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The light was gentle and soothing as the sun rose, illuminating the left hand steps of Holborn Police Station. The image of Harry casually leaning against the wall, his elegance contrasting with the badly dressed coppers and victims rushing around him, was his and his alone and he would never share that precious moment with anyone.
There had been few chances to mourn in that first month and his training had carried him through. Merlin had known he was suffering but he had pushed him away, unwilling to let anyone into his precious grief and memories. No-one knew how deep his love went, no-one would ever understand the enormity of his loss and how his life had been destroyed by a single gunshot.
By the second month it was easy to play the role of a cold hearted killer until that day when an early morning return from another successful mission and the Kingsman cab had driven past the police station. He had ordered the driver to stop and managed to stagger out before the tidal wave of loss had knocked him off his feet and he had sunk onto the bench.
Month after month he returned to the same bench at dawn after every mission to remember and weep alone. Now, five years later, he could sit there in peace and look up as the sun strengthened and let his spirit be reborne by his love of Harry.