Disclaimer: Spooks belongs to Kudos and the BBC

Warning 1: Contains spoilers for 7.7 based on the programme information published by the BBC. So if you don't want to be spoilt…

Warning 2: This story has descriptions of violence and a small amount of swearing. If either of these things offend you, please don't read any further.

A/N: This is the second of three, loosely connected, Series 7 fics. (The first was 'Sympathy for the Devil'.)

Harry knows how this works; he's done it often enough. He's been both sides of the table so he knows that, when the table goes, it's getting serious. The chairs have gone too but, at the moment, his more pressing need is to try and block out the sound of the siren filling the room. Empty room plus metal walls equals good acoustics; a very basic equation. Perhaps, with this, his age will work in his favour; he knows his hearing isn't as acute as it was so maybe this won't be so damaging. But it still makes his fillings ache.

It takes him several seconds to realise the noise has stopped. His brain is lagging behind reality and he's surprised to see one of the guards has entered the room. A plastic cup of water is held out towards him. He'll have five seconds to decide whether to risk drinking it. Five seconds and then it'll be taken away. He ignores the outstretched hand.

Once the door is shut, the room is plunged into darkness; the sort of darkness nightmares are made of; enveloping, suffocating, infinite. He stands still, silently counting the passing seconds until three minutes have elapsed. His eyes are open but there is still no definition to the room; no shadows, no faint outlines. He reaches a hand out behind him and starts to slowly walk backwards. Seven paces and his fingers touch the wall. He keeps moving until his back is against the cold metal. He slides slowly down and sits on the floor.

Harry is certain he is still facing the door. He can't see it - he can't see anything - but he is sure he hasn't turned around. If he does, he'll become disorientated. He's seen it happen. Seen men literally trying to climb the walls of their cells, convinced they are trapped in a space no bigger than a coffin. He won't be broken, not by this low-level intimidation. He's been through worse. He's sure there's worse to come.

###

It's difficult keeping track of time but he thinks five hours have passed. He hasn't slept. He won't sleep for a long time. Even after he gets out, he won't sleep. And he will get out. He has enough faith in himself, in his team. He can't think about not getting out. If he does, that'll break him far more quickly than the noise or the dark or the beatings.

Another forty minutes pass and then suddenly the room is flooded with light. Bright, white light. He puts his hands over his streaming eyes as he stands up. He hears the door open and peers through his fingers but he can't see anything.

"Ready to tell us the truth yet, Harry?"

Dolby's voice has lost none of its oleaginous, patronising tone.

"I've done that already."

"Oh Harry, why do you persist with that ridiculous claim that Bernard Qualtrough has set you up?"

"It's the truth, Dolby."

"Then it's time for some more forceful persuasion."

The lighting level drops as Dolby speaks and Harry squints at him.

"Bring it on Richard, bring it on."

###

The siren is back, this time accompanied by flashing lights. It's much harder to block out and when it does finally stop, Harry's head is pounding. He doesn't realise anyone else is in the room until he is roughly pulled to his feet. He stumbles as the men try to make him move, dizziness overwhelming him. He retches but his stomach is empty. He gags again as bile burns the back of his throat.

"Drink," orders one of the men at his side.

Cold water runs over his lips and down his chin until the rough hand firmly holding his jaw makes him open his mouth. It could be laced with anything but Harry swallows down the refreshing liquid.

They walk him through what seems like endless corridors and passageways but he is certain they backtrack several times. He knows the layout of Thames House intimately, was involved with the planning of it, so if they're trying to confuse him, it's wasted effort.

The next room they place him in is smaller and colder than the previous one. There is a narrow channel in the floor that leads to a mesh-covered drain. The stench of disinfectant is eye-watering and Harry struggles to hold down the water he has drunk. His two escorts leave him and the door slides shut behind them.

The floor is damp and cold. Very cold. He paces around, trying to keep his circulation going and stop his bare feet from freezing. A sweet, distant memory resurfaces. For a moment, he holds on to the image of her, savouring every detail of her face before pushing it away. He doesn't want his memories of her sullied with what is going to happen to him, they are too precious. He'll keep them safe until this is over.

###

The cold water hits his face with a force that almost matches the punches he has been subjected to. He fights for breath, gasping and spluttering. A rough hand grips his scalp, jerking his head back.

"Who's your FSB handler?"

"I told you, I don't have one." The pain is making it difficult to focus, both mind and eyes, but he's determined to get through this.

"Come on, Harry. Tell me who it is and this will all be over." The voice is soft, cajoling, lying.

"Fuck you!"

The punch is well-aimed and knocks him on to his back. His head is ringing but there's no time to even try to get his breath as he's hauled to his feet again. Repeated blows connect with his stomach and his kidneys. When they finally stop, he's on his knees, vomiting blood, his heart pumping so fast he thinks it's going to explode.

Another bucket of ice cold water is upended over him before the empty container is thrown across the room, clanging loudly against the wall. He waits, expecting the beating to begin again but it doesn't. The last sound he hears is the door sliding shut and then the room goes black.

###

They half-carry, half-drag him along a corridor. There is a moment of fear as Harry thinks this might be the next stage but then he realises where they are. A medic cuts the bloodied, torn overalls off him whilst the two guards hold him up. They push him into the shower cubicle and he's forced to grip the rust speckled pipe-work to stay standing.

The warm water makes his cuts sting and bleed. He grits his teeth against the pain and the muscle spasms, constantly on edge, waiting for the water temperature to abruptly change or a fist to connect with soft flesh. Neither happens and he relaxes a little. The aching pain in his lower back encourages him to attempt to urinate. He struggles to make his body perform the natural function but eventually a weak stream of pink tinged fluid appears, mixing with the bloodied water gurgling down the drain. As painful as it is, he takes a deep breath and concentrates on emptying his bladder. The urine is darker now and he knows he'll be pissing blood for a week; it won't be the first time.

He tenses as a hand appears, shutting off the water.

"Out," a voice commands.

He uses the clammy walls of the shower cubicle as support as he slowly turns around. A towel is held out towards him; he takes it and wraps it around his waist. He is still unsteady on his feet and has to be helped towards a chair.

The medic wordlessly tends to him, cleaning and dressing the deeper wounds on his body. Harry flinches as pressure is briefly applied to his lower back. The next sensation is the familiar sting of a hypodermic needle. He attempts to pull away but a strong hand on his shoulder holds him still.

"It'll help take the edge off," a surprisingly soft voice assures.

###

After helping him dress in clean overalls, the guards walk Harry back along the corridors. The route is more direct this time and he knows they are going to the interview rooms.

He sits quietly at the metal table, trying to organise his thoughts. Whatever he was injected with has reduced the pain to a more manageable level but has made his mind fuzzy. He looks up as the door opens.

"It seems your team are convinced they know who the real traitor is," Dolby sneers as he crosses the room. "How comforting it must be for you to have such devotion."

Harry leans back in his seat and looks up at the older man. "Someone once described them as my disciples-"

"And they'll save their beloved Saint Harry, making sure he takes his rightful place in the history of the Service. How sweet."

"Oh, I expect my successes and sacrifices will mysteriously disappear from the formal records. You know what Oscar Wilde said, Richard – 'Every great man has his disciples but it's always Judas who writes the biography'."

Contempt is evident on Dolby's face. "You have your very own Judas, don't you?"

The door opens just as he finishes speaking and Ros walks over to the two men.

"The Home Secretary would like a word, Mr Dolby," she informs him.

"Miss Myers. We were just talking about you."

"Well, it's better to be talked about then not talked about," she counters. "You really should get going; it doesn't do to keep the Home Secretary waiting." She's smiling but it doesn't hide her obvious disdain.

He hesitates and then starts moving towards the doorway. "Just remember, everything is being monitored."

After Dolby has gone, Ros sits down opposite Harry. There is silence as they survey each other.

She looks as she always does, the icy demeanour un-cracked as she takes in his appearance but Harry sees the momentary darkening of her eyes when her gaze settles on his handcuffed wrists.

"You want to ask me something," he states, drawing her attention back to the more important matters of the day.

"Yes. There are a couple of things we need you to clarify."

It's a game they are both familiar with; random questions, innocuous answers, double meanings. The documents seemingly haphazardly spread out on the table in front of them, but in reality arranged in a very specific order. The slight shift of his hands; his index finger taps lightly on one sheet then another. He scratches his right palm when he says 'yes', indicating he really means 'no'. It's risky but they're accomplished players and losing is not an option. It's never an option.

###########

Epilogue

There's a biting Northerly wind and snow has been forecast but it's not enough to persuade Harry to leave the roof and return to his office just yet. He's grateful to be able to stand here, looking at the familiar landmarks, and recalling happier times.

"If you insist on spending half the afternoon up here, at least put your coat on, Harry."

He turns to face the direction the voice has come from. "Half the afternoon? That's a bit of an exaggeration, Ros."

"Semantics." She moves towards him. "Here," she continues more softly, holding out his overcoat, "before you catch your-"

"Death? I think we both know that, in our line of work, death is more likely to catch us."

"Are you sure you're well enough to go to Blackpool?" Ros questions, watching him fumbling with the buttons.

"Yes," he replies, a hint of exasperation evident in his voice.

She raises an eyebrow in lieu of speaking and takes over the task of fastening the coat.

"I promised Wes. I can't let him down."

"I know," she says, her fingers briefly resting on his chest. "I know."

They are silent for a few moments, each trying to divine the other's thoughts.

"I could find someone to drive you," Ros eventually suggests.

"There's no need."

"Then I insist that you ring me when you get there."

"Ros, the car has a tracker in it. My phone has a tracker in it." She doesn't say anything but keeps looking at him. "I do hope you're not casting aspersions on Malcolm's software, he'll be most put out."

"I wouldn't dream of it," she remarks, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"I'll call you when I get to Blackpool," he says, quietly, pushing his hands into his pockets.

"Good. Now, are you going to come back to the Grid or stay up here in the freezing cold for the rest of the afternoon?"

"Just a few more minutes, to watch the sunset."

She shakes her head at him but makes no attempt to move and they stand together, in silence, and watch the sun sink below the horizon.