A/N I've been bitten by the bug here! Really wanted to keep on writing so here's ther second chapter of the day. Enjoy ! Thank you for your kind reviews and if you have a moment, I'd love to hear what you think of this story so far.

MBRB'xoxo

I do not own Ashes to Ashes.

Kicking off her shoes, Alex padded into the kitchen as she rubbed her eyes and temples. It had been a long day in which there had been a series of robberies reported. The usual stuff really; elderly peoples' homes being targeted, valuables and money being taken. She was sure that it was a couple of teenagers with nothing better to do and in need of a little bit of extra cash. Theoretically, it should be an open and close case because teenagers really were skilled at leaving evidence, especially when there were multiple victims. But no. Stacks and stacks of paper had to be filled in. Form upon form upon form. It really was ridiculous and sitting in her office all day talking instead of doing had worn Alex out more than she even thought possible. Whatever happened to the days when the police would have been sent out and pulled the little shits in straight away? Case closed. With another heavy sigh, Alex lifted her head and pulled a half empty bottle of house wine she had brought from a pub the night before on her way home. Glancing around in search of a glass, she realised she really couldn't be bothered to be civilised and instead, raised the bottle to her lips. There was noone there to judge her anyway. Molly was, once again, at someones house - whose was it this time? Jasmin? Yasmin? Alex lost track of them all – so she could relax and just lounge around. But first, some music to cover up that horrific silence she was becoming all too familiar with. Picking up a small remote, she pointed it at the sound system in which her Ipod sat and pressed play. Immediately, the dulcet tones of Alison Moyet began to play and 'Only You' filled her kitchen.

All I needed was the love you gave

All I needed was another day

And all I ever knew

Only you

She smiled again as the electric tone music washed over her and she took another swig from her wine bottle and swayed slightly in time to the song, humming along to the words. Molly hated all her 'old person' music that she listened to but Alex loved the classic late 70's and early 80's tunes and played them on a regular basis. They all seemed to be connected to a happy memory of her mother and father, or a bittersweet memory of Evan. Sweet Evan, trying to raise a young girl on his own. Alex smiled softly and let out a little laugh as she thought back to her childhood. She knew that she hadn't been the easiest of children at times and she could be positively dreadful on occasions, but he had always done his best and tried to raise her like his own. As Only You faded and Ashes to Ashes by David Bowie began to play, Alex rolled her eyes at the irony. The song that she would always associate with her childhood. Fabulous. For years she had been completely unable to even listen the opening bars of the classic song. It had been just too painful. But as she had got older, she had come to love it. She had tried to remember all the times her Mum and Dad had played the cassette before that dreadful day. How her Mum would grab her hands and dance with her as they sang the song at each other.

I'm happy. Hope you're happy to.

Eventually, Alex had been able to remember the day without breaking down in tears and she would listen to it on repeat, replaying the song and the memories in her head.

A red balloon. A bang. Heat. A hand. And then…well, then not much. She could remember the hand that grasped hers anchoring her to the floor as her balloon –and her whole world as she knew it – drifted into the sky. After that she remembered the surreal feeling of being a bit like a chess piece; being picked up and put in which ever place she needed to be, doing what she was told to do, floating through the next couple hours of her life like it wasn't real or like she was in somebody else's world. Nothing had really made sense. She remembered seeing a whole group of people who she didn't know but trusting them with her life. And all the time, that hand had been there. Evan's hand. But she had been sure that Evan had been in front of her? Her jumbled memories placed him in front of her and not beside her in her chessboard world. So how was he holding her hand? It was something that had struck Alex many years ago and she had always been frustrated at her memory for jumbling and confusing things. But in the end, she always put it down to shock. Seeing your parents blown to pieces is, after all, a little traumatic. But she'd got through it. Somehow.

Back in her current time, Alex switched off the music, picked up the bottle of cheap pub wine and made her way up the stairs and into her bathroom. Putting in plug and beginning to run a steaming bath, she placed the wine down and walked into her bedroom next door to take off her light makeup and strip out of her work clothes. Her pure white blouse landed on the deep red silk sheets of her bed, making a stark contrast causing Alex to pause and consider hanging the blouse up so it wasn't creased. But she eventually dismissed the idea of moving the blouse deciding she didn't really care if it was a little rumpled, it was always hidden under a smart fitted blazer or coat anyway. The trousers of her trouser suit were soon roughly folded and put on the bed next to her discarded blouse and a dressing gown wrapped around her. With her hair still in a ponytail, she picked a makeup wipe up and walked into the bathroom, scrubbing at her face. She hated this part of the day, when she had to inspect her face in the mirror. When she had to notice the scar on her forehead and remove all the concealer and foundation that she tried to cover it with. She didn't really know why she even tried to hide it, everyone in the local policing area knew about Alex Drake; shooting victim. Victim. She hated the word. When she'd had to stand in court with Layton and everyone had been oh so sympathetic. When she'd been given so many therapists to talk to, so many people to 'support' her, the word was always there. 'This is Alex Drake, she was the victim of a very unfortunate shooting', always said in such a quite tone as if that would make it better. As if they didn't say it loudly, maybe she'd forget she'd turned from Alex Drake; one of the METs finest coppers to Alex Drake; victim.

And then of course there where the lines that were slowly being added to her face. The lines around her eyes and the deepening frown lines on her forehead. It was only to be expected really, she was of course growing older, but she couldn't help partially blaming her increasingly lined face on the stress of tying to recover. Stress of fighting with everyone. With herself.

She remembered sitting in that inviting leather chair with her first shrink.

'Now Alex, this session is me getting to know you really. I'd like to know if there is anything on your mind or anything that you need to talk about. It can be quite traumatic to … fall asleep… and wake up seven months later.' Yeah, traumatic. That was the word. But it wasn't what had happened to the world that was traumatic, it wasn't that things had gone on without her and the world had kept on turning. No, it had been what had happened to her while she lay in that bed in that hospital room. It had been the mural on a wall, the western posters, the black and white sofa and the hair. She remembered talking and talking to this small man who sat before her taking notes in the most condescending of ways and nodding at her as if indulging a small child in her fantasies. As Alex eased herself into the steaming water, she tried to remember what it was she had been saying to him, what she had told him but once again, the memory was all but gone. She had since read the notes he had made, demanding that she be able to see them when he had told her he would need to hand her to a more 'advanced' and 'experienced' psychologist. She remembered reading his words a couple of weeks after their first session and it being like she had been reading about a different person.

…Seemingly complete memories of leading another life. Thorough and detailed descriptions of 'him' and 'the A team' as well as accommodation and numerous places she apparently frequented…

….Rapidly 'forgetting' her constructs, details of specific cases and people are becoming blurry…

…Becoming frustrated and occasionally bordering on hysterical when unable to 'remember' faces, names or characteristics and mannerisms….

She had seemed crazy but she distinctly remembered believing what she was saying. She knew she was telling the truth and that what she was saying had happened and she would not accept that it hadn't. But they had slipped away from her; the faces, the people, the memories. And now if she tried to conjure anything, she couldn't. Most of the time, she even tended to forget that she had even spoken about this other 'world', or indeed that she had ever believed in her stories. Now, on the very very rare occasion, she would begin to tell a story and then as she tried to remember it, her memory would become fuzzy and it would slip through her fingers, leaving her to say 'never mind' and dismiss it with a slight frown.

By the time she had been passed to the third psychologist, she would speak about her troubles at home or at work. She would speak about how she was coping with her life and the struggles she was having with Molly growing up. At first it had been a conscious decision to not talk about the 'others' when they did occasionally pop into her head, but then she found they had slipped away and she couldn't talk about them even if she wanted to – their memories weren't there for her to talk about anymore.

As she lay her head against the back of the bathtub, she took let out a sigh and tried to just stop thinking. Enough of psychologists and the past, this was a time for lying in the comforting water and relaxing. Taking another sip of the red wine from the bottle, she grimaced. Note to self Alex; Stop buying this house rubbish.