I started this fic sometime in 2008, honestly can't remember when, how or why, I just did. Poor ol' Sam T still isn't sure if he's trapped in a coma, some freaky occurrance in the space time continuum or just dreaming. He appears to have control over nothing, his job, his wardrobe, certainly not his DCI! Can he control his dreams? Or are they now trying to tell him somethings coming - and its not in a good way...
Been a while with this one, and at time of posting it's not finished, so I'd appreciate any thoughts!

The Stuff Of Nightmares - a LoM fanfic

Chapter One

The gun fired, and time slowed down. The bullet swam past him and it felt like if he had reached out, he could have plucked the it out of the air, like lint off a jacket.

He raised his hand, but it too moved in slow motion and before he could more than open his mouth and take a deep breath, the he saw the bullet slam into her chest.

She hit the ground, her arms and head thrown back, blood slowly spreading across the paving stones beneath her. 'Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!'

Sam sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for air and still crying out. He clutched the blanket to him and sat, shaking as he tried to control his breathing. A feeble winter's light shone through his thin curtains, and the faint clink of glass announced the arrival of the milkman in the street below.

Sam swung his feet onto the carpet and dropped his face into his hands. He scrubbed at his face with his fingers and stretched his eyes open.

5.30am.

Again.

He knew it was pointless to try to get back to sleep, for his alarm was set for 6am. Lately he had taken up his 21st Century habit of jogging first thing in the morning, something he had started whilst at university. When he was out, 'pavement pounding' as his Mum called it, Sam found his thoughts fell into order more easily, and he found solutions for problems he was dealing with.

When he had a blazing row with Maya, or a frustrating day at work, he climbed into his trainers and hit the asphalt. Sam went running in the way others of a more addictive personality used alcohol or heroin.

Shaking the sleep from his eyes, and his hair out of the way, he stood up and stretched. The black and white television hissed static at him, with not even the smug malevolent smile of the Test Card Girl to greet his morning.

On his way to the small bathroom, Sam flicked the set off and flicked the radio on. The soft slightly ironic tones of BBC Radio 2 slid under the bathroom door. 'Terry Wogan. Can I never escape you?!' Sam rolled his eyes and slid under the bathwater.

By the time his alarm went, Sam was pulling his running shoes on. He slapped the annoying sound off, and grabbing his keys, he headed out the door.

As he ran past the shift workers heading to and from their beds, early morning traffic and paperboys on bikes, Sam tried not to think about his recurring dream again.

Four nights in the past week he had watched Annie being shot. And each time he had been powerless to do anything about it.

'Bloody subconscious.' Sam muttered under his breath as he ran on. It *must* mean something. Had to. But what?