"Mending"

A/N: This takes place during and after the episode Bad Blood in Season Four. Sam's dangerous illness brings old memories to the surface for Foyle. Foyle/Sam. I wanted to explore a different side of Foyle.

I.

Through the throbbing that resonated in and around Sam's head she could hear light footsteps. They stopped. Sam peered carefully through her eyelashes, hoping it wasn't Farnetti again. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw the familiar overcoat belonging to Mr. Foyle. She called out softly, "Sir."

Foyle turned, an apologetic smile on his face, "Sorry to wake you." He came closer and looked down at her lying so vulnerably below. As he pulled a chair to the side of her bed, Sam glanced at him shyly. "The doctors think you are on the mend," Foyle said quietly, relief obvious in his voice.

Sam smiled and pulled at a loose thread on her nightgown, saying that was good news since she had been thinking again. The blush that came into her pale cheeks brightened her face for a moment. Foyle joked with her, "What – again?" and was glad to see her smile more broadly. It was his turn to smile however, when she explained she had decided to go through the crossroads and not marry Joe Farnetti. Foyle felt his insides jolt and he tried to keep from looking too pleased. He wasn't sure he could bear it if Sam was whisked away from them all just now, especially after this near death encounter with the horrible infection. As Sam felt sleep coming to engulf her again she heard Foyle say in response to her question about being useful, "Can't go anywhere with you…" and saw him smile down at her in a way that permeated itself into her dreams.

Foyle let out a deep sigh and set his hat on the end of the hospital bed. He found himself looking at Sam as she slept, memorizing every detail of her face, remembering its many expressions over the years. He sighed again, and the nurse passing at that moment looked sharply over, then nodded as she saw who it was with the young woman. Foyle watched her retreating back and biting his lip, suppressed the urge to sigh again. He felt very confused all of a sudden. Taking up Sam's hand gently so as not to wake her, Foyle leaned against the side of the bed and watched her sleep, relieved to hear her breathing start to return to normal. And before he knew it, he was lulled into a doze by her rhythmic breaths, drifting into dreams that he could scarcely believe.


The ground pitched and shuddered with the impact of the bomb. Sam Stewart was thrown backwards into Joe Farnetti's arms, and he held her close. "Marry me, Sam," she heard him say. Before she could answer she felt someone pulling at her arm, and as she turned to look, she recognized the blue of an RAF uniform. "Oh no, Andrew," Sam thought. But the face under the cap was Mr. Foyle's, and he was tugging her hand, saying urgently, "I can't go anywhere without you…" Just then, another explosion turned the world black, and Sam woke with a start, Foyle's words ringing in her ears.

The faint light of early morning pressed through the windows of the hospital ward, and outside, birds were chirping. Sam swallowed hard, relieved it had only been a dream. Her throat was painfully dry and her chest felt very heavy. As she came to slowly, blinking the sleep from her eyes, she became aware of a weight on her hand.

She looked over and saw Foyle dozing in the chair next to her bed, his head lolling slightly with each breath. He held her hand in a vice-like grip. His hat lay at the foot of her bed, looking at home there. The early morning light caught the grey in the curls at the base of his neck. Sam suppressed the sudden urge to reach out and touch them. She studied his face, noticing how, for once, he looked quite peaceful. Sam couldn't believe he had stayed by her side all night. She felt a bit embarrassed, hoping she hadn't drooled or snored in her sleep. She looked at the glass of water on her side table, wondering if she could reach it with her right hand, since her left was encased in Foyle's warm one. The bed creaked as she shifted and Foyle woke with a sharp intake of breath. "Sam?" Foyle said in concern, his voice husky from sleep.

"Yes, Sir?" Sam replied. She felt his hand drop hers.

He cleared his throat, "A-are you alright?"

"Yes, thank you, Sir, I was just reaching for my water."

Foyle handed it to her, but saw how her hand shook when lifting it. After a few sips she spluttered, causing water to drip down her chin. Foyle hesitated, then, as if he had done it many time before, reached into his pocket for his handkerchief while placing the glass on the nightstand. He dabbed her chin and Sam could smell Foyle's familiar scent briefly. "Thank you, Sir."

Foyle smiled and cleared his throat again, self-consciously pulling at his tie. "How do you feel?"

Sam swallowed, "still pretty rotten, Sir, but much better than yesterday." She tried to sound bright and cheerful, but Foyle could see the exhaustion in her face. A nurse came over in a rustle of starch, seeing her patient awake. She looked at Foyle kindly and knowingly, and he realized he was lucky to have been able to stay here all night. Hopefully it wouldn't get her into trouble. "Well good morning, how are we then?" Foyle wondered if the "we" was meant to include him. Nurse stuck a thermometer into Sam's mouth before she could answer and began to check her over. "There's a young service man outside waiting to speak to you, Miss Stewart, a Joe Farnetti, I believe." Sam tried to sit up, her eyes growing wide. Foyle stood slowly, "Perhaps it is best that you do see him, Sam." She nodded mournfully. Foyle understood how bad she felt in turning him down, so he smiled warmly at her as he retrieved his hat. "I'm going to speak with the doctor a moment, and will be back soon." Foyle hoped it would give her enough time to explain "the crossroads" to Joe. Sam nodded again, this time free of the thermometer, "Yes, Sir." Foyle turned and walked down the ward, his footsteps echoing on the polished floor.

Foyle found the doctor in his office having a cup of tea. He ushered Foyle in and sat back down, pulling a file towards him. "Well, Mr. Foyle, I'm glad you're here. I've just received word that a company of wounded soldiers will be arriving this afternoon, and I'm afraid there won't be much space left here at the hospital. Our less ill or injured patients will either have to be moved or return home. After I examine Miss Stewart I will be able to better determine if she is ready to go home. She will need to be looked after for a few days still, however. Do you know if she has someone who can be with her?"

Foyle chewed his lip as he heard this, and tried to think if he actually knew about Sam's living situation. "I expect she does, and I can arrange for her to be transported home," he said at last.

The doctor pronounced Sam well enough to go home, but he made it clear that she was still weak and needed rest. She was mending sufficiently, and to be at home in her own bed could only help. Nurse wheeled her down to where Brookie stood waiting with the car, Foyle striding alongside listening to her administrations. "Don't forget to keep her chest warm, and if she starts having difficulty breathing, let us know at once!" Foyle nodded and thanked her. They bundled Sam into the back of the Wolseley. In no time they had her back to her room in the little house she shared with the old lady who owned it. The two men helped her up the narrow flight of stairs the best they could, but Foyle could see how much the move had tired her.

"Glad to see you home, Miss Stewart," said Brookie, after she was settled. On his way out he gave her a quick, cheeky grin and touched his cap.

Foyle set out the medicines and a glass of water on the bedside table, "Now, um, will you be alright until your landlady comes back?"

Sam smiled tiredly, "I think so, Sir. She is probably shopping, and shouldn't be long." Foyle felt slightly awkward standing in her room, and he cleared his throat before twitching his lips into a soft smile.

"Good, well then get some rest, and I'll come by tomorrow morning to see how you are. If there are any troubles, you can ring the station. I'll be there this afternoon, finishing the reports for this case."

"Thank you, Sir." Sam hesitated, "And thank you for staying with me…" She felt unsure of what to say, but Foyle nodded understandingly and said, "Not a problem. See you tomorrow." He paused at the door and looked back to see Sam shifting and getting comfortable for sleep. He pulled the door closed softly behind him, hoping she would feel better tomorrow and that the hospital hadn't been mistaken in letting her go so soon.

The remaining hours of the afternoon seemed to drag on for Foyle, and he desperately wished to be done with the report. Going back over it made him realize all the more how much danger Sam had been in. It might have been her, instead of Elsie. He heaved a great sigh, typed a few more lines, and ripped the page out of the typewriter. His hands were shaking. That was enough for today, he decided.

As he left the station Foyle stopped to speak with Brookie, "Come by a bit earlier tomorrow if you would, Sergeant, so we can stop to check on Miss Stewart."

Brookie grinned, "See you bright and early, Sir."

Foyle nodded and stepped out into the cold night air. He pulled his overcoat more tightly around him and walked quickly home. His house on Steep Lane was cold and quiet, and he did the blackout in the lounge so he could make a fire. Foyle poured himself a drink and stood with his back to the flames. He couldn't stop shaking. The worry and strain of the past few days had caught up with him, and he felt completely drained. He would have liked to fall into his chair and only resurface when he didn't feel so wretched, but instead he turned toward the stairs with a newfound determination. "One step at a time," Foyle told himself, and he smiled slightly, relieved to have a plan.

Pulling off his tie as he mounted the stairs, Foyle went into the tiled bathroom and turned on the hot water tap to draw a bath. Ignoring the regulatory three inches, Foyle let it fill properly. He pulled off all his clothes, letting them lay where they fell, and sank in to the water until his head was underwater. "Ah, finally some peace," he thought, as the only sound was the pounding of his own heart.

When he resurfaced he lay back and sighed, ready to think and let his mind wander. "One step at a time, that was what got me through Rosalind's death," Foyle thought to himself. He remembered the hellish time they had when she was ill, and the few days before her death. He had focused on Andrew and tried to keep the daily routine going to help the boy through it all. It was only afterward Foyle had allowed himself to ask the question, "What do I do now?" Somehow, he had pulled himself together and raised their son.

He felt his chest become heavy at these recollections, and the worry he felt when thinking about Andrew settled in his gut. "Isn't it enough?" he thought savagely, "Must you put Sam in harm's way too?" He wasn't sure if it was God he was talking to, but he wanted to be angry at someone. It was sometimes easier that way. Angry at Hitler for putting Andrew in danger; angry at the commissioner for not letting him be more useful in the war effort; angry at himself for letting his feelings get the better of him when it came to Sam. Dear, lovely Sam – a bright light in these dark years.

He knew it was useless to ask why. Why had Rosalind died, why did Andrew have to go off to war? These were questions that Foyle didn't like to think about, but each time he did, it made him realize how lucky he was to have Andrew. He was so much like his mother sometimes. Foyle smiled at the thought, seeing in his mind's eye a little boy pointing at ducks, asking why they couldn't come inside for tea too. God he missed his wife, but he understood that he had a part to play in life still. Today had proved that. Foyle paused in his thoughts, suddenly feeling the cold of the tiled room. He dunked himself under the water, trying to clear his mind.

Foyle dragged himself out of his memories and began to lather and scrub. He usually thought about Rosalind a lot, but he always tried to steer away from the painful last few days. He hadn't really thought about them in a while. He supposed Sam's illness and possible fatal infection, and staying at the hospital had brought them to the surface again. And then Foyle froze, soapy hands still in his hair. No. He must not equate Rosalind and Sam, their illnesses, situations, anything – otherwise…

Foyle frowned, and scrubbed savagely at his head. She was his driver, a team player, a friend, and that was all. He dunked himself underwater again and rose once more with the determined look on his face. He couldn't allow such thoughts to wander.

He drew himself out his bath with an almighty splash and frowned at himself in the mirror. He looked horrible: his face showed his exhaustion, and was in shadow where he needed to shave. He noticed how pale and sad he appeared too. He bit his lip and stood back, looking at the rest of himself. He appeared thinner these days, thanks to rationing, but his leg muscles bulged satisfyingly, likely from all the walking he'd been doing recently. He flexed his arms and grinned at himself like a schoolboy. "Cheer up," he thought, "it will be better tomorrow." He dried himself vigorously and gathered up his pile of clothes. In his bedroom he pulled on clean pajamas from the drawer, as if to start fresh in accordance with his determinism. He was resolved to be cheerful and positive, if not to help himself get over the strain of the past few days, at least to help Sam stay upbeat when he saw her tomorrow. He slid into bed that night with the comforting thought that she was safe at home in bed, on the mend.

If only he knew how wrong he was.

TBC…