A/N: After posting the prologue (chapter 1) we realised that would then class our chapter one as 2 and so on. We mean for this chapter to be Chapter 2, so please attempt to follow our numbering system.
It was getting late. Dan stared unblinkingly at the clock above the door, before letting out a breath of air. 19:55. The pain in the back of his neck was beginning to get unbearable now; despite the ache that had been present throughout most of the day, the pain had grown steadily worse over these last couple of hours.
The day itself had been simple enough: a relatively uncomplicated crime and subsequent clean-up, held together by a couple of painkillers and several cups of coffee.
Dan hadn't seen much of his DCI after their 'meeting' that morning; he'd spent most of the day holed up in his office, staring into space and occasionally sipping from a glass of whiskey.
He couldn't really find it within himself to care today. He was confused, puzzled and in pain, still trying to work out what he truly thought about Gene Hunt. The four things didn't marry together very well he decided, and therefore he was left perplexed about the man holding up the department.
After assisting his new team in solving the crime, Dan had spent the rest of day actually getting to know them. He still didn't know how the hell he'd ended up in 1988, if that really was where he was, not some sort of practical joke made to mystify him, but he figured that these people were nice enough. They weren't Emily though…
Scott Woodall seemed really pleasant; a friendly DC who Dan knew had the capacity to work his way up the ranks quickly due to his natural flair. His Detective Sergeant, Allan Lloyd, was excellent at making quick decisions and Dan was glad that he had his experience on his side. WPC Evelyn Baxter, or Lyn as she preferred to be known, was the ever-present glue that held them all together: she might have been slightly under-appreciated by the more senior members of CID, but Dan was sure that without her, the close-knit department would fall apart.
Rubbing the back of his neck, Dan was drawn out of his reminiscing by a sudden stabbing at his nape. His eyes widened at the paroxysm of pain and he fell forward, head slumped on his desk. With another twinge of his muscles he involuntarily let out a gasp that stuck in his throat, making him choke.
The image of a sneering man with close-cropped hair floated to the front of his pain-fuzzed brain. Malone. The hatred rushed through his veins, making his head pound wildly and he let out a gasping cough. The image of the pavement rising up to meet him filled his consciousness and he spluttered madly, before opening his eyes sharply moments before he collided with the ground.
DC Woodall looked in his direction at the third strangled cough that was emitted from Dan. He registered the white, shaking form of his DI drooped across his desk and jumped quickly to his feet, hurrying over to him.
"DI Hartley!" he cried as he lifted him, helping him to sit up. "What's happened? Are you okay?"
Dan mumbled something unintelligible, but after noting Woodall's panic-stricken face he managed to give a short nod, hoping to reassure the young man.
"Lyn!" he shouted across the room. "Can you get the DI a glass of water? Now!"
After a couple of sips, Dan trusted himself to speak.
"Thank you Woodall, Baxter," he managed with nod towards them, not quite sure what to call them but deciding to stick to surnames; that was safe he reasoned.
Lyn simply nodded back shyly and made her way back to her desk, piled high with paperwork.
Scott smiled fractionally, the remnants of panic still etched on his face.
"You don't look well Sir, if you don't mind me saying so," he muttered concerned. "Do you want some help getting home?"
Dan was about to politely decline, but then the realisation that he didn't actually know where his home was in this place hit him. So he simply nodded and allowed Scott to help him up and begin to manoeuvre him towards the door, deciding to figure that bit out while they were on their way. He just prayed that his DCI didn't see the pair of them leave the room: the way he was leaning on Woodall would most probably result in some sort of rude and inappropriate jibe directed at the young DC if he did.
He'd gotten back to his flat easily enough with Woodall's help. To Dan's surprise it was his flat, the one that he'd occupied for many years back in 2010, while he'd been completing his training and beginning work in CID. He hadn't known that it'd been built before the 1980s and even though it was shabbier than he remembered, he was still glad it existed; it meant at least one constant in this strange new world.
He at least felt a bit better now. The throbbing in his neck had reduced considerably and the pounding in his head was only minimal. Dan stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror above the bathroom sink, noting how pale he looked. Tentatively he ran his fingers over the nape of his neck, puzzled as to what had happened in 2010.
The only conclusion he could come to, helped along by the hazy images earlier, was that Malone had stabbed him with something. The bastard. Dan had known he couldn't be trusted. He had known that Malone killed Eva Robinson. He had known it, he trusted his gut instinct. But apparently that hadn't been enough for his namby-pamby, 'must have forensic evidence' DCI.
If he'd just trusted me this once, Dan seethed, I wouldn't be in this bloody mess. I'd be at home, in 2010. And Malone would be banged up; he'd have no more victims; another criminal would be stopped; the streets would be safer again.
He pounded the sink angrily with his fists, ignoring the stinging pain that shot through his fingers upon impact with the grubby, cold porcelain.
The fact that he could feel the object, feel the pain that it delivered, puzzled Dan slightly. He couldn't understand how 1988 felt so real to him. He'd only been five when he'd experienced it the first time around, so he couldn't understand how his imagination, if that's what it was, (it couldn't be real could it?), could create something so hugely realistic and just so completely 80s.
Staring at his pallid reflection in the cracked mirror, he positioned himself so that the spindly shards criss-crossed over his face, distorting his features. He sighed loudly, before voicing his fears to the warped reflection in front of him.
"Is this real?"
