Hi there! This is my first fanfic -pls be gentle. Thanks for reading.

It all belongs to Kudos/BBC - no copyright infringement intended - except for all the mistakes they are mine - its unbeta'd

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Bolly. Bolly. Bollllyyyy".

She could still hear his frustrated voice echoing through the hospital monitors. They fuzzed, the white noise now hissing painfully in her ears.

Her breathing was coming hard and fast, panting. It was all slipping away.

Everything flashed out in a blaze of blinding white light except for the figure standing in front of her.

"Molly. Mols"

The small figure turned around, in pigtails and a red gingham dress clutching a large troll doll.

"Do you like my birthday shoes Mummy?"

She glanced down and saw ruby slippers flashing silver as Molly in what seemed like slow motion brought her heels together.

Click.

Click.

"There's no place like home," Molly whispered.

Click.

It was that dream again. She was falling. Black silk and red satin twisting around her in the endless space as she struggled to grab hold of something, anything.

***

She came back slowly, her weary body relieved to have something solid beneath it, a bed at least. Her eyes fluttered, slitted. It wasn't the bright lights of the hospital, but a dim cosy glow.

Her eyes adjusted to the low light levels, and she let out a long slow breath.

It was her room, her bedroom in the house before it all happened. Where she had been so happy before everything happened. The explosion, her parents dying, her world being turned upside down and inside out.

She looked around, soaking in the charming details of it all. Her pink stereo, soft toys and books that she'd loved as a child. She was wearing a girlie white nightie. She plucked at the soft material and sighed. Still not real, still not home, still somewhere in between. She grasped at another thought of where she should be but it slipped away.

She rubbed her forehead as her other hand grasped at the book lying on the bed next to her. She gripped it hard, knuckles going white. Narnia – the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

A tear slipped out, almost burning as it tracked down her cheek. Hadn't she been through enough already? Not ready to deal with that memory yet again in some unknown place, and she willed herself to let it go and go back to somewhere, anywhere that at least existed in more than a dream.

"Alex".

"Mummy".

Alex stayed still, afraid to move unless the apparition disappeared.

Caroline Price moved towards the bed and sat down. Alex mercifully felt the bed move and shift as she did so. She gingerly reached out a hand towards her mothers face, hesitant.

"Come here Alex".

Alex threw her arms around her mother and the torrent of tears began. For not being back where she should be, for Molly, for everything that had and hadn't happened.

Finally they broke apart and Caroline gently wiped the tears from her daughters face.

"I'm so glad I could be here for you, Alex".

"But where is here?"

"That's the trick then, isn't it. I can't tell you everything. I know who you are to me now and I can help you a little."

"Where am I?"

"You are where you need to be. Safe. Do you remember what rooms mean in dreams? Different aspects of the conscious mind. You are here because you need to heal. You haven't had an easy time of it my dear. You need some down time."

"But I was going back, going back to Molly?"

"You were and you weren't. You always such an impatient, brave and stubborn child, Alex." She smiled warmly at her daughter. "I am so glad that I got to see the woman you have become. But you need to be patient. It all takes time, that's what this is about."

"Then, was it all real?" running her fingers through her hair – damn - still layered.

"Yes and no" Alex huffed in frustration. "I can't help but speak in riddles. You are not ready to go back to either time at the moment. The past where you ended up originally when you went into a coma is not the true past but it is related – an alternative reality if you like. What happens in that world though, does have consequences, it does bleed through to what you think is reality. They are not all your constructs, Alex" Alex brow frowned in confusion. Her memory felt patchy, blurry like she was seeing it through textured glass.

"Can I get back to Molly?" Alex pleaded for the dream of her daughter. It seemed like it was further away than ever.

"That's up to you. This is your mind, your puzzle to solve. You'll be given a piece at a time. When you are ready you will be offered a choice". Caroline put her hand up to Alex's lips to stop her immediate answer, and then reached out to take her hand. "Take your time to figure it out Alex. It is all relative here in your mind. Just remember – everything here is significant". Alex saw her mother smile and squeeze her hand, and as quickly as she appeared her mother had gone.

***

"Everything is significant," she said as she prowled the confines of her childhood bedroom. She had tried the door, once then twice, harder beating her fists against it futilely until the pain in her side and head made her stop. Acceptance – she had to accept that she was here until the powers that be decided she could make her decision. It was stupid, it was as crazy as travelling back to the 80's while she was in a coma. Why not – her life had been a roller coaster ride since. She wished she'd asked her mother more questions, but sensed that her mother had said all she could.

"Okay then why am I here?" the room was still softly lit – bedtime. It was always a treasured time, a time when she could have her father to herself. Her father, her breath caught. It still hurt. She'd existed back in time, throwing herself into her work, her other life so she didn't have to deal. Maybe this room was a place where she could work through what happened, without distractions. She was after all so easily distracted. She picked up the book she dropped before, finding a folded piece of paper. It was a picture the young Alex had drawn, a sadly familiar clown, with pointed hat, holding a bunch of red balloons. She wanted to crumple it, rip it, tear it to shreds. No, she sighed that was the easy way. Anger at her father would not help her now. It surprised her, the strength of it. She'd thought she had worked through her feelings about the death of her parents as an adult and as a child. Twice – she'd been through hell twice. Then inspiration struck – there was something else significant in this room – her diary.

She stumbled over to the other side of the room, still feeling weak. Taking the white book out from its hiding place, she wandered back to the bed and began to read.

By the time she had finished the tears, again were rolling unbidden down her cheeks. She had forgotten. Forgotten how much she had truly loved and adored him as a child. The diary was full of all the wonderful things they had done together, and although he was dedicated to his work – he was also dedicated to his family. That is where his hurt stemmed from – this absolute devotion had no room for anything other than the perfection of the family unit he had placed on a pedestal. No shades of grey – all or nothing. That is what he had chosen in the end. When the white was marred by the affair it became black and he had condemned them all to the void. She had only been thinking of him just as the sad angry clown as an adult, hadn't moved past it. As much as she loved him, she knew she couldn't emulate his thinking. Her father was not all white or black – he was shades of grey too. So much for the big brained psychologist she thought. That is why she was in this here in this room.

She put the diary of her younger self back to its hiding place, unsure of what effects on leaving things out of place in her mind would have – if that is where she was. There was a reason why it was her Mum had been sent to her. Had to trust something if she wanted to survive being in a coma in 2 places. She picked up the Narnia book again when another piece of paper fell out. She smiled – it was rough picture of Aslan the lion. She traced the wild mane lovingly, then hissed in pain as the sound of roaring echoed through her head, piercing her skull. No – not ready yet. Her breath came in deep gasps as felt rather than saw Molly in her red dress in the corner. The picture fluttered to the floor.

"You're not ready to open all your presents yet Mummy," Molly smiled.

Click.

Click.

Click.

It was the smell that struck her first in this place. Smoke, booze and garlic, fighting with each other to be the most prominent. That, and the little bit of drool that threatened to escape from the corner of her lips.

She slowly lifted her head from the bar taking in the red and cream stucco walls and wood panelling. Italian restaurant? The name felt fuzzy and complicated on the tip of her tongue. Luigis – she remembered now. She turned half expecting to see her favourite Italian with a ready smile. Construct? That word again. The trattoria was empty, but the glass in front of her was full. How ironic. She clutched the stem, whirled then sipped the wine slowly – delighted to discover it wasn't the house rubbish. She tentatively wiggled off the barstool and placed her feet on the floor. She felt better stronger, better – that was good – yes. So was the wine.

She turned to see if the bar was truly empty and caught her reflection in the mirror at the back of the bar. The truly scary bow in her hair and diamante earrings – Ah the eighties at its worst. She looked down, piece of puzzle sliding into place. Yes she remember going shopping for this outfit, and how much fun it had been. She ran her hands down the very gathered emerald green dress. It was strapless and hugged every curve, coming to rest mid thigh. There were gloves and a wrap to match somewhere. Tart. Where did that word come from? Shaz helped. Yes that it – she was going to wear it to Shaz and Chris's wedding. Then all it came flooding back. Ray, Chris, Shaz and the team. Yes this is where they all came after work to drink, to fight to wind down after the stress of the job. She had thoroughly enjoyed working back then. Some of the methods of policing were of course were madness, but they had made a difference together as a team. Different from where she used to work in the future, it seemed that you never saw the rewards for your work. You were disconnected from those you helped.

She placed her glass back on the bar. Her head was aching again, rubbing it she saw the trattoria door which led upstairs to her flat. Yes she would go there and lie down. She opened the door only to find a blinding white light. She pushed her hand through its incandescence. It disappeared. No good. Off limits then. She staggered back to sit at the table in the corner, next to the mural. Unsteadily she placed her palms on the laminate, the fake marble veins blurring and twisting.

"Careful Bolls. That formica was honed from the hills of Florence," a male voice said out of nowhere.

With a muffled sigh, her head dropped to the table with a light thunk.

Click.

Click.

Click.