Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

OSS:  Office of Strategic Services, created in 1942.  The U.S. Intelligence Service, headed by Major General William “Wild Bill” Donovan.  During WWII, its London station Chief was Col. David Bruce. 

MI6:  A dept. of British Military Intelligence responsible for foreign operations, which reports to the Foreign Office.  Also known as “SIS”, or “Secret Intelligence Service”.  Headed by Col. Stewart Menzies, who was in charge of the 'Ultra' project in WWII.  One of its most important tasks was to break the secret codes generated by the “Enigma” coding machine, which the Germans used to encrypt wartime orders and communications. 

MI5:  A dept. of British Military Intelligence responsible for domestic counterintelligence, locating spies, etc.  Reported to the Home Office.

SAS:  “Special Air Services”. British Special Forces in WWII.  In this fic, they're an elite British Army division, with added training devised by MI6.  Soldiers who are trained as Paratroopers and covert operations specialists.

Hellhound

by Wanderer

Chapter 1

November 1943, Gestapo Field Station, Casablanca, North Africa

“Who are you really?  Ein American?  Ein Englander?  A Jew?” the taller Gestapo officer barked.  Each question was accompanied by a hard, back-handed slap to Sgt. John Mars’ face.  “What are you?  Are you a spy?”

Keep flirting with me like that, and I just might show you, John smirked to himself.  But he didn’t say it out loud.  His SAS instructors had often told him he was a wiseass, but he knew better than to reveal it – or any of the other, much deadlier things they’d taught him -- at the moment.  He wasn’t Jewish, but he was a British agent; and if he didn’t curtail his wiseass tendencies a bit, he wouldn’t make it out of here.

So he protested, “No!  I just work at an auto parts factory.  I'm not a spy!”

He did his best to look and sound both innocent and scared, because all his assets -- his whole network -- were depending on him.  Men, women and their children, too.  If he failed to convince them of his innocence or to escape, or if the Gestapo broke him (and everyone broke, if you gave the bastards enough time to do it), then everyone who'd helped him would all be arrested and shot, along with their families.

Except for Kara Stanton, damn her.  Mars was sure she'd be safe, because she had to be behind this.  She was the one contact he’d met in Casablanca who he’d deeply distrusted from the first.  But she was his partner Jerry Stills’ contact, not his.  Which meant Stills was probably in this up to his fucking eyeballs, too. 

Maybe he’s the one who shot me, John thought grimly.  Right before the Gestapo showed up to arrest him, someone had put a bullet in his arm.  He suspected that the shot, which had come from an upper window of a nearby building, had been meant to hit him somewhere more vital to keep him from running or fighting, so the Gestapo could arrest him more easily.  But despite the wound, he'd bolted anyway, and forced the Gestapo to chase him for nearly two hours.  John hadn’t made it easy for them to capture him. 

But maybe Stills helped, along with Stanton…

Stills had vouched for Stanton, of course.  When they first came to Casablanca, he'd told Reese she was a British ex-pat who he’d known for years, and that she was cozying up to the local Nazi officers in order to get information she could pass on to British intelligence.  But John had wondered why Stills hadn't mentioned Kara back in England, if he'd known her for so long.  Besides, there had always been things about her that bothered John.

Her personality, for one.

The first time they’d met, Kara had slinked up to him, looked him up and down avidly, thrust out a curvy hip and cooed, “Ooh.  Tall, dark and dangerous.  Just the way I like ‘em.”

John had just lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed by her obvious come-on.  “Really.  You're so subtle, I never would’ve guessed.” 

For a second, Kara’s eyes had narrowed with fury at his sarcastic response to her charms; then she'd faked a smile. “Subtlety,” she'd shot back scornfully, “is for the weak.”

“Is that so.”  Filled with an instant, intense dislike for the woman, John had turned away from her, not wanting to spend another moment talking to her. 

It hadn't stopped her from trying to seduce him, though.  Unused to being turned down, she'd taken his aversion as a challenge, and to John's annoyance, whenever they met, she'd continued to proposition him.  But she'd always lost at that game, and Kara hated to lose. 

In retrospect, John thought ruefully, he probably should’ve expected that she’d eventually hand him over to the Germans.  Hell hath no fury, and all that.  Trained to size people up fast, he’d instantly pegged Kara Stanton as cruel and manipulative, with a big helping of bitterness and deceit thrown in.  She liked to play with people, to control them; and John had quickly come to suspect that she was fucking Nazi officers for the fun of it.  Not to get intel for the British or the Resistance, but because it gave her a sense of power to learn their secrets, and because she could use them to her own advantage.  Her efforts to charm him failed, and he’d never trusted the intel she’d given Jerry either.  It'd just never amounted to much.  Stanton was far too cunning and manipulative to be trusted, and John had avoided her.  He should’ve guessed that she’d take revenge for his rejection in the cruellest way possible.  He just hadn't expected that his own partner would join in her betrayal.

He’d wondered about his partner on occasion, though.  Even before they’d left England, really.  Stills was  competent, or he'd never have made it in SAS; but there was just something about him....  A coldness at his core that John disliked.  His insistence that John trust Stanton, who John detested and had never even met before they came to Casablanca, had bothered him too.  He'd questioned the judgment of a man who'd trust a snake like Kara Stanton.  Plus, he’d glimpsed Jerry slipping out of their apartment late one night, when he’d thought John was sleeping.  Mars had gotten up and trailed him, seen him knock on Stanton’s door, and kiss her when she opened it.  Then she'd drawn him inside. 

At the time, he’d just shrugged it off.  Figured that Jerry was just sleeping with her.  She was attractive enough, he supposed -- if your taste ran to snakes.  Personally, every time Mars was in the same room with Kara, the cold, hungry way her eyes slid over him gave him chills.  It made him long for his wife; for her warmth, honesty and sweetness, qualities that made Jessica utterly different from Kara Stanton.

Now that it was too late, John realized what a mistake he’d made, assuming Stills was just sleeping with Kara.  He hadn't wanted to believe his partner was a traitor; that either of them were.  But Stills must’ve gone over to the other side -- become a double agent for the Germans, probably at Stanton’s urging.  When he'd seen them meet, they'd probably really been exchanging intel; or maybe even plotting to betray him.     

It would explain how the Gestapo had hunted him down so fast, after he'd blown up that airfield a couple of nights ago.  He'd infiltrated it after midnight, masked and gloved, with two local resistance fighters, after drugging its guards.  They hadn't been seen, and they hadn’t left any evidence behind that would’ve tipped the Gestapo off to their identities, either.  He’d never been sloppy, and he'd made damn sure the others weren't, either.  So there was no way anyone could've identified any of them. 

The fact that the Gestapo came for him anyway was a strong sign that he'd been betrayed; and Stills and Stanton were the only ones who knew where he lived, something he'd carefully kept secret even from his own spy network. 

He wondered cynically what the Germans had given them, in return for his capture.

If Jerry had betrayed him, it meant that Mars was already screwed.  The Gestapo already knew he was a British agent, and they were just slapping him around in the hopes that he’d give up some vital intel before they killed him -- or worse, slowly tortured him to death.  John knew they still wanted the names of everyone he’d been working with, because if the Gestapo had known their identities, they’d’ve been hauled in for questioning right along with him.  The Germans would’ve wanted him to see that, to rub his nose in the fact that his whole spy network had been blown, and that he’d gotten everyone who’d helped him arrested, too.  To his relief, that hadn’t happened; and it wasn’t likely to, for two reasons.  One, because John hadn’t kept his codebook regarding his spy ring in his little apartment where the Gestapo could find it, and two, because even Stills didn’t know his codebook's location, or any of John's current network. 

After Stills had introduced him to Stanton, Mars' doubts about Stills had deepened.  So John had begun working alone months ago.  Using the excuse that they could do twice as much damage to German interests in Casablanca if they worked separate sections of the city, he’d kept his group of helpers and local resistance fighters secret even from Stills.  He'd kept all their information in a little notebook he'd written in a complex, “dictionary” type of cipher that Finch had taught him.  Slipping in with a picklock after hours, he’d hidden the notebook beneath a loose floorboard in a café he frequented, where he could easily get it when necessary, but where the Gestapo wouldn't find it, even if they raided his apartment.  Even if they did somehow find it, in order to decipher it, they’d need the book that he’d used as his key; and that was a common car manual his boss kept on a shelf behind his desk, at the factory where John worked.  The manual was a perfect choice.  It was common and cheap, something he needed for his work and could borrow without suspicion, and not a book anyone would ever suspect an agent would use as a complex cipher key.  Plus, John had daily access to it.  He could easily steal it and bring it back to his little apartment at night, if necessary, and then return it to work the next morning, without anyone even knowing it’d been gone.  The same went for his notebook on his spy network.

He thanked God for his wariness and caution regarding both books now.  Due to someone’s betrayal – most likely Stills and Stanton’s -- the Gestapo had managed to get their filthy hands on him, though John hadn't exactly come along quietly.  But the betrayal and arrests would stop with him.  They weren’t going to get his notebook or its key, or capture anyone John had recruited to help him.  British SAS Sgt. John Mars, more recently known as John Reese, among other aliases, wasn’t about to let that happen…

Bletchley Park, England

March, 1942

“Finch!  Mr. Finch, wait!”

Harold Finch turned reluctantly on his way up to Hut 8, where his department at Bletchley Park was located.  Lt. Mark Snow huffed up the steps behind him, with a tall man Finch didn't recognize.  Snow was the American Army liaison officer who acted as a go-between for the scientists at Bletchley Park and the U.S. military.  His job was to convey messages, equipment, decrypted German intelligence and whatever else British Intelligence decided to share with the Americans.  But Finch had never liked him; and he frowned as he waited for Snow to reach him.  The man was a scoundrel, a cold, clever opportunist who both he and Nathan Ingram had instinctively mistrusted.  Finch had heard rumours recently that Snow was running a small black market operation on the side, in stolen goods that he’d pilfered from American Army supplies. 

Those rumours hadn’t surprised Finch, but he hadn’t done anything about them because he’d been busy with far larger problems.  However, he’d already made up his mind to look into it when the time was right.  Impatient at being kept from an important task by the rude, pushy, probably larcenous Lt. Snow, he wondered if the right time had just come.

More than once, in his darker moments, he’d found himself wishing that Lt. Snow had been the one who’d been working late at Bletchley and been killed by that German bomb, instead of Nate.  He tried not to think like that too often, though.  Though Nathan Ingram, his dearest friend for many years, was dead, he knew Nate wouldn’t have approved of him wishing that another man had died in his place – even someone as unpleasant as Lt. Snow.  Nathan had been the fairest, most decent man Harold had ever known.  Smart, generous and idealistic, he'd convinced Finch long ago that they needed to do more than just make money from their prodigious gifts. 

We need to find a way to improve things, Harold, he'd said.  Find a way to help people, use our work to make the world a better place.  Or else what's the point of living?

What, indeed.  In the dark months since Nathan's death, Finch had often remembered those words, but he'd been so grief-stricken he'd found it hard to come up with reasons for living himself.  Handsome, golden-haired, charming and almost as smart as Harold himself, Nathan Ingram had been so very dear to him.  He'd been one of the few people who could not only understand Harold’s thought processes, but also draw him out of himself, ease his loneliness, lighten his mood and make him laugh.  Dear God, how Harold missed Nathan’s mischievous smile, his ready laugh…

Luckily Finch still had his work, which was important to the war effort, and which he felt was his contribution towards helping humanity.  When the war began, he and Nathan, who was a brilliant engineer, had both joined MI6 to use their work to fight the Germans.  Working together at the Government Code and Cyphers School at Bletchley Park, they'd built a complex machine Finch had designed, with Nathan's help, to decode secret messages used by the German military.  They'd called it 'the bombe'.  Well, Nathan had, anyway. 

Harold still remembered how Nate had grinned, half giddy, half loopy with elation and exhaustion when they'd finished it.  “We'll call it the bombe', Harry, because its impact on the war will be bigger than anything the RAF will ever drop on the Nazis!  This baby of ours is going to win the war for us, my friend!” he'd insisted, his eyes shining with pride and excitement.  Nate had always loved flashy nicknames, and though Harold had rolled his eyes at that one, he'd known Nate was right about the importance of the machine they'd created.  So he hadn't objected, and the name had stuck. 

Now, except for his hand-picked group of coders, Harold carried on their work with 'the bombe' alone. 

At the moment, though, he couldn't allow his grief over Nate's loss to distract him.  Something was up.  Snow was hurrying to meet him like a man on a mission, and knowing him, it was bound to be unpleasant.  And who was the tall, dark-haired man with Snow?  Though Finch was familiar with most of the personnel at Bletchley, at least by sight, he’d never seen this man before.  Though he was neatly dressed in a dark suit and tie, Finch guessed that the stranger wasn’t a scientist.  He’d always been observant, and he'd seen enough soldiers in the past few years to be familiar with their look, in or out of uniform.  His sharp eyes saw military discipline in the square set of the stranger’s shoulders and the determined way he moved.  Finch also noted that unlike Snow, who was puffing a bit as he climbed the steep front steps, the dark-haired man leapt up them effortlessly.  Finch thought he must be an athlete, as well as a soldier.  Finch could only envy that.  Even before he’d been injured, he’d never moved with that sort of lithe, fluid grace. 

When the two men reached him, Snow said, a bit breathlessly, “I’ve been... sent to inform you... that you’ve been assigned a bodyguard, Mr. Finch.” 

Finch snorted.  A bodyguard, indeed!  Ridiculous.  “No thank you.  I don’t need one,” he said shortly.  He was already a bit late, and he had far more important things on his mind than Lt. Snow’s foolishness.  He’d started to have doubts about the coded messages they’d been receiving lately from some of their agents in Holland.  Last night, he’d finally realized just what it was that’d been bothering him about their transmissions; and he’d figured out a way to determine if they’d been captured and compromised by the Nazis.  He had to send a clerk to find out if those spies’ first encoded messages had been kept, and have them brought to him for comparison --

He started to turn away, thinking the subject closed, but Lt. Snow said loudly, ''Hold it, Mr. Finch!''

Annoyed, Finch shot back, ''I think not.  I'm late, Lieutenant,'' and went back to climbing the steps upward. 

Snow suddenly moved in front of him, forcing Finch to a halt.  “I’m afraid you don’t understand, Finch.”  A nasty smirk hovered around the edges of Snow’s mouth.  Clearly, he’d anticipated Harold’s refusal, and was enjoying harassing him.  “You don’t have any choice.”  He jerked a careless thumb at the tall man beside him, who’d been watching their interchange silently.  “This is Sergeant–” 

“Sorry, but there’s been some mistake,” Finch interrupted impatiently.  “I never requested, nor do I need a bodyguard.  We already have security here, as you know.  There are armed guards in the hallways at all times, and every room in every building is checked at night.”

Lt. Snow narrowed his eyes.  “Yes, I know!”  

“Fine, then I’ll be going.”  Finch began to turn away again; but again, Snow prevented it. 

“No you won’t!” he snapped. When Finch moved up a step anyway, Snow reached out, quick as a striking snake and caught at his arm, pulling Harold off balance.  Snow had always been rude and arrogant, but he’d never actually grabbed Finch before, and it caught him off guard.  He swayed, teetering precariously at the edge of one of the steep stone steps.

Just as he lost his balance, his arms windmilling outward desperately, big, strong hands caught Finch, bracing him, then righting him gently but firmly before letting go.  Startled, his heart still in his mouth from his near fall, Finch blinked up into the blue eyes of the dark-haired stranger who'd stepped forward and caught him.  He'd not only kept him from falling, he'd somehow managed to knock Snow’s hand off of Finch's arm, in the process.  He’d moved so quickly and smoothly that it was all over before Harold had time to blink.  He stared, stunned and shaken, into a pair of handsome blue eyes.  But before he could even thank his rescuer, Snow interrupted again. 

“Like I said, this is Sgt. Mars, Finch.  And you’re his new assignment.”

Sergeant Mars?  Assigned to him?  Finch’s bit of satisfaction at having correctly deduced that the man who’d probably just saved him from a nasty tumble down the steps was, in fact, military was lost in his displeasure at Lt. Snow’s manhandling and attempt to give him orders.  He glared at Snow.  ''Lieutenant, I've had enough of this!  If I want a bodyguard, I’ll bloody well ask for one -- ''

“Like I said, it’s not up to you,” Snow interrupted impatiently.  “I’ve been ordered to assign Sgt. Mars here to you.”

“Ordered by whom?” Finch asked icily.

Snow grinned nastily and played his trump card.  “The order was signed by both Col. Menzies and Col. Bruce.”

Finch blinked, taken aback.  The head of the SIS itself, and the Chief of the OSS’ London Station!  Bloody Hell, he swore to himself.  He hadn’t expected that.  If the order really had come from the top of both British and American Intelligence – if they’d made protecting him a joint operation – then he had no choice but to accept it.  He worked for MI6 after all, and they were cooperating with the Americans. 

Still, he wondered what had prompted this, or if Snow was just attempting to play some strange sort of practical joke.  But no.  Surely he wouldn’t dare to invent a phony order and attach the names of the Chiefs to it like that as a prank – the consequences for him would be disastrous. Still, one never knew…  “Show me the order, Lieutenant,” Finch said tersely.

Snow just smiled his usual cold smile and shook his head.  “My C.O. gave it verbally.  You want to see something in writing, you'll have to contact headquarters.”

Finch stifled his irritation.  “I intend to,” he said coolly.  “In the meantime, tell me.  Why have I been singled out for extra protection?”

Snow smirked at that. “Apparently, the fact that the head scientist who’s in charge of breaking German secret codes is Jewish, doesn’t sit well with the Nazis.  There’ve been threats on your life recently.”

The 'Ultra' project and Finch’s  involvement in it were top secret; and the fact that he was Jewish was something Harold had made sure that very few people knew.  But he wouldn’t be surprised if word of all that had been leaked to the Germans anyway.  There were spies everywhere these days, on both sides, and someone could always be paid to talk.  But Snow clearly expected Finch to be so frightened by his news, that he’d welcome having a bodyguard.  Instead, Finch laughed curtly.  “Everyone in the free world is in danger from the Nazis at the moment, Leftenant.  In case you hadn’t noticed,” he added tartly, because he despised Snow.

The Lt. just shrugged, but his eyes turned even colder, the usually hidden malice in them showing openly.  He cocked his head and smiled, a shark-like, unpleasant grin.  “I noticed.  It’s too bad your buddy Ingram didn’t.  He’s partly the reason you’ve been assigned a bodyguard.  You remember what happened to him, don’t you?”

Snow’s deliberate cruelty shocked Finch into silence, like a poisonous dart driven into his heart.  Of course he remembered Nathan -- his best friend, whom he’d loved for years.  Harold’s love had been hopeless since Nathan was firmly, even enthusiastically heterosexual, but their friendship had been deep and long lasting all the same.  They’d liked each other the moment they’d met at Cambridge, and been inseparable for years afterward, all through Nate’s short-lived marriage and divorce.  Harold had loved Nathan Ingram far longer than Nate’s own wife Olivia had.  He still missed him terribly.

Harold almost wanted to strike Lt. Snow, for even suggesting that he might’ve forgotten Nathan.  As if he ever could.  He had few real friends, and Nate had been the closest one.  The only person in London who he’d felt he could be honest with – about most things, anyway.  His death had left a huge void in Harold’s life and heart, that he suspected would never be filled.

Still, he wasn’t going to hit Snow.  After a few seconds passed, Finch controlled his grief and anger, applying reason to the situation as always.  Lt. Snow was a sly, vicious lout, not nearly as clever as he thought he was, and not worth responding to like that.  Finch considered himself a gentleman, and gentlemen exercised restraint.  He'd never believed in violence anyway.  He’d learned far better ways of dealing with people who annoyed or tried to hurt him.  He made a note to begin a private investigation into Lt. Snow’s alleged black market activities that very day.  If the man was guilty, Finch would make sure that he paid a heavy price for it.  In the meantime, he didn’t want to give Snow the satisfaction of knowing how deeply his sneering reminder of Nathan’s death had hurt. 

So he said witheringly, “If that’s the reason I’ve been assigned a bodyguard, it’s rather stupid.  Pray, tell me -- just how, precisely, is my bodyguard supposed to prevent the Nazis from dropping bombs?”

“He’s not,” Snow shot back.  “He’s just supposed to make sure you get out of their way in time.  Apparently, Col. Menzies and Col. Bruce feel you’re indispensable to the war effort, Mr. Finch,” he sneered, making it clear that he didn’t share their opinion.  “So like it or not, the Sergeant here's going to be your new best friend.” 

Just then the dark haired man with him, who’d been quietly watching them argue, shot Snow a cold look and stepped forward, between him and Finch.  Turning his back on Snow, he introduced himself.  “Good morning, Mr. Finch,” he said politely.  “I'm Sgt. John Mars, sir.”

Finch looked at the tall, handsome soldier in surprise.  “Good morning.  You're American?”   

“By birth, yes,” the tall young man smiled.  “But I live here, and I was regular British Army until recently.  Now I’m with the SAS.”

“I see.”  Finch's facile mind raced, drawing quick conclusions.  Now he knew why Sgt. Mars was in a suit and out of uniform.  The SAS was a new, paramilitary division, a joint operation with the SIS.  SAS soldiers didn’t wear uniforms unless they were in active training, since the Army and the SIS were still trying to keep their very existence a secret from the Germans.  SAS men were Special Forces, highly trained commandoes with special skills, who were far more deadly than the average British soldier.  Why would MI6 have chosen such a special soldier to guard him?

“I’ve been assigned to be your bodyguard, Mr. Finch,” Mars added.  “I’ll try not to get in your way any more than I have to.”

''Hmm,'' Finch murmured, still feeling raw about Nathan.  “We’ll see about that.”  He was still considering the implications of Sgt. Mars' assignment, too.  SAS soldiers received training beyond the norm in combat, coding, weaponry, surveillance, hand-to-hand combat, explosives and more; and how to use all of that in covert operations.  It was all highly classified, but Finch had been briefed on their training and purpose. Though he was far too busy to teach them personally, MI6 had asked him, as the head of the Coding and Ciphers Dept. at Bletchley, to design that part of their training himself; and he had.  The SAS men were paratrooper/spies who were going to be dropped into North Africa to conduct independent, incredibly dangerous missions behind enemy lines.  They were the smartest, deadliest soldiers the British Army had.  Commandoes who would gather intelligence, carry out assassinations, bombings, spying, subversion and disruption of enemy activities with little or no external support.  Finch found it interesting, to say the least, that MI6 had deemed it necessary not just to give him a bodyguard, but such an exceptionally lethal one, at that. 

The matter absolutely demanded further investigation.

But it would have to be done discreetly; which meant personally.  Finch sighed to himself.  He was more than busy enough already...  But he couldn't trust anyone else with this.  He'd save his questions about it for those higher up in British Intelligence, though. 

At the moment, he focused on Sgt. Mars.  He’d never met an American in the British Army before.  But Sgt. Mars’ accent was pure Yank, which meant that his childhood, at least, must've been spent in the U.S.

Indulging his curiosity, Finch took his first long, hard look at the man who would (perhaps) be guarding him.  He was worth a look; or two or three, Harold thought.  In fact, if he'd been less wary, he would've been tempted to stare openly at the young soldier.  Sgt. John Mars of the SAS was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and deep-set blue eyes, high, elegant cheekbones, a square jaw and sensual mouth.  He looked strong and capable, and he was also strikingly handsome.  Finch felt a secret little thrill. 

Oh my, he thought.  He’s dashing and dangerous…

Still, no one knew better than Finch how deceptive appearances could be.  He was careful to show no reaction to the Sgt.’s good looks.  He intended to reserve judgment about the soldier until he had a chance to check up on him.

Finch’s brilliant mind raced through several possible reasons for Mars’ new assignment, some darker than others.  It was possible that Lt. Snow, odious as he was, was telling the truth, and Finch’s life had been threatened by German agents.  It was also possible that Snow was lying and there was another, far more insidious reason for Mars being assigned to watch him.  Or perhaps Snow himself didn’t know the truth behind Mars’ assignment.  The supposed threat to Finch's life might be merely the cover story which he’d been given for it. 

God knows, if I were conducting a covert investigation of some sort, I’d never trust Snow with any knowledge of it, Finch reflected wryly. 

The real question was not what Snow knew, but what Sgt. Mars did.  If Finch had slipped up somehow, and someone high up in British Intelligence or the OSS suspected that the top British scientist in charge of decoding the secret messages encrypted by the German military’s Enigma machine was homosexual, the real purpose of Mars’ assignment might not be to guard Finch at all, but to spy on him.  Someone in MI6 might be trying to learn the truth about Finch's preferences, in order to discredit him and have him removed from the Ultra program.  Perhaps that was why a highly intelligent soldier like Sgt. Mars, who'd also been trained for covert operations, had been assigned to “guard” him.  Perhaps Mars was really a spy, who'd also been chosen for his task because his stunning good looks were meant as a lure, to draw Finch out or entice him into some indiscretion.

Harold studied Sgt. Mars’ handsome face thoughtfully.  In truth, he wasn’t unduly alarmed by the prospect of a covert investigation.  Concerned, but not frightened.  Such an investigation (even with such a striking lure) would be an unwelcome complication, certainly, given how busy he was.  But it was nothing he couldn’t handle.  People had entertained suspicions about him before.  Unmarried men who didn't date much raised the occasional eyebrow.  But Harold was small and plain, obsessed with his work, and had cultivated a reputation as a shy loner as well.  So he'd always managed to throw anyone looking too closely at him off the scent.  At least, he had up until now...

While Finch stood pondering the motives behind his new bodyguard’s presence, Lt. Snow took their introduction as his chance to escape.  “If you’ve got any more complaints about your bodyguard, Finch, take ‘em up with the brass,” he called from behind Sgt. Mars.   

You can be sure that I will, Finch thought, watching him with narrowed eyes.  

“I’m done here.”  Snow turned and headed down the stairs again with a sardonic parting salute.

Finch dismissed him from his mind for the moment, and began strategizing.  First, he'd need to verify the source of the orders for his new bodyguard, (if such Mars really was) by checking with the Chiefs of the SIS and the OSS’ London branch.  If the orders were genuine, he’d simply say he'd called to thank them for their concern in issuing him a guard.  He knew better than to question the Chiefs about their motive for that order.  He could go elsewhere for that information. 

Fortunately for him, Col. Bruce’s aide, lt. Carl Perlson, owed him a favor.  Perlson would do.  He meant to drop a hint in Perlson's ear about Snow, as well.

His third call would be to Col. Menzies’ top aide, Harper.  Harper also owed him a favor.  A rather large one, which Finch intended to call in immediately.  Harper could also verify it, if MI6 really had received credible reports that German agents were being sent to assassinate him.  Equally importantly, neither Harper nor Perlson would report their conversation back to their bosses.  Finch had already tested them numerous times on that score, and found them to be satisfyingly close-mouthed.  But if Harper was vague about details or tried to be evasive about the nature of the threats, then Finch would know that Sgt. Mars hadn’t really been assigned to guard him, but to spy on him.  And he could then take steps to protect himself, without revealing his suspicions to the heads of British and American Intelligence. 

Finch’s last move would be to gather all the information he could on Sgt. Mars himself.  Finch made a mental note to request a copy of Sgt. Mars’ British Army and SAS personnel files from Harper, too.  He’d do that whether Mars had really been assigned to protect him or not.  Finch guarded his privacy zealously, and since Sgt. Mars might have to be close to him for a time, he’d need to know as much as he could about the man.  He needed to ascertain, to his own satisfaction, if Sgt. Mars could be trusted; and he wanted to know as quickly as possible.    

Before Snow had even reached the bottom of the front steps of the huge building Finch’s Coding and Ciphers department now used at Bletchley, Finch had already mentally mapped out his private course of action regarding his new bodyguard.

That done, Finch’s attention shifted back to the young man at his side.  He couldn’t help but dart a quick, covert glance at Sgt. Mars’ left hand.  When he saw a gold wedding ring there, he sighed inwardly at his own foolishness.  Of course, such a splendid man would already be taken -- and by a woman.  Ah, well.  He was disappointed, but not surprised. 

That fact made the Sgt. both more and less of a threat to him.  More, because he was likely to react with extreme negativity if Finch ever ‘slipped’ around him; and less, because knowing Mars was heterosexual from the start would help Finch keep his distance.  It would prevent him from even dreaming that anything could ever happen between them.

Not that there had been any hope of that anyway, he thought wryly.  Even if Harold had been extraordinarily lucky and Sgt. Mars wasn't married, wasn't a spy and had shared Finch's preference for men, it wouldn't have mattered.  A big, strapping, gorgeous soldier like him wouldn't be interested in a small, older, plain, bookish scientist who wore glasses –- especially not an injured, awkward one like Finch.  Why would such a handsome young man look twice at someone as physically unremarkable as he, Finch thought sadly, when Sgt. Mars could have anyone?

Still, Finch felt a surprisingly sharp pang of regret.  Such a splendid looking young man….

He'd barely managed to stifle his regret, when the young Sergeant suddenly held out his hand to Finch.  “I just wanted to say, I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Finch,” he said with a smile.  “I've heard a lot about you, and it's an honor to be assigned to your detail.”

The unexpectedly friendly gesture surprised Finch.  The soldiers at Bletchley were usually either reserved or terse around the scientists, adhering to military discipline.  Then again, Mars was a Yank.  Perhaps that accounted for his warmer greeting.

And perhaps he's a spy, trying to gain my trust.

“Thank you, Sgt. Mars,” he answered warily.  “And thank you for catching me, earlier.”  Finch extended his hand to him reluctantly.  Politeness alone demanded that he shake the Sgt.’s hand, and he was also grateful for his help.  But he’d had too many soldiers try to crush his fingers under the guise of such a gesture in the past few years, to feel comfortable shaking hands with one any longer. 

Sgt. Mars surprised him, though.  His hand was large and strong, his fingers long and elegant.  But when his hand closed around Finch’s, his grip was firm, but not painful.  Confident, rather than cruel.

Sgt. Mars' handshake felt good.  Strong and warm, almost -- comforting, Harold thought, a bit stunned.  It reminded him of the warm, friendly way Nathan used to touch him.  Normally, Harold was instinctively wary of strangers, and disliked it if they touched him.  But to his surprise, he found he rather enjoyed that handshake.

He let go of Mars' hand abruptly, and tried to analyze his reaction.  Perhaps it was just relief; both for being saved from a bad fall, and for not being subjected to yet one more bone-headed, bone-crushing military handshake. 

Sgt. Mars must be more secure than the other soldiers I’ve met, Finch mused.  He doesn’t need to use a handshake to prove that he's stronger than I.  Of course, anyone who couldn’t see that at first glance would be stupid, he thought wryly.  Which I most certainly am not.  Besides, he'd already experienced Mars' strength, had felt how easily Mars' big hands had steadied him on the steps.

“It’s just Mr. Finch, please,” he heard himself say.  “There’s no need to call me ‘sir’.”

“Mr. Finch, then,” the Sergeant nodded, his smile widening.  “Sir,” he added with a smile.

Finch missed that.  He was busy noting privately that Sgt. Mars had an extremely charming smile.

He didn’t even realize that he must’ve been staring until Mars pointed up the stairs and prompted, “You were headed this way?” 

“Yes.  Come along, I’m a bit late this morning,” Finch said tersely.  He turned away, a little embarrassed that he’d gotten caught up in the handsome Sergeant’s smile.  He wasn’t usually nearly so obvious.  He could only hope that Sgt. Mars hadn’t noticed, or that he hadn’t guessed at the source of his momentary distraction.  

As Finch turned to continue up the stairs toward his office, Mars moved confidently along beside him, his blue eyes scanning sharply about, taking in everything around them with obvious interest.  Finch wasn’t sure if that was a result of his training, or if it was simply Mars’ own native curiosity.  Regardless, the man’s alertness impressed him.

“Since you weren’t expecting my assignment, Mr. Finch, I’d like to give you some information about how your bodyguarding detail is going to work,” Sgt. Mars explained as they climbed. 

Again, Mars was being polite, even friendly, Finch thought, pleased but still wary.  ''Yes, please do.''

“As of today, two of us from SAS, myself and Sgt. Pallard, have been assigned to guard you.  We’ll be with you all day and all night as well, until we’re notified otherwise.”

Finch grimaced.  He hadn’t been expecting two guards, and round-the-clock surveillance.  Bloody hell.

“Pallard’s my relief, and he’ll be coming on duty at 2300 – eleven p.m.  I’ll radio him your location, and he’ll join you wherever you happen to be at that time, at work or at home, and stay with you until I’m back on duty.  I start at 0700.  I’ll pick you up at your home and drive you to work –”

Finch sighed to himself, knowing how difficult being under constant surveillance would be for him.  Still, he automatically checked over the details Mars had given him, and noticed an anomaly.  “Your hours are uneven,” he observed instantly, curious as always.  “Yours will be much longer than Pallard’s.  Why is that?”

Mars blinked, as if surprised that he’d noticed such a minor detail; or maybe surprised that he cared about it.  “I volunteered for that, sir.  I wanted the bulk of the responsibility for protecting you to be mine,” he said simply.

And why is that? Finch wondered as he took the stairs as quickly as his awkward, limping gait would allow.  It was cold, and despite his heavy wool coat, his injuries always made him stiffer then.  He’d woke up late, and hadn’t had time to soak in a hot bath as he usually did before leaving for work on winter mornings.  But physical discomfort was a constant now, and it didn’t keep his mind from working at its usual top speed.  He wondered if Sgt. Mars was telling him the truth about why he’d chosen to structure his details' hours so unevenly. 

Finch had had ample opportunity to observe military men at Bletchley, and it seemed unusual for a soldier to volunteer for longer stretches of duty than he had to.  Why had Mars done so?  Was he ambitious?  Did he perhaps see this assignment as a step up the military ladder?  A way to gain promotion?  Did he need extra money, since he had a wife -- and possibly children -- to support?  Or had he been ordered to use his longer shift to get close to Finch, to gain Finch’s trust, the better to spy on him?

Unwilling to reveal his suspicions, and wanting more information on Sgt. Mars, Finch changed the subject.  “If you don’t mind my asking, if you were born in America, how did you wind up in the British Army?”

Mars just grinned at him.  “Ahh, but if I told you that, Mr. Finch, then I’d have to kill you,” he teased.

His new bodyguard evidently had a rather impudent sense of humor.  It reminded him instantly of Nathan.  Still, it wouldn't do to show his amusement.  Finch gave Mars a level look instead, until the young soldier relented. 

“Sorry.  The truth is, I was born in the U.S., in Washington state.  But my family moved here when I was fifteen, and I love it here.  I married an English girl, and England’s my home now.  So I signed up when the war broke out.”

“I see.”

When they neared the top of the stairs, Finch shot a sideways glance at Mars.  The soldier didn’t know it, but while he’d been studying his new surroundings, Finch had been observing him.  Putting him through a little test. 

He knew the Sergeant must’ve noticed his awkward gait, since it was exaggerated when he had to climb stairs, and it had been doubly apparent when Snow had grabbed him and pulled him off balance so easily.  Several of Finch’s colleagues had reacted unfavorably, even stupidly to his injuries in the past.  Some had even gone so far as to grab his arm when they were heading into work, to “help” him up the steep stone stairs into “C and C”, as Harold's department was often called.  Harold hated that with a passion, hated being treated as a weakling.  So now he used the walk up the front steps to his office as a sort of private test of character.  Anyone who grabbed at him without good reason like that, he avoided ever after.  He didn't consider what Mars had done for him earlier as that sort of insult, though.  On the contrary -- the soldier had saved him from a dangerous, maybe even deadly fall, and Finch was grateful.  Still, he wanted to see if the incident (and his injuries) would color the younger man's perception of him; make him over-protective.

To Finch’s relief, despite his earlier mishap, Sgt. Mars didn’t act as if he were helpless.  He stayed at Harold’s side, close enough to help if it was needed, without crowding him.  He didn’t stare or ask stupid, prying questions about how Finch had been injured, and he let Harold make his own way up the stairs unaided. 

Good, Finch thought with satisfaction.  Mars had passed his first ‘test’, displaying both intelligence and good manners.  It remained to be seen what his contacts at MI6 and the OSS, and Mars’ military records would tell him about the man…  Finch intended to ask Perlson for a copy of Sgt. Pallard’s personnel file too, just to be thorough.  But since Pallard would mostly be around at night while Finch was sleeping, he doubted that he’d present a problem.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Sgt. Mars surprised him by saying quietly, “Sorry about Snow, Mr. Finch.  He’s a bit of an ass.  I heard what happened to Mr. Ingram.  I know he was your friend, and I’m sorry he died like that.  But I’m gonna make damn sure that doesn't happen to you.”

Sgt. Mars seemed very kind, very American in his openness; and quite fiercely determined, as well.  Harold appreciated his sentiments, though given the frequency of Luftwaffe bombing raids lately, he didn’t think that his promise of safety was really one that anyone could keep.  But he liked the fact that Sgt. Mars evidently intended to try, and that he'd expressed condolences about Nate’s death.  He also thought it was interesting that the soldier seemed to share his dim view of Lt. Snow. 

Or was he just pretending to, to gain my confidence?

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Finch replied cautiously.  He hadn’t begun to make up his mind what he really thought of Sgt. Mars yet.  Finch was better with machines than people, so Mars’ sincerity would be in question until he could check his records.  But all his initial impressions of the soldier were favorable; and he owed him his gratitude for his quick rescue on the stairs.  That had been genuine, unasked for, and showed the same kindness his words had.  He seemed quick to act and protective in the best sort of way – without being patronizing.  Both qualities would, even Finch was forced to admit, be excellent traits in a bodyguard.  So if Mars’ assignment was genuine, and if he could determine that Mars was trustworthy, then he admitted to himself that it might not be entirely unpleasant to have the young soldier around.  He was strikingly handsome and so far he seemed decent, even kind; and if he was half the man he looked, Harold had the feeling he’d prove to be brave as well. 

Just for a moment, he let himself wonder how different things might’ve been, if Mars had been guarding Nathan when that thrice-damned German bomb had hit.  Would Sgt. Mars have heard the bomb coming in time, and somehow gotten Nathan to safety?  He'd never know, but just for a moment, Harold wished that it could’ve happened like that.  That Sgt. Mars could’ve been assigned to guard Nathan instead of him, and saved him.

Then he pushed his grief and loss aside.  He’d have time to think of Nathan later, to mourn him as he always did when he was alone.  In the meantime, if he had to have a bodyguard detail, at least Sgt. Mars seemed alert, intelligent and compassionate; and since he was the soldier Finch would spend most of his time with, that was encouraging. 

Only time would tell if his first impressions of Mars’ sterling qualities were correct or not, of course.  Even if they were, things wouldn’t be easy.  Those very qualities were bound to make Finch’s life more difficult in other ways. 

Harold had good reasons for telling most everyone he knew that he was “a very private person”.  He guarded his privacy because he had dangerous secrets to keep.  The last thing he needed was to have an observant, intelligent, handsome but married soldier tagging along everywhere he went, watching him constantly.  For him, Sgt. Mars would be more than a nuisance -- he’d be both tempting and perilous.   

Harold was always careful.  It had become a way of life.  Still, he resolved to be especially careful henceforth, so the sharp-eyed young soldier would never see even a hint of his attraction to him. 

Sadly, Finch was used to keeping people at a distance.  He’d had to ever since he was a boy, when he’d first discovered his bent and learned how deeply others despised it.  So much that they would insult, injure or even kill him if they found out that he was attracted to men, rather than women.  Harold had learned to be alone long before Sgt. Mars had been assigned to him.  Though Finch was the head of the critical Ultra project for British Intelligence, homosexuality was still as illegal in England as it was everywhere else.  If anyone at Bletchley Park realized that Finch was homosexual, he’d be kicked off the project instantly, stripped of his security clearance and disgraced.  If it could be proven, he could even be sent to prison.  The fate of Oscar Wilde, the Irish writer whose books and plays Harold deeply admired, was tragic and a cautionary tale he could never forget.

Harold had always been careful to make certain that fate would never be his.  Caution forced him to be celibate far more than he would've preferred, but it was a simple equation:  sex was worth less than the value of his work, his reputation and his freedom.  Especially for a man like him, forced into furtive, strictly casual liaisons by punitive laws.  Robbed of spontaneity and any hope of real intimacy, sex had never been very fulfilling for him anyway.  Still, none of his liaisons had ever come to light, for the simple reason that he took elaborate precautions with them.  He never went to houses of prostitution, never saw the same man twice, always wore disguises when he sought partners for sex, and never gave any of them his real name. 

He’d have to take different precautions, while Sergeants Mars and Pallard were assigned to him.  Even if Mars truly was meant to be his bodyguard rather than a spy, Harold would still have to appear to have a normal private life, while the Sgt. was watching.  He’d have to avoid any assignations with males and date women instead.  It wouldn't be a problem; he’d done so before.  He actually enjoyed the company of attractive, intelligent women.  He even appreciated their beauty, it just didn’t stir him.  But they did provide a perfect cover for men like him, and Finch had a few female friends who he asked out on dates when necessary.  He’d learned that it didn’t take much, to allay others’ suspicions.  They usually saw only what they wanted to see.

Still... Though Finch was capable of an icy self control which he’d spent years developing, he was only human.  And if Lt. Snow was telling the truth about who’d issued his orders, and Finch was to have a tall, dark and handsome but completely off-limits young soldier at his elbow day and night for months, or perhaps even years if the war dragged on, he foresaw some sleepless nights in his future.

Lt. Snow…

As he and Sgt. Mars headed through the front door of the Codes and Cyphers department building designated 'Hut 8' and down the hall to his office, Harold’s eyes narrowed slightly at the memory of what that odious man had said about Nate.  Personal insults he could usually shrug off, but insults to Nathan’s memory – never.  If his investigation into the rumours about Snow’s black market activities didn’t pan out, he’d have to find some other way to make Lt. Snow’s life very difficult. 

The sooner the better.

*

Finch sat at his desk at home later that night, watching while his daytime bodyguard exchanged a brief salute with a shorter, stockier blond man, who, like Sgt. Mars, was also wearing a dark suit and tie.

The blond then turned and stepped toward Harold.  “Mr. Finch, sir.  I’m Sgt. Pallard.  I’ll be guarding you at night from now on.” 

Finch nodded at him.  “Yes, thank you.  Sgt. Mars apprised me of that.”  Finch noted that Pallard shared Sgt. Mars’ alert, watchful gaze, but he was shorter, his eyes were brown, and his face was pleasant rather than handsome, which was a relief.  Having one extremely handsome young bodyguard is more than enough temptation, thank you very much, Harold thought wryly.   

Finch's staff had already been vetted by MI6, but Sgt. Mars had insisted on meeting each of them anyway, saying that he wanted to be sure he could recognize them all on sight.  Finch approved of his thoroughness.

“The maids are never here at night, unless I'm entertaining,'' Finch explained to Pallard.  ''But my housekeeper and cook, Mrs. Haymes and my butler, Mr. Stiles are.  They're the only staff who also live here.  They're in the kitchen at present, if you’d like to meet them.”

Pallard nodded, his dark brown eyes somber.  “Yes sir.”

Sgt. Mars nodded from behind him.  “I’ll be off then, Mr. Finch.  Have a good evening.”

“Yes.  You too, Sergeant. Thank you both.” 

Finch watched as both soldiers walked away.  He mentally reviewed what he’d already learned about them.  His earlier phone calls had borne fruit swiftly, and copies of both soldiers' Army and SAS personnel files had been delivered to him at Bletchley, where he'd read them with interest.

He'd smuggled them home with him too, so he could read them over more thoroughly.  Now that Sgt. Mars was gone and Pallard was momentarily out of sight, he had his chance.  He took the files out again.

His phone calls earlier that morning had settled the question of MI6's motives for assigning him bodyguards.  Apparently, they had received two bits of credible intelligence that there was a real threat on his life.  Spies in France had been told that a German assassination squad was being assembled to “take out that little Jew who’s running Ultra.”  Another Allied spy network in Spain had apparently intercepted a cable in Madrid on the same subject, indicating that men were being sent to, quote, “deal with the Jew running Ultra”.  Both British and American Intelligence had taken those threats seriously enough to issue him round-the-clock guards.

Finch wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed that his bodyguards were legitimate.  He was glad that he wasn’t being covertly investigated, but the threats against him meant that he would still be watched for the foreseeable future, which was a nuisance.  Perhaps even for several years, if the war dragged on that long and the threat failed to materialize right away.  It was a dismal prospect.

But since there was no way he could avoid it, he applied himself to poring over the Army records of his new bodyguards a second time.  Finch was always thorough himself.

Sgt. Robert Pallard was a Yorkshireman with a solid, even exemplary Army record.  He’d earned his rank in combat in North Africa, been wounded in action and sent home.  Once he’d recovered, he’d transferred to the SAS, which was considered even more hazardous duty.  His marks during his SAS training had been consistently high.

Sergeant Mars’ Army file was even more impressive.  Though he was only 28, like Pallard, Mars was already a combat veteran, twice decorated for valor in combat in North Africa.  Once for repeatedly risking his life by exposing himself to enemy fire so he could drag wounded comrades back to safety during the battle at Gazala, and the second for fearlessly jumping onto German tanks and lobbing grenades inside them during an attack by a Panzer unit at the first battle at El Alamein, a few months later.  He'd been wounded as a result – taken a bullet to his leg, and shrapnel through his left arm -- and sent home.  But like Pallard, as soon as he'd recovered, Mars had volunteered for even more dangerous duty in the SAS.

Finch blinked when he read that.  He was both amazed at the courage of the young men he’d just met, and appalled at the risks that Sgt. Mars in particular, seemed prone to taking. 

But once he delved into the parts of Mars’ file concerning his citations, the motive for those risks became clear.  Both times Sgt. Mars had risked his life against insane odds, he'd done it to save the other men in his unit.  According to his commanding officer, Lt. Owens, many of them owed their lives to him.

No wonder MI6 and the OSS chose him for this job, Harold thought.  Sergeant Mars was not only sharp-eyed and courageous, he was also highly motivated to save others.  The ideal bodyguard.

“It seems that all you want to do is protect people,” Finch mused softly.

He'd already seen that quality in Sgt. Mars himself, and had reason to be grateful for it.  He hadn’t forgotten the strong hands that'd reached out and caught him on the stairs that morning.  A strange warmth stole over him. 

He didn’t even know me, yet he may have already saved my life too, he thought.

Sgt. Mars was an extraordinary young man.  Judging by his near perfect test scores and the reports of his C.O.’s, Mars was more than brave, loyal and self-sacrificing.  He was also highly intelligent, adaptible and quick-thinking, an expert marksman and tactician who remained cool under fire and in the fiercest of battles.  In short, he’d proved himself more than proficient at every task the British Army had thrown at him, even the ultimate test of desert combat.  Finch noted with interest that his young guard had also shown strong aptitudes in math, languages, and coding; all of which had made him ideal for the SAS.

Apparently Sgt. Pallard had just completed his SAS training, but Sgt. Mars had been about four weeks short of finishing his when their SAS instructors had received a joint request from the OSS and SIS for their finest soldiers, for Finch's bodyguard detail.

Finch stared off into space, considering that.  Pallard and Mars were the finest soldiers in their units, and as such, valuable to the war effort.  MI6 must fear that the Germans were sending very highly trained soldiers to kill him, or they wouldn't have assigned him such a formidable pair of guards.    Finch was no coward; yet the thought gave him a chill.

Nate would've said, Think of it as a compliment.  His old friend's voice sounded in Harold's mind, wry and fond.  If the Germans want to kill you that badly, Harold, you must be doing something right.

Oh Nathan…

Finch bowed his head, closing his eyes tightly against sudden tears.  Memories flooded his tired mind of the handsome, vital friend he'd lost.  He and Nate had had such fun at Cambridge.  In his mind's eye he could still see Nate, rushing to class late most mornings after some revelry the night before, smiling and hurrying along as the wind caught and lifted his shining blonde hair.  Nate had forever been pushing long, tawny strands off his forehead in an impatient gesture now forever enshrined in Harold's memory.  He recalled the limitless sense of possibilities youth had given them both.  The pure joy he'd felt, experimenting and inventing things in the university's labs. The heady rush of stretching his mind, letting it soar, absorbing knowledge like it was the air he needed to breathe...  And always, Nathan Ingram had been by his side.  Beautiful, laughing,  generous, golden-haired Nathan, who'd pursued knowledge and women with equal fervor.

Nate, whose golden hair and mischievous smile he would never see again, because  he'd been killed in a  Luftwaffe bombing raid.  For Harold, it was as if the sun had been forever dimmed by his passing.

Though Nate had been a brilliant, gifted engineer, Harold's interests were both broader and deeper.  But if he'd been the smarter of the two, Nathan had been his superior in so many other ways.  Taller, far more handsome, more charming and outgoing, funnier and vastly more popular…  Nathan had been gifted with people, had understood and charmed them effortlessly, when they'd always been mysteries to Harold. 

Yet somehow, after they'd bumped into each other in the library one day and begun a spirited discussion of the most perfectly engineered bridges in England, Nathan kept seeking Harold out and before Finch knew it, a lasting friendship had been formed.  To this day, Finch still marveled at it.  He'd been so lucky... 

Despite the threat and then the dark reality of war, in some ways, their years together at Cambridge and then at Bletchley Park afterwards, had been the happiest and most fulfilling of Harold’s life.  It had been a privilege even knowing a man as fine as Nathan Ingram.  Having him as his best friend was a gift that the previously solitary Harold had never expected; and it'd been great fun as well.  Nathan had had the rare gift of taking Harold out of his own head, of distracting him from the math and physics problems he loved and luring him to parties, films and plays.  Nathan had loved Harold in his own way, and he’d known how to amuse him, which almost no one else could do.   He'd known that Harold was Jewish, but hadn't cared a fig about it.  He'd even guessed that Finch wasn't his real name; but after a few teasing questions, he'd given up and simply accepted Harold's secretiveness about his past.

Harold knew he’d been extremely lucky, having Nate Ingram as his best friend.  But that very happiness only served to underscore his current loneliness.  He tried not to think, for the thousandth time, how empty his life now was without Nathan.  But sometimes, late at night like this, it seemed as if all his work, absorbing and important though it was, was just a distraction.  A curtain he'd drawn across his heart, to keep the pain of Nate’s death from breaking him.  He did his work in Nathan’s memory now, to save countless others from his fate; but sometimes that seemed scant, cold comfort.

You’re being selfish, he reproved himself.  You’re not the only one who's lost someone in this war.  At least you’re still alive, to carry on the fight.

Harold blinked rapidly, not letting his tears fall.  But that was all the stoicism he could manage.  Grief twisted inside him anyway, hot, aching, and seemingly endless.  Harold closed his eyes, but even in the darkness there, he could still see Nathan shining, bright and beautiful.

Nathan, he whispered mentally, where no one else could hear.  I miss you so.   And I am so alone... 

*

A week later, Finch noticed something odd at his office.  It was composed of two rooms, an outer one with a desk where he did most of his work and met visitors and colleagues, and a smaller back room with a little desk, a more private space where he kept his more important papers locked at all times.  The two rooms were separated by a door that Finch always locked, whenever he had visitors who didn't work for MI6.  Normally though, he left the door open so he could work on a chalkboard he kept in the back room.  He liked to dart in at odd moments and scribble equations there, work on physics problems or math concerning his inventions, or sometimes new variations on codes and ciphers in his (admittedly scant) spare time.  He often worked backwards with them, writing out messages he'd encrypted in new ways and then looking them over, trying to decide how hard it would be for someone who was trained at it to decipher them, and if it would be impossible for someone who wasn’t.

But suddenly, it seemed like someone had invaded what Finch had always thought of as his private sanctuary at Bletchley.

One Friday evening at about 10:45 p.m., he walked back into his office after spending about ten minutes working with an engineer and physicist friend across the hall.  Alan Smythe had asked him to look over an intriguing set of equations regarding thrust and drag, in relation to the wings of a new fighter plane that he and two others were designing for the RAF.  That done, Finch wanted to take a last look at the current code on his blackboard, before going home. 

He strolled past Sgt. Mars into the back of his office and froze in surprise.  “What -- who did this?” he muttered, stunned.

Someone had written on his chalkboard.  Someone had breached his private sanctuary, and correctly -- and boldly -- worked out the bit of code he’d been working on, and written most of the decoded message beneath it.

Most, but not all of it, Finch noted automatically.  As if the mysterious decoder had been interrupted before he or she could finish…

When had it happened?  Some time after three, he realized.  He'd taken a look at some of his equations on the board then, and the stranger's writing hadn't been there.

Though he was alarmed, Harold paused to consider the situation.  Ordinarily, no one came into the back of his office except for the soldiers who made the rounds at night, making sure that everything was locked up tight; and he'd already come and gone.  It was unlikely that he'd be capable of this anyway.  No one else came into the back, private part of his office, and even if they had, no one here would’ve written on his blackboard like this.  Though there were several other scientists at Bletchley who could’ve easily decoded Finch's scribblings, they were all extremely busy, and absorbed in their own projects.  Stealing in here to decipher something of his would've been a waste of their time, rather like a childish prank; and they were all deeply serious men.  Besides, Finch would’ve recognized their handwriting.  But the neat, yet bold chalk strokes he was staring at now were unfamiliar; the writing of a stranger.

The most obvious question was, how had this mysterious stranger gotten past his highly trained bodyguard, who was still at his office door, without being seen?  And what else had they done?

Finch quickly checked the lock on the little desk by his blackboard.  It seemed untouched, and unlocked easily when he opened it.  None of the top secret documents he'd stored in the desk were missing, either.  Thank God.  Nor had anything else on the desk, or in the room itself, been touched – except for the chalk and his blackboard.  And Harold had only been out of his office for a few moments, to speak to Smythe across the hall.  Fifteen minutes at most, he thought.  He hadn't even been out of sight of his office door.

“Sgt. Mars!” he called out sharply, worried yet also intrigued.  Finch had devoted his life to solving mysteries, after all.  Finding one in his own, supposedly secure office piqued his curiosity.

Mars came in promptly from his usual position at Finch’s outer door.  “Yes, Mr. Finch?”

“Has anyone else but us been in here today?''

Mars shook his head.  ''No, just the security officer.''

The writing on Finch's chalkboard said otherwise.  ''I thought you were supposed to be guarding my office,” he began.

“No, I’m supposed to be guarding you; but you just happen to be in your office, so I'm guarding that too,” Mars smiled.

“Don’t split hairs with me!” Finch snapped.  “This is serious!  Someone has been in my back office within the past few hours.  That’s a breach of security.”

Mars' smile vanished instantly.  “Sorry, Mr. Finch.”  He moved past Harold and checked around thoroughly.  “Nothing looks out of place.  Has anything in here been taken or moved?” he asked.

“Not that I can see.  I keep that desk locked, and the lock hasn’t been tampered with, and nothing in that desk or the rest of the room is missing.  I checked before I called you,” Finch replied.

“Then what makes you think –”

Finch pursed his lips.  “The blackboard!” he pointed to it in exasperation.  “Someone wrote on it while I was out just now.  Decoded something I was working on there.”

To his surprise, Sgt. Mars stiffened at that.  He blinked and said awkwardly, “Oh.  Uh.  Yes.  Well, sir –”

Harold had never seen his cool, confident bodyguard even slightly discomfited before.  It made the truth obvious.

“It was you!” he breathed in surprise.

“Yeah.  I’m afraid it was me, Mr. Finch,” Mars said sheepishly, at the same instant.

For a moment, they just stared at each other.  Finch felt a bit embarrassed himself, at having missed the obvious.  Then again, when he'd come back from talking to Smythe, Sgt. Mars had been standing at his usual post by his outer office door.  So he'd had no reason to suspect that Mars had gone into the back room while he'd stepped out.  Now that he knew, he couldn't help wondering how the Sgt. had managed to get from the blackboard in his back office to his outer office door, so quickly that he'd never even seen him move.

Covert ops training, Harold reminded himself wryly.  He’s learned to move fast. 

Sgt. Mars still looked uncomfortable.  He drew himself up even straighter than usual.  “I apologize, Mr. Finch sir,” he said formally.  “Sorry I worried you.  I didn’t touch anything else, and I didn't mean to pry.  I was just -- well, looking at what you'd written, and I guess I got carried away.  I meant to erase what I wrote before you came back, but you came back sooner than I was expecting…”

“I see.”  Finch blew out a breath and shook his head, immensely relieved that there hadn’t been a security breach after all.  ''Well.  No harm done, I suppose,'' he said.  But a trace of suspicion lingered in his mind.  Why had the Sergeant felt he needed to hide what he'd done?

“I wasn't neglecting you, Mr. Finch,” Sgt. Mars said earnestly, though Finch hadn't suggested as much.  ''I could see you from your blackboard.  I was still watching you and Mr. Smythe, while I was decoding.” 

Finch didn't doubt it.  Sgt. Mars was nothing if not dedicated.  But now he understood why the Sgt. had raced back to his post, to hide what he'd been doing.  He’d worried that Finch would perceive him as having neglected his duty as his bodyguard, while he’d been decoding.  ''Don't worry about it,'' Finch said dryly.  He hadn't exactly been in any danger in Alan Smythe's office, after all.

“I just --”

“You were bored, and couldn't resist a riddle,'' Finch supplied, understanding completely.  

“Yeah.  But it was still unprofessional,'' the Sgt. muttered unhappily.  “It won't happen again.  I’ll just go erase what I wrote right now,” he muttered, turning towards the blackboard in obvious embarrassment, as if he had somehow been caught in derelection of duty.

“No, no!”  Harold said quickly.  “No need.  Still.  Why didn't you tell me it was you, when I asked?''

Sgt. Mars shrugged.  ''You didn't.  You asked if anyone else but us had been in your office today.  I told you the truth; no one else but the security guard had been there.” 

“I see.”  Finch realized, those had been his exact words.  Sgt. Mars had just chosen to take them literally. 

“When you asked me that, I didn't know that you'd already seen what I'd written, either.  I meant to pop back in and erase it before I drove you home.”

''All right, Sergeant,'' Finch repeated, satisfied.  ''I understand.  Let's just forget it, shall we?” 

Mars looked relieved.  “Thanks, Mr. Finch.  I didn't mean any harm --”

Finch waved a hand.  ''I'm sure of that.  If I thought you had, I’d report you,” he added, and they both knew he wasn’t joking.  “I believe I've done enough for one day, though, Sergeant.  It’s time to go.”

Sgt. Mars brightened at that, his eyes lighting up.  “All right.  I'll drive you home, then.”

That look reminded Finch of just how bored Mars must’ve been, to do what he'd just done.  He felt a faint sense of chagrin.  He found his work so engrossing, it hadn’t occurred to him how hard it must be for an energetic, athletic young man like Sgt. Mars to stand quietly by, watching him do it all day.  “Fine.” 

But as he turned to lock his outer office door, Finch shook his head wryly at his bodyguard's eagerness to chauffeur him.  He knew it wasn’t entirely due to the tedium of being his bodyguard.  Sgt. Mars loved automobiles, and he'd quickly developed a passion for Finch's Rolls Royce that made Harold secretly feel absurdly jealous of his own car. The first time he'd laid eyes on the black Wraith, Mars' eyes had gone wide and he'd grinned, “Oh, now that -- that is a thing of true beauty, Mr. Finch!”  He'd run his hands gently over the Rolls' sleek, curved hood as admiringly as a lover.  In fact, Harold was fairly sure that driving him to and from work in that car was currently the high point of Sgt. Mars' workday.

Which shouldn't be the case, Finch realized abruptly.

The thought struck with enough force that he considered it again later on, in the car.  He'd developed a habit of reading in the Rolls on his way home from work, by the light of a tiny torch he'd attached a metal shade to, so it could be used even during blackouts.  He had so much work to do in his Codes & Ciphers department alone, he could never catch up with it.  Then there were his own private inventions and research.  There was never enough time for it all, so he liked to work in the car while going to and from Bletchley.

But that night, though he'd turned on his torch as usual after he got in the car, and opened a file containing notes on one of his new inventions, Harold couldn't stop thinking of what had just happened in his office.  Judging by his speed at decoding Finch's work, John Mars was even brighter than his military files had suggested.  Yet all he got to do all day, and for most of the evening too, was stand around and watch Finch work.  Still the Sgt. was so conscientious that the only time in several weeks that he'd briefly done something else on duty, he'd done it where he could observe Finch at the same time -- then sworn it would never happen again.

That would be a shame and a waste of a fine mind, Finch reflected.  It hadn't really occurred to him before that Sgt. Mars might be bored.  The soldier certainly hadn’t let it show; and for the past few weeks, Harold had been preoccupied by trying to get used to the loss of his privacy, to the feeling of constantly being watched by a pair of blue eyes that missed nothing.  It wasn't easy being the focus of such a handsome young man's gaze all day, yet being forced to ignore it.  Harold had quickly learned to sit at a slight angle to Sgt. Mars while he worked, so he wasn't constantly reminding himself not to look up at him when he felt the weight of the soldier's gaze on him.  He was still trying to adapt to Sgt. Pallard's presence in his home at night as well.  Fortunately for him, both soldiers were polite and well-behaved. 

Still, for a man as private as Finch, being watched at all times was a kind of hell.  He'd been so busy adjusting to his own discomfort at being under constant scrutiny, he hadn't spared a thought for Sgt. Mars' side of the situation.

He'd actually been working so hard at ignoring Mars, he hadn't even spoken to him much.  Not that the Sgt. had complained.  Far from it.  He was always cheerful, had a ready smile, and was helpful without being intrusive.  In fact, to Harold's surprise, Sgt. Mars had begun quietly, subtly looking after him in other ways, too.  Making sure he went home at a semi-decent hour, having the clerks in C and C brew his favorite brand of tea, chatting cheerfully to him even though Finch hadn’t talked to him much…  Mars had been more than just the perfect bodyguard, he'd been friendly and kind as well.

He's also risking his life for me, and he's a highly intelligent man who was plucked from active, challenging training to do nothing but watch me and whoever comes near me all day, Finch reflected.  He must be bored witless; and I've made things worse by largely pretending that he doesn't exist. 

Finch felt a pang of guilt.  Small wonder that the Sgt. was tempted to do a bit of decoding.  I would’ve been too, in his place.  He must be starved for intellectual stimulation.  I should've realized...

  Human interaction has never been my forte, Harold thought ruefully.  Nathan would’ve made friends with Sgt. Mars instantly, he knew.  Hell, Nate would've sussed out every detail of his personal life by now, as well.  His wife's first name, whether they're happily married...  If they have children, he'd've learned all their names and ages, too. 

While he, by contrast, had been distant and standoffish to a young man who'd been nothing but kind to him in return.  Harold was embarrassed.  Mars had been watching over him for two weeks, yet he'd never once bothered to ask the young man a single thing about himself.  Yet Sgt. Mars was a war hero, a brave, decorated soldier who might get shot or even die, protecting him.  And even if he survived this assignment, Mars would then return to the SAS and be sent into even worse danger overseas.

He deserves far better treatment than what I've given him, Finch thought guiltily.  There must be something I can do to make up for my selfishness and neglect...

Harold had one of his swift, brilliant flashes of inspiration.  He realized he could do something far more beneficial for his bodyguard than simply chatting the Sergeant up.  I can teach him skills that will help him survive when he goes back to Africa as a covert operative. 

Sgt. Mars' assignment as his bodyguard was only temporary, after all.  As soon as the threat to Finch was over, he'd finish his SAS training and be sent back to war.  And Finch knew all too well that covert agents usually didn't last more than a few months.  Part of the reason for that was the lack of time available to train them properly before their deployment.  He could at least do something about that.

“Would you like me to teach you something more about codes and ciphers, Sgt. Mars?” he heard himself ask, almost before he knew it.

Mars shot him a startled glance while he drove.  “What's that, sir?”

“It's a simple question, Sergeant.  Is that something you would enjoy?”

Mars' eyes lit up, but then dimmed again.  He bit his lip and said tersely, “I’d like that very much, but I can't, sir.”

“Why ever not?”

Mars' mouth tightened.  “Your safety is my responsibility, Mr. Finch; and codes and ciphers take concentration --”

“And you can't afford to divert your attention like that while you're on duty,” Finch interrupted.  “Yes, of course.  But --”

“Thanks for the offer, though,” Sgt. Mars began.  “It's good of you, and I appreciate it --”

“Wait, don't be so hasty,” Finch reproved.  “I have an idea which I believe will solve the problem...”

*

The next morning, before he started his own work, Finch had a clerk bring a new blackboard into his office and set it behind his desk.  After his clerk left, he angled the board so that anyone looking at him from his doorway couldn't help but see it.  Sgt. Mars would certainly see it, from his station at his office door. Then he wrote out an encoded message on the board which was slightly more challenging than the ones he'd put into the SAS's training courses.  Dusting the chalk from his hands, he moved back to his desk.  As he sat down, he said quietly, “If you were, perhaps, to take notice of what I just wrote there today, we could perhaps discuss it further later tonight when you're off duty, Sergeant.”

“Perhaps we could, Mr. Finch,” was all Sgt. Mars said in reply.  But his delighted grin was a thing of beauty.

*

Sgt. Mars was a bit stunned by the sudden change in Finch's attitude towards him, and by his good luck in becoming the student of such a brilliant man.  Though Finch was always polite, for the first few weeks that John had been assigned to protect him, he'd been guarded and hadn't said much.  In fact, rather to his disappointment, Finch had seemed, for the most part, to prefer pretending that he wasn't even there.  Until John snuck into the back of Finch's office for a bit of unauthorized decoding, that is.  He hadn't meant for Finch to see it, but he'd come back to his office faster than John expected, and seen what he'd written on his blackboard before he could erase it.  That turned a few minutes' diversion into a mistake that could've been considered dereliction of duty.  He'd feared that his cheek in decoding Finch's coded message that day might get him demoted or even transferred, if Finch reported him. 

Instead, oddly enough, Finch seemed to approve of what he'd done.  He'd actually offered to teach him more codes and ciphers afterward, and quickly figured out a way to do it out in plain sight, without anyone else being the wiser, and without distracting John from his duty either.  His solution was simple but truly ingenious:  he’d had a second blackboard set up behind his desk, where he would post encoded messages.  Since Finch was the head of C and C and a physicist as well, he constantly worked with codes, equations and math formulas on a blackboard in his inner office.  So no one who caught sight of his second blackboard would have any idea that the chalk scribblings there weren’t just more of the scientist’s own work. 

But John knew better.  By watching Finch and his surroundings as he was supposed to all day, John couldn't help but see (and eventually memorize) his coded or ciphered lessons over Finch's shoulder. 

And when Mars sat down to decode them later, when he was off-duty at Finch’s estate, Finch's messages always turned out to be interesting passages from books or plays.  Shakespeare sometimes, or Dickens, Proust or Kafka.  Or once, an intriguing bit of an essay on population growth by Malthus.  Sgt. Mars started to look forward to his lessons' content, as much as he enjoyed wracking his brain by cracking the codes to reveal them.

Finch's lessons in decryption brought the two men closer together.  A week and a half later, Sgt. Mars had learned a new code and three new ciphers, and he and Finch were talking easily, and even playing the occasional game of chess late at night, while they waited for Sgt. Pallard to arrive and begin his shift on guard duty. 

Finch eyed his bodyguard thoughtfully over his chessboard, as Mars considered his next move.  “Did you know, Sergeant, that the word “code” comes from the Latin word “codex”, which means book?”

“Hmm.  Is that an attempt to distract me, Mr. Finch?” Mars teased.

Finch widened his eyes innocently.  “Would I stoop to such underhanded tactics, Sergeant?”

The soldier shot him an amused look that said, In a heartbeat, though he didn't say it out loud.  Instead, he threw back a question of his own.  “Do you know, Mr. Finch, where the phrase 'a square meal' comes from?”

Finch shook his head. 

The Sgt. grinned.  “That’s because you don’t eat enough to be familiar with the concept!  Sir,” he added wryly.

Finch shook his head, smiling a bit in spite of himself.  He'd walked right into that one.  “Really, Sergeant.  I assure you, I’ve been looking after myself for years now.  I do not require a mother,” he said wryly.

Mars just laughed.  “Says you, Mr. Finch!” and took one of Finch’s pawns.  “What did you have for dinner then, if I may ask, sir?  Or supper either?  Hmm?”

“Well, I--”  Finch scowled, suddenly realizing he hadn't eaten anything all day.

Mars grinned.  “I rest my case.  Never fear though, help is on the way.  We can't let you waste away to nothing, after all...” 

“‘We’?”  Finch echoed, raising an eyebrow at his odd choice of words.

Just then, he saw the reason for it.  As if on cue, Mrs. Haymes bustled in with a large tray of tea, scones and several kinds of sandwiches, and pulled an end table over so that she could set the food next to their chessboard.  Since he hadn't asked for any supper, Finch knew Sgt. Mars must've arranged this.

“Really, that's not--” necessary, he started to protest.  But the delicious, mingled scents of the tea and hot scones reached him then, and his neglected stomach growled loudly, reminding him that he'd forgotten to eat all day.  Mars snickered audibly at the indecorous sound, or maybe at Harold’s stubborn attempt to deny his obvious hunger. 

Mrs. Haymes gave Finch a stern look.  “I hope you’ll like these scones, Mr. Finch.  I used up our sugar rations for this month, making them,” she said pointedly.

“Oh, all right,” Harold sighed.  Knowing when he was outnumbered, he reached for a scone and took a bite.  “Mmm, delicious as always,” he pronounced truthfully, as the sweet, tart flavors of raspberries, butter and sugar filled his mouth.  Mrs. Haymes was both a superb housekeeper and an excellent cook.  She nodded to him -- more in approval of the fact that he was eating, he suspected, than at his compliment to her cooking -- and gave Sgt. Mars a wink as she left. 

He grinned back at her, clearly pleased with their efforts to get him to eat.

Harold’s eyes narrowed as he took another bite of his scone.  He wasn’t sure whether to be amused or horrified by the fact that his own bodyguard and housekeeper were apparently conspiring against him.  The sergeant’s powers of persuasion weren’t limited to Mrs. Haymes, either.  He seemed to wield undue influence over the female staff at Bletchley Park as well, because secretaries and clerks there had begun mysteriously depositing tea with crumpets or sandwiches on his desk lately too, though he hadn't asked for them.  When he’d tried to ask them about it, they’d just smiled at him mysteriously and left without saying a word.  Still, he'd known who was behind it.  Every female in his life, both at work and at home, seemed eager to please Sgt. Mars, he thought, bemused.

Small wonder, really.  As if his splendid looks weren't enough, he was also cheerful, charming, and a war hero; what woman could resist?  And when it came to making sure that Finch ate regularly, Mars seemed both creative and determined.  Harold decided wryly that he probably shouldn’t complain too much, however, as Mars' efforts kept him from fainting in public from hunger. 

A memory returned of Nate dragging him into pubs near Cambridge for similar reasons, in happier times.  Just for an instant, he heard Nathan’s voice again, wry and teasing, on a day long ago.  I swear, Harold, if I didn’t force you to eat on occasion, I think you’d waste away to a shadow!

Now Nathan, who'd been so handsome and vital, was only a shadow in his memories...

Grief knifed through Harold, so sudden and sharp that he laid down his scone and drew in a shaky breath.  Alert as always to any changes in his mood, Sergeant Mars looked up and searched his face, his eyes narrowing.  Harold averted his eyes, not wanting his young bodyguard to see him lose his composure.  But the pain of losing Nate washed over him anew, an almost unbearable agony that turned the sweet taste of the raspberry pastry to ashes in his mouth.  His hunger had vanished.

“Mr. Finch.  Harold.  Is this...not what you wanted?” the Sergeant asked, his brow furrowing in confusion as he waved a hand at the food. 

Harold couldn't answer.  His throat thick with grief, he just shook his head helplessly as his eyes filled with tears.  Dear God, no, this isn't what I wanted, he thought, anguished.  I never imagined having to live on for years in a world without Nathan.  Given the choice, I’d’ve died with him.

“Sir!” Mars' eyes widened in alarm, his voice dropping to a hoarse near whisper.  “Are you feeling unwell, or -- have I done something to upset you, Mr. Finch?”

He looked so worried that Harold shook his head again.  Undone by the young soldier's kindness and concern, which reminded him painfully of his old friend, he tried to say, No.  I'm all right.

But to his horror, when he tried to reassure his bodyguard, he found he was too choked up to utter a sound.  A tear rolled down his face instead.  Only then did he realize how truly tired he was.  Surely it must be that, he thought dimly.  I must be worn out from working too hard.  This unprecedented loss of control is so unlike me… 

Harold hardly ever cried, and never in front of others.  He’d certainly never meant to weep in front of a brave young soldier whom he deeply respected.

He jerked to his feet, horribly embarrassed.  “Sorry,” he finally managed to grate, trying to wipe away his tears and leave before he could disgrace himself completely.

But to his surprise, Sgt. Mars' big hand shot out, closing gently over his before he could escape.  “Please, Mr. Finch,” he said quietly.  “Don't leave yet, sir.  You -- you haven't even had your tea.” 

Mars’ big blue eyes fixed on his, pleading earnestly with him to stay.  Obviously, the Sergeant was grasping at straws to keep him there, Finch thought.  He just couldn't understand why.  Mars was a big, strong soldier, stalwart and utterly fearless.  A war hero, for god sakes.  How could he possibly understand such weakness?  Mars couldn’t know what Harold had been thinking, or what had caused his tears.  He must think Finch was losing his mind, or that he was a doddering old fool.  Surely he must --

But Mars’ quiet plea for Harold to stay, the way he kept calling him “sir” and his touch, so gentle, so careful – just firm enough to keep him there, but not hard enough to hurt -- that all seemed to imply otherwise.  Finch stared down in surprise at the large hand holding onto his so lightly.  Mars withdrew it quickly, as if he feared he'd overstepped his bounds with the gesture.  But he hadn't asked prying questions, or even mentioned Harold's breakdown.  He’d been careful not to, and Harold knew he'd been discreet in order to save his pride.  All he could think, yet again, was how very much Sgt. Mars' great kindness and compassion reminded him of Nathan.

Finally, Harold managed to regain his voice.  “I –”  Hearing a distinct quaver in it, he cleared his throat and tried again.  “I’m not sure that I want any tea, just now,” he said at last, a bit more steadily.

“All right,” Sgt. Mars said quietly.  “Then would you mind if I have a cup?”

“No, that's fine.  I'll pour,” Harold said, glad of a diversion.  “You know you don’t need to ask,” he added.  He reached for the teapot and cup automatically, grateful that his hands seemed to steady as he poured the Sgt.'s tea.  The little domesticity provided him a welcome refuge, a moment to recover from the piercing ache of his grief.  The pain in his chest somehow eased a bit as he offered John his tea.  Still, once Mars took it, he got up, feeling it would be better to go and compose himself in private.

“Thank you, sir.  Will you keep me company for a bit, while I drink it?”  Again, the request was spoken so gently that it was impossible to take offense at it.

Somehow, though he knew he was being maneuvered, Harold found he couldn’t leave then.  Whether he deserved it or not, the Sgt. was being so kind to him that it would’ve been churlish to run off, as he’d intended.  “Very well.  If you wish,” he agreed reluctantly, sinking back down into his chair. 

“Thank you sir,” Mars smiled, as if Harold had done him a favor by staying.

Harold sighed.  “Please.  I’ve told you to stop calling me ‘sir’,” he muttered, as the Sergeant sipped his tea.

“Yessir,” the soldier grinned cheekily, as he often did.  Now that Finch had agreed not to go, Mars' blue eyes were sparkling.  “I do seem to recall you mentioning that.  Once or twice.”

Harold rolled his eyes with familiar exasperation at Mars’ teasing.  “Hardly,” he sniffed.  “I would estimate my requests must number in the double digits by now.  Isn't it odd then, how I keep hearing it anyway?” he asked dryly.  Then he leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes for a moment, sighing as weariness rolled over him in a dark wave.  Somewhere deep inside, he’d felt tired since Nathan’s death.  It was as if some vital spark had gone out of him, like part of his strength had been stolen on that terrible day.

It was, he thought bleakly.

To his relief, the younger man was quiet for a few minutes, just drinking his tea.  Then he said, “Here, Mr. Finch.  Have a bite of a sandwich, at least.”

Harold opened his eyes to find Mars holding out a sandwich to him.  His mouth quirked unhappily, and he almost refused.  Grief had stolen his appetite.  But he knew the Sgt. would insist, and Harold was tired and upset; he didn't have the energy to argue the matter with him.  After a minute, he reached for the sandwich reluctantly and took a bite, just to please his bodyguard. 

He noticed it was cucumber rather than meat, without much surprise.  Meat, butter, sugar, milk – so many things had been rationed since the war started.  He’d resorted to having Mrs. Haymes order meat, dairy products, eggs and sugar from the U.S. once a month.  But since she'd mentioned using up their ration cards for sugar earlier, he assumed their order hadn’t arrived yet.

Then he remembered his manners.  “Please have one yourself, Sergeant,” he invited.  “You must be hungry too.” 

“Thanks, Mr. Finch.  Don’t mind if I do.”

Finch forced himself to take a few more bites, for both the sake of the friend who lived only in his memory now, and for the young soldier sitting beside him, who was so like him.  For a few minutes, the two men ate and drank in quiet, companionable silence, by the welcome warmth of the fire.  When Sgt. Mars finished his sandwich, he caught Harold's gaze.  “It’s okay to miss him, you know,” he said quietly.  “Mr. Ingram, I mean.”

Finch froze in astonishment.  “How on earth did you kn–”

Mars looked away, down into the delicate china tea cup that looked fragile in his large hands.  “I lost my two best friends in my first battle in Africa,” he said in a low voice.  “James Corcoran and John Farrell.  We were all in the same company.  Signed up together, we did.  Convinced we could win the war single-handed.  But when it came time to prove it…I couldn’t even save them,” he said, his mouth twisted with sorrow.  “They were blown to bits by a mortar, just two feet away from me.  And now there's not a day goes by that I don't wonder, sir,” he finished hoarsely.  “Why them?  Why them, and not me?”

Finch’s heart twisted inside him.  Dear God.  This was how John knew what he’d been thinking, and who his tears were for.  He had his own Nathan.  Two of them -- or maybe more than that.  Of course he did -- young as he was, he was a soldier who’d seen far more horror and death already than Harold probably ever would.  John was just so cheerful by nature, that Harold tended to forget where he’d been and what he’d done before they’d met; that hidden behind his bright eyes and charming smile, John Mars had scars and pain of his own.

“You can't think like that,” Harold said at last, though he'd asked the same question himself, every day since Nathan's death.

Mars stared away into the fire, a bleak look on his face that Finch had never seen before.  “I know,” he answered softly, in a way that told Finch he always would.

Harold wished desperately that he could simply hug the young soldier, who bore wounds just like his; or at least pat him on the shoulder.  He longed to return John's kindness, to ease his pain somehow, as John had just done for him.  But he knew that kind of response was impossible.  He was incredibly lucky that Sgt. Mars had been generous enough to open up to him as he had, though they hadn't really known each other very long.  He couldn't trespass on such kindness with an unseemly gesture, didn't want to risk offending the young man who'd just proved that he was more than just his guard, he was also a friend.

For a long moment, it was so quiet in the room that they could both hear the crackling of the fire.  Finch watched the Sgt., wondering desperately what he should say.  He needed to at least thank the younger man for his understanding, and for baring his soul the way he had, just to keep him from feeling foolish.  But he'd never been good with people, and fumbled for the proper words.  How could he thank Mars for sharing something so personal and wrenching, without sounding insensitive? 

Finally, he just said softly, “I understand, John.  And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry that you’ve lost friends too.”  It was the first time he’d ever used his bodyguard’s first name.

John didn’t seem to mind.  He just nodded and smiled a bit, though it was tinged with sadness.  “S’all right, Harold.  Just remember, though -- soldiers cry too sometimes,” he answered quietly, his voice still heavy.  “We bloody well do.”

Harold nodded.  That was something he would never forget again.

*

After that night, Finch tried to eat more often.  And he liked to think that Sgt. Mars rewarded that effort by calling him “sir” a bit less.

*

A few weeks later, the two men were once again settled in Finch’s study, playing chess while they waited for Sgt. Pallard to come on duty.  Finch won their first game, but Mars merely shrugged.  “I’ve just been taking it easy on you up till now, Mr. Finch,” he teased.  “But just you wait.”

Finch arched an eyebrow at him.  “Indeed, Sgt. Mars?  Have you merely been lulling me into a false sense of security all this time, then?”  Finch kept his tone dry, but oh, he loved teasing his handsome young bodyguard right back, indeed he did.

“Too right, sir!  Let’s play again.  I warn you though -- this time, it won’t be so easy.  This time, I’ll trounce you right and proper.”

Sgt. Mars was still smiling, but now he had the light of battle in his eyes; and Finch wasn’t at all surprised to find that he was almost impossible to beat in their second game.  He managed it, but only just, and only after a long battle. 

Harold felt a bit disappointed when Sgt. Pallard arrived to take over guarding him, and Sgt. Mars said good night and left.  Mars was a sharp, eager pupil who absorbed knowledge like a sponge, and laughed easily and often.  He was becoming an interesting chess player as well, and was gracious even when defeated at the game.  Despite his complaints that he didn't need mothering, Finch secretly found his young bodyguard's solicitude touching too.  No one had had tea brought to him at Bletchley, or put a gentle hand on his shoulder if he worked too late, or schemed to make him eat regular meals since Nathan’s death. 

For the first time since then, in Sgt. Mars' bright, kind, agreeable company, Harold Finch felt his deep grief and loneliness start to fade a little.

*

Sgt. Mars glanced at his watch.  Finch had left his office by nine p.m., earlier than usual.  It was after eleven now.  The weather was stormy, but John had radioed in that all was well, and Sgt. Pallard was on his way to relieve him.  He and Finch had begun a new chess game anyway, to pass the time until Pallard arrived.  It'd become something of a habit lately, that both men enjoyed.

Despite the late hour, Finch seemed as alert as ever.  Though he worked incredibly long hours, John seldom saw Harold look tired, and never heard him complain.  He’d heard the rumors floating ‘round at Bletchley; that Finch had made a deal with the devil, so he never needed to sleep.  The idea amused him.  He knew the truth:  that Finch often drank lots of coffee and worked obsessively, sometimes for several days without stopping, until he collapsed from sheer exhaustion and fell asleep at his desk. 

John had heard other rumors floating around too, about what happened to people who tried to harass Finch.  In some cases, they weren’t just rumors.  Injured as he was, Finch might not be much use in a fight, but as his bodyguard, Mars observed that Harold was far from harmless in other ways.  Finch didn't use his fists, in fact he seldom even raised his voice; but he had other, smarter ways of defending himself.  People who tried to harass him tended to lose their jobs and/or get sent away to bad places.  Lucifer himself had better watch out, John thought wryly, if he tangled with Harold Finch. 

As they bent over Finch’s chessboard, music played softly in the background.  Music was something of a constant at Finch’s house.  It seemed his phonograph was always playing.  At the moment, a woman with an unusually low voice was singing something classical in a foreign language. 

“Who's that singing, Finch?” Mars asked curiously.  Finch’s taste in music was as broad and discerning as his mind, and though John had never paid much attention to classical music before, he found he almost always enjoyed the high-brow music he heard at Finch’s house.  This beautiful piece was no exception.  John didn’t much like opera sung by sopranos; to him, their high-pitched shrieking sounded like cats being tortured.  But this woman’s voice was lower and much more appealing.

Finch smiled.  “That,” he said in a tone of near worship, “is “Ombra mai Fu”, an aria from an opera called “Serse” by Handel, sung by Kathleen Ferrier.  It was originally written to be sung by a soprano castrato,” he added, and Reese winced slightly, remembering Finch’s explanation of what “castrati” were.  “Though Kathleen is a contralto, she has…” Finch paused, as if searching for the right superlative, “a truly sublime voice.”

John listened for a moment, then nodded in agreement.  “That she does.”  He’d heard of Ferrier, though he’d never heard her sing before.  The music was so beautiful, they both fell silent for a few moments, enthralled by it. 

When the song was over, Finch said quietly, “It’s your move, Sergeant.”

John loved to tease Finch, so he hovered his fingers over a pawn for a few seconds, making Finch think he meant to move it.  He waited until Finch frowned, then quickly moved his knight instead.

Finch raised an eyebrow and gave him a look.  Anyone else might’ve thought it was mild, even bland.  But John was getting to know Harold Finch pretty well, and he knew what that particular look said:  You're toying with me, Sergeant Mars, and I will have my revenge. 

John smothered a grin.  He loved playing chess with Finch, loved the quiet little scientist’s mastery of and fierce competitiveness at the game. 

“I hear Lt. Snow got transferred out yesterday,” he said.  It wasn't to distract Finch from the game; he already knew that was impossible.  He just wanted to watch Finch’s face closely when he told him.

“Hmm, did he?”  Finch didn’t betray any reaction to that -- not so much as a flicker of an eyelash.  He just studied the board calmly.  It was hard to tell if he’d already known about Snow, or if this was the first he’d heard of it -- let alone if he was responsible.

Still, John would’ve bet good money that Finch was behind Snow’s transfer.  When Snow had introduced him to Finch, he’d noticed their mutual dislike.  He'd heard whispers since that Snow was a thief who'd been running a black market operation, skimming off American Army supplies.    So if Finch had heard the same rumors…  Kind though he was to people he liked, John had also seen that Harold could be a bad bloke to cross, and he hated people who tried to use the war for their own advantage. 

He’s a master at concealing his emotions, too, John reflected wryly.  Damn, but the man was good at that.  The only chink he'd ever seen in Finch's armor was his grief for Mr. Ingram; other than that, he was pretty impenetrable.  Sometimes he wished that Finch played poker.  He’d’ve loved to turn him loose on his buddies in SAS, and watch the brilliant scientist clean up. 

Just for fun, he pried a little more.  “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you Mr. Finch?”  His words were mild, but he watched Harold intently.

“Sgt. Mars,” Finch chided, just as mildly.  “What makes you think I have that kind of influence?”

John snorted.  Now he knew Finch was teasing him.  Finch was the head of a huge, top-secret department at MI6, he'd invented “the bombe”, and he had frequent secret meetings with Churchill and his war cabinet, for Crissakes.  Foreign diplomats and scientists often visited Bletchley to meet with him as well.  Finch had influence, all right.  The fact that his fame had spread internationally just emphasized what a genius the scientist was, and made John that much more determined to protect him.  It surprised John that Finch didn’t trade on his reputation more, or use his power more often than he seemed to.  Finch was also incredibly wealthy, and though he didn’t suffer fools gladly, he lacked the arrogance that often came with extreme wealth, and usually treated others well. 

Nevertheless, John had known how powerful Harold Finch was before he ever started guarding him.  It was part of the background information MI6 had given him about Finch; and he knew Harold knew that, too.  He hadn’t really expected Finch to admit what he’d done to Snow, but he couldn’t help probing for some sign of it, all the same.

“Besides.  Since the only place I have any privacy now is when I’m asleep in my own bed, if I had gotten Lt. Snow transferred, wouldn’t you know it already?”  Finch gave him a blandly innocent look.

John smiled wryly.  “I’m not so sure.” 

Finch had a fetish for privacy.  He was good at keeping secrets, even from his own bodyguard.  Mars had spent a fair amount of time waiting outside of partially closed doors while Finch made private phone calls, or worked on top secret documents that even John wasn’t supposed to be privy to. 

But Finch wasn’t always so guarded, at least not lately.  He’d actually asked John to accompany him to top secret meetings of Churchill’s war cabinet a couple of times, though Finch hadn’t really needed his protection there.  The P.M.'s meetings were always surrounded by such tight security that additional bodyguards were superfluous. 

John knew Finch had taken him along just so he could meet the P.M., Lord Beaverbrook, Peter Frain (the head of MI5) and others, and hear a bit of what went on there.  He’d felt honored that Finch trusted him that much.  It’d been interesting to meet men he'd only read about in the papers before, and fascinating to watch Churchill and his cabinet at work. 

Reese respected Churchill enormously, for stubbornly bucking popular opinion and consistently warning the British about Hitler before the war began, despite being ridiculed for it.  He felt they were extremely lucky to have him leading England during the war, rather than that milktoast Chamberlain who'd tried to appease Hitler, and thus condemned millions to subjugation, starvation and death in Eastern Europe.  He figured that Churchill had also been far-sighted in realizing that England would need the help of scientists, not just the military, if it hoped to win the war.  John was proud to be guarding a scientist of Finch’s caliber who was working for the war effort, someone that the P.M. himself consulted.

In person, Churchill seemed larger than life and volatile.  Charming one minute and contentious the next.  He was also the only person John had ever seen hug Finch and call him “Harry”, and get away with it.  Harold was fond of him, John could tell; and it was mutual.  Churchill obviously both liked Finch personally, and was respectful of his professional abilities.  John felt the same.  Thanks to Finch, John had gotten to witness history in the making during those meetings, and he’d never forget it.  It was just one more thing he owed Finch for.

In reply to John's latest hint about Snow's fate, Finch just shrugged.  But the corners of his lips turned up, ever so slightly. 

It wasn’t quite a smile, but John was getting to know him now, and the tiny hint of satisfaction he saw in that quirk of Finch’s lips told John he’d been right.  He didn’t know how Finch had done it, but somehow, he’d managed to get that dick, Mark Snow, transferred out.  And not just to some other base in England, either.  The rumor was, Snow had been shipped out to North Africa!

for the first time, John envied the bastard.  North Africa, the front.  Where he wanted to go back…

He thrust the thought aside.  He had no right to complain.  Jessica was relieved and happy to have him back safe, and he loved being able to go home to her sometimes.  And he had his duty:  to guard Finch.  Sure, it wasn’t combat or covert ops, but it was still important to England and the war effort. 

He’d realized that from the beginning, which was why he'd taken on the lion's share of guarding Finch himself.  He took pride in the responsibility.  Sometimes he thought that maybe what he was doing now was even more important than being a soldier at the front.  There, he was only one man among thousands.  Here, he was protecting a man whose work potentially protected every British soldier everywhere.  Hell, everyone in Britain and America, really.

He’d only been guarding Finch for a few months, but he’d already developed a deep respect for his charge.  Finch was one of the top scientists in Britain.  And though Mars didn’t understand all the intricacies of the incredibly complex German Enigma machine whose codes Finch and his department were always working on cracking, or the equally complex machine Finch and Ingram had built to help them do that, which Finch called “the bombe”, he’d learned enough about both to know how brilliant Harold was. 

John had told himself at first that he was only interested in Finch the way any good bodyguard would be:  professionally.  He watched over the man all day, every day, after all -- if he wasn't curious about him, it would've been odd. 

But he’d soon admitted, if only to himself, that he’d developed a sort of personal fascination with the man.  Maybe because Finch was so intensely private, and hadn't said much at first.  John had always loved a challenge, and it’d become a kind of game with him, trying to peer past Finch’s reserve and find out what made him tick.  The file MI6 had given him on the scientist hadn't helped much, since they'd gutted its contents before John ever saw it.  The remaining information was scant.  Harold apparently had a genius intelligence level and an impressive education:  advanced degrees in math, physics and engineering from Cambridge.  He was Jewish, though he kept that quiet and apparently didn't practice his religion.  He was a prodigiously talented scientist, physicist, engineer and inventor who headed the highly classified 'Ultra' project, as well as the vital Coding and Ciphers department at Bletchley Park.  He was also extremely wealthy and frequently consulted by the Prime Minister. 

That was the extent of the information MI6 had deigned to give him on Finch, and it wasn't much more than John could've picked up on him from the grapevine at Bletchley.  It hadn’t told him anything about Finch’s past before Cambridge, or anything about the man's personality. 

Mars had taken it on himself to study that.  So far, he’d noted that Harold was quiet but intense, with a nearly photographic memory.  He'd learned from the grapevine that Finch and Nathan Ingram had been fellow students at Cambridge, become best friends and gone to work for the war effort at Bletchley together, where they'd designed and built 'the bombe'.  But Ingram had been killed there about six months ago, in a German bombing raid.  One of the few truly personal things John knew about Harold, was how deeply he still grieved for Nathan Ingram. 

He'd also observed that Finch was an expert at codes and ciphers,  wore conservative but expensively tailored suits, loved literature in general and rare old books in particular, was a whiz at chess and fond of a wide range of music:  jazz, classical and opera.  Finch had a huge private library and an extensive record collection at his estate, all of which he’d generously given Mars the freedom to enjoy when he was off duty.  Finch kept a private lab there too, where he “tinkered with inventing things”.  But he was so dedicated to his work at Bletchley Park that he put in very long hours there, and was seldom home to use it. 

Harold also had a wickedly dry, often scathing sense of humor that appealed to John, and a genius’s ability to cut right to the heart of a complex problem swiftly.  Mars liked being around Finch, enjoyed his dry wit and watching his quick, agile mind at work.  He’d also learned that Finch was an excellent teacher, articulate and passionate, with a vast store of knowledge. 

John had learned a few codes and ciphers in the military already, then more in the SAS.  But he'd quickly discovered that his instructors had barely scratched the surface of what Finch knew about the subject.  Not only did he seem to know every code and cipher ever devised throughout history, he’d also invented many variations of his own. 

John had an aptitude for it himself.  He told himself that learning more codes would come in handy overseas, once his bodyguarding detail was done and he finally got to finish his SAS training.  Besides, bodyguard work could be boring.  Working on Finch's codes and ciphers in his head while he guarded him helped Mars stay mentally alert, despite his long hours.

But he soon realized his motives for starting his lessons with Finch weren’t just utilitarian or selfish.  He also wanted to do more than just hover around watching Finch while he worked.  He wanted to interact with him about something the scientist loved.  Coding was both a way to learn more about him, and an excuse to spend time with a man Mars wanted to get to know better.

The coding problems Finch gave him proved so interesting for them both that sometimes on nights when London was being bombed and it was too dangerous for John to drive home to his apartment, his wife would take refuge in the Underground, and John would stay in one of Finch’s many guestrooms.  Finch would take an hour or two and go over John's daily coding lesson before they went to sleep. 

John pushed himself as hard as he could in the scant time they had, not just in an effort to learn, but to gain Finch’s respect.  In return, Finch taught him increasingly complex codes and ciphers that went far beyond the simple military ones he already knew. 

Sgt. Pallard just shook his head when he saw them scribbling things down, or working on codes on the blackboards Finch had at home.  He had no interest in the subject beyond what he'd been taught in the SAS.  But John knew what a favor Finch was doing him.  In return, he tried not to take advantage or use up too much of Finch’s time, despite his interest in what he was learning. 

Sometimes Harold would work for several days before falling asleep at his desk, either at work or at home, at three or four in the morning.  So John made sure to always look Finch over carefully while he drove him to work in the morning.  If Finch looked tired and drank coffee all day instead of his usual favorite tea, it was a sign that he’d been up the whole previous night, and John would cancel their coding lesson later on.  Once he was off duty, he'd either go home to London or if the Germans were bombing London that night, as they did most nights, after he'd confirmed that by calling in to his base, he’d just drive back and sleep on a cot at Bletchley.  He didn't want to contribute to Finch's already overly heavy workload.  The very fact that both British and American intelligence had made protecting him a priority, had told John clearly just how important Finch’s work was to the Allies. 

Besides all that, he liked Finch.  He knew he was far from Harold's equal either in social status or intelligence, but Finch had been good to him, and he’d come to think of the scientist as a friend.  After his first month of guarding Finch, he realized that even if he were somehow offered the chance to return to SAS paratrooper training instead, he wouldn’t take it.  He didn’t want to leave the task of guarding Finch to anyone else, until the Germans who were after him had been caught or killed, and he could be sure that Harold was safe.  As safe as anyone could be, anyway, in England during the Blitz. 

*

Much as he enjoyed working on brain-twisting coding puzzles with Finch, John's favorite nights were the ones when he made it home to see his wife.  

Two weeks after Finch started teaching him coding, for once, the air raid sirens weren't sounding off in the distance when they left Bletchley.  So after he drove Finch to his estate and Pallard took over, John called home, then drove back to the apartment he shared with his wife in London.  It took a while.  Despite his eagerness to see Jess, he had to drive slowly and carefully, because the closer he got to London, the more the streets were pitted from bombings.  The street signs had been removed too, in case of German invasion, and he had to drive without headlights because of the blackout.  Due to all that, it was a slow crawl to get home.

When he'd first come home wounded from North Africa, sometimes when he got close to their apartment at night, he could hear the dull thump-thump of anti-aircraft fire from the batteries in Hyde Park and along the Embankment, hear the whine of bombs and smell smoke from burning buildings.  Tonight, for once, it was mercifully quiet as he drove, and his only worry was not hitting another car in the darkness.

John was relieved when he finally made it to his apartment building.  Their apartment in Camden wasn’t much, especially compared to Finch's grand estate.  It was just a tiny one-bedroom with a small kitchen; but crowded as London had become in war-time, they’d been lucky to get it.  Despite the blackout curtains on their windows and its small size, it was John's favorite place in the whole world, because Jessica was there and she made it a home. 

He jogged up the stairs to apt. 243 eagerly.  He was always relieved when he came home and found Jessica safe, and knew she felt the same way about him.  The moment he came through the door that night, Jessica put down the dish she was holding in their tiny kitchen and came to him.  “John!  It's good to have you home, love.”  She wrapped her slender arms around his neck happily and he hugged her, smiling. 

“Hi, sweetheart.”  He was glad she'd waited up for him.  She was wearing a new dress, something light, white and pretty, that seemed to float as she moved.  God, he thought, she’s so damn beautiful...

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite soldier!  Hello, handsome,” she teased, smiling up into his eyes as she kissed him.  “Fancy meeting you here.”

He kissed her back.  “Lucky me,” he grinned.  “What a gorgeous welcoming committee!”

Jessie laughed, a light, sweet sound that was John’s favorite sound in the world.  “Nothing but the best for our soldier boys!”

John shook his head, and tightened his arms around her possessively.  “Huh uh.  What you mean is, nothing but the best for me, and only me.  Right?”

She just rolled her eyes at his teasing.  “Oh, my.  Someone’s full of himself tonight!”

John laughed.  “Who wouldn’t be, with such a beautiful wife?”

He kissed her again, smiling.  He didn’t need anyone to tell him how lucky he was.  Like everyone else in London, in England really, they lived with the daily danger of death from German bombs, or from the collapsed buildings or terrible fires they caused.  No one knew how the war was going to go, or if or when the Germans might invade.  So John never took a night with his wife for granted.  In the moments they were together, life always felt heightened to him.  Colors seemed brighter, laughter sweeter, and sex more poignant and powerful.  Sometimes he came so hard when they made love that he'd shake from head to toe, and cry out loudly.  Sometimes when Jessica lay sleeping in his arms afterward, his feelings ran so deep that he’d get tears in his eyes. 

He'd loved her from the moment they'd met.  Years ago, when he was twenty, he'd sprained his wrist in a rugby match and wound up in hospital.  Jessica had patched him up, and John knew he'd never seen anyone as beautiful as his blonde, brown-eyed nurse.  He'd been struck by her lovely eyes, gentle touch and sweet smile.  Smitten, he'd asked her out on the spot.  He'd married her six months later, and now loved her more than he’d ever imagined he could love anyone.

Jess had dinner waiting for him, and they ate the small meal quickly.  Food was heavily rationed and meat almost unheard of, but John didn’t really care.  The nights that he got to be home alone with Jessica were still special.

When they were done, he helped Jessica do the dishes and put them away.  “How was work today, sweetheart?” he asked.

“Fine,” she smiled.  She always said that.  Jessie was a nurse at Charing Cross Hospital, and despite the long hours she often put in, she never complained about it.  She wanted to help people and loved her work.  John secretly worried that the Germans would make her hospital a bombing target, but so far, they’d been lucky and it hadn’t been hit.

“How's your favorite patient?” he asked.  ''Tabby, the little girl with leukemia?”  Most of the children in London had been sent out to the countryside where it was safer, but Tabitha had been too sick to go.

Jessica smiled fondly, thinking of her patient. “She's doing a bit better now, actually...”

While they talked, John had been half listening to a little radio Jessie had left on in their bedroom.  Just then, he heard her favorite song begin to play:  “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square”. 

“Hey, they're playing your song.  Come on, honey.  Dance with me,” he invited, pulling her down the hall after him.  He loved to dance with Jessica.  She was light on her feet, and so graceful it was like walking on air. 

Once they were in their bedroom, she came into his arms with a little smile and laid her head on his shoulder, swaying slowly to the music.  It’d been a long day, and it was 1:30 in the morning now.  He knew she must be tired too, so John let her set the pace.  It was a relief to relax his vigilance, to let go and simply be; to luxuriate in his wife’s beauty, her tenderness.  The softness of her hair against his arm, her breasts against his chest, the sweet, faint scent of her perfume.  The song was beautiful, too. 

That certain night, 
The night we met,
There was magic abroad in the air.
There were angels dining at the Ritz,
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.

The streets of town were paved with stars,
It was such a romantic affair.
And as we kissed and said goodnight,
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.

Jessie hummed along with the song, breathing the words into his shoulder as they moved.  John sang softly along with her, closing his eyes as their voices and bodies blended, losing himself in the tender moment.  He was home, his wife was safe in his arms, and she loved him as much as he loved her.  He felt it in every touch, saw it in every look she gave him.  It felt like heaven; or as close to it as a soldier like him ever got.

“I was thinking today, John...”

“Hmm?”

“I always try to take extra care of the wounded soldiers we get at the hospital, because...  Well, I often think that any of them could be you,” she said softly. 

John got a lump in his throat.  You're my angel, he thought.  He stopped dancing and just hugged her for a moment.  He hadn't guessed she felt that way.  “Aww, Jess,” he whispered, moved as he always was by her loving heart, her kindness.  “I love you so much, sweetheart.  Did I tell you that today?”

Jessica lifted her head and smiled up at him, her eyes lit with happiness.  “You can always tell me that, John.  I never get tired of it.  And I love you too. ”

As the song ended, John kissed her, then nuzzled her ear.  “Now.  How ‘bout I show you how much I love you?” he breathed.  He’d been thinking about this all day, thinking about how much he wanted to get her alone and make love to her.  He started unbuckling his belt. 

“Good idea.  How about I help you with that, John,” Jessie teased, pulling his shirt out before he even finished with his belt. 

John grinned, letting his hands fall.  “I’d have to be stupid to turn down an offer like that.”

“Yes, and we both know you’re not stupid,” she laughed, pausing to kiss him as she began to undo his shirt buttons.

“I try not to be,” he breathed into her ear, making her shiver.

Her lips were warm and sweet, and once she got his shirt off, they drifted down his neck to his chest.  “Ah ah ah!” John teased, as he shivered pleasantly.  “That's cheating, honey.  I haven't even got my pants off yet!”

Jessica giggled, unrepentant.  “Then get them off, soldier,” she ordered, her eyes dancing.  “'Cause I really, really want to cheat...”  She reached out and tweaked his nipple, making him laugh out loud.

“Sir yessir!” he grinned, slipping out of his pants as fast as he could. 

“That's more like it,” Jessica smiled approvingly as she teased him.  “Hurry!  I thought you SAS blokes were supposed to be fast.”

“I can be,” John grinned as he tore off the rest of his clothes.  “But I thought you liked it slow…”

“Ooh.  Cheeky!” Jessica laughed, sneaking more kisses as she slipped out of her dress.

“And you’re cheating.  Again,” John teased back, not making the slightest attempt to stop her.  By the time they were naked, they were both breathless and laughing. 

John lifted Jessica off of her feet, laid her gently on their bed and laid down beside her, indulging himself in just looking at her for a minute.  She was so gorgeous, tall and slender with soft, alabaster skin and beautiful, warm brown eyes.  Her long blond hair fell softly over her shoulders and onto her ripe breasts...  He loved that he was the only one who got to see her like this, who got to give her pleasure and wring sweet little moans out of her. 

For a moment, she indulged him; then she rolled her eyes and pulled him over on top of her, caressing his back.  “Oh, come on, luv! I'm waiting...”

John laughed out loud, pleased at her impatience.  Lowering his head to kiss her, he smiled, “Okay, honey.  You've got me where you want me.  Feel free to cheat all you want, now.”

And so she did.

She cheated all over the place, John thought, grinning to himself in sated satisfaction later on, while Jessica curled up warm and soft against him, asleep in his arms.

He wasn't sure why he was still awake himself, but he didn't want to wake Jess up, so he just laid there thinking quietly.  As usual these days, his thoughts turned to Finch.  Busy though the scientist was, John often thought that Harold must be lonely.  Not that he ever showed it.  Except when they'd first met and that asshole, Snow had slyly insulted Finch's dead friend, Nathan Ingram, that is.  Harold had frozen then, his face going oddly blank.  Even though Finch hadn't said a word, John had had the distinct feeling Snow had just stuck a knife into a wound so deep, it might never heal.

Though he hadn’t known Finch at all then, Snow's cruelty had still pissed John off.  Now that Finch had become his friend, and he'd seen the reserved scientist cry while remembering Ingram, he wished he’d knocked Snow on his ass for it.  John knew that Ingram had been his best friend for years.  And Finch didn’t seem to be all that comfortable around most people, so losing Ingram must’ve been doubly hard for him. 

Though the women Finch sometimes dated were pretty, elegant and sophisticated, Mars saw no sign that Finch felt passionate about any of them.  Of course, with Harold it was hard to tell, he thought wryly.  Finch never talked about his dates, but then he never talked about much of anything personal.

John just wished that Finch had someone as amazing as Jessica in his life, too.  Any man who worked as tirelessly as Finch did for the benefit of others, deserved to be happy.

He wished he could talk to Jessica about Finch, too.  That desire was so strong, it surprised him sometimes.  The only thing he’d told Jess about his current duty was that he was on a top secret, highly classified assignment of unknown duration, and that he’d make it home to see her as often as he could.  Period, end of story.  It was all he was allowed to tell her.  Saying a word to anyone about the fact that he was guarding Harold Finch would've been considered treason, which was currently punishable by death. 

Jess had accepted that news with a quiet nod, as she always did.  She didn't like not knowing what he did, but she didn’t complain or ask him for information he wasn’t allowed to give. 

He'd always been grateful for her understanding before.  But this time, John was the one who wished he could talk to her about his work.  He couldn’t tell Jess that he was guarding Finch, couldn’t reveal his name or even that Finch was a scientist, let alone that he was the top scientist in charge of the 'Ultra' project.  Aside from the fact that he could be court-martialed or even executed if he said a word to anyone about Finch, John just wouldn’t risk endangering him like that.  Though he trusted his wife, he took his job with the utmost seriousness.  Harold’s safety was his duty and a top priority.  Loose lips, and all that.  But if his assignment hadn’t been top secret, he’d’ve loved to have told Jess all about him. 

He laid there stroking Jessica’s shoulder gently, imagining the conversation he wished they could have about Harold, and how he'd guard his identity by not giving away too much. 

She’d ask him curiously, “What’s he like?  The man you’re protecting, I mean.  I know you can’t give me any details, but just in general.”

He’d hesitate, trying to decide what he could tell her about him that wouldn’t give away Finch’s identity. 

“He’s … the smartest man I've ever met,” he’d say carefully.  “Brilliant, really.  He's got several degrees, is extremely well read and he loves music.  But he's very  guarded.  He doesn’t talk much about himself.”

“Likes his secrets, eh?” Jessica would muse.

“Yeah.  He’s quiet and serious.  Doesn't smile or joke much.  But he’s good to the people he works with, and to me, too.  He’s taught me a lot.  He’s dedicated, and works really hard.  Too hard, sometimes.  He’s patriotic, too.  He loves this country as much as I do.  I trust him, and I really like him.”

Jessica would smile, thinking about it.  “He sounds like a really good person.”

John knew Jess would understand that about Harold, even if he couldn't tell her his name.  “He is.  He’s amazing, really.  He’s also a fantastic chess player.  I’ve never beaten him.”

She’d laugh.  “I don’t believe it!  You, Mr. Competitive?  The Yank who never loses?”

John would laugh, too.  “I swear, it’s true.  I haven't managed to beat him once!  Yet,” he’d mock growl.

“That’s the spirit!  But even if this bloke is as serious as you say, I’ll bet you get him to smile sometimes,” she’d say fondly. 

In his imagination, John laughed and kissed her.  “Yeah, I do.  Sometimes, I do.”

John sighed to himself as he watched Jessica sleep.  Maybe someday, he thought wistfully, I’ll be able to do that.  Tell her all about Harold.  Hell -- when the war's over, if we win and I survive, I'll do more than that.  I'll introduce her to him...

John fell asleep smiling as he imagined that.