"Dr. Mallard? Can you hear me?"
Maura Isles had been crossing a parking lot at NYU, which was currently playing host to the National Association of Medical Examiners conference, when she witnessed a collision between two other pedestrians that sent one sprawling to the ground.
The place was swarming with medical personnel, naturally, but she had been the first to reach the side of the fallen man, noting in passing a jaunty bowtie and a badge identifying him as Doctor Donald Mallard. He had no visible wounds, and was breathing normally; fingering the mini-flashlight on her keychain, she gently pulled up one of his eyelids. "Dr. Mallard?"
His head moved slightly as his pupils reacted, and after a moment he came to with a rusty chuckle. "I'm quite all right, Caitlin. No need for such formality."
Maura's concern spiked again. Caitlin? "Dr. Mallard?" she repeated yet again, eyeing the crowd in readiness to call out for assistance. "I'm Dr. Isles. Do you know where you are?"
"Of course, I'm at the conference...but come to that, why are you -" Suddenly the man's eyes went wide, and he would have sat up if not for her gentle pressure on his shoulders. "You...D-Dr. Isles, you said?" His tone was faint, shaky.
"That's right. And you are at the conference. You had a bit of a fall and temporarily lost consciousness. Do you know today's date?"
Dr. Mallard took a shallow breath, let it out in a sigh. His eyes had slipped closed again, but the look in them when they opened, and fixed on her face, was disquietingly intense. "June eighteenth, two-thousand and ten, I believe. And I apologize, my dear. It's just that you remind me very strikingly of someone."
At least he seemed lucid now, and medically there seemed to be nothing wrong. "That's all right, Doctor. Do you want to try getting up?"
He nodded, and allowed her to guide his arm around her shoulders as she braced him to his feet.
(A/n: this was written before Rizzoli & Isles actually started airing, just a what-if scenario I couldn't get out of my head.)