Under guard in Lisbon

An orderly brought him a chair; Stephen thanked him and sat down, rifling through his leather bag. He left his haversack by the door, but he had enough paper in the medical bag for his purpose...

He wrote, in as clear writing as he could manage: IT IS TEMPORARY - QUITE NORMAL. Padstowe seemed to be focusing his eyes, but it was eminently possible that the letters would be too much for him, so he forced himself to wipe away any expression of worry or fatigue, and smiled instead.

The doctor did not imediately reply, but bent down out of Padstowe's line of vision and then reappeared, apparently... writing. He held up a small scrap of paper for the captain to see, and Padstowe squinted, trying to get his eyes to focus on the lettering.

IT IS... TEM... TEMPORARY - Q... QUIT... QUITE... NORMAL.

"Thank God," he breathed, slumping back against the pillow again. Focussing enough to read even that short message seemed to have taken an obscene amount of effort. "Thank God..."

Stephen gripped Padstowe's hand and squeezed it, before sitting back. If he could read, even with an exhausting amount of effort, a relatively short time after waking, then there was probably no permanent brain damage, and his hearing would return shortly. He kept his fingers gently resting on Padstowe's wrist, so that even if he could not see him he would know he was still there.

He felt the increased pressure on his hand, and he managed a feeble squeeze back.

"I... I do not know where I am..."

It was probably useless talking when he could not hear any reply that the doctor could give, but the more he talked the better his mind seemed to start working again.

"I do not know... what happened... how... how I got here. I hurt so much... don't recall..."

Stephen felt a pain that became almost physical in its intensity - he took a second to compose himself before moving forward into Padstowe's line of sight. "Belem. You - are - in - Belem," he tried, speaking slowly and clearly, careful not to be too loud in case it exacerbated Jonathan's headache.

The doctor was back above him, his face seemingly fixed with an intense expression. He said something - obviously slowly and clearly, trying to make him understand. He still could not hear the words; but he heard two syllables, repeated. He watched the movements of the other man's lips.

"Beh... lem. Belem?"

Belem. The hospital. That would make sense... but how he had come to be here in the first place?

Stephen nodded. Padstowe had focused on his mouth, making a tiny unconscious nod at each syllable, and so he probably could not hear yet: Stephen put his hand behind his right ear in a question, waiting for a confirmation.

Padstowe understood, and shook his head minutely; that at least did not hurt now.

"No. I can hear the sound, but it's... it's not clear."

Stephen smiled, almost genuinely - he would recovering his sense of hearing soon enough then. He mouthed the word "soon", with an exaggerated movement of his lips, dividing the word so that the sibilant became its own syllable, and nodded encouragingly. He edged his chair a little closer to the bedside, and sat back in it limply.

Soon. There was some hope then. Padstowe was infinitely glad - he had not known what future there would have been for a soldier who could no longer hear orders or listen for information.

He looked across and saw that the doctor looked tired, pale and weary. He looked as if he had been on a journey - but Stephen had still been in Lisbon, hadn't he?

"Do you know what happened?"

And if you do, please do not lie to me!

Stephen simultaneously nodded and shook his hand - he knew enough.

"What? What happened?"

He desperately wanted to know, even if he could not hear. The doctor was bound to have more paper, or he could get some from one of the clerks...

Stephen spoke in his careful, clear tone. "Later. Rest."

Later. Rest.

Padstowe frowned; now full consciousness and comprehension was returning the last thing he wanted to do was rest! Well, he did not have much choice but to rest his body - he could not manage anything but the smallest of movements without costing himself a great deal of pain or effort - but his mind had been out of it too long and wanted to stay active.

"Please, tell me."

Stephen paused - he did not want to agitate Padstowe, but it might be that withholding the information might distress him more. He turned the piece of paper over, and wrote: ATTACKED - ROBBED - AFTER VICKERY. That would do for now. He held the paper in front of Padstowe's face.

ATTACKED - ROBBED - AFTER VICKERY.

Attacked and robbed? Robbed of what? And what did he mean by 'after Vickery'? Had the person been after Vickery and he got in the way...? No, that could not be right; he remembered bidding the captain farewell and leaving his lodgings. It must have been after he'd left Vickery's... But that only led to more questions.

"Who by?"

He remembered Sharpe, and his face when he had said... "Not now. Rest."

He knew. He knew and he was not telling him!

"Stephen, please...!"

Stephen closed his eyes, and looked away. Christ alive. "Softest touch afloat" indeed.

He drew a clean sheet from his bag. UNSURE. He underlined the word twice. HAKESWILL.

Padstowe's eyes widened as he read, and a deathly chill clutched at his heart. Hakeswill... But what had he done to deserve the sergeant's hatred? Sharpe had said that defending Williams would be enough, but he had not thought for a moment, never believed that he would dare put himself against a 'real' officer; one not from the ranks...

He had been a fool, a veritable fool not to listen to Sharpe, and he closed his eyes, the pain of his stupidity hurting as much as the physical pain.

Stephen felt totally helpless as he saw Padstowe's expression of distress - there was nothing he could do to explain, or allay his fears, or comfort him, save clutch at his hand, the only part he was sure of not hurting - he could not even speak. And even worse than that, he felt responsible, and the guilt was overwhelming.

He should have known that something was wrong; he should have gone to Vickery, and raised the alarm, and then they could have traced the route Padstowe would take back to his lodgings, and then- They could not have stopped it, he thought, gritting his teeth, but they could have found him earlier, not lying in some alleyway for hours. He should have known - he should have carried on looking.

Padstowe felt the doctor squeeze his hand again, and he took a deep breath - a brief, burning pain in his chest as he did so which made him cough pathetically - before speaking.

"Does Ri... Lieutenant Sharpe know?"

Because if he did, God help Hakeswill whether he was innocent or not.

Stephen nodded forcefully. He decided to try talking aloud again. "He does."

He caught the nod, but the words still escaped him. He sighed again, produced another half-hearted cough.

"Heaven help the bastard if the 33rd wander too close to the 95th..." he said bitterly.

Heaven had nothing to do with it. Then he thought about the morning, and what had come about of his wishing for vengeance or protection without thinking through the consequences. He pressed his fingers to his eyes for a moment, and then forced a smile back onto his face. "Now. Rest."