FIC: Of Seasonal Change (Part 1)

[circa1220bce]

Title: Of Seasonal Change (Part 1)

Fandom: Sherlock Holmes

Rating: PG (for the moment)

Length: WIP

Summary: Doctor Watson, having just come home from the war, is desperately trying to bring up his practice again. While trying to make contacts in the medical field, he comes upon a group of doctors studying a strange, mute boy: 8-year-old Sherlock Holmes. Watson quickly finds himself muddled in the intrigue of the Holmes family.

Originally posted for the Sherlockkink Meme

Updated here: Sherlockkink Meme Prompt


“Your background is impressive, Dr. Watson. I would be pleased to recommend you,” Dr. Harland Cooper tells me as we walk through the long corridors of the hospital towards his ward. He has a hand on my elbow, leading me through the various turns and pressing his fingers in when he wants to call my attention to one of the hospital's features. He is a rather stout man with stout features, and I must slow my pace considerably to match his shorter strides.

“I'm pleased to hear it,” I say, struggling to keep my voice level. I am wound tighter than a violin's strings, but if I snap there is no one who will bother to repair me. I must keep my voice steady. I must minimize my limp, though hours of keeping my gait even has resulted in a constant burning pain throughout my entire left leg. I must not wince when a door bangs open and I think momentarily it's a gunshot. I must not gag at the smell of cigarettes. I must not favor my left arm over my right. Everyone must believe that I am a perfectly recovered, competent medic, until I have the luxury of making that statement true.

“Dr. Watson?”

“I'm sorry?” Focus, you worthless idiot!

“I asked if you'd care for some coffee while we're passing the cafeteria. It's not the finest brew, but it's always available.” Dr. Cooper's expression remains pleasant.

“Oh, thank you, but no. I'm quite fine at the moment.”

“Very well then.” Dr. Cooper continues his tour of the hospital, and I will myself to follow him.

Good lord, what was I thinking? I need the recommendations, and badly, and this group of doctors is prestigious and, more importantly, very well-connected. My practice is only weeks old and I'd used up a significant amount of my pension to start it. Without enough patients, I'll be broke and forced to shut down in less than a year. But if these men are willing to turn patients my way, my standing will be so much more secure. I cannot thank Dr. Stamford enough. The man knows something of my straits since returning from Afghanistan, and though he also knows full well I've barely begun to recover from my trauma oversees, he'd said that if I can play the role of a well man he'd have no issue introducing me to Dr. Cooper given my qualifications. Dr. Cooper, against my expectations, took quite well to me, and was eager to show off his own current project. If feigning interest in his field of study is what it takes to continue to endear me to him, it will be a very small price to pay.

“You know,” Dr. Cooper says, and the change in tone from informative to conspiratorial is enough that I am jolted back to listening. “I have gotten so much practice giving this speech, I wonder if I'd a better career giving tours.”

“You do this frequently?” I ask.

He laughs. I have no reason to believe he is not a kind man, but he does not, I find, have a kind laugh. “My colleagues and I have a rather ... high turn-over rate for our study.”

“Oh, I wasn't aware,” I say. What sort of study is this? I hope dearly I haven't been mistaken as to the reputations of Dr. Cooper and his colleagues.

“I wouldn't think so.” He laughs his unkind laugh again. “Don't look so worried. It is for no malevolent reason, I promise you. It's merely our subject is rather ... particular.”

“Subject?” I ask, noting the singular.

“That's correct.” Dr. Cooper is taking pleasure in my confusion, I can see. But if this man is to be my means of keeping my practice afloat, I must not allow it to affect me personally. My hands mustn't shake. I mustn't favor my left arm over my right. I mustn't - bloody hell, my leg is burning, and won't this tour ever end so I might sit a moment? No, a recovered man would not require rest.

“Isn't that unusual for a research project?” I manage to ask. “How can you hope to achieve medically beneficial results without a proper sample?”

“A research project? Is that what the good Dr. Stamford called my work?”

“Then what is it, if not that?”

He gives my arm another squeeze. “I'll explain everything, my fellow. Ah, we're here.”

This door looks like any of a dozen others we've passed. There is a bronze plaque on the door, but no words to signify what is inside. “This is the ward?”

“It is, indeed. And now, Dr. Watson, would you like to meet my most baffling subject?”

“I would,” I say, though the list of what I'd actually like to do at this moment is topped by 'soak in a bath for a full three days' and followed by 'sleep until my shoulder stops spasming', with 'learn more about Dr. Cooper's subject' mysteriously absent from the list entirely.

He opens the door and waves me enter in front of him.

Inside is a large room. Half the room is a usual laboratory, with research tables, references books, and chemistry sets in neat order. Congregating around one table are at least a dozen men in white-coats - his colleagues, I suppose. The other half is most strange, as if someone took a child's bedroom and dissected it in half. There is a small bed, a dresser, and various children's toys scattered across the floor. There is even a window, though I believe the view is merely a mural.

Sitting in the center of this half-room, head buried in his drawn-up knees and arms wrapped around his legs, is a small wisp of a boy. He cannot be older than ten. He is scrawny, but not unhealthily so, and from what I can see of the limbs exposed by the over-sized sleep pants and shirt, he is quite the palest youth I've ever seen.

Dr. Cooper walks over to the gathered men and introduces me, giving a terse summary of my background, and then introduces each of the fellows by name and specialty. The introductions pass too quickly for me to remember any names, just that two are pediatricians, three psychiatrists, and three medical doctors like myself. The men don't even pretend to remember my name. I know I should make an effort to associate with them, but I am so exhausted I doubt I'll manage to retain coherency for more than another ten minutes.

In all this time the boy has been ignored. But now Dr. Cooper crosses over to the bedroom side of the room and gestures down at the youth, like he is showing off a prize animal. The other men ignore us, and continue their discussion as if my introduction was but an unfortunate interruption. “This, Dr. Watson, is Sherlock Holmes.”

I study Mr. Holmes, who has yet to even lift his head. “Ah, it's a pleasure to meet you, young Holmes,” I say, crouching down and holding out my hand. The position does not come easily with my leg, but I am rather fond of children.

Dr. Cooper laughs unkindly. “My god, sir, don't waste your time. You haven't let me explain. The youth doesn't understand a word we're saying. He's dumb as -”

Holmes raises his head and looks me directly in my eyes. In the next few seconds I see many, many things in those pale gray eyes, and ignorance is not among them.

Around me the room has fallen utterly silent. I am overcome by the feeling that everyone present, including the esteemed Dr. Cooper with whom I've spent two hours speaking, is only just seeing me for the first time.

“Goddamn,” one of the white-coats behind me says. The word breaks a spell held over the room, and the youth hurriedly hides his face against his knees once more. I stay frozen in my agonizing crouch, worried I've done something inappropriate; though what, I cannot fathom.

Dr. Cooper stares blankly at Mr. Holmes, his lips mouthing something silently before shaking his head. “How - extraordinary.”

“What is?”

One of the other men - perhaps Dr. Watts was his name? - comes over to stand near us. “Did he just look at you?”

“He did,” I say, unless the pain in my leg has caused me to begin hallucinating. It is not an unreasonable possibility at this point.

“And I was too far away to see for certain, but he - he made direct eye contact with you?”

“He did,” I repeat.

“How extraordinary,” Dr. Cooper says again.

I look between the doctors, and then at young Sherlock Holmes, who has not reacted to the three of us discussing him as if he were not present. At some impetus I do not recognize, the youth suddenly leans forward onto his hands and knees, head hanging down and gaze presumably fixed on the floor, and crawls forward two feet in my direction so that he is right in front of me. Then he sits back and brings his knees up, resuming his previous posture.

“Er, hello there,” I say to the boy, who if anything leans even further towards me.

“Watson, my good fellow,” Dr. Cooper says, voice slightly strangled, “Would you be so kind as to step over here and speak with me a moment?”

I cannot prevent a wince when I straighten, but luckily the other men seem too distracted to notice my inelegant movements. Dr. Cooper and Dr. Watts wave me over to the laboratory half of the room, where I now have the complete attention of the other men.

“Dr. Watson,” Cooper says. “Do you have any experience dealing with children?”

“None of my patients in the past were children, if that's what you're asking me, and it's far from my area of expertise,” I answer.

Cooper nods. His eyes flash eagerly. “I see. Would you mind waiting there while I consult with my colleagues for just a moment? If you have the time to spare, that is.”

Not ten minutes ago this man could not conceive that my time would be at all valuable when compared to his, and was quite content to ramble on for hours about his background as if I'd not another thing to do today. “Of course,” I say, unsure what to do with my unexpected leverage.

The men move a few feet away and speak in rapid whispers. I catch a few phrases, but do not make an effort at eavesdropping; I assume that eventually they will provide me with some inkling of what on earth is going on.

I pay attention again when the men once more fall abruptly silent and turn, almost as a man, to stare at me. What could they be looking at? Have I somehow given my ill health away? I am falling apart as it is. I cannot hide my ailments any more than I already have. Before I can begin hyperventilating, it occurs to me that the men are not actually looking at me, but to a place just behind me.

Turning around, I find Sherlock Holmes standing right there, his head bowed and gaze fixed on the floor. He's even younger than I'd originally guessed - likely only seven or eight. The top of his head reaches my stomach. There cannot be even two inches of space between us.

“Hello,” I say lamely. As if that were a signal, the youth leans his head against my belly with a little sigh, like a child would a mother. In any other circumstance I would hug the child in comfort, but this entire situation has made me unsure. No, I mustn't doubt myself. This is clearly a child who is seeking some sort of reassurance. I pat Holmes softly on his head and murmur something wordless but encouraging, and the boy immediately raises his arms to encircle me in a tight embrace. There is surprising strength in his small, thin limbs.

The men behind me erupt in another flurry of conversation. Out of the noise, Dr. Watts announces, “I'll send the telegram,” and leaves the room.

Dr. Cooper also leaves the group to come closer to me. “Another word, doctor, over this way,” he says. He begins to lead me away, but at the first movement the boy growls and tightens his grip even further. I have never heard a sound like that come from a child - or any man, for that matter; something terrifying that originated deep in the throat. The stout Dr. Cooper recovers admirably. “Or we could speak right here.”

Holmes subsides. “Yes?” I ask. I must be a perfectly competent medic, after all. I cannot allow myself to be phased by trifles such as a ruined constitution, or fire in my leg, or a strange, growling child clinging to my middle.

“How busy, pray tell, does your practice keep you?”

The question is so irrelevant to my current confusion, and the answer so embarrassing, that I take a long time to answer. “Not very,” I admit. “But I am hopeful that in the coming -”

“That's excellent, doctor, excellent. Another question, if you'd be so kind. How should I phrase this? Sir, if you would consent to letting us borrow some of your time, I will personally see to it that you have so many patients - rich patients, I might add - that you'll be able to retire a very wealthy man by thirty. How does that appeal to you?”

A man in my position literally cannot afford to turn down such a proposition, even if there's merely a half-chance it ends as promised. But I confess that the true reason I accept is because, some time during Dr. Cooper's speech, the young Holmes began softly tracing letters against my back with one thin finger. I did not immediately understand what he was doing, and somehow he must have suspected this to be the case, because he spelled out the same two words three careful times. The first word was, 'please,' and then, 'stay.'

***

That evening as I sit in my small sitting room - what a relief it is to sit! - and smoke a pipe, I find my mind returning again and again to Sherlock Holmes. In that unusual room and with the boy in question still clinging to me, Dr. Cooper had explained the situation in full.

Eight and a half years ago Sherlock was born to Siger and Violet Holmes. Their first son, Mycroft Holmes, was already almost seven. The birth had been difficult, and Violet never fully recovered from the trauma; she would pass seven years later. No one thought anything strange of Sherlock. In fact, the doctors at the time had proclaimed him an entirely healthy child, with his mother's sable black hair and his father's foggy eyes, his mother's high cheekbones and his father's sturdy chin. Mycroft was exceptionally bright, and the Holmeses naturally expected the same of Sherlock. And indeed Sherlock was a child teeming with curiosity, learning to crawl quite early and touching and inspecting most everything in his path. When Sherlock reached the age of four, however, his parents became concerned. Sherlock may have been curious about the world outside his mind, but he wasn't actively responding to it in any understandable fashion.

Around this time, Dr. Cooper's accounts grew more vague. He mentioned something of fits the child would have, and of a temper, and that the senior Holmes's solutions grew increasingly violent. Siger had interpreted Sherlock's behavior as childish pleas for attention and a general laziness to learn. At first, Sherlock would simply be locked in his room until he was ready to behave himself. Later, Siger would smack or take a cane to Sherlock so as to, and here Dr. Cooper gave the impression he was quoting the father, “impart on Sherlock the consequences of behaving improperly.”

After a year passed, when the father was already prepared to dismiss Sherlock as a lost cause, the mother insisted that they seek more professional help. She'd suggested that perhaps Sherlock was suffering from some strange illness. So the very wealthy Holmeses (and Dr. Cooper emphasized the “very” heavily) hired a team of doctors to study Sherlock and (again the father's words), “fix him.”

Siger, not wanting to be reminded constantly of his failure, bought an entire hospital wing to house Sherlock, and from which the hired doctors could study him. By the time the doctors were assembled and received their first good look at their new charge, they discovered that a significant amount of damage had already been done. Sherlock didn't speak a word, and never, ever made eye contact.

Since then, they had tried everything, Dr. Cooper stressed to me. Every test imaginable, from every angle, with new doctors coming in constantly to give new perspectives. Sherlock responded to no one. He didn't read. He didn't speak. He screamed, sometimes, or whimpered, but always wordlessly. He bit anyone who touched him. Thrashed in his sleep. Began pacing as he grew older, and throwing things. And, on good days, he merely sat in a corner, arms wrapped around his legs, and rocked. His mouth would sometimes move silently, and Dr. Cooper said they'd once had a lip-reader in to record Sherlock for a full six hours. It was nonsense, he said. They couldn't discern a single meaning from it.

Before her death, Violet had visited Sherlock once a week. She'd insisted that when it was only her and Sherlock, he spoke and acted more calmly. But as this was not the case when a doctor was present, and no one else was ever witness, the doctors were forced to conclude that it was a mother's wishfulness. The father had wanted to stop funding the doctors a year ago, but around that same time Violet had passed, and she'd made him promise to not give up on Sherlock.

I asked Dr. Cooper how often the boy's father visits, and Dr. Cooper replied, “He doesn't. He has spent the last several years telling people he has just the one son, Mycroft.” The only contact Siger Holmes has, apparently, is to send monthly telegrams asking if they'd fixed the boy yet.

I take a long drag on my pipe, wondering how I've gotten myself involved in this baffling situation. I couldn't imagine a man taking a cane to his son for the simple fault of perceived ignorance. My own father had taken a cane to me, yes, but he'd done so when I'd deserved it. When I'd said something crude, or had a fight at school, or broke something in the house. And how does a man ignore the existence of a child? Leave that child to grow up in a hospital wing from which he isn't allowed to leave?

Initially, Dr. Cooper said, they'd attempted to have the nurses take Sherlock on walks outside. They would try to hold his hand and lead him, and he would simply dissolve in a fit. When they'd tried to lead him outside without direct contact, he'd attempted to run away. “We didn't tell Mr. Holmes about that,” Dr. Cooper admitted, and he looked drawn at that moment, and more sympathetic than I'd come to think of him as. “We think he would have encouraged we try again, and said 'good riddance' when Sherlock eventually succeeded in escape.”

Sherlock's condition had not changed once in the entire time of the study, and the doctors were at wits' end. I asked why they didn't leave if the situation were so hopeless. Dr. Cooper laughed unkindly and said, “You would stay, too, if you knew what Mr. Holmes was paying us.”

So every day was the same, except for today, when Sherlock Holmes lifted his head and looked me directly in the eyes on two separate occasions. The first time was when I knelt down and extended a hand towards him. Just for that simple act, the doctors now want me to come to the hospital ward every evening for one to two hours, to see if Sherlock may be more amenable to tests if I'm present.

The second time was when I left, and pale gray eyes had locked with mine and turned bitter. Sherlock, despite my promise to return tomorrow, does not expect my return. There is a painful ache in my chest every time I recall that young, betrayed expression.

***

The next day passes slowly. I have two appointments in the early morning. First is a check-up with a pregnant woman named Mrs. Foster. I was made to promise, on our first appointment two weeks ago, that I was never to ask about the absent Mr. Foster. Once this was established, she proved to be a sweet and charming woman. She flirts shamelessly with me, but I only blush and do not answer in kind. I vaguely remember a time when I was confident with the opposite sex, a few lifetimes ago, but that man was undamaged and had hands that, when left unchecked, did not shake.

As I examine Mrs. Foster, I cannot help but compare her to my image of Mrs. Violet Holmes. Was Mrs. Holmes so flushed with excitement at the life inside her? Was Siger here with an arm comfortably around her shoulders as her doctor questioned her, or did she also make her doctor never promise to inquire about Mr. Holmes? Was there any indication, even in the smallest measurement, of what would happen once the child was born?

“You're far away, doctor,” Mrs. Foster says.

I am aghast at my own lack of professionalism, and all at once I am aware of the aches in my still recovering body. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Foster,” I say. “There are many things on my mind. But that is no excuse, and I assure you, you have my complete attention.” I blank my mind of Sherlock and complete the examination, my only distraction the constant litany of self-admonishments that is so familiar to me it is hardly a distraction at all. Keep your voice steady, it begins.

My second appointment is with an ailing man named Mr. Hudson. The man, I find, is quite sick, and relies on an extensive cocktail of prescriptions to keep functional. He disliked his previous doctor, and began our meeting by telling me that he hopes I am at least tolerable. Mrs. Hudson, his adoring wife, brings a tray of homemade scones for me. It is just her and Mr. Hudson, she says, with their children grown and gone to different parts of the world. If I am ever in need of a home-baked meal, she implored me to stop by their house on Baker Street.

The rest of the afternoon is filled with mundane errands, only made noteworthy because the conclusion of each meant I was closer to meeting once more with Sherlock Holmes. When I eventually stand at the entrance to his ward, I find myself ridiculously nervous. What if all of yesterday was a fluke, and the boy does not react to me in the slightest? Or almost worse, what if it was not a fluke at all, and I find myself quite embroiled in the politics of an estranged family? Dr. Cooper's account left much unsaid, and I worry about what I might find in between the lines of his explanations.

And what of my practice? The longer I am in the company of the doctors, the more chance there is for me to slip and reveal my deficiencies. Even a few hours a week here is a few hours less I have to allow myself time to heal and to cultivate more patients. And if that isn't the most selfish thought ... what is a few hours a week for a boy in as unfortunate a position as Sherlock? But I think of Mrs. Foster, who on our first meeting had said what an honor it was to be looked upon by a decorated war veteran. Though I hardly think of myself in those terms, if I am in at least someone's eyes that, don't I deserve a bit of selfishness?

“Are you sure you belong here, sir?” a woman asks me, and I nearly jump at the sudden intrusion of her voice into my thoughts. I turn to see a young nurse, eying me up and down suspiciously. I cannot help my hands pulling self-consciously at my jacket.

“Ah, yes. I am - a consultant. A consulting doctor.” That what I am, isn't it? Why do I stutter like it's a lie? Good lord, man, keep your voice even. “This is my ward.”

“As you say,” the nurse says, and keeps walking. I have no doubt that she is heading directly for someone to come escort me out of the building.

Thoroughly embarrassed, I hurriedly open the door and nearly topple over Sherlock standing directly on the other side. My abrupt stop causes a painful spasm in my damaged leg, unbalancing me, but before I can topple over and complete my mortification, two thin hands take hold of mine and allow me to steady myself.

Sherlock leans close, and then - am I imagining things? - speaks. “Your nervousness was loud,” he whispers. His voice is rough from disuse, and the syllables enunciated oddly, as if he learned the order of letters and how to pronounce each individually, but not precisely how they should sound in combination.

I look around wildly, wondering that Dr. Cooper had so thoroughly lied to me as to Sherlock's muteness, but the doctors are absent.

A slight squeezing on my hands brings my attention back to Sherlock. He clears his throat, and frowns, his mouth working silently a moment. Then he says, in the most serious tone of voice I've ever heard from someone so young, “You are - autumn. I thought all day for the word. Autumn. Please stay.”

What does a man say to that? What does that even mean, coming from a child like Sherlock?

Before I can begin to formulate a proper answer, Dr. Cooper is behind me and slapping me good-naturedly on the back. “Watson!” he says, familiarity in his voice as if just yesterday I wasn't some unfortunate doctor he'd deigned to socialize with solely as a favor to Dr. Stamford. I hear the rest of the doctors walking down the hallway towards the room. “You're here, and a little early, too. Most excellent. Why don't we get started?”

I look at Sherlock, who now stares at the floor, silent and expressionless. I think, again, of the late Violet Holmes.

I find it odd that despite having no expectations of what this “session,” as Dr. Cooper calls it, involves, I am still bewildered by how it proceeds. The doctors direct me to one of the laboratory tables, and Sherlock quickly latches onto my left arm. With his small chest against my forearm, I can feel how gaunt he is. Good lord, do they feed him? Or does he just not eat?

When I am seated at a stool, Sherlock lets go of me just long enough to drag over a second stool as close to mine as he can. He is the only one in the room who does not wince at the screeching of the metal feet against the floor. Then he sits down, brings his legs up so his chin rests on his bent knees, and leans full against me. I place a careful arm around his thin shoulders, wondering at the look he gives me that can be described as nothing less than adoring. No one who I can recall - and I include my own mother is this category - has ever looked upon me in such a way.

Two of the psychiatrists sit opposite us. The remaining seven men sit at a different table with paper and ink, and they murmur to one another continually. What could they have to discuss? And why would there need to be so many of them? I cannot imagine an answer to either question.

I still cannot remember the name of the psychiatrists, and I feel it would be unforgivably ill-mannered to ask at so late a time, so I mentally name them instead. The first I think of as Dr. Apple, for he is boyishly apple-cheeked, while every other one of his features are of a much older man. The second I christen Dr. Nightmare, for I think his spindly frame, pointed nose, and slow, drawling speech will haunt me in my sleep for some time to come.

Dr. Apple places in front of Sherlock a small stack of blank paper, an ink jar, an embroidered handcloth, and a bowl of soapy water. “Now,” Dr. Apple says. “How are you feeling today, Sherlock?”

The boy keeps one arm wrapped around my middle, and with his free hand dips two fingers in the ink and smears them over the paper. The intentness in his expression suggests to me that the result is painstakingly deliberate, but I see only shapeless stains. He then dips that hand in the soapy water, releases me long enough to clean off his dirty hand with the handcloth, and then immediately wraps one arm around me again.

The two doctors seem most excited by what Sherlock has drawn. I want to ask exactly what they're accomplishing through this, but they are making no effort to include me at all. Would it disrupt this odd proceeding to speak?

I remain silent, and they continue to ask Sherlock a series of what seem mundane questions. He answers with overlapping lines of ink that have seem to have no relation whatsoever to the question. That is, he does this for most answers. Sometimes he merely ignores a question, and after waiting a minute or two, the doctors simply proceed to another. Other questions, which to me seem as innocuous as any other, upset Sherlock greatly, and he briefly leaves the table to - and there is no other word for it - sulk in the bedroom half of the room. As he is at these times quite attached to my arm or middle, this means that I, also, spend some time in the bedroom half of the room. He primarily paces, and I obligingly shorten my strides to accommodate his. In between each answered question, Sherlock thoroughly cleans his hand.

After about forty-five minutes of this, I become aware of which hand he uses. “You're left-handed!” I exclaim. It is the first thing I've said in all this time, and accordingly it causes all of the doctors to fall silent and stare at me. Sherlock, meanwhile, tugs on my hand to return my attention to him, and when I do, he rolls his eyes at me. I cannot help myself; I snort in laughter.

“Right,” I say, as if it is just he and I in this room with no audience of nine. “Watson: go back to being a human teddy bear and cease speaking.”

Sherlock blinks at me, astonished, and then he actually giggles, like he could not help himself either. It is the most child-like thing I've seen him do. The sound is over-loud in the room and wonderfully innocent, and I do not even feel self-conscious that all doctors are staring at me.

“Goddamn,” one of them says.

If anything, and I did not think this possible, Sherlock's adoration of me increases several fold. Has no one ever joked with him before? Since the doctors seem to have no other use for me but to sit here and hold Sherlock's hand, I think I will make my own responsibilities; the first is to see how often I can make this young boy laugh.

After another half-hour of questions and ink smears, Dr. Apple and Dr. Nightmare announce an end to the session. Dr. Cooper walks over and slaps me again on the back. “That'll be all for today, my good man. Think you'll be back tomorrow?”

What exactly had they accomplished just now? And what purpose did I serve? Sherlock's small hand tightens his grip around my larger one. I glance at him, but he is staring unblinkingly at the laboratory table. “Yes, of course. The same time?” The grip loosens and becomes merely a comforting press of palm against palm.

“That would be excellent,” Dr. Cooper says.

It is with great reluctance I withdraw my hand from Sherlock's grip and leave. It is not until I am half-way home that it occurs to me that, in the entire time I was in that room, I thought not once of my own woes; not my wounds, not my practice, not anything at all but how fascinating a boy Sherlock is.

****

Every evening for the next five weeks passes in this fashion. I arrive a few minutes early, and Sherlock greets me either with a shy “Hello,” or some inexplicable declaration (he does not answer why I am autumn, or any question I ask of him). Then the doctors arrive and he falls stubbornly silent. Each evening they undergo a single study. Sometimes it is the ink smears, and other times they have Sherlock accomplish certain physical tasks, or they read passages from textbooks and attempt to discern if he's acquired any information from them. In other sessions they introduce a number of stimuli to see how he'll react. Every week he has one physical examination; he clearly despises them, and I ache for him as he flinches miserably away from each clinical touch. Most of the tests seem most useless and unproductive to me, and I try not to resent how the doctors make no effort to seek my professional opinion. I am hardly an expert in this area, but my god, I am not some uneducated urchin.

Although Sherlock sometimes ignores inquiries or requests, and other times seems to be wholly distracted by very small things, I see no evidence of fits or a temper. I wonder if Dr. Cooper's original explanation had been at all exaggerated.

Each evening I make an effort to cause Sherlock to laugh, although he quickly caught on to me and now I must earn his laughter thoroughly. And each day it is more difficult to leave Sherlock alone in a hospital ward designed as a prison for one small boy.

Dr. Cooper is true to his word, also, and I find a gratifying influx of patients who keep me busy when I'm not at the hospital. I find myself healing slowly, but more steadily than I'd any right to hope. I think it is because I have something to look forward to each day.

On three mornings I receive telegrams informing me that I won't be needed at the hospital that evening. I find myself bored and lonely without Sherlock's mute company, and each time I impose on the Hudsons, who welcome me into their home. Mr. Hudson's health continues to decline, but I imagine it declines slower than it would if he were without Mrs. Hudson's devoted presence.

The Wednesday morning during the sixth week since I have met Sherlock, I receive another telegram. I suppose, though, that just because I am not needed, it does not mean I cannot go to the hospital simply to visit. Seeing no harm, I head towards the hospital once I have finished my last appointments of the day.

I am soon navigating the now-familiar corridors of the hospital, my cane tapping steadily on the smooth, white floors. The misery of just a few weeks ago seems distant and unnecessary; I have a wonderful practice, an ever more balanced constitution, and a surrogate family in the form of the Hudsons and young Sherlock. I cannot imagine needing more. When I am almost to the ward, one of the doctors crosses my path, heading in the opposite direction. This man I've mentally referred to as Dr. Fine, for he has a rather dashing charm to his appearance, though perhaps my recollections of him are exaggerated given I am mostly in his presence when he is alongside men such as Dr. Cooper and Dr. Nightmare. I nod to him, knowing any verbal acknowledgement may expose my ignorance of his name.

He nods to me absentmindedly in return and then his eyes snap back to my face, as if he has only just recognized me. His brow furrows, clearly puzzled, and he reaches out to place a hand on my shoulder, effectively stopping me before I can keep forward. “I'd thought Cooper informed you that you weren't needed this evening,” he says.

“He did do so, yes. This is a purely social visit.”

“A ... social visit? Dr. Cooper is otherwise engaged at the moment.”

“Not for Dr. Cooper. For Sherlock,” I correct.

“Sherlock?”

I forget, sometimes, that the doctors do not truly perceive Sherlock as anything but a research subject; an oddity they are paid to examine from every conceivable angle except that as a young boy. “That's correct.”

Dr. Fine tilts his head to one side, considering me. It is the same look with which he often favors Sherlock, as if every inch of me is unfathomable; as if, on some leaflet of papers in his mind, he is right this instant penning a complex dissertation on just how I've behaved these past few minutes. As he appears in no rush to leave my company, I decide to take advantage of this opportunity to ask about a few aspects of the sessions which have been bothering me. It helps my decision, also, that Dr. Fine is among the more pleasant of the doctors. “If you've a minute, I've a question or two.” He gestures for me to continue, and I see him mentally pen several more pages just from that one sentence. “Why am I not needed on certain days?”

He nods several times, as if I've asked a penetrating inquiry worthy of a measured response. Then he says simply, “Sherlock doesn't wish you to be here on those days.”

Of the numerous answers I'd already contemplated, this is one that had not even crossed my mind. Has Sherlock tired of my presence already? Was his adoration merely from the novelty of a newcomer in his lonely ward? But every day I am here he seems equally delighted, with no lessening of delight at my appearance that often comes from long-time acquaintance!

“I see.” There is an expression unbearably close to pity on Dr. Fine's face, and I hurriedly push away such thoughts and continue. “Another question, then. I've noticed that - that is, I know that I am merely an observer to your proceedings, but aren't nine doctors rather much to treat one boy? I cannot help but notice that all nine of you are always present, even if I've only ever seen Dr. Cooper, Dr. -” Oh, dear. “- and a few others alone work with Sherlock.”

Again, he deliberates over my words as if the answer might be bafflingly intricate. “A case like Sherlock's? I assure you every last one of us has an important and necessary function, even if those functions are not evident to you.”

How much is said in that sentence, and also how little. Though I cannot say I expected to receive more information than had already been granted me by Dr. Cooper. Seeing that my expectations are accurate, I thank Dr. Fine and begin to move forward.

“A moment,” Dr. Fine says suddenly. “You know, we've never really had a chance to speak before, and with our rushed initial introduction, I feel we've hardly been introduced at all.” He holds out his hand. “I'm Mark Morstan.”

I gladly file the name away and take his hand in a firm grip. From the feel of his palm and fingers, he doesn't strike me as having a doctor's hands, though I cannot quite pinpoint why. “John Watson.”

“Watson,” he says, and it occurs to me in how he forms the word that he may have been equally ignorant of my own name. “Well, Watson, I'd been wondering something myself - and I hope you don't think me impertinent - but, well, doesn't your wife object to us stealing you away every evening?”

I attempt not to change expression in any way. “Ah, I have no wife. There is no woman currently in my life,” I add, before he can drag out the inquiry.

Dr. Fine - that is, Dr. Morstan - does not seem terribly surprised. “Oh. I couldn't help but notice that you, well ... Again, this is not meant to be rude, but that it was no hardship for you to fit a few hours here into your schedule every single day.”

He draws out those last three words, and they echo accordingly in my mind. I find my gaze fixating on the blank wall just over his shoulders, unable to quite meet his own. “My practice was so new, and I'd -”

“How old are you, Watson?”

“Twenty-six.”

He shakes his head. “And you're spending so many hours here? Coming to visit a child less than half your age with whom you have no actual relation? Your life is of course your own, but perhaps ... we're giving you a few nights to yourself. When we say this night is yours, take advantage of it. They could all be yours, even; we don't hold you here in chains. Why don't you make the most of this time?” There is pity, again, in the tilt of his eyes. I cannot stand it, but I cannot think how to deflect it.

“I suppose -”

“You're a decorated man, aren't you? And a doctor, too, with his own practice. There's some woman out there you're severely disappointing, Watson. Socialize. Take some time for yourself. Meet a nice young woman or seven.”

I haven't seriously pursued a woman in ages. The idea seems foreign to me, an abstract concept that has no tangible relation to my current life. Just moments ago I'd been content with my strange family of the Hudsons and Sherlock, but such contentment seems absurd in the face of Dr. Morston's honest puzzlement and terrible pity. That is not a family. That is a lovely set of crutches, because I am too coward to attempt to walk on my own. How convenient it is to spend dinners with the Hudsons rather than telegram my father I've returned to London. How easier it is to spend evenings with a young boy who adores me for no discernible reason than to spend evenings with women who can only learn to pity me also, the more aware they are of my deplorable physical and mental condition.

Dr. Morstan squeezes my shoulder. “Have the evening to yourself, Watson. Enjoy it. Sherlock will still be here tomorrow.”

I leave the hospital and return directly to my lodgings. I spend the evening in my rooms, balancing my books and slowly draining a bottle of sherry - a gift from Mrs. Foster the week before. My desk is underneath a window, and even after the ink is long since dried and the books closed, I still sit there and watch the moon eclipse the London sky. I wonder that the brick buildings and small figures traversing the cobblestone streets, all shaded gray under the pale light, seem so very unreachable.

***

Dr. Morston must have spoken to the other doctors, because I receive telegrams each morning for the next three days. The days, at least, pass in a flurry of appointments and errands. I think I should even consider hiring an assistant to manage my schedule. With the sun out, even when it hides shyly behind the foggy clouds, it is easier to think that this life is enough.

No matter how busy I am, however, I cannot escape how terribly I already miss Sherlock's earnest presence. I have never had so complicated and yet so simple a relationship. He demanded only to have his hand held in mine. If I never spoke a word to him again, I think that should be quite acceptable to him so long as that first condition was met. It is astounding that after a lifetime of relationships - with my father, with patients, with my comrades in Afghanistan - in which I am never enough, to know I am so fully enough for him, exactly as I am. That is, unless I can take from Dr. Morston's words that Sherlock is growing less fond of me. The thought causes a heavy ache in my heart.

The first of the three evenings I pen and immediately discard no less than twenty letters to my father. I am not positive if the man even knows I am alive, much less returned or in what condition. The words in each are too distant or too angry or too passive or too much of anything to be adequate. The second evening I decide to accept an invitation to a gathering at one of my patient's estates. When I am half-way to the address, I begin to shake, and demand that the cab driver turn around instantly. I spend the remainder of that evening becoming better acquainted with another bottle of sherry.

On the third evening I once again find myself at 221B Baker Street. When Mrs. Hudson answers the door, she smiles widely and gestures for me to enter with an exclaimed, “How lovely to see you, doctor!”

As soon as I am through the door and see that she and Mr. Hudson are in the middle of a meal, I feel wretched. “I'm so sorry to have imposed on you without any notice, Mrs. Hudson. You're dining. How ill-mannered of me. I'll -”

Mr. Hudson snorts, and Mrs. Hudson merely urges me further inside. “That's nonsense,” she says. “I'm so used to a house full of children I still cook enough for six!” She is slighter than me in both height and weight, but she manages to maneuver me inside and into a chair at the dining table without leaving me time for so much as a token protest. In short order she has set another place in front of me and I am treated to a generous helping of rich stew, a baked meat pie with sweet cornbread, and freshly brewed tea.

“You're too kind to me,” I say, overwhelmed as I always am at Mrs. Hudson's kindness. Here I am, barging into her home with no invitation, and she seats me inside as if I am an expected and welcomed guest. I have yet to see this woman truly disconcerted; I cannot help but imagine a man of whom she was fond could take a pistol and shoot bullets in her walls, and she would let him off with little more than a mild scolding.

Mr. Hudson, I've found, tends to be a quiet presence. His cough is becoming worse, though I am in my professional capacity doing everything I am able to stave off his illness deepening. Mrs. Hudson has informed me that Mr. Hudson rarely takes to a man as he has taken to me, and so I take no offense that he speaks so little to me.

For most of the meal - which is, for me, most decadent - the talk is inconsequential. When Mrs. Hudson leaves and returns with a wonderful Yorkshire pudding, she asks me, “Is there anyone special in your life?”

I immediately think of Sherlock, only to realize she is referring to a lady friend in my life. I think of my conversation with Dr. Morston, and some of my good mood diminishes. “Not at the moment, no,” I say.

“A fine man like yourself? Hm,” she says.

“I really am too busy,” I say defensively, which is somewhat shocking to realize. A little over a month ago I was useless to the world.

“Not good to work all the time,” Mr. Hudson says.

“I have other obligations, too,” I protest. Dr. Morston had looked upon me with pity and I'd been shamed. But there is no pity in either Mr. or Mrs. Hudson's expressions; only a deep sympathy and understanding that I do not think I've in any way earned from them. In that moment I lose all sense of decorum and start rambling and then I absolutely cannot stop. I tell them everything about Sherlock Holmes. I tell them how I'd accidentally become involved in his situation, how confusing and heart-breaking the visits were, how thoroughly this little boy has burrowed into my heart, and how much I want to take him away from that awful ward. I tell them how wounded I still am, how damaged. How utterly lonely I am in between the times when I am with patients and at the ward and here. How my shoulder aches and my leg will never truly recover and how guilty I feel to bemoan constantly such petty wounds when man after man after man died on my operating table overseas. How I haven't even had the courage to see anyone from the time before the war - including my father and brother - for fear I will be unrecognizable to them. When I finally run out of shameful confessions, I am flushed with embarrassment.

“I am so sorry,” I say, and will there ever be a time when my days do not consist of embarrassing myself and then apologizing? “There was no call for me - I am so sorry. There is no reason for me to have imposed on you both like this. I - I should -”

“Sit back down,” Mr. Hudson commands, and I do so without thinking. I look at him helplessly, and something in his gaze tells me that he had been quite aware of my deficiencies already and does not care. “Rude to leave in the middle of a meal,” he says, instead of many other less kind things he had every right to say.

The evening continues past my blunder, and I think perhaps they will do me the favor of forgetting it ever occurred. Then Mrs. Hudson disappears into the kitchen and returns with a tray of cookies.

“You'll give this to that poor boy, with my love,” she says, and then she presses a gentle kiss to my forehead. I have not felt so close to tears in longer than I can remember.

“Thank you,” I whisper, and she smiles at me indulgently. My fantasy of stealing Sherlock away is added a new dimension in that instant; we escape to 221B Baker Street and into the warm home of Mr. and Mrs. Hudson.