Huge thanks to Joodiif for support and the beta.
Happy Christmas 2020.
Elf on the Shelf
Casting an annoyed glance at the screen, Peter Boyd exhales forcefully. He's got nowhere. Absolutely fucking nowhere with the annual report he has to submit to his superiors right after New Year.
Deeply frustrated, he pushes the keyboard away from the middle of his desk, plants his elbows heavily down the surface and buries his head in his hands. If the report isn't finished soon, he'll have to work during the Christmas and that's certainly not how he imagined or planned, he would spend the coming holidays. He's done it so many years running, and never has it caused him so much trouble – not even the year they lost Mel.
Running a hand over his face, Boyd tries to clear his thoughts. He can't concentrate, though. Dry figures and statistics are not the first thing on his mind even if they really should be. Every time he sits in front of his computer ready to type, his mind starts drifting towards a more disturbing, much more annoying problem. Lifting his head, elbows still solid on the desk, he steeples his fingers, inhaling deeply and concentrating on a small object in front of him.
Lately peculiar and weird things have been happening. Probably since the start of December, now he thinks about it. Nothing really bad. Nothing to interfere with their work, their investigations - but still unusual events. Findings... like the little plastic box filled with white pastilles lying on his desk. Something he found in the pocket of his overcoat yesterday evening when leaving the office. He certainly didn't purchase it, that's for sure. Somebody must have deliberately placed it there.
Reaching for the box, twisting and turning it between his fingers, he studies it intently. It's an ordinary packet of TicTacs, except a sticker is glued on top hiding the original label; it says: "Snowman Poos".
Not a thought he's ever had but the resemblance is obvious, and it makes him smirk. Opening the lid of the box and shaking a few pastilles out onto the surface of the desk, he gently pushes them back and forth with his index finger, softly chucking. Snowman poo... what an idea, he muses. An image of a jolly little boy, bursting with excitement and expectations, emerges before his eyes. A happy boy cuddling on the couch with his dad, eating sweets, watching The Snowman together on the telly during the Christmas Days. Something they did every year until he became a teenager. Luke would have enjoyed the idea of the poos, would have laughed out loud. Lost in thought, Boyd feels a slight ticking at the corner of his mouth... The happy memory from a time long lost.
Unconsciously gripping a pastille between two fingers, he lifts it to his mouth but hesitates right before dropping it in. Poos, his arse, he snorts to himself with a grin, catches the sweet with his tongue, sucking it, wondering who would dare to put something like that in his pocket. Who in this bloody unit has got the balls for such an outrage? And what is the purpose?
Because it is not an isolated case. When the first strange episode happened, he was alone in the office working late. Looking up from the report he was reading, a glint of something red on the bookcase by the door caught his eye. Investigating, he discovered a tiny teddy bear dressed as Santa almost hidden behind a book on the shelf. Another day, he discovered a small bowl filled with the most delicious biscuits behind a pile of reports on his desk. All sweet and very cosy. All in the best Christmas spirit. Sometimes though, it's been more mischievous and naughty happenings like the morning he arrived at the office very early to prepare for a meeting at the Yard and found his computer screen covered with Christmas garlands and his desk phone wrapped up as a Christmas present. Another morning maybe a week later, some white powder – probably flour – had been dusted on his desk from one side to the other and imprinted with tiny, tiny footprints. The mere thought of Spence's grinning face and inappropriate comments, though, had made him immediately remove and hide the evidence every time, not daring to risk his co-workers seeing the mischief. It could easily demolish his authority and reputation.
It's not that Boyd doesn't appreciate a joke, he really does at the right time and place. But this is a workplace. A police unit for fuck's sake. Certain boundaries and authority have to be maintained.
Pushing back his chair, getting to his feet, he strolls through the empty squad room for a fresh cup of coffee, mentally thanking Stella for making a fresh pot before leaving the office for an interview together with Spence. Returning with a steaming cup, he notices Grace lost in some kind of reading. Looking up the exact moment that he passes her partly opened door, she catches his gaze and flashes him a gentle smile before turning her attention back to the book in front of her. It's just a second or two, but it's reassuring, comforting even, and back in his office, he briefly ponders confiding in her, though she's certainly among his suspects.
Sinking down in his chair again, leaning heavily against the backrest, he runs his fingers through his hair. Somehow he must get to the bottom of the problem. Now. Before the situation escalates. It's almost like one of Santa's little helpers is working overtime at the CCU. But he is not a superstitious man, he reflects, rubbing his chin with the back of his hand. He does not believe in Father Christmas, Santa and his elves, or any other kind of supernatural creature. Right now, though, he doesn't know what to believe... He's a police officer, though; an old fox completely immune to any kind of fairy tales or mythological stories, and maybe he's without a single clue who's behind the gags but he intends to solve the mystery. It's obvious somebody in his unit is making a huge effort to tease him. Someone is putting a huge effort into winding him up. A person with a very mischievous mind... very mischievous indeed.
Grace, of course, is his prime suspect. She definitely has the brain and wit, but he can't imagine her sneaking around the office at odd hours just the fun of it, or whatever else it is the perpetrator gets from their antics. After all, most of the time he's alone when he makes his "findings". She's feisty, though, and her humour is certainly warped in a very weird way. He likes it – only sometimes he simply can't follow her peculiar ways. So far, he hasn't been able to gather any evidence pointing towards her or anybody else.
But... this should be treated like any other crime: systematically. Lacking an evidence board – he obviously can't use the one located in the squad room – he decides a sheet of paper will do. With a plan, he feels so much better.
A sense of calmness and determination settles over him. He reaches for his pen and is ready to start evaluating the possibilities. As the unit is between cases combined with the coming holidays, most of the civilian staff taking time off, leaving only the core members of the team still at work:
Spence, Stella, Eve and Grace.
After writing the names down, he thoughtfully taps the tip of his pen at the corner of Spence's name, considering the possibilities, before slowly drawing a frame around it. Maybe once, together with Mel and Frankie, he might have been part of the plot, but not now. Boyd shakes his head reflectively. Spence himself doesn't have much of a sense of humour and he definitely doesn't have the brain or the imagination to be the mastermind behind these wicked deeds. Further, he's a police officer and wouldn't dare to make a laughingstock of his superior. Snorting, acknowledging the simple fact that his next in command simply doesn't have the balls, Boyd crosses a line through the name before he turns his attention to the next.
Stella is a clever girl, no doubt the smartest of his two junior detectives. Easily intimidated, though. Besides, Boyd muses, she hasn't quite found her footing in the team again after the nasty affair with Commander Drake, and she's still uncertain of Spence's acceptance even though he doesn't seem to hold a grudge against her for her part in his shooting. She got balls all right, but bright as she is, Stella would never risk her uncertain place in the team for a silly and mischievous practical joke, for making a fool of her commanding officer. Concluding the young woman isn't behind the gags either, he crosses out her name, too.
Not unexpected, that leaves him with just the two doctors as the main suspects. Eve is definitely weird. Creepy even, with her long, black painted nails and strange affection and passion for rotting corpses, rats and mites, but she hasn't been with them for long. So far, she has no personal connection to him other than as her boss. Most of the time, she's in her lab or at her body farm with only a few chances to observe his habits and schedules. Lurking around the office, not to mention actually inside his own, would be difficult for her.
It has to be Grace. Must be. But Boyd can't prove it and that drives him utterly crazy. Impatient and highly irked, his fingers start to drum a sharp rhythm on the desk. If only... he closes his eyes tight for a moment, concentrating... if only he could catch her in the act...
An angry buzz from his phone abruptly brings his line of thought to an end. Speak of the devil. Eve's name flashes up on the display. Reaching out, he answers with a simple, brusque, "Boyd".
"I'm leaving in about an hour," the pathologist's raspy voice sounds in his ear. Not unfriendly though.
"Eh?" He got abso-bloody-lutely no fucking idea what the woman is talking about.
"At the team meeting, you mentioned you wanted me to go through the laboratory statistics for your annual report. If you still want them, you'd better hurry," the pathologist replies with an audible smirk. "I plan to go Christmas shopping soon."
Shit. Rubbing a hand over his face, he tries to clear his mind. Totally forgot that one. Better get on with the work at hand. Ending the call with a short, "On my way," he determinedly gets up, picks up his glasses and leaves the squad room with only a short pause to tell Grace he'll be in the lab for the next half hour at least.
Returning much faster than anticipated, Boyd's mood is significantly better. The short walk has cleared his head and Eve, precise and effective as she always is, quickly explained to him what he needed to know. Coming through the swing door, he immediately notices that Grace's office is empty. Casting a glance around the squad room, his gaze catches a strange sight. Right inside his own office in front of the door, a small stepladder – normally stored in the archive – is placed, and on the top step, a pair of very nice-looking legs are on display. Not a sight often offered to him during a workday.
Silently smiling to himself, he briefly hesitates, trying to figure out what to do. There's absolutely no doubt in his mind that he's about to catch his elf in the very act of instrumenting a new deed.
Carefully, sneaking through the room, taking care not to startle her, he comes close enough to lean casually against the door frame. Crossing his arms over his chest, he looks up for a moment, enjoying the sight, before smugly offering softly with a bright grin, "Need a hand, eh?"
There's no reply. She just stands there without moving a muscle, completely frozen.
"Grace?" he gently nudges, prompting her for a response, biting down on his lip to conceal his laughter.
For a moment, their gazes connect. A slight glint of uncertainty flickers in her blue eyes, however, it quickly disappears, exchanged with a simmering mirth, and within a split of a second she, apparently completely calm and unfazed by the situation, replies.
"Yes, please, a hand would be much appreciated." She lets him guide her safely down the ladder.
"Caught in the act, so to speak, are we?" Keeping a solid grip of her hand, he squeezes it softly.
"What do you mean?" Shrugging innocently, she continues, "I was only hanging up mistletoe for Christmas..." She lets the words hang in the air, looking up at him through her eyelashes, acting oh so innocent.
"Of course you were," he ironically retorts, rolling his eyes. "Of course you were. You know perfectly well what I mean. Besides, I never have mistletoe hanging inside my office. As leader of this unit, it wouldn't be right... very unprofessional."
Pointing her lips, she seems to consider his words, nodding in agreement. "You might have a point there. I better remove it then." She tries to turn towards the ladder again.
"Now, it's there, though... "
"Now, it is there?" She arches an eyebrow in question, teasingly scrutinizing him.
Without a word, Boyd gently tucks her closer to his body, smiling wickedly. He says, "Now it's there... we'd better put it in good use." Wrapping his arms tighter around her petite frame, he holds her firmly, dips his head and kisses her deeply.
Resting his forehead against hers as they end the kiss, he gently caresses her back. "Mm," he softly whispers, "Maybe I should call you Elf from now on..."
"Don't you dare!" Casting her head back, Grace laughs out loud. "It was fun, though, so much fun. The way you've been lurking around, gazing suspiciously at everybody, looking in every corner and behind everything like you expected something terrible would appear, afraid of your own shadow. It's been hilarious."
"Subversive action, I would call it," he immediately cuts her short, trying hard to sound grumpy.
"Now come on, it wasn't that bad, was it?" She places a placatory hand on his chest, angles her head, and adds gravely with the most winning smile, "I didn't even use any of my most naughty ideas, like exchanging your secret sugar stash with salt."
"You know about that?" Frowning, he sends her a suspicious glance.
"The second drawer to the left," she giggles, then states, "and for your information, I haven't searched your desk. It's common office gossip. Everybody knows. You can't hide a bad habit a place like this. But... please tell... me," still sniggering between the words, "what gave me away?"
"I'm a bloody detective for fuck's sake, but nobody makes biscuits like you. Not even Santa's little helpers can bake them with such a delicious taste."
"Damn it, why didn't I think of that?" Tilting her head coquettishly, Grace regards him for a moment, then takes a step closer to him. "Shall I remove the mistletoe, or do you want to try again?"
"And risk a work-related injury a few days before Christmas?" Boyd protests. "No way! Who will cook Christmas dinner for me then?"
Eyes flashing impishly, Grace stretches up on tip-toe and gently brushes her lips against his, mumbling, "We don't really need a mistletoe, do we?"
END.