Lost Pretense
Chapter One: John Doe
Rating: R (gonna do that to be on the safe side, applies to subject matter)
Word Count: 2,186
Disclaimer: I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan.
Summary: He wasn't who everyone thought he was. He wasn't even who he thought he was.
Pairing: Woody/Jordan (kind of sort of)
Author's Note: Again, I'm still working on cleaning up old fics. Like Soulless and A Sort of Prologue, this has been around for a year. I've always liked this story, despite the fact that it hails from an even darker place in my mind than Soulless.

I'm posting two chapters of this right now because it is a Crossing Jordan fic, even if the first chapter doesn't necessarily seem that way.

John Doe

His head pounded. It was the first thing that he was aware of as he came to his senses. Opening his eyes, he looked up to see a brick building. He was in a bad part of town, but he didn't know what town. He sat up slowly, trying to get his bearings. This was an alley way; dirty water from the last rain or maybe even snowfall—he couldn't be certain— dropped off the building and puddled next to him. The weather was neither too hot nor too cold, and the sky was clear. It could have been any time of year.

How had he gotten here? Where was here?

And he wasn't even asking the scariest question. Who was he? He had no idea. He dug in his pockets, frantically searching for his id. Nothing in the dusty overcoat, the torn and blacked dress shirt—more gray than the white pinstripe it had once been—nothing in the soot covered jeans. Nothing. He touched his head. A gash on his forehead, dried blood on the back of his head.

And his hands...

Nausea washed over him as he contemplated the seared flesh. Something had happened to him, probably something bad. He didn't know what, though. Didn't know where he was. He fought the urge to panic. He couldn't go on like this. He forced himself to his feet. His body was aching, and he figured he was covered in bruises if not worse.

He made his way slowly down the alley, passing trash bins full of debris and stinking refuse. Reaching the end of the building, he stopped, staring.

Police cars. Three of them, with the lights still turning. But he didn't hear the sirens. Suddenly, it made more sense. The officers were studying the hulk of a burned out car. An explosion. He'd been nearby when it happened. He didn't remember it, but he knew he had been.

"Hey, you!" an officer shouted—it must have been a shout, but he barely heard it—and started towards him. He didn't know why, but his instincts screamed at him to run. He ran, ignoring the pain that intensified with every step. He fled down the alley, ducking across the street and into another alley before he stopped to catch his breath. There. A homeless shelter.

In his state, he'd blend right in, dirty clothes, stiff aching body. He accepted the meal they offered him and first aid for his hands with guilt. He wasn't homeless. He just didn't know where home was. He needed to plan, needed to find out who he was.

He had amnesia, and he'd been near an explosion. He had known he had to run from the police, but he didn't know why. Whoever he was, he was in trouble. He had to find out more about that explosion, and he couldn't risk turning himself in or asking too many questions. He'd wait for tomorrow's newspapers.

And hope to hell they had some sort of answers.

The more he learned about himself, the more he scared himself. He discovered he was familiar with guns, even with killing. He wasn't just familiar with a gun; he was comfortable. The gun he'd taken off a would-be mugger—apparently the punk was too high to realize that he didn't have anything—was like a second skin. His accuracy was even more disturbing. He'd only meant to threaten, to defend himself from his attacker, but his aim was better than he'd given himself credit for, and he'd nearly killed a man.

The recoil had also dredged up a memory—a man falling off a roof after he shot him—that left him shaking as the addict panicked, running straight into a metal trashcan. He'd taken the loser to the hospital, all the time wondering if he'd be recognized for whatever he was running from.

He was good with a gun. And afraid of the police. Whoever he was, he was in real trouble.

Not here, though, not on the street. He had scared off more than his drugged out mugger with that gunshot, and no one tried to make an issue of his presence after that. He'd gone back to the shelter, taking a cot and resting for a few hours before he went in search of the papers.

He'd gathered up all the information that he could on the explosion. The car had belonged to the police department and was being used at the time by a detective, Woodrow Hoyt. Hoyt was considered a hero after his shooting—some cop killer a year ago, apparently. This guy was getting a state funeral, a hero's funeral. But no one knew why he had died. He was on leave, not involved in any outstanding cases or investigations that could have led to his death.

He believed he'd met Hoyt. Maybe even killed him. He didn't like his suspicions. But even if he was basically "good" after his memory loss, whatever he had been before was debatable at best. He got flashes of memories every so often, nothing that made sense, but he remembered killing more than just that man who fell from the roof.

He needed a shower and a shave. So far, he was surviving, but he didn't have anywhere to go or any money to keep going. He needed a way to make money, preferrably one that had nothing to do with the gun he carried in his waistband.

"Hey," a woman's voice interrupted his thoughts. His hearing was coming back. He should be grateful, he guessed. He looked over his shoulder and then stopped, turning around.

"I don't have any money," he told her. She was too good for the streets, the kind of girl that bleeding hearts always wanted to save, too young to be struggling for what little money a man would pay for her body, the kind of hooker who barely made it day to day. Her waitress uniform didn't fit and was as ill-used as she was. She glanced around them nervously.

"I don't want your money, not for that," she began after a moment. She was frowning at him, like she expected him to know that or something, but he didn't know her.

He didn't think he knew her, anyway. "What do you want, then?"

"I'm Andrea," she said, again like it should mean something to him. He shrugged. Her face wasn't even familiar, just that of a scared little girl who should never have left home.

"Am I supposed to know you?" he finally asked. He didn't want to admit his weakness, but if she knew him, maybe... Maybe she'd help him get back to who and what he was. If he even wanted to be that person again.

She shook her head. "No. No, you don't know me. And no, you've never been my John, either."

He waited. She still seemed to know him, and he didn't know why. She sighed. "Look, I saw you with that meth addict. His gun was in your face, yet you stopped him... And you took him to the hospital. I figure that makes you a decent enough guy. Better than most of them out here."

He didn't debate that. Most of the guys she spoke to were Johns or pimps. Possibly worse. "So you think I'm a decent guy. What of it?"

"I want protection," she said reluctantly.

"From what?"

"I don't want a pimp," she insisted. "I got out of the business. I've got a crummy job with lousy hours as a waitress. But... There's a few people from that life that won't leave me alone. If you help me, you can have my couch. Or the bed, but we sleep in shifts. I'm out, ok? Out."

He nodded. "So... I follow you, intimidate a few people, and I have a place to stay?"

"No killing," she quickly added. "I just want... I want to hold down an honest job. I want to get my life back, that's all."

He didn't think she was telling him everything, but it didn't matter. He wouldn't get a better offer, and he was ready to collapse again. "Deal."

He was a constant source of amusement for Andrea, who laughed at him when he finally realized that his red, irritated eyes were from dry contacts. He took them out to find his eyes were actually blue, not brown. Andrea liked them, said they were wholesome. He hoped that if the police were looking for the vagrant they'd seen, they would still be looking for a man with brown eyes and that would help him stay hidden. His face was bruised and swollen, unhelpful in jogging any memories of who he had once been.

He found old scars when he showered, including a gunshot wound on his stomach that triggered a too brief flash of memory. He saw a rifle, felt the impact. Remembering it made him sick. Angry.

Everything seemed rather useless; none of it told him who he was. And contrary to the routine he'd fallen into with Andrea, he was not her brother. She'd started calling him Will, after her brother. He might have had a sibling—his role as big brother seemed familiar to him—and Andrea was convinced that he was so protective because he had been a big brother. He didn't know how else to be.

He walked Andrea to and from work, sometimes sitting at the counter and drinking a coffee while he read the papers. He stayed at the apartment when she was there, and he would stay at the diner throughout her shift if not for the owner.

Mic wasn't a bad guy, though when he raised his voice to Andrea she trembled and dropped the coffee pot. The cook had told him off for that one, and afterwards Mic stopped grumbling when Will—he wasn't sure he would keep calling himself "Will," but it was as good a name as any—stayed for most or all of Andrea's shift. She was friendlier and more cheerful when he was around. She felt safe. So he would linger over his coffee, smiling as she teased the regulars and frowning when she flirted with the others. Her tips were higher, and she didn't mind paying for his coffee. She even tried to get him to eat more.

"You're a scarecrow," she teased, ruffling his hair. He rolled his eyes at her.

"Did you brush your teeth?" he shot back, leaning over the couch.

She stuck out her tongue as she went into the bathroom. He sat back down and sighed. He'd read in the papers that the investigation into Hoyt's death was at a stand still, and the memorial service would be held the next day. He'd go to the funeral, see if there was anything else he could learn, even though he planned on keeping his distance.

Andrea came out of the bathroom just as loud pounding started on the door. Andrea froze. "It's him."

He was Montelli. He was a crooked vice cop that harassed Andrea. She wasn't a hooker anymore, but that didn't mean Montelli wouldn't try and bust her anyway. Will didn't know what Montelli wanted with Andrea—she had never been the prettiest or even well paid for what she did. Montelli was a bully; Will knew that much. He shoved Andrea into the bedroom and closed the door behind them, bracing it with his body as the front door burst open.

"You've got the wrong place, Montelli," he warned. "Leave now."

"I do, huh? Seems to me this is still Andrea Knaub's place, ain't it?" the cop demanded, trying to force the bedroom door. Andrea climbed under the bed, hands covering her mouth, her whole body shaking. Not for the first time, Will wished she'd been honest with him, told him everything about Montelli.

"You're not getting Andrea. I won't let you."

"Yeah, heard she had some tough guy protecting her. Guess what, asshole? You picked the wrong girl to shack up with," Montelli said with a sneer in his voice. Will felt the pressure against the door let up and braced himself for Montelli's attempt to ram it. He wasn't expecting the shot. Montelli was crooked, but he was still a cop and a cop wouldn't just shoot. Or so Will thought. He hit the wall, carried backwards by the impact. He fought the pain, trying not to give in to oblivion.

Montelli's dark form entered the room, going to the bed and yanking Andrea out by her foot. She screamed, and Will struggled to get to his feet as Montelli threw her back against the headboard. He heard a crack before Montelli fired twice, turning away remorselessly.

Andrea was dead. He knew she was. His fingers found his own gun, and he fired at Montelli, two shots, one for each time he'd shot Andrea. The gun felt heavy; his hands burned. He was barely aware of anything as he put the gun in Andrea's hand and stumbled over Montelli's body on his way out the door.