Chapter 1

Alex stood at the bedroom window watching out over all the nearby houses, their curtains drawn and households still sleeping.

"All those people," she whispered under her breath "none of them know yet. They still have to find out."

She turned around and walked slowly back to the bed where she crawled back inside, pulling the covers around her as she shivered. It wasn't really cold, perhaps just a little chillier than usual where the warmth of the summer had all but passed. But it was the shock that had made her feel so cold; the shock of living through the death all over again as well as the shock that she had forgotten it.

"Here. Get your lips around this," Gene reappeared with two mugs and placed one into her waiting hands.

"Thanks," she said quietly.

He climbed into bed beside her and reached around to switch off the radio as it began playing yet another instrumental masterpiece. Alex was glad of that. If she had to hear the blasted Independent Radio News announcement one more time she was going to scream. Instead Gene grabbed the remote control and switched on the TV. The sight of rolling news across BBC 1 and 2 was strange and eerie.

"So it's really true then?" He asked.

Alex nodded slowly.

"Yup," she whispered. She blew softly at her coffee before taking a small sip and closing her eyes. Something was worrying her deeply and she had to express it. "Gene? Why didn't I remember?"

Gene turned to her, a little confused.

"Bols, look at the year we've had," he said grimly, "wouldn't expect you to give me a daily rundown of current affairs."

"But this is different," Alex shifted her legs to edge closer to Gene as her eyes stayed fixed on the black-tie presenter on the screen, "you'll never see anything else like this in your lifetime."

"Been here a long time," Gene said and took a slurp of his coffee. He looked at Alex quite seriously, "things are going to slip yer mind. Besides, what would you have done if you'd remembered? Sat me down to give me advanced warning and sang me three verses of the national anthem?"

"No… I don't know," Alex gave a half-hearted shrug. She supposed it was fair enough, she wouldn't have known how to tell him.

"Besides, you're not the only one from the far and distant future, Gene continued, "no one else thought to give me a royal snuff warning either."

"Gene!"

"Well they didn't!" Gene took a gulp of his coffee and wiped his mouth on the dust sheet, "Batman could have fired off a warning. I would have expected Shoebury to give me a heads up at least."

"Simon spent more than a quarter of the year in a coma!" Alex reminded him, "he probably doesn't even know what day of the week it is, let alone what day of the year!"

"Yeah, well," Gene reached across Alex to pick up the cordless phone, extending the aerial about half a mile, "we'll see won't we?"

"We will?" Alex frowned, "Oh no, Gene, please tell me you're not going to –"

"Shh, I'm dialling."

"Gene, you can't!" Alex protested, "it's not even seven in the morning yet! Please tell me you're not calling Simon."

"The man needs to hear the news," Gene told her.

"Not from you!" cried Alex, "not at…" she checked the clock, "six fity-five on a Sunday morning!"

"He's been asleep for three and a half months, one early morning won't kill him."

"You're a cruel man, Gene Hunt" Alex told him, but as she fell silent and waited for Gene to begin berating Simon for avoiding the topic she couldn't stop her mind from going back to one fact; the thing that was frustrating her and worrying her. How the hell could she have forgotten something so important? And if she'd forgotten the biggest news event of the 1990s then what else had disappeared from her memory?

~xXx~

No.

The phone wasn't ringing. It couldn't be ringing because Simon was perfectly happy sleeping. Robin's couch was surprisingly comfortable and he wasn't going to move. Not for anyone.

The ringing, however, seemed to disagree.

Simon felt his slumber being slowly dragged away from beneath him until he had to admit that he was wide awake and his dreams were slipping far behind him. He groaned and opened one eye. His mobile phone was sitting on the coffee table along with a glass of water and a half-eaten donut. With a groan he reached out and fumbled around for the phone. It was somewhat bigger than his old beloved iPhone but at least technology had reached the stage where a phone would fit in his pocket without needing scaffolding to keep it there. He blearily pressed the button to take the call and held it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Shoebury, you ignorant anti-Royalist arsehole!"

Simon didn't even question the greeting.

"Morning, Gene," he mumbled, "why are you calling me at…." He glanced around and tried to see the time but as always the clock told him the same lie it had been telling him for almost 2 years. "Fuck… at some ridiculous hour, I'll bet."

"Almost seven, Simon."

"Gene, what the fu…" Simon propped himself up a little, frowning deeply, "it's Sunday!"

"Yer on a month's sick leave, not like it's yer day off."

"No, but it is Robin's!" Simon protested, "You could have woken him up!"

"That's why I called yer bloody mobile one," Gene told him and Simon sighed. He sat up straight, if a little stiffly, and rubbed his eyes.

"Alright," he mumbled, "I'm awake. What do you want?"

"The reason why you didn't tell me that fairy-tale," said Gene."

"What fairy-tale?"

"The Princess and the Paparazzi."

"The what?" Simon frowned but quite suddenly the pieces fell into place and a deep sinking feeling hit him inside. "Oh no… Gene, what day is it?"

"A good day to be a florist," Gene told him and Simon swallowed. A shudder travelled through him as he scrambled for the remote control and switched on the TV. Channel 4 slowly came into focus; a still image of a field of flowers broadcast with a caption of Diana's passing over the top. "Shit no," he whispered, "not this."

"You could have warned me this was a day to 'Di' for..."

"Gene!" Simon flinched at the most tasteless joke in history, "look, I've got to go."

"You're too soft Shoebury!"

"Not because of your joke," Simon said somewhat crossly, "which, by the way, you're going to be toasting in the fires of hell for…." He shook his head, "I just have to go, OK?"

"No! Not OK!" Gene began but before he could say anything more Simon had cut the call and laid down his phone, breathing heavily. A feeling of dread settled over his shoulders as he glanced across at the door to Robin's bedroom. "Oh shit," he breathed, "now I've got to tell him."

Simon hung his head as he thought back to a day many years earlier, back before he and Robin had a romantic history, when they were just friends – good friends – who would run into one another in a local nightclub. Robin was only 17 and his fake ID served him well while Simon was at university and just starting to really live his life. Over any months they'd gotten to know one another but Simon had his first real look into Robin's tragic past the week after the death of Diana.

Robin's absence from the club had been notable all through that week. By the Friday Simon was starting to worry. They'd swapped numbers once but never called each other until that night when Simon became worried. Thinking Robin might have been unwell, he called him.

Robin was fit and well but his head was a mess. The sound of tears on the line had made Simon worry all the more and he trawled through the telephone directory to find his address. It was the first and only time that Simon went to Robin's foster parents' house as a teenager. Until then he didn't even know that Robin had foster parents. When a distressed Robin answered the door he fell into Simon's arms and cried until he had no more tears left to give.

Simon had initially been confused by Robin's insistence that he was upset by Princess Diana's death but it wasn't Diana he was mourning. For almost 2 years he'd disassociated himself from the death of his mother. It was the only way of coping. The national mourning had helped him to finally confront and release his own grief. Simon had a feeling that it was the same for a lot of people. Diana's death made tears and grief acceptable suddenly.

That night, Robin told Simon the story of his mother's murder for the first and only time. He shared a little about his abusive father, the trigger song that set him off and how he'd rebuilt his life. Simon had always known that Robin only gave him the barest details but he couldn't have expected any more than that.

Simon knew that, in the long run, the chain reaction caused by Diana's death had been a positive thing for Robin's progress but in the short term it had shattered him, and now Simon had the job of breaking the news to him that it was happening all over again.

"Shit."

He had only been out of hospital for a couple of days and had been grateful for Robin taking him in. The two of them had been getting on better than they had since Robin's death and they were both grateful for that. While Simon still harboured some hurt from the way their relationship had ended and Robin still had some reservations about Simon's temptation to push for another try at their relationship the bond they had was becoming a solid friendship. Both were glad they had found that much stil remained between them.

Simon pulled himself off of the couch and took a few slow, pained steps towards the kitchen. His body was stiff and frail where his muscles had weakened over time. He knew that he would regain his strength in time but for now everything was frustrating him. He switched in the kettle and sat down while it boiled, thinking sadly about Robin's reaction the first time around. Shit, how was he going to take it this time? Was he going to be fine or was he going to flip out? It wasn't as though Robin was in the best frame of mind as it was.

The kettle finished boiling and Simon set about making two strong coffees. He thought about topping them up with the kind of substance that Gene would approve of but he'd only been there three days and hadn't discovered where Robin kept the alcohol yet. He gave a very deep sigh and knew that he couldn't put it off forever. The sooner he got it over with, the better.

He picked up the coffees and very slowly walked from the kitchen, through the lounge and finally to Robin's bedroom. He already felt tired and weak. Fuck, that was pathetic. Making two coffees had exhausted him like a day's work. He took a deep breath and padded quietly through the darkened room where he placed the two mugs on Robin's bedside cabinet and softly sat on the edge of his bed. He stared at Robin's face, still peaceful, deeply asleep. This wasn't news that Robin was going to want to hear, but he had to get it over with. Softy he laid a hand on Robin's arm and gave him a gentle shake.

"Robin? Hey Rob."

"Hmpf, huh? What?" Robin mumbled, his eyes barely opening.

"Robin," Simon said sombrely, "time to wake up."

Robin turned over and pulled the duvet over his head

"No it's not, it's Sunday," he uttered.

Simon drew in his breath and peeled the covers from Robin's hand.

Yeah," he said quietly, "it is. It's… it's Sunday… the thirty first of august," he swallowed, "two thousand and seven."

For a moment nothing happened, then Robin very slowly turned over in bed, his eyes opening wider with realisation. His face seemed to turn three shades paler on the spot.

"Oh no," he whispered, "Shit it's not… it's-"

Simon nodded slowly.

"It's come around," he said quietly.

Robin closed his eyes as he started to feel a sense of nausea in his guts. He knew now. And he wished for all the world that he could go back to forgetting.