Chapter Text
Sherlock and Mycroft are overjoyed to have their beloved Enola back home safely at last. After some long, refreshing drinks of water and a large, steaming bowl of Mrs Hudson's delicious chicken stew with homemade bread, she tells them everything -- from her abduction at Paddington to her escape from Tewksbury. Sherlock clenches his fists when he hears about the brutal treatment his sweet sister has undergone in the past two days. That scoundrel will pay dearly for this!
In turn, the brothers tell Enola how they tracked her to the East End of London -- how Sherlock suspected foul play from Tewksbury based on the masquerade ball’s guest list, how Mycroft used his government contacts to trace the recent, highly-suspicious sale of a derelict old inn in the East End to Viscount Tewksbury, how they used the help of their trusty old canine friend Toby to sniff out Enola’s scent in a dark alley near Paddington station, how they found her bag tossed away in the bushes not far from the old inn, and how Lestrade and a cohort of officers in a carriage had been immediately dispatched on the route to the old inn that morning, when who should come running but Enola herself -- bruised, dehydrated, collapsing from exhaustion, but alive and breathing nonetheless!
The brothers caress and comfort Enola, wiping away her tears and kissing her swollen lips which are purple and bruised from the tight gag. They assure her that the villain Tewksbury and his accomplices shall be brought to justice once they are caught and summoned to court. Seeing that Enola has been fed and stabilised, Mycroft leaves the flat to go request the chief constable of Scotland Yard to come with him to Baker Street to record Enola’s testimony, for he does not trust Lestrade with the daunting task of charging a man of such high rank and esteem as the Viscount Tewksbury of the House of Lords!
Sherlock takes Enola into the bathroom. “Let’s get you all cleaned up, darling,” he says, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he gently removes all her clothes. He gazes at her naked form with brotherly care and concern, his expert eyes swiftly scanning for signs of injury and trauma. There are many raw cuts and ugly bruises, but fortunately no excessively deep lacerations to be alarmed at -- my Daphne has brilliantly escaped the clutches of cruel Apollo, Sherlock thinks with pride. Tenderly he places her into the tub, before removing his own shirt and trousers (but leaving his undergarments on) and getting into the tub himself. He settles Enola comfortably into his lap and pours lukewarm water over them both.
Sherlock’s hands gently run along her body, lathering her with lightly-fragrant soap, washing away the grime, cleaning her wounds and refreshing her from head to toe. Ever so delicately his fingers work their way from her stomach to the little tuft of hair, matted with dried blood, beneath. He gently rinses and untangles it, delicately making his way with his fingers downwards. Enola feels absolutely safe in her brother's lap. Not invading, not prying, not prodding--but cleansing, soothing, nourishing--with methodical care and respect, her brother’s fingers scrub away the congealed blood, as he lowers his head to inspect her nether regions to ensure that no lasting harm has come to her from the brute’s cruel assaults. He bathes her blood-stained thighs with warm soapy water, restoring her pure skin. When he finishes that part, he gives a little sigh of relief, bringing his palm to rest firmly on her stomach and tilting his head to face her. Enola gazes at him with sisterly love and immense gratitude, her poor swollen lips aching as she smiles... how many brothers would do what Sherlock has done for her without the slightest cringe of disgust? Sherlock presses his own lips to hers, caressing her with infinite love, running his tongue over the bruised corners of her mouth, drinking in her delicious sweetness. Enola feels so safe, so protected, yet so deliciously vulnerable in her brother's arms, finding comfort in feeling completely naked and exposed to his kind, chaste, reassuring touch. Her own dear brother would never hurt her as that rascal Tewksbury tried to! Sherlock unlocks his lips from his sister’s, bringing one hand to cup her breast and the other round her waist, gently moving his legs out from under her to rest her on the surface of the bathtub. He leans into her, gently pushing her down on her back, and claiming her mouth again with his own. She feels his body pressing down on her, and oh how wonderful it is! Warm, intimate and infinitely divine touches sooth and cleanse her body as he runs his hands along her figure, massaging her sore limbs and restoring her energy and strength. Enola reaches a hand up to tangle in her brother's wet curls, revelling in the sweet, familiar taste of his mouth, the reassuring comfort of his manly chest resting against her bosom. They are both covered in soap suds and the moisture on their skin feels ever so cool and refreshing.
"You're safe now, my sweetheart," Sherlock whispers, pressing his cheek to his sister's and sucking on her darling little earlobe. Enola smiles and breathes deeply, relishing the comforting scent of her beloved brother, clasping him in her arms. He kisses her lips once again and rises, pulling her up with him slowly into a seated position to rinse her body and his own thoroughly. When all the soap is washed off, he wraps her in a fluffy white towel and grabs one for himself as well. Stepping out of the tub, he pats his sister dry and slips a freshly-ironed, loose-fitting tunic over her head, and holds out a pair of loose drawers padded with clean sanitary cloth for her to put on. Once Enola is dressed, Sherlock slips on his own shirt and trousers and leads his sister out of the bathroom with an arm around her shoulder. Just then, there is a knock on the door. "That'll be Mycroft with the chief constable, I suppose," says Sherlock as he walks towards the front door.
Enola settles on the bed, feeling exceedingly sleepy and hoping the chief constable's questions won't take long. "That's all right, I'll make sure she is ready," she hears her eldest brother's voice. The next moment, Mycroft walks into the bedroom and scoops her up into a long and passionate kiss. "You stay right here, my love," he says, arranging a warm blanket over her. "Chief Constable Edwards will just ask you a few questions to help pinpoint the descriptions of those thugs who assisted that despicable wretch in hurting you." Mycroft sits down on the bed behind her, drawing her to his chest with his arms around her waist, and calls out, "Sherlock, you can bring Edwards in now."
Enola dutifully describes everything to the chief constable, who carefully notes down her words. “Don’t worry, Miss Holmes,” he says, shaking her hand as he leaves. “I give you my solemn word that we at Scotland Yard will do our utmost to bring your attackers to justice.” Once the chief constable leaves, the brothers tuck Enola into bed so that she may get some much-needed rest. Refusing to allow this abduction incident to prevent her from continuing her work, Enola asks Mycroft to telegram the Wetherby Manor to say she’ll be in Reading tomorrow to look into their case. Afterwards, she will accompany Mycroft to Edinburgh as originally planned (a few days’ delay will not adversely affect Mycroft’s Holyrood business), and then return home with him to Ferndell Hall for Christmas.
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Having returned to Paddington after solving the Wetherby Manor case in less than half a day, Enola smiles to herself as she travels on the Underground to King’s Cross, where she will meet Mycroft and catch the train to Edinburgh with him. Sure enough, Mycroft is waiting there on the platform, and Inspector Lestrade with him! “Miss Holmes,” says the inspector with a smile, “I am happy to inform you that my colleagues have just arrested two men called Horace and Jasper near Canary Wharf, who were found to have been paid an astonishing five hundred pounds by Viscount Tewksbury for their ‘services’. The Viscount himself is now recovering from a severe concussion at St Bartholomew's Hospital under strict surveillance. He will be arraigned to the Old Bailey next week as soon as he is fit.” Enola graciously thanks him for the good news, and taking Mycroft’s hand, boards the train to Edinburgh.
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Never has a merrier Christmas been spent at Ferndell Hall. Music, laughter and love fill the air as Enola, Sherlock, Mycroft, their mother and Mrs Lane deck the old mansion in festive cheer. Enola and Mycroft team up against Sherlock for an impromptu Christmas morning snowball fight, which ends with the three of them piled up together, rolling boisterously in the snow and covering each other’s faces with frosty kisses.
Just as the flaming Christmas pudding is being served, a telegram arrives from Chief Constable Edwards in London: James, the erstwhile Viscount Tewksbury, Marquess of Basilwether, and his henchmen Horace and Jasper have been unanimously found guilty of forceful abduction and physical assault. Tewksbury has been stripped of his titles of nobility and forced to resign his seat in the House of Lords. All three have been sentenced to a ten-year term in Newgate Prison, and Tewksbury’s wealth is to be distributed among the orphanages of London, to provide food and winter clothing for the most poor and hungry children. What better Christmas present could Enola ask for indeed?
And so we say goodbye to the Holmes siblings here, leaving them ensconced in the warm glow of true familial love, filled with bliss and nourishment and peace, rejuvenated and eagerly looking forward to a new year filled with prosperity and success!