Sooooo... back to 2008 now, and yes, still on the angsty side! But fear not, I have a suspicion there could be fluff on the way soon.

Thanks again to my beta Handymelon, and to YOU: for reading and for your encouraging reviews!

Gunshot. Echo. Silence.

Alex Drake watches as the bullet slices the air, rushing towards her with menacing indifference. Images race through her mind.

Stop. Fast-forward. Rewind.

A red balloon floats away past an iron railing, the blue sky fills her eyes and somewhere in the distance she hears her mother's voice, "Leave it, we have a train to catch!" I have to get my balloon back, Alex thinks. Laughter. Sickening laughter echoes all around her. Molly! Where's Molly? Alex panics. Breathe, breathe. Her father's eyes smile at her in the rear-view mirror, but she is distracted by a man walking past the car. "We'll blow out the candles together okay?" Alex hears herself call. The man's face looms closer: he is shivering and pale; sick looking. Cold… so cold… Then a figure appears, Pierrot's face, arms outstretched, beckoning kindly to her. NO! NO! Stay away! The noise gets louder: moving water, moving metal, voices and music. I'm happy, hope you're happy too.

A sudden, white-hot searing burst of pain – one shot of light.

And blackness.

Gunshot. Muffled by the hull of the barge, but gunshot nonetheless.

"NO!" Gene stormed down the rusting white gangplank, his lungs bursting in his chest. Dreading what he was going to find, he sped round the corner onto the deck, drawing his gun in readiness. He looked at it in his hand, amazed to discover that even in this alien world, the weapon was familiar: it was his own pistol, the one Harry Althway had presented him with all those years ago at GMP. Gene gripped it tightly and raced down the barge, his heart in his mouth.

A figure stood facing him in the semi darkness, a tangled mane of lank silvery hair framed a gaunt face, its pallor enhanced by a deep pink scar across the left cheek. One arm hung limply at his side, gun still in hand. Gene's throat constricted at the sight that lay between them: a woman's body, lying crumpled in a heap of blankets on the floor. She was different, her hair, her clothes… but that beautiful face, oh, that beautiful peaceful face.

In that split second he had raised his gun, watching his own arm, as if in slow motion, levelling the barrel at Arthur Layton. A muscle in his jaw tensed: he felt his finger slowly squeeze the trigger. The noise was deafening as the bullet left its chamber, bringing time back to full speed when it hit its target. Layton dropped like a dead weight to the floor, a pool of dark red spreading rapidly around him.

Gene crashed to his knees, his breath coming in fits as he gathered Alex's limp body up in his arms. Blood stained his hands as he cradled her head; it was coming from a shallow wound alongside her left ear, so he fished in his pocket for a handkerchief and held it firmly in place. "Alex!... Alex!" he spoke in her ear, touching her skin lightly with his lips. He was beside himself, kneeling with the weight of her body against him, her warmth slipping away. Bloody miles away from a phone. "Alex! Alex, my beautiful girl… don't leave me…"

Suddenly he remembered the young man back at his crash scene, with the portable phone. Gene closed his eyes and a prayer played on his lips as he rummaged inside his jacket. His fingers closed around a small but heavy plastic object. He pulled the mobile out and, supporting Alex with one arm, pressed 999 with his thumb and hoped for the best.

"Hello caller, which service please?"

"Hello?" Gene yelled, not really knowing whereabouts he was meant to be speaking. "Hello, this is Detective Chief Inspector Gene Hunt, I need an ambulance URGENTLY, d'y' hear me? NOW, down at Trinity. I need plod down 'ere too."

"OK, calm down sir, I just need to take a few details from you."

"Calm down? WHAT? Look love, jus' send them down NOW. SHE'S DYIN' 'ERE fer Chrissake!"

"Sir, I need to give the paramedics some details: who is injured and what is the nature of the injury?"

Para-whats? Gene swore under his breath, looking over where Arthur Layton's body lay motionless on the rusted metal floor. Forget that bastard. He spoke into the phone again. "She's.. her name's Drake. Detective Inspector Alex Drake. Single gun shot to the side of 'er head. She's unconscious but still breathing." He looked, through stinging tears, to the shallow and sporadic rise and fall of Alex's chest. He squeezed her hand, her fragile bones tangled in his. "JUS' GET 'ERE NOW!"

"They're on their way sir, stay on the line please."

But Gene had already dropped the phone on the floor at his side and was lifting Alex in his arms. Her head flopped against his chest as he carried her carefully out into the daylight with the blood soaked handkerchief plastered to her head. Seconds later, he heard sirens. He stumbled slowly up the gangway to be met by a man and a woman in green overalls carrying a plastic board between them. Several police officers followed closely behind. "Layton's in there," Gene gestured with his head, still holding Alex tightly.

"Sir, you have to let us take over now," the first paramedic gestured to Gene to lower Alex's body onto the board where he and his colleague worked quickly to get an oxygen mask on her face and a bloodline into her arm. They steadied her head and neck with a support before wrapping her in a blanket and lifting her efficiently up and towards the ambulance.

"I'm comin' with you!" Gene called, but as he stepped forward a hand closed on his elbow. He spun round to find a uniformed officer with a grim expression on his face. "I'm afraid you'll need to come with us sir," he said.

"Not bloody likely. You can call me in for statement later. I'm not leavin' her!"

"Sir, please do not make this harder for yourself. You need to come down to the station and answer a few questions."

"I KNOW!" bellowed Gene. "And I will – after I've made sure she's okay!"

He looked over the shoulder of the copper to see a plain-clothes detective walking back up the gangway from the barge. He was slim, clean-shaven and looked about 12.

"'Oo are you? What's your name and rank?" Gene demanded.

"Harper, Sir," the young man replied. "Detective Inspector."

Christ, 'es barely out of nappies. "Well "DI Harper," Gene found to his own surprise that he gestured quotation marks around the DI's name. "I outrank you and I say I'm going in that ambulance." He glanced round in panic as he heard the doors close and the engine start. "Jus' you busy yourself getting down there and arresting Arthur Layton. If the bastard's not already dead that is."

"Arthur Layton?" Harper asked, nodding at the uniformed copper who immediately got onto his radio.

"YES!" Gene roared, over the sound of the ambulance moving off, the siren wailing a sinister lament as it did so. Alex!

"There's nobody down there, DCI Hunt. No trace of anyone else, apart from you and DI Drake. Which, as I am sure you will understand, would make you our prime suspect. Attempted murder, I'd say. If she survives, that is."

"WHAT???" Gene yelled in disbelief. Suddenly, rage overtook him and he grabbed hold of DI Harper's lapels, shoving him against a nearby police car with a sickening thud. "Look, you jumped up, nancy-arsed, snot-nosed, fairy boy, you cannot seriously be tellin' me you think I shot 'er. Why the 'ell would I 'ave phoned fer an ambulance, not to mention you lot of useless twats, if I wanted 'er dead? And WHY," he paused here to knee DI Harper in the stomach, "Would I even shoot 'er in the first place? She's my… my…" he searched desperately for the word. Girlfriend? Lover? "…you stupid bastard!" He let go of Harper's jacket, letting him fall to the ground, winded and clutching his stomach.

In an instant, two uniformed officers had grabbed Gene, jerking his arms roughly behind his back and cuffing him. He flailed wildly, like a captured lion, roaring obscenities at the sky as he was dragged kicking into the back of the police car. He could still be heard shouting as the vehicle sped off towards Limehouse police station.

Some hours later, Gene came to in a police cell. His head was thumping, he felt sick and his ribs hurt from the crash. The stark white light blinding him from above wasn't helping either, as his poor broken mind tried to scramble together everything that had happened that day. He prised himself up into a sitting position on the bench and promptly vomited on the floor, cursing and clutching his head in his hands.

I wake up Luigi's flat. Bolly's gone. I find the car, no trace of 'er, or anyone else. I plough me motor into some twat on a bike and then the next thing I come to with a bloody nose and no idea what the 'ell's 'appened. I shoot Layton - obviously didn't kill the bastard… and now what? 'E's fucked off an' plod think I tried to murder Alex. If it even is Alex… I don' know, I don' know… God, Bols… please don't be dead.

For possibly the first time in his entire life, Gene Hunt felt entirely lost.

Distant muffled sounds of water. Light slowly bleeds into the images in Alex's mind. I shot him… I shot Layton. Warmth. Everything feels slow, memories are like thick fog or a worn-out tape; the pictures just won't come. A regular high-pitched beep becomes audible, accompanied by voices mumbling. A man's face swims behind her closed eyelids. Dark blonde hair, piercing silvery blue eyes, a beautiful scarred face framed with dark sideburns: he looks angry. He always looks angry, Alex thinks fondly. She sees flashes. A red car: a young policewoman. These pictures are clearer. They feel real. She sees her own hand rise to caress the man's face, as he lowers his mouth towards hers. She breathes, "Gene…" The light is brighter as her eyelids part slightly. Just a pale blue outline. A figure. A woman. Her face gradually comes into focus, but as Alex's eyes adjust, she feels a shooting pain in the left side of her head. She groans. Voices become clearer. "She's coming round… she's conscious. Call Dr Cooke immediately."

Alex took a breath through the oxygen mask on her face. She focussed her mind on Gene's kiss as she fell into a warm, soft sleep. A sleep from which, this time, she was certain she'd wake.

She knew not if it was memory, dream or desire. She didn't care either. Logic and reason had no place between them as their skin touched, mouths meeting in a hungry kiss. It was new and familiar: his touch, his smell. He held her firmly to him as he moved deep inside her, his spine arched, hips rolling with hers as his lips roamed her neck. She cradled his face in her hands, breathing… look at me… their eyes met, staring into nothing, she wanted to look at him when he came: watch his pupils dilate and see her own face reflected there. She wanted this again and again. She felt him pulse within her. He told her he loved her and that he was lost without her. It seemed so long ago. "Come to me, please…. Gene…"

"Ms Drake… Ms Drake," a woman's voice broke Alex from her last thought. She carefully opened her eyes and gave them a moment to focus on the figure in front of her. "Ms Drake, I'm Doctor Cooke. Can you hear me? Don't try to talk, just nod for now."

Alex dipped her head slowly.

"Alex, I'm going to take this mask away from your face just now. Just relax and try to breathe normally, okay?"

Alex nodded again.

"Okay, you're doing fine. Here, take a small sip of this water."

Alex let the liquid sit in her mouth. It was lukewarm and tasted of metal. She pursed her lips and put up her hand. Enough.

"Alex, as I said before, I'm Dr Cooke. Just take your time okay… is there someone you want us to call? The nurses told me you've been asking for someone called Jean... is that your mother?"

Her mind was racing. "No," she croaked, "My mother's dead. Gene's… Gene's…" Not real, she thought. "Um, nobody. What year is this?"

Dr Cooke furrowed her brow. "Alex, it's 2008. Do you know what happened to you?"

Alex knew all too well. She knew Layton had taken Molly hostage. She knew he had hidden in her car and made her drive to his boat where he had taunted her about her parents and then shot her in the head. She knew she had assimilated Sam Tyler's subconscious fantasy world and fallen in love with a man who didn't exist. Overcome with grief, a huge tear formed in her eye and rolled forlornly down her cheek before dropping onto the crisp white bed linen. When she trusted her voice, she finally spoke.

"Yes. I was shot. By a man named Arthur Layton. But… when did that happen?"

Dr Cooke rested her hand on top of Alex's. "Just this morning Alex. Your surgeon, Mr Chakrabarti, will be along shortly to explain more to you, but you weren't seriously injured. It was a relatively simple operation. It's just gone 7 o'clock now," she smiled. "You woke up just in time for Corrie. Oh look, here's Mr Chakrabarti now. I'll see you later."

"Dr Cooke - could you please contact my daughter, Molly? She's with her godfather Evan White." Alex called after her. "He's a lawyer, his number will be in my mobile." My mobile, she thought wryly. I never really missed it in 1981.

Mr Chakarabarti turned out to be a short, balding and rather eccentric man. He had a terrible comb-over and a thick Calcutta accent. Not Welsh then. "So you came back to us then DI Drake," he smiled "Although I have to say you were never really in very grave peril. Somebody was looking after you, eh?" He carried on, glancing at the notes in his hand. "The bullet, it seems, glanced the side of your temple. But you did lose a lot of blood and were quite unconscious for a long time. You will certainly have an interesting scar to show off at parties, ha ha! Oh, and I'm afraid we had to give you a rather interesting hairstyle on one side. All in a days work, eh! Anyway, your colleagues at the Met will no doubt wish to talk to you soon, but for now I'm recommending absolute rest! Chakrabarti's Orders! "

Alex forced a smile out, as the surgeon took her hand in his. His face was reassuring and kind. "Try not to worry DI Drake," he beamed. "You and your baby are going to be just fine."