So this is it. I've deliberately posted the final chapter to coincide with the third anniversary of the broadcast of the S10 finale, plus also it's two and half years since I published the first chapter of this story. Thanks to all those who have faithfully read and reviewed, it has been appreciated more than I can say.

The Grid

Evening the next day

By now Harry should have been deposited at his front door steps, ready to enjoy an evening of well deserved rest and relaxation. Instead his long suffering driver was being forced to maintain squatters rights in the small lounge cum kitchen area allocated to the transport section. Waiting to end his shift for the day by driving Harry home meant that he was currently occupied in the desultory consumption of yet another cup of coffee, while privately betting that he'd have time for at least two more cups spaced well apart preceding a necessary trip to the Gents, before Sir Harry eventually decided that at this time of night he should call it a day.

In fact Harry should have departed from the Grid at least two hours previously but, as anyone well acquainted with him would have known, the words 'part time', 'recuperation' and any related synonyms were completely absent from his personal lexicon. From the moment yesterday when he'd been disgorged from the transparent pods, a ceremonial whoosh heralding his arrival, to the present twilight time he'd worked steadily onwards, his grim, set expression daring anyone to exhort him to leave for the sake of his health.

Erin, whose concern sprang primarily from worries over her boss's physical condition, rather than a lingering pique at having once more been ejected from her temporary stewardship of his office before she could move beyond the planning stage of an alternative decor – something more soothing than the flaring red walls she'd thought, perhaps pale green and few plants, a couple of cushions on the sofa with a small side table bearing a personalised coffee machine and ... - had at one point earlier in the day debated calling in Nat, he being the only medic who'd ever managed to square up to Harry successfully. She'd only been prevented from doing so by Malcolm's advice.

"He's better off occupied Erin, and he's not doing anything strenuous. I suspect he's missing Jane more than he'll ever admit to. Leave him in peace to re-adjust."

Erin's initial resentment at Malcolm's presence on the Grid had long since been consigned to its unmourned grave. She was now beginning to regard him as form of guru when it came to dealing with all things Harry. They did have a long paired history together, forged through several years fighting side by side in the endless under the radar intelligence wars, and they were also, in as far as Harry possessed such a thing, friends. Furthermore, since Malcolm was reitrating exactly the policy she'd adopted when Harry had returned to the Grid after Ruth's death, Erin was forced to admit the sense underlying his words. Daringly, as Malcolm was no gossip and Harry would be furious with anyone swapping data about his personal life, she enquired,

"Do you know how he and Jane left matters?"

Malcolm wasn't sure that he'd have told Erin even if he knew, but as it happened he didn't, so he merely shook his head.

"No" Feeling he'd been unfairly brusque he added, "You know how private Harry is." It was a statement designed to warn Erin off and away from further digging. As an old, most unwarlike, warrior Malcolm knew exactly how the service worked and was therefore well aware that Towers had almost certainly ordered Erin to report back upon Harry's state of mind. On that assumption alone, leaving aside her youthful tendency to vaunting ambition, Malcolm was not entirely certain how far he could trust her discretion when it came to briefing Towers. Harry would have to retire someday, probably not in the too far distant future, but Malcolm was determined to eschew any activity that might result in his long time friend and boss being forcibly put out to grass.

Erin, unaware that she'd been rumbled nodded, "Yes, we really only understood just how close he and Ruth were just before she died." Grasping at the straws of a mildly improved situation she concluded, "At least Jane is still alive."

Malcolm managed to wring out a weary smile, "While there's life they say." Before proceeding to offer Erin another piece of advice. "Go home Erin." As she swivelled her eyes uncertainly towards the glass panel behind which Harry was continuing to beaver, head down speed reading yet another hefty report, he promised her, "Don't worry I'll stay until he decides to go, I've plenty to do with the Intel from that aborted red flash."

His words made Erin rub her face almost with shame. She'd acquit Malcolm of making a malicious oblique reference to what was undoubtedly not her finest hour. Yesterday a sudden spike in Internet traffic plus a couple of phone calls from GCHQ had suggested that a hitherto disregarded terror cell had hastened forward with a plot that was threatening to blossom into an almost immediate bombing incident. Playing safe she'd activated a red flash, the one that had dragged Harry in a pelting hurry from Paddington, only to discover by the time he'd reached the Grid that the immediate threat had ameliorated and the flash correspondingly downgraded from imminent to merely urgent. Considering that he'd been interrupted in his farewells to Jane Harry been quite restrained, even understanding, although his stilled fury had been made manifest in his clenched jaw reaction.

"I'd prefer if in future before hitting the panic button you observed..." followed by a list of unchecked protocols that Erin had hastily committed to memory before virtually scampering from his office unscathed.

Longing to see Rosie, but still concerned about the wisdom of vanishing from the Grid while Harry lingered, Erin responded to this offer doubtfully. "But Malcolm it could be hours before he goes."

Malcolm brushed this away with the air of one who would be unsurprised by this development. "Probably, but it won't be the first time I've had to do this, and Erin, without wishing to usurp your role, he might take an extortion to quit for the night better from me than he would from you."

Erin could have taken umbrage at this but was well aware that what Harry would might regard as reasonable concern when expressed by an aged equal would, from her mouth, be considered an impertinence from the younger generation. Nor was there any point in seeking Malcolm's counsel just to ignore it. With a grateful 'Thank you' she prepared to leave, buoyed up with knowledge that Harry was going to be efficiently watched over while she, for once, could supervise Rosie's bath and bedtime routine.

Seated in his lonely pomp, after a couple of days during which the entire Grid staff had approached him only out of necessity and then preferably from a safe distance, Harry scarcely registered of the sound of the pods indicating that Erin had departed to savour the domestic life that he'd been deprived of for over twenty years. Scanning the darkened Grid he caught sight of Malcolm toiling away under the illumination of his single desk lamp. With a pang Harry recalled those occasions without number when it had only been himself and Rut, working away separately in a silent, complicit, loving but unacknowledged companionship. Those memories, much as he cherished them, still hurt. Painful to recall on Grid, and scarcely less painful when he crossed the threshold of his house, his lonely rooms and equally lonely bed, peopled not with flesh and blood reality, but with endless thoughts of what could have been. For once he was grateful for the endless paperwork that was ostensibly keeping him absorbed, providing him with an acceptable excuse to dally. He was all too aware that he should have left the Grid at least two hours ago as he deliberately set about staving off that inevitable moment when he'd finally have to face powering down his computer, wrap himself in his heavy woollen overcoat and allow himself to be driven away. As he'd discovered the previous evening his return home now featured a dual torture. The 'might have beens' currently being joined by an equal sense of loss attendant upon Jane's departure. Much to his horror, laced with a guilty sense of disloyalty to Ruth, he'd become accustomed to Jane. Somehow in those three short weeks of partial reconciliation the mundane domesticity he'd not experienced for years had become second nature. Whereas Ruth had never visited his home Jane had been a continual presence in his sanctum, her echo retained in the physical evidence of the now well stocked cupboards and freezer, while her scent had still lingered in the bathroom, and on the sheets he'd stripped from the spare bed in a desperate restless search for a displacement activity to fill his emptiness. Considering the years he'd lived in a partially necessary solitude, with only the very rare visitor making it across his threshold, he'd re acclimatised with a worrying speed to the presence of someone to go home to, and to its twin, the notion of a life whose limitations flowered beyond the narrow circumscribed boundaries of work.

Allied with that thought came the concern that he and Jane not really managed to resolve exactly how they stood in their relationship. The unfortunate, and as it had transpired, unnecessary red flash had robbed him of any chance to push the issue. His subdued annoyance with Erin due mainly to the knowledge that insisting on an immediate answer might not have been his best move. Even so he'd been sorely tempted yesterday to ring Jane, enquire about her journey but he'd sheared off. Heaven forfend that he began to admit to being needy, let alone sound it.

Utterly lost in his own personal meditations he almost jumped when the soft footed Malcolm materialised at his office door carrying with him a small box. Held with every evidence of reluctance he announced in his usual quiet tones,

"Harry this arrived by courier for you. It's been checked and seems to be harmless."

Handing the package over Malcolm vanished hastily. He'd recognised the writing on the address label and knew Harry would prefer to be alone when he prised it open. He'd been told by the security staff roughly what the contents consisted of, and having suspected what Harry had in mind as a parting gift to Jane he was seriously worried about the possible reaction. Unless Harry chose to draw his blinds he'd prefer to observe from a distance. Knowing past form he wanted to be on hand to ensure that Harry didn't over medicate on whisky to drown his sorrows.

Harry had also recognised the writing as Jane's, ensuring that he curiously and rapidly ripped the proffered paddy bag open. Eagerly easing the lid off the small box contained within it was with alarm that he registered a metallic flash as a pair of keys breaking loose from the surrounding notepaper hit his desk with a clank. Harry bit his lip, swallowing down his disappointment, what had he really expected? Obviously she'd taken his keys as an enforced courtesy, not wanting to have a scene at the station and now returned them to sender at the earliest opportunity. Picking them up with a sigh he was about to secrete the metalled rejects in his jacket pocket when he halted, paused, and then examined them more closely. Two keys yes, but not the ones he'd handed to her. These were lighter in weight and a different shape, although still strangely familiar. Puzzled he went scrambling down and then across the floor, ignoring the shooting pain in his shoulder, as he located the piece of writing paper that had fluttered free, coming to rest somewhere near his foot, and then tantalisingly wafted away in the airy slipstream of his movements. Hands almost trembling he turned it over and began to read.

"Harry while I know that you could break into my house anytime you chose I would prefer you to use the more conventional method to gain entree, besides which fair exchange is no robbery. As for the rest, Drayton 61. Thanks for everything Jane.

Harry's relief had now transmuted into perplexity. Having wantonly ignored doctors orders he'd had a long day and could have happily dispensed with her being so bloody mysterious. He was tempted to call on Malcolm's skills as a cryptographer, he would no doubt solve that riddle in a trice, but after a moment's contemplation Harry rejected that idea. This was his business and until he knew what exactly what was contained in Jane's message he preferred, as ever, to maintain secrecy. Private rejection hurt, public humiliation doubly so. Racking the brain cells he retrieved a very vague memory, so vague that he, the man with thousands of databases at his command, was forced to resort to availing himself of the services of My Lord Google. Typing in Jane's two words and following a matching link he stared at the result on screen.

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part.

Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;

And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart,

That thus so cleanly I myself can free.

Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,

And when we meet at any time again,

Be it not seen in either of our brows

That we one jot of former love retain.

Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath,

When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies;

When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,

And Innocence is closing up his eyes—

Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,

From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!

Reading it and then re reading it he finally sank back in his chair, mentally tossing up whether the best reaction was to laugh or groan. How utterly utterly typical of Jane not to answer his question directly but instead use an appropriate classic of English literature to proclaim essentially that 'the ball's in your court'. At least it wasn't the outright rejection he'd feared but the question still remained. What sort of relationship did they want and was what they wanted, whatever that was, possible? On a closer second and then third reading he wondered if he was decoding a further subtext, namely that they would only have a future if, or when, they came to terms with their past.

Thinking this over, debating whether he should after all ring Jane, he became aware that that was not, for now, an option. His neglected desk phone had begun to vibrate with the piercing coded ring, announcing the eruption of yet another national emergency. Jane he would think about later. His immediate future was calling. Recognising the inevitable he reached out and grabbed the receiver intoning purposefully,

"Harry Pearce."

Thanks for reading and a final review would be lovely. It feels very strange to have finally reached the end and no longer have to plot out the next chapter. Many thanks to all my lovely readers for being so encouraging throughout.