Apologies for the lack of updates this week. I've been suffering from migraines much of the last few days so I've been avoiding my laptop as much as possible and also have busted my right hand so typing's been slow and painful, hence why this chapter is short! Hopefully more will be up of both my current fics later, I'm getting frustrated with not writing!

Chapter 6

Simon concentrated very hard on calming his emotions. He paced around, he took a walk to the vending machine, he even tried to calm down by throwing paperclips at people in the car park out of his window, which wasn't like him but it gave him the distraction he needed.

Eventually he was able to focus enough to read some files, sign some papers and catch up with some of the cases his team had been working on. When it got to lunchtime and his first morning back was over he felt a little sad and thought about staying until the end of the day but a headache was threatening and he decided to call it a day while he was ahead.

He felt in much better spirits as he walked back to Robin's flat. Their temporary living arrangement had slowly moved into a more permanent situation. Neither of them had spoken about it but neither had mentioned any possibility of Simon returning home either. In fact, he'd started looking at selling his flat and working out how to fit his collection of vintage computer games consoles and horror DVDs into Robin's place.

The local paper had been delivered into the letterbox as he checked the post so he tucked it under his arm and made his way up a flight of stairs. He felt a little naughty being home halfway through the day, like a pupil skiving from double maths, but he was proud of himself. For the first time he actually felt like he was getting back to normal.

He walked into the kitchen and made himself a sandwich, brewed a cup of tea and sank into the sofa to watch some rubbish daytime TV. There was a part - a tiny part - of him that had actually started to enjoy it. He imagined having to watch Doctors on iPlayer when he was back at work full-time and facing teasing from Robin every time he found some cheesy antique-based programme recorded on the sky plus box.

He let his mind flick momentarily to his strange call as he ate his lunch. He didn't dwell on it, he didn't dare. He tried to resent a logical explanation to himself, despite the fact that every one he came up with seemed more far-fetched than thinking Alex really was trying to contact him. Eventually he became so wrapped up in watching the episode of Murder She Wrote that was airing for the eight billionth time that he stopped thinking about the call completely.

After a while he realised he already knew every line of the episode and decided to flick through the paper instead. The local rag was infamous for headlines such as Bales of hay are stolen and Arsonists set fire to log so he wasn't expecting it to be a riveting read but at the very least it would hopefully pass some time until Cbeebies started on BBC1.

He picked up the folded paper and scanned the headline.

Young PC hailed hero after being mauled to death by savage dog.

Simon shuddered. He wasn't the world's biggest fan of canines. He'd been bitten by a poodle when he was four and since then found all dogs seemed to share a common hatred of him. With a sigh he unfolded the paper. The rest of the story and a photograph were revealed to him, and in that moment his whole world changed.

"Oh my god," he breathed, "n-no…. No, it's not possible…"

His lunch lurched into his throat and he had to fight hard not to lose it all over the floor. He felt a jolt as his heart thumped and the room seemed to spin out of control. One finger gently rose and touched the image in the photograph, trembling every inch of the way. He traced the outline of a familiar face, tears threatening to form in his eyes. He could hardly bring himself to read the rest of the article but forced himself eventually to go on. The words stung his heart.

'A local PC with his whole career ahead of him has been posthumously hailed a hero after saving a three-your-old girl from the savage jaws of a crazed dog.'

Simon didn't even have to read any further to find out the name of the young copper. He already knew him well enough.

"Malcolm," he whispered.

The smiling face in uniform stared back at him from the page. He could still see him standing in the corner of the office, back in 1985. He could hear his voice, picture his expression, remember every detail about him.

He tried to read more of the article but his eyes were misting up too much and he couldn't see beyond the fog of tears. He caught snatches of words; something about surgeons saving the girl's arm, Malcolm's throat being ripped out, some kind of posthumous award, other snatches of things that Simon couldn't quite knit together in his head.

The date on the paper was that very day. The attack had happened just two days before. The article spoke of Malcolm being on the beat for only a few weeks, certainly not for more than two decades. Simon almost choked on the reality that began to dawn on him. Malcolm had been real - real. Flesh, blood and bones. Living, breathing, existing. He'd shared the same air as Simon, walked on the same ground. They had occupied 2010 together. They had also occupied 1985 together.

Malcolm was as real as Simon was. Either they had both gone back in time or both entered some other realm together.

It wasn't a dream. It was not a dream. 1985 had not been born from Simon's mind. It existed in some form, somehow, somewhere. The nature of his experience was still no clearer in his mind but he knew now that it had been real up to a point. The man on his paper who had died two days earlier had shaken his hand in 1985, some months ago. He'd made him tea, he'd had conversations with him, he'd signed his cast.

But he was dead.

There were too many possibilities. Too many implications to consider. Simon's fragile head felt as though it could explode at any time. Through the hundreds of distressing and frustrating thoughts that struck him with the force of a ten ton truck there was one that he couldn't shake; one that wouldn't go away.

If Malcolm was real then how tangible was Alex's existence? And if she was real then perhaps she truly needed his help.

Suddenly his head hurt like another file server had attacked him out of the blue. This was too much to process.