He was having the nightmare again.

Strange, because he hadn't remembered falling asleep this time.

It started the way it always did - the crowded street, the masses of people milling about, the muted roar of humanity filling his ears. Then time seemed to slow itself, the sounds fading till they sounded merely like a distant summer storm. The faces in the crowd blurring and separating, until only one stood before him, her face as clear as if it had only been yesterday he had seen her last, not 385 days before.

Lizzie.

The nightmare had come less often since Tom, a five month old Agnes propped on his hip, bag full of onesies and nappies and formula, had come to his door. A desperate and resigned look on his face, he had stumbled over his excuses, saying his life had taken an unexpected turn and it wasn't safe for him to have her any more. Red said very little at the time, taking Lizzie's little girl in his arms, nodding solemnly when Tom begged him to keep in touch, to let him know how his baby girl was doing. It was, Red felt, perhaps the only decent act that Tom had committed since Red had first known him. He even refrained from slamming the door in his face, instead stood jiggling a happily gurgling Agnes on his arm and watched Tom walk away into the darkness. Since then he had obligingly sent the occasional photograph and letter of progress to the post office box address Tom had left with him. No communication came back through it, so Red could only assume he was actually receiving them.

Baby Agnes had become the one bright thing in his life. He allowed Kate and Dembe to assist him only because he could see the pleasure they too gained from the presence of this sunny little child. She seemed to have inherited her blue eyes and gorgeous smile from Lizzie, and while it caused his heart to lurch in his chest every time she beamed at him, he welcomed the pain, because it reminded him of the reason he was still alive. Kate showed a softer side that few but Red had seen before, and Dembe took great delight in carrying her around in the crook of one arm. Agnes herself seemed to enjoy this elevated position, and as she began to speak, her demands for "Dem-Dem" were only exceeded by those for "Way."

They were all present when she took her first steps at the age of eleven months, stumbling from Kate's hands straight into Red's outstretched ones. Few who knew the Concierge of Crime by his deadly reputation would have recognised this man as he crowed her name, wet eyed, and lifted her high into the air In celebration. Agnes for her part seemed as proud of her accomplishment as they all were, and squealed delightedly, wiggling her little legs in the air to be set down again.

Agnes was doing much to fill the empty space that filled Red's heart. He had floated through the first months after Lizzie's death, the revenge running cold in his blood all that kept him from collapse. Even once he had rooted out and destroyed those who were responsible, he felt no closure, no relief from the guilt that rode him day and night. He, who had always relished the finer things in life, lost interest in almost everything save cigars and scotch. Kate and Dembe had worked together to at least make sure he ate enough to stay alive, although he became shockingly thin and sallow despite their best efforts.

Since Agnes had come into his life, he had been forced to confront his own self-destruction, and take steps to reverse it. He had submitted to the meals that Kate prepared for them both, eating reluctantly. By the time his appetite began to return and with it, his own interest in cooking, Agnes was showing her own interest in food. Not many babies could claim creamy vichyssoise as their first food, but Red spooned it into her mouth with a steady hand that had not forgotten it's past skill. He smiled at the sight of the happy infant with soup running down her chin, and kissed her messy cheek, not caring when her hands reached for his shirt and stained his collar.

The nightmares had lessened, but they had not disappeared entirely. There were nights when he still woke, sweat pouring from his body, chest heaving with silent sobs, struggling not to make a noise lest he wake the baby sleeping peacefully in her bed on the other side of the room. Sometimes he would drag himself from his tangled blankets and walk quietly to her cot, struggling to slow his breathing. Sinking to his knees beside it, he would watch the rise and fall of her chest in the nightlight, allowing it to calm him. He had failed Lizzie, but he would not fail her daughter.

This time the nightmare felt different.

It had started, as before, with the crowd of people, the crush of humanity flowing around him like a river. Then her face in the crowd, as the movement around him seemed suddenly as slow as molasses. He waited for the inevitable shift, for the moment when the dream would switch to Lizzie dying in front of him, as he watched helplessly.

But it never came.

She was still there, hair loose as it had been when she first walked down the stairs at the black site and into his life again. His heart, which he felt had stopped beating the moment her face appeared, started again with a lurch and the air was driven from his lungs. So it had come to this. He was now imagining her in his waking hours as well. Many times he had thought he saw her walking through the city - dark hair, the curve of a cheek, blue eyes - but always it had been a passing fancy, a stranger with one small resemblance, one feature similar to the woman he had so adored.

This apparition caught and held his eyes, however, and didn't look at him curiously or with disgust when he stared too long. Small lines appeared around the eyes as the face smiled, a little hesitantly at first, and oh God help him, Red had finally lost his mind. He took a step backwards as the apparition stepped forwards, reaching a hand towards him and then he spun on his heel, the voice of the siren following him as he stumbled, ran.

He had only just made it around the corner and onto the grass of the small city park when his stomach heaved. Falling to his knees, he felt his stomach eject violently the food he had eaten that day. When he could pass no more, he sat back on his heels, face clammy and cold with sweat, ignoring the horrified murmurs of the people who were walking past him. One compassionate woman stopped and asked if he was alright, but he waved her away, his other hand pressed over his mouth, unable to speak past his grief that now came pouring out anew, like an old scar had been split open.

His hands shook as he fumbled for his phone, dialling for Dembe with unsteady fingers. His friend promised to be there as soon as he could and Red sat until then on the grass, head bent into his hands, until Dembe came and helped him stand, took him to the car that was waiting on the curb.

Neither of them saw the woman watching from a short distance, eyes now red and swollen with the tears that had been running silently down her face, as she watched the man she loved falling into pieces before her.