InsaneJournal

Current mood:	irritated
Current music:	Three Dog Night - Mama Told Me Not To Come
Entry tags:	crossover, doctor who, life on mars

The Hardest Part (Is Letting Go) I/V
Title: The Hardest Part (Is Letting Go) I
Author: windout
Genre: Gen (with undertones of het)
Fandoms: Life on Mars/Doctor Who
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Maya, Jack Harkness (for now)
Ratings: PG-13 for non-graphic of violence
Disclaimer: Life on Mars is not mine (but I want a DVD), and I do own the Ninth Doctor on DVD
A/N: This is for rationalunatic because I owed her one. Except now it’s turn into three. So she should owe me two more, right? Right! :-P




Harold Saxon, Harold Saxon, Harold Bloody Saxon. Everywhere he looked, there was Harold Saxon’s dreadful, speckled mug plastered all over the city. Almost like a cult. That’s what this was, a cult; well, they wouldn’t get DCI Sam Tyler. Sam Tyler was firmly against any sort of a cult whose leader resembled some squeaky, extra accessible version of the face he saw in the mirror. Just as a personal rule.

Even Maya made remarks about Harold Bloody Saxon, about how sharp he looked with his pressed suits. His sparkling smile. Why couldn’t Sam make an effort to smile once in awhile, and would it kill him to not take himself so seriously?

Thank God the tosser had disappeared. Probably vacationing on a private island while people sat in gutters. While criminals walked the streets. Good riddance.

Sam inspected the face in the mirror. A little haggard, sure, but that was expected. Sam worked very hard at being the cleanest DCI he could be. So what if he took himself seriously? The law had to come first; what sort of moral high ground could he claim if he let it pass by the wayside? Become second to those posters of Harold Saxon staring at him as though the PM hopeful knew a horrible secret and wanted nothing more than to blurt it out to the next passer-by?

Paranoid? Sam? No, no, what Sam was was practical.

Dunking his hands beneath the tap, Sam washed himself of the unclean feelings that Harold Saxon inspired. Saxon was hiding something. Sam just wished he knew what.

“Sir, there’s someone to see you.”

Sam flicked his fingers into the basin, shaking off some of the water. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

“He’d rather like to see you now, if you don’t mind.”

With a final, violent shake of his hands, Sam rounded on the stranger with a dark look. He didn’t recognize the man, and he looked rather unremarkable. New help, perhaps?

“Right then. What?”

The corner of his lips quirked upwards. Just the barest of movements, yet Sam could sense a world of sadistic evil in that half-grin. “Sorry, Saxon. I’d say you’ve gotta come quietly, but that’s a bit old fashioned, huh?”

“What are you talking about?” This could only end very, very badly. Sam thought that the gun in the man’s hand more than made that point.

“Mr. Saxon, you are being asked respectfully and forcefully to accompany me to a completely private place for a round of questioning.”

Is this a trick? “I…There must be some mistake. I’m not…you think I’m Harold Saxon?”

“I know you’re Harold Saxon,” the man replied coolly. “There was pretty important research involved. I’ll let you look at it when we get to said completely private place. Now, you’re going to have to—”

“Sir, I can’t presume to guess who you are or where you plan on taking me, but I can assure you that I am not Harold Saxon.” That was the way to do it—speak calmly and rationally. Present yourself as completely peaceable; do not upset the gunman unnecessarily. Wait until you can disarm the gunman or help can arrive.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Saxon, but this isn’t really a polite request anymore.”

And no matter what, placate the gunman. Even if he’s convinced that your some git-faced bloke with a snarky smile. “Okay, all right. I’ll go with you.”

“That’s the way. The easier you make it, the better it’ll be, Mr. Saxon. I’m going to keep this—” He waved the gun gently in front of his face before stashing it within a coat pocket. The battered, blue great coat looked RAF issue. Strange the things a person notices while his or her life is busy doing a blow-by-blow reply of the entire thing to date. “—in here, just as a friendly reminder. We’ll be heading out a ways, and it’s a bit of a drive, so I’d prefer it if you could refrain from bodily harm.”

Keep calm. Someone will bail you out. He’ll have to take you out by the desks in broad daylight; he can’t be that familiar with the CID because he ambushed you in the loo. Someone will have to notice. Maya, Maya will know what is happening.

“Yes, sir.”

“C’mon, I this isn't a terrorist camp; call me Jack.”

“Uh…right. Yes, Jack. Jack.”

Freedom! Maya, Maya look at me, I’m right here. Maya, come…look at me for God’s sake!

“Sam? Sam, who’s this?”

Saved! “Uh, Maya, this is…Jack.” Sam tried to think of different, discrete means of conveying “Help!” and “Danger!” but even he felt that he had lost something when he caught sight of himself in a window looking terribly constipated. “He’s showing me somewhere.”

“Might even have a game of racquetball later,” Jack added cheerfully. A complete transformation from armed intruder to Mr. Popular. Sam was quite probably on his own.

“I…Maya…have I told you I loved you today?” He should have felt so very much worse about the look of surprise on her face. Wonder why she would be so shocked that he came out and openly expressed the sentiment in public.

“Sam?”

“Maya? What happened to Mrs. Saxon?” Jack murmured in his ear.

“I got bored.” God help me.

“Really? Because I think that was a code.”

And there it was. He’d gone and upset his assailant. All that was left was to try to patch things up and hope "Jack" was feeling merciful. It would be a little difficult with the muzzle of a gun stabbed into his spine.

“Drop your weapon!”

“Now…Ms. Maya, you don’t want this gun to go off, right? I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, but Mr. Saxon—Sam?—is being held for questioning.”

“I demand to see some ID.”

That’s it, Maya, don’t let him leave the building…

“Sorry, I left it in my other coat. Maya, it’s for the greater good. You can’t grasp it now, but this man is going to be doing causing a lot of grief in the future and it’s part of my job to make sure that never happens. It would definitely be in yours and everybody’s best interests if—”

“Put your gun on the floor!” Finally, finally, other people were beginning to get the hint that something was amiss in the CID. Things were escalating far out of control and looking a rather poor state.

But if it was a choice between him and getting a potential killer locked up—even one who considered himself an enemy of Harold Saxon—Sam would pick the latter any given day. Shame they didn’t have more to talk about, but the law came first. And no firearms ought to be used for threatening bodily harm.

“Jack, don’t do this. You must have lots to live for, why throw it away on something like this? Mistaken identity. Why would Harold Saxon be bothered with the Manchester CID? Why would he let himself work as just a DCI when he so obviously has the whole of Great Britain eating out of his hand? Think, Jack. I’m not Harold Saxon. You must know that. Why are you really here, Jack?”

Sam managed to meet the gunman’s darkened, blue eyes, and for a moment, Sam felt something deeply profound: a stabbing pain in his gut. The amount of raw hurt Sam saw in those old, old eyes really physically hurt in an aching, bone-deep way.

The blood pouring out of a hole in his belly might also have had something to do with that pain too. And God, wasn’t that a kick in the arse?