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This is my Christmas offering, inspired by my favourite Christmas song and in memory of Kirsty MacColl, who died 11 years ago today. (the title of the fic is taken from Kirsty's song Soho Square and is on her memorial bench inscription.)

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One day I'll be waiting there

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'He's pissed' Calvin said to his colleague, 'Supposed to be Christmas, he promised fun and frivolity- strippers- and we're here in this old dive'

'And you believed him?' laughed Bammo. 'Getting pissed is what the Guv does best.'

They watched as Gene got his face slapped for fondling a woman's arse. He barely noticed, being so pickled in Scotch, lifting his glass and downing another, and another.

As Christmas Eve wore on bets were placed on how many the Guv would get down his neck before he passed out.

Only Calvin Brett, his DI, seemed concerned. 'He could get alcoholic poisoning.'

'Highly unlikely.' Bammo replied.

'He's not going to last another year as DCI is he? He won't survive the way he's going.' Calvin said mournfully.

'Right little bundle of festive joy you are.' Bammo said, 'The Guv's the Guv and he'll be alright.'

But half an hour later when they discovered Gene passed out cold with his cheek squashed against the tiles in the Men's toilets, he wondered if Calvin might be right.

'Let's get him home. Put him in a cab'

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Gene woke up in the cab, the music was annoying him. 'Turn it down.' he managed drunkenly.

I could have been someone -

-well so could anyone.

'You just concentrate on not upchucking in my motor.' the driver told him.

You took my dreams from me when I first found you.

'Bloody shit music, call that singing?' Gene, 'Bloke sounds like he's got his cock stuck in a vice. Woman's ok though.'

'It's a classic.' the cab driver said 'A Fairytale of New York-the Pogues and Kirsty MacColl, she's dead, been dead since the year 2000, I think it was, coming up nine years.'

And the bells were ringing out for Christmas day.

Gene, sobering up remarkably fast, sat upright in the back of the cab, 'What did you say?'

'She's been dead….'

'No - the year, what year did she die?'

'2000.'

'It's 1985.'

'Blimey you are pissed mate. It's 2009.'

Gene suddenly realised he didn't recognise the streets, the cars looked strange too, either funny little bubbly things or space age sleek.

'Where the bloody hell are you taking me?' he asked the driver.

'Home mate.' the driver grinned.

Gene saw houses encrusted with crazy over the top Christmas lights, he saw snow begin to blob onto the windscreen of the cab, since when did it actually snow at Christmas?

The driver pulled up outside a house. It was old but well kept. No over the top Santas and reindeer here, just a few tasteful white lights twinkled on a slender tree in the small front garden.

'Out you hop, Guv'nor.' the cabbie said cheerily, 'Fare's been paid. Blimey! That your Missis? You lucky sod.'

'I'm not married.' Gene said, as something constricted his finger, he looked down at a gold band, how had that got there? He looked up, the front door of the house had opened and golden light flooded out. He gasped she saw her standing there hugging herself against the cold amid the gently floating snowflakes.

'Bolly!'

He almost fell out of the cab and stood on wobbly legs staring at her. The cab took off to its next fare.

'How? When? How?' he asked.

She smiled, looking absolutely stunning in a fluffy white Christmas mohair jumper.

'They thought it was time. So did I.'

She held out her hands. He saw the ring that matched the one on his finger, and walked towards her.

They fell into each others arms and kissed long and hard. All his woes fell away.

She stopped kissing him just long enough to say, 'Welcome home Gene'