Padstowe's Lodgings, Oporto

"You do. Least, all the doctors who ever treated me seemed to." Sharpe shrugged. "Don't let me stop you examinin' him, though."

"I do not, not at all." Stephen glared. "I was not going to."

"How fortunate," Padstowe murmured quietly, wondering how long it would be before Stephen started berating him for his self-surgery.

"Sorry 'bout all this, Jonathan. He said he was goin' to visit you, not go pokin' around your shoulder and everythin'." There was nothing he could do to help and he crossed to the window to look down into the plaza below.

"Rubbish! Admit it," Padstowe quipped. "You sent him here to torture me and came along yourself to watch the fun."

"There seems to be no infection yet from your masterpiece of idiocy," Stephen said when he had finished. "You may put your jacket on again." He turned on Sharpe. "And do not apologise for me as if I am not here - for God's love, I am only thinking of his health."

He looked at Padstowe wide-eyed, remembering the house. "Good day, gentlemen."

"You was so busy pokin' at him I didn't want to disturb you, Stephen," Sharpe retorted, turning around. He put his elbows on the windowsill and leaned back. "Where are you off to now, anyroad? You can't go runnin' off after pokin' at someone like that. You should at least exchange a few words of conversation." He shrugged. "Unless I've got it all wrong, which is more than likely. I never did understand how the Quality do things." Which he wasn't ashamed to admit, strangely enough, in this company.

"This is a conversation I no longer wish to be a part of," he said coldly.

"Stephen -" Padstowe was shocked by the abrupt change of the doctor's mood and the look of wide-eyed shock that had passed across his face. "Forgive me, I beg; I was only jesting. I meant no offence. And Richard, don't be absurd - we're none of us 'Quality' and you know it!"

"I did not find it amusing," Stephen replied, opening the door. "I will speak to Captain Hogan, and you are to rest your shoulder. I have several errands to complete; good afternoon." He closed the door behind him.

Sharpe opened his mouth and closed it again. "What on earth brought that on?" he asked. "That ain't like him at all... not the Doctor Maturin I know from Lisbon, anyroad."

Padstowe turned his gaze from the door and looked at Sharpe with a weary expression.

"A lot has happened since you were last in Lisbon," he said flatly. "Most of which I cannot tell you about - most of which you probably would not wish to know about - but it has taken its toll on him; more than you can imagine."

Sharpe sighed. "Might be best if I was to... to not say anythin' round you two, sometimes. Every time I do say summat, it's allus the wrong thing, at the wrong time."

"Don't do that; I'll go mad, else," Padstowe sighed, running his fit hand through his hair. "And you have not in the least upset me. I am truly glad to see you. Stephen just... needs some time to rest and calm down. He may not have been as physically marked as myself, but the strain over the past month has been far greater."

He decided to confide a little, as Sharpe could not even hope to understand should he not.

"One of the things that happen on our way here is that the ship's surgeon suffered a severe blow to the head, putting him in a coma. Stephen had to operate on him to relieve a fracture in the skull, and soon after some more crewmen suffered injuries. He was still weak, still very ill as he is now and yet he near ran himself into the grave caring for others before himself. It was all we could do to persuade him to sleep, or even to taker something to eat." He waved at his shoulder. "That's why I took the stitches out myself; he had too many worries already."

"He's a good doctor, I'll say that. But he'll be no use to anyone if he runs himself into the ground." He sighed. "The night before we left Lisbon, we ran into an officer of the 62nd, a Lieutenant Waldegrave. He's a right boor, and ordered us out of the way as if we were summat to be wiped off a boot. He even went so far as to hit - try to hit - Stephen. Would've done it if I hadn't shoved him out of the way. We told him who we were, and he apologised, which was all well and good. Then." He shrugged hopelessly. "Seems he met Stephen earlier and retracted his apology, so they're goin' to have a duel. Tomorrow."

Padstowe's mouth dropped open.

"He what? In his condition? What in God's name is he thinking? Beau will go spare!"

That probably hadn't been the smartest thing he'd ever said... but since when did Sharpe ever play by the rules? "You ain't to tell him! For God's sake, Jonathan. He ain't goin' to find out. I'll fight the damn thing for him, if need be, but don't tell the General, whatever you do! I told you as his friend, all right?"

"So you're Stephen's second? Dear God...!" Padstowe ran his fingers through his hair again, his hand visibly shaking. "Don't worry, you never need fear he'll hear it from me; but you do know he'll find out. Even if it's not from me he'll find out sooner or later, and then what? He'll be livid!"

"I know." He was probably throwing his entire career away for this, but he couldn't stand by and do nothing. "Better me than you, Jonathan. And if I hadn't agreed to it, he'd've asked you, and you'd have said yes. I'll make damn sure Waldegrave's second agrees it's only to first blood - I am not havin' a corpse to bury, you can be damn sure of that."

Padstowe sighed in a defeated manner.

"That," he said. "Is something of a relief. In a way I am glad it is you; you'll be able to look after Stephen. Cowardly little prig for challenging a doctor, and an injured man... Will it be swords or pistols? Swords if it's first blood, I assume."

"Swords. And, well, I'm glad he thought he could trust me enough to ask. I'd have challenged Waldegrave mesel' if he hadn't apologised, so mebbe I should tie Stephen up or knock him out and take his place." He sighed ruefully. "I won't. Well, I will only if I don't think Stephen is up to it."

He sighed and sat down opposite Padstowe. "I don't like it, Jonathan. He came riding up, the second day on the march, to tell us what had happened to you. Or was it the third day? Anyroad. Our advance scouts - some of my men - had found a whole group of dead French soldiers, from that group we ran into and fought off, and he came to see them, before headin' back to Lisbon to look after you. An' now you say he didn't even get to rest prop'ly durin' the journey here. He's wearin' himself out, Jonathan. He's a ghost of the man I met in Lisbon. It's like... like he's tryin' to make up for summat that he knows he can't make up for, an' he's goin' to kill hissel' tryin'."

"I know," Padstowe sighed again. "It is frightening, in its own way. He won't let anyone care for him, nor will he allow himself to rest. It's as if as a doctor he feels that he must look after everyone else and not himself. You know he's a Papist, don't you? It's like he's forced a penance on himself; one so great that he wants to suffer doing it."

He shook his head.

"During the voyage we would have to have tied him to his cot to rest, but we could not do that. I just pray that someone will be able to talk some sense into him - and soon."

He picked up the bottle from the desk.

"Drink?"

"I wonder if even General Wellesley could talk some sense into him. In which case, I might tell him about the duel mesel'. Why are doctors so damn bad at takin' their own advice?" He sighed. "Yes, please. And how are you doin'? I understand you got your watch back, which is summat, at least."

"Did you hear how I got it back?" Padstowe asked darkly as he poured Sharpe a glass of sherry and passed it over to him, befrore refilling his own abandonned glass..

"I heard that it showed up in Captain Vickery's baggage. I presume he sent it back." He frowned, picking up the glass Padstowe had just poured for him.