When morning came the man had woken, and his voice was the first thing Musgrave aspired to hear. All night he had pondered the man's becoming, why he might have been in the trenches in the first place, and how he had gotten to a hospital so far secluded in England with such a wound. Well the ships were delivering wounded soldiers as fast as they could take them, the wound must have reopened on its way here, or perhaps it had never scabbed over as it should have. It was a relief, then, to have the damaged leg gotten rid of. Perhaps there had been something terribly wrong with it, something that medicine could not yet heal. He made his way through the patients as casually as he could manage, overseeing their breakfast routines so as to make sure that each man was swallowing his porridge and getting his proper nutrition. Well, perhaps nutrition wasn't the right word for it, though their stomachs needed to be filled with something, and in the end it was all they could afford to supply them with. The porridge had to be better than war rations, which Musgrave heard were already getting dangerously low. Musgrave found himself lingering now at the bed of his mysterious patient, happy to see that the man was sitting up against the headboard of the bed, being spoon fed some porridge rather forcefully by a nurse. She seemed quite pleased to do the job, though the man seemed terribly inconvenienced by her persistence. Perhaps he had it in his mind to starve himself, so that he didn't have to live without one of his limbs.
"Is he giving you trouble?" Musgrave wondered, looping his thumbs into the pockets of his vest and staring down upon the scene before him. The stranger had been washed, for his face looked cleaner and his hair had been combed. That was surely a job that was fought over for in the nurses' ward. By the mere presence of this persistent nurse Musgrave could tell that he wasn't the only one to appreciate the peculiar beauty.
"No sir, he's being quite receptive." The nurse assured. At last the man smacked her hand away, as if to demonstrate his dissatisfaction with the meager breakfast.
"Not to your taste?" Musgrave wondered, at last addressing the patient directly. "Or are you feeling sick?" The man's eyes turned upon him though he didn't speak, he didn't seem to feel it was necessary. Instead there burned a fire within the multicolored irises, one of what could only be defined as hatred. Perhaps there was some hard feelings, then, between doctor and patient.
"I haven't been able to get him to speak. I'm afraid he might be mute." The nurse admitted sadly.
"He's not mute. He was screaming just fine during the operation." Musgrave assured, to which the man's eyes flashed. Though he didn't speak in his own defense, he didn't seem to have the energy for any sort of protest.
"You go ahead, Sarah. I'll look after him for the moment." Musgrave decided at last, figuring that it was difficult to do any sort of interrogation with another witness present. Perhaps the stranger did not trust the nurses as he would a doctor. The woman nodded, though with some reluctance she put the bowl down and scurried away. The entire staff seemed to be just as mystified with the man as was Musgrave, though as he was the one in charge he possessed the sole rights of solitary. At last Musgrave settled himself down in the chair the nurse had left, producing the man's own cigarette case from the desk and offering him one from the masses. The stranger seemed unwilling to move his own hands, though he allowed Musgrave to settle the thing between his teeth and light it accordingly.
"We're wondering about you, sir. We're wondering what you were doing in the trench in the first place, if we should even be treating you at all." Musgrave admitted at last, watching as the man finally raised his hand to pull the flaming cigarette from his mouth. He let loose a deep exhale, filling the cloud around them with the pungent odor, though he didn't speak. He didn't seem to think it necessary.
"Can you tell me your name?" Musgrave suggested. The man was still quiet, staring off through one of the large windows positioned across the aisle and over the bedside of a man who was lying sick with infection, a bullet still lodged and lost somewhere in his abdomen.
"You're not deaf." Musgrave insisted, though even as he spoke he wasn't entirely sure of the truthfulness behind such a statement. That may very well be the reason for the man's bad nature, he couldn't hear the questions posed before him and so he didn't think it necessary to answer. The doctor snapped quickly in the stranger's ear, to which he got at least something of a bothered response. Not deaf, then. Just silent.
"Perhaps you're angry at me, but I did what I thought necessary." Musgrave explained at last. The man scowled at him, but proceeded to stare out the window the rest of the fragmented conversation. When at last Musgrave gave up hope he got to his feet, noticing that the journal was missing from the bedside table. Perhaps the man had reclaimed it, in hopes of protecting what secrets he still had.
"Do you need a pen?" Musgrave suggested, remembering that there had been no writing utensils to accommodate any updates to the diary. The man nodded stiffly, exhaling his cigarette smoke once more and holding up his hand rather anxiously. Musgrave smiled, and produced a pen from his coat pocket.
"There, we can be friends?" he suggested as he set the thing in the man's palm. Instead of responding, instead of even attempting a smile of good will, he simply closed his fingers around the thing and pulled it close to his body, as if he was worried Musgrave would attempt to steal it back as quickly as he had provided it. Though he had no such intentions, and with something of a pitiful smile the doctor retreated back through the lines of patients, their morning moans starting up as they woke from another bout of dreams to find that their nightmares had ultimately come true. And so persisted what might be called a schedule, or perhaps one of the interestingly repetitive circles of hell. Every day more patients arrived at the doorstep, and every day less and less of them hobbled out on their own accord. More left the building in carts than in cars, and before long Musgrave was losing hope for his medical practices, perhaps even for his medical license. Though the government needed as many doctors as they could manage, if not to practice medicine perfectly but simply to treat the wounded to the best of their ability, so as to assure the families that they had done everything they could so save the man from certain death. From days to weeks spanned the process of surgeries and injuries, screams and scuffles, morphine and cold porridge. The men were beginning to blend into one single, solitary being. They all compiled into one man that he might have saved once or twice, might have neglected a handful of other times, and might have killed on accident more often than not. Perhaps the only ray of hope he had was the prospects of the stranger, whose story had not surfaced nor words ever spoken. The man was silent and contempt in his bed, not complaining when the nurses came to change his bandages but increasingly persistent in his refusal to eat more than a few mouthfuls. He seemed miserable beyond contemplation, though he sat at ease for some length of time or another when he took to scrawling in that little notebook of his, well through three quarters of the pages by the look of it. Before long Musgrave began to suspect that his identity was trapped between those pages, whether it was a diary or mere scribblings of a raving mind, trapped now in a stagnant body. Musgrave couldn't help but wonder what treasures might be waiting for him in such elaborate handwriting, what sort of confessions might have been scribbled out in his own borrowed ink. Though despite his struggles, as much as he might try to get his hands on the journal, as much as he might try to interrogate a single word or utterance...well he was left hopelessly at a loss. The stranger was unreceptive to any question, to any provocation at all. He was a mystery, a mystery that no one might have a chance at solving. No one individually, that is, and never from the mouth of the man himself. Though they might have help, as time may have done a liberty by providing another source. It was about a week after the stranger had been positioned in one of their beds, still yet to do anything but roll over and scribble. He hadn't tried out the crutches that were offered to him, as he seemed to have no motivation to mobilize himself. Most men were so anxious to leave the stuffy walls of this hospital that they would rather crawl out on whichever remaining limbs they had, praying for home, praying to see their families again. Though this man, well he seemed quite content with sitting in his bed and scribbling. Perhaps he had no family to go to, an ailment that Musgrave understood quite well. Days passed, and it seemed as though every break the Doctor had was spent in the sick ward, either interrogating the man directly or watching him from afar. He didn't know what struck him so about the man, whether it was his undeniable beauty (something that made the nurses rather preoccupied as well) or if it was his mere silence. A doctor of medicine must always love a challenge, a little riddle to solve without any known keys. Perhaps that's why he stood concealed in the doorways, watching as the man would sit up in his bed, going through notebook after notebook, pen after pen, trying to detail something in the pages that was presumably for his eyes only. Eventually Musgrave was going to have to force him up and into those crutches, as it would seem that the man had no intentions of leaving any time soon. Perhaps he simply had nowhere to go. It was about a week into the man's stay that another stranger arrived, a perfectly healthy man who would join the crowds outside of the school, begging to be admitted to see their relatives. Most of the times these solicitors were turned away, the men were often not well enough to be seen, as the pain of their suffering most often played into their loved one's hearts as well. It was better, in some cases, for the wives and the children to remember the man as a strong, able bodied person. It was better to keep that memory in their mind, rather than replace it with the sickly and deathlike creatures that stirred miserably in their beds, sitting in their own filth and muttering nothing but nonsense. For the most part they died alone, on Musgrave's instruction, and were delivered to the families with a letter detailing their last requests. Yet this man was particularly effective with his pleas, as he stood at the front of the pack in a sharp looking suit, slamming his walking stick against the window pane and demanding to see a man called Sherlock. Musgrave happened to walk past the crowds accidently, catching the eye of the well-dressed gentleman and hearing him call a name that he didn't recognize, one that may very well correspond to their ward's mystery. He hesitated, his surgical gloves still wet with blood and stuck to his fingers...there was a patient waiting for him in the classroom, one who demanded his immediate attention. However a sense of urgency overcame him, urgent not with the prospect of life or death (as such had become such a meaningless perception, a mundane occupation) but instead with an opportunity that may go missed. He made eye contact with the gentleman, staring at him for one moment before taking to his heels and running down into the ward, back to the classrooms filled with the moans and groans of men wondering the purpose of their survival. He arrived at the very last bed, perching next to its sole inhabitant without any acknowledgement whatsoever. That was one of his charms, this strange man...he never seemed to care about company.
"Is your name Sherlock?" Musgrave asked directly, almost clutching at the stranger's hand so as to stop him from writing anything more. And yet that became unnecessary, that hand which never stayed, at last it was still. The pen pressed against the paper for a moment too long, ink bled down the page as those complexly colored eyes stared fixatedly at a spot in time, a spot in space. At last the man turned his shaggy curled head towards his audience, at last his eyes met with his host.
"Who's asking?" he whispered at last. Musgrave allowed himself a breath of amazement, just one single moment to process the words which had been passed between them and the voice which had uttered them. It was quite the shock to at last hear this man speak, and for a long while Musgrave had tried to imagine what his voice might sound like. Well whatever he was expecting, whichever tone or octave he had been preparing himself for...this was certainly not it. The voice was a deep baritone, a sort of voice that sounded much too menacing to correspond to such a frail and helpless creature. The words sent shivers down Musgrave's spine, not just with the pleasure of asking the right questions, but at last with being acknowledged by the man who owed him his life.
"A gentleman outside he's...well he's quite insistent." Musgrave admitted at last, attempting a smile though finding it was utterly unreturned.
"Gentleman..." the stranger rearranged himself in his bed, wincing as his stump of a leg was applied just the slightest bit of pressure. "What sort?" his questions were growing more urgent, as if this was a moment he had been waiting on for a long time. He was terribly anxious, and for the first time since he arrived at the hospital he was looking at those crutches as if he was tempted to use them. Perhaps it was the arrival of a man he had been waiting on, perhaps that man was the reason he was stuck in the trenches as a mere civilian. Musgrave didn't know if the new stranger's arrival answered any of the questions he had made up over the past week, in fact it seemed as though there were more enigmas overlapped with the new development.
"Doctor! Your patient is waiting!" cried a nurse from the end of the hall, yelling towards where Musgrave was now bending ever so close to Sherlock's bed, as if with some intention of clutching onto his arm and entreating him to speak. However the arrival of the nurse reminded Musgrave that he had not been tasked with solving mysteries, but instead tending to emergencies.
"I'm sorry I...I have to go. I'll speak to the man when I'm done." Musgrave promised, to which Sherlock's eyes widened in horror. Suddenly more emotions flooded into his complicated complexion than ever before; suddenly he looked something like he did on the operating table, when his leg was being sawed through.
"No! No, he'll leave! You can't let him standing out there, Doctor you must!" the man entreated, suddenly reaching out and clutching to Musgrave's arm, his surprisingly strong fingers latching onto the man's wrist so as not to let him vanish so fast.
"When I'm finished, I promise you!" Musgrave assured.
"He's come back for me; I knew...I knew it!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Get him now!"
"I cannot!" Musgrave exclaimed at last, yanking his arm away with a bit more force than he intended. He went stumbling away from the bed, and Sherlock was left nearly dangling off the edge. He looked desperate, and just as soon as their connection broke he seemed to melt even farther into himself, wallowing in a despair that must have been seething inside of him for the longest time.
"Musgrave!" called that ever familiar voice of Molly Hooper, sounding as if she was close to storming up to the Doctor and pulling him into the operating room where he really ought to be.
"Coming, coming!" Musgrave assured, and with that he gave but another stiff nod towards his poor patient, receiving nothing but a rather startling growl in return before at last the man turned away from him, rolling over onto his pillow and cowering in what he couldn't determine was excitement or despair. 

It took Musgrave three hours until at last the flow of surgical needs had reduced, long past any sensible hour to be admitting guests. The sun had set and the usual cries of the loved ones had long since died down. Even those who felt the need to visit their relatives had to eat, and in these times it was much too dangerous to miss a meal. For a moment Musgrave stood hesitating in the surgical ward, wondering if it would be a good idea to let this stranger into the hospital to meet his prized patient. What might that do to the progress of his recovery, would it spurn or motivate him? Such a gentleman as was standing at the door, well he was dressed as if he had once born some importance. Perhaps he was a member of the upper class, trodden down in bad luck and fortune due to the recent outbreak of war. Was he here as a friend to poor Sherlock, or a mere enemy coming to settle old scores? Yet the urgency in Sherlock's voice, the desperation that seemed to spawn within his very soul...well the curiosity was now killing the Doctor. He must admit that stranger, if he still cared to linger outside. He must admit him, merely to witness the reunion of a pair with so many possibilities. And so, among the mess he had created, Musgrave stripped of his gloves and apron, adding them to the now overflowing laundry pile for one of the nurses to tend to. They were already at the pools of blood, mopping around so as to get the tile fresh for the next bout of deliveries, surgeries, and amputations. The Doctor walked quietly along the hall, his footsteps echoing across the deserted corridor as he neared the doors, the very doors which had been getting abused by that silver capped walking stick some hours earlier. He looked out into the darkness, without the aid of any street lamps or moonlight, to see if there was still a figure lingering about, waiting for entry. For a moment the Doctor thought all was lost, as the shadows did not seem to be disturbed by any movement, though at last he saw the glint of metal, reflecting from the light which was now streaming from the inside. A figure lay crouched on the ground, presumably asleep in the summer heat, curled up in a ball with a hat drawn down low on his face. Musgrave couldn't tell just who the person was, though as soon as he opened the door to interrogate the man raised his head and unfolded like a long, eloquent flower opening for springtime. It was the same man as before, this time looking a bit more disheveled now with the efforts of being admitted for so long. His eyes were much more wild and his cheeks gaunt, as if he had missed every meal to sit and wait for a response from the inside. As soon as Musgrave opened the door the man leapt upon him, nearly clinging to the lapels of his jacket as he hasted out his first appeals.
"You're the Doctor, yes? Tell me, you must tell me..."
"We have Sherlock." Musgrave interrupted, not minding much about the name of his current patient any longer. For the first time in a long while, that poor soul in the bed was the least of the mysteries presented. "But I beg you to identify yourself, and your relation." The man faltered, as if he was taking such a question as an insult rather than a mere precaution. His sharp features hardened, and beneath the brim of his hat his thin eyebrows braided into something of a concerned knot. Nevertheless his blue eyes were alight with urgency, and he decided at last that identifying himself may just be the least of his concerns at the moment.
"My name is Victor Trevor, and Sherlock is my ward." He explained at last, his words softening a little bit as he breathed out a name he so wished to speak again.
"Ward? Doesn't that constitute a little bit of an age difference?" Musgrave wondered. The man smiled a moment, though it was such a brief affair that Musgrave convinced himself he must not have seen it.
"I'll take that as a compliment, sir." Trevor chuckled, though his eyes remained humorless.
"You wish to see him?" Musgrave wondered at last, not entirely sure where this conversation was going if not to that. The man's credentials seemed rather promising, considering he could provide for Musgrave excuse enough as to why he felt so entitled for Sherlock's company.
"Yes, yes." Trevor agreed, his head nodding urgently and his hand regaining the grip of his walking stick. "I do wonder, Doctor, if you're not a fan of poetry?" he wondered a bit abruptly, all the while Musgrave had turned to open the door to admit them both.
"Poetry? Well no...no not really." Musgrave admitted at last, though he thought such was a confusing question to be asking at such a time. Trevor chuckled again, bowing his head as if that made sense now.
"I suspected as much. Oh well, onwards, Doctor!" Trevor insisted, clacking his stick against the ground as if to prompt poor Musgrave back into action.