FicWad

The last thing Sam had expected was that, upon getting out of the coma, he would then have to spend more time in hospital.

For the first week, he barely did anything but sleep. The time he did spend awake he largely spent alone. The doctors and nurses were busy and only there when they were doing tests. His mother was a regular visitor, but that was it. And even she couldn't be there all the time.

He was dozing one afternoon when he found that there was someone who could. Sam had still been half asleep when he'd heard the voice. "Well, look at that, sleeping beauty. Not like you've got anything better to do, is it?"

Sam groaned. That was the last thing he needed now. He was tired, he wanted to sleep. He murmured the response. His throat was still sore from the tracheotomy tube, even though it had been removed three days before. "Piss off, Gene. I'm in hospital here." Sam turned his head to look at the clock. "Besides, visiting hours are over. Get lost."

Then the implications of his words penetrated and Sam started fully awake. There was nobody else in the room. So why had he heard Gene Hunt's voice? Was there a real, genuine Gene Hunt, who most likely didn't know Sam from Adam, here to visit him? Just on the off chance that that was the case, Sam called out. "Gene?"

Nothing. Not even a nurse who might have said something for him to misinterpret.

Sam tried to go back to sleep. It took him a long time to get there.

The second time he heard Gene was two days later. Sam was already spending more time awake, and this time he was actually woken up by the nurse coming into his room to check his heart rate and blood pressure.

"She's a bit of all right. You might be onto something good here after all, Sammy-boy." Sam heard the remark clear as day. Yet the only one in the room besides him was the nurse.

"Did you say something?" Sam asked her.

"I just said good afternoon, sir."

"Nothing else?"

She gave him a small smile, but did not interrupt her preparations. "Not yet, sir. But if you could raise your left arm, I'm going to take your blood pressure now, sir."

Sam obeyed meekly. His mind, however, had been set racing, and the conclusion it reached did nothing to make him feel better. For pity's sake; he was back home, had left the prehistoric trappings of 1970's Manchester behind him. Why then was he conjuring up the voices of the people he'd imagined to populate his fantasy world? And if he was still imagining them, why did it have to be abrasive, maladjusted Gene? Why couldn't it be sympathetic Annie?

Damn it. He was getting better. The last thing Sam needed was remnants of imaginary friends coming back for a chat. He resolved to ignore any future visits.

His resolve was sorely tested. He was spending more and more time awake, alone and annoyed at his inability to get up and do anything. Initially, he had trouble even lifting his arm, never mind doing anything else. He hadn't used his muscles for so long, they'd atrophied. For a long time, until they were trained again sufficiently to do their job, all he could do was lie there and think.

Aside from his mother, who would stop by every day regular as clockwork, he had few visitors. Maya visited a few times. The first time, Sam had been inordinately relieved to see her, and she had seemed happy to see him okay too. Yet all the conversation felt strained. Sam hadn't wanted to talk about his experiences during the coma and Maya seemed to be deliberately not mentioning something. The second time she came, that mystery at least was solved when she cautiously announced her engagement. Her relief when Sam, after his initial surprise, had congratulated her had been clear. But then when Sam had tried to ask about what had happened to her during her kidnapping, she avoided the issue.

Sam got a breakdown of the course of those events from some of his former colleagues. They had seemed rather relieved that he'd asked after it. At least it gave them something to talk about. After his accident, a retired police officer was called in as a consultant, someone who remembered a similar case, from way back when he'd been a Detective Sergeant. The records of that case turned up the address of Colin Rames's neighbour, and the man's psychological record. He had indeed just been judged rehabilitated, and released. Maya was discovered in his house soon after. None of his colleagues seemed able to name the officer concerned, though.

Other topics never got very far, and none of the officers came more than once. To Sam, all of them had seemed like strangers, and the feeling must have been mutual.

Complete loneliness was hard to bear, and the Gene Hunt now hanging around in the back of his head was just as persistent as the real thing. If there'd ever been a real thing. Sam had to give him full marks for consistency, in any case. Of course the guv turned up where he was least wanted. His continual comments on the situation Sam found himself in, on his surroundings and the hospital staff, became progressively harder to ignore.

As time wore on, the resolution to ignore Gene became even harder to maintain. Sam's resolve weakened with the amount of time he spent lying alone in a white room that was too warm and too bare. He found himself looking forward to Gene's derogatory remarks. At least it was another voice besides his own echoing around his head.

Also, the big guy /helped/. He got bored of lying in that hospital bed even before Sam did, and he was constantly pushing Sam to get on with it and get it over with. Because Gene was egging him on, the therapy that Sam was undergoing in order to walk and function again progressed remarkably quickly. According to the doctors, at least. They were amazed by the speed and level of his recovery. Yet six months of daily exercises and medical tests did not equal a rapid recovery to either Sam or Gene.

The day he finally got out of the hospital momentarily revived the feeling of relief and homecoming Sam had felt when he had managed to escape from his coma. He'd been outside a few times already, for short walks when the weather allowed, but when he left the hospital this time, the sun just seemed brighter, the air that much cleaner, and the roses next to the hospital entrance appeared to flower in a deeper shade of red. For almost five minutes, he just stood there in the sun, enjoying the gentle breeze. Free at last.

But of course that wasn't true. He'd been allowed out of the hospital, but he had to return every few days for even more tests and therapy. Besides, during the time he'd been in the coma, his mother had given up his apartment. The only place he could go to was his mother's.

Even at her age, she was doing everything in her power to take care of her son. And she did it all with the strength of a woman who had been on her own for more than thirty years, with nobody to help her face the world ever since her husband'd walked out.

Sam's curiosity about what had really happened at that wedding reception had been growing ever since he'd woken up to find his mother sitting at his bedside in the 21st century, but he hadn't yet managed to work up the courage to ask. Maybe, he considered, because he was just a little scared of the answer. At least now he could still operate under the delusion that his father had been a good man forced to flee. Whatever he had seen in 1973, as a grown man or as a child, so far it was nothing but imagination. He'd always had an active one.

But he'd fought long and hard to get out of his imagination and back to reality. It was about time he faced up to it.

He brought it up over dinner one night. He'd cooked it; that was the least he could do to help around the house. Still, it didn't taste quite as it should. Maybe because he missed the sense of triumph. All the ingredients had been readily available in the shops; he hadn't had to sniff them out in unlikely corners of Manchester. He swallowed a bite and then mustered the courage to ask the question on his mind for over six months already.

"Mum?"

"Sam?"

"I've been wondering. About dad, about when he left."

His mother put her fork down and looked at him. "Why?"

Sam forced a smile. "I had a lot of time to think about it." When that elicited a small smile from his mother in return, he continued: "You never really talked about why he left."

His mother picked up her fork again and started picking at her food. She deftly separated the bits of meat from the vegetables and the sauce. But she still didn't say anything.

Sam tried to be a bit more specific. "Was there trouble? I remember we moved around a lot." He did, too. There was still the hurt when discovering, after one such move, that his favourite football had been left behind.

His mother didn't stop pushing her food around her plate, but she raised her eyes to look at Sam again. Her face was blank. "Yes, there was trouble. Your dad wasn't that good a salesman. We were always behind on the rent." Her lips pulled upwards for an instant. "Not that that situation improved after he left."

"That's why we had to move around so much."

She nodded. "He was always gambling, too. And then he got in a spot of trouble with some gang or other. Do you remember there were police officers with us?" Now she really smiled again. "You were so excited when that happened. Couldn't stop talking about it for days."

Sam had a flashback of himself, four years old, in his room playing with his Thunderbirds toys. Then the door opened and a giant in a camel coat walked in. "Hello Sam," the giant said and crouched, producing a police badge. "Mind if I take a little look round your room?" Little Sam, open-mouthed, couldn't do anything but nod. "Good kid." Then the giant started rummaging around his room, finally taking a book from the bedside table. Before he walked out of the room, he patted Sam on the head. "Now you behave yourself."

Sam recognised the giant as Gene, but he wasn't sure where the memory was coming from. It could be a genuine memory of his childhood, or it could be a construct from his experiences during the coma. Most of what he remembered from those days was now contaminated like that. He had, after all, only been four years old. How much did a child that age really remember? Hell, maybe it was even Gene contributing nuggets of experience.

"It wasn't me. Whatever you decide to dream up about your childhood is down to you."

"Sam?" His mother sounded concerned. He must have drifted off. He cleared his throat, then smiled at her.

"Yeah, I remember." He paused. "Wasn't there police at the wedding reception too?"

She nodded again. "There were. They were still looking for Vic. They said he was an important witness in a case. I think there was more going on than that. He never would tell me what he was doing all the time."

"I saw him."

"What?"

"At the wedding. I went to find him in the woods. He was there." Sam paused, unsure how to continue. Did his mother know all this? "The policewoman in the red dress. He was..." He didn't want to say it. So he took a bite of his food to conceal his insecurity. There was a long silence while he chewed. When he'd swallowed it, he continued. "Would have ended really badly if the police officer hadn't interfered."

He hadn't looked his mother in the eye while he'd said this. Now he looked up at her and saw that she sat frozen. Blood had drained from her face. "Mum? Are you okay?"

She didn't reply, for long enough that Sam was out of his chair and on his way around the table when she did speak. "I'm fine, Sam. But I think I'd better have a lie down. Thanks for the dinner." She let him help her up, but then extricated herself from his grip and made her way to the bedroom.

After that day, Sam sometimes found his mother staring at him, though she looked away and denied it if he asked after it. She also became even more solicitous of him. As he was getting stronger and stronger, this only worked to frustrate Sam even more. He had nothing to do but some chores around the house. He wanted to be really doing something, not sit around twiddling his thumbs between visits to the hospital and being fawned over by his mother.

To work off his frustration and escape his mother, he took to taking long walks during the day. But even they felt pointless. All he did was walk around in a larger or smaller circle, really. They had no real /point/. And of course, walking around alone without anyone else to attract his attention was a good way to bring Gene back to the forefront.

"'S not right, a man your age bein' taken care of by his mum. Should be the other way around, if there were any justice."

Yeah, Gene. In case you hadn't noticed, I can't do that since I haven't got a job. It's not like I like just hanging around there.

"Well, then get a bloody job. What, the modern city don't need a decent sheriff anymore?"

That was slightly easier said than done. But eventually, after six more months, the doctors declared Sam healthy enough to return to police work. The Greater Manchester Police was glad to have him, but of course the position he had held before his accident had been filled. No equivalent positions were available. He ended up taking a position as Detective Inspector in C Division.

The first day he walked into the office was an experience remarkably similar to the first time Sam'd walked into the 1973 equivalent. Despite the marked colour contrast, everything felt just as alien. And of course Gene still had to get a word in.

"Where have all the ashtrays gone?"

Smoking's not actually allowed in the workplace nowadays, Gene.

"No smoking? That's ridiculous."

Gene was forced to the background as Sam spotted a woman in her early thirties, clearly waiting for him. He approached her.

"DI Tyler?"

"Yeah."

She held out her right hand. "DS Christine Kent. I'll be working with you, mostly."

Sam shook the proffered hand. "Nice to meet you, Sergeant." He felt horrified at how forced that had come out. He tried again. "Do you mind if I call you Christine? Or would you prefer something else?"

"Christine's fine, sir."

"Call me Sam, then."

"Yes, sir. DCI Chase said she wanted to see you when you came in, sir."

"Lead the way."

Sam followed DS Kent through the seemingly endless corridors, light grey walls only broken up by blue doors and the occasional window showing dark grey sky. Gene took advantage of the monotony.

"What, a man can't have a fag now and again?"

People can smoke as much as they want. Outside. At least this way you don't suffocate on the smoke in the office.

"This way, sir." The detective's voice startled Sam out of his internal conversation. He had almost walked past the door into the CID offices. Now he entered it, and immediately all eyes were fixed on him. Again, he had a sense of déjà-vu. The detectives in 1973 had reacted the same way to his entrance.

This time DS Kent led him between the desks toward an office. Through the open blinds a woman could be seen sitting at the desk, talking into a telephone. She spotted them, but then gestured to wait. Sam leaned against the doorsill and continued where he'd left off.

What are you worried about anyway? I don't smoke.

"I do. And I've been dying for a smoke for almost a year now, I might add."

Serves you right for not getting out of my head when you should.

"Hey, it's your head. Throw me out if you dislike me being here so much."

You know, I have the feeling I've been on the other end of this conversation.

The woman in the office had finished her conversation and was now waving them in, so Sam just sent a mental snort Gene's way and entered the office.

The furnishings were nothing if not utilitarian, and the whole office was remarkably uncluttered. About the only thing in it that wasn't purely functional were a series of photographs on the walls. They showed police officers, both men and women, individuals and in groups, dressed in fashions spanning the decades. Sam thought he recognised his old Chief Super in one of the photographs.

Again there was the handshaking and introducing spiel. Somewhere in the back of his head, a wolf-whistle sounded. Sam ignored it. Then DCI Jean Chase motioned him to sit down. She had a file open on her desk. She gave it a quick glance before addressing Sam.

"I hear we could have been colleagues, Tyler. Why settle for less?"

"I wanted to get back to work. I've been an Inspector for so long, I can be one for a bit longer."

"Glad to see you're so eager." She gave him a level look. "I do hope we can be clear on who's in charge."

"Of course."

"Good." She smiled at him. "Wouldn't do to have a turf war between me and one of my Inspectors." The file received another quick glance before it was closed. "I look forward to working with you, DI Tyler."

It was a dismissal. A gentle one, and DCI Chase got up to shake his hand again, but a dismissal nevertheless. Sam walked out of the office and immediately Gene decided to put his tuppence in.

"What's a plonk doing as a DCI? Mind you, she looked like she could fillet you with nothing but a glare. Might make a half-decent desk sergeant if she dressed down a bit."

Sam decided not to answer that but instead turned his attention to DS Kent, still outside the office. At some point in the recent past she had acquired two cups of coffee, one of which she now offered to Sam. "Coffee, sir?"

Sam accepted it. "Cheers." He took a sip, then asked, "Since when do they have Sergeants fetching the coffee?"

She winked at him. "Consider it a once in a lifetime opportunity. Because you're new."

He responded to the wink with a grin of his own. "I'll remember not to take advantage of your kindness in future. For the moment, though, where can I find my desk?"

His desk was found easily enough, and one feature in particular made for a comforting sight, though of course it provoked another comment from Gene.

"The infamous PC Terminal. Don't see him catching many villains."

You might be surprised.

Sam spent the rest of the day familiarising himself with the procedures in the station, and the new interface on the computer. There was nothing unfamiliar, however, about the stacks of files he found on his new desk the following morning. Yup, business as usual. Finally.

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