Gods die with men who have conceived them. But the god-stuff roars eternally, like the sea, with too vast a sound to be heard.
- D.H. Lawrence
She was vastly out of place, there was no question about it, and yet no one questioned her presence. No one even seemed to see the woman walking the halls of St. James' Hospital, which was decidedly odd as she was dressed to be noticed. A slinky red dress draped her slight frame, accompanied by impeccably matched high heels and perfectly manicured nails in the exact same shade. Her blonde hair had probably been up in some flawlessly coiffed style but now hung loosely past her shoulders, a bit stringy actually, and streaked with dark bits that might have been dust, or perhaps ash. On closer inspection, her dress, too, was disheveled and sporting similar dark spots, and her hands were positively filthy, dirt under those perfect fingernails.
Yet no one stopped this strange woman wandering into the IC Ward; no one paused to ask if the vacant-faced young lady had authorization or needed directions. She walked through the bustling corridors, making little attempt to dodge doctors and nurses and patients as they all inexplicably made room for her without a fuss. One manicured hand was fingering her necklace, another oddity on this already odd woman: it appeared to be a key, an ordinary Yale lock key, suspended on a long string around her neck. Odd as that was, however, it was nothing to what she held in her other hand.
At her side, cupped carefully and almost gingerly in her left hand, she held a ring. A large and heavy ring that was clearly not made for the woman's slender fingers, carved with a strange design of circles and lines.
She turned into a room and paused, getting her bearings. There were two people standing by the bed, which was connected to all sorts of machines which periodically beeped or hummed or whirred. The man, probably a doctor to judge by his white coat, was shining a penlight in the eyes of the man on the bed. The woman, middle-aged and blonde, was watching him with a worried expression, her face streaked with tearstains and her wardrobe appearing just as disheveled, if not as dirty, as the lady in red's. Neither person saw the strange woman enter and she waited by the door for them to leave. What she had to do would best be done in private.
The doctor straightened, shutting off the penlight and sighing discouragedly. "It's not looking good, Mrs. Tyler," he told the woman waiting by the bed. "The longer he's in a coma, the less likely he is to come out of it. You know that." Mrs. Tyler looked as if she might argue, but nodded slightly and sat down next to the bed and took the patient's hand. The doctor pursed his lips, shrugged, and walked out the door, completely failing to notice the red-dressed woman standing there.
"Don't give up, Sammy," Mrs. Tyler was saying to the patient. "I know you're in there. I know you can hear me. Just don't give up."
The woman wondered how long Mrs. Tyler would sit there. She wasn't in any real hurry, but she had no desire to stand by this door all night in terribly uncomfortable shoes. She supposed she could get to the bed and do what she needed to without being noticed, but she would rather be alone.
Finally, after several hours, by which time the woman was becoming severely impatient, Mrs. Tyler left the room. The woman noticed that she left her purse in the chair by the bed, though, and supposed that Mrs. Tyler had just stepped out for a drink and would return shortly. She couldn't have her walking in; she stepped quickly to the door and locked it.
She hurried to the bed and for the first time got a proper look at the patient's face. She gasped softly before giggling to herself. How perfect.
She lifted his right hand, tangled in wires and clips and tape, and, shaking, slipped the ring she carried onto his ring finger. She gave the hand a light kiss before gently laying it back down on the bed, then stepped back and waited, staring at the man lying on the bed.
The beeping coming from the machines speeded up and lights started blinking everywhere. The woman gasped in childish delight, excited that the plan was working. The man on the bed lay still as ever until one of his hands – the hand with the ring on – twitched slightly. His arm soon followed, then his other arm. His head began thrashing violently on the pillow and the woman's eyes widened in fright. The man's chest heaved and the bed shook with his intense movements. The woman heard pounding at the door, cries to be allowed in. She ignored them, her entire attentions focused on the man on the bed.
Suddenly his hands leaped toward his throat, clawing at the tube protruding from his mouth. He heaved mightily and with a gasping, racking bout of coughing, the tube came free. The man lay back, breathing heavily, and began pulling the other medical equipment from his body. The machines were going mad now, making new sounds that did not sound good, but neither the woman nor the man seemed to notice.
When the man was finally free of all the tubes and wires, he lay still, eyes closed, breathing deeply as an irresistible grin crept over his face. He flexed his fingers, wiggled his toes. Suddenly he sat bolt upright and gazed at the woman still standing at the foot of his bed.
"Lucy, darling," he greeted her, his grin just as wide as she remembered and his golden eyes sparkling like they'd never left. "Thank you."
She sidled over to him and he gave her a passionate kiss. She stared adoringly into his hypnotic eyes and smiled sweetly. "Welcome back, love."
Author's Note: I have not seen series 2 of Life on Mars and am well aware that this could contradict canon. It's really just for fun and because I desperately wanted to see John Simm return as the Master.