The visit to the rooms above The Fish House had alerted Peter that this version of his missing CI would be different from what he was used to. There would be no sharp suits, skinny ties or pristinely groomed visages. John was a fisherman, not a smooth-talking conman, and his clothes were rugged and functional. The absence of a razor indicated this man would not be clean-shaven, and having worked on the water since December, his skin would likely be tanned and weather-worn. His hands, no doubt, would not be soft; they would be calloused from hard work. The changes the room indicated paled in comparison to the changes they'd perceived after spending hours reading through the journal entries. Or most of them.

His hand had evidently not always been steady.

At first, the entries seemed to just record nightmares, nightmares of which he'd remembered little upon waking. But reluctantly, apparently at the urging of Mrs. Devaine, he had written down the feelings they'd invoked. The journal also began to function as a place to record things of interest, and items of self discovery. His first day cleaning fish, for instance, and his certainty he'd never done such a thing before had caused a chuckle or two. He'd also written about the day he learned he could speak fluent French. He'd stumbled upon the discovery, but upon investigation had uncovered several other languages he spoke. Some of the listed languages surprised even Peter. And as the narration on the pages pondered the wheres and whys of such an education, Peter did likewise.

John Thomas, as he now called himself, was different from the Neal Caffrey he knew, but he still made lists. Just like when he was trying to puzzle out a case, he made lists as he tried to puzzle out his past. But other than that, there was little evidence of the cocksure Neal Caffrey. Instead, worry, fear, and self-doubts covered page after page. John Thomas was afraid he was a bad person. Maybe a smuggler or even a killer who had deserved the bullets he'd taken. A criminal who deserved to have been left to die in the cold Atlantic. Midway through the journal, images from the persistent nightmares lingered long enough to be carefully recorded. Unsurprisingly, most had elements of running or hiding from unknown enemies and unseen dangers, reinforcing the fears of the unknown past. But something else began to take shape in the dreams; some help, some haven. Some unseen and undescribed person who represented safety. And then one night, Neal had awakened calling out for someone named Peter. Reading how Neal desperately wanted to remember who he was was both heartwarming and heartbreaking. There was no face Neal could put to the name, no memory he could capture. Just a feeling that this man could help if he could find him. There was also a fear that there was no Peter; that it was just his mind trying to give him a reason to hope. But then he'd remembered a phone number. He and Elizabeth read as Neal debated with himself over several days about the wisdom of reaching out. Then, last night, his feelings about finally making the call were a mix of anticipation and apprehension, mostly apprehension.

Is knowing worse than not knowing?

It was the same thing Peter had wondered the night before, lying next to Elizabeth into the wee hours of the morning. If Neal had lost his memory and had no recollection of his past, how would he react to learning about it? How would he feel to know he was a convicted felon? That he serving his time on a work release agreement with the FBI? That Peter was not only not his brother, but his handler? The truth would mean Neal would have to trade the open sea in for a tracking device and a two-mile radius.

But as he read through the entries, Peter realized Neal did not feel free at all. He was trapped by fear of who he was, what he'd done, and what dastardly deeds had resulted in his being shot and dumped into the Atlantic. The things he'd imagined as his past were all much worse than the truth. He had been a criminal, true, but not when he'd been left to die. At that time, he'd been making up for his misspent youth, working on the side of justice. And even at his worst, Neal Caffrey had never been the man he feared he had been. Peter had worried the truth of his past would devastate Neal, but maybe it wouldn't. Maybe knowing the truth would be a relief.

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With no good place to observe, with the building blocking a view of the docking area and the weather prohibiting outside seating, Peter sat inside the Fish House and watched through the window as Elizabeth, with her coat and matching hat pulled down against the still buffeting wind, snapped photos as the crew made to disembark. Peter counted six men moving about, all bearded and grubby and mostly dressed in workwear like he'd seen in Neal's closet. No one stood out to him, which surprised him. Somehow, even knowing Neal had changed, he felt he'd know him immediately. But that wasn't the case. It took several minutes of watching as the crew secured the boat and began to unload the day's catch, that one man caught his eye. He was the most slightly built of the group, and something about how he moved reminded him of Neal.

Elizabeth spoke to the man Peter assumed was Captain Devaine, who then nodded and waved towards the working men. Permission granted, Elizabeth, closer to the crew than he was, immediately approached the man he felt sure was Neal. They spoke for a moment or two, but then, almost abruptly, the man hurried away, leaving his fellow crew members to complete the work. He passed the window where Peter sat with his head down, and so quickly, Peter could not determine his expression. Elizabeth, intent on playing her part, lingered several moments more, speaking to a more locratious fisherman before joining Peter inside.

"What happened?" Peter asked as she sat down and pulled the hat from her head. "Did he recognize you?"

"I don't know," she answers, placing the hat on the bench beside her. "I don't think so. He wasn't feeling well." A concerned frown creased her forehead. "He was pale and unsteady; said the rough water had made him queasy. He was polite and answered a couple of questions. Then he apologised, excused himself and rushed off." She glanced around. "Did he come in here?"

Peter shook his head. "No. He went by the window without even looking up." That told Peter he hadn't recognized Elizabeth, at least not consciously. If he had, he would have known Peter would be close by and would have been scanning for him. There had been none of that. "What did you ask him?"

"His name and how long he'd worked on the Mariner," she replied. "He said John Thomas and a little over four months. He looks different," she continued. "His hair is longer and curlier than I thought it would be. Of course, he has a beard, but his face has a...a hollow look about it. And not just that he was feeling sick. It was more than that. Deeper."

Any real doubts Peter had harbored about Neal's claim of amnesia had been mostly wiped out when he and Elizabeth finished the journal, but having observed this interaction and heard Elizabeth's rendition of the meeting, he knew the truth. This wasn't a ruse, some brilliant scheme Neal had devised to avoid the consequences of his actions. Neal was in trouble, real trouble, and it was not of his own making.

His eyes again rested upon the painting of the Marianer, tossed about on a rough sea.

"He's as lost as a man can be," Peter said softly, recalling Mrs. Devaine's words to Elizabeth that morning.

Elizabeth nodded solemnly. "Yes, he is, Peter."

"Then I think it is time he was found, don't you?"