A/N Quick one-shot, set post S2:E8 and in a world where Gene is having to live without Alex. It's been a depressing weekend all round so this is a tad dark...

End Refrain

"Just do it!"

He hesitated for a long moment, his gaze flickering between Alex and Jeanette and his finger hovering over the trigger, wanting to take the shot but unable to do so. His DI looked pretty pissed off but what the Hell did she expect him to do anyway? He'd been waiting for Alex to use her psychobollocks to try and talk Jeanette into dropping her own weapon but instead her words had only reeked of desperation. He didn't have the time to question her motives any further as, with the help of a swift elbow behind her, Alex escaped Jeanette's clutches. The action took both himself and Jeanette by surprise, the latter stumbling backwards and firing blindly in his direction. Reacting in a manner that would come to haunt him, he instinctively ducked out of the way of the stray bullet, his finger somehow contracting over the trigger of his gun in the process. As soon as he'd heard the hammer strike he'd known exactly where his bullet was heading and that he could do nothing to stop it. He could do nothing but watch it spin slowly towards her.

Gene awoke with a jerk, the sudden extrication from his nightmare just as unsettling as its contents had been. For a few disorientated seconds he still thought he was back there in that park, his gun smoking in his hand and his Bolly falling on to the cold hard ground, and the guilt lanced its way through him accordingly. It continued to cut even when his head had cleared enough to register the pain that resided there and the truth of his surroundings. Half lying, half sitting on his sofa he squinted against the bright sunshine that had quietly breached the blinds and invaded his living room albeit with heavy casualties; the light hadn't been strong enough to wake him, only she could do that. He rubbed tiredly at his eyes with his one free hand, the other trapped between his body and the sofa, but in the darkness that his eyelids provided he only saw her again, could only recall how the light in her eyes had slowly faded away in front of him.

Yanking his hand away from his face and tearing his eyelids open, he scrambled at the arm of the sofa in an attempt to sit himself upright. His head complained noisily at the movement all the way until, sitting at last, he rested it against the back of the sofa and the incessant pounding finally quietened down to a gentle thrum. Exhaling quietly he let his eyes adjust to his surroundings once more, pulling himself back into the present and away from her. It was becoming a regular occurrence now, that bloody dream about her. He'd had much better, positively x-rated, dreams about her - why couldn't one of them haunt him instead? He smiled briefly at the idea, at the memory of the things he'd done to her - and the things that she'd done to him - in those dreams but then frowned. He'd struggled with those dreams even back then, when he'd been able to see her the next day and had then spent its entirety knowing that he couldn't really have her. Those dreams would be worse now, now that he could never have her. And it was all his own doing. It hadn't been intentional, it had been the last thing that he'd wanted, but that didn't make him feel any better about the way it had all ended.

"I'd thought I'd lost you."

He swallowed down the painful memory of her whispered confession, a statement given willingly to him in an interview room at a time when he'd thought that he'd always have her by his side, a time when he'd never entertained the thought that she was following a completely different path to his own. Slumping forward he rested his head in both hands, elbows digging into his knees. Ahead of him on the table, amongst the old newspapers, his cigarettes and lighter, and his gun, sat a bottle of whiskey, an empty glass at its side. The sunlight that had managed to make its way into the room hit just one object, gently caressing the bottle and its contents, causing it to glow like a beacon. It was the brightest thing in the room, in the entire flat for that matter, though that wasn't too difficult; his home was sparsely furnished and he'd never once decorated even though the previous owner's tastes were so far removed from his own. Drab was the perfect adjective for where he lived and it fit his life now, too. He'd never much liked the place, only taking it on for its proximity to the station and the low rent. And he'd rarely spent much time in it anyway, until now; it had always been more like a hotel to him, albeit one where no-one bothered to let themselves in to make the bed and change the bath towels. He'd never invited anyone to come back here and no one had ever visited him either, certainly not these days but not even before...

He quickly shook away that thought and concentrated on the whiskey, on his salvation. He'd already downed a good percentage of the bottle in an attempt to help him forget, a tactic he had tried almost every night since he'd lost her and one that had never really worked out for him. He persevered with it because the only other option, the only other way he could think of to find sweet oblivion, was to go down a road that held a fatal end; he was blissfully ignoring the fact that he had just chosen a much slower route to the same end. Sadly the only thing that his pathetic endeavours had ever given him was a few measly hours of relief that he probably didn't deserve and an almost permanent hangover. Both things took the edge off his situation but only for a short while. Reaching forward he sloppily poured out a measure of the amber liquid. Depressingly, it was about the only thing he had left in this world.

"Tell me, do you ever get lonely, Gene?"

Picking up the glass he knocked back its contents quickly, trying to wash her - and her perceptively recalled comment - away but she stubbornly remained, having made herself at home in his thoughts a long time ago. He didn't want her there, he wanted her here with him, flesh and blood rather than memories, but he only had himself to blame for that loss even if no one else did. Sometimes he wished that he had been punished for what he'd done because at least then he would have had something to rail against, a sense of injustice that would be sharp enough to cut through his despair and keep him fighting. With exoneration he was just sinking, ever further, into self pity and loneliness and he didn't really care how far down he sank. It had all been so different after that day, the day he had lost something so very precious to him. He was different. He couldn't quite remember how he'd managed to live before her, without her in his life. He must have done, of course - it just seemed like it had been another lifetime, another world, away and it was a world that he couldn't seem to find his way back to even though he knew that he was already living in it. Somebody had changed the curtains and wallpapered whilst he'd been distracted by her and now he didn't fit in anywhere in this Alex Drake-less world.

Pouring out another generous glassful he wondered exactly how long it would take to drink himself to death. Probably longer than he could stand but it wasn't as if he had much else to occupy his days with. He had no family, no friends outside of work and he certainly didn't have his job anymore - he wasn't the sort of copper the Met needed or wanted. Early retirement they'd called it as they'd pushed him quietly out of the door. Under the circumstances he supposed they had a point and that he couldn't really argue. He'd tried to of course, he'd put up a fight of sorts but word had already got round by then, the glances and whispers every time he'd gone back to the station had been proof enough of that. They all knew. The people that had stood beside him during the immediate aftermath had gradually slipped away, he'd made sure of that. His blazing anger had made sure of that. They just didn't understand and how could they? Oh, they'd listened to him, had nodded their respective heads in understanding, had offered endless platitudes that had only made him want to lash out physically but they didn't really get it and until it happened to them they could never truly understand.

"I know you can't possibly comprehend it, but I did."

Sighing, he gulped from his glass again and screwed his eyes shut. The absolute worst thing of all was that she'd been bloody right all along and not just about the blag. All those strange comments she'd made, phrases and terms that had always seemed eerily familiar to him but he'd never been able to place, he had just chalked up to eccentricity on her part. He could never have believed her back then, of course. He'd been so certain of his place in the world, so sure of himself that she could only sound like a fruitcake and not just to him but to everybody else too. It wasn't until he'd lost her did any of her ramblings start to make sense, did he realise what she'd been trying to tell him all along. But by then he'd started to think he was quite possibly nutty himself - the doctors in the hospital certainly had, as had the psychologist the Met had foisted upon him before they'd taken away his warrant card. And the only person who would have thought he was sane was nowhere to be found.

Opening his eyes he stared blankly at the table. He'd searched for her, naturally; if she was real then he hadn't really shot her and he could still get her back. But she hadn't existed, none of them had: not Ray, not Chris, not even Sam. They were just, and he'd laughed bitterly as the psychologist had told him this, 'constructs'. People, and places, that he'd made up whilst unconscious. He knocked back another mouthful of alcohol, his ensuing sigh falling into the now empty glass. He still couldn't remember the car accident that had put him into a coma in the first place but he could clearly remember that other lifetime. And he could remember her; he could never forget her. The last time he'd seen her she'd been lying unconscious in a hospital bed and it had been his haste to escape being seen there that had led him into the path of an oncoming car. Another 'construct' but one that had sent him hurtling back into this world. Into a world that had no place for him. Into a world without her.

"Gene..."

He threw the glass onto the table where it skidded along the surface towards the barrel of his gun. His gaze stayed, a little unfocussed, on the metal object. He was determined not to take that way out but it suddenly occurred to him that maybe another 'accident' would take him back to her. And he wanted her back. He rubbed his eyes again, his thoughts muddied by the alcohol, the lack of sleep and her before slowly reaching out for the weapon with one hand. It was a crazy idea, he reasoned as his fingers brushed against the handle. Pulling the trigger wasn't going to send him back to her but what did he really have to lose? He held the gun in his hand, the muzzle pointing upwards and his finger hovering over the trigger, wanting to take the shot but unable to do so. In his head he could hear Alex calling out to him.

"Just do it!"