ausmac
in
lifein1973
Fic: Riding the Dragon Part 4
Title: Riding the Dragon Part 4
Characters: Sam Tyler, Gene Hunt
Rating: Red Cortina, for drug use, and the effects thereof.
Warning: Note this story involves the abuse of some serious drugs, and a somewhat abused Sam Tyler.
Wordage: This part 2,900 words
Riding the Dragon Part 1
Riding the Dragon Part 2
Riding the Dragon Part 3
It took time for the world began to make any sense, and his mother told him it was probably the drug.
Sitting beside him sipping tea, she explained how it had come about that he was home with her again.
"It was a last resort, a last try to heal you. All Warren's doing…"
Warren!? He straightened, hands clenching. "Who?"
She smiled, dipping her biscuit in her tea. "He told me to call him that, rather than Doctor Black. Doctor Warren Black is a specialist in comatose patients, he's been treating you for weeks." She cleared her throat, and Sam guessed she'd worn her throat dry talking to him, about him, at him, over the weeks and months.
Sighing, his mum took a sip of tea and settled the cup back on the saucer with a sharp porcelain clink. "He's not the nicest man in the world, I have to say, but he's clever, good at what he does." She shrugged, smiled crookedly. "He's a typical specialist: all brains and no courtesy. But I didn't care. He could be as rude as he liked to me, if he fixed you."
His life in 1973 refused to fade and he could still hear Warren's voice…Well Sam, how do you feel? "Not the nicest man. My subconscious certainly deals in absolutes."
"What?"
He blinked, focused on his mother's tired eyes. She'd aged in the months he'd been gone, as if her time had been all warped as well. Flying close to the speed of life everything was relative. "Sorry mum, nothing. Go on."
She told him about Warren and his wonder drug, Mysone. "It's apparently an offshoot of Cortisone. I don't really understand all the medical stuff, but it has something to do with opening new neural pathways, something like that - new pathways so you could find your way back to me. He gave me a pamphlet, if you ever want to read it. But it's a powerful drug, very dangerous - he warned me of that, that it could be fatal for you, because it has side effects. Does things like suppress the immune system and it puts a strain on the brain - but we'd tried everything else and you were fading away from me."
She filled in the gaps, of what had happened to him since he'd stepped out of his car onto the road, and down the rabbit hole. The accident had caused a cerebral haemorrhage that had sent him into a coma, one that'd looked to be permanent. Still, now and then there'd be some sign of activity, something that told his mother that maybe he was still there, somewhere. And Ruth Tyler, as stubborn as her son, had never given up hope.
"So," Sam said as he stared out through the misty glass of the hospital window, "I'm back because this Warren injected me with a drug, then. How appropriate."
His mother had caught the odd tone in his voice, that much Sam could tell, but everyone was being very patient with him. So patient with the patient. "For two weeks, yes. But it was risky and your body was beginning to fail under the effects." She stared down at her tea cup. "One more day, Warren said. One more day and he'd take you off the drug. It's a miracle, a true wonderful miracle that you'd come back right at the last minute like that." She smiled at him and held out her hand. "My miracle boy."
Miracles came at a price. Like any powerful drug, Mysone had side-effects. Sam's memory started played tricks on him. He would recall being told things with absolute certainty which proved to be non-existent. His short-term memory would drop off like a weak radio signal; some days it was fine, other days he'd be unable to remember what he'd done five minutes before.
It was a career-ender. What good was a copper who couldn't recall the face of a suspect or the facts he'd been told, or who'd think they'd said something they never had?
He went through physical therapy to strengthen a body wasted and weakened by months of inactivity, but no therapy could heal his mind. And to Sam, his mind was everything, his spirit and his life. Both his lives.
He tried telling his psych, Alex, about 1973 and the life he'd found there, and that had proved to be a mistake. She'd been unable to even consider any alternative to mental disorder, put it down to the accident or the treatment or both, and he wasn't in any position to prove otherwise. Yet the memories of that life were the strongest of all - they never faded, never lost their sharp, hot edge. He could still taste the beer from the Railway Arms, still smell the stale smoke and unwashed bodies from CID, feel Gene Hunt's hard body holding him after he'd fallen, sick and almost destroyed, at his Guv's feet.
The real world, the world of 2007 was the one he found hardest to understand. There, he never quite knew where delusion ended and reality began.
And he couldn't even look at the Doctor's face. Logically, he knew it wasn't the Warren from 1973, but the man looked the same, stood the same, moved the same, had the same arrogance and superiority. He'd destroyed Sam's mind to save his life. The mongrel seemed to feel it was a good deal.
The city paid his medical bills, the Police gave him a comfortable pension and said thank you, job well done, good luck and goodbye. Don't let the door hit you on the way out.
And after two weeks of drifting, of waking up aching for something not there, for someone not there, Sam knew it was useless. He wasn't home. He was barely anywhere at all. Finally, his subconscious provided the answer as something that had been said to him popped up, flotsam-like, into his damaged brain.
….it opened new pathways… new pathways so you could find your way back to me..
Perhaps those pathways went both ways.
~@~@~
As at no other time in his life, Sam need to be organised. He wrote everything down; names, phone numbers, places, carried his mind in a notebook in his pocket. And when it came to the plan, that had its own book with everything in detail.
Luckily the hospital was one place he knew very well.
On the last day, Sam went to lunch with his mum and aunt, the two people who meant most to him. He took them to a nice restaurant, splashed out on wine and Italian food and there was laughter and nostalgia and a few tears. Sam took in the images of the two women he loved, hoping they'd understand what he was planning to do. He couldn't give a hint of his intent, because if anyone could get him to change his mind, it was those two.
I'm getting good at lying he thought, as he persuaded his aunt to drop him off at the hospital, supposedly to collect some things he'd left there. If she noticed the particularly warm hug he gave her, she didn't comment, but drove off with a last wave.
He wondered if she'd ever forgive him.
Sam walked up to the stairs and into the main foyer, then stopped, confused. Where had his room been? He checked his book, nodded, and turned to the elevators, selecting the third floor. Hyde Wing. The sign made him smile. He might be heading back to Hyde, but it was only a temporary assignment.
The Department hadn't taken back his ID yet and he was thankful for their lack of diligence in that respect. The badge got him through Security to the Pharmacy, and the prescription he'd forged got him the drugs and a syringe.
Sam took them up to the roof and sat on the edge, looking out over Manchester. It was a nice day, cloudy but not overcast, with the sun and the pale northern blue sky peeking through breaks in the cloud cover. He look down at the small bottle in his hand and studied his notebook again. The regular dosage had been 50cc.
About two hundred should do the trick. He'd researched Mysone and the manufacturer very kindly provides dosage information, risk factors and effects and he knew that four times the dosage wasn't quite enough to kill him immediately but - from the medical data he could actually understand - it would do a very thorough job of blasting open synaptic pathways big enough to drive a truck through.
Sam considered that if it worked, if the Mysone led him back to where he really belonged, then he'd be returning to an addicted, damaged body undergoing the anguish of withdrawal. From one addled state to another.
"Well, Doctor Black," he said as he filled the syringe, "I hope I'm a good chapter in your memoirs and research notes. Just call me a side effect." He took one last look at the world, filled the syringe to the mark, rolled up his sleeve and injected himself.
~@~@~
flash - flash - - flash - - - flash - - - - -the world spun faster and faster and he hung on, laughing as sensations arced through him that he knew were impossible as if he'd passed the speed of light and achieved infinite mass and he hung on but it hurt, it hurt ----
slap! Pain! Slap!
"Don't you die on me you nancy little twat! You hear me, Tyler! Look at me, you bastard! I just find you and you do this to me and if you bloody well die on me I'll fuckin' kill you!"
Which didn't make a lot of sense except in a Gene-Hunt sort-of way, and Sam opened his eyes and hiccupped: "Back!" Head wobbling unsteadily on his neck, he peered at the sweating, flushed face too close to his own. "Don't..hit..a sick…man!"
The relief on the DCI's face was quickly hidden beneath the usual eye-narrowing glare. For a moment he thought, maybe he'll hug me, but it didn't happen. He was dropped back onto the bed where he lay looking up at a ceiling he didn't know.
"Tyler, you age a man beyond his years. Do I need to take you to the hospital?" The last sentence was almost gentle and Sam heard the concern; he turned his head, something not easily done, considering his level of exhaustion.
"No. No more hospitals." Sam closed his eyes as the state of his body hit suddenly. Nausea, weakness and the awful void-like hunger of the heroin. "Could do with a hit, though, but I'm suspectin' that's not gonna happen."
"You suspect right. Here, eat this."
Sam cracked an eye open and viewed the lump of chocolate in Gene's hand. "No thanks. Watching my weight."
"Funny boy. Nelson said you should eat it. You need the sugar and it will make you feel better, which is deeply important to me, of course. Now eat it before I insert it anally."
Sam was too relieved to be back where he belonged to argue much, and he finally took the chocolate and ate it, as Gene sat in a chair next to the bed, watching him with the look Sam recognised. "What?"
Gene held out an open bottle of Coke. "Drink it. Caffeine, apparently also good for what ails you."
Sam took the bottle, nursed it on his chest. "I say again - what?"
Gene put his arms behind his head and stretched, looking suddenly tired. "You died there. You stopped, Tyler, stopped the proverbial dead. For a few minutes there you had shuffled off the mortal coil. Been a copper long enough to recognise death. And then, you're back on." Gene closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over them. "How does someone do that? It's not natural."
"I went home. Decided I didn't care for it, so I came back."
"Death has not made you any saner, I see. Drink the Coke and tell me - it was Warren, right, that did this?"
Sam sucked in a mouthful of the Coke and nodded. "Correct. Did you get him yet?"
"I am a marvel of modern policing but I cannot be in two places at once. First thing was to keep you alive. The rest will follow in good time." Gene's eyes narrowed to green, angry slits. "Turn one o'my people in a junkie, would he? Mr Bloody Warren will wish he'd never been born when I get m'hands on him."
Sam looked around. "Where's this?"
"Nelson's flat above the pub. He left when you passed out. Oh shit, he probably went to call an ambulance. Just hold that thought." Gene left the room at a run and Sam sagged back against the pillows and took the opportunity to asses himself, to catch up.
Alive yes, back where he belonged yes…an addict, yes. The withdrawal tore at him, his mind and body were on fire with the need. Suddenly sick and weary, he looked down at himself. He was wearing stained underwear, was bare-footed and filthy and he stroked his arms absently, the skin dry and dirty, bruised and scabbed from the needle. The chocolate and soft drink he'd taken in suddenly revolted him; he rolled out of bed, hit the floor on his knees and brought it all up onto Nelson's clean carpet.
He was still sitting there, trying to mop up the mess with a sheet, when Gene arrived back.
"No, for fuck…leave it. I said leave it, Tyler, you…oh, shit!"
Sam looked up, unfocused and aching, as Gene sat beside him on the floor. "I have to clean it…have to clean up after myself…mum said…" He wiped one hand across his eyes. "Mum will be so angry with me. So angry. I ran away again and left her. I have to clean up."
Pain lanced through him, he cried out, arching backwards so hard that he felt joints crack with the strain. He was held and he tried to bite, to kick. "Get me… something… bastard!… get me.. the stuff…!" He wrapped shaking hands around Gene's arm, shuddering, jaws grinding together. "You can do it. You can get the stuff, great, big important D-fucking-CI like you, you can get anything. I don't have to be like this!" He saw the denial there in the green eyes, the determination. "Fuck you! Help me!"
Pain rippled through him, nausea rocked him and Sam felt as if every muscle in his body was going into cramp. It was agonising and there was no way to ease it. Except to get more of the stuff. "Please…please help me…"
"Stop it. Just stop it," the voice said, harshly. "I am helpin' you only way I know how."
Sam turned into the big man's hold, pushed himself against Gene's chest. "Just a little bit. Just one shot to help me through this." He forced himself to relax, to slide his shaking hands up Gene's body. "Please."
The arms holding him tightened, pulled him even closer and Sam could smell him; cheap cologne, stale cigarette, stale whisky, the faint musky smell of his skin. The reality of it made him groan in pained pleasure. He bent to push his mouth against Gene's throat, suckled on the skin, heard a moan - and hands wrenched him backwards.
"I'll handcuff you to the bed if I have to. Behave yourself. Nothing you can offer me would get me to give you anymore of that shit, Tyler, so forget it."
Sam pushed his hand down between Gene's legs to his groin. "This says otherwise," he hissed, gripping the hardening bulge.
A moment later he was pulled to his feet and dragged across the room. He fought and cursed, but had no chance against that determined strength and he could only kick and spit as he was shoved into the next room. "You do not grope me, Tyler. I am the groper in any suitable situation, and this doesn't qualify as such by any stretch."
A moment later a stream of icy cold water poured down over Sam's head.
Sam yelled and tried to push his way out but he was held under the shower by a very determined and annoyed Gene Hunt. "Little bastard, my coat is ruined. It's goin' on the bill, I can tell you that. And one more bit o' foul language sent in my direction and I'll wash your potty mouth out with soap!"
Finally Sam's knees gave out and he slid down the tiled wall, shivering. "I'm…a bit…cold. At least..turn on..hot…water.." Teeth chattering, he looked up to see Gene watching him, a totally unreadable expression on his damp, flushed face. "Came back…for you…?
Gene frowned. "You what?"
Sam shook his head, sending water spraying. "Nothing, ignore me. I'm a delusional addict. Can I get out now?"
Gene held out one hand; Sam took it and was pulled upright. He struggled out of his wet underwear and Gene tossed him a towel, then held him up as he dried himself. Wrapped in a dry sheet, with a pillow behind him, Sam lay on Nelson's bed and fought through another lifetime of withdrawal, one dragging minute at a time.
And Gene Hunt was there, inflexible, bad-tempered, ready to slap him about if he started whining, forcing chocolate and room-temperature Coca Cola into him, unwilling to let him give in or give up. Somehow, Sam made it through the night.
Characters: Sam Tyler, Gene Hunt
Rating: Red Cortina, for drug use, and the effects thereof.
Warning: Note this story involves the abuse of some serious drugs, and a somewhat abused Sam Tyler.
Wordage: This part 2,900 words
Riding the Dragon Part 1
Riding the Dragon Part 2
Riding the Dragon Part 3
It took time for the world began to make any sense, and his mother told him it was probably the drug.
Sitting beside him sipping tea, she explained how it had come about that he was home with her again.
"It was a last resort, a last try to heal you. All Warren's doing…"
Warren!? He straightened, hands clenching. "Who?"
She smiled, dipping her biscuit in her tea. "He told me to call him that, rather than Doctor Black. Doctor Warren Black is a specialist in comatose patients, he's been treating you for weeks." She cleared her throat, and Sam guessed she'd worn her throat dry talking to him, about him, at him, over the weeks and months.
Sighing, his mum took a sip of tea and settled the cup back on the saucer with a sharp porcelain clink. "He's not the nicest man in the world, I have to say, but he's clever, good at what he does." She shrugged, smiled crookedly. "He's a typical specialist: all brains and no courtesy. But I didn't care. He could be as rude as he liked to me, if he fixed you."
His life in 1973 refused to fade and he could still hear Warren's voice…Well Sam, how do you feel? "Not the nicest man. My subconscious certainly deals in absolutes."
"What?"
He blinked, focused on his mother's tired eyes. She'd aged in the months he'd been gone, as if her time had been all warped as well. Flying close to the speed of life everything was relative. "Sorry mum, nothing. Go on."
She told him about Warren and his wonder drug, Mysone. "It's apparently an offshoot of Cortisone. I don't really understand all the medical stuff, but it has something to do with opening new neural pathways, something like that - new pathways so you could find your way back to me. He gave me a pamphlet, if you ever want to read it. But it's a powerful drug, very dangerous - he warned me of that, that it could be fatal for you, because it has side effects. Does things like suppress the immune system and it puts a strain on the brain - but we'd tried everything else and you were fading away from me."
She filled in the gaps, of what had happened to him since he'd stepped out of his car onto the road, and down the rabbit hole. The accident had caused a cerebral haemorrhage that had sent him into a coma, one that'd looked to be permanent. Still, now and then there'd be some sign of activity, something that told his mother that maybe he was still there, somewhere. And Ruth Tyler, as stubborn as her son, had never given up hope.
"So," Sam said as he stared out through the misty glass of the hospital window, "I'm back because this Warren injected me with a drug, then. How appropriate."
His mother had caught the odd tone in his voice, that much Sam could tell, but everyone was being very patient with him. So patient with the patient. "For two weeks, yes. But it was risky and your body was beginning to fail under the effects." She stared down at her tea cup. "One more day, Warren said. One more day and he'd take you off the drug. It's a miracle, a true wonderful miracle that you'd come back right at the last minute like that." She smiled at him and held out her hand. "My miracle boy."
Miracles came at a price. Like any powerful drug, Mysone had side-effects. Sam's memory started played tricks on him. He would recall being told things with absolute certainty which proved to be non-existent. His short-term memory would drop off like a weak radio signal; some days it was fine, other days he'd be unable to remember what he'd done five minutes before.
It was a career-ender. What good was a copper who couldn't recall the face of a suspect or the facts he'd been told, or who'd think they'd said something they never had?
He went through physical therapy to strengthen a body wasted and weakened by months of inactivity, but no therapy could heal his mind. And to Sam, his mind was everything, his spirit and his life. Both his lives.
He tried telling his psych, Alex, about 1973 and the life he'd found there, and that had proved to be a mistake. She'd been unable to even consider any alternative to mental disorder, put it down to the accident or the treatment or both, and he wasn't in any position to prove otherwise. Yet the memories of that life were the strongest of all - they never faded, never lost their sharp, hot edge. He could still taste the beer from the Railway Arms, still smell the stale smoke and unwashed bodies from CID, feel Gene Hunt's hard body holding him after he'd fallen, sick and almost destroyed, at his Guv's feet.
The real world, the world of 2007 was the one he found hardest to understand. There, he never quite knew where delusion ended and reality began.
And he couldn't even look at the Doctor's face. Logically, he knew it wasn't the Warren from 1973, but the man looked the same, stood the same, moved the same, had the same arrogance and superiority. He'd destroyed Sam's mind to save his life. The mongrel seemed to feel it was a good deal.
The city paid his medical bills, the Police gave him a comfortable pension and said thank you, job well done, good luck and goodbye. Don't let the door hit you on the way out.
And after two weeks of drifting, of waking up aching for something not there, for someone not there, Sam knew it was useless. He wasn't home. He was barely anywhere at all. Finally, his subconscious provided the answer as something that had been said to him popped up, flotsam-like, into his damaged brain.
….it opened new pathways… new pathways so you could find your way back to me..
Perhaps those pathways went both ways.
~@~@~
As at no other time in his life, Sam need to be organised. He wrote everything down; names, phone numbers, places, carried his mind in a notebook in his pocket. And when it came to the plan, that had its own book with everything in detail.
Luckily the hospital was one place he knew very well.
On the last day, Sam went to lunch with his mum and aunt, the two people who meant most to him. He took them to a nice restaurant, splashed out on wine and Italian food and there was laughter and nostalgia and a few tears. Sam took in the images of the two women he loved, hoping they'd understand what he was planning to do. He couldn't give a hint of his intent, because if anyone could get him to change his mind, it was those two.
I'm getting good at lying he thought, as he persuaded his aunt to drop him off at the hospital, supposedly to collect some things he'd left there. If she noticed the particularly warm hug he gave her, she didn't comment, but drove off with a last wave.
He wondered if she'd ever forgive him.
Sam walked up to the stairs and into the main foyer, then stopped, confused. Where had his room been? He checked his book, nodded, and turned to the elevators, selecting the third floor. Hyde Wing. The sign made him smile. He might be heading back to Hyde, but it was only a temporary assignment.
The Department hadn't taken back his ID yet and he was thankful for their lack of diligence in that respect. The badge got him through Security to the Pharmacy, and the prescription he'd forged got him the drugs and a syringe.
Sam took them up to the roof and sat on the edge, looking out over Manchester. It was a nice day, cloudy but not overcast, with the sun and the pale northern blue sky peeking through breaks in the cloud cover. He look down at the small bottle in his hand and studied his notebook again. The regular dosage had been 50cc.
About two hundred should do the trick. He'd researched Mysone and the manufacturer very kindly provides dosage information, risk factors and effects and he knew that four times the dosage wasn't quite enough to kill him immediately but - from the medical data he could actually understand - it would do a very thorough job of blasting open synaptic pathways big enough to drive a truck through.
Sam considered that if it worked, if the Mysone led him back to where he really belonged, then he'd be returning to an addicted, damaged body undergoing the anguish of withdrawal. From one addled state to another.
"Well, Doctor Black," he said as he filled the syringe, "I hope I'm a good chapter in your memoirs and research notes. Just call me a side effect." He took one last look at the world, filled the syringe to the mark, rolled up his sleeve and injected himself.
~@~@~
flash - flash - - flash - - - flash - - - - -the world spun faster and faster and he hung on, laughing as sensations arced through him that he knew were impossible as if he'd passed the speed of light and achieved infinite mass and he hung on but it hurt, it hurt ----
slap! Pain! Slap!
"Don't you die on me you nancy little twat! You hear me, Tyler! Look at me, you bastard! I just find you and you do this to me and if you bloody well die on me I'll fuckin' kill you!"
Which didn't make a lot of sense except in a Gene-Hunt sort-of way, and Sam opened his eyes and hiccupped: "Back!" Head wobbling unsteadily on his neck, he peered at the sweating, flushed face too close to his own. "Don't..hit..a sick…man!"
The relief on the DCI's face was quickly hidden beneath the usual eye-narrowing glare. For a moment he thought, maybe he'll hug me, but it didn't happen. He was dropped back onto the bed where he lay looking up at a ceiling he didn't know.
"Tyler, you age a man beyond his years. Do I need to take you to the hospital?" The last sentence was almost gentle and Sam heard the concern; he turned his head, something not easily done, considering his level of exhaustion.
"No. No more hospitals." Sam closed his eyes as the state of his body hit suddenly. Nausea, weakness and the awful void-like hunger of the heroin. "Could do with a hit, though, but I'm suspectin' that's not gonna happen."
"You suspect right. Here, eat this."
Sam cracked an eye open and viewed the lump of chocolate in Gene's hand. "No thanks. Watching my weight."
"Funny boy. Nelson said you should eat it. You need the sugar and it will make you feel better, which is deeply important to me, of course. Now eat it before I insert it anally."
Sam was too relieved to be back where he belonged to argue much, and he finally took the chocolate and ate it, as Gene sat in a chair next to the bed, watching him with the look Sam recognised. "What?"
Gene held out an open bottle of Coke. "Drink it. Caffeine, apparently also good for what ails you."
Sam took the bottle, nursed it on his chest. "I say again - what?"
Gene put his arms behind his head and stretched, looking suddenly tired. "You died there. You stopped, Tyler, stopped the proverbial dead. For a few minutes there you had shuffled off the mortal coil. Been a copper long enough to recognise death. And then, you're back on." Gene closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over them. "How does someone do that? It's not natural."
"I went home. Decided I didn't care for it, so I came back."
"Death has not made you any saner, I see. Drink the Coke and tell me - it was Warren, right, that did this?"
Sam sucked in a mouthful of the Coke and nodded. "Correct. Did you get him yet?"
"I am a marvel of modern policing but I cannot be in two places at once. First thing was to keep you alive. The rest will follow in good time." Gene's eyes narrowed to green, angry slits. "Turn one o'my people in a junkie, would he? Mr Bloody Warren will wish he'd never been born when I get m'hands on him."
Sam looked around. "Where's this?"
"Nelson's flat above the pub. He left when you passed out. Oh shit, he probably went to call an ambulance. Just hold that thought." Gene left the room at a run and Sam sagged back against the pillows and took the opportunity to asses himself, to catch up.
Alive yes, back where he belonged yes…an addict, yes. The withdrawal tore at him, his mind and body were on fire with the need. Suddenly sick and weary, he looked down at himself. He was wearing stained underwear, was bare-footed and filthy and he stroked his arms absently, the skin dry and dirty, bruised and scabbed from the needle. The chocolate and soft drink he'd taken in suddenly revolted him; he rolled out of bed, hit the floor on his knees and brought it all up onto Nelson's clean carpet.
He was still sitting there, trying to mop up the mess with a sheet, when Gene arrived back.
"No, for fuck…leave it. I said leave it, Tyler, you…oh, shit!"
Sam looked up, unfocused and aching, as Gene sat beside him on the floor. "I have to clean it…have to clean up after myself…mum said…" He wiped one hand across his eyes. "Mum will be so angry with me. So angry. I ran away again and left her. I have to clean up."
Pain lanced through him, he cried out, arching backwards so hard that he felt joints crack with the strain. He was held and he tried to bite, to kick. "Get me… something… bastard!… get me.. the stuff…!" He wrapped shaking hands around Gene's arm, shuddering, jaws grinding together. "You can do it. You can get the stuff, great, big important D-fucking-CI like you, you can get anything. I don't have to be like this!" He saw the denial there in the green eyes, the determination. "Fuck you! Help me!"
Pain rippled through him, nausea rocked him and Sam felt as if every muscle in his body was going into cramp. It was agonising and there was no way to ease it. Except to get more of the stuff. "Please…please help me…"
"Stop it. Just stop it," the voice said, harshly. "I am helpin' you only way I know how."
Sam turned into the big man's hold, pushed himself against Gene's chest. "Just a little bit. Just one shot to help me through this." He forced himself to relax, to slide his shaking hands up Gene's body. "Please."
The arms holding him tightened, pulled him even closer and Sam could smell him; cheap cologne, stale cigarette, stale whisky, the faint musky smell of his skin. The reality of it made him groan in pained pleasure. He bent to push his mouth against Gene's throat, suckled on the skin, heard a moan - and hands wrenched him backwards.
"I'll handcuff you to the bed if I have to. Behave yourself. Nothing you can offer me would get me to give you anymore of that shit, Tyler, so forget it."
Sam pushed his hand down between Gene's legs to his groin. "This says otherwise," he hissed, gripping the hardening bulge.
A moment later he was pulled to his feet and dragged across the room. He fought and cursed, but had no chance against that determined strength and he could only kick and spit as he was shoved into the next room. "You do not grope me, Tyler. I am the groper in any suitable situation, and this doesn't qualify as such by any stretch."
A moment later a stream of icy cold water poured down over Sam's head.
Sam yelled and tried to push his way out but he was held under the shower by a very determined and annoyed Gene Hunt. "Little bastard, my coat is ruined. It's goin' on the bill, I can tell you that. And one more bit o' foul language sent in my direction and I'll wash your potty mouth out with soap!"
Finally Sam's knees gave out and he slid down the tiled wall, shivering. "I'm…a bit…cold. At least..turn on..hot…water.." Teeth chattering, he looked up to see Gene watching him, a totally unreadable expression on his damp, flushed face. "Came back…for you…?
Gene frowned. "You what?"
Sam shook his head, sending water spraying. "Nothing, ignore me. I'm a delusional addict. Can I get out now?"
Gene held out one hand; Sam took it and was pulled upright. He struggled out of his wet underwear and Gene tossed him a towel, then held him up as he dried himself. Wrapped in a dry sheet, with a pillow behind him, Sam lay on Nelson's bed and fought through another lifetime of withdrawal, one dragging minute at a time.
And Gene Hunt was there, inflexible, bad-tempered, ready to slap him about if he started whining, forcing chocolate and room-temperature Coca Cola into him, unwilling to let him give in or give up. Somehow, Sam made it through the night.