InsaneJournal

Current mood:	awake
Current music:	Eric Clapton - Layla
Entry tags:	crossover, doctor who, life on mars

The Hardest Part (Is Letting Go) II/V
Title: The Hardest Part (Is Letting Go) II
Author: windout
Genre: Gen (with undertones of het)
Fandoms: Life on Mars/Doctor Who
Characters/Pairings: Sam Tyler, Annie Cartwright, Gene Hunt, random doctor
Ratings: PG
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 turned into four. Are you happy now?




“Sam…Sam Tyler, you are regaining consciousness. Sam, can you hear me?”

“Sam, wake up, please!”

“Lazy git’s probably already awake.”

“Sir, we want Sam to wake up in as calm and friendly an environment as possible—”

“Then wake the fairy up before my foot magically finds itself ten meters up ’is keister with no way out.”

“Gene, it’s Sam; be nice.”

“Sam—”

Perhaps—if he kept his eyes closed and breathing even—they’d never know he’s woken up. If they didn’t know, he’d be left alone. He didn’t want sympathy right now; he needed to be on his way.

“We want to be as gentle and accommodating as possible. No loud noises.”

“Tell ‘im there are felons out there prayin’ on innocent grans; he’ll love that.”

“Sam, please wake up…”

“Sam? Good morning, Sam.”

The lights, they were too bright and hurt his eyes. A halo haze surrounded what must have been a doctor, though Sam couldn’t have completely ignored the possibility of alien abduction. He blinked slowly, sleepily, trying to coax his blurring vision to focus.

“Sam, you were shot. You are in Manchester at St James’ Hospital. You’ve been unconscious for roughly a day and a half. Do you know your full name, Sam?”

“S-Sam Tyler. I’ve gotta leave, I have to get out of—”

“Soon, Sam. Do you recognize either of these people?”

The better question right now whether I really care or not… He did not recognize the sad-looking woman with the brown hair or the gruff, tired mad in the dark suit. Not friends. Not Maya.

Maya!

“No, I don’t, where’s Maya?” Sam slurred. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and it felt bloated and slimy and gross. Perhaps it was a good thing that Maya wasn’t here to see. However, he would have to try hard to heal quickly.

“Told ya he’s moved on, Cartwright.” The man rumbled. It was a sandpaper voice full of smoke and whisky that crawled out of that mouth. “A man goes missin’ seven years, don’t much care ‘bout the life ’e’s left behind.”

“Shush, Gene, he’s just confused,” the woman argued. “Sam, I’m so, so sorry. We thought you were dead!”

“Well I bloody well won’t be sorry! ‘E left when ‘e was needed, ‘n that’s unforgivable. I don’t care whether you got a concussion or a stake up yer arse; you never abandon your team.” The man was snarling and growling out insults and threats like a great, hungry bear; all Sam could do, short of taking matters into his own hand, was watch as the man walked out of the room. He didn’t think he minded either, as he was left nursing an uncomfortable prickling spot in the center of his chest.

“Sam, you’ll have to excuse the Gov. He’s never really been the same since…” she trailed off then. Sam felt he ought to feel bad for her, but really, what was the point? He was lying in a hospital bed surrounded by nutters.

“Listen, I really think you’re confused, all of you. I—”

“It’s all right, Sam, Mr. Hunt will be escorted from the hospital. Now, do you know the date, Sam?”

So many questions; I really need to leave. “I reckon it’s about the 24th of April.” And because he knew the question that would inevitably come next, he added, “2007.”

The woman turned, but Sam could still just about make out the words, “No, not again! Not again, Sam.”

Whatever this woman’s problem was, the doctor seemed to be sharing her sentiment. He didn’t say anything for a long time; Sam imagined that he saw a cringe behind the blank, blue mask. “No, Sam. It’s 1980. Fourth of November.”

“Listen, if I’m healthy, I’d like to be discharged,” Sam Tyler said firmly. He would not suffer these lies. He had to get back to work, find out how they managed while Sam had been “hospitalised.” Check up on Maya, and Jack, tear down the Saxon poster in his office. There was no time to be sick and infirm.

“Sam, you’ve been shot—”

“Yes, I got that, thank you. I’m fine. I have to get back to work; I don’t have time to humour you. Get me release papers and I’ll sign them. I’m fully aware of the risks, I just have to—” Sam kicked his legs over the bed and was moving far too quickly to completely notice the sting and pull of tender flesh by his right kidney. The IV line was disconnected and the needle withdrawn from his skin. Clothes. I need clothes…

“Sam, wait, you should stay, please! You’re not well!”

“I have to go Miss, excuse me.”

“At least let me take you home.”

No time, no time, I have to go now, someone will be waiting for me. “I’m sorry, Miss—” he glanced over at the thoroughly depressed woman trying to remember her name. “Miss Cartwright. Perhaps I’ll see you later. Thank you for your help.” Sam grabbed up the bag of clothing up off the chair by the door and slipped out to find the WC.

Sam beat a hasty and stealthy retreat from room 4424. Something about that room just turned people into crazy, nonsensical creatures. Of course it’s 1980, why wouldn’t it be 1980, the psychos. If Sam was a little less upright, he’d be tempted to slip out of the hospital without any fuss.

That was wrong though. No greys where that was concerned.

First thing was first: he had to make it down to the nurses’ station to try to procure a release form. Thankfully, there would be no stealth required, because it had been a very long time since he’d had to sneak anywhere. Sneaking was no longer his cup of tea, if the big, burly wall he’d just run into was any indication.

“Tyler.”

Sam jumped backwards, shoving the clothing bag in front of him in a sort of makeshift shield. It wasn’t an awful lot of help, but the johnny shirt wasn’t any protection at all; his arse was practically dangling out the back for all the world to see. At least he had options with the plastic bag, like strangulation, or makeshift rope.

“I’m armed!”

The burly, black-polyestered wall offered up a dark and grim smile. “Still orderin’ folks around like you own everythin’ you see, do ya?”

“Sir—Gene—just don’t…mess with me, all right? I’m going on my way, you can go yours.”

Gene seemed to consider the proposition, given the way his mouth screwed up and his brow furrowed over his sharp blue eyes. “Nope. Don’t think you get that luxury until we had a few gabs or three.”

“Gene, I haven’t got time for this.”

“That’ll be DCI to you, Tyler, and if I say you’ve got time for jiggery pokery, you’d better have a clear calendar. You’re coming with me.”

Gene had him by the flimsy collar before Sam could object and swung him roughly into the nearest room. Small consolation: it was a loo, just like Sam'd been looking for. Unfortunately, the last thing on his mind was changing into respectable clothing. The DCI had a fierce, feral look on his face.

Sam Tyler swallowed thickly and smiled at Death.