Author's Notes: Takes place from the end of 4x05 A Good Body, until after 8x02 A Time to Heal.
I'd been on a Silent Witness marathon, and feel that Sam Ryan deserves so much better than the random odd men the writers squeezed in as and when there was space. Plus, it was such a shame that her relationship with Connor had not been given any room to expand.
Also, it is depressing to know that Amanda Burton's brilliant Sam Ryan has been largely ignored in current fandom so this was completely necessary for my sanity.
Also cross-posted on AO3, under the username whitesheets.
No beta, so I hope you will forgive any mistakes or errors. Enjoy!
I'll See You in Londonderry
He moves to London for his family.
His wife prefers the city, cannot stand Cambridge for all it is.
So he takes the new job, and tells his family and friends, that it is the best decision for everyone.
When he sees her, for the first time in months, his heart thumps harder.
She's cordial, almost painfully formal with him, but he can hear the words she doesn't say, the physical distance she places between them when they are in the same room. It doesn't take long for her to ask after his family – the family he said he moved to London for – and he answers the question she doesn't ask.
Something flashes in her eyes, and he balls his hand into a fist so he doesn't reach out.
He cannot, he should not.
But her mask of casual indifference has slipped over her features – he has come to miss looking up to see her face drawn into a contemplative frown – and a familiar feeling of frustration courses through his veins. He thinks of all the times she hid herself away from him when they worked a case, the bit about her father, her sister's anger at her… and of all the times she cracked a smile at him, a soft smirk and twinkle in her eye.
She is hiding now, and the feeling of loss he has felt since she left for London, returns with a vengeance.
He moves to London for his family.
And for the off-hand chance of being in the same city as Sam Ryan.
She works to let Caldwell off the hook, and then agrees to help recapture him.
The knowledge that she had spent the night with a bloody murderer, had let this – this fucking, sodding son of a bitch touch –
God!
His nerves are frazzled, listening to the crackling voices coming through the speakers, and he wonders if he should have moved to London at all.
Everything ends in what feels like a split-second, gunshots ringing out, Caldwell dead, blood seeping across the concrete floor and Sam, crouching over the dead man as if she's mourning over a dead lover.
Lover.
He watches her walk away, and he balls his hands into fists again, so he doesn't run after her.
Doesn't scare her away.
She is still as difficult as she has always been, always rubbing people the wrong way, making enemies out of people for the sake of justice. She would make a bloody good policewoman if she ever wants a switch in careers.
But he still misses her challenging gaze, and wants nothing more than to hear her argue with him in her lilting accent.
He visits her office the next morning and finds her already there, working on her computer. Her face is drawn, shadows under her eyes more pronounced than usual, and he knows immediately that she hasn't slept at all.
The coffee is still steaming hot when he places it on her table, and she looks up at him impassively.
"It's black."
"Thank you," she says, and picks the cup up. She's watching him with tired eyes, both elbows resting on the desk.
He takes an uninvited seat in front of her.
"I don't suppose you want to talk about it," he says, because he knows she's not the sort of person who talks about anything at all. But he still tries, just like he's trying by coming here this morning.
"No."
She keeps both hands on her cup, perhaps seeking out its warmth, because he can see her fingers trembling despite her notorious moniker amongst the police – the Ice Maiden. She puts down the cup suddenly, and he knows that she's noticed him staring at her hands.
"Were you outside my place … the entire time?" she asks.
He looks away, focuses on a spot beyond her shoulder. "Yes."
"Why?"
"I didn't trust Caldwell. And well – I was worried about you," he admits, freely. There is no point in trying to hide his reasons.
"I know that now." She picks up the coffee again, holds it without lifting it to her lips. "I'm sorry, Michael. For not trusting you."
An apology from Sam Ryan, he thinks, is almost as rare as a cheerful December morning in London.
"Sam, you couldn't have known."
"If I had listened to your suspicions, I would have. I discounted your worries… because I thought you were –" She paused, hesitating.
"A stupid copper letting my gut feeling get the best of me?"
Her lips twitched in mirth. "No," she says, quietly. "I thought you were jealous."
"Sam-"
"And it made me feel angry."
"What?"
"It made me feel angry that you felt you had the right to feel that way."
He dips his head. She is right.
"It's ridiculous, isn't it?" she says. "To think that you were jealous when you had legitimate concerns about -"
"No, you're right, Sam," he interrupts. "I was jealous, amongst other – legitimate concerns."
"Ah."
He doesn't clench his fist and stops resisting his impulse.
Her eyes widen when he leans forward, reaches out and takes her hand in his.
Her place is clean, but not overtly so – an empty wine glass stands on the kitchen counter – and it's a refreshing change from his own place. But then again, she lives alone, and he lives with two other inhabitants, one being a pre-teen boy.
It's amazing, how hard his heart is pumping.
"Red or white?" she asks, back towards him as she fusses with glasses on the rack.
"Neither," he says. He walks up to her boldly and touches her shoulder.
"Water, then?" she asks, turning around.
God, he has missed her scent, her voice, the shade of her grey-green eyes.
"No," he says, and kisses her.
She is still for a moment, and then begins to relax, allowing him to reach around her as she responds under his touch. It's not as if they've done anymore than this. She left Cambridge before anything happened, despite his pleas for her to stay.
"I've missed you," he whispers against her neck.
She wasn't taking much with her, that was clear. The bags by the door were few, and since the place was rented, she'd left the furniture neatly arranged as if it had been a showroom unit.
"Where will you be staying?" he asked, making conversation. He had asked before, but for some reason, the details wouldn't stick.
"Several blocks away from Northampton Square until I find another place. I haven't had the time to look at others yet but I'll sort it out when I get there." She smiled impishly, leaning back on the couch. "Are you thinking to visit?"
"I may drop by," he said, not untruthfully.
"And how would Helen feel about that?" she skirted.
"It doesn't matter how she feels. She hasn't extended the same consideration to me when she was gallivanting around with –" He stopped, catching himself before he could go further.
"You know, Michael…" She was studying him like a sample on a slide. "You wouldn't be so upset about it, unless you still loved her."
"I don't. I – " He rubbed his face. "It's complicated."
"I don't doubt." Her voice was casual, but he could see the cogs in her head spinning.
"I care for you, Sam."
"Perhaps I'll see you in London sooner then. Once you've … sorted out your complications."
She was smiling, almost happy, even if she was clearly hesitant about what could be.
"You will," he promised.
Her eyes danced. "Good."
She moans when he nips at her ear, and the sound sends a sharp throb down to his groin. For someone so famously cold in public, he's surprised that she is so warm, so willing and so uninhibited with him.
It has taken him a while to fulfill his promise, and things are still complicated – he has his family to think about, the effect of a divorce on his son – but he is here now and Sam Ryan is in his arms.
And she tells him; "I've missed you too."
His asks for a divorce, and Helen cries and begs, and he knows that it won't work. He doesn't love her anymore, doesn't think of her when he's alone as he used to so many years ago.
But when she threatens to fight for full custody and brings up the fact that he's "married to his job", he knows he has lost.
When they see each other, Sam doesn't ask about Helen, and Michael doesn't volunteer the information. They drink wine, eat (most times she cooks, on busy nights he buys dinner on the way), kiss and go to bed early.
It works for them both, for a while.
Sam is good at hiding her feelings, and he is good at pretending that he isn't married.
She may be the best at what she does, but she has always been better at dealing with dead people than the living.
He is fonder of pasta than she is, but she makes variations for him when he goes over anyway. He also likes jazz more than classical music, and the fact that she always plays jazz when he is around, tells him a lot more about how she feels than what she actually says.
They don't go out together – it is more of a matter of conflicting schedules than anything else – but he suspects that she has always been a homebody when not working. Sometimes, he climbs into her bed, holds her close, and they do nothing but sleep together.
It works for a while, until it doesn't.
She tells him that she's busy – and it isn't a lie, she is always busy – but she stops making time for him.
On the last night he goes over, she makes a Chinese stir-fry for dinner, and plays Tchaikovsky on the stereo.
They make love, but he doesn't stay over.
He reads about the Bowman case in the papers, the reports that questioned her credibility, those which made cases for it.
Helen doesn't say anything, but he knows that she notices the slips of newspaper he's pulled out and he realises that he doesn't care that she does.
Come to think of it, he has stopped caring for a while.
When Bowman steps down, he picks up the phone to dial her number, but Sam doesn't pick up. They didn't part on bad terms. It was a mutual end that they both silently agreed on, and it seems Sam is honouring this agreement more thoroughly than he is.
He files for a divorce petition on the next day, and knows Helen's tears won't work this time.
None of his cases lets him cross paths with her, and he's glad of that. He remembers the spectacular clashes they've had, the way she pushes his buttons and the complete impossibility of dividing personal and professional when it come to dealing with her.
Helen puts up a fight for full custody, but ultimately, their son speaks up and he has never felt more fatherly pride than he does right then. They agree on shared custody, Helen reluctantly, but it's not something he loses sleep over at night.
It takes fourteen months to finalise the divorce, and by then, his has already moved his things out of the London home he shared with Helen.
He pays a visit to the university on the day he receives the decree absolute, the piece of certification a reminder of a broken marriage, and more importantly, a signifier of hope. When he asks for Sam Ryan, a young bloke smiles regretfully and tells him that she has moved to Ireland some months before.
"I see," he says, a familiar ache returning to his chest.
"Um, I'm sure the Professor would be more than happy to assist you, although he is currently at the morgue and you'd have to wait a bit."
"No, that won't be necessary," he says, smiles tightly in return and turns to leave. "Thank you."
He receives a call at nine at night on the same day, and already has an arm up his jacket when the friendly voice of Leo Dalton crackles through the receiver. He has worked with Dalton a few times over the course of the past year and wonders if he has ever known about Sam and him.
"I heard you were around today looking for Sam," the man says.
"I was but ah, the young man I met told me she's left."
"Yes, Harry told me. Can't blame you for not knowing," Dalton says. "She didn't even let us throw her a farewell party."
"Sounds like her all right," he laughs, temporarily amused.
"Look – I've got her number, if you need it. So long as I have your word that you're not out to give her trouble. Is this about an old case?"
"You wouldn't be on the phone with me if you felt I was, would you? And no, it's not."
"I certainly wouldn't, Connor. And yes, I thought so."
He calls her two days later, after having worked up the courage to do so. It is a shot in the dark – he doesn't know how she will react to him after all this time. He doesn't even know if she is seeing someone else.
She picks up on the third ring.
"Sam Ryan," she says, efficiently. He can hear the distant sound of traffic, and the murmur of a busy sidewalk. She must be out for the evening, and he distractedly wonders if she has a companion.
"Sam? It's me, Michael."
He hears a sharp intake of breath on the other end.
"Michael," she says, on the exhale.
"I hear you're in Ireland now," he says, because she clearly is too stunned to talk.
"Yes, I am," she acknowledges and then falls silent again.
"Where in Ireland, if you don't mind me asking?" he prompts.
"No, I don't mind. Belfast, but I'm in Londonderry this two weeks for work," she says, easily. "Why? Are you thinking to visit?" she asks, although he can tell from the tone of her voice that she's jesting.
He holds his breath, and says anyway; "I may drop by."
"Ah." Her soft breathing is all he can hear for few pregnant seconds. "And Helen…"
"Is no longer my wife in the eyes of the law," he says.
"I see."
He really hopes she does see.
"I didn't want to bother you until I've sorted everything out - my complications, as you once put it. I thought you'd be happy to know that I have sorted it out."
She chuckles down the line, and a quiver runs down his spine at how beautiful it sounds to him.
"I suppose I will be seeing you in Belfast soon then, DCI Connor?" Her voice carries a note of hesitation, even if she sounds lighthearted. He decides to take it as an invitation.
"I'll see you in Londonderry."
"Good," she says, softly.
He doesn't have to see to know she's smiling.
fin