Fic: When You Were Young (5/5), COMPLETE, green cortina, dak
Title: When You Were Young (5/5)
Author: dak
Word Count: 2419 (this part); 12,753 overall
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: So sorry for the delay! I was a bit preoccupied this weekend, and wasn't happy with what I had written yesterday, so here's the final part. Please enjoy!
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4
He stirred, barely able to move anything but an eyelid. His head felt like it had been dunked in a swimming pool then forgotten, left to fill, and swell, and suffocate...
He had to groan in order to try and clear the cotton wool coating his brain. It seemed to work a little, but what helped his head, hurt his throat. He blindly reached for the glass of water he knew he’d left by his bed, but his heavy arm flopped off the mattress, hanging painfully over the side.
“Take it easy, Sammy,” a worried voice announced, and someone lifted his arm back onto the bed. “How’re you feelin’? D’you need anything?”
That voice, it sounded so familiar, but so...odd. Gruff, but too concerned. Much too gentle to be...
He channeled his limited energy to his eyelids and cracked them open, willing the face above him into focus. “Gene?”
“Yeah. It’s me Sammy-boy.” The relief in his voice was palpable.
“What’s...”
“Don’t worry ‘bout that now. Yeh need anything while you’re awake? Some juice, or Mr. Cotton? I know he’s round here somewhere. Chris spilt some Tizer on him, but the Missus cleaned ‘im right up. Good as new.”
“Gene?”
“Yeah, Sammy?”
“What the bloody hell are you talking about?”
Gene stared at him oddly for a moment before disappearing, returning seconds later with a piece of paper in his hands. “Do you know what this is, Sam?”
Sam briefly studied the page. “It’s a hexagon, Gene.” It hurt to roll his eyes, but he did it anyway. “Now could you please tell me why I’m in hospital, why my head feels like it’s been run over by the Cortina, and why this cast on my arm is covered in doodles of sheep?”
“You...don’t remember,” Gene slowly sat down next to him, seemingly more confused than Sam.
“Clearly not, since I bothered to ask.” He’d barely been awake a minute, but the exhaustion of the effort was already getting to him, and he allowed his eyelids to droop.
“What is the last thing you remember?”
Sam fought through the haze sleep and sudden befuddlement in order to answer Gene’s question. “Drinks. The pub. You weren’t there, you still had the flu. Ray dumped a pint on my head.”
Gene was quiet for a long moment, before placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder, an action Sam didn’t think fit his Guv at all. Whatever happened, it must have been very bad to have Gene Hunt showing concern for his well-being. “That was two months ago, Sam.”
“Oh.” Sam took a deep breath. “Shit.”
“Yeah,” Gene agreed.
“Have I been in hospital all that time? In a coma?” A coma in a coma? Sam wasn’t sure how that was possible, but these days he was learning pretty much anything was.
Gene didn’t answer. “Get some rest. You look like summit the dog ate an’ the cat pissed over.” He rose, preparing to leave.
“Gene.” Sam tried to sound stern, though his voice was still weak. “Have I been in hospital all this time?”
There was a long sigh. The Guv refused to make eye contact as he swept on his coat. “No,” he finally answered. “Now get some kip, an’ I’ll see you in a bit.”
He left before Sam could ask another question, clearly his intent. Sam fell back asleep, allowing the fuzz of his brain to dampen his thoughts and ease his confusion. But what had Gene meant by “no?”
*
Sam was able to stay conscious long enough the next day to have his situation explained to him. Annie explained to him the accident he couldn’t for the life of him remember. The doctors explained to him his resulting injuries from the accident he couldn’t remember. Everyone seemed to be leaving it to Hunt to explain to him what had happened between the time he was released from hospital the first time, to his readmission and subsequent reawakening.
Hunt had taken to ignoring the subject with his typical “men don’t do talking” flair, bringing Tyler plenty of secreted booze and the occasional magazine Sam would never read in a million years, but failing to ever show up with answers.
On his second release from hospital, Gene had volunteered to drive him home since, according to the Guv, no one else could be bothered to worry about his scrawny arse. They drove in silence, for once Gene’s refusal to acknowledge the nicely sized elephant in the back of the Cortina, a blessing to Sam’s pounding head. A migraine was coming on and he could do nothing to fight it except lean back in the chair, closing his eyes and blocking out as much light as possible. Sound, however, was another matter.
“Alright?” Gene asked semi-casually as he drove on.
Sam shrugged. What would Gene care about a little headache?
“What hurts?”
Sam laughed, keeping his eyes closed. “What makes you think anything hurts?”’
Gene coughed. “Only do that, that shoulder thing when summit’s botherin’ yeh,” he mumbled, looking the other way.
This time Sam had to face his superior. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“And you noticed this, when?”
Gene decided, again, not to answer that particular question.
“Oh right, I forgot,” Sam mocked. “You don’t want to tell me about the mysterious three weeks where I wasn’t in hospital but I wasn’t at work and I wasn’t apparently anywhere, since I can’t remember and no one can be bothered to sit down and explain it to me.” He was pouting by the time he finished, arms crossed and all, but he didn’t care. His head was throbbing aggressively, his arm itched like the hell, and sitting so long in the car had stiffened his sore leg.
Gene still remained silent, finally stopping the car in front of his house.
“When the doctors said to take me home, Guv, I’m pretty sure they meant mine.”
“Need yeh to pick up your stuff,” he muttered around the end of a cigarette, throwing himself from the car before Sam could pick his jaw up off the floor.
“Wait!” Sam followed as quickly as he could, forgetting that sudden movements still caused him pain, and hobbled across the pavement, following Gene. “Why is my stuff at your house?”
“Oh you are a smart lad,” Gene mocked, rounding on him. “I can see how you made detective, Inspector.” He quickly unlocked the door, throwing it open so hard it nearly crashed into the side wall. “Upstairs. Second door on the right. Don’t take long.” Gene ordered as Sam followed inside behind him.
Somehow overstaying his welcome before he had even arrived, Sam decided to gather the things he apparently had there as quickly as possible and leave just as fast. Maybe even call a cab so the Guv wouldn’t have to bother. He hauled his body upstairs, heading directly for the room Gene had described.
There were two suitcases, already packed, sitting by the bed, his black jacket placed neatly across the tops of both. He pondered how to handle the luggage with only one decent arm and after finally deciding a course of action, limped with great purpose to the imposing baggage. As he bent down to grab at the first suitcase, a scrap of paper poking out from under the bed, in an otherwise perfectly ordered room, caught his eye.
He pulled it out and sat on the bed himself, examining his new finding, a good idea as his mouth went dry and his head began to spin. It was a crudely made child’s drawing, three disproportionate stick figures holding hands, standing outside some basic, square house. One of the stick figures was clearly smoking. Sam would’ve completely dismissed it, if it weren’t for the name at the bottom - “Sammy,” with a backwards “y,” the way he always used to sign the pictures he drew for his mum. Ruling out the possibility that his four year old self could have stumbled into the Hunt household, Sam focused on the only other option available, which was terrifying at best.
He didn’t know how long he sat there, but it must have been long enough to warrant concern on Hunt’s part, as Sam finally spotted him leaning in the doorway.
“Gene,” he whispered. “Tell me what happened.”
Gene sighed and stared at the floor, before resigning himself to the fact that he could no longer properly ignore the situation. “When you woke up, the first time, you weren’t...you weren’t quite...right.”
“I don’t...”
“ ‘S like you were a kiddie. Ramblin’ on and on, too much energy, bad ‘round birds. Hell, not much different than yeh are now.”
Sam couldn’t take his eyes of the paper and began running his fingers over the crayon-drawn lines. “I don’t remember.”
Gene crossed the room and sat down next to him. “Probably best you don’t, Sam.”
“How did I function? Dress, eat, bathe...”
“Er...Missus took care of most of that, though we could trust yeh not to drown in the tub, so rest assured what’s left of your modesty is in tact.”
“So I lived here?”
“Yeah.”
“Whose idea was that? Was it yours?”
Gene paused, reaching for a cigarette. “Yeah.”
“But why--”
“It were either that or you spent the rest of your life in hospital, wanderin’ round some psych ward with the Kramers and the Cranes, like the docs wanted, and I weren’t goin’ to let that happen. Not to one of my men.” Gene angrily lit his fag, smoking with great purpose.
“Rest of...they said it’d be permanent?”
“What they said.”
“And you would’ve let me stay here--”
“But it weren’t, was it? You pass out, I take yeh in, an’ it’s ‘Oh, we’re sorry. We missed that bleeder in ‘is brain. Back in a coma now, don’t you worry.’”
“I’m sorry for all the trouble.”
“What trouble?” Gene scoffed. “You’re easy to please when you’ve the brain of a tot. Dress as you’re told. Eat as you’re told. Do as you’re told. Hell, all you needed was a pack of crayons an’ that damn sheep and you were right as rain!”
“I can’t remember any of it. I...It’s like I went to sleep that night, and woke up two months later. I can’t even remember the accident.”
“Not much to remember, Sammy. Some kid joy riding. Got a concussion and a fractured wrist.”
“From the accident.”
Gene coughed. “Er…right. Though 'is injuries didn’t present ‘til later, after ‘is interrogation. Least that’s what Cartwright wrote in the report.”
“I don’t believe...well, actually, I do,” Sam laughed, finally lowering the drawing, though not looking towards Gene. Once he started laughing, he couldn’t stop, and he quickly devolved into a bout of hysterics, tears prickling in his eyes as he fought back tears. So much information all it once. So much unbelievable information, poured into his battered brain where, at the moment, it could not be processed.
The picture began to crumple in his hand, his body folded up on itself, and somewhere in the future, the beeping began. The more he thought about it, the more he couldn’t control himself. Here he was, having a nice, monumental breakdown in front of his superior officer. Not just any superior officer, Gene “Man’s man” Hunt, who would no doubt take the piss out of him constantly for weeping like a little girl...
Something soft and fluffy was shoved into his hands. So confused was he about this new development, that Sam completely forgot he was meant to be distraught. He wiped the tears from his eyes and stared at the fuzzy, foreign object. For the first time since he left the car, he looked at Gene.
“Mr. Cotton,” Gene shrugged, searching for a place to extinguish his ciggie. “Always calms you down when yeh get upset.”
“I...I had one just like this, when I was little,” Sam whispered wistfully as he stared into the fuzzy, white face.
“Explains a lot,” Gene half-sighed, half-mocked.
“Me mum...she bought it for me at a hospital gift shop, when I had to get my tonsils out. I called that one Mr. Cotton, too,” he laughed, but this time was able to keep it under control. “I thought I was clever,” he smiled.
"Still do," Gene scoffed.
"Sometimes," Sam relaxed, growing tired.
"C'mon. Let's get you home 'fore the Missus tries to make you a permanent fixture." Gene stood, tossing Sam his jacket and grabbing both suitcases himself.
"Gene?"
"Yeah, Sam?"
"Was I…was I, alright as a kid?"
Gene paused, contemplating the question. "You were happy," he replied, heading out the door. " 'Specially when I took you to the station."
Any relief Sam had felt vanished. "You did what?"
*
It was odd being on his own that first night. Though he couldn't remember staying with the Guv, there had always been people fussing over him and around him all the time in hospital. If he tried not to think about it too much, he guessed they still were, somewhere. He tossed and turned on the pathetic cot, his still sore joints and mostly immobile arm making it impossible to find any comfortable position.
Then she had to come.
"You've been away Sam."
"Leave me alone," he mumbled into his pillow, in no mood to deal with her antics tonight.
"You weren't nearly as much fun to play with. You were always so scared. Are you scared now, Sam? Are you still alone? Isolated? Forgotten?"
"Can't you shut up?" he moaned, rolling over. "Just for one night?"
"Is that what you'll be when you wake up? Will Mummy need to feed you again? Dress you? Wash you? Like they did? Like they do? Will you still be off? Out of place? Wrong?"
He threw the closest object he could find, sending it flying across the room towards her. She disappeared and the projectile thumped softly against the wall, falling to the floor. Out of curiosity, Sam peered over the end of the bed to see what he had thrown, then immediately ran to fetch it.
"Sorry," he apologized, picking him up and dusting him off. Checking to make sure no one was looking, even though he was alone in his flat, he hugged Mr. Cotton tightly. "You made her go away, didn't you?"
He crawled back into bed, this time with the sheep tucked safely under his arm. Mr. Cotton smelled a bit too much of Brut and cigarette smoke, but it was just enough to help Sam finally fall asleep.
Author: dak
Word Count: 2419 (this part); 12,753 overall
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: So sorry for the delay! I was a bit preoccupied this weekend, and wasn't happy with what I had written yesterday, so here's the final part. Please enjoy!
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4
He stirred, barely able to move anything but an eyelid. His head felt like it had been dunked in a swimming pool then forgotten, left to fill, and swell, and suffocate...
He had to groan in order to try and clear the cotton wool coating his brain. It seemed to work a little, but what helped his head, hurt his throat. He blindly reached for the glass of water he knew he’d left by his bed, but his heavy arm flopped off the mattress, hanging painfully over the side.
“Take it easy, Sammy,” a worried voice announced, and someone lifted his arm back onto the bed. “How’re you feelin’? D’you need anything?”
That voice, it sounded so familiar, but so...odd. Gruff, but too concerned. Much too gentle to be...
He channeled his limited energy to his eyelids and cracked them open, willing the face above him into focus. “Gene?”
“Yeah. It’s me Sammy-boy.” The relief in his voice was palpable.
“What’s...”
“Don’t worry ‘bout that now. Yeh need anything while you’re awake? Some juice, or Mr. Cotton? I know he’s round here somewhere. Chris spilt some Tizer on him, but the Missus cleaned ‘im right up. Good as new.”
“Gene?”
“Yeah, Sammy?”
“What the bloody hell are you talking about?”
Gene stared at him oddly for a moment before disappearing, returning seconds later with a piece of paper in his hands. “Do you know what this is, Sam?”
Sam briefly studied the page. “It’s a hexagon, Gene.” It hurt to roll his eyes, but he did it anyway. “Now could you please tell me why I’m in hospital, why my head feels like it’s been run over by the Cortina, and why this cast on my arm is covered in doodles of sheep?”
“You...don’t remember,” Gene slowly sat down next to him, seemingly more confused than Sam.
“Clearly not, since I bothered to ask.” He’d barely been awake a minute, but the exhaustion of the effort was already getting to him, and he allowed his eyelids to droop.
“What is the last thing you remember?”
Sam fought through the haze sleep and sudden befuddlement in order to answer Gene’s question. “Drinks. The pub. You weren’t there, you still had the flu. Ray dumped a pint on my head.”
Gene was quiet for a long moment, before placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder, an action Sam didn’t think fit his Guv at all. Whatever happened, it must have been very bad to have Gene Hunt showing concern for his well-being. “That was two months ago, Sam.”
“Oh.” Sam took a deep breath. “Shit.”
“Yeah,” Gene agreed.
“Have I been in hospital all that time? In a coma?” A coma in a coma? Sam wasn’t sure how that was possible, but these days he was learning pretty much anything was.
Gene didn’t answer. “Get some rest. You look like summit the dog ate an’ the cat pissed over.” He rose, preparing to leave.
“Gene.” Sam tried to sound stern, though his voice was still weak. “Have I been in hospital all this time?”
There was a long sigh. The Guv refused to make eye contact as he swept on his coat. “No,” he finally answered. “Now get some kip, an’ I’ll see you in a bit.”
He left before Sam could ask another question, clearly his intent. Sam fell back asleep, allowing the fuzz of his brain to dampen his thoughts and ease his confusion. But what had Gene meant by “no?”
*
Sam was able to stay conscious long enough the next day to have his situation explained to him. Annie explained to him the accident he couldn’t for the life of him remember. The doctors explained to him his resulting injuries from the accident he couldn’t remember. Everyone seemed to be leaving it to Hunt to explain to him what had happened between the time he was released from hospital the first time, to his readmission and subsequent reawakening.
Hunt had taken to ignoring the subject with his typical “men don’t do talking” flair, bringing Tyler plenty of secreted booze and the occasional magazine Sam would never read in a million years, but failing to ever show up with answers.
On his second release from hospital, Gene had volunteered to drive him home since, according to the Guv, no one else could be bothered to worry about his scrawny arse. They drove in silence, for once Gene’s refusal to acknowledge the nicely sized elephant in the back of the Cortina, a blessing to Sam’s pounding head. A migraine was coming on and he could do nothing to fight it except lean back in the chair, closing his eyes and blocking out as much light as possible. Sound, however, was another matter.
“Alright?” Gene asked semi-casually as he drove on.
Sam shrugged. What would Gene care about a little headache?
“What hurts?”
Sam laughed, keeping his eyes closed. “What makes you think anything hurts?”’
Gene coughed. “Only do that, that shoulder thing when summit’s botherin’ yeh,” he mumbled, looking the other way.
This time Sam had to face his superior. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“And you noticed this, when?”
Gene decided, again, not to answer that particular question.
“Oh right, I forgot,” Sam mocked. “You don’t want to tell me about the mysterious three weeks where I wasn’t in hospital but I wasn’t at work and I wasn’t apparently anywhere, since I can’t remember and no one can be bothered to sit down and explain it to me.” He was pouting by the time he finished, arms crossed and all, but he didn’t care. His head was throbbing aggressively, his arm itched like the hell, and sitting so long in the car had stiffened his sore leg.
Gene still remained silent, finally stopping the car in front of his house.
“When the doctors said to take me home, Guv, I’m pretty sure they meant mine.”
“Need yeh to pick up your stuff,” he muttered around the end of a cigarette, throwing himself from the car before Sam could pick his jaw up off the floor.
“Wait!” Sam followed as quickly as he could, forgetting that sudden movements still caused him pain, and hobbled across the pavement, following Gene. “Why is my stuff at your house?”
“Oh you are a smart lad,” Gene mocked, rounding on him. “I can see how you made detective, Inspector.” He quickly unlocked the door, throwing it open so hard it nearly crashed into the side wall. “Upstairs. Second door on the right. Don’t take long.” Gene ordered as Sam followed inside behind him.
Somehow overstaying his welcome before he had even arrived, Sam decided to gather the things he apparently had there as quickly as possible and leave just as fast. Maybe even call a cab so the Guv wouldn’t have to bother. He hauled his body upstairs, heading directly for the room Gene had described.
There were two suitcases, already packed, sitting by the bed, his black jacket placed neatly across the tops of both. He pondered how to handle the luggage with only one decent arm and after finally deciding a course of action, limped with great purpose to the imposing baggage. As he bent down to grab at the first suitcase, a scrap of paper poking out from under the bed, in an otherwise perfectly ordered room, caught his eye.
He pulled it out and sat on the bed himself, examining his new finding, a good idea as his mouth went dry and his head began to spin. It was a crudely made child’s drawing, three disproportionate stick figures holding hands, standing outside some basic, square house. One of the stick figures was clearly smoking. Sam would’ve completely dismissed it, if it weren’t for the name at the bottom - “Sammy,” with a backwards “y,” the way he always used to sign the pictures he drew for his mum. Ruling out the possibility that his four year old self could have stumbled into the Hunt household, Sam focused on the only other option available, which was terrifying at best.
He didn’t know how long he sat there, but it must have been long enough to warrant concern on Hunt’s part, as Sam finally spotted him leaning in the doorway.
“Gene,” he whispered. “Tell me what happened.”
Gene sighed and stared at the floor, before resigning himself to the fact that he could no longer properly ignore the situation. “When you woke up, the first time, you weren’t...you weren’t quite...right.”
“I don’t...”
“ ‘S like you were a kiddie. Ramblin’ on and on, too much energy, bad ‘round birds. Hell, not much different than yeh are now.”
Sam couldn’t take his eyes of the paper and began running his fingers over the crayon-drawn lines. “I don’t remember.”
Gene crossed the room and sat down next to him. “Probably best you don’t, Sam.”
“How did I function? Dress, eat, bathe...”
“Er...Missus took care of most of that, though we could trust yeh not to drown in the tub, so rest assured what’s left of your modesty is in tact.”
“So I lived here?”
“Yeah.”
“Whose idea was that? Was it yours?”
Gene paused, reaching for a cigarette. “Yeah.”
“But why--”
“It were either that or you spent the rest of your life in hospital, wanderin’ round some psych ward with the Kramers and the Cranes, like the docs wanted, and I weren’t goin’ to let that happen. Not to one of my men.” Gene angrily lit his fag, smoking with great purpose.
“Rest of...they said it’d be permanent?”
“What they said.”
“And you would’ve let me stay here--”
“But it weren’t, was it? You pass out, I take yeh in, an’ it’s ‘Oh, we’re sorry. We missed that bleeder in ‘is brain. Back in a coma now, don’t you worry.’”
“I’m sorry for all the trouble.”
“What trouble?” Gene scoffed. “You’re easy to please when you’ve the brain of a tot. Dress as you’re told. Eat as you’re told. Do as you’re told. Hell, all you needed was a pack of crayons an’ that damn sheep and you were right as rain!”
“I can’t remember any of it. I...It’s like I went to sleep that night, and woke up two months later. I can’t even remember the accident.”
“Not much to remember, Sammy. Some kid joy riding. Got a concussion and a fractured wrist.”
“From the accident.”
Gene coughed. “Er…right. Though 'is injuries didn’t present ‘til later, after ‘is interrogation. Least that’s what Cartwright wrote in the report.”
“I don’t believe...well, actually, I do,” Sam laughed, finally lowering the drawing, though not looking towards Gene. Once he started laughing, he couldn’t stop, and he quickly devolved into a bout of hysterics, tears prickling in his eyes as he fought back tears. So much information all it once. So much unbelievable information, poured into his battered brain where, at the moment, it could not be processed.
The picture began to crumple in his hand, his body folded up on itself, and somewhere in the future, the beeping began. The more he thought about it, the more he couldn’t control himself. Here he was, having a nice, monumental breakdown in front of his superior officer. Not just any superior officer, Gene “Man’s man” Hunt, who would no doubt take the piss out of him constantly for weeping like a little girl...
Something soft and fluffy was shoved into his hands. So confused was he about this new development, that Sam completely forgot he was meant to be distraught. He wiped the tears from his eyes and stared at the fuzzy, foreign object. For the first time since he left the car, he looked at Gene.
“Mr. Cotton,” Gene shrugged, searching for a place to extinguish his ciggie. “Always calms you down when yeh get upset.”
“I...I had one just like this, when I was little,” Sam whispered wistfully as he stared into the fuzzy, white face.
“Explains a lot,” Gene half-sighed, half-mocked.
“Me mum...she bought it for me at a hospital gift shop, when I had to get my tonsils out. I called that one Mr. Cotton, too,” he laughed, but this time was able to keep it under control. “I thought I was clever,” he smiled.
"Still do," Gene scoffed.
"Sometimes," Sam relaxed, growing tired.
"C'mon. Let's get you home 'fore the Missus tries to make you a permanent fixture." Gene stood, tossing Sam his jacket and grabbing both suitcases himself.
"Gene?"
"Yeah, Sam?"
"Was I…was I, alright as a kid?"
Gene paused, contemplating the question. "You were happy," he replied, heading out the door. " 'Specially when I took you to the station."
Any relief Sam had felt vanished. "You did what?"
*
It was odd being on his own that first night. Though he couldn't remember staying with the Guv, there had always been people fussing over him and around him all the time in hospital. If he tried not to think about it too much, he guessed they still were, somewhere. He tossed and turned on the pathetic cot, his still sore joints and mostly immobile arm making it impossible to find any comfortable position.
Then she had to come.
"You've been away Sam."
"Leave me alone," he mumbled into his pillow, in no mood to deal with her antics tonight.
"You weren't nearly as much fun to play with. You were always so scared. Are you scared now, Sam? Are you still alone? Isolated? Forgotten?"
"Can't you shut up?" he moaned, rolling over. "Just for one night?"
"Is that what you'll be when you wake up? Will Mummy need to feed you again? Dress you? Wash you? Like they did? Like they do? Will you still be off? Out of place? Wrong?"
He threw the closest object he could find, sending it flying across the room towards her. She disappeared and the projectile thumped softly against the wall, falling to the floor. Out of curiosity, Sam peered over the end of the bed to see what he had thrown, then immediately ran to fetch it.
"Sorry," he apologized, picking him up and dusting him off. Checking to make sure no one was looking, even though he was alone in his flat, he hugged Mr. Cotton tightly. "You made her go away, didn't you?"
He crawled back into bed, this time with the sheep tucked safely under his arm. Mr. Cotton smelled a bit too much of Brut and cigarette smoke, but it was just enough to help Sam finally fall asleep.