DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

The King of Diamonds

by Joodiff

"You can do this, Peter," Boyd mutters to the haggard-looking man reflected in the wardrobe door's long mirror. The same grim mantra that has been chasing through his head for half the night. Half the tortuous, restless night. He feels headachy and hungover from too little sleep, despite several strong cups of coffee and a long, deliberately cool shower. Of course, he's not hungover – would never have allowed himself such a selfish indulgence – but he certainly feels it. Hungover, tired and… old. Defeated. Summoning a little more spirit, he repeats, "You can do this."

Haunted dark eyes gaze back at him, their shadowed depths unreadable. They've seen too much, those eyes. Too much loss, too much brutality. Too much death.

Too many corpses.

His chest tightens at the thought, and he's forced to take slow, deep breaths until the painful constriction eases.

He doesn't want to face anything that today is going to bring. Knows he must.

Leaning towards the mirror, he examines the tiny cut on his jaw that bled so much. Ridiculous. He hasn't cut himself shaving for years. Hasn't seen his own hand shake so much since… well, he doesn't know when. It's no longer bleeding, the little cut, but it's still stinging from the fierce, astringent bite of aftershave.

At least he can put his shirt on now without any risk of unsightly bloodstains. Bright white shirt, freshy laundered and pressed. Came from Jermyn Street. Hasn't seen much wear. He prefers to wear coloured shirts to work. Blues and greys, even mauves. Rarely white. Reminds him too much of the early days of his career, of being a young, uniformed constable out on the beat.

Today isn't a work day. Not for him. For the rest of his team, yes, but not for him. Spencer's holding the fort, taking all the important calls, dealing with everything that won't wait until Monday.

Being at work today would be better.

Shrugging into the crisp, clean shirt, Boyd glances at himself in the mirror again. Black suit trousers, unbuttoned white shirt. Monochrome. Harsh. Doesn't do him any favours. He looks every year of his age, and more. Late fifties, going on early seventies. That's how he feels, at least.

When did life become so fucking hard?

Once upon a time he was dark-haired as well as dark-eyed, he thinks, staring at himself in dull, morbid fascination. Then he was dark-haired but just beginning to grey at the temples. Then he was gunmetal grey starting to turn silver. And now… Distinguished-looking, that's what people say, isn't it? He doesn't believe it. Probably won't be very long before the very last of the darker grey streaks disappear altogether.

Doesn't matter. Not much does at the moment. He wonders if it ever will again.

Turning his back on the mirror, Boyd paces across the room to his bed, sits down on the edge of the mattress. He can hear occasional distant snatches of muffled conversation from the floor below. Resents the intrusion, but simultaneously welcomes the support. Family's important. He should find more time for them. Spend some time with his sister and her family, make the effort to visit his elderly mother more than once in the proverbial blue moon. Before it's too late.

Too late.

Too bloody late.

My son is dead.

A few meagre weeks of desperate, unexpected hope, and then…

It hurts so damned much. Nothing else has ever come close to the pain Boyd's feeling now.

He can feel unwanted, self-pitying tears starting to brim again and despises himself for it. Today is a day for self-control, for dignified stoicism. Tonight, he will drink until it doesn't matter if he sobs the entire night away or not, but until then…

No tears. No bloody tears. Not yet.

A quiet tap on the bedroom door brings Boyd out of a brief, angry fugue. He frowns, glances at his heavy, expensive watch. The hearse isn't due to arrive until noon. It's barely eleven. He takes a steadying breath, forces calm. "Yeah?"

He expects to hear his mother's voice in return. Maybe his sister's. The female voice that answers is quiet, measured and familiar, but it most definitely doesn't belong to either. "Boyd? Your mother sent me up."

Grace.

He's shocked by the sheer power of the instinctive surge of relief and gratitude he feels in response to her unanticipated, uninvited presence. He'd dared to hope she would make an appearance at the church, yes, but that was all. For months they've been existing in a tenuous state of delicate truce with neither of them prepared to openly acknowledge why. He might have resented it – would have resented it – but yes, he would have understood her reasons if she'd decided to miss the funeral altogether. What is Luke to her, after all, but just the deceased, long-absent son of a troublesome colleague? A faceless, lost boy she never got the chance to meet.

Boyd can't find the strength to stand up. Still perched on the edge of the bed, he offers a tired, "Come on in, Grace."

The bedroom door opens a scant couple of inches. "Are you decent?"

On any other day, he'd tease her for the cautious inquiry. Not today. "Yeah," he says again.

Funeral clothes. That's his first thought. She's wearing funeral clothes. Not black, but a very dark navy blue. Suits her. The colour. Brings out the soft blue of her eyes. Her expression is almost, but not quite neutral. For a moment they simply stare at each other, a silent exchange that isn't easy to interpret. It doesn't last; Grace says, "Well, I don't need to ask if you slept okay, do I?"

"I look like shit," Boyd agrees. "I know. You're supposed to be at work."

"I am," she says, turning a fraction to close the door behind her, shutting out the rest of the world. "You can issue me with a formal reprimand next week, if you like."

"I don't think I'll bother," he tells her. He doesn't have the energy or the inclination to engage in their usual banter. Instead, he simply says, "Thank you."

Grace responds with a slight shake of her head. "You don't need to thank me. We've been friends for too long for me not to be here. Haven't we?"

He knows what she's saying. What she's really saying. He nods, slow and tired. "We have."

There's never not a way back. That's what his mother used to say when he was an unruly, rebellious teenager perpetually getting himself into all sorts of trouble. Maybe there's some truth in her naïve words. Not knowing what to say or do next, Boyd drops his head and stares at the polished floorboards beneath his feet. It took him two entire weekends of sanding and cursing to strip those boards back to a state where they were ready to be stained and polished. The whole damn house needed a huge amount of work when they bought it, but they – he and his now long-estranged wife – had seen the potential. Had known that beneath countless years of grime and neglect there was a warm and welcoming family home just waiting to be loved again.

"You need to finish getting ready," Grace instructs. Her voice is quiet. It's not an order, more a gentle, if insistent reminder. "Where are your shoes?"

Black leather shoes, highly-polished just the night before. He doesn't look up. "Over there, by the chair."

She fetches them without a word, places them beside the bed. Only when he glances up to give her the smallest and briefest of grateful smiles does she say, "Today will be one of the hardest days of your life, Boyd. Maybe the hardest. No parent should ever have to bury their child. Every minute of today is going to feel as if your heart is being slowly torn out, but you'll get through it. I know you will."

He wants to ask her how. How she knows. How she can possibly be so sure.

"You're one of the strongest people I've ever met," she continues, forestalling any inquiry. "Every time life knocks you down, you somehow manage to struggle straight back up again. Maybe it's just that pig-headed stubborn streak of yours, who knows? Whatever it is, it's brought you this far. You can do this."

You can do this.

Boyd pulls on his shoes, right then left. Bends even further forward to tie the laces of each in a tight double knot. It's muscle memory, or whatever they call it. Mechanical. Automatic. A door bangs somewhere downstairs. Sounds like the living room door, which is easily caught by a stiff breeze when all the windows are open. It's a bright sunny June day, but there's an increasing keen edge to the weather that suggests there will be strong winds and heavy rain in the capital before the weekend ahead is done.

"Spencer's coming," Grace announces, tone measured. "To the church, I mean. Eve and Stella, too."

He looks up and frowns at the unexpected news. "What?"

"It's a couple of hours, Boyd," she retorts, quick and firm, as if she's been anticipating a storm of protest, "that's all. They wanted to pay their respects. Phil's going to keep an eye on things back at headquarters, the way he usually does when everyone's out of the office."

Phil Woodman. Early fifties, married, two kids away at university. A gritty, old school copper very much like Boyd himself, but still a PC after close on two decades of service because he's never wanted to undertake specialist training or invest the huge amount of time and trouble required to work his way up through the ranks. Solid, reliable. Been with the CCU for over six years now. Knows what's what and who's who. Part of the unit's tough backbone. More than capable of making on-the-spot common-sense decisions about what can be dealt with and what needs to be passed higher. Absolutely trustworthy. Dropping his head again, Boyd offers a simple, "Oh."

"Tie?" Grace asks, the change of subject quite deliberate, he's sure.

"On the hanger," he tells her, attempting to summon the energy required to get to his feet. His whole body feels like lead. This, he thinks, must be what it's like to be old. Really old, not just late middle-aged. Or perhaps not. Who knows? By the time he finds out, it won't matter. Forcing himself upright, he watches as she slips his tie from the coat-hanger also bearing his suit jacket. Black tie. Funerals only. He says, "You don't need to do this, Grace."

The steady blue gaze that settles on him is calm and thoughtful. "I know."

He doesn't deserve her. Not in anything other than a paid, professional capacity. The thought is not a new one. Their friendship hasn't always been as evenly-balanced as it should have been, he knows. Something else for him to feel guilty about. Useless husband, terrible father, worthless friend. He looks down at the floor again.

"Tuck your shirt in," Grace instructs, stepping towards him. "Let's see if we can get you looking halfway presentable, hm?"

He manipulates people. There, he's admitted it. To himself, at least. He doesn't do it for selfish reasons, doesn't do it for his own personal gain. His reasons, like his intentions, always seem to be good at the time. What's a little extra pressure brought to bear on the long-suffering members of his team, if it helps to solve a difficult, challenging case? Either way, it's justice for the victim and closure for those left behind, however it was achieved, and that's what's important. Isn't it?

Boyd obeys her without protest, tucking in the errant shirt, zipping and buckling as he goes. She's standing in front of him, as serene and patient as he's ever seen her. It seems important, suddenly, to say the words aloud. "I don't deserve you."

Something in her expression changes by a tiny, subtle fraction. Softens. Holding his gaze, she says, "Sometimes you do."

I'm sorry, Grace. I'm so fucking sorry. But he can't say it. Not today. Maybe not ever.

"Tie," she says again, handing it to him.

He does his best, but there's a tiny, treacherous tremor in both hands that he can't control. She notices. Boyd knows she does. Clumsy and irritable, he fumbles with constructing the knot. Ridiculous. He learned how to do it as a schoolboy, a whole lifetime ago. Grinding his teeth, he pulls the mangled first attempt apart again. He can do this. He can do this.

"Here," she says, "let me."

He does. It's easier than attempting to argue. Standing still and silent before her, he feels both penitent and vulnerable. An inveterate, intractable sinner brought to heel and made to face all the things he's done. It's a bleak, harsh moment in what's going to be an even bleaker, harsher day. Knot tied, if not tightened, she pats his chest as she says, "There. Nothing to it."

The casual touch lingers just a fraction too long. Looking down at her, he wonders what it means. Everything? Nothing? A quiet gesture of support, or an acknowledgement of forgiveness? Neither? Both?

"This was our room," he says, surprising himself. "Mine and Mary's. Saturday and Sunday mornings when he was a little kid, if I wasn't at work, Luke would creep in at the crack of dawn and get into bed between us. We'd wake up, and there he'd be, curled up, fast asleep. I told Mary I was going to put a bolt on the inside of the damn door to stop him from doing it, but I never did."

"Of course you didn't," Grace says, and he's almost sure he can she the glitter of unshed tears in her eyes. "Indulgent father."

"I was," Boyd admits. It's the truth. "At the start, anyway. Mary had… women's problems. Endometriosis. By the time she fell pregnant with Luke we'd more-or-less resigned ourselves to never having kids. The doctors did what they could, but time after time we were told not to get our hopes up. Then suddenly there he was, our miracle baby. Jesus, you can't imagine a prouder father, Grace. From the moment he was born…" he trails off, hypnotised by the tears that escape and roll slowly down her cheeks leaving thin wet tracks in their wake.

"I'm so sorry," she apologises, flustered as she produces a crisp-looking white handkerchief and dabs the tears away. "So selfish of me…"

There's a tight, painful lump in his throat. He knows he sounds gruff as he says, "It's all right."

"It's not," she insists. "I'm supposed to be here offering friendship and support, not – "

"It's all right," Boyd repeats, and it is. It really is. Empathy. He understands. There are tragedies in her past, too.

"Cuff-links," she says abruptly. "Where are your cuff-links?"

"Top of the dressing table. The silver ones." Cheap and mass-produced, shaped like tiny overlapping playing cards. Absolutely priceless – to him. Father's Day present, not long after he arrested Billy Lane and Ray Walker, the Bond Street diamond thieves. 'You're the King of Diamonds, dad…'

"Present?" Grace guesses, returning to his side and encouraging him to raise his right arm so she can fold back the double-cuffs and thread the sterling silver bars through the cloth to secure them.

"Yes. From Luke." No need to share the story, but… "He was, what, nine? Ten? Saved up a couple of weeks' pocket money, then borrowed the rest from Mary. Paid her back every penny, too. Fifty pence a week, regular as clockwork."

"Knave of Hearts?" she suggests, a poor but determined attempt at humour.

"King of Diamonds." It hurts so damned much.

"Whatever happened," Grace says, going to work on the second shirtsleeve, "whatever went wrong between you, you were his father and he loved you. Hold onto that."

He still hasn't got the strength to argue with her. What would be the point, anyway? Boyd grunts, waits for her to finish fiddling, then reaches up to secure the top button of his shirt and tighten his tie. It occurs to him that he has no memory of teaching Luke how to tie the blue and yellow school tie that he was – briefly – so proud to wear. Mary must have done it. When he was at work. Because wasn't that where he almost always was as the bright, happy little boy started to turn into a moody, withdrawn adolescent? At work for hours on end, or at home but far too damned tired and preoccupied to pay attention to what was happening under his own roof.

"The first time he ran away," he says, momentarily lost in memories, "the lads at Wandsworth nick picked him up and brought him home. I was furious with him for embarrassing me. Told him if he ever pulled a stunt like that again…"

"Don't do this to yourself," Grace tells him, expression urgent and earnest, "not today."

"I can't think of a better day to do it, can you?" he challenges, but the flicker of wild anger dies fast. Holding up his hands, he says, "Sorry, Grace. Sorry."

She takes a single, measured step backwards, putting a little more space between them. There's pain in her eyes, and sympathy. Her voice is almost stern, though, as she says, "You've spent years blaming yourself, and where has it got you? Nowhere. What could you have done, Boyd? Seriously, what could you have done? Locked him in his room, escorted him everywhere? You were his father, not his jailer."

"I could have tried harder to get through to him," is his dogged response. "I could have called in some favours, kept him at home instead of letting him be sent to… that place."

"You were a police officer," Grace says, every bit as intractable as he is, "and you did what you thought was right – both in the eyes of the law, and as a parent. Look me in the eye and tell me you didn't believe it would bring him to his senses?"

He doesn't. Instead he subsides back onto the edge of the bed, returns to staring at the floorboards. The silence between them elongates. When he realises she's not going to speak again until he does, Boyd clears his throat. It's a rough sound, loud in the quiet room. "And then I did it to him again, didn't I?"

"As his 'Nearest Relative', yes, you agreed for him to be Sectioned," she tells him, "but you know as well as I do, they could have done it without you. It just would have taken them a little longer to get the paperwork in order. He needed to be hospitalised for his own safety, Boyd, and you facilitated that."

"I facilitated his release, too." And there it is, the bare bones of his agony. "They let him go, and the first thing he did was stick a fucking needle in his arm."

"His choice, not yours," Grace replies. "Harsh, but true. Luke died because he was an addict, Boyd, not because you spent too much time at work when he was a kid. Because that's what all your compulsive guilt boils down to, isn't it? Your unhealthy obsession with what you think you did wrong when he was a teenager."

Startled by the words, Boyd snaps his head up to look at her. There's no malice in her expression, just a weary sort of patience that speaks of no-nonsense pragmatism. Stung, he growls, "Is that your professional opinion, Doctor?"

Grace doesn't flinch. "Actually, yes. Yes, it is. You're so blinded by your own guilt – misplaced or not – that you can't even begin to accept the idea that maybe, just maybe, Luke was the only one responsible for the bad choices he made."

This time it's easy to get back to his feet, the adrenaline surging through his body effortlessly overcoming the crippling weight of grief and exhaustion. It's adrenaline, too, that makes him roar, "I was his father."

Anger sparks in her eyes, hot and unafraid. "Yes, you were, but he was an adult, Boyd. He chose to stick that needle in his arm. You didn't kill your son, heroin did."

That's what breaks him. Not her friendship or her support, but her anger. Anger not at him, but at a fucked-up world where people die every single day chasing a potentially lethal high that will never be as good as the first one. A confused, hopeless anger that he shares. An anger so wild and so powerful that he's terrified will eat him alive if he lets it.

He's down on his knees, the wooden boards hard and unforgiving, and – God help her – Grace is there with him, her tiny frame somehow seeming to engulf him. The guttural animal sobs tearing him apart come so fast and so loud that there's very quickly a loud knocking on the bedroom door that sparks a flurried exchange of words he barely hears, let alone understands. Only fragments of reality reach him. Tiny shards that shatter into even tinier splinters and are lost in the storm. Surprisingly strong arms gripping him. Worried faces peering down at him. Echoes of his name coming through the choking fog. Senseless, all of it.

"Brandy," a tight female voice raps out, "get the brandy, Kath."

It could be minutes or hours or days later, Boyd doesn't know, but suddenly the smell and taste of strong liquor is dragging him back into himself. The first thing he really sees with any clarity is his sister – Kathleen – standing just inside the bedroom door, her tormented expression a mixture of agony and despair. Incredibly close as children, their bond has often been tested over the years, but has survived. He sees the pain in her for what it is – the suffering of a sibling who has no idea what to say or do to make things better.

"Peter," his mother's voice says, close to his ear. "Peter, you have to get up now. Come along."

Her hand is on his shoulder, but it isn't her who's holding onto him.

Grace.

It's always Grace, in the end.

Boyd turns his head, seeks out her face. Moist blue eyes stare back at him, and she nods. A tiny, tiny nod. For her – and only for her – he stumbles awkwardly to his feet, swaying as her physical support vanishes and he realises just how emotionally drained he is.

"Peter?" His mother again. Kind enough, but distant. Always. He's far too like his late father in both looks and personality, always has been, and that… has never been a good thing. Not in his mother's eyes.

"I'm… okay." It's the expected lie, nothing more.

"Good," she says, apparently satisfied and not inclined to inquire further. Leaning heavily on her walking stick, she adds, "Pull yourself together, the hearse will be here in twenty minutes."

"Why don't you both go back downstairs and get ready to leave?" Grace suggests, trespassing on dangerous territory with resolute calm. "I'll stay with him."

Who are you? That's what the chilly look his mother gives her in response says. Who are you to tell me what to do in my son's house?

"Go on," he manages in a hoarse murmur, "I won't be long."

A final incisive, thoughtful look, and then his mother is gone, taking a mute Kathleen with her.

Grace.

They stare at each other, both stripped hollow by the raw moment. Friends, colleagues. Something more? Something less? Boyd doesn't know any more. Doesn't care, either. She's there with him, and for now that's the only thing that matters.

"You can do this," Grace says.

You can do this.

"Going to wash my face," he tells her, lurching into motion. Across the room and into the en suite bathroom beyond. Red-eyed and wrecked, Boyd glances at his reflection in the mirror above the small oval basin. What he sees is a brutal study of time and pain. He avoids looking a second time as he splashes cold water into his face and then fumbles for a towel.

Grace is waiting for him, his suit jacket in her hands. Boyd stops obediently, not needing to be told. Turns at the slightest indicative movement of her head, extending his arms back. She helps him into the garment without a word, settling it on his shoulders and smoothing out creases as he turns back again. Intense compassion compressed into a simple, mundane gesture. He watches as she straightens his lapels, nods to herself and lets her hands drop away. Her voice isn't much above a whisper as she says again, "You were his father, and he loved you."

The King of Diamonds.

"Grace…"

"When you get to the church, I'll be there," she says into the haunted silence he leaves. "I'll be there, Peter. Whether you need me or not, I'll be there."

"Okay." What else is there to say?

For a moment she holds his gaze, and then she offers a slight, tentative smile. "Come downstairs and see me out. I'm not sure I can trust your mother to do it without leaving me with a bad case of frostbite."

Unwilling to let go of what he senses is a pivotal moment, Boyd doesn't move. "Why are you doing this, Grace?"

For a moment he thinks she's going to tell him the truth, but then she shakes her head and answers with an evasive, impatient, "You know why. I told you why. We're friends. Aren't we?"

"Yes," he agrees. It's the best he can expect, and it's a tiny glimpse of hope in the horrific claustrophobic darkness holding him prisoner. There's never not a way back.

Except for Luke. There's no longer any way back for Luke.

But there's nothing at all Boyd can do about that. However much he wishes there was.

You're the King of Diamonds, dad…

- the end -