Set at the end of A Good Body, what if Michael had been shot as well?
She'd lost count of how many gunshots she had heard, three possibly four. Everything seemed to move so fast, people storming into the room, shouting as they moved others out of the way, fussed over casualties. Casualty, she could only see one, only one person had caught the bullets. The man who she had spent night with only twenty four hours ago. The man that had kissed away at her skin, kissed away her worries. She daren't delve into the thought in the back of her mind, the thought that told her that all the while he had caressed her flesh, nipped at her neck, she had thought of someone else.
Michael.
Her head turned in his direction, her heart sinking to the floor as she seen his body slumped against the wall. She was running before she even had chance to register what she was doing. Her hands cupping his face, his cheek cold against her palm. He was breathing, just about and she could feel a weak pulse as her fingers pressed at his wrist.
"I need an ambulance," she shouted, hoping that someone was listening. That someone could see what was going on. He groaned as the tears fell from her cheeks, her hands rapidly trying to find the wound, she needed to staunch the bleeding, she needed to slow it down. She needed time to tell him all the things she had been too scared to say. All the things she was too stubborn to let herself fall into. "Michael, stay with me. Please, you have to stay with me."
Regret. That's all she felt. Regret. She should never have asked Caldwell up to her flat, she should never have met him at the pub. She should've listened to what Michael had been trying to tell her, trying to warn her of. It wasn't even the fact she didn't think he was right, she knew that he was, deep down. She just wanted to hurt him, she wanted to get to him. She wanted to see how far she could push him before he snapped.
They had spent half a year dancing around each other in Cambridge and she was sick of the teasing, sick of the not knowing, sick of playing second fiddle to his wife. She wanted him and she wanted him to chase her. Sam wanted him to follow her out of that room, she wanted him to pull her into him, his lips to find hers, his arms bracing her against the wall. She wanted him to finally give into those feelings she knew that he harboured for her.
She even waited for him, expected him to follow her. But he never did. So she went further. And she went so deep that she couldn't back out. She went along with it, to feel something, she supposed. It had been so long, she had been so wrapped up in her job and the professorship, she couldn't remember the last time she had relaxed, let herself go. And Caldwell was there, he was available and willing. Michael wasn't. So she let it happen.
Now she wished she hadn't. Because it wasn't the simple case of a one minute wonder that she would forget about the next day, he had to be the murderer, didn't he? He had to be so heavily involved and wrapped up in this case. Nothing was ever quite so simple when it came to her, was it? And as her sister had so aptly put it on many occasions, she had a terrible taste in men.
Not this one though, she hoped. Not the one that was staring back at her desperately, trying to reach out to her. Not Michael. Michael was a good man, she had known that the first day she had met him.
Annabel, sweet Annabel who had been taken too soon. A young mother still so full of life who had been ripped away from the world. Michael had sussed her out straight away, not that she did a great job of hiding it. She had expected him to shout, expected him to embarrass her in front of everyone, but he didn't. He wasn't like the others, he wasn't like Peter. He had pulled her to one side, spoken to her calmly, in a way that she couldn't argue back. And she had respected his approach, so much so that she actually did what she was told, for the first time in her life.
That had just been the beginning. Then she got to know him, then she realised that they were more similar than she had first imagined. Both married to their jobs, both stubborn, both wanting nothing but justice. They'd clashed many times, of course they did, it was part of the job. But when it came down to it, they agreed in the end. And he always had time to listen to her opinions, even if he didn't necessarily agree with them. He respected her enough to give her the time.
She often wondered if that was why she had fallen in love with him so quickly, because he wasn't like the others. He didn't scream and shout at her like Peter had, he didn't ask her to move halfway across the world with him like Liam and James. He didn't even ask her to stay in Cambridge when she got the Professorship in London. Because he understood, he knew how important her job was to her. And he would never have expected her to give up the wonderful opportunity to stay with him.
She would've though, if he asked. She would've stayed, in a heartbeat.
Maybe if she had, she wouldn't be kneeling next to him, his blood staining her hands.
He reached a hand out to her, his hand cupping her cheek, "Sam," it was barely a whisper. "I'm sorry. For everything."
"No, Michael, don't talk," she tried her best to smile, trying to keep his spirits up. If the ambulance took any longer, then it wouldn't be long. There was only so much she could do to slow the bleeding and she didn't want the last image he had of her being nothing but tears. "You need to save your energy, I need you to stay awake."
If she could turn back the clock, she would. She would go back to the start of this flaming case, she would do it all over again. She would've realised sooner that he was no longer wearing his wedding ring, realised sooner what he had meant when he said well, physically when he spoke about his situation with Helen. She would've told him sooner, told him that she never stopped loving him. That she considered packing in the professorship to try and find him again because she couldn't escape him, not even when she tried.
Relief flooded her as she heard the sirens, there was hope.
"They're coming, it won't be long, I promise."
The hand that was still being held against her cheek soon moved to the back of her head, pulling her closer to him. Their foreheads pressed together as Sam closed her eyes, basking in the feeling of being this close to him again, despite the circumstances. His laboured breathing brushing across her skin.
"I love," he took a deep breath, he was getting weaker by the second and she could feel her heartbreaking as the minutes ticked away. "You," he eventually managed to get out.
Her lips twitched, she had longed to hear those words for over a year. But she hadn't quite anticipated for them to come out like this, for him to be on his death bed.
"I love you too," her lips found his without a second thought, she needed to be as close to him as possible. "Please don't leave me," she sobbed, her voice only loud enough for him to hear her. "I'm sorry."
What happened next was just a blur of fluorescent jackets bouncing off the lights shining into the barn. People shouting as they all rushed around him. They tried to pull her away, she tried to give them the space that they needed to work, to save him. But his hand had gripped onto hers like a vice and no matter how hard they tried there was no way Sam was able to get away from him.
It was her lifeline, so long as he held onto her hand like that, then he was still alive. He was still fighting and he wasn't going to go anywhere. That was her hope.