DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
A/N: Part of this fic is set during the S9 episode "Conviction" – probably helps if you know the ep, but if you don't it shouldn't matter. Grateful thanks to someone Who Shall Remain Nameless for a certain piece of totally useless Met Police-related trivia which ate its way into my brain and finally ended up in this fic.
Triptych
by Joodiff
Brighton, July 1967.
It's a blazing hot summer day, The Beatles are topping the charts with All You Need Is Love and as far as Grace is concerned it's a perfect time to be young, single and happy. She's not thinking about the future, near or far, and she just laughs when Shirley grabs her arm and points to the brightly-coloured booth on the pier. Shirley is bright and funny, far more of an extrovert than Grace, and a great favourite with all the young men in their social circle. Grace likes her enormously, and maybe that's why she allows herself to be towed closer and closer to the booth with its garish advertising posters and heavy crimson velvet curtains.
Still laughing, she complains, "For heaven's sake, Shirl, they're all frauds… Why do you want to waste your money?"
Shirley, blonde, effervescent and sharp, laughs back at her and gestures at one of the posters. "'Madame Rosa… genuine Romany psychic' – see, completely authentic."
Grace shakes her head sorrowfully. "You know what they say…"
"'There's one born every minute'?" Shirley suggests with a grin. "Oh, come on, Gracie, it'll be fun…"
So they rummage through their bags and they find sixpence here and a shilling there, and they giggle at their foolishness before pushing their way in through the curtains so Shirley can enjoy a consultation with Madame Rosa. It's everything Grace expects – tarot cards, incense, gypsy shawls and a small crystal ball that she suspects is probably plastic. It's perfectly staged for even the most discerning day-tripper. She wants to laugh aloud, but there's something slightly forbidding about Madame Rosa's dark, narrow-eyed gaze, so she keeps quiet and watches as Shirley has her palm read and – predictably – learns that she will meet a handsome stranger, get married, have two children and live a long and happy life. It's all so wonderfully clichéd that Grace struggles not to roll her eyes heavenwards.
They get up to leave, Grace amused and irrefutably sceptical, Shirley grinning, delighted and not at all convinced, but before Grace can step back out into the bright afternoon sunshine, the woman sitting behind the heavily-draped table abruptly says, "Wait."
Pulling a face at her friend, Grace turns back, says politely, "Sorry?"
"Do you want to know what I see in your future?"
Grace manages to remain deadpan, says simply, "No thank you."
Something has changed about the woman, as if some sort of façade has dropped away. What's left is shrewd and solemn and a little intimidating. She says, "There will be three."
"Three what?" Shirley asks immediately, her voice holding a note of curiosity.
The woman's gaze remains focused steadily on Grace. "The wolf, the stag and the lion. A triptych."
Grace shakes her head slightly. "I told you, I'm not interested."
"The wolf will betray you," the woman says solemnly. "The stag will flee, and the lion…"
It is Shirley who baldly prompts, "Yes? The lion…?"
Grace doesn't hear the reply. She's already back out in the summer sunshine. Shirley follows her out a few minutes later, her expression faintly puzzled as she asks, "What was all that about?"
"Pseudo-mysticism," Grace says simply. "Or, if you want to be more brutal – capitalism."
Shirley chuckles. "Except that she didn't ask you for any money. You're so cynical, Gracie. Want to hear what she said about your lion? She said…"
Grace snorts, barely listening. She's intelligent and intellectual; a hard-working and ambitious undergraduate and a thoroughly modern and emancipated young woman. The sun is hot on her skin and the sea is clear and calm, and she quickly forgets about everything except the pure joy of being young and on holiday. She won't think of the woman or her enigmatic words again for years. Not until long after she has encountered Harry Taylor, the man his colleagues will one day jokingly call 'the wolf' behind his back – due to his penchant for chasing and bedding the more gullible members of the opposite sex.
-oOo-
London, April 2011.
The stag will flee, Grace thinks, not for the first time in the last few weeks. It's stupid of her, of course. She's an eminent psychologist – she knows how the human brain works, knows that for some idiotic, superstitious reason her mind is forcing the silly, long-ago words to fit the facts. Murray Stuart is not a stag. No more than Harry Taylor was a wolf. Yet, Harry did betray her, and Murray did flee. Which only leaves the lion… Stupid, fanciful nonsense. Grace pushes the thoughts away hard. Now is not the time to be thinking about such ridiculous notions. There are far more important things to be concentrating on – Boyd for one. Thanks to Sarah, the newest member of the CCU, he is back in his office. Bruised, battered and spitting fire and brimstone.
The moment she steps out into the squad room, Grace knows just from the expectant look on Spencer's face that her colleagues have already cast her in the role of appeaser. It's her job, apparently, to pour oil on troubled waters, to do what she can to calm what sounds like a very angry beast indeed. There's a lot of excessively loud and furious shouting and swearing coming from Boyd's office, and since Sarah Cavendish is also sitting in the squad room with Spencer, Grace assumes that he's roaring down the phone at someone as yet unidentified. Either that, or he has finally lost his grip on sanity completely, which is possible but highly unlikely.
"The DAC's office," Spencer explains, seemingly reading her thoughts.
Grace sighs and heads towards the closed door. Behind her, Sarah mutters, "Good luck."
There doesn't seem to be any point in knocking. She doubts he'll hear it even if she tries, given the impressive volume of his diatribe. Mentally steeling herself, she slips into his office quietly and closes the door behind her. Boyd glares at her but doesn't break off the tirade. Sitting down, she wonders how long it's been since she's seen him quite so riled up. He isn't just bristling, he's in full, spectacular fury. She isn't surprised. Not at all. He's been abducted and beaten, and if it hadn't been for Sarah's timely intervention he would no longer be in a position to get angry about anything. Ever again, in fact.
When he finally slams the telephone receiver back down into its cradle, he does so with so much force that even Grace flinches. For a moment he simply glares at her in baleful silence, the harsh bruising across his cheekbones looking even worse in the harsh artificial light. She's about to speak when he abruptly says, "I'm going to have someone's fucking balls for this, Grace. See if I bloody don't."
She absolutely believes him, but she isn't about to add fuel to the fire, so she settles for a quiet, "Eve thinks you should go and get checked out at the hospital. Just to be on the safe side."
Boyd's answer is as succinct as it is predictable. "Bollocks to that."
Grace doesn't push. There's no point. They are in the middle of an investigation that has become very hot indeed, and he will see it through to the bitter end no matter what. It's the way he is, the way he's always been. Fiercely proud, stupidly brave; utterly bull-headed and stubborn. Acceding meekly to anything just isn't in his nature. Instead of arguing, she says, "We're getting too old for this sort of thing, Boyd."
"Speak for yourself," he says, and just for a moment she sees straight through the defences, sees just how tired he is, just how much physical pain he's in. It's the tiniest moment, though, before the belligerence and the steely determination take hold again. "I'll have the fuckers, Grace. One way or another. They're not getting away with any of this. Not on my bloody watch."
"So what do we do now?" Grace asks, watching him as he starts to pace up and down.
"We look at everything again," he says, coming to an abrupt stop. He stares at her, thoughts evidently firmly on the case, and then he starts into motion again, stiffly shrugging out of his jacket. She frowns, but seeing the rumpled, dirty and blood-stained state of his shirt, she thinks she understands. He won't stop, he won't make the trip to the hospital, but he will do what he can to divorce himself from everything that's unexpectedly happened to him.
As he starts to fumble with his cufflinks, she asks, "Clean shirt…?"
He nods towards the far door. "In my locker."
Without a word she gets up and walks out, heading for the row of lockers under the rear stairs. No need to ask for a key or a combination – he's never been known to bother securing his locker, and neither has Spencer. Grace wonders if it is a police officer thing. Sure enough, amidst everything else that he apparently deems necessary to keep at work, she finds a clean, grey shirt, still crisply ironed. Psychological trickery – clean shirt, new start. Banish the shadows and forge ever-onwards whatever the cost. By the time she gets back to him, most of the blue shirt's buttons are unfastened. It's definitely time to make a strategic withdrawal. She drops the clean shirt onto his desk and prepares to leave.
He stops her with, "Has Sarah spoken to you about what happened?"
Grace shakes her head. "No. Why, is it important?"
"I think so. When this is all sewn up, I want you to talk to her, Grace. Quiet chat, off-the-record. You understand?"
"I think so, but – " she breaks off as he finally strips off the blue shirt. Frowning, she complains, "Boyd. Do you really have to? Can't you wait a moment?"
Boyd glares at her. "It's my office. Shut your bloody eyes if you're shy."
"God's sake…" she grumbles, but her vague irritation is swept away by the very real lurch she feels in her stomach as she sees the extensive dark bruising across his ribs, his broad shoulders. "Christ… look at the state of you…"
"I don't think they liked me much," he says, superbly nonchalant. He turns slightly to pick up the fresh shirt, and she sees just how far the bruising extends across his shoulders and his back.
…But it isn't the stark evidence of the vicious beating that catches her eye and holds it remorselessly. It's the tattoo on Boyd's right shoulder-blade, old enough to have faded, for the lines to have blurred slightly, but still absolutely distinct, absolutely unmistakable. Defiant, powerful; regal. A heraldic lion, rearing up on its hind legs, front paws ready to strike. She barely glances at the scroll beneath it, the Latin motto deeply inked into his skin countless years before. No, it's not the bruises or the words… it's the lion that holds her attention. She knows that lion – it's one of the Force's unofficial emblems, taken from its crest and adopted in various forms by many, many Met police officers, past and present.
The wolf will betray you, the stag will flee, and the lion will die for you.
Ridiculous, superstitious nonsense. Unconsciously, Grace shivers.
-oOo-
London, June 2011.
Superstition has no part in it. Grace has known for a long, long time that if it ever came to this…
For moment his gaze locks with hers. She knows. Of course she knows.
And she cries out to stop him, but it is utterly pointless. Boyd does what she has always known he will do. He barrels into her at full force, his greater height and weight giving him an impetus she simply can't resist. The force of the impact quite literally knocks her off her feet as the deafening roar of a gunshot shatters the tranquillity of the early summer afternoon. Her hands stretch out instinctively to break her fall, and she feels the sudden grinding pain as she grazes the skin off the heels of both palms. Grace lands awkwardly, pain springing fiercely through her ribcage, and for a moment she is completely winded, gasping uselessly for air that she just can't seem to force into her lungs.
It's a cliché, but suddenly everything quite literally seems to be happening in slow motion. The fall takes forever, the subsequent roll on the cracked asphalt even longer. Still fighting to breathe, she stares up at Boyd in a mixture of shock and horror. But he is smiling. Smiling straight at her as the dark stain starts to bloom on his shirt and the whole world descends into chaos around them.
He stays on his feet for far longer than she thinks possible, but the slow backward stumble caused by the force of the bullet hitting his chest finally ceases as his legs start to buckle. Impossibly, there is still a slight, lingering trace of a smile on his face as he drops to his knees and their eyes lock in a never-ending gaze that says everything.
She has always known he would do this. And now he has.
The wolf will betray you, the stag will flee, and the lion will die for you.
Triptych. The three men in her life who have been the most important to her. The wolf, the stag and the lion.
Time is frozen. She is frozen. She doesn't know if she's awake or asleep, doesn't know if the scene in front of her is real, or just another terrifying dream…
- the end -