When I awoke some time later, I found myself to be lying in a fairly small, yet accommodating bed. I was in a half-sitting position, comfortably propped up on several pillows with blankets tucked around me.

Also, I was a little not unsettled, but relieved, nonetheless, to realize that I was clean; there was not a trace of mud to be found on me, which could only mean that someone had slipped me out of my (probably ruined) clothes and into a white, loose, comfortable wool shirt and trousers of the same make.

A complete stranger (or strangers) has stripped me, scrubbed me, and dressed me without my even being aware of it...?

The very idea made me cringe and brought on a very rare blush. Ah, well, perhaps some mysteries are better left unsolved.

I turned my attention to my foot to see that it had been tightly bandaged and was propped atop a pillow, as well. Whatever pain medication they had me on, it had obviously not worn off yet. Although a dull ache persisted in my right leg, it was nothing compared to the stabbing, crushing sensation that had plagued me before.

There were a few quick raps on the door frame, and I looked up to see the same doctor who had "greeted" me earlier on. He flashed a smile and entered.

"Good afternoon, son."

Is he talking to me?

I stole two brief, darting glimpses to my left and to my right only to find the place completely unoccupied except for moi. I was in a private room and not some crowded ward, so obviously my stay was being payed for. And this man was certainly not my father, but nonetheless...

"Erm... Yes, good day, doct... Is it afternoon, doctor?"

"Yes, indeed. You were sound asleep for a good and solid twenty-four hours, my son. Lord knows you needed it. Most people don't doze off the way you did until after we give them the morphine, although I seem to recall that you were something of a mess, to put it lightly, when your friends brought you in yesterday," he said, crossing the room and leaning on the windowsill, peeking out for a moment. This was not an Englishman. His somewhat ungraceful accent was distinctly American—a New Englander, to be more specific, the giveaway being his total inability to completely pronounce any word ending in the letter "r." Apparently, he was also a fellow of particularly good humor. That, and his insistence upon calling me "son" gave me a premonition that this visit was going to be anything but punctual.

"...Yes."

"Regardless, you're in good hands. I'm Doctor Jack Stevenson. I'll be taking care of you for the next week or so."

"A week!?"

I tried to keep my tone as polite as I possibly could, but did a very poor job of concealing the dread in my voice.

"Oh, definitely. You've split the cartilage in your ankle, and you also have a minor fracture that will take some time to reset. Plus, there is a small risk of infection, though I'm not too worried about that."

"Yes, but... a whole week? No. I've my classes."

"Ah, yes, you are a University student, Mister-"

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes," I brusquely interrupted.

"Well, Mister Holmes, I'm sure one of your friends would be good enough to bring a few of your books when they drop by for a visit."

I let out a plain, frustrated sigh. Obviously this blithering excuse for a medical man had no idea what he was talking about.

"Now, don't be so glum," he smiled compassionately, trying to cheer me up. I'm certain I did give him a look that was worthy of pity, but if not for my leg keeping me prostrate, I think I would have bounded across the bed and strangled the man.

"In fact, you did have a visitor just over an hour ago—had to send him away because you were still fast asleep. He did ask for your suit, however," he added in an offhand manner.

"Why on earth would he ask for my suit?"

"To have it laundered for you, of course. I did mention that you were-"

"Caked from head to toe in mud, I know, Doctor. I was there when it happened, thank you," I shot hotly at him. He gave an amused laugh in response.

"Of course, Mister Holmes, of course."

Oh, my head hurts. Idiot doctors, angry dogs, Victor Trevor paying to have my suit cleaned, for some reason...

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes for a moment. So much to sort through and none of it made any sense...

"Are you hungry?"

I opened my eyes and looked back over at the doctor. This was the first time I'd really observed the whole of him, and a mischievous smirk passed my lips as I prepared to conduct an examination of my own.

"No, but you are."

Obviously he had not been expecting or prepared for this response, and his thin frame stiffened ever so slightly against the sill as he studies me with some bewilderment.

"How do you figure?"

"Well, I can deduce that your two some-odd glances out the window were directed at the House of Red Leaves café, or at least at the upright-chalkboard in front of said place displaying the daily specials, which today, as it is on every Monday, is New England clam chowder. I observe from your unusual accent that you are not only American, but a Massachusetts man, most likely from the port district of Boston or the outskirts of that city. Your wristwatch reads 12:34. Twelve thirty, then, is your usual break time, I gather, from the two looks you have given the watch since entering this room. After dealing with a particularly trying patient... oh, if I may point out those four small, curved red marks you have on both of your palms, which, I believe, are the result of balling your fists quite forcefully in an effort to try and hold back your temper. Also your jaw, which you were no doubt clenching at the time, is still ever so slightly set. So, after dealing with this person, you hoped to make quick work of establishing a friendly introduction with your newest patient before going on your break."

I reclined once more, thoroughly satisfied at the flabbergasted expression I'd managed to set onto the good doctor's face. I crossed my arms behind my head informally as he shook his own, mouth moving noiselessly and eyes bulging in shocked silence.

"Now, then, Doctor, are there any points which I have not made clear?" I asked casually, as if my little hobby were the most normal one in the world.

"What subject did you say you were majoring in, Mister Holmes?"

I endeavored to act more annoyed than I actually felt that he had opted to pose his own question in lieu of answering mine.

"I did not. But if you really must know, it is chemistry."

"... Chemistry," he repeated incredulously, more than likely thinking me to have spoken in jest.

"That is what I said, Dr. Stevenson," I replied. It was about this time that I actually had to put in an effort to maintain a straight face.

"Amazing... I'm speechless, Mister Holmes. You just described half my day in a nutshell. You... you couldn't possibly have known any of that, you were barely even awake when I came in here."

"Simple observation and deduction. Quite trivial, in fact."

"Trivial!" He grinned, shaking his head.

"You'd better get on with your lunch before your break time is up," I pointed out.

"Indeed," he said, realizing, taking one more glance at his watch. He pushed himself off the sill and stood in front of my bed.

"Can I get you anything before I go? You're sure you're not hungry?"

As soon as he uttered the word "hungry," some delayed response in my stomach came roaring back to life with a yearning growl. I had not eaten since breakfast on Saturday morning.

"Actually, Doctor, now that you mention it... Some food would be most welcome."

He smiled and gave a single nod.

"Then I'll have a meal sent up to you right away."

"Right. Thank you, Doctor. And enjoy your chowder," I added after he had stepped out of the room, to which I heard him laugh as he walked down the hall.

I wonder which shall kill me first: the injury or the treatment?


Well, there is little else to tell of that day. Some while after Dr. Stevenson left, a nurse brought me in a plate of some kind of mutton in beef broth with a tall glass of cool tea, which I could have devoured completely before she even made it out the door, had I not been being polite. After the stew was gone, I looked over at the glass of tea.

Now, I fully acknowledge that I, myself, am not the ideal embodiment of normality, but I do say that it takes a special kind of queer chap to actually serve tea cold on purpose! As if that is not strange enough, does he not realize that it is winter, for heaven's sake? This American doctor must be somebody important, otherwise they'd toss him into Bedlam without so much as a second glance for ordering his tea over ice...

I gave the drink a look of disdain which I have, to this day, not bestowed upon many a human being. Had the contents of the glass been milk, I believe I would have turned it sour.

Unfortunately, after no more than a few minutes had passed, my lack of nourishment over the last few days and the salty broth made me think twice about letting the strange beverage alone. I was going to miss a week of school because of my ankle, as it was. I did not want to miss any more because of dehydration. And so, feeling more like a soldier than I did a patient, I picked up the glass and tried a swig of the stuff. It did, indeed, taste every bit as repulsive as it looked—cold, sugarless, and bitter, with a hint of lemon to it. Nauseatingby most standards.

I downed the whole thing in under two minutes.

Having accomplished this, I placed the glass to the side and sunk back into the pillows once more. I had been awake for three hours at the most after sleeping for twenty-four. Why the devil did I feel so tired?

As my eyelids started to fall ever so slowly, I began to reflect on the incident for the first time since waking up. I played it over in my head several times, and discovered that nothing, thankfully, was foggy to me, not even those dim moments when I was just barely teetering on the edge of consciousness. It was, on the contrary, very clear, for I knew it would haunt me for some time to come.

Consequently, that Victor Trevor began to drift into my thoughts.

While it goes without saying that he obviously didn't intend for the animal to attack me, that is no reason for the beast not to be kept on a leash. Especially if he knew the thing to be vicious. What the deuce was he doing on my road, anyway? He's never been down there before...

And so I sat pondering and rationalizing for a while, eventually beginning to kick the immature and illogical thoughts such as these.

But if he has, he probably figured it to be as deserted as I. Also, I do know that he has at least been here once. Since he knew it wouldn't be possible to see me, he figured he might as well find some way to butter me up (hence the suit) before apologizing to me. At least, I hope he was going to apologize...

No, strike that. I really could not care less if he came here in person tomorrow and told me where I could rot for eternity, so long as this hospital bill is taken care of by someone other than me.

As I lay there contemplating Trevor's next visit, sleep closed in upon me as quickly as it had the previous day.

A/N: Yes. Victorians + iced tea = comedy. Am I wierd, or what?

Also, my OC doctor is from my hometown. So what? Work with what you're familiar with first, right?