A/N: I've loved these two since the very beginning, but there's a serious lack of content on here so I thought I'd give them a go myself! This is my first time writing either of them, so any constructive criticism and feedback would mean a lot because I want to try and get them right (especially Dylan because I understand Sam as a character a lot more). Basically this is how Sam would fit into Dylan's current storyline if I was writing it. Not sure how many chapters this will be yet, but next chapter will bring Sam in and hopefully won't be too far away!
Hope you enjoy, please read and review or drop me a message on tumblr (jasminesnaylor). It means a lot to hear what you guys think!
Dylan tipped his head back with a sigh, the empty tumbler of whisky in his hand balancing precariously on the arm of the sofa. He could hear the drunken partygoers on their way into town from inside the boat, the whoops and raucous laughter a stark reminder of the jollity the festive period was meant to bring with for him, though, he thought bitterly, never for him. Just another Christmas spent alone (although his beloved Dervla must count for something, he supposed) - unhappy, and isolated from the rest of the world.
He'd always hated this time of year, having nothing but bad memories from his childhood – in fact, there were only two Christmases in his lifetime that he associated with happiness. The first he'd spent with Sam, and the subsequent year as newlyweds. After that, things had gone rapidly downhill between them in every sense of the word, and now those memories were such a painful reminder of what he had once had, of what he had pushed away and ultimately lost, that he refused to acknowledge them at all. Which left him here, on the night before Christmas Eve, drinking himself steadily into a stupor on his boat where nobody would ever know what a useless waste of space he really was.
This year, somehow, the season already felt worse than usual. Yes, he'd hated it ever since childhood (with the exception of those two brilliant years), and even more so in the past couple of years, but he'd always muddled through somehow. He'd throw himself into work – after all, there were plenty of people who would jump at the chance to spend Christmas Day at home, and he neither wanted nor deserved that privilege – and sleep for the remainder of the time, until normality resumed once more. But this year, he had even more tormented memories to grapple with, and he was struggling to cope more than ever before.
There was no denying that the past few months had impacted him in a way he could never have foreseen. Cal's death, and the resulting guilt which meant Dylan still couldn't look Ethan in the eye. His ex-wife turning up out of the blue.
And, of course, Sanosi.
In fairness, Sam's return hadn't upset him as much as he'd thought it would, but in hindsight that was probably because he'd had so much else to deal with that he hadn't really had time to acknowledge it. As she was now a paramedic, their paths had barely crossed after her first day back and although Dylan was curious to know what had led to her return, he simply hadn't found the time to ask. He had a sneaky suspicion that she was doing her best to stay out of his way, probably because she felt guilty herself about crashing back into his life, but he'd been so distracted trying to keep Sanosi's presence a secret and stop David and Louise from alerting the authorities that it had suited him just fine. That is, of course, until Sanosi left, taking with him the understanding and (dare he say it?) friendship Dylan had built with David over the course of the past year, leaving the doctor completely and utterly alone once more.
It was a combination of all of these things that had led him down the dangerous path to alcohol – a path he'd sworn he'd never fall down again. It was alcohol that had been a major factor leading to his divorce, Dylan knew, no matter how many times he'd tried to pin the blame solely on Sam. It was he who had been struggling to cope but too proud to share his problems, he who had distanced himself from his wife, he who had practically pushed her into the comforting arms of a colleague by starving her of affection and instead finding solace in a bottle. He'd hit self-destruct, as he did every time, and had taken her down with him as collateral.
Those first few years after the split had been undeniably tough, and Dylan had felt like he couldn't possibly get any lower. But somehow, and with great difficulty, he'd pulled himself back up, salvaged some kind of decent life for himself. He'd left Holby, returning in a better headspace than before, and had even made a few friends along the way; but Zoe was long gone, as was Lofty, and now David by the looks of things. He'd been coping with everything, even the OCD diagnosis that had followed a spectacular breakdown – it had all begun to make sense once he knew there was actually something wired up wrong in his brain, all of the pieces finally slotting together. The whole Seb issue had been another blip, but that had all been brushed under the carpet too and things had finally seemed to be going smoothly. He finally had a sense of normality in his life (as far as Dylan Keogh could ever be normal).
And then came Calais.
Dylan had known all along that he wasn't the right person to go to the refugee camp. He struggled with compassion and empathy, hated emotions of any kind, and was about as far from personable as anyone could be. But surprisingly enough (not only to his colleagues but also to himself), it was his heart that became his downfall.
The last thing he'd expected to be doing by the end of that trip was illegally smuggling a young boy into the country, but that was the situation he'd inexplicably found himself in. Somehow Sanosi had wormed his way into the usually unfeeling doctor's head and heart, and Dylan, convincing himself he was doing the right thing, had allowed him to. For a few short weeks Dylan had actually let himself feel something for the boy, get attached in a way he never had before, treat him almost like a son (not that he had any positive experience of father/son relationships himself). And that had only made it all the more painful when Sanosi had been ripped away from him.
He'd always known it was going to happen. He could never have kept the boy permanently – for one, he had absolutely no idea how to bring up a child, and could barely give himself a stable life let alone inflict it upon another person. Besides, the reason they'd got into such a mess in the first place was to give Sanosi a better life and the education he deserved, things that could never happen whilst he was hidden away on the boat, a secret with the potential to ruin so many lives. Dylan knew that he was merely the stepping stone to a new beginning for the child, and he'd relished knowing that he could actually have a positive impact on somebody for once. But that didn't lessen the devastation he'd felt when he'd finally decided to do the right thingg and let Sanosi go, especially when the boy had been so disappointed and practically shunned him. It didn't lessen the guilt over breaking the law, and it certainly didn't lessen the overwhelming emptiness and loneliness Dylan had felt every day since.
The only thing that could quieten his tortured mind was alcohol. Dylan knew he shouldn't have given in, he knew all too well how the poison affected him, and he'd manage to stave off the cravings for a short while. But one night it had all become too much, and he'd found himself reaching for the whisky. Just one glass, he'd told himself. It'll be fine, I know how to restrain myself. One glass will be fine.
One day soon turned into two, two turned into three; by now he'd stopped counting how much he'd drink on a bad night. He always measured it out precisely – one of his most obsessive traits – which allowed him to convince himself he was still in control. But in the back of his mind he knew better than that. He knew that he was spiralling back into the depths of addiction, and try as he might he couldn't see the light at the end of the tunnel.
Raising the glass to his lips once more, Dylan tipped the remainder of the amber liquid down his throat, revelling in the slight burning sensation it caused. A reminder that he was capable of feeling something, anything, besides numbness. Sighing, he dropped his head into his hands. He knew that his alcohol problem was starting to affect his work, and people were beginning to notice but the relapse had clouded his judgement, and he didn't know how to stop. He hated being so weak that he could let himself get into such a sorry state once more, hated being so dependent on alcohol for any kind of buzz, but it was all he had left.
This time around he had nobody to push away, for the simple reason that he'd already done so in spectacular fashion. In fact, he'd turned down the invitation to Christmas drinks that very night because he knew nobody would give a damn whether he joined them or not, and at least from the comfort of his boat he could drown his sorrows unnoticed.
Dylan Keogh was alone, and that was that. Nobody would be there to help him this time.