A/N: sorry this took longer than usual - I basically hated what was already written and had to re-write the whole thing. Which also means I've set myself up to have to re-write the next few chapters, oops.

Do let me know if you come across anything egregiously confusing

Gabriel was thankful that his doctors were pleased with his progress – physical progress, anyway – and said he could be discharged after only four more days. Owen had come into his room that morning and told him, and had practically begged that he come stay with them. He claimed Dr Kemholt, or Gray, as he supposed he'd have to get used to calling him, had a big house and a housekeeper, and they wouldn't feel happy until they knew he was safe.

Gabriel supposed they were probably worried he'd go running back to this Sawyer Montgomery, even though the man hadn't been to see him and he had no idea where he lived. He told himself – and told Owen – that he'd accept because, without his memories, he had nowhere else to go. But really, if he let himself accept it, there was also the fact that every time Owen and Gray were in his room, he felt safer. He just didn't know what he was feeling safer from.

His bags were packed and he was waiting for Owen to finish his shift and come pick him up when he realized he was already here, in the corridor, having a hushed conversation with someone. He saw it was Gray when they both came into his room.

"Talking about me?" Gabe asked, half joking, but Gray looked at Owen almost in panic.

"Gabe, sweetheart," Owen said softly, one hand over his, petting as if he was an animal to be soothed. It worked, but Gabriel wasn't going to think about how much he liked the contact from Owen. About when he might last have had a non-medical touch of skin. "We need you to know something before we take you home. Gray's a- a therapist. He helps people who've been through bad situations."

"Okay?"

"We mentioned the club we think you were in, but I don't think the name meant anything to you," Gray picked up.

"No?"

"It's a BDSM club."

"Oo-kay?"

"We think there's a good chance you are in the lifestyle, though you can't remember."

Gabe felt his breath getting shorter until Owen took his hand again.

"We know you didn't invite your injuries, Gabe. Just because you're into certain things doesn't mean you deserve to be beaten."

"How- how do you know?" All Gabe could think was that he'd put himself into some situation; gone to some club where people get whipped and chained up, and put himself into a situation where he got hurt. He felt the burn of shame climbing his throat, but Owen's clear green eyes looked right into his, grounding him.

"No, Gabe. There is a difference between masochism and what happened to you. I promise. And you will get understanding from us. That's why it's important that you know, before we drive you home. Because we're in the lifestyle too. That's why it's easy to recognize the signs, and easy to know the difference."

He heard Owen's words, though his mind had stuttered on one. 'Masochism'. He knew, now, that was what he was. A masochist. He liked to get hurt. But no, not this way, not this much. He had to focus on the rest of Owen's words, on his understanding, to stop himself from disassociating. He could feel his mind desperate to pull him under, and he couldn't let it.

* * * * *

"I'll get Gabe," Owen offered after he'd greeted Weston Brown, the detective in charge of Gabriel's case.

Arriving at Gray's townhouse had gone smoothly, and Owen had settled Gabe into the guest room that Mrs Miggins had set up, leaving him to nap. But, of course, now he'd been released, the police wanted to ask him questions. Gray was thankful it was Weston, who was good friends with Dexter, another Dom and a close friend of Gray's. Weston understood the lifestyle, even if he didn't participate, and would be far more considerate of Gabe's needs than most detectives.

"You won't get much from him, you know? His memory loss is genuine."

"I know him, you know?" Weston mentioned, looking into his coffee before taking a deep sip.

"You do? Were you called out for domestic violence?"

"That's how it is? I'd like to pretend to be surprised, but I'm not. But no, there's no record of any complaints. I was in charge of the case of his partner's death about a year ago."

"Who?" Gray was shocked, and pained on behalf of Gabe, who clearly hadn't remembered yet.

"Yup, an older 'gentleman' by the name of Henry Smythe. Died in his sleep."

"Why were you involved? Suspicious circumstances?"

"Highly suspicious, but nothing we could pin down. The prosecutor refused to even consider it because we had nothing but circumstantial evidence. Gabe had been given sleeping pills, slept through, so there was no witness, and the coroner couldn't categorically confirm anything with the tox results, but we always suspected foul play. They had suspicions it was a heart attack caused by an embolism but they had no way of determining whether it was natural or caused intentionally."

"Who gave Gabe the sleeping pills?" Gray asked, even though he already had an idea.

"One Sawyer Montgomery. Douche central, that guy. But you know that, don't you? After all, that's who we're looking at for this."

"And with about the same chance of pinning it on him, unless Gabe's memory comes back to him."

Gabe came into the room, sleepily rubbing his eyes. He stopped when he saw Weston, his head going to the side in the way Gray had noted suggested he was receiving something of a memory. Unfortunately, so far, most of his memories had been more like candid snapshots, not giving him anything solid to latch onto.

"Do you recognize the detective, Gabe?" he asked.

"Uh, I don't know," Gabe rubbed his nose, another tell that suggested he was frustrated with himself. "Maybe."

"Detective Weston Brown," Weston introduced himself, though didn't come closer to the clearly skittish Gabe, who perched on the edge of the couch, Owen standing protectively behind him. "It's good to see you."

"Hi," Gabe responded softly, gratefully taking hold of Owen's hand on his shoulder.

"There's no pressure here, Gabe. Gray's told me you can't remember anything. I'd like it if you'd promise to let me know if anything comes back to you."

Weston's Caribbean lilt was hypnotic, and Gray was pleased to see Gabe's shoulders relax slightly as he nodded his agreement.

"I know you don't remember Sawyer Montgomery, Gabe, but I met you once with him." Gray was glad Gabe didn't think to ask why, and Weston clearly thought better than to tell him, even as he wondered whether being reminded about a previous relationship might prompt a new memory.

Instead, Gabe asked, "When was that?"

"Hmmm, about eleven or twelve months ago."

"So, I must have been with him for at least that long? And I can't remember him."

Gray had his own obvious theory about what those memories were, and why Gabe's mind was protecting him by keeping them under. But it was likely they'd come out at some point, and he was starting to worry they'd explode instead of trickle, and that it might have a detrimental effect on Gabe.

Weston only stayed long enough to get Gabe to confirm he'd be staying for a while, and wouldn't go anywhere without letting someone know, though luckily he seemed unaware of the risk he might be in.

"He's out there, you haven't found him yet?" Gray asked as he showed Weston to the door.

"In the wind. He hasn't been seen since that night. We finally got some witnesses in the club to confirm that he'd been there that night with Gabe, but we could only confirm them walking in together on the security footage. Everything else was mysteriously 'lost' to a technical malfunction."

"That's Top Floor for you. They certainly cover their own. And the person who dropped him at Emergency?"

"Dominant by the name of Matthew Johnson. A few of the bar staff confirmed him as a friend of Montgomery, but they had their own cases of amnesia when we tried to get statements from them. Been told to forget, of course. And Johnson's remaining tight-lipped. A lawyer too, like Montgomery, though working for different firms so no provable connection there. Still claims he found the boy outside the club. Obviously I don't believe that, but there's a wall there. We'll keep poking at it, though, looking for weak spots. I don't like abusers, Gray, you know that."

"I do. And Gabe is lucky to be alive right now. I'm sure he'll appreciate anything you can do."

It didn't feel like enough, but they were stuck until something broke on the case. Gray was banking on Weston finding Sawyer Montgomery.

* * * * *

"How are you feeling?"

Gabe just nodded wearily at Owen's question and allowed his arm to be taken so he could be guided back up the stairs to his new room. He felt weak – physically still full of aches and pains, but mentally too, like any thinking he had to do drained him. It was frustrating, not having a grasp on his own mind.

It was his mind that was truly causing him pain. He knew Gray and Owen were holding things back for his sake – and he'd sensed Weston Brown had been doing the same – but he couldn't pinpoint what made him feel that way. He was letting it happen at the moment, without trying to fight. Gray had said his memories shouldn't be forced, although he'd heard Owen and Gray having quietly whispered disagreements over how to approach his treatment.

Eleven months he'd lost, and more, but felt a strong sense that the most recent eleven months was like a dam, and once that broke, everything would come flooding back. No memories of the time yet, other than a vague sense that he'd loved this Sawyer Montgomery. And been scared of him. And, apparently, been hurt by him. Badly.

A few spots of earlier memory had come to him over the last few days. An old lady visiting someone had prompted a memory of Gramma, though he only had flashes about her – except those flashes came with warm, happy, feelings. Nothing conflicting there, even though he had an awareness that she had died at some point, but it was a muted memory of loss. He'd had other memories of an older man, not as old as Gramma so he wondered if it had been his father. There was a sense of contentment with most of those flashes, though sometimes they came with a pain that felt like betrayal, so he was still uncertain.

* * * * *

Over the next few days, Gray had what he called 'informal therapy sessions' with Gabe, who would tuck himself up on the comfortable leather couch in Gray's study with a soft, mohair blanket Owen had told him was his, if he wanted it. He did, loving being cocooned in it while Gray very gently prodded his memory.

Gray told him he was making good progress. He got more information about Gramma, and he realized he'd actually been in a relationship with the older man, who was called Henry. He remembered that Henry had died, and there'd been some tears that day, but it was muted, like the memory of Gramma.

But still, genuine, clear, memories of this supposed relationship of almost a year would not come.

After another session, he'd gone back to his room to try and read or nap. They weren't painful, Gray made sure of that, but they were draining. Gabriel moved to the window seat. He sat facing the room, to prevent distractions, and read his book, humming a song he didn't remember the source of, but seemed to like, until he felt a wave of tiredness. The novel went on the dresser next to the window, and he finally turned, to take in the view.

There wasn't much to see. The buildings opposite were the same as the one he was in. Tall, reddish-tinted brownstones, well kept, with neat, reflective windows and shiny doors. The street was wide, with regular, but not overbearing, traffic, and lined with trees. There wasn't much foot traffic. A woman walking briskly on high heels, swinging an expensive bag on her forearm as she looked down at her phone with a smile. A man exiting a cab on the opposite side, brushing blond hair from his eyes as they glanced up...

Gabe darted away from the window, his heart erratic and beating hard enough to hurt. He leaned on the bed, bent almost double as he tried to get his panicked breathing under control.

* * * * *

Gabe made his way downstairs, finding Owen in the kitchen, talking to Mrs Miggins, who was a warm, motherly-type with salt and pepper hair and a rose-patterned apron.

"Hello darling," she said warmly, and she didn't deserve the confused wince from Gabe at the endearment, but she smiled softly anyway. "Can I get you a cup of tea?"

He nodded, mouthing 'thank you'.

"I'm back on nights at the end of the week," Owen told him when they both had steaming cups of lemon tea and tiny shortbread biscuits in front of them.

"Okay?"

"I'll probably go home during the day to sleep."

"Go home? I thought you lived here?"

"No, I live with my brother, though I stay here pretty much the whole time except when I'm on nights."

"Oh." Gabe hadn't known that, hadn't been aware that Owen wouldn't be here all the time.

He appreciated that Owen didn't try to insist Gray was safe. He could probably read Gabe's fear clear on his face.

"Will you tell me what you remember?" Owen asked, looking down at his own half-finished cup.

Gabe told him about the memories of Gramma, and of Henry, as far as he could remember them.

"You haven't remembered what you do?" Owen asked, fidgeting in his seat.

"I guess you know?" Gabe laughed a little, because he looked like an excited toddler.

"Gray says you should come to memories yourself. But I've been doing some reading about how music can be good for remembering-,"

"I'm a musician," Gabe interrupted, before blushing.

"You do remember?"

"Not exactly. There's a guitar in my room though, and I know how to play it. It makes me feel calm."

"You graduated from the New York Conservatory just under a year ago," Owen told him.

"Oh. Well, that explains it."

"We have friends who went there too. I was thinking, maybe you know them."

"Maybe," Gabe conceded, though he had nothing.

"I could ask them to come over," Owen suggested.

"Yeah. It's worth a try."

If they were possible school friends, they might give him some happy memories. He knew music made him feel good, so it was something he'd like to try. It had to be better than the nightmares, which were the only other thing prompting vague, unformed memories of a frightening blond man – the reason why the stranger in the cab had scared him – and happened almost every night since he'd woken from the coma. Nightmares where he was terrified and in pain, but he'd woken up hard and panting.