Notes: This story was written for korilian as part of the world's first Life On Mars ficathon (not too surprising since there's only been 8 episodes, shown solely on UK tv so far.. I think..). The request was for Sam angst, shock therapy and the creepy test card girl, which makes this the most negatively-charged fic I have ever written. Other fics can be found on the "lifein1973" community on Livejournal. I own the men in white coats :)

It has to be said that former DI Samuel Tyler's appearance does not match his reputation in the slightest. The folder of notes before me lists symptom after symptom of mental illness, and yet the man seated on the other side of the desk is as calm as you please.

Such is not always the case though, I assure you. At breakfast this morning, Mr Tyler entertained his fellow residents with what he claimed would be the winning entry to this year's Eurovision Song Contest. Personally I cannot comprehend why a Swedish musical ensemble should choose to sing about the Battle of Waterloo (let alone the competition itself), but the nurses insist that Tyler was adamant.

"Almost a year now."

"Excuse me?"

"Since I arrived."

"Since you transferred."

It has indeed been close to one year since DI Tyler transferred from a small branch of the Cheshire constabulary to central Manchester. One year since the self-proclaimed DCI Tyler arrived.. from the future.

Tracing the beginnings of this patient's mental illness has been as difficult as making a suitable diagnosis. My staff was initially contacted after Tyler aimed a gun at his DCI and allowed a criminal to escape. After a great deal of to-ing and fro-ing it became clear that Tyler believed that the criminal (whom he insisted upon calling the suspect) was his father – despite an insurmountable age gap – and that he was trying to prevent his young self from growing up without a father-figure. Later questioning suggested that an involuntary encounter with LSD might have triggered this psychosis, however a detailed comparison of Tyler's behaviour before and after his transfer suggested something closer to an atypical dissociative fugue with retrograde amnesia and extremely complex delusions. As if the Royal College would ever accept such a vague diagnosis!

As we tussle silently over semantics, I cannot help but feel that the man before me – irreverently slouched in his chair, arms and legs crossed – would have done better with a strong male influence during his childhood. The well-mannered young man I met on admittance has degraded rather than improved.

"How do you feel about this impending anniversary, Sam?"

"Same as I do every other day, Doctor. Frustrated, confused –"

"Suicidal?"

We observe each other carefully, he in his standard patient's garb and I in my three-piece suit. I cannot help but wonder what kind of a police officer he was. Judging by the notes he gave to WPC Cartwright prior to his commitment, a very thorough one.

"No. Not today."

"And yet, here we are."

This interview is not part of Tyler's usual routine, nor mine. I rarely see patients these days, unless a drastic change in their treatment is planned.

The original psychiatrist assigned to this case had soon been overwhelmed, even after a supervisor was appointed. It was the level of detail that was astounding: not only had the patient lost the vast proportion of his memory, but he replaced it with something so all-encompassing that even the suggestion of having performed National Service drew a wide-eyed stare. When asked whether he recalled the Blitz over Manchester, Tyler stated that the only bomb he ever saw was - past tense - planted by the IRA in 1996.

"What do you want me to say? That I made it all up? That the meds worked, finally? Because they haven't. I see her all the time, now. Awake, asleep, on the loo.. I haven't seen a telly in weeks and she's still following me around!"

Ah, the test card F hallucination. The patient's most common visual symptom.

"Is she here, with us?"

God help me, I sound like a spiritualist medium.

"By the window, jabbering on about daffodils."

Tyler's reply is muffled because his head is in his hands, elbows propped up on his thighs. A classic posture of defeat.

"Would you like to approach her again, Sam? Remind yourself that she is not real?"

"No, I fucking don't. I know she's not real."

"Language."

The patient is correct, however: medication has not been successful. His initial psychiatric evaluation was so convoluted that my staff had no alternative than to recommend suspension from the police force, together with weekly visits to the hospital in Cheadle (I'm told that DCI Hunt still refers to it as "the Asylum"). Chlorpromazine was prescribed in an attempt to counteract any lasting effects of the LSD, however this resulted in further hallucinations of a futuristic hospital rather than the opposite. Tyler apparently grew quite attached to these and attempted to overdose, after which this treatment was phased out in the hope of improving his mental stability.

Of course, Tyler's attempted suicide by walking in front of a light goods vehicle soon put paid to that idea. It also confirmed his need for long-term resident care, during which he has been given low doses of haloperidol in his food. Unfortunately the only result appears to be tardive dyskinesia ("twitches"), while his delusions, hallucinations and amnesia stand. United winning the Treble? I should hope not.

Tangentially I wonder how much Tyler's utter lack of friends and relatives other than his colleagues in Manchester – for he claims not to know those in Hyde – has hampered his treatment. Greatly, I presume. Particularly given the brusqueness of their support, or (in DC Skelton's case) the small matter of foot-in-mouth disease. So much so that the man has actually requested a rather extreme form of therapy. Certainly we require informed patient consent before administering ECT, but volunteers are few and far between.

"Remind me why we're here, Sam."

"You know why," he accuses quietly, and rightly so.

"I do, however I would like this moment recorded for posterity," I reply, pointing to the tape recorder that he finds so tragically amusing. "The transcript will be as unique your claim that we will have a female Prime Minister in 1999."

"1979."

Fascinating. Even now he cannot be caught in a contradiction.

"And we are here because..?"

"I want you to fire a zillion volts of electricity through my brain," he singsongs, then snaps his fingers and straightens – finally – in his chair. "So that's what she meant!"

I resign myself to waiting for an explanation.

Tyler hums a few bars, clearly pleased with himself. "'I'm Going Slightly Mad' by Queen. A few years away still and never really liked it myself, but it should be right up your alley."

A shared glance is be enough to convince the patient that he needs to focus once more, ignore the false memory and concentrate on the matter at hand, however painful. The word is that he's been practicing this argument for days, although the nursing staff has not been able to hide a microphone in his room. Our level of technology is rather primitive when compared to his own, allegedly.

"I'm not getting anywhere here, Doctor. No headway, nothing. Up the creek without a boat, let alone a paddle." Tyler's voice cracks and he turns away, spinning around on the chair so that he can see the gardens outside. "If I stay here.. if I stay like this for the rest of my life.. it makes no difference whether you think I'm crazy now, I'll be a bloody lunatic by the time I'm 40!"

"You must appreciate tha-"

"What I appreciate is that my life is so far from what I remember that it's barely worth living," he interrupted angrily. "Your people have pointed out again and again that I define myself by my work. Well I can't work. I'm expected to sit in the communal area like some kind of Jack Nicholson re-run, play nicely with the other inmates. I can't leave the hospital without an escort and my next-door neighbour thinks the sky's about to fall on his head. Annie, one of the only friends I've got, isn't allowed to be in the same room as me unless security's present. What kind of a life is that?"

"Sam, if there was any other way.."

He grimaced sarcastically. "Yeah, I know. If there was anyone willing to care for me in a home environment, but there's not. You can trace me to Hyde, but not to a family, and no one will trust me not to walk in front of a van if I go back to that box of a bedsit."

And that is the inescapable truth. I cannot, in good conscience, sign this man's release forms without being certain that he will not be a danger to either himself or the general public, but his actions prior to admittance and lack of progress since that date suggest otherwise. Even his colleagues faced serious questions when it was found that they'd ignored clear indications of mental illness in favour of "nickin' the lyin' toe-rags." There was no guarantee that they would not do the same again, given Tyler's tenacious personality and workaholic nature.

"What do you expect to gain from electro-convulsive therapy, Sam?"

"Haven't got a clue."

At least he's honest.

"Perhaps I should rephrase the question. What led you to request this treatment?"

Tyler's expression is overwhelmingly sad as he formulates his reply. I have never met a man who displays his weaker emotions so plainly, other than those within these walls.

"What would you do, in my shoes? Just lie back and take it like a man, with that stiff upper lip you seem so bloody concerned about? I don't think so mate, don't go deluding yourself. I'm not."

His words strike a cord and I strive to keep them locked tight within my professional walls. Tyler is a patient, not a friend. I will never be in his shoes.

My silence is designed to encourage Tyler to continue until he has answered my question, and eventually he does, watery eyes staring right through me.

"Because it's the last resort. Your people aren't likely to offer it unless I start acting even crazier than they already think I am, and I don't want to wait that long. I'm as close as I'm willing to get. Maybe I'll remember Hyde, maybe I'll go back to my time.. I just want to feel like I belong."

And now this strange young man lies in a coma: tucked away in a dusty corner of Manchester's Royal Infirmary, occasionally visited by those same colleagues who tried so hard to ground him in the real world. Still no family though, none at all – not even a hint of their existence.

I'm told that he chose to sing rather than count his way through the anaesthetic, his last words being "I think I'm a banana tree!" Since then, silence. Neither a positive nor a negative result, by default.

How long will the NHS be willing to host Sam Tyler in this state, I wonder? He needs no life support, other than an intravenous drip and occasional physical therapy, but waking the patient has proved impossible. His case was – is – fascinating in its complexity. Does he now dream of 2006, raging that the year should be 1973, or did the electrotherapy succeed in its mission? The EEG by his bedside cannot tell me and psychiatry is of no use without a responsive subject.

I hear that there is a woman in America who has spent the past 32 years in a coma, and 32 years from now it will be 2006. Too long for my old bones to wait. Will Sam Tyler feel at home there, should he awaken naturally? Will anyone be there to greet him?