Title: Cassettes and Confessions
Disclaimer: Life on Mars/Ashes do not belong to me.
Rating: K+ (for very light swearing if anything)
Summary: Alex Drake, police officer and psychologist, has received an answer to her request for stories from colleagues who have undergone trauma. Sam Tyler is one such colleague. They met three times: these are the details of the lost meetings of Sam and Alex.
Author's Notes: These meetings take place in London in the last few months of Sam's life. It is 2007 (and no one is having hoops).

'Sam.' She smiled, gesturing at the seat across from her. He sat down, but it was clear that he couldn't relax. He was on the edge of the seat, hands on his knees nervously.

'I'm D.I. Drake. Alex. I'm glad you could come.'

He nodded, once.

'Like I said, I want to talk about it.' He cast nervous glances around the room, even though there was nobody else in there. Paranoia, she mentally ticked off. Clearly delusional. Possible narcissistic tendencies? Her mind was whirring away.

'You seem tense. Anxious, even. Is there any reason for that?'

He smiled slightly.

'Psychologists. Well, they put everyone on edge, don't they? You can't pick up a pen without them thinking "dad issues".'

She laughed. 'That's not what I'm here for. This session is for you.' Mentally, she added 'ask about father' to her list.

'Perhaps you could tell me about the world you found yourself in?'

'It was...mad.'

He could still remember it all: the colours, the noise. Driving through the city at God-knows-what speed, Bowie blasting from the tape deck, chasing after the villains... 'You're face to face with the man who sold the world'. No seatbelts, of course. No warrants either, usually. They followed their own rules, then. Gene Hunt and that bloody horrible camel coat of his. High fashion of the nineteen seventies, what a laugh! He looked at his suit. He missed his leather jacket and his flares, awful as they were. He had left his sideburns untouched, however: he was allowed some small reminder, wasn't he?

'Everyday was different. Exciting, even. I remember,' he laughed to himself. 'I remember running down the canal path in shorts, the Guv in his trunks, after some bloke. Gene couldn't keep up, of course. Too many fags. Too much of the good life. Still.' He stopped, reflecting.

Alex nodded, checking that the Dictaphone was still running.

'Gene Hunt. He was a big part of your...' She hesitated, not wanting to say the wrong thing. 'Your other life.'

'Gene Hunt's a big part of everyone's lives, whether they want him to be or not.' He fixed her with an intense gaze. 'He gets in your head. Doesn't matter how much you try to get rid of him. He's still in there.' He tapped his skull.

'Sam.' Her tone was soft, gentle. For a moment she reminded him of-

'You can't hold onto him, you know that, don't you?'

Sam stared at her. Didn't she understand?

'He's the Guv; I can't get rid of him.'

'Tyler!' They were running towards him. They were going to be killed, they were dying. Ray was on the ground. Chris...he couldn't see Chris.

'Sam, help us!' Annie. Johns was pointing the gun at her. He had a choice. Pick one, Sam. Morgan or Annie; the Guv or your life. Pick one. Pick now.

'Sam!'

'Sam?'

D.I. Drake was looking at him with concern.

'Sorry. I keep doing that a lot. Drifting off.'

She frowned. 'Do you find yourself back there quite often?'

Sam smiled sadly.

'I never really left.'

She played the audio file on her laptop, the volume low; Molly was in bed. Sam was a strange one, she couldn't deny it. She had read his file before meeting him; he had been a brilliant copper, once, with many glowing references. His mind was amazing, but it was damaged. He still lived there, she knew. He was living in the seventies and only existing in the real world. How to help him? Could anyone ever bring him back?

She read her notes again. Gene Hunt: misogynist, politically incorrect and outdated in his methods of policing. Psychologically, she could argue that he was some part of the unconscious; a symbol, perhaps, for the disillusioned copper who knew the present was better than the past, yet yearned for the old ways, ways they had never even known. He wasn't real: he was a figurehead of history. And yet the way Sam talked about him made it seem so much more than that.

When she had asked for stories from colleagues regarding trauma, she had never expected any replies; not serious ones, anyway. And then a tape had landed on her desk. A tape, imagine! A real cassette; a remnant from a bygone era. Everything was digital nowadays. Who on earth had left it? she had wondered. Of course, after she had listened to it, she knew she had to meet him.

It made an amazing story; maybe one day she could tell Molls about it. Let me tell you the one about the time travelling copper, she would say. Got hit by a car and woke up somewhere far away from everyone he knew. And then one day, Molls, one day he came back, only he didn't want to be here. He dreamed of his other life, oh, how he dreamed! Of car chases, shoot outs…we are the law men. But dreaming would break him in the end, if she didn't help him. Never dream too much, Molly. You could live your whole life in a fantasy world, and when the truth shattered it you would never be able to survive. Keep your feet on the ground and your head out of the clouds, remember who you are, and remember that tragedy is only one small step away.

Sam was going to fall if no one reached out and pulled him back from the edge. Luckily, she was very good at her job (not that she wanted to boast, well, not too much). She smiled. With Alex Drake on his side, Sam would be fine.