Disclaimer: I do not own Ashes to Ashes or any of its characters. This is merely my take on their awesome world!

This was it.

Gene's hand shook and he felt a shiver run down his spine as he grasped his phone, Layton's words wringing in his ears,

"I got a piece of your past, standing right here in front of me. Tim and Caroline Price's daughter."

And then he had heard her voice, "How'd you know my parents?" She had sounded so scared, though with that same defiant snarl that he had come to love.

His initial response was to yell down the phone, to pursue this maggot and rip his innards out.

"You coward Layton," he had wanted to scream, "let her go this minute you bastard or I'll personally see to it that you never see the light of day again!"

That was what he had wanted to shout.

In reality, however, he knew it would do no good. This had to happen. Alex Drake HAD to be shot by Arthur Layton, HAD to wake up in 1981- he STILL had no idea what that was all about- and certainly HAD to meet DCI Gene Hunt. Silently he cursed Chris Skelton for ever persuading him to watch Doctor flipping Who that time- it had got him thinking- paradoxes- what if Drake HAD been telling him the truth? What if she HAD been shot by Arthur Layton and awoken with him in 1981? And what if she didn't get shot, would that then create a paradox? Gene had no idea. All he did know was that he couldn't take any chances, and he couldn't face the idea that the DI would never know who he was. That was what had hurt the most. And so, with all of this confusion still spinning in his brain, he took a deep breath, still unable to believe what he was about to do.

"You don't scare me Layton," he growled, hoping that the abject terror that he felt inside was not quite so apparent in his tone, "I don't respond to threats."

"Well that's your choice," came the rasping reply before the phone went dead.

*~*~*~*

The DCI had not seen Drake for a number of years, though he had often scanned newspaper articles for any news of the DI, driven by a tiny part of his brain that could not quite let her go. He had wanted to believe her, that she had been telling him the truth all those years ago. Even when the scars were still fresh, he had found it hard to fathom that after all of their discussions and smoky evenings spent in Luigi's, that she could have had such disregard for him as to fob him off with such a blatant untruth. He had read of her graduation from Hendon, her exceptional performance in Langley, with the CIA, and had always scanned the birthday mentions in the local papers for any messages either to or from her, desperately quashing any desire to send her cards or greetings. No. Alex Drake knew nothing of Gene Hunt when she had arrived and that was how it had to stay. That was what the Doctor always said anyway.

"Ta very much Chris," he had muttered as he forced himself away from the birthday cards in Clintons.

And yet, after all this time, no mention of any shootings. He was not too late.

*~*~*~*

Now, as he scrabbled around his home for coat and shoes, his mind was filled with just one big question: How the hell was he going to find her?

Police training had kicked in from the off as he considered all of the evidence and any allusions she had made to places or people. Two particular things had stuck in his mind. One was something that had arisen from his many and frequent mildly frustrating conversations with Luigi, the little Italian still never having quite gotten over the loss of such a beloved customer and always enjoyed a reminisce about the times they had spent together. During one such discussion, into which Gene had only ever entered half heartedly, and only ever when there was no one else with whom to nurse a pint- emotions were so not his thing- the proprietor had mentioned something strange that Alex had once said to him- about having been "found...down by the river..." At the time, the DCI had dismissed it- they all knew what Alex could be like- especially when she had had a drink- and her colleagues had given up taking any notice of her random outbursts- but, in the months following, he had thought more and more about it.

What was more, it backed up one of his own suspicions. When Drake had made her little 'confession' to him, she had said something which had stuck in his mind all these years- "I woke up here, with you." Maybe, just maybe, she was shot- or, at least, would be shot, in the same place that they had first met all those years earlier- the London Docks. His head buzzed with all of this supposition- how could he be sure? However, supposition or not, it was the only lead he had and so, without further thought, he made his way to the Docks.

*~*~*~*

Pulling around by the river was very surreal, with a touch of déjà-vu for the old DCI. He did not altogether remember why he, Chris and Ray had been making their way to the area on that fateful day all those years ago, but he did vividly remember the sight of DI Alex Drake dressed as a prostitute in front of the old warehouses. WDI Bollinger Knickers was born. Would she be meeting him now? His head began to spin again. He really didn't understand any of this. Best to keep it simple.

He peered around frantically, knowing that every second was vital if he was going to save his former colleague, though he had no idea where to begin.

After several hours of frantic searching, Gene had still found no trace of the DI- the river really was a bloody big place- talk about needles and haystacks. It was getting late now and, having called for police back-up several hours earlier, the former DCI was now surrounded by nervous looking plod, slightly shaken by Gene's barked commands. He really was not good at dealing with stressful situations.

"You alright there pal?" a Scottish slur came from behind him.

Gene whirled around to catch sight of an elderly looking man, the tell-tale signs vagrancy very apparent in his appearance, standing a few meters away, watching him with interest. Now, normally, Gene preferred to keep himself to himself and do things on his own. However, since this situation was far from normal and four eyes were better than two, Gene decided to seek help.

"Listen, I, um, I think someone might've been shot around 'ere somewhere an' I need to find 'er," he muttered, blushing slightly. "You 'aven't seen any one 'ave yer?"

"No, sorry pal," the Scot replied, shaking his head, "I'll help you look though, shall I?"

Gene nodded, deeply grateful for this kind gesture, though uncertain how to, and uncomfortable about showing it. He couldn't do this on his own.

It had been a couple of minutes, with Gene pacing around the bank, looking for any signs of a scuffle, when there came a cry from inside the barge,

"In here, pal, I think I've found something,"

Without even thinking, Gene tore down the gangway and into the barge, where a terrible, yet wonderful sight met his eyes.

The vagrant was kneeling over the body of a young woman, talking soothingly to her,

"It's okay pretty lady, you're breathin'," before turning to Gene, "She needs an ambulance, have you got a phone?"

Gene nodded, absently, his eyes glued on Alex. What had they done to her? Her face was covered in blood and the bullet wound in her forehead was horrific. Gene felt hot, nausea searing through him. Was he too late?

"Here, I'll do it," the little man replied softly, having noticed Gene's shocked expression. Gently, he removed the DCI's phone from his hand and made the call for the ambulance, Hunt, for a second, unable to move.

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