A/N: Here it is, finally. the chapter with the letter. So sorry it's taken so long, but I went on holiday (saw Brandon Flowers, performing Playing with Fire, which this story's based on; it was A-MA-ZING). And then I suffered from severe letter writer's block, and was banned from the computer and...anyway, excuses. But here it is now, I really hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Disclaimer: I don't own Ashes to Ashes, unfortunately

Here is a link to 'Drops of Jupiter' which I used lyrics from in the previous chapter. I recommend listening to it, it's amazing .com/watch?v=KhJA0CRpaJA

"Layton," repeated Molly. She could have kept quiet and walked away; after all, there was no doubt that this man would have no problem killing her, as he had her mother. But she was sick and tired of just being the lost little girl that needed protecting, and she was sick of feeling completely helpless to the mess her life had become. She wanted to do something, investigate, live on her own terms, even if that meant dying. The dirty, rat-faced man in a long, grey coat turned round to face Molly, smirking behind his big shades as he did so. Molly gulped. For all her internal 'big talk', she had been unprepared to come face to face with the man who had murdered her mum.

"Molly Drake. Long time no see." He stated this in a perfectly ordinary voice, but nevertheless, it was a voice that sent shivers running down Molly's spine.

"What are you up to, Layton?" she asked in her bravest voice, trying to stop herself from shaking. "Why are you back here?"

"Why are you here?" he asked suspiciously. Molly glared at him. "Don't look at me like that." He said dangerously. Too late, Molly remembered he didn't like being stared at. "How's your mum, Molly Drake?" he asked, sniggering. That was the last straw for Molly. She launched herself at him, hissing, spitting and scratching like a wildcat backed into a corner, never mind the consequences. However, Arthur Layton, scrawny as he was, was still much stronger than a 16 year old girl. He soon overpowered her, twisting her arm round her back and pulling her head back by her long, dirty blonde hair, then pushing her down to her knees.

"Ow, you're hurting me," Molly complained, but stopped immediately when she heard how futile and childish her words sounded. "This is all your fault!" She yelled. "Everything!"

"Oh, I don't think so," said Layton smugly. "I'm just a monkey, doing the organ-grinder's dirty work."

"Wh-who's the organ-grinder?" Molly choked through the lump in her throat. She was going to die, she knew it, and it was all her fault for thinking she was anything other than the stupid little girl everyone treated her as. Layton didn't answer her; he was too busy tying her up. After he had finished, he straightened up and turned around, and Molly almost sighed with relief; he wasn't going to kill her now, just leave her here, Evan would have raised the alarm so in a few hours' time she would be rescued. But it was when Layton bent down to something else; a small electronic box with a digital time reading on it in red, which Layton set to 2 minutes; that Molly realised her relief was to be short lived. "Wh-what's that?" She stuttered, already knowing in her heart what it was.

"Bomb," said Layton shortly, and the lack of expression on his face was scarier to Molly than any leer or evil grin. Molly began to struggle against her bonds, but they were far too tight; there was no give in them. Layton was, unfortunately, a professional. She began to cry and scream out of sheer anger, frustration and fear. Layton didn't take any notice, just turned and stalked out. But before he left the room, he twisted on his heel, to torture Molly one last time, with one word: "Evan." He then walked out without a glance back, just a caustic cackle. These were the last sounds Molly would hear, over and over in her head, until the timer had counted down to zero, then there was a flash of blinding light. Then everything went black.

Gene finished reading the letter, and sat back, in shock. Okay, so obviously he had known that there was a lot he didn't know about his D.I., but he had never imagined there was that much. He wasn't even sure he believed half of it. But he had to. Somehow, the events of the past few days had made it impossible to doubt the truth of Alex's letter, whereas if he had read it when she had first given it to him (or, indeed, a few weeks ago) he would have dismissed it as the delirious ramblings of a crazy D.I.

Dear Gene, the letter had read

I'm writing this because I think that, soon, I will finally be able to go home. They've got the bullet out. Please don't read this until I've gone. I'm very much expecting all of you to open your letters before, nosy buggers that you are, but please Gene, if you've started reading, stop now. Because, unlike the others, I'm going to tell you everything, and I don't want you mocking me for being a mad old bat, or worse, reporting me to D&C or something.

Anyway, the truth. Where to begin? Well, I suppose I should start with where I come from. At this point, I imagine you're probably thinking 'Bloody hell, does she come from Mars or something?' in your slightly pathetic, overly sarcastic tones. Well, I don't come from outer space Gene, but in fact, the truth is, in some ways, a lot stranger. I come from 2008. The future. Yes, you read that right. I was a D.I. in 2008, then I got shot (by Arthur Layton, as it happens) and somehow ended up here. Probably because I was working on Sam Tyler's case, so I assimilated his fantasies – that's what I thought when I first came here, at least, although now I'm not so sure. But anyway, I woke up in 1981, on the same boat I was shot on, dressed as a prostitute. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Or it is for me. All of it. I thought I was here to save my parents, but it turned out this world, or time, or whatever it is, had more in store for me than I could ever have guessed. You remember Caroline and Tim Price? Of course you do, they caused us enough grief last year. They were my parents. I know you probably won't believe me, but think of this – that little girl that you saved, her name was Alex, wasn't it? That was me. You saved me, but I didn't realise, until I saw it the second time, from another perspective, that it was you. Gene did remember, and what's more, he believed. He remembered telling young Alex "Bye Little Lady. Any problems, you just call the Gene Genie." And, unknowingly (subconsciously, Alex would have said), she had. And he had another memory; holding the little girl Alex, with her crying head buried in his jacket, moving, almost dancing with her as the exploded car burned. And another memory, one that cut Gene right to his core, that stripped him of his Manc Lion tough-guy front, and reduced him to that 19-year-old boy in man's clothing, dancing with a girl...holding her in exactly the same way as he had when she was just a girl, her head leaned into his shoulder, face tilting towards his...Gene shook himself out of that painful memory, and turned back to the letter.

I always thought it was Evan, but it was you. You saved me, and for that, I will always be grateful, Guv. Thank you, for looking after me when I thought all hope was lost. And thank you for doing it time and time again, here and now, for being that ever-there presence, for always being stubborn, reckless, bigoted and positively Neanderthal in your attitude and your methods, but for always being there. For getting my arse into gear when all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and die, and go home, because I know now, that is the only way I will get out of here; by carrying on, by staying strong.

I wonder whether I'll see you when I wake up. The others, well, I'm pretty sure that they're just fictitious constructs created by my mind; but you; your presence is so strong, you are on every corner, in every dream- Gene blushed then, and Gene Hunt never blushed-you must have some sort of physical presence in my reality.

I could bombard you with more truths that are unbelievable, about Peter Drake (that 14 year old boy from a few months back) being the father of my daughter, Molly. I can't wait to see her again, Gene. It's her birthday. She's 12 years old, and she's beautiful. My beautiful girl. Long, dirty blonde hair, deep brown eyes, and a little birthmark on the side of her face that I call her beauty spot. They've got the bullet out, and I will see her again soon, and I need to. I'm starting to forget her face, I've realised, writing this, describing her to you. What kind of terrible mother am I, Gene, forgetting my own daughter's face? Oh Alex, thought Gene, you weren't a terrible mother. You kept on fighting to get back to her until the very end. He wished he could go back to that past Alex, that 1982 Alex, and tell her...tell her what, he didn't know, but he had behaved appallingly at the time.

"You know, it's just struck me how cold you are, Drake. You say you have a daughter, but you never see her, never try to contact her..." She had slapped him then – he had struck a nerve, and now he knew why. He had tapped into the worries, the doubts the internal battle and hatred in herself. He held his head in his hands. He had deserved that slap. He had deserved more than that. He deserved everything he got now. Bloody hell, Alex, Gene thought. I'm so sorry.

The remainder of the letter simply said,

I'll never forget you, Guv. Keep being un-bloody-breakable for the both of us.

Thank you and goodbye,

Alex