Stranger: [I'm sorry this is so long ;u;] Normal was something Sherlock Holmes wasn’t used to being. Considered introverted, antisocial but incredibly smart all throughout his childhood, ‘normal’ was something he simply couldn’t be. Not that Sherlock had ever had a childhood. At the age of nine, he’d been taken from his home to some kind of testing facility. During the ten years he spent there, Sherlock solved puzzles. First simple ones, insultingly so, even, but they slowly increased until Sherlock was no longer given puzzles, but people. He picked out every simple gesture, object, quirk, and pieced them together to tell that person’s story. However, with his limited knowledge of the outside world, he rarely managed it. And then came the punishment for something he couldn’t even help. Electric shocks, a tightening of the leather binding him to a chair to the point where he couldn’t breathe… All without ever taking sight of the people behind all this. Still, the puzzles were what he lived for, what kept his mind clean and working. That was, until he left. The blindfold itched against his skin as Sherlock was driven to his destination, sitting obediently on the back seat of a black, discreet car. Despite having more than a few reasons to suspect he was very likely headed to a trap, Sherlock couldn’t do anything, not when his brain was fogged by whatever had been injected into his bloodstream, and his movements weak and erratic. And then, suddenly, strong hands were grabbing his arms and throwing him out of the still moving car. His head hit the concrete, followed by his hands, and he blacked out. When he woke up, Sherlock found himself in what seemed to be an alleyway, curled up behind a trash can. At least he had some clothes on, a cheap pair of jeans that were far too short for him and an old hoodie. Almost immediately, the noise, lights and sights around him were noticed, everything flooding his brain at once. Sherlock closed his eyes and covered his ears. Everything was just far too… cluttered. All he’d ever known for the last ten years were the white tiles walls, white tiled floors, and constant electrical buzz that seemed to follow him wherever he went. Occasionally, he was given movies, documentaries to watch, the only glimpse of the outside world he was allowed to have. All the sensations he was now experiencing were nearly overwhelming. Slowly letting his hands fall to his sides, Sherlock staggered to his feet, all the while taking note of everything – the rough floor, the smooth tiled wall, the sound of cars zooming past, some thick and warm liquid trickling down his face. Leaning on the wall for support, he limped out of the alleyway, soon discovering he’d been lying just outside the Emergency unit of a Hospital. Either a happy coincidence or a planned one – Sherlock voted for the latter. He walked past the sliding doors, and immediately latched onto a passing blonde doctor, gripping his arm weakly. “I… I, um, need to make a call,” he managed to say after a few moments of silence, his voice cracking due to disuse. Almost immediately, the world turned black, and Sherlock collapsed on the floor.
You: John blinked looking down as he felt a pressure on his arm, he was rather shocked to see a pale hand, gripping his arm, he looked up to see a mans face, and heard his voice before he colapsed to the floor. John went straight into doctor mode, dropping to his knees and carefully checking the dark haired mans airways and rolling him onto his side into the recovery position before calling for a trolley to move him out of the view of everyone else. He entered the room behind the wheeled trolley and conducted a through examination, discovering the man had been given some strong seditives and hooked him up to an IV drip to keep him hydrated, before cleaning and patching up the wound on his head and assisting the nurse on hand to change him into a clean hospital gown. John left the room with strict instructions he was to be alerted as soon as the man in the bed awoke.
Stranger: [yaaay, someone replied! :D] A few hours passed before Sherlock woke up again. For a moment, he wondered if what had happened earlier had all been a dream. That did not make sense, though, he never dreamt. Perhaps a test, then, some kind of virtual reality that had been imposed on him... But what would be the point of it? Collecting information, maybe? A new puzzle? Moments passed with Sherlock thinking quietly, but he finally opened his eyes. He was back at the facility, then. Same white walls, same electrical buzz... But something new. An insistent beep by his side, which had seemed to increase in frequency when he had woken up. Craning his neck, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the machine by his side. No, this wasn't the facility. The walls, the floor... Different texture. Besides, something was covering him. He raised his hand to rub the sleep out of his eyes, feeling something tugging at it. A tube? Why was a tube hooked to his hand? He pulled it off, watching the liquid dripping on the floor, and swung his legs over the side of the bed to stand on his feet.
You: ((Oh I couldn't not, your prompt was amazing.)) John happened to be walking past the door of the room he'd left the strange man in, who'd collasped. When he saw the man sitting up in his bed, looking around, confusion plastered over his face as he looked at the matchines and IV drip in his hand. He chuckled slightly as he watched the dark haired man pull the drip from his hand before he entered the room. "I see you're awake, are you feeling rested?" He walked over, sitting on the edge of the bed, as he pulled a small penlight out of his pocket. "Can you look at my nose? I'm just going to shine a light in both your eyes, alright?" Without waiting for permission, John lifted the light, checking the reaction times of both the mans pupils before nodding and standing, placing his hands on the mans shoulders and turning him back to lay on the mattress. "I'm going to have to ask you to stay in bed for a while, you had a bump to the head and you need to sleep off the rest of the seditives." He smiled, bending to pick up the IV drip from the floor. "I'll get a nurse to clean that up, and reinsert your IV, you need more fluids." He was studying the mans face as he spoke, he looked slighlty better than when he wandered into the A&E department downstairs. "What's your name? I'm Doctor John Watson."
Stranger: [everyone gets scared away by the humongous prompt XD but thanks!] Sherlock blinked wearily at the man that seemingly appeared out of nowhere, not really managing to reply decently before the other started flashing a bright light at his eyes. And then he was touching him, forcing him back into the mattress, and Sherlock couldn't help but obey. Being refused any human contact for so long, anything besides the brief glances he was granted when on a test, he really had no idea what to make out of the young doctor and the fact that he wouldn't stop touching him. "I... I'm.." he croaked out in reply, biting his lip and shaking his head slightly, trying to clear the fog from his mind. Sedatives, wasn't it? He forced himself to focus back on the question: What /was/ his name? "I forgot," he muttered, a slight tone of disbelief colouring his voice. Honestly, he couldn't remember the last time someone had called him by his name. Sitting up again, he looked for the pockets of his jeans before noticing he wasn't wearing them anymore. "Where are my trousers?"
You: John frowned, when the other man spoke again, his voice still didn't sound quite right. He looked down at the other mans lap and tugged the covers over him again, trying to cover his exposed thighs slightly and give him some privacy as the door to the room was wide open. "It's alright, you'll remember eventually." John gave him a small smile, he must have hit his head a little harder than he'd realised, or pehaps it was just the exhaustion and haze from the drugs in his system. "Your trousers are being cleaned for you, they were awfully dirty, but they weren't really yours, were they? They were far too short for you. You can wear this for now." He reached out to tug at the hospital gown than hung off the slim man's shoulders. "You didn't have anything in your pockets, what were you looking for in your jeans?"
Stranger: It was quite obvious the trousers weren't his. He'd never wear something like that. In fact, Sherlock wasn't even sure what he'd wear should the opportunity arise. "No? Nothing?" He could have sworn he had felt something pressing against his leg while he was walking. In fact, he could feel it right... now. Eyes widening, Sherlock pulled the covers back again, tugging his gown out of his left leg and prodding it slightly. There was... something. He took the doctor's hand, pressing it quite insistently against the /something/ under his skin. "There. Do you feel it? What is that? It wasn't there before!" he said quickly, his eyes fixing on the other man before returning to his leg. A tracker, maybe? Some kind of remote control device that could shock him from afar? Whatever it was, it couldn't be good. Swallowing dryly, Sherlock let go of the doctor's hand, still looking at him expectantly.
You: John frowned at the behaviour of the other man, but let his hand be pressed against his leg. He hadn't noticed that in his examination, then again he wasn't looking for anything in the mans thighs. He frowned, moving closer and applying a little extra pressure to the lump. "Hm, I'm not sure. Is it hurting you?" He pulled the gown back slightly so he wa able to feel his other thigh. "That's very strange, you don't know what it is at all? You've not had any operations to insert something in your thigh?" Frowning John fixed the gown over the mans lap again, and covered him with the blanket. "If it's upsetting you I'll take you down to have an x-ray tomorrow, see if we can identify what it is."
Stranger: "I... I don't know," Sherlock admitted quietly, turning his gaze to the blanket covering his lap. As far as he knew, he hadn't ever had any surgery, but then, how had that appeared? Should he have it removed? He wanted to. But what would the consequences be? "I think it's a tracker," he whispered, his grey eyes locking with the doctor's for a moment. "They don't intend to leave me alone. I think... Maybe it's better if we leave it here." Nodding once, Sherlock looked back down, trying to remember why he had come here in the first place. "I need... I need to speak to someone. My...croft. Mycroft." He nodded again, his gaze moving back to the other man.
You: John frowned a tracker? Who wasn't going to leave this man alone. He didn't want to put him in any danger by removing it, but he also didn't want to let this man have his every movemen tracked. He nodded slightly. "Alright, do you know Mycroft's number? Is he your friend?" John cocked his head to the side slightly, when their eyes locked and he noticed for the first time the strange colour of them. "Will you let me put your IV drip back in if I let you make a phone call?" He was slightly concerned who this 'Mycroft' was. "He's not one of the people you said who don't want to leave you alone, is it? Because you're under my care right now and I will /have/ no harm come to you, do you understand me?"
Stranger: "No, no, he's..." Frowning, Sherlock tried to remember who the hell Mycroft was. "My brother?" Yes, that sounded right. Maybe he was. Had his family missed him? He remembered he had had a family. A family and a friend. "I don't know his number. I don't... I don't know anything." The only thing he knew right now was that the beep by his side was starting to feel strangely comforting and that the man in front of him looked a bit like the soldiers on the documentaries he'd watched. Interesting. That was why he seemed strangely familiar, then. "Do you have his number?" he asked, raising his eyebrows at the other. Watson, wasn't it? John Watson. His mind really was infuriatingly slow right now.
You: John's face softened slighty as he shook his head. "I don't, no. I'm sorry. Can you remember his full name? If you can remember his full name I'll try and find out his number for you." He reached across again, this time picking up the other man's hand and holding in between his own, when he noticed the way the man was almost studying him. "Here, let me just go get a clean needle and I'll fix your IV back into your hand, and you can sleep if you'd like." He patted the pale hand between his own and rose to his feet, walking to a cuboard on the far side of the room, retreiving a clean needle before sitting on the edge of the bed again, picking up the dark haired mans hand and placing it in his lap as he reinserted the IV. "Is there anything about yourself you do remember? I'd like to know as much as possible about you."
Stranger: Remembering... how could he remember? Before, it had been easy. The few moments between tests were spent reviving the past few years before he'd been taken away, the events quite fresh in his mind. How long had it been since then? Time seemed to pass so quickly, the older, easier tests being forgotten in favour of the new ones. He hadn't seen a clock in so long. Closing his eyes, Sherlock tried to block out the sound of John's voice, focusing on his memories, a harder task due to the sedatives still in his body. It wasn't until he felt fingers grasping his hand that he snapped his eyes open. "Nonono, don't do that!" Sherlock said hurriedly, slapping the man's hand away as he prepared to reinsert the needle. "I can't think with that. Now shut up." His eyes now closed again, Sherlock took advantage of the brief silence to finally access his memories. Ah, there. "Mycroft Holmes," he said, a small, satisfied smile breaking through. "I lived in London until I was nine years old, then I was... taken away." Biting his lip, Sherlock looked back up, watching the other. "No one liked me, but I had a friend. He was called John too. Then he had to move away." He frowned, staring at his hand for a moment. "They took me to a... place where I had to do tests. And then, they dumped me outside," he concluded, gesturing vaguely at the window.
You: John frowned, at the small outburst, shocked into silence. "What do you mean you were taken away when you were nine years old? I need you to try and explain to me, can you do that?" He noticed the way the other man bit his lip and his head tilted slightly as he frowned, his man seemed oddly familiar. He reached out, brushing the dark curls away from his face. "You remind me of someone. You seem very familar, but you can't shout at me like that, alright? I'm just trying to help you. I want to make you better so you can leave and go home." He sighed, brushing his fingers over the cheekbones of the mans face before placing his hands back in his own lap. "You had to do tests, what sort of tests? And who is 'they'?"
Stranger: Oh. Oh, no. He'd upset the doctor. Not good. "I... I was sleeping and they took me away. In - in a car," Sherlock muttered quickly, flinching away and closing his eyes when John reached out. What was this? Some new kind of punishment? Yes, that was it, they'd thrown him out here to try and solve people and now he'd been punished because he'd failed. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I... I just know you look like a soldier, I don't know anything else about you." He kept his eyes closed while the other touched his face, fighting his urge to move away. "Tests, trying... trying to solve puzzles, solving people, I don't know." Sherlock opened his eyes, looking up at the other. No, that... That couldn't be it. It hadn't hurt. Maybe the other was just planning something worse? Why would he want to help, and why would he do it? It made no sense. "Please don't hurt me."
You: John frowed, but nodded his head slowly. "You're correct, I'm a soilder, but I got sent home because there was a shortage of doctors in London." He was a little confused about the puzzles thing still, and why someone would take him away in a car and just dump him outside with an injury like that. John sighed, lifting his hands in surender, trying to show that he wasn't dangerous. "I'm not going to hurt you. I promise, I said I want to help you and I mean that. It's what I do, I'm a doctor, I help people. Don't you want my help?" He frowned, the urge to reach out to the other man growing stronger by the second, he wanted to show this man he wasn't a threat and earn his trust. "Look, I'll tell you what, I won't touch you again without asking you and explaining exactly what I'm going to do, okay? And you can ask me to turn out my pockets and show you my hands to make sure they're empty whenever you want, alright?"
Stranger: Nodding once, Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them. Hesitatingly, he held a thin arm out, essentially giving John permission to insert the needle in his hand again while wrapping the other tightly around the blanket covering his legs. "Can you call Mycroft now?" Maybe knowing the man was a soldier had been enough. Well, he hadn't exactly /known/, but John did really look like one. That didn't matter, though; even though he had no idea what the other meant by help. Sure, he'd repaired the injury on his head (that he didn't even know he had, truth be told) and gotten him a bed, but that was it. Even if the tracker, or whatever else it was, was removed, nothing confirmed that he'd stop being observed from afar.
You: John looked down at the arm extended to him and took it gently, inserting the needle into the back of his hand and applying a little tape to keep it in place. "Right, Mycroft Holmes?" John frowned, that sounded awfully familar, though he wasn't sure why, it set off alarm bells in his head and he wasn't too keen on calling him, even if he was able to find his number, until he learnt where his name was familiar from. "Look, I'm going to be honest with you, because I think that's very important between doctors and patients, but that means you have to be honest with me too, alright?" He reached out, squeezing a boney shoulder carefully as he tried to be comforting, stroking a thumb over his clavical over the hospital gown. "I won't call him, until I research him a bit, I don't want you returning to him if there's a chance he's abusive towards you. You can't remember much, and there's a chance he done this to you. And you're in my care, remember? I want you safe and healthy." He sat back slightly, letting his eyes flicker over the hunched form before him. "Is there anything you'd like to eat or drink? I'll ask a nurse to bring it to you."
Stranger: Flinching a bit when the needle pierced his skin, Sherlock watched John work, before moving his eyes to the wall, staring at it vacantly as he listened to the other. Abusive? He couldn't remember Mycroft ever being anything but a good brother. "But he's my brother," Sherlock argued weakly, frowning at the wall behind John, "He... He's my friend. I like him." Biting his lip, he looked at the tube jutting out from his hand, picking absent-mindedly at a corner of the tape. "Water, please," he requested, focusing on his hand as he tried to remember what a doctor's job was. Fixing people... Patients. He was the patient, then. John was going to fix him. "How are you going to fix me?" he asked, finally looking up at the other.
You: John sighed, shaking his head as he reached out to pull Sherlock's hand away, before pausing. "Here, give me your hand." He held his own out, expectantly. "I know he's your brother, and he's your friend, and that you like him, but sometimes brothers, mothes, fathers, wives, husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends, wives, husbands, and children, the people we're supposed to love and trust hurt us, and I want to make sure he's not hurting you before I let you go back to him, alright?" He'd seen too many abuse cases to take any chances this time. "I'm not sure, I'd like to do a full physical examination, but it's a little uncomfortable and it get's a little personal with me poking and proding your body, so we can do it later, alright? Once you've slept if you like."
Stranger: "I haven't seen him in very long," Sherlock replied, hesitatingly placing his hand on top of John's. "He can't be hurting me now. I don't even know..." How long had it been? He imagined Mycroft was now doing what he'd always wanted to. Maybe he even was Prime-minister. Maybe not. How old was he? "How old am I?" he asked, tilting his head a bit before noticing John was still talking. "No, I'm... I'm healthy. Just this," he said, pointing at the faded scars on his forearms when the bindings had dug into his skin. "And... It's a bit uncomfortable for me to breathe at times, but just that." Even though he was quite sure his chest shouldn't have bones poking into it, from when his ribs had been broken and left to heal by themselves, he didn't mention it. Why, he had no idea.
You: John's fingers curled around the hand placed ontop of his own as he listened to the other talking. He was shocked that the man didn't know how old he was, but he tried not to let it show too much. "I'm not sure, I wish I had answers for you, I really do. I'd say maybe late twenties, early thirties." His hand tightened it's grip slightly as he noticed the scars, running his figners on his free hand over them. "I still need to do an examination of you, I need to ensure that there's nothing we haven't noticed, or something that you might not be telling me. I won't hurt you, and I'll explain everything before I do it, alright?" He didn't like the sound of the breathing difficulties, but he didn't say anything, making a mental note to listen to his chest as soon as possible. "Would you let me do the examination now? Then you can have some water, something to eat and rest."
Stranger: Late twenties? So he'd spent what, fifteen, twenty years in that place? Twenty years without nothing but tiled walls and artificial lighting. No wonder he was pale. His eyes widened slightly when John tightened his grip, but he didn't move, finally nodding slowly. "Yes, you... You can do it now." Not knowing what else to do, Sherlock stayed where he was, staring at the blanket. "And... When you're done fixing me, what will you do?" he asked, running his free hand along the creases on the fleece. "You said I could go home, but I don't know where it is."
You: John's smile from gaining permission to conduct the exam faded with the last question. "I'm not sure, we'll worry about that later, alright? Can you stand up for me? But be careful, I don't want you tearing out the IV again, it'll sting." He let go of the man's hand as he headed to the door and shut it. "Privacy." John smiled as he turned back to the other "You'll have to take your gown off, and it's not very nice of me to let you stand naked where other people can see you, is it?" He chuckled slightly, drawing the curtains around the bed too for good measure. "Come with me, there's a set of scales over here, I need to weigh you and messsure your height"
Stranger: Biting his lip nervously, Sherlock stood up on slightly wobbly feet, leaning on the IV stand for support. Was he supposed to take the gown off now? He decided to wait until John had closed the door and drawing the curtains, limping over to the scales uncertainly. John's smile disappearing that quickly wasn't good. He was probably upset. Upset with what, though? Had Sherlock done something wrong? Once he was close to the other, he started removing the gown, stopping when he tried to remove his tubed arm from the sleeve. "Uhm... How... How do I do this? Without removing the needle, I mean."
You: John chuckled slightly, reaching out to steady the other man. "It's alright, you can leave it on for now. I'll tell you when you need to take it off, okay?" He gripped the taller man's upper arm lightly, with one hand his other reaching for his hand as he helped him step up onto the scales."Alright, I have to let go of you to get a true reading, can you balance? I'll leave my hands out, so just grab me if you think you're going to fall. I won't be cross with you, okay?" Joh stepped around to the side so he was able to see the numbers, his arms out around the tall man just as he said. He frowned slightly when the needle didn't go any higher than 10 stone. He wasn't sure of the other man's height, but he had to be about six foot, and ten stone wasn't nearly a healthy weight for a man of that height. "You can step down now, I need to get your height."
Stranger: Nodding, Sherlock stopped fiddling with the gown to step onto the scale, waiting patiently as John read his weight. He managed to keep his balance quite well, only swaying a bit from time to time. "Alright," he muttered, leaning on the other for support as he stepped down. "I never got sick," he said somewhat proudly, looking up at John with a small smile. He let go of the doctor, latching onto the stand again and wheeling it over to where the other was standing. "Mummy always said I had a strong immune system. I suppose it's been weakened since then, though."
You: John nodded, pleased that he seemed to be able to remember things from his childhood -his long term memory seemed fine, a little slow but fine, other than not being able to remember his own name."Oh? That's good news, but if you've been inside a long time it might be a little weaker now." He grasped his shoulders again and lined him up against the height chart. "Bloody hell, you're tall. Six foot and an inch and a half." John smiled slightly, tapping the other man's shoulder to let him know he could step away from the chart. "Come back over to the bed and sit down, and I'll listen to your chest."
Stranger: "Twenty years inside, probably," Sherlock muttered, straightening his back neatly against the wall in a weak attempt to seem taller, as he'd always done when he was younger. "Am I?" he asked, trying to look behind him with a raised eyebrow. "I... I wasn't." Frowning, he followed John to the bed, sitting on it. "The boys always picked on me because I was small." Apparently, the other seemed to like it when Sherlock talked about his childhood, so he might as well do it. Not that he had been happier then than at the facility. Simply... resigned. "And John... John was taller than me. And he'd stick up for me. He... he didn't hit me." Nibbling nervously on his lip, he stared at his hands, folded neatly on his lap.
You: John offered his best friendly smile, as he reached out for the others hands, giving them a soft squeeze. "That was nice of John, was he your best friend, then? Children can be very cruel to each other, I'm sorry they picked on you, but I'll bet you'll taller than all of them now." He grinned, pointing to himself with his free hand. "I'm short though, I'm only five foot six. That's rather short for a man." He let go of the other's hands, tugging the covers over and drapping them over his lap. "I'll need you to take the gown off now, I'll help you so you don't get tangled with your IV, but keep the covers on your lap so you don't feel too exposed, alright?"
Stranger: Smiling sadly, Sherlock nodded, staring at John's hands. "He was my only friend," he replied, starting to remove the gown carefully. "He had to move, then. I miss him." Sighing, he tugged on the fabric, taking it off completely with John's help and placing it by his side on the bed. "I didn't speak to anyone at all, during those years," he admitted quietly, looking up at the other. "Only to myself. I didn't mind it, but it's nice, having someone to listen to me."
You: John frowned, clearly upset at the prospect of this happening to a human being, but he didn't want to mention his thoughs. He pulled the vistors chair towards the bed and sat facing the man, their knees touching. "Alright, before we start, I want to say something very important to you, and I want you to remember it. Okay? After this, or at any time if you need a friend or anything along those lines, I'll give you my number and where to find me, don't hesitate to come find me, alright?" He reached into his pocket as he spoke and pulled out a stethoscope. "I'm going to use this to listen to your chest, it won't hurt you, it might be a little cold, is that alright?"
Stranger: Sherlock nodded again, secretly happy at the prospect of having someone to count on, even if he didn't show it. After all, John hadn't been deemed to be trustworthy yet - for all he knew, he could very well be associated with the people who had done this to him. "Alright," he replied, watching the stethoscope. "I know what that is, John. I did do routine check-ups when I was a child." He places his hands on the mattress, leaning on them as he tried to take a deep breath, failing and letting all the air out about halfway through.
You: John frowned slightly, trying to look cross at Sherlock's comment but failing and smiling slightly. "Yeah, well, I did say I'd explain everything, you don't have to be so cheeky." He was still smiling as he spoke, placing the earpieces in his ears, and holding the head against the thin mans chest, frowning when he failed to take a deep breath. "Try again." His chest sounded rattley and John wasn't impressed at all. "Slowly, in through your nose, out through your mouth please. "
Stranger: Right, he should possibly keep his comments to himself, then. Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes as he took another deep breath, grimacing a bit at the pain it caused. Holding it in for a few moments, he soon breathed out, opening one eye to look at John before doing it again. The only solution he could think of for his ribs was either breaking them again or operating, and he didn't like either possibilities. His knowledge on medicine was rather limited, though, so there was a possibility those were not the only solutions.
You: John sighed, taking the stethoscope off, and placing it back into his pocket. "Your chest sounds awful, I'm not going to lie to you. Do you mind if I have a feel?
You: (shit)
You: I promise to be gentle" John held his hands up smiling, gesturing for the other to move slightly closer. "Have you to your knowledge ever had a broken rib before?" He didn't want to go pushing and poking if he had, it'd only cause him more discomfort. "I think an x-ray is needed either way, I want to know what's going on inside there." He reached forward tapping his index finger against the other man's chest.
Stranger: Sherlock moved closer, looking down at his chest. "Not only one," he muttered under his breath, before looking back at John. "Yes, I... I think so. Quite a few times. And... and it wasn't too long ago. I think." He nibbled on his lip, watching the other for a few moments before letting his gaze stray to the wall. "You shouldn't be fixing me," he stated, frowning. "I don't have any money... I don't even know my own name." He exhaled shakily, edging closer to John.
You: John nodded, not wanting to be pushing at his chest with that news. "Hey, here, look at me alright?" He reached up, tilting the other's head up by his chin until their eyes locked. "I'm fixing you because I'm a doctor, it' what I do. I help people, and right now you need my help. Believe it or not, I don't care about the money, but not every doctor is like me, some only care about money. And I told you not to worry about your name, it'll come back to you, alright? Don't stress yourself out, it'll only make you feel sick." He smiled, placing his palm agaisnt the mans neck, giving him a very soft shake. "Let me do the worrying, alright?" He rubbed his thumb over the warm skin of the man's collar bone as he spoke. "Would you stand for me? Or would you rather lay down?"
Stranger: Even though the doctor's eyes seemed to be quite honest, Sherlock didn't let himself believe they were. After all, he'd been quite lucky at guessing he was a soldier. Guessing again was probably not a good idea. "I don't get sick," Sherlock muttered, before he remembered he wasn't supposed to voice his comments. "Sorry." He closed his eyes when John touched his neck, leaning slightly against the touch. It did feel nice, in a way. "Laying down would probably be better," Sherlock replied, realising he couldn't hold the blanket and keep himself balanced at the same time. Pulling away from John, he laid down on the bed, spreading the blanket over his waist. "What will you be doing now?"
You: John frowned as the other apologised. "Sorry for what? You've not done anything wrong." He tilted his head, pulling his chair closer so he was able to reach the man's body. "I'm going to poke and prod at you I'm afraid, I'll start near your head and work my way down to your feet, just stop me if I cause you any pain or discomfort. I'll warn you if something I'm going to do will be unpleasant." He reached into his pocket, pulling out a pair of gloves as he spoke, snapping them on over his hands. "And, just so you know, everyone gets sick. It's nothing to be ashamed of, it's natural. Your body can't ward everything off on it's own, or I'd be out of the job." He smirked, reaching out carefully to touch the man's head, feeling through his curls for any abnormal bumps. "How's your head? Does it hurt? You have a nasty lump."
Stranger: Watching John quietly, Sherlock allowed himself to think. His name was what he wanted to know the most right now, but for some reason, it was gone. He went through all his memories, but nothing. Just a blank space, a void where his name was supposed to be. Remembering everything but his name didn't make the least sense. Maybe they didn't want him to know who he was, for some reason. But then, why make him remember Mycroft and Mummy? Sherlock sighed, rubbing his temple distractedly, feeling a headache starting to form. "It's fine," he replied, reaching to the side to touch the bandage carefully. "It doesn't make sense," he muttered, turning his eyes to the ceiling. "Why did they throw me out? Wasn't I good enough anymore?"
You: John paused, removing his hands from the others head, as he touched his bandage, muttering to himself. He wasn't going to answer, thinking that the bloke hadn't realised he was talking aloud, but when John heard him question himself he couldn't help it. "Oi, none of that thanks. No second guessing yourself, alright? By the way, I've been meaning to ask. You said I looked like a soilder, how did you know?" John tilted his head to the side as he placed his hands on the other's shoulders, his touch light as he worked his way down to the other's stomach, pressing slightly, his eyes shut as he tried to feel for anything unusual.
Stranger: Sherlock looked back at John with a small frown. Had he been talking aloud? Well, it was hardly surprising, he did it often when he was alone. "But I wasn't," he said, lifting his arm to show John the scars again. "See? That means I failed." Sighing, he let his arm fall back to his side again. "You just... did. I watched documentaries. You looked like one of them. Your pose, and the way you dress, it's all very neat. You always had to be in your best attire during training. And your hands, they're scarred and calloused, you've accidentally cut them a lot of times, probably working with medical tools under stress," Sherlock explained quickly, not really knowing where the information was coming from but not really caring.
You: John blinked, looking down at the extended arm before caressing it with one hand, feeling a strange protective urge over the man laying before him. He was so vunerable and open, and someone had purposely done that to him. "What do you mean the scars mean you failed? Did someone hurt you when you done something wrong? These are things you need to tell me, alright?" He gave the pale arm a soft squeeze, smiling as each of the things he said were correct. "That's very clever, well done. You're spot on. Army doctor." He lifted his hands, placing them on the mattress, to show his own scars. "Not a lot of time on the field, tools slip and I'd rather nick myself than my patient." He grinned, his full, lopsided one as he looked up at the face of his patient. "You're very intelligent getting all of that from watching the telly." He picked up the edge of the blanket. "Is it alright if I remove this? You can keep talking to me if you'd like. About anything you want, if it'll make you feel better."
Stranger: "They did," Sherlock replied, nodding a bit. "I was bound to a chair, and they would tighten the bindings every time I got something wrong. Or give me electrical shocks." He shrugged nonchalantly, as if none of that was important - and truly, it wasn't, not to him at least. "It helped, though. It helped me learn." When John showed him his hands, he took one of them, tracing his fingers over the scars carefully before letting go. His old friend used to have a grin just like John's. He smiled slightly, even though the thought made him slightly sad. Even John had left, back then. "I know," Sherlock replied, sighing slightly. "I think that's why they took me. I've always been smart." He nodded a response at John, turning his eyes to the ceiling. "John wanted to be a doctor, too. He wanted to help people. And then he had to move, and left me alone again."
You: John had let the other man touch his hands, tracing his scars and move his fingers as he saw fit, it was only fair. Though he wouldn't have gone to that much effort for any other patient, which he wouldn't admit to anyone, he wasn't sure what was so different about this man, but there was certainly something. He frowned, shaking his head at the words coming from his mouth, he couldn't believe that someone would do that to another person. "If I have anything to do with it, I'll see to it, you never return." He pulled back the covers as he spoke, looking down at the mans left thigh again and examing the strange lump again for a while. "I'm sorry about John, I really am. You certainly needed a friend, huh?" He tore his eyes away from the lump and started a quick gential examination. "Sorry, this might make you a little uncomfortable, it's rather a private, personal area." He was through, but quick, before pressing on the man's pelvis, and looking back to his face. "No discomfort, in your genital area? I should take some blood later too, get an idea if you have any deficanies and whatnot."
Stranger: Sherlock's eyes were vacant as they stared at the ceiling, observing the cracks on it distractedly. "I was taken from my high-security house. I doubt you'd manage to keep them away," he said, now counting the lines he'd been observing earlier. One hundred thirty two. Someone should see about fixing the ceiling. "It's fine. I was used to being alone, anyway. I didn't count on him staying for long. That always happens." He looked down for a moment when he felt John pressing his fingers against his thigh, before returning his eyes to the ceiling. "Can you remove that? I don't want to know what it is, I just want it removed." He didn't notice John looking at him, not removing his gaze from the ceiling again. "No, no discomfort. I told you I'm fine."
You: "Not everyone leaves, you know. You said you were taken when you were nine, he would only have been a child himself. If his parents wanted to move, he would have to have gone too. Right?" John nodded, as he pulled the covers over the man's lap again, pushing the chair to the bottom of the bed to examine his feet. "I'll have it removed for you, as soon as possible. It might take a while to find a surgeon willing to operate, because we know so little about it, and it's very close to your femoral artiery, so it'll have to be a skilled surgeon." He looked back at the mans feet, bending and stetching his toes a few times on each foot before he smiled, satisfied. "Right, sit up, I'll help you back into your gown, unless you have any health complains you'd like to ask me about?"
Stranger: "I know," Sherlock replied, biting the inside of his lip. "But his family didn't like me. And my family didn't like him. We were rich," he said, looking back at John, listening to him. "Aren't you a skilled surgeon?" John did seem like it. After all, he was a army doctor. Surgeries had to eventually be performed then, right? He sat up, shaking his head. "No complaints, but..." Hesitating a bit, Sherlock licked his lips, tracing the pattern on the sheets absent-mindedly. "Why did you say I looked familiar? Do you know anyone in my family?" he asked, a hint of hope in his words. If John knew Mycroft or Mummy, he'd know they were good. He'd tell them he was here and he could return home.
You: John frowned slightly,lifting the gown and trying to help the man back into it as he spoke. "I know what that's like, my family weren't very well off when I was younger. My mother died young, not long after I was born, my father had to raise me and my sister on his own. He done his best, worked lots though." He sat on the edge of the bed again, tucking the cover around the man's waist. "I'm skilled enough, would you like me to perform the surgery?" He noticed the way the man bit his lip and was about to reach up to tap his chin, when he realised what he was thinking and blushed slightly. "Oh, I'm not sure. You remind me of someone I used to know, I think. Though I can't really recall where from." John felt horrible dashing the hope in the other man's voice. "I wish I did know your brother, I want nothing more than for you go get to go home. I'm so sorry." He reached out for a hand to hold, surprised at himself, it was mainly for his own comfort he'd done it. "I'll see what I can find out about Mycroft for you, while you sleep."
Stranger: Sherlock froze at John's words, his eyes widening a bit. No. No, it couldn't be. John, /his/ John had been tall, taller than Sherlock, but then again he had been older than him. The history matched, though. John's question was lost in him, not processing until a few moments had passed. A slightly numb nod was his only response. And Sherlock reminded him of someone... He looked up at John, staring at his eyes, at the same eyes that had left him so long ago. No, he was seeing things. It couldn't be the same person. Sherlock shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "That... that someone... Was it a little dark-haired boy with a fat brother?" he asked quietly, grasping John's hand. "Did... Did you have to move, eventually? To, uhm..." He closed his eyes, trying to remember, but quickly opened them again. "Scotland, I think it was Scotland, John had family there..." He swallowed dryly, hoping against hope that this was true, that this was John, the John he'd known, his only friend.
You: John was slightly confused by the way the other had frozen at the mention of his father raising him and his sister, and by the way the other hand sat, just staring blankly for a few moments before nodding slightly. He had just been about to ask if he was alright when he spoke. John closed his eyes, trying to remember back to when he was a child. He didn't often think of his past, the things he'd seen in he war often stopped him thinking back on his life, he hated having to relive the war. "Er, he was very small for his age, I think he was younger than me too, so maybe he wasn't all that small. I don't really think back on things too much, it stresses me out." He reopened his eyes giving a slight nod of his head. "Yeah, dad couldn't cope any more, so we moved to be with my gran in Scotland for a couple of years, then I moved back to London to study at Barts when I was done with highschool." He squeezed the hand in return. "I'll never forget that boys name, it was most unsual. Sherlock, it was. He was a little odd himself, but I'd never had a better friend. I never even got to say bye to him properly."
Stranger: Sherlock stared at John for a few moments in disbelief, before letting go of the man's hand to throw his arms around him, hugging him tightly. "John," he muttered, burying his head in his shoulder. "John, John, I've missed you so much..." He didn't notice the tears running down his face, didn't care, really, because John was there and he was alive and Sherlock had never thought he'd see him again. Sherlock... Sherlock was him, then. Yes, it sounded right. Sherlock Holmes. "Sherlock, I'm Sherlock," he said, tightening his hold on the other. Letting go didn't even cross his mind; to be honest, he doubted he'd ever be able to.
You: John blinked a few times before he had a pair of arms thrown around him, and a head of dark hair burried in his shoulder. He tensed up slightly, patients usually only got that close, that quickly while having a violent outbust, and it took him a moment to realise it was merely a hug. When John had realised, he wrapped his own arms around the dark haired man, rubbing a hand along his back, trying to be comforting when he felt his shirt getting damp and he'd realised the other was crying. "Sherlock Holmes." He muttered the name quietly, it did ring a bell, and no alarm bells went off in his head, but he wondered why he hadn't remembered straight away. Foul play most certainly for them both to have forgotten like that. "Your brother, Mycroft was he a read head when he was younger?" John wanted to make sure they had this right, that this wasn't a case of mistaken identity. "Hey, S-Sherlock, come on, there's no need for you to cry."
Stranger: "He was," Sherlock sniffled, grabbing fistfuls of John's clothing. God, how he'd missed him. "I - I'm not..." He swallowed and cleared his throat, not really knowing what to say. "You like tea and jam toast and you had a bulldog named Gladstone," he muttered, nuzzling John's shoulder. "And we used to sit under the willow tree in my backyard and count the stars. Sometimes I'd play the violin for you, but I was terrible even if you said I wasn't." A dry sob escaped his throat, and he clutched John tightly, rocking slightly. "I've missed, you John. My John." He'd grown. He was so, so different. No wonder Sherlock hadn't recognised him, even though the signs were there, right in front of him the whole time.
You: John frowned, blinking a few times, as he let Sherlock clutch at him, he'd sit and let him get everything out. He knew that he would. He remained silent as he remembered the things Sherlock was saying, nodding dumbly at each of the little facts about himself. "I remember." John's hand stopped moving along Sherlock's back and he gripped the mans shoulders, holding him at arms length to get a good look at him. "Sherlock?" He cocked his head to the side, removing one hand to wipe the tears from Sherlock's face, his hand lingering on his cheek. "Why didn't either of us recognise each other?"
Stranger: "It's been... what, twenty years?" Sherlock smiled sadly, moving his hand to rest on top of John's. "We look different. I'm taller than you." Biting his lip, he wiped the tears from his face, looking at himself. "Look at me. I look miserable, John. No wonder you didn't recognise me. Besides, I didn't even remember my name..." He sighed, letting go of John's hand and looking away. The other didn't seem too happy to see him. It made sense, in a way. John had his own life now, maybe he even was married. The last thing he needed to worry about was a broken friend. Sherlock had had nothing more than the memories of both of them to dwell on for years. It was the only thing that made him minimally happy, but John probably didn't spare him more than a few minutes of thought every month.
You: John sighed, closing his eyes and leaning forwards, his elbows on his knees. "Twenty years...." He remained sitting like that for a while, before he laughed, his shoulders rising and falling. He honestly didn't know why he was laughing, other than it was either laugh or cry and he'd much rather laugh. He forced himself to look back up at his old friend, shaking his head slightly. "I looked for you when I came back to London, you know. I asked around, no one knew where you or your family went." He frowned slightly, remembering why Mycroft's name rang a bell. "Sherlock... I really need to talk to you about something, do you think you're well enough to have a serious conversation right now?"
Stranger: If he were to be honest, John's laugh did scare him a bit. Was he laughing at him? Had he been fooling him all the time? But John's next words brought a smile to his face, and Sherlock moved to sit a little more comfortably on the bed, crossing his legs. "I don't know about my family, but I had no idea where I was either," he said sadly, taking John's hand on his own again and studying his scars quietly, playing with his fingers absent-mindedly. "I think so... Yes, I'm fine," he replied, looking up at his friend but not letting to of his hand. "What is it?"
You: John sighed, letting Sherlock take his hand. He swallowed loudly , reaching out to touch the side of Sherlock's face, finding that now he knew it was him, he couldn't stop himself touching the man. Twenty odd years without a word, and now here he was in the flesh. "Oh, I just remembered, you didn't know your age. You said you were taken when you were nine. I'm in my late twenties, 28 actually. So, you'd be 25. Just about to turn 26." He let his hand drop from Sherlock's face, onto the mattress between them. "I saw it on the news, not long ago. Maybe four years ago? Your brother was the last Holmes, and he was stabbed. I'm really sorry, Sherlock your brother died."
Stranger: Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment when John touched him, leaning against the gentle touch. How he had managed to spend so long without the other, he had no idea. Twenty five. He really had spent far too long there. He stared at John's hand when the other let his hand drop, before looking back up at him, listening quietly. At first, he couldn't say anything, feeling a cold wave running through his body. No. No, it couldn't be. Last Holmes... That meant Mummy was dead as well. Sherlock pulled away from John, resting against the headboard as he pulled his knees to his chest, looking away from John. He was alone. Alone, with nowhere to go, and an entire lifetime wasted. Mycroft would never even know what had happened to him.
You: John felt utterly horrible being the bearer of such bad news. He was at a loss of what to do, he wanted to reach out, but he also wanted to give the space needed to deal with the news and grieve. "Sherlock... I am so sorry. I really am." He stood slowly, his hands in his pockets. "I'll leave you be for a while, alright? Just press that button on the wall beside the bed if you want anything, I'll put my pager number into it, so you'll get me and not a nurse." It wasn't very much, but it was the best he could offer in such a suitation.
Stranger: "No," Sherlock said immediately, looking back at John and reaching out for him. "Don't leave me alone, John. Please," he said quietly, yet more tears running down his face. He just wanted John to hold him and make everything okay again. He always did. But the thought that he could get hurt kept him from voicing these thoughts out loud, to tell John just how much he wanted the other to stay and never leave again. He still had no idea why he'd been let out, and he still feared this was all some sort of test, a virtual reality, a dream or simply something not real.
You: John frowned, sitting on the edge of the bed again and taking Sherlock's hands as he started getting upset again. He mentally kicked himself for suggesting that he leave, and causing Sherlock more distress. "I'm sorry, I won't leave if that's not what you want. My shift finished just after you were admitted, so I won't have to deal with anyone else for a little while." He sighed, reaching out to tug Shelock into a hug. "I can't claim to understand, but I know you're upset and it's alright to be, and it's alright to show it." John swallowed, trying to think of how to apologise. "I'm sorry I left the first time, but I won't leave again, you need to believe me."
Stranger: "I don't want you to leave," Sherlock said quietly, wrapping his arms around John tightly. "But you have to, John. I can't... I don't know what they'll do, if you take this from my leg. So, don't. Just... stay here, and I'll go off. On my own," he said, resting his chin on John's shoulder. There was nothing here for him, after all. John had his life; Sherlock had to get one himself. Or maybe, he could try finding his way back to that place. At least he had food and mental stimulation. "I don't want you to get hurt because of me. I would never forgive myself." [I'll be right back, I need to take my dog out]
You: John shook his head slowly, not knowing what he was supposed to do or say anymore. Everything was blurred and he wasn't even sure if he was awake anymore. "You're still as stubborn as ever I'm assuming?" John chuckled fondly, before pressing his cheek to the top of Shelock's head. "No, just listen to me, alright? You've got nowhere to go, the people who put this thing in you, abused you. For twenty years. I'm /not/ letting you go out there on your own. You'd have no street sense, you'd get mugged or murdered or raped. Just, stay here and let me think of a way to fix this, alright?"
Stranger: "John." Sherlock pulled away, taking John's head in his hands and locking their gaze. "John, I don't care. I don't want anything to happen to you, do you understand? You're the only thing I have left, and if I go back knowing you're alive, that is more than enough." He swallowed dryly, his thumbs caressing John's cheeks gently. "I have nowhere to go, I have no identity, I'm nowhere here. I'm just a broken child in a man's body, and I don't want you to have to deal with that right now. I'm essentially the same person I was when I was a child. I don't know anything about life, John, and I want to go back, do you understand? I want to go back to the only thing I've ever known for the last sixteen years, even if that involves me getting hurt."
You: John shook his head, feeling his eyes stinging, unable to hold everything back now. How could he just give up now, and go back? What if they were done with him, and didn't need him anymore, would they kill him, rather than continue to keep him alive. "Sh-Sherlock....." John paused, trying to take a deep breath to prevent himself sobbing. "You can't go back. I want to help you, Sherlock." He pulled his head away from Sherlock's hands, wiping at his face with his sleeves. "No, I don't understand. You'd never just give up that easily. You can't have changed /that/ much."
Stranger: Sherlock sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You're the one who doesn't understand. I don't know what could happen if I stay with you, I don't know what they want. They're probably watching me, right now, watching us have this conversation, and just that is putting you in danger. I can't have you hurt because of me." Closing his eyes, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John again, as if that would shield him from all harm. "I haven't changed. That's the problem. Technically, I'm still nine years old, John. I... I don't want you to go, I want to stay here, but I'll willingly go back if that will keep you safe."
You: John's arms wrapped around Sherlock in return as he sobbed into his friend's shoulder. "It's not fair." He didn't want to have to give up his friend already, not after everything that had happened between. "I'm soilder, Sherlock. That mean two things. One, I'm dangerous. Two, I've lost too many people already, don't make me lose another." He pressed closer, not caring that his leg was twisted uncomfortably. "I don't care what age you technically are, please, Sherlock, let me help. Let me take that thing out of your leg, and let me help you get up to speed on things."
Stranger: Sherlock's hand found its way to John's hair, and he ran his fingers through it, not really knowing what else to do. "I just want you not to worry, John. I want you to forget about me, forget about this meeting, and just go on with your life. Can you do that?" he asked quietly, even though Sherlock was quite sure he knew the answer. "No, of course you can't. You're John." He smiled slightly, pressing a soft kiss to the man's air. "Alright, John, you can help me. But if there's any chance of you getting hurt, I'll go back. Okay?"
You: John calmed down slightly hearing those words, and feeling Sherlock's fingers working through his hair. "Promise me that before you do /anything/ you'll consult me first. I don't want to turn around and have you gone all of a sudden." His hands clutched at the back of Sherlock's hosital gown slightly when he felt Sherlock press a soft his to his hair.
