it's strange all the things you forget about
when you can't find the scars to prove they happened
anymore
- small ghost haunts her own apartment, Trista Mateer

Because every fic writer must write at least one amnesia au in their lifetime. Enjoy... or cry, I have tissues to offer you for when we hit the rough moments.

Chapter One:

When she first opens her eyes, the world around her is blurry.

It is like being born. A newborn with a lack of sight and therefore immediate dependence on her other senses. Her palms flatten against the bed. The sheets are starchy to her touch; stiff. Her nose twitches and burns at the harsh scent of chemicals. Something beeps beside her, too loud against the shell of her ears. She blinks again and in her mind she sees a building. She thinks distantly that she must know the name of it, that she must know where she is. It is in this moment that she realises she doesn't know her name. Shouldn't she have a name?

She sits up slowly. There is a tightness in her chest that refuses to uncoil and when she moves her hand to press against it she discovers an IV attached to the back of her hand, her fingers pressing against a robe and bandages underneath, wrapped around her ribs. Is it this that makes it hard to breathe, this physical pressure tightening around her lungs, or is it the fact that she does not know her own name? Of course she should have a name. If she lets her fingers drift down her torso she can name her major organs. Her heart. Her lungs. Her kidneys. If the things keeping her alive have names, why doesn't she?

Blinking away the fuzziness, she looks around the room. The word she had been missing earlier slips into her mind. Hospital. She's in a hospital. She is connected to a monitor which records her heart rate. She glances at the screen and finds that it is fine. She knows that her heart rate is fine. She does not know her name. So she looks away from the screen, to her hands, seeking a story, an explanation. The skin is blemish free, a little loose maybe - she's not so young. Biting her lower lip, she reaches up, drifts her hand across her nose, her round cheeks, the sharp line of her mouth and sudden jut of her jaw. Mapping out her face. She feels soft, straight hair beneath her finger tips, glances down to find that she is blonde and that it is almost to her waist. There is a moment when she is trying to figure out if this feels right or not. And then she realises she is not alone in the room.

To her left, a woman snores softly in her sleep, cheek pressed against her fist and long legs tucked into her chest. The woman mutters something incoherent, shifts, and curls spill over her shoulders, wonderful and wild. Her face is sharp even in sleep, somewhat intimidating, but then she jerks awake as her arm slips off of the chair and she almost falls to the floor.

She does not know her name but she learns the sound of her own laughter.

The woman beside her is on her feet immediately, one hand gripping the railing of her hospital bed and the other one reaching for her cheek. Her fingers are long and bony and unfamiliar. They settle just right against her skin.

"Maur," the woman gasps, but perhaps that is not quite the word. The woman is already beginning to choke on her own tears. "You woke up."

Maur. She tests the name in her own head and tries to attach it to herself. It feels incomplete.

"I - what?"

She blinks a few times, stunned by her own voice. She is well spoken. Voice rather high compared to the low tone of the woman beside her. The woman's fingers flex against her cheek and she finds herself pulling away from them. She does not know her name. She doesn't want this. She wants her name.

"You've been out for so long, babe. You scared the crap outta me," the woman says, and her face is blotchy from crying. Her hands reach out again, pressing against her shoulder. "You don't remember the accident?"

"I don't." I don't remember anything at all, she thinks.

The woman wipes her cheeks with her free hand. The movement raises the blazer she is wearing and reveals a detective's shield. Is she in some sort of trouble?

"You were driving to the precinct. We didn't travel together that day because it was my morning off. We were gonna meet for lunch at that French bistro you liked... but you didn't get to the precinct. Some drunk asshole skipped a red and hit you head on. Doctors said the force of the impact you had with the air bag broke three of your ribs. You were conscious on scene. You... you'd already slipped into a coma by the time I managed to get here."

The woman looks away for a moment, as if she is ashamed by this. Maur - is that her own name? - finds herself wondering what on earth she would be driving to a precinct for. Perhaps she's a CI. Or maybe even in witness protection. Maybe she's vital to a case; that would explain why the detective would be checking in on her. Worried for her. She stares long and hard at her, at her curls, the dark pool of her eyes, the long and bony fingers connected to scarred hands. Tries to place her somewhere. In a precinct. In a French bistro. In the waiting room of the hospital. Has to rub her own hands against her temples when no image comes flooding forth and shakes off the detective's hand against her shoulder.

"Maur?"

"How long have I been out?"

The detective frowns. "Four weeks."

She nods. "Oh."

It is nothing grand. Four weeks. A month. The time someone spends reading a book; debating on getting a new haircut; dating someone they don't really care for. She has been asleep for all of four weeks but nothing before that exists. No smells. No sounds. No memories whatsoever. No loved ones – but she must have parents, surely. Shouldn't they be here? Not a detective who stares at her with too much desperation. Not a detective who tries to hold her hand.

"Don't," she says sharply, pulling her hand away, and for a moment the detective looks surprised.

"I have your stuff," the detective says quickly, and she heads across the room, movements jerky. There is a small suitcase sat beside the door to her room and the detective pulls it over, eyes wide. "I bought some clothes because I know you complain about the hospital gowns. I don't know if they'll let you wear them. And I bought you a bunch of books and your iPad if you want to watch those documentaries on Netflix you like. And - and I had your ring cleaned. It was... it was covered in your blood, Maur, but they got it all out."

"My ring," she repeats. Hollow.

But the detective misinterprets this for some kind of request. She nods too many times and rifles through the case to pull out a clear plastic bag. Passes it to her and watches her face carefully as she tips it free and allows it to land in the palm of her hand.

So she's married. She doesn't know her own name, her age; she cannot remember her parents, not even the faintest trace of love for them. But she is married. Someone out there knows her name and her parents and is probably worried about her despite the fact she does not know them. She lets her fingers close around the silver band, testing its cool temperature, the weight of it against her skin. The detective is still watching her carefully but she finds she is desperate to look anywhere but at her eyes. The eyes that expect too much. She glances at the detective's hand instead and spots a similar wedding band on her ring finger too.

"We match," she blurts out. What she really wants to ask is who am I?

The detective gives her an uncertain, lopsided grin. "Yeah, Maura. We match."

Maura. Not Maur. That feels complete.

Maura uncurls her fingers, slips the wedding band onto her ring finger. It's a perfect fit, of course. And there is a simple, unquestionable attachment to this ring sitting in her mind already. It sifts forwards and she knows already that she will not take this ring off. That she loves someone. It is the only real thing Maura knows about herself.

"Why are you here?"

The detective reaches out for her. "Maur?"

"Please don't touch me," she snaps. The hands retreat. "I don't like being held."

"This isn't funny, babe," the detective says. "C'mon I know - I know I've pulled pranks before but this isn't funny."

"I'm not playing a prank, detective," Maura insists. "I would like to know why a detective is tending to me instead of a doctor. And why my parents aren't here - along with whoever my spouse is."

She wiggles her ring finger and the detective lets out a laugh that is not quite a bark but isn't quite a sob either. Her face turns dark, angry, and Maura thinks that this suits her easily; the brooding features that now stare down at her make more sense. This is what her image of a detective is. Not a woman who cries and tries to hold her.

"This isn't funny," the woman repeats again, but the words are practically a growl now. "You damn well know this isn't funny to me, Maura."

"How do you know my name if I don't?"

The detective freezes.

"What?"

Maura shrugs slightly, staring down at her lap. "I have... no recollection of my life priory to the accident. Or, really, I have no memory of anything at all. You said my name is Maura, didn't you? How do you know me?"

She looks back up, expecting an answer. But the detective's face is distorted now, not in anger, and certainly not in the relief she had expressed earlier. It is something anguished and pained, something that has her eyes wide even as they fill with tears. The woman runs a hand through her hair as she holds the left one out, not touching Maura this time. Her hand is trembling.

"We match."

Maura has to strain to hear her, but once she does she feels her stomach flip. Stares at their matching rings for a moment before looking back up at the detective. Oh.

"I'm married to a woman?"

The moment the words leave her, she knows there is no doubt of that. It is no longer a question but a statement. Yes. Of course she is married to a woman. This is the second real thing she learns about herself.

The detective laughs bitterly, jerking her own hand away.

"Please tell me you're joking. Please, Maura. I won't - I won't ever presume a reddish brown stain is blood ever again if you just tell me you've suddenly developed a seriously dark sense of humour."

"Oh..." She tries to search for the detective's - her wife's - name. She cannot find it. "I..."

Her speechlessness speaks volumes, apparently. The detective spins away, quick, almost blurring. One hand cradles her forehead as the other settles on her hip.

Maura studies her curiously. She is… married to this woman. She doesn't even know her name. The detective doesn't feel like her type, either. Sure, she's not exactly sure what her type is, but an angry, brash detective does not sit right with her. However, the woman is gorgeous. Even in her anger now, her anguish – the anguish she herself has caused her – it makes her jaw sharper, her whole face more dangerous and terrifying and some part of her understands that she could fall into that. This woman who seems intimidating… this woman who has been crying over her.

She looks at the chair that is now empty beside her bed. Pictures that long body curled up awkwardly between its arms, limbs cramped and the wood of the chair digging into her hip, her ribs, discomfort settling there. And still, the detective had stayed.

"What is your name?"

The words seem to jolt the detective out of her reverie. Her head snaps up, body twisting back towards Maura.

"Jane," she says, and Maura is surprised at how small her voice is. How defeated. "Jane Rizzoli."

Maura nods. "Jane."

She is simply testing the name in her mouth. It is the only other name she knows now.

Jane stares at her, a little too expectant once again.

"Is my surname Rizzoli too?"

Jane shakes her head. "You're Isles. Maura Isles. We considered the whole… double barrel surname thing but… it wasn't us, I guess."

Maura Isles. She smiles to herself as her fingers brush against her hospital bracelet and find the name staring up at her. Of course. How had she forgotten she could've simply looked there?

A nurse had entered a few moments after, surprised to find her awake and lucid. Her doctor had been fetched and too soon she had been subjected to test after test on her memory. First just questions. What is the date? I don't know. Do you know what year it is? I don't know. Do you know your name? It's on my hospital bracelet. Do you know your occupation? No. Do you know the detective here? She is my wife. You remember her? No. She told me. I believe her.

Then it is a CT scan. Blood tests. Jane offers to go with her to the former but Maura insists that she stay behind. She pretends not to notice the way the detective's face falls. Perhaps she is being unfair to her. The woman wants nothing more than to help her, she supposes, out of love; they have a history, despite the fact that she does not remember it. But she does not feel any obligation towards the woman. It is not her fault she does not remember. She doesn't have to force herself to be a wife to a woman she does not know. She doesn't have to force herself to be a woman she doesn't remember being. Does she?

By the time she is returned to her room to rest and wait for the results, the sun is beginning to set. Jane is stood by the window as Maura is wheeled in, her figure illuminated by the yellow-orange hues of dusk that settle in her wild hair. She does not turn away from the glass until the nurse has helped Maura back into her bed and left the room.

She stares down at Maura and Maura stares back. The drugs she had been given earlier are beginning to take affect, already the edges of her vision are blurry, her limbs heavy. For a moment she almost asks the detective to leave. It does not feel right to have another person she does not know in the room with her as she sleeps.

But she catches the affection in Jane's gaze. The way her hand reaches out for her before remembering the way Maura had rejected her earlier, retracting back into her pocket. It makes her skin warm, even if accepting this woman's love for just one moment is selfish of her. She cannot offer any in return.

"Thank you, Jane."

She reaches out and brushes her fingers against Jane's.

She is asleep before she can feel Jane's catch hers and squeeze.

TBC