It's into the afternoon on the twenty-eighth of October when Lorena gets back to Breckenridge. There was no rush on her, so she let Brenn take it easy on the ride from Goodness. The cold doesn't penetrate her heavy coat and there's been fresh snowfall since she left so that around her the world is white. She soaks it all in before town and people can ruin her mood. People are fine so long as they're not being obtuse, intentionally or otherwise. In fact, she'd go so far as to say she likes them, most of the time. But today she no more wants to deal with people than to ride a hundred and fifty miles to solve a case that she could have sorted by telegram. Though really, it had looked so promising when she left. On the whole, it's an evening for hot coffee and reading chemistry books by the open fire, so she absorbs the beauty of the world while she has no other choice. Though, perhaps, she'll have dinner at the restaurant with Alan and Kitty and they can all catch up on each other's news of the last few days. That sounds like a plan.
The town is reasonably quiet – children all in school and miners out in the fields, ranchers busy dealing with their own business. Little has changed in the last forty years, she often thinks, or at least, little has changed out here. Breckenridge looks like it could have come out of one of John's stories, only for the electricity and superior trains. It's disconcerting to think like that, and yet it's as true as anything.
She stables Brenn at the livery and shoulders her saddlebags. First thing first, a trip to the post office. Hopefully there won't be anything too taxing and she can go home. A sleep would be lovely right about now. Maybe she'll put that dinner off until tomorrow.
Sam greets her with a nod from behind the counter, a slightly downcast look in his eye that makes her wonder what's happened over the last few days. Surely she hasn't been out of town long enough for some catastrophe to strike. "Two letters, seven telegrams," he says, reaching under the counter and coming up with a neat bundle. "Letters are at the bottom."
"How's the family?" she asks, deciding to pass no remarks on the tension in his shoulders or the careful way he's watching her as she opens the top telegram.
"Oh, they're all right," he smiles. "Bonnie says you should call around for supper when you get a chance, and Terry's gotten a job out at the FA, so we're all happy enough."
Lorena nods. "That's good," she murmurs, looking down at the telegram.
It's from her mother, and it takes a few moments for it to make sense. Words and phrases jump out at her. Sherlock. Pneumonia. Come at once. The date says it arrived yesterday. A wave of nausea crashes in her stomach. Yesterday. Pneumonia. Come at once. If he wasn't too bad, then those last three words wouldn't be there, which means . . .
She looks up at Sam, feeling unsteady. "Tell Bonnie to hold supper. I have to go to New York." Forcing the immediate worry down, she takes a moment to compartmentalise, watching the shifting expressions on Sam's face – concern, and then resignation, because of course he'd already know the contents of the telegram. "I want you to send a wire, Sam."
He pulls the pencil from behind his ear and sets it to a slip of paper, nodding. "Fire away."
"To Irene Vernet, number twelve, Bow Street, New York. On my way. Signed L."
"I'll put it on your tab. Do what you gotta do."
She smiles in spite of herself. Sam is always a lifesaver of sorts, has been since she's known him. "Thanks, Sam." Stuffing the remaining telegrams and letters into her pocket, she turns and walks out, saddlebags hung on her shoulders still.
Her chest is hollow. Empty. What to do, now that it's come to this? Wait until tomorrow afternoon and catch the stage, which wouldn't get her to Cheyenne for about two days at the speed it goes, or take Brenn and ride hell out of him to Cheyenne, then catch the train? The latter is the more expedient option, undoubtedly, which is all the more essential considering the final caveat of "Come at once." The only problem, of course, is that Brenn is after carrying her a hundred and fifty miles, though the easy pace will have been in his favour. She could borrow a horse, but considering that the animal would be stabled in Cheyenne for an indefinite period of time, that may not be the wisest course of action.
It's as easy as that really. She goes to the livery and looks over Brenn, feeling his legs for any excess heat or tenderness which would give away an injury. He's sound, and it's enough to make up her mind.
"Have him ready to go in an hour and a half," she directs the hostler's boy, pulling two dollars out of her pocket and handing them over to him.
"Yes, Miss Vernet."
Next, the Marshal's office. Alan is leaning back behind his desk when she walks in, he and raises an eyebrow in concern. He swings his legs down from the desk and leans across it, eyes flicking over every aspect of her appearance.
"What's happened? I wasn't expecting you to come by until later."
More than ever, Lorena is grateful for Alan's perceptiveness. "I have to go to New York. Sherlock, well," she sighs, unable to bring herself to say the words because that would crystallise them, "I need to go to New York."
Alan frowns slightly, and nods. "Yes, of course. Take all of the time you need. I'll leave aside any interesting cases until you get back."
"Thanks, Alan." She turns to leave, but he stands and comes around the desk, enfolding her in a hug.
"It'll be all right," he murmurs, and she shakes her head against his chest, eyes stinging though she forces back the tears.
"No, it won't." Her voice is hoarse. "But I have to be there anyway."
Within an hour and a half, having knocked back a whisky at the saloon, said farewell to Kitty and packed the essentials, Lorena is riding out of town with Brenn. It's chaos, and she wants to vomit, but she has it to do, and so she'll go through with it, riding all night if she has to. Brenn is none too happy, but he settles into a rhythm before long, and off they trek across country, Lorena's mind a whirlwind of clinical facts and aching emotions. And there's nothing which can be done for it but to ride.
Tiredness drags at Irene's eyes, so she re-doubles her efforts against it. Someone has to stay awake with Sherlock to keep him propped up, and in case he wakes. And John needs to rest so it has to be her. Not that she minds, she just wishes that she didn't have to see him like this, wishes that he wasn't in such pain. The laudanum has helped him to sleep and for that she is terribly grateful.
She knows he won't be able to hear her, not through the haze of drugs, but she talks anyway, to keep herself awake and drown out his rattling breath.
"I would have done anything for you," she murmurs, one arm still wrapped around his waist, a hand carding through his curls. "I still would, you know. If you asked me to run away to Mexico with you in the morning I'd do it in a second." She sighs. "Though I suppose that won't be happening now anyway." Her heart twists painfully at the truth of it, but she refuses to let her voice break. "I'd re-do those two years tearing the network apart. This time it would be easier with the Baron. I'd know you were coming for me. I think a part of me refused to stand up to him before because . . . well, because I supposed I'd deserved it. I'd put you and John in danger. You've never seen it that way, I know. But it's true. I was leverage. I've always regretted that.
"I love you, Sherlock. I have for years, I've just never said it. I knew I needed you long before I knew I loved you. I went to Austin in the first place because New York felt so empty without you. You'd chide me for sentiment if you were awake. Maybe you'd be right. I mean, how can a city full of people be empty just because one person has gone away? But it was. Austin and everywhere beforehand was just a distraction. I couldn't admit that you were the cause. It seemed so weak a thought. And yet it was true. I was ridiculous back then." And she chuckles softly into the darkness of the room.
"But it was a long time before I knew I loved you. I think John realised even before I did. It was in the looks he'd give me while you were sick, after everything with Moran. I think some part of me must have known long before I knew that I knew. It doesn't make any sense when you hear it said aloud in words. It was the night you spent mostly in the saloon with me after you condemned Al Marion's cattle. You couldn't sleep, so you kept drinking and playing cards until John managed to force you into going home and getting some rest. You were strung so tight and nobody else could see it. Just didn't know what to look for, I suppose. And it just sort of hit me, as if realisations like that happen every day. Maybe they do for other people. It didn't feel ground-breaking. It didn't feel like a shock. It just felt as if a word I didn't know I'd been reaching for suddenly fit.
"Sometimes, I think I should have told you. Back then when there might have been a chance for us. Then I remember that it would never have worked. We were always better as friends. Anything more and we would have torn each other apart. But we weren't really friends either, were we? It was a fascination at first, then an obsession. And it seemed to by-pass friendship eventually but we were never lovers. Not in the traditional sense, at least. And nor were we friends, not entirely. We've always trusted each other, always gotten along. But John is your friend and I'm nameless. An uncertainty, maybe. I like that word, uncertainty. It expresses so much about us. Though maybe a distraction fits better. I was certainly a distraction. Then again, so were you. . ." She trails off, before another thought crosses her mind and she picks up again.
"Remember Austin in '91? I've always wondered what you told John about those nights that you spent in my rooms. Surely he was looking for you. I've always presumed that he thought you were looking into the case, even though you didn't need to. Not at that stage. Three wonderful nights. Those were some of the best nights I've ever had. I should have told you that sooner. Should have made a bigger deal of it instead of treating it so casually. Still, there was never hope for us. Not in that sense."
And on she goes, talking until she's hoarse and not even stopping then, nor when the tears spill down her cheeks against her will, though she knows he's still breathing. She hears him every time that she pauses for breath and it spurs her on harder. She murmurs of love and reminisces and Lorena. That girl he and John alike treat as a daughter. And Irene prays that she'll make it in time. And damn that infuriating stupid man. Why did he have to be so stubborn? Why couldn't he just let John help him, even if it's hopeless and she'd likely make the same choice as he has, in his position? Why can't he just live, dammit? And it's tears of frustration by dawn, but that's the man she fell in love with.
Several times through that night Sherlock surfaces towards consciousness without managing to break through. Irene's voice is soothing, an anchor, and he wonders vaguely where John is, deciding eventually that she's probably convinced him to get some sleep. She's always been very persuasive.
He only manages to pick out some of the things she says, particular words and phrases filtering through the haze of drugs and pain. Lorena, dear little Lorena, not so little now. He's always been so proud of her. He remembers a flash of teaching her the violin in between his cases and her time at school, her fingers always so careful as they held the bow. She was a good pupil, just easily distracted if he made the mistake of mentioning something else. Irene brings it all back now, reminding him of how Lorena used to argue with him about chemistry principles, and was correcting the books even before university. She could probably re-write the books now if she wanted, but academia could never be her life. She's always craved adventure too much. And no matter how brilliant she is, they'd never want her for it anyway. Privately, he's always thought that the academics were scared of her for her intelligence and her femininity alike. Idiots. They're the ones who need to learn.
His chest constricts unbearably and a series of coughs rip through him, leaving him gasping for breath and the taste of blood on his lips. Irene shushes him gently, smoothing back his hair and pressing a glass to his lips. The water soothes his throat and he recognises the bitter taste of laudanum.
He opens his eyes slowly, warily. The room is dark, lit only by a lamp on the bedside table. And Irene's face is creased with worry, but she cracks a slight smile for him anyway.
"Thank you," he whispers, and as he slips away again he finds himself wondering what he is thanking her for. The laudanum? The smile? The stories? Simply being here now? He isn't sure, but no matter, he reasons. She'll know what he means. She always does.