Archive of Our Own

There could be only one contender for the Holby City light heavyweight representative. Ric Griffin had a reputation as a disciplined, honourable boxer, who had used his abilities, his connections and his own natural drive to help countless troubled youngsters turn their lives around in the gym and in the world, and he was the only man who had ever punched former CEO Henrik Hanssen - and somehow, managed to retain his job afterwards. His time in prison, however unjustified it had been, hadn’t done his boxing reputation any harm, either.

Of course, he wasn’t the only entrant to the tournament from Holby. As annoying as Oliver had often been, his colleagues had been fond of him in the way they might be fond of an irritating toddler whose favourite word is “why?” or a puppy who hasn’t yet learned not to chew their slippers and pee on the carpet, and they leaped at the chance to raise money for the charity his mother had insisted be named after him. Poor Oliver had sustained a life changing brain injury not long after the siege in the hospital, when going into one of Holby’s oldest pubs, he had walked straight into the wooden beam of a low ceiling, despite its having a warning sign attached, and although the resulting subdural haematoma had been caught and treated, it had left him unable to carry on his work as a surgeon. Ironically, the words “Mind Your Head” had been legible (though reversed) in his scar for some time afterwards, and Ollie had been subjected to any number of “a man walks into a bar” jokes.

Fletch had fond memories of his sparring in the tea room with Ollie and had entered the heavyweight class, while Lofty hoped to be able to dance around his opponents in the lightweight category. The NHS being an equal opportunities employer, Donna had signed up straight away, though wasn’t best pleased at being placed in the middleweight class. She was mollified by the thought of being actively encouraged to punch people in a workplace context, and she hoped to benefit from Ric’s coaching to make the most of the opportunity. A more surprising entry came from Darwin in the shape of Freida Petrenko, a fearsome flyweight if ever there was one.

Serena had expressly forbidden Bernie to enter, though she was under considerable pressure from colleagues due to her “Heroine of Holby” status following her daring takedown of Fredrik Johanssen, and her heroic rescue of Raf di Lucca from the lift where he had lain bleeding. Bernie had laughed the whole thing off, claiming that she’d had quite enough of fisticuffs in her army career, thank you very much, and that she’d be in Ric’s corner with a towel and a sponge, but that was as far as she would commit to the event. She was taking that responsibility seriously, though, and she showed up on the night in her workout gear, and took Ric through a warm up routine that would put any drill sergeant to shame.

Their opponents from St James’ Hospital seemed a formidable bunch, ranging from their head of HR, who billed herself as Kelly “The Killer” Samson, to Big Terry, one of their porters, who Fletch anxiously noted was his opposite number in the heavyweight class. In the event, Donna made short work of Kelly the Killer, and Fletch practically had to chase Big Terry round the ring as he constantly entreated, “Not the face! Not the face!” A pointless, plea, as in accordance with the aims of the charity, blows to the head were forbidden, and headgear was to be worn just in case, as of course were gloves. St James’ flyweight, introduced as Nurse Barb “Knuckles” Nelson took one look at Frieda and conceded the match without landing a blow, much to Frieda’s disappointment. But it was their light heavyweight boxer who drew the attention of the Holby crowd.

“I thought he’d been struck off?” Dom had whispered anxiously at the start of the evening.

“So did I,” agreed Hanssen, who, very much against his better judgement, was acting as referee. “But evidently an administrative error in processing allowed him to appeal, and alas, his appeal was successful. I understand that he has been brought in as what I believe is known as a ‘ringer’ by Ms Samson, who seems very determined that St James should carry the day. He is not a member of staff at St James, though I believe he is practicing privately. The NHS certainly won’t have him now. It is a very cynical move on Ms Samson’s part, not at all in the spirit of the evening or the charity, and had I known about it earlier, I would not have permitted it. And, Mr Copeland, I would certainly have warned you about it. I am very sorry that you have been subjected to his presence this evening.”

For there, in the red corner, squaring up against Ric “Rocky” Griffin in the blue, was none other than Isaac Mayfield. Bernie had been sniffing around since they had spotted him at the start of the evening, and found that since being dismissed from his post at Holby City, he had been channelling his impotent rage into white collar cage fighting. Initially surprised to find the once slender surgeon in the light heavyweight division, she realised very quickly that he had bulked up on steroids, and now classed as a light heavyweight.

“Don’t worry about the body beautiful,” Bernie murmured to Ric as he prepared for the fight. “He’s a real Muscle Mary - it’s just bulk without power - it’s not functional strength. He’ll fight dirty, though, and I wouldn’t trust him to keep to the below the neck rule tonight. Fight as defensively as you can, don’t let him wind you up, and sooner or later he’ll make a mistake. Just remember he’s stuffed to the gills with steroids, so his decision making and impulse control are going to be even worse than they were before.”

Bernie’s prediction had been as accurate as her advice had been insightful. After two rounds of being rebuffed and dodged, and his unimaginative one-two, jab and cross combination landing nowhere near his opponent,Isaac saw red and roared at Ric to “Fight me, damn you!” He swung wildly at Ric, but the older man seemed to flow around his fist, and in blind fury, Mayfield ripped at the strings of his gloves with his teeth, and rained bare knuckle blows about Ric’s head in a flurry of fists. The crowd erupted into angry booing, from the St James spectators as much as from Ric’s colleagues. In a flash, and with considerable courage, Hanssen stepped between them, and some residual respect and fear of his former employer halted Isaac mid blow.

“Mr Mayfield is disqualified and will leave the ring immediately!” Hanssen announced in a stern tone that brooked no argument. Mayfield seethed with barely contained rage, but the room was so unmistakably against him that he made no appeal, but strode to the ropes and swung down between them, pausing only to pick up his bag as he stalked out of the gym. Hanssen watched to make sure he was leaving, then taking Ric’s gloved hand in his own, he raised it high in the air.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your light heavyweight champion, in the blue corner, Mr Eric Griffin!”

The gym erupted into thunderous applause for Ric, who was almost as popular with staff from St James’ as he was at Holby. He hopped down to the ringside and Bernie helped him take his gloves off and unwind the tape from his hands. He towelled himself down quickly and threw his sweats on, and they found a place to stand with Serena, Fletch and Raf to watch the rest of the evening’s matches.

Despite their best efforts, the St James’s team were able to win only a couple of their matches, and the inaugural Valentine Trophy would spend the next year in pride of place at Holby City. Mr Hanssen proudly announced the total raised over the course of the evening, and after all the speechifying was done, the crowd gradually dispersed. Ric, Bernie and their little group stayed behind to shut the gym down and lock up, and twenty minutes later, they headed out through the back door, ready to head to the nearest pub to toast their victories.

As they walked through the dimly lit car park chatting and laughing, Ric suddenly found himself thrown against the chain link fence by a snarling Isaac Mayfield, who had been waiting to finish the fight.

“Now then, Mr Griffin - time to take the gloves off and fight like a man. Come on, hit me!” He jabbed at Ric and followed it up with a cross, but Ric dodge him easily.

“Go home, Mr Mayfield. The tournament’s over and I don’t fight outside the ring.”

Isaac went for him again, jab-cross, jab-cross. “I said fight me!”

Ric refused to be baited. “I’m not playing this game, Mr Mayfield. You lost in the ring, take your defeat and learn from it.” He backed away from Mayfield, who closed in again, the same one-two combination failing to find its mark yet again.

“Isaac, you’re not in the gym now. This is not a fight, it’s assault. You need to calm down and go home. It’s over.”

Infuriated by Ric’s refusal to rise to the bait, Mayfield roared in incoherent anger, and spiralling around, he lashed out at whoever was nearest. His fist caught Fletch a glancing blow across the cheek, and Fletch fell back agains the fence, blood trickling down his face from a cut. Raf rushed over to him and wiped the blood tenderly from his face.

“Will somebody just fucking fight me!” Isaac roared, the veins on his temples bulging alarmingly. He wheeled round abruptly as he felt someone tap his shoulder, but there was nobody there. Swinging round again, he saw Bernie on the other side, her hoodie cast off revealing a plain white vest which hugged a taut figure, and showed off her lean, muscled shoulders. She wore Ric’s boxing gloves now, and everything about her posture was relaxed but alert.

“Will I do?” she asked brightly.

He stared at her in disbelief and scorn. “I don’t fight girls,” he said scathingly.

“Oh - you just fight like a girl, I see.” Bernie smiled pleasantly at him, but there was a glint in her eye that a wiser man would have recognised as danger.

“Come here and say that again!” He dared her.

“With pleasure. You fight like a girl - but then again, so do I,” she said, and all of a sudden he was reeling from a blow he hadn’t seen coming. “Come on then, I thought you wanted to fight?” she taunted him.

He lowered his head and charged at her, fists flailing, but every time he tried to hit her, suddenly she was somewhere else. For every punch he tried to land, he found his fist swinging in empty air, but a gloved fist coming back at him with lightning speed and making solid contact with his torso.

“What’s the matter, Isaac - not used to someone who hits back? You think I’m scared of you because you used Dominic as a punchbag? Because I’m not. I’m not scared of you, and neither is Dominic any more. You lose.”

Ducking and dodging, Bernie lured him along the fence, and eventually let him back her up against one of the concrete support posts, allowing him to think he had her trapped, and in he went with his predictable one-two jab and cross combination - just as Bernie ducked out of his way. His ungloved hands smashed into the post, one-two, jab and cross.

There was a sicking crunching sound, and falling to his knees he howled in fury as much as in anguish, and with spittle-flecked lips he screamed, “Who the hell are you to do this to me, you skinny bitch?”

Bernie snapped to a ramrod straight parade ground posture.

“Major Berenice Wolfe, RAMC regimental light welterweight champion, 2007 to 2010. It’s not what you've got, Mr Mayfield, but how you use it, and I would hazard a guess that you’ll never use those hands again - not to fight, not to beat your victims, and not to perform surgery - or with any luck, any other field of medicine. I’d call that mission accomplished.”

Serena had called the police the moment the trouble had started, and saw with relief the flickering blue lights of a squad car and an ambulance arriving. A statement or two later, Isaac was securely in the back of the ambulance ready to be carted off to get patched up - and then banged up.

Once her statement had been taken, Bernie walked back to the group of AAU staff past and present, holding out her hands for Ric to untie the gloves for her.

Serena’s hand was at her throat making that vague, fluttery motion that came to her in moments of distraction. “Regimental champion?” She said, weakly. “You never mentioned that!”

Bernie was her characteristically casual self. “Mm. Four years on the trot. Still got the belts in the loft somewhere, I think.”

“The - the belts? Those big wide leather belts with all the bling on? And… uh, and I suppose you’ve got the boots and the gloves and the, um, those silky shorts, as well?” Serena seemed to be having difficulty swallowing all of a sudden.

Bernie winked at her as the ambulance pulled away, taking Isaac Mayfield away to a future that included neither cage fighting nor surgery, other than to his own mangled hands.

“You know me, Serena: I’m a lover, not a fighter. Take you home, shall I?”

Swaying slightly on the spot, Serena muttered, “First the Heroine of Holby, now this!”

And Bernie laughed for joy as she swept Serena up in her arms, and whooped to the car park, empty of all but their closest friends, “Yippee-kay-ay, motherf-”

“Oh, not this again!” Serena groaned, and stopped Bernie’s mouth with a kiss that promised a champion’s reward.