DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

A/N: Hope you all enjoy this new fic - various problems including a damaged typing hand (singular - but I only type one-handed!) and my husband being unexpectedly rushed into hospital have intruded into my available writing time in the last few months, but let's hope things are on the up now, eh? :)

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

by Joodiff

They've been friends for a long time, and colleagues for even longer, and since their relationship has never been exactly reliably smooth and harmonious, Boyd has developed an unrivalled ability to detect – and usually ignore – all the subtle and not-so-subtle signs that indicate Grace Foley is rapidly running out of patience. It's quite a novelty for him not to be the direct focus of her gradually-increasing ire, allows him a very different perspective on the relatively unusual phenomenon. Over the years he's been on the receiving end of her annoyance more times than he cares to remember and therefore he's well aware that she has much sharper claws than a casual observer would ever believe possible; accordingly, it briefly crosses his mind to do the gallant thing and nobly draw fire away from her intended target. But he is also a firm believer in letting his junior officers learn from their mistakes wherever possible, so he keeps his mouth shut and quite deliberately lets the burgeoning mini drama continue to unfold.

"There's no doubt at all that the semen recovered from her body was Colin's?" Spencer asks in a thoughtful tone, his gaze firmly trained on Eve.

"None," she confirms, passing a printed piece of paper across the table to him.

"You're absolutely sure?" Kat questions, still blindly careering towards more trouble than she could possibly imagine.

"Of course I'm sure," Eve confirms impatiently. "I ran my own tests to confirm the results from the original post mortem. The stored samples have degraded slightly, but I still easily got an exact match. The semen was his, the other male DNA found at the crime scene most definitely wasn't."

Boyd stirs himself to inquire, "So we can be quite certain that none of the forensics in any way contradict Mitchell's version of events?"

"I think I already said that, didn't I?" Eve asks waspishly.

He gives her a slight, disarming smile. "I think you did, yes."

"But," Grace says quietly, "Kat still seems to have some concerns."

Boyd turns his head a fraction, enough to make eye contact. Grace stares steadily back at him, her expression completely unreadable. To most people. Boyd is not most people. He can see – quite clearly – the controlled spark of increasing anger in the intense blue eyes, the imperceptible tightening of her lips. Oh yes, he can see all the warning signs. He raises his eyebrows fractionally at her, an acknowledgement and a mute question combined. He doesn't think anyone else sees the tiniest irritable shake of the head that comes his way in return.

"I'm just saying," Kat responds, totally oblivious to their silent communication, "that it all seems a bit too… convenient. Added to which… Well, I mean, come on… even ten years ago Mitchell was, what, seventy-two, seventy-three?"

"And…?" Spencer asks, leaning back in his chair and casually putting his hands behind his head.

Grace speaks before the younger woman can. "I think what Kat's trying to say is that she finds it rather… improbable… that the Mitchells had sex the day Rose was murdered."

He has a clear choice, Boyd can see that. He can exert his authority and force the meeting firmly back on track, thus saving Kat – still very much a newcomer – from the unpleasant mauling that's rapidly coming her way, or he can follow his instincts and let the young woman learn the hard way that the arrogant assumptions of youth are best kept well away from this kind of professional forum. As choices go, it's hardly the most difficult he's ever had to make. Besides, he's firmly on the wrong side of fifty himself – actually much nearer sixty than fifty – and he suddenly feels that a certain amount of age-related solidarity is required. So he doesn't say a word, just turns his gaze onto Kat and studies her placidly, awaiting her reply.

"Erm," Kat mumbles, looking towards Eve and then Spencer for support. Finding none, she shrugs. "Well, I just think it's a bit… unusual… that's all. Given their age..."

"Based on what?" Grace inquires calmly, although her tone is verging on the glacial. "Your vast experience in the field of gerontology?"

Boyd didn't actually expect her to go for the jugular quite so quickly, but he remains silent and deliberately ignores the quick, nervous glance Eve shoots him.

Kat is already floundering under the suddenly steely blue gaze. She shrugs again, helplessly this time. "But he was seventy-something, she was sixty-eight – "

" – which obviously means they couldn't possibly still have been enjoying a healthy sex-life?"

A sudden sharp pain flares briefly in Boyd's ankle. Someone – Eve – has just kicked him swiftly under the table. Boyd isn't sure if he's amused or outraged by the liberty. Or both. Ignoring the pointed look now being directed at him, he holds up a placatory hand. "Be that as it may – "

"No," Grace interrupts him with a glare. "Ill-founded assumptions – particularly when they contradict the evidence – have absolutely no place in a police investigation. Hasn't that always been a fundamental tenet of this unit…?"

It's possibly for the best that further discussion – argument – around the subject is abruptly forestalled by the escorted arrival in the CCU's squad room of Colin Mitchell himself, now a very frail and elderly man. It doesn't escape Boyd's notice that Grace ostentatiously treats the old man with over-exaggerated courtesy as she quickly gets up to lead him to the unit's interview rooms. But then, despite what it often suits him to pretend, nowadays very little actually escapes Boyd's notice where Grace is concerned.

-oOo-

"It infuriates me," she complains much later as they walk through the building together. "It's ageism, pure and simple."

"Is that actually a real '-ism'?" Boyd inquires mildly, earning himself a dark glower. He buffets her gently with his shoulder in response. "Oh, come on, Grace – don't tell me you were any different at that age? It's a well-known fact that if you're only just old enough to vote it's physically impossible to imagine anyone over the age of forty-five – "

"Please don't say 'screwing'."

" – screwing. Let alone actively enjoying it."

The glower intensifies. "Well, I've got bad news for you, mister – by that yardstick, I'm not the only one round here who's well and truly past it."

"Thanks for that, Doctor."

"Not so funny now, eh?"

"I never said it was funny," Boyd points out accurately. "I'm just saying it's a perfectly ordinary conceit of youth."

She is silent for several steps. Then she abruptly asks, "When was the last time you had sex?"

The question is blunt, impertinent and entirely unexpected. But Boyd is not a man easily embarrassed and he is, as ever, amused by her boldness. Very little intimidates Grace, a fact he generally finds just as entertaining as occasionally intensely irritating. Even so, he gives her a sideways look. "Way too personal, Grace."

"That long ago, huh?"

The smug undertone in her voice needles his redoubtable male ego. As intended, presumably. He glowers at her. "Not that long ago. Easter."

"Ah ha," she says immediately as she inevitably leaps straight to the right conclusion. "Let me guess, O'Donnell's statuesque Argentinian barrister. The one you and Spence spent weeks pathetically drooling over like a pair of love-struck teenagers?"

"I couldn't possibly comment," Boyd says loftily, knowing she will take his words as an affirmative. Which, of course, they are. Luciana Suárez. Striking looking woman. Fiery. Long gone now.

"You're such a gentleman, Boyd," Grace tells him snidely as they reach the top of the concrete steps that lead into the stark corridor that will eventually take them to the building's rear exit. "Anyway, you've just proved my point. You're pushing sixty – "

"Ouch," he protests. It may be true, but as a man tenaciously hanging onto his fifties for just as long as he can, he really doesn't need the reminder.

" – but it doesn't occur to you for a moment that you should be considering drawing a line under that side of your life."

"Why would it?"

"Exactly," she says sounding triumphant.

Chivalrously holding one of the heavy swing doors halfway down the corridor open for her, Boyd says, "You're forgetting something, Grace."

"What?"

"I'm on your side. It's not me you should be growling at."

She smiles slightly at that, her expression a touch apologetic. "Sorry. It just makes me so angry, the way society automatically writes people off the moment they reach a certain age."

He grins. "Cheer up, Grace – trust me, the old folk are going to have the last laugh this time. I sent her down to the secondary archive to pull everything she could find on unsolved murders in Rotherhithe over the last twenty years. Most of that stuff's never been indexed. She'll be lucky if she sees daylight before the weekend."

"There are times when I really like you."

"I know," he says complacently. "So come on, then. Quid pro quo – when did Doctor Foley last…?"

She immediately feigns outrage. "Boyd! I'm not telling you that."

"Why not? Oh, I see. It's all right for you to ask me, but… I'm sure there's another '-ism' at work there somewhere."

Patting his arm lightly, she says, "Welcome to the wonderful world of sexual inequality."

"I could threaten to burn my bra, you know, Grace. Or yours."

"I still wouldn't tell you. And leave my bra out of it."

"Well, that's something I never expected to hear today when I got up this morning," he tells her with a quite deliberate lift of his eyebrows. On a whim, he continues, "Drink?"

Grace looks at him as if he is suddenly speaking in a completely foreign language. "I'm sorry?"

"Drink. Pub. You remember that concept, don't you?"

"Only vaguely. Boyd, we haven't done the 'quick drink after work' thing for years."

She's right. He shrugs nonchalantly. "High time we did then, isn't it?"

-oOo-

Despite the veritable tsunami of water that has passed under countless bridges over the years, sitting together at a small table in a quiet corner of the bustling King's Head not far from Stanhope Gardens feels comfortably familiar. Once upon a time, Boyd reflects, it wasn't uncommon for them to end the working day with an earnest debrief over a glass or two while the younger members of the team quickly hurried away to whatever the night might offer in the way of rest and relaxation. He's not entirely sure when everything changed, but change it did. Gradually but inexorably.

"Penny for them?" Grace asks.

"You'd be wasting your money," he replies easily. There are some conversations he's determined never to have, not with her, not with anyone. In an effort to deflect further inquiry, he says, "So… tell me about Richard."

She blinks, evidently surprised. "You know about Richard?"

"You're not the only one with their ear to the ground, you know," he says smugly. "Well? Is it serious?"

Her reply is measured. "It might have been if I hadn't found out that he was married."

Despite himself, Boyd winces. Yet again he appears to have inadvertently said completely the wrong thing. Keen to avoid conflict he says wryly, "Sorry."

"Don't be," Grace tells him, her tone matter-of-fact. "Tact and diplomacy have never exactly been your strong point. Besides, I have to admit he was a little too… conservative… for my taste."

"Big 'c' or little 'c'?"

"Both," she says dryly.

Politics. Always hazardous territory. Boyd is nowhere near as reactionary and right-wing as she frequently likes to imply, but nor is he particularly sympathetic towards her defiantly left-wing tendencies. There have been some truly epic arguments on the subject in the past. Back in the days when arguing was a lot more fun and a lot less potentially dangerous. Still, Boyd can't help smirking. "Grace, I'm truly shocked. I never thought you were the sort of woman who'd ever compromise her principles by taking up with a true blue Tory."

"Very funny. And the answer to your next question is 'mind your own damned business'."

He laughs. "Come on, you have no idea what my next question was going to be."

"I'm a psychologist, Boyd. And I know you far too well."

It's a game. It's always been a game. A very painful one, sometimes. He stretches indolently. "So you did sleep with him."

"You really shouldn't make assumptions, Detective Superintendent," she chides him.

He knows damn well he's right. He just knows. What he's not sure is whether it bothers him or not. It doesn't. It shouldn't, anyway. Hell, maybe it's the whiskey starting to take hold, but he thinks it does. Just a little. But he keeps up the banter with, "Come on, Grace – I know that look."

Again, she deliberately avoids any hint of confirmation or denial. "Should I start worrying about this unhealthy preoccupation you seem to be developing with my sex life, Boyd?"

He's not going to win. Not unless he pushes until the amiable back-and-forth becomes a genuine confrontation. And even then his chances are exceedingly slim. Pretty much non-existent, in fact. He can shout her down easily enough, but volume does not automatically equal victory. He's learnt that over the years, at least. So he simply grumbles, "You started it, remember?"

"I was making a point, not indulging prurient curiosity."

"So it was purely academic interest?"

"Absolutely," she affirms, completely deadpan. Then a glint of mischief shows in her blue eyes. "Spence would be absolutely gutted if he found out, you know. Luciana Suárez…? How on earth did you manage that?"

"Sheer charm, Grace," he says solemnly. "Additionally, I have a very large – "

"Boyd."

" – expense account. What? What the hell did you think I was going to say?"

The glint has become a definite amused sparkle. "One can never be quite sure where you're concerned. Apparently not large enough to keep her in England, it seems."

"My expense account?"

"That, too."

Even Boyd is suddenly aware that there's something unusual about the atmosphere between them. Something that is both more and less than the volatile undercurrent of tension that he's come to accept as completely normal. The tension is there, but the character of it is very different. More flirtatious than antagonistic. Reminds him of earlier, brighter days before she hardened and he really started to struggle under the continual oppressive weight of guilt and responsibility. Reminds him of the way they used to gloriously spar and spark before the real venom relentlessly started to creep into their arguments.

Realising he has been gazing intently at her for just a little too long, he blinks, forces a crooked grin. "Nothing lasts forever, Grace."

"Speaking of which," she says, glancing pointedly at her watch, "I think it's high time we thought about drinking up and heading home."

-oOo-

It's raining outside. London rain, not heavy, but tenacious and annoying. Grace, of course, is armed with one of those infuriating compact umbrellas that women of a certain age always seem to have tucked away somewhere about their person for just such an emergency. Boyd is not. Nor is he going to stoop low enough – physically or metaphorically – to share the boldly patterned monstrosity with her, so he growls bad-temperedly, turns up the collar of his jacket and slouches moodily along beside her as they walk quickly towards the side street where their cars are parked. It's not far and the rain is hardly hammering down, but even so it isn't long before Boyd begins to feel less like a dapper man-about-town and more like a drowned rat. Reminds him of long-ago unpleasant days out on the beat in all weathers with rain seeping into his boots and adding to the already considerable weight of his uniform. It's an evening for memories, apparently.

He remembers the first time they met. It was raining that day, too, but they were sequestered in a small, dry office in Hoxton with dozens of grisly crime scene photographs spread out on the desk between them. He was a recently-promoted DCI, she was a criminal psychologist still working at Broadmoor. They drank coffee, talked about ritual dismemberment and eyed each other with covetous suspicion. She bluntly told him he was missing the obvious, he challenged her to prove it. The case was solved within just a few weeks. Somehow they clicked.

"Boyd…?"

The sound of her voice brings him out of his reverie. He shakes his head hard, sending small droplets of water in all directions. Gives her a weary, wry look. "Don't you just love London in the springtime?"

"Yes," she says, apparently deciding to take the rhetorical question at face-value. Blue eyes regard him keenly from beneath the umbrella's shadow. "Are you all right? You seemed a little far away for a moment there."

"Far away in time," he tells her inscrutably as they halt naturally beside her car. He looks down at her contemplatively. Finds himself unexpectedly asking, "So he wasn't your type, then? Richard?"

Grace doesn't look surprised by the inquiry. "Aside from the whole being married thing? No, not really. Well, not at all, in fact."

"He was… just there. In the right place at the right time."

"Like Luciana."

"Like Luciana," Boyd agrees without rancour. It's perfectly true. Just one more empty conquest. He's entirely forgotten about the rain, doesn't notice the droplets of water lazily trickling down his neck and soaking into his shirt collar. He knows he shouldn't ask the question, but inevitably does. "So what is your type?"

The intensity of the answering gaze doesn't waver. Not for a moment. "You really haven't worked that out by now?"

"I think," he starts slowly, wondering how truthful to be, "that you like the bad boys, Grace. The ones who answer back and don't take any shit from anyone, but have the guts to stand up for what they believe in. I think you like the sinners who try their best, not the saints who don't need saving."

"Profound. Remarkably accurate."

He isn't afraid to hold her all-seeing gaze as he says, "Which is presumably why the world and its wife have always imagined that you and I are sleeping together."

Her reply is smooth, but a little too swift. "It's a great shame the world and its wife are wrong, then, isn't it?"

Trying to accurately gauge what lies hidden behind the glib retort, Boyd tilts his head. "Is it?"

"Actually, the older I get, the less inclined I am to think so," Grace quickly contradicts herself.

"Ah, and suddenly we're back to that," he challenges, but gently.

She frowns at him. "What?"

"Age."

For a moment Grace is silent. She studies him for several seconds before she quietly says, "You think I'm too preoccupied by it? When I was an undergraduate, Boyd, you were still at school."

He snorts derisively. "Just. And you're talking about more than forty years ago, Grace. I hardly think anyone would accuse you of cradle-snatching nowadays."

They stare at each other, the sudden gaping silence between them heavy with meaning. And that silence also carries a sharp edge of something very like anticipation.

"Goodnight, Boyd," she says gravely, and the momentary spell is abruptly broken.

Sullen without wanting to examine the reason too closely, Boyd watches as Grace begins to rifle through her oversized bag for her car keys, her search seriously encumbered by the umbrella. He doesn't attempt to help, deliberately puts his hands firmly in his pockets as she struggles. "He killed her, you know. Mitchell. In his seventies or not, he found out she was messing around with the neighbour and he killed her. Crime passionnel."

"I know," Grace says. The look she gives him is calm but very shrewd. "And…? Are you going to bring him back in and charge him?"

His considered decision already made, Boyd shakes his head slowly. "No judge will find him fit to plead. He may not have completely lost his marbles, but we both know he's far too confused to be able to competently instruct a solicitor."

"Quieta non movere… Let sleeping dogs lie?" she suggests.

He knows she isn't simply talking about Colin Mitchell. He shrugs slightly. "Maybe."

"Sometimes it's the wisest course of action," she says, finally producing her car keys, and there's definitely no doubt that she's not talking about Mitchell. "Don't work too late, Boyd."

"How do you know I'm not going to go straight home?"

She smiles faintly. "I told you – I know you far too well."

They are staring at each other again, defences eternally ready should they be required.

Boyd is tired of it. The careful manoeuvring, the continual battle of wills. The ridiculous, pointless games. Give ground, gain ground; fight and bite and banter and all of it to achieve absolutely nothing. The fun went out of it years ago, and if most of the raw spite that eventually took hold has slowly ebbed away, it's still exhausting. And ultimately futile.

He takes a step towards her. "Grace – "

"Don't," she says quickly. Somehow she's transferred her keys to her umbrella hand, and her free hand impulsively reaches out to him. With a tenderness that tears into his chest, she smoothes back an unruly lock of wet hair from his forehead. "Best let sleeping dogs lie, remember?"

But Boyd is not renowned for automatically choosing the wisest course of action. Not when he senses that there is potentially much more to be gained from gambling on a far riskier strategy.

So he kisses her. Right there on the street in the persistent evening rain.

-oOo-

In his opinion it's just about the sexiest look known to man. Age is completely immaterial. As far as Boyd's concerned, any woman who is both sleepy and sleep-tousled and is wandering barefoot around his kitchen wearing only a borrowed white shirt cannot help but look anything but intensely desirable. Watching her as she slowly finds her way around the unfamiliar territory, he leans up against the kitchen counter, folds his arms across his broad chest and says, "So much for the conceit of youth, eh?"

Grace glances over her shoulder at him. "Coffee…?"

Sensitivity is not altogether Boyd's forte, nor is he particularly good at following the arcane workings of the female mind, but he can immediately sense the protective barrier that is rapidly being built between them. In a way, he completely understands it. He shakes his head. "I'll grab one on the way into the office."

"I'll try not to be too late," she says too rapidly as she looks away again. "But I need to go home to shower and change. Can you tell Eve that I'll – "

"Grace," he interrupts gently.

She stops what she's doing, but she doesn't turn to face him. He doesn't hear the sigh, but he sees it in the slight movement of her shoulders. "I know. Mistakes aren't the sole prerogative of the young, either."

"That's not what I was going to say."

Grace is silent. Finally, she turns round, unconsciously mirroring his posture by also folding her arms. For a moment Boyd fears a long and taxing post mortem, but in the end all she says is, "Boyd, what you said last night…"

"I meant it," he tells her quietly. "One careful step at a time and let's see where the road takes us."

"You're so romantic," she says dryly, but the tension quickly starts to leave her stance. "It won't work, you know. You and me. It can't."

"That's what I like about you, Grace, your indefatigable optimism."

"See?" she challenges, but more in dark humour than in real antagonism. "We can't even pretend to be civil to each other for two minutes, let alone actually be nice to each other."

"Flirtatious banter," Boyd says dismissively. "And I was very nice to you last night. And again this morning."

"God help me," is her enigmatic response.

He decides not to take offence. Instead, he deliberately lets his gaze slowly rake over her. "Go and put your clothes on, woman. You're making it very hard… for me to concentrate on arguing with you."

Grace snorts. "That's so painfully obvious it doesn't even deserve to be called a double entendre."

"Yeah, well I'm really not at my best until I've had three cups of coffee and shouted at the junior ranks."

She smirks archly at him. "Oh, I don't know…"

He thinks they might somehow find a way. After all, they've already traversed a long and very rocky road to get where they are today. Caution, that's the key. One step at a time instead of plunging recklessly into a dangerous minefield. Boyd is not good at caution, but it might just be time to try his best to learn.

His unusually good mood lasts just long enough for him to discover that his car is irretrievably blocked in by hers, that his phone is in desperate need of charging and that some semi-literate tyke with only a very rudimentary grasp of how to depict the male anatomy in two dimensions has spray-painted some interesting graffiti on his front garden wall.

But on balance Boyd still thinks he's probably had far worse mornings. And he's proved a point – sometimes, despite the risk, sleeping dogs should be woken.

- the end -