Watson stared at the page in front of him. He knew that a look of horror was crossing his face, so he tried his best to conceal it by looking helplessly toward the door. His efforts were lost on Holmes, however, who didn't seem to mind—or care—keeping himself otherwise occupied with a loose string on his hospital blanket. Dozens of thoughts passed through Watson's mind. Brain damage, sub-intelligence, memory loss, all were words that snapped and snarled at his frightened thoughts.

"Holmes," Watson whispered, aching when the man did not look at him. The doctor placed the notepad on the bedside table and cautiously took the pen from Holmes. Holmes took in a sigh, but otherwise ignored Watson. "I shall be back in a while, Holmes," Watson promised. "I'll call a nurse to come and look after you."

Holmes finally looked up at Watson. His lip quirked in an impish smile and he gave a small wave with his left hand by curling and straightening his four fingers. The gesture was reminiscent of a very young child's first grasp of such a sentiment. Watson didn't know whether to cry, to cradle Holmes in his arms or to vomit. Instead, he fled the room entirely, desperate for answers.

/

A half hour of negotiating and fifteen minutes of outright begging rewarded Watson a counsel with one of Holmes' surgeons. The lead surgeon greeted Watson with a firm handshake and led him to his private office. The man was tall and somewhat intimidating until he spoke. His voice was relaxing and his face understanding.

"Has he communicated verbally at this point?" the surgeon, Humber, asked.

"Only a few noises for the most part," Watson replied. He was unable to quiet his fidgeting hands, which were alternately strumming against the arm of the chair, and worrying his pant legs. "He was able to say one word that conveyed his state of pain to me."

"His throat is still very tender from both the injuries and the surgery," said Humber. "I am surprised that he was able to make any kind of vocalization. His thigh has swollen greatly—we had to reset the bone in several places—but the immobile cast is the best option if we have hope for him to walk normally in the future."

The words rolled past Watson's ears. He could not suppress the overbearing question that gnawed at his stomach. Holmes' ability to speak or to walk was almost inconsequential when compared with the greatest threat facing him: the collapse of his great mind. Part of him wanted to know what had become of his friend, for Humber to simply blurt out his prognosis; the other part of him never wanted to know.

Watson was silent so Humber continued to ramble about Holmes' more superficial injuries until he had run out of points of discussion. After a few minutes of silence, Humber prompted, "Doctor Watson?"

Watson's throat muscles did not wish to comply with his commands and he had to force his one question across his lips with a ragged, broken voice. "Dr. Humber, what is the possibility that Holmes has suffered brain damage?"

/

The question triggered Dr. Humber and two of his colleagues to examine Holmes. Extensive testing was carried out for nearly two hours to assess Holmes' mental state. Holmes had to stay in the hospital bed, as he was still very unsteady and weak, so the three doctors conducted all their testing in the somewhat open hospital ward. Watson sat across the room, frozen with apprehension.

Holmes' three doctors left to briefly compare notes, leaving Holmes very agitated and nervous. It appeared that the prodding, the questions, and the numerous tasks he had been asked to do had frustrated him. Watson moved to sit next to his closest friend and tried his hand at relaxing him with gentle words and soft touches.

Holmes stared at him with gray eyes that conveyed none of their former intelligence or pride. He swallowed—an action that seemed to take great determination—and rasped, "Doctor."

Watson mustered up a fake smile. "Your doctor will be back soon."

Holmes' expression did not change. He said, "Dr. Watson."

This time, Watson did not have to fake his smile. With a tearful nod, he said, "That's right. You remember me, don't you?"

"Dr. Watson, may I speak with you privately?" Dr. Humber said from the doorway.

Watson was slightly startled at the intrusion, but rose to follow the surgeon, anyway. "I'll return shortly, Holmes," Watson said before he followed Dr. Humber to the surgeon's office.

Watson could feel the anxiety building up in him as he sat down across from Humber. His heart rate increased, his stomach churned, bile rose up in his throat, and he feared that he might faint from the stress of it all. He tried to calm down by telling himself that the results would not be as bad as he was imagining. That the condition would be reversible. That there was some cure, some surgery that could save Holmes.

Dr. Humber's face gave him away. "I'm afraid it's bleak news," he said. A lump grew in Watson's throat, which he couldn't force away. "We've reviewed the results from our tests and compared them to the literature on age-appropriate development." Humber paused and gauged Watson's reaction. "It is difficult to tell you this, Doctor," Humber said apologetically. "I'm afraid that he is now functioning at the level of a five-year-old child. And not a precocious child, as I'm sure Mr. Holmes was all those years ago, but an average child."

Watson felt like he'd been punched by a big, meaty street tough. It's worse. It's worse than I thought.

"I'm afraid that he went without airflow for so long that his brain was greatly affected," Humber went on. "In cases like this, as I am sure you are well-aware, there is no viable method of treatment. Recovery of a brain injury like this is highly unlikely. I'm very sorry, Dr. Watson. My partners and I were able to save his life, but his mind is not so easily salvaged."

Watson heard each word, knowing all the information before it reached him. Nausea rippled through his abdomen and heat threatened to fell him like a tree trunk. He abruptly stood up and said, "I must go. Please excuse me."

Watson fled the room and then the hospital entirely. He couldn't bear to see Holmes. Looking at the superficial shell which had once held such a brilliant mind was something that he could not handle at the moment. He kept walking, hoping that he were dreaming, praying that Holmes would recover, wishing that he had been there to watch out for his most cherished friend.

But he had not been there. He had been selfishly enjoying his simple, uneventful domestic life with Mary. He had even known and admitted to himself that his indulgence in his marriage had been selfish. But he had not cared. He had convinced himself that he deserved to have a quiet life away from the chaos, away from the intrusions, away from the fear and heartache, away from-Holmes.

Watson found himself at Holmes' flat. Without conscious thought, he let himself in and climbed the staircase to their old rooms. The sitting room was in total disarray. Room temperature tea sat undisturbed on the table. Half-drawn cigarettes were scattered everywhere. Clothing remained where it had been dropped-or thrown, Watson realized, spotting a sock hanging off the mantle. Holmes' Moroccan case lay open on the side table, his needle sitting unbidden on the chair. Documents, letters, books and ponderous flotsam from cases past and present lay on the floor as if in a graveyard for Holmes' subconscious.

Watson sank heavily into his old chair, after checking it for needles and other dangerous objects. He looked at the morosely silent room, which was normally inhabited by the most active and boisterous man who had ever lived there.

Watson picked up Holmes' pipe and held it in his lap like a sick baby bird. He knew that nothing could ever be as it once was.