Alex had made her decision. She had to stop this pointless moping, this whinging and lifelessness that had become her personality since Gene's disappearance. If he'd managed to find a way out of this world, so could she. And how hard could it be? He'd done it in his bloody sleep!

So instead of mooching around in her flat, Alex threw herself into her work. When the interviews for new DCI came up, her name was first in line, and the only one supported by CID to be their new boss. Her hard work and determination pretty much guaranteed her the job, and it came as no surprise when she was told to move into Gene's office- even though she didn't. That would have been sacrilege.

She remained at her desk, and Gene's office stood, a silent tribute to their missing officer, only disturbed at the end of the day, when Alex tiptoed in to run her fingers over the ornaments, wipe some dust off the desk, breathe in his musky, male smell, remember him.

And when she was off work, her only ambition was to find a way home. She puzzled at astronomical charts and historical occurrences for hours, wondering which one might be her ticket back; scoured the news and papers for any clue as to her future. Perhaps it was just that she was so busy, but Gene appeared more now, as if he appreciated her hard work to find him and had decided to allow her more glimpses of his world.

She was pleased to note that he was making progress, getting on well with his mother and Max, even if there seemed to be some tension with Anne when they were left alone together. Physically, he was still tender, any quick movements causing him pain, but the doctors seemed confident of his recovery, even if he still wasn't eating.

There were also glimpses of Molly. Her daughter was a regular visitor to Gene, and through Channel Hunt she would watch her baby girl, revelling in her laugh and her quick wit, unable to stop herself reaching out to her, stroking the air above her daughter's long smooth hair. Every second of the day, her chest ached with the need to be back with them.

Every time she glimpsed them, a tiny clip of the future, she would pray that it would be her future too.

"Seriously? A prostitute? Gene…"

"Took us all by surprise, Molls. Could nearly see what she'd 'ad fer breakfast."

"She must've hated that."

"She got changed pretty bloody quickly."

Molly laughed, leaning her elbows on the bed below Gene's prone body, watching him silently as he shifted around, trying to get more comfortable. Gene Hunt was the kind of man her mother would never have wanted her to bring home- he swore, he drank and at some point in the past, according to his mother, he'd most certainly been a smoker. But despite all of it, he had a heart of gold, and from what he was saying, her mother had managed to fall for him despite the many surface faults she would have found it hard to look past.

"Did she ever mention me?"

"Talked about yer all the time. Felt like I knew yer before I'd ever met yer."

"Was she… was she going to bring you to meet me?"

"No doubt she was. As soon as it was gettin' serious, she let me know you'd be part o' the bargain. Young Molly Drake, the apple of 'er mother's eye."

Molly grinned, tracing the wrinkles in Gene's sheets with her index finger.

"Did she really say that?"

"All the time. All the time."

The beam on Molly's face grew.

"What, yer didn't think yer were?" Gene asked incredulously, staring at her. Molly shook her head silently, the smile still in place.

"Bloody 'ell. Yer couldn't be anythin' else! Yer such a precious thing ter yer mum. One of the few constants in 'er life, a brilliant young girl she adored 'til kingdom come. In 'er own words. If yer not a parent, yer can't understand, she said."

He'd been a parent, he'd found out. For one year, he'd been the parent- sort of- of Stu's son Jamie, who had needed someone else on hand after Stu's wife had developed CFS and Stu had had to work all hours to try and support his family. At the time, Gene had been taking a sabbatical, and so had all but moved in with them to care for Jamie, waiting hand and foot on the baby while Shona rested in bed, attempting to carry on working as a freelance writer and failing most of the time. It had been more like a work camp than a sabbatical, Gene had remembered, a wry smile on his face as he recalled days of little sleep and less relaxation, tending to Jamie and propping a frustrated Shona up emotionally. They'd been so grateful they'd bought his Audi, an A3 2.0 S-Line, replacing his all but completely destroyed Ford Taurus. The poor thing had broken down on its way to the scrapyard.

As soon as Shona was better he'd transferred from Manchester, exhausted and seeking new challenges from the police force. And the story went from there.

"Gene?"

Not the time fer daydreamin'. Yer got visitors, the little voice in his head reminded him.

"Yeah?"

"Evan was talking about you yesterday. Said he thinks you're alright."

"Does 'e?"

"You don't like him?"

"Let's put it this way, Molls. Yer mum might not be so fond of 'im when she wakes up."

"Why?"

"He… did somethin' a bit stupid, the day yer mum was shot. Not really related ter the shootin'." Can't tell 'er the truth yet. Wait fer Bolls ter wake up. "Course, she might 'ave forgotten, but at the same time, I'm tryin' not ter jeopardise anythin'. We'll 'ave ter see."

Molly nodded speculatively, tilting her head to one side, quietly studying Gene.

"He said something else too."

"Oh?"

"Evan said he knew a police officer with your name, ages ago, in the Eighties. Said you looked similar, spoke in the same kind of way. Were you related?"

Evan knew…

In the Eighties.

The Eighties.

"I thought it was quite cool. Was he your dad or something?"

Molly waited for an answer, looking up at Gene to prompt him when none came.

Gene was frozen in position, his eyes almost painfully wide, one hand clenched on the duvet as though it were the only thing keeping him in this world.

"Gene? Gene! Gene, snap out of it! Doctor!"

Molly started shrieking, shaking Gene's shoulder, slapping his face as Dr Simmonds barrelled in, face dark with carefully-controlled panic, and eased her away from the bed, forcing Gene's hand off the duvet and into his young visitor's.

"Gene, come back to us. It's alright, you're safe. What did you say to him, Molly?"

"My godfather knew a police officer with his name in the Eighties. I asked if they were related and he went all weird on me- I'm sorry, I swear I didn't think this would happen!"

"It's alright, Molly. Probably just the reference to the Eighties. Gene… there. Would you like Molly to leave?"

"No… need ter…"

Gene's heard was swirling with shock, everything confused, as though he'd been doped up with anaesthetic; Dr Simmonds gently pushed Molly out of the door, pulling the sheets up over Gene's chest as he started to shudder.

"Cold?"

He wasn't. Gene was trembling because, suddenly, he was excited. He now had a hope- a real hope- that he could find out the truth about all this, this coma, this supposed dream.

Maybe it was right under his nose, right here in London.

In the police records.

Ten o'clock and Alex was heading upstairs from Luigi's with a fresh bottle of wine, having spilt the last one all over the floor of her lounge when Molly's voice had come out of nowhere the previous night. She seemed to be living in a constantly over-alert state, always looking around for the slightest hint of Gene or Molly, someone from the future, something, anything. The other day she'd glimpsed a Ford Focus driving past the police station, the day before had heard a snatch of 'I Predict A Riot' on the radio. Her two worlds appeared to be merging, just a little bit, which only made her work harder than ever to get home, which in turn only made her even more alert and jumpy.

Her flat, when she opened the door, was quiet and dark, as always; she sighed, dumping her jacket on the hook next to Gene's Crombie coat and pausing for a second to deeply inhale its scent, the scratchy wool oddly reassuring on her skin. Flicking the TV on, Alex began to make some cheese on toast, putting it under the grill and heading through to the bedroom to change into something more comfortable than her painted-on jeans and sheer blouse.

Gene was sitting on her bed, tugging on his shirt, as she opened the door.

"Gene…" she whispered, moving closer, eyes wide. Something about his hurried movements, the absence of medical equipment and the frantic swerving of his eyes, made her uneasy; she stood watching him, instinctively reaching out to do his buttons up and stopping with her hands inches from him as he turned his attention to them instead, slinging a thick jacket on and giving the hospital room one last glance before standing up, heading for the door. Heading past her into the kitchen.

"Gene! Come back!"

By the time she turned, he was gone.

The front door slammed in the sudden ringing silence.

The wind bit into Gene's cold cheeks as he hurried out of the hospital car park, hands thrust into his pockets, head down. His fitness had taken quite a knock, having to be restored one step at a time, but Gene wouldn't let himself down now, not after the huge clue Molly had given him.

He wondered abstractly whether Anne would call the police. Whether they'd be after him.

He hailed a taxi to take him to the National Archives in Kew, fingering his warrant card as he clambered into the back and the taxi sluggishly joined the afternoon traffic, leaning his head against the window wearily and watching his breath steam up the glass.

"You look pale," the taxi driver said, overtaking a bus expertly. Gene huffed half a smile.

"Freezin' out there."

"Would've thought you Northern sorts were used to it," the driver chuckled, jerking his car into gear. Gene rolled his eyes. Everyone's a bloody comedian. Still, took his mind off his current situation.

His BlackBerry rang suddenly, vibrating in his jacket pocket; Gene slid it out, staring at the unrecognised number on the screen, stroking his thumb over the screen absently as he debated whether to answer. The driver's eyes were on him in the rear view mirror.

"Answer it, then."

"Not sure if it's someone I want ter talk to."

"Then turn the bastard off."

'E's got a point.

Gene declined the call, shutting the phone straight down, watching the screen intently as it turned from grey to black, the screen smudged by his sweaty hand. The custom tone he'd programmed in for Anne rang just as it turned off.

It took a surprisingly short time to get to Kew, drizzle now framing the glass of the National Archives as Gene got out and coughed up the fare; the driver knocked off a fiver as soon as he saw Gene's almost empty wallet, shaking his head and waving his hand carelessly as Gene offered it up.

"You get yourself a coffee to warm you up. I'm not that much of a bastard to nick a man's last fiver."

He drove off, leaving Gene alone and shivering outside the National Archives, feeling like a child outside their grandparents' house, scolded and ordered into their best behaviour.

"Metropolitan Police archives please, 1980 onwards," he told the young woman at the desk, flashing his warrant card as he brushed the drizzle from his hair. She glanced at it, nodding as soon as she saw the silver badge beside Gene's identification card; Gene quickly covered his name with his thumb.

"Anyone in particular you're looking for?"

"Erm… Eugene Hunt. Joined in 1980. Transferred from GMP."

"And your name, sir?"

Shit.

"Um… Stuart Drake."

It seemed to do it. The young woman smiled at him and stood up, taking a thick bunch of keys from a locked cabinet behind the desk. Her name badge caught the light for a second, revealing the engraving of 'Lexi'; Gene swallowed hard, trying not to think of how much his own Alex would disapprove of him doing this.

"This way, Mr Drake."

And then they were off, Lexi unlocking doors, Gene trailing childishly after her.

Fawn files and papers surrounded the pair as they headed down an aisle of records, Lexi looking round, Gene keeping his gaze fixed on the floor; somewhere in here, he thought, could be one of the answers to this mystery, and the knowledge only made him even more nervous, in here under a false name when by rights he should still be in hospital. He hoped that nobody was too worried about him, but couldn't kid himself into thinking that they wouldn't be.

"Right. Hince, Hinton, Hubert…"

Lexi started flipping through the files, humming idly under her breath; Gene tried not to watch her hands, instead staring up at the ceiling, swallowing hard to try and get rid of the lump in his throat.

And then the rustling of paper stopped, and he looked back at her, his eyes narrowing at the lack of a file in her hands.

"I'm sorry, Mr Drake, there's no Hunt filed here."

Gene felt like his stomach had done a backflip. No record?

"Joined in July 1980. 'E must be 'ere. Must be."

"Well, he's not. One second, Mr Drake."

Lexi held her bunch of keys up, pressing a button on the fob. A red light by the entrance turned on.

"What's your real name, sir?"

"Eh?"

What? Shit!

Lexi looked pityingly at him, slotting the files back in and turning to face him fully.

"Your real name."

Shit. Shit double shit. Shit!

Gene stared for a second longer, and then bolted for the entrance, skidding to a halt as two security guards blocked his way; his stomach surged with pain, and he couldn't help doubling up, gasping as the guards grabbed his arms and began escorting him out, moaning at the horribly warm sensation of blood trickling down his side. Lexi caught up, ferreting in his jacket for the warrant card, holding it up to the light and opening the flap, a frown on her face.

"Detective Chief Inspector Gene Hunt. This is a valid warrant card… so why did you lie about your name, DCI Hunt? And why would you be looking for someone of the same name in 1980?"

The guards dumped Gene into a chair, taking no care not to be rough; he bit back a groan of pain, clamping his hand over his side where he was sure he was bleeding, trying to disguise it as a stitch from running.

"Perhaps you lied because you're supposed to be in hospital. After being stabbed. Is that true, DCI Hunt?"

Backed into a corner, Gene suddenly didn't have the strength to do anything but nod.

"I'm sorry, DCI Hunt. It was in the news, I thought I recognised you but it didn't click until the record wasn't there. I'll call the Royal London and tell them where you are. I'm sure they can arrange some transport for you."

"I'll make my own way back."

"I can't let you leave this building until I know you're safe. The guards will restrain you if you try to leave. Keep him there, boys, I'll get on the blower and let you know when someone's coming to pick him up."

The two guards nodded, both turning their intense gazes back to Gene as Lexi headed off to her desk, flipping through the phone book to find the Royal London's number.

Gene rested his head back on the wall, ignoring the curious gazes of the people around him, and exhaled one long, deep breath, letting the failure fill him, suffocate him, cloud his vision with defeat.

Eugene Hunt had been nine in 1980.

The question Molly had given him remained unanswered.

A/N: Reviews mean love, as I don't seem to be getting many of them. Come on, people, please? Just one teensy weensy little review? Please? *on knees begging* Now you have to review. This floor's wood and my knees are hurting. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed. Jazzola :D