"Has he come around yet?" He heard the voice, though it sounded like he was listening through water. Everything sounded muffled. "Maybe we fed him too much." At these worried words, he remembered something being forced into his mouth. It tasted like strawberries, and it had instantly put him to sleep. Slowly but surely, he started to open his eyes, mumbling groggily as he tried to stand.

"There he goes," someone else stated matter-of-factly. He felt someone hold him down by the shoulders. This much told him that he was not tied down. His eyes finally opened, focusing in on the person holding him down. He was a man with a wild head of hair and an even wilder beard. Robin stared in wonderment at the size of the man. He was like a mountain.

"Who are you?" he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The man holding him down looked disappointed, as if he was hoping for more of an answer. He shook his head and took his hands from Robin's shoulders, backing up to give him room. Robin slowly pulled himself into a sitting position, hugging his knees to his chest as he took in the apprehensive glances from the people that had crowded around him.

"Are you alright?" One of them asked, adjusting the cap on his head. Robin could tell that he was worried, but he couldn't figure out why. Still, Robin nodded that he was as 'alright' as an abducted person could hope to be. The nod seemed to take a great weight off of the fidgeting man's shoulders. He sighed with relief and then stepped over to what appeared to be a kitchen.

Robin took the opportunity to look at his surroundings, though he certainly didn't recognize the strange, hidden structure or the people in it. His gaze kept falling on the people in front of him, who were staring expectantly at him. Even the fidgeting man kept glancing over from the kitchen area.

"You didn't answer my question," Robin muttered suddenly. "Who are you?" It was the first time that the strangers had stopped staring at him, and they only did so long enough to stare blankly at each other.

"He really doesn't remember," the fidgeting man said, furiously stirring whatever it was he was cooking. He'd gone from "worried" to "upset" in a matter of moments, shooting the rest of the gang dark looks, as if demanding them to do something. After an intensely awkward moment of silence, the man threw his hands up in disgust, stomping out of the camp in a huff. The shorter of the two women darted after him without a word, shrugging as she offered the gang an apologetic look.

---

"Much!" Morgan called, jogging after the former manservant. "Much, wait!" She was pleasantly surprised when Much stopped in his tracks, allowing her to catch up to him.

"Much, talk to me," she asked softly, putting a hand on his shoulder. At first, he shook his head in stubborn refusal, shrugging off her hand and crossing his arms across his chest. He moved when she tried to replace her hand. Frowning, Morgan tried a third time. For a third time, her attempt was denied. Growing frustrated, she gave him a light punch in the arm, calling him in a bossy, demanding tone. "Much!"

"He doesn't remember anything!" Much snapped, the hurt in his voice betraying his real concern. He doesn't remember me. "I've spent most of my life watching him and worrying about him and protecting him! And he doesn't remember! What's more, he was joking around with Gisborne, of all people! I am worrying myself into an early grave for him, and he's laughing with that stupid, smarmy git!"

"Not being funny, but that's not Robin's fault," Morgan pointed out. "If you have to blame someone, you can blame me. This is my fault." Over the months that Much had spent in Morgan's company, he'd come to expect her to say certain phrases in times of duress. The most common of these phrases was one that she often uttered by reflex, and it was often a lie. It's not my fault, she would say, throwing her hands up, as if it made her statement more true.

Needless to say, Morgan's full acceptance of responsibility threw Much off-kilter.

"What?" he asked, unsure of what Morgan meant.

"This whole mess is my fault," she repeated. "I was the one that should've been hit round the head. I was supposed to guard the portcullis, but I wasn't there." As soon as the words left her mouth, Morgan found herself sprawled out on the forest floor.

"If you say that you were with Allan or watching some jester or anything short of saving King Richard, I'll hit you again," Much warned, offering the hand that he'd punched her with a moment earlier. Morgan took it, standing and rubbing her jaw.

"That's fair," she grinned. "Come on, then. I'm sure that he'll come around. You're not an easy person to forget, Much."

"But what if he doesn't remember?" Much asked, his worry overtaking his momentary anger. The grin wavered on Morgan's lips. She wished for the briefest of seconds that she had been a physician like Djaq. Djaq always knew what was going on. Sometimes, she didn't have particularly uplifting news, but the point was that she always had an answer. Morgan, however, was not a physician. She was a blacksmith.

"I don't know," she answered flatly. "We could ask Djaq."

"We could ask Djaq," Much agreed, ready to hear what the resident doctor had to say.

---

"There's nothing that I can do, as a physician," Djaq admitted, glancing over at Robin, who was being closely guarded by Little John. Will didn't say anything, continuing to listen to her. He had heard what she'd said, but he had also heard what she hadn't said. "As a physician" implied that while there was no medical recourse, there was something that could be done about Robin's condition.

"However, as his friends, we may be able to bring him back," Djaq continued. "Perhaps if we tell him about the times we've spent together, it'll jog his memory."

"We could just hit him around the head again," Morgan suggested under her breath.

"You don't want to tell him too much at once. It could overwhelm him. Start with the small things, but make sure that they're significant enough to be effective," Djaq warned.

"I think Morgan's way sounds easier," Much mumbled, adjusting his cap. "Who's going to go first?"

---

Allan was beginning to think that running headlong into a brick wall would be a reprieve from the hell that he was currently enduring. In the relentless bureaucracy that was Nottingham, Allan reckoned that he was the third tier. The Sheriff was the head honcho, followed by Guy, followed by Allan. There were definite perks to being the third tier, but he could only focus on the negatives of the job at present. Mostly, there was the yelling. The Sheriff liked to yell when things went wrong. And they had gone pretty wrong.

"Honestly, Gisborne! How could you muck this one up? All you had to do was make sure that Robin made it to Locksley. Obviously, even this simplistic task was too much for you and your boy to handle!" he snarled, picking a decorative ornament from his desk and hurling it across the room, narrowly missing Allan's head. "I want you to find Hood and bring him back here! I don't care if you have to search the whole bloody forest! Get it done!"

Allan got out of the room as quickly as he possibly could.

"Dogs," Gisborne muttered as they walked down the hallway. Allan glanced over at him, frowning.

"Dogs?"

"Did I stutter, Allan? Dogs! We'll use them to track down the outlaws," Guy barked. Allan braced himself. As the third tier, Allan had to endure not only the Sheriff's yelling, but Gisborne's as well. "You are lucky that I don't have you hanged! What were you thinking, leaving the back of the convoy?" Allan cringed, putting on his best innocent look. He'd never get away with it in the gang; they were all wise to the way that Allan used facial expressions as something of a weapon. Thankfully, though, Guy and the Sheriff seemed to be oblivious.

"Not being funny, but you seemed upset. I was trying to help." He neglected to add that he was trying to help the gang. Guy's sharp look of anger softened, and he heaved a sigh. Sensing that he'd be alright to continue with his plan, Allan cleared his throat. "Anyway, why bother with the dogs?"

"You have a better idea?" Guy asked tersely.

"Not being funny, but don't I always?"

---

Marian was sitting by her window, eyes closed as the night air blew across her face, sweet whispers of freedom that she longed for. She supposed that she could have this freedom, if that was what she really wanted, but she remained in the castle. For Robin, in part, so that she could get information.

Another part of her, however, stayed for Guy. She knew that he'd done things that he wasn't proud of, but she was also convinced that if someone would just believe in him, he could be a good person. He'd help save her life, after all, and bad people didn't save lives. She didn't think that she could ever love him the way he wanted her to love him, but she could offer him friendship, something that she felt he hadn't had nearly enough of in his life.

There was a knock on the door, and Marian turned to see Allan poke his head into the room.

"There's not much point knocking if you don't wait for a response," Marian grinned. "Just so you know."

"Noted. Robin's been captured by the gang, and in the morning, you and I are supposed to go looking for him," Allan informed. "Just so you know."

"Why me?" Marian asked, standing. Allan's eyes lit up, and Marian knew that it was part of his crazy idea.

"Well, I convinced Guy that if you went out there, the gang was less likely to try and take a shot at us. We'll go under the pretense of visiting an old friend of yours, and I'll use my superior tracking skills to find the lads," he explained quickly.

"So, that's what you told Guy. What's the real plan?" Marian asked. "You can't hand Robin back over to the Sheriff, and if you come back empty handed, you'll be punished."

"Don't worry about it," Allan waved nonchalantly. "I've got it all taken care of."

"Allan," Marian said firmly, a slight frown on her face. "It isn't stupid or dangerous, is it?"

"It is both stupid and dangerous, but you'll like it. I promise," Allan winked, slipping out of the room before Marian could press him further. She shook her head in frustration. When she got the opprtunity, she was going to have to ask Morgan how to best deal with Allan; the man had a tendency to slip out of answering questions. It was no wonder Gisborne always had a headache after talking to him.

---

"I know who you are," Robin said suddenly, breaking the silence that had settled. Little John stared back at him, wondering if he should go fetch the others. They'd all decided that Little John would speak with Robin first and had cleared out to give them some privacy. Little John's hopes were suddenly dashed, however, when Robin continued. "You're the outlaws that the Sheriff warned me about."

"Did he?" Little John asked cautiously, wondering exactly what lies the Sheriff had fed to Robin.

"He said that you were the ones who beat me, and that you would likely try to kidnap me again," Robin said, scooting back to put more distance between him and Little John. "Are you going to kill me?"

"No," Little John replied flatly. "The Sheriff is a liar."

"He said that you'd say something like that," Robin recalled.

"You are Robin Hood. You steal from the rich and give to the poor," Little John reminded.

"He said that you'd definitely say something like that," Robin muttered, standing to leave. Little John grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him to sit back down. He missed the old Robin. This Robin was started to agitate him with his shenanigans. Little John didn't often speak, but if it would get the old Robin back, he'd sing the man the longest drinking song he knew, fully choreographed and all.

"You saved my wife," he said. "In Locksley. The Sheriff was going to have her tongue cut out, and you saved her." Robin stared at him, his facial expression as blank as his memory banks.

"I didn't like you back then," Little John admitted. "When I had my own gang. With Roy. Do you remember Roy?"

"I suppose I saved him, too?" Robin asked. Little John winced, slowly shaking his head.

"No. Him, you could not save," he confessed quietly. "But he died believing in the fight. Your fight." There wasn't familiarity in Robin's stare, no sign that he remembered the events that John had painstakingly recalled, but he wasn't trying to run anymore. He looked ready to listen, and that was something.

"So, the Sheriff really is a liar?" Robin asked. Little John nodded.

"And you're not going to hurt me?" Again, there was a nod.

"What's your name?"

"I'm Little John."

"I think I can remember that."

"I think you can, too." Robin smiled, and for the first time since his capture, he reminded Little John of the old Robin. That made Little John smile. For some reason, Robin tilted his head to the side. Maybe his brain was remembering something, or maybe he was just amused. Either way, it was progress.

Little John stepped out of the camp, meeting the expectant stares of the gang.

"You're up," he said, patting the next contestant on the shoulder.

---

There's chapter three!

I'm trying to carry on as if the finale doesn't exist. I can't continue writing otherwise. So, for now, bear with me while I cling to Guy's redeemablility.

I feel that I've sort of cheated Little John by having his involvement in Robin's rehabilitation run so short. I do feel bad, but there is a reason for this, and I'll explain it in the next chapter. I hope that the mental image of Little John doing a fully choreographed song and dance number will comfort you all. Or make you laugh. Either one, really. (In my head it's the Money Song from Monty Python.)

Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed! Please review!