"Good," I said, relieved, "That's good. We're on our way to my home. You will be safe there, and I can see to your injuries. Is that alright?" I asked gently, wondering for how long he had been imprisoned since someone had "discovered" him.
The man—Sherlock's eyes closed, and he nodded wearily.
"Is there anyone I can help you contact?"
Sherlock's features pinched, and he shook his head. "I have no way of doing so without…" he gestured behind us, before lowering his head, his thumb and finger reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. I realized he indicated the scene we had just left, and inferred he meant drawing such attention.
"Of course," I murmured. I would focus on getting him safe, and well, and let him decide from there how he wished to proceed.
When we stepped from the cab, Sherlock looked at the house in front of us with some trepidation. His glance darted down the street longingly and back to the front door I was unlocking. Then he squared his shoulders and his expression hardened. He marched after me into the house, and I recognized the degree of trust he was placing in me to allow me to take him behind the closed door of my home.
I glanced at my consulting room, full of medical and scientific equipment, and settled Sherlock in the sitting room instead, bringing only my medical bag out to treat him. Even so, he remained tense and wary as I examined him. "Do you happen to know what your blood pressure and heart rate are supposed to be?" I asked carefully, fighting to keep the alarm from my voice.
Sherlock darted a wary glance at me, reminding me yet again that this man had been recently treated like a laboratory specimen. He would not take well to being interrogated on all aspects of his anatomy and physiology.
"Normal human blood pressure is 120/80, and heart rate should be between 60 and 90 at rest," I clarified. "Yours are… considerably different at the moment."
Understanding lit his eyes. "My current blood pressure and heart rate are within normal limits for my species," he answered.
I glanced at the blood pressure gauge, which I hadn't shown him.
"I can sense them," he said simply.
He then watched me search in vain to locate his heartbeat with my stethoscope, an odd gleam in his dark eyes. I would almost say he was laughing at my consternation, but his face remained entirely impassive. At least his breathing sounded normal, without indicators of pneumonia or other distress.
"Am I also to believe you have an entirely inaudible heartbeat, or would you be interested in offering a bit of direction?" I grumbled.
His lips twitching suspiciously, he tapped his lower right side with one long finger. His heartbeat matched the flutter I had felt at his wrist, and the sound was familiar, so at least his cardiac anatomy and function were likely similar to what I was accustomed to treating, if a bit oddly placed and rapid.
He had several cuts and scrapes of varying sizes and depths that he refused to speak about, and raw marks on his wrists that had me pressing my lips together hard in an effort to control my anger. None showed signs of infection, but all had an odd greenish hue, which seemed to generally underlie his complexion. I applied ointment to the cuts and bandages to the larger ones, thinking. "Copper?" I ventured cautiously.
The glance he shot me was less suspicious and more speculative this time, and he nodded once.
"That may be why none of these are infected," I observed, completing the last bandage on his left wrist.
I made no comment about his upswept brows or his finely pointed ears, revealed when I brushed his hair aside to assess a large dark bruise on the side of his head. He flinched when I touched the bruising, then went very still, a strange expression crossing his face while I gently probed the swelling at his temple.
I imagined the blow to the head had been used to subdue him before he had been brought to today's meeting, and I wondered how much of his glassy stare had been residual effect from being struck so hard. Again, my anger at the callousness of the men who had treated him so cruelly rose up, and I focused instead on my compassion for the man to keep my calm, not wanting to frighten him.
"I don't see evidence of a skull fracture or serious head injury, though I don't doubt you have a concussion from a blow this hard. You'll need to rest and avoid any strenuous activity for a few days," I warned.
His dark eyes followed me, evident interest in them as I put away my medical tools, and I noticed the tension had further eased from his frame.
"I can ask my landlady to send up a meal," I offered, now that his injuries had been treated. "Is there anything you prefer to eat, or can't eat?"
After he hesitantly ventured a preference or two, I stepped out and spoke briefly with Mrs. Hudson, letting her know my guest would need to stay for a while and would benefit from strict privacy and a very gentle manner.
Her kindly brow crinkled in sympathy. "He has the battle fatigue?" she asked, having seen the wary man when I had brought him in. She had a fair familiarity with the ailment, which stemmed largely from my difficult early days back from Afghanistan.
"Something like it," I admitted. "He needs a bit of safety and help to get back on his feet."
The good woman was also gracious enough to give me an extension on my rent, as I had found myself suddenly and unexpectedly very short of funds.
I returned to the sitting room. "There is a bedroom through here we can clear out and make yours for as long as you wish to stay," I explained. "For now, you are welcome to make use of the room upstairs, and I can sleep down here," I offered, thinking that a private space with a door that locked from the inside may set his mind at ease.
He glanced up the narrow stairs, his expression strained. "Thank you. I would be quite comfortable down here…if that's alright with you," he finished hesitantly.
"Certainly," I agreed quickly.
He was awake, sitting quietly beside the fire when I went up to bed rather late that night. I found him in the same place when I came down the next morning.