Chapter 1: Awakening

A/N: Dialog marked with an asterisk ("*") is directly quoted from The Mentalist Fugue in Red episode.

Cold. Roiling, foul, inky water. Thrashing, lungs bursting, desperate. He jerked awake with a gasp and looked around wildly.

"Take it easy, Mr. Jane. You're safe now." Soft voice, soft hands. His panicked panting eased, his racing heart slowed. "You've been through a lot, sir. Lie back. It's okay." Vision blurry, he drew comfort from bland colors and a faint antiseptic smell almost masking mildew. The sheer disconnect from his nightmare lent relief.

He shuddered, head to foot, struck by an icy chill and echoes of terror. The same hands pulled a blanket to his chin and tucked it around his shoulders. Exhausted, he sank back, muscles lax, limbs leaden.

He woke again, now merely scared, fractionally refreshed, to a man's voice. "Mr. Jane, can you hear me? Open your eyes if you hear me."

Jane's eyelids fluttered open, even as another shudder cut through him. He blinked as a light flashed first in one eye, then the other. He shook his head a little to clear thoughts and vision. Blurry faces sharpened as he slowly focused. Finally, "Yeah?"

Slowly with exaggerated enunciation, "I'm Doctor Patterson. You're in the Sacramento General Hospital trauma center. How do you feel?"

"Like I swallowed a cat ... after being hit by a truck," he mumbled, resisting the temptation to insult the moronically slow speaker. "Freezing." He couldn't stop shivering. "What happened?" A woman – nurse? – offered him a straw. Hot tea warmed him, wetting and scalding his raw throat.

Calmly, deliberately, "You were attacked and almost drowned. You were rescued by a cop. The EMT's resuscitated you–"

Jane frowned and interrupted, "-Resuscitated? I was–"

"They restored pulse and breathing." He paused a beat for Jane to take that in. "I'm going to ask some questions. Your name is?"

"Patrick Jane." No hesitation.

"Do you know where you are?" The doctor looked down, typing on a device Jane had never seen before.

Computer? Should be ten times larger. "You said Sacramento General. Sacramento, California I presume." Irritation flashed across his face. The doctor missed it as he looked down at the device.

"What's seven times seven?"

"Forty-nine." Tiring of idiotic questions, "And the cube is 343."

The doctor looked at him.

Jane read surprised approval, no hint of annoyance. That was disquieting. Should be offended, unless-

"What's the date?"

"October 12th–" Patterson started keying, "–2000," then looked up sharply.

"Why'd you stop?"

The doctor pursed his lips unconsciously. "What do you remember before you almost drowned?"

Frowning now, "I – I was, uh, performing at a club. In ... Nevada." Worry began poisoning his certainty.

"Who is President of the United States?"

"Bill Clinton." He snorted, "For better or worse," with a smirk. The nurse glanced at the doctor. "What's wrong? I–"

Soothingly, "Mr. Jane, relax. You've been through a traumatic event. It's not uncommon for memory to be a bit scrambled." Jane swallowed uncomfortably. "I'm going to ask a colleague to speak with you to get a better handle on your situation."

He frowned in earnest. "Stop the BS, doc. I feel fine."

The doctor nodded, acknowledging his statement without agreeing. "I'll have Dr. Miller talk with you shortly." Now professionally positive, "Physically you are in perfect health. Ask a nurse if you need anything." He left quickly before Jane could say more.

"I'm Laura, your nurse. The hot tea will help," she said, noticing his intermittent shivering. "If you feel up to it, I can get you a snack."

'Physically.' He belatedly registered the nurse's offer. "Um, not hungry but coffee would be great," he answered with a reflexive smile. She almost dropped her pen and he masked his amusement. "My clothes?" he asked, plucking at the hospital gown.

"The doctors will probably admit you for observation. I'm not sure where your clothes are but they'd be soaked. Maybe your colleagues can bring fresh ones tomorrow."

Voice better now, he purred, "Or maybe you could find something for me. –A favor for your nearly drowned patient?" He flashed another smile and reaped the confused blush he expected. He was sure she'd dig up clothes if he pressed. Smoothly, "Thank you, Laura. You're an angel." She left, glancing over her shoulder till the privacy curtain blocked sight.

Jane was relieved he could drop the act. Colleagues?! What? He settled back onto the bed, energy suddenly gone. Food and a bed. Could be worse." He took stock. Chest hurts, but – he drew a breath – no cracked ribs. Not beat up, so not some thug expressing his opinion with fists... What's with my memory? Why would they lie... His lips twitched at the irony and then he let it go, too tired to pursue it. He sipped the tea, grateful for the warmth despite the taste.

He had almost drifted off when Dr. Miller arrived. "Neurology" was embroidered on his white lab coat. Miller ran through similar questions. Growing worry warred with irritation. Desperate to know, Jane first tolerated the tedious process and then got caught up figuring out what the questions were designed to detect. At last Miller finished, Jane so weary he almost dropped off in mid-answer.

"Mr. Jane, before you came to we did x-rays and MRI's to rule out cranial trauma. You are perfectly healthy physically."

Ignoring whatever an 'mri' was, "Yeah, you all keep saying that. But?" Jane prompted sharply.

"But you have been through a traumatic event."

Cheeky, "Couldn't be that bad since I'm okay."

Now it was Miller's turn for a pointed glance. "Nearly dying qualifies as traumatic. Your brain is protecting itself by not remembering."

Taken aback, "So what? What's next?"

"Your condition is called dissociative fugue - the temporary loss of personal identity.* There is no specific treatment. Your memories will return over time–"

"-How much time?"

"–Usually days or weeks. Rarely, months or even years."

"Years..." Jane echoed, floored ... if I believe it.

"That's rare. Memory recovery tends to be faster surrounded by people and places from your present life."

Intensely, "What year is it?"

Miller paused, then chose to answer. "2010."

Jane closed his eyes. When he looked at the doctor his face was perfectly composed, expressionless. "Thanks, doc." He sat up. "Well, since there's nothing modern medicine can do, I guess I should be going. –I, uh, am not sure how much I owe, but if you direct me to–"

The doctor lightly rested his hand on Jane's shoulder. "Mr. Jane, it's 10 p.m. My best medical advice is that you be admitted and stay here through the night. We can double check your memory tomorrow. –And let your colleagues help you. No matter how ... independent you are, this is a good time to accept a helping hand." Jane slowly leaned back. "The last thing you should worry about is bills. Your insurance will cover it. Line of duty and all." Miller waited patiently.

Jane finally nodded.

"Good. Staff will arrange your admission. I'll check on you tomorrow morning." He left.

A flurry of activity commenced a few minutes later. His bed was wheeled to an elevator to go to another floor. He was settled in a private room, his clothes hung in a closet. Eventually everyone left. Motion sensors automatically dimmed the lights with the lack of activity.

With silence came time to absorb and reflect. Jane lay, eyes closed, working hard to control breathing, heartbeat and racing thoughts. Insurance and 'line of duty' made no sense, but then nothing was making much sense. The tremors that periodically shook him now arose from fear as much as chill. What if I really did lose a chunk of time? Ten years?!

He ran his hand through damp hair. He listened, heard no footsteps or other signs of people. He flipped the sheet off and slipped out of bed, hunching his shoulders at the cold air and floor, mentally cursing the loathed open-back hospital gown. Lights automatically brightened at his movement. He made a slow circuit of the room. No calendar, no newspaper. He left the tv off since he wasn't sure he could mute it before attracting attention. His breath caught as he noticed the manufacturer's label on a piece of equipment. The "12-2009" looked like a date but wasn't definitive. The closet contained his clothes which were dripping all over the tiled floor. He propped up his shoes to help them dry and left the door ajar. Next he checked the lower right of a pre-printed medical form, knowing they were often dated to keep track of revisions. His breath caught again: "06-12-08." The calibration record for some unidentified machine was definitive. Dates were recorded each month from 2008 to 2010. In ink. In different handwriting. Stunned, acutely anxious, Jane relieved himself in the spartan bathroom then crawled back in bed.

He felt sucker punched. I am fucked. Don't know who tried to drown me, might not even recognize him! A carny? Who? P.o.'d mark? I've – damn, I think – I've been doing bar shows but no one takes that seriously enough for murder. He checked his knuckles, slightly comforted at the lack of scrapes and bruises. Either not a fight or I was ambushed. -What have I been doing for three-thousand-six-hundred-and-fifty-odd days?

Jane absently rubbed his left ring finger and looked down. Gold wedding band. How does that figure in, what's the play? Damn. He was exhausted. His head hurt from too much on his mind, from everything on his mind. Can I still do my act? What if I–

He shifted in bed, deliberately interrupting his thoughts and flexing his shoulders to relieve the tension. Stop it, Paddy. He took a deep breath, exhaled, slowed down. It's okay. Feel okay, read them just fine. Not good I can't remember. So what? Life goes on and I'll figure it out. Nothing's changed. My old man isn't around so I'm not involved in his lame schemes. Just make my way as usual. He huffed. Maybe staying the night is a good idea. People around, some protection. He sighed, decided. Tackle it in the morning.

Thoughts under control at last, Patrick Jane succumbed to exhaustion, drained physically, mentally, and emotionally. He managed to drift, not thinking. Warmth gradually seeped back. Despite feeling like someone – EMT's? – had pounded his chest, the tightness loosened as his anxiety abated. He'd just become calm enough that he might sleep when the door opened.

"Jane?"