"Is it normal to be this busy? Four broken wrists in one week? All right, yes, this is a prison, but how do these men manage to get into so many accidents?" Doctor John Watson asks, exasperated.

His assistant, one Molly Hooper, looks up from the other side of the room where she's checking a sleeping patient's temperature.

"I'm not quite sure that they're hurting themselves in accidents, Doctor," Molly says tentatively.

John frowns. "Sorry?"

Molly bites her lip. "Jim – I mean, Mr. Mo," she flushes, "He was telling me he'd noticed that these accidents started happening as soon as that new inmate got here, it was an inspired connection, though he really is quite brilliant…"

"Mr. Mo?" John inquires. "I don't think I've met him yet. Friend of yours?"

Pink turns to scarlet as Molly mumbles an unintelligible reply. John changes the subject as he finishes setting his patient's wrist. "So, the new inmate?"

Molly nods, still embarrassed. "His name was Owens, or something like. I can't quite remember. He came in last week, two days before you did, I think?"

"So Tuesday, then. Sorry, you were saying?"

"Erm, well Jim Mo – he's in charge of B Block security – told me that he thought there was something strange about the inmate, and when I told him about all these broken wrists we've been getting, he thought that there might be, I dunno, a connection? Somehow?"

John blinks several times. "Molly, you think that this Owens is breaking his fellow inmates' wrists? Fine, yes, the timing is right, and the patients have come from B Block, but I think we'd have heard of something this obviously violent. All the men I've treated so far have told me different reasons for their injuries, but none mentioned this new inmate."

"Wouldn't be surprised if they hadn't," says a new voice from the door.

"Stamford. Mike Stamford," the newcomer introduces himself. A heavyset, inquisitive-looking fellow, Stamford looks less the type to work in a penitentiary than the kind to keep an office job, round glasses, nice watch and all.

"Hi, yes, I'm John. Watson. I'm the new B Block doctor, just started this week. I don't think we've met before."

"Yeah, I do C Block's med stuff. Just down the hall. Heard about your problematic inmate, though, heard you'd gotten quite an influx of patients since he arrived. Read about his case in the news, real bizarre. You heard about it?"

John shakes his head. "Actually, no."

"Bit of a long story. You almost done with him?" Stamford gestures at John's patient.

"Yeah, just about finished here. Why?"

"I'll buy you lunch. It'll be your first-week-over-and-still-alive reward and I'll tell you about your inmate. And I'll bet you've got some interesting stories yourself, so…?"

John follows Stamford towards a bright red awning that proudly advertises "Speedy's Sandwich Bar and Café: Breakfast, Lunch, Pasta", just a couple streets down from HM Prison Baker at the outskirts of town.

"So you were just discharged this year, right? Couple months ago?" Stamford asks.

"Yeah." John tries to avoid talking about serving in the army with civilians, as it makes him feel more homesick than being away from his family ever has, but Stamford has been rambling on about his wife's ridiculous flower arrangements since they left Baker, and John would much rather change the subject.

"So what's Afghanistan like? Must be real stressful, all that danger right on your doorstep."

Stress? Sure. John can't count the number of times he's been told that he suffers from PTSD, but he knows it's not true. Which is why he jumped at the chance when he saw that job opening two weeks ago, at Baker Prison. Sitting in his tiny flat in front of his laptop, waiting for his army pension to dry up whilst he tried to find an occupation that suited him and his penchant for danger, was bloody ridiculous. He'd almost had to move in with Harry, who was absolutely intolerable even when she was sober.

Afghanistan really was spectacular, contrary to the common conception of the place. The nonstop heat was bearable, and the endless skies, free from light pollution at night, were dramatic and always dangerous, ready to rain fire and bullets and men down on Captain John Watson and his soldiers.

He misses the feeling of being on his toes all the time, of standing on the edge between life and death, constantly. He misses the Afghan breeze, rare as it was, and the stars in the Afghan sky, brighter than anything he could see in the big city.

He misses his comrades, still back in the Middle East, more than anything.

John snaps back to the present as Stamford repeats his question. The man's easygoing attitude is contagious, but John isn't quite prepared to share his time in the army with someone who is a relative stranger.

"So, when you walked into the B Block med ward earlier today, you said that you wouldn't be surprised if nobody had mentioned the new inmate – Owens, I think Molly said – in regards to the injuries. Why did you say that?"

Stamford lets the change in topic slide and answers John's question as they sit down in the cheerfully but sparsely decorated café.

"Your convict got himself suspected of a pretty nasty double murder back in December, before you got out of Afghanistan, if you haven't heard of the case. He used to work with the Met, if you can believe that, and apparently stopped quite a few baddies before he went rogue, but when the Yarders were interviewed, they said that he'd always been a bit unstable and that they only used his help when they were desperate.

"So they try him in court… You know, I can't remember what his name is. I read all the articles on the case, and I could never remember."

John looks up from the menu. "I thought Molly said his name was Owens."

"No, that's not right. It was a really unusual name, and for the life of me I can't recall what it was."

"No worries. Carry on," John shrugs.

Stamford nods. "Yeah, I'll remember later. So the man finds himself in court, and he refuses a lawyer, says he'll fight for himself. And he gets off the murder charge. Murder gets you a life sentence, you know, but this crazy, he gets himself found guilty of manslaughter instead – apparently he was attacked by the victims – and the judge only gives him fifteen years. Which is why he's in B Block now, instead of A Block with the real murderers, but a lot of the general public, myself included, was pretty sure that he wasn't provoked at all. But the victims' bodies showed the kind of bruises he described, and he was pretty beat up himself, so the jury believed him."

John wrinkles his brow. "That's quite a feat. But you don't think he was really attacked? Not provoked in any way?"

"Absolutely not. You should see the guy, he's definitely capable of murder."

"So, what you were saying earlier today. You wouldn't be surprised if nobody'd heard anything about him causing problems. Because he's scared his fellow inmates so much that they won't incriminate him? Or because he's got others to cause accidents for him?"

"I don't know. It's a real mystery," Stamford says, wiggling his eyebrows.

After John's eaten his fill of a rather straightforward sandwich, he thanks Mike Stamford for showing him to the café, Stamford still chatting with the waitress.

When he reaches the door, however, the other doctor spins around in revelation.

"Doctor Watson!"

John turns back to Stamford. "Yes?"

"Your convict. I just remembered his name. I told you it was weird, right?"

Stamford pushes himself out of his chair with a screech of metal against tile, and stands.

"Sherlock Holmes. His name was Sherlock Holmes."