DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.


Wish You Were Here

by Joodiff


We're just two lost souls
Swimming in a fish bowl,
Year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found?
The same old fears.

- Pink Floyd


Introduction

It starts with just touch of gravel evident in the deep voice. Everyone notices, but no-one comments. The next day, the voice is sandpaper-rough, and wherever its owner goes, so goes a dry, barking cough. Detective Superintendent Peter Boyd is ill. The world does not immediately stop turning, but it's such an unusual phenomenon that it causes a sudden flurry of excited betting not just in the CCU's semi-subterranean squad room, but throughout the entire building. Officers from completely different units unexpectedly find various spurious reasons to visit the basement-dwellers, and every new scrap of information obtained is quickly disseminated, causing the odds on different outcomes to fluctuate wildly. Someone in CID, housed up on the building's top floor, even has a ridiculous thousand-to-one chance on Boyd requiring the services of an undertaker before the month is over. It's a long shot, but worth a tenner. Ten grand buys a lot of beer, after all.

His immediate colleagues aren't much more compassionate or understanding. They complain loudly and defensively about the risks of contagion and cross-contamination, and by the beginning of the third day not even Grace will sit next to him during the customary early morning team meeting. In truth, Boyd does not look well. He's pale, he's sweaty, and there's an unnaturally bright, feverish sort of look in his eyes. Being a man, he also complains. A lot. And when the coughing, shivering and grumbling, all achieved whilst managing to look uncharacteristically sorry for himself, completely fail to elicit any kind of meaningful sympathy from his hard-hearted team, he gets even more cantankerous and attempts to start shouting. Which, inevitably, only causes him to cough and splutter even more.

It's Felix whose strained patience finally snaps mid-meeting, surprising her wide-eyed co-workers. She delivers a sudden harsh and irritable, "For God's sake, Boyd, you're not on death's door; you've got a touch of man 'flu. If you really feel that ill, stop bloody moaning and just go home."

And, to everyone's complete astonishment, not long afterwards he does, thus proving beyond any reasonable doubt just how unwell he is. His unprecedented pre-lunch departure leaves a bewildered Stella a hundred quid richer thanks to the stalwart efforts of the building's enthusiastic unofficial bookmakers. It quickly transpires that she completely ignored Spencer's sage advice and defiantly invested a single pound coin on the absurd hundred-to-one long shot of Boyd eventually giving in and taking sick leave. Consequently, it's drinks all round for the thrilled members of the CCU's core team after work, with no-one feeling even the slightest twinge of guilt as they toast her unexpected good fortune.

After a couple of quiet, blissful days in the unit's abnormally calm lair, it's Grace – who is undoubtedly the noblest and certainly the bravest of them all – who finally takes it upon herself to check that Boyd hasn't died a lonely and premature death. She telephones him at home after work, and arrives the next morning to report that yes, he's ailing but still very much alive, and that Felix's impatient diagnosis was essentially correct. According to his doctor, Boyd does indeed have 'flu – the full-blooded, genuine article. And the state he seems to be in, she tells her colleagues, he's not going to be back at his desk for at least another week, possibly more.

Perhaps they should celebrate their unforeseen good luck, and then simply make the most of the glorious stretch of tranquillity ahead, but surprisingly they don't. Their missing leader may be gruff, he may be quick-tempered and often hard to please, but he's also engagingly eccentric, ferociously loyal, and the energetic main driving force behind everything the Met's dedicated Cold Case Unit does. None of them will openly admit it, but his continued absence is extremely disconcerting, and they all, without exception, very quickly find that everyday working life in the basement is simply far too quiet and mundane without his forceful, unpredictable presence.

-oOo-


One

"I'm bloody dying here," the weak, hoarse voice on the other end of the telephone line protests, "have a heart, Grace…"

Staring out of her living room window at the quiet residential London street that has been her home for many, many years, Grace resists the temptation to give vent to a loud and heartfelt sigh. True, he does still sound tired and genuinely ill, but she isn't naïve enough to fall for the vocal equivalent of the artful and well-practiced little-boy-lost look that tends to work so well on unwitting members of the fairer sex. Still, it does feel a little like kicking an injured puppy as she retorts, "I'm busy, Boyd."

"Remember you said that when you're weeping and wailing at my graveside."

This time she does sigh. "Do you have to be quite so ridiculously melodramatic?"

He immediately changes tack. "There's no food left in the house. Not a single scrap."

"Oh, stop it." Still gazing out at the street and the forbidding grey clouds scudding above it, Grace steels herself to ignore a strong and unwelcome twinge of guilt. He knows all the weak spots in her armour, and has no compunction about exploiting them. It's up to her to resist as best she can.

"It's true," a forlorn-sounding Boyd presses, "every damned cupboard is absolutely bare, and I've scarcely got the strength to stagger up and down the stairs, let alone to go out bloody shopping..."

Grace looks heavenward in a pained mixture of irritation, amusement, and despair. "And that's my problem because…?"

The response is mournful. "C'mon, Grace. Who the hell else is going to look after me?"

Damn. She just knew she could rely on him to eventually play the one card in the metaphorical deck that somehow never fails. Bloody infuriating man. Still every bit as charismatic and good-looking as he ever was, unfortunately – but bloody infuriating nonetheless.

Far angrier with herself than she is with him, Grace glares into the mid-distance and mutters, "Oh, for God's sake…"

Intentionally doleful, Boyd's voice wheedles, "Please…?"

And again, damn. Damn.

-oOo-

It's been several years since the difficult but strangely quiet conversation that signalled a drawn-out and painful personal parting of the ways, and yet somehow Grace still has a key to his house. She's not quite sure why it's still in her possession, but Boyd has never asked for it back, and she's never offered to return it. Perhaps it's symbolic of all the unspoken unfinished business that remains between them. Perhaps it represents a door between them that still stands slightly ajar, neither fully open nor fully closed. She doesn't know. But at least she can get into the house when there's no response to her tentative knocking. She assumes – correctly as it soon turns out – that he's upstairs asleep.

Nothing about the place seems to have altered very much since she stopped being a regular visitor. Same muted, elegant colour scheme; same ornaments, same furniture. Same sense that the occupier isn't home very much during waking hours. He's changed the position of the big cream sofa where they once used to settle on the far too rare number of quiet, intimate evenings when… Quickly, Grace blocks the melancholy chain of thought before it can take her to places it's far safer not to go. Better to concentrate on practicalities, she decides, and so she makes her way to the small, streamlined kitchen at the rear of the house. The wreckage and chaos she finds there convinces her that her lingering dark suspicions are wrong, that Boyd is not malingering. The evidence suggests he's just about summoned the strength required for very basic foraging expeditions and precious little else. Certainly, no effort has been made to tidy up afterwards, which is definitely atypical. She very quickly discovers that he wasn't lying to her – there really is nothing at all left anywhere that could feasibly be constructed into any kind of edible meal, however meagre.

The knowledge that she hasn't been duped into a fool's errand makes Grace feel a little more charitable towards him, even if it's Saturday afternoon, and therefore one of the few times in the week when she's normally guaranteed peace and quiet. In reality, she's in no way as unsympathetic as she is trying to pretend, even to herself. It's simply that… Well, simply that to her chagrin Peter Boyd remains an unfathomable weakness that could too easily once again leave her open to the kind of hurt she tells herself she's too old and jaded to deal with nowadays. He's many things, not all of them bad, but where women and relationships are concerned… Well, she learnt the hard way that he can be far too capricious and unreliable for her taste.

But despite it all she eventually ascends the stairs to check on him anyway.

At the end of the landing his bedroom door is wide open. It would surprise her far more if it were closed, given the incipient edge of claustrophobia she knows exists in him. She's never known him sleep behind a fully closed door, or without an open window. But this is not a good time, Grace knows, to be allowing such dangerous memories to surface. Coming to a halt in the doorway, she surveys the tidy, once-familiar room. Like the rest of the house, it hasn't changed very much. Same simple but good-quality furnishings, same quiet, masculine edge to the décor. Reluctantly, she lets her gaze move to the low, wide bed. The good news is that Boyd is indeed present, and is curled on his side, back firmly to the window, apparently soundly asleep. The bad news is that the bedcovers have slipped just far enough for a wide expanse of smooth bare chest to be on open display. A disconcerting sight; well-remembered and yet somehow taboo.

The house's food supplies having been replenished as requested, Grace is tempted to leave him undisturbed; to slip quietly away from the room, perhaps leaving a brief note for him to find later. But something – maybe the way he looks so vulnerable – stops her from doing so. Emotional vulnerability is one thing, something she's seen in him often enough, not least in the wake of their difficult mutual decision to return their relationship to a much more professional footing, but physical vulnerability… No, that isn't Boyd at all. He's tall and broad-shouldered, and despite the gathering years he carries himself with a pugnacious sort of confidence that gives him tremendous physical presence. Chiding herself for being so easily swayed, Grace grudgingly walks towards the bed. Fortunately or not, her cautious approach doesn't wake him.

She stops, eyes him in reflective silence for a long, bleak moment and then tries, "Boyd…? Boyd."

Finally, he stirs, dark eyes flickering open. He blinks, a little owlish, a little befuddled. Against her better judgement, Grace remembers the inevitable gentle, bemused sweetness of the man when he's quiet and sleepy, not yet fully awake. And that, more than anything else so far, causes a sharp, unwanted pang of resignation and regret. Everything that went wrong, everything that ended in a battlefield of endless rows and recriminations, and she's still foolish enough to –

"Grace…?" It's not much more than a confused mumble.

"Who else?" she inquires, looking down at him as he attempts to focus on her. Brusquer, she adds, "Well? How are you feeling?"

"Weak as a bloody kitten," he admits, clearing his throat. It doesn't seem to help much. His voice is still an unhealthy rasp as he asks, "Did you bring food?"

Filled with weary resignation, she nods. "Yes, I brought food."

"Thank Christ for that."

Grace regards him with sceptical disdain. "I suppose you expect me to cook it for you, too?"

Boyd coughs for a moment, his bare chest heaving alarmingly, before shaking his head. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." Most of her sharp asperity is still contrived. She studies him for a moment longer, taking in his lank, tousled hair – much greyer than it used to be – and sweaty pallor, and then comes to an unwilling decision. Sometimes maybe it's best to push away all the bittersweet memories and just be pragmatic. She shakes her head. "Look at the state of you. For heaven's sake, go and have a shower while there's someone here to make sure you're all right. I'll change the bed, and then I'll cook you something. But you better start giving some serious thought to how you're going repay me for all this."

Boyd raises his eyebrows at that, and despite his sunken cheeks and clammy-looking forehead, just for a moment Grace is sure she catches sight of a stray gleam of something sly and mischievous in his eyes. A tiny hint of something roguish that she remembers far too well. Ignoring the unwanted physical effect it has on her, she gives him a haughty, baleful look in response. "Oh, grow up."

His face is a picture of bland innocence. "What?"

He knows damned well what. Of course he bloody does. Nowadays they are most definitely just work colleagues who happen to also be reasonably good friends, but once upon a time not too long ago… She glowers down at him. "Just get up and go and have a shower, will you? Before I start questioning exactly why I'm being so nice to you."

Each word clear and deliberate, he asks, "You want me to get out of bed, Grace? Right now?"

She sighs, and then she scowls again. "You're really testing my patience, Boyd."

"I'm just making absolutely sure," he tells her, deadpan.

Belatedly, Grace remembers something else from the many illicit nights they shared, a good number of them in this very room. Something significant about his sleeping habits that until now she's successfully managed to banish from her mind.

Barely convalescent or not, he's grinning even before he pushes back the covers and sits up.

She has remembered, of course, that he doesn't wear pyjamas to bed. Or shorts. Or anything else, for that matter. No, Peter Boyd generally sleeps au naturel, and today, quite obviously, is no exception to that rule. Unable to avert her gaze in time, Grace realises that he is smirking at her in that insufferably smug, triumphant way that he always seems to manage so well. For her, it only makes matters even worse.

With as much icy dignity and composure as she can muster, she looks away and grumbles, "Oh, for God's sake. You're so damn childish."

The rebuke doesn't stop him laughing. Only the resulting protracted coughing fit does that.

-oOo-

cont...