Chapter Text
The street was cold, cobbles still drenched in leftover rain and lit by the flickers of London’s omnipresent gaslights. A carriage rattled over the streets somewhere else in the night. The fog hung so thick with tension, it squeezed your lungs till there was nothing left.
A perfect night to be out.
A shadow flitted out from an alleyway, thin enough to be a lamppost itself. An urchin boy, perhaps, from the cap and trousers. Running through the rain after a long day working at some apprenticeship, headed to a warm dinner and scolding mother. Normal enough.
The shadow strode into the street, looking around till it caught their eye. A door, darkened by a small awning, as innocuous as any other door. It flitted to the step, and a thin hand could be seen sliding underneath the cap, and drawing out a thin slice of metal. It got inserted into the lock, till a barely noticeable click rang out in the street.
Enola Holmes lifted her cap to peer up at the tarnished brass letters on the door, glinting faintly in the lamplight: 221b Baker St.
Time to pay a visit to brother dearest.
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Two years prior
“She’s gone, Sherlock.” Mycroft snapped, tossing his paper to the side. “How hard is that to understand? She left once, and she’s done it again.”
“I understand that she’s left, but why? Why would she go? We’re her family!” Sherlock was perched atop the arm of an armchair- rather defeating the purpose of the chair- shirt tousled and hair wild. The tea tray, forgotten ages ago, sat between them on the little side table. Could they not simply enjoy tea in peace?
“This is Enola we are talking about. Her motives are skewed often. Does it matter? She’s left, and that’s all there is to it.” He sighed, taking a deep breath in, then out. Rationality is the key to winning . Be rational, Mycroft. Calm. One of you has to be.
Sherlock slammed his fist onto the table, making the tea cups rattle and a dash of Earl Grey spill out. “But what if she’s taken? Or in trouble? Or dead, heavens, what if she’s dead?”
“Then she has chosen it herself. Calm yourself Sherlock. You’re being emotional. Enola left us a note, and clearly stated she left of her own free will. Then she explicitly asked us not to look for her, citing that interference in her case would cause it to implode. She was as clear as she could possibly be. More clear, might I add, then you have ever been when you go gallivanting off to your cases.”
Sherlock flinched. Good. “Perhaps. But may I remind you the last time we didn’t know where she was she nearly perished on the streets? Multiple times? Garroted, knifed, strangled-”
“-and may I remind you that she has always been quite able to take care of herself. She has up until now, and I see no reason to interfere with that.”
“You were quite ready to interfere not so long ago!”
“AND I WAS WRONG TO DO SO!” Mycroft roared. Oh. So much for rationality. Ah, well. ‘Tis the folly of humanity. He took a deep breath in, out, in, out. Oh dear, Sherlock was staring at him with… concern.
Disgusting.
“I apologise for my outburst. Yes,I did make the mistake of knowing what was best for Enola not so long ago. But it was just that- a mistake. One I will not make again. Every time since then that Enola’s required our services, she’s asked. And now that she knows our help comes with considerably less risk to her, she’s far more likely to ask.”
“Fine then! We don’t interfere. Then what do we do, wait? Hope she shows up again? Let this continue on and on and she plays with her presence in our lives like some puppeteer?” Sherlock was breathing heavily, he noted. Unideal for their situation. Adrenaline would be ramped up, emotional connections would be far more likely than logical ones. His point would not go over well… but then, the truth rarely does.
“Yes. We wait. We wait for her to come back, we wait for her to make her own decisions, because she is her own self. She is a Holmes , Sherlock, and therefore eminently capable enough.”
“I will not sit here and wait.”
“Then what will you do?” Mycroft asked, calmly. He picked up his teacup and sipped at it. Tad cold.
Sherlock was silent. Acceptance. Rationality is the key to winning .
“Nothing. There is nothing you can do, nothing any of us can do. We sit. We wait. We hope. And when she comes back, we celebrate her return. That is all we can do, and all we should do. If Enola does not want to be found, she will not be found. If you are truly bothered though, we can discuss the issue of knowing her whereabouts when she comes back. She’s always been more inclined to supporting your emotional state anyways.”
“...What?” Sherlock asked, confused (a rarity). But the subject change signaled an end. Mycroft had won, as he always did. “No, of course she isn’t.”
Mycroft looked him in the eyes. Oh, his little brother. Still a tad slow on some things.
He’ll pick up on it eventually.
“Mhm. Perhaps. Either way, we should take no course of action now. Wait, brother, wait. You can beg her to stay when she gets back.”
“I will not be begging!” Sherlock scowled. “This is a serious issue though Mycroft. At that age, I still vividly remember you having an eye on me quite frequently.”
Mycroft smirked. Good days. It was so much easier to watch him back then. “And I still do.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you like to think.”
Bluffing. He must be bluffing. Surely.
They stared at each other for a minute, before Sherlock broke eye contact. “Well, I’ll be off. Cases to solve, John to console.” He rose and grabbed his coat and hat.
“Console?”
Sherlock grinned. “I knew you didn’t have eyes on me. Cheers, till next time. With luck, hopefully no time soon.”
The maid opened the door and he stepped out of the parlour, off to ‘console’. Which was clearly a bluff. Probably. Must be. Still…
He turned to the maid. “Tell Frank to get a few more men on my brother please. Paid in full, of course.”
She nodded and swept away, tea tray in hand. Mycroft picked up his paper (so rudely interrupted) and began to read again. The Enola situation would resolve itself, surely. One cannot lose their sister twice. Even if said sister is a Holmes .
Enola could take care of herself just fine.
Two years later, a thin girl- now a woman - walked into a darkened room. It was such a mess, really, did Sherlock never learn how to clean? Of course he didn’t though, he was a man. Still, couldn’t Mrs. Hudson knock some sense into him yet? It has been two years (two years, too long, to the falls, he whispered, I’ll meet you there-). But no, no, her brother will always be stubborn.
Just like herself.
There was the couch! Covered in papers, a battered cross stitch pillow, and a gun resting atop the pile. Gently, she removed the gun, setting it on the desk. The papers she simply swept off, and the cross stitch pillow she set to the side. It’s stitching was aweful, honestly. Had Sherlock taken stitching up as a pastime? Sherlock, embroidering. The thought almost made her giggle, and she had to laugh into the pillow.
The couch was clear enough. Enola settled in, laying atop it, hugging the ugly little pillow. Not proper in any sense, but her brother would live. Sleep was far more important than proprietary right now.
The next morning, Sherlock walked out and fainted.