The night is quiet, miners busy at their claims, ranchers gone with cattle to Prescott in search of a railhead. Only gamblers and those passing through left in town and that's more than enough for trouble, should there be any. John doubts that there will, the night doesn't have that quality to it. The fire in the grate warms the living room, burning away the vestiges of cold that settle when the sun goes down, even this far south.
Ordinarily, John would be in the saloon, gambling and drinking beer, in search of company though not too focussed on getting it. Nights like those serve as a distraction for him more than anything else. But this is a whisky night, a night for contemplation and musing, solitary comfort. Being around people can only do so much with these affairs. In truth, he doesn't think of much of anything, simply watches the fire, keeps it fed, and lets his mind wander, settling on subjects at will. It doesn't fill the hollowness, doesn't take the edge off, but he knows he isn't up to much tonight.
He sighs, and sinks deeper into his chair, the peace of the evening a change from the last few nights he's had with barroom brawls and riding accidents. Mike was never particularly capable at dealing with that sort of emergency, much more comfortable with illness than injury, and Molly is more than capable with births (as well as deaths, an interesting contrast of hers). Between the three of them, things tend to work out pretty well in the town. And so for John tonight is – more than likely – a welcome night of rest.
He could read. A pile of journals for his perusal have gathered on the desk in his office, left aside for another time when he feels more up to it. He could write up his notes, organise the files better. None of that appears to him, his deep chair far too comfortable, anything resembling work unappealing. Another swallow of whisky, and if he concentrates just so he can feel it seeping through his blood, warming him from the inside, fumes seeming to carry into his chest.
The quiet of the evening is shattered by a knock to the door. Mrs Hudson is away, visiting her sister in Corpus Christi, so it falls to John to deal with these unexpected guests. (It would likely fall to him anyway, considering that nobody usually visits this late unless there's some need for his experience, but it certainly doesn't feel like that to him in this moment.) Groaning, he sets the whisky glass down, stretching as he stands, back cracking.
John crosses the room, one step at a time, each muscle loosening out as he walks. Reaching the door, he looks out the peephole but it's too dark to see. He's of half a mind to return to his chair. Maybe it was only some drunken fools trying to catch him out. If it were an emergency, surely they would have knocked again. He almost manages to convince himself of that, but decides to open the door anyway and to hell with them.
He's greeted by the sight of two men on the doorstep, one supporting the other, faces in darkness though the taller of the two is clearly only semi-conscious, if even that much. John steps back and they stumble in, though really one carries the other.
"What happened?" John asks, eyes passing over the two of them. Blood has seeped through the bandages wrapped around the taller man's torso, peeking out from under his shirt. But the blood is dry, so these aren't new wounds. His heart sinks to see them, feeling the chance of successfully treating him diminish by the moment. The man's wrists are bandaged too, and there are scratches littering his face.
"It's a long story, Doctor Watson." A wave of nausea washes over John at that voice, that undeniably female voice (unheard around these parts for over two years), and he looks now at the shorter of the two, a woman in trousers and a man's shirt which is clearly too big for her, hence his initial impression of her being a man. Even with the hat shading her face, he sees the sparkle of those eyes, the defined facial features standing out with the light of the room.
"Irene?"
"We have time for the reminiscing later, don't you think?" The worry, a half-hidden undercurrent, in her voice jolts John back to the present, to the reality of what is in front of him.
"Yes. Yes, of course. Let me help you. My consulting room is just down the hall." He wraps his arm around the man's waist, taking most of his weight so Irene doesn't have to carry it. (Though, in fairness, there isn't much weight to bear. The man is little more than skin and bone as it is.) "Would you mind telling me at least who I'm treating?"
"Oh, I think you know that. You just haven't realised it yet."
John pushes that riddle out of his mind, guiding Irene down the hall. The bed that John keeps in his consulting room for emergency surgery is thankfully tidy for once.
The man groans, trying to pull away. "No. No more." His voice is rough, low and raw, and stirs an ache in John's chest with its familiarity.
They lay him down on the bed, and John takes his hat off, all the better to see the face, though he's not certain if he really wants to or not (of course he wants to. But that voice's owner is two years dead so how can he be in this room now?). "Sherlock. Oh, God." It's all he can do not to vomit, sweat breaking out across his forehead, and eyes unable to look away from that face creased with pain, trying futilely to find the deception which he knows must be there. It has to be there. "He died out there how –"
Irene grabs John's arms, forcing him at last to tear his gaze away from Sherlock, eyes starry with horror and fear. "No. He's not dead. And he's not going to die now, not after all I did to bring him back here."
"But how?"
"That doesn't matter right now, does it?"