Disclaimer: Not mine. Nope. Stop looking at me like that.

A/N: Yes, I know I'm a lazy bum. This used to be part of a great big crossover story, but at some point I realized the great big crossover story was a bad bad idea. Anyway, remember in season two of Life on Mars, when Sam Tyler sees a headstone with his name on it? ...yeah. That's where I got this idea:

Oh, the seventies had all been good and great. Few rules, few cares… but they were gone now. The eighties brought on a sense of, well, hopelessness. Everything was going to go to pot, and he was the only one who knew it. New Wave was birthing. Metal was gaining popularity, for chrissake. Tom Baker was going to leave Doctor Who. The endless string of Ronald Reagans would soon invade the White House.

Annie hadn't lasted. Maybe he was too weird. Maybe that bad first impression caught up with him at long last. Maybe they were right about nice guys finishing last. She had left him a couple of years back, transferred out of the Manchester, and finally settled down with a burlier, manlier man. Maybe if she had stayed, the impending cheesy vampire movies wouldn't have made the bottom of Sam's stomach drop into icy depression.

Oh, and hairspray. Dear god. Hairspray.

The brown Ford Cortina sunk determinedly into the water. Ray and Chris were shouting something, but he couldn't hear. Perhaps he didn't care enough to try. The water covered the gorgeous car. A slight pang reminded Sam than Gene would object to having a sodden car. But he was going to die. He didn't care.

He opened the door and welcomed the canal. The canal took him in its cold arms, wrapping around him and through him like an amazingly versatile lover. It was in him, and he in it. Everything went black.

He woke up on the banks of the canal. He sputtered, and his first coherent thought was that, damn, he appeared to still be alive.

His second coherent thought was that somewhere close, a woman was screaming.

His third thought was that his clothes seemed to have changed again. No, they definitely had changed again. Quaint was a word he was loath to use, but it applied.

A strong, warm hand thumped onto his shoulder. Sam lifted his eyes to meet those of a man, younger than he and thinner of face. "Are you all right, man?" the stranger asked softly, concern evident.

Sam frowned at the man, then at the canal, then at the newspaper the stranger held in his other hand.

The date read 12th March, 1875.

Bugger.