Fic: When You Were Young (1/5), green cortina, dakfinv
Title: When You Were Young (1/5)
Author: dak
Word Count: 3904 (this part)
Rating: Green Cortina
Warnings: angst, mild swearing
Summary: Sam has an accident, in 1973, that renders him with the mentality of a 4 year old. Will Gene be able to cope?
A/N: Title stolen from The Killers. So, this is for
culf who has been harassing patiently waiting for me to write some more 4 year old Sam in adult Sam's body. Also, it's my third fic where Sam has some sort of obsession with sheep. I think that makes it a trend...
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5
“Annie, cordon off the scene and have plod begin a fingertip search for evidence. Ray, start interviewing the witnesses on scene. Get as much information out of them as you can, without bashing heads, and make a note of any you think you should be taken in for further questioning. Chris, go along with Geoff and start the door to doors.”
Sam crossed his arms, trying to keep the smile off his face as he surveyed his team. The murder was nothing to be pleased about, of course, but the fact that he could be in charge of its investigation had brought a sense of normalcy to his world, one that had been lacking ever since he’d arrived wherever he was. His joy was certainly poorly concealed from the rest of CID.
“Guv gets the flu, an’ he gets a hard-on,” Ray grumbled through his fag.
“Care to share with the class, DS Carling?” Sam raised an eyebrow.
“Just hopin’ the Guv recovers soon, Boss,” Ray sneered.
“Well, I’m sure our fearless leader will be back with us shortly. Well, whenever his missus lets him out of bed that is, but until then, I’m in charge, so I say it’s time to start this investigation. I’m sure he,” Sam nodded to the body, “would appreciate it if we begun as quickly and efficiently as possible. So, right then,” Sam clapped his hands, “Off you go.” He watched with anticipation as the others shuffled off to perform their duties, all except Annie who had already begun her work.
Sam smiled and crouched down to give the corpse a further examination. “Contusions on the neck, consistent with strangulation.” He stared at the dead man’s half-lidded eyes. “Petechial hemorrhaging. Also indicates death by strangulation,” he muttered to no one in particular.
“Sam?” Annie called out from his station issued car. It was parked where Ray had left it: haphazardly in the middle of the road. Clearly, he’d been taking driving lessons from his Guv’nor. Sam sighed and jogged over as WDC Cartwright held out the receiver for the car radio. “It’s Phyllis. Says she’s got another shout.”
“Thanks, Annie. Crime never waits, does it?” He sighed and took the receiver, sitting down in the driver’s seat as he took the call.
No one knew exactly what happened next. Annie was the closest, but had already started to return to the primary crime scene. Chris was a few houses down, doing his best to interview reluctant residents. Ray had his back turned, trying to bully a semi-blind old man into giving a proper account of what he’d seen.
They all heard the screech of tires as the out of control Ford careened around the corner. They all heard the crunch of metal as the speeding car smashed into the passenger’s side of Tyler’s car. They all watched as the vehicle rolled twice before coming to rest upside down. They all saw DI Tyler’s limp, bloodied hand fall out the driver’s side doorway, still clutching the receiver. They saw his fingers flex once before falling still. No one remembered who rang for an ambulance. Everyone remembered ringing the Guv.
*
Gene Hunt never liked to admit that it was occasionally possible that maybe once in awhile he was prone to sickness like any ordinary, mortal man. As he dragged his aching body into the lobby of St. James’ Hospital, with the chills rattling his nerves, and his consistent inability to breath through his nose, not to mention a forehead you could fry eggs on, he reluctantly surrendered to the fact that he might be a tad under the weather.
This admission of ill health was enough to send him into a foul mood, which was why it was deadly important that his team had a very good reason for hauling him out of his warm, cozy bed and into the cold, stiff hospital ward. The phone call the Missus had relayed to him had been brief and disjointed. Something about a crime scene and an accident and Tyler needing him at St. James’ pronto.
If Dorothy was crying over a bit of spilt evidence, he’d throttle the whinging tosser as soon as he saw him. That was, if he could find the strength. As he hobbled across the lobby floor, the virus wracking his body delayed his normal whip-smart instincts. It took him a second longer than it should have to take note of his team’s vacant stares. It took him a second longer than it should have to notice the blood on Carling’s hands and suit. It took him too many seconds longer than it should have to realize someone was missing.
“Where’s Tyler?”
*
“What concerns us most is the brain swelling. If it doesn’t decrease in the next twenty-four hours, we’ll have to insert a shunt to relieve the pressure...Mr. Hunt?”
“Hm? What?” Gene had been too distracted by the machine-fuelled, corpse-like body that once was his Inspector, to pay attention to what the doctor had been saying.
“Does Mr. Tyler have any family?”
“No.”
“Any power of attorney?”
“No...Not that I know of. When will he wake up?”
“That, I’m afraid, I can’t say. Every brain injury is unique. It could be a few days. It could be a few months. It could be nev--”
“Don’t you dare,” Gene warned.
The doctor nervously shifted his clipboard. “If...when Sam does wake, there is still the chance that he will have suffered some cognitive brain damage. Amnesia, short-term memory loss, even--”
“Tyler’s always been a few pulls short of a pint. This could actually make him normal.” Gene started coughing into his handkerchief.
“All you alright, Mr. Hunt? You don’t look well.”
“Nothing compared to what he’s got, is it?” Gene snapped.
“I’ll give you some privacy, if you like, but I’m afraid it can only be for a few minutes.”
Gene didn’t respond, but the doctor took the hint and left quickly. Gene stepped to the side of the bed, steadying himself on the rails. The flu was making him dizzy. He stared at Tyler, right arm in a thick cast, head wrapped in more claddings than Boris Karloff, face dark and bruised, body alive only by the machines beeping incessantly at his side. The flu was making him nauseous. It was Sam, but it didn’t look like Sam. It had none of the spark, none of the life. It was just a shell of Sam Tyler. The flu was making his palms sweat.
“No, Tyler,” he whispered. “Some bloody RTA isn’t goin’ to take one of my men. Not even you.”
Gene left before the doctor could usher him out, making a direct line to the toilets and sicking up what little the Missus had managed to get in him that morning. Gene Hunt hated the stupid, bastard flu.
*
It was disturbingly easy to slip into a Tyler-less routine. Cartwright kept the paperwork from piling up. Skelton began asking Ray for guidance. Carling saved his insults for that bumbling new PC. The Guv beat up scum, locked up scum, and did whatever else he needed to do to scum, in order to keep his mind off his broken DI lying unconscious in hospital. Gene visited nearly everyday. If he wasn’t able to make it, Annie went, or Chris. Ray had apparently stopped by once.
No one talked about him at work. It wasn’t that they had forgotten him. They just didn’t know what to say anymore. His condition had remained unchanged for two weeks. The doctors had been able to relieve the swelling in his brain, but that had not served as Tyler’s wake up call. The bruises were starting their fade to yellow, and there was no more blood in his urine. Still, Sam stayed sleeping.
It had taken Gene a week and a half to stop emotionally jumping every time the phone rang. He wasn’t giving up hope, he was just accepting the facts. Tyler might come round, or he might not come round. It was as simple as that. So, as he ran out the door one Wednesday morning to catch a blag in progress, he didn’t stop to answer the ringing phone sitting on his desk. Whatever it was, he’d deal with it later.
*
“What’re you doing here?” Phyllis barked as soon Hunt strode through the station doors, Carling and Skelton dragging their newly captured crim between them. The exclamation stopped the group in their tracks.”Get your arses over to St. James. The Boss’s woken up,” she ordered fiercely.
Gene was out the door and in the Cortina before Ray and Chris could process what was said.
*
The nurses knew him well enough by now to stay out of his way, though that didn’t prevent the matron from trying to hold him back.
“Sir, please. He’s with the doctor right now. Just give them a few minutes--”
“I’ve waited two weeks! You’re not making me wait any longer.” Gene shoved past her and barrelled through the door, into Tyler’s room.
“It’s a circle,” said the adult, but light-hearted voice from the bed.
“Good, Sam. And this?” The doctor pointed to another shape on the paper laid out on Sam’s dinner tray.
“Triangle,” he nodded with absolute certainty before getting distracted by the IV drip in his left hand.
“And this one here?”
Gene stepped slowly towards the bed, watching as Sam’s wavering attention was drawn back to a sketch of a hexagon.
“Can I see my mum now?” He asked hopefully, clearly deflecting the question since he didn’t know the answer.
“Mr. Hunt,” the doctor stood back from the bed, finally he noticing Gene’s presence. “Sir, I’d like to speak to you outside, if--”
“Hi!” Sam chirped upon seeing Gene.
“Hi,” Gene responded, mouth suddenly dry.
“I’m Sam,” he smiled broadly through the bruises.
“Hi,” Gene repeated as the shock slowly took over.
Sam scratched at the bandages still wrapped around his head and chin, his plaster cast right arm held close to his chest. “Do you know what this is?” He asked Gene, holding up the paper of shapes and trying to point to the hexagon, all with his left hand. “The doctor asked me, and I know I know what it is, but I jus’ can’t remember an’ if you told me, then I’d remember an’ then I could tell him cos he doesn’t believe that I know what it is, but I do know, cos I’m not stupid, Mum always says I’m bright an’ mums don’t lie ‘bout stuff like that, an’ I’m sort of tired now. Can I go back to sleep?” He asked the doctor.
“That’s fine, Sam. You get some rest while I talk to Mr. Hunt in the hall, okay?”
“Okay,” he yawned, and snuggled his sore body into the sheets. “Bye, Mr. Hunt,” he smiled before he closed his eyes.
“Bye,” Gene muttered and followed the doctor into the hall, beginning to pace as the door was shut. “What the bloody hell is that?” He spat.
“Mr. Hunt, the day of the accident, I did warn you that Sam may have suffered some brain damage from the head trauma, the extent of which we wouldn’t know until he woke up. I’ve been performing some cognitive tests since he woke this morning, and it appears--”
“My DI’s a retard,” he shouted loud enough to earn several disapproving stares from nearby staff.
The doctor took a deep breath and soldiered on. “He has lost a significant amount of intellectual ability. Right now I’m trying to determine how severe the damage is, but according to the tests I’ve performed so far, it seems his brain has regressed to the intellect of a three or four year old child. I’d like to conduct some IQ tests to determine--”
“I don’t care what you do,” Gene sneered, unable to stop pacing.
“Mr. Hunt...”
“I’m not family. I’m not his power of whatsit. Whatever you do, it’s got nowt to do with me.”
“Sam needs as much support from his friends as--”
“That,” Gene pointed at the door. “That is not Sam Tyler and it is not my responsibility.” He stormed off down the corridor in a puff of camel-haired fury. No, that was not his DI. That was a bloody joke. Tyler was smart, too smart for his own good. Tyler was a bit off his rocker, but he found answers where there were only questions. He chased down scum and locked up crime lords, and he wouldn’t give a toss about stupid, bloody hexagons.
No, that...it wasn’t Sam, and if it wasn’t Sam, it wasn’t one of his men, and if it wasn’t one of his men, it wasn’t his problem.
*
He told them all it had been a false alarm, that Tyler had been awake, but only briefly before slipping back into unconsciousness. He told them the doctors were moving him to a different ward and he wouldn’t be allowed visitors for a few days. No one else had to know about Tyler’s condition, at least for now. All Gene needed was a few days. Buy himself some time. Figure out how to explain that their DI would be more likely to eat a pack of crayons than solve their next case.
He didn’t even tell the Missus because if he told her, she’d tell Phyllis, and it would have been as if Gene had made a grand pronouncement to the whole station anyhow. So, he kept it to himself, and bit by bit, it became easier to forget. Forget about the accident. Forget about the damage. Forget about Tyler.
It all was working just fine until the Sunday after his last visit. It was a quiet evening, the sun had just set, and he was reclined in his chair with a large glass of his favorite whisky, ready to watch whatever happened to be on telly that fine night. The phone began to ring, and after shouting, then belatedly remembering the wife was still at her sister’s, reluctantly rose from his comfort and crossed the side of the room.
Of course it had to be Tyler, or at least about Tyler. He was still the only person that could manage to irritate Gene no matter what day of the week or what time of the day. Once he learned the subject of the call, he was determined not to hear anymore, and almost hung up the phone, until the words “gone missing” caught his attention.
The flustered nurse on the other end repeated the story. Apparently, after becoming agitated earlier that evening, Sam had disappeared from his hospital bed and hadn’t been seen since. She asked kindly if Mr. Hunt could please come down immediately because he was the only contact number they had for Mr. Tyler, and hoped he could give them some insight as to where he might have gone.
Gene first thought of telling her no, just to annoy her for annoying him on his peaceful, Sunday evening, but his thoughts soon turned to images of a still injured Tyler hobbling around God knew where before collapsing into a heap in some ditch somewhere. Why a ditch, he didn’t know, but it was enough to get him in the Cortina and over to St. James’. Even if the nonce was no longer his responsibility, he still didn’t want him to up and die, especially not alone, on his own.
*
“His leg was all twisted up from the crash an’ you expect me to believe he just got up and walked off without any of you tits noticing?” Gene’s annoyance at the whole situation had quickly turned to aggravation during the drive over, and was now bordering on fury, with a short stop at outrage also on the schedule.
“Which is why we believe he’s still somewhere in the hospital,” the doctor tried to gently turn the conversation away from their blunder. “Sam was healing exceptionally well, so he would have had the strength to leave his room, but still not enough to get very far.”
“An’ you still can’t find him? ‘S not like this building’s the bloody palace!”
After several more insults and taunts later, Gene finally remembered Tyler was still missing and at the moment, no one was actively looking for him. He shouted out a quick search plan to the nurses and doctor involved, then took off on his own search route.
He paced up and down the halls, refreshing himself every now and then with a swig from his trusted flask. He didn’t have any particular idea as to where Tyler might hide in a hospital. They had only been in one together a few times, to visit victims or witnesses. Nothing like, “gee if I were injured in an accident and decided to run away from my doctors, I’d hide in the broom cupboard,” had dropped into any of their conversations.
Gene had made his way down to the ground floor, into a dark corridor off the lobby, and was about to return upstairs when he noticed that the door to the gift shop was ajar. The shop being closed, he decided it would probably be best to investigate. He entered slowly, passing the counter, rows of sweets, and made a left at the inflated balloons. It was then that he heard a muffled sob from near the soft toys.
He turned round and immediately relaxed as he saw Tyler curled up in the corner, burying his face into something white and fluffy. He walked over and crouched in front, resting his hands on his knees.
“Oi,” he said softly.
Tyler looked up with a startled expression, then relaxed as he recognized who it was. "Hi again," he replied sadly.
“Hi again. You cryin’?”
“No,” he replied in huff, quickly wiping the tears from his face. “Only girls cry.”
Gene couldn’t help but chuckle at the familiar stubborn tone. “You’re supposed to be in bed. What’re you doin’ down here?”
Sam shrugged and picked at the toy in his hands, which Gene now recognized as a sheep.
“Sam?” Gene pressed for an answer.
Sam sighed heavily, and began flicking at the plaster on his cast. “I don’ like it here. ‘S boring. Nowt to do ‘cept talk to Dr. Smithfield, an’ he’s boring an’ smells funny an’ asks me stupid questions,” he whinged.
“Why are the questions stupid?” Gene asked.
Sam, again, sighed dramatically. “Cos...cos I know I know the answers, but I can’t never think of them, so then he thinks I’m dumb cos I can’t tell ‘im what the answer is, but I know I know it,” he began to tear up again. “It’s...they’re in there,” he pointed to his head. “But I can’t...they’re hiding from me an’ I can’t find ‘em, but I want to find ‘em cos I know I used to be smart at maths an’...an’ geographies an’ stuff, an’ I don’t...I don’t know why I’m not anymore.” The tears were flowing freely now, and Sam didn’t even bother to try and hide them. “I jus’ want to see me mum,” he started to sob. “But she won’t see me. ‘S cos ‘m not smart anymore, is it?” He asked, then tried to wipe his cheek with his plastered arm. “...ow...” He mumbled as the cast scraped the bruises on his face.
Gene had no idea what to say. What should he tell him? That he’d been avoiding him for basically that same reason? In the little time he’d spent thinking on the whole mess, it had never occurred to him that Sam would be struggling with his new self as much as Gene was. He’d never thought that Sam would be able to realize something was wrong with him.
He also didn’t think absolutely no one from Hyde would come to visit him, and take care of him, so no one in Manchester would have to bother. Gene internally winced as he realized that he had made sure Tyler was just as alone as he was always screaming he was.
“Let’s get yeh back to bed,” Gene held out his hand.
“Could...could you stay with me for a little?” Sam asked hopefully.
“Why me?” Gene swallowed hard.
Sam shrugged. “You’re a p’lice officer. I like p’lice officers.”
“How’d you know I’m a copper? Did someone tell you?”
Sam shrugged again. “No. I don’t know. You just are, aren’t you? You’re a...a...” He struggled to find the word, his face scrunched up in thought. “No. I know this,” he whined, eyes watering. “Don’t tell me. Dr. Smithfield always tells me. He never lets me figure it out for meself. I like to figure things out by meself. You’re a...a...DCI!” Sam’s face lit up as he remembered the term.
“That’s right,” Gene somberly smiled back. “Do you remember what it stands for?”
Sam bit his lower lip, thinking hard. “D is easy. That’s ‘detective.’ An’, uhm, C...that’s, it’s ‘chief,’ right?”
“Right,” Gene nodded.
“An’ I...I is ‘inspector.’ You’re a Detective Chief Inspector. I want to be a Detective Chief Inspector,” Sam smiled.
“Well, how’d you like to be me DI for a bit, instead?”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Aw, that’s brilliant! I’m goin’ to be a...a DI,” he told the sheep.
“Only if you come back to bed,” Gene told him.
“Only if you stay,” Sam reminded him.
“Deal,” Gene nodded.
“Deal,” Sam smiled and took his hand. He gingerly got to his feet, wincing when he had to put weight on his injured left leg. Gene supported him on that side, swinging Sam’s arm over his neck and helping him limp to the door. “Uhm, Mr. Hunt?”
“Yeah, Sammy?”
“Can I keep Mr. Cotton?”
“Who?”
Sam nodded to the sheep cradled in his plaster cast arm.
“Fine,” Gene sighed.
They hobbled past the counter.
“Uhm, Mr. Hunt?”
“Yeah, Sammy?”
“We’ve got to pay for ‘im.”
“No one’s goin’ to care, Tyler.”
“ ‘S illegal, if we don’t.”
Gene sighed, propped Sam against a wall, and pulled out his wallet, plopping a fiver on the counter before returning to his position as a human crutch.
“Uhm, Mr. Hunt?”
“What, Sam?” He snapped.
“Mr. Cotton says thank you.”
“Oh. Well, tell ‘im he’s welcome.”
“He says you’re welcome,” Sam whispered to the sheep, then pretended to listen. “Yeah, I know.”
“What? What’d he say?”
“Nuthin’.”
“C’mon. Tell me what he said.”
“He din’t say nowt. He’s a sheep.”
“You little tosser...” Gene grumbled, plopping Sam in the first empty wheelchair they came across, and wheeling him the rest of the way to his room. “Found ‘im,” Gene announced as he passed the instantly relieved doctor. Sam had fallen asleep on the journey, his head flopped forward and arms wrapped tight around his new toy.
The nurse and doctor arranged him in the bed and reinserted his IV, as Gene stood back and stared. If there was one thing he had never considered Sam Tyler, it was fragile, but as he watched the thin, bandaged body being laid out on the bed, that was the only thought that came to mind.
“What’s going to happen to him?”
“Sorry?” The distracted doctor asked.
“When he’s all healed up, ready to leave, what’s going to happen to him?”
“Well, Mr. Hunt,” the doctor started, pushing his glasses up his nose. “That was something I was hoping to discuss with you.”
________
Part 2