Dr Simmonds arrived a little while after Lexi's phone call, out of breath and flustered, to personally accompany his errant patient back to the Royal London.

Gene's great escape was over.

Anne and Max, he told Gene as he helped him to his feet and wrapped his jacket tighter round him, were waiting in the ambulance car outside, having raised the alarm when they'd found his room vacant. The police had been about to launch a London-wide search for him; his name had already been radioed out to several patrol cars in the area around the hospital. His photo would have been broadcast on the national news had the call from the National Archives not come through.

"Anne's been really worried, she thought you were in danger but she wouldn't tell me why," he said as he lead Gene out by the elbow, clinging tighter as Gene tried to throw him off. "There'll have to be extra security on your room now, you understand? You don't have the legal right to refuse treatment yet."

Would I 'ave the legal right ter knee yer in the gonads, yer prick? Leadin' me out like a bloody criminal.

Anne wrapped him in a blanket as soon as he got in beside her, pulling him into a hug so massive he wondered if he'd suffocate; he tried in vain to fend her off, giving up completely when an overjoyed Max joined in, squealing nine to the dozen. The look in Anne's eyes told him there would be words later, and probably hell to pay into the bargain, but for the time being she clasped his hand in hers behind Max's back, staring out of the window, the street lamps lighting up the fragments of tear tracks on her cheeks as they passed them.

She hadn't told the doctor he was suicidal. That had to mean something.

He was too tired to figure it out tonight, still to take in the full impact of his visit to the National Archives. The lack of a file had to be significant somehow, but in his current state Gene just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a week. He'd managed two weeks before, after all.

Gene let his head fall back onto the headrest, ignoring Dr Simmonds talking softly to Anne; Max cuddled into his side, and he put his spare arm on his godson's shoulder, shifting over to mirror his position, eyes closed.

By the time the car reached the Royal London, both of them were fast asleep, curled together like a couple of sleepy cats, Gene's hand clenched on Max's coat as though he never wanted to let the little boy go.

The River Irwell never looked this beautiful in real life, he was sure. It sparkled in the late afternoon sun, clear of debris and detritus, its smoothly undulating sheen unbroken save for the slowly rotating wheels of the Cortina, a turtle on its back in the blinding sunshine.

He wasn't conscious of running towards it, barely even registered his feet leaving the ground of the ironically-named Hunts Bank as he leapt in to save his colleague; he could feel Sam's presence within the car, as though he were a radio tuned to Sam's frequency, could feel the desperation surging from his best friend as he kicked and kicked, scrabbling through the murky water, his fingertips brushing the handle of the door again and again, never grasping it, always slipping away before he could get any closer-

"Gene! Gene! Help me, Gene, please! Help me!"

He'd never heard this quality of wretched terror in Sam's voice before, and just that tore him apart from within; he doubled his efforts, kicking harder and harder, screaming Sam's name as hands rose from the mulch of the riverbed and began dragging him away, holding him down, drowning him here in the filthy darkness with Sam, and he no longer cared, could not feel any more, simply let them hold him down and went limp, accepting death, down here with Sam, with the despairing screams that were fading along with him…

"Sam!"

"SAM!"

"Gene, it's OK. I've got you. Christ, Gene, wake up, stop trying to kick me!"

He snapped awake in Anne's arms, bathed in sweat, the sheets wrapped round his legs, trembling from head to foot. Anne held him and soothed him like she would her own child, and though Gene tried to wriggle away from her she held him firmly and told him to stop fidgeting in such a strict voice he obeyed her.

The instant he rested his head against her shoulder, Anne began whimpering, pressing her lips together to hold the sobs inside.

"Gene… oh Christ, Gene…"

"What? Anne?"

Anne looked down at him, her eyelashes stuck together with tears; cold fear gripped Gene's heart.

"Anne? 'As somethin' 'appened?"

"No… no."

"You 'aven't told the doc about-"

"No, Gene. I just… oh God, Gene. Oh God. Why can't you just get better? You've been ill for so long… I want my Gene back." She paused, sniffling, one hand tentatively stroking Gene's hair as the other clung to him like a frightened infant. "You remember last year's Christmas party, when you sang Auld Lang Syne standing on the coffee table and ended up spilling your beer all over yourself? And then you started licking your jumper because you didn't want to waste the beer, and when I pulled it off over your head you called me a "sissy, soft, girly nancy"? And when Max woke you up in the morning you still took him to the park even though you nearly threw up on the way because you'd only stopped drinking three hours before. You were shattered Christmas Day, I took a photo of you when you'd had three portions of everything and fell asleep on my shoulder while Max was watching Chicken Run. That's my Gene."

The tears were falling thick and fast now, pouring onto his pyjama top as Anne spoke; he lifted a hand to wipe them away, brushing his drip out of the way impatiently as Anne sniffed, drawing her sleeve across her face.

"And then on Boxing Day you insisted on taking Max out for a surprise visit to the bowling alley, and it turned into a competition between us two. You won by about three points and I had to treat you to a beer on the way home, that was the first time I ever drove the Audi and you were the worst bloody backseat driver I've ever encountered. I nearly punched you. And then you carried Max all the way up the stairs and put him to bed, and because you were still tired from Christmas Eve I came in and found you'd fallen asleep reading him a bedtime story. That's my Gene. The man who used to text me a joke to wake me up in the morning when my alarm clock broke, who let Max play with his warrant card, who propped me up when I needed him because Max didn't have a dad. You caught him for me. Found him."

Caught him? But Gene had no time to dwell on Anne's speech. She was clinging to him now, sobbing freely into his hair as he tried to reassure her, murmuring that he remembered those things, he was still the same, he was, he was, nothing had changed, not for him.

"But you don't remember so much," Anne whispered, her hand clenching on his. "You don't understand, Gene. It's like- it's like I don't know who you are any more. You act like Gene, you speak like Gene, but when you look at me, when you really look at me, your eyes- they're so far away. So far away."

She held him closer, her tears running down his neck, warm on his clammy skin. Gene bowed his head, his chest aching, unable to say anything to comfort her, knowing what she was saying was true, he would be a long way away until Alex was with him again.

Anne held him and sobbed into his hair, whispering mingled endearments and obscenities onto his scalp as Gene stared sightlessly past her shoulder, gazing into the past once again.

Alex walked into CID the next morning to be presented with two puppies gambolling across the black and white tiles, one darting into the kitchenette with Ray's shoe in its mouth and the said Sergeant in hot pursuit, the other cleaning itself on Chris' desk as Chris watched with an expression of mild distaste on his face. Standing in the doorway, she surveyed the only two members of her team to have made it into work on time, raising her eyebrows as Chris dumped the puppy on the floor and realised she was there when it ran over to sniff her shoes.

"Chris?"

"Found 'em at the side o' the road, ma'am, the other two were dead. Couldn't leave 'em there," Chris protested, hurriedly collecting the puppy now tugging at Alex's jeans with its teeth. Alex shook her head, a telling smile on her face.

"As long as you can keep them under control, Chris, then I'm fine with them. They look like German Shepherds to me, you could hand them over to the Dog Division when they're a bit older, see if they'd like them."

"Police dogs!" Chris grinned, stroking his puppy. "Great idea, ma'am."

Alex couldn't help but return the grin, indulgently. Well, he's not lacking in enthusiasm, I'll give him that.

A clatter and a yelp from the kitchenette told the rest of the room that Ray had collared his puppy; Alex hurried over to help, finding him engaged in a tug-of-war with the animal over his shoe, what used to be the teapot in several pieces on the floor. Ray was growling at the little puppy, his face ruddy with exertion; the dog's tail was wagging so hard it was a blur, clearly having a whale of a time with this new playmate.

"Ray, stop growling at it, it thinks you're playing along and it won't let go of the shoe if you make it into a game. Put your finger in its mouth and stroke the top of its mouth, Ray. That'll make it let go. At the moment, it thinks your shoe is fair game."

"Ruddy Chris bringin' stray mutts inter CID! An' I'm not puttin' my finger in that little bugger's mouth. I don't 'ave a bloody death wish."

Alex sighed dramatically, dropping to her haunches beside the puppy and carefully inserting one finger into its mouth, rubbing the soft inside of the mouth. It worked instantly, the puppy whining before letting go of Ray's shoe, leaving the DS to topple over and end up on his rear beside the sink.

"Have no fear with puppies, their bark is worse than their bite. Unless you're a shoe," Alex pointed out, nodding to the puncture marks Ray's shoe now sported as she moved over to wash her hands in the sink. Ray sighed, glaring at the puppy as it began eagerly licking his jacket, pawing at his pocket.

"It can smell my ruddy Marathon!"

"Eat it quick, chocolate's toxic for dogs," Alex advised, picking the puppy up bodily and carrying it back through into CID, depositing it with its sibling in the cardboard box labelled 'CONTENTS OF A PRINCESS' that Chris had scrounged from the evidence room.

"I'll clear up the teapot. Ray, you get on with some work, Chris, keep an eye on the puppies until you know that box'll contain them. Where do the cleaners keep their dustpan and brush?"

"They don't." Chris picked up what used to be a dustpan, but was now chewed to a handle stub. One of the puppies growled proudly.

"Oh, great… OK, I'll tidy up by hand. Just be prepared to be stepping on bits of china for the rest of the week."

Rolling her eyes, Alex retreated back into the kitchenette, just in time to miss Chris groaning loudly as one of the puppies did a wee in the cardboard box.

"Honestly, Chris, you're like a little child," she muttered to herself, bending to start picking the bits of teapot up, carefully scrutinising the floor for any loose shards. One bit had found its way into a crevice under the counter; Alex wormed her fingers into the gap, grasping the shard of china, growling under her breath as it refused to come free.

"Bloody thing!"

In her irritation, Alex pulled on the sharp side of the china, hissing with pain as it sliced into her finger.

"Ah! Bloody hell…"

Nursing her finger, Alex stood up, making to run it under the cold tap. Please say there isn't much blood. I don't like blood.

She looked down, her uninjured hand grasping her wrist as she stepped towards the sink.

Her heart nearly stopped.

Blood was oozing from the cut, enough to stain the whole of her finger. But it wasn't red.

The blood now running down her hand and into the crevices of her palm was bright blue, shining on her skin in the brash light of the kitchenette, dyeing her sleeve navy blue as it began seeping into the fibres.

Blue blood… blue blood means… means I'm dead…

Gene, exhausted, slept through the night and most of the next morning, not even setting his alarm for five as he usually did; Anne refused to leave his side, putting up camp beds for herself and Max in his room as Gene slumbered on, the ECG machine Dr Simmonds had insisted on bleeping reassuringly by his side. She didn't sleep a wink, leaning on one elbow, watching the expressions flickering over Gene's face as he tossed and turned through dreams, soothing him once or twice when he became overly agitated. Dr Simmonds peered in every half an hour to check everything was still in order, changing Gene's drip over when it emptied, talking with Anne in a low voice as the menfolk slept on together, Max curled round Gene's chest, having woken up from a nightmare and cuddled up to his Uncle Gene to get back to sleep.

When Gene eventually woke, woozy and a little disorientated for the overlong sleep, the ward was bustling with activity, most of it seemingly centred on Alex's room; concerned, he made to get up, only for Dr Simmonds to pull him back down again by the shoulders, Anne hurriedly closing the door. Max, cuddled up on Gene's leg, didn't stir.

"What's 'appenin'? Alex…"

"Alex has overcome the infection, Gene. It's great news. We just need to keep an extra-special eye on her for twenty-four hours, so we're moving a couple of new machines in. I believe someone from the Met is visiting her, they'll be in to talk to you when they're done. Their job is to assess the pair of you. What they'll make of your escapades yesterday, I don't know."

Gene gritted his teeth.

"Just wanted ter find somethin' out." Like whether Evan White remembers the DCI Gene Hunt of the 1980s. But you wouldn't believe me fer a second, would yer? You an' yer 'it was all a dream' bullshit.

"Whether there was a Eugene Hunt in the Met in 1980. Lexi told me about it. She's my niece."

Just my bloody luck. Gene shrugged, wincing as it hurt his still-tender stomach.

"Just makin' sure."

"And there wasn't. What does that tell you about your dream, Gene?"

That it was some other world. But somehow, Evan remembers it too. Christ, this is bloody confusin'. Perhaps if I just play along…

"That it wasn't real," Gene muttered, studying his hands for something to do. His right one had a new cannula in it; he resolved to have the bastard out by three o'clock.

"That's right, Gene." Dr Simmonds looked relieved, perching on a visitors' chair next to Gene's bed; Anne rolled her eyes on the other side of the room.

"What's not real?" Max asked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes on Gene's blankets; Gene gave a little sigh, pulling his godson up to rest on his chest, letting the Gene Genie façade slip a little as he hugged the boy, brushing the drips and monitor wires out of the way impatiently.

"Doesn't matter, Maxy. 'Ere, don't you need ter be at school? Anne?"

"It's Saturday, Gene."

"Oh." Bugger. I really am out of it.

"No school on Saturdays, Uncle Gene," Max giggled, reaching up to tweak Gene's nose. Gene gently caught his hand, eyes absent as he wriggled over to give Max space on his pillows, too deep in thought to notice the door opening and the man coming in, crossing over to the bed.

"You here to assess Gene?" Dr Simmonds asked, standing up.

The familiar voice brought Gene out of his musings; he looked up, glancing round at Dr Simmonds and then at the man now sitting down beside him.

His mouth fell open.

"Shaz?"

A/N: Yes, I really am that mean. Please remember to review, it would make my day! Jazzola :D