A/N: Trigger warning for intense physical harm, starvation, nightmares, and mental abuse.
May, 1945
A haggard figure laid in the corner of a decrepit shed. Raspy breathing shook the structure as a man with dark, matted hair curled in on himself in a pointless attempt to keep warm. Nearly naked, shreds of fabric hung on his malnourished frame. His eyes were swollen, and most of his face was a sickly black and purple. Every breath he took wracked his emaciated frame. It had been weeks, months, possibly even years since he had been free. The offal stank of the shack only got worse and the man avoided looking at the corner where a surplus of bodies were being stored, all in ranging stages of decomposition. What was worse was, he could remember exactly which corpse was which. The faces of his squad haunted him. Young boys with their faces blown off, praying to a God they never considered, clutching photos of their parents, children, girlfriends, wives. He pushed away years of Sunday School, his mother's prayers for wounded soldiers soldered into his memory. A large ruckus began outside, and despite the trauma to his body, Sheldon had higher than average hearing. Shots began to echo and a bitter piece of him, the one that's given up, thoughtFinally, maybe I'll know peace. He closed his eyes, waiting for death.
The firing continued for several hours. Even though he had been beaten around the head many times, he still had sound hearing, beyond impeccable. He could hear German flying through the air, interspersed with Yankee English. The door swung open, surprising him. He closed his eyes again, waiting for the reign of blows to resume. The faint beating of his heart nearly stopped. He squeezed his eyes shut, expecting the sharp blow from a steel toed boot to hail down on his body. He was badly startled when a gentle hand was placed on his shoulder. Flinching violently, Sheldon's eyes fluttered to their half open/half closed state. The mysterious figure kept his hand on Sheldon's shoulder. Sheldon stared at the man. He was American, by the way of his accent. He wore a uniform, but a starch white band adorned with a cross was wrapped around his left arm. His eyes were brown, piercing into Sheldon uncomfortably. "My name is Leonard, I'm a doctor and you're going to be okay," he said firmly.
A combat medic, Sheldon mused, letting the strange man hoist him up over his shoulder. He was short, stocky, with rectangular frames and a goofy grin. The medic began with the chains that kept Sheldon anchored to the ground of the shack. His hands were nimble, removing links from the chain quickly and expertly. Another medic joined the field, asking Sheldon questions as he poured disinfectant into his most open wounds. Sheldon tried to wince, but the current state of his body prevented most movement. Leonard finished the chain before making quick work of the uniform hanging from Sheldon's frame. Sheldon felt a twinge of embarrassment as his naked flesh was exposed. Blankets were wrapped around him as the medics concurred he'd be better off in the hospital for the remainder of their work. As the stocky man named Leonard stood, he began swiftly walking with Sheldon slung over his shoulders. For the first time in a long time, Sheldon let himself rest.
When he awoke, he was nearly blinded by the whiteness of his surroundings. The swelling had obviously gone down, as he was able to open both eyes completely. His body ached, in a different, stiff way. His mouth, dryer than the Sahara, and he struggled to release a very rough cough. His stirring alerted a very bored looking nurse, who was sitting next to his bed, flipping through a magazine. Her eyes jumped to the distressed soldier, and she flung the tabloid onto her seat as she rose to be by his bedside. "Sir?" she squeaked.
Sheldon's eyebrow furrowed at her high pitched voice. The nurse jostled him slightly. "Sir? What's your name? Do you know who you are?"
"Lance Corporal Sheldon Lee Cooper," he muttered, still adjusting to the bright room.
The blonde nurse scribbled something down in his chart before returning her attention to the heavily bandaged soldier. "It's good to see you, Lance Corporal," she smiled. "My name is Bernadette, but you can call me Bernie," she continued.
Sheldon scrunched up his face. "Do you have a last name? I don't usually find myself on first name basis with people I don't know very well."
"Well yes, but it's a bit of a mouthful,"she hesitated, brushing a lock of curly blonde hair out of her eyes.
Sheldon stared at her expectantly. Bernadette sighed. "I'm Bernadette Rostenkowski," she relented
Inclining his head for a curt nod, Bernadette shot him a nervous smile. "I'm going to be your day nurse," she explained.
Sheldon quirked his eyebrow, opening his mouth after a long pause. "Where am I?" he finally inquired.
"You are at the St. Joseph's hospital of London," Bernie explained, pausing once more. "What is the last thing you remember?"
Sheldon paused, wracking his magnificent brain. For the first time in his life, his memories were foggy. He frowned, knitting his brow back together again. "Uh, I remember a short man carrying me from the camp, but after that it's...fuzzy, which is..very unusual. You see, I'm Doctor Sheldon Cooper, I work at Oxford University studying-"
"Theoretical physics with a focus in string theory," Bernadette cut him off.
There was an even longer pause. "How do you know who I am?"
Bernadette was busying herself with the cart alongside Sheldon's bed, reading labels on prescriptions and dumping pills into a tiny cup. "My friend works there as a neurobiologist, and she just talks about your work constantly," she explained.
She held out the plastic cup, expectantly. Sheldon looked at it warily. "I'm sorry doctor, this is merely an oral antibiotic we give to all the patients that were rescued from the camps."
Sheldon complied reluctantly. After tipping the pills back and swallowing thickly, he turned to the nurse again. "What is your friend's name?"
Bernadette grinned. "Dr. Amy Farrah-"
PRESENT, 1946
Sheldon stood in the line at the cafeteria, examining the food on display. He retained a grimace at the grey tuna casserole. But after his experience, he knew well that any food was better than none. Opting for a deli sandwich, he made his way over to the seating and began to eat. He had a ritualized eating routine, counting chews and sectioning his food off in his mind. He was startled when another tray hit the table. Looking up, he was met with the curious gaze of a woman with half mooned spectacles. Her eyes were a dazzling green and he sensed a hunger in her stare, a hunger for knowledge. He once held this same desire. He reminisced bitterly on the loss of his innocence, his spark for the unknown. She had dark, shiny brown hair that was pulled back neatly into a French twist. She had an hourglass figure that was respectably highlighted in a pencil skirt and white blouse. Sheldon blushed at the sight of her proportionality, something he didn't notice often, especially in women. He felt his temperature rise ever so slightly.
"Hello Dr. Cooper, I'm Amy Farrah Fowler."
Sheldon stared blankly, ignoring the young woman's proffered hand. His memory played back in perfect recall before he gave her an empty smile. "Yes, the neurobiologist," he clarified.
She looked at him, pleasantly surprised. "Yes I- its a pleasure to meet you."
Sheldon finally took a good look at the doctor before him. Sheldon's cheeks warmed ever so slightly. "The pleasure is mine," he replied, finishing his sandwich.
He got up, and threw away the scraps left on his tray."I admire the work you've done regarding string theory and your proposals for unified field theory," she said, matching his pace as he started to walk.
The injury to his hip and leg had left him with a permanent limp, and a jagged, deep scar that extended from the top left of his pelvis to his shin. If he didn't tuck his shirt people could see it poking over his waistband, a thickened white band of tissue protruding over his waistband. He used a cane to get around, gifted to him by his twin sister after he returned from the hospital. Made of maple and oak, it was beautifully carved, with his initials on the handle. Most people rushed ahead of him, creating an air of impatience as they waited at the destination while Sheldon was forced to hobble along desperately, breaking out into a slight sweat. But not Dr. Fowler. She allowed him to take the lead, letting him set an amiable pace. A sign of respect, he noted. "I did not know neurobiologists paid much attention to the field of physics and its relevant developments," he commented airily.
She did not miss a beat, "I prefer to understand how the universe works so I can better understand the construction of its inhabitants," she said offhandedly.
Tempted to stop in his tracks, Sheldon forced himself to meander forwards, desperately trying to look disinterested in the young lady at his shoulder. He was well aware of the social niceties he needed to partake in, but it didn't stop him from finding them ever so annoying and pointless. "And what do you study, in particular, Dr. Fowler?"
Of course, he did not care. Biology was disgusting, slimy, sticky, and all around uncomfortable for him. He preferred his perfect world of equations. What Sheldon did find interesting was the slight pause Amy took before answering him."I study the impact of trauma on the brain using electroencephalograms. EEGs have been a remarkable invention this century and has aided our work tremendously."
Oh, not as uninteresting as he assumed. He was tempted to ask more, but his bad leg was hurting and he needed to sit down. His gawky limp carried him everywhere he needed to go, but that didn't stop his leg from aching after a certain period of time. Amy trailed him patiently until he arrived in front of his office door. "Well, it was lovely to meet you," she quipped, giving him a smile that made his stomach flutter a little.
Sheldon inclined his head slightly, before opening his door and entering the safe haven of his home away from home. He collapsed into his chair before leaning back and rubbing his eyes vigorously. He sat quietly, collecting himself. Turning to his chalkboard, he resumed his work. However, his focus was split, images of Dr. Amy Farrah Fowler flickering through his mind.
JUNE, 1945
The sun shone through the tall, overarching windows. The white curtains adorning them served more as decor than as a functional shield. Sheldon squinted, throwing his good arm over his face. Sheldon was irritated. More irritated than normal, actually. He had been laid up in the hospital for just over a month now, and even though he was a huge homebody, he yearned for different scenery. Many of the other patients were allowed to have a small break outside, but he wasn't as portable as everyone else. His day nurse, Ms. Rostenkowski, was patient, kind, and surprisingly sharp, Sheldon admitted. She had a history in biochemistry, but took up her post as an Army nurse when the Americans joined the war. She was blunt, clinical, and never hesitated to tell him the full and honest truth, no matter how disheartening it was. Early in his stay, Nurse Rostenkowski bluntly told him that there was a strong chance he wouldn't make it. He was malnourished, sickly thin and nutrient deprived from his time at the POW camp. He had a varying degree of open and closed wounds, many of them infected and oozing. A broken arm, a shattered femur, two broken ankles, a dislocated hip, and numerous skull fractures left Sheldon in mere pieces. She was straightforward about how they would wish to go about it: pump him full of antibiotics and nutrients and if he held up and the infections cleared, they would attempt a surgical repair on his femur and ankles. She offered to make him comfortable, telling him he'd even be able to forgo the antibiotics and go peacefully. And boy, was that tempting. His entire body ached, like flames ran through his veins. His body was a large open wound and the lull of endless sleep called to him. But alas, he was cursed with perfect memory. Images of his mother, his sister, and his brother flickered in his tired mind. His mother, all alone in Oxford, visiting the cemetery and crying over her lost love and son. His sister, his twin, bonded to him through some inexplicable thread, tugging on it and knowing there's nothing on the other side. His brother Georgie, even if they weren't close, struggling with the concept that he would see one half of the twins age and the other half remain 24 forever. So Sheldon swallowed, his throat thick and his eyes shining. "No ma'am, please let the doctors do their best."
And it was a damn near miracle. His infection, stubborn and nasty, ebbed away over the next few weeks, and Sheldon was eased back into a solid diet instead of consuming leaves, bugs, and his own bodily waste. Slow at first, he began to put on the lost weight. As antisocial as he was, Sheldon could not help but learn more about the hospital staff. His doctor, a bright young man with blonde hair, brown eyes, and a toothy grin, studied at Harvard, but decided to go into the service after his mother died. Bernadette, a biochemistry prodigy, was actually looking for positions in London after she finished her service. His night nurse, Samantha, was married with three kids, all back home in America.
While Sheldon was adjusting and healing physically, nothing stopped his vibrant, all too real nightmares as soon as he drifted off. He could hear the deafening shots of the enemy, he could see the mines blow fellow soldiers to pieces. But more importantly, no matter what he did different, at the end of every dream, they were still captured. He still ended up in that tiny, disgusting shack, fading away for who knows how long. Every night he woke up, drenched in cold sweat, shaking, and sometimes even screaming. Every night he apologized profusely to Samantha, and every night she gave him a strange look, pity mixed with something unidentifiable. He did not like it.
As promised, the doctors took on Sheldon's broken bones as soon as he was stable enough. They hung his left leg in traction and casted the rest of him. Months passed, and even though he still suffered from pain daily, he was miles ahead of where he used to be. Once his fingers healed, scabs falling away, leaving them scarred and crooked, he immediately requested pen and paper so he could contact his family back home in Oxford. Despite Bernadette's assuring that they did indeed contact his family on his status and whereabouts, Sheldon felt unusually compelled to make initial human contact with them for himself.
Dear Mother, Georgie, and Missy,
I am writing to you to ensure that you know I am safe, released, and healing. In January of 1943, my squad was attacked. Multiple soldiers perished but several of us were captures and held at the German camp in Buchenwald. I cannot imagine the fear you must have felt, not hearing from me for over two years. Every day I yearned to reach out, if nothing else but to say goodbye, Unfortunately, the Nazis are not known for their accommodating manner. Nonetheless, in May, we were rescued by the Americans, and I am healing as we speak. I find myself excited at the thought of returning home when I'm allowed, but until then, feel free to reach me at this address.
Yours,
Sheldon Lee Cooper
Sheldon blinked back some tears. He wordlessly handed the neatly addressed envelope to Bernadette, asking if she'd be able to put it in the mail the following day. She acquiesced, no questions asked. Sheldon laid back, resting his head on the fluffy hospital pillows. Despite immense progress, he still tired far to easily, and often needed naps to get him through the day. He closed his eyes, drifting off once more.
