, leaving him paralysed from the waist down. Catherine sniffed, and Ruth realised that her own eyes were watering. "You and I both know he was prepared to be chucked out of the Service," Catherine argued softly. "And the knighthood didn't mean a thing to him, Ruth. But I'm worried about him."

The admission hardly surprised the older woman. But Ruth was still puzzled. "I don't see what this has to do with me, Catherine," she announced quietly. Catherine's voice returned, angry and accusing, like the rather petulant teenage girl Harry had described to them all those years ago. "I thought you were his friend. I thought you and he were..." The unspoken words held a meaning all too clear to Ruth. Something that was never said. Something wonderful that was never said.She brushed away the tears with a vexed swipe of her hand, ignoring Dimitri's concerned look as he sat down at his own station. Since Beth's departure, he had become suddenly far more protective of Ruth and Tariq, the only remainders of the old battalion. "Yes, well, that was a long time ago," she interrupted brusquely. "Trust me, Catherine, I'm the last person he'd want to see. Just give him some time."

"Please, Ruth," Catherine begged. "Just one visit. Talk to him, try to make him see sense. I'm... I'm worried about what he might do." Her implication was once again clear. Ruth forced herself to remain objective, cold, calculating. That was, after all, what she was good at. "Your father isn't the type of man to commit suicide."

Catherine sighed, exasperated. She had never imagined that Ruth Evershed would be this cold. Stubborn, she had been prepared for. But never cold. "Before all this, I'd have agreed with you," she admitted. "He isn't a coward, Ruth, but he's hurting. I can't think of anyone else to call. I can't think of anyone else who can help him." Ruth bit her lip firmly, trying to quell the sudden image her brain has presented her with. Harry, trying to hurt himself. Harry, dying alone, old and broken. "I see," she whispered.

"Please, Ruth," Catherine repeated desperately. If anyone could help her father, Ruth Evershed could. Of that, she was convinced.

Ruth made a snap decision. She reached for her pad and pen.

"Where is he?"

AN: Please don't be mad at me for what I've done to Harry...