It's after dark when Mycroft appears, silhouetted in the doorway by lamplight. If it were any other time John would be amused to see him in chaps and an ordinary leather vest. As it is he can spare no smile, too hollowed out with his own worry to much care about such trivial things.
"How is he?" Mycroft asks quietly, eyes focused on Sherlock's limp form, and even his voice is oddly hesitant, devoid of its usual self-assured quality.
"He has a chance," John answers, voice equally quiet, "a fairly good chance if he can avoid any infection."
"And otherwise?"
"Who knows?"
Mycroft nods, seeming unsure in the doorway (and isn't that new?) then turns and leaves. John listens as his spurs rattle against the hardwood floor, and knows that he's gone to Sherlock's office, gone to focus on this case which is tearing everything apart and not just them. Not just the town and the range but lives too. (Not just Sherlock's either. This is affecting everyone.)
"Well," Irene murmurs, raising her head from beside Sherlock's, "that was abrupt."
The night wears on, and little changes. Mrs Hudson mothers John and Irene (and Mycroft), trying to convince them to go to bed, to take a break, but of course it fails. (She knew it would, but she has to keep up appearances too, and it helps to conceal some of her own worry.)
Mycroft returns to the room, eventually, having changed into a black broadcloth suit. He sits beside John and doesn't say a word, just watches the rise and fall of his brother's chest, the pained shifting of his wounded shoulder and for a moment it seems Sherlock is five again, so dreadfully ill with pneumonia. It's so long ago, and so much has changed both for better and for worse that Mycroft finds it difficult to imagine now that they were ever as close as they were then.
He forces the memories away and focuses instead on his brother as he is now, pallid and unconscious, delirious when he does wake any little bit. It's not exactly a comforting sight, but he's better off entrenching himself in the present and the specifics of the current situation than dwelling on the past.
With a little prompting, John and Irene explain what happened, how Sherlock rode into town out of his mind, how he was alone out on the trail by his own choice, having ordered John to stay home, how they each suspect that it's related to the foot and mouth.
At the mention of that plague another wave of nausea crashes over Mycroft, though he doesn't show it. If he's honest with himself he can admit that he'd suspected as much, but to hear his own fears echoed back sheds new light on the affair.
"It's a distinct possibility," he murmurs. "Had he mentioned any theory to either of you?" Though he loathes the idea, he knows the esteem his brother has for Irene, and knows that with their shared history he's almost as likely to mention something to her than to John, perhaps even more so, with Maine taken into account.
To Mycroft's dismay, both of them shake their heads. "Not a word," both say at the same time, a chorus which makes him wonder all the more.
"And you're not keeping something to yourself on the subject, are you, Mycroft?" Irene's crystal eyes bore into him, and if he were a lesser man he would shift under that gaze. (Years of being at the receiving end of Sherlock's shrewd glares have served him well.)
"If I thought I knew how to stop this, I would have done it by now." His voice is a little harder than he'd intended it to be, and he takes a breath to settle some of the tension from his body.
"Why don't you just let it run its course?" John puts in. "According to Sherlock they often do that in Europe." It's an obvious attempt to distract them all from Sherlock's condition, but Mycroft finds himself rising to the bait nonetheless.
"Yes, and it's cost them millions as it is, or did he neglect to mention that?"
He knows that he doesn't imagine the glimmer that comes into John's eyes at his words. "Better to have the cattle anyway, even without the millions. At least with the cattle you have a chance of making the millions back. Right now they're losing both cattle and money. Tell me how that's a preferable alternative."
"It's not as simple as that, John. Immunity's only temporary with a thing like this. Get it now, recover from it, and it will be back in six months if it isn't stamped out. Not to mention that a recovered animal is still a carrier for months afterwards. All we can do is what we're already doing."
The firm set of John's jaw shows that he still doesn't believe that mass slaughter is the right thing to do, but he doesn't say anything, probably mindful in case Sherlock can hear them. The thing is, Mycroft himself knows that what's happening out on the range isn't enough and isn't right. The images that he saw as he rode cross-country from Prescott to San Pedro convinced him of that more than anything, even the barely-concealed nervousness in Sherlock's telegrams.
Thing is, he can also see no other way of dealing with this thing.
(And, God, but he needs a smoke right now.)
Sherlock knows that he should be in pain, seems to vaguely re-call something to do with burning from before. And his left shoulder does feel strange, heavy, almost disembodied. But instead of pain, there's an oddly comforting buzzing in his skull, reminiscent of a morphine binge. Could it be morphine? He can't seem to remember that. Doubtful, though, because if John thought that he was using morphine again then there'd be hell to pay. And that's not a risk he's willing to take these days simply for the pleasure of numbness.
(Numbness is overrated anyway, so he learned in his time away. Though sometimes . . . perhaps sometimes it's acceptable.)
Thinking about it, he finds that he's too tired to much care. Too tired, in fact, to do much of anything except lie here in this bed with Irene holding his hand. (What? Hold up. What's Irene doing here, because those are most definitely her fingers intertwined with his? And is that John holding his other hand? And why can he hear Mycroft droning in that infernal way he has? Oh, it's all far too confusing, especially when he can't make out any of the words.)
His eyes flicker open. (Or did he open them? The question of intent is a little blurred right now, as is his vision. It seems his initial synopsis as to the presence of John and Irene and even Mycroft was correct, though it appears he missed Lestrade leaning against the doorframe. Always something.)
It seems John says something, but Sherlock's mind is still too fuzzy to understand him. So he shakes his head instead of answering and lets his eyes slip shut, swallowing against the dryness in his throat. Sleep is all he wants now, anyway.
John breathes a sigh of relief when Sherlock passes out again, the confusion in those eyes having been more than he could bear. He strokes back a stray curl, and checks Sherlock's pulse to reassure himself more than anything. It's too soon for any more morphine, so he leans back in his chair, turning to Mycroft again.
"But why would they want to resort to something as ridiculous as that?" He asks, picking up where Sherlock had interrupted. (It was as if he'd heard the conversation, and by waking up was registering his displeasure with the mere idea of what Mycroft had been talking about.)
"They think it would act as a firebreak, restricting the outbreak to this locality," the elder Holmes says, and the curl of his lip shows that he doesn't like the idea any more than John does. "I managed to talk them out of it for now, but there's every chance that they'll consider such measures if the situation gets any worse."
"There's no point shooting healthy livestock, though." The displeasure in Greg's voice is nowhere near as subtle as Mycroft's. "I mean, sure, they're probably shooting plenty of healthy cattle now, but at least they're on infected ranches. If there's no sign of infection on the ranch, then it's just needless."
"So I've explained to them. But they insist on considering it as a possibility." A silence descends the room, before Mycroft stands. "I suppose I should pay a visit on Frank Canton and see how things are on the ground. I trust you'll take good care of my brother, John."
He sweeps out and Greg makes a face. "Well, isn't he a concerned brother."
As noon rolls around, the low fever which has haunted Sherlock since he collapsed in the dirt seems to fade, slowly easing away, to be replaced with more pained shifting of his injured shoulder and mumbled syllables. If John is relieved, he doesn't show it, and Irene refuses to let her guard down and get her hopes up that it's a good sign. (It is. She knows deep down that it is. But she's seen too many men die in spite of initial improvements to allow herself to feel relieved, and she knows John has too.) Instead, both of them reminisce on old times, in case Sherlock can hear any of what they're saying. They carefully avoid mentioning foot and mouth, though they both wonder about what Mycroft will find. Time and again the idea of a contiguous cull returns to their minds, and they push it away without mentioning it, hoping that things don't come to that.
When lunch is ready, Mrs Hudson forces them to eat, taking up their vigil as they do so. They linger over coffee longer than they need to, allowing themselves to relax a little in the kitchen though they're still on edge.
The illusion of peace is shattered when a knock comes to the front door, and John sighs, his back creaking as he raises himself out of his chair to go answer it. When Irene moves to get up too, he gestures for her to sit back down. Anyone any way expected to show up wouldn't knock, and Mycroft won't be back for hours yet.
John opens the door to find Anderson waiting, twisting his hat in his hand. "Phillip. How can I help you?" John asks, glancing him over to ensure that there's no fresh blood on his clothes.
Anderson opens one of the hands holding his hat to reveal a bullet casing. "I rode out along the trail Sherlock came in on to see if I could find anything," he says, "and turned up this a fair ways back. It's fresh, but it's all I could find. Looks like the shot came from those rocks about a quarter mile from the Bar Seventeen's line shack. I talked to some of the ranch hands but they say the shack was empty that night. Thought he might want to have a look at it himself when he's feeling up to it."
In spite of the worry for Sherlock and all of the concerns on his mind, John smiles, just slightly. "Yeah, I'll keep it for him."
"How is he?"
"Bit better than he was yesterday, but still out of it. The wound looks good so far, so that's something at least."
Anderson nods, then turns to leave, before reaching a hand into his pocket. "Almost forgot. I've a telegram for Sherlock from Socorro. You might as well have it."
"Oh. Thanks, Phillip."
Anderson smiles slightly before walking away, and John lets the door swing shut behind him as he opens the telegram.
"What is it, John?" Irene asks, watching the colour drain from his face.
"This certainly counts as the situation getting worse," he murmurs.
"What does?" There's a wariness to her voice that he knows he doesn't imagine. It reminds him of Mycroft's words about culling out uninfected ranches. A firebreak. Restricting the outbreak.
He looks up at her. "They've a suspected case in New Mexico."
