Hey everyone! Oh my God, thanks for the amazing response. TWELVE story alerts, NINE favorite stories, and SEVEN reviews in just twelve hours? You guys rock! Thanks for reading, and please review! I promise, I'll try to finish this one. Thanks again!
~Erika
"What happened to him?" Peter demanded of Dr. Stevens as he and Jones stood before him outside Neal's room. The conman was watching the news inside, and judging by the expression on his face, what the news people were saying was really confusing him.
"Agent Burke, as I tried t tell you before," Dr. Stevens sighed, keeping his voice low, "Neal suffered some serious head trauma in the crash. He has no memory of what occurred within the last week, so current events are completely blank to him."
"Current events?" Peter was incredulous. "He can't remember his own name!"
"I talked to him before I came to get you. Neal knows who you are, Peter. He just doesn't have a name or a face to go along with that knowledge," Stevens tried to explain the situation as best he could. "He can tell you what he did on certain days. He can tell you about cases he has worked. He knows what he did. He just doesn't know why. He knows how to do stuff, but he doesn't know how he knows. He vaguely understands that he has been working with the FBI, but he doesn't know who he is, so he doesn't know why. He knows that he was working with people, and he can describe the personalities of those people, and he can tell you what he thinks of them, but he doesn't know their names and he can't tell you what they look like. He can tell you things about himself—his favorite color, what he likes to eat, what he likes to do—and he knows what's going on around him; he knows who the President of the United States is, he knows that Bin Laden is dead, he knows the Giants won the Super Bowl, and he knows that Kim Kardashian's marriage fell apart—and he knows about his life, but he just doesn't know how he or anyone else fits into it."
"So what does that mean for him?" Peter asked with a sigh, pretty sure he understood what was going on.
"I'm pretty confident that Neal will be able to remember everything," Stevens told him honestly. "But it's going to take time. You're going to have to work with him."
"How?" Jones asked, glancing in at Neal, pitying the frustrated, confused expression on the conman's face.
"Like I said," Stevens shrugged. "He does know you. He can tell you certain things about your life. He knows that you're his friends. He knows you. He just doesn't know what face and what name matches the description in his head. It's the same way with himself. He knows who he is, but he knows himself as another person. His description of himself is just like his description of you. He can tell you about his personality. He can tell you about his likes and dislikes. He can tell you almost everything he has done in the past—though some of those memories are pretty sketchy. He's just not so sure that everything he knows about this other, nameless person is actually stuff he knows about himself. I know, it's confusing, and to be honest, I've never seen anything like this. But give it time. I'm sure he'll be able to make the connections between you and the nameless people in his head soon enough."
"So why can't we just go in there and tell him who everyone is?" Peter questioned.
"No, that would only upset him," Stevens warned. "But if you just talk to him for a little while, I'm sure he could figure it out. If he figures it out on his own, it won't frustrate him like it would if someone simply told him about his own life."
"Does he know who he was running from last night?" Peter asked eagerly.
"He doesn't remember anything at all from the last week," the doctor shook his head.
"Well how long will it be before he does?" Jones pressed. He and Peter were thinking the same thing. Neal was targeted. Whoever hit him meant to. They wanted him dead. If they found out he wasn't, they could try again. If they stood a chance of protecting their friend, they had to know why he was running.
"I can't give you a definitive answer," Steven sighed. "There's no telling how long it's going to take for his brain to recover. It could happen tonight, it could happen tomorrow, it could happen next week, or it could happen next year; I can't say for sure."
Peter let out a weary sigh. "Alright," he nodded. "Thanks, Doc."
"If you need me, I'll be around," Dr. Stevens assured him. Then he turned and walked off.
"Ok, Jones, you go back to Diana and Hughes, tell them what happened," Peter ordered, taking out his cell phone and dialing a number.
"Right," Jones nodded. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm calling in reinforcements," Peter told him with a sigh, bringing the phone up to his ear. Jones murmured in agreement, told him he would talk to him later, and walked off. Seconds later, Peter's call was answered.
"What do you want, Suit?" Mozzie didn't sound like he was in the mood for talking.
"Mozzie..." Peter struggled to find a way to break the news to the eccentric man. "It's uh...it's about Neal...He was in an accident..."
"What happened?" Mozzie demanded, his voice tense. "He's...he's not...?" he seemed afraid to ask.
"No," Peter shook his head. "No, he's alive. He ran last night. He was running from someone, and whoever it was ran him over. He hit his head. It's complicated, but he's awake, and he needs you. I'll explain when you get here."
"Say no more, Suit," the con said quickly. "I'm on my way."
Neal sat in his hospital bed, frustrated, trying to sort through the thoughts and vague recollections that were scrambled in his brain.
Ok. So my name is Neal Caffrey, he thought. Now, what's something about myself...?
He still hadn't come up with an answer by the time the door opened and the brown-haired man he had seen earlier entered with a shorter, balding man with glasses at his side. Still, neither one looked familiar to him, even though he was sure he was supposed to recognize them.
"Hey, Neal," the balding man smiled. "Remember me?"
Neal thought hard, digging through his memory, trying to find a name to match the face. After a moment, he sighed and gave up, shaking his head. "I'm sorry."
"That's alright," the man shrugged. "You're still you. You'll remember eventually."
"You sound pretty sure about that," Neal commented.
"You still remember who you are, Neal," the man said firmly. "I know it."
"I'm not so sure," Neal sighed, frustrated.
The balding man's eyes narrowed in thought, and then he got an idea. "I'll prove it," he said confidently. "Suit, your handcuffs, please."
Neal watched as the brown-haired man handed a pair of handcuffs to the balding man, looking deep in thought. Suit...Suit...I know that name...it's a nickname, I know it is...obviously, it's the tall guy's nickname...but who calls him that? I know it...I know I know who calls him that...who calls him that...?
The balding man grabbed a paper clip from the clipboard attached to the end of his bed, then handed it to Neal. "Hold that," he ordered. Then he slapped one cuff around Neal's wrist and the other around the guardrail on his bed.
"Hey!" Neal protested.
"What?" the balding man asked innocently.
"Let me out of these," Neal commanded. "This isn't funny."
"I'm not trying to be funny," the man said seriously. "You know how to get out of those cuffs, Neal. So do it."
"I don't remember!" Neal said, letting out an exasperated sigh.
"Try!" the man snapped, his eyes worried in spite of his harsh tone.
Neal sighed, looking down at the shiny metal handcuffs around his wrist and then at the paper clip in his hand. An overwhelming sense of déjà vu washed over him. Some instinct he didn't think he had suddenly kicked in, and he quickly straightened a part of the paperclip and began to pick the lock on the cuffs. Within seconds, he was free.
The balding man smiled at him, like a child getting exactly what he wanted on Christmas morning. Behind him, the brown-haired man was smiling, too. Some deep down part of him for some reason thought it was ironic that he was smiling after that.
"See," the balding man said giddily. "I told you."
Neal smiled ever so slightly. Then he frowned, and his brow furrowed. "Wait a minute..." he muttered, glancing between the handcuffs and the paper clip. A memory—hazy, but recognizable—came back to him.
"Neal!" a familiar voice hissed. "Neal, come on! We gotta go!"
"Mozzie?" Neal didn't know where the name came from, but it sounded right.
"Yeah, Neal, it's me," Neal could see the balding man now. He made his way over to him. Neal watched as the man picked the lock on the cuffs that bound him to a radiator in an unfamiliar apartment.
"Now come on!" Mozzie urged. "And keep quiet!"
Neal blinked, coming back to the present. "I've done that before," the conman muttered.
The man before him smiled. "Yup," he nodded.
"Countless times," the other man piped up, moving the newspaper on the seat behind him and setting on the side table by Neal's bed before sitting down.
"You've done it before, too," Neal said to the balding man before him, who he was now sure was named Mozzie. "You did it for me once...you're a close friend of mine, right?"
"I'd say so," Mozzie nodded. "Do you remember my name?"
Neal hesitated. Even though he was sure 'Mozzie' was right, he was still worried about getting it wrong. "Mozzie?" he said slowly, tentatively.
Mozzie's eyes lit up, and beside him, the other man smiled warmly at him.
"Yeah," Mozzie nodded vigorously. "Mozzie. That's my name. You got it."
Neal smiled widely, his eyes sparkling with satisfaction. He laughed slightly, and then glanced at the side table. He did a double take when he saw the newspaper. It was open to the New York Times crossword. It was half filled in. Neal's smile faded, and his gaze went blank as another memory struggled to make its way forward. This one was quick.
Neal saw the brown haired man. He had the crossword on his desk. He turned to him and pointed a stern finger at him.
"You touch my crossword, and I will put you back in prison," he said, his tone only half-joking. Neal remembered laughing, and then the memory was over...
Neal shook his head. "We work together," he stated, addressing the brown-haired man.
The man nodded. "That's right, we do."
"You...you told me that if I touched your crossword, you'd put me back in prison," he said with a slight smile.
The man laughed. "Yeah," he confirmed. "Yeah, I did say that."
"I know your name," Neal sighed. "I know I know it...I just can't put my finger on it..."
"It's ok, Neal," the man soothed. "You don't have to remember right now. Give it time. You'll remember soon enough."
"No...I know it..." Neal muttered, frustrated, groping through the dark chaos that surrounded his memories, trying to find the name that he knew was there somewhere. Finally, he found it. "Peter," he said softly before he could think about it. He turned to look at the man. "Peter. That's your name, right?"
The man smiled and leaned back in his chair with a nod. "You got it," he confirmed. "I knew you would."
Neal let out a sigh of relief, smiling victoriously. Then another name popped into his head, and with it came a string of memories, some bad, most good. His eyes opened wide, and he turned to Peter frantically.
"Kate," he said urgently. "Where is she? Is she ok? I saw her, Peter, I did. I saw her. I got her back. I had her. Where is she? Where did she go?"
Peter and Mozzie exchanged sad, pitying glances. "Neal..." Peter said slowly.
"What?" Neal's voice had adopted a note of fear. "Peter, what?"
"Neal, Kate..." Peter struggled to form the words.
"Kate's gone, Neal," Mozzie told him. "She died in an explosion."
"What?" Neal's heart clenched as tears formed in his eyes. "When?"
"A couple years ago," Peter said softly.
"No..." Neal shook his head, his voice shaking.
"I'm so sorry, Neal," Mozzie said sincerely.
"No...no no no..." Neal had started to shake, moving his head back and forth in disbelief. Tears rolled down his face. "No...she can't be gone...please, dear God, she can't be gone..."
"Neal," Peter said, worried.
"She can't be gone..." the heart monitor beside Neal's bed began to beep at an increasing rate, even as his voice got softer and he appeared to relax. "She can't be...she can't..." Neal's eyes rolled back in his head. The monitor began to sound a high-pitched alarm.
"Neal!" Peter jumped up and ran to the door, shouting for help. Seconds later, two nurses and Doctor Stevens rushed in and to Neal's side. By then, Neal had gone into cardiac arrest.
Peter and Mozzie watched, in a strange, horrified trance, as the doctors fought to bring Neal back. They watched as they got a defibrillator and attempted to jumpstart his heart. Nothing seemed to be working. Then, finally, they got a response. Neal's heart began to beat normally, and the unconscious consultant's expression was once again peaceful.
Doctor Stevens let out a sigh of relief, then turned to Peter and Mozzie, making his way towards him.
"I think Neal's had enough for today," he said sternly. "I don't want him to have any more visitors today. His condition is too fragile, understand?"
"Of course," Peter nodded. "Come on, Moz. Let's let him sleep."
Mozzie was in a daze. Eventually, Peter had to guide him out of the room. Before long, Neal's room was empty except for himself, and the conman was left alone with his memories...