Fic: Waking Up - [Part Two.]
Title: Waking Up
Author: Lyrical12
Pairing: Luke and Reid
Rating: PG-13, may change
Disclaimer: Not Mine
Warnings: Angst, violence/injuries/medical descriptions
Summary: FIX-IT FIC. A man wakes up in London with no memory. Who is he? How did he get there? He knows only one thing - He doesn't kill people. He saves them.
[Part One.]
[Part Two.]
The man woke up to the steady beep of monitors and a kindly face peering down at him, a face that suddenly crinkled into something like delight upon noticing that he had opened his eyes.
“Ahh, welcome back to the world of the waking, Patient X!” A voice came floating to his ears, a voice which seemed attached to the face, which in turn appeared to belong to a tall, older gentleman in a white lab coat standing next to his- hospital bed, he realized, as his disorientation cleared.
“Or should we call you, Mr. Miracle,” the man continued, as he cheerily noted information on the chart in his hands. “You’ve got to be the luckiest, unlucky chap that’s ever come through this hospital, my boy,” he told him apologetically, then asked, “Would you like anything? Some water? I’m Dr. Stillman, by the way. I’m the chief of psychiatry here at the London Royal Hospital, which is where you are presently.”
Still feeling groggy, he nodded, and attempted to sit up. “Whoa, easy there, just rest a bit,” Dr. Stillman told him, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder as a nurse came in bearing a tray with a cup of tea. The doctor helped him into a sitting position as he explained, “You’ve been asleep for about a day now; you were brought here after you collapsed at the crime scene… the last thing you told the police was that you didn’t know who you were; is this still true?”
He nodded, trying not to think too far. The doctor sighed and told him, “I was afraid that would be the case. Well, that’s where I come in! But first, let’s see if you can handle the cup of tea. If that works out, we’ll try some solid food.”
The doctor helped him bring the cup to his mouth and he took a tentative sip, the gentle warmth of the tea soothing over his throat and settling into his bones, which, he realized, were aching. He met the doctor’s careful gaze and opened his mouth to attempt to speak, offering the first words that popped into his head: “The woman, is she… she…” he trailed off, remembering, then tried again. “Did they get the…”
Dr. Stillman’s eyes were soft as he shook his head gently. “No, they have not found the shooter; I’m sorry to tell you. The police are investigating, and would like to speak with you when you are feeling up to it. It was very valiant of you, to act the way you did. Most would not have.”
He looked away, not sure how to respond, relieved when the doctor went on, “Well, I don’t want to overload you right now, given all that you’ve been through and that you’ve just woken up, but I’m sure you’re confused and want some answers.”
Well sure, answers would be lovely, he thought, but he had an uncomfortable feeling that the doctor would not be able to give him the answers he needed.
“Alright, well sit back and I’ll just talk. Stop me if you need to.”
He nodded and sipped more tea as the doctor began. “Well, after you passed out, the police brought you here in the ambulance and told us what had happened and what you had done - and also that you could not tell them who you were. The police tried, but found no identification on you. In your pockets you had a wallet with nothing personal - only a nondescript credit card that the police are currently checking.”
He paused, as if checking to see that the information had been processed and he could continue. “Right, so we don’t who you are; you don’t know who you are, which means it appears that we are looking at some kind of amnesia or fugue.”
Great, so I’m Patient X, the man on the bed thought, as Stillman went on, “I’ll let you rest more before I ask you some more questions/run more tests/attempt to give you some information. I realize that this is terribly disorienting for you, but rest assured we are doing everything we can to help you. Try to sleep now; let your mind try to heal itself.”
Patient X nodded and slumped back on the bed, emptiness swirling in his head.
*
Sometime later, he woke to a few nurses bustling around his ward as they adjusted his monitors and opened the shades, letting outside light into the room.
“Excuse me,” his voice rasped, and he cleared his throat to try again. “Excuse me, how long has it been?”
“Oh, sweetie, you’re awake,” said a rather plump brunette nurse, whose nametag, he saw, read Teri. “It’s been about another day. Let me fetch Dr. Stillman for you. Do you need anything? Feel up for some solid food?”
“I think so.” He felt weak, but not otherwise unhealthy - hopefully Stillman would be able to explain something of what was going on with him, both physically and mentally.
The nurse came back in with Dr. Stillman and helped him into a sitting position as she placed a tray of food in front of him. He started to eat as the psychiatrist pulled up a chair beside his bed, his jaw working stiffly as he chewed. It was decent enough as hospital food went - in fact, he found it almost comforting - but he realized what he really craved was a sandwich.
Stillman was kind enough to wait until he slowed down, he noticed, before he began. “So, I need to ask you some questions and talk to you about some things that may not be easy to hear,” he said. “You feeling up to it, son?”
When he nodded his assent, the doctor continued. “You have no knowledge of who you are or any memory of your past, is that correct?”
He nodded again and searched his mind thoroughly for the first time, allowing the full weight of its emptiness to sink in. It was almost like that feeling first thing in the morning, when you wake up in a strange place and for a moment have no idea what’s going on - except the disorientation was total, and persisted into wakefulness in a way he could not escape from.
“If I try to recall anything that may have happened to me before waking up by the steps of the fountain, there’s just a blank.” He sucked in a breath, taking in just how odd a feeling this was. “And yet, I do know that this is a hospital and just what those monitors are telling me and that this means my episodic memory is affected but likely not anything declarative or procedural, which is typical of retrograde amnesia. I just have no idea where I may have learned or used this information in the past.” He took comfort in uttering these facts that occurred to him as he talked, in grasping on to the pure knowledge that at least resided in his head, even if he could not recall its source.
Stillman was nodding, looking somewhat pleased as he responded, “Yes, precisely. Only your personal memories are missing, it appears. Clearly you are an educated man, then - you’ve taken my diagnosis right from my lips. Now I’m sure you’re aware that your sort of amnesia typically results from either physical head trauma or trauma of a psychological nature, and may resolve on its own, given time?”
The doctor noted his murmured agreement and went on, “Well, your accent suggests northeast America, which is something of a starting point. The police tell us that no one of your description has been reported missing in the UK, but they are contacting Interpol to see if there are any matches in the rest of the world. I assure you, we will do everything in our power to help you figure out who you are.”
“Thank you,” he murmured, grateful that he was apparently not going to be completely alone through this. Stillman smiled kindly at him in acknowledgement, but his face turned more grave as he said, “I’m afraid it’s time to move on to the… ah, more complicated bit.”
He carefully kept the apprehension off his face as he considered what the odd and serious news Stillman had to bestow upon him. “Well, when you came to us, unconscious, we naturally ran a series of tests and examinations to assess your health.” The doctor paused. “And our findings were, ah, a bit stunning.” The doctor looked at him as if to make sure he was keeping up, and he urged him with his eyes to go on.
“It appears as though you were involved in some sort of severe accident, one that caused damage to almost your entire body. From the extent of your injuries, you are lucky to be alive. The orthopedists judged, from the scans of your bones, that the severe breaks occurred about seven months ago as far as they could tell. Your body has healed well, almost miraculously so, but you are rather too thin and too ghastly pale to be considered healthy - our best professional opinion is that you likely spent months in a hospital bed, most probably in an induced coma, as your body recovered. Quite frankly, it’s astonishing.”
He let the doctor’s words sink in, trying to process the information. It certainly made sense, given how he felt - how his muscles had screamed in protest when he’d tried to move and the agony of overstimulation he’d felt when he’d first awoken. He grimaced, realizing that a physical inventory was going to be just as horrifying as his mental one - but asked anyway: “Has the extent of my injuries been catalogued? May I see my chart?”
Stillman nodded and handed it to him, cautioning, “It might not be easy for you to understand. But everything we were able to identify should be there.”
He skimmed the chart, looking over the extensive record of injuries and procedures that trailed down the page, the fractures and surgeries and internal damage. With a vaguely sick feeling, he set aside the chart and drew aside the neck of his hospital gown, peering at the surgical marks that tracked across his torso. The stitchwork was neat, at least, as though he were some sort of meticulously put together monster of Frankenstein. He swallowed hard and looked back up at Stillman, considering for the first time that perhaps he should be grateful that he couldn’t remember whatever it was that had happened to him.
The doctor cleared his throat. “So, as you can probably glean from this, you will be needing extensive physical therapy. Counseling, as well, so that we may try to help you access your memory again - if you’ll have me as your psychiatrist.” He indicated his assent with an appreciative incline of his head. “Good,” said Stillman. “Now, I should tell you that the credit card you were found with has been connected to some sort of untraceable offshore bank account. There is, ah, a considerable sum of money in it, for what we can only presume is your use - it is all very, very odd.”
He agreed with the doctor’s words fervently - this sort of thing only happened in movies, though he couldn’t specifically remember any that he’d seen. Who was he? Or rather, who had he been? He shook his head, perplexed, as Stillman seemed to put voice to his thoughts. “It’s as though-” he paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “Well, it’s as though this was no accident. For you to show up as you did, in your condition, with no memory and your identity stripped from you… it is as though someone placed you there. Did this to you on purpose.” He shook his head, looking troubled, but his face slowly reconstituted into its more suitable warm expression as he added, “But let me reiterate: whatever it takes to help you figure this out, consider it done.”
The doctor’s smile was infectious, and he gave a small one of his own in response, overwhelmed by the thought of what possibly could have happened to him.
“Now, I suppose if you’re going to be staying with us, you can’t just be Patient X forever; we’ll have to give you a name until we discover yours.” He chuckled. “How does Jason sound? Ah, you wouldn’t necessarily be aware of this, I suppose, but Jason is the name of a famous amnesiac from literature and film… he turned out to be an assassin, but after all, for all we know, that could be you as well.”
Stillman’s tone was still lighthearted, but the doctor’s words connected with something inside him, and for the first time he felt he knew something about himself with absolute certainty. “No,” he said firmly. He looked down at his hands, now clean, but he could still see where the fallen woman’s blood had stained them.
“No. I don’t kill people. I save them.”
Author: Lyrical12
Pairing: Luke and Reid
Rating: PG-13, may change
Disclaimer: Not Mine
Warnings: Angst, violence/injuries/medical descriptions
Summary: FIX-IT FIC. A man wakes up in London with no memory. Who is he? How did he get there? He knows only one thing - He doesn't kill people. He saves them.
[Part One.]
[Part Two.]
The man woke up to the steady beep of monitors and a kindly face peering down at him, a face that suddenly crinkled into something like delight upon noticing that he had opened his eyes.
“Ahh, welcome back to the world of the waking, Patient X!” A voice came floating to his ears, a voice which seemed attached to the face, which in turn appeared to belong to a tall, older gentleman in a white lab coat standing next to his- hospital bed, he realized, as his disorientation cleared.
“Or should we call you, Mr. Miracle,” the man continued, as he cheerily noted information on the chart in his hands. “You’ve got to be the luckiest, unlucky chap that’s ever come through this hospital, my boy,” he told him apologetically, then asked, “Would you like anything? Some water? I’m Dr. Stillman, by the way. I’m the chief of psychiatry here at the London Royal Hospital, which is where you are presently.”
Still feeling groggy, he nodded, and attempted to sit up. “Whoa, easy there, just rest a bit,” Dr. Stillman told him, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder as a nurse came in bearing a tray with a cup of tea. The doctor helped him into a sitting position as he explained, “You’ve been asleep for about a day now; you were brought here after you collapsed at the crime scene… the last thing you told the police was that you didn’t know who you were; is this still true?”
He nodded, trying not to think too far. The doctor sighed and told him, “I was afraid that would be the case. Well, that’s where I come in! But first, let’s see if you can handle the cup of tea. If that works out, we’ll try some solid food.”
The doctor helped him bring the cup to his mouth and he took a tentative sip, the gentle warmth of the tea soothing over his throat and settling into his bones, which, he realized, were aching. He met the doctor’s careful gaze and opened his mouth to attempt to speak, offering the first words that popped into his head: “The woman, is she… she…” he trailed off, remembering, then tried again. “Did they get the…”
Dr. Stillman’s eyes were soft as he shook his head gently. “No, they have not found the shooter; I’m sorry to tell you. The police are investigating, and would like to speak with you when you are feeling up to it. It was very valiant of you, to act the way you did. Most would not have.”
He looked away, not sure how to respond, relieved when the doctor went on, “Well, I don’t want to overload you right now, given all that you’ve been through and that you’ve just woken up, but I’m sure you’re confused and want some answers.”
Well sure, answers would be lovely, he thought, but he had an uncomfortable feeling that the doctor would not be able to give him the answers he needed.
“Alright, well sit back and I’ll just talk. Stop me if you need to.”
He nodded and sipped more tea as the doctor began. “Well, after you passed out, the police brought you here in the ambulance and told us what had happened and what you had done - and also that you could not tell them who you were. The police tried, but found no identification on you. In your pockets you had a wallet with nothing personal - only a nondescript credit card that the police are currently checking.”
He paused, as if checking to see that the information had been processed and he could continue. “Right, so we don’t who you are; you don’t know who you are, which means it appears that we are looking at some kind of amnesia or fugue.”
Great, so I’m Patient X, the man on the bed thought, as Stillman went on, “I’ll let you rest more before I ask you some more questions/run more tests/attempt to give you some information. I realize that this is terribly disorienting for you, but rest assured we are doing everything we can to help you. Try to sleep now; let your mind try to heal itself.”
Patient X nodded and slumped back on the bed, emptiness swirling in his head.
*
Sometime later, he woke to a few nurses bustling around his ward as they adjusted his monitors and opened the shades, letting outside light into the room.
“Excuse me,” his voice rasped, and he cleared his throat to try again. “Excuse me, how long has it been?”
“Oh, sweetie, you’re awake,” said a rather plump brunette nurse, whose nametag, he saw, read Teri. “It’s been about another day. Let me fetch Dr. Stillman for you. Do you need anything? Feel up for some solid food?”
“I think so.” He felt weak, but not otherwise unhealthy - hopefully Stillman would be able to explain something of what was going on with him, both physically and mentally.
The nurse came back in with Dr. Stillman and helped him into a sitting position as she placed a tray of food in front of him. He started to eat as the psychiatrist pulled up a chair beside his bed, his jaw working stiffly as he chewed. It was decent enough as hospital food went - in fact, he found it almost comforting - but he realized what he really craved was a sandwich.
Stillman was kind enough to wait until he slowed down, he noticed, before he began. “So, I need to ask you some questions and talk to you about some things that may not be easy to hear,” he said. “You feeling up to it, son?”
When he nodded his assent, the doctor continued. “You have no knowledge of who you are or any memory of your past, is that correct?”
He nodded again and searched his mind thoroughly for the first time, allowing the full weight of its emptiness to sink in. It was almost like that feeling first thing in the morning, when you wake up in a strange place and for a moment have no idea what’s going on - except the disorientation was total, and persisted into wakefulness in a way he could not escape from.
“If I try to recall anything that may have happened to me before waking up by the steps of the fountain, there’s just a blank.” He sucked in a breath, taking in just how odd a feeling this was. “And yet, I do know that this is a hospital and just what those monitors are telling me and that this means my episodic memory is affected but likely not anything declarative or procedural, which is typical of retrograde amnesia. I just have no idea where I may have learned or used this information in the past.” He took comfort in uttering these facts that occurred to him as he talked, in grasping on to the pure knowledge that at least resided in his head, even if he could not recall its source.
Stillman was nodding, looking somewhat pleased as he responded, “Yes, precisely. Only your personal memories are missing, it appears. Clearly you are an educated man, then - you’ve taken my diagnosis right from my lips. Now I’m sure you’re aware that your sort of amnesia typically results from either physical head trauma or trauma of a psychological nature, and may resolve on its own, given time?”
The doctor noted his murmured agreement and went on, “Well, your accent suggests northeast America, which is something of a starting point. The police tell us that no one of your description has been reported missing in the UK, but they are contacting Interpol to see if there are any matches in the rest of the world. I assure you, we will do everything in our power to help you figure out who you are.”
“Thank you,” he murmured, grateful that he was apparently not going to be completely alone through this. Stillman smiled kindly at him in acknowledgement, but his face turned more grave as he said, “I’m afraid it’s time to move on to the… ah, more complicated bit.”
He carefully kept the apprehension off his face as he considered what the odd and serious news Stillman had to bestow upon him. “Well, when you came to us, unconscious, we naturally ran a series of tests and examinations to assess your health.” The doctor paused. “And our findings were, ah, a bit stunning.” The doctor looked at him as if to make sure he was keeping up, and he urged him with his eyes to go on.
“It appears as though you were involved in some sort of severe accident, one that caused damage to almost your entire body. From the extent of your injuries, you are lucky to be alive. The orthopedists judged, from the scans of your bones, that the severe breaks occurred about seven months ago as far as they could tell. Your body has healed well, almost miraculously so, but you are rather too thin and too ghastly pale to be considered healthy - our best professional opinion is that you likely spent months in a hospital bed, most probably in an induced coma, as your body recovered. Quite frankly, it’s astonishing.”
He let the doctor’s words sink in, trying to process the information. It certainly made sense, given how he felt - how his muscles had screamed in protest when he’d tried to move and the agony of overstimulation he’d felt when he’d first awoken. He grimaced, realizing that a physical inventory was going to be just as horrifying as his mental one - but asked anyway: “Has the extent of my injuries been catalogued? May I see my chart?”
Stillman nodded and handed it to him, cautioning, “It might not be easy for you to understand. But everything we were able to identify should be there.”
He skimmed the chart, looking over the extensive record of injuries and procedures that trailed down the page, the fractures and surgeries and internal damage. With a vaguely sick feeling, he set aside the chart and drew aside the neck of his hospital gown, peering at the surgical marks that tracked across his torso. The stitchwork was neat, at least, as though he were some sort of meticulously put together monster of Frankenstein. He swallowed hard and looked back up at Stillman, considering for the first time that perhaps he should be grateful that he couldn’t remember whatever it was that had happened to him.
The doctor cleared his throat. “So, as you can probably glean from this, you will be needing extensive physical therapy. Counseling, as well, so that we may try to help you access your memory again - if you’ll have me as your psychiatrist.” He indicated his assent with an appreciative incline of his head. “Good,” said Stillman. “Now, I should tell you that the credit card you were found with has been connected to some sort of untraceable offshore bank account. There is, ah, a considerable sum of money in it, for what we can only presume is your use - it is all very, very odd.”
He agreed with the doctor’s words fervently - this sort of thing only happened in movies, though he couldn’t specifically remember any that he’d seen. Who was he? Or rather, who had he been? He shook his head, perplexed, as Stillman seemed to put voice to his thoughts. “It’s as though-” he paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “Well, it’s as though this was no accident. For you to show up as you did, in your condition, with no memory and your identity stripped from you… it is as though someone placed you there. Did this to you on purpose.” He shook his head, looking troubled, but his face slowly reconstituted into its more suitable warm expression as he added, “But let me reiterate: whatever it takes to help you figure this out, consider it done.”
The doctor’s smile was infectious, and he gave a small one of his own in response, overwhelmed by the thought of what possibly could have happened to him.
“Now, I suppose if you’re going to be staying with us, you can’t just be Patient X forever; we’ll have to give you a name until we discover yours.” He chuckled. “How does Jason sound? Ah, you wouldn’t necessarily be aware of this, I suppose, but Jason is the name of a famous amnesiac from literature and film… he turned out to be an assassin, but after all, for all we know, that could be you as well.”
Stillman’s tone was still lighthearted, but the doctor’s words connected with something inside him, and for the first time he felt he knew something about himself with absolute certainty. “No,” he said firmly. He looked down at his hands, now clean, but he could still see where the fallen woman’s blood had stained them.
“No. I don’t kill people. I save them.”