DISCLAIMER: I own nothing

Blood and Flames (continued)

By Joodiff, May 2011.

They make it through the night. They doze fitfully for a few minutes here and there, and they talk a little, but they both spend a lot of time staring at nothing. The hospital slowly comes to life around them as the night shift goes off duty and the sun climbs into the morning sky. Doctor and nurses come and go, and eventually Grace finds someone who is able to confirm that Boyd has also made it through the night. It is also Grace who finally manages to gain consent for them to spend at least a few brief minutes in the dark side room where he has been lying all night.

Frankie is frightened, but determined. More than anything, she needs to prove to herself that he's alive, but she is terrified that the sight of him will break her completely. It doesn't. He's deeply unconscious, and he's hooked up to a wide variety of monitoring equipment, but although he's wearing an oxygen mask, he's breathing on his own and the slow rise and fall of his bare chest is reassuringly steady. A large sterile dressing covers his wounded shoulder, and there is a saline drip in his arm. There are traces of dried blood in his hair from the gash on his temple where the second bullet grazed him, and his face is very pale. But he is alive.

Grace hovers by the door, evidently torn between wanting her own reassurance and not wanting to trespass on an intensely private moment. Frankie barely notices. Her attention is all on Boyd and her own conflicting emotions. She reaches out to him, strokes his hair gently, murmurs, "Hey, big guy…"

He doesn't stir, remains lost in his own dreamland. His skin feels unnaturally cool to Frankie, who is so used to his warmth. Awake, he is vibrant, mercurial, full of energy and drive. Unconscious on the hospital bed he looks much older, much more fragile, and it tears at her heart. Boyd is not supposed to be like this. He is a restless soul, one who is unable to stay still for very long, one who is a paradoxical mix of quick-tempered intolerance and infinite patience. He is not ever supposed to be so quiet, so motionless.

Frankie loves him far more than she knows she should. It is not a conscious choice. He has simply slipped under her defences, bringing utter chaos in his wake. Actually falling in love with him has never been part of her plan, but it is far too late for that now, and she is well aware of it.

Gently, Grace says, "Frankie, we have to go. The doctor's here."

-oOo-

Under duress, Frankie goes home to her flat. She showers, puts on clean clothes and dutifully eats a few mouthfuls with Grace standing over her. It hurts to see one of Boyd's expensive, immaculately tailored jackets still on the back of a chair. If Graces notices its presence, she says nothing, but Frankie can't look at anything else. It seems so long ago that he put it there before they sat down to eat together, yet it can't have been much more than thirty-six hours. So much seems to have changed.

Frankie always complains that he is far too big for her little flat, and Boyd always laughs at her and deliberately sprawls himself out even further. But the dripping tap in the bathroom that has driven her demented for years no longer drips, and the bookshelves she has always promised herself that she will one day get round to building are now securely up and full of papers and journals. It amuses him, sometimes, to play at domesticity, simply because he is so fundamentally undomesticated. Of course, these things have not been achieved without much swearing and loss of temper, but he has done them on his own initiative, and that's what touches Frankie.

She says, "We thought it was better to keep it quiet."

It only takes Grace a moment to catch up with Frankie's thoughts. She says, "I can understand that."

"It wasn't about trying to deceive you all."

"Frankie, you don't have to explain your personal life to anyone."

"He's our boss," Frankie says simply.

Grace shakes her head, "You and I work for the Home Office, we're not police officers. Yes, we report to him operationally, but we're not bound by the same rules and regulations – written or unwritten – as Mel and Spence. You haven't done anything wrong."

"There will be an inquiry, though, won't there?"

Grace shrugs, says, "There always is when a police officer is injured in the line of duty, you know that. I expect Boyd will get his knuckles rapped for being reckless, that's all – and you know as well as I do that's water off a duck's back."

Frankie nods slightly. She stares at Boyd's jacket, lost in memories.

Grace says, "You really can't blame yourself, Frankie. He would have done exactly the same thing for any of us, and you know it."

"You didn't see the look on his face," Frankie tells her.

-oOo-

"Doctor Wharton," Grace says, putting the tiniest of stresses on the title, "is Mr Boyd's partner. She has every right to know how he is."

They are face-to-face with a very junior doctor who looks as if he would rather be anywhere else in the world at that particular moment. Plainly, he does not know how to deal with Grace Foley's particular brand of polite, implacable insistence. Visibly flustered, he manages, "The surgery went well…"

"Yes, you've told us that," Grace says.

He capitulates, promises to find someone who can assist them, who can actually answer their questions properly. It takes a while, but he returns eventually with an older man who is brusque, but informed. He tells them, "Mr Boyd is doing well. The surgeon has removed the bullet and it's been passed to DI Heath, as requested. When he comes out of recovery he'll be moved to a surgical ward for post-operative care – there's no reason for him to remain in the critical care unit."

Frankie barely hears whatever else it is he's saying. The sense of relief is simply too great, but that, too, brings its own sting in the tail as she starts to realise just how exhausted she is. She looks at Grace and begins to appreciate how much support she has quietly received through all the long, dark hours. She wonders if she can ever begin to repay such kindness, such compassion.

Grace is smiling as she says, "Frankie, call the unit, let them know the good news."

"Can't you…?"

"No," Grace says, and Frankie immediately suspects it is a tough-love approach. "You call them."

Frankie does, and she's amazed at how much better the simple act makes her feel – as if passing the news on helps it to become more real. There is relief from her colleagues; relief, friendship and even humour. A great weight has been lifted from them all. She promises she will keep them updated, and she means it.

-oOo-

For Boyd himself, things are much simpler. He's heavily medicated and although nothing makes very much sense to him, he's too drowsy to care very much. He doesn't remember his dreams, he simply drifts between states of consciousness. Sometimes he thinks there are people around him, sometimes not. He doesn't really know that as the side effects of the general anaesthetic start to wear off he is becoming more alert. Not until a dull ache starts in his shoulder and his leg. Not until the dull ache starts to become a biting pain that makes him more and more restless.

He thinks he hears his given name being called, and that's a bit confusing because the voice sounds a lot like Frankie, and Frankie has never once used his first name, even in the most intimate moments. It has become a standing joke between them, one that entertains them both. He's not quite up to logical deduction, but he can work that one out – Frankie never calls him Peter, so it cannot be Frankie talking to him.

"Peter…?"

It is Frankie's voice. There's no doubt about it.

Boyd opens his eyes, and groans against the light as pain lances through his head. Everything seems to hurt – really hurt, and he doesn't know why. Faces loom over him, blurred at first, but coming more into focus as he blinks hard against the intrusive light. It's definitely Frankie, and that's good, because if Frankie is there she can explain what the hell's going on. And that's definitely Grace next to her, and they're both looking pale and exhausted and he doesn't understand why. Has he fallen asleep at his desk? No, the room is far too bright and white to be his gloomy office.

He tries to clear his throat, and that hurts a lot, too. And he really can't understand why on earth both women appear to have tears in their eyes. It's all very strange, very surreal. He tries to move, but is immediately poleaxed by the most intense agony he thinks he's ever felt in his entire life. It makes him nauseous, makes his head spin, and then everything goes dark again.

-oOo-

The world filters back gradually. The pain seems to have subsided, and that's good. The room's still too bright, but he finally recognises that he's in some sort of hospital room. There seem to be a lot of irritating tubes and wires, and what seems to be an oxygen mask. And the mask is really pissing him off. He tries to raise his hand to remove it, but the slightest movement causes a bolt of agony that makes him growl in pain.

Frankie instantly appears in his field of vision, and she says softly, "Hey…"

He tries to speak, finds it impossible to manage more than a hoarse whisper, "Hey, Frankie…"

And that's another standing joke, because she's heard those words wherever she goes for years, everyone thinking they are the very first to crack the joke or sing the lyrics. It never fails to rile her, never fails to make her grit her teeth… Hey Frankie, do you remember me…

He's amazed when instead of the caustic, weary comeback he expects, she bends over and kisses his forehead. Lingeringly. And he's even more amazed when he realises that Grace is there on the other side of him and she doesn't look remotely surprised by Frankie's distinctly uncharacteristic reaction. Something very strange is definitely going on.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," Grace says, and he's certain there's a tiny, emotional hitch in her voice.

"What…?" Boyd manages, which is neither eloquent nor incisive, but he's doing his best.

"You're in hospital," Grace tells him, which he's managed to work out for himself. "You got yourself shot, Boyd. But we have it on good authority that you're just too stubborn to die."

A flash of memory. Gunshots, very loud in the cavernous space. Flames. Flames…?

"Hurts…" he says, which, again, is not particularly articulate.

"You're on a morphine drip," Frankie tells him, "but you need to try to keep still. You've had surgery."

Surgery? Boyd has no memory of that. He tries to make sense of the confusing patchwork of things he does remember. There was a crime scene, wasn't there? And Frankie wasn't happy about something… Frankie wanted to go back and he said there was no need… But didn't Frankie go anyway? Or is he imagining that? No, he's sure she did. Sure she called him to say she'd found something, and then…

Boyd remembers, quite suddenly, how cold the concrete floor was, and how hot the encroaching flames were. He remembers, vaguely, being in Frankie's arms, remembers her terrified, agonised expression… Remembers her voice, tinged with near-hysteria. Remembers the coppery taste of blood and the stench of petrol.

"Archer," he rasps, and even he doesn't know if it's a statement or a question.

"Dead," Grace tells him. "Self-inflicted gunshot wound."

It's enough. Boyd fades out again, returning to the cosy darkness.

-oOo-

Cont.