Disclaimer: I don't own Torchwood.

Author's note: I'm struggling with timelines a little. Ianto is supposed to have joined Torchwood One in 2005 and Torchwood Three in 2007, six months before Gwen (according to the Torchwood Archives). Taking into account of this and the time that elapsed during season 1, I think it's pretty fair to say that he would have been with Torchwood for about three years in total by the time Jack disappeared. I've been looking at various timelines online to try to figure this out, but none of them seem to really fit. I am therefore having to hide behind artistic licence with my dates and times, unless someone can point me in the direction of a timeline where everything makes sense.

Also, a huge thanks for all the story alerts, faves and reviews! The reaction to the story has completely taken me by surprise. I hope that I continue to entertain you with this. ^_^

Blank Canvas

The darkness took its time to recede. Eventually his consciousness returned and Ianto groaned. He appeared to be lying on something hard and his entire body was aching as a result. This, however, was nothing compared to the thudding ache in the back of his head. He pushed himself to his elbows and his body protested against the sudden movement. Even such a small change in elevation was enough to send waves of nausea through him, as the room spun violently. He gingerly felt the back of his head and the pain intensified when his fingers came into contact with the open wound. He winced and pushed himself to his hands and knees, closing his eyes against the rocking of the room. When he finally felt steady enough to open his eyes again, he noticed directly in front of him a coffee table, one corner of which was covered in blood and hair.

That explains the head wound, he thought. He must have fallen, hit his head and passed out on the floor. He could not quite figure out how he had succeeded in tripping in such a way as to have the back of his head connect with the corner of the table, but it appeared that he had managed it just fine. The empty pint glass implied that alcohol might have been involved, but strangely enough Ianto did not feel hung over, just groggy. With deliberate slowness he got to his feet, every muscle in his body groaning from disuse. He clung onto the back of his sofa until he felt a little steadier standing up and the pounding in his head had eased a little. A nagging pressure in his lower abdomen became gradually more insistent and his staggered weakly towards the bathroom.

As he was washing his hands, he happened to glance at the mirror and was shocked at what he saw. There were dark circles under his eyes and worry lines that he had not expected to see. The weave of the rug on his lounge floor had left an imprint on his cheek and down his neck. He looked dishevelled and pale and just generally unhealthy.

How long was I out? He pondered the question as he left the loo in search of his mobile phone. He found it on the kitchen counter and the screen lighting up hurt his sensitive eyes. After a fair amount of squinting, he managed to ascertain that it was in fact 3 April 2008. He stared blearily at the date and the glowing numbers made him gradually become aware of the strange emptiness within his mind. His veins filled with ice when he realised that he had no memory of drinking a pint of beer and tripping in the lounge. In fact, he could not seem to recall much at all. For the first time since he had woken up he looked around, really took in his surroundings and recognised none of it. The furniture, the kitchen gadgets, the layout of the rooms, none of them seemed even vaguely familiar.

With a growing sense of panic, his hand rose unbidden to touch the back of his skull again and fresh pain bloomed at the faint contact. I must have hit my head harder than I thought, Ianto concluded and decided that the best thing to do would be to take himself straight to the hospital. He located his wallet and two sets of keys on a small table by the front door. One of the sets was clearly for a car, but he did not think it wise for him to be driving anywhere in his current condition. On the table were also a council tax bill and a phone book, which came in handy in determining where he lived and where the nearest hospital might be located. A quick look in the wallet to check he had cash for a taxi and he was out of the door.

"Good morning, Mr Lloyd," the doctor entered the room just as Ianto was finishing his morning cup of tea.

"Morning," he nodded in response, continuing to feel ill at ease when people called him Ianto Lloyd.

The previous day had gone by in a blur. When he had reached the hospital and tried to register as a patient, he had discovered that he was no longer called Ianto Jones, but that at some stage his surname had become Lloyd. Why this had happened, he had no idea, but he was determined to find out. The rest of the details on his driving licence matched his recollection, but the issue with the name remained a mystery.

Once he had explained to the doctor about his head wound and loss of memory, he had been subjected to a variety of tests. He was yet to find out the results from any of them, but the doctor had helped him to determine that he had lost just over three years of his life. Once the wound was patched up and he had been given something for the persisting head ache, Ianto felt much better, but the medical staff insisted that he spend the night at the hospital, under observation. A poor nurse had been instructed to wake him up every two hours and ask him questions to ensure he had no brain damage, which turned out to be harder than either of them had expected, since he could not remember anything personal about himself or any current events. The head ache was gone by the morning and it seemed that the residual fogginess that had plagued him the previous day had also dissipated.

"Right then, Mr Lloyd, I have the results of the tests we ran yesterday. I am happy to tell you that there is no sign of any brain damage, swelling or intra cranial bleeding. The blow to the back of your head has given you a mild concussion, nothing more. It does mean that we are rather puzzled by the memory loss, as we cannot see how the head wound could have possibly caused that. We did, however, find some curious chemicals in the blood sample we took from you, but they were only present in very small quantities, so I do not believe they could have caused your amnesia. I would ask whether you could have been exposed to some sort of strange toxins, I suppose there is no way for you to know."

"Indeed, I have no idea." Ianto smiled tightly, annoyed that his stay in the hospital was adding to the list of questions he had, rather than answering some of them.

"I suppose it will remain a mystery, until such time as you regain your memories. I should warn you, however, that there is no guarantee that it will happen. No two cases of amnesia are the same, for some people the memories return after a while, for others they never come back.

"In the meanwhile, you are free to go home. I suggest you take it easy for a few days so that the wound is not aggravated and then try to get into routines as much as possible. They should help you piece together aspects of your life, while you wait for your memories to return. Should the head aches return or your condition otherwise worsen, I would strongly recommend that you return here immediately for further tests."

"Thank you doctor, I promise." Ianto forced a small smile to appear on his face.

"Good luck, Mr Lloyd," with a brief handshake the doctor had moved on to the next patient.

Ianto returned to his flat with a great deal of apprehension. He had not felt particularly comfortably spending the night at the hospital, but this house did not feel like a home either. It was too cold and clinical, as if no one truly lived there. He could not help but to wonder whether he had exhibited any kind of personality during the three years that had become a mystery to him. From what he could remember about himself previously, he certainly would not have enjoyed living in a flat like this. With a deep sigh, he started searching through his supposed home in a systematic fashion, determined to finally find some answers.

He found his kitchen well stocked with both food and cooking utensils. Everything was extremely tidy, borderline clinical, and organised in a logical and systematic fashion. Ianto was puzzled by the ten different varieties of coffee he found in one of the cupboards and could only conclude that he appeared to have gotten obsessed with coffee at some point in the past three years. Having found the plethora of coffee beans, the grinder and the state of the art coffee machine gleaming on the kitchen counter suddenly made more sense. He wondered briefly whether he still knew how to use it, or whether that knowledge had also been lost.

The bathroom was likewise well stocked and so clean he was a little afraid to enter it for fear of making a mess. After the way the kitchen had been ordered, he half expected his toiletries to be alphabetically organised, but it seemed that his OCD did not go quite that far. It did strike him a little odd that almost all the bottles and jars appeared unopened, as if he had replaced everything in the bathroom just a few days previously. He tentatively sniffed the aftershave and cologne and was struck by an instant dislike of the scents. He could not fathom what had possessed him to purchase them, but he had absolutely no intention of wearing either.

The lounge offered very few additional insights. There were a handful of books and DVDs, none of which Ianto remembered seeing or owning and none of which interested him in the slightest. A stack of CDs turned out all to be bands that he had liked previously, although some of the albums appeared to have been released in the last three years and he was therefore not familiar with them.

"Who on earth was I, to live like this?" Ianto wondered out loud as he looked around the room. "Do I not have any personality at all?"

He suddenly felt a surge of irritation towards himself. How was he supposed to figure out who he was, when there was nothing for him to work with? He resisted the temptation to hurl something against the blank white walls and instead took a couple of deep breaths. He decided that just as soon as he had worked out what he was like, he would turn the flat into a home rather than just a place to sleep and eat.

Hang on a minute, does it really matter what I was like before? I may never get my memories backs, so surely I should just go with what I like now, the past be damned. Who knows, there may not even be anything worth remembering about the last three years.

With a final calming breath and with new determination, Ianto headed towards the bedroom, desperately hoping that the final room offered more clues than the rest of the flat.

The wardrobe in the bedroom held a variety of suits, all dry-cleaned and a selection of already ironed shirts, all organised by colour. While it was abundantly clear that he liked wearing suits, it puzzled him that the only shade of colour that appeared to be missing was red. He could see nothing wrong with wearing red, but perhaps there had been a reason for his aversion to the colour. The wardrobe also held some more casual outfits, although overall his taste in clothes was significantly less punk than what he remembered from three years ago. What caught his attention, however, was a blue concertina file on the top shelf and he reached to pull it out.

Within the folder were a variety of important documents that he now realised he really did need. He found the registration certificate and insurance details for his car, which in turn informed him what sort of a car he owned. He made a note to try to locate it in the communal car park later. There were also the title deed and the Land Registry forms for the flat he owned and his eyebrows rose when he discovered how much he had paid for it. The deed changing his surname from Jones to Lloyd showed that this had been done about a year ago, although the cause for it still remained a mystery. A recent bank statement indicated that he had far more money in the bank than he had expected. He found his A-level certificates, together with his degree certificate, as well as a copy of a freshly updated CV. While the CV interested him, his eyes were drawn to a thick envelope with his name written on it. Inside was an employment contract, which he had signed, for a full-time archivist position with the National Archives in Surrey. Accordingly to the information pack that was also included, he was to start his new employment in two weeks' time.

"Archivist, eh?" Ianto muttered to himself. "Why not, it seems like I'm more than organised enough for a position like that. Who knows, it might be fun."

He was very much hoping that his memories will have returned by the time his new job started, especially if he was expected to have any kind of experience in working in archives.

The last place he looked through was the chest of drawers by his large bed. Aside from the expected array of clothes, there he found what he had really been looking for all along. Tucked underneath neatly folded t-shirts and shorts were two leather-bound journals. He flicked through them and saw page after page filled with his tidy hand writing.

"Bingo!"

If anything could shed light on the past three years, it would surely be the diaries he had been keeping since he was a child. Having made himself a cup of tea and some toast, Ianto settled on his sofa and began to read.

More author's notes: This chapter kept getting bigger and bigger as I was writing it, so in the end I decided to cut it in half. There was a convenient stopping point and actually I think it works better this way. I now have the next three chapters outlined and/or partly written and I have some ideas about where things might go beyond them as well. Unfortunately, I've fallen back into the bad habit of writing things out of order. As a result, I have over a page of stuff written for chapter 5, but only assorted bits for chapter 3. *rolls her eyes* No doubt Ianto would disapprove of my lack of organisation.

Also, as a way of explanation, the reason why there were only trace amounts of retcon in Ianto's blood when he went to the hospital was because the sedatives in the pills knocked him out for a couple of days. Having read up on the early retcon trials from the Torchwood Archives it's frankly a miracle Ianto is alive, but I'd like to think that the people who invented the drug spent a fair amount of time refining it. As usual, artistic licence and all that.