Warnings: none, probably
Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.
Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.
Feedback: Hell, yes.
John Doe
The first thing he was aware of was the pain; it centered in and on the entire top of his head and encompassed his entire being, radiating down to his neck, his shoulders and wiped out any possible feeling he might have had in any other part of his body. It obliterated everything, it surrounded him, filled him and erased anything else.
He was pain. Pain was him.
There was nothing else and he welcomed the return of darkness and oblivion.
* * *
The pain was still there but this time he managed to put his hand up to see if there was some way to stop it, to shut it off. His fingers found what he dimly thought was wet, sticky hair. The effort was too much and he slipped back into darkness.
* * *
He opened his eyes, waited for the pain of that movement to lessen and tried to see anything, see if he could figure out where he was or why or—anything.
He couldn't, there was just darkness but by concentrating he slowly became aware of hardness under his cheek; pavement. And stench; garbage. He was lying on pavement, he was hurt, probably badly hurt and no one knew he was here or, if they did, didn't care.
Trying to push his thoughts further, why he was here and for how long, how he'd been hurt—it was too much and he was grateful for the darkness again.
* * *
An unknown amount of time later he tried again. His head still radiated agony but by gritting his teeth both figuratively and in fact, he found he could push it far enough away to know he needed help.
He was badly injured and he needed to get himself help because—maybe—no one knew were he was. Or maybe no one cared.
He had to get his own help because if he didn't there was a chance that he might die.
Forcing his eyes opened, he tried to really look around and get some kind of bearings; his first and most obvious observation was that it was dark, meaning that he was in a building or something. Or maybe it was night. Or both. It wasn't much but it was a start.
He awkwardly moved one arm and then the other, positioning them so that he could try to pull himself upright. Slowly and with the pain causing him to suck in his breath and stop to regroup every few seconds, he raised his chest off the ground, managing to sit upright, leaning against what turned out to be a couple of stacked milk crates. Breathing hard, he tried again to figure out where he was.
It seemed to be an alley of some kind, a narrow alley, the kind where a business might get deliveries and put out their garbage in one of the dumpsters lining one wall. There was a back door with a single light bulb shining over it, giving both harsh and dim light.
He was alone.
He heard vague traffic and city sounds; a distant siren, a plane overhead.
He had no idea where he was.
With great effort he puled himself to his feet, taking long minutes to gain his balance, then tentatively moved toward the end of the alley where he could see the glow of a streetlight. If there was a streetlight there might be people and people might help him.
He needed help badly.
He didn't know ow long it took him to reach the sidewalk; minutes, hours? The pain erased time but finally he was there, exhausted and still bleeding. He sank to the sidewalk, back against a building and hoped that either help would arrive or he'd die.
* * *
Bright lights, too bright. White walls and white curtains sliding on screeching tracks. People in vari-colored scrubs probing him, asking questions, bothering him, refusing to leave him alone. A needle was inserted in the vein on the back of his hand, his clothes were cut off him.
"Can you hear me? Open your eyes for me, all right? Can you open your eyes?"
"Any response?"
"Not yet."
* * *
"Squeeze my hand, sweetheart. If you can hear me, squeeze my hand. Good, that's good. Now, can you open your eyes? I'm right here, could you look at me?"
"The radiology report just came in, 'bad concussion but 'doesn't look like there's any internal bleeding and no sign of fracture."
He'd wanted help so badly, now he wanted to just be left alone.
"''Looks like he really pissed off someone. Any contact information?"
"No ID, no wallet. Admit him as John Doe number twelve and move him upstairs as soon as they have a bed for him."
"'Another charity case?"
"'Looks like unless we get lucky and he was just mugged—'might have insurance."
"If we're lucky."
* * *
The pain was still there but seemed fuzzy and less distinct, like it was in the distance and he was terrified that it would come back full-force if he moved or opened his eyes or breathed. He was in a bed, he could feel it beneath him and he could tell that he was in a hospital; he'd heard the pages calling various doctors and odd bells pinging in some secret sequence he didn't understand. He was aware of people walking back and forth, probably in a hallway nearby, some of the people were pushing carts or beds or maybe wheelchairs. There were voices but he couldn't understand what they were saying and no one seemed to be talking to him so he didn't care.
He wished the pain would stop so he could think but he was so tired it probably didn't make any difference.
He slept some more.
* * *
"Good morning, sweetheart, are you going to open your eyes for me?"
He slitted his eyes, immediately closing them against the too bright light until he heard a blind being closed and sensed less glare.
"There, that should help, now can you open your eyes for me?"
Doing so he looked at the woman, probably a nurse wearing a stethoscope around her neck and a name tag on a lanyard. She was Nancy Brightman, RN.
"There you are—and you have the most wonderful blue eyes, you shouldn't keep them hidden all the time! Just give me a moment to check your vitals and then I have some breakfast for you and we cam have a little talk, all right?" She took his temperature, listened to his heart and shined a flashlight into his eyes, asking him to follow the light. "Do you know where you are?"
"Hospital?"
She nodded. "Do you know why?"
"My head?"
"Were you in an accident?"
"I..."
She went on, noticing but unruffled. "Can you tell me our name?"
"I'm, my name is...my name is..." Nothing. He was blank.
Calmly, she went on, her voice conversational. "Can you tell me what year this is?"
"2005?"
"Who's president?"
"...Clinton?"
"What's your birth date?"
"I..." He was lost.
"It's all right, you've had a hard hit on the head, it will come back."
"When?" The man looked frightened, a normal reaction.
"Soon, usually in bits and pieces but it will come back. Do you know how you got here?"
"This hospital? I was, it hurt, I was hurt. I knew I needed help so I—I—I went out to the street and I guess, I think someone found me. Am I going to be all right?"
"You'll be fine." She took the cover off his breakfast tray. "You must be hungry, 'eggs?"
"No, thanks."
"Doctor says you need to eat and it will help you get your strength back--'heal the body, heal the mind'."
The man picked up his fork and began to eat.
* * *
Name: Doe, John #7
DOB: Unknown
Address: Unknown
Phone: Unknown
SS#: Unknown
Insurance: Unknown
Emergency Contact: Unknown
Reading through the new John Doe's chart the attending physician stopped and reread the second page listing obvious previous injuries and possible medical complications; numerous scars from what appeared to be burns, ligatures, possible knives or other sharp objects, two apparently healed bullet wounds, evidence of several previous concussions. Whoever this guy was, he needed to think about changing his lifestyle.
With any luck they'd get a missing persons report or a call from a frantic family member or friend hoping against hope that this was their missing son/brother/husband/other. That's what usually happened and then they'd be able to fill in the blanks. Otherwise he'd go like the others did, he'd get well enough to release and walk out the door, bill unpaid.
Time would tell but the doctor thought that he'd just disappear in a day or two. 'Good chance Mr. Doe just needed a paid vacation from something. It happened all the time.
TBC