Together they entered the hospital, making their way through the sick bay as the nurses prepared their final rounds for the evenings. The medications were being passed around in small paper cups, each of the men gasping and choking on whatever water they could afford to swallow down along with them. The ward was alight with consciousness, perhaps the only times of the day when each and every man was awake and aware of what was happening. Because of this, Musgrave probably could've picked a better time to corral their first visitor. All of the men knew that there was no hope for them to meet their loved ones, and so to take this man down their lines and display his special privileges to the rest of the wounded, well surely it didn't go quite as well as the doctor had planned. Even the nurses took notice of his hypocritical nature, frowning as each tap of that eloquent walking stick demanded the attention of each person trapped within the narrow constraints of the hallways and the classrooms. The lights were dim and orange, hanging from the ceiling and illuminating only what their beams could reach directly. The moon offered no compensation, and so the ward itself was cloaked in a very amber like cloud, a sort of fever dream that was thick and exhausting, an image of distaste that unsettled the very bones in your body. Trevor himself looked quite disgusted; his eyes were scanning the patients as each one of them turned his stomach in a different direction. He seemed wealthy enough, and to be provided with such scenes of carnage perhaps did not settle well with his so sheltered existence. Such was the corruption of England these days, the nobility that could manage to survive still had no idea what happened to the men who were enlisted to fight. They had no recollection of the horrors that could be spurned in a trench, nor of those that might come about from the streets themselves. Perhaps it came as a relief, then, for Trevor to at last set his eyes upon the only beautiful thing in this room, the only man who was worth any attention at all. Sherlock was asleep in his cot, one of the last in the medicine line and therefore still awaiting his turn. Perhaps the day's excitement had been too much for him, for he was curled in a ball beneath the thin blankets offered to the patients, curled in such a way as to favor his amputated leg though still enough that he could lay on his side comfortably. Musgrave was almost concerned for his own reputation once Trevor discovered the amputation. It was a sunk cost by now; the deed had been done, though perhaps in Trevor's opinion a leg cut from this startling creature was a great loss for mankind. He would be right, of course. The man faltered next to the bed, not speaking a word to wake his companion and not approaching too closely, as if part of him felt that he was not allowed to. His solid features wavered, for a moment his thin lips trembled as if to let loose a sob, and his fingers clutched ever so tightly around his walking stick, hung across his waist horizontally as if a safeguard. Musgrave observed the stranger carefully, trying to determine what his purpose of visitation was, and on what terms the two had last parted. By the way Trevor hesitated, Musgrave was almost prepared to guess there had been some sort of falling out. Both men were a mystery, though their secrets didn't seem to complement each other as one might expect. In fact, the presence of the other man only made the one more confusing, to a point where Musgrave was ever so anxious to see them interact.
"Wake him, Doctor." Trevor instructed in a small voice, much less commanding and impatient as before. Now he seemed to hesitate, weighing the option that perhaps it was not in everyone's best interest that he arrive here tonight. Perhaps he was doubting himself, doubting his welcome. Musgrave obeyed, he felt as though he was a mere pawn in this game, a game being played by much higher powers than himself. The way Trevor conducted himself; well you might think he mistook himself for a God for at least a moment in his lengthening life. The doctor approached his patient, tapping Sherlock lightly on the shoulder to get his attention, to pull him from the dreams that may be preferable to reality.
"Sherlock?" Musgrave muttered as the man stirred.
"Doctor Musgrave...have you seen him?" Sherlock asked immediately, his eyes opening with a jolt as he rearranged himself hurriedly in the bed. His eyes were fixed on the doctor; he was yet unable to notice the man who stood just removed enough to be cloaked in the shadows of the dark ward.
"Yes, your visitor has arrived." Musgrave promised.
"He has...where is he, where is John?" Sherlock demanded, one of his hands reaching up to clutch onto Musgrave's shoulder, his fingers tensing and squeezing to demonstrate his urgency. Perhaps he read it in his eyes; perhaps he realized that the doctor's silence was not a good sign. His face tightened, the hope evaporated just as quickly as it was spawned...
"There's no John here." Musgrave muttered at last.
"Sherlock." Trevor muttered from behind, stepping at last into the light so as to allow the patient to look upon his true visitor. For a moment there was silence, for a moment the only word Sherlock could form was a single syllable, his face growing slack and then regaining form into the most detestable of expressions.
"You." Sherlock whispered, spitting out the single word through clenched teeth. All of the suddenly he became ferocious, for the first time since he had arrived in that bed he seemed to find enough strength to attempt to leave it. For a moment he flailed, and with a great lurch attempted to fling himself onto his visitor with a violent snarl. If it was not for Musgrave he may have succeeded, at least in getting out of the bed at least. Though he relied too heavily on a limb that was no longer there, and so while he did make it to the edge of the bed he instead began to slide, that bandage covered stump providing him no help as it fell from under the blanket, threatening to send him unsupported to the ground. Musgrave caught the man around the waist, holding him up with all of his might and attempting to help him up and back into the bed from which he had fallen. It was with a start that Trevor perceived his companion; he seemed to have forgotten the meaning behind Sherlock's reveal as he beheld the missing limb.
"Sherlock, your leg!" Trevor exclaimed, attempting now to get closer to the ravenous beast. It was all Musgrave could do but restrain the man into the bed, throwing as much of his own weight on top of the patient as he thought necessary, so as to make sure Sherlock didn't throttle his guest.
"You murderer! How dare you come back to me, how dare you come back here?" Sherlock exclaimed, his yells now bringing upon the attention of the rest of the ward. A couple of the men howled back their responses, some calling themselves a murderer, others praying for the appearance of one to take them out of their misery. For the most part, however, Musgrave's attention was focused entirely on the scene set before him. He was much too concerned with his current clientele, the reason for their hatred, the reason for their reunion, that he could hardly care for the rest of the patients and their opinions.
"Sherlock, you know that isn't true. Don't hold on to hate, don't blame those who did not lift a finger..." Trevor entreated, falling to the man's bedside and trying to clutch onto one of the hands that was waving madly. Sherlock's efforts were split, one half was trying to wrestle the doctor off of him and the other was trying to grab at his visitor's throat. Both attempts were futile, as one seemed to deter the other. Trevor at last managed to grab one of Sherlock's hands, and for a moment he held it between his own in a version of appeal.
"Get your hands off of me, Doctor get him away!" Sherlock demanded, hissing hysterically now as he tried to yank his fingers away from his new captor.
"Sir, please listen to reason!" Musgrave exclaimed, though to which of his companions he did not yet know. His response did at least get Victor to step away, the man at last let his grip relax and he stepped aside. He realized his position in the matter; he realized that maybe his visit wasn't entirely appreciated. Thankfully this gave them all a moment to recollect themselves. Sherlock at last calmed down, figuring that he hadn't the strength to continue his fighting any longer. When at last he stopped squirming Musgrave was able to relax as well, helping the man's crippled limb back under the blanket where it would no longer be a subject of interest. For a moment there was silence, silence enough for the three men to recollect themselves. Trevor adjusted his hair under his top hat, whereas Sherlock pulled the blanket to his chin and sat himself against the headboard of the borrowed bed. Musgrave took a step away, figuring that this might be a private moment that no longer necessitated a mediator. All the same he would not leave unless asked to, as his curiosity was overwhelming him to the point where he wanted to start up the conversation himself. What had Trevor done to deserve such titles as murderer? Was Sherlock overreacting about his crimes, or should Musgrave send immediately to the police?
"Sherlock, I came to bring you home. You have no idea how long I have been searching for a word, a mere rumor as to where you might be hiding. It's been so long, Sherlock it's been too long." Trevor insisted, at last fixing himself next to the bed and sinking to his knees in entreaty.
"I know how it feels, Victor. You forget that I too am on a mission of discovery, a mission which is not yet complete!" Sherlock growled, his eyes flashing dangerously with the same accusation as before. Victor hesitated, dropping his head in regret and choosing his words carefully before he continued.
"Sherlock, sometimes it is better to weigh the probabilities...dreams versus stark reality. You may not like what the world has to offer you, but remember that it's more difficult to demand a miracle." Trevor reminded him.
"You speak of dreams as if you have any idea their weight. You speak of longing as if you have ever been denied in your life." Sherlock growled. "So entitled, so..."
"You know I have." Victor reminded him, continuing when it at last became apparent that Sherlock had nothing more to say.
"Why are you here, Victor, on what selfish errand? I know you can't have come for my best interest. If I wasn't still useful to you, you would've let me die in a trench." Sherlock insisted.
"I've come to help you heal, come to help you recover. You'll come home, Sherlock. Come back where you belong." Victor assured, his voice dropping in a comforting octave, much to the distain of his audience. Sherlock scoffed, shaking his head as if he had never heard such a ridiculous plea in his life.
"As if I belong with you." He snarled. "You know what I could've had, you know what you've taken from me."
"I have told you once, I have told you a million times...I had nothing..."
"You had everything to do with it!" Sherlock exclaimed, lashing out and managing to place a well-deserved slap across his visitor's cheek. Victor hesitated for a moment, processing the slap as his head turned violently in the other direction, the sting of his companion's skin still fresh upon his nerves, electrifying them. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he could not quite understand the hostility. Perhaps Sherlock was justified in his anger, perhaps not...though what it was they were debating was still a mystery to their poor onlooker. Musgrave was at a loss to pick sides, he could neither justify defending Victor Trevor nor in aiding the strange Sherlock. Instead he could do nothing but sit stagnant, watching as Victor processed the unforeseen anger and as Sherlock sat fuming before his select audience of two. His usually pale cheeks were red in anger, his careless mannerisms forgotten as rage overtook. His eyes were glowing lethally, and the hand that had slapped Victor Trevor looked ever so ready to do so again.
"Don't speak of yourself...as an innocent. Don't speak of yourself as a victim." Sherlock demanded at last, deciding that he wanted to at least have the last word in this debate. Victor managed to set his eyes upon the man one last time, setting his sights a bit more grimly as he got to his feet and readjusted his coat to fit better to his sculpted shoulders. He seemed to suddenly realize what state he had degraded himself into in an attempt to speak his long lost companion, he seemed to realize the lengths he had went just for a slap in the face and a well-deserved insult. Perhaps he at last came to terms that he was unwelcomed here, neither by the doctor or the patient, and he was feeling quite like an outlier in the realms of the sick and dying.
"I will be back tomorrow, Sherlock. And the day after that. I am as much your doctor as this man; I am as much as your caretaker. Your brother placed me with your care..."
"My brother did no such thing." Sherlock growled in response.
"...and I intend on obeying him." Victor finished at last, pausing for a moment only to purse in finishing his final declaration. He took up his stick in his hand, setting it down nosily onto the tile floor beneath them in a very final way, as if that was his direction to Musgrave to led him back the way he had come.
"You've gotten old, Victor. Gotten lazy." Sherlock chuckled, at last settling himself back down upon his pillow and rearranging his blanket across his chest. "The version I knew of you before, you would not have left so easily."
"I have grown tired, Sherlock. Merely tired." Victor corrected, "And by the look of you, well...I am rather sure you will not be going anywhere soon."
"Sir, if you'll just follow..." Musgrave instructed, his blood turning rather cold as a reference to his own surgery was brought into the negative light. Perhaps his amputation was helping Mr. Trevor's cause, though what that cause was, and its moral compass, was still yet to be determined. By the look of things the case between Mr. Trevor and Sherlock was an ambiguous one, presented in two very contrasting lights between both of the participants involved. Musgrave was sure that if he interrogated each one separately he would get a very different version of events, presuming of course that either would talk. He led the stranger back down the hallway, inviting the two of them to the ridicule of the now medicated patients, most of which were still awake to call out their insults to the visiting system. Musgrave did not much mind their opinion of his process; in fact he was much too preoccupied with Mr. Trevor's opinion of his hospital than of any of the patients trapped within its walls. The man seemed to have money, and they were always looking for new donors. Perhaps, if he saw the conditions for what they were, he would be generous enough to provide funds? If he did fulfill his promise of returning each day for Sherlock, perhaps he would grow attached to the hospital and its patients? He would see the state of living they were forced to endure, that which their slim budget could still hardly provide for. Maybe Mr. Trevor would find it in his heart to endow the hospital with enough to at least better the life of his poor ward, if not the others who lay sickly beside him.
"You'll expect me again, Doctor?" Trevor presumed, turning on his heel promptly before they reached the doors to the outside world. He stared down upon the man with something of a defensive stare, as if he was preparing his counter argument if Musgrave was going to deny him reentry.
"Of course, sir." Musgrave assured, feeling utterly helpless in the view of such intense blue eyes. He felt as though the world conformed to Trevor, not the other way around, and he was entitled to make the man satisfied. Trevor smiled, fitting his hands tightly through thin leather gloves despite the heat of the summer night.
"Very good." He agreed at last. A mere nod of the head was all he left Musgrave with, a nod and a hit of his cane against the floor. He was not one for formal goodbyes, perhaps, nor any gratitude. Though the fact that there was a smile still left on his face as he made his exit was still grounds for hope. The fact that he seemed rather satisfied with himself, as if he had done good tonight, was enough to leave Musgrave feeling the strangest feeling of accomplishment. Perhaps Victor's agenda was not one to partner with; perhaps the man was as much of a villain as Sherlock depicted him as. Though he was charming, surely. He was confusing. When at last Mr. Trevor's outline faded away into the darkness, Musgrave went to check on Sherlock from afar, to make sure that he wasn't too shaken by the visitation. Stress was not good for recovery, that was yet another reason Musgrave forbid outside contact, though when he peered down the hallway from afar he noticed that Sherlock had laid down, as if he had already fallen to sleep. If Musgrave knew nothing of psychology he might have assumed that the entire affair had not fazed the man at all, and that he had settled sound to sleep without much of a bother to the past occurrences. Though Musgrave did know something about the mind, or rather the mind of man. He knew that Sherlock was trying to fake sleep, either to fool his doctor or to fool himself. He knew that surely the man was awake, with closed eyes or not, pondering the recent occurrences like a film stuck on a loop. Much like shell shock, the shock of a sudden relation was something that necessitates time to overcome, something that necessitates pondering. One could not so easily sleep away a visit of such intensity. One could not so easily forget.