Disclaimer: I do not own the characters.

Author's Note: Somehow I seem to have forgotten to update this story. Odd, because I finished it. I hope you enjoy this chapter, which should explain more.

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When Christian woke up again, the nurses and doctors had been discussing him for hours and were keen on questioning him. They needed answers. All they had was an identification card with Christian’s name, date of birth, and London address. That wasn’t much. The statement that he had given before passing out, about running away in 1899, had set the doctors in motion. They wanted to know what Christian had meant.

It was for this reason that when Christian woke up, he was greeted with the main doctor in charge of his case, Doctor Blaise. He introduced himself, sitting in a chair beside Christian’s bed.

“The main thing we need to know,” he said, “is whether or not you remember what happened the night you came to the hospital.”

“I don’t,” Christian said. He again felt that unpleasant sensation that he needed to leave, if only to see what had become of Satine in his absence.

The doctor sighed. “What is the last thing you remember, then?”

Christian thought hard. Then he said, “It was a cold night in December, 1899,” he stressed the year, “and to make things short, I was going to run away with the woman I loved. I was waiting for her to get her things together and come back to me.” He looked the doctor straight in the eye. “That really is the last thing I remember.”

“What was her name?” Dr. Blaise asked. “Where were you going?”

“Her name was Satine,” Christian said, and saying her name reminded him of her, and this made him all the more anxious. He tried to sit up, but the doctor restrained him. Instead he pleaded, “Doctor, please, if you could just let me find out what has happened to her. You don’t understand how important this is to me—I love her—”

“I understand,” the doctor said, “and we will find out about Satine. But you must tell me where she lived.”

“She lives at the Moulin Rouge.”

“I see,” Dr. Blaise said, nodding. “That makes sense.”

“What do you mean?” Christian asked, eyes narrowing.

“The police found you in Montmartre,” Dr. Blaise said. “The Moulin Rouge is in Montmartre. It makes sense.”

“Oh.” Christian glanced down at his hands. “And you…don’t know why I was…dying?”

“I suspect that only you do,” Dr. Blaise said. “Or, you did know. It seems you have lost your memory of the past year.”

Christian nodded, feeling rather numb. The only thing he wanted was to know about Satine and whether she was safe. He feared that she had left him for the Duke. After all, would he have been dying in the streets if she had been present? The question convinced him that Satine had somehow left him, but to where and why were completely different matters. He wanted desperately to know.

Dr. Blaise saw that Christian was no longer in the mood to talk and left to give him time to think. He had his own job to do. He needed to find this woman named Satine, and see if she could tell him anything about Christian.

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The worst job of a doctor was giving bad news to patients. It happened more often than not, so most doctors ended up getting used to it. It was a hard job, but it needed to be done.

After several days in which Christian slowly regained strength, Dr. Blaise got some answers. They weren’t all the answers, and certainly not the ones he wanted, but they gave him something solid to work off of, regrettable though they were.

When he came to see his patient, Christian was sitting up and drinking water. He looked remarkably pale and thin, but otherwise the doctor could see no reason to worry much about risks to his life. This was good, considering what he had just heard.

Christian looked up upon the doctor’s arrival and immediately a cross between anticipation and anxiety became present in his features. “Did you find anything?” he asked.

“I did.” Dr. Blaise hesitated. Despite having been a doctor for a long time, he still hesitated when he came to imparting unpleasant news. “I’m afraid that you haven’t the money to stay here any longer.”

Christian nodded. “Then I’ll leave,” he said. This relieved the doctor a bit, because Christian seemed to have been expecting something like this. “And anything else?”

This was the worst. “I came into contact with Harold Zidler of the Moulin Rouge, and Satine is dead. She has been. In fact, he said she died the night following your proposal to her to run away.”

“No.” This was Christian’s first reaction. Colour rose to his cheeks and his eyes became over bright. “No, she hasn’t died. That’s impossible. I would have remembered!”

“Perhaps that is why you don’t remember,” the doctor suggested. He had seen other cases where the patient didn’t remember events because they were traumatic.

Christian was beginning to shake. “No,” he whispered. “No, I…we were going to run away and live…with each other, forever. No.” He glared up at the doctor, tears now falling from his eyes. “It isn’t true. You’re lying! Harold is lying!”

“I’m afraid not,” Dr. Blaise said, his patient’s despair tugging at his heart. “He took me to her grave. She really is dead.”

“How?” Christian asked. He sounded so desperate.

The doctor was taken aback. He had expected Christian to be upset, but it seemed now that his very life had centered on this girl, and now that she was gone he had nothing left. “She-she died after a performance of a show—your show, according to Zidler. It was consumption.”

“Oh, God,” Christian murmured. He shook his head, the tears turning into a torrent.

Dr. Blaise placed a well-meaning hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I’m terribly sorry.”

Christian took several deep breaths, and he sounded as if he were drowning. But then his voice came to the doctor, low and shaking. “When do I have to leave?”

The doctor had rather forgotten that in the face of his patient’s despair. He felt terrible for kicking Christian out, but they needed money. Sighing, he said, “Tomorrow morning.”

So it was.

The image of the tortured young man had disturbed the doctor very much. He had never figured out what had brought Christian on the brink of death and into the hospital in the first place. He had suspected an overdose of some sort of drug, or poison in an attempt of murder. But seeing Christian’s reaction to news of Satine’s death had enlightened him to another possibility.

He thought Christian had tried to kill himself.

Dr. Blaise did not want to tell Christian this, though. If the poor young man had tried to end his life once because of this woman named Satine, there was a good chance he’d do it again. He’d certainly seemed distraught enough to do such a thing, and Dr. Blaise wasn’t about to give him the idea.

However, he could try and help his patient improve his life. That was what doctors were really for, after all.

Thus, the following morning when he entered the room to find Christian fully dressed and sitting on the bed, he gave the young man an envelope.

Christian had the look of a depressed and ill man, and Dr. Blaise wondered if his despair had adversely affected his health. But before the thought had really settled, Christian took the envelope and asked, “What is this?”

He sounded broken. Dr. Blaise murmured, “It is enough money to get you back to London, and some to spare.” Christian stared at him. “This city won’t do you any good. Go back and start fresh.”

Christian stared at the envelope, then at Blaise with a pained look. He took a shaky breath. He seemed to be thinking. After a few silent moments he said, “I think I will. Thank you.” And he stood up, a bit unsteadily, shook the doctor’s hand, and left.

Dr. Blaise sighed. It wasn’t a promise, but it was something. He hoped the young man would be okay. He seemed to have a lot of potential.

He had already written a musical and had it played at the Moulin Rouge, after all.