Harry: Chapter Six

Burdens

by Liederlady

Notes

Along with our lunches, I had retrieved my navy overcoat for Harry to wear for his first foray outside. Despite the bright sunshine, it was a breezy day and the thin hospital robe and nightshirt would not have afforded enough warmth.

“There,” I clucked as I adjusted the overly large coat about his angular shoulders while he did up the buttons. His height was more than sufficient and his wrists dangled from the too-short sleeves, but otherwise, the thing hung on him. My frame was bulky in comparison to his willowy slimness.

“Do you really think I need this?” he asked, holding out his arms.

It was not a sarcastic remark. He asked in the way a child might question the need for galoshes on a rainy day.

“Doctor’s orders ... you must not get a chill,” I said, still fussing with the collar and lapels.

“Yes, sir,” he said obediently.

His acquiescence jolted a confounding thrill of ... something through me that stilled my hands at his chest.

“Hmmph, so all it took was a decent lunch and the prospect of a walk in the sunshine to improve your disposition,” I muttered, my hands impulsively travelling down the sleeves that covered his arms.

We had shared a most convivial meal. I smiled, recalling his grimace moments earlier after downing the entire glass of milk without coming up for air.

“And yours,” he countered, smiling broadly. His gaze met mine a moment then darted to the two empty trays on the washstand near his bed. He shook his head minutely.

His lips, though still cracked at some points, now managed smiles with ease. He had been practicing. As I basked in its glow, I wondered how many others in his life had been graced by such radiance.

I found myself staring at it for too long a moment.

“Doctor Watson, are you all right?”

Genuine concern softened his voice again. His brows knitted with it as well.

“Never better,” I said honestly. Impossibly, the smile broadened.

I had to look away lest I lose myself within it again. I glanced down at his feet, encased by the institutional slippers.

“I will be warm enough now,” he assured me, noticing my scrutiny.

“Yes, just checking,” I said. “Well, Harry, shall we?” I asked, slowly offering him my supportive arm.

He glanced at the arm skeptically for only an instant then accepted it graciously.

The breeze carried with it the scent of lilac and something indefinable. I heard Harry take a deep breath and worried a moment about his bruised ribs. But the breath emerged without any symptom of discomfort; the ribs must be healing nicely.

We strolled sedately in companionable silence toward the large birch at the end of the walk. A gnarled bench rested at its base, half bathed in sunlight. I maneuvered him to its sunnier side.

“How do you feel?”

“Doctor Watson, would you do me a service?”

“Of course, what do you need?” I asked with a touch of alarm, worried I had overtaxed him.

“While we are out here, could you forget that I am a patient and you my physician?” he asked. His request sounded wistful, but that could have been my own interpretation.

As he looked up at me, I noticed the swelling in his right eye had diminished with the twice daily herbal compresses I had ordered. In a day or two, he would be able to open it. The left eye was still bloodshot, but clearing. Soon, I would be able to see its colour.

I suddenly realized he was gesturing for me to sit next to him. Recalling my earlier gaffe, I hesitated, prompting him to inquisitively cock his head at me.

“I do not bite, Doctor ... ahh,” he groaned with a scowl then brightened as he glanced up at me again.

“May I call you by your given name, sir, at least while we are out of doors?” The words emerged in as honeyed a tone as I had ever heard.

“John,” I offered, without even considering the impropriety of it, and sat down next to him quite nonplussed.

“John,” he repeated softly.

Something stirred within me that I could not name. I glanced away defensively, fearing my eyes might reveal whatever it was.

“You still will not trust me with your own?” I enquired huskily. I knew the answer, but had to ask. And my eyes were inexorably drawn back to him.

A pained expression crossed his face ... so quickly and deeply that I suspected it sprung from a physical source.

“It is not distrust. I regret I cannot tell you. Please forgive what must surely seem discourtesy. I do have an honourable reason for withholding it, I assure you,” he said emphatically. His gaze was achingly earnest.

“I believe you. I just wish ... is there any way I may help you?” I asked impulsively. He suddenly seemed terribly alone ... isolated. I wanted to remedy that.

“You have already done so much. I owe you a considerable debt,” he said. His deeply knitted brows conveyed that he rarely found himself in such a position. It was clear he felt it burdensome.

Conversely, I carried the weight of not having done enough for him.

As I watched the sunlight reveal auburn highlights in his lustrous, dark hair, I resolved to learn whatever he would share of himself, to do what I could to help him, to earn his trust, perhaps even to gain his friendship.

Harry looked down at the grass beneath our feet. His gaze darted to the right and remained riveted on a specific point. I followed it, but could not see what caught his attention.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“Do you not see it?”

“See what?”

“The mantis?”

I peered at the area he was scrutinizing. There, frozen and camouflaged among the green shoots, was a small mantis.

“Ah ... yes. How the devil did you see it?”

“I observe things others do not,” he said simply. Then the insect no longer held any fascination for him and he casually glanced up into the tree, then back down toward me.

“You cut yourself shaving this morning,” he said matter-of-factly. “Were you rushed?”

I reached up under my right jaw to the tiny nick.

“How could you have seen ... oh, Prince Harry, the Observant,” I said, bowing my head deferentially.

I glanced back up at him in time to catch the flash of smile. He leaned back against the bench with an air of near comfort—his eye closing dreamily. I heard him sigh in satisfaction.

“Yes, I was rushed. I was alerted to an emergency case just as I began shaving,” I replied.

“And you hastened to their aid, rendering your bountiful expertise and mended yet another fortunate soul,” he said with mock gallantry, his eye still closed.

I looked away.

My silence eventually reached him and I felt the weight of his gaze, but was unprepared to meet it.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

When I did not reply, he pressed.

“You were able to help them, were you not?” he asked. I detected a tremor of alarm in his voice.

“No, the child’s condition was beyond my skill,” I whispered.

I heard Harry’s sharp intake of breath. I did not look at him as I struggled to stem the unmanly tide that flooded my eyes.

I felt the barest touch at the sleeve of my physician’s frock, then the comforting weight of his hand. I gazed down at it.

Like the rest of him, it had delicate lines ... a nearly exquisite fragility. Harry’s hands resembled those of an artist. Yet I had firsthand knowledge of the power behind them, recalling the glancing blow his right had delivered to my jaw the night he was admitted.

The boy’s vulnerability was deceiving. He possessed an innate strength and resolve I suspected could carry him through any trial ... indeed had already done so. As my gaze raked over the shackle marks on his wrist, I acknowledged that he had endured trauma that would have shattered older and worldlier men—it would surely have shattered me. Despite his obvious capability, I felt an overwhelming desire to shield him from any future harm.

I was still unprepared to meet the gaze I sensed was observing me. I expected him to draw away when I did not respond. But he did not. His hand remained on my arm. Steady ... confident ... supportive.

“This ... I have not yet mastered this aspect of being a physician,” I admitted. A shudder coursed through me ... it seemed I was the one catching a chill.

There was an awkward silence. I knew then that I had shared too much ... leaned too heavily. A boy like him could not yet have experienced the anguish of death or grief. I prayed he would never know the crushing burden of failure and guilt.

“I would venture that the best healers never master that facet, John,” he said softly.

I looked up in spite of my tenuous control. He surely recognized the distress in my eyes, yet he did not look away. His calm, open gaze was comforting. That gaze that only days earlier had cowed me to glance nervously away now invited my regard.

He was a paradox ... this young creature who could spontaneously turn brash and benevolent, disdainful and deferential. I found myself leaning in toward him, revelling in his proximity—his strength, his vitality, his wisdom, his--.

I backed off as Doctor Brett’s earlier words echoed in my mind.

What the devil was wrong with me?

“Thank you, Harry,” I said, with feeling. Then I had to distract myself from him and turned to gaze across the lawn at an orderly pushing another patient in a bath chair.

“Perhaps I should have brought you out in a chair?” I asked, anticipating his response. Humour was a much safer field upon which to meet so formidable an influence.

“Then I should never have left my room,” he sputtered.

I looked back at him and grinned. His flash reaction was a prudent reminder of his youthfulness ... a reality of which I needed reminding. I had to remain the adult of this duo.

Harry had the grace to look chagrined at being so easily manoeuvred.

“Does teasing me grant you an extravagant measure of bliss?” he asked wryly. He coughed a bit ... from amusement I suspected rather than his irritated throat.

“Yes,” I said honestly.

“Hmmm, well, considering your earlier dark mood, I suppose I shall indulge you,” he replied.

How his hoarse voice could project silkiness was beyond my comprehension. His hand, still gracing my arm, stroked once then tightened somewhat. His smile was utterly ...

I felt myself growing far too warm again. I stood very abruptly and nearly upset him from the bench.

“Oh, I am sorry,” I said, reaching to steady him. He looked up at me warily.

I cursed inwardly, having shattered the moment of ...

“Are you-- what the devil is wrong with you?” he asked angrily. An appropriate question, and one for which I had no answer.

“I- you-- I am simply on edge, I suppose. Please forgive my rashness,” I said, utterly flustered.

He rose in what can only be termed a regal manner ... Prince Harry indeed. He stood very close. For the first time, I noticed he was rather taller than me; I was compelled to look up to him. Yet again, I was uncomfortably aware of his body’s heat.

“There is more to it than that,” he said in a tone that was more demand than declaration.

I blinked and sputtered a moment. He leaned in toward me, his single-eyed gaze never wavering. His hot breath warmed my already overheated face.

His tongue emerged to moisten his lower lip; my eyes followed it and I sighed in spite of myself.

“I see,” he said, with even deeper hoarseness than before.

I felt his hand grasp my arm again with firmer purpose. It began pulling me even closer.

“Wellll. What a cozy scene this is,” a voice from behind me drawled.

Chapter Seven: Departures