Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Stargate: Atlantis save the plotline of this story and all original characters who appear. Any resemblance between these original characters and any other person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not the intent of the author.

Author's Note: This is another of what I'm starting to call "prayer meeting epiphanies." This one came to me in the middle of Friday night prayer last week and wouldn't leave me alone. So, while I work on Postlude and plod along with that story, I am also working feverishly on this one to get it out and on paper. :) I plan to post three times a week on this, though I'm not certain if it'll be M, W, F or T, Th, S. Also so you know, there's a lot in my RL that's going on right now, which affects how I write. I pray it doesn't interfere too terribly as I'm amazingly excited about this story. As always, a huge thank you goes out to theicemenace for her patience in beta-ing the work as well as brainstorming the idea. The same thank you goes out to Ani-maniac494 for the same things. Enjoy! ~lg

oOo

His eyes fluttered open and promptly clenched shut against the light. He let out a deep breath, feeling the ache in his chest as he did so. It grew the longer he remained awake, as did the pain in his head. Feeling brave enough to try again, he forced his eyelids open and squinted as he looked around.

He lay in a bed under a window, flat on his back so that the light poured over his entire body. He felt the warmth from the sunshine and was grateful for the light blanket. Turning his head slowly, he saw that movable screens had been placed on either side of his bed, leaving his feet exposed to the ward. He lifted his head, trying to look around, and couldn't stop the groan from escaping. Other beds filled the large, bright room, though he saw no other patients in this hospital. And no sounds other than distant voices and the occasional rattle reached his ears.

Dropping his head back on the pillow, he took stock of his injuries. He'd been hit in the head. Or so he thought. And his ribs hurt. Something had been wrapped around his midsection, and his hands moved to feel the gauze there. His eyes turned every which way, taking in the paned window above his head, dappled with shade from a tree, and the ceramic and mosaic tile that covered the floor and part of the way up the walls.

"Hello?" His voice echoed.

No one answered his call.

"Helloooo?" He held out the final syllable a little longer, working to keep himself calm. He couldn't remember anything about his situation, and that frightened him. He clearly knew this was a hospital, but things like how he got here and why he was here just refused to come to mind.

Still, no one answered his call.

Panic bubbled in his chest, but he pushed it down. It would only make him unreasonable. He needed a clear head if he was to figure out where he was. Ignoring the pain and grinding his teeth to keep the groan from escaping, he used his elbows to push himself into an upright position. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he blinked at his bare feet. Where were his shoes? Or shouldn't slippers be available at least?

Placing his feet on the cold floor, he took a deep breath and held his ribs as he pushed himself to his feet. He wore little more than a pair of boxers, but the white gauze covered much of his torso. He spied a robe hanging on a peg next to the bed and slowly reached for it. Taking several deep breaths against the pain, he pulled the robe around his shoulders and tied it around his waist. By the time he accomplished this, he was ready to collapse back into bed. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he steadied himself on the built-in cabinet that held a large, metal bowl.

Once he'd taken a few moments to recover some strength, he attempted his first step. He managed two more steps before his legs gave out and he crashed to the ground. This time, he wasn't able to keep the cry from escaping as his injured ribs jarred on the hard floor. The screen on that side of the bed—the one he'd used to try and catch himself—tipped over and clattered as it, too, bounced to the ground. The commotion upset the metal bowl, and it added its own unique tone to the clatter.

Lying on the floor, he tried to regain his breath and climb back to his feet. But he was unable to do more than attempt to roll over before footsteps sounded. He twisted his head in time to see a woman wearing a white, ankle-length dress with a high collar rush through the door. She had a square white cap on her head, and her brown hair was pulled into a bun at the back of her head. He smiled slightly, figuring he might try a little charm. "Mind helpin' a guy out?"

She gave him an exasperated look. "You shouldn't be out of bed."

"Ah. . .yeah, about that." He accepted her help, surprised at her strength—or was it his weakness?—as he draped an arm over her shoulder. "I called, but no one answered." He ended his explanation with a grunt as he jarred his ribs.

She didn't answer him as she helped him settle back into bed. Rather than taking his robe, she simply pulled the blanket over his feet. "Remain here. I will get the doctor."

"Yeah, but. . . ."

She left before he could say much more.

Rather than lying down, he propped himself up on his elbows, again ignoring the pain in favor of looking around. Now that one of the screens partitioning his bed was down, he saw that he was the only patient in this ward. The door had been left open, and he saw several other women pass, wearing the same type of clothing as his nurse. Finally, that particular lady returned, trailed by a man wearing a tweed suit. Two more nurses rushed into the room and began setting things to rights.

The man came over to the bed, his bushy beard parting in a smile. "You are a stubborn one."

"Ah. . .yeah. Listen, I have a lot of questions." He lay back down, allowing the doctor to examine him. Once the painful exam was complete, he frowned. "Where am I?"

"You are in the veteran's hospital of Talgrom. You were brought here a week ago, severely injured and unconscious. It seems you took the concussive blast of a grenade rather than allowing your comrades to take it."

He blinked. Why couldn't he recall any of this? "Grenade?"

"Yes." The doctor settled on the edge of the bed in lieu of a chair. "I warned your comrades that you might have greater injuries than what we already found. There's just so much about the mind that we don't know. Maybe you can tell us your name? Where you're from?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came to mind. No name. No home. No place of birth. Nothing. He frowned and stared at the doctor.

The doctor scowled. "You remember nothing?"

He tried to answer, to say that he remembered more than waking here. But everything was just. . .blank. Gone.

The doctor's face cleared. "Well, your comrades have already told us that you are called 'Evan.'"

"That's my name?" he asked.

The doctor nodded.

Evan. It was as good a name as any, he supposed. He looked at the doctor. "Tell me how I got here."

oOo

Dr. Jennifer Keller waited in her office as Sheppard and his team walked through the door. She didn't want to appear too eager, but she needed news. Wanted news. Anything would be better than this not knowing.

He'd been gone for two weeks now. Two long weeks without his dry wit and blue eyes to make her blush. Two weeks during which Colonel Sheppard emptied the city in search of his second-in-command. Two weeks during which she'd wondered if she'd made a mistake.

Sheppard headed her way, a scowl darkening his face. "Hey, Doc."

"Colonel." She offered a small smile. "Have you found anything?"

"No." He shrugged, his glare melting away when he saw her and shifting to something resembling sympathy. "We've searched every planet in the area and found nothing. Not even his transponder signal."

She allowed herself to feel the impact of those words. If Evan's subcutaneous transponder had been removed, then he was likely in the hands of someone far more advanced than the people on the planet where he'd gone missing.

Sheppard obviously saw that thought cross her face. He reached out and took her elbow. "Hey, we're gonna find him."

"I know." She met Sheppard's eyes. "It's just. . . ."

"You two were close."

"Yeah." Jennifer refused to blush, but she couldn't stop the way her heart raced at the thought that Evan Lorne would walk through the door any second. Just seeing him would be enough for her to throw herself in his arms and ignore the gossip and stares and consequences.

Sheppard nodded. "I'm sorry I don't have better news."

"You'll find him," she said, nodding as she spoke. She wished she could convince herself of that.

"We won't give up until we do." Sheppard left her then, something Jennifer appreciated. She didn't want him to see how she escaped to her office let out the tears that had threatened for two weeks.

When Evan first went missing, she'd assumed it would be like any other time. He'd be gone for a day or two and return in the company of his team, a little worse for the wear. Nothing could have prepared her for his two-week absence. And it looked to get much longer. Jennifer refused to think about why it mattered that he was gone, but she couldn't quite get his face out of her mind.

Where was he? When Colonel Sheppard returned to the planet after his last mission, they'd been told he'd gone through the gate. Of course, the city had been war-torn and in ruins. The intelligence was sketchy, at best, and Sheppard stayed in orbit long enough to get some readings. Lorne's transponder was not transmitting, something that could indicate it had been cut out of his arm or that he'd been shocked with a massive amount of electricity. Or that he was dead.

Jennifer let out a deep breath at that possibility. He wasn't dead. He couldn't be dead. Not when she still felt his warm arms around her as he kissed her intently.

Her face heated, and she scrubbed at the tears that had escaped. She'd resolved not to think about that night in the infirmary, but it came out in small moments. Part of her regretted her actions, knowing that she'd been tired from an exhausting day. The other part of her, the woman in her, knew she wanted to experience that every day for the rest of her life. But she and Evan had gone back to the way things were, always ignoring the pink and purple polka dotted elephant sitting in the room with them. Even his team refused to comment, though they hovered like brothers when she left the infirmary.

They were going to find him. They had to find him. Jennifer refused to entertain any other thoughts on the matter.

oOo

Night had fallen some time ago, and Evan still did not sleep. He'd been moved to a different bed in the same ward, one with a chair next to it now that he was awake. He felt the stiffness brought on by days on his back, and his ribs ached from the jarring they'd taken when he fell. But he could now get out of bed and sit up for a while.

The moonlight played over the sheets on the bed, creating shadows and valleys in the darkness. I watched my leaden soldiers go, with different uniforms and drills, among the bed-clothes, through the hills. . . . Evan frowned at the wisp of a poem, wishing he could recall the rest of it. But his mind refused to unlock its secrets.

Earlier that day, the doctor, whose name Evan had forgotten, told him that his memories may not return. It was an iffy situation, and Evan had been left with the impression that he could be restored to his normal self at any possible moment. Anything, even the smallest breeze that triggers a memory, could be the catalyst. Had that happened tonight? Was there something familiar about this time of night that unlocked his subconscious? Was it the woman whose face he could still see? Or was he imaging a woman who no longer lived? Or one who didn't exist?

The questions multiplied as he stared at the sheets on the bed. The woman was alive. He was sure of it. And he would find her one day.

Rather than returning to bed, he reached for the tablet of paper next to his bed. The doctor had left it, saying he may want to write some things down as he remembered. He grabbed up the pencil and held it, poised to capture whatever came to mind. Instead, after writing down the poetic snippet, he began doodling.

His dreams had awakened him. He'd heard shouts, felt heat, knew thirst. The doctor said this might happen, that he may have flashbacks until he fully remembered. At least they weren't treating him like the enemy. He'd halfway expected them to lock him in prison rather than giving him a bed with a much better view.

As he though, he doodled. His mind wandered, thinking over his dream. He'd seen himself doing things that he couldn't comprehend, setting small, round objects in the ground. Shouting orders. But he could never discern what he said. He'd seen his face in the mirror when the nurse shaved him. It was lined in places, indicating that he smiled a lot but had also seen many different horrors. War? Or something smaller?

The woman appeared on his paper, and Evan frowned. Her smile made her eyes sparkle, and his mind added coloring to the sketch. Who was she? Why did her blond hair stir such a longing in him to return to his home? Where was his home?

Setting aside the pad, Evan pushed to his feet and shuffled over to the window. Looking out, he saw an immaculate lawn dotted with trees that shaded benches. His nurse had hinted that he may be allowed out there tomorrow, when the day warmed. Maybe something about his life would jar into place.

Glancing back at the bed, he let out another breath. Did he stand here at the window and stare out at the night? Or did he try to sleep again? He turned from the window and slipped into bed. This hospital was quiet at night, with only the occasional voice interrupting. He should be able to sleep.

So why was he so restless?

Turning the tablet so he could see the picture, he smiled. He saw this woman clearly in his mind. And he knew she meant something to him. But what? His mind conjured images of her as she gazed up at him, her brown eyes startled and lips parted. In his daydream, he kissed her, and she responded in kind.

Evan closed his eyes against the daydream, knowing it was really a memory, something that had been taken from him. And he could torture himself by trying to remember who she was and what was so important about this woman. He refused to do that. He needed to get better. Needed to recover. Then, and only then, could he entertain thoughts about returning home to the one woman who meant the world to him.

But, when he returned home—wherever that was—would she still be waiting for him?

Pushing the thought out of his head, he stared at the ceiling until he fell asleep.

~TBC

Author's Note II: The wisp of a poem is from Robert Louis Stevenson's "The Land of Counterpane."