Fic: Four Times Sam Tyler Was Shot, trekphan, Blue Cortina, Gen
Title: Four Times Sam Tyler Was Shot (And One Time He Was Not): Five non-sequential and non-canonical ficlets designed for the unabashed torture of Sam Tyler
Rating: Blue Cortina (for blood and character death)
Word Count: 2,655
Notes: This is my first Life on Mars fanfiction. Please be gentle.
Summary: Is what it says on the tin.
A/N: Yes, it’s ANOTHER “number of times something happened to someone” fic. I apologize. Strictly speaking, you can’t really classify this as having a pairing at all, but I wrote it with my slash goggles on so if you want to see the slash, go right ahead.
1. “Hey, Guv, I - ”
BANG! DCI Hunt looked up just in time to see the bullet hit his DI square in the chest. He had just shot Sam Tyler in the chest. He was checking his weapon and he had shot Sam Tyler in the fucking chest. He dropped the gun on the desk and watched in horror as Sam looked down at the red stain blossoming across his pristine shirt. Sam looked back up at Gene. His eyes slid out of focus and he started to collapse. Gene was across the office in a single leap. He caught Sam and lowered him gently to the floor.
“Ray! Call an ambulance!” Gene roared. Sam coughed feebly.
“Guv…”
“Shh, shh, shh! Don’t talk,” Gene said, supporting Sam’s weight with one arm and tearing open the DI’s sodden shirt with the other. There was blood everywhere, but he could see the bullet hole plain as day. Right there… straight into Sam’s left lung… much too close to his heart. “Oh, God.”
“Bad?” gasped Sam. He coughed again and more blood poured out of the hole. In his breathing, Gene could hear a thick, wet gurgling.
“No, no, you’ll be fine,” Gene lied, “You’ll be fine. I’m so sorry, Sam, I’m so sorry.”
“I know.”
In the distance, the wail of sirens could be heard. Sam’s breathing was becoming shallower and his eyelids were slipping closed. The Guv chattered in an attempt to keep Sam conscious.
“Sam! Do you hear the sirens? Sam! Look at me! Come on, Sammy-boy, just hang on.” Sam gasped and started to shiver. “Sam! You look at me, Sam! That’s an order!” The sirens were close now, but Sam was slipping away. He closed his eyes. “Goddamnit, Sam! You look at me!” Gene could hear the ambulance crew crash into CID, but it was too late. Sam made one last feeble gasping noise and was still.
The ambulance crew pulled Sam’s limp body out of Gene’s arms and placed it on the litter. They pulled a sheet over him and exited the building. They just left Gene. Didn’t think twice about him; just left him sitting cross-legged on the floor of his office with blood all over him. And Gene just sat there, trying to make sense of it all. What the hell had just happened?
Something gold amongst the red blood now coagulating on the floor caught Gene’s eye. He reached out and picked it up. He examined the small round object sitting in his palm. It was Sam’s St. Christopher medal. It must have come off in the frenzy of getting Sam’s shirt open. It was still warm. Gene closed his hand around the medal and sobbed silently on his office floor.
2. Bloody wonderful. Gene and Sam had been taken hostage by the very gang leader they had been attempting to arrest. Charlie Costa and his gang had taken the coppers down quickly and efficiently. Sam and Gene were now kneeling with their hands tied behind their backs in front of Costa.
“You gonna let us go and come quietly or are we going to have to get violent, Charlie-boy?” said Gene, really in no position to make such threats.
“Guv,” said Sam from several feet to his left, “don’t.”
“What’s it gonna be, you great Italian poof?” Gene continued. His answer came in the form of the muzzle of Costa’s gun being pressed against his forehead.
“Guv,” hissed Sam.
“You wouldn’t dare,” said Gene, egging their captor on.
“Oh, wouldn’t I?” Costa swung the gun to his right and pulled the trigger. BANG! Sam collapsed, twitched once, and did not move again. A small amount of blood slithered from the bullet hole in the centre of his forehead and came to rest just above his left eyebrow.
“Tyler!” Gene yelled. Sam didn’t respond, didn’t stir, didn’t blink. He just stared blankly, lifelessly into space. “Sam?” Nothing. “Sam!”
Even someone who knew the Guv, really knew him, would not have believed the keening screams came from him. He continued to call his DI’s name for a good five minutes at decreasing intervals. Costa didn’t even have the heart to taunt him.
3. They were pinned down by fire and had nowhere to go. Bullets whizzed past them. The only way out of the factory was downstairs. Said stairs were across a very exposed section of floor. No big looms to protect them.
“Okay, Tyler, here’s the plan,” shouted Gene over the roar of gunfire, “You give me cover fire and I’ll make a break for the stairs. Then I’ll give you cover fire and you follow. Got it?”
“Yeah, Guv,” panted Sam.
“Ready?” Sam nodded. “Go!” Gene bolted sideways toward the stairwell and Sam provided cover fire. Bullets pinged off the cement floor, but Gene made it to relative safety without so much as ruffling his camelhair coat.
“You ready, Guv?” Sam called. Gene crouched in position across from him. He raised his gun and nodded. “Go!” Sam bounded across the gap. He almost made it. BANG! A bullet ricocheted off a loom and caught Sam’s right thigh. He screamed and fell to the floor.
“Jesus Christ!” Gene swore, “Sam!” He lowered his weapon, crawled over to Sam, and dragged him the last few feet to safety.
“Ow! Shit! Ow ow ow!” Sam hissed, clutching his wounded leg.
“Lemme see,” said Gene, moving Sam’s hands out of the way. A small fountain of blood arced through the air and Gene hastily replaced Sam’s hands. “Shit. Artery.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sam panted, “Get your belt off.”
“What?” asked Gene, frantically searching for his police radio.
“For a tourniquet,” explained Sam.
“Oh, right.” Gene unbuckled his belt. He was in the process of pulling it off when the radio hissed static from one of the pockets of his coat. He made a movement to reach for it, but, even in his wounded state, Sam was quicker. He plucked the radio from his DCI’s coat and barked into it.
“Alpha One to Base. Taking heavy fire! Officer down!”
“Base to Alpha One. Who’s down, Boss?” said Phyllis’ voice from the radio. Gene looped his belt around Sam’s injured leg just above the bullet hole.
“Alpha One to Base. I -Aiiiiiiiii!” Sam yelped as Gene pulled the tourniquet tight. “I am, Phyllis. I’ve taken a bullet to the leg and it’s hit the femoral artery. I’m gonna need and ambulance.”
“Right-o, Boss. I’ll send one over to meet you. Base out.”
“You gonna be able to make it down the stairs, Tyler?” asked Gene, loudly over the continuing gunfire.
“I dunno,” said Sam, “Let’s try standing first.” Gene helped his scrawny DI to his feet. Sam’s soft whimpering made it immediately evident that he was not going to make it down two flights of stairs on his own. Gene made an impulsive decision. He ducked under Sam’s arm and swung him across his shoulders into a fireman’s carry. Sam struggled at first, but quickly settled down and resigned himself to the indignity.
The whole situation was slightly uncomfortable for both parties. Sam’s leg wound throbbed painfully with each stair they descended. Gene didn’t mind his DI’s weight, but could feel Sam’s bony hip digging into his collar bone. That was going to hurt in the morning.
Three days later, Sam limped back into CID on crutches and everyone clapped. Annie planted a kiss on his cheek and escorted him to his desk. Once everyone settled down and got back to business, Gene made his way over to Sam.
“You’re gonna be on desk duty for awhile, Tyler. Any requests?” he asked as he leaned against the desk.
“Well, I know you’ve got some Garibaldi’s stashed in your desk drawer… so…?”
“Done,” said Gene. He moved to go fetch the biscuits, but was stopped by the sight of Sam struggling to his feet. He steadied himself on the desk and extended his hand for his DCI to shake. Gene took his hand and they locked eyes.
“Thanks, Guv,” said Sam, his voice and eyes full of deepest sincerity.
“You’re welcome, Sam.” They released each other’s hands. Gene gave his DI a friendly smack on the shoulder and went to rustle up some Garibaldi’s.
4. “Police!” barked DCI Hunt before kicking the door open. Sam was the first one into George Waterford’s flat. Waterford was the chief suspect in a chain of bank robberies and he’d been evading arrest for the past five days. When another bank had been robbed that morning, Gene Hunt had had enough.
As Sam rounded the corner into the kitchen, he heard the unmistakable CLICK-CLICK of a shotgun being cocked.
“Oh, shitshitshitshitshit,” he thought, skidding to a halt on the linoleum. He locked eyes with Waterford. Neither man moved.
Sam sensed rather than saw what happened next. Gene Hunt stormed into the small kitchen, gun raised and camelhair coat swirling about him. BANG! Searing pain ripped through Sam and he collapsed to the floor in a whimpering, bleeding ball.
Sam heard another CLICK-CLICK. He was vaguely aware of a scuffle and some shouting, another BANG! and the unmistakable sound of Gene Hunt punching someone in the gut. The next thing Sam knew, someone was roughly rolling him onto his back. Oh, it was Gene. Orders were being barked in an all too familiar voice. Something about an ambulance? Suddenly, Sam’s shirt was ripped open. Buttons flew everywhere. Sam could hear them pinging off various kitchen surfaces. He could feel Gene’s warm hands scrabbling across his belly, trying to slow the bleeding. Everything started to go a bit foggy.
“Shit, Tyler, what’ve you done now?” breathed Gene, still trying to slow the blood flow.
“Sorry, Guv,” wheezed Sam, forcing himself to focus and pushing the fog from his vision. Gene took off his coat.
“You’re gonna be sorry if these blood stains don’t come out.” Gene balled up his beloved camelhair coat and used it to stem the bleeding. Sam groaned piteously and squirmed a bit when Gene applied pressure. “Oh, shut it, Gladys.”
“But it HURTS!”
“I know, I know. Quit your whinging,” soothed Gene, “Ambulance will be here soon.”
“Guv, if I don’t make it - ”
“Oh, for God’s sake, you’re not gonna die!”
“But if I do, will you promise me something, Gene?” whispered Sam.
“Sam Tyler, I promise that if you die, which you won’t, I will ram that shotgun so far up Waterford’s arse, he’ll be picking buckshot out of his teeth. Now settle down.”
“Thanks, Guv,” Sam sighed. He could hear the ambulance crew clattering their way up the stairs to Waterford’s flat. “That’s just what I wanted to hear.”
It was a full four hours before they heard anything. Apparently four hours was how long it took to dig all of the shot out of Sam’s innards and stop the bleeding. A kindly nurse put her hand on Gene’s arm and said, “Mr. Hunt? Mr. Tyler is out of surgery. Everything went well, but he’s in the intensive care unit. He’s still sleeping, but if you come with me, I’ll show you to ICU.” Gene nudged Chris who had dozed off around the second hour and they followed the nurse down the hall.
Sam looked like crap. There was no other way to describe him. He looked truly awful. He was paler than usual (which was saying something) and he had what looked like miles of gauze wrapped around his middle. He was hooked up to several beeping and whooshing machines. Gene sat down on the edge of the bed. He put his hand on Sam’s shin in an attempt to physically comfort his friend without looking like a poof.
Sam stirred, opened his eyes, blinked, coughed twice, and winced painfully. He looked at Gene and smiled weakly.
“God, I feel like shit,” he said hoarsely.
“You look like shit, Boss,” said Chris helpfully from the other side of the bed.
“Thanks, Chris,” said Sam, rolling his eyes. Gene tightened his grip on Sam’s leg to get his attention.
“Told you you’d be fine, didn’t I?”
“Yes, Guv,” said Sam.
“You gonna believe me next time?”
“Yes, Guv.”
"Next time?” asked Chris, confused. Gene ignored him.
“You gonna tell me where you wallet it is so I can get my coat dry cleaned?”
“Yes, Guv.”
5. Absolutely ridiculous. A shoot out with a 75 year-old pensioner. Gene wouldn’t have believe it if he had not been participating. They’d had routine inquiries go wrong before, but this was one of the top three strangest right after the prozzie selling opium out of her wooden leg and the trannie smuggling armadillos.
Mrs. Jenkins had invited the “nice young lads” in for a cuppa. She’d put the kettle on next to a batch of jam that was bubbling away happily and sat down at the kitchen table with her knitting. Just a lovely old dear they’d thought... until a ball of yarn came loose from the basket and rolled across the floor... revealing several pounds of cocaine stashed in the knitting basket.
Dear, sweet Mrs. Jenkins looked at the basket, then at Sam and Gene. With the speed and strength of someone much younger, she overturned the kitchen table and pulled a sawn-off seemingly out of nowhere. Sam scrambled over to shield himself next to the cooker. Gene used the overturned table as a barricade. Both had their weapons drawn and aimed at the old woman. She aimed first at Gene, then at Sam, the back at Gene, unable to decide who to shoot first.
“Now, Mrs. Jenkins,” Sam began. BANG! Gene vaulted over the table and wrestled the gun away from Mrs. Jenkins. She fell to the floor in the struggle and there was a distinct snap! as her hip made contact with linoleum.
With the old bat taken care of, Gene turned his attention on his DI. Sam was prostrate next to the cooker, whimpering and clutching at his side. Blood was everywhere. Gene was next to him in a flash. He grabbed Sam’s wrists and surveyed the damage. It didn’t look good.
“Sam, I’m gonna take your shirt off so I can see how bad it is. Okay?” asked Gene. Sam kept whimpering. “Sam?” he asked again, closer to Sam’s ear. And then Gene realized that Sam was not whimpering, but speaking the same phrase over and over very fast.
“Getitoffgetitoffgetitoffgetitoffgetitoff!” Gene tore Sam’s shirt open. The skin underneath was an angry red, but there was no wound. Sam’s muttering stopped. “Cold water,” he said, “Ice.”
Gene looked down at his own hands. They were covered in blood... but was it blood? He raised a finger to his mouth and licked it experimentally. Jam. Mrs. Jenkins was a bad shot and she’d hit the pot of boiling jam and it had splashed all down Sam’s side. It wasn’t a gunshot wound. It was a burn.
“Ice, please,” Sam begged. Gene looked quickly around the kitchen. He snatched up a tea towel and ran it under the cold tap.
“Here we go, Sammy-boy,” he soothed as he gently draped the wet towel over Sam’s burn. Sam hissed in pain. “You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sam breathed, “Just hurts.” Gene turned his attention back to Mrs. Jenkins.
“You’re nicked!” he shouted. Dear, sweet Mrs. Jenkins responded with a very rude hand gesture. “Come on, Tyler. Let’s get you to hospital.”
Sam ended up with first and second degree burns down his left side. He had some minor scarring on his forearm where the skin had been exposed, but, for the most part, he had been very lucky. Mrs. Jenkins ended up with a broken hip, six years for drug possession with intent to sell, four years for two counts of assaulting an officer, one year for possession of an illegal firearm, and ninety days for resisting arrest. Sam and Gene never trusted dear, sweet, little, old ladies again.