This fic started as a joke. Honestly. I was threatening to write something horrible to Alex because xX-Misty is being mean to Kim and Robin. So I just came up with this on the spot, thinking of the worst things I could do, and she told me that she couldn't be held accountable for me being mean to them and then asked me to write it. So now, three days, 10000 words, and nearly five chapters later, here is chapter one.

Warning. This fic is one of the darkest I've written.

Chapter 1: Fire

Alex glared at the psychologist. The woman was slim, with a slightly ruddy complexion and rather mousy brown hair. The dark dress the psychologist had on did nothing for her complexion and the nude lipstick made her seem completely washed out.

"I want you to start by telling me something, Alex," the woman said calmly. God, she hated the woman's voice. It was so peaceful, so serene. Alex wanted to cross the room and throttle the woman. Instead, however, she just took a deep breath in and replied.

"I don't want to be here."

"I realise that, Alex."

"I'm not crazy."

"Of course you're not. This is normal procedure for someone who's gone through what you did. We're just making sure you're fit to come back to work."

Alex stared at the woman. "How would you know," she asked softly, venomously. "How would you know if I was ready to return to work? No one's been through what I have. At least no one that has survived."

She stopped talking abruptly, crossing her arms and legs, receding inside herself for protection, choosing to stare at the books instead of the woman sat across from her.

"Alex, you're a psychologist as well. You know what we look for."

Alex gave a sharp nod. "I know what you look for. I'm fine. I'm sure you can see that from what you're looking for."

"Actually, you seem a bit tense."

"That's because I'm stuck here talking to you when I should be on the streets catching the bastards who did this!"

"Alex," the woman said softly. "They've already been caught. We told you that."

Alex shook her head furiously. "Not all of them."

"Yes all of them."

"There were four. You got all four?"

The woman nodded. "All four of them. Their fifth partner was already in prison. They're all awaiting trial."

Alex stared at the woman for several moments, fighting back the tears in her eyes. "Do you think they'll be found guilty?"

The woman nodded. "That's how they are pleading, Alex," she said gently.

Alex shook her head. "It doesn't make it any different."

"I know that. No one can change anything though."

"I can," Alex murmured, staring at her hands. She studied her fingers, wondering if they were nimble enough to make the knots.

"How can you change what's been done?" the psychologist questioned.

"I can't change anything that's been done. Of course I can't do that. I'm not Doctor Who."

The psychologist smiled, but Alex remained serious. "I can change what happens to me. I'm not a bloody miracle woman. The papers labelled me that, but I'm not. I just got lucky. If you can call this lucky."

Alex gave a short, sharp laugh. It was cold, bitter, and she noticed that the psychologist shrank back just slightly.

"Alex, are you considering suicide?"

Alex smiled, a cruel, acerbic smile, one of someone who had felt too much and was starting to go numb.

"If I said yes, you'd tell me I couldn't go back to work and have me sectioned. If I said no, you wouldn't believe me and would tell me that I couldn't go back to work, and insist on more sessions with me."

"That's not answering my question, Alex," the woman said firmly.

"You want an answer?" Alex asked callously. "I've thought about it every single day since I woke up in that damn hospital bed. I've seen opportunity after opportunity. All those damn glass vases sitting next to my bed, I just wanted to smash one and slit my wrists. But I figured it wouldn't work out. I'm the woman who lived. If I tried, I would probably sodding live anyway. No one gets it. I didn't want to be saved that day. I was almost dead. If the ambulance crews had gotten there a few minutes later, I would have been."

They sat in silence for a moment before Alex spoke again.

"Yes, I have planned a way to kill myself. But the question you're looking to ask is if I would ever go through with it." She smiled unemotionally and shook her head. "I don't think I could."

"Why not?" the woman asked. "What stops you?"

"The idea of my daughter. I stay alive for her."

The woman checked her folder. "It says that you don't have anyone that lives with you."

Alex shook her head. "My daughter's not with me. She's with her godfather. I'm alone in the world."

Realisation crossed the psychologists face and Alex knew that she thought that Molly was dead. That's what Gene had assumed. That's how it felt sometimes. She was on the other side of an impenetrable barrier, a place that no matter how hard Alex tried, she could not cross to. She had almost made it. The day she was shot in this world, she had opened her eyes in the other. But there was something wrong, and the doctors started yelling as alarms sounded. She had faded into blackness, only to wake up again in 1983, alone.

Alex glanced at the clock. The session was over. Thank god. The psychologist noticed and closed her folder.

"I don't think you're ready to go back to work, Alex," she said. "You need therapy. It's the only way you can start to move past what happened last month."

Alex gave a cold smile. "What a totally unexpected answer," she said sarcastically.

"I know you wanted to go back..."

Alex laughed. "It's the only thing I know. Of course I do."

"Even if you did go back, it'd be to a different CID, a different DCI. You'd probably be assigned to Fenchurch West."

"Better Fenchurch West than sitting at home, thinking about what happened all day long."

"I'm going to have someone come check on you," the psychologist said, writing in her notes. "I don't know if you should be home alone just yet."

"That's the problem," Alex said softly. "I'm all alone. I've got no one. Not anymore. I have no choice."

She stood, inclining her head to the psychologist and leaving the room. She walked down the stairs of the building, refusing to go near the elevator. She had stopped using them in the past month, liking the quiet of the stairs. As lonely as she felt, she didn't want to be around people either.

She walked down the street, ignoring the hustle of the thousands of people on their way somewhere. Sidestepping a group of tourists trying to get a photo, she walked into the off-licence, grabbing a bottle of vodka. She tossed the coins on the counter and walked out, never saying a word to the man, even when he asked her how she was doing. She had stopped talking to people. Everyone thought that they knew her now. She had become somewhat of a celebrity and she hated every second of it. She didn't want attention. She just wanted to be left alone by the public.

Alex walked past the darkened Luigi's. He had closed shop two months earlier, returning to his native Italy. It was odd to live above it now. She had been so used to the constant rumble of music and conversation that it seemed too quiet.

She walked up the stairs to her flat, unlocking the door and tossing her keys aside, opening the bottle of vodka and taking a long swig.

"Shouldn't do that," said a voice. "They'll think you've turned into an alcoholic."

Alex swallowed, feeling the alcohol burning at her throat. "I don't give a shit what they think."

"You don't?" the voice said. "Did you tell them that I've come to live in your flat?"

Alex turned, staring at Gene. He looked the same as ever, slightly worn out suit minus the jacket, his hair messy with one lock falling over his face. His eyes glittered brightly in the reflection of the light from the kitchen; he was sitting in the dark.

"No I didn't," she admitted.

"You're afraid of being found out."

"I'm afraid of being sectioned."

"Well, you're well on your way to going there," Gene commented.

"I wouldn't be if you would stop showing up in my flat."

Gene just propped his booted feet up. "I'm not going anywhere for a long time, Bolly, and that's all down to you. You know you could just boot me out of your flat, but you insist on keeping me here."

"I'm lonely," she said softly. "I miss you." She flopped next to him on the sofa, leaning in to him and taking another swig of vodka.

"I'm sure you do. But you're not helping yourself by staying in your flat every night, talking to me and getting pissed."

"The Gene Genie, advising against getting pissed?" she asked, raising the bottle to her lips again.

"In these circumstances, yes, Drake."

She smiled coldly at him around the bottle and drank deeply. She waited for him to snatch the bottle away, but he didn't. She knew the reason behind this in the back of her mind, but she wouldn't let herself accept it.

"You should go out among people."

"Why? All they do is stare. Don't you know, Gene, that I'm the woman who lived. I'm a miracle. I'm a survivor." She gave a fake laugh, staring at the bottle, considering taking another drink.

"Yes, you bloody are. Stop taking the piss out of what the press wrote about you. It's true."

"The only reason I'm a sodding survivor is because they shot me just right. If they'd aimed properly before they shot me, I wouldn't be here."

Gene sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You know, you're the most frustrating woman I've ever met?" he asked.

"You've told me that before," she said, unsmiling. She didn't smile anymore. If she did, it was cold and sarcastic.

"What happened to you, Bolls?" Gene asked staring at her. "You've changed so much."

"What happened to me?" Alex laughed, a true laugh, a mocking laugh. "You've got to be joking me, right? God. What happened to me? I was fucking shot, Gene. That's what happened to me."

"So? I've been shot. Loads of people get shot."

"I'm not Gil Hollis Gene. I'm not trying to drag out the fact that I was injured. I'm not using it as an excuse."

Gene stared at her incredulously. "What are you talking about Bolly? That's bollocks. You just used it as an excuse."

Alex opened her mouth furiously, but realised that he was right, much to her frustration. "I hate it when you're right," she said.

Gene smiled at her. "I know you do. And you're going to hate me even more. Because we both know that you're using the fact that you were shot to hid behind something else."

"No," she warned. "You can't say it."

"But..."

"No buts," she said. "I don't want to hear it."

"You don't want to accept it."

"So?"

"Acceptance is the first step to getting through everything. You taught me that, Bollinger Knickers."

"You actually listened," she said, taking another swig. She was quite drunk now, and knew she was only a few minutes from passing out.

"Only when you didn't realise I was listening. I did have a reputation to uphold."

"Don't," she said, holding her hand up.

"Don't what?"

"Don't refer to yourself in the past tense."

"But..."

"Don't do it!" she yelled at him, throwing the vodka. It flew against the opposite wall and shattered, dripping alcohol onto the floor. "I should just light a match and toss it there," she murmured standing to find a box of matchsticks.

"No you don't," Gene murmured, getting up.

Alex laughed sharply and looked at him. "What are you going to do, Gene? Are you going to stop me? Can I ask how you plan on doing that? Are you going to pick me up and drag me away? Are you going to tear the fucking goddamn matchsticks out of my hands and throw them out the window?

Gene just stared at her, his blue eyes glittering with sympathy.

"I didn't think so. You can't fucking control me, Gene. You can't do anything about if I decide to send myself up in flames. You know why? You're bloody dead, and I'm sodding crazy!" she yelled. "I see you every night in this damn flat, and you do nothing except tell me that I need to move the fuck on, and you shouldn't even be here! Get out! Get the hell out of my flat! Stop seeing me!"

Gene looked at her sadly. "You don't really want me out," he said. "Otherwise I'd be gone."

She lit the match. "I just want you back, Gene."

To be continued

I think this came about because my other fic is too fluffy...