DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

November 2015 - Happy birthday, Scription Addict!

The Best Laid Plans…

by Joodiff

Leaving Spencer with orders to return their stubborn suspect to the unit's holding cell – where he can spend the night reflecting on the wisdom of his decision to exercise his right to silence – Boyd heads straight for his office at the kind of rapid pace that marks him out as a man very much on a mission. He's almost there when Kat appears at his elbow, dishevelled auburn curls threatening to tumble into her eyes as she announces, "DCI Baxter called again, sir. He says he's still waiting for the crime data for next Tuesday's meeting. And DS Kenner from – "

Pushing past her with an impatient mutter, he raises his voice to interrupt, "Not now, Kat. What's the time?"

Flustered, she glances at her watch. "Just coming up to five o'clock. What shall I – "

"Tell them both to fuck off," he growls at her, "and get out of my bloody way, for God's sake. Why are you always under my feet when I'm in a hurry? Where the hell is Grace?"

"In the lab with Eve. I don't – "

Striding into his office with Kat now trotting at his heels, he cuts across her again with, "Are you having trouble understanding me, Detective Sergeant?"

Her expression becomes wooden, immobile. "No, sir."

"Good." Grabbing his long coat and shrugging into it, he adds, "I'll be back in an hour. Make sure you're still here when I get back. And that goes for everyone else, too."

"Sir."

He ignores the pointed surliness of her reply. After all, didn't he talk her into joining the CCU in the wake of Stella's tragic death mainly because her feisty insolence appealed to his own well-documented iconoclastic and rebellious streak? Leaving her standing in the doorway of his office looking far from happy, Boyd hurries through the empty squad room, his mind already on other things. It may appear to the casual observer that he lives his life in a state of perpetual stress and chaos, and in a great many ways he does, but one thing he doesn't lack is the ability to focus on whatever task it is he has in hand, and that's why his brain is already a long way ahead of his body as he navigates through the building with the instinctive surety of someone who doesn't have to think about where he's going. That's why he heads straight for the main exit, knowing that the scant few seconds saved by doing so may become minutes over the course of his entire journey.

"Peter Boyd," a strong, assertive female voice bellows from behind him as he's just feet from the big double doors that lead to the outside world and a welcome degree of freedom. "Stop right there."

The loud bark of command is so authoritative that he instinctively freezes, no more or less able to disobey than the youngest, greenest police cadet. Regaining some independent ability to move, he turns on his heel to glower at the stout middle-aged woman responsible for stalling his escape. It's been more than ten years since female police officers were addressed as 'WPC', and Shirley Moore's been a sergeant for almost twice as long as that, but in Boyd's opinion – kept firmly between the two of them in such politically correct times – there's simply no other officer anywhere in the Met who looks quite so much like the old-fashioned stereotype of the traditional burly, hard-as-bloody-nails WPC. To say that he has a soft spot for her – as she has for him – is a definite understatement. They glare at each other across the width of the reception area, the front desk a solid barrier between them. "What? Why?"

"Do I look like an answering service for that three-ringed circus of yours?" she demands, not acknowledging his superior rank in any way. "Well, do I?"

"I don't know," he answers, pacing towards her, well-aware that where Shirley is concerned the quickest way to deal with a problem is to actually, well, deal with it. He shrugs. "What does an answering service look like?"

She snorts, a disparaging noise that conveys impatience, disgust and just a touch of haughtiness. "The Three Stooges are on the warpath. Something about one or more of your bunch of insubordinate misfits riding roughshod over their jurisdiction instead of going through Borough Command. Again."

"Must be a case of simple miscommunication," he says, deadpan.

"Mm," she says, clearly not fooled by his disingenuous reply, "must be. You may think you're safe, skulking down there in the basement, but you're not. Next time I'm telling the switchboard to put them straight through to your extension, and they can cut your balls off at their leisure."

Leaning up against the desk, Boyd regards her with what he imagines is an affable sort of injured innocence. "You wouldn't really let them do that to me, would you, Shirl?"

This time her derisive snort is followed by a caustic, "Try me."

"I'm hurt," he complains. He's not. Not at all. He risks a lazy wink. "Funny, I seem to remember a certain Christmas party when you – "

"A certain Christmas party thirty years ago," she retorts promptly before he can remind her of the details, "when I was both extremely drunk and much too young and naïve to know any better. And anyway, rumour has it that a certain Home Office psychologist not a million miles away has a vested interest in making sure everything in that particular department remains undamaged and in perfect working order, so…"

He's not surprised that the current outbreak of excited gossip has reached her ear. The formidable Shirley is one of the best Desk Sergeants he's ever encountered. If not the best. He might be the most senior officer in the entire building, and Chief Inspector Harper, based somewhere up on the fourth floor, may, in theory, be the officer in overall charge of the premises itself, but they both know better than anyone that in the real world a good Desk Sergeant with their ear kept firmly to the ground is far more important to the everyday running of the average police station than a dozen more highly-ranked officers. Of course she's heard the latest rumours. He shakes his head. "Well, you know what rumour can do, don't you?"

"Go screw itself?" Shirley suggests. Oh, yes, they've known each other a long time. "So it's true, then?"

Ignoring the question, he says, "Keep Huey, Dewey and Louie off my back, will you? Just for a day or two?"

"What's in it for me if I do?" she asks. He smiles at her, as twinkly and predatory as he knows how. Her response indicates she's nowhere near as impressed as he might have hoped. "You're pretty, Pete, but you're not that pretty."

He accepts the put-down with good grace. Shirley's been happily married to Doug, an extremely large and bad-tempered former Royal Navy CPO for more years that he can remember, and Boyd isn't aware of anyone – of any rank – who's quite brave enough to risk the ire of either or both of them. His attention already moving back to where it most assuredly belongs for the duration, he says, "Tell 'em if they want to take it up with me, they can – in person. I'll be back in a while – until then, you haven't seen me, eh?"

"Not even if it's your better half asking where the hell you've got to?"

He grins. "Oh, very clever, Shirl. Do I look stupid enough to fall for that?"

Shirley shrugs. "It was worth a try."

-oOo-

Every route Boyd tries is virtually gridlocked. Why he thought driving to his destination instead of jumping on the Tube was a good idea escapes him. It's not as if he's unfamiliar with the great city's rush-hour paroxysms, or the lamentably low general driving standard of its denizens. No, there's no excuse for making such a fundamental mistake, and as he grips the big Audi's steering wheel with increasing stress and fury, Boyd can picture his blood pressure rising on some huge, imaginary cartoon scale. Time is already against him, and what precious little he has left of it is running out fast. So fast, in fact, that he's on the verge of breaking into a cold sweat.

He's completely stationary in traffic when his phone starts to ring, so he feels no guilt at all about extracting it from the inside pocket of his jacket and answering it with a loud and blunt, "What?"

"Charming," is the waspish reply. "Where on earth are you?"

Caller identification is a wonderful thing. If actually used. Set on damage limitation, Boyd makes a conscious effort not to allow just stressed and irritable he is tell in his voice. "Sorry. I'm in the car."

"And where is the car?"

"Stuck in traffic."

"You're not funny," Grace tells him, "but feel free to continue being annoying if it makes you feel better. I thought you'd like to know that the troops are on the verge of mutiny."

"They'd bloody better not be."

"Everyone knows there's nothing left in the overtime budget, so unless you're intending to question Napier again tonight – "

"I'm not."

" – I suggest you let me tell them you've changed your mind and they can go home and catch up on some sleep."

Boyd can hear the tired, petulant note in her voice. The last eight days have been long and difficult for all of them, but especially for her, coinciding as they have with her full-time return to the unit after several months of reduced hours. Even the not altogether legitimate half-day he managed to conjure out of nowhere for her hasn't helped much. She's working too damn hard and it's his fault. Glaring at the back of the scruffy white van in front of him, he does what he does best – he weighs the pros and cons and he makes an executive decision. "Fine. But if they go, you go. Understood?"

The tone of her voice changes. "Yes, dear."

His blood pressure rises even further. "Don't you bloody dare."

Her answering chuckle is warm and amused. "Like shooting fish in a barrel."

She's always been able to play him with remarkable skill and precision. It's infuriating, and it always makes him grind his teeth in frustrated fury, even as he has to admit to a certain grudging admiration for her unrivalled ability to get under his skin. Some things, Boyd has recently decided, just aren't going to change. Forcing an unnatural steady calm, he says, "I mean it, Grace – you do not send them packing and then stay there your-bloody-self."

"Whatever you say."

"You're just humouring me, aren't you?"

"Whatever gives you that idea?"

One day, in the fullness of time, it's going to come down to a straight choice between strangling her or marrying her. He can see that quite clearly. It won't be today, it won't be tomorrow, this week, or next week. It might not even be this year or next year, but one day… one bloody day…

"Go home," he instructs, "open a bottle of wine, have a long hot bath, and I'll be over later."

"Before or after I'm out of the bath?"

The level of perfectly-pitched innocence in her tone nearly makes him repeatedly bang his head on the steering wheel. Nearly, but not quite. He's not quite that far gone yet… is he?

"Go home," he says again. "If I catch you still at your desk when I get back…"

She seems to ignore the implied threat. "Just what are you up to?"

The traffic is finally starting to move. Only barely, but barely is far better than nothing. "See you later, Grace."

He hasn't moved more than five yards when the police motorcyclist who pulls up alongside him in the almost-stalled traffic gestures for him to pull over.

-oOo-

"We can do this your way," Boyd tells the young man who is dutifully waiting to hear what he's already been told, that the dark Audi they are both standing beside belongs to the Metropolitan Police and is currently assigned to the Kensington & Chelsea Borough Operational Command Unit, "or we can do it my way. Guess which one's not going to come back to bite you in the arse for the rest of your bloody career?"

Credit where credit is due, however; having accidentally hooked a much bigger fish than expected, the young traffic officer is managing to remain surprisingly stoical in the face of Boyd's seething displeasure. In fact, despite his fury – considerable – and his outrage – also considerable – Boyd is reluctantly impressed. Not impressed enough not to contemplate the merits of bodily tearing the young man limb-from-limb right there at the side of the road, but impressed nonetheless. Either his tormentor is very brave, or very stupid. Either or both is possible.

"Using a mobile telephone while driving is an offence, sir," the officer repeats, "but pending – "

"Pending fucking nothing," Boyd growls at him, "you go right ahead and issue me with a fixed penalty if you want to, but it won't be the smartest move of your career, trust me."

"Sir."

"I'll give you sir," Boyd mutters as the younger man turns away to answer his radio. In truth, he's in the wrong and he knows it. He may have been barely moving, and he may have been on the verge of returning his phone to his pocket, but the law on such things is very clear, and –

"Detective Superintendent…?"

Ah ha. If he's not very much mistaken, someone somewhere has just told the youngster that there are times when discretion, not to mention the tactful turning of a blind eye, is most definitely the best policy. Being able to dine out on the story for years is really not worth the unpleasant repercussions likely from hitting a senior officer with three penalty points and a hundred pound fine for what was, after all, a fairly minor indiscretion.

"What's the damned time?" he demands, before the man is even halfway through an awkward mix of admonition and apology.

A slow blink precedes, "Almost half-past five, sir."

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Ohdamnbloodyfuck.

"Right," Boyd grinds out, more than half-convinced he's about to have a stroke, "get back on that sodding bike and put your fucking lights on. We've got a shout."

"Sir…?"

"Do I look like a man you want to argue with, Constable?"

"No, sir."

Still glaring. Boyd barks, "Blues and twos – all the way to New Bond Street. Move."

The young man does. With commendable alacrity.

-oOo-

He's an idiot. The thought doesn't leave Boyd once as he follows the speeding motorcycle ahead of him. Both on their blue lights, sirens wailing, they're cutting through the heavy traffic with ease, but the prickle at the back of his neck tells him it's not going to be quite enough. He's an idiot, and the glaring mistake he's made is going to cost him. He knows it is, given that he has plenty of experience in such things. At best, his apologies will be accepted with a smile that doesn't go anywhere near her eyes. At worst… No, he's not going to think about the 'at worst' scenario. Can't afford to, not if he's going to salvage something from this whole… debacle. Anyway, she'll understand. Won't she?

She won't. Of course she bloody won't. And nor should he expect her to. It isn't as if he didn't know, is it? Isn't as if he hasn't had more than enough time to –

He brakes hard, quick reflexes saving him from clipping the motorcycle's back wheel as it unexpectedly decelerates and slews across the tarmac in front of him. He's beginning to wonder who the hell decreed the young traffic officer competent to be out on the roads alone. Pressing the switch on the console next to him, he drops the passenger window as they both slow to a halt. A helmeted face peers in at him. "Control want me to attend a – "

"Fine," Boyd tells him with an irritable wave. "Piss off, then. Oh, and next time a superior officer tells you to wind your bloody neck in…"

"I'll wind my bloody neck in," is the solemn reply. "Good luck, sir."

Boyd doesn't ask him why he thinks he should need such a thing. In fact, Boyd doesn't even see him pull away again and disappear into the traffic, so busy is he looking for somewhere – anywhere – where he can safely abandon the Audi for the few minutes he needs. On the other side of the street, the shop door he's aiming for is closed, and its shutters are down, but in some ways Boyd is an eternal optimist, and while the lights are still on in the showroom beyond and he has a warrant card in his pocket…

Maybe he's not as young as he once was, but he's spry enough, and the moment the car's parked he's scrambling out of the driver's door into the late afternoon traffic, the acrid sting of exhaust fumes burning his throat. It's going to be okay. It really is. He's only a few minutes late, and he can still see someone moving around inside the shop. He knows what he wants – should've bought it when he first saw it – and he's fairly sure that the combination of warrant card, charm, and platinum credit card will win the day for him. Never give up, that's the Peter Boyd way. No matter how bad things look, while there's still life there's hope, and all that sort of –

He doesn't see the car that swings too-fast out of Dering Street. One minute he's glaring at the steady traffic heading south from Oxford Street, waiting for his moment to launch himself across the road, the next he feels as if a giant hand has scooped him up and thrown him back down again. He doesn't have time to register pain or shock. It happens far too fast for that. He's just aware of a colossal dull impact that forces every bit of air from his lungs, a disorientated moment of unbalanced, unpredictable limbo, and then… nothing.

-oOo-

"Steady," a calm, reassuring voice says through the gradually-clearing fog. "You've had a bang on the head, and that's why you're a bit confused. Can you tell me your name?"

Everything hurts. Not unbearably, but enough to make stirring as he drags himself back to full consciousness a very unpleasant experience. Opening his eyes, Boyd is surprised at how bright his surroundings are. Too bright. Harsh artificial light. He blinks rapidly, then narrows his eyes against the glare. It doesn't help much. A man – dark, mid-thirties, close-cropped hair and a goatee beard not dissimilar to his own in length and style – is looking down at him with a thoughtful sort of concern. The green uniform is more than enough to confirm Boyd's suspicions. Wondering why it's so difficult to think straight, he mumbles, "Paramedic."

"Do you remember what happened?" the bearded man asks.

He doesn't. In fact, he doesn't remember anything much after getting out of the car, and even that's a bit… fuzzy. One very important thing returns to him in an icy flash of dread, however. Making a half-hearted attempt to sit up, one easily thwarted by the paramedic, he asks, "What time is it?"

"Six-ish – there's always someone who waits right until the end of our shift to get knocked down. Sod's law. What's your name?"

"Peter," he mutters, but his thoughts are on something else altogether. Six-ish. Which means that he is, in no uncertain terms, comprehensively fucked.

"Hello there, Peter. My name's Chris – "

"Don't," he interrupts, even though the force required makes his head pound with increased savagery. "I'm a copper… I don't need the spiel…"

"Well, we figured that out from your warrant card," Chris tells him, "but sadly for you, the 'spiel' is quite important. You were hit by a car, old son. Relatively low speed impact, fortunately, but you were pretty fighty when we scraped you up off the road."

"I don't remember."

"Don't remember telling us to fuck off and leave you alone, or don't remember getting knocked down?"

"Either. Both." It belatedly occurs to him that a little more is required. "Sorry."

The paramedic relents. "No problem. Pretty common reaction in people with head injuries – even quite minor ones. We're taking you to St. Tom's."

Boyd makes another attempt to sit up. Again, he doesn't succeed. "Oh, come on – I'm fine…"

"No you're not," is the cheerful reply, "but you will be. You don't get to choose, I'm afraid, so you might as well just relax and enjoy the ride."

-oOo-

The heels of both his palms are comprehensively skinned. Severe, throbbing grazes packed with grit and dirt from the unforgiving road surface. Trying to locate his phone in the jacket dumped alongside him in the small cubicle is both difficult and ridiculously painful. Boyd is not used to being so clumsy, and when he drops the phone mere seconds after managing to finally get hold of it, he gives vent to his frustration and fury with a roar that brings a tired-looking nurse to his side in seconds. Brusque and not at all sympathetic, she picks the phone up and hands it back to him with, "Turn it off, please. You can't use it in here."

He empathises to a degree. He's also a public servant, used to spending long hours dealing with difficult and uncooperative people, but he's really not having the best day of his life, so his response is a gruff, "I need to make a call."

"You and everyone else who gets brought in here."

Changing tack, he asks, "Where's the doctor gone?"

"He'll be back once you've been down to X-ray."

"I don't need a bloody x-ray, I need a couple of painkillers and cup of coffee." It's pointless – she's already gone, the cubicle curtain flapping gently in her wake. Gritting his teeth against the pain dialling the number causes, Boyd makes the most of what might be his only opportunity to use his phone for quite some time. His heart begins to sink as he listens to the despondent sound of no-one answering. Today is just getting better and better…

An audible click is followed by, "Yes…?"

Relief. Pure and wonderful in its intensity. "Shirl. It's Peter. Peter Boyd."

"Yes," her patient voice says, "so I gathered. Why are you calling me?"

"It's a very long story."

"Shorten it – my shift finished half-an-hour ago."

"Are you still in the building?"

"Yeah." There's a pause, then an irritable, "Well?"

"Is Grace still there?"

"Don't you mean 'Doctor Foley'?" Shirley inquires, and the question really couldn't be any more pointed.

It's not in his interests to rile her, and he realises that there's actually a very good chance that things being the way they are, he could benefit a great deal from her conspiratorial delight. Boyd knows exactly what he's doing as he retorts, "I know what I mean."

She's not stupid. Very far from it. Her reply is a loud and triumphant-sounding, "Ha. I bloody knew the rumours were true."

Forcing himself not to wince, he asks, "So? Is she still there, or not?"

"Not sure, but if you promise to be very nice to me I might be persuaded to find out for you."

"How nice is 'very nice'…? Only, you know, I've seen the bloody size of your Doug."

Shirley's reply is an easy, unaffected chuckle. One that momentarily banishes Boyd's ever-increasing sense of doom and gloom.

-oOo-

"Nothing's broken," the doctor confirms, peering once again at the x-rays as if to check that nothing's changed in the last few seconds, "but you're going to be extremely stiff and sore for a few days. Give it a week, and if that knee's still hurting, go and see your GP. You may need some physiotherapy."

"I can go, then?"

A slow shake of the head. "Oh, I didn't say that, Mr Boyd. That was quite a crack on the head you took. No, I think we'll admit you overnight for observation, just to be on the safe side."

Boyd knows how this sort of thing goes. He also knows that acting in direct contravention of medical advice won't do him any favours either personally or professionally. No – it can't be his decision. He needs to be officially sent on his way by the doctors if he's to stand any chance of salvaging anything at all from this… unholy mess. Fighting down the urge to shout his way to freedom, he goes for a more subtle approach. The doctor is a little older than most of his peers in the A and E department, so Boyd gambles on his instincts being right and asks, "Are you married?"

The doctor looks up from his clipboard, evidently a little bewildered. "I am, yes."

"Tough, isn't it?" Boyd suggests. It's a rhetorical question, one he follows with, "Long, unpredictable hours; difficult shift patterns. Sometimes it feels like you're ships just passing in the night."

The doctor puts the clipboard down, leans against the foot of the bed and folds his arms. "We see all sorts in here, Mr Boyd. Men who aren't where they should be when something untoward happens. Distraught wives and mistresses coming to blows in the waiting room. All human life, as they say."

"Exactly the same in my job."

"Are you asking me to be… discreet?"

"Actually, I'm not." Boyd tries for a nonchalant shrug. It hurts. "I'm asking you to consider the position I find myself in. One busy professional to another. Did you ever forget your wedding anniversary because you were too busy dealing with someone else's crisis? Ever suddenly remember that you should have been somewhere else two hours ago?"

"Par for the course."

Boyd picks up on the rueful note in the doctor's voice, and the moment he does, he knows he's won. "It's my partner's birthday tomorrow. First one since we've been together."

"Well, you'll be home for that, don't worry."

"I was just on my way to buy her a gift when I got knocked down."

"Oh."

"You see my predicament?" he presses.

The doctor shakes his head. "I'm not telling you you're fit to leave just so you can charge round London looking for somewhere that's open late enough for you to buy something half-decent."

"The thought hadn't occurred to me," Boyd lies. He holds up his bandaged hands, palms outwards. "I promise to go straight home. I've even got someone coming to pick me up so I don't keel over on the Tube."

"No, Mr Boyd. I'm sorry, but no."

Five minutes later the fearsome Shirley Moore arrives. Fifteen minutes later, Boyd is making good his escape.

-oOo-

"It's serious, then?"

Hunched in the passenger seat, Boyd does not turn his head to look at her. He simply continues his morose scrutiny of the road ahead. Only because he knows he owes her a lot does he reply, "I guess so."

"Took you long enough to realise, didn't it? Honestly, you men are all the same. Can't see a good thing when it's right in front of you. What about the cancer?"

One of the things he's always liked about her is her bluntness. It's refreshing. Easy to deal with. "Doctors say she's in full remission. No point in worrying about what might or might not happen in the future."

Shirley doesn't say anything else for several minutes, just concentrates on driving. When she does speak again, it's to say, "HR will have a bloody field day when they find out, you know."

Something Boyd is very well aware of. "No kidding."

"And they will find out, Pete. They always do in the end."

Tired, and in a considerable amount of pain, he sighs. "You know what, Shirl? I don't care much anymore."

Her sideways glance is followed by a sardonic, "Yeah, right."

"I mean it," he says, surprised to discover that he does. "If it came down to a straight choice…"

"Then tell her that," Shirley says, a sudden serious intensity underscoring the words. "That would be a much better birthday present than half the bloody diamonds in Hatton Garden."

"Difficult to wrap, though, eh?"

"You worry about the wrong things," she says, slowing for the road junction ahead. "You always have. That's why that frigid bitch of a wife of yours got away with murder for years."

It costs him, but this time Boyd does manage to turn his head enough to shoot a glare at her. "Way too personal, Shirl."

"Who else is going to tell you the truth?"

He grimaces. "I don't need you to lecture me – I've got Grace for that."

"That poor bloody woman. I feel sorry for her."

"Well, don't."

"Why not?" Shirley demands, startling him with her vehemence. "She's been holding a damned torch for you for years, by all accounts – and either you really didn't notice, in which case you're an idiot, or you did, and that makes you a complete – "

He doesn't want to hear it. Doesn't want to face some of the difficult questions he's often asked himself in the early hours of the morning when sleep is eluding him. "God's sake… Give me a break, eh? I'm in fucking pain here, you know."

"Well, it's your own damned fault, isn't it? Last minute dash to the shops – never a good idea."

"Are you quite sure we were never married? Only, you know…"

Shirley snorts. "Even back in the 'seventies I don't think a drunken snog and a quick grope counted as a formal exchange of vows."

Against his better judgement, Boyd laughs. That's painful, too. His ribs are aching, his back's hurting, and all he really wants to do is curl up somewhere warm and quiet and go to sleep. Shaking his head, he says, "I knew it was a bad idea, you transferring across from Bethnal Green nick."

"Yeah, but if I hadn't, who'd be rescuing your sorry backside for you now, eh?"

"True, true." He gestures at the road ahead. "Turn left up here. She lives just off Falmouth Road."

-oOo-

Despite his protests about having a key, Shirley insists on marching him up to the front door and leaning past him to ring the bell. According to her, it's the best way to play for sympathy, and possibly the only way he's going to save himself from an extended stay in the doghouse. Too tired to argue, Boyd gives up and lets her get on with it. Propped up against the brickwork, he wonders as if he looks as bad as he feels. The question is perhaps answered by the look on Grace's face when she opens to door and gazes out at them both. Surprise, concern, disbelief – all sorts of things settle into a broad expression of bewildered incomprehension. Before she can say a single word, Shirley announces, "Yours, I believe."

Blunt. Straight to the point. Effective, though.

Grace is renowned for her equanimity, her ability to remain serene in the face of all kinds of mayhem. She doesn't look fazed as she replies, "Well, some would beg to differ, I'm sure, but…."

"I am here, you know," Boyd says with some asperity. Women. Give them half a chance and they merrily join forces at the expense of the poor benighted males in their lives.

"He decided to go jaywalking in New Bond Street," Shirley says, "and some fool in a BMW clipped him."

Boyd shakes his head in despair. "That's right – break it to her gently. Well done, Shirl."

"But as you can see," the redoubtable sergeant continues, "he lives to fight another day."

Grace's expression has become a bemused mask. "New Bond Street…?"

"He was shopping," Shirley supplies. "At least, it seems that was his intention."

"Shopping?"

"Shopping." A pause. "For your birthday?"

"Oh."

"You're really not helping," Boyd admonishes.

"I'm saving you from yourself," Shirley tells him. To Grace, she says, "Doctors say nothing's actually broken, and his skull's thick enough to have saved him from any serious injury, but keep an eye on him for a few days, and drag him to his doctor if things don't improve. He's been given some painkillers, and he'll need the dressings on his hands changed in a couple of days. Good luck."

"Thank you," Grace mumbles, sounding every bit as confused as she looks. "Boyd…?"

He doesn't know where to start. Shirley snorts, loudly enough for both of them to hear it. "What he's going to struggle to tell you, Doctor Foley, is that it may have taken him bloody years, but he got there in the end. He loves you, and he's not going anywhere. That doesn't mean he's ever going to be any damn use at remembering your birthday until it's far too late, but – "

"I remembered," Boyd interrupts, "I just didn't expect to find myself – "

"Be quiet," Grace tells him, but she's looking at Shirley. "Thank you. For looking after him, and for getting him home in one piece, I mean."

"More-or-less in one piece," the other woman corrects. "Well, I'd better go before Doug thinks I've finally seen sense and walked out on him. Happy birthday for tomorrow, Doctor."

"Please, call me Grace. And thanks."

It's going to be all right, Boyd thinks. Probably.

-oOo-

Grace doesn't lose her temper very often, and she doesn't this time. Not quite. She does thoroughly castigate him for pretty much everything from being born onwards, and she does call him a few choice names, one or two of which definitely call the legitimacy of his parentage into question, but – and it's a positive 'but' as far as Boyd is concerned – she doesn't throw anything at him, and she doesn't order him to leave. Tired and aching, he weathers the storm in near-silence, glad when its stinging ferocity begins to abate. He understands, of course – appreciates that most of her anger is driven by the fear of what could have happened. He watches and he listens, and he wonders why it took him so long to realise that, as different as they are, in many ways they are a perfect match for each other.

When he senses that she's reaching the very end of the long tirade, he lifts his head a fraction to enable him to look at her properly. It's strange, being the one who's sitting quietly while someone else rages and paces and throws accusations around like so much confetti. He says, "I'm sorry about your birthday present."

"I told you, I don't care about the damned present," she retorts. "What I care about is you."

"I'm okay. Just a few cuts and bruises."

"Only you," she accuses, "only you could sneak out to buy a birthday present and end up in hospital."

"I'll make it up to you, Grace."

"Damn right you will." She glowers at him for a moment before starting to advance. "New Bond Street? Do I look like the sort of woman who wants presents from New Bond Street?"

He wishes he wasn't in quite so much pain. Wishes he could just pull her down onto his lap and…

"And as for telling Shirley Moore about us – "

"Hang on," he says, "I thought you'd be pleased about that. And I didn't exactly tell her."

Grace is looking down at him, expression contemplative. "Semantics."

"Oh God…" He reaches out and takes her hand. He's careful, but it still hurts. He sees her look down at the bandage holding the dressing in place. It's the ideal moment to attempt to tug on her heart-strings. He doesn't.

"Idiot," she says, her voice suddenly soft and rueful. "Haven't you realised by now that things like birthday presents don't mean anything to me compared to the mornings when I wake up feeling cold and lonely, only to roll over and find you're lying there next to me?"

"You're easily pleased," he says. A self-deprecatory joke, quiet and bittersweet.

"I'm really not," she contradicts, "but somehow…"

Emboldened, he risks, "I do love you, you know. I may not always show it, and I may sometimes get too caught up in things, but I do love you."

"I know."

Intrigued by the brevity of her response, Boyd prompts, "And?"

"You can have the 'and' when I'm unwrapping something very expensive and avant-garde from Portobello Road."

He laughs, enchanted by her whimsical idea of a compromise. He kisses her hand, a gentle, affectionate salute. "Deal."

"Now," Grace says, settling herself on the arm of the chair he's occupying, "I think it's time you finally told me all about what you and Shirley got up to back in the good old days, don't you, Pete?"

He smirks. "You might think I'm stupid, but trust me, I'm really not that stupid. Happy birthday."

Her brows draw down in a frown. "My birthday's not until tomorrow."

Boyd nods towards the carriage clock ticking away quietly on the mantelpiece. "I think you'll find that it is tomorrow, Grace…"

- the end -