This is a pretty bleak little story so if angst's not your thing then perhaps give it a miss. It's just something I need to get off my chest before returning to some calmer, happier waters. It's rated M for some pretty mature themes. I hope you at least find it interesting.

Thanks are due to Lucida Bright for advice and expertise. Don't blame her though – it's all my fault.

Long way home

She sees the bullet flying towards her before she hears the gunshot. The force knocks her backwards and she raises her hand to her head, feeling blood but no pain. She wonders briefly whether she'll ever be able to get the mess out of her curls.

The bullet is making her feel faint, dizzy. She raises her eyes to the man with the gun. He is standing over her, looking at her with anguish. She is fading. They both know it.

The life is draining out of her, flowing onto the floor of the filthy, sodden barge. The gunman crouches next to her and runs his hand along her cheek. His touch is sensitive, softer than she'd ever believed. He leans closer, murmuring, "Goodbye, Alex."

Her eyes flicker closed but she gathers all her strength to reply. She whispers, "Goodbye, Gene."

A harsh white light, so bright it's almost deafening. An endless journey, floating upwards, cold and alone. Emerging as if from underwater, she sucks in a breath, blinking and disorientated. She forces her senses into action. Hears a machine beeping. Smells antiseptic. Sees – sees – "Molly!"

She wants to shout but in her weakness barely manages a whisper. No matter. It's enough. She reaches a hand out to her daughter. Molly, grinning, dazed with happiness, leans in to take it. Finally, they touch, and –

Alex's eyes snapped open. It was still early – she could just make out the first glimmers of dawn filtering through the blinds – and she was sitting upright in her bed, fingers clutching at the sheets, trying to regain her breath. Her heart was racing, thumping painfully in her chest, and a film of sweat was clammy across her body.

Every night since her parents had died she'd been haunted by nightmarish visions of her father as the clown, laughing as the flames consumed him, glorying in his victory over Evan and the destruction of his own family. She'd begun to dread going to bed at night, knowing that her sleep would be fitful as her unconscious mind processed the horrors of the explosion, and she'd taken to delaying bedtime as late as possible to avoid having to confront the nightmares.

Her waking hours were punctuated by harrowing visions of her mother, shrieking at her husband's betrayal as her hands clawed at the molten windscreen, and of Molly, accusing her of letting her down, of failing in her quest to return home. Her nerves were shredded as she tried to push through every day, surviving on adrenaline and coffee and red wine, running in ever smaller circles as she sought the answer to whatever puzzle her mind had set as the key to set her free.

But this evening's dream had been different. She was sure this was it. She was sure she'd found the key. She knew was going home.

Too excited to go back to sleep, Alex dressed quickly, busying herself cleaning her flat, picking up laundry, washing plates and glasses, dusting and putting things away. She wanted to leave the place tidy. It felt as though she'd swung a hundred-and-eighty degrees, from utterly despairing to uncontrollable buzzing, fizzing with energy and optimism, and she hurried across to the station as soon as she thought he might be there.

She was the first one in. Undeterred, she began sorting through paperwork, humming to herself as she wrote little notes for her successor, flung unnecessary forms and files into the bin, dropped spare stationery on her colleagues' desks.

Every time the doors opened her stomach twisted over but it wasn't until mid-morning that he finally arrived. By then Alex was beside herself, desperate to see him, like a child awaiting the arrival of Santa Claus. He barrelled into the squad room, a stack of paper in one hand and a mug in the other, head down, striding straight into his office. He'd barely sat down before she burst in, all lipgloss and hairspray and high heels.

Terrific, he thought, saying wearily, "I've got a pile of paperwork the size of Nelson's Column to sign off on and the Super's breathing down my neck for a result on the Co-Op blag in Cowslip Street. So whatever bee you've got buzzing in your beret, Inspector, do you think it could wait until after lunchtime?" At least then, he thought, he'd have had a drink to help him deal with her.

Lately, in the weeks since she witnessed the Prices' deaths, she'd been acting even more bizarre than usual. She was highly strung and hyperactive, chasing after the flimsiest of leads, working all hours but lacking her previous direction and focus. She was acting like an overexcited kid and he was growing tired of babysitting her.

"Guv," she started, sitting herself on the edge of his desk, trying to rein in her nervous energy. "I need your help."

Gene gave a start. "You need my help, Bolly?" He looked around the room, theatrically. "No, the world doesn't appear to have stopped turning. Funny, I thought it would."

"Gene, please," she admonished, feeling the tension within her increase. "This is important."

He looked at her. Her eyes were glinting with excitement but her gaze flicked from one spot to the next, unable to settle in one place for long. Her hands were fidgeting, first with her blouse, then her hair, a pen she'd picked up. Her feet were drumming against the back of his desk. He could feel a headache coming on. "Go on then," he muttered reluctantly. "Out with it."

"Well, we're going to go to the river. To a barge." She could sense his scepticism and rushed ahead before he could question her, insisting, "There are answers there, Gene, I'm sure of it. I need to go and I need you to come with me."

"To a barge on the river? Why on earth?"

"You're going to have to trust me on this one, Gene." She leaned closer, trying to smile seductively, knowing his weakness, hoping she was holding it together enough to exploit it. "I'll be very grateful."

The thing was, he knew he was being exploited, knew she was just playing him for the benefit of whatever crazy scheme she'd cooked up this time, but even having full possession of this knowledge, he couldn't find it in himself to refuse her. After a mere peppercorn resistance he found himself driving out towards the Isle of Dogs, trying not to notice the way Alex was bouncing in her seat like a puppy who'd just heard the rattle of the lead.

She'd hardly shut up during the whole journey, gabbling on about working it out, staying in control, going home, seeing her daughter, making everything all right again. He hadn't understood a word and had stopped listening after a while, concentrating on the drive, on getting there as fast as he could so they could get back again before anyone got suspicious about their latest wild goose chase.

She directed him to pull up alongside a party boat, moored on a short pier in a deserted stretch of the river. "This it then?" he asked, wondering what on earth she could want from such an unlikely spot.

Nodding, she was about to get out of the car when she paused, holding herself still for what felt like the first time in weeks. After a moment she turned to him and put her hand on his arm. "I just wanted to say…" She swallowed. What did she want to say? "Thank you. And I'm sorry."

His brows drew together in confusion but before he could ask what she meant she was out of the car and skipping towards the pier, making her way along the gangplank, crouching through the low doorway and into the boat. "Bloody hell," he thought. "Things she has me do." He followed her, reluctant, grimacing as he walked through the detritus from the previous night's party, streamers, fag ends and empty beer bottles. The floor was sticky with spilt drinks and the air heavy with smoke and dust.

"What's this all about then, Bolly?" He squinted towards her, watching her pace back and forth, muttering under her breath, oblivious of him. He took a step towards her, concern beginning to take root.

"Alex," he called, sharply this time, "tell me what's going on."

Her head whipped round, as if she was surprised to find him there. "Gene! Yes. You see, the thing is, this is where it happened. This is where I was shot. This is where Layton shot me."

Gene's confusion increased as Alex resumed her pacing. She continued, babbling, "He was going to shoot Molly, you know, he took her hostage before me. But it wasn't really Molly he wanted, it was me. He wanted to use me, to blackmail someone, Evan I suppose, although I don't know that for sure."

Gene tried to put a hand on her arm, hold her still, get her to slow down. She shook him off. "You're not making any sense, Bolly," he said carefully.

"Ha!" she cried. "For the first time since I got here, I'm making perfect sense. I know what I have to do now. I know how to get back to Molly."

"I don't understand, Alex," he said, trying calm her and buy some time. "Can't you just go for a visit? Why is it so hard to get back to her?"

She stopped her pacing and stared at him, eyes blazing in the gloom. "Of course I can't just visit her, 'Gene'. She's twenty-seven years away. She hasn't even been born yet." Turning on her heel, she began marching again, one side of the narrow cabin to the other then back again, leaving Gene to look on, bewildered.

"I saw it, Gene. Last night. It was like a dream but clearer, a vision maybe. I know what to do. But I can't do it without you. I need your help."

"You know I'll help you if I can," he said quietly. "Let's talk about it. I'll buy you a drink or seven and we can work out what to do. Come on, come with me. Let's go." He wasn't sure why but he knew he wanted to get her out of this place, off this stinking boat.

"No way, Gene. This is where it happens. I'm not leaving here. Not without Molly." She paced over to him, standing close, putting her hand on his chest. She forced herself to calm down, knew that this was her only chance and she had to get it right. She needed him now, had to persuade him to do what she wanted. "I know this is going to sound odd, Gene," she whispered, smoothing her hand down his chest and across his ribs, pressing herself against him. "You," she continued shakily, hooking her fingers around the gun in his holster and pulling it free, "are going to have to shoot me."

"What?" He pulled away, wondering what game she was playing now. She held his gun out to him, desperation suddenly evident on her features.

"You have to shoot me." There was no mistaking it. Gene ran his fingers through his hair. One of them was going crazy here and he didn't think it was him.

"Come on, Alex," he chided, "this isn't a game. What do you really want?"

A bubble of hysterical laughter escaped her lips and the arm holding out the gun wobbled slightly. "You can't hurt me, you know. My existence here isn't real. You're not real. You're only here to guide me through it, to get me back to Molly. Well, this is how you do it. This is the final act. You shoot me, just like Layton did, and I die here and I live in 2008 and I finally get to go home."

He felt a tightening in his guts as he tried to make sense of her words. He'd often failed to understand her in the past, of course, and some of her madder moments had given him pause, but he'd always been able to write it off as eccentricity, part of what made her Alex. This, though, this was more than just eccentricity. She was scaring him.

"You can't…" he began, hardly even believing he was having to say the words. "You can't possibly expect me to…" He gestured vaguely towards the gun. Wouldn't say it.

"Please, Gene," she pleaded, all enormous eyes and trembling lips. "You have to do this for me." He was her damned construct. Why wasn't he doing what she wanted him to do? Her need to get home, to get back to Molly, was consuming her, blinding her to everything else.

She stood in front of him, shaking with emotion, the gun still gripped in her unsteady hand. He wanted to make it better, to fix it somehow, but he had no idea where to begin. Was she having some sort of breakdown? He didn't know much about psychology but he knew enough to recognise when he was out of his depth. She needed help, professional help, way more than he could give her.

"Jesus, Alex," he replied, "you're a psychologist. You must know that this isn't right." His voice softened slightly. "Alex, love. You must know that, of all people, I couldn't possibly pull that trigger on you. Christ, I'd rather shoot myself." He was only half joking.

She took a step towards him, trying to put the gun in his hand, her eyes begging for his understanding. "You can do it, Gene. I know you can." She paused, needing this more than breathing. It didn't matter what she said, anyway. It wasn't real. "If you love me," she whispered, "you'll do it."

Gene felt the world dissolving around him, leaving nothing but him and Alex and the gun she was pressing into his palm. All these months he thought he'd been hiding, and she'd known all along. She'd known that he'd do anything for her. Almost anything. Anything but this. "No, Alex. It's because…" He broke off, struggling for the words. "That's why I can't."

Alex felt the breath being pulled from her body and she dropped to her knees, muttering, pleading, until she finally understood that she couldn't control him, that he wouldn't do this for her. Sobs were wrenched from her body, her shoulders slumped as she choked out her despair. He tried to comfort her, a hand tentatively on her arm, but she pushed him away. She was so utterly convinced that this was it, that this was how she'd get home, and now it'd been taken away from her and she was inconsolable. It was unthinkable that she'd have to continue in this world without hope of returning to Molly.

Gene looked on helplessly. It tore at him to see her so broken, so many miles from the poised, elegant, self-contained DI he'd grown to… He wiped his hand across his eyes. Her agony was evident from the snot and the tears, the sobs and the pleas, and it was breaking what was left of his heart. He tried again to reach her but she reared and spat and pushed him away.

She stared up at him with hate-filled eyes. "You said you went where you were needed," she accused. "'I'm everywhere,' you said. 'I was needed and I was there.' Well, I need you now, Gene. I can't believe you've let me down."

He turned away briefly, seeking some relief from the sight of her so distraught. He had no idea what to do next, how to help her recover, he only knew he'd give anything to make it all alright for her. He was turning back towards, about to tell her not to worry, that he'd be there, that he'd solve it all if only she'd let him, when he heard the shot. Reaching for her, crying no, it took him a moment to realise he was too late.

Gene had seen enough bullet wounds to know there'd be no recovery from this one. Logic deserted him, though, and he tried, instinctively, to put her back together. He held on to her, calling her name, begging her to stay with him, cursing her for what she had done. His own guilt, his pain and anger, would come later. For now he was numb and all he could do was cling to her, cradling her in his arms, telling her everything he'd been unable to say before.

He wasn't sure if it was minutes or hours later but eventually he loosened his grip on her lifeless body and reached for his radio. He stayed at her side until the ambulance crew arrived to collect her, lifting her onto the gurney, pushing her slowly back along the pier. Stumbling after her, he watched as her body was loaded into the ambulance and driven away. He reached the car and sat blindly in the driver's seat, waiting for the local uniform to arrive, knowing he'd have to give a statement. He thumped at the steering wheel, slowly at first then harder and faster, kicking at the pedals, shouting himself hoarse, until he collapsed in the seat, drained, silent tears coursing across his cheeks. It was over.

xxxxx

In the private wing of a north London hospital, a girl sits at her mother's bedside, tightly holding her hand. She's been waiting for days, ever since her mother was shot, for a sign of life but there's been nothing.

Alex's eyelids flicker. This is normal, the doctors tell Molly. It means your mother is dreaming, remembering. Nothing to worry about.

Beneath Alex's closed eyelids, she sees visions from her pasts. She sees her parents die in an explosion. But this time, it's not her father morphing into the clown but Arthur Layton, who's standing on the sidelines, his white painted face splitting into a grotesque grin as the flames lick at the sides of the car.

Alex sees herself on the barge, trying to talk Layton out of shooting her and failing.

She sees Molly, standing on a bridge, catching a kiss.

She sees the gun in Gene's hand, his look of despair as she's begging him to shoot her.

Then she sees something else. Not a memory this time. Gene holding her, saying goodbye. She feels warm in his embrace; contented and finally at peace.

She wants to cling on to this feeling, savouring it even as it vanishes, replaced by a chill that runs from her temple through her body, to the tips of her fingers and toes. Another new vision. Layton is laughing at her, asking, "What did you do that for, Alex?" He sneers, looking down his nose at her. "That wasn't the way to do it. You had to get him to do it. Now you'll never get home, Alex." The words echo through her, mocking the emptiness she's feeling inside. She tries to block him out but she's too weak to resist. "Two worlds, Alex. Two eras. You're dead in both of them."

In the hospital room, the regular beep-beep-beep of the monitor gives way to a monotonous drone. It's over.

The End