Nameless

Summary: Names have power. They give us freedom over ourselves and control over others. But what happens when you can't remember your own name? Who has control then? Are you still free? Is someone else in charge? I'd tell you the answer, if I could remember it.

Disclaimer: This is a fan-fiction story of the book and TV series: Dresden Files by Jim Butcher, and is in no way affiliated with the actual show or series. All characters and other materials related to the show/series that have been used are not intended to infringe on any Copyrights. Elemental-Zer0 takes sole responsibility for any mistakes or offence that may be taken but truly not meant. However, any characters that are not related to any copyrights are copyrighted to Elemental-Zer0 as is any variations to the plot set out in the show/series.

A/N: Well, after a few responses of the positive, I gave it some thought and decided to try and carry on in the first person POV. I hadn't realised I'd done it any justice. So, we'll see how far I can go before I get stuck. May need help! Any volunteers?

Chapter One

The man in the doorway deepened his frown, and I had the impression that I'd just thrown him for a loop. He'd not been expecting my apparent amnesia. 'Well buddy, neither had I… I think.'

Then he did something that surprised me, he forcibly relaxed himself and held his hands where I could track them. He seemed to understand that I was scared, confused and very wary of those I currently perceived as strangers. He took measures to seem as non-threatening as possible. As he held his hands out, I noticed that one was wrapped in a bandage at the wrist. White fabric curled up around his thumb and wound down under his expensive sleeve. He seemed to be in a little pain with it if his stiff movements on that arm were any thing to go by.

His gesture of calm and peace did two things for me. One, I felt a little relaxed myself, knowing that the man was trying to appear non-threatening meant that he had some idea of what I was going through. It gave me justification to feel jumpy and unashamed about it. But the second thing it did was contradictive to the first and put me at odds with myself. It made me suspicious of him. 'What did he have to hide if he had to force himself to be non-threatening?' I wondered, and my eyes narrowed at him. He stayed where he was, just inside the door. And that made my suspicions that much more tangible and I reminded myself that the window was still a possible escape route. As long as we weren't too high up.

"I'm Johnnie." The man responded cautiously, "Johnnie Marcone." He added and peered at me with a strange mix of emotions. Curiosity, frustration, and a very slight hint of fear. He carefully studied my face as though expecting this all to be some elaborate trick. I don't know why he'd assume that, but I could understand the reluctance to trust what he saw. I was going through the same issues myself.

The name rang no bells in my head. There was a heavy feel of expectation in the air and I had the notion that I'd just disappointed him on some meaningful level. Marcone seemed to be agitated by my lack of recognition but it was somehow exuded as a detached issue. I sighed to myself. I couldn't really bring myself to care about someone else's problems, mine were big enough.

"Dresden?" He asked in a cautious tone and for some reason I got angry. Probably at the fact that I had no idea what was going on but this Marcone guy was an easy-to-reach target.

"Why do you keep asking me if I'm dressed?" I hissed and became aware of a dull throbbing pain in my skull as I snapped. I closed my eyes against the flashes of pain and continued through gritted teeth, "And what's with the accent? You don't use it with anything else you say!" I added, feeling myself getting more annoyed by the minute with my lack of knowledge.

The man, Marcone, blinked at me before a look of understanding alighted his eyes. "No, you misunderstand me…" He started then paused and shot me a curious look. He changed what he was going to say, "You don't remember anything… do you?" He said slowly, a sense of unease rolling off him as he came to that conclusion. I wasn't sure what significance that had for him, but with the way he paled and looked ill, I had an idea it was just as bad as I felt it to be. Then his whole persona changed. He stood a little straighter and stared at me with a hard and calculating stare. It made me feel queasy with unease. I hesitated in my response when his eyes turned a little distant, his aura grew cold. I felt my insides squirm a little in response.

"What's your name?" He asked. My chest fluttered in anxious response, and I felt like he'd just set a trap. If I answered with the truth, he'd have some sort of hold over me, like he'd won some unspoken argument. The idea really rankled something inside me.

"Shouldn't you know that?" I hedged, "I mean, do you normally go around hoarding just anyone in your grandiose bedrooms?" I asked, gesturing a little too wildly at the room I'd woken up in. My tone was petulant and ungrateful… and it felt so familiar. In a good way. This felt normal to me; the whole 'not-giving-anything-away-but-also-collecting-information-at-the-same-time' thing. In the back of my head, I realised I was probably being rude to my would-be host and inferred medical provider, but I couldn't seem to change my feelings. It just felt… right.

"No." Marcone replied frostily. I frowned at his tone, I didn't like it. But then he surprised me further by taking a deep breath and let it out slowly, his posture relaxed and the tension that had been growing, lessened in its intensity. "No." he repeated, more gently this time. "I don't make a habit of picking random injured strangers off the street and nursing them back to health in my personal abode." He prodded, and it felt like a reprimand and a demand for some gratitude, but I was unwilling to acquiesce at that moment. Then his facial expression softened a little. "I only do that for people I know and trust." He added and gave me a strange look. I realised too late that he'd been trying to appear sincere but there were several things in his words that had me raising an internal eyebrow. He'd said, "people I know" not "friends" and although he claimed to "trust" those people, I didn't quite feel that that was the whole truth. The whole thing made me very uneasy. I shook my head in frustration and had to suddenly hold onto the bedframe I was stood next to. The room jumped and spun, and nausea filled my gut. Ugh. I did not feel good.

"Hey, take it easy." Marcone said and suddenly he was in front of me wrapping his good hand around my nearest bicep. My heart gave a warning beat before drumming out a fast-staccato rhythm at the suddenness of his appearance at my side and his grip on my upper arm but the sturdy hold that he had on me actually helped. It made the floor less wobbly. "You have quite the head injury." He informed me and moved to guide me back to the bed. I sat back down on the edge and he crouched in front of me. He was so close that it made me wary again but so far, he hadn't done anything untoward. Yet.

I frowned at him. He was difficult to figure out. I wasn't sure I could trust him or rely on him but at that moment I had no other choice. I had questions. He had answers. I tucked my pride away and bit the proverbial bullet.

"What happened to me?" I asked softly, mainly because it felt that if I'd given the question any volume, my control of my rapidly fraying nerves would be gone, and I'd spiral into a frenzied panic. Marcone gave me another long look, but this one was deeper, there was no dancing around with his words when he sighed and answered me.

"I don't know specifics." He admitted and let his head hang down for a moment before continuing. "You sort of just appeared in my garden, half dead." He said and stood back up from his crouch before dragging an opulent bedroom chair across the room one handedly. For some reason that got my sympathy more than anything else he'd said and done so far. I felt a familiar ache from my left hand but when I looked down at it, I could only see soft and healthy pink flesh. And for some reason my inner voice screamed at how wrong that was. I swallowed thickly and tried to quell my racing thoughts. Marcone sat in the chair and faced me before he continued.

"You were pretty badly injured." He began, "You had two cracked ribs for starters." As he said that, my many aches and pains slowly separated themselves out, my chest being the first to make its complaints known. "Your shoulder was dislocated too." Marcone continued and my right shoulder panged for sympathy. I tried not to roll it. It took some effort. My mind raced with why and how I'd gotten so injured. I still couldn't remember anything, and my imagination wasn't helping my nerves.

"But the most problematic injury was the bullet wound in your lower back." I nodded absently, still wrapped up in my imagination and not quite processing what he'd said until the pain hit me, and my eyes widened. What?!

"A… a bullet wound?" I stammered out, my surprise and shock clearly evident. My heart beat started racing again and could feel the cold sweat dripping down my back and neck. Marcone looked up then and sat up a little straighter but made no move to come any closer. He could see I was on the verge of freaking out.

"It wasn't deep." He said quickly as though that would make me feel any better. "But you did lose a lot of blood." He added which made me feel even less happy about the concept. I felt bile rise up my gullet at the thought of being shot at but contrarily it felt normal. And that scared me even more. If my kind of normal involved getting shot at regularly, then what kind of life did I lead?

"And then there was your head wound." Marcone finished, his words seemed a little rushed as though in a bid to distract me from the terrifying thought of guns and bullets. "Which seems to have given you an untimely and very inconvenient case of amnesia." He continued, "But if I'm honest, I'm not sure if that's due to the head wound at all. It seems too… coincidental for my liking. And if working with you has taught me anything, it's that coincidences are rarely innocent in their existence." He finished with a thoughtful frown. All of what he'd just said had confused me even more. My mind raced with confusion and questions and… fear.

"What makes you say that?" I asked, my voice quavered, and I swallowed hard to wet my suddenly dry throat. I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer.

"Well," Marcone started, "I find it hard to believe your case of amnesia is an accident, because I…" There was a knock at the door. My heart leapt into my throat. Another man stepped inside the room, and I froze at the sight of him. He wasn't as tall as I was, but he was built like a tank with flaming red hair cut short to a buzz cut and bulging muscles flexing everywhere. He had a deep-seated frown upon his thick set brow and his face looked flat and thug-like. The sight of him made my breath hitch. Every instinct I had, screamed danger.

"Boss." The large man said in a deep voice and started moving closer to the chair, and by proxy, the bed. Marcone seemed annoyed at the interruption if his hissed response was anything to go by.

"I'm busy Hendricks." Marcone growled at the man but the thug continued as though nothing was wrong. And as he moved, I saw the handle of a gun. The conversation about bullet wounds raced through my mind. My back felt stiff and the bi-polar behaviour of Marcone had me making very large jumps to a conclusion that I was probably wrong about, but my panic had already gripped me in its firm hold. I shifted in panic at the advancing menace of a man and pulled myself across the bed to put some distance between us.

"Woah…" I said holding out my hands in front of me, partly to ward the man off and partly to keep my balance and to distract me from the sudden pain that flared in my back, shoulder, chest, and head respectively. My vision blurred a little and the floor wavered but held firm. The guy, Hendricks froze in surprise and Marcone stood slowly, placatingly to me.

"Dresden…" I knew on some level that the word Dresden was not a question of whether I was 'dressed then?' and I knew it was irrational of me to get frustrated and scared by it all but damnit, I was too confused, and nothing was making any sense. I'd just found out I'd been shot at, I couldn't remember anything before waking up moments ago and when that thug of a man had started stalking toward me – with a gun no less! – something in my brain switched gears to survival mode and my body had just moved on instinct.

My adrenalin levels soared with the perceived threat and my mind searched frantically for escape options. I was running on auto pilot at this point. All rational thinking had been abandoned. I'd spooked. And I'd spooked bad.

"What the…?" The Hendricks guy exclaimed at my behaviour and moved probably instinctively to put himself between me and Marcone. At his movement, my panic hit critical and my eyes found the window with a desperate and pointed look. I still had no idea what floor I was on, but my flight response overrode that apparently unnecessary fact and seconds later, I found myself running at the window.

A shout from behind me only fuelled my need to escape and I threw myself at the glass.

It was an old window, one of those single-pane sliding ones that the older houses still used and unlike a normal window, it smashed upon meeting my large frame at a high velocity. I fell through the glass; the thin shirt and tracksuit pants I'd been wearing did little to protect me from the shards of glass that fell with me. I landed sooner than I had thought I would. The impact hurt. White spots of pain danced around my eyes and I could feel my chest moving in ways it probably shouldn't be. I heard another shout from somewhere above me and my head cleared just enough to see that I had fallen from a first story window into one of those funny shaped bushes that most rich people had in their gardens. I saw Marcone leaning out of the window, his face looking worried which looked out of place. And then the Hendricks man was stood next to him, looking down at me with a wide-eyed look.

I didn't hesitate. I rolled myself off the bush and took off toward a tree line toward my left. Shouts rose up around me, but they weren't close enough to catch me.

With adrenalin fuelling my battered body and panic fuelling my mind, I ran deep into the forest.

'Hells bells!' I thought, 'what the hell is going on?'

End-Note: Ok so I think this was a little rushed. Not sure how to fix it yet. Polite suggestions welcome!