She still can't believe that he's here, that he managed to find her. It feels surreal, like a dream or the influence of very good cocaine. (And the Baron had been fond of very good cocaine, though she was only allowed it once.) He's said very little since getting her out, instead spending the night poring over plans and notes, refusing to sleep though she offered to give him the one bed in the room. She'd forgotten that he does that.

She lies in bed now that morning has come, pretending to still be asleep, and instead watches him pace, back and forth across the small room. He's changed in the two months since she saw him in San Pedro, hair grown longer and a wildness to his eyes that wasn't there before. Not to mention the healing cut on his cheek, and his delicacy with his left arm. He hasn't said yet how he got all banged up, or where the Doctor is, and she doubts if he's going to say too much on the subject should she ask him.

"I know you're awake, Miss Adler," he says, stopping at the window and looking out across the city. "Your breathing pattern changed some time ago. Don't try to fool me."

"What brings you here?" she asks, giving up the pretence and sitting up in the bed, conscious of her bruises though he doesn't turn around.

"I thought that was clear enough. The Baron had to be removed."

He's lying. She can read it in him, in the tenseness of his shoulders and how straight he stands. But she doesn't correct him on it, instead leaves it aside for another time.

"So what now, Mister Holmes?"

He doesn't answer, but she didn't really think that he would.

It's a week before Sherlock says anything of importance to her, and Irene finds herself wondering regularly why it is that he's waiting around so long without taking any sort of action. It's against his nature to do nothing and let his mind stagnate, but he does it anyway. And so they stay in that dingy one-bed room, him sleeping in a chair when he does sleep, no matter how many times she offers to switch places with him.

"We're leaving for Richmond tomorrow," he opens without preamble one evening, sitting on the edge of the bed and going through a sheaf of papers. "There's a train that will take us there. I considered a stage. Train's faster though, and more reliable. And we need to get out of here fast."

She stares at him for a long moment, before sitting beside him on the bed. "Why do we need to move fast?"

"They've realised that the Baron is dead. Which means they've also realised that you're free, and so they'll be coming after you. Richmond, on the other hand, is relatively safe and they won't expect you to go anywhere other than back to Arizona."

"Who are they?" she asks, though she strongly suspects that she knows who they are. Though why they would chase her when they'd decisively washed their hands of her by giving her over to the Baron is still a mystery.

He swallows and looks her in the eye, his flashing dangerously for a moment. "Moriarty's men. They might suspect my involvement, but I doubt it. Mostly, they're focussed on the last orders they were given, which as far as I've been able to ascertain amount to exterminating you should you try to escape. With Moriarty's death –"

"Jim's dead?" The words are sudden, unexpected, and she wonders where they came from. It's not a surprise, not really. She's been expecting this for quite some time. But it's a shock, a strange jolt in her stomach to hear that it has finally come to pass, the gun pointing at her head knocked away.

"I thought you might have heard by now." Sherlock's voice is quiet, the words a murmuration. He shakes himself and looks away. "He committed suicide just over a month ago. Bullet to the head. Quick and easy. His network has survived so far, at least most of it has. With the Baron gone too, that will help to weaken things. But there's still a lot of work to be done."

"I'd like to help, if I could."

He purses his lips in distaste. "You're not getting involved in this. It's not your work."

For Irene, it is an effort to remain calm in the face of his foolishness and refusal to see sense. "It's not yours either. I can go undercover in ways that you can't. We can work together on this and speed the process up. And you need someone to watch your back considering that you left your Doctor behind. How can I go back there knowing that you're out here fighting that spider's web? You know I can't do that. So I'm staying whether, you like it or not."

The colour drains from Sherlock's face at the reference to John, and Irene takes a small amount of guilty pleasure in that. And she hopes that the finality in her voice filters through to his brain.

"I suppose I don't have much of a choice, do I?" And his voice is resigned, a trace of annoyance making her smile. That's the Sherlock Holmes she knows, impatient yet generally reasonable, so long as you supply him with all of the relevant facts.

"Well. You could pull out tonight and leave me behind. But you won't do that."

"What makes you so sure that I won't do that?"

"You wouldn't have come all of this way to save me if you were just going to abandon me. It's not your style, Mister Holmes."