To my delight, when Sherlock's cautious reticence began to ease, I found my new acquaintance possessed of a singularly sharp mind and equally sharp wit.

We spent several pleasant evenings together beside the fire, sometimes conversing and sometimes in mutual quiet contemplation, and he always seemed at ease by the time I retired. However, I found no evidence that first morning nor the following mornings that he had ever lain down to sleep, and I grew increasingly concerned.

"Sherlock," I ventured cautiously over our breakfast table one morning, and he glanced up, his eyes guarded but curious at my tone. "After a head injury like you've had, the brain requires regular sleep to recover. At the risk of seeming entirely too interested in your affairs, as your doctor, I'm concerned that you don't appear to be sleeping."

"Please do not overly concern yourself, Doctor. Meditation serves as an effective form of rest for my species," he dismissed lightly.

My eyebrows rose. "You don't sleep?"

He said nothing, leading me to conclude that such was not the case.

"You're not healing well, Sherlock," I insisted quietly.

"I could take care of all this in a day if…" he began, clearly frustrated.

"If you could sleep?" I asked.

He gave me a nod, his lips pressed together, looking away.

I turned over his words, sitting forward with my hands clasped. "You can heal rapidly in your sleep, but you have been unable to achieve an adequate state of sleep since you came here?" I clarified.

"It is accurate for practical purposes," he said grudgingly.

I nodded. "Alright, tell me how I can help. Can I help you find a safer place? Keep a watch? Sleep in the same room?"

He looked surprised by my offer.

"Hypervigilance commonly leads to insomnia when someone has suffered trauma," I explained.

His narrowed eyes studied me.

"I couldn't let my guard down enough to sleep more than a few minutes at a time when I came back from Afghanistan," I admitted ruefully.

"How do you sleep now?" he asked.

"With one ear open, a locked door, and a loaded weapon close to hand," I said with a sharp smile.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at me with a murmured 'hmm.' "The state of sleep I need to achieve will leave me only slightly aware of my surroundings and very difficult to awaken," he admitted suddenly. "I think, perhaps, if I knew someone trustworthy stood guard, I may be successful," he added more hesitantly. "I would not wish to alarm you—it is rather a trance-like state, and causes marked depression of all vital signs. Attempting to awaken me before the healing is complete will prove unsuccessful," he warned.

I wondered if he had attempted such while he was being held and experimented upon. The thought of being aware of what was done to one and unable to respond made me want to shudder. I may not sleep again either, had I ever actually been bodily attacked in my sleep as we had all feared from night raiding parties in Afghanistan.

I nodded my understanding. "Your trust honors me. Would it be more helpful to remain in the same room or to stand guard outside it?"

"I…in the room," he managed, surprised again by my ready offer.

I spent the day in an armchair with a novel, occasionally reassuring myself that my new friend still breathed where he lay perfectly still in his previously unused bed. When I had asked if touching him to ascertain his medical condition would be detrimental, he had shyly informed me that the occasional contact would be more likely to reassure than distract.

Sherlock awoke late in the evening, looking worlds better and with a new spark of life in his eyes.

I studied my mysterious friend several days later. He sat in his armchair, testing his newly acquired violin and drawing out strange sounds I had been unaware the instrument could even make.

Who and what was Sherlock Holmes? He displayed a great deal of intelligence and the oddest miscellany of knowledge. He was understandably wary, and yet kind. His anatomy and near-telepathic mental abilities loudly proclaimed him not to be human, but what he could be, I had not the faintest idea. My natural curiosity was piqued to dangerous heights, and I could ask him nothing.

I drew a sheet of paper and a pen from my desk and began to write.

Too late, I sensed Sherlock leaning on my desk.

He saw the headings at the top of the page, Sherlock, his limits, and Sherlock, his strengths. "What is this?" he asked, brandishing the paper at me angrily.

I closed my eyes, mortified. "It's nothing," I said feebly.

There was a brief silence while he scanned the paper.

"You're studying my knowledge?" he asked, his voice devoid of inflection.

"I don't keep a robust social life," I confessed, embarrassed. I gestured to him without meeting his eyes. "You're an interesting enigma of a man, and I'm curious," I said, certain my face must be crimson by now.

"Show me," he commanded, holding out an expectant hand. I complied, offering my fingertips to his, having discovered from that first dreadful day that he could read something of my intention and veracity in the contact.

"You are lonely," he said, surprised.

I winced. "Not something politely pointed out," I said quietly, looking away.

"I don't understand," he said, genuinely baffled. "You are a kind and intelligent man. Why would you be without a number of friends and acquaintances?"

"They died," I said flatly, finally looking him in the eye. "We went to war, and I came back, and they didn't." I didn't mention Michael Stamford, who had been more than an acquaintance and less than a close friend to me. He had refused to speak to me since the day I had purchased Sherlock. The disappointment in his light eyes as he had watched me step forward and join the bidding had followed me for days. Perhaps one day, if Sherlock felt it safe, I would tell Stamford the truth of what I had done with the man.

Sherlock hesitated, unsure of the correct response, and then he did something entirely unexpected. He laid his hand over mine, squeezing gently, and said, "I am so very grateful that you did come back, Watson."

I looked at his hand covering mine, and back up at his face, so earnest in his attempt to ease my hurt, and felt tears spring to my eyes. I nodded silently, trying to get hold of myself. "So am I, Sherlock," I said at last, my voice rough. "Please forgive my insufferable nosiness. I meant no harm," I added, casting a baleful glance at the paper now resting on his desk.

His lips quirked. "No harm done, I think," he agreed, picking it up and offering it back to me. "I perhaps overreacted."