Fic: The Sky is Falling (1/1), green cortina, dakfinv
Title: The Sky is Falling (1/1)
Author: dak
Word Count: 5640 words
Rating: green cortina
Warnings: swearing and blood
Summary: Seems like the sky is always falling around Sam Tyler.
A/N: This is for space_oddity_75 who won my offer over at help_haiti . She requested a good ol' fashioned Sam and Gene friendship h/c fic. Please enjoy!
The vacant warehouse smelled of mold, feces, and blood. Dust particles swirled in the air, illuminated by the mid-morning sun. Sam sneezed into his sleeve.
“Bless you, Boss.”
“Cheers, Chris.”
“So, erm, how much longer we going to be here? I mean, been a few hours and all.”
Sam crouched by the blood splatter, cocking his head to the side as he examined the pattern for the umpteenth time.
“We stay until we’re finished.”
“Or until beer o’clock,” Gene corrected. “Which, I would say, is...” he looked at his watch, “right...about...now. Gentlemen!”
“It’s just gone three!” Sam said, still crouched by the puddle of blood.
“And we’ve been in this dump since five in the ruddy morning. By my calculations...”
“Oh, this should be good,” Sam rolled his eyes.
“That’s three hours before normal punching in time. Now that makes it three hours later, work time.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Sam sighed as he stood.
“Means it’s not three. It’s six. Otherwise known as...”
“Beer o’clock,” Sam finished for him.
“Cutting costs, Sammy-boy. Rathbone doesn’t want anyone on the rotar doing overtime. Ergo, our job here is done.” Gene removed a cigarette from his pocket and lit it in one fluid motion.
“So, the quality of policing should be dictated by the amount the city can afford.” Sam crossed his arms and pouted in one fluid motion.
“What on Earth are you talking about?”
“Never mind,” Sam walked away from the team, headed for the broken window he originally thought had been the point of entry for the murderer.
“Just where do you think you’re going, Gladys?” Gene shouted as the rest of the men headed outside to the waiting cars.
“Nowhere, actually,” he answered, pulling out his notebook and examining the window frame.
“Suppose you’re forgetting I’m the one that dragged your skinny arse out of that shitty bed and drove you down here.”
“The cot’s not so bad once you get used to it,” Sam countered.
“If I’m leaving, you’re leaving,” Gene said, walking over to Sam.
“I’ll find my own way back. Go on. Wouldn’t want you to miss your first pint of the afternoon. Oi!”
Gene grabbed Sam by the collar and pinned his right arm behind his back. Sam’s notebook and pen fell into a rotting stack of pallets as he was forcibly removed from the crime scene.
“The team is going to the pub. You’re part of the team. You’re going to the pub,” Gene explained. Sam struggled in his hold.
“I could’ve worked the association out on my own.”
“Apparently not, else you’d still be back there staring at dust mites and roaches.”
“Thought that was your kind of company.”
Gene tossed Sam at the car.
“In, before I decide to leave you and your gob here for the night.”
“Please tell me that’s a promise,” Sam smiled, internally relenting to Gene’s demands, though he would never say so aloud. He loaded himself into the car, taking one last glance at the towering, burned-out building.
“Forensics are still there,” he commented as the Cortina’s engines roared to life. “Suppose they can collect the rest of the evidence.”
Gene peeled away from the scene, kicking up dust and debris as he sped away.
“Now you’re thinking like one of us,” he grinned, making a sharp left turn onto the main road.
“God help me,” Sam sighed, grasping the door for support as his stomach lurched.
*
Another empty glass was slammed onto the rickety table with a sigh and a belch. Sam removed his face from the gas’s airstream, hoping to spare himself the worst of the smell.
“Please tell me you brush your teeth,” he sneered, sipping from his own glass.
“What? Now?” Gene asked.
“Ever.”
“You know what your problem is, Sam?”
“I have an idea. No doubt you’ll enlighten me as to a few more.” He leaned back in his chair, almost eager to hear Gene’s appraisal.
“First off, you talk like a twat.”
“It’s called being educated. And it didn’t seem to bother you when I was able to out-converse Litton.”
“Not saying it isn’t useful. Gets on me nerves when you can’t switch it off, though.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Second?”
“Second what?”
“You prefaced your previous sentence with ‘first off,’ implying there would be a second.”
“Also said, ‘know what your problem is.’ Singular. Meaning one. Less you care for me to rattle of a few more, Dorothy.”
“No thanks. Think I’ll ponder the first one awhile longer.”
“Why don’t you ponder your way over to the bar. Nearly gone a whole minute without a drink in me hand.”
“Must be a record,” Sam grinned as he left his chair.
“Don’t forget the whisky chaser!”
“How could I? I’ve only paid for the last three rounds,” Sam muttered as he reached for his wallet once again. By the time he returned with the drinks, Gene had elapsed into a more somber mood.
“Shame,” he snorted as Sam handed him the fresh pint.
“That your daily intake of alcohol exceeds that of the rest of Northern England?”
“’Bout all them old buildings, near the quays.”
“You mean where we found the body?”
“All gutted. Burned up. Bits falling off right and left. Bloody Germans. Used to be thriving, that part of my city. Then it were all bombed out.”
“It’ll thrive again.”
Gene snorted.
“Wait and see, Guv. A few decades from now, those buildings will be repaired or torn down. Turned into flat blocks and shopping centers. It’ll be full of life.”
“Forget it, Sam. The city’s dying, especially there. Might as well chuck the whole lot into the sea.”
“Since when are you so pessimistic?”
“And since when are you Mr. Optimist? Sky’s falling everyday round you, innit?”
Sam shrugged.
“Feels like it some days, when I let this place get under my skin.”
“This place isn’t so bad. You said yourself - it’s thriving.”
“I said it will be, not that it is.”
“Once again, Tyler, you’re a right cheery bastard to have a drink with.”
“I do what I can, Guv,” Sam smiled. “I do what I can.”
*
The sun had yet to rise when Sam stumbled into CID. He was only mildly tipsy as he wandered into the room, being extra careful not to disturb the quiet and calm. Sam had always loved his station like this - his station in 2006.
It was rare then, to find the place empty, even in the early morning hours. There was always someone working, worrying, or wandering. That someone was usually Sam himself.
He hadn’t meant to come in so early today, or come straight from the pub after Nelson’s impromptu lock-in for that matter, but he and Gene had just reached the finer points in an argument regarding...
Sam tripped over a chair.
As he picked himself off the floor, he realized he couldn’t remember what the argument had actually been about, to be honest. But it had resulted in him reaching for his notebook, only to realize his notebook was missing.
He shook off the pain in his right foot and continued towards his desk. Surely, if it was his notebook, it would be at his desk. He switched on the desk lamp, the harsh yellow light’s typically dim glow shining brightly in the otherwise darkened room.
“Boss? Is that you?” Phyllis’s equally harsh voice cut through the silence so sharply, Sam couldn’t help but wince.
“Yes. Only me,” he replied, continuing his search through the desk’s drawers.
“Oof. Smell like a brewery,” she sniffed, coming closer.
“Chris spilled his pint on my jacket. Have you seen my notebook?”
“Not my job to keep track of your things, sir.”
“No. I know. I just can’t remember where I left it.”
“And that’s why you’re here at four in the morning, instead of sleeping it off at home? Because you can’t sleep without your notebook?” She asked skeptically.
“Erm, yeah. That’s about right,” Sam admitted with embarrassment.
“Hm. Actually, that doesn’t surprise me as much as it should.”
“You really haven’t seen it, have you?”
“DI Tyler, I haven’t seen you all day. Guv took you right to that crime scene yesterday morning, didn’t he?”
“Crime scene,” Sam’s eyes lit up. “Phyllis, you’re a genius.”
“I know that.”
Sam buttoned up his jacket as he hurried to leave the room.
“Where you off to now?” She called after him.
“The crime scene. I dropped it there. Completely forgot.”
“You’re headed to that part of town at his time of day?” She chided.
“I’m a big boy, Sgt. Dobbs. I can take care of myself.”
“That’s what all you boys say. Then I’m the one left cleaning up your reports while they’re cleaning up your bodies.”
“Very morbid. Thank you.”
Phyllis took hold of Sam’s elbow and dragged him from the room.
“Where are you taking me?”
“You’re at least taking a radio with you. I’ll not be having the Guv mad at me cos of your stupidity.”
*
The sky was brighter but the sun was nowhere to be seen. This time of day always confused Sam - the hour before a sunrise. His brain thought if it looked like night and it felt like night, it should be night. Yet, at this hour, it looked like night and it felt like night, yet the sky was gradually getting brighter - like the world was turning in reverse.
As he parked and exited the small Rover he’d borrowed from the station, Sam blamed the sky for the eerie feeling settling in his stomach. Yes, it was the sky and nothing more, Sam decided as he walked purposefully towards the hollowed out warehouse. As he did so, the unwanted feeling subsided. Sam smiled. It didn’t always serve to listen to one’s gut instinct, this he knew for certain.
It was dark inside the warehouse, yet the little light that existed outside seemed to seep through every crack and broken window. It was enough for Sam. He walked over to the window he’d been examining yesterday - the window where Gene had grabbed him - and searched the floor for his lost notebook.
A police officer was nothing without his notebook, even his police constable cousin knew that.
With his own fingertip search in progress, Sam gradually made his way to the old pallets stacked under the window. He carefully moved each one aside, repositioning them on the floor.
“Aha!” Sam grinned as he spotted his notebook on the dusty floor. “There you are. And you,” he said, picking up both the wayward notebook and it’s companion, the pen. “Guess we can leave now,” he noted as he stood, then stopped himself. “I am not talking to office supplies.” He looked over his shoulder. “Okay, I was. But no one saw me talking to office supplies.”
Sam glanced over his shoulder again, just to be sure, and this time noticed a staircase hidden in a dark corner.
“Wonder if forensics knew to check up there,” he asked aloud, as his eyes followed the staircase up and over to a shaky loft that extended half the length of the warehouse.
If this was 2006, he would have been confident Gil and his team would have covered every inch of the building, leaving nothing unseen. This wasn’t 2006, however, it was 1973, and while Sam was fond of Horace, Sam often felt he and his team were little more than a glorified cleaning crew. Not that they were to blame. The level of forensic science Sam was accustomed to was pure science fiction compared to the methods of the Seventies.
Sam couldn’t just leave and simply assume the loft area had been explored. He could return to the station and ask Horace, then return to the scene if the job had indeed been left undone, but that was a waste of time and resources, especially since he was already here. Besides, it was always good form to look over a scene twice, in case anything was missed the first time.
Sam was careful as he climbed the rickety staircase, sticking closer to the wall than the dilapidated railing. He remained careful of his footing as he reached the landing. Though bereft of a torch, the orange glow of true sunlight was finally leaking into the building, providing him with a semi-decent view.
As he moved further from the staircase, he noticed the signs of life in the loft, or at least of someone living there. An empty ruck sack, stubs of candle wax dotting the floor, thin, stained sheets doing a poor imitation of a bed. Sam had reached the end of the loft now. Whoever was, or had been, living there was not there now. Perhaps they had been when the murder occurred. Perhaps they had been the cause of the murder itself.
There was a stack of yellowed newspapers by the pile of sheets - a makeshift bedside table. Sam crouched down to get a look at the dates, and to see if there were any identification-bearing papers lying nearby.
As he knelt, the boards beneath his feet creaked.
For a brief moment, the world was still. Nary a bit of dust moved and even Sam held his breath.
And then the moment ended, and the world came crashing down.
*
The vacant warehouse smelled of mold, feces, and blood. Especially blood. Dust particles swirled in the air, illuminated by the early morning sun. Sam coughed into his shoulder.
He coughed again and again, until his throat was shredded and his lips were damp with phlegm. By sheer will, he managed to control the shuddering breaths leaving and entering his body.
Only when he’d gained control of the coughing fit did he risk opening his eyes. His blurred vision cleared slowly, revealing a view of the ceiling above him. In the high rafters, a pigeon stared down. While he didn’t chance speaking, he made a mental request - dear god, please don’t shit on me.
The pigeon, apparently attuned to telepathy, cooed once then took off, soaring out an open window. Sam followed it with his eyes until it became necessary to move his neck. When he moved his neck, he winced, and that small twinge awakened every dormant nerve ending in his body, and Sam found himself flooded with pain.
His first instinct was to move, to twist and writhe and bend until his nerves were pleased and the pain was eased.
Sam couldn’t move.
Panicked, his second instinct was to wiggle his toes. He rotated his ankles, felt his ankles rotate, and heard the scuff of his shoe on the concrete below. The realization that he wasn’t paralyzed eased his anxiety. Logically then, he determined that if his body itself was capable of moving, then it was some external force preventing his mobility.
He took another breath, a stronger one, and lifted his head. His theory was proven correct - he was pinned under a pile of support beams, rusted pipes, and a thin sheet. Sam suspected the sheet was the least of his issues.
Now fully understanding his situation, he took another breath, a weaker one, and tried to pull his body out from under the debris. He pulled, he twisted, he strained. Nothing budged. Sam took a moment’s rest and tried again. He pulled, he twisted, he strained, he felt nauseous. Nothing budged. Sam took a longer rest. He pulled, he twisted, he strained, he nearly vomited. Nothing budged.
Sam rested his head back against the broken piece of pallet that was serving as a pillow and decided to recollect his thoughts, weigh his different options.
He couldn’t move. He was out here alone. He was starting to feel dizzy. He needed help. He had a radio. The radio. It had been stuffed in his inner jacket pocket. He dragged his right hand under the piece of debris suspended just above his abdomen and felt for the pocket.
Sam withdrew his hand. It held no radio. It was, however, covered in blood.
Sam decided that panicking now would be a poor option. Instead, he used his right hand to push away the light piece of debris that was obstructing his view of his torso. He wished he hadn’t.
His stomach was coated in warm, dark blood. There was also a thick piece of wood protruding from his left side.
“Shit.”
Sam couldn’t understand why he hadn’t noticed the giant piece of wood sticking out of him before. It probably had something to do with shock, adrenaline, and a lot of brain chemical nonsense he didn’t want to think about right now. Yet, now that his brain was aware of the situation, he couldn’t become unaware of it, or the severe pain it was causing.
He felt the sweat forming on his face. He felt the way his heart was pumping madly. He felt the way his chest was hitching with every fifth breath, every fourth, every third.
Sam decided he didn’t want to die in a dilapidated warehouse down by the quays, on his own, in 1973. He moved his head in every direction physically possible. To his left, he saw the radio. It looked to be in one piece. He went for it with his left hand, but couldn’t reach it. His left arm was pinned down under a beam. He hadn’t noticed that before, either.
His right arm was mobile, though. He’d used it before. He swung it across his body, reaching as far as he could go. He still couldn’t reach the radio. He tried twisting his shoulders. All he needed was a few extra inches, that was all. Just a few.
He reached. His stomach screamed. He felt the stake in his side digging deeper, tearing up his insides. All he had to do was reach the radio. Just a little further. He was almost there. So close. The pain had even subsided a little. His head was a little more cloudy, too, but he was almost there. His chest hitched with every other breath. Right there. It was right there. His fingers could almost scrape the smooth greenish-gray plastic.
The pain was lessening. Everything was foggy. His chest hitched with every breath. Nearly there. He’d get it on the next try. Next try. He needed to rest up for the next try. Just a brief rest. So brief. Just a rest.
*
The sun was shining brightly when Gene strode into CID. He was awake and alert after a solid five hours of sleep and a hearty breakie prepared by the Missus. The room was already buzzing with life as he walked towards his office. Typewriters clacking, fag smoke filling the air, the amiable chatter of mates recapping the previous night’s events. Gene always loved his station like this. There was always action, conversation, life.
He hadn’t meant to come in so early. He could have postponed his arrival until ten at least, especially considering it was Friday, but when he’d woken this morning, he’d had the niggling feeling that he should get in as soon as he could. Gene knew better than to dismiss his gut instincts.
As he stood at the doorway of his inner office, he turned and surveyed his kingdom - a man at every desk, calmly awaiting orders. Every desk except one. One desk was conspicuously different from all the others, and it wasn’t because it was tidy.
“Where’s DI Lightweight this fine morning?” He bellowed to no one in particular. He knew someone would answer.
“Don’t know, Guv,” Chris piped up first. “Haven’t seen him all morning.”
“Probably hanging over his toilet,” Ray chimed in. “Can’t hold his liquor, that one. Girl,” he laughed and the others joined in. Gene did not.
“Suppose I’m the one to wake him, then, since you lot couldn’t think to give the tosser a ring,” Gene rolled his eyes and pushed into his office, reaching for his phone before even removing his coat.
The telephone rang. No one ever answered. Gene hung up the receiver. He went back to the main office. Cartwright was taking a seat in front of her typewriter, a stack of files beside her.
“WDC Cartwright.”
“Yes, Guv?”
“Have you been privy to any information as to where our typically timely Inspector might be?”
Annie looked around in confusion, as if surprised that Sam wasn’t there.
“I had a coffee with Phyllis before her shift ended this morning. She said something about DI Tyler coming in early this morning, then rushing off to a crime scene. He’s not back?”
“Which crime scene?”
“Don’t know. Suppose the one we visited yesterday. Only active scene we have at the moment. No new calls have come in...”
“How early?”
“Pardon, sir?”
“How early this morning?”
“Three, sir. Maybe four?”
Gene was mildly thankful that he’d left his coat on. He was mostly annoyed that he never could ignore his gut instincts, even when he wanted to.
*
Gene pulled up on the handbrake as soon as he saw the beat-up Rover parked neatly be the warehouse entrance. He leapt out of the Cortina with the engine still running, his focus on only one thing - kicking the ever-living tar out of Tyler for running off to a potentially dangerous crime scene by himself.
He could see the berk now, crouched in a corner, examining a bit of muck on the wall and proclaiming - to himself - that it was the key to the entire case. Yes, that was exactly what Sam would be doing.
Gene flew into the warehouse and immediately staggered backwards, bumping into Ray and Chris who where running in directly behind him.
The upper portion of the warehouse, which he had already deemed useless to the investigation, had collapsed. The original crime scene and surrounding area were covered by a mountain of rotted planks, rusted pipes, and other miscellaneous debris.
Right in the heart of it all was a swatch of black leather.
Gene’s momentary hesitation vanished and he crossed the distance to the carnage in an instant. He couldn’t see Sam’s face, but he knew he was unconscious. He wasn’t moving at all. He was lying almost on his left side, his right arm draped across his body, his fingers just touching the edge of the radio beside him. From what Gene could see, Sam’s legs were pinned under the wreckage.
It felt like forever, but was really only a moment, until Gene placed his hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“Sam?”
His voice sounded worried and weak. He hated it. Sam did not respond to it.
“Come on, Tyler.”
Gene carefully turned Sam onto his back so he could see his face. As he did so, Sam’s right arm flopped to his side, and the wet, red stain - the large, wet, red stain - on his abdomen came into view, as did the piece of wood sticking out from his left side. Behind him, Gene heard Chris vomit.
“Ray, ambu--”
“Done, Guv.”
Gene nodded.
Sam was very pale, making the trickle of red staining the corner of his mouth that much brighter. Carefully, maybe slowly, Gene lifted his hand to Sam’s neck, searching for a pulse. His sigh of relief was palpable.
“It’s there. He’s alive.” Gene lowered his ear to Sam’s mouth. “And he’s breathing. Gene raised his head and squeezed Sam’s shoulder. “Good work, Sammy-boy. Keep fighting. Ray, help me get this shit off him.”
Carefully, slowly, together Gene and Ray moved the pieces pinning Sam’s legs and arm. Sam did not move. Gene removed his coat and laid it out on the cold floor.
“Ray,” he outstretched his hand. Ray handed over his jacket. Gene scrunched it into a ball and placed it at the top of his coat. “Get his legs,” he ordered, moving to Sam’s head. “Watch his side. Don’t want that thing moving.”
“Aye, Guv.”
“Okay, careful. Count of three.”
Carefully, slowly, Gene and Ray lifted Sam off the pile of debris and placed him on the coat. As Gene positioned Sam’s head onto Ray’s jacket, he felt the sticky dampness on the back of his head.
“Christ,” he sighed as he checked the wound, then placed Sam’s head so that the bleeding would be staunched by Ray’s jacket. “There a place you’re not bleeding from, Tyler?”
Sam did not move.
With still a suit jacket to spare, Gene removed it and pressed it against Sam’s bleeding abdomen.
“Chris, go and wait for that ambulance.”
The constable muttered something that resembled “yes, Guv,” and was gone. Gene focused on Sam. He had been wrong. Sam wasn’t pale. He was gray. Gray-green. He was clammy. At one point, he must have been sweating - his hair was matted with dried sweat and blood - but that had stopped now.
His body was completely limp. There was no strength in him at all, no futile attempts at resistance. No grunts of recognition. His eyelids did not flutter. His face did not twitch. For once, Gene wouldn’t have minded if Sam started rambling about the future and mobiles and whatever else because at least that meant he’d be talking.
He was nothing right now, just a shell. A cold, limp shell.
Still, he had a pulse, and if he had a pulse, there was something to fight for. Gene kept a firm grip on Sam’s shoulder and did his best to clean the dust and blood from Sam’s bruised face. As he waited for the ambulance, he spotted a rectangular, black object a small distance from the rubble. Gene reached for it. It was Sam’s notepad.
“You and your ruddy papers,” Gene muttered as he flipped the pad open and close.
Sam did not move.
“I’ll keep it safe for you.”
Gene slipped the pad into his pocket and listened to the sirens in the distance.
*
Contrary to popular opinion, Gene Hunt did not hate hospitals. He didn’t particularly care for them, but hate never really entered into it. They served their purpose, like everything else in life. He certainly didn’t appreciated the uncomfortable plastic chairs littered about the place or the lack of decent food.
Most of the nurses were easy on the eyes, and they didn’t mind if he snuck in a bottle or three of whisky. The doctors, well, they seemed educated enough and Gene didn’t mind them long as they did their job. That job was keeping his Inspector alive, of course, and they’d been doing it well enough so far.
And that was what Gene hated. Not the hospital or the chairs or the food, but the sight of Sam lying there, struggling to live. Gene knew, really, that there was nothing more he could do. He had done his part earlier - tracking Tyler down, getting him into that ambulance alive. He knew - he did - that it was all in the hands of the doctors now, and Sam himself, knew that he no longer had a role to play in Sam’s recovery. Not this part, at least.
Yes, he knew all this, but it never stopped him from feeling completely and utterly useless every time he plopped down next to Sam’s bedside with a bag of grapes and a bottle of Glenmorangie.
Sam had been in and out of consciousness for the past few days. Sometimes he’d mutter something intelligible, most others not. The doctors said it was a good sign. Gene simply waited, his feet propped on Sam’s bed, the grapes on his belly, the whisky in one hand and a newspaper in the other.
He was never sure what he was waiting for. He hoped it was something good.
*
There was a gurgle.
Gene’s eyes snapped open.
A gurgly cough.
Gene swung his legs off the bed.
Sam coughed again, his chest rattling.
Gene grabbed the glass of water on Sam’s small bedside table. With his free arm, he held up Sam’s head while the other carefully tipped water past Sam’s chapped lips.
“Easy, Tyler,” Gene whispered as Sam tried to gulp down the entire glass. “Just a sip, mind.”
When Sam seemed finished, Gene set the glass back on the table and Sam’s head back onto the pillow. Then, he waited. He waited for Sam to fall back asleep, as was usually the case.
“Wh...where...am...I?”
Or not.
“You’re in hospital,” Gene answered.
“What...year...is it?”
“Same’s it’s been since January.”
“Fair...enough.”
Gene waited for Sam to fall asleep again. Normally, he was only awake for a minute or two. It had already been one.
Sam shifted his head from side to side, then gingerly opened his eyes. The left was still red, thanks to a burst blood vessel. Sam couldn’t tell, though. He stared at the ceiling - one red eye, one white - poking at his chapped lips with his tongue, gently flexing his mouth as if he’d never used it before (which Gene knew wasn’t the case.)
“A building fell on me,” he finally whispered.
“Like I said, sky’s always falling around you, innit?”
“Place...does...get under...my skin.” Sam shifted uncomfortably, his left hand stroking his punctured side. He kept staring at the ceiling. “That...really hurt.”
“Glad to see your sharp intellect is still intact.”
Sam took as deep a breath as his body allowed, and released it slowly. Gene could only imagine what it felt like to have a multitude of stitches on his stomach and around his side, pulling every time he breathed. He took a painless breath of his own and waited for Sam to fall back asleep. It had been nearly three minutes now.
“Did you find me?”
A new part to their ever-repeating conversation.
“You remember?”
“No. Don’t remember...remember anything.”
“You remember a building fell on you.”
“Hard to forget...that.” Sam tried to shift his left leg and winced.
“Get your rest, Sam. We’ll talk later.”
“Not tired,” Sam argued as his eyes fell shut.
“Fine. You want to talk, answer me this - what the bloody hell were you doing out there by yourself?”
Gene waited for his answer. He waited so long, he thought Sam had finally fallen asleep.
“I lost...my...notebook.”
This was most certainly a new part to their typically circular conversations.
“Hang on. You’re telling me you nearly got yourself killed because of some bloody paper?”
“It’s...a...really...good...notebook,” Sam smiled and he took another deep breath and shook off another pained grimace.
“If you weren’t on so many painkillers, I’d knock that grin clean off your face, Tyler. Don’t ever go swanning off to a crime scene on your own again, you hear me? You so much as think it, I’ll be handcuffing you to the shelves in Lost and Found and forcing you to watch Phyllis’s highly renowned strip tease.”
“Well,” Sam sighed. “If it’s...highly...renowned.”
Sam smiled. Gene smirked. He settled back into his chair as Sam was falling back asleep.
“Guv?”
“Yeah, Sammy?”
“Am I...going...to be...alright?”
“Course you are. Wouldn’t let you be owt else.”
Gene waited for a response, but Sam had finally succumbed to sleep. Gene felt in his pocket before picking up his paper. The notebook was still there, still secure.
*
The vacant flat smelled of mold, sour milk, and whisky. Dust particles swirled in the air, disturbed by the entrance of two tired coppers.
“Home sweet home, eh Sammy-boy?” Gene grinned as he helped Sam hobble through the doorway.
“This place is disgusting,” Sam grimaced as he was led into the room, his crutches forcing him to move slowly.
“Careful. Might upset the bloke what lives here.”
“I live here,” Sam grumbled, sitting on the bedding and setting the crutches beside him. Another puff of dust wafted into the air as the cheap mattress creaked, sending him into a hacking fit.
“See that plywood killed your sense of humor, then,” Gene commented as he tossed Sam’s bag onto the floor.
“Couldn’t kill it, if it weren’t there to begin with,” Sam said with a straight face.
“Well, now that you’re settled, that’s me off.”
“Let me guess - beer o’clock.”
“Always knew you were a clever lad,” Gene walked back to the door. “Welcome to join us, you know.”
“Can’t,” Sam sighed, carefully lying back on his bed. “Not with the medications I’m taking. Might go out for some food later, though. Doubt there’s anything here that’s edible.”
“Think you’ll just go out on your own, hm? After I had to carry your sorry arse from the car just to get you in here in the first place?”
“Fine, Guv. If you’re so concerned, I’ll make do here.”
“With what? Like you said, isn’t enough food here to satisfy a mangy cat.”
“Then I’ll just go to sleep,” Sam started to close his eyes.
“In that shitty, little excuse for a bed?”
“Cot’s not so bad once you get used to it,” Sam yawned, already feeling a cramp in his back.
“Alright. Up. If I’m leaving, you’re leaving,” Gene hoisted Sam into a sitting position, then hauled him to his feet, shoving the crutches in his hands.
“And, might I ask, where are we going?”
“My guest room’s better than this lot, and I haven’t even set foot in it for fifteen years.”
“And food? Take aways, I presume.”
“Well you’d be wrong, cos I happen to know the Missus is cooking up quite the meal tonight. Best sausage and mash you’ll ever have. Might even be a treacle for dessert.”
“Suppose I could use a good meal, after all that hospital mush.”
“Now you’re thinking like one of us,” Gene grinned and he took Sam’s bag and helped him out of the flat.
“God help me,” Sam sighed, grasping his crutches for support as his side screamed in pain. “God help me.”
Author: dak
Word Count: 5640 words
Rating: green cortina
Warnings: swearing and blood
Summary: Seems like the sky is always falling around Sam Tyler.
A/N: This is for space_oddity_75 who won my offer over at help_haiti . She requested a good ol' fashioned Sam and Gene friendship h/c fic. Please enjoy!
The vacant warehouse smelled of mold, feces, and blood. Dust particles swirled in the air, illuminated by the mid-morning sun. Sam sneezed into his sleeve.
“Bless you, Boss.”
“Cheers, Chris.”
“So, erm, how much longer we going to be here? I mean, been a few hours and all.”
Sam crouched by the blood splatter, cocking his head to the side as he examined the pattern for the umpteenth time.
“We stay until we’re finished.”
“Or until beer o’clock,” Gene corrected. “Which, I would say, is...” he looked at his watch, “right...about...now. Gentlemen!”
“It’s just gone three!” Sam said, still crouched by the puddle of blood.
“And we’ve been in this dump since five in the ruddy morning. By my calculations...”
“Oh, this should be good,” Sam rolled his eyes.
“That’s three hours before normal punching in time. Now that makes it three hours later, work time.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Sam sighed as he stood.
“Means it’s not three. It’s six. Otherwise known as...”
“Beer o’clock,” Sam finished for him.
“Cutting costs, Sammy-boy. Rathbone doesn’t want anyone on the rotar doing overtime. Ergo, our job here is done.” Gene removed a cigarette from his pocket and lit it in one fluid motion.
“So, the quality of policing should be dictated by the amount the city can afford.” Sam crossed his arms and pouted in one fluid motion.
“What on Earth are you talking about?”
“Never mind,” Sam walked away from the team, headed for the broken window he originally thought had been the point of entry for the murderer.
“Just where do you think you’re going, Gladys?” Gene shouted as the rest of the men headed outside to the waiting cars.
“Nowhere, actually,” he answered, pulling out his notebook and examining the window frame.
“Suppose you’re forgetting I’m the one that dragged your skinny arse out of that shitty bed and drove you down here.”
“The cot’s not so bad once you get used to it,” Sam countered.
“If I’m leaving, you’re leaving,” Gene said, walking over to Sam.
“I’ll find my own way back. Go on. Wouldn’t want you to miss your first pint of the afternoon. Oi!”
Gene grabbed Sam by the collar and pinned his right arm behind his back. Sam’s notebook and pen fell into a rotting stack of pallets as he was forcibly removed from the crime scene.
“The team is going to the pub. You’re part of the team. You’re going to the pub,” Gene explained. Sam struggled in his hold.
“I could’ve worked the association out on my own.”
“Apparently not, else you’d still be back there staring at dust mites and roaches.”
“Thought that was your kind of company.”
Gene tossed Sam at the car.
“In, before I decide to leave you and your gob here for the night.”
“Please tell me that’s a promise,” Sam smiled, internally relenting to Gene’s demands, though he would never say so aloud. He loaded himself into the car, taking one last glance at the towering, burned-out building.
“Forensics are still there,” he commented as the Cortina’s engines roared to life. “Suppose they can collect the rest of the evidence.”
Gene peeled away from the scene, kicking up dust and debris as he sped away.
“Now you’re thinking like one of us,” he grinned, making a sharp left turn onto the main road.
“God help me,” Sam sighed, grasping the door for support as his stomach lurched.
*
Another empty glass was slammed onto the rickety table with a sigh and a belch. Sam removed his face from the gas’s airstream, hoping to spare himself the worst of the smell.
“Please tell me you brush your teeth,” he sneered, sipping from his own glass.
“What? Now?” Gene asked.
“Ever.”
“You know what your problem is, Sam?”
“I have an idea. No doubt you’ll enlighten me as to a few more.” He leaned back in his chair, almost eager to hear Gene’s appraisal.
“First off, you talk like a twat.”
“It’s called being educated. And it didn’t seem to bother you when I was able to out-converse Litton.”
“Not saying it isn’t useful. Gets on me nerves when you can’t switch it off, though.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Second?”
“Second what?”
“You prefaced your previous sentence with ‘first off,’ implying there would be a second.”
“Also said, ‘know what your problem is.’ Singular. Meaning one. Less you care for me to rattle of a few more, Dorothy.”
“No thanks. Think I’ll ponder the first one awhile longer.”
“Why don’t you ponder your way over to the bar. Nearly gone a whole minute without a drink in me hand.”
“Must be a record,” Sam grinned as he left his chair.
“Don’t forget the whisky chaser!”
“How could I? I’ve only paid for the last three rounds,” Sam muttered as he reached for his wallet once again. By the time he returned with the drinks, Gene had elapsed into a more somber mood.
“Shame,” he snorted as Sam handed him the fresh pint.
“That your daily intake of alcohol exceeds that of the rest of Northern England?”
“’Bout all them old buildings, near the quays.”
“You mean where we found the body?”
“All gutted. Burned up. Bits falling off right and left. Bloody Germans. Used to be thriving, that part of my city. Then it were all bombed out.”
“It’ll thrive again.”
Gene snorted.
“Wait and see, Guv. A few decades from now, those buildings will be repaired or torn down. Turned into flat blocks and shopping centers. It’ll be full of life.”
“Forget it, Sam. The city’s dying, especially there. Might as well chuck the whole lot into the sea.”
“Since when are you so pessimistic?”
“And since when are you Mr. Optimist? Sky’s falling everyday round you, innit?”
Sam shrugged.
“Feels like it some days, when I let this place get under my skin.”
“This place isn’t so bad. You said yourself - it’s thriving.”
“I said it will be, not that it is.”
“Once again, Tyler, you’re a right cheery bastard to have a drink with.”
“I do what I can, Guv,” Sam smiled. “I do what I can.”
*
The sun had yet to rise when Sam stumbled into CID. He was only mildly tipsy as he wandered into the room, being extra careful not to disturb the quiet and calm. Sam had always loved his station like this - his station in 2006.
It was rare then, to find the place empty, even in the early morning hours. There was always someone working, worrying, or wandering. That someone was usually Sam himself.
He hadn’t meant to come in so early today, or come straight from the pub after Nelson’s impromptu lock-in for that matter, but he and Gene had just reached the finer points in an argument regarding...
Sam tripped over a chair.
As he picked himself off the floor, he realized he couldn’t remember what the argument had actually been about, to be honest. But it had resulted in him reaching for his notebook, only to realize his notebook was missing.
He shook off the pain in his right foot and continued towards his desk. Surely, if it was his notebook, it would be at his desk. He switched on the desk lamp, the harsh yellow light’s typically dim glow shining brightly in the otherwise darkened room.
“Boss? Is that you?” Phyllis’s equally harsh voice cut through the silence so sharply, Sam couldn’t help but wince.
“Yes. Only me,” he replied, continuing his search through the desk’s drawers.
“Oof. Smell like a brewery,” she sniffed, coming closer.
“Chris spilled his pint on my jacket. Have you seen my notebook?”
“Not my job to keep track of your things, sir.”
“No. I know. I just can’t remember where I left it.”
“And that’s why you’re here at four in the morning, instead of sleeping it off at home? Because you can’t sleep without your notebook?” She asked skeptically.
“Erm, yeah. That’s about right,” Sam admitted with embarrassment.
“Hm. Actually, that doesn’t surprise me as much as it should.”
“You really haven’t seen it, have you?”
“DI Tyler, I haven’t seen you all day. Guv took you right to that crime scene yesterday morning, didn’t he?”
“Crime scene,” Sam’s eyes lit up. “Phyllis, you’re a genius.”
“I know that.”
Sam buttoned up his jacket as he hurried to leave the room.
“Where you off to now?” She called after him.
“The crime scene. I dropped it there. Completely forgot.”
“You’re headed to that part of town at his time of day?” She chided.
“I’m a big boy, Sgt. Dobbs. I can take care of myself.”
“That’s what all you boys say. Then I’m the one left cleaning up your reports while they’re cleaning up your bodies.”
“Very morbid. Thank you.”
Phyllis took hold of Sam’s elbow and dragged him from the room.
“Where are you taking me?”
“You’re at least taking a radio with you. I’ll not be having the Guv mad at me cos of your stupidity.”
*
The sky was brighter but the sun was nowhere to be seen. This time of day always confused Sam - the hour before a sunrise. His brain thought if it looked like night and it felt like night, it should be night. Yet, at this hour, it looked like night and it felt like night, yet the sky was gradually getting brighter - like the world was turning in reverse.
As he parked and exited the small Rover he’d borrowed from the station, Sam blamed the sky for the eerie feeling settling in his stomach. Yes, it was the sky and nothing more, Sam decided as he walked purposefully towards the hollowed out warehouse. As he did so, the unwanted feeling subsided. Sam smiled. It didn’t always serve to listen to one’s gut instinct, this he knew for certain.
It was dark inside the warehouse, yet the little light that existed outside seemed to seep through every crack and broken window. It was enough for Sam. He walked over to the window he’d been examining yesterday - the window where Gene had grabbed him - and searched the floor for his lost notebook.
A police officer was nothing without his notebook, even his police constable cousin knew that.
With his own fingertip search in progress, Sam gradually made his way to the old pallets stacked under the window. He carefully moved each one aside, repositioning them on the floor.
“Aha!” Sam grinned as he spotted his notebook on the dusty floor. “There you are. And you,” he said, picking up both the wayward notebook and it’s companion, the pen. “Guess we can leave now,” he noted as he stood, then stopped himself. “I am not talking to office supplies.” He looked over his shoulder. “Okay, I was. But no one saw me talking to office supplies.”
Sam glanced over his shoulder again, just to be sure, and this time noticed a staircase hidden in a dark corner.
“Wonder if forensics knew to check up there,” he asked aloud, as his eyes followed the staircase up and over to a shaky loft that extended half the length of the warehouse.
If this was 2006, he would have been confident Gil and his team would have covered every inch of the building, leaving nothing unseen. This wasn’t 2006, however, it was 1973, and while Sam was fond of Horace, Sam often felt he and his team were little more than a glorified cleaning crew. Not that they were to blame. The level of forensic science Sam was accustomed to was pure science fiction compared to the methods of the Seventies.
Sam couldn’t just leave and simply assume the loft area had been explored. He could return to the station and ask Horace, then return to the scene if the job had indeed been left undone, but that was a waste of time and resources, especially since he was already here. Besides, it was always good form to look over a scene twice, in case anything was missed the first time.
Sam was careful as he climbed the rickety staircase, sticking closer to the wall than the dilapidated railing. He remained careful of his footing as he reached the landing. Though bereft of a torch, the orange glow of true sunlight was finally leaking into the building, providing him with a semi-decent view.
As he moved further from the staircase, he noticed the signs of life in the loft, or at least of someone living there. An empty ruck sack, stubs of candle wax dotting the floor, thin, stained sheets doing a poor imitation of a bed. Sam had reached the end of the loft now. Whoever was, or had been, living there was not there now. Perhaps they had been when the murder occurred. Perhaps they had been the cause of the murder itself.
There was a stack of yellowed newspapers by the pile of sheets - a makeshift bedside table. Sam crouched down to get a look at the dates, and to see if there were any identification-bearing papers lying nearby.
As he knelt, the boards beneath his feet creaked.
For a brief moment, the world was still. Nary a bit of dust moved and even Sam held his breath.
And then the moment ended, and the world came crashing down.
*
The vacant warehouse smelled of mold, feces, and blood. Especially blood. Dust particles swirled in the air, illuminated by the early morning sun. Sam coughed into his shoulder.
He coughed again and again, until his throat was shredded and his lips were damp with phlegm. By sheer will, he managed to control the shuddering breaths leaving and entering his body.
Only when he’d gained control of the coughing fit did he risk opening his eyes. His blurred vision cleared slowly, revealing a view of the ceiling above him. In the high rafters, a pigeon stared down. While he didn’t chance speaking, he made a mental request - dear god, please don’t shit on me.
The pigeon, apparently attuned to telepathy, cooed once then took off, soaring out an open window. Sam followed it with his eyes until it became necessary to move his neck. When he moved his neck, he winced, and that small twinge awakened every dormant nerve ending in his body, and Sam found himself flooded with pain.
His first instinct was to move, to twist and writhe and bend until his nerves were pleased and the pain was eased.
Sam couldn’t move.
Panicked, his second instinct was to wiggle his toes. He rotated his ankles, felt his ankles rotate, and heard the scuff of his shoe on the concrete below. The realization that he wasn’t paralyzed eased his anxiety. Logically then, he determined that if his body itself was capable of moving, then it was some external force preventing his mobility.
He took another breath, a stronger one, and lifted his head. His theory was proven correct - he was pinned under a pile of support beams, rusted pipes, and a thin sheet. Sam suspected the sheet was the least of his issues.
Now fully understanding his situation, he took another breath, a weaker one, and tried to pull his body out from under the debris. He pulled, he twisted, he strained. Nothing budged. Sam took a moment’s rest and tried again. He pulled, he twisted, he strained, he felt nauseous. Nothing budged. Sam took a longer rest. He pulled, he twisted, he strained, he nearly vomited. Nothing budged.
Sam rested his head back against the broken piece of pallet that was serving as a pillow and decided to recollect his thoughts, weigh his different options.
He couldn’t move. He was out here alone. He was starting to feel dizzy. He needed help. He had a radio. The radio. It had been stuffed in his inner jacket pocket. He dragged his right hand under the piece of debris suspended just above his abdomen and felt for the pocket.
Sam withdrew his hand. It held no radio. It was, however, covered in blood.
Sam decided that panicking now would be a poor option. Instead, he used his right hand to push away the light piece of debris that was obstructing his view of his torso. He wished he hadn’t.
His stomach was coated in warm, dark blood. There was also a thick piece of wood protruding from his left side.
“Shit.”
Sam couldn’t understand why he hadn’t noticed the giant piece of wood sticking out of him before. It probably had something to do with shock, adrenaline, and a lot of brain chemical nonsense he didn’t want to think about right now. Yet, now that his brain was aware of the situation, he couldn’t become unaware of it, or the severe pain it was causing.
He felt the sweat forming on his face. He felt the way his heart was pumping madly. He felt the way his chest was hitching with every fifth breath, every fourth, every third.
Sam decided he didn’t want to die in a dilapidated warehouse down by the quays, on his own, in 1973. He moved his head in every direction physically possible. To his left, he saw the radio. It looked to be in one piece. He went for it with his left hand, but couldn’t reach it. His left arm was pinned down under a beam. He hadn’t noticed that before, either.
His right arm was mobile, though. He’d used it before. He swung it across his body, reaching as far as he could go. He still couldn’t reach the radio. He tried twisting his shoulders. All he needed was a few extra inches, that was all. Just a few.
He reached. His stomach screamed. He felt the stake in his side digging deeper, tearing up his insides. All he had to do was reach the radio. Just a little further. He was almost there. So close. The pain had even subsided a little. His head was a little more cloudy, too, but he was almost there. His chest hitched with every other breath. Right there. It was right there. His fingers could almost scrape the smooth greenish-gray plastic.
The pain was lessening. Everything was foggy. His chest hitched with every breath. Nearly there. He’d get it on the next try. Next try. He needed to rest up for the next try. Just a brief rest. So brief. Just a rest.
*
The sun was shining brightly when Gene strode into CID. He was awake and alert after a solid five hours of sleep and a hearty breakie prepared by the Missus. The room was already buzzing with life as he walked towards his office. Typewriters clacking, fag smoke filling the air, the amiable chatter of mates recapping the previous night’s events. Gene always loved his station like this. There was always action, conversation, life.
He hadn’t meant to come in so early. He could have postponed his arrival until ten at least, especially considering it was Friday, but when he’d woken this morning, he’d had the niggling feeling that he should get in as soon as he could. Gene knew better than to dismiss his gut instincts.
As he stood at the doorway of his inner office, he turned and surveyed his kingdom - a man at every desk, calmly awaiting orders. Every desk except one. One desk was conspicuously different from all the others, and it wasn’t because it was tidy.
“Where’s DI Lightweight this fine morning?” He bellowed to no one in particular. He knew someone would answer.
“Don’t know, Guv,” Chris piped up first. “Haven’t seen him all morning.”
“Probably hanging over his toilet,” Ray chimed in. “Can’t hold his liquor, that one. Girl,” he laughed and the others joined in. Gene did not.
“Suppose I’m the one to wake him, then, since you lot couldn’t think to give the tosser a ring,” Gene rolled his eyes and pushed into his office, reaching for his phone before even removing his coat.
The telephone rang. No one ever answered. Gene hung up the receiver. He went back to the main office. Cartwright was taking a seat in front of her typewriter, a stack of files beside her.
“WDC Cartwright.”
“Yes, Guv?”
“Have you been privy to any information as to where our typically timely Inspector might be?”
Annie looked around in confusion, as if surprised that Sam wasn’t there.
“I had a coffee with Phyllis before her shift ended this morning. She said something about DI Tyler coming in early this morning, then rushing off to a crime scene. He’s not back?”
“Which crime scene?”
“Don’t know. Suppose the one we visited yesterday. Only active scene we have at the moment. No new calls have come in...”
“How early?”
“Pardon, sir?”
“How early this morning?”
“Three, sir. Maybe four?”
Gene was mildly thankful that he’d left his coat on. He was mostly annoyed that he never could ignore his gut instincts, even when he wanted to.
*
Gene pulled up on the handbrake as soon as he saw the beat-up Rover parked neatly be the warehouse entrance. He leapt out of the Cortina with the engine still running, his focus on only one thing - kicking the ever-living tar out of Tyler for running off to a potentially dangerous crime scene by himself.
He could see the berk now, crouched in a corner, examining a bit of muck on the wall and proclaiming - to himself - that it was the key to the entire case. Yes, that was exactly what Sam would be doing.
Gene flew into the warehouse and immediately staggered backwards, bumping into Ray and Chris who where running in directly behind him.
The upper portion of the warehouse, which he had already deemed useless to the investigation, had collapsed. The original crime scene and surrounding area were covered by a mountain of rotted planks, rusted pipes, and other miscellaneous debris.
Right in the heart of it all was a swatch of black leather.
Gene’s momentary hesitation vanished and he crossed the distance to the carnage in an instant. He couldn’t see Sam’s face, but he knew he was unconscious. He wasn’t moving at all. He was lying almost on his left side, his right arm draped across his body, his fingers just touching the edge of the radio beside him. From what Gene could see, Sam’s legs were pinned under the wreckage.
It felt like forever, but was really only a moment, until Gene placed his hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“Sam?”
His voice sounded worried and weak. He hated it. Sam did not respond to it.
“Come on, Tyler.”
Gene carefully turned Sam onto his back so he could see his face. As he did so, Sam’s right arm flopped to his side, and the wet, red stain - the large, wet, red stain - on his abdomen came into view, as did the piece of wood sticking out from his left side. Behind him, Gene heard Chris vomit.
“Ray, ambu--”
“Done, Guv.”
Gene nodded.
Sam was very pale, making the trickle of red staining the corner of his mouth that much brighter. Carefully, maybe slowly, Gene lifted his hand to Sam’s neck, searching for a pulse. His sigh of relief was palpable.
“It’s there. He’s alive.” Gene lowered his ear to Sam’s mouth. “And he’s breathing. Gene raised his head and squeezed Sam’s shoulder. “Good work, Sammy-boy. Keep fighting. Ray, help me get this shit off him.”
Carefully, slowly, together Gene and Ray moved the pieces pinning Sam’s legs and arm. Sam did not move. Gene removed his coat and laid it out on the cold floor.
“Ray,” he outstretched his hand. Ray handed over his jacket. Gene scrunched it into a ball and placed it at the top of his coat. “Get his legs,” he ordered, moving to Sam’s head. “Watch his side. Don’t want that thing moving.”
“Aye, Guv.”
“Okay, careful. Count of three.”
Carefully, slowly, Gene and Ray lifted Sam off the pile of debris and placed him on the coat. As Gene positioned Sam’s head onto Ray’s jacket, he felt the sticky dampness on the back of his head.
“Christ,” he sighed as he checked the wound, then placed Sam’s head so that the bleeding would be staunched by Ray’s jacket. “There a place you’re not bleeding from, Tyler?”
Sam did not move.
With still a suit jacket to spare, Gene removed it and pressed it against Sam’s bleeding abdomen.
“Chris, go and wait for that ambulance.”
The constable muttered something that resembled “yes, Guv,” and was gone. Gene focused on Sam. He had been wrong. Sam wasn’t pale. He was gray. Gray-green. He was clammy. At one point, he must have been sweating - his hair was matted with dried sweat and blood - but that had stopped now.
His body was completely limp. There was no strength in him at all, no futile attempts at resistance. No grunts of recognition. His eyelids did not flutter. His face did not twitch. For once, Gene wouldn’t have minded if Sam started rambling about the future and mobiles and whatever else because at least that meant he’d be talking.
He was nothing right now, just a shell. A cold, limp shell.
Still, he had a pulse, and if he had a pulse, there was something to fight for. Gene kept a firm grip on Sam’s shoulder and did his best to clean the dust and blood from Sam’s bruised face. As he waited for the ambulance, he spotted a rectangular, black object a small distance from the rubble. Gene reached for it. It was Sam’s notepad.
“You and your ruddy papers,” Gene muttered as he flipped the pad open and close.
Sam did not move.
“I’ll keep it safe for you.”
Gene slipped the pad into his pocket and listened to the sirens in the distance.
*
Contrary to popular opinion, Gene Hunt did not hate hospitals. He didn’t particularly care for them, but hate never really entered into it. They served their purpose, like everything else in life. He certainly didn’t appreciated the uncomfortable plastic chairs littered about the place or the lack of decent food.
Most of the nurses were easy on the eyes, and they didn’t mind if he snuck in a bottle or three of whisky. The doctors, well, they seemed educated enough and Gene didn’t mind them long as they did their job. That job was keeping his Inspector alive, of course, and they’d been doing it well enough so far.
And that was what Gene hated. Not the hospital or the chairs or the food, but the sight of Sam lying there, struggling to live. Gene knew, really, that there was nothing more he could do. He had done his part earlier - tracking Tyler down, getting him into that ambulance alive. He knew - he did - that it was all in the hands of the doctors now, and Sam himself, knew that he no longer had a role to play in Sam’s recovery. Not this part, at least.
Yes, he knew all this, but it never stopped him from feeling completely and utterly useless every time he plopped down next to Sam’s bedside with a bag of grapes and a bottle of Glenmorangie.
Sam had been in and out of consciousness for the past few days. Sometimes he’d mutter something intelligible, most others not. The doctors said it was a good sign. Gene simply waited, his feet propped on Sam’s bed, the grapes on his belly, the whisky in one hand and a newspaper in the other.
He was never sure what he was waiting for. He hoped it was something good.
*
There was a gurgle.
Gene’s eyes snapped open.
A gurgly cough.
Gene swung his legs off the bed.
Sam coughed again, his chest rattling.
Gene grabbed the glass of water on Sam’s small bedside table. With his free arm, he held up Sam’s head while the other carefully tipped water past Sam’s chapped lips.
“Easy, Tyler,” Gene whispered as Sam tried to gulp down the entire glass. “Just a sip, mind.”
When Sam seemed finished, Gene set the glass back on the table and Sam’s head back onto the pillow. Then, he waited. He waited for Sam to fall back asleep, as was usually the case.
“Wh...where...am...I?”
Or not.
“You’re in hospital,” Gene answered.
“What...year...is it?”
“Same’s it’s been since January.”
“Fair...enough.”
Gene waited for Sam to fall asleep again. Normally, he was only awake for a minute or two. It had already been one.
Sam shifted his head from side to side, then gingerly opened his eyes. The left was still red, thanks to a burst blood vessel. Sam couldn’t tell, though. He stared at the ceiling - one red eye, one white - poking at his chapped lips with his tongue, gently flexing his mouth as if he’d never used it before (which Gene knew wasn’t the case.)
“A building fell on me,” he finally whispered.
“Like I said, sky’s always falling around you, innit?”
“Place...does...get under...my skin.” Sam shifted uncomfortably, his left hand stroking his punctured side. He kept staring at the ceiling. “That...really hurt.”
“Glad to see your sharp intellect is still intact.”
Sam took as deep a breath as his body allowed, and released it slowly. Gene could only imagine what it felt like to have a multitude of stitches on his stomach and around his side, pulling every time he breathed. He took a painless breath of his own and waited for Sam to fall back asleep. It had been nearly three minutes now.
“Did you find me?”
A new part to their ever-repeating conversation.
“You remember?”
“No. Don’t remember...remember anything.”
“You remember a building fell on you.”
“Hard to forget...that.” Sam tried to shift his left leg and winced.
“Get your rest, Sam. We’ll talk later.”
“Not tired,” Sam argued as his eyes fell shut.
“Fine. You want to talk, answer me this - what the bloody hell were you doing out there by yourself?”
Gene waited for his answer. He waited so long, he thought Sam had finally fallen asleep.
“I lost...my...notebook.”
This was most certainly a new part to their typically circular conversations.
“Hang on. You’re telling me you nearly got yourself killed because of some bloody paper?”
“It’s...a...really...good...notebook,” Sam smiled and he took another deep breath and shook off another pained grimace.
“If you weren’t on so many painkillers, I’d knock that grin clean off your face, Tyler. Don’t ever go swanning off to a crime scene on your own again, you hear me? You so much as think it, I’ll be handcuffing you to the shelves in Lost and Found and forcing you to watch Phyllis’s highly renowned strip tease.”
“Well,” Sam sighed. “If it’s...highly...renowned.”
Sam smiled. Gene smirked. He settled back into his chair as Sam was falling back asleep.
“Guv?”
“Yeah, Sammy?”
“Am I...going...to be...alright?”
“Course you are. Wouldn’t let you be owt else.”
Gene waited for a response, but Sam had finally succumbed to sleep. Gene felt in his pocket before picking up his paper. The notebook was still there, still secure.
*
The vacant flat smelled of mold, sour milk, and whisky. Dust particles swirled in the air, disturbed by the entrance of two tired coppers.
“Home sweet home, eh Sammy-boy?” Gene grinned as he helped Sam hobble through the doorway.
“This place is disgusting,” Sam grimaced as he was led into the room, his crutches forcing him to move slowly.
“Careful. Might upset the bloke what lives here.”
“I live here,” Sam grumbled, sitting on the bedding and setting the crutches beside him. Another puff of dust wafted into the air as the cheap mattress creaked, sending him into a hacking fit.
“See that plywood killed your sense of humor, then,” Gene commented as he tossed Sam’s bag onto the floor.
“Couldn’t kill it, if it weren’t there to begin with,” Sam said with a straight face.
“Well, now that you’re settled, that’s me off.”
“Let me guess - beer o’clock.”
“Always knew you were a clever lad,” Gene walked back to the door. “Welcome to join us, you know.”
“Can’t,” Sam sighed, carefully lying back on his bed. “Not with the medications I’m taking. Might go out for some food later, though. Doubt there’s anything here that’s edible.”
“Think you’ll just go out on your own, hm? After I had to carry your sorry arse from the car just to get you in here in the first place?”
“Fine, Guv. If you’re so concerned, I’ll make do here.”
“With what? Like you said, isn’t enough food here to satisfy a mangy cat.”
“Then I’ll just go to sleep,” Sam started to close his eyes.
“In that shitty, little excuse for a bed?”
“Cot’s not so bad once you get used to it,” Sam yawned, already feeling a cramp in his back.
“Alright. Up. If I’m leaving, you’re leaving,” Gene hoisted Sam into a sitting position, then hauled him to his feet, shoving the crutches in his hands.
“And, might I ask, where are we going?”
“My guest room’s better than this lot, and I haven’t even set foot in it for fifteen years.”
“And food? Take aways, I presume.”
“Well you’d be wrong, cos I happen to know the Missus is cooking up quite the meal tonight. Best sausage and mash you’ll ever have. Might even be a treacle for dessert.”
“Suppose I could use a good meal, after all that hospital mush.”
“Now you’re thinking like one of us,” Gene grinned and he took Sam’s bag and helped him out of the flat.
“God help me,” Sam sighed, grasping his crutches for support as his side screamed in pain. “God help me.”