A/N: The final instalment, bridging the gap between Riding Job and To Ride the Glory Trail Again. To Ride the Glory Trail Again is now available from my profile page, and yes, Lorena appears in it.

"I hope you realise that this is completely and utterly your fault," John grumbles, slipping his key into the lock and turning it. "Take the left, I'll deal with the right. If I'd dealt with the right, he wouldn't have gotten you into a headlock and I wouldn't have gone into the Hudson." He's still tinkering with the lock, his fingers cold and numb. A pool of water has gathered at their feet. "And if I hadn't into the Hudson, then you wouldn't have sprained your wrist and would be able to open the bloody door."

Sherlock sighs, wearing such a put-upon look that John would dearly love to hit him, and would have too if the lock hadn't clicked open at that moment. "Yes, John. I know. Next time we'll do things differently. You have now thoroughly reiterated what an idiot I am. The information has been logged."

"Well it bloody well better have. Now, upstairs, change into dry clothes and I'll see to your wrist then."

"What happened to you two? You both look like drowned rats." Irene's voice echoes around the hall, and they both jump, heads whipping around to see her standing in the doorway of the back room. Her face is pale, washed out, grey hair hanging limply past her shoulders.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asks, moving over to her though he drips dirty river water all over the floor. "Is it Lorena? What's happened?"

She puts her hands up and he stops. "Yes, it's Lorena. No, it's not an emergency. Go up and dry off. I'll put on a fire. It can wait until then."

John nods. "All right. We won't be long. Come on, Sherlock." He tugs at Sherlock's elbow and the pair of them traipse upstairs, leaving a trail of water in their wake. Irene sighs and slips back into the back room. The fireplace is cleaned out and neat, and though it takes a few minutes – the matches are damp – she manages to get a fire started before Sherlock and John come back downstairs.

After that, she settles back down onto the sofa and it isn't too long until she hears them clattering down again. John's snowy hair is stuck up at odd angles from the drying, and Sherlock's curls still hang damp around his ears. His wrist is swelling, and before she begins to tell them her news she waits for John to bind it for him.

"Well, Irene," Sherlock says eventually, settling into his chair, bandaged wrist held close to his chest, "what has your daughter done now?" His joviality is forced – he's worried because she's worried and he doesn't even know why that is yet. John frowns and pours him a glass of whisky which he gratefully accepts with his good hand.

"She's moving to Wyoming." The words are blunt, without any preamble, because Irene has no idea how to make it easier to say or hear. They roll heavy off her tongue, and tears prick her eyes again, as they did when Lorena told her her plans hardly an hour ago. The empty whisky glass that John was about to fill slips from his hands and he curses as he bends to pick it up, almost getting sprayed with the mouthful of whisky that Sherlock chokes on.

"What? Why would she do that?" John's voice is faint, almost drowned out by Sherlock's continued coughing. "Take another mouthful, it'll settle you."

Sherlock shakes his head. "I'm fine." His voice is hoarse.

"She plans to work as detective out there," Irene goes on, shooting a glance at Sherlock whose face has paled. "Apparently Mycroft already knows and has been helping her out with contacts. I can't say I'm pleased about it."

"Well," John murmurs, dropping heavy onto the sofa beside Irene. "Well."

Sherlock still doesn't say anything, simply staring at Irene as if stunned.

"I've told her that I'll help her however I can." Irene adds, fingers fiddling at the sleeve of her dress.

"I don't see what else we can do. We'd hardly manage to talk her out of it." John is taking it better than she'd thought he would. If anything, she'd thought he'd be the one to go into a state of shock out of worry for Lorena's life choices, and that Sherlock would rejoice. Apparently not.

Hardly does the thought cross Irene's mind, when she hears the front door bang shut, and the distinctive tread of Lorena's footsteps in the hall. It snaps Sherlock out of his reverie, and he jumps to his feet.

"I'm going for a walk," he declares and leaves. The door bangs behind him as Lorena steps into the back room.

"He didn't take it well then, did he?" she sighs, sounding dispirited as she walks over to the sofa.

"Don't worry about him. He'll come round," John assures her.

Hours pass. Hours of waiting and wondering when exactly would Sherlock come back. With him it could take a while once he gets a notion in his head. Irene leaves eventually, still not wholly reconciled to the idea of her daughter going to Wyoming, never mind the bit about her working as a detective. She could protest, she supposes, say it's not safe for a young girl. But Lorena isn't a young girl anymore – she's twenty-one and Irene herself was a lot younger than that when she left home.

Lorena stays with John, and they sit in by the fire, talking. Ever since she was a little girl, she's wanted to grow up and become a detective – well, apart from a brief spell when she was thirteen and thought medicine might lie in her future – and now she has the chance. She's grateful for Mycroft's help, though he did react badly when she first went to him a few months ago with her plans, and also grateful for both her mother's resigned support and John's offer of help. But it's Sherlock's opinion that, strangely, matters the most. She's always looked up to him, and if he doesn't think it's a good idea – and he'd be the man to know – then maybe, just maybe, she should reconsider.

It's getting dark outside when he does come back, the city's street lamps slowly flickering on. He steps into the back room, tired and worn, his wrist clearly troubling him. But when his eyes meet Lorena's, he smiles, just slightly.

John looks between the two of them and sighs, nodding to himself. "I'll go and make some coffee." It's an excuse, and Sherlock and Lorena alike know it though neither will point it out to him. Hell, he probably knows that they know. He leaves and they hear him go into the kitchen. Sherlock moves over to the sofa and sits beside Lorena, not looking at her, instead seeming very interested in the fire.

He's studying her out of the side of his eye, his mind still whirling though it's settled compared to what it was earlier. Privately, he's wondering when she grew up. Even her hair has changed from what it was, darkening into black from the blonde of her childhood. Those days are far behind her now, and he sighs. John's right. They are – as he so often bemoans – getting old.

"I never wanted this life for you," Sherlock murmurs at last. "I never even thought you'd consider it. To be honest, I can't recommend becoming a consulting detective, not for you. It's difficult, and all it's given me is an impressive collection of scars. I don't want you to have to go through that as well, and nor does your mother or John or even Mycroft. You're too important to us all for us to want to see you in danger like that, and we've always done everything in our power to ensure that you wouldn't be. Yet," he looks at her now, and she's certain that she's never seen his eyes so serious, though he breaks it with another slight smile, "I am touched that you would consider it. And you certainly have plenty of capability in the area of observation and deduction. And while I'm not pleased with your choice, I will do everything that I can to help you and support you."

Tears burn Lorena's eyes, though she manages to work up a smile for him. "You never could have settled to anything else anyway and you know that. And I'm not certain if there's anything else that I could bring myself to do. I've never been cut out to be governess or anything like what all the other girls have in mind. I've always wanted to do what you do." She hugs him, and he's briefly taken aback before he tentatively wraps his arms around her. "I promise I'll write all of the time. And send lots of telegrams about cases, and I'll even visit every now and then. Not to mention it'll give you and John an excuse to go west again." She knows that they both get a longing, every now and then, to be back out there again, though they did lose their enthusiasm for it somewhat after Marshal Lestrade got killed. She knows that too, but there's no need to state the obvious. "And if I don't like it, I'll come back and go to the Women's Medical College." That should placate him.

"You just be careful out there, all right? It's not the same as it used to be, but your mother won't want to get any telegram saying that you've gotten yourself shot." His voice is hoarse, and if Lorena isn't mistaken, it's tears that have left him hoarse. She hugs him tighter to hide her own tears. Of course he'll support her. She was foolish to think otherwise, he just needs a little time. It's to be expected. "I'll gather some of my old notes together for you. You might need them."

"I'm sure I will. Thank you, Sherlock."

"It's my pleasure, Lorena." He presses a kiss to her hair and hastily wipes his eyes. "Now. John ought to have that coffee done. It's been an age since he went for it."