Carla would be so angry with her.

Lisa wasn't sure why that was the first thought that crystallised in her mind as she lay against the brick wall, blood filling her mouth and coating her chin.

She'd promised to be careful.

She wasn't even on duty, but Lisa was too much of a copper to stand by when she saw two men stealing from Websters Garage; she'd shouted after them and ran.

Too bad there was a third person.

Too bad they were in a transit van.

It was late, or early, Lisa couldn't tell - she'd left the cop shop at 8PM, after she'd texted Betsy she'd be home late and received a series of texts in response about what an awful mother she was. Lisa felt she probably deserved that, especially now she was dying in a cold and dirty ginnel.

The van had hit her straight on, slamming her into the side of a building, and she'd slid down it with a sickening crunch as the van backed up and turned to speed off into the night.

Lisa spat weakly, more blood filling her mouth.

Her chest was on fire, choking her - there may be a rib or two poking through her skin, Lisa wasn't sure, her arms too weak to lift and check, one completely numb and hanging limp at her side.

The building she was bleeding out against was Underworld, she realised absent-mindedly. Would it be Carla who found her in the morning, cold and limp? Would she cradle her face like she'd done that night in her flat?

Had Becky felt like this, as she died?

It was almost instant, the coroner said, and the word almost had buried itself in Lisa's brain, flaring at inopportune moments like an old injury. What had happened in that almost?

Had she been scared?

Had it hurt?

What had she thought about, as she stared up at the cold and unforgiving stars, and heard the screech of tyres as the person who murdered her fled the scene?

Lisa looked up. She was seeing those same stars.

It seemed cruel, that she should know now what Becky may have felt in that almost.

Who would tell Betsy?

Lisa had been the one to tell her that Becky had died. She couldn't even remember doing it, her memory redacted in a perfect blank. A lot of the immediate aftermath of Becky's death felt like that. She could remember, oh so clearly, the pained scream that had erupted from her daughter, more wild animal than girl, and how she'd held her as Betsy had screamed against her, screamed until she cried, cried until she lost her voice, and Lisa had been there, still and unmoving, stuck forever in the moment of her wife's death.

Years had passed, but maybe she was still there, stuck in that moment.

Would Carla be the one to tell her this time? Would Betsy make her way into work, see the police tape? Would Carla pull her aside and tell her - something's happened to your Mum -

Her body was growing numb, a creeping sickness moving up from her legs.

Lisa tried to breathe.

She'd promised Carla she'd try.

Try to stop wanting it all to … stop.

With a herculean effort, Lisa reached for her phone, pulled it from her pocket as her ribs grated and howled in pain, but as she cast her eyes down, she could see it was smashed beyond use.

She cried then, aching tears rolling down her cheeks.

Betsy would go into care.

Maybe that was better, Lisa reasoned, as she fixed her gaze on the blinking stars above. She always seemed to get it wrong with her daughter. She'd already spent countless hours at night, begging someone who wasn't listening that it should have been her who died and Becky who should have lived -

Maybe someone was finally listening.

"Hello?"

She tried to move her head, and there she was, Carla Connor, stood under a streetlamp at the end of the ginnel, illuminated and beautiful in her long green coat.

Lisa smiled, despite herself.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

There wasn't enough breath in her lungs to reply, all Lisa could do was take in air in shallow gasps. Maybe she was seeing things, her brain firing off a final few signals so she had something nice to think about as she drifted away.

It would have been nice to have something to lessen the pain, but, hey, you can never have everything you want.

Carla was walking towards her, looking around, and Lisa felt she should try and hide somehow. She would be so angry that Lisa had gotten herself so hurt.

"Hello?"

I'm here. Come see me. Come hold me as it goes dark.

It seemed then, and only then, at the end of everything, in a cloud of pain and gathering darkness that Lisa could finally admit to herself that she had feelings for the blunt, beautiful woman who saw how much of a mess Lisa was and didn't seem to mind. Big, messy, completely unreasonable yet totally inevitable feelings.

She couldn't feel them before, couldn't let herself feel them, her mind too clouded with overwhelming guilt. They hadn't been something she'd ever thought she'd feel again, because even though Becky was dead, Lisa felt strongly she was still a wife, just married to someone whose broken body was buried in a pretty graveyard on the outskirts of Weatherfield.

Forgive me Becky, for breaking my vows.

It was getting darker.

Forgive me Carla, for breaking my promise.

Carla's footsteps were getting closer.

Forgive me Betsy, for leaving you behind.

Carla was so close.

Maybe she would be held -

"Oh, God -" There was a choked sound, and there was a hand on her face, pulling her gaze from the stars, and Lisa could see Carla properly. She was pale, eyes wide with panic as she fumbled in her pockets. "Oh, Lisa, darling - you're okay, I'm going to get help - yes, ambulance - I need an ambulance, please, she's dying -"

It's okay. Lisa thought, but couldn't verbalise, her mouth too full of blood to speak. It's okay. This is always how it would end. It's okay, darling.

"Yes, Victoria Street, Underworld Factory, round the back - please, oh, Lise -"

Carla was crying.

Her hand was still on her cheek.

"I think she's breathing, but - she's covered in blood, and - oh, God - I think some of her ribs are poking out her chest - please, please -" Carla sobbed down the phone, and Lisa felt guilty. She'd upset Carla enough in the few months they'd known each-other, it seemed so unfair she was doing it now.

It's okay, Carla, it doesn't hurt anymore. Tell Betsy - tell her it didn't hurt, in the end. Tell her there was no 'almost.'

"No, no - Lisa - stay awake, stay with me - stay with me darling - stay for Betsy, okay? She needs you, she needs her Mum to come home."

Lisa cried then, because Betsy did, but the wrong one had made it home that cold night three years ago.

"Try and stay awake for me, please, darling, you need to try." Carla sobbed. "Stay for me, okay? You promised me you'd keep yourself safe, don't break that promise, please."

Her other hand was on her cheek now, wiping away at the blood and the tears and the grime.

"Lisa, please, please don't do this to me. Don't leave me like Liam did. Don't go. Don't go."

She blinked, tears in her eyes. There were sirens in the distance, loud and getting closer, and Carla looked up, then back down at her.

"Hear that, love? They're here to help you, they're going to keep you safe."

Please don't leave me.

Time was coming in fragments now, and Lisa sobbed as Carla's hands left her face, and terrible strangers in bright yellow and green started to shout at her, shining lights in her eyes and hurting her, pushing on her ribs and her legs and her arms -

"Lisa? DS Swain? We're going to move you -"

The pain was so intense, so immediate, as she had a collar strapped around her neck and she was manhandled onto a stretcher, a white hot searing poker driving into her lungs, wrapping around her chest and squeezing -

"DS Swain? Can you hear me?"