A/N: This story is set in December, 2017.

Lights – bright, white – glaring, searing. Red on white, obscuring, patterns and stinging and pain. Smearing – white again, so bright, from the ceiling, off the floor, too stark for shadows. Dizzy. The floor, the walls, the ceiling, white, white. Scuffs from shoes, from wheels, criss-crossing without patterns, all random, no direction. Light catching and glinting, glittering off the marks in the floor. Tiny diamonds cutting until there was darkness from closed eyes.


Noise, noise everywhere – above, below, merge, teasing apart. Lifts, equipment, shoes, gurneys, voices, humming lights – it was the lights again, so bright. No looking away, not with the glare.

"Sir? Sir, can you hear me?"

Voices drifting, in-out, like the tides, filling, draining. Who needs what, where, how much, when, why. Distant, closer, distant. There was a name for that. What was it?


Shifting fabric, heat, pressure spreading down his right arm to his hand. Across his shoulder. Merging, merging with the pain. Down his neck, down his spine. Inhale. Exhale. Remember those things. One at a time.

Another pressure, a pad of heat. Left arm. Tightening, drawing weight up and away.

"Sir, I need you to open your eyes, sir. Someone get a gurney, please! Sir, open your eyes. Look at me."

Bright, bright, wincing and more pain and shifting and unsteadiness. Brown, brown, black, blue. Blurred colours, resolving into a figure, blurring again. Smearing red on brown and black and blue.

"That's right, good." Voice from moving lips but slower – no quicker – not paced properly. Shaking her head. Familiar? Unfamiliar? Gritted teeth, a sucking inhalation. Pain with oxygen. Closer to the floor but controlled. Two warm spots still on his arms.

"Sir, do you know where you are?"

Shaking his head. A distant cry – no close. His own. Unbidden from his throat. More of a groan. Don't move, don't move. God.

"It's okay, I've got you. Can you tell me what happened?"

What happened? Ceiling tiles, white against white lights. Voices closer, something moving. Pain – why was there pain?

What happened?

Who happened?

"I don't – " Catching on the pain, swallowing, wincing. Curling forward – trying, being held up, held back.

"I don't know."

"You don't know what happened to you?"

Forgot and shook his head. Gasping now. White light swimming with blue streaks. Outlined with gold. Blinking, clearing – slowly, oh so slowly.

"Who I am."

Pause, shock like it was tangible, concern.

"You don't know who you are?"


Deep breath, not his, voices right there now and other hands touching him.

"We're going to get you onto a gurney. Just relax, we know what we're doing."

Something hard, stiff, unyielding. Shifting so his back was stretched against it. Blossom of pain in his head, murmured protest.

"I know, it's only for a minute."

Then hands again and something softer. Sinking in. Groan – appreciation and pain. Can it be both? Dizziness again, blue and gold spots against the lights.

"Can you tell me how you got here?"

What was before here? Glimpses only – grey sky darkening. Wet brick. Movement in the shadows.

"Do you know where you are?"

Moving now, lights flickering past, voices carried along beside him. The same voice talking. Asking questions. He has no answers. Little pieces, disjointed information. Snowflakes. The sound of traffic. Bacon frying.

"Do you know your name? Will someone please get Doctor Bannerjee?"

Stopping suddenly. Scrapping, the rustle of fabric. Movement around the bed. Flashes of blue, white, burgundy, dark pink. Murmurs, hands crossing over him. Cool air. Pressure on his face, around his mouth – cool clean air.

Dark brown eyes.

"Can you tell me your name? Do you remember your name?"

There was – something. Just there. Teasing. Caught. Gone. Caught again.


"John? Your name is John?"

Darkness. For a second. Lights, darkness, lights. Brown eyes still there. Watching. Pressure against his head. A hiss, a cry. Stifled between his lips, caught by his teeth.

Darkness again. Eyes closed. Turned away. So bright. So loud. He wanted quiet. No pain. A sigh. Shift in the shoulders, pain down his spine. Wincing, forcing relaxation.