He woke slowly and to a lumpish, ac

He woke slowly and to a lumpish, aching haze: eyes blurred as he stared at the shadowed ceiling and mouth sloppy as he bit back a groan of pain. His whole right side felt like one massive bruise while sharp tingling like vicious pins and needles ran up twitchy legs. Skin too tight, pulling at the movement, like scabs. He put a hand to his stomach, running the pads of his fingers over the bare skin. No, not like scabs. It was scabbing. Tilting his head forward he resisted the urge to throw up as best he could when his stomach rebelled and throat bobbed uncontrollably.

What? What happened?

Sore eyes looking around the room, peering to squint past the mound of pillows and duvets he was sunk into. The distraction only lasted a few seconds as the fuzzy sights prompted no secondary thoughts or reactions, so he closed his eyes tight shut again. Head felt like it was stuffed with abrasive steel wool. That was hardly a medical symptom but he could barely think let alone make a coherent diagnosis. Skull felt as if it had been the victim of one of those blunt force trauma experiments that – that –

The thought ground to a halt as neither name nor face occurred, though he knew it should have done. A rich, deep voice saying something – then it was gone, forgotten, like a dream. A half-memory of dark shirts and dark hair. Disorientated he opened his eyes, searching the out of focus room for something, someone. It was night-time outside, the curtains were mostly drawn and a street-light shone an orange stripe onto the opposite wall. Nothing happened, nothing but the beat of blood in his ears and the tinny, roaring background noise that he was not quite sure whether was real or merely the psychological result of a recent head injury. The recent head injury. A word surfaced (tinnitus), then descended back into the muddle.

He was not quite sure whether something was meant to happen or not. Anxiety swung his head in circles.

He eventually drifted off to a fitful, pained sleep.

.

.

It was morning when he next woke, and though the world had sharpened into visual clarity it was still a world where moving even to breath brought pain, and nothing was recognised. He thought he ought to be more worried than what he was: that it was bad how he could not remember how he had arrived here, where here was, or even what here was. But he was just so tired, sore, and even arranging thoughts into order seemed like far too much effort. Putting one hand to his face – sharp, sharp agony – he felt bandages under his fingers, wrapped around his skull and over one eye. Confusion bubbled unpleasantly in his chest as he saw his arm also bandaged neatly, only then recognised the feel of heavy medication. Hospital? But this wasn’t a hospital, that was clear enough even to a struggling mind.

He should know hospitals. He’d been in enough of them, hadn’t he? Patient, but from what? School, what school? Medical school, which one? He was a doctor, yes. Who were his colleagues? But hadn’t he been with the police at one point? The army?

When he opened his mouth his voice emerged as a withered mutter, barely a gasp crawling from a raw throat, and he coughed dryly. Pain flared up his chest and he dimly labelled at least some of his ribs as broken.

Footfall in the hallway and the plain white door creaked open before he could muster a response more appropriate than bleariness. The person looked at him. Who was it? He didn’t recognise him.

“John?” the man said, tone some sort of happy, and John thought that he should know how but for his brain refusing to cooperate. The man stood in the doorway, eager sharp eyes and black hair, dressed in smart navy. It was familiar but frustratingly slowly, like half recognising an actor from one film to the next. Something primal, something that set his heart quickening, rose from the back of his mind.

John furrowed his brow, mouth open again but too dry and with no words to speak. The man’s expression morphed into something else. Curiosity, perhaps. Something in John wanted to say worry but it really, really didn’t look like worry. It looked like how someone would examine at a fascinating, anomalous specimen in a Petri dish, or in a laboratory rat cage.

Coughing harshly again John curled around his burning ribs, grinding his teeth as the movement jerked the rest of his body into fresh pain. Tears gathered, unwilling, into clenched eyes. The man was forgotten as the world condensed into a blinding ball of agony and bewilderment. Even reduced to helplessness he was too prideful to think fear, and he brushed that away as angrily as he could. When he finally felt his abused muscles relax it seemed like an age had passed and he was exhausted, ready to fall back to sleep, if sleep would come.

Something was pressing on his forehead, something cool, and opening his eyes John eagerly and automatically reached out for the glass of water presented to him. Another hand supported the bottom and prevented it all from spilling