Hours pass. Hours of cleaning and dressing wounds which should have been stitched days ago, and can't be now because of the risk of sealing in infection. (There's infection already, in spite of Irene's best efforts, some of the cuts weeping.) There are burns, cuts, slashes left by a whip criss-crossed over Sherlock's chest and stomach, terribly close to tearing the flesh off delicate ribs.

There's little that John can do to make it any easier. It's too late to stitch any of the wounds, the burns which litter Sherlock's arms have blistered and burst, leaving them raw and exposed to the world. He splints the two broken fingers on Sherlock's right hand, a tidier version of the job that Irene has already done. (And Irene had done excellent work, considering the task which she was given, the magnitude of his injuries and the little materials that they had.)

Under the influence of morphine, Sherlock sleeps soundly, almost peacefully. It's a stark contrast to his thrashing when John was cleaning the gashes, carbolic acid burning delicate skin, yet necessary nonetheless. It helped that an acquaintance of Irene's (John is presuming, having never met the man before) came in not long after they started, and was more than capable of holding Sherlock down while John worked.

Afterwards, the three sit by the bedside, watching, though none know what for, and hoping more than a little bit that he'll be all right, though none are feeling too hopeful after the evening they've had. John pours a glass of whisky for Irene's friend – Billy - and another for himself. Irene herself declines the whisky, instead holding a cup of coffee close to her chest.

"So," John begins, unable to take his eyes off this apparition lying in bed, supposed to be long dead yet seemingly not, though halfway to the spirit world already in spite of that, "would either of you mind telling me exactly what happened?"

"Most of it, I think you'll prefer hearing from him," Irene says quietly, eyes cast down, unable to look at the doctor or at Sherlock. "Basically, he saved me from a desperate situation in New York about two years ago and we've been travelling together since, working on taking apart Moriarty's network. The last strand of it was based down here, on the border with New Mexico. We were working out how best to tackle it when Sherlock was captured. Billy and I managed to track them to the canyons near Socorro. There was a fight and we got him out, but by then he was like this."

"And when was that?" There's a simmering anger beneath John's voice which he forces down. There'll be time enough for anger and thrashing out the affair later, when everything is settled and he's had more time to think and to analyse it.

"'Bout four days ago, Doctor Watson," Billy says. "We managed to ge' a wagon, but lost it in the mountains, so we rode the rest of the way."

"And what made you think that you had to bring him this far? Surely there were other doctors in towns along the route."

Irene looks up, the mask slipping for a moment to reveal the very real pain and worry lurking beneath it. "He kept asking for you, when he was out of his head. And it was finished anyway so we thought that maybe it was best if we came all of the way. No other doctor could have done any more for him, not after we had to spend a night and a day hiding out there."

John nods, reaching out and checking Sherlock's pulse again, assuring himself that he's really here, anything so as not to feel so helpless. He doesn't speak. There are no words to sum up a situation such as this.


Irene's eyes are scratchy, trying to slip closed with the force of her tiredness while she sits there. It must be two weeks since she properly slept, and now certainly isn't the time for it, no matter how exhausted she feels, bone-weary and worn-out.

She lays her head down beside Sherlock's and sighs, willing herself to stay awake. It won't be the first night that she's passed like this since they got him out of that hell-hole. He would have died if they hadn't managed to intervene when they did, and as it is it's coming mighty close. She knows the wounds are infected in spite of their best efforts though John hasn't said anything about it. (He doesn't need to, it's etched in his face, the fear and worry combined to turn the faint lines he wears into crevasses.) In fact, John has said comparatively little on the subject since they arrived – his questions aside – and Irene suspects that he may be in shock at seeing his best friend – presumed dead – lying unconscious and injured in front of him. She was surprised enough that day that Sherlock found her in New York, and she'd known he was alive, never mind what Moriarty's men had said before they handed her over to the Baron. So what must it be like for John, his friend apparently resurrected? No wonder he keeps checking Sherlock's pulse. (Though, she reminds herself, that might be to ensure that the morphine hasn't had too much of an adverse effect on it. His pulse was slowed to almost nothing the night he overdosed in Portland. It doesn't matter that John wouldn't know about that affair.)

"How long did they have him for?" John asks quietly, eventually, breaking the silence in the room.

"About four days, at the most," Irene says softly, seeing that Wiggins is too dazed to say anything. Though why, she doesn't know. There was no laudanum left for his use, the last of it given to Sherlock when he came around the night they rescued him. She still hears the groans . . .

Irene shakes her head, pulling herself back to the present. "It would have been faster," she says, sliding her hand down the linens and entwining her fingers with Sherlock's. "It would have been much faster, but we needed to get entrenched and devise a plan first." Then a murmur, soft enough that John almost doesn't hear it, Irene's eyes on her interlaced fingers, Sherlock's so warm and still, the fever burning through his skin. "I wish it had been faster."