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/
Watson spirited Holmes downstairs to his day room, trying not to be overzealous in his praise of his friend's desire to try the puzzle. He set Holmes down onto the sofa with the help of the house girl, mindful to keep Holmes' broken leg in a comfortable position. This was the first week that Holmes had been able to go without the immobile cast, and the replacement plaster cast was much preferable to Holmes and Watson both. It took much less effort to move into a different position in the bed or on the sofa, and it was less confining. To Watson, it was a sign of continued improvement.
Watson brought a small wooden table and set it to Holmes' side. Holmes held the puzzle box in his lap, unsure what to do next. Watson, not wanting to make this a counterproductive experience, sat diligently in his seat, reaching for a book so as not to pressure Holms.
Holmes stared at the picture on the box. There was memory here, and fondness. With delicacy, his long fingers pried open the box. There was writing on the inside lid. He meekly asked Watson to explain to him what it said.
Watson leaned over to read the fading words. "It says, 'Sherlock Holmes, Age 6.'" In that moment, the depth of the situation hit Watson for the first time since he had run out of the hospital. He watched Holmes finally dump the puzzle pieces onto the table. Holmes looked thoughtfully at the odd-shaped pieces, seeming unsure of himself again. Watson's stomach sank deeper into his abdomen as he looked on. Here was Sherlock Holmes, the most brilliant man that Watson had ever known, struggling to figure out a jigsaw puzzle he had mastered at six years old.
"Holmes, I'll return shortly," Watson said, briskly, trying to leave the room before Holmes noticed his tears. As an afterthought, he realized that Holmes probably didn't possess the needed observational skills to notice Watson's reasons for leaving the room so abruptly.
Watson quietly went into his bedroom and shut the door. Once he was there, locked away where no one could see him, he couldn't cry. He had several reasons to, but his tears betrayed him. He wanted to kick the walls and scream that nothing was fair, like a small child might. Why hadn't someone been with Holmes when he'd been searching that house? Why hadn't Holmes been more careful? Why couldn't the doctors help him and for that matter why wouldn't Mycroft help him? Sending Holmes a few of his childhood toys was not the kind of grand gesture he knew the elder Holmes to be capable of.
Watson eventually collapsed onto his bed, his palms covering his eyes. "I miss you, Holmes," he whispered to no one.
-
Mary was surprised to find Holmes sitting alone in the day room, a thick, illustrated book on his lap. "Hello, Mr. Holmes," she greeted fondly. "How are you feeling today?"
Holmes looked up from his book. "I think..." he began, before looking back to his book. "This is a good day," he said, finally. "I'm trying to learn."
"Oh, well then don't let me disturb you," Mary said, her beaming smile betraying her excitement at Holmes' mood change. Suddenly, something on the table caught her eye. "Mr. Holmes, did you put this puzzle together?" she asked, cautiously schooling the disbelief and thrill out of her voice.
"Yes," Holmes said proudly.
"Well, that's just excellent." Trying not to make a big affair out of this small victory, Mary asked, "Would you like some tea and cake? It's about time for it."
"I do want that," said Holmes.
/
"John? Are you in here, darling?" Mary asked, walking into her darkened bedroom. Watson was prone on the bed, his arm thrown over his eyes.
"Yes, dear, what is it?" Watson asked, sitting up.
Mary decided to ignore that her husband was lying alone in the dark. "Mr. Holmes is doing very well today."
"Yes, I know," Watson replied, weakly. Mary sat next to him on the bed and he placed his hand on the small of her book in an intimate gesture.
"What's the matter, dear?" Mary asked him.
"It's nothing. I don't wish to burden you."
"Burden me," Mary challenged. She had a fierceness in her eyes, her special unshakable quality that drew Watson to her constantly.
The doctor stared into her strong, fearless eyes. "I'm lost, Mary," Watson said. Once Mary had given him permission to open the gates of confession, he couldn't close them. "I don't know what to do for him. He's not a child, but I have to treat him like one. Otherwise, I have to tiptoe around him to avoid upsetting him. I just want him to be himself again. I want things to be the way they should be."
Mary gave a sympathetic look. "John, you're taking care of him. You've allowed him to live with us and you spend nearly every moment either at his side or working to help him. He finished the puzzle you gave to him."
"But that's just my point!" Watson exclaimed. "We shouldn't be excited that he can work a child's puzzle. He should be independent, running madly through the streets, fighting and helping people!"
"He's spent most of his life helping others," Mary added. "Now he needs our help and that means our patience, our compassion and our encouragement. I don't necessarily believe that time heals all wounds, John. But I believe that love can."
Finally Watson's tears broke free of their dam. They weren't tears of bitterness or fear this time, but of hope.
/
The day finally came when Holmes' cast could be removed completely. Watson took a pair of shears to the plaster and gladly peeled it off. Holmes stared at the dirtied white material, as if he had just lost a significant piece of himself. The gash on Holmes' forehead had also healed fairly well, leaving a slight mark that would fade with time. His throat had long since healed, and with his leg mended, he was well on his way to a semblance of physical normalcy.
"Well, would you like to try walking, Holmes?" Watson cautiously asked. Holmes had thus far seemed oblivious to the fact that he wasn't mobile, but as soon as the idea was proposed to him, he eagerly nodded.
"All right then," said Watson, "carefully now…" He pulled Holmes' right arm over his shoulder and stood Holmes upright. Holmes' legs wobbled and he began to pitch forward, but was straightened by Watson. "Let's try taking a few steps, ok, Holmes?" Watson prompted, stepping forward himself.
Holmes watched his own legs, his sense-memory failing him. "I can't," he said quietly.
"Just try shuffling," Watson said. "Like this." He scooted forward to model what he meant.
Holmes tried copying the simple movement, but ended up painfully stubbing his big toe on the floor. "Ouch," he said, cringing.
"That's all right," Watson assured him. They attempted the movement again. "Just slowly, and with me…carefully…yes, that's right. Now, try picking your foot up off the ground…yes, one at a time. And then, try moving with me…keep up with my pace…you have it, Holmes! You're doing very well!"
Holmes was very excited at the prospect of being able to move around in such a free and independent manner. He surprised himself at the realization that he had missed such a freedom so dearly the past few months.
Watson kept his friend steady, judging Holmes' unsteady, shuffling gait with a clinical eye. They walked around the room several times before Holmes needed a break. Watson set him back onto the sofa, collapsing down beside him. Holmes breathed heavily and began to feel a pain in his head.
"Wait until Mary gets home," Watson carried on to the now unfocused man next to him. "She'll be absolutely thrilled!"
"Wasson," Holmes slurred, his gaze cast downward.
"What's the matter, Holmes?" Watson replied, concern stretching over his features.
"I…hurt," Holmes said, pressing the throbbing side of his head into Watson's shoulder for relief.
"Is it your leg, old boy?" Watson asked. He suddenly swelled with guilt, wondering if he had taken the cast off too soon.
"Noooo…" Holmes groaned, his face now buried into Watson's sleeve.
Holmes's hearing abruptly stopped working. Instead of the normal sounds of the household and Watson's voice, he could only hear a low rumble. It frightened him and he wondered if he were dying. He suddenly felt the world tilt and his legs were lifted into the air. Hands were upon him, adjusting him, soothing him. He opened his eyes but only saw a blackness that seemed to crawl across his vision with gray lines racing past him. He tried voicing his fear, but the sounds of his own words didn't seem to make it to his ears. Then everything was gone.