Chapter Text
It’s been a month since he woke up.
“DCI Sam Tyler?”
It’s been eight months since he was hit.
“...Sam?”
It’s been thirty four years since he left.
“Hello?”
He jolts to his senses. A woman is staring at him, looking slightly awkward. It’s obvious he was off in another world - he stands and gives her a smile.
“Sorry, yes.”
“DI Alex Drake. I’m here to help you regarding your recent psychological trauma.” Her voice is brisk and calm.
“Right. Yeah. ‘S good to talk about,” Sam responds, lamely, the same awkward words he spoke to Maya the day before.
Alex seems unbothered, inviting him through the door she stands at. He walks past her and into the room, brushing his hand against the doorframe, relishing the cold feeling of it.
She sits down across the table from him. The room is cold, grey, and unwelcoming. He fidgets slightly with his hands, acutely aware it’s not just the DI in front of him who’s watching. She briskly opens a file - his file - and goes through the papers inside until she finds what she’s looking for.
“So, you were in a coma for seven months after being hit by a car,” she states.
He averts her gaze as she looks up. After a moment, she clears her throat. “As you know.”
She quickly reads through the file. “You say you woke up in the year 1973,” she begins, inviting Sam to elaborate.
“Yeah.” Sam’s voice comes out blunter than he intended.
“Your brain created a world to deal with the trauma of the accident, and to keep internal brain processes from shutting down… as I’m sure you know…”
“Mm.”
He still can’t bring himself to look in her eyes. The pity, so rich in her voice, it gets under his skin. It isn’t her fault, he knows that. But he can’t let her see the reaction her tone causes.
“...Can you tell me more about your experience?” She decides to ask straight out, which he’s grateful for, in a way. He’s not used to skirting around questions anymore, not after spending so long with his blunt and tactless team.
“... No ,” he says after a moment, frustrated with how strangled his voice sounds. “DI Drake-”
“Alex,” she interrupts, not unkindly.
“ Alex.” Irritation creeps into his tone. “I… it’s mad. You’ll think I’m mad.”
Her expression is so soft, so pitying, and yet she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t have to. He can tell exactly what she’s thinking.
I already know you’re mad.
He swallows harshly, trying to calm himself.
“I won’t,” she responds quietly. “I know how traumatic this has all been for you-”
“Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” Sam snaps, the trace of a laugh in his voice. “Don’t pretend. God, please don’t pretend.”
It’s not her fault. He knows how he looks. He knows how it all seems. He’s sure he hasn’t gone mad, and yet everything he says just enforces this view she has of him. It’s not her fault. He puts a hand to his head.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. This isn’t my first rodeo, you know,” she says, with humour.
“Right.”
The scratching of pencil against paper is grating. He doesn’t want to think about what she’s writing. What she thinks of him. She pauses before finishing the sentence, her pencil hovering over where a full stop should be.
“Sam, you seem very aware of your circumstances - I’m not surprised, with you being such a highly ranked detective,” she begins. “From experience, most patients I see haven’t quite come to grips like you have-”
“Just say it,” Sam cuts her off, angry and distressed, deep down knowing where this is going, what she’s leading to.
She hesitates. God, this is all so patronising, Sam thinks. He knows she’s thinking of exactly how to word it, because she thinks of him as someone who’s a wrong word away from going mad. He can’t stand it. It might be true. He can’t stand it.
“I think you’re afraid of admitting your experience,” she states, “because you don’t want to hear it said out loud. The reality of it, I mean. You don’t want to think of yourself as disturbed, or traumatised, and if you say it… you will.”
Silence. He stares at her with blank, unblinking eyes, hardly aware of his hands trembling or the tremor in his breaths.
“But it’s good,” she continues, encouragingly. “Recognition is the first step to recovery, and I can see you’re on the way-”
She breaks off at the thudding sound of head against table. Sam stares blankly at the metal his forrid lies against, and he rests his hands against the back of his neck.
“ Fuck, ” he whispers, a humourless laugh escaping his lips. “No matter what time I’m in, I’m surrounded by people who think I’ve lost it. Couldn’t tell the team I was from the future, can’t tell anyone here I lived as a copper in 1973.”
“Sam…” Alex murmurs in a weak attempt to help.
“Just stop, ” Sam snaps. He abruptly pushes himself to his feet, staring at Alex, unable to tell who he’s angry at more - her, or himself.
She stands up and raises an arm in protest as he walks to the door. Neither of them know what to say. He waves a hand dismissively as he leaves, sighing deeply. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says emptily.
After all of that, he stays and makes sure to close the door quietly. He doesn’t know why.
The sound of doors slamming reminds Sam of home.