Doctor's assessment

Patient: Eugene Hunt, 3C Westerchurch Road, London

Stabbed with a blade, wound approx. 11cm long. Severe lacerations to the intestine and stomach. Resuscitated on arrival, successfully stabilised in surgery, consequently in comatose state for two weeks.

I am most worried about Mr Hunt's mental state. During his coma, he appeared to 'live' a life in the 70s and 80s, featuring another patient with whom he appears to have a romantic relationship, Alex Drake (also comatose). Physically, he is healing well- would be better if he ate and allowed himself sleep when he needs it. He is very stubborn! The counsellor has not been successful in telling Mr Hunt that his dream was not reality. He takes every opportunity to visit Ms Drake. I have noticed him recording on a Dictaphone, but he will not elaborate on what he is talking about.

Mr Hunt is also completely disinterested in his rehabilitation, and has not eaten since waking up. I suspect he is missing something or someone, or trying mentally to adjust to what has happened but not accepting help doing so. The only people he talks to are his regular visitors and Ms Drake's daughter.

Regarding your specific question, I do not think Mr Hunt is delusional, and scans have shown his brain was undamaged by the coma. I simply feel he is having difficulty realising what he has 'left behind' was not real. I am not sure he will open up to strangers, especially those from the medical profession- he seems to have a particular distrust of anyone to do with psychiatry. I would, however, be grateful if you could send Dr Hartmond over to assess Mr Hunt.

Regards,

Dr Simmonds

Gene snorted, throwing the letter back onto his bedside cabinet and lying carefully back, arms crossed over his chest. Nothin' wrong with my mental state. He was just glad they hadn't overheard his Dictaphone recording yesterday. He'd outlined, in detail, what he would do if Alex died. And it wasn't pleasant listening.

Anne would be in in a minute, and would tell the doctor if she found out he'd been sneaking around in his office. He might be sore, but that didn't mean that a little trip across the hallway wasn't a nice little excursion every so often. He'd heard Dr Simmonds asking other doctors if they'd taken Mr Hunt's file, and getting some very confused replies; he sniggered, filing the letter away with his other miscellaneous documents. Not all of them about him.

He didn't need her files to tell him that Alex was still comatose, improving, but far out of his reach. Molly was coping, juggling hospital visits to both him and Alex with her normal life and schoolwork; he'd had to cope with Evan's questions about him, but thankfully he seemed to think it was a positive thing, and treated Gene as an equal, enquiring into his relationship with Alex, his opinion of Molly, his health. After a little conversation, he seemed a decent man, but Gene was a little wary of revealing what he really knew about Evan White, and harboured more than a little resentment of him for letting Alex get shot. That said, he wasn't entirely sure what he would have done in the same situation either; Layton had been determined to shoot Alex, whether or not Evan co-operated with him. It was hard to take a moral stand over it.

And then, if Alex hadn't been shot, he would never have met her. And that was something he really didn't want to think about.

The door interrupted his musings, squeaking open to reveal a small curious head; Gene smiled, holding out a welcoming arm to his young godson as Max ran to the bed and catapulted himself up onto it, Anne following behind at a more sedate pace, a small smile on her face.

"Gene, your file's gone walkies again, according to your doctor. You wouldn't know where it is?"

He put on his most innocent expression, easing over to give Max space on the bed as he spoke.

"Nope. Checked behind the sofa?"

"Give, Gene."

"I don't 'ave it!"

"Pull the other one, it's got bells on. Hand it over- along with everything in it."

Gene pouted, reluctantly foraging in his cabinet and withdrawing the file to a peal of laughter from Max.

"You're setting a bad example, if Max has to have an operation for that lump on his foot I don't want him playing up in hospital because he's seen you doing it," Anne scolded, putting the file down on the table at the end of Gene's bed. "And when are you going to start eating? Is it seriously so hard to try a little light food? Your stomach will handle it, as will your intestines, as long as it's something easy to digest."

"I want you to come home, Uncle Gene!" Max whined, fastening his arms round Gene's neck and staring at him with large, soulful eyes. Gene rolled his eyes, gently easing Max off and tickling him to double him up, murmuring over his godson's shrieks.

"I'm just givin' it some time. Still bloody sore."

"Alright," Anne said, eyebrows knotted together. "Drink something?"

"You brought whisky?"

"Whisky?"

Gene frowned, leaning forwards.

"Whisky."

"You've never drunk whisky. You always drink beer. Christ, Gene, you sure your brain's alright? It's all change with you…"

Gene swallowed hard. All change?

"But…"

"I'll take a look in your flat, if you want. See if you have any whisky. But you're not drinking it until you're off medication. Besides, it's not the kindest thing after being stabbed, is it?"

"Good fer pain," Gene muttered, hurriedly turning back to Max as the patented Anne Glare came into use.

"I would've thought you of all people would be looking after their body a little. Your father was a prime example of what alcohol does to you."

Christ. When yer wake up, Bolls, yer'll get on so well with Anne.

"Mm."

"Mr Hunt? Ah… your file. Thank you very much."

Gene couldn't help the sudden rush of blood to his cheeks as Dr Simmonds picked up his file, a knowing smile on his face at Gene's embarrassment. Max laughed, lying back on the pillows and closing his eyes, winding one of Gene's drip leads round his arm.

"I'm in hospital too! Now I get to stay with Uncle Gene!"

"Max, behave!" Anne scolded, but Gene was laughing despite himself, wincing as the movement flexed his sore stomach a little too much. The doctor raised his eyebrows.

"Could you leave those alone, Master Wilkinson? Thank you. Right, Mr Hunt, I have some news for you, and I want you to think carefully about your response."

"Spit it out."

"Sam Tyler's mother has been talking to us. She's coming down from Manchester to visit you- she wants to talk to you about her son."

He waited for a response, but Gene was struck dumb.

"DI Drake, you simply cannot continue like this. DCI Hunt is gone and it doesn't look like he's coming back. You have to roll with the punches and get back to your work, like a professional- the department's falling apart without a steady hand at the helm."

"I'm not the only one who's missing DCI Hunt, sir. I'm fairly confident everyone wants him back. And we don't want a new DCI, before you suggest it. We're coping."

"I would have to contest that last point. I am holding interviews for a new DCI next week. If you want to apply, you'd best let me know soon, and I can put your name in for consideration- otherwise, there will be a stranger taking over the department, and I doubt most of them would like that. You seem rather fond of each other in CID. Your decision, DI Drake- yours alone."

"I'll think about it. But nobody can replace DCI Hunt."

"Of that, DI Drake, I am quite sure. Quite sure."

Ruth Tyler was still pretty, despite the years. She moved with a certain grace, and smiled a lot, but at the edges of her mouth the sorrow of her lost son still showed. Clear blue eyes beneath a soft white fringe gave her face a motherly, trustworthy air, and Gene found himself sitting up and smiling at her as soon as she entered his hospital room, Anne and Dr Simmonds beside his bed to listen in, despite Gene's protests.

"Hello, Mr Hunt. I 'ope I find yer well."

"Gene, please. As well as I can be. Yerself?"

Ruth gave a tiny sigh, sitting down in her chair.

"I… I wonder some days. After Sam died…"

Gene nodded silently. Sam, yer twat. Killin' yerself an' leavin' yer mother behind. What on Earth possessed yer?

He knew the answer to that one. 1973 had awoken something in Sam that had long lain dormant, perhaps never even woken up, and as much as he had undoubtedly tried to stop it the past had drawn him back with relentless force, granting him seven years of life and love before ripping it away from him again. He couldn't help but wonder if he should have done something about it in this life, should have tried to convince Sam not to leave- but where would he be, in that case? Most likely dead. Sam had saved his life.

That and he hadn't even known Sam. He'd been in Manchester, DCI of a completely separate department, blissfully living his 2006 life without a clue as to Sam's suffering. And what could he have said? He hadn't known Sam then, hadn't yet travelled back in time. Or had and didn't know it… Bloody 'ell. Stop thinkin'.

"I'm sorry."

"No, no, Gene. Don't be. I'm not. Sam chose ter fulfill his promise, whatever that might 'ave meant, an' I can be proud o' that, at least. But less o' that. You were in a coma, an'- an' yer met 'im? Sammy?"

Gene suddenly found it excruciatingly painful to look Ruth in the eye, choosing instead to duck away, studying the bedclothes intensely. 'Ow can I tell 'er that Sam… Sam's dead? Gone?

"1973. 'E walked in thinkin' 'e ruled the roost. It was my CID, so I was DCI… I 'ad words with 'im. Threw 'im against a filin' cabinet, actually." A wry smile played round the edges of his mouth. "Whatever I did, it worked, 'cos 'e managed ter calm down. An' we went from there, really."

"Sam said somethin' about a train tunnel… d'yer remember that?"

Gene swallowed.

"Yeah. There was a cop-killer, Leslie Johns… we were workin' ter take 'im down, so I went in undercover ter try an' frame 'im. Only Sam gave it away, was wearin' a police radio, the twonk. It went off an' they realised, started shootin' at us, an' Sam ran off, sayin' 'e was goin' ter get back-up. Chris cracked an' ran after 'im, but Sam didn't 'ave any back-up, 'e'd been tricked. Johns followed, shot me, Chris an' Ray- they were my DC an' DS- an' 'e was about ter shoot me dead when Sam shot 'im instead. Saved all our lives. 'E was a bloody 'ero… or would've been, if the 'ole thing 'adn't actually been 'is fault."

Ruth smiled.

"Sam was good at that, puttin' right what 'e'd done wrong. Or 'e was when 'e was 'ere."

"Well. 'E patched things up with Ray, that says somethin' about 'is damage control. They were always at loggerheads when Sam first arrived."

"That's right. And Chris…"

"Chris looked up ter Sam, called 'im 'is boss, 'ung onter 'is every word. Was like the older brother Chris never 'ad."

Ruth sat back in her chair, now silent. Gene, feeling he was being tested for something, ducked his head, resisting the urge to throw back the covers and leave; Anne reached forwards, only for Ruth to burst out laughing, reaching out to take Gene's hand in both of hers and kiss the back of it, the huge smile still on her face.

"It was real. Sam told me all o' that. It was real. My Sammy… my Sammy lived after 'is death. My boy."

Anne could only sit and gape, staring at the two people in front of her, linked forever by an unreal world.

Dr Simmonds squawked in surprise and fell off his chair.

The London drizzle was cold on his face, numbing his nose and dampening his eyelashes as he tilted his head up, feeling it run down his cheeks and into the collar of his dressing gown. Ruth Tyler had gone home a couple of hours ago, tears of joy running unchecked down her cheeks even after he told her how her son's story had ended. The fact that he had died a happy man had been an immeasurable comfort to her.

Dr Simmonds had called the whole thing a disaster, insisting that it would reinforce Gene's delusion that his coma world was real. Anne had refrained from commenting, and Gene was glad of it; if she deemed him mad, removed him from her household and Max, he really would have nothing left in this world apart from the mother who would walk into his room, start crying and walk straight back out again.

She wouldn't leave the hospital, but wouldn't stay at her son's side. Gene couldn't understand her, simply let her have her own space and didn't make a fuss when she made one of her rare excursions into his room and left just as quickly. She'd make her mind up sometime.

"Gene, what are you doing? You're soaked through! You'll catch cold if you're not careful. Get inside."

Anne, standing at the entrance to his room, sheltered from the drizzle that had now become rain, gave him a disapproving look, holding out an arm.

"Gene, get in here. I'm not being funny, and I most certainly am not messing around. Lug your arse in here or I'll lug it in for you."

"What would you do, if I threw meself off London Bridge?"

The question was so quiet Anne wondered for a second if Gene had even spoken.

"Gene? Off… London fucking Bridge?"

And then the shock hit her like a brick wall and she screamed, lunging forwards, yanking Gene back into his room and slamming the door shut behind them, fumbling with the keys to lock it, turning to face Gene as soon as it was secure, pressing her trembling hands to her jeans. He was shivering, whether from cold or shock she didn't know.

"Get yourself out of those wet things. Now, Gene." Her voice held no sympathy.

He peeled his dressing gown off, discarding it over the back of a plastic chair. Fingering his pyjamas, he waited for Anne to leave the room, but she stood firm, hands on hips, daring him to challenge her authority.

He eased himself out of his pyjama top, his chest now only covered by a thin grey T-shirt, curled into himself. Defensive.

"And the rest. NOW!"

"No."

His eyes flashed dangerously as they met hers. Anne took in a deep breath.

The argument was no longer about Gene's dignity. It was about his freedom.

"This is what I'll do if you step within a hundred yards of Tower Bridge, Gene."

Anne marched forwards, pinned him against the wall by his arms; Gene tried to struggle, but to his disgust found she outranked him by far in strength. Her face was inches from his, her breath hot and angry on his lips. He had a flash of Alex in the same position, her mouth in that slow, seductive smile that seemed to be her speciality, and bit his lip, turning as far away as Anne would let him whilst the memory washed over him.

"You're threatening to commit suicide, Gene."

"No I'm not."

His voice shaking so much he wouldn't have known it was his.

"You are. Well, know this much. You kill yourself, and I will never forgive you. Ever. Because, God help me, I don't know what on Earth I would do without you."

She released his arms, pressed a rough kiss to his cold cheek, and left without another word.

Gene watched her leaving, ignoring his eyes blurring until he could no longer make out her shape. And then he blinked and let the tears fall, swiping them away viciously as soon as they had, hissing at himself. The Manc Lion does not cry. Gene Hunt does not cry.

Am I Gene Hunt anymore?

A/N: Poor old Gene, eh? Let's hope things will get better for him. I didn't get many reviews for the first chapter, so can we make up for that with loads for this one? Pretty please? OK, let's put this another way. Review or the radioactive ostriches will come and embarrass you in front of all your friends. I leave it to your fertile imaginations to think up how they'll do it. Jazzola :P