A/N: Before I begin, here are a few important points regarding this multifandom crossover fic:

Firstly, this storyline has been plotted by two people: My bestfriend and I – out of complete fangirlism. We started out with a simple One Tree Hill after-show follow-up storyline. But then we ended up adding more characters from other shows, which turned out to be really good.

Secondly, if you do not follow characters of some of these fandoms (mentioned below), then needn't worry. Everything about every little character will perfectly be explained here.

Thirdly, this fanfiction is a crossover of 7 fandoms:
Harry Potter.
Sherlock.
One Tree Hill.
Grey's Anatomy.
The Vampire Diaries.
The Originals. (- also a single character from a newly released show 'Containment' – Jake, played by Christopher Wood, formerly known as Kai Parker in the vampire diaries).

Fourthly, we have included sketches and quotes for every chapter. Since my bestfriend is a brilliant artist and she generously volunteered, so I'm grateful.

This series specifically goes out for her and her love for fiction and attachment to characters and series – and how she's a pure ravenclaw and she's full of brilliance. Love you GK!

(Happy reading guys.)

CHAPTER – 1.

"Charles Bukowski once wrote; 'there will always be something to ruin our lives – it all depends on what or which finds us first. You're always ripe and ready to be taken." (Lucas Scott's narration)

I felt completely and utterly naked. That's all there was to it. My eyes, obscured by soot that was caked on my eyelids for what felt like, several hours. My throat felt like a mere tube of rough sand-paper – full of ashes that I might have swallowed. My back was being caressed by cold concrete. I could hear an animal howl in the distance, its plaintive squeak melding into the gentle susurrus of nightfall. I slowly got up, ignoring the throbbing pain on a wound on my back. Though, I slowly tried to wipe unusual ashes off it but - Oh Bloody Hell, it seemed to burn even more. I realized that it was full moon as I looked up – meaning wolves must be out, strolling about.

I looked down to examine myself. Cold, excruciating wind was hitting against my bare body like sea waves breaking against rocks on a shore. My fingers were curled around a dark, rectangular object. It seemed like a book, though it had empty pages. I saw at once that it was a diary, and the faded year on the cover that I couldn't make out (– I don't remember a thing about myself or anything, for that matter). I opened it eagerly. On the first page, I could just make out the name "T M. Riddle" in smudged ink.

Several questions started surging across my mind. Who is this T.M. Riddle? But most of all, who am I? Where on earth am I? – And why was I partially buried inside a pile of ashes?

I quickly started walking down the same old deserted road because I could not manage to think straight in this cruelly cold weather. Maybe it's nearly November – given that most of the leaves were slowly losing their grips on tree-branches.

They were fascinating – those trees – besieged on both sides of the road. Symmetry so strong, you cannot point out any difference. Even air was hostile by a gliding sweet pine-scent – giving you an early Christmassy feeling. I didn't mind. They looked pleasant.

My trail of thoughts slowly faded away as another series of wind hit my uncovered body and I crossed my arms, covering my chest – still shivering. Every bare feet step was like walking on a bed made of cold needles. I was helpless, my stomach was growling, I was hungry – which wasn't exactly helping, given to these frequent horrid nasal discharges. Besides, I didn't know what to think, or what to do. I just kept walking, hoping to find a shelter.

Suddenly, two faint lights appeared before me. So bright, that I had to cover my eyes for a while. It looked like a vehicle, with red and blue lights hovering circularly on its top. An interesting looking man climbed out. His clothing was rather defined. He was dressed in heavy midnight blue, lots of buttons embedded on his shirt, but they didn't quite look like buttons. There was a trophy shaped brooch clung to his left chest, I could make out that there were three stars on it. There was an interesting-looking rectangular box fixed on his shoulder, connected to a wire.

That man slowly pulled out a sorcery from the back pocket of his pants and said "Sir, I want you to put your hands up, and do as I say." – his voice flocculent and permissive. I didn't know what he was specifically holding, but the way he was pointing it at me, I assumed that it may harm me.

He moved a few steps closer to me; I could clearly see his facial features now. Structured bones, mollifying jaw line, eyes so intensely blue – not the sky-blue kind that you often see – but heavy and electric blue. I couldn't put a finger on a comparison that appeared before my thoughts. His hair: messy and blonde. So very blonde that it would take you to a field of wheat before the reaping – truly golden. His physique was well-structured, his arms were voluptuous and he was taller than me. His name in a tag was also clearly visible: 'Deputy Matt Donovan.'

I could finally make out the fact that I can read. Maybe this gentleman knows who I am, but my epiphany was torn when he asked "May I know your name, sir?"

"I.. I don't know" I stuttered.
His facial expressions told me that he didn't believe me. Oh well.

"And what are you doing out here, naked?" he asked again, this time, making his voice sound cold.

"I don't know that either" I told him.
"You can quit playing games, tell me who you are because the more time you take, more chances that you freeze and possibly die." He said, flatly.

"Look, I told you I don't know my name, I have no idea where am I – because I'm not a lunatic who fancies strolling about in a cold road without clothes" I replied with a heavy voice, that seemed to take so much energy that I started shaking again.

I heard him sigh.

"Sir, I will need you to slowly turn around, get on your knees and follow my instructions. You have a right to remain silent. Anything you say, can and will be used against you in a court of law."

I was hostile. Sighing, I turned around and kneeled.

"You're injured!" I heard his voice go berserk. Mouthing on that rectangular box on his shoulder, he quickly said "Deputy Donovan, en route #247, a man is injured, I need backup."

(George O'Malley's POV)

Dodging on and about, from one patient to another seemed to be taking my pace. Late night ER shift – and obvious hypothermia cases were flooding quite a lot. I mentioned 'obvious', because the place I just moved to - has a beach, yet this coastal land still gets the best of winter as it arrives. I liked this place. Tree Hill is a small town in North Carolina; you cannot see busy crowds anywhere, just suburbia and peace.

I sat in a broad hallway stretcher, as I realized that I was done making rounds on all ER cases – hooked them up with meds, shots and paged attendings for consults. Everything was quite now, and so, my trail of thoughts began. It was a lonely night; Cristina is usually here with me on night shifts. But hail Dr. Bonnie Bennett for changing our schedule and keeping me away from bossy, controlling Cristina, even though she's my friend. Now all I have with me is a senior intern, Damon Salvatore, who doesn't really bother with cases and sleeps his way to all the shifts. But I didn't mind, as long as I'm taking charge.

Back in Seattle Grace, I began my intern year with anxious excitement, combined with fear of making mistakes and not knowing what to do in emergent situations. My first rotation was the Cardiac Acute Care Unit (CACU) night float, one of the most dreaded rotations among interns because of the horror stories passed on by our predecessors. I still wonder if I truly irritated Dr. Miranda Bailey at orientation to be blessed with this specific rotation as my first. She is scary.

On day 1, I arrived to the unit coming off the high of being a newly minted doctor – Dr. Teddy Altman. My white coat was blindingly white, clean and crisp, reflective of the naivete of its bearer. Undoubtedly, every intern has a solid knowledge base: You've passed the boards, graduated from medical school, seen and examined patients before. But on this first day as a doctor, you are tossed to the wolves - whether those are patients, families, nurses, fellows, or attending physicians. Except for Cristina – who had no problem if she has to wrong an attending herself.

As the words to a song by the band Metric reverberated in my head, I felt like I knew nothing and that the wolves might eat me alive. As an intern on CACU night float, you are flying solo. You have a senior resident, fellow, and the formal chain of command, but you are first in line to the patients and nurses, and the nonstop pages come to you. It's no longer practice, and decisions are real. The "What would a doctor do?" mentality quickly becomes "What will I do next?"

I've been through the gamut of what I thought were worst-case scenarios, from accidental code blue responses to Dr. Erica Hahn (never really liked her, never will) – all the way to frightening arrhythmias that had me reviewing advanced cardiovascular life support protocols on every shift as contingency plans.

At the beginning, I thought every case of chest pain in the CACU was a myocardial infarction. I encountered patients whose hearts were like hammers in atrial fibrillation, or patients whose frightening V-tach runs felt like runaway trains. I was constantly on edge, preparing myself to make sure no one died or seriously worsened under my watch. (Before I started night float, someone told me I would be merely babysitting the day-team's patients. That person was mistaken.)

Don't get me wrong: Intern year so far has been gratifying and enlightening, especially with my friends – Izzie Stevens, Cristina Yang and Alex Karev. It's exciting to see years of learning slowly but surely come into practice. Each day, I've become less freaked out by middle-of-the-night complaints of chest pain. I've learned to run through algorithms in my head quickly and efficiently to figure out what the real emergencies are. I relieved my own palpitations to arrive at a reasonable level of stress. Thanks to my mentor attendings – who actually seemed to believe in me at times.

My trail of thoughts vanished as I saw main gates of Davis-Sawyer ER burst open. Hall was filled with para-medics and cops. A man lying face-down on a stretcher was brought in, his injury on his back seemed gruesome – which gave me a certain adrenaline rush.

I immediately started asking questions and asked my new junior intern, Dr. Caroline Forbes to fill the chart. But all I got from Deputy was "John Doe? He doesn't remember anything, we have no information yet"

Caroline stood back to clear the crowd that surrounded across that man's rabid stretcher. I slowly made him lie on his back as I observed Caroline from the corner of my eyes – who was apparently strong enough to push away the crowd. It seemed unnatural sometimes. A fragile looking woman can lift heavy machinery equipments and overloaded med boxes. The other day, I couldn't make a woman turn on her side, but Caroline managed to do it within seconds. That woman surprises me.

Meanwhile, I heard this man groan and I looked down at him. It was my cue now.

Okay George, calm down. Remember what Dr. Bailey told you – med school does not teach you how to deal with death – just all measures to keep people living. There was no chapter to read and memorize, no evidence-based algorithm to run through. All that was left was checking the patient for signs of life, making the appropriate calls.

Alright, so he doesn't remember anything. Maybe amnesia from a concussion, but I don't see any head injuries. Take a look at his wound, George.

I turned him over to check on his injuries. A sudden bolt of shock spread across my body, as though I've been hit by a bus. Instead, there was a mere scratch on his back. How could it be? Moments ago, I could've sworn that he was brutally injured. I couldn't believe my eyes. I stood motionless for several minutes.

"Dr. O'Malley?" I heard Deputy Donovan's voice. "What is wrong?"

I looked at him, gulped and pointed him towards John Doe.

(Lucas Scott's POV)

Only next morning, I got up to do my usual routine. Jogged across two blocks and made my way to the river court. I tossed a few balls onto the net, slowly thinking of ways to work on my writer's block. I've been meaning to write on something specific this year. Well, I wouldn't call it a year, since its past thanksgiving and I have a month and a half till the actual deadline.

However, the publishing firm I'm working with has a way of noticing things – let alone my work so far, which is nil. So out of not having the decency to fire me, they recently assigned to me a new editor with a weird name. Though, they want me to consider this editor as more of an advisor in writing credit – than just a normal editor. Meaning, I'll have an intruder with self-claimed opinions. But on second thought, maybe I'm being too judgmental.

"Early morning, Luke?" said Mouth McFadden, sitting on a wooden picnic bench in a corner. It came to my thought that he must be sitting there for a while, and I failed to notice.

"Hey Mouth" I greeted him, as I tossed another ball onto the basketball net "aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"It's Saturday" he reminded me. "Besides, I've taken up a couple of shifts in Karen's café this week, so I'm just here to kill some time"

"Had a fight with Millicent?" I casually asked him. Since Mouth wasn't a guy who specifically liked sitting alone in solitude.

"She said that we don't have that kind of money for playstation – so I'm just working extra to get one. Don't tell her, or Brooke" he warned me.

I laughed. "Good going, McFadden. See you later, eh?"

To his nod of certain approval, I turned back and began jogging. This time, avoiding St Claflin road that usually led me home, I turned to Calvin Harbor Street, jogging across the sidewalk that was laid before a stretched out sand bed. I took a deep breath, taking in a slow, occasional sea breeze and turned to gaze at the ocean.

It was beautiful. I was always fascinated by the way the waves softly crashed against the rocks, their curling fingers brushing each stone with a gentle caress as the wind ushered them gently against the shore. The way sun shone off the rippling water, it's golden light warped in the twisted glass waves. No description can truly capture this sight.

E.E. Cummings once wrote; The Ocean is everything that young minds want to be. Beautiful, mysterious, wild and free.

Not long, till I realized that I got off the shore and several shops had started appearing. Still jogging, I walked past a cross to enter in one. I paused to catch my breath, both hands cupping my knees. I quickly looked up at this grand building that stood before me, which used to be my mother's café back in high school. 'Clothes over Bros' written in block metallic letters, big enough to draw attention of people as soon as it came to their sight.

I entered CoB, and sighed deeply in a vast air conditioned hall. Though, I did feel out of place since I was dressed in sweat soaked ¾ pants and a Scott Body Shop hoodie that was worn out, and a plug of my earphone was hanging out of my pocket. People shopping in there stared at me in a distasteful manner. I wouldn't blame them. I made my way to the counter and took a long sip of one of those complimentary orange juices all at once.

"I'm sorry sir, I'm afraid that you will have to leave. Those drinks are for – er.. Buyers only." a man with thin british accent, holding up a clipboard and pen approached me. He gave me a disgusting glare. "—and by the looks of your – interesting attire, I'll advice you to visit Randy's thrift shop across the street"

"I'm here to see Brooke" I told him flatly "And who are you?"
"Who are you?" He asked me, his fine british tone came out permissively.

I noticed that he was still scanning me head-to-toe in disagreement. This man had refined brown hair, pale green eyes and an interesting smirk. There was something odd about his smirk. It was malachite and mysterious – not in a pleasant way. His eyes had the power of drawing you into a trance, tranquility. His body structure was normal, somewhat short but appropriate for an average man.

"He's my friend, Jim" Brooke addressed, standing in a corner wall, leaning against it while crossing her arms. She was wearing a beige quarter-sleeve blouse, tucked inside an A-line, black pencil skirt that defined her curves. She looked beautiful as always.

Making his way towards me, she said "Lucas, he's my new assistant, Jim"

Jim gave me a condescending, I'll-get you-next-time smile as he coldly said "Right! I'm sorry" his smirk, still visible across the corner of his lips "I'll help out other customers" he said, before leaving. This time his tone was quite high, which I found inhuman.

"So?" Brooke asked me, excitedly.
"So?"
"Isn't he nice?" She asked me.

Oh, cheery, bubbly Brooke Davis.

"He's – very polite" I answered her, sarcastically, not expecting her to understand.

"So what brought you here?"
"Oh, Yeah. I wanted to get your permission to interview psychiatric unit for about a couple of months – there's this new book I'm working on" I told her.

Brooke Davis was one of the richest businesswomen in Tree Hill. To my satisfactory happiness, I saw it coming. She was one of the strongest people, who had more potential than anyone else I've known. From starting a designer chain boutique Clothes Over Bros to sponsoring the biggest teaching hospital here, Davis-Scawyer Charitable Hospital (named after her bestfriend's maiden name, Peyton Sawyer) – she was busy owning the world! She was smart, brilliant and competitive, ofcourse – given to her rivalry with another successor of 'Rachel's', owned by none other than my old high school fling, Rachel Gatina. I wasn't surprised – given to their old high school flame that they had for years.

"I'll make a few calls then" she told me, casually swinging coat hangers from a corner to another "I have a feeling that it's going to be a good read – I mean, boy! An Unkindness Of A Raven was a hit. Especially that I was mentioned" she winked at me, mentioning my former book name that I wrote by the end of high school, inspired by several meaningful events.

"Tell that to Elijah Mikaelson" I sighed.

"Who is this Elijah girl?" he asked, her voice befuddled.

I laughed. "It's a HE. And my new editor, assigned to me a couple of days ago" I told her "Weird name? I know"

"Speaking of genders –" she said, interesting tone in her voice, I knew that it was about to be her sassy version in next arriving seconds "found someone yet? – and note a pushy tone in my voice because I want you to start dating – for the sake of your clothing – you reek."

With a playful tone, I told her "Let's see if I can find messy men then"

"Not with that unhygienic issue, you can't. I wouldn't date you if it came down to it" Jim sang, playfully, like reciting a kid's poem, while writing certain things on his clipboard. I looked back at Brooke with shut-him-up expressions, to which she replied "he's right."

"Oh?" there was enthusiasm in her tone "Are you not excited by vaginas anymore?"

"Well, It's a thing, it's called LGBTQ for a reason. There's B in there, and it doesn't mean 'badass' – okay it kinda does, but it also means bi."

By that reply, Jim took no time to add his second sarcasm of the day and I could tell that I was already starting to get sick of it. But for Brooke, I needed to keep it aside. He said "—no idea what we're going to do with that valuable piece of information."

(Izzie Stevens POV)

Clinical rotations today were like a plane ride. With your head attending eyeing you for hours, doing questionnaires and telling you what and what's not to be done. I try to take things positively, and why shouldn't I? Davis-Sawyer is a teaching hospital, and you teachers certainly won't do teases, especially if your shots and routines are also capable of killing someone. So like a plane – you use to analogy to fly, but mind you – you're not flying it – your attending is doing that for you. You watch and learn from the pilot, every bit of it. But you will also have to be in the cockpit, ahead of everyone. You cannot learn to fly a plane by sitting in the back.

It was lunch break and my friend Cristina Yang was sitting right across the table, munching on potato chips and going on and about nurses and hot residents affairs.

"I'd be crying today if I were you" she told me, while carelessly holding up a grilled cheese sandwich "I mean, Bennett asked you basic questions and you couldn't even answer one. Did you really go to a med school?"

I ignored her like I always do. Cristina tends to mock people on a regular basis and I've grown into it for years now. Don't get me wrong though, she's ahead of all of us. Very hard-working for a doctor of her age. Every attending's favorite, being chosen to assist some of the best clinical trails – which also won awards. In short, she was on a roll. She was also a good friend, but she cared for us even if she wouldn't really admit anything that's remotely emotional or sappy.

"Dude, you need to be pushy" she continued with her mouth stuffed with bread and cheese "yes, it will backfire but it will help you be reasonable and engaged. If not appropriate time to be assertive, stay in the game by mentally asking yourself: what are you gonna do next?" she wasn't finished "I'd be very offended if Bennett ended up telling me what to do."

"Isn't it the whole point of being in a teaching hospital?" I asked her.

"Not when you know everything. I mean, let's just agree, I should single-handedly be promoted. You all act like kids" she told me, simply. Her facial expressions were careless and nonchalant. Her black curly hair bounded back in a ponytail and her leafy asian eyes fixated on that sandwich and she couldn't care any less.

"Hey Izzie, hey robot" we were both greeted by George O'Malley. He was drenched with sweat and smelled like a strong edgy deodorant.

"I prefer 'genius goddess with limited fucks because that keeps people away' but thank you anyway. Though, obviously it's not working because you still talk to me." Cristina added, bread still inside her mouth "what took you so long?"

To that question, I saw George going into his superior gossip mode. Something he tells us on every lunch break or locker room or – between rounds. Which – made me realize that he gossips a lot? But I'm glad that they weren't always fake.

"We have a John Doe" he started. "And cops are all over it. But get this –" he let shifted closer to us, trying not to sound so loud "when he came in last night, he had this gruesome injury on his upper back"

"On scale of 1 to 10, how gruesome?" Cristina interrupted.

"Let me speak –"he told her "So, I took him to ER 4 and turned him over, and guess what?" he drew in closer "all of his injuries were gone – like super vanished"

Cristina stopped paying attention to her food and looked George in the eye with serious expressions, almost trying to mimic that seriousness jokingly, asking him "O'Malley. Where did you find my stash of weed?"

"Oh come on you guys" he threw his hands up in exasperation. "Deputy believes me because he saw that injury too, and they'll do interrogations soon so – just you wait."

Cristina gave him a very sarcastic nod, telling him that she's a goblin and half of her family was raised by centaurs, which only irritated George more and made Cristina laugh. However, I didn't say anything, I was too busy watching them have this spat and somehow, that was refreshing after a tough round in neuro unit.

"You believe me, right?" George turned to me.
"I.. believe that Deputy shouldn't get high while patrolling" – to my reply Cristina laughed even harder and almost offered me a high five but she did not.

"I don't know what is it with you people. I even told Caroline and she wasn't even surprised" he said, taking one of my french-fries.

"Caroline? You mean, mini miss perfect?" Cristina added.
"Give her a break, she's new" I told her.
"Why do you care? – right! I forgot that you're you" she continued "I can bet 50 bucks that she's screwing that guy who sleeps all the time."
"What? You mean Damon Salvatore?" George asked, disbelief in his voice.
"You even know names? Jesus Christ! if you could use this 'extra knowledge' on memorizing charts, I won't be so embarrassed by you both in front of attendings" she added.

To her remark again, we decided to ignore. It was slowly building up like a reflex.

Cristina swallowed last bite of her sandwich with peach smoothie and casually added "think about it. That Salva-whatever is a senior resident – he teaches her his ways – and by ways I mean waaaays" she winked "—along with everything necessary that she already needs to know. This is why she always answers in rounds and does everything correctly. There is no other possible explanation."

"Or, she actually studies." George added.

"Nobody asked you, O'Malley" she replied.

(Jim's POV)

It was almost twilight and the weather outside was pleasant than most days, not that I notice so much about this dump. But specifically today, I decided that I'd walk home. There was no reason. But after weeks in boredom and entering-exiting the same place, same roads, same god-forsaken city – perhaps a tiny change could do something significant to this boring day.

I walked past stores, and then apartments with narrow alleyways. They reminded me of London. But mind you, London is so much better than this bloody speck of dust they call a city. London was profound, barely showed a beam of proper sunlight because of vast vintage buildings – I didn't mind. Who likes those orange-yellow beams of headache? Happy, bubbly people, perhaps. But London had a way of embracing itself for what it truly is, even without any projections of bloody sunlight in most places.

For a moment, I doubted my decision of setting my feet in good ol' US of A.

America is the only nation in history which has gone directly from barbarism to degeneration without the usual interval of civilization. So much for my dislike – which was genuine. If there was ever an aviary overstocked with jays, it is that Yaptouwn on the Hudson called New York. If I owned Texas and hell – I would rent out Texas and live in hell. And ah! California is a fine place to live – if you happen to be an orange. – And Hollywood is most likely a sewer with service from the Ritz.

If only these slurry-accented people could think about anything other than cheeseburgers, world would be full of shock. At least I will be. After bad mouthing the soils of this very nation that I was walking on, it felt really pleasant. I should do this often.

I hadn't realized that the apartments and alleyways slowly closed in on suburbia, where I lived. Series of high picket fences, freshly maintained hedges and recently mowed lawns had now sided with the sidewalk that I was walking on. A surplus of chimneys badly built at jaunty angles stuck out preposterously, giving all the roofs a look of an eccentric party hat. Roofs were pitched at such a sharp angle that no roofer had dared to go on one of them to repair the missing slate tiles that had blown off in November's storm. Front windows had large bays, giving their owners lots of opportunities for curtain watching. A narrow road besieged by sidewalks, bordered on each side by a trail of suburban houses.

I sighed at the sight of teenage boys, tossing a ball outside their houses. Bloody wankers. Ever since I moved in around the block, they would not miss a single day to drop their lousy foul-mouthed remarks on me. I usually ignore. Because they don't know what I can do to them.

"Oi ello" a blonde one faked my accent, as I walked on "would you like some biscuits with your tea?"
Other boys wasted no time in siding with his stupid, morbid laugh. But as usual, I continued to give no damn. If they ran like their mouths, they'd be in good shape. I'm not implying that they're fat, but if I were to pick the 5 fattest people I know, they'd be 15 of them.

Very soon, I was far ahead from where they were standing and I let out a sigh in annoyance.

"That's right, walk on faggot" – these sentences came echoing to my ears from the very same distance and I turned around. I took no time in walking up to them, those abominations in the name of kids. I didn't know if I should doubt their upbringing or the fact that they were bloody retarded.

After a couple of minutes, my face was only a few inches away from the blonde one.

"You shouldn't be so disrespectful, boy" I told him whilst an unrecognizable smirk appeared on the corner of my lips.

They laughed again. Plain on my face, so carelessly. I pitied them. I pitied them for not knowing what was about to come next and for not knowing how their lifetimes are going to be – full of regrets. I carefully folded up the sleeves of my plain white shirt, as they continued their foolish laughs, not paying much attention.

I punched him with my average blow, causing that little twat to fall on his back, covering his face. But in a matter of minutes, all of these loons came on me with the best they had. I punched every single one of them, shoved my elbow towards their guts. Though, I couldn't ignore the fact that they got me too, one punched my face and the other managed to make me kneel. I couldn't help but smile more. I didn't know why.

"Hey!" a heavy voice came from afar "knock it off, all of you!"

In a matter of minutes, all of them backed away and ran off. Cowards. But my eyes were precisely looking at the man in police uniform. Even with a bleeding nose, I took my time in scanning that body from head to toe. He indeed had the bluest eyes I'd ever seen.

He helped me up and slightly dusted away the dirt off my shoulders, asking "are you okay?"

I coughed a little and then I looked up at him. Concern and appetence were clouding his eyes so genuinely, anyone could read his face.

"It's rude to interrupt, officer" I told him before I walked away "let that be a lesson to you someday."

(Matt Donovan's POV)

I couldn't fathom the source of this case. A man found on a deserted road, severely injured and no memories about who he was – that's exactly what I remembered. I do not doubt my memory for rare occasions like this. From hunting down supernatural bloodsuckers to petty local thefts, I have conquered them all with good instincts and retentions. I wasn't going to make myself believe that my sense of recollection of memories is foul.

My colleague and detective, Jake Riley stood beside me in room 205 of Davis-Sawyer hospital. Right in front of our John Doe. For questions, hints – whatever he could give us and whatever we could make of them.

On this private ward the atmosphere was completely different. The air had a perfumed scent and the seats were plush. Every surface was dustless and sterilized. The nurses were unhurried and they moved with a serene purposefulness from room to room on their rounds. There were vases of flowers and framed pictures of art on the walls.

"Okay, mister, let's name you John Doe for now" I told him, flipping pages of his newly arranged case file which was full of legal forms and picture clippings.

"Why that name?" he asked.

Jake and I looked at each other. The fact that we didn't know why, seemed wrong. But then again, nobody else ever seemed to ask and I was never that curious.

"It's a name we commonly give to an unidentified person" Jake simplified it for him.

"Alright, let's start" I finally said, clicking my pen and Jake seated himself across the bed from John.

"Do you remember anything from last night?" I asked.
"Last night? Yes"
"And anything from the night before?"

He nodded in disagreement.

"Okay" Jake started "you have a british accent. Did you try and recall that maybe, say – your birthplace is somewhere in UK? Or Ireland? Scotland? Anywhere near?"

"I do not even know my name, how can I possibly find out where I'm from?" he replied in an obvious exasperation.

Door of his room opened with a thud, a man with sandy blonde hair in plaid shirt stood in confused expressions as he said "uhm.. I'm Luca–" I interrupted him, telling him to either leave or wait outside, as there was an official police interrogation going on. He nodded and left the room, and our focus was turned back to John.

Jake held out a book with black cover that was taken as evidence from where I seized John. I couldn't make out what was written on its title, the ink was profusely smudged. Unrecognizable to human eyes. It had blank pages. Not a drop of ink or stray marks of a pencil or a pen was found. Just pale pages.

"Do you recognize this?" Jake asked.
"No" John replied, simply.

"But you had it with you" he said
"I don't know how I got it" John replied. His expressions dazed and confused.

"Tell us what we can believe" said Jake

"I told you, I know nothing. Stop asking me about it over and over" John was irritated.

To anyone's surprise, my colleague had quite a temper. But I'm glad he took my don't-lash-out lectures in consideration before we headed for interrogations. He was known to pick bar fights and land with disagreements in streets and alleyways to whoever 'mistakenly' bumped into him. It was a hard deal, trying to calm him down. But his mind still remained untamed.

I could still see expressions of frown on Jake's face. He really needed to work on his tolerance level. But for now, I knew that it was time to take him out of there before PD could add 'assault' to his file. I closed John's case file carefully and grabbed my badge off the table. "That's enough for today" I told Jake "come on, time to leave."

(Lucas Scott's POV)

Accident and emergency, wide entrance with automatic sliding glass doors, ambulances lined up outside, paramedics wheeling in patients on trolleys, one was a child in a neck brace, patients in pain screaming in corridors – doctors came running. I talked to the first nurse; she gave me a care card number and a wrist band and asked me to wait for an intern to lead me to the patient's room. An hour went by, ambulances kept arriving, more emergency cases – a woman was short of breadth and gasping. Another hour went by – still no sight of an intern. I guess I was low on priority. I overheard someone saying that they've been waiting for 5 hours. More ambulances came in – a man who sat next to me threw up on his shoes. A panic stricken woman came in, carrying a toddler and she pushed in the queue to see the first nurse, child slumped in her arms.

Finally after hours of waiting, a woman in short blonde hair and pale blue scrubs appeared asking "Are you Lucas Scott?"

I nodded in agreement.

"I'm Dr. Isabelle Stevens, please follow me" she told me.

I followed her to a corridor. It was stuffy and the air had an undertone of bleach. Walls were magnolia and were scraped in places from the hundreds of trolleys that bumped into them. Pictures on the walls were cheap benign prints of uplifting scenes and above the double doors were large blue plastic signs with wings of hospital which stretched ahead.

We finally reached to the entrance of room number 205 and Dr. Stevens left soon after giving me a friendly nod. I thanked her and turned back to twist the doorknob. There were voice inside, gave me the idea that this patient wasn't alone.

I ducked my head inside and saw two policemen. One was sitting by a couch, holding a book – and the other one was standing with a file and scribbling something on it. They both had heard me come on, ofcourse and I thought that I should start by introducing myself and why was I here. I quickly said "uhm.. I'm Luc—"

"This is a police interrogation sir, please leave or wait outside" officer with wheat-blonde hair said politely, and I nodded – slowly shutting the door behind me.

I sighed. Honestly, I was tired of waiting. But I hoped that whatever I was going into was worth the wait. Over the years, I worked on a lot of books. Fiction, mystery, fantasy – candidly, I was tired of using my imagination to reach the extent of my stories. I wanted to write something beyond fiction, something real. – And ultimately I decided that I'd go for non-fiction. Not about any famous personality or a legend. I wanted my book to be raw and unwilted. About someone who was struggling in the conscience of his own mind, and not the word. What can be more vigor than patients of psych ward? Maybe they had a story that they're willing to share.

Moments later, both police men walked out, ignoring that I was standing there at all.

I looked back and twisted the door knob again. I entered and there was a slender man with wildly curly hair sitting upright on a wheeled-bed that looked like an upgrade of a stretcher. I was told that he hardly recall his name so he is John Doe.

His facial features were detailed and defined. His lips were small, but in a very attractive way. I couldn't make out the color of his eyes. They were dark. But not pitch-black – just dark as those pine cones that autumn never sears. His hair was very different from normal curly hair. They were messy – naturally organized in a profound way. Like waves of an ocean – every lock placed side by side, and just like the unidentified color of his eyes – his hair were as dark as shadows.

By the looks of his facial expressions, he seemed exasperated and annoyed. I assumed that policemen had their way with him very harshly. Which, I thought was wrong. If you have to interrogate a patient in a psych ward – the key is to be sensitive and calm towards them. But then again, their profession hardly allows professionalism.

I could see John twitching his eyes profusely, like he had a hard time struggling with something inside.

"Hi, I'm Lucas Scott" I said, softly.

He looked at me. Now I could see his eyes clearly. They were the darkest shade of brown – as if someone blended honey and brown sugar smoothly. – And they twinkled, even under dim lights, like shooting stars in a brown colored sky – right after twilight.

"Please go away. I don't wish to talk to anyone at this hour" he straight up, replied. He had smooth british accent, his voice was full of courtesy, which reminded me of Elijah. Though there was a difference between these two – Elijah's accent consumed etiquette and humbleness. Whereas, John's accent was plain courteous and handsome. It's strange how different people have their own different personas.

"If you can just spare me a couple of minutes –"I tried to tell him, gently but he seemed to lose his temper. It was strange. He seemed so calm a minute ago, and now all I could read on his face was frown and annoyance.

Within a couple of minutes, his body started shaking horribly – like he couldn't control it. His pupils rolled back to his skull and he fell back with a thud. His eyelids were repeatedly blinking, his movements jerked like someone else was causing it. His lips smacked and his hands wriggled. His skin was slowly turning pale.

As shiver ran down my spine, I was startled at this sight. For a moment, I couldn't move – but seconds later I rushed outside to get a nurse. Hopefully I found a man in pale blue scrubs with messy curly hair, who also seemed like an intern similar to Dr. Stevens. I quickly urged him to get inside and do something about it.

He quickly ran inside and grabbed John by his arm and gently placed him righteously, while paging other people. In a matter of time, tons of people with green scrubs rushed inside – I supposed they were nurses. I had no idea what was happening. All I could hear were medical terms like "push of dose of Lamictal" and "a shot of topamax – quick!"

Rest, was a blur.

(Matt Donovan's POV)

It was past midnight. After evening patrolling duty, I was tired as hell. I was never this tired but there was something about this day that felt a little irksome. Perhaps, the temperature drop. It was almost thanksgiving and I could see departmental and gift shops loaded with people in their mid thirties and a couple of young adults. Slowly observing the streets, I parked my car beside Tric – my usual bar, ever since I moved in to Tree Hill, which wasn't long ago.

I entered the bar which was supposedly made on the first floor, instead of ground. On the second floor, there was a recording studio called 'Red Bedroom', which was owned by my girlfriend, Peyton Sawyer.

Tric was hued in blue lights. There was a stage for open mic nights, karaoke and concerts. A wide open space stretched before it and ended by the cocktail area. Along the wall was very hue of amber liquid in their inverted bottles. Jags of voices and slow music played by an unknown jazz band echoed through.

Cocktail area was a mere long mahogany slab, wiped clean after every serve. Appropriate wooden stools stretched in a trail before the slab where people sat – some quiet, some had company and some were busy telling the bartender their own legends. I went off to sit beside a man in a suit who looked like he didn't want to be interrupted. It was good because I wanted silence for a couple of hours. I raised a shaky finger to call the server and a girl with name tag 'Mia Catalano' appeared before me.

"2 vodka shots and a Houston beer, please" I told her, as I hurried my hand down my pocket to take out my cell phone which had been ringing for several minutes now.

It was Peyton. I slid my thumb on answer option.

"Hey babe" I greeted her

"Where are you? Wait – are you in a bar?" she asked. Her voice, normal and subtle.

"Yeah, I'm at Tric. Jake took me out for a drink" I lied "I'll be home soon, okay?"

"Okay, I'll wait then" she answered and hung up.

Mia placed my drinks on the wooden slab and I gave her a friendly nod and a smile. I took a gulp of a vodka shot, its liquid going down my throat like acid.

"Well well" the man who was sitting me said "if it isn't my savior."

I turned to look at his face. He was the same man who was getting beaten up by a couple of kids in Marcus Street a couple of hours ago. I managed to hush away those kids but this man didn't have much fancy for mere 'thank you's.

"Hey" I said "are you okay now?"

He smirked. He had the strangest smirk – which started on the corner of his lips before instantly spreading everywhere.

"You reek of bad decisions, officer" he told me, playfully as he took a sip from his scotch.

"Excuse me?"

"You are worried, I can tell"

"And how can you tell?" I asked.

"You know, most people see – but I observe" his smile as malachite as ever. There was a long pause.

"Where are you from?" I asked

"London"

"Why did you move?"

"And why did it occur to you that I'd fancy sharing my details to you, officer?" he said, there was calmness in his voice.

"Because I helped you out today?" I told him.

"Which I didn't ask for" he replied, his voice still held that calmness.

"It's my job" I said, flatly.

There was a long pause.

"Let's start over" I said, mouthing my beer bottle "I'm Matt Donovan. – And you?"

He flashed his malachite smile again.

"Moriarty" he said "Jim Moriarty."