Ashes to Ashes 1. Chapter 1

A/N Er... I guess this is an 'Alex gets back to 2008' story though possibly not written in the most sensible way. It's been floating around my head for months so it all makes sense to me, I just hope it comes across that way.

'The thing always happens that you really believe in; and the belief in a thing makes it happen.' Frank Lloyd Wright

Everything We Apprehend

Chapter One

July 2008

It was fuzzy. And bright. Exceptionally bright. She squinted against it but to no avail until she eventually realised that was because her eyes weren't actually open. With that, almost clear, thought she struggled to open them rather than do the opposite but, again, she met only with failure. Unperturbed, she tried to move other parts of her body even if, logically, her eyelids should have taken the least effort. Starting with her head she worked her way down her body, slowly and methodically trying every limb and ending with an attempt to wriggle her toes but everything felt heavy, lead-like, frozen. Her head was fuzzy still but that light was starting to fade now and as it did so her thoughts, her awareness, became sharper but brought with it only questions.

Where was she? Actually, who was she? She refused to panic at that thought, at the nothingness that seemed to surround her. She concentrated hard, fighting against the now dimmed light, refusing to give in - there had to be something else out there. And it paid off. There were voices - and she somehow just knew that was what they were - she could hear them but she didn't know to whom they belonged. It was like driving a car in thick fog; the basics were there - how to steer, which gear to use - but everything else - the familiarity of the route, the destination - was gone, making the terrain very difficult to navigate.

Difficult but not unsurpassable and encouraged by her progress she redoubled her efforts; hearing was one of the five senses, she couldn't see or smell anything - what were the other two? She floundered for a moment before an answer reached out to her: touch. She tried for that, putting all her effort into moving her hand once more and was surprised to find that, not only could she now move her fingers, there was also something in her hand.

She tried to grip it; hard, then harder, with every ounce of strength she could muster until she could feel the other hand - because she was certain that's what it was - respond. Then there were more voices, louder this time, but all still unrecognisable - as were the words, strange as she somehow knew that's what they were even if she couldn't quite understand them. The other hand squeezed back and it possibly should have hurt but she felt no pain, just the warmth and the pressure it provided. It was small, she realised then, the other hand. Child-like, even.

An image floated through the fog of her mind, like a bolt of lightening it was raw and beautiful, and it disappeared as quickly as it had emerged, leaving her with only a ghostly imprint of what had once been there. She tried to grab a hold of it but it escaped her, the emptiness swallowing up the last remnants and she felt as desolate as her current panorama. But then there was a voice - just one this time - and she instinctively knew that it was linked to the image; and it wasn't just an image, it was a memory - something she had experienced. It wasn't just the voice that sounded familiar either: it was the word too, one word repeated several times. Was it her name? No, that wasn't it; if she could have shook her head at her own disapproval at that thought she would have. Maybe it was something else, like a nickname or a title.

She tried her eyes again, struggling against the weight of her eyelids and this time she succeeded; the darker corners of her imprisonment were now replaced with the blurred, and so much brighter, outlines of her new confines. She could make out the shapes of people, three or four of them but before she had a chance to focus further another light appeared, shining first into one eye and then the other, the action accompanied by a deep rich voice that spoke words she knew would be important but she paid no attention to them. All she could comprehend was the loss of that small hand in hers and how much she wanted it back. How much she'd longed to hold that hand.

And then it was suddenly so clear; as her eyes finally readjusted to the natural light of the room her mind caught up too - she knew who she was, she knew where she was, she knew what had happened to her, and she knew who had been holding her hand.

"Molly?" The word was rough, her voice dry and her throat scratchy but the intended recipient didn't seem to care as the grip on her hand returned, grasping tighter this time around. And the reply, the voice now instantly recognisable as her daughter's, was like music to her ears.

"Mum!"

Her life fell into its rightful position; memories - of all shapes and sizes - flittered through her head like a deck of cards, coming to rest where they had always belonged and a wave of calm washed over her. She was back. Back with Molly. Her gaze settled on the smallest form in the room which was now back at her side, her eyes instantly taking in the child's features with an appraising mother's eye and finding only a bright smile. A crowd of questions rushed to her mouth, creating a bottleneck and sticking in her throat, remaining unvoiced and only thought: how long had she been out; had she missed her daughter's birthday; how badly had she been injured? It didn't matter; she'd ask the questions soon enough, she had all the time in the world now. Her daughter's face beamed at her, the features so reassuringly comforting, and she thought her heart might burst with the relief of being back here. Inconceivably, a small knot of remorse tugged at her stomach at that thought and, unable to decipher its presence, she tried to ignore it.

"I knew you'd be okay, Mum," Molly smiled and all Alex could do was smile in response as her mind, ignorant to her wishes, and urged on by that lurching in her stomach, nervously began to question exactly where the sudden seed of doubt she was experiencing had come from. Began to question where she had come from.

Small arms wrapped around her shoulders as her daughter launched herself at her, the child's head coming to rest on her chest and Alex continued to smile tiredly, her own arms struggling to participate in the embrace as her head fought to remember... What exactly? The one hand she had a good control over smoothed at her daughter's back as she attempted to shake off that feeling and refocus her thoughts on her child; how Molly must have worried, to have seen her mother lying unconscious in a hospital bed having been shot in the head, and wondering if she would survive. It must have been a terrible ordeal for her.

The knot in her stomach tightened then as a memory ripped into her; there was a gunshot, a boat, and blood. Her hand stilled its movements at the recollection; at the thought of that blood. But it hadn't been hers. It wasn't the memory of her own shooting; it had been his.

She held Molly tighter and screwed her eyes shut, half hoping to find that blinding light, half hoping to find empty darkness - anything to escape the memory that was replaying so violently in her head. But all she saw was Gene; all she saw was the colour red. And the memory stayed, brutal and harsh in its residency, the impact only increasing as related memories appeared; the combined effort insistently pulling and picking at the slight hold she had on her emotions until it found what it was looking for. She'd just left him there.

She'd had to make a choice. A decision that she knew would now haunt her every step, invade her every dream, and follow her relentlessly and unshakeably like a shadow to her grave. She'd chosen this - this here and now; she'd chosen it from the first moment she'd realised it had been taken away from her - she just hadn't thought it would be so hard. She hadn't thought it would ever feel wrong.

Her eyes slid open, a lone tear escaping, rolling hesitantly down one cheek and onto her daughter's t-shirt; a tear of joy, a tear of regret - both options were tinged with guilt.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N Erm... I'm quite nervous about posting this second part as the first chapter got such a fantastic response. You know when I said I'd probably not chosen a sensible way to write it? Read on for proof...

Everything We Apprehend

Chapter Two

October 1981

She looked quite pale, stood there leaning against the railing and gazing silently out to the water. With her head bowed and only her profile visible he couldn't quite work out what had just happened but something had shook her. Logic would say it was the unpleasant sight downstairs that had done it; a bullet hole to the forehead was not a nice way to go but she'd seen worse (Billy Dane sprung to mind; they hadn't caught up with the hitman responsible for Billy Dane's death, much to his consternation, and he briefly wondered if that was a lead worth investigating further). No, he was sure that the change to her mood had started before they'd even stumbled upon that sight; maybe on that long walk across the gangway, maybe even when he had brought the Quattro to a screeching halt alongside the 'Lady Di' itself - though the look she'd shot him at that point could have just been a reaction to his method of parking. He pursed his lips at the sight of his DI; lost in her own thoughts, whatever they may be, he doubted she even realised that he had followed her out. Sometimes it was as if she was on another planet and all he was here to do was to keep her safe, to keep pulling her back in. "Earth to Bollyknickers!"

Rather disappointingly she didn't jump in response to his sharp tone; the only visible sign that she had actually heard him was the corner of her mouth turning down ever further. "What?" Alex asked distractedly as she slowly dragged her eyes from the murky water towards him with a look that he couldn't quite place; she looked sad but there was something else there too. Something that had been lingering there in the background since the day the Prices had died but was now more prominent.

"Too much to drink last night, DI Drake?" He enquired, unwilling to venture too far into that pretty little head of hers; he had, against his own better judgement, tried to find out what had upset her about the Prices deaths (because it wasn't as if they were family or anything) but the conversation hadn't exactly been enlightening - maybe asking her about it the very night they had died hadn't been such good timing. She'd mumbled something about the little girl the Prices had left behind, which he assumed had only reminded her of her own daughter, but then she had started banging on again about how he couldn't be real and he had kind of switched off at that point, happy just to look at her rather than listen, happy to write it off whatever she was saying as a result of the copious amounts of wine she'd consumed.

"It would kill anyone, wouldn't it?" She asked sadly, arms still resting on the rail, and not rising to his bait at all. Gene groaned inwardly; now he'd have to find out what was wrong with her but as he eyed her cautiously, he finally put his finger on what had been eating at her: she looked utterly defeated. But he didn't know why. She might be smart and posh and so very easy on the eye but at times she could be completely baffling too. He could, begrudgingly, admit that she was a good addition to the team – and the way things were heading she was the kind of copper that the force wanted, not people of his ilk - but at least with Ray or Chris, or any other bloke in CID, he knew exactly where he stood - and so did they. If she wasn't prattling on about that psychiatry stuff she was sounding as if she needed to see a shrink herself.

"Wouldn't it?" She reiterated, her voice quiet but her eyes boring loudly into his, almost begging him to disagree with her, to tell her that a bullet through the head didn't mean death when the body downstairs was evidence to the contrary. It was a look he had seen before, when their little visit to the vaults at Edgehampton had seemed to be heading for a rather sticky - in more than one respect - end. And, just like then, he found that all he wanted to do was comfort her.

"I don't know, Bols," he sighed, reluctantly acknowledging to himself that he certainly wouldn't be doing this for anybody else on the team; they'd just get a bollocking. Christ, he was in real danger of going soft over her. "I guess you could survive. If you were lucky. If you fought hard enough," he said softly. She smiled at him then, at that last part, the sadness fading from her face as if his words had carefully wiped it all away. The thought that they had, that he could reach her, touch her somehow, with only words, made him happier than it should, especially when she continued to smile at him in the manner she was currently adopting.

The idea of asking her out again crossed his mind then; it hadn't gone all that badly the first time, she'd even admitted that she'd miss him - which had to be a good sign - and, despite her determination to leave that day, she hadn't actually left. He'd held back from asking again since that night as Scarman's visit, and then that awful bombing, had left a cloud hanging over all of them. But now probably wasn't the time or the place to go there either - and would she even agree? It'd been hard enough to ask her the first time around. "Right," Gene began, his voice reverting to its usual authoritative tone rather than the gentle warmth it had most recently been wrapped in, breaking the increasingly close moment between. "Dead bloke. Murdering scum to catch."

She took a long breath, her smile disappearing as she did so, before nodding her agreement. Gene watched her head back downstairs, the gentleman in him allowing her to go first, the not so gentle man in him taking the opportunity to watch her arse sway down the stairs. With his own deep - and fortifying – breath at that sight he followed her below deck.

Downstairs he found Ray, stood next to Chris, shooting a look that plainly stated his disgust at DI Drake's desertion - no doubt he'd rejoice in telling the tale, with his own explanations as to why, to the rest of the team - and his expectation that she had been hauled over the coals for it. Gene shot him a glare that neither confirmed or denied Ray's beliefs as Chris, stood over the body, holding onto a wallet with one hand, and a grim line with his mouth, spoke up.

"It's Markham, Guv."

Gene shared a surprised glance with Alex before they both moved towards the body. Now that he looked closer – the first perusal had been fleeting enough due to Bolly's disappearance – and past the blood and the gaping hole in the forehead, he could make out the vaguely familiar features of that drug pushing scum, Markham. Layton's cohort, or more precisely his very expensive lawyer, had managed to wrangle a 'get out of jail free card' (Chris shooting the man in the foot had not really helped) long before Layton himself had, much to Gene's annoyance at the time but he was suddenly feeling much better about it; in fact he felt more pleased than his profession stated he should be at the sight of a murder victim. "Well, well - some people do get what they deserve," he announced with a smile, receiving a grinning nod from his DS, but Alex flinched at his words.

"Nobody deserves that," she spat, pointing to Markham. She glared at him for a long - and excruciating for Chris and Ray, caught in the middle as always - moment, daring him to contradict her. Gene was all set to remind her that Markham had made money out of destroying lives but her eyes, the colour of which he'd never been entirely sure about, were now so alive; the fire, the life, that burned there was now blazing when just moments ago it had seemed to be fading.

The noticeable change caught his breath, and his interest, distracting him momentarily. She was bloody spectacular when she was like this - and it made him feel more alive than he had for a long time – but she took his hesitation as an opportunity to claim victory and dropped her gaze to the body on the floor, crouching down beside it. Frustrated at how quickly the air between them could change, at how quickly she could change – in herself and towards him - and not a graceful loser, he settled for scowling at her, which she only ignored, and then at Ray and Chris, daring either of them to pass comment and finding no takers.

"He was on his knees," Alex said, continuing to ignore them all, as if she was talking to only herself – which wasn't unusual for her. He watched her closely, his scowl, and frustration, fading; despite his loathing of the dead man they had a job to do. "Shot at close range," she continued in a similar tone and Gene glanced to the lads to find Chris was paying close attention to her and Ray, chewing gum impatiently, pretending not to.

"Like an execution?"

It was Ray who answered the younger man's question, turning to Chris as he did so with a condescending look on his face: "Looks that way, doesn't it?"

"Get forensics down here," Gene ordered, agreeing with the assessment of the scene as his gaze fell back on Alex; she was still beside the body, apparently ignorant to what was going on around her - it struck him then that there must be something else here, something she'd noticed that he wasn't seeing. And whatever it was, it was responsible for her earlier behaviour. "And you two chase up the hitman the Cales were using," he shouted, remembering his previous thought. His DS obeyed with a nod and headed upstairs, Chris following loyally behind.

Gene slung his hands into his pockets and surveyed her, and the scene, once more. "Well?" He asked, as she stood slowly, her eyes still on Markham, and half expecting her to take great pleasure in telling him whatever insight her expensive education had gleamed from the scene that he had missed.

"It's a message," Alex mumbled softly after a moment of contemplation and completely without any triumph.

"Couldn't have just sent a letter?" He asked, not following her line of thought at all and covering with a flippant remark. He was curious though as to why she hadn't just told him what her instinct was. She jerked her head towards him, that spark prominent in her eyes once more.

"It was an anonymous tip off," she argued, her voice louder and clearer this time. "Somebody wanted the body found. Wanted me here. Wanted me to see this."

The emphasis on the 'me' part made his own anger rise and, with his earlier defeat still fresh in his mind, he hit back at her, determined not to lose and all thoughts of her insight into the case momentarily cast aside. "Let me be the one to break this to you, Bolly," he began as he leaned over towards her. "Despite what you may think - the whole world doesn't actually revolve around you."

She turned slightly on her heels to face him fully, only the body of a drug dealing city trader separating them. "This whole world," she began, waggling her fingers at that last word in a manner that only managed to annoy him further, and jutting her chin out defiantly as she did so, "Belongs to me! And this," she indicated the corpse between them with a long, slow sweep of one hand, her eyes following the trail, but she hesitated for a moment or two before finishing that sentence. "This is how it ends for me," her voice quiet again, and her gaze on the corpse, he wasn't sure if he'd been meant to hear that last part or not.

"What?!" He chewed the word out angrily and not without frustration; he didn't understand what she was saying or how it was relevant to the case. That internal siren sounded again, the one that ticked away in his head when she said those kind of things - the stuff that didn't really make any sense - and he couldn't even blame her behaviour on the booze. He supposed it was a warning that he should heed but he never did. No one ever questioned it, for that matter. Somehow they'd all just come to accept Alex Drake and the odd things she said, and did, from time to time – no matter how crazy they were.

She opened her mouth to say something, probably to argue further, but stopped short of doing so, taking a long breath instead and stepping back. "Look," she began slowly, eventually, her voice calm and professional, "Let's see what forensics come up with."

He stared at her for a beat before finally nodding his agreement; she was dodging his question and for the moment he'd let her. She offered him a brief smile before turning to leave but it was forced; she knew something about this and she didn't want him involved. He didn't watch her go, his gaze turning back to the body on the floor instead but his thoughts were still lingering on her, trying to see what she had seen. But there was just a body and a boat... Layton's boat. His guts constricted as an awful thought occurred to him, one that might explain her behaviour; what if Layton was involved in this?

Freed from prison thanks to Tim Price's legal team, it appeared that Layton had already helped that lefty lawyer blow apart his own family (though thanks to Gene's agreement to destroy the video tape, and Evan's determination to sweep the whole incident under a nice middle class rug, Layton would likely remain at large) had he then gone on to unfinished business with Markham? It was Markham who had double crossed Layton, resulting in the latter's incarceration in the first place. Would Layton extend that vengeance further, to themselves perhaps and was that what Alex had been thinking? It'd be just like her to go off on her own and try to solve this herself; infuriating, pig-headed, bloody woman.

He headed to the stairs, following her wake, but as he emerged into the weak Autumnal sun he remembered that day in the prison, and the way Layton had spoken to Alex, and his blood ran cold. What if Layton was after her? The thought of that bastard going anywhere near her made his guts ache further and he grew more determined than ever that nothing would happen to her, not while he was around to prevent it.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N Thanks for all the reviews - much appreciated and they make this little monkey very happy. This is probably where the 'not the most sensible way to write a story' becomes apparent...

Everything We Apprehend

Chapter Three

August 2008

Her doctors had described her survival as something of a miracle, high praise indeed from those who played God on a daily basis; words such as 'lucky' - though getting shot in the first place could hardly be described as fortunate - and 'fighter' had been thrown around in explanation, along with the ever so modest surgeon's finely honed skills, of course. She'd undergone a barrage of tests and her prognosis was a cautiously optimistic one; a complete recovery seemed on the cards but no doctor worth his salt would ever play such a hand and say that, not when a head injury was involved - just in case those promised cards didn't come out of the deck. She'd merely smiled and nodded when given this information, uniquely aware of just how hard she had fought to survive and of how hauntingly familiar those words had sounded; she'd heard them before, from someone else's mouth, in a completely different accent though she refused to think about why they had felt so much more reassuring coming from Gene because that only made her think about him.

She tried not to think about him at all, she tried not to think about any of it, but it wasn't that easy; she'd left that world, left him, under a dark cloud – its fate, and his fate, just left hanging in the air – and that cloud had followed her here. She'd wondered once if that world would go on without her and back then, when its future had seemed brighter, she had hoped it would; but now... Now she wasn't so sure.

In fact, she seemed to spend a great deal of time and effort trying to convince herself, ironically at the same time as trying to convince everyone around her that the bullet hadn't affected her mentally, that it wasn't real, that it didn't matter, that nothing that had happened there mattered - but it was difficult. It was hard to let go of a world that had felt so real, so vibrant, so alive and she had wondered if Sam Tyler had experienced the same thing upon his return, if that was why he'd done what he'd done.

Her thoughts would always sour at the memory of Sam; he'd committed suicide, took the ultimate leap of faith to get back to that world - a world which now bound them together even though they'd never met, but his actions had left her desirous of the one person she could talk to, the one person who'd understand, at least to a certain degree, how she felt. No one else ever could, she felt certain of that, because she hadn't understood before, not really. But it was all so perfectly clear now, though it was an explanation that would never pass her lips; her planned book concerning DCI Tyler would never see the light of day. Besides, how could dry words, written in drab black and white, ever bring to life or do justice to the nuances of that world and its inhabitants when Sam's own impassioned narration had failed to reach her?

But she couldn't do what Sam had done; she wouldn't take that step. She had something, someone, to hold onto in this world: she had Molly. Her euphoria at being back with Molly - to see her, to hold her, to hear her voice and childish laughter - was so overwhelming that at times that she felt as if she was drowning in a sea of it but she never struggled against those warm, reassuring waves; she didn't have to, her daughter was her lifebuoy in this world. Just as Gene had been in that other life.

She closed her eyes at that thought, hoping to prevent that memory of her last few minutes spent with him from returning. It was the same memory that had come hurtling back at her when she'd awoken, marring what should have been her triumphant return, what should have been her two fingered salute to fate; the same memory that now tinged all the others from that world with a bittersweet aftertaste. Even those endless happy hours spent getting slowly legless in Luigi's now had a dark swirling undercurrent to them; the thought of what was to come lurked dangerously underneath, just waiting for the right moment to pull her under. And it was all his fault anyway, the stupid, bloody, impossible man. The last adjective stuck and she focussed upon it; he was impossible, he couldn't possibly exist, therefore it hadn't happened.

Her eyes opened quickly as the door to her room opened, the internal mantra of 'it wasn't real' still echoing weakly and unconvincingly, around her head, as she let her gaze settle on the figure that had entered: Evan. He held onto a vase, half full of water, throwing her a reassuring smile as he headed for the window ledge and she silently watched him as he placed a bouquet of flowers into their new home.

"Molly's with Claire," Evan offered before she could even ask where her daughter was, as he continued to fiddle with the flowers. "Think she's on her break," he added on, before she could voice her concern that her daughter was bothering a very busy hospital employee. Alex had liked the young nurse immediately, more so when she had heard how the the woman had been so very kind towards Molly. Evan turned to her, still wearing a smile and seemingly happy at last with the flowers but she frowned inwardly. This was all so... Different? Difficult?

If the only thing her sojourn to 1981 had left her with was the aftermath of the choice she had made between that life and this one she might have found the ordeal easier to deal with. But she was also left wrestling with the feeling that some things in this world were now a little off balance. Everything appeared to be the same yet she couldn't help but look at it all differently now; she felt displaced, her life seemed fractured somehow. Her experiences from back then, the ones involving her parents, and Evan, were just as jarring as her departure had been but, having some basis in fact, they made all her carefully constructed efforts to persuade herself of how inconsequential, how unreal, that other world was, crumble. How could she convince herself that Gene wasn't real when she had accepted other events - her mother's adultery, her father's quiet rage - as being just the opposite? And if she proved that those things were real did that mean he was too?

"Did they get him? Layton?" she asked abruptly, Evan's smile fading with her question. Layton had been the key to her getting home though, to her intense regret, she had only arrived at that conclusion after her parents had died. She had spent so much time following every possible clue that could solve - and thus prevent - her parents' deaths, certain that their salvation would be her way home, only to discover, at practically the very last minute, that the biggest clue had been there from the start and she'd not realised: Arthur Layton. But had his fingers really been all over the bomb that had killed her Mum and Dad or, given her last interactions with that man in 2008, had her mind just leapt to that conclusion?

Evan hesitated in his reply. This was a conversation they'd both seemed happy to avoid until now; her Godfather possibly out of guilt, if she was right about that phone call, herself because of the answer. There was an unreadable look upon his face and she wondered, given that her theories about the past were correct, if he had been dreading this question since she woke up. Maybe he'd been dreading the question since she had lost her parents. "He shot himself," Evan said quietly, "He didn't survive."

Alex could only nod her understanding, a mixture of surprise, happiness and disappointment rendering her almost numb. There would be no confirmation from Layton; he wouldn't admit to helping her father destroy his family, he wouldn't be able to tell her anything about 1981. Maybe she should just be satisfied with the explanation that her subconscious mind had come up with, accept that some things, some people, weren't real and leave it at that. Her future, the rest of her life, stretched ahead of her and, after all she'd been through, it should be ample compensation. Her eyes dropped downwards, to her hands resting in her lap, and for a split second she could have sworn that they were covered in blood. His blood. But she must have imagined it because when she blinked all she saw was clean, familiar, pale skin; all that stared back at her were long slim white fingers.

"Layton said he had something to tell me. About the day my parents died..." she said, raising her eyes back to him and holding his gaze steadily; she'd never noticed how old Evan had become, how tired he looked - had his appearance been the same before all of this or had guilt over her shooting added on yet another decade to the ones he was already carrying? She couldn't quite remember. The sentence hung between them as she watched his reaction; it was a calm and calculated move and a part of her, the part that had trusted this man for so long, complained loudly against such a deception. And as a flicker of pain crossed his face she felt ridiculously bad; it was unfair of her to do this to him, to test him in this way.

Evan edged slowly towards her hospital bed, taking the seat nearest to her and sighed softly before meeting her gaze rather strangely. She almost expected him to comment on how much she reminded him of someone he'd once known - as if she'd really been back to 1981. But he never; how could he - she hadn't been there, it hadn't been real. "Did he tell you anything, Alex?"

She held his gaze evenly at his probing question but inside her thoughts were screaming loudly: it was all true. It had to be, why else would he ask that question. Those fragments of memories that had been buried for years had, in the face of death, finally been unearthed and then carefully assembled to present her with the answer to a puzzle that had shadowed her life for long enough. An answer that had been hidden from her with the best of intentions. "No, he didn't," she answered finally and honestly.

"Oh," Evan said softly, his gaze dropping slowly from hers and she felt certain that he was relieved by her answer. Confirmation that she'd also been right in her assertion that Evan never would have the courage to tell her the truth; he couldn't even tell her now, not after everything that had happened, not even when the opportunity presented itself. At some point, the lie had become bigger, and potentially more dangerous and destructive, than the truth.

"Maybe the past is best left in the past." Blue eyes, now back on her, urged her to agree to something that she had already conceded. It would be enough for her to know the truth; she'd already forgiven him for his decision in 1981, she could do the same for the one he had made in 2008. And what could Evan have done in that situation anyway? There was no guarantee that Layton wouldn't have shot her if Evan had bowed to whatever demands had been made.

She nodded her understanding and the relief in his eyes was patently visible - the final proof, had she needed it, that she'd been right. She would salvage her relationship with this man because he was important to her, he had taken care of her when there was no one else to do so and she honestly believed that action was more than just a sense of duty on his part or out of any feelings of guilt. And he was important to her daughter too; it had been Evan who had cared for Molly, he who had been there for her daughter whilst she was incapacitated – and he who always would be.

"I'll go and see what Molly is up to," Evan said, his features still a little taut as he stood up. There was a faint, perhaps forced, smile on his lips as he made his way out of her room and she reciprocated it as she watched him leave, her smile fading once he was out of sight. Confirming what she had discovered had helped her feel more settled, and perhaps confident, about this world but as soon as Evan had gone her thoughts slipped back to Gene.

She'd only just come to doubt her - previously strongly held - assumptions about Gene and his existence when her ticket home had arrived; a one-way ticket that she could never have passed up, even under those circumstances. Maybe it was only her guilt at leaving him in the way she had that kept him so alive in her thoughts, that kept pulling her back to that world, back towards him.

But, like the world he'd inhabited, he'd felt so very real: she could clearly remember how his heart had beat so strongly under her palm; how his arms had felt when they were wrapped around her; how his eyes had burned with energy, with life, whenever they had argued; how his blood had been so strikingly red... Why had he worn a white, of all colours, shirt that day? Why couldn't she get him out of her head?

She had to know, one way or another, if he was real - not knowing was threatening to tear her apart and that would render her achievement of getting home null and void if she was of no use to her daughter. She wouldn't ask Evan (and how could she anyway without bringing up that painful past or explaining what had happened to her) but maybe she could look into the police records concerning the murder of her parents. If Gene Hunt was real, if he had been there for her when she was a child, if she actually remembered him rather than stole him from Sam Tyler, then his name would be there. And if his name was on that file, and he really did exist, he might still be alive, sizzling on a beach somewhere hot because the reason he'd been shot, the reason he'd been hurt, was her - and she'd never existed, not as Alex Drake anyway, in 1981.

Buoyed by that determination, and the trace of a smile of on her face, her eyes wandered aimlessly as she leant back against her bed only to settle on the flowers that her Godfather had been placing in water just minutes earlier. During the past week or so endless bouquets of flowers had arrived in her room - from friends, from colleagues, the gestures were given with the best of intentions but she'd never been one for flowers. She'd always associated flowers with death; having been plucked from their natural habitat and placed in unfamiliar, artificial, surroundings, they always bloomed briefly, sometimes longer than expected, but death was always around the corner for them. Waiting. Lurking. Just like it had been for her.

Her smile faded and she closed her eyes again, the sight of the flowers dragging her back there. She struggled against those lingering thoughts of that world, of Gene, but she found herself wondering if flowers ever dreamt of clowns; or of fast cars the colour of blood; if flowers ever dreamt at all.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N Thanks for all the reviews; I'm really glad that it's not completely unintelligible! Anyway, on with the craziness...

Everything We Apprehend

Chapter Four

October 1981

"Are you stalking me, Mr Hunt?"

"Better things to do with my time," he said casually, as he continued his descent on to the chair opposite hers, noting the vague smile on her lips and waving a full, freshly opened, bottle of house rubbish in front of her, "Than run around after posh mouthy tarts." He slowly refilled her empty glass without another word, gave her - and her rather unconvinced features - a quick smile, then placed the bottle on the table and took a sweeping glance behind him. Nobody else seemed interested in the two of them; in the background Ray was leading the rest of CID into a long night of boozing, and heckling Luigi, whilst Chris was sat to one side with Shazza – all completely oblivious. Sometimes it felt as if there was only himself and Alex in this world. Shaking off that thought and assured by the normality of the scene he turned back towards her, his eyes carefully roving over her as she took a large mouthful from her glass.

Alex propped her head up on one hand, the other resting on the stem of her glass, at his actions and met his gaze. Eyes still showing her doubt at his rebuttal she watched him carefully, considering him and his answer with what he suspected was a rather tipsy mind. "I know what you're doing," she said finally, quietly, her eyes still on his, sharp and apparently not as affected by the booze as he'd thought.

Startled by her words, Gene took out a cigarette, casually lighting it and taking a long drag, as he kept her waiting. Despite his denial, he had been practically stalking her. He didn't like to think about it that way, more that he was looking out for a member of his team - not that she made it easy for him. When he'd felt that horrible foreboding lurch in his stomach at the thought of Layton getting anywhere near her he had figured, rather than just mention his concerns to her because she'd probably kick off about being able to look after herself, that it would be a fairly easy job to keep her in his sights, keep her close to him, keep her safe; as his DI she was obliged to report to him and out of office hours she could usually be found propping up the bar right next to his very good self - simple. But he'd completely forgotten that nothing was simple where Alex Drake was concerned. She'd lost him twice over the last week – much to his displeasure – thankfully to reappear at the station on both occasions before he could make a complete fool of himself over her; subtle, and not so subtle, interrogation about her whereabouts had been met with fairly plausible answers but he didn't quite believe her. He blew out the smoke to one side before he finally spoke. "And what's that, Bols?"

Alex hesitated, her eyes narrowing further at him, evidence that she still didn't buy his act of innocence. Maybe it didn't suit him. Maybe she could just see straight through him. The hand holding onto her glass fiddled slightly with the vessel as she finally answered, "You don't need to worry about Layton – I'll deal with him." It was both an acknowledgement that she knew what he was doing, that she could actually see straight through him, but it was also a demand that he stop.

He took another hit of nicotine as he returned her gaze, mulling over her statement. He had been certain that Layton could be a threat – and that she'd thought that way too, though why she hadn't mentioned it had puzzled him. That curiosity had made him hold back too, waiting to see when, and if, she'd speak up but it had been Chris who'd made the link next whilst they were on the drive back to the station. Gene hadn't seen Alex's reaction clearly but he'd heard her words of encouragement towards the DC; at the time he had wondered if she really hadn't made the connection or if it was some psychowatsitology to throw them all off - now it seemed it had been the latter. Though why she should want Layton to herself was a different matter - one he couldn't quite work out.

They'd had very little else to go on with the Markham case: forensics had come back with nothing; the anonymous phone call had been traced back to a public phone box; the hitman was as dead of an end as it had been when Billy Dane had died; witnesses were non-existent and most of Markham's associates were claiming ignorance. Markham's murder could be filed away as unsolved and forgotten for all he cared – one less bastard pushing drugs the better – but it was Layton's possible involvement that kept the case under investigation. Thankfully, Layton seemed to have disappeared off the face of the Earth, which had eased some of his worries about her safety, but there was a niggling doubt; he'd underestimated the man before and he wasn't going to let that happen again. "Can't do that, Bolly," he said, his voice laced with authority as it hid the concern well enough.

She smiled at him again in response, as if that would make him change his mind. Rather worryingly, he thought, it just might. How many times had she talked him into doing something against his better judgement? Maybe it was for the best that he couldn't seem to find the right time or work up the nerve to ask her out again. "Nothing is going to happen to me that I don't want to happen," she said softly yet firmly, confidently even, as if she could predict the future (actually, sometimes she spoke as if she could) and she took a sip of her wine, her gaze staying determinedly on him.

Gene leant forward on to the table, struggling with both the thought that she didn't want his help and with how gorgeous she looked sat there, eyes twinkling from the wine, cheeks a little flushed, that air of determination hanging around her. Despite his earlier assertion about giving up on her, thoughts of having her, right there on the table, launched an invasion into his head, easily winning the battle against concerns about her streak of independence and how that could end up getting her into trouble. "And what do you want to happen?" he asked suggestively, catching her eyes, the question wide open to interpretation; it was much easier than just being up front - if she said no then he could always deny ever asking.

She mirrored his actions, leaning towards him, an enticing glint of need in her eyes making him think that this was it - they were finally going to do something about this, whatever it was, that sat between them - but then it was gone, pushed aside by an unstoppable wave of sadness and he felt that tsunami smother his hopes before she even spoke. "I want to go home."

He sat back a little and sucked on his cigarette as her statement rattled around his head, trying to ignore the sting of disappointment in his chest. She was always adamant that she was going home - she'd wanted to leave from the very moment she'd arrived - but she never ever did. He knew that she didn't mean 'home' as in upstairs in her flat or even 'home' as in here and now – she meant somewhere else. Somewhere far away. Far away from him. "Where's home?" he asked curiously, after blowing out a plume of smoke.

"With my little girl," she replied quietly, without really giving him a definitive, bricks and mortar, answer. She took another gulp from her glass avoiding his curious gaze as best she could as that sadness in her eyes still reigned supreme, wiping out everything that had been there before.

For a long moment there was nothing said; she was lost in her own world, of memories of her child, and he watched her quietly, uncertain of what to say to her and distracted by his own burgeoning thoughts. The urge to have her had abated, knocked aside by her admission, but it had been replaced with another, different, longing; he wanted to hold her, just take her in his arms and make all those bad feelings go away - but he didn't, he couldn't. How could he ever replace her daughter, how could he ever make her happy when there'd always be that sadness, when there'd always be something - someone - missing? She never spoke about her daughter, not really, though to be fair he never asked either. But whenever she spoke about her child there was always a trace of sadness; sometimes hidden by anger, sometimes by determination, but it was always there. He stubbed out his cigarette, offering her a faint smile that she didn't see as her eyes stared into her glass. "You'll see her again, Alex," he said softly, leaning towards her once more, and it didn't feel like a lie though, like on that boat, he didn't know how it could be the truth. But she was determined and strong and smart - and he felt sure that she wouldn't ever give up. He felt sure that she would see her child again. He felt sure that she would leave.

Her eyes wandered back to his with his gentle words of encouragement and she smiled briefly, yet thankfully, at him before her own gaze turned thoughtful; for a few seconds she scrutinised him closely, her own curiosity sparking into life before his eyes. "You know, sometimes I think you're real, Gene Hunt," she said softly, almost conspiratorially.

He sighed resignedly, briefly wondering if it would be better if she did just go home - wherever that was. Then he could just forget her, and her crazy ways, and move on with the life he had tried to make here in London. But he doubted that he'd ever be able to forget her. "And other times?" He asked reluctantly, afraid he was encouraging her and afraid of the answer too. Actually, had a good idea what the answer would be – she'd told him before, she'd told all of them before, many times over.

She shook her head lightly, her gaze dropping on to the now practically empty glass she was holding on to. "You'll just think I'm mad," she said finally, meeting his gaze once more with a wary smile.

He half smiled at her in response: "I already think you are."

She laughed softly then and nodded at him; in agreement or at some hidden meaning behind his words that only she understood he wasn't sure, but he enjoyed the view, a small smile creeping onto his face at being able to do that to her. She tapered off suddenly and scrutinised him further, her gaze sharp on his and his smile fading at the thought of what was to come. "Okay," she whispered, as if she was trying to convince herself of something and her eyes watching him carefully as she did so. "Cards on the table: this is all in my head. I was shot, in the head and on that boat, by Layton. I'm here, with you, because Sam Tyler told me all about you and Chris and Ray." She stopped there and knocked back the last of the wine, her eyes never leaving his, "You're all bloody figments of my imagination and I'm stuck here in my head until I can find a way home. And I believe Layton might just be the key."

Lost for words, though what could he ever say to that, he only sighed again and stared stonily at her. It was, as far at it went, a pretty good explanation (and now he knew why she was so intent on finding Layton) but she had to be mad - there was no way around it. At least she was consistent in her delusions, always telling him that this world wasn't real, that he wasn't real. He had an urge to lean across the table right there and then - and it wouldn't take much, she wasn't that far away - take her head in his hands, and kiss her; prove to her that he was real and not some figment as she seemed to believe. Because he didn't want her to be mad - but he was torn between the possibility that she was and the chance that he might just be mad himself for wanting to believe her.

"Don't you ever wonder, Gene? Why I want so desperately to go home, to see my little girl, to see Molly, but I never actually leave?" she asked quietly into the silence, her words and tone asking him to look further, to dig deeper, to believe her.

"You're my DI - you can't just up and go," he said firmly, silently acknowledging that, in fact, she could just walk away but not wanting to question why she hadn't because she couldn't possibly be telling the truth. The way she acted, when she wasn't spouting off nonsense like this, it was as if she believed this world was real - he'd witnessed how devastated she'd been when the Prices had died, how she had fought tooth and nail for Shaz. If none of this mattered, if this was all in her head, why would she bother?

"Yes, I can. And I would, too - if it was that easy I wouldn't be here." She took a hold of the bottle he had brought over and poured out anther glassful, ignoring his gaze until her task was completed. "I'd go home," she reiterated, more determinedly and took a sip from her replenished glass. And in that moment he believed her; not necessarily everything that she had said, because how could he not be real, how could his grief at losing Sam be fake or his, rather confusing, feelings for her be imagined? But he did believe that Alex wanted nothing more than to be with her child.

He frowned to himself as a sad smile crept slowly onto her lips. "And I thought it was my charm and good looks that kept you here," he said jokingly, but the tone hid the truth of his words as it hit him then that he never wanted her to leave; somehow, and somewhere down the line, he had begun to think more of her than just some bird he wanted to shag.

She smiled briefly at him, the gesture warm and gentle and not refuting what he'd said; but, as before, it fought hard against the tide of sadness that seemed to follow her around before eventually succumbing. "Layton's got to be my way home," she whispered, meeting his gaze firmly. "But I need to do this alone, Gene."

He sighed again, his eyes heavy on her, his thoughts even weightier. She bore his scrutiny well, not ceding an inch and he found some comfort in the thought that she could be quite tough when she wanted to be. Maybe if he let her do this then this crazy talk would stop; if it all failed, if nothing happened when they caught up with Layton - and how could anything actually change - then maybe she would come to her senses. He finally nodded, the action slow and deliberate, and followed it up with an, "Okay". But, despite his agreement, he couldn't let her do this alone.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N Thanks, once again, for all the reviews and thanks for reading. Erm... Not sure how this chapter is going to be received; LucidaBright mentioned a wringer of sorts...

Everything We Apprehend

Chapter Five

October 2008

Alex frowned to herself; finally out of hospital she was back home, the word as warm and comforting as it sounded, and the reality as she'd always known it would be - she'd just never factored in certain variables that were now threatening that ideal. She'd been content initially, returning to the house she shared with her daughter and, of course, she had Molly; the girl had done nothing but fuss around her since she had been released and Alex loved her all the more, if that was possible, for it. This was what she had wanted, what she had fought for. Trouser suits, hair straighteners, mobile phones, satellite television, congestion charges, the smoking ban and the more enlightened views towards women that 2008 offered her were all welcome sights (some more so than others) but they were really just a bonus in comparison with Molly.

As she wandered aimlessly into her kitchen she knew that she should be happy, fulfilled even; as she'd settled back into her old life the world around her had become more of a comfort too, like an old well worn cardigan she'd wrapped herself in, it was warm and familiar with maybe just a few small holes where there'd once been none. Unnoticeable to anyone else but prone to catch her attention as one of those holes lay right across her heart.

She opened the refrigerator, staring blankly at the endlessly familiar products that she'd missed so intently when she'd been stuck in that other life but she'd found that, in the flesh, they weren't quite so appealing. 'You only want what you can't have'; she closed the fridge sharply at that thought, its accuracy too close for comfort - if only she could close the (metaphorical) door on the 'past' so easily.

It had taken some wrangling, and perhaps a little deceit on her part, but she'd managed to get her hands on the police report into the death of her parents. Despite her determined resolution to find out if Gene had existed, if he was real or not, the file had sat in a drawer for days before she'd dared to read it. The urge to know the truth had been smothered by the thought that whatever lay inside the file would also hurt. The moment that she opened it everything would change; she would have her resolution, a logical ending to her story, but there would be no endless possibilities, no hope, no chance of... A chance. He would be real (and possibly now dead) or imagined (and most definitely out of reach). It was an apprehension that had proved founded when, with Molly safely at school for the day, she'd finally worked up the courage to open the file.

Part of her had wanted him to be real, to be some quantifiable piece of her past who had held her hand that day, had made her feel so safe in the midst of such a tragedy. Someone she had remembered, and perhaps even Sam had subconsciously recalled, from childhood that was real and solid. And who she could maybe track down, and meet, and thus turn the final page on the strangest chapter of her life.

Part of her had wanted him to be a construct, some imagined everyman (albeit in the form of a copper) who was therefore indestructible and who would live on in Sam Tyler's notes and her memories – because she could make him survive that way, she could even make herself believe his own assertion that he'd be fine. That this part had won through, that his name hadn't been on the file, had not been as comforting as she'd thought it would be – in fact, she'd felt like she'd lost. She felt as if she was lost. And she felt his loss. Nor did it make her departure any easier to justify; guilt was guilt and it still cut at her sharply.

But she didn't think the other outcome would have really satisfied her either because that man, if he had been real, wouldn't have been her Gene; if he'd existed he'd have been someone else, a man who'd never met Alex Drake, a man altered by the experiences and ravages of time, a man who would have been in his seventies - if he was even still alive. Opening that file had been akin to playing Russian roulette - only every chamber had been loaded and she could never have won.

With teary eyes and a lump in her throat she'd tucked the file back away in the drawer and, at that point, she had finally been able to acknowledge what she'd been trying to ignore since she'd woken: she wanted Gene. She wanted the man who had saved her countless times. She'd always believed that she'd get home to Molly - but whenever that belief had wavered he'd somehow been there to put her back on track with just a few simple words. She didn't doubt that without Gene she wouldn't be here now, she wouldn't have pulled through - Layton would have finished her off. If he hadn't taken that bullet instead of her, the action allowing her to get off a shot at Layton, it would have all been over for her. Gene might not have saved her as a child but he'd been there for her as an adult, he'd been there when she'd needed him the most. So why couldn't he be here now?

With a small sigh she laid her head against the fridge, the cool metal soothing and smooth against her skin. This was crazy; Gene was right - she was mad. How could she have such feelings for a man who drank like a fish, smoked like a chimney, and was prone to violent outbursts; a man who was homophobic, sexist, who always had to be in control, and who, to top it all off, didn't even exist? A wry smile tweaked at the corners of her mouth as she remembered her rebuttal on their one and only date; despite her denial it seemed she was one of 'those' women after all. The smile faded before it really had chance to set in as that sense of loss stabbed at her once again, accompanied by its good friend, regret - which had just as sharp an edge and had been slicing through her at every available opportunity of late.

She'd never acted upon those feelings when she was with him; there'd been times when she'd come close to doing so, times when all she'd wanted to do was take him up to her flat and completely unravel the Gene genie - an admission that made her wonder exactly when she had started to want him. But nothing had ever happened – and now all she had to hold onto were lingering looks, all she had to savour was one kiss. A kiss that had been stolen in the heat, or maybe the cold, of the moment; a kiss taken and given in equal measure and hurt all the more for that fact. And it would have to be enough as she would never have the chance to have more. Not now. Not ever. She removed her head from the fridge, unsure of which emotion hurt the most but determined to get over both of them.

Heading back to the living room, where two presenters she didn't recognise bantered easily enough from the television, she sat down on the couch, lifting her daughter's feet to do so and replacing them on her lap when she was settled. Molly didn't flinch throughout the motion, her eyes glued to the telly and engrossed in some cookery feature. Alex stared silently at her daughter, happy that the child seemed largely unaffected by the whole incident on the boat, and its aftermath, but worried by that fact too. Molly had seen her parents divorce, her family torn apart, leaving her with a father who only visited briefly, and sporadically, and a mother consumed with her work - and then she'd had to face up to the fact that her mother had almost lost her life because of that job.

If Alex had learnt anything tangible from her journey to 1981 it was that a child needed their mother; she was going to rectify that, make up for lost time with Molly, by doing the very thing her own mother had seemed intent on doing. She was going to take a sabbatical. Given what had happened to her, her employers were more than willing to cede to that demand - a doctor's note advising a lengthy recovery period pretty much sealed the deal. In truth, she expected a number of psychological tests would have to be endured before she'd even be allowed to touch her warrant card again.

"Are you okay, Mum?" Still laid in the same position but with her eyes now staring at her mother, Molly waited patiently for an answer though her concern was clearly written across her small face.

"Yes," Alex rushed to answer, rubbing the child's leg reassuringly, "I'm fine. I'm so glad I'm back."

"Back?" There was a spark of intelligence in her daughter's eyes that Alex didn't miss and she steeled herself for the inevitable questions. Molly may not have expressed an interest in following in her mother's footsteps but if her daughter ever wanted to join the force herself, Alex knew she'd make a great detective. Or maybe even a barrister. "Where have you been?"

It was almost as if she could hear the cogs whirring around Molly's head, a miracle given the deafening noise coming from the television; she couldn't bear to reprimand the child for having the volume so high, even if she had done so previously, as it was something she'd missed so very much - this humdrum, everyday domestic scene. But could she tell her the truth? Her daughter was bright, smart, wise beyond her years even (probably out of necessity and Alex blamed herself for that) and she had read about Sam Tyler's experiences the very day that Alex had been rendered unconscious - would a child's imagination make that link? But, though Molly had known all about the other world that a comatose Tyler had visited, she'd also doubted it, just as Alex herself had - would Molly believe her? Maybe the two worlds were incompatible and always would be - she had tried this conversation back in that other world and it was hard to convince someone else without sounding mad. Even now she wasn't sure if Gene had believed her; maybe he had, maybe at the end he had finally come around to the idea.

"I..." She started the sentence positively but then thought better of it; she didn't want Molly thinking her mother was certifiable. But she didn't want to lie to her daughter either and now that she had inadvertently ignited some kind of spark in the child's imagination it was going to be hard to douse it. In the end her daughter saved her from making that decision.

Molly muted the television and sat up, slowly removing her feet from her mother's lap and placing them on the carpet below, her eyes never leaving the woman at her side. "Mum," the child started slowly and deliberately. "That Taylor bloke... Did the same thing happen to you?"

Asked outright she was stunned, both that someone had made the connection and that that someone had been her daughter. She could try and deny it, say that she had just meant that she was glad to be back home but she had now hesitated too long in replying. It was a bit of a give away and she really didn't want to lie to Molly, even if it was probably in the child's best interests. She was caught between lies and truths and deception and honesty, and she hesitated for a moment longer, briefly wondering how Evan had seemed to find it so easy to make the decision and lie to her all those years ago. "Yes," she said softly, holding her daughter's gaze.

Not getting an immediate, obvious, response she continued on. "I think that because I was working on Tyler's case notes before I... Before all of this, I somehow found myself in the world he had created - though there were differences. Had to be really, given that it was my mind in control and not his." She wasn't entirely sure who she was trying to convince with that explanation; it was how she was attempting to cope with what had happened - it was the logical explanation that she needed to get over this and put it in the past. Only, cold logic, the very thing she had always relied upon, was failing her because it could never fully expunge human feelings - not hers anyway.

Molly frowned, her eyes falling to her own feet and Alex immediately regretted her decision; maybe Evan had been right to lie to her for all those years - maybe the truth wasn't worth all this. "Did it feel like a dream?"

Alex hesitated at the question; the answer so simple, the decision to voice it so hard. Molly returned her gaze and she found her daughter's eyes filled with only curiosity. "No," she answered softly, honestly, "Not like a dream at all. My parents - your grandparents - were there and..." She paused, her mind tumbling to thoughts of the others, to Chris and Ray, and to Shaz and Luigi and, of course, to Gene. "It all felt so very real."

"Is that why you look so sad sometimes?" Molly asked, after a moment of contemplation.

Alex frowned once again, both at the question and at her apparent failure to hide those feelings from her daughter. She felt guilty once more for missing Gene when she had Molly right here with her and it strengthened her resolve to let him go. But she knew the child had meant her Grandparents; she'd always spoken to Molly about Tim and Caroline Price, had made them seem alive even though they would never have the opportunity to meet. Alex had always kept them alive in her heart and passing those memories on to Molly had helped to keep that flame burning. In going back to 1981 her psyche had just chosen to take that a step further before taking great pleasure in blowing it all to smithereens.

"Because you left them behind?" Molly prompted further when nothing was said.

"Yes," she replied with a small smile and, in a way, it was true. She did miss her parents but she had also discovered the truth behind their deaths which, whilst both disturbing and horrifying, had brought some kind of closure that she had obviously needed. But she couldn't tell Molly what she'd discovered about her parents, nor could she quite bring herself to reveal the real reason behind her malaise. "That's why I'm finding it hard sometimes," Alex said quietly. "Can you understand?" Molly nodded her answer and Alex reached out for her daughter, pulling her into her side.

She was going to get over this, she'd promised herself that much - and she was as determined to reach that goal as she had been to get back home, to get back here. "This is real, you're real," she whispered reassuringly to her daughter and to herself. "And that's all that matters," she continued as Molly wrapped her arms around her; it was something she'd never been able to do back then - her daughter would always be a reflection, in a mirror or on a television screen, or glimpsed out of the corner of her eye, and would always disappear when Alex tried to focus upon her. The only time she'd been able to really see Molly, she thought as she kissed the top of her daughter's head, had been in the few moments before she had returned home. A thought struck her then, fighting through the boggy mire of memories of that time, through the pain and blood and choices made; a thought about Molly and about her return to this world but she let the idea fizzle out. It didn't mean anything, it couldn't mean anything, because it wasn't real. She was just desperately looking for any reason she could not to draw that line under it all and move on; she laid her head on top of her daughter's, determined to try and do just that.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N Thanks for reading and, as always, special thanks to everyone who left a review. Erm... Would you lynch me if I said I was seriously considering making this the last chapter? I know people in the RSPCA...

Everything We Apprehend

Chapter Six

November 1981

"You stupid man."

The words were meant to be stinging, the way she had spat them out left him under no illusion about that fact, but there was an underlying tone to her voice that suggested she was as worried as she was annoyed. She had good right to be, he thought as she knelt down beside him. Gene sucked in a breath as she roughly pushed his hand away from its location and replaced it with her own; it should have been the ripple of pain he'd felt at her ministrations that had him reacting so openly but the all too fleeting contact of her hand against his had been just as responsible.

"I just saved your bloody life!" he defended angrily, the pain as much as her words eliciting such a response. That and the fact that he was right. He kept his gaze locked on hers but using his now free hand he pointed to the body a few feet away from them, almost in the very same spot where they'd found Markham just weeks ago: "He was going to kill you." He would be eternally grateful to Shaz, recently returned to duty and just in the nick of time in his opinion, for quietly bringing to his attention the fact that DI Drake had slipped out of the office. But it had been his own coppers' nous, or maybe just that fear of something awful happening to her, coupled with what she'd told him the other night at Luigi's, that had surmised that her disappearance had something to do with Layton. It was the same instinct that had sent him driving like a bat out of hell to the 'Lady Di' - thankfully just in time to stop that bastard shooting Alex.

Her gaze bore defiantly into his and he could almost hear the rebuke that was on her lips before she voiced it. Indignant to the end - even when it was his end. "I was in complete control," she shot back and he could only grunt his disagreement; it hadn't looked like that to him, all he'd seen was her life in danger and he'd acted accordingly. Okay, maybe not accordingly - the thought of losing her had pretty much overridden everything else. Getting shot himself wasn't what he'd intended; stand-offs were unpredictable at the best of times even more so when all the players involved were bent on getting their own respective outcomes, but at least it wasn't her lying here, bleeding. Fading. "Everything was going as planned until you blundered in with your size elevens!"

Her eyes burnt with that enticing fire he knew so well and it struck him then that, if this was how it all ended, if she was the last thing he ever saw then he could live with that. He'd always assumed that, as the booze and the fags were failing miserably in their attempts to finish him off, he'd die on the job - fighting on until the end, he knew he wasn't immortal and it would only be a matter of time before a bullet hit the right place; Scarman had seemed set on denying him even that much but obviously the old bugger hadn't planned on Bolly arriving and turning everything on its head. Though neither had he. He continued to meet her gaze, using his anger to hold in the pain and to mask the fact that he was reluctant to look down, knowing he'd only find his blood sodden shirt and her delicate hands pressed against him. And he didn't think he could look at that.

He grunted involuntarily at the pain, and at the strain of holding it in; annoyed that he failed to contain it made the moan deeper and rawer and she flinched, her own pain scrawled vividly across her face. "Gene, hang on," she said steadily, and he found the composure in her voice reassuring. He found her voice reassuring. "Just hang on, please."

"I'm not going anywhere, Bols," he said confidently but inwardly he wasn't so sure. This was bad; even if he refused to look down, there were plenty of other indicators that he couldn't ignore. He'd been shot before but this was different. He suddenly didn't want her there; he didn't want to die on some poncey boat down South - and he didn't want her to see him die on the aforementioned vessel. The worst thing was that he most likely wouldn't be able to get her to leave now, she was far too stubborn and had a tendency to ignore his orders. It'd take a bloody miracle to get rid of her. "You should go get help," he tried, his voice quiet when he'd been trying so hard for assertive but it didn't matter.

"I need to stop the bleeding," she said, ignoring him completely. She quickly withdrew her hands, removed her jacket and began to take off her blouse. If she noticed his eyes dropping to the view she never mentioned it, she merely completed her task then shrugged her jacket back on, zipping it up. She pressed the garment against him, her eyes set downwards, a fixed line on her mouth. The brief remission he had experienced with her floor show vanished when her hands returned to his body and he hissed in pain once more. "Sorry," she whispered, drawing her eyes upwards again. Shit; if she was apologising it must be really bad.

"You're no Florence Nightingale, Bols," he muttered, his eyes closing, suddenly so very tired and the thought that his job was pretty much done - he'd kept her safe, kept Layton from harming her - lulling him towards sleep. The memory of Alex at Layton's mercy ran through his head and he recalled her declaration from the other night, when she had told him that Layton had shot her and on this boat too; had it been some sort of premonition or was that psycho profiling lark really the future of policing? Or had she been telling him the truth all along? Either way, the thought of it almost coming true chilled him - or maybe he was just cold. His coat, hastily slung on as he'd left the station in pursuit of Alex, didn't seem to be offering much warmth. However, behind his eyes, the darkness of sleep felt almost tepid - an enticing proposition despite his determination not to die in front of her.

"Gene, don't go to sleep," Alex's voice sang in his ears, like a siren, drawing him back towards the cold reality he'd been ready to leave behind. Sleep faded from him at her tone, lost in a swirl of misty grey and for a moment he struggled to remember what it was that he'd been trying to think of. Something about Layton? Something Alex had said? About the future? About her daughter? "Please," she begged, her voice drawing him ever closer towards her. "Stay with me, Gene."

Fighting his way out of the fog and back to her he found only a deep sadness resplendent in her eyes and he had to look away. But that was when he saw it, his miracle. He wasn't really a religious man; he'd spent his life dealing with the very worst society had to offer, had seen more pointless and tragic deaths than he cared to remember, so the idea of an omnipotent higher power, someone in charge of all this madness, all this depravity, was a tough idea to swallow. But maybe there was something more to this life, something more than just timing. There was a strange light ahead, standing at the entrance and spilling down the stairwell into the boat; it was bright, too bright to be caused by the early Winter sun that burned so feebly outside, and there was a shape to it, inside of it perhaps. Small and angelic looking.

He hadn't realised that Alex had followed his gaze until she spoke, breaking into his thoughts and completely ruining his idea about redemption with just one word: "Molly?"

It took a second or two to make the connection, and he was blaming his current condition for that, but then he remembered. "Your daughter?" Gene asked quietly, still surprised at the strange sight ahead but also by the fact that she could see the image too - and that she knew exactly who was there. So many questions flooded his thoughts that he struggled to make much sense out of them. How had the child suddenly turned up and here, of all places? Alex had insisted that Layton was her way home, her way back to her daughter - but how? Searching for an answer that wasn't mired in her tales of madness he briefly wondered if Layton had somehow kidnapped her daughter; it would explain why Alex had just turned up in his life out of the blue and in pursuit of Layton but she would have told as much, surely, rather than coming up with such an unlikely story as the one she had given him? Neither explanation seemed entirely plausible and it made his brain ache.

Alex never answered his question but the figure, the child, did so by calling out for her mother and her voice, with its obvious sadness and longing, resonated within him, causing him to recall Alex's own yearning to get home, to be with her daughter. Wherever home was.

"You're leaving," Gene said, not asking a question but giving voice to a dawning realisation. He didn't know how the little girl's appearance fit into any of this; the idea that Alex had been telling the truth all along, and that this meant so much more than he could ever comprehend, played about in his head. It picked away at his thoughts, reminding him of all the strange things he'd seen her do, all the odd things she'd said, and pleaded to be understood, to be accepted. Just as she'd asked him to believe her. He didn't want to accept it though because it couldn't be true; this was all real, his life was real, he was real. But what did it matter - whether he believed her or not, he was going to lose her anyway.

There were tears behind her eyes as she finally tore them from Molly to him. "I..." she began but her voice struggled and faltered into the cool air between them. "I didn't want it to end like this," she eventually choked out, as if it was all somehow her fault and confirming what he already knew. It was over; she had what she wanted and he was never going to see her again. The thought tore at something deep inside of him, something that had been hidden for far too long.

Molly called out once again and Gene placed his hands on top of Alex's, fingers rubbing gently against hers, memorising the feel of her skin against his but also reassuring her. His eyes searched hers as he did so, hoping she could see everything he was unable to say, even under these circumstances. He eventually moved her hands away, letting his own hold onto the covered wound. "Go," he said, his voice quiet and tired despite his best efforts to cover it and he regrouped his efforts. "Get her out of here. I'll be okay. Ray and Chris are on their way."

From the look in her eyes he knew that, she knew that, he was lying. He just hoped that she'd play along because he was fast losing control. Alex looked back to her daughter, then back to him and his heart soared at the fact that, even though the choice seemed inevitable, she was finding it so difficult; he meant something to her - whatever it was that he'd felt between them it hadn't been imagined, it was real and quantifiable and painful. Her tears fell silently, slowly navigating a route down both cheeks and she brushed at them with the cuffs of her sleeves, her hands stained red with his blood. His blood on her hands; how could that not be real? "I don't really understand any of this, Bols," he admitted softly, his head swimming with ideas but his body slowly losing the battle. "But I know you have to go," he ground out, hoping to persuade her to leave before he passed out.

She only smiled in response; a pained, forced smile that asked him to forgive her for the choice she was about to make, to understand why she was making it, but one that offered no further explanation than that. He smiled back at her, knowing it was what she wanted, what she needed, what it would take to make this easier for her. One hand, bloody and warm, slipped on top of his, whilst the other reached out for his cheek, her slim fingers brushing against the skin. Her actions sent a jolt of electricity through his body, warming him from the centre outwards, but his heart almost stopped beating there and then when she slowly bent her head towards him, her eyes burning into his. Her lips were soft against his own, as he always imagined they would be, and, giving into an urge that had been building for far too long, he kissed her right back with everything that he had left. It should have been bittersweet, tinged with regret and lost opportunities, and there were tears cascading down her cheeks once more as she pulled back telling him that was how she felt, but it wasn't so for him; despite his bleeding wound and growing exhaustion he'd never felt so very much alive, his heart had never pounded so strongly in his chest, his senses had never felt so sharp. A notion hit him then, a strange idea that suggested he must have spent far too much time in her company because he was now thinking like her too. He brushed it away, attributing it to the realisation that just as he had finally found what he'd been looking for, what he'd been searching for since he'd arrived in London, it was about to fall out of his reach.

"Always said you were handy with your mouth, Alex," he smiled, enjoying the feel of her name passing over his lips one last time. His lips were still tingling from their kiss and he could taste her on them; if this really was the end, and it seemed likely, then it would be one hell of a way to go. He watched her struggle for a moment longer, silently willing her to leave with the last of his energy, before she finally, reluctantly, withdrew her hands. She stood slowly and with one last smile turned away from him and towards her daughter. As he watched her walk away, he let his own smile fade, too much effort was required to keep it there. The light, that curious light, was surrounding Molly, almost consuming the child, and within a few steps Alex was virtually there, nearly into the brightness herself. With her last step towards it she turned suddenly, taking one last look at him, an apology in her eyes, and then she was gone.

He screwed his own eyes shut tightly, fighting against the fatigue that was sweeping over him; he was tired, so very tired, of this existence, of this world even, and without her in it there didn't seem much point in hanging on any longer. He opened his eyes slowly, half hoping to see her once more, half expecting the light to have vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared only to find that neither outcome had been met. And she'd just vanished in front of his eyes. Vanished into the light that still hovered ominously ahead of him. How could that be? It just wasn't possible. It just wasn't... real. Her assertions slipped back into his thoughts; if this was all in her head, if it wasn't real, then why was he still here when she wasn't? The light was still there, growing or moving perhaps; it was only its existence that caused him to wonder, in those few final moments, if she'd been right.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N After much deliberation I've decided to post the last chapter; this was the original ending and though it's a happier (?) one I'm not entirely convinced that it's a better one...

A/N 2 Big thanks to everyone who reviewed, especially those (you know who you are) who did so constantly - I appreciate the support. And thank you all for reading - I know you're out there, the little stats thingy tells me you are.

Everything We Apprehend

Chapter Seven

December 2008

She liked to tell herself that, as the time had passed by, she had managed to move on, had let all those feelings drift away and on the surface it seemed believable; her relationship with Evan didn't feel so stilted and time spent with Molly was most conducive towards that delusion. But she'd never really believed it, not deep inside where no one but herself could see; those long hours, when her daughter was at school and she was all alone in an empty house, could only be filled with so many distractions before her thoughts would eventually return to the life she was trying to forget and she would inevitably find herself thinking about him. Nearly always dreamt about him too; she just couldn't quite bring herself to let go completely - though maybe she'd been right not to.

Stepping out into unfamiliar surroundings she let the door gently close behind her, her eyes settling on a figure in the distance and she took a deep, calming breath, hoping to settle her nerves. A phone call had prompted today's excursion; it had come entirely out of the blue but the details - of a colleague who was recovering from a prolonged coma - had made her heart leap into her mouth. She'd almost hung up at first, she was supposed to be off work after all, but that last resistant seed of hope, the one that had battered through the rough winter of her denial and her vain attempts to stamp it out - the one that had held on at the thought of him, on that boat, staring at her daughter - had started to grow at the merest hint of light. She'd stumbled her way through the call in somewhat of a daze, hastily scrawling down the information she was given on a pad she kept near the telephone. Replacing the handset she'd stared at her own shaky handwriting for a full minute, her eyes glued to the familiar moniker of one 'DCI Hunt' and her head swimming with thoughts. She'd managed to get through the rest of the evening, with an eerie calm that surprised even herself, as if nothing had changed, as if her world hadn't just been turned upside down, as if everything she'd believed - everything she'd forced herself to believe - hadn't just been pulled out from under her like the proverbial rug. But she'd subsequently spent a sleepless night mulling the information over: trying to convince herself that Gene was real, that they had somehow met whilst they were both unconscious and that he had come back with her, for her; trying to convince herself that it just wasn't possible, that the name was merely a coincidence and that he would be a colleague who, having heard about her work with those who had suffered serious trauma, wanted to meet her.

Despite her turmoil there'd never really been any question of her not coming here; she could justify her actions, even just to herself as she seemed to be her only critic (probably because no one else knew), by telling herself that if he wasn't here, if it wasn't him, then it would finally kill off those last lingering hopes (though in reality she feared nothing ever would) and if he was here, if somehow he was real, then... Then everything might just be okay. But now, stood outside of the rehabilitation centre and staring out to the expansive grounds, she hesitated - unsure as to why. It wasn't just about the possibility of being disappointed, being devastated even, if it wasn't him. And it wasn't the possibility that even if it was somehow him he might not be exactly the same man she had known; she wasn't exactly the same person she'd been in 1981 either, she'd done things she'd never do in this world and Gene, the Gene she knew, couldn't be the same person here - there'd be differences. No, there was something else that was making her uneasy. Brushing away that feeling of uncertainty she took another deep breath, exhaling it slowly; she hadn't come all this way just to turn around and go straight back home. She had Molly, and she had her life back, but she wanted that bit more happier of an ending.

She took a step forwards, gliding through the unseasonably mild winter air but, glad that she had a warmer coat than that white leather jacket, she wrapped it around herself, her arms circling her stomach. Ahead, a little way down the path, the man in question - the man her future happiness rested upon - sat lazily on a bench, facing away from her and enjoying a cigarette. It was a good start and, as she headed towards her goal, her hopes began to rise ridiculously higher with every step she took. As she rounded the bench those hopes flew off the scale; the hair was shorter, and minus the sideburns, and the frame not so broad though that could be because he was sitting rather than looming imposingly over her - but it was him. Wrapped in a long dark coat that was reminiscent of the one she knew so well, that scowl, that familiar pout, was present on his mouth and her breath caught in her throat as her heart pounded furiously in her chest as if it was trying to break free. Her steps gradually slowed, her legs suddenly feeling weak underneath her and her arms loosened their hold.

He turned his head then, catching her in the web of his gaze, and she stopped completely, rooted to the spot, unable to find her voice and not sure that if she could locate it she would even be able to coherently express what was running through her head. She'd wanted this outcome so desperately but she'd also resisted it, afraid of the crushing nadir she'd experience if it didn't come true but now that it had she felt woefully unprepared for the floodgates that had opened. They stared at each other for a long silent moment; in awe, in uncertainty, in acknowledgement – each sizing the other up. He took a hit from his cigarette and casually blew out a stream of smoke, the slightest hint of a smile on his lips when he'd finished and she withered inside, even before he spoke, leaving her amazed as to how she managed to stay on her feet.

"Hello, Bols."

His voice was rough and deep but that familiar Northern twang washed over her gently and any lingering doubts that this wasn't him vanished at the knowing twinkle in his eyes, at the use of that name. And there it was, low in her belly, an ache that was both dull and sharp; unsettling yet, at the same time, sent gentle waves of pleasure to her chest thus dismissing that old adage of 'you only want what you can't have' as complete and utter nonsense because he was there and she still wanted him.

"Gene..." The name tumbled from her lips, familiar and warm, torn from the depths of her soul where it had lain unspoken and abandoned since she'd left him on that boat all those months ago. It felt right to voice it, to finally say his name out loud – it felt even better when he smiled in response, in confirmation, because it hadn't been the forename she'd been given, it wasn't the name he used in this world. She continued to stare at him, struggling with her emotions, and – now that she had accepted his existence, accepted that he was real – trying desperately to understand how this was even possible. He'd felt real, in that other world, but then so had everyone else.

He took one final hit, exhaling the last of the smoke as he stubbed out the cigarette on the arm of the bench, his eyes staring at her approvingly all the while. "Don't think I'll get used to you not dressing like a tart," he said evenly.

She smiled at his words, at his - apparently - easy acceptance of the situation, and forced herself forwards, slowly yet steadily, willing her legs not to disobey and give way beneath her. Taking the last few steps needed she sank down onto the bench next to him, grateful to have one less thing to worry about but her thoughts were still a jumbled mess, were still stuck on trying to explain how this had happened. Yet, at the same time, she couldn't stop staring at him; he was real and solid and absolute. And here, with her, exactly where she'd wanted him to be.

He returned her gaze steadily, strong and blue, his eyes roaming over her and, despite the coat and trouser suit underneath, she felt almost naked. With only inches separating them, she fought the growing urge to fling herself at him, to touch him, to hold him, to feel him; she wasn't sure she'd be able to let go if she did. Not this time. Not ever again. She let her hands slip from her body, coming to rest on the edge of the bench, the wood cold and gritty as she bore his scrutiny. His gaze came to rest briefly on the scar on her forehead - the one left by a bullet and the one she tried, unsuccessfully, to hide - a frown tugging at his lips before he met her gaze once more. The understanding was evident on his face but he said nothing, he didn't need to; just as they didn't need to discuss what had happened to them in 1981, not now anyway, but the truth, the agreement, was silently acknowledged between them. She'd been lucky to survive her experience but then so had he; she tried to recall how slim his chances must have been, given how long he'd been in a coma and his age, of even regaining consciousness – they must have been incredibly low, much like her own had been. Were two miracles allowed? A thought niggled at her, cold and unwanted, and as much as her heart didn't want to entertain the idea her head decided otherwise, gathering like a dark cloud on the horizon that threatened to ruin her day.

"Are we mad then, Bols?" he asked quietly into the silence, his eyes still locked on hers, waiting for an answer. An answer she didn't think she had. She doubted anyone would believe what had happened to them because it was all so implausible; in fact, everything that had happened to her since she'd got shot had been far fetched. To have awoken in a vaguely familiar 1981, to have solved the puzzle of her parents' deaths, to have met and interacted with constructs that someone else had invented yet now appeared to be as real as her... Her smile faded as the reason for her earlier hesitation made itself known, blowing that dark cloud ever closer towards her: was this, was any of this, possible?

"I... don't know," she said quietly, distracted by an awful thought and suddenly feeling very cold. What if this was all in her head? She'd spent the last four months trying to convince herself that that other world hadn't been real, that he wasn't real, but she'd never stopped to question the validity of the world she was now inhabiting. What if she hadn't actually woken up? 1981 had felt so real to her, in every possible way, yet it had all been imagined – could she really be so sure that this reality was 'real'? What if she was still lying on that shell of a boat, a bullet lodged in her head, and her life slowly ebbing away from her whilst she lived out what little remained of her life in the manner that she wanted it to, with the people that she wanted to be with? Had her mind merely manufactured her awakening, her return to Molly, and had everything that had happened since then just been a stepping stone towards this point, towards a valid and possible - if highly unlikely - happy ending?

There'd been a time when she'd felt that she'd never leave 1981 - from her very first day there she'd recognised that her chances of survival were slim to none; it had only been her stubbornness and her determination to get home to Molly that had prevented her from actually accepting such a fate. She'd kept on fighting, she'd held onto the thought of getting home to Molly and it had happened; once home she'd held on to the memory of Gene, had wished that he was with her and now here he was... She'd once told him that the mind was an amazing organ - was it more amazing than she'd previously thought?

His hand reached out for hers, gently loosening her clenched grip on the bench, drawing her hand away from the wood and into his. His thumb grazed the back of her hand and the gesture sent tingles up the length of her arm, the warmth spreading throughout her body, drawing her attention, and her eyes, back to him. How could the feelings he evoked in her be imagined? The only other option was to accept that there something more here, something she couldn't apply logic, or a psychological explanation, to. Something bigger and incomprehensible at work. His thumb repeated the action and she squeezed his hand in return, offering him a weak smile.

"Thought for sure that you'd have some psycho-babble to explain how you got into my little kingdom," he ventured, not sounding too disappointed by her lack of an answer and a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he spoke. She decided right there and then not to care either. She wouldn't ask any more questions, wouldn't try and look for explanations. Maybe she was still slowly dying on that boat, maybe she was lying unconscious - never to wake - in a hospital bed or maybe, just maybe, she was allowed to have her miracle, she was allowed to have both Molly and Gene. And maybe reality was overrated anyway because this, whatever it was, felt real - it felt more than real.

"Excuse me," she protested loudly, still smiling at him and her fingers lacing with his as a weight lifted from her shoulders, and her head, as she threw herself into acceptance. "You were in my fantasy!"

"Been dreaming about me, have you Bolly?" he shot back, his grin wider but his eyes searching for an answer once again - and she knew that this reply meant more to him than her previous one.

"Never stopped," she admitted softly, thoughts of making those dreams come true invading her head and chasing off the last of her doubts. His smile relaxed into a more natural, contented, curve and she pictured a future with him, introducing him to Molly, taking him home, taking him into her life, taking him into her bed and she smiled wider at the thought.


End file.
