For all of Sherlock's listening to the radio and flittering through newspapers, it's Irene who hears the news first. She's in the kitchen, listening to Radio Cumbria as she disinfects the cupboards after the latest mould experiments when the first word comes in.
"The first Cumbrian case of foot and mouth disease has been confirmed at Smalmstoon, near Langtoon," the voice crackles over the radio, and Irene lurches, almost falling off the stool she's standing on to reach the high cabinets. She steadies herself and steps down as the radio announcer continues on, "little is known at this time about how the disease reached Cumbria, though an investigation has been launched. Farmers are urged to monitor their livestock for signs of ill health and, if concerned, to contact their District Veterinary Manager as soon as possible. Once again, the symptoms to watch for are . . ."
Irene turns off the radio and takes a deep breath, her heart pounding through her chest, eyes burning. So it has come here. Well, it was bound to happen. They knew it was only a matter of time, so why does it feel so much like a death sentence? Smalmstown and Longtown are a long way away from Blackstoke, in spite of sharing a county. Just because it's up there doesn't mean it's going to come down here. Everything will be fine. It'll be fine.
But what will Sherlock say, to hear that her fears have been realised? Clearly she hasn't heard yet, when she hasn't rushed into the house and made straight for the television. For all of her worry and rapid reaction, she's held the belief that if it stayed out of Cumbria, then they would be safe, for how would the disease touch them? But now, now it's breached the outer defences, broken through the infantrymen so to speak. All they can do is wait and hope the barricades hold.
And Christ, but when did Irene become so poetic? It must be the result of being cooped up in here so long with Sherlock almost literally tearing her hair out. Every scrap of news has been analysed and turned over, whether it came from the television, the radio, the newspaper, the Ministry's own website, or Mycroft, whom Sherlock is finally talking to now that the crisis levels have increased. She's been chain smoking instead of eating, assembling charts to plot the spread of the disease instead of sleeping. The chemistry equipment on the table has been abandoned in favour of screeches from an untuned violin. An excellent opportunity for epidemiological research, she declared it, though epidemiology has never been something she's cared about.
Still, they should be safe. Sherlock reacted to the initial news of the outbreak so quickly that the odds of anything having gotten into the farm are incredibly slim. Their neighbours were surely laughing at them, though they didn't let any sign of it show, reacting with their own concern. Marianne Wilcox, married to Jim across the river, has been an excellent source of news.
"As soon as word got out," she said, in one hushed phonecall, "Jim spent a good day and a half drawin' home some ah last year's lambs o'er near Langtoon. He took t'market the rest of them. Best t'have a clearance, he said, before restrictions come in. Ah course, t'price was through t'floor 'cause e'erbody else thought t'same. Just as well, though. Couldn't do it now."
Privately, Irene thought as she listened to the woman carry on, it may have been wiser just to sell everything kept near Longtown. It wouldn't surprise her if the market proved a point of dissemination, and Mycroft has half-suggested that it may have been. All of those sheep, kept in one place, coming from God knows where and going God knows where else. Thousands and thousands of animals in close confines. A perfect breeding ground. Well, it's logical to be wary of the place, and any animal living near it.
Now that foot and mouth has reached Cumbria – and near Longtown, in fact! – the memory of that chat with Marianne pricks the back of Irene's mind, churning her stomach. Well, they expected this to happen, and if it stays in the vicinity of Longtown then they should be fine.
(She refuses to think of what could happen, if Jim Wilcox brought it home with him. Such thoughts have no place in a civilised kitchen.)
In the end, Irene doesn't have to break the news to Sherlock. She stays out of the house until after the evening milking, then steps in to get her violin before going out again. Irene finds her in the calving shed, sitting on a round bale of straw, eyes closed, playing an aching melody. Irene can feel the sweet sadness bleeding through, the melancholy that she's tried so hard to clamp down on. Here it is, laid out plain as day, the words she cannot speak.
It's a sharp stab in Irene's heart. The last time Sherlock kept her words so much to herself was in the wake of her uncle's death. The violin was her voice then too in long evenings and late nights. Her fingers still light on the bow, and what really has changed bar the crisis?
Careful not to disturb Sherlock, Irene throws the flask of tea she's brought onto the top of the bale and pulls herself up after it. Sherlock cracks an eye open and smiles slightly, continuing to play. The far side of the gate, a big white cow – Tungsten – is readying herself to calf. The way she stands nosing at the straw, tail outstretched and back arched makes Irene think it'll be several hours yet. No matter. Sherlock is going to wait it out. Tungsten won't be the first to calf to violin playing, and she won't be the last either.
The music stops, and Sherlock sighs, placing the violin and bow down on the sheet over the straw at her side.
"An hour will bring her most of the way," she whispers, voice hoarse and cracked with disuse and too many cigarettes. "The tips of the feet went back in just before you arrived." She accepts the plastic mug of tea that Irene hands her without question, sipping at it though the steam shows that it must be scalding still.
Tungsten settles into the straw, kneeling on her front legs and lowering herself, grunting as she rocks into a sitting position before lying over onto her side.
"So what do you plan to name this one?" The question is usual, anticipated, and yes, there the tips of the feet are, protruding from the cow, yellow and almost blending into the straw.
Sherlock does not call her on the repetition from so many other calvings, instead swallows, jaw tight. "I'm not certain if there's much point anymore."