Remember Me: A drabble about one character remembering/trying to remember another

Ruth Evershed had stormed out of the building so fast that she almost ripped her handbag strap on the door handle as she left. After a violent tug, the strap had fallen free and she continued to stomp down the few steps and onto the pavement. She was all the way to the crossing and waiting for the light to change when she heard him coming up behind her.

Harry Pearce was a bit taller than his analyst and had much longer legs, but even he couldn't keep up with her when she was angry. And today, she was angry - at everything, but especially at him.

As she heard his footsteps slow down and could smell his aftershave, she suddenly saw red. "Harry, get the hell away from me," she growled, just as the light changed and the pedestrians from the other side of the street started toward her. She stepped off the curb, her heel caught in a chink in the pavement and she started to stumble. Strong hands grabbed her arm, and gently helped her regain her balance.

The minute he did it, he knew it was the wrong thing to do. That was what started the whole argument in the first place: his overprotectiveness. 'I can't let her fall on her backside in the middle of London,' he reasoned. As she glared up at him, fire in her eyes, her answer was unspoken. 'OK, maybe I should've let her fall on her backside in the middle of London'. She whipped her arm out of his hand so hard, it stung. But it was the look in her eyes that hurt more.

"Ruth, can we talk about this over lunch?" he asked meekly.

"If I had to eat across from you right now, I would have indigestion for a week," she seethed.

"Then can we go down to the river and just sit for a minute," he suggested. "Look, I didn't do anything that I haven't done a thousand times before," he objected, trying with one last hope to defend his actions of the morning. By this time in the argument, he was having difficulty remembering exactly what he had done to set her off.

They were on the other side of the street now and suddenly she stopped, dead. She put her arms on her hips and looked up at him. "Harry, when will you get it through that think, testosterone-saturated, male head of yours that I am not made of glass? I am a fully trained MI-5 officer. Now leave me the hell alone!"

He bit his tongue to keep from saying something really stupid, most likely about her fondness for tree branches, and turned around to return to the building. 'It'll be okay,' he reassured himself. 'She'll come round, I'm sure." But he wasn't sure, not really. Which explains why he wasn't really looking as he made his way back the road at one of its busiest times of the day.

The minute Ruth heard the 'thud' and the squeal of tires and the scream, she knew what had happened. Her heart stopped, her stomach dropped out from under her and she almost fell as she spun on her heel and ran as fast as she could to the street. 'Maybe, it's not him. Maybe it's a tourist, or someone from one of the Embassies. Maybe we got really lucky and it's a terrorist,' she tried to convince herself. The second she saw the leg, at a very precarious angle, she recognised the suit. It was everything she could do to keep from screaming herself.

She shoved her way through the crowd. "Let me through!" she called, her voice finally taking on the tone of authority it always had in emergency situations.

He was unconscious, lying on his back with his head to the left. His left arm was pinned uncomfortably underneath him, she was certain it was broken or the shoulder was dislocated, maybe both. His left leg stuck out a sickening angle just below the knee. She put her hand on his chest, to check his breathing and immediately started CPR. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of a siren picked at her concentration, but she brushed it aside. Another thought, almost as unbidden, told her that her hand was very wet and sticky where she held his head when she breathed into his mouth. She brushed it aside, too, and focused on breathing, pushing, breathing, pushing, until strong arms gently pulled her up and the paramedics took over. She was so concentrated on her efforts, she fought momentarily to return to them when she recognised the voice.

"Ruth, let the paramedics take over. Come on, I'll give you a ride to the hospital." It was Lucas. Where he had come from, God only knew. He had probably been on his way to lunch, just like everyone else and just happened to be there. At that point, Ruth really didn't care, she was willing to take even small miracles where she could get them. She sagged in his arms and let him guide her back to Thames House and into the parking garage underneath. Neither spoke on the ride to hospital.

Lucas wasn't exactly comfortable, pacing the emergency room lounge, waiting for word on Harry. Usually he avoided A&E, preferring to wait at the on the Grid for a call. But this time, he had been on the scene, had seen the whole thing, right down to witnessing his boss getting hit broadside by a white van. That made it all the more personal.

Ruth was sitting in a plastic covered waiting room chair, staring at the black and white tile floor. She was numb. The driver of the van was an 18 year old boy who had only had his license for four months. It was the first time he had driven in the city alone. He had turned the corner, thought it was all clear, was going a little too fast because he was late picking up his mother for lunch. He hadn't even seen Harry step off the curb. Poor lad; they'd had to sedate him, he was still in the hospital in shock.

She looked towards the doors in resus. She longed to go in there and find out what in God's name was taking so long. He had been in there over two hours. She had seen nurses and doctors coming and going and tried to get a look into the curtained dividers, hoping to catch a glimpse of Harry. One cubicle, at the far end, seemed to have more than its share of activity. 'That must be the one he's in,' she figured. 'Please be okay! Please!' she pleaded inwardly. 'I'm sorry I got angry at you.'

With that thought, the floodgates opened and she began to sob uncontrollably.

Lucas heard the sobs behind him and his heart sank. He hated this. He knew how close Harry and Ruth were, how much they depended on the other. Slowly, he walked over and sat down beside her and did the only thing he could think to do; he wrapped her in his arms and held her while she cried.

It was the gentlemanly thing to do, but it was the wrong gentleman. Ruth fought to gain her composure and finally managed to stop the tears. "Thanks, Lucas," she mumbled. "I'll be fine. It's just..." her voice trailed off and her lips started to quiver again, but she caught herself, and cleared her throat. She swallowed hard and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I wish someone would come and tell us what's going on," she said, and got up to pace the room.

About half an hour later, a doctor came through the doors and approached them. "Ruth Evershed?" She nodded. "I'm Doctor Fowler, I've been working on, ah ," he double checked the chart in his hand, "Mr Pearce. His injuries are severe. He's suffering from a broken femur, a dislocated shoulder, bruising of the spleen and left kidney that could result in haemorrhaging if we aren't careful, but most distressing is the skull fracture. It's severe. The next 24 hours are critical. I'm sorry, but if there are any other family members, I think you should get in contact with them." Dr. Fowler stood up. "He's being moved to intensive care as we speak. It's on the fourth floor. You can see him, as soon as he's settled.

Ruth nodded silently. Lucas stood and helped her to her feet. "Come on, Ruth. You could use a cup of coffee. Then we'll go check on Harry." He led her down the hall to the elevator and up to the cafeteria.

Once seated, with coffee, Lucas couldn't take it any longer. "Ruth, is there something wrong, something you want to talk about?" he asked. He had seen her in emergencies plenty of times, but he had never seen her act like this.

Before she could stop herself, the words came tumbling out. "We were arguing. I was mad at him because… because he's always so damn protective of me! I yelled at him then I stormed out. He followed me, but when he caught up with me I made it abundantly clear that I didn't want to even look at him. And then, the idiot didn't look where he's going and gets run over! He's overprotective of *me* and the minute I'm not there to look both ways before he crosses the street he… If he dies…" she stopped herself and bit her lip so hard she almost drew blood. She wasn't going to lose it again, not in front of Lucas.

Lucas sat there, stunned, for a moment. He hadn't expected this. He'd expected her to clam up and not talk, like most spies. This onslaught of emotion was totally unlike anything he had ever experienced from Ruth. But the guilt he heard that before… she sounded just like Harry! "Look, Ruth, I don't know of a single section head who isn't just a little overprotective. It's part of the job. It's different for field agents; we tackle things no sane people would even consider! But you're an analyst… a bloody good one at that… but it's not your job to be putting yourself in that position. You haven't had the same level of training."

Even as he speaks, Lucas wonders at the truth of his words. Is Harry's attitude just down to the fact that she's an analyst? Or could it be more about his feelings for her?

"As for the accident… it wasn't your fault. So you argued? That wasn't the cause. Hell, if everyone who argued then ended up under the wheels of a van, the NHS would collapse under the strain. I know you feel guilty, but we can't go back into the past and change the way things are today. We have to live with them the way they are. Right now, Harry needs you. He needs you to remind him what he has to live for. Come on, I'll help you find him. Then, I'll head back to the Grid. You can call me when there's good news." His emphasis on the word 'when' was not lost on her. She smiled meekly and nodded.

Three days later…

Ruth was sat with Harry, his hand lay in hers and she was absentmindedly stroking the back of it with her thumb. She hadn't left his side since he'd been admitted and, once he had survived the first 24 hours the doctors had been confident he would wake up. It was just a matter of time.

She watched him intently. Slowly, he moved his head from side to side, almost imperceptibly. Then his eyelids fluttered, and he tried to focus. He swallowed a few times, he had been without the respirator for a day now, but his throat was still sore.

"Hello," she said, trying to pull his attention to where she was sitting. She was rewarded with his eyes, staring directly at her, trying to focus on her face. "How are you feeling?" she asked.

He looked at her, confused. "Throat hurts," he croaked softly.

It wasn't what she expected, but it was Harry and he was alive. She'd take it. She reached behind her to the bedside tray and found the ice that had been waiting for just this occasion. She spooned some into his mouth and he swallowed it and nodded for more. She gave him a couple more spoonfuls and put it back on the tray. "Better?" she asked.

He nodded. "Are you my nurse?" he rasped.

Ruth chuckled at what she thought was his attempt at a joke. But instead of laughing with her, he only looked more confused. He shut his eyes tightly, trying to reach for his thoughts. When he opened them again, he looked scared. "Do you… do I know you?" he asked, sounding as timid as a four year old.

Suddenly, Ruth felt something very cold in the pit of her stomach. "What's your name?" she asked him, looking into his eyes. He sat thinking for a long time.

"I… I don't know. It… it won't come to me!" he whispered. "I do know you, don't I?" the words were a statement, more than a question.

Ruth ignored him. "Do you know what happened? How you got here?" she asked. Again, he thought hard. No flicker of recognition came to his face. He shook his head and then winced at the pain it caused him.

Ruth reached over and pressed the call button. A nurse answered immediately and Ruth asked her to page his doctor Then she turned her attention back to her boss She sighed, heavily. "You're name is Harry Pearce. You were hit by a van while crossing the road. You work for MI-5, head of counter-terrorism. I'm your senior analyst, my name is Ruth Evershed. Do you remember any of this?" she asked, pleading.

He shook his head and looked even more frightened. Suddenly, Ruth realised that he was still in critical condition and this was not good for him. The heart monitor was beeping faster and she could see from the monitor next to it that his blood pressure was shooting up, too.

"Listen to me," she said, gently pulling his face toward her so that he was looking directly at her. "You have a concussion, brought on by a fracture to your skull. It is normal for you to have trouble remembering, OK? You have been unconscious for three days, since the accident. You are still a long way from being well, you need to rest so you can get better."

"Are you the only one here? Do I have any family?" he asked, struggling to calm down as she talked.

"You're divorced with two children. Catherine and Graham. I called Catherine, she was in Israel, filming. She's on her way home."

"And my son?"

"I didn't know how to contact him. I'm sure Catherine will." She hoped that would take care of the matter for now. Besides, it was the truth – there was no number for Graham on Harry's personnel file. He nodded and accepted it as enough. Gradually, his heartbeat slowed to a steady beat and his blood pressure lowered to a more normal range. As Ruth sat there, stroking his hand, his eyelids grew heavy and he sighed. A few minutes later he was asleep.

Harry had been asleep for about 15 minutes when Dr Fowler arrived. Ruth told him the entire exchange and he glanced through Harry's inch-thick medical file. "He's never lost his memory before?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"What was he doing before the accident? Was it traumatic in any way?"

Ruth swallowed hard. "We were, ah, arguing just before the accident. We were shouting, actually. No, that's not right. I was shouting. I was really mad at him and I was shouting."

Dr Fowler smiled and tried not to laugh. "You sound like my wife and I when we get into it." He put his hand on her shoulder reassuringly. "I don't think that was as traumatic as you might think, Miss Evershed. Most men are used to being put through the ringer by the women in their lives in the heat of an argument. What I meant was, had he received any particularly shocking news, a death in the family, something he might want to suppress?"

"No. Not recently. Not that I know of. It was just a normal day."

"Miss Evershed, three days ago we were worried he wouldn't even make it through the night. Now, he's awake, his vitals are looking good. Let's be thankful for that. Temporary memory loss is a common side effect of the injuries he has sustained. Let's give him time, okay?

The following day…

Ruth hesitantly pushed open the door to Harry's room. The nurse on the nurse's station had assured her that he was awake and had already complained that he wasn't allowed any 'real' breakfast. (Dr. Fowler was still concerned about his internal injuries and was keeping him on a liquid diet for the time being). It was music to Ruth's ears that he had the gumption to complain about anything.

His eyes were closed and he still looked too pale, but he snapped awake when he heard her shoes on the tile floor. He looked at her and smiled warily. "Hi. It's Ruth isn't it?"

It hurt that he had to ask, but she hid it as best she could and smiled in return. "Yes, it's Ruth. I came by before heading into work to see how you're feeling. I hear they won't give you any breakfast."

He held up his right arm, securely connected to an IV tube. "The nurse said this is breakfast!" he said, glumly.

Ruth repressed a laugh. "The room service in this place is lousy. I'll tip the matre'd and see if it gets any better."

Harry looked at her, slightly confused. "Room service… something about room service. Or service of some kind… It was lousy." He was concentrating hard, trying to pull the memory out of his subconscious. Finally, he shook his head, again wincing when he forgot the pain the action caused.

Ruth leaned over and took his hand. "It's all right. They'll come. It might take time, but you need to be careful. We don't want you hurting yourself trying to remember. Just relax and let the memories come back on their own."

"But I have to remember!" he exclaimed. "Do you have any idea what it's like not to remember? How frightening that is? Malcolm came by last night. He seems like a nice fellow; sat here for the longest time and told me stories about myself-and they felt like they were just that: stories! None of it felt real, none of it felt like it had happened to me!" He was very agitated and frustrated and the monitors were proving it. Ruth reached over and called the nurse.

"What are you doing?" he asked, grabbing her arm.

"You are getting too excited. You have internal injuries and this is not good for you. I'm getting the nurse to see if she can give you anything to help you relax. I know how hard you want to remember, but you are going to hurt yourself if you keep this up." Gently, she pulled her wrist away from his hand.

"You don't want me to remember," he glared at her.

"That is ridiculous!" she shot back, stunned that he would even think such a thing.

"No it's not. You don't want me to remember. This way you have a clean slate. I've noticed how guilty you look when you look at me. You did something and you're trying to make up for it. But you don't want me to remember it. So, you don't want me to remember anything at all." He was looking directly in her eyes, trying to gauge the effect of his accusation.

"Funny, you can't remember your own name, but you remember how to act like a complete bastard!" she seethed, dropping her gaze so he couldn't see her eyes. She glanced at the door and wondered where the hell the nurse was.

"But I'm right! I know I am. You are being entirely too overprotective of me. So what if I get a little excited!" he shouted. "I'm in a hospital, I can't hurt myself that much. I have to remember. You can't protect me from my memories. I'm not…" he stopped shouting and looked off into space, concentrating. "I'm not made of glass," he whispered. "You said that. You told me that. 'When are you going to get it through your thick, testosterone-saturated male head of yours that I am not made of glass?" A look of sheer amazement crossed his face that he was finally getting somewhere. He looked at her expectantly and waited for her response.

Tears were starting to stream down her cheeks. "Out of all the millions of things we've said to each other, Harry, why the hell do you have to remember that, word for word?" She looked totally miserable, and she felt even worse. Finally, at that moment, the nurse entered, carrying a syringe.

"Sorry I took so long," she apologised. "We had a code blue going, and I couldn't get away." She looked at the monitors, slightly confused. "A little elevated, but within normal ranges. I'm not sure you need this, Mr Pearce," she commented, indicating the sedative."

Harry reached over and took Ruth's hand. "I think Miss Evershed is in more need of that than I am. But she'll be okay. She's very strong and capable of looking after herself… especially when wielding a tree branch!"

"You remember? How much?"

"Snatches. But more and more every minute. It all started to come back when I got mad at you. It seems you have a way of getting my dander up, Ruth," he said affectionately.

"It's in my job description. Get Harry's dander up at least once a day! It's a reciprocal arrangement though, and let me tell you Harry, you are far better at it than I."