2001 is drawing to a close, and though freedom is within their grasp, the spectre of foot and mouth still looms large. Outwardly, it appears as if the countryside is returning to normal. The burial pits are grown over, the pyres long since disappeared. Like any war, there is jubilation but the recovery will take a long time. Driving through Cumbria as a civilian, Joanne is struck by the change, by the smiling faces and easy voices she meets. Though the scars linger for many, and she sees the ghosts of flames in their eyes.

It's snowing when she arrives in Blackstoke. The fat flakes drift listlessly towards the ground, sparkling in the street lights. It's quiet, but not that hollow quiet that was so marked a few months ago. This is contentment.

She'll never understand what drew her back here, just that she woke one morning with the urge to come back to Cumbria. And when she arrived, Blackstoke was like a magnet, pulling her in.

There's a gathering of people outside the village hall. The lights are bright and the car park overflowing. The big sign outside declares that there's a fundraiser on for "The Memorial." Memorial? What's that in aid of?

And then it crystallises in Joanne's mind. A memorial for what she helped to destroy, for what she organised onto the pyres and into pits. The cattle, the goats, the pigs and the sheep. It would be wrong of her to attend, when she contributed so much to what they're memorialising.

Her eyes pass over the events taking place. A raffle. A cake sale. A visit from Santa Claus earlier in the day which has ended. A photography exhibition. A display model of the planned memorial.

A violin performance by Sherlock Holmes.

Joanne's heart thuds painfully. Sherlock. So she's all right then, and she's back from London. And what about Irene? Well, she's probably here too. And Wilcox and Madox and Connolly whom she sat drinking with so many months ago. She tore their worlds apart, and now they're trying to remember what they lost.

She owes it to them to contribute something towards this memorial. It's only right.

Fifteen pounds entry fee for an adult. She has that much anyway.

Parking her car, she checks herself in the mirror. She looks surprisingly put together for someone after driving from Penrith, and Carlisle before that. She re-brushes her hair, and adds just a touch of lipstick. Then she pulls her coat off the passenger seat and folds herself into it as she steps out, locking the car behind her.

It's James Wilcox who meets her at the door, and whom she pays. (It takes a moment for him to recognise her in civilian clothes, but when he does, he smiles, and refuses to take her money, No need for you to pay in, Captain, you were one of us, but she insists and he eventually relents.)

"Didn't expect t'see you back, Captain," he says, handing her back her fiver change. "You're plenty welcome. And you're in luck, too. Things are only startin' up for t'evenin' round. Sherlock will be on in a few minutes, and you'll have plenty of time to look at the photos and drawings after. Go right through and Eddie will find you a good seat."

"Thank you," she replies, and smiles back at him, "but I think I'll just stand at the back."

Wilcox shrugs. "Suit yourself. I hope you enjoy't anyway."

She's not sure if she will or not, so she smiles at him and slips on inside, waving off a young man whom she presumes is Eddie and taking a seat in the very last row. At the front of a hall there's a stage, the curtains drawn across to hide anyone behind it. The room is about three quarters filled, a hubbub of chatting voices buzzing the atmosphere. Waiting for her on the seat is a programme, consisting of a folded sheet. For want of something to do, and not recognising the people she's surrounded by, she searches it for familiar names.

Violin performance by S. Holmes. Well yes, she knows that,

Photographs kindly displayed by I. Adler, M. Wilcox, M. Hudson, and a number of others she doesn't recognise. Auction of selected photographs to be held tomorrow, 22 December.

Baked goods generously supplied by M. Hudson, M. Wilcox, A. Connolly, T. Madox and several more.

Memorial designed by J. Madox.

Model of memorial carved by P. Connolly.

Fundraiser organised by FMD Memorial Group.

Many thanks to those involved, those in attendance, and our sponsors. And underneath that is a list of sponsors, including several B&Bs, pubs, the grocery shop, a veterinary practice, and a host of others.

Joanne is impressed by the community spirit shown. She didn't quite think it would be anything like this.

The place is full now, every seat occupied and some standing along the walls. The lights dim, and out steps a man in front of the curtains across the stage.

She doesn't recognise him, but that doesn't matter. He merely introduces Sherlock Holmes, and her heart thumps painfully at the name. It's well over eight months since that day they kissed in the milking parlour, and her lips still buzz with the memory, strange as it is. In a moment's time she's going to see her again and it's all too much.

She should just leave now, slip out while everyone else is distracted. Nobody even knows she's here except that Wilcox.

He'll tell people, though. He'll notice her missing and look for her. It would be nice to escape, but she has to stay.

The curtains pull back, their red velvet giving way and there she is, Sherlock Holmes, decked out in a black three-piece suit and white shirt, her curls grown shoulder-length and slicked back. In her hands are the violin and bow, and standing in front separating her from the audience is the violin stand.

With a single nod the only fanfare, Sherlock commences to play.

It's Christmas carols first, Joanne realises, the fact settling on her memory belatedly when 'Silent Night' gives way to 'Away in a Manger'. 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen'. 'Oh Holy Night'. 'King Wenceslas'. And then it shifts, and for a moment Joanne could be back reading novels in her grandfather's house, Paganini playing on the radio.

Of course Sherlock can play Paganini.

She goes through several of his pieces, the bow flashing across the strings, and Sherlock looking as if she is possessed by the Devil himself as she plays, eyes focused on the sheet music though she hardly needs it.

They said that about the Devil with Paganini too. Her grandfather said that they were jealous that they couldn't play as fast and well as him.

Sherlock stops after Paganini, and changes the sheet music. She gives the slightest nod at the front row, then tilts her head back, raises bow to strings and-

The notes that follow are like an icy dagger in Joanne's gut. Chilling, lingering, spreading through her so that she seems to feel them in her chest and the tips of her fingers. She's heard these ones before. But they were not played by carollers or on her grandfather's old records or a stage before a rapt audience. They were played into the wind, on hay bales with hair blown back and smoke billowing in the distance, diggers building a pyre.

These are foot and mouth compositions. And they burn.

It's a standing ovation when Sherlock takes her bow at the end. In the midst of the crowd it would be so easy for Joanne to escape, but instead she finds herself swept along into another room. This one is well lit, with tables along the walls lined with cakes and tea. Against the far wall are two massive display boards, with framed photos hanging on them. And on a table in the centre of the room is a sculpted model - of what Joanne can't make out from her position close to the door. The crowd is such that she can't get as far as the model, so she settles for having a cup of tea for the moment.

"Do you want sugar, dear?" The kindly tea-lady, at a guess in her sixties, asks as she pours the tea into a disposable mug.

"No, thanks." And Joanne offers a smile. "Just milk, please."

The lady adds the milk to the tea. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"No, I'm just -" Just what? Not a tourist. She didn't come to see the sights. She doesn't rightly know why she's here just that it seemed like a good idea at the time. "Just passing through," she finishes lamely.

"Well you're more than welcome, dear. At least you didn't come in the spring, pyres everywhere. It was a disgrace."

"What d'you mean she didn't come in the spring, Martha?" Wilcox's voice booms through the crowd and Joanne's stomach drops. Why did he have to appear and draw attention to her? "Captain Watson was here right along with us! No better woman!"

"Captain -" The lady's hand flies to her mouth. "You're the famous Captain Watson? My dear, you should have said so. I'd hug you if I could get out from behind this table. What you did was beyond belief. You know, Mister Wilcox here was just saying this morning that if it weren't for you and the likes of you we'd be still fighting it around here."

Joanne looks up at Wilcox, who blushes beet red. "I wasn't t'only one singin' her praises, Mrs Hudson. You know Pat was agreein' with every word I said. And Sherlock didn't exactly argue."

"Sherlock's performance was marvellous tonight. Did you see it, Captain? She's been practicing for months. Every time I've visited them since they got back from France there's been music flowing through that house. I worried for a time that she might never play again, not after that. But she's marvellous, really, and she tries so hard though she pretends not too. Poor girl, she hasn't had it easy, you know."

Wilcox breaks in, agreeing with her, and with the gathering crowd around the tea tables Joanne makes a quick getaway. In a moment, she finds herself by the sculpture. It's wooden, whittled out of a big block that must have taken some time. The detail gone into it is breathtaking. There's a cow, a sheep, a pig, and a goat. The hair on each stands out strand by strand, the sheep's barbed wool intricately crafted. Even the veins on the cow's udder seem to pop beneath the gaze.

"It's outstanding," she breathes, without realising it, and then there's a laugh from beside her.

"Why thank you, Captain." Patrick Connolly grins at her. "I only finished it yesterday. Would have had it done a lot faster if Joe had given me the design." He nods towards the hanging illustration behind, showing the four animals just as Connolly carved them. "Hopefully, we'll have the money raised by spring to get to work on sculpting the damn thing. We have a man who'll do it out in bronze. Sherlock Holmes put us in touch with him. And we'll position it in the green. Just something nice."

"I'm sure it'll look well."

"You'll have to come back and see it, Captain."

Eventually she manages to noodle away from him and gets as far as the photograph display. Most of them are landscape shots, showing Cumbria in the summer and Cumbria in the snow and Cumbria in the autumn with the trees shifting to gold, and Cumbria in a misty spring, lambs playing around. There are cows grazing and silage cutting, and reeks of hay catching the setting sun. There's one of Joseph Madox smiling with a little girl sitting on his shoulders, and one of Wilcox carrying two young lambs intent on licking his neck. There's a black and white photo of a man with Sherlock Holmes' piercing gaze, holding a rope tied to a cow with a ribbon on her halter and a sash around her neck. He wears her cheekbones and his smile is soft. The photo next to it draws her gaze, and there is Sherlock Holmes herself, lying back against what looks like the same cow but probably isn't. Her eyes are closed, a relaxation deeper than anything Joanne has ever thought to see from her, and she looks for all of the world as if she is perfectly content.

She probably was too.

"Didn't expect to see you here, Joanne," the voice is next to her ear, pitched low beneath the hum of the crowd, and her stomach turns. While she was so busy looking at the Sherlock in the photo, the real Sherlock slipped up beside her. "Didn't expect to see you ever again, in fact."

"Is it such a bad thing that you have?" She keeps her eyes averted, affecting an air of nonchalance.

A chuckle. "I wouldn't say that."

"You played brilliantly tonight." And now she does look at Sherlock, and the other woman smiles, taken aback, her grey eyes crinkling at the corners.

"I do try."

"I heard you composing that in the spring, didn't I? What you played after the Paganini?"

Sherlock's eyes cloud over, just a little, but she nods. "Yes. All except the last piece. That was my grand-aunt's." And now the words come tumbling out. "She played, and my Uncle Ford kept her compositions, and gave them to me when he gave me the violin. I had to sell my own when I lived in London and when I came to live with him..." She trails off. "That's him there. With Valjean." She points at the photo of the man with her eyes. "He always loved Les Misérables. I expect he wouldn't enjoy the musical so much."

The change of topic is welcome. "Have you ever seen it?"

"Irene insisted we go. When we were in London a few months ago." And something in her voice suggests it wasn't entirely against her will. Musicals. Never would she have expected that Sherlock Holmes might be able to enjoy a musical. So many hidden facets, able to creep out now that the crisis is over. It's…oddly gratifying. "Well there was a song entitled 'Stars' so he would have enjoyed that. Ford was always a fan of astronomy. Did his doctorate in it, in fact."

Joanne can't say she expected to hear that. Well, Sherlock's been full of surprises all along. It would be disappointing otherwise. "What brought him to a dairy farm in Cumbria if he had a doctorate in astronomy?"

"Academic bickering wasn't his thing. He wanted research, but didn't want the publication of said research and the trouble that entails. He complained that so much of it is down to interpretation, and what side you want to align yourself with, and who you want to make allies of. That never suited him. He always wanted to work alone and do his own thing, but there wasn't exactly much funding for that. As it happened, his aunt was recently widowed so he moved out here to help with the farm for a while, and just never went back. He kept an attic room for his books and telescopes and fit in astronomy around daily farming life. Amazing man, Uncle Ford." She swallows, pursing her lips. "Anyway, Captain. Or should I say, ex-Captain? Back to more pressing matters."

"How do you know I left the army?"

"A desk job wouldn't suit you. It was all right for a while, until a real crisis arose and you were allowed to help deal with it. But to send you back to desk duty after the foot and mouth? Not exactly the wisest thing. You packed it in and because you couldn't decide what to do with the rest of your life, you came out here to where your crisis of faith happened. Likely you'll return to London and work several jobs and apply for colleges when the time comes in order to further your education."

It's maddening the way that Sherlock can read her mind. So maddening that she finds herself revealing what she hasn't told anyone else yet, has hardly been able to bring herself to admit. "I was considering veterinary medicine, actually."

"That's a delusion. The expense of it would put you off. Not to mention that you're not exactly suited for the fine surgical work required when you occasionally experience a tremor in your left arm. No. You're better off staying out here."

Clearly some thought has gone into this proposal she's putting forward. "What makes you say that?"

"You need excitement, adrenaline. Cumbria can give you bucket-loads of that. Late nights and early mornings? The rush to get the silage in before the rain? Battling through snow and ice to feed the heifers? Cows kicking the clusters off in the milking parlour? Hard, physical work? Violin performances in the calving shed? Irene taking videos in the back of a pick-up travelling at fifty miles an hour? Cumbria can supply."

So now they get to the heart of the matter. It's almost amusing, and would be if her eyes were not stinging at the sheer unexpected generosity of it. Here is a woman that she helped to take everything from, offering her a place to live, and work. How can she even begin to deal with that? "You want me to move in with you and Irene? We hardly know each other."

"Know each other as normal people do? Yes, it's true that we don't precisely know each other in that manner. However, you forget the connection forged between people in time of war. What we fought and they're all calling a crisis, the foot and mouth, that was a war. People refuse to see that. We fought an invisible enemy, whose work was the only means of tracking it. It travelled across the countryside and ensured that when we met we each saw each other at our absolute worst. Steadfast in time of hardship. Dependable. Organised. Meticulous in your work. What more do I need to know about you? And if you get bored, our vet Gregson needs an assistant to travel around with him. There's all the veterinary medicine you need, without going to the trouble of a degree and not being able to perform surgeries. Instead of sleeping in your car, which is detrimental for your shoulder, by the way, come home with Irene and I and think about it."

Irene, as if drawn by the mention of her name, appears at their side then. Sherlock smiles at her, then kisses her cheek, murmurs something which Joanne can't make out thanks to the noise of the crowd, and then departs. Turning, Irene hugs her.

"Lovely to see you again, Joanne," she says.

"Yes. It is lovely. To see you again, that is." Christ, she's making an ass of herself. But she can't help it. Not when her head is whirring with the forwardness of Sherlock. Inviting her to move in with them? Based on what? A few days acquaintance back in the spring? "Sherlock asked me to move in with you."

"Ah, yes." Irene is not surprised, as if she's been expecting just that. Surely they hadn't planned this. There is no way that she could have known before tonight that she would come to this fundraiser and they would come across each other. How could they have known such a thing when she didn't even know herself? "I rather thought she would. Between you and me, I think she gets lonely when I'm away. No harm for her to have some company."

"I never said that I'd accept." Though, now that she thinks about it, it's the best proposition she's had since leaving the army. And she doesn't exactly have anywhere else to go, not tonight, at least. She could stay with them, and see how it goes. She need not make a decision for a few days. She can keep travelling to God knows where and mull it over. It's certainly tempting…

"You will though." Irene's eyes twinkle. "Even if it's just for the music, you will." Her lips twitch in a suppressed smile. "I hope you're free in March, by the way."

March? "Why?"

Irene grins, now, the smile breaking down her defences. It reaches her eyes and they sparkle from under her dark hair. "She's going to haul both of us off to France to find cows for importing. Muttered something about Switzerland and Denmark as well. Maybe Ireland. Definitely Scotland. She wants to experiment, you see. And having to re-stock, well, it's as good a chance as any."

"I still haven't said yes." But she's smiling now, too, like Irene unable to stop it. A bubble of excitement flutters in her stomach, impossible to ignore. Hard work? Long hours? Travel and adventure? What is there not to like?

Irene does not comment on her protests, but her eyes twinkle and that's almost as bad.