My friends,

Thank you for all your wonderful comments. they warm my heart and drive my fingers along my laptop.

Now enough of that and lets have a little angst, shall we?

Chapter 6

Fevers rose and fell within David Starsky's body for three days after he initially awoke. During that time, he found himself in an unreal world of nightmares and confusion when the only thing that remained a constant was the pain in his body. Dreams tormented the brunet. Some were scary, all were riddled with discomfort and most eventually shook him awake so that he found himself alone in his hospital room without even memories of his identity to ease himself.

The dreams were a constantly changing landscape. In some of them, a blond haired man remained by his side. The man had no name and often smiled at Starsky. He even used that name – Starsky, or sometimes Starsk – although the doctor and nurses who hovered around on the outskirts of his dream called him by his given name of Ethan. Somehow the name Starsky seemed familiar and the injured brunet fought to regain memories which may give him a clue as to why he felt as he did.

Occasionally there were glimpses of a truth or a memory that seemed tantalisingly close, as though he could see it through a veil of muslin, just out of his reach. But each time he tried to reach out and grasp the memory it floated away from him. A girl with shining eyes and a mop of chestnut hair smiled at him. For some unknown reason he associated her with a fairground. He also knew he knew her body – could smell her perfume and taste the essence of her skin like a familiar wine on the back of his throat.

A big black man. Almost as large around as he was tall. A booming voice and a scowl that could have soured milk. Another black man, this one tall and lanky and with a lugubrious face that occasionally split into a beaming smile.

Were they faces from his past? Or were they characters his imagination had conjured up to fill in the void where his memories should have been? Starsky felt as though he should know them and yet none of the faces had names that he could remember and although they filled him with a warm fuzziness, nothing could replace true friends and true memories.

Then there were the other dreams – the ones that were filled with pain and fear. There seemed to be more of those, or at least they were more powerful – more memorable. The brunet wondered at what had gone on in his past to give him such nightmares. Needles floated in front of his tired eyes and a hideous, scratchy voice hissing "24" at him over and over again. Bears morphed into hooded figures that lurked in the shadows like bit players on a stage waiting for their share of the limelight. Fire and water, ropes and metal restraints hanging from dank rocky walls flashing like cold flames in the periphery of his vision.

And then there was the good, old fashioned nightmares caused by his fevers. Those at least seemed familiar to the sweating man, as though he'd had those same dreams all his life when he'd been sick. The dreams always started the same. He was being chased by a clown in full circus costume, its ginger curly hair and huge red bulbous nose a parody of the normal. It chased Starsky through a forest thick with trees that clung to his legs and arms. As hard as he tried to run, his legs refused to work properly and he resorted to grabbing for the trunks of the trees and hauling himself by his fingernails through the undergrowth. All the time, the clown got closer and closer to him until at last Starsky broke free of the trees and found himself teetering on the edge of a chasm so deep that he could see no bottom to it. The clown walked out into the clearing and started to reach for him. It was the clown, or the void – the rock or the hard place and each time, the brunet would get to this point and step off into the great unknown with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach only to wake himself up screaming or hunched in a ball at the top of his bed, the sheets wrapped around him like the suckers from the trees he'd been avoiding.

That was just how he found himself now, with a soft and soothing voice calling his name as though from a great distance.

'Ethan…..hey Ethan. Shhh, s'ok, s'ok. It's all over now. It was a dream, just a dream.' Mary's voice finally penetrated the abject terror that the brunet felt and he opened his eyes to fix them on the nurse, anchoring himself firmly back in the present. Hesitantly the woman reached out and rested her hand on her patient's shoulder. She was right to be hesitant. Even though Dr Isaac had warned her that the two new men were dangerous, she'd ignored the advice and the first time she'd tried to shake Starsky from a nightmare he'd grabbed her arm and threatened to break it. This time, Starsky merely stared at her until he stopped shaking and his eyes cleared into full recognition.

'Shit…..sorry' he whispered and closed his eyes tightly. He hated feeling like this – as though he were fragile as a kitten, and he hated the fact that the staff at the hospital seemed to tippy-toe around him as though he'd break if they were too rough with him. In fact only Mary seemed to have the right mix of care, concern and bluntness.

'Enough of your bad language! Do you know I've learned a new swear word every hour since you were admitted?' she admonished. Carefully she stood, went to the wash stand and filled a bowl with warm soapy water. She returned and Starsky allowed her to wash his arms, chest and face quietly. He studied her as she worked but as she pulled back the sheets and started to undo the string of his pants, he placed a strong hand over hers.

'Uh uh. Not unless you mean it' he rasped huskily.

Mary tried to look horrified but couldn't quite pull it off. Instead her face split into a grin and she pulled back her hand. 'Oh I could mean it, but I'm not going to start something that you can't finish mister.'

For a moment it looked like the threat may have the desired effect but then a shot of pain from his ribs sent Little Davey back to sleep and Starsky sighed. 'Gimme a week and you aren't gonna be safe shweetheart' he muttered.

'Give you a week and you'll be out of my care and into the clutches of Helga, the physiotherapist. Now she's someone I'd love to see you try it on with!'

'I'm game if she is. I can….' Starsky's words were cut off by a noise outside his door. It was the first time that he'd actually thought about what lay outside the confines of his own room and now he levered himself up onto his elbows. 'What the…..?'

Outside in the corridor there was the sound of a door slamming and then raised voices. The voices got louder and it sounded almost as though a fight were ensuing. A fist could be heard slamming into something softer than the wall. It sounded as though it had met with a body and there was a soft, agonised "umph" and a gasp followed by a rattle of instructions.

'Get a hold of him. Grab that….no, no, not like……careful. Watch that……told ya he was a wild one. Get the needle…..the needle dammit!'

The words faded as the door closed again a little less forcefully and Starsky turned troubled eyes towards his nurse.

'Just what's goin' on here?' he asked carefully. Something about the exchange had unsettled him. Something about the sound of another human being in pain; being manhandled against their will left him feeling cold and sick to his stomach and a deep throbbing pain started up within his body again.

Mary eased her patient back down onto the pillows. 'Not all of our patients are as co-operative, or as charming as you Ethan.'

'No kiddin'!'

'The man next door is….. shall we say he isn't only physically sick. He doesn't know what he's doing and he doesn't sometimes realise that we're here to help him. Sometimes he just lashes out.' Mary got up off the bed and opened a locker on the wall with a small key. From it she took a vial of clear liquid and a hypodermic needle. With practiced ease she drew the drug into the barrel of the syringe and came to inject it into the port of the tube leading into the back of Starsky's hand.

'What're ya givin' me now?'

'Vitamins, an antibiotic and something to help you sleep.'

'Honey I don't need no help sleepin'.' The brunet stretched carefully and snuggled his head against the pillow. His eyelids drooped and a half smile appeared on his lips. 'Utch says I could sleep on a clothes line' he mumbled as sleep finally overtook him.

Mary checked her patient's vitals. Damn he was a tough nut to crack if after all this he could still utter his partner's name! But not as tough a nut as the blond man next door.

Hutch had woken once again to find himself anchored down to his bed by soft but strong medical restraints. After the first "treatment" he'd endured in the spartan white room, he realised that this was far from being a true hospital. The pictures he'd been forced to watch had been of his partner, in his car; smiling as he read a book; crossing a road, although the name given to him had been Ethan Quade. Hutch had yelled that this was a lie, that this was David Starsky and that he demanded to be let out. A polite, firm and reasonable voice told him he was delusional and that they were trying to help him. The voice told Hutch he was sick and that he needed to be cured. Despite the drug in his system the blond had fought with every sinew to remember Starsky. He'd struggled against the restraints holding him down and even as his mind drifted away he still had Starsky's name on his lips.

Waking up in his room after that initial treatment, Hutch had been quiet. His own nurse, a petite young thing called Adele had spoken gently to him, probing his memories. Hutch had been careful. He had felt fuzzy and dissociated and the more they asked him about a partner and his past life, the more he clammed up, acting dumb until he could try to understand what was going on. Eventually, the orderlies came for him again, explaining he'd needed another "treatment" and at that point, the blond had exploded. They'd subdued him easily enough, but each day for three days now they'd come for him at the same time. The men weren't cruel, neither did they hurt him more than they had to, but Hutch could feel his mind slipping away. There were times when he lay awake in his bed wondering if in fact the medics were right. Was he sick? Was he insane? And then a vision of chocolate curls and the most intense blue eyes would convince him once again that the last thing he should do was forget Starsky.

Now, as he'd woken again, the orderly at his right hand side had been a little too complacent and had unfastened the restraint without taking care. Hutch's right foot drew back and had ploughed into the man's jaw sending him to the floor. He'd managed to get most of his body off of the bed, but he was still fastened by his left hand and the other orderly had been able to do nothing more than fight back, driving his own fist into Hutch's stomach and driving the air from the blond's body.

Isaac appeared at the door and took immediate charge, instructing Adele to plunge a double dose of sedative into her patient's butt leaving Hutch dangling inert by his left wrist from the bed and the orderlies nursing their own wounds.

The doctor tutted. 'Get him on the gurney and follow me. It's going to be a long night. We don't have time for all this' he muttered as the two white uniformed men bundled Hutch unceremoniously onto the gurney and fastened the leather straps extra tight.

Back in the white rook, Isaac shone his penlight into Hutch's eyes, the brightness bringing a groan from the blond. As he swam back up through the mists, he recognised the doctors face and was about to say something when Isaac cut him dead.

'That's enough Mr Hutchinson. That's the last time you're going to hear that name, or Starsky's. No more Mr Nice guy. Say goodbye to your identity Ken. However strong your mind, tomorrow when you awake you will be Ray Hunt and believe it or believe it not, you are going to hate Starsky enough to kill him.'

Without giving the blond time to reply, the doctor sunk a needle into Hutch's arm. The blond had time only to feel the earphones being secured around his head again. This time he felt sick to his stomach. The drug they'd given him seemed different somehow and yet he wouldn't forget.

He wouldn't.

Images started to flicker in front of him. Starsky crossing the road; the brunet with a gun in his hand; Starsky laughing – laughing at him.

Hutch struggled against the binders surrounding his body. 'Starsk…..' he mumbled. 'God Starsk….. Won't forget……Starskyyyyy.'