Chapter 14

"Aren't you going to let me in? You were so hospitable before."

The smile curving his mouth was subtle, sparking greater in his eyes which were darker than previously. She blinked furiously, her mouth once more unable to form speech.

I must still be dreaming. That's the only possible explanation.

How else could it be that Martin Summers was standing at her door?

"You're...I saw it happen." Her words had been recovered but they were emerging in a jumble, mixing with her thoughts, full of confusion and dread that crept slowly, infecting what she believed had been cured. "You were shot. You died. I saw it."

"Well, I know there's the phrase about seeing being believing but I don't think it applies when it comes to you. Not with all that going on in your head. I feel your pain, Alex, I really do. But then, I've also found the cure."

He stepped forward without invitation, before she could think to slam the door in his face. It was as though her brain had come to a stand-still, too baffled to comprehend what was happening as well as being crippled by the incredible pain she had felt. With his appearance it had started to rise up again.

"Don't look so confused," he said, almost empathetic. "You must have known that I was going to come back, that it wasn't going to end there."

"I don't...I don't understand. You're dead."

It wasn't an illusion. She knew what she saw, what she smelt and experienced. The body on the ground, life ended within the space of a few seconds, the gun that had killed him pressed to her temple.

The horrific thought occurred to her. Had the dream she had not long experienced been a glimpse of heaven? A heaven that could not exist, torn from her grasp to be replaced by something that was much more fitting for her demise.

"Am I dead?"

There was a breath of silence before Summers chuckled. "No, Alex. You're not dead. You've got to stop coming back to that." He paused, walking closer towards her instead. She took steps backwards, desperate to be out of his sight. "What is it you're always telling everyone else? Think."

Oh, she was trying. But every thought – even the most outlandish amongst them – led her back to the same place.

"I'll help you out then," he said, his tone far from generous. "They never found an ID, did they?"

"No," she began. "But I thought that was because you were from...because you'd stopped existing here." By his own volition.

A smile stretched upon his face. "You see, Alex, that's the trick. I don't have an identity any more. You can't kill someone who doesn't exist."

"Did you...?" She was too fearful to say it, lest it turn the same way for her.

"Die, in 2008?" He finished the sentence for her. "Yes. There was too much trauma, I was never going to recover. It happened the same night that I turned the gun on my younger self. Purely coincidental. But it had an up side. Meant that I became invincible."

She shook her head, horrified and perplexed by the notion. "That's not possible."

"You have your gun?"

She shook her head again.

"Ah, that's a shame. It would have come in useful. Never mind." He reached into the inside pocket of his long coat, pulling out a shooter. "Calm down. I just want to prove it to you."

He raised the barrel to his head, finger poised on the trigger. Her scream covered the sound of the gunshot and she shut her eyes instinctively. There was silence, that terrible smoky scent filling up her senses.

"Open your eyes, Alex."

His voice was still there but that could have well been a figment, conjured by her broken and brittle mind.

Sure enough when she looked again he remained, appearing a little younger if anything.

"What do you want?" she questioned, unable to keep the shake out of her voice. She still wasn't sure whether she wasn't hallucinating this entire encounter, that notion making much more sense than an invincible, unperishable Summers. "You've got your revenge. Carnegie's career is over. Your disgrace has become his."

"It'll never be enough," he said, his tone cold and emotionless. "Do you have any idea how far the poison reaches? They infected everywhere. All of us. I know where I belong now. Where I should have been all along."

"Tell me, then. Let's talk about it."

His smile wavered. "It's a bit late for that. A bit late for you as well. The poison's in you, Alex. You couldn't help yourself."

He lowered the gun that was still held in his hands, trailed its aim down her body until he stopped at her stomach.

"No," she gasped, freezing in shock. "No, you can't."

"My god, he really has taken you in, hasn't he? Don't you see," his words were filled with venom as he spat them, his eyes growing black as he stared at her, "Hunt is the worst of them all."

She was near tears as he continued to point the gun towards her, her throat burning. "I don't believe you."

"The signs have all been there. You were figuring it out, doing so well, and then he distracted you. That's where you put a foot wrong. But he's not here to help you now."

Okay, I just need to focus. Focus and concentrate, and then whatever this illusion is will fade away.

Pain continued to radiate throughout her body, intensifying the closer Summers got.

"I'm here to save you, Alex. Offer you the cure you've always been after. The thing you've been fighting for for so long."

You could never save me. Never.

She'd reached the bedroom, shut the door to block out the strange figure and crouched to the floor. To her surprise he did not follow inside, though the sound of his laughter reverberated through the walls, louder than ever.

"Hiding's not that easy. Remember what I said? Nobody walks this world alone, Alex. And so, you see, I've got a couple of friends to help."

A bullet blasted through the door, ricocheting from the wall, and she let out a scream before she had the chance to see, otherwise any sound would have been stolen from her in pure shock.

Standing in the doorway, where Summers had been stopped moments previous, was Layton. Hair in greasy waves around his face, the same overcoat and sunglasses he had been wearing when he had shot her in 2008.

"No..."

His sinister smile sent her heart pounding, scrambling up again as he lowered the shields, looking at her in the eyes, keeping the same aim as Summers had.

"Long time, no see, Alex. Actually, it hasn't been that long, has it? You had a lucky escape."

She turned as he followed her round the room, breaking into a run through the flat and heading for the door. Sounds of various objects smashing onto the floor trailed her, Layton's footsteps in pursuit, landing heavily as they descended each step of the staircase.

"You keep getting away, and I don't like that. Never like leaving a job half-finished..."

The bottom of the staircase was shadowy and she suspected she could fool him by ducking into the hidden nook which led out to the fire escape. She contorted her frame, keeping her breathing as near-silent as she could, seeing shadows dance past her eyes. One hand was held to her chest, tracking the rate of her heart, slowing but still faster than was normal.

Just breathe. Breathe in and out, in and out, and focus.

It was hopeless to do so but she couldn't stop herself from calling out in her mind, keeping a desperate grasp on the chance that Gene might somehow know that she was in despair, as he had done so before, and drop everything to ride to her rescue.

Silence filled the space around her; neither could she distinguish the smoking scent of the gun and the other smells that clung to Layton. Daring a little she exhaled loud enough to let her breath be audible.

"BOO!"

A harsh light shone into her eyes but she did not stay in place long enough to blink it away, taking off into the daylight, the boots that she hadn't taken off pounding against the pavement.

She did not pause to look behind her and determine how close he was, knowing that all she would be aware of was the gleam of the barrel trained upon her.

"Where we going, Alex? Down to the river? That'd be nice, go full-circle..."

Her breath was tight in her chest, her legs aching nearly as much as her head was pounding. It screamed at her to stop but she defied its pleas, went against every rhyme and reason to fight for her survival.

"It's no use," Layton's voice was closer than she imagined it should be, "run all you want. I'm not letting you get away this time. Game's almost over."

Her efforts were still focused on moving, doing everything she could to shake off the deceptively tangible phantom following her, but she found some energy to vocalise her defiance too.

"I know you're not real. Leave me alone! Just go away, whatever you are!"

Left foot down, inhale. Right foot down, exhale.

The pain is so much. Maybe I can stop for a second.

"Don't be angry with me, Alex. I only wanted things to be right."

The voice that had changed once more hit her straight in the heart. It took her a few seconds to pull herself up, her pulse tight in every nerve as she worked up the courage to glance over her shoulder.

The face of her father looked back at her, arms held at his sides.

Her childish hope and love rushed back to her, despite everything she had come to learn. Her eyes filled with tears as she gasped in a deeper breath, staring towards the man who had been her idol for so long. His smile was soft, reassuring.

She began to take steps forward, believing that she was safe. He never meant to hurt me.

"I've missed you, my Alex. Missed you so much. But it won't be long until we can be together again, properly."

In the time it took for her to pace another two steps he raised his arms, pointing the gun with a sure steadiness towards her, his eyes turning from softness to hard steel.

"No," she breathed, her quiet utterance shifting swiftly to a scream. "NO!"

She turned again, her body nowhere near recovered from its brief respite.

"Run, Alex. Just like I told you to. Run as fast as you can. You won't feel a thing, I promise. Then you'll be back with us again."

No, no. I can't die, not here.

She slowed herself down by looking over her shoulder, horrified when she found that her father had transformed himself into the clown figure from her nightmares – or was it her reality? – painted white.

"Go away. This isn't real. It's not real!"

She ran faster still, breathing unsteadily, until she came face to face with a brick wall which blocked her path. Frantic with fear, feeling the blood rush around her body, she looked left and then right and found that both ways curved about, offering no exit onto another street.

The world seemed to be shifting rapidly, changing its structure with each breath that she exhaled.

With no way forward she turned slowly, not recognising the figure that was now inching towards her. A man in his early thirties with dark hair that was slicked back upon his head, glasses that were thickly rimmed at the top. His expression was straight but his lips started to curve as he came closer.

His hand was unwavering as he held the gun, using her abdomen as a target.

"I wasn't sure I'd get the pleasure, Alex." His voice sent shivers spiralling through her and agonising shards to stab pointedly at her brain. "Although I'm afraid our acquaintance will be short-lived. We could have made a great team. If only someone else hadn't got there first."

He was all she could think of. Gene. Where are you?

"I know that you're clever. You should have listened to your instincts. Can't turn the clock back though, can we?" The smile inched higher, crooked upon his face. "Well, you did, but you messed everything up so I'm afraid it doesn't count."

Her breath rattled in her throat, her limbs shaking so much that she believed she might disappear into thin air.

"Please," she uttered, tilting her head to reason once more, though she was aware that her time had run short.

The man mirrored her, giving her the illusion that he was considering mercy.

"Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer," he recited, the words jumping up from the depths of her mind, "things fall apart, the centre cannot hold; mere anarchy is loosed upon the world."

A tear ran down her cheek to her shame, her bottom lip unable to stop from quivering.

A wider grin emerged on the face that stared into her own.

"Any last words? I hope you've thought of something good."

Only one came into her head, echoing from every cavern.

She opened her mouth but the bullet hit her before she could say anything. She gasped sharply instead, her hand lowering to her stomach, the blood warm as it poured from the wound against her splayed fingers.

Clutching onto the place where she had been shot, trying to make a useless attempt to save what was never meant to be, she crumpled onto the ground, eyes wide as she looked towards her final assailant, the figure blurring before her weakening eyes.

In her head heartfelt apologies bloomed amidst the agony, the tears drying tight upon her cheeks as the last of the life flowed from her body onto the pavement in a crimson tide, spots of wet white descending down from the sky.

The breath was leaving her quick, more rapidly than she expected. She fought against the fluttering of her eyelids, the weakness in her limbs, the urge to say her final word the only driving force she had left.

The snow falling against her eyes was the last thing she saw, pain searing up to her ribs as she breathed, the most incredible effort she'd ever made.

"Gene..."

He found himself in a familiar spot, boots planted upon the landing, their toes nudging towards the closed door. The night had come to an early end, probably because everyone was too rat-arsed to continue it much longer. Even Viv had got hammered.

Beer had flowed for hours in the trattoria, accompanied by chatter which steadily rose in volume with the more alcohol that was consumed. Chris and Ray batted a series of dares back and forth, both determined to be the winner, their pursuits drained by raucous laughter from the rest of the team. All the while he watched on from a corner, nursing his third and final pint of the night which put him well behind everyone else – Shaz excluded as she sipped on her vodka and coke.

He didn't feel put out in his exclusion. Those sort of games were well behind him, anyway. All he was bothered about was them keeping the noise down, eyes raising to the ceiling. Getting pissed was no fun if Bolly wasn't there to drink him under the table. He didn't have the inclination but he also wanted to keep his head clear so that he could look after her if she required the assistance. She'd been fairly out of it when he had put her to bed much earlier that day – truth be told, her delirium had scared him witless – but the hours had passed, and by now she was probably awake and sitting on that sofa of hers, the pattern of which was enough to give him a migraine on its own.

He stood outside the flat like a wally for longer than was appropriate, hands balled awkwardly in his pockets. This is ridiculous. How was it that he felt like a school-boy thinking of her when they'd been together for months, so well-acquainted that he could describe in detail every freckle and barely-there blemish on her body? Her euphoric crying of his name ringing in his ears as her nails scraped against his skin, the memories causing him to react despite the strongest will.

Somewhere buried deep in his consciousness, in a place that she would have little trouble in reaching, a spark burned, the thread connecting from brain to heart where the quickened pulse set it to a fierce flame, that in any other circumstance he would have put down to a bad bout of indigestion.

This was something he'd never felt before. Not for any of the conquests that he was ashamed to think of now and, perhaps more shamefully, not for the woman that he had married once upon a time.

He brought out one fist and tapped it gently against the closed door. He'd expected to hear something from inside to signal that she was alert, voices from the television or a muffled blaring of the terrible music that she liked to play. He moistened his lips before exhaling, saying her name softly, his self-awareness sky-rocketing.

"Bols?"

After a few seconds of no response, which stretched out into an eternity with all of the silence, he ventured again, raising his voice just minimally.

"Bolly."

His ear against the door, he pressed a palm there too and huffed in disappointment when it didn't give way to the pressure he exerted. The thought of using his foot instead crossed his mind but he backed away from it quickly, logic telling him that she'd be pissed off with him more than anything for breaking down the door that had not long been installed. The action might also frighten her, bringing back unwanted and troubling memories.

You'd better get me a key for Christmas, Bols, the thought so loud that he almost muttered it without being aware.

He settled for his fingers splayed against the door in compensation. She'd needed the rest for weeks; really, it was little wonder that she was still out of it. The thought of her wrapped in blissful and peaceful sleep, a tiny smile pulling at the corners of her mouth, was enough to soothe him.

A couple of lights were still on in the trattoria and he followed their glow, nodding towards the Italian shuffling behind the bar.

"Leavin' Sleepin' Beauty to it tonight," he uttered, head still so full of Alex that he was oblivious to the hazy look cloaking Luigi's gaze. "Hellfire, 'ow long 'ave I been in 'ere? It's bloody white as far as the eye can see."

"The snow's been steady since this afternoon, Signor Hunt. Coming to London was the first time I'd seen it." A ruddy glow coloured the Italian's cheeks. "It is magical, especially at this time of year."

"It won't be so bleedin' magical if it buggers up the Quattro," Gene retorted. "Better jump to it. Cheers, Luigi."

With Luigi's farewell in his ears he exited the trattoria, the icy wind hitting him sharp in the face. He pulled the leather gloves from his pockets, craning his neck to the black night sky once he had fixed them into place. The flakes that fell melted against the air before they could fall down upon him, rendering him impenetrable.

Wouldn't dare chance it against the Gene-Genie.

Before he fired up the Quattro for the trip home he turned his gaze towards the single window, nearly invisible against the night without a light filling it.

Sweet dreams, Bolly.

He hoped that he was in them.

The crimson-stained darkness faded out into light, building brighter against her closed eyelids. Her hands were warm and dry and she could move them with minimal effort, fingertips drifting easily to her chest, registering the steady thumping of her heart housed within.

A gentle ticking noise resounded against her ears, sounds rushing louder, no longer muffled against interminable silence.

A man's voice, growing clearer.

"You're doing really well, Alex. Just push a little more, and you'll be there."

She felt fingers brush against her own, lifting her palm from where it lay.

"Can you show us? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

She flexed her hand, curling her fingers. She heard the sound of delighted laughter and relief echoing.

"That's wonderful, Alex. You're nearly there. Now if you can breathe..."

It felt a step too far. She was just getting used to movement after being paralysed, sound and light, so much light. It flooded into her mind, cleansing it and crafting her synapses anew.

The voice of encouragement continued, accompanied by murmurs from another. She felt her blood as though it was an active force, too powerful for her body to contain.

Another force awakened too, rushing up from her stomach to her lungs, charging through her chest.

"Nearly there, Alex...nearly..."

Something distant wanted to hold her under, phantom fingers grasping onto her and a whisper that was too faint to hear.

I can't hold on...

The rush came quicker and quicker, the light blinding her.

She gasped out the breath, the whiteness against her eyes dissipating while her pulse thundered, pushing the hand that had been holding hers firmly away.

She felt it in every fibre of her body. Life.

She had made it back.

It felt weird sleeping in his own bed; weirder still not having Bolly at his side. It had become so natural to reach not far at all and touch the soft curves of her silky-smooth skin, feel the gentle tickling of her hair and warm huffing of her breath while she pillowed her head upon his chest. Her wriggling would usually wake him up and if not that then the press of her lips against his neck definitely did. The murmur of 'Bols' leaving his throat in a gruff tone, hardly complaining as she dipped lower, his hands skimming her arse as she smiled craftily against his skin.

Not this morning. The bed was bloody freezing without the warmth of her body pressed to his and he'd hardly had more than a few winks of sleep all night. With a groan of frustration he pulled the covers tighter around his body until he was shrouded, pummelling his head into the pillow and shutting his eyes tight as though he had a point to prove to whoever it was who was so intent on keeping him awake.

The dream was a scene from reality, one that too often crept into his mind since it had happened. That mad cow Jenette had fired at the bloke aiming at Bolly before he had the chance to do it himself and he'd been too caught off guard to stop her from grabbing Bolly and cocking her own gun against Bolly's temple. The look of naked fear in Bolly's eyes nearly stopped his heart in his chest, every nerve in him pulsing with terror. He needed to be careful and in control; a hair's breadth either left or right would cause disaster, bring the whole world crashing down.

He kept his eyes with Bolly's, dropping his gaze momentarily to see her mouth form his name.

His finger fired the trigger, the bullet reaching its target. As Jenette stumbled back, gun falling from her grip, his eyes focused clearer on Bolly, seeing the red bloom onto the white of her shirt.

Jenette had fired too.

He shouted at the top of his lungs, scrambled over to where she swayed, catching her in his arms before she fell to the ground.

"Gene," she uttered his name shakily, her hand trembling. He could see her blood covering it as she raised it to his face, it felt too warm smeared upon his skin.

"Bolly," he exclaimed, clutching onto her desperately. Her eyelids were fluttering wildly, her hands already slackening their grip upon him. "No, no. You stay with me. You 'ear? Don't go."

His hand went to her face, nearly slapping her to keep the life within her. He could feel that it was too late and his heart was breaking.

"BOLLY!"

He woke with a start, pain searing through his chest and his senses all over the shop. The clock at the bedside read 09.10.

"Shit!"

He got himself ready and out the door in a record time, bombing the Quattro down strangely quiet streets, which were a blessing, ensuring that he arrived at the station just on twenty five past. He took several swigs from the hip-flask stashed in the glove compartment, needing to rid himself of the sour taste of heavy sleep and blot out the horrific images from the nightmare he'd had.

Once that was done and the Quattro was secure, he got into CID at half nine.

The usual scene confronted him, quieter than was regular. Probably down to the fact that the entire team were almost certainly nursing sizeable hangovers.

He felt the compulsion to bang his hands against every surface within reach, causing a series of synchronised groans to rise up.

"Good mornin'. Nice to see you all so bright-eyed and bushy-arsed."

Glancing around he took in the faces one-by-one. To their credit nobody had pulled a sickie, all being present and correct.

Apart from one desk that was empty.

You did tell 'er that she needed a break.

Still, you didn't say that it started straight away. This case still needs to be solved, after all.

"Where's Bolly?"

His question was met with blank and confused expressions. Nothing new when it came to Chris, but he expected more than that even from him, especially when the rest of them were playing equally as dumb.

"Bollykecks," he reiterated, extending an arm to point to the unoccupied desk, "Lady B. Drakey."

He might as well have been speaking Hindustani for all the reaction he was getting out of them, which was hardly anything at all.

"DI Drake," he said through gritted teeth, feeling pissed off enough as it was.

The faces before him continued to appear confounded, one or two glancing at one another, mouthing words that he couldn't comprehend.

"If you're gunna say somethin' I'd appreciate it if you bloody spoke up so I can 'ear!"

Ray was the one to rise from his seat, apprehension painted upon his face.

"Guv," he began, shrinking back a little at the fury in Gene's eyes, "I'm your DI."

"Don't tug my todger, Raymondo," Gene replied, a further shadow cast upon his brow, "I'm not in the mood."

All eyes were on Ray as he made his way forward, somewhat bravely, stopping to stand a couple of inches away from Gene.

"I've been your DI since Tyler...well, y'know." Gene watched as Ray dug into the inside pocket of his jacket. "See."

Well, there was no mistaking what was written on the warrant card. DI Ray Carling.

"God bloody 'elp me," Gene muttered, causing Ray to turn sheepish, slinking back to his desk.

He'd said it quite flippantly, unthinking, but the thought germinated up from the depths of his mind.

If this is the case, then what rank is Bolly? He couldn't see someone as mouthy as her settling to be a Sergeant or Constable.

"You alright, Guv?" Chris's voice rose up from where he sat. "Who's this Drake?"

The rage that caused his blood to throb in his veins was only part deserved, and he stopped himself from hurtling towards DC Skelton and grabbing him by the lapels just in time. Instead he started to roam around CID, clearing files from desks, searching for any sight or sign of Bolly's whereabouts, ignoring the whispers that dared to go up around him.

This 'as got to be some kind of trick. Probably somethin' she's organised especially to scare the shit out of me.

"Guv," Ray spoke up again, "we've got whereabouts on Jimmy Brown. Call came through first thing this mornin'."

"Well you follow it up, Raymondo. There's a good DS."

Right now he didn't give a stuff about the scummy suspect.

"DI," Ray's voice corrected him as he went out of CID, coat billowing behind him in his wake.

Entering the kitchenette he found Shaz making the tea, her shoulders jumping when she looked up towards him.

"Guv," she stuttered out in surprise, "sorry, I started without you. But I thought by the time I'd brewed them all you'd turn up, so I made yours as well. Five sugars."

Surely she's got somethin' better to do than make tea and put out biscuits.

"Never mind that, Shaz. You seen Bolly?"

Her nose wrinkled. "Um...," she stumbled, struggling to keep gaze with him, "it's a bit early in the day for champers, I reckon."

Right, this is gettin' very bloody weird now.

"Guv!" Shaz's voice called after him. "Your cuppa's going to go cold."

The doors of the station nearly swung from their hinges as he burst through them, heading single-mindedly down the road to Luigi's.

"Signor Hunt," the Italian greeted him on his hasty arrival, "it is very early..."

"No time to talk, Luigi. 'ave to check on somethin'."

He made for the exit that led up to the flat, taking the staircase two steps at a time. Sickening thoughts ran through his head, imagining that he might find her body limp in the bed, and he hammered against the door in a helpless attempt to expel them.

"Bolly, open this door! Everyone thinks I've gone bloody mental thanks to you kippin' in."

He slammed both hands repeatedly against the door that remained shut tight.

"BOLLY!"

Growing in desperation and fear, he could see that he had no other option.

"Sod it..."

Bracing one hand against the bannister of the staircase he placed the full force of his boot against the door, slamming it repeatedly until it collapsed on its hinges and he forced an entry.

The adrenaline that was coursing through his body carried him through into the flat, a space that was bare of any of her decoration, he could see from a few glances around. Even that eye-watering sofa was absent, replaced by one that was a plain beige tone.

"Bols," he called out her name repeatedly, though it was obvious that she would not respond back to him. He rummaged through empty drawers, flung back the doors of the all-but-bare wardrobe.

Pulled back bed-sheets to find that there was no trace of her, not even the warmth of her body's imprint. The sheets were like ice against his hands.

His voice bounced off the walls, and from below he could hear Luigi's voice bellowing something he couldn't understand aside from the intermittent shouts of his name.

He'd pay for the damage he'd caused, that was no problem.

His legs grew weak, couldn't support him. He collapsed down onto the bed with a thud, both hands tight against his scalp. His mind was running riot and was also a void, unable to make any sense of it. How was it that she could vanish, just like that?

Slowly he took his hands from his head, watching them shake as he lowered them in front of his face.

"Alex..." her name was stuck on his tongue, lodged in his throat and wrapped around his heart.

She was gone.

The bright white became muted, and the breath that had erupted like the start of a hurricane from her had evened out. She felt groggy as she blinked, very slowly taking in her surroundings. All she was currently aware of was a ceiling above her which she blinked at repeatedly, the colour becoming greyer and more lifelike the more she adjusted.

She was aware of her physicality too, and felt the drip that was attached to a finger, the tube tight around her digit.

She could hear breathing, still laboured and sounding false to her ears. She also heard voices, whispers that were animated. It was disorientating for her to hear the presence of others in the room but not see them.

A murmur of frustration left her lips, a call for attention. The chattering came to a cease and she registered soft footsteps making their way towards her.

"Welcome back, Alex." A man's face appeared in her line of vision, smiling kindly down at her. "It's very good to see you."

She mumbled her assent at the words, wanting to pull her head up.

"Woah, let's take it easy. Your system's still adjusting." His voice was gentle and reassuring. "But the signs are very good. I'll let Mr Gerrard know that you're awake, he'll be delighted." The smile grew a little larger upon his face; he was quite young for a doctor, late twenties at most. "Someone's been waiting to see you."

He moved away and she was left staring up at the ceiling again, until the face of a young woman came into view. She looked like she was in her early twenties, dark blonde hair sitting on her shoulders and wearing a wide smile that originated in her shining eyes.

She was very confused. Whoever this young woman was she was clearly very pleased to see her. She wasn't wearing anything that resembled a nurse's uniform, instead clad in a checked shirt over a vest top.

Despite herself she smiled, believing that it was the polite thing to do, her heart coming down from the high it had been boosted to, thinking that she was about to be reunited with her daughter.

The young woman smiled back, raising both hands to her mouth momentarily. Alex saw that her fingers were covered with rings and several bands adorned both of her wrists.

Her eyes sparkled a beautiful shade of blue.

"Oh my god," she said, wiping a fist at the corner of one of her eyes, the smile still on her face. "I knew you wouldn't leave me."

Alex opened her mouth to say something, to question, but only a mumble left her lips.

The young woman gripped her hand and she felt a familiar sensation rush through her. Something she remembered, deep in her heart.

"It's okay," the smiling face reassured her. "I'm just happy that you're here."

Alex smiled back, comforted by the feeling that coursed through her body, prompted by the touch of hands.

"Who...who are you?" she managed to say after a few seconds had passed.

The smile was temporarily broken, replaced by a small frown. The young woman took a deep breath, moving her head as if to shake the burst of sorrow away.

"It's me, Mum," she replied brightly, and it was then that her voice sounded painfully similar. "It's Molly."

A/N: If you thought things were weird before...

The Second Coming by W.B. Yeats, and referenced in 3.7 of A2A (boo hiss, Keats)