"Would you like some eggs, Holmes?"

A lengthy pause. "I do want some."

"Here ya are, Mr. 'olmes. They're fluffy and cooked in milk, just like Dr. Watson loves 'em so."

"Thank you, Piper. That will be all for now."

A week had passed and Holmes had been permitted to leave the hospital under Dr. Watson's care. Mary and her housemaids had spared no expense in preparing the house for his arrival. One of the guest bedrooms was fitted to their guest's liking with navy sheets and a writing desk, although Watson had assured her that Holmes may not require one at first. The Watsons' den had been prepared as a sort of day room for Holmes while he recovered from his injuries. A long sofa had been brought in to compensate for his immobile cast. Finally, with the aid of Mrs. Hudson, who had openly mourned the illness of her former lodger, Holmes' belongings had been moved to his new quarters, save for a few nonessentials which Mrs. Hudson graciously kept for him in storage.

The missing girl, Emily, had been found and was safely at home with her family. Watson thought that this news would delight Holmes, but the man had no idea to what Watson was referring.

The surgeons and doctors on Holmes' case had been quite grim in their prognosis for recovery. There was no swelling in the brain to be known of, to recover from, and persons simply did not improve after oxygen deprivation. Watson remained steadfast in his hope, however. He had resolved to keep Holmes' mind active and challenged, not wanting to risk a decline at any rate, and anticipating improvements over time.

"Mary, my dearest, leave him be. Let him do it himself." Watson cautioned Mary against lifting the forkful of eggs to Holmes' mouth when the former detective seemed to struggle significantly with the task. Mary appeared to be upset by Watson's dissention with her, but her husband gave her a pleading glance to which she nodded agreeably. "Holmes, you know how to do it, I saw you doing it yesterday."

Holmes was silent and lifted his shaking hand toward his mouth, dropping half of the eggs in the process. "I…want to have help."

"Holmes," Watson sighed. "You can do this yourself. We can't help you." He wanted so badly for Holmes to have control over a task so simple as feeding himself. If Holmes couldn't even do that, Watson feared the level of dependence upon himself that Holmes would require.

Holmes frowned and stared at the fork held unnaturally in his thumb and forefinger. It didn't look right to him, but he didn't understand why. He placed the instrument down on the table and picked up some eggs with his bare fingers.

"No, Holmes, absolutely not," said Watson sternly. The doctor stood up and wiped the eggs away from Holmes' hand with a napkin. He replaced the fork in his friend's vacant hand. 'Now, try it with me." He placed his own hand over Holmes' for guidance and lifted a forkful of cooling eggs to Holmes' mouth. "Splendid, Holmes!" Watson exclaimed, not even realizing that he was praising him for such a simple and guided task.

Holmes chewed the eggs thoughtfully and then threw the fork clear across the room. He buried his face into the side of the sofa, twisting his upper body tremendously, as his leg wouldn't allow any lower body movement. He was assaulted with a sickening feeling, a feeling that he could not name, but which was enveloping him and turning his insides sour. He wished that he had never asked for eggs at all. He didn't want Dr. Watson to tell him that he was doing a good job. He didn't understand any of his emotions. He just wanted to be…something else, somewhere else. But what? Nothing would come to him. Rarely would the right words reveal themselves to him. He was in pain constantly, Dr. Watson and his wife and servants were always moving him around and giving him things to do, when all he wanted was to lie in bed and try to think. Angry. That was one emotion that he could name. He was angry almost every day and he couldn't understand why.

"Holmes, that kind of behavior is not tolerable," said Watson. "You mustn't lose your temper. I know things aren't easy, old boy, but I only want you to think about today. Try your hardest at everything today. We won't worry about tomorrow until it comes."

"I don't…what?" Holmes said. He squinted his eyes in confusion and turned away, looking flustered.

Watson realized that he couldn't grasp the concept of tomorrow, or even time. "After this, Holmes. Don't worry about after this, just think about this and try your best to do your tasks."

"I want to go to bed."

Watson was about to reproach Holmes for wanting to stay in his bed all day when Mary smiled at him. "How would you like it if I brought you back something from the market when I go today?" she asked Holmes.

"…I do want that." Holmes pulled his face away from the sofa.

"Ok, then," Mary said. "What would you like me to get for you?"

Holmes' expression was blank. He was trying to come up with something, anything, the name of any object, even if it was something he didn't need. He knew Mary and Dr. Watson wanted him to say something. They stared at him and made him feel…that feeling again.

Finally, a fragmented thought bubbled to the surface of his brain. He jumped at the chance to give Mary an answer. "A jug."

"A jug?" Mary repeated, confused.

Holmes blanched. That wasn't the right answer. He felt unwanted wetness in his eyes. The feeling was stronger than ever and he was going to make it worse by crying. Suddenly, there was movement near him and a soft hand on his shoulder. Warm air nuzzled the side of his face as Mary spoke. "I shall bring you back a surprise. I promise that you will love it." She rose to her feet and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Mary bid Watson goodbye as well and left to get ready for her trip to the city market.

The feeling was smaller now and he was even able to look at Watson in the eye. Watson picked up a folded paper and handed it towards him. "Holmes, would you like today's paper?"

"No."

"Would you like me to read some of it to you?"

"…no."

Watson sighed. He had to invent some way to keep Holmes' mind occupied. He knew the disastrous results that could come from the unfettered mind of Holmes in his regular healthy state. He did not want to see any ill results from Holmes in his weakened condition suffering from stagnation.

/

Mary faithfully brought back a trinket or a favored type of food whenever she went to any store. Sometimes she made trips to the city just to attempt to find something that would pique Holmes' interest and lift his mood.

Mary and Watson would alternate sitting and talking to Holmes, or sitting in the next room if he expressed that he wanted to be alone. The greatest problem was that Holmes would spontaneously turn mute, refusing to speak to anyone for days at a time. During these periods of silence, Watson would read to him his own novelizations of Holmes' past cases. Eventually this practice came to a halt when Watson could not bear the comparison between the old Holmes, now something like a fairy tale to him, and the belligerent stranger he was now caring for.

When Holmes did speak, it was always to express his dislike of
something or to make garbled assertions that he hated Watson, Mary, himself and anyone else he could conceive of at the moment.

Mary always received Holmes' hateful demeanor with characteristic grace. She would leave the room if requested, but she would never lose her temper.

Watson occasionally had to leave the room to keep from losing his temper. He could have taken Holmes' abuse, knowing that it was a reaction of fear and frustration from his ailing friend. However, Watson's own frustrations at his inability to help Holmes in any way kept mounting. Any gestures he made to try to comfort or aid his friend always seemed to have an antithetical effect.

One otherwise typical day, Holmes suddenly began to refuse help from anyone for any purpose. He would not allow himself to be carried out of his bedroom, or even changed into day clothes. And certainly no one was allowed to heft spoonfuls of food toward his face. His attempts at feeding himself were all but futile as strains of porridge and scatters of vegetables inevitably ended up on his shirtfront and bed.

And still he refused to let anyone near him to clean him or the bed. There seemed to be an invisible barrier around him that, if invaded, caused him to react fiercely. At Watson he would lash out with an open fist. At Mary he would glare and roll over so she couldn't effectively clean him.

Holmes was absolutely rigid in his stubbornness. He was tired of the feeling, tired of so many people getting close to him all the time. He didn't want to be touched or petted or fretted over. The world didn't make sense to his frayed mind and all that remained for him was a white-hot rage.

Watson reluctantly wrote letters to Mycroft, asking for his advice and guidance. Mycroft never wrote him back, which Watson chalked up to a mixture of the man's denial of the situation and perhaps his inability to help in the way that Watson requested.

It was an uneventful day when correspondence finally came from the elder Holmes. Watson was in his sitting room, jotting down notes about Holmes' condition while simultaneously thumbing through literature on brain disorders.

Piper entered with a box covered in brown paper. "Doctor? This arrived for ya."

Watson took the modest box and scanned the return address. "Thank you, my dear," he said. He opened the attached letter, which was short and to the point:

"These are some of Sherlock's old things that I retrieved from our childhood home before it was sold. Perhaps you will find something to aid you.
Mycroft Holmes."

Suddenly filled with a cautious optimism, Watson brought the box up to Holmes' room and entered to find the former detective staring absently at the wall.

"Holmes," Watson began.

"No."

"You don't even know what I want to tell you, old boy," Watson chided.

"You've received a box by post from your brother, Mycroft."

Holmes' eyes brightened a barely noticeable degree, as Watson had known they would. Holmes seemed to enjoy gifts and surprises more than anything in his mundane routine. Watson delighted in being able to generate Holmes' lightened mood.

"What is it?" said Holmes, setting himself upright against his pillows.

"We shall open it and see," said Watson, a twinkle in his eyes.

He allowed Holmes to lightly assist him in tearing the paper away from the box. Inside there were two items: a child's picture book and a jigsaw puzzle of the Eiffel Tower. Holmes stared at the aged and worn objects while Watson watched him with unbridled apprehension.

Finally Holmes spoke. "I want to do this."