Under guard in Lisbon

"I am sorry..." He looked up, and tried to forced a smile, tried to reassure Padstowe that he was safe, and that he would be looked after, but his face twisted.

He needed to get out. He needed to leave, to be alone, to find some empty room, before-

But he could not leave Padstowe.

He compromised - he squeezed Padstowe's hand, but wrenched his eyes away, and stared at the ceiling, watching it swim.

There was something wrong. There had been something wrong ever since the doctor had returned from... wherever he had been.

"Stephen?"

He looked back down, and the tears fell - he swiped them away quickly. "Yes, Jonathan?" he asked, forgetting for an instant that he could not hear. He bit his lip.

Distressed, he reached out, despite the discomfit it caused him, and touched the doctor's arm.

"Please, don't."

Oh, Christ, and now he was... It took every ounce of willpower Stephen possessed to smile, and he touched Padstowe's hand. "Sorry."

"Sorry."

He heard it. Very fuzzy, but he heard it.

"What for?"

"For being so-" He looked up. "Jonathan! Can you hear me?"

The first part was lost on him again, but he heard his name, and then hear me? as a question. Though he had to listen hard.

"Not well," he said. But he could. Just.

Stephen sagged in relief. "Oh, thank the Dear," he muttered.

"That is good, Jonathan. That is very good."

Yes, well that as may be, and Padstowe admitted he was relieved, but it did not put his mind at ease.

"Stephen, why did you say you were sorry?"

It was night time now, and the ward was quiet, all the other patients asleep. Stephen spoke carefully and clearly, with an embarrassed smile. "For being emotional. It has been a long day."

He swallowed, and looked away again, putting his hand to his face. "I was looking for you. It was late. I gave up. I thought-"

Looking for him?

"When?"

"The night you were attacked! Not last night, the night before. I was just so tired - I had looked everywhere I could think of, and Richard said you were probably doing some work for Hogan, and it was the early hours and he said I should go home and I could barely keep my eyes open so I gave up." He clenched his hands in his lap.

Padstowe did his best to follow what the doctor was saying, but he had no concept of how much time had passed, nor of why Stephen had been looking or the mention of Hogan...

"How long have I been here?"

Perhaps if he found that out he might understand the rest better.

[OOC: Bedtime now for me. Thank you for playing today. )

Stephen rubbed his temple - Padstowe could not hear well, and was suffering from post-trauma amnesia, and him letting his mouth run away with him was not helping. He forced himself to calm down.

"Two days."

[OOC: I've enjoyed it - thank you! ]

The orderly had returned with his tray and soup and a jug of water. He was relieved to see that the patient had calmed. "Doctor," he said with respect, "I'll leave this over here. Will you-- He's a friend of yours? Would you give it to him?"

Stephen looked up and nodded - the same orderly had had snapped at earlier. "I will, sure - thank you." He took the tray, and placed it on the table to the side of the bed - as soon as Padstowe was well enough, he would have him moved out of the public ward - to one of the officer's rooms, if not his own lodgings.

The young man still hovered and hesitated. "Sir? Are you all right yourself?" The doctor, brilliant by all accounts he'd heard, seemed exhausted, unshaven, covered in dust, and stricken. And of course, one couldn't help but notice his leg when he walked. "See, there's another cot over here. It would be more comfortable than that chair - to stretch out your legs, I mean," he ventured.

The orderly was still there, and Stephen met his eyes. "I am with this patient here." He turned back, and muttered. "A cot, forsooth; and what good would that do? As if I were to sleep..."

"Yes, Doctor Maturin, I know," he answered with a cautious smile. "Well, if you plan to stay for a while, you may as well sit comfortably." He dragged the cot silently across the floor, and then without waiting for more protests, he hurried away to attend to his duties.

Stephen ignored the cot. "Jonathan?" He spoke softly, then cleared his throat, and made his voice stronger. "What do you remember?"

Padstowe frowned, thinking hard back to his last recollections.

"I went to dinner at Vickery's. I stayed and talked to him for a couple of hours, and then I left to go home. It was ten o'clock - I know because I heard the clock strike in another room. I walked out into the street and headed backto my lodgings. I swear there was no one else there, but I was not really looking for anyone else..."

This was where it became confused.

"I was happy. I had walked for about five minutes before I sensed there was someone behind me. I heard a boot scrape and I began to turn, but then something - or someone - hit me in the side of the head."

He winced at the memory of it, and he could still feel a dull throb of pain.

"It was only a glancing blow and I staggered, but then I was hit again and my vision went. I grabbed for where i thought my attacher was, and I got hold of... it felt like a soldier's jacket, but I was hit hard repeatedly in the face, and I lost my grip and fell."

He swallowed awkwardly before continuing.

"The rest is... is just a confusion. I was hit and kicked, being beaten all over, and whoever is was was laughing at me, mocking me, though I could not see his face or hear him clearly. I was unable to defend myself, I... I could do nothing as he beat me. The last thing I remember is absolute agony in my shoulder - I think he must have stood on it, and then everything went black. I, I fainted. Beyond that are just dreams and nightmares until I woke up here."

Christ alive, a matter of minutes. Stephen felt choked by guilt. "Nothing that might help to identify the attacker? No evidence at all?" His face hardened. "He will not get away with this, Jonathan, I promise you. If Richard does not deal with him, I will."

"Stephen, please. I want revenge on whoever did this, but I will see it done properly."

What he had told Sharpe. He sighed, slowly straightening out his body again, he sore muscles complaining, but it was no longer agony to move, it seemed.

"You said I was robbed? What did they take from me?"

How they were to do it 'properly', with no evidence, he did not know. "Very well. Unless he does something further to Richard or yourself."

He stretched his leg out. "You purse, and your watch, it seems - I presume you were carrying them. I know it was nothing to do with your work, for you had some papers on you, and they left them. I have them here..." He rummaged through his bag, and then placed them on the bed.