DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

Occam's Razor

By Joodiff

The First Three Days – Wednesday, 11pm

"I am so sorry," Boyd says from the doorway, and the unexpected sound of his voice makes Grace jump. Yes, he has keys to the house, but she hasn't anticipated seeing him again that day, nor has she heard him arrive. His voice is soft, remarkably gentle, "Grace…?"

She doesn't look at him, doesn't even move. She just stays curled under the covers, numb and exhausted.

He tries again, "Grace, please. You have to listen to me."

"No," she says, still not moving. "No, I don't, Boyd. Get out of my house, I don't want you here."

"You don't mean that," he says, but she detects a tiny edge of uncertainty in his voice.

She thinks she does. Mean it. Tomorrow… Tomorrow she will feel differently. Tomorrow she will listen to him, and he will apologise and stumble over his words as he tries helplessly to explain, and she will forgive him because he is, at heart, a great, gentle bear of a man who never actually intends to hurt her. He is thoughtless and he is brash, and he often speaks before he thinks, but he loves her with the same powerful, devoted tenacity that marks everything he does, everything he is.

Grace is not remotely mollified by the thought. The earlier argument was far too savage for her to be easily swayed, but even if her anger and her resentment are still burning hotly, reminding herself of how things are between them gentles her enough to sigh and say, "Go home, Peter. We'll talk in the morning."

Boyd's reply is oddly intense, "We need to talk now, Grace."

"I'm too tired," she says honestly. Finally, she rolls over and looks at him, "I know how hard all this is for you – don't imagine that I don't understand – but taking it out on me just isn't fair. You are not your job, Peter; you're so much more than that."

He says, "I'm not here to talk about work. I'm here to talk about you and me. And about how very, very sorry I am."

Never once in all the years she's known him, has Grace heard Boyd say such a thing. It's so completely out of character that it makes her sit up to gaze at him properly. He's standing in the bedroom doorway, a shadowy figure watching her, and there's something a little odd, a little disconcerting about his stillness, his quietness.

She's about to speak when he says, "I should have listened to you years ago, Grace. Should have had the courage to deal with… everything… properly instead of just trying to bury it all away. Remember I said that."

Disconcerted, Grace frowns, "What are you talking about? Peter… are you all right?"

"No," he says simply. "I'm a long way from all right. A long, long way."

She glances at the clock. It's late, past eleven, and the hour and something about the hollowness of his tone make her finally give in and say, "Oh, for heaven's sake… just come to bed, will you? We'll sort all this out tomorrow."

It surprises her that Boyd acquiesces without a word. He simply strips quickly and methodically, drops his clothes on the chair where he always drops them and joins her under the covers. It's the easiest thing in the world to nestle against him, to put her head on his chest and let the steady beating of his heart soothe her. The warmth and the closeness are familiar, and they are comforting. And it touches her that he simply holds her quietly instead of trying to force her to listen to whatever it is he's desperate to say.

She's already dozing when he says, "Promise me something. Promise me that you'll never hate me, Grace."

"Shut up, Boyd," she says, deliberately using his surname for effect. "Do you have any idea how exhausting fighting with you is? Just let me go to sleep."

"I love you. And I'm sorry, Grace. I'm so sorry."

With heavy emphasis, Grace says, "Tomorrow; we'll do this tomorrow. Right now, I need to sleep."

Boyd seems to capitulate. At least, he tightens his grip on her slightly, kisses the top of her head and says nothing more. The way he sighs, deep and melancholy, is the last thing Grace hears before sleep overtakes her.

And when she wakes up in the morning, his side of the bed is cool and empty.

-oOo-

The First Three Days – Thursday, 9am

Boyd is in his in his office, sitting at his desk, just as he so often is first thing in the morning. Sometimes he's there because he's come in early. Sometimes he's there simply because he hasn't bothered to go home. But on this particular morning, he shouldn't be there at all. But he is. And the uneasy looks that pass between them all are just the beginning of what will become a very bad day indeed.

It's Spencer who goes to the door and says, "Sir? You really shouldn't be here…"

And it's Spencer who first notices the absolute stillness, the silence. Spencer who realises the dark eyes are flat, unblinking and staring at nothing, and that the shadows that are gently embracing him are protecting a much darker secret.

It's Spencer who says a raw, "Oh, fuck…"

It's Spencer who takes a single step forward, then looks back over his shoulder and calls urgently, "Eve!"

It's Eve who edges carefully into the room.

There is a typical contact wound to his right temple. A neat, round hole at the centre of a textbook perfect muzzle imprint and ring of soot. There is very little blood, just the tiniest dried track of it that barely reaches his cheekbone. The exit wound on the left side of his skull is larger, of course, but nowhere near as large as a layman might expect. Eve is not a layman. She is a very experienced forensic pathologist. She has seen the same pattern of injury hundreds of times. Boyd knew what he was doing. Doubtless he knew as well as she does that gunshot wound to the temple carries a much, much higher probability of fatality rather than serious injury than a straight front-to-back wound to the forehead does. Certainly where a handgun is concerned.

And there's a handgun on the office floor, just by his chair, not far from the lifeless hand that hangs stiffly above it. A single glance is all it takes for her to identify it as Metropolitan Police issue Glock 17 9mm semi-automatic pistol, third generation. Even without any further evidence, Eve already knows the gun on the floor is absolutely consistent with the muzzle imprint on his temple. Later, she will insist on being involved with confirming everything scientifically and methodically, but even in those first few moments she knows that Peter Boyd was brain dead just milliseconds after he pulled the trigger. The position of the entry and exit wounds tell her that both frontal lobes of his brain will have suffered massive trauma from the single bullet that will undoubtedly be recovered from the scene. In due course, a post mortem will almost certainly confirm the fact.

It's Grace who says, "No…"

But her shocked, emphatic denial is not enough to change the truth.

And it is Grace who goes to him, Grace who stays with him while Spencer and Eve retreat quickly to the squad room and the telephones.

It is Grace. It is always Grace.

She doesn't care about evidence. She doesn't care about preserving the integrity of the scene. And if there was any part of her that was able to think about such a thing, she would know that neither Spencer nor Eve are going to attempt to physically manhandle her out of Boyd's office, for that's assuredly what it will take to remove her.

She holds him tightly. So tightly. The living warmth is gone from him, and rigor mortis holds him utterly rigid in her grasp. There's no heartbeat, no steady rise and fall of his chest. And there's nothing in his eyes. They are clouded, empty. He's simply… gone. Wherever he is, he isn't here in his office with her. He doesn't feel the wetness of her tears, doesn't feel the way she gently strokes his hair. He doesn't hear her grief, or know that she is there beside him, where she has always been.

Peter Boyd is not aware of anything. Not anymore.

-oOo-

The First Three Days – Thursday, 11.30am

Grace prays for the nightmare to end, but it doesn't. She wants to wake up in her cosy bedroom to find the sun streaming in through the gap in the curtains and Boyd sprawled out next to her, snoring gently. She wants to shake him awake and hear him grumble and growl in displeasure. She wants to feel the rasp of morning stubble against her cheek as he kisses her. It doesn't happen. None of it happens. She sits hunched over in a corner of the squad room, and people come and go, and nothing gets any better. People talk at her, but she doesn't really understand what they are saying. None of it makes any sense.

When the time comes and paramedics prepare to leave, she tries to block their way, hears herself begging, "Please don't take him... Please…"

But take him they do, while Spencer holds her fiercely and protectively against his broad chest and Eve stands like a statue, silent tears rolling down her face.

And the phones ring incessantly the way they haven't done since the intention to disband the Cold Case Unit became common knowledge throughout the Met. The phones ring, and yet more people come and go, and senior officers in silver braid arrive and tell her of their sincere shock and sympathy until Grace wants to scream and scream. But she stays quiet, too distant from everything to react.

Through an insulating fog of tears and shock and despair, Grace hears talk of post mortems and inquests, and discussions about next-of-kin. And all of it is meaningless.

-oOo-

The First Three Days – Thursday, 4.30pm

The media circus begins. Maybe it's a slow day for news, or maybe it's too good a story to pass by – controversial ex-commander of soon-to-be-disbanded specialist unit commits suicide just days after being cleared of any involvement in the murder of two other senior police officers. Whatever the reason, the vultures are circling outside the building, mercilessly descending on anyone who looks as if they can provide a tasty sound bite for public consumption.

Grace refuses to go home. Not even Spencer can persuade her to leave the squad room. And when Eve moves to switch off the rolling news coverage, Grace bites at her with a fury that is born from utter desolation. So the news runs continuously on one of the screens. Troops in Afghanistan, politicians misbehaving, unrest in the Middle East. Senior police officer commits suicide. Boyd becomes a footnote to the immutable history of the day, his picture – years out of date – flashing up on the screen as cliché after cliché become his public epitaph. Maverick cop shoots self after being booted out of own unit.

And the very first details start to filter through via colleagues and friends. There is CCTV footage of Boyd's car arriving in the car park and of him at the building's front desk. His signature is on the armoury log, officially countersigned.

"Car arrives at eight-forty-five," Spencer says to Eve. "Gun's signed out at nine-fifteen."

And Grace hears. And Grace knows he is wrong.

She shakes her head, says, "No."

They look at her, identical expressions of surprise and concern on their faces. Eve says, "Grace?"

"He was with me," Grace says. And there it is, out in the open, the worst-kept secret in the world, finally admitted. She looks at them, "He arrived just before eleven."

Eve's expression takes on a deep, gentle compassion. Quietly, she says, "Not last night, Grace. It must have been earlier than that."

Incredulous, Grace stares at the younger woman, "Don't patronise me, Eve."

"I'm not," Eve says quickly. "Oh, Grace, I'm not. It's just… this is such a shock for all of us… Spence?"

Spencer's tone is very gentle. He says, "Grace, he got here just before nine and he never left the building. Maybe you're just a bit… confused."

"Don't you dare," Grace snaps at him. "Don't you bloody dare, Spencer. He was with me."

Spencer looks at Eve before he says quietly, "Yeah, okay. Sorry, Grace."

And somewhere deep in the stark, devastated corners of her mind, Grace clearly hears a deep voice saying, Promise me that you'll never hate me, Grace…

-oOo-

The First Three Days – Friday, 3pm

Boyd is gone. And though the house is hers and he has never officially lived here, there are traces of him everywhere. His spare razor and a few toiletries in the bathroom, his crumpled shirts in the laundry basket. Paperwork he never finished mixed haphazardly with her own files and folders on her desk. Stupid, everyday things, the flotsam and jetsam of an ordinary sort of life lived across two separate houses. His heavy wool sweater, big and worn and comfortable, long-ago purloined by her on a chilly winter evening and never returned; his heavy gold cufflinks, unceremoniously dumped on her dressing table after a formal dinner and never collected. All the tiny, useless things that cruelly conspire to magnify her incalculable sense of loss.

They arrive at her front door together, Spencer and Eve, bringing the news she doesn't want and desperately needs to hear. The post mortem is done.

"Cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the head," Eve says, and her voice is incredibly, unnaturally steady. "The details are all in the report, but he died instantly, Grace. And… toxicology found significant levels of fluoxetine and carbamazepine in his body."

She is stunned. She stares, says, "Fluoxetine…? He… was taking anti-depressants?"

Eve nods, "Anti-depressants and mood stabilisers. Definitely a sustained, therapeutic dosage."

"I didn't know…" Grace says, and she is shaken by the news. She looks at Eve, she looks at Spencer. "I don't understand… Anti-depressants? No, not Boyd… he wouldn't."

"We'll know more after the inquest," Spencer says quietly.

Promise me that you'll never hate me, Grace…

Eve clears her throat, says, "Time of death is estimated at around nine-thirty on Wednesday evening. Based on post-mortem changes and the supporting evidence."

Grace stares at them both. They look awkward and uncomfortable, as if they know she wants to argue. Coldly, deliberately, she says, "Post mortem changes?"

"Oh, God, Grace," Eve says, glancing at Spencer as if for support. "Please, I really don't want to go through all the specifics with you. You know what I'm talking about – livor mortis, rigor mortis… I'm not going to spell it all out."

But he was with me, Grace thinks. He was here, here in this house…

She remembers going to bed. She remembers feeling utterly exhausted, so drained after the stupid, angry argument they'd had only hours earlier. She remembers talking to him, looking at the clock. She thinks she can hear his voice.

I love you. And I'm sorry, Grace. I'm so sorry…

-oOo-

Aftermath

Inevitably, the media quickly lose interest, but the tabloids – of course – hold on for longer than most. Everything becomes very ugly before they, too, grow bored and finally move on. And despite all the advice of friends and colleagues, Grace stubbornly refuses to look away as Boyd's reputation is assiduously and publicly torn to pieces. It's a good story, and the journalists wring everything they can out of it before they turn their attention to another victim. But within days, Boyd is completely forgotten by those who never knew him as anything other than a brief news story, and Grace is not the only one who believes it's a very good thing. Let the man rest in peace.

The inquest and the Coroner's verdict surprise no-one. Suicide while the balance of the mind was disturbed.

The facts speak for themselves. There is no challenge to be made. He was a troubled man who was taking medication to control his demons whilst admitting the fact to no-one. A man who had simply been put under too much stress for too long, a man who somehow coped and coped until one of the fundamental cornerstones of his life was abruptly taken away from him.

No-one blames her, but Grace blames herself. How can she not?

It seems a simple enough equation to her – a man far closer to the edge than anyone realised, a bitter, brutal fight and an unanticipated suicide just a few hours later.

I'm here to talk about you and me. And about how very, very sorry I am…

And that inexplicable discrepancy of time remains. Peter Boyd shot himself at approximately nine-thirty that fateful Wednesday night. His car never left the car park after it arrived at eight-forty-five. It is clearly visible on the grainy CCTV footage throughout the entire night.

But Grace knows he was with her at eleven o'clock.

-oOo-

"Wish fulfilment…?" Frankie Wharton suggests. Of them all, it is only Frankie, Frankie the committed, dedicated scientist, who listens with an open mind, listens without passing judgement.

"Very Freudian," Grace says. "God, I don't know, Frankie. I can't argue with the facts, I can only tell you what I know."

"Dreams are funny things," Frankie says, refilling both their glasses. "You're the psychologist, Grace. Tell me you can't come up with a dozen theories to explain it."

Grace sighs and admits, "Oh, I can. Wish fulfilment, as you say. Hallucination… whatever. But I don't believe any of them."

"Occam's razor," Frankie says. "The simplest explanation is the most likely."

"Except neither of us believes in ghosts, Frankie."

"'There are more things in heaven and earth…'," Frankie quotes. She shrugs, "But to my mind the simplest explanation is that you were asleep and you dreamt the whole thing. Strange things do happen. Odd coincidences, that sort of thing. You'd had a fight, it's not exactly peculiar that you might dream of him coming to apologise, is it?"

Grace says simply, "He was there, Frankie."

"I believe… that you believe that," Frankie says. She looks down at her glass, then up again, "How was the funeral? I'm sorry I couldn't be there."

"Hard," Grace tells her, not bothering to lie. "Very hard. But the family were… considerate."

Frankie snorts, "So I should bloody think. They never seemed to give a damn about him while he was alive so – "

"Don't, Frankie. There's no point."

"Yeah, well… Where were they whenever things went wrong? We… the CCU… were more his family than they ever were. You were the one who always looked out for him when there was trouble, Grace, not them."

"Maybe," Grace says softly. "But in the end I couldn't save him, either, could I?"

Roughly, Frankie says, "Christ this is all such a fucking mess… Only Boyd could be idiotic enough to put a bullet through his own head in a moment of temper."

"It wasn't like that," Grace tells her with a shake of her head. "He just… couldn't take any more."

Frankie's reply is savage, and Grace is sure she can see unshed tears glistening in her dark eyes, "Oh, for God's sake. You do know what a cliché that is? It's not your job to defend him, Grace. Not anymore."

And Grace answers with the simplest truth that there is, "I loved him, Frankie. I still love him. What else can I do for him now except defend him…?"

-oOo-

Time passes, the world turns. A headstone is raised on the unremarkable grave. There is some undignified squabbling over the matter of Peter Boyd's last Will and Testament which Grace tries hard to ignore, despite the pain it causes her. Eventually the disbursements are completed and she takes grim satisfaction in the fact that the family who gave him nothing were, in turn, given nothing. Most of his estate goes to charity, and no-one is surprised that it's the street kids of London who indirectly benefit the most from his demise. There is little sentimentality, and Grace is pleased by that. There are no cloying words from beyond the grave, no duties to be fulfilled. The only personal bequests are to herself, Spencer and Frankie, the last survivors of the original family. She gets his medals, Spencer gets the gold cufflinks from her dressing table, and Frankie… Well, Frankie gets his mad little roadster, the classic Frogeye Sprite – and no-one is surprised by that, either. A crazy car for a crazy girl, as Boyd himself would have said.

Grace learns to live with the tragedy. She cries sometimes, but she smiles, too. And she never finds the answers to all the questions that will hurt and haunt forever. She believes – wholeheartedly – that on that terrible Wednesday night, Boyd had no insight at all into his own actions. She doesn't blame him, and she doesn't hate him. She simply misses him, and if anyone asks, she tells them that he was an extraordinary man, temperamental and capable of wild extremes, but dedicated and devoted, and gentle as a lamb. Whether they believe her is not her problem.

She still sees him. Not often, not predictably, but she sees him. The occasional glimpse of a tall, distinguished figure in a crowd, maybe, or just a flash of dark eyes on the far side of a room. She believes what she wants to believe. And she believes he knew, too late, what a stupid, terrible mistake he'd made, just as she believes that he was in her bedroom and in her bed more than an hour after he pulled the Glock's trigger in his dark office.

Grace is a psychologist. She understands the foibles of the human mind.

Grace Foley does not believe in ghosts or the supernatural. But she knows she loved an extraordinary man, knows she still loves him. And she knows he still loves her. Wherever he is.

I love you. And I'm sorry, Grace. I'm so sorry…

- the end –

(A/N: Probably unnecessary to mention this, but maybe ten or more years ago I wrote an "Avengers" fic called "Emma's Tale" with a very similar concept to "Occam's Razor". So, if you've ever come across that (doubtful!) – I haven't plagiarised it, I wrote it!)