Notes: Just want to thank everyone who has taken the time to review this. Every comment I get makes me happy, and makes me want to write more. I attacked this thing with about 4000+ words today, so expect another part pretty soon. Please enjoy!

Two doctors and the nurse were huddled around Miz, talking to him, asking him questions, going over him with a fine-tooth comb, diagnostically speaking. Sometimes a doctor or the nurse blocked Miz from view, but only briefly. He was propped up in bed, in a comfortable seated position. His eyes were open, awake, aware, looking brightly from each doctor to the next as the questioned him, poked him, drew blood, and spoke to him reassuringly.

John had been delegated to across the room, watching the proceedings, still sitting in the molded plastic chair. His hands were clasped together tightly, pressed to his lips as he took deep, deep breaths of the antiseptic hospital air. Words and acronyms floated through the air. PTA. TBI. GCS. LOC. Retrograde. Anterograde. None of it mattered. He couldn't take his eyes off Mike, even when the nurse or doctor blocked his view. Watched him as he turned his head to meet the eyes of each person speaking to him, met John's eyes as he looked across the room with mild confusion. Who are you, his eyes seemed to say. Who are you, how do I know you, why are you here?

Nothing else. No recognition, no love, no kindness. Merely a detached, curious puzzlement. The love, the joy that he had seen in Mike's eyes each and every day was gone. Completely gone. He might as well have been a complete stranger to the younger man. Hell, he was a complete stranger to Mike.

Eventually the nurse and one of the doctors exited the room, leaving the last doctor – Dr. Havelock – looking compassionately at John.

"Why don't we go outside, I'm sure Mr. Mizanin needs his rest." John stood up without speaking. He'd been sleeping for a week; the last thing he needed was rest. He wanted to argue that Mike needed him there, but suddenly, he wasn't so sure what Mike needed anymore. He needed to be there for himself, but to Mike… he was a stranger.

John followed Dr. Havelock out the door, feeling Mike's eyes on him as he left. He didn't look behind him. The doctor led him to the small sitting area they had gone to when Mike had first arrived at the hospital. John sat heavily in one chair, the doctor sat a moment later in the chair to his right.

"Obviously you're aware of the fact that Mike is suffering from extreme memory loss, amnesia. Because this particular case was caused by a head injury, it's known as post-traumatic amnesia, amnesia with a physical cause. Most people who suffer from post-traumatic amnesia regain their memories within 24 hours. Depending on the type of amnesia – retrograde or anterograde – he may not be able to recall the incidents leading up to the injury, or have a hard time forming new memories now that he's awake. We're going to run some tests on him to check the extent of the damage and make sure the amnesia is his only issue at this point. Do you understand?"

John let the doctor's words sink into his mind; it made sense. After all, he had seen the Bourne Identity. With Mike, as a matter of fact.

"I… think so. You say he'll regain his memory in a day or so?"

"Most patients suffering from retrograde PTA get their full memory back within 24 hours, yes."

"Most?" John felt a slight chill work its way up his spine.

"I don't want to alarm you. Some patients need a couple of extra days. Some – and this is very, very rare – never regain their memories at all. But I have no reason to believe that Mr. Mizanin will have anything other than an average case."

"All right. You said you were running some tests?"

"Standard procedure. There's a memory test we'll give him, a blood test, we'll schedule him for an MRI… he'll be a busy man for the rest of the day. You should probably go home, get some rest."

"I should call his family, actually. If… if he asks for me, will you call me? Any time… it doesn't matter."

"I will. Don't worry, Mr. Cena… he'll be okay."

They both stood and John offered the doctor his hand. A brief handshake and the doctor was down the hall, back towards Mike's room. John stayed in the waiting area for a few more moments, attempting to gather his thoughts and figure out what to do next. He wasn't ready to leave yet; for all he knew, Mike would remember any minute and he wanted to be there the second he was needed.

He decided to head down to the cafeteria on the first floor and make some calls. On his way to the stairs, he passed Mike's room. Pausing – just to make sure Mike was still okay – he glanced through the small window on the door. Mike was staring out the window, the day's watery grey light running over him. He looked very young… and very alone.

John bit his lip and attempted to swallow the lump suddenly in his throat. Eyes burning, he turned away from the door and walked slowly towards the cafeteria. Down the hall, through the door marked "Stairs", down one bleak grey flight of nondescript stairs, back into the main hallway. To the right, down the hall and into the cafeteria. Smiling faintly and speaking to the few fans who approached him, he signed a few autographs before walking into the cafeteria. Everyone in the WWE universe had been very understanding. They didn't know the full extent of his relationship with the younger wrestler, of course, but they could still understand their friendship and how difficult this was for him. He was indescribably grateful for their discretion.

He sat at a small table in the far back corner, out of view of prying eyes. After surveying the mostly empty cafeteria, he pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through the contacts list.

A half hour later, he'd called his parents, Mike's parents and most of their friends. He repeated about thirty times everything the doctor had told him; retrograde and anterograde amnesia, the average 24 hour time frame of memory return, what tests he was doing. By the time he got off the phone with Vince, the words had ceased to mean anything to him whatsoever.

The myriad food smells in the cafeteria mixed uneasily with each other and the unpleasant sick odor of the hospital. John could feel his stomach roiling, and wondered if it was time to go home. He wanted to be nearby in case Mike needed him, but he'd been running too long on nerves, guilt and cheap coffee.

Maybe it was time to head back to the hotel and regroup. And wait.

He made one last phone call – the cab service.

It had stopped raining by the time he walked outside to wait for his ride, although the day was still overcast, grey clouds undulating across the sky. The air smelled fresh and clean, however, a welcome change from the stuffy, pervasive hospital smell. He took several deep breaths of the cool air, attempting to clear his mind with each one. The doctor's words were a blur in his head; none of them seemed to have any connection with him, with Mike or anything concrete in his life.

The only thing that stuck with him, buried in the very center of his soul, was the way Mike looked at him. He didn't want to think about it, but again and again his mind returned to the look on Mike's face, in his eyes, when he'd asked John who he was. Nothing in his entire life had prepared him for something like that, to have the person in his life he was closest to, the other half of his heart, not know who he was.

It was really no surprise he was in a state of shock.

Eventually the little yellow taxi cab pulled in front of him and idled at the curb, waiting to take him back to his room. The drive back to the hotel was thankfully quick and uneventful. All John wanted to do was take a hot shower and then crawl into bed and not move. Ever. Or until Mike called for him. Nothing short of a large-scale earthquake was moving him out of bed for anything – or anyone – else.

He paid the cab driver and walked slowly to his room, fumbled the keycard out of his pocket and opened the door. It was his intention to grab some clothes out of his suitcase and head directly into the shower, but he only got as far as his bed before the events of the day caught up to him.

His knees gave out and he thumped straight on to the bed, bouncing slightly and making the springs creak in protest. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, although this had no effect whatsoever on blocking the flow of tears. So many tears, John thought tiredly. So much crying, when would it stop? You'd think eventually you'd just… get done crying. If there was truly such a point in grief, he obviously hadn't reached it yet.

A knock at the door startled him out of his misery. He raised his head, swiping the tears off his face as best he could, wondering if the knock would repeat. Maybe it wasn't even at his door; the rooms were fairly close together.

The knock, a little louder. Definitely his door. John sighed quietly; there was no one on this earth he could imagine wanting to see at his door at this point in time. All he wanted was to be left alone to deal with his guilt and his grief. But… not wanting to be rude, he walked over to the door and opened it.

"Randy," he said flatly, and more than a little surprised. Of all the people he could have imagined showing up at his door, Randy was the last person he wanted to see.

The man in question smiled slightly, eyes obscured by sunglasses even though it was a cloudy day. John wasn't sure if he wanted to let Randy in or throw his ass off his doorstep. He compromised; Randy could just stand in the door all day.

"You know… people still recognize you with the sunglasses on. You want to go incognito, wear something that doesn't say "Affliction" on it."

Randy snorted laughter.

"And here I thought you'd be incoherent with depression. Obviously you're doing just fine."

"So to what do I owe the pleasure of your undesired company, Randal?" John asked, acid in his tone. He was in really no mood for any of Randy's patented mind games.

"Peace, John," he held up his hands, palms out. "I heard what happened. I just came to see how you were holding up." He paused, and then continued softly. "Even after… everything, I still consider you my friend, all right?"

Maybe he wasn't thinking clearly, the stresses of the whole situation catching up to him, or maybe he'd finally just used up the last ounce of his strength and needed someone – anyone – to lean on. John moved away from the door and allowed Randy to step in.

He took a few steps into the room and then turned around to look at John, pushing his shades to the top of his head. John closed the door softly and kept his gaze lowered. He didn't want Randy to see him like this; weak and desolate. Randy would latch on to that weakness and exploit it for all it was worth. It was just the way he was. But… who else did he have? His family was on the other side of the country, and he'd known Randy longer than anyone, even Mike. Even after all that shit had gone down… and he couldn't do this alone. He had tried… but he was at the last of his strength now.

He met Randy's eyes and watched as the other man's face softened in sympathy, compassion.

"John…" he said quietly, "You can't do this by yourself. I know… I fucked things up between us, but for your own sake, please. I want… to help you… if you'll let me."

John moved to sit on the bed, still not able to meet the other man's eyes. Randy's words moved him, but he didn't trust them. He hunched over with his arms leaning on his knees, head lowered. After a moment, he felt the bed shift as Randy sat next to him, unsure what to do.

"I feel like… I deserve this. It's my fault this happened… so… this is what I get." John said haltingly.

"You didn't do this to him, someone else did. It's not your fault. You can't go blaming yourself for something you didn't do."

"But I should have been there. If I had waited, I could have stopped this, I could have prevented it. I should have waited for him. I should ha—I should have waited." A sob tried to wrench its way out of his throat, but he contained it. Just barely.

Instead of replying, Randy just wrapped his arms around his friend. Nothing he could have said would have made a difference. John was just going to have to work through this guilt in his own head.

At this unexpected comforting gesture, John's tight emotional rein snapped. He covered his face with his hands and cried like a child. Randy could do nothing to subdue this emotional storm; all he could do was sit there and cradle the other man in his arms, occasionally running a hand up and down his back.

Slowly, very slowly, John got himself under control, regained his emotional footing. He grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the nightstand and wiped his face, wincing as the rough tissue hit his sore eyes.

"I'm sorry… I didn't mean to lose it on you."

"Not a problem," Randy smiled reassuringly. He continued to rub small circles into John's back and shoulders.

John smiled back, suddenly feeling better. Not great… but better. Maybe letting Randy in hadn't been such a bad idea.