Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When you search for the name ‘Enola’ online, the first result is Enola Gay. Enola Gay was the name of the American plane that dropped the first atomic bomb in World War II.

It’s a name we share.

My name is Enola Holmes, which spelled backwards is alone--for most of my life I believed that was the most interesting thing about me. Ironically, alone can accurately describe my childhood.

Once, to be more logical, I made a list of reasons as to why Mum would name me such an odd name.

1. Mum had planned on being a distant parent, which if this was true, then I applaud her for consistency and dedication.
2. Mum had been inspired from the dropping of the atomic bomb, which killed millions. She named me Enola in hopes that I would too kill millions.
3. Mum was high on pain meds.

Whatever the reason, alone was exactly how she left me on my fourteenth birthday, never to be seen again.

EH

“Enola.”

I awoke slowly, stretching my legs underneath the warm blankets. I turned my head to see a woman with greying hair looking down at me, a sort of half-smile on her face. “Morning Mum.”

She informed me that she was going out, as she always did—wondering around the grounds and setting up her easel and paints where ever she liked—and I inquired if she anticipated being late for dinner, to which she replied that Mrs. Lane had instructions to give me my birthday presents should she not be there. I had thought nothing of it and watched as Mum left without another word.

If I had known that that was the last time, I would see her… I’d like to think I would have said something like, “I love you.”

The faint sound of the front door closing prompted me to leave my bed and get dressed for breakfast. When I left my room, I greeted my dog, Reginald, with head-pat. His tail thumped-thumped against the floor as he followed me downstairs. Reginald was a basset-hound, he was old, and he was the love of my life. As a child, I had professed that if I was to marry, I would marry Reginald.

I ate a small breakfast prepared by Mrs. Lane, our housekeeper. She had been with the family for years. She worked alongside her husband, Mr. Lane of course, who we kept as a sort of handyman. After eating and slipping Reginald a piece of bacon (Mrs. Lane scolded me, but I knew that she slips him some when no one was looking), I retreated to the library.

A library, if you have ever been in one, is a wonderful and terrifying place. It is wonderful for the endless afternoons it has given me as I fought dragons, saved princesses, and rode camels across hot deserts all while in the comfort of the soft chair by the fireplace. It is terrifying because I cannot help but think about how there are other libraries, some smaller, but larger, that contain more knowledge than I could ever hope to understand or remember. However, since it was my birthday, I decided to try even harder to forget that nagging thought in the back of my head and focus instead on rereading all my favorite books. I must have read for hours, because the next thing I knew Mrs. Lane was calling me for lunch.

“Is Mum back yet?” I asked.

Mrs. Lane didn’t look me in the eyes as she shook her head. “Will you be taking lunch in here?”

“Uh, sure, yes I will.” After a brief lunch, consisting of a ham sandwich and apple slices, I returned to my room.

I helped Reginald up onto my bed, grabbed my laptop, and settled in beside the old beast.

I opened to the website I was last on: Dr. John Watson’s blog. He knew my brother better than I did. Which, of course, is completely understandable given that the two live together and Sherlock and I had only met three times. I did not know either one of my brothers and Dr. Watson’s blog provided an insight that I found myself secretly craving.

“Sherlock Holmes,” I whispered to myself, “What great adventures have you done today?”

I read the latest entry, once, twice, three times before closing the tab and moving onto various other sites. The update wasn’t enough—I was bored.

I was often bored growing up. Boredom led to curiosity which to the internet. It wasn’t long until younger Enola had stumbled upon Sherlock’s website, the Science of Deduction. I had poured over it for hours, devouring information on my brother.

If my behavior surrounding my brothers is odd to you, dear readers, then allow me to explain. Sherlock is seventeen years my senior and Mycroft is seven years older than him. By the time I came along, they were out of the house. It was like I was an only child.

I’ve met Mycroft four times, once when I was born, another for when Father died, a third for the funeral, and a fourth in the hospital when I had broken my arm (I had been dared to climb a very tall tree. I climbed up with excellent dexterity. I climbed down with less). I do not have many memories of him, but I do remember him as a very tall figure. 

As for Sherlock, we had met even less. Sherlock did not show up at my birth, nor any birthdays or holidays. The first time I ever saw him was at our father’s funeral. Since I was four, I cannot recall every detail, however, I do vaguely remember Sherlock reaching down and fixing the collar of the dress I had been wearing.

And that sums up my interactions with my brothers. Not for lack of trying, mind you, I have always held a curiosity for my family.

For instance, when I had broken my arm and Mycroft showed up, a small look of distain on his face and a bouquet of flowers in his hand, I had asked whether Sherlock was coming. I think perhaps Mycroft hadn’t learned tact or the art of dealing with children, because very bluntly he informed me that Sherlock would not be coming because he was in rehab for a drug addiction. This being the first time I had heard of my brother’s dilemma, paired with the hospital’s medication messing with my hormones, and overall a very distressing fall, caused me to burst into tears. I hadn’t ever seen someone look as shocked as Mycroft when I let out my first sob. A nurse shoo-ed him off before attempting to comfort me.

Perhaps that is why Mycroft never showed his face again; my tears had scared him away.

Despite my limited contact, I never-the-less held a small affection for my brothers. I held an even smaller hope that they might have some sort of fondness for me in return.

Dinner time quickly made her appearance. Afterwards, Mrs. and Mr. Lane carried in my presents and my cake (a small circle, simply covered in white frosting and sprinkles). “Mum isn’t back yet?” I asked.

No, she wasn’t, they answered. But would I like to open my presents?

Holding back a sigh, I carefully opened the boxes before me. Mum’s gifts to me consisted of:

1. A drawing kit: paper, pencils, and erasers all arranged in a flat wooden box that opened into an easel.
2. A rather old and fragile book entitled: The Meanings of Flowers: Including Also Notes upon the Messages Conveyed by Fans, Handkerchiefs, Sealing-Wax, and Postage-Stamps.
3. And finally, a very small booklet of ciphers with my name on the first page, written in Mum’s flyaway handwriting.

The drawing kit was exactly what I was interested in. While I certainly wasn’t the next Van Gogh, I had a knack for doodling. Mum had encouraged my drawing since I was young and sometimes in the summer, we’d go out together and sketch the wildlife.

For my previous birthday, Mum had given me a book about ciphers and how to solve them. I spent weeks pouring over it, writing secret messages. I pretended to write messages to my brothers, asking them about their childhood, how their lives now. Mum found those once, but she didn’t say anything. I threw the messages away.

The Meaning of Flowers confused me. I couldn’t figure out why Mum would give me that. She was the one who was obsessed with flowers. She loved painting them and gardening them, but I had no such relationship with flora. I was content with climbing trees and reading books instead.

I placed my presents down and made a note to go over them later. I had a different job that required my attention.

Mum had not been out so late in a while. I slipped out of the house quietly so that the Lanes wouldn’t notice. I wandered the grounds for a bit, before realizing: my mother was nowhere near here.

I went back to Ferndell Hall to get my bicycle. Mr. Lane waved goodbye as I biked past the iron-wrought gates that surrounded our house and the woods. Our actual property was acres bigger, but apparently Father had the fence built about three decades ago, right after they moved here.

I had no reason to fear for Mum’s safety. She never had an accident the entire time I had known her. The sick feeling my stomach only grew the closer I got the fields.

The fields were on the edge of our property. They were on top of an incline and looked out upon the entire small town below. There were wildflowers as far as the eye could see. I knew Mum liked to visit this spot.

I was the only person there that day.

I had been so sure that I would find her.

I could not find a single trace of Eudoria Holmes.

I made my way to my bike as the sky transformed into a dark grey mess, and the earlier pleasant breeze turned colder. As soon as I started pedaling, the raindrops descended. The rain was still pouring when I returned home, as Mrs. Lane fussed over me, as I retreated into my room, as I tried to rationalize Mum’s disappearance.

I would wait until tomorrow, I decided. If Mum hasn’t returned, then I would contact the authorities.

And my brothers.

EH

Morning came after a night of restless turning and tossing. I had fallen into and out of sleep constantly, always waiting to hear the door open. You should have called the police yesterday; the dryness in my mouth informed me. What if Mum’s lying dead in a ditch because you hesitated?

“Nope.” I said out loud, “Don’t think about Mum dying, Enola. Don’t panic.” Despite telling myself not to panic, I preceded to panic.

I sent a quick wish into the stars, hoping that I would walk into the dining room and see Mum eating breakfast while reading the newspaper. She’d be wearing her reading glasses and tucking her hair behind her ears, her mind entirely focused on what she was reading. Slowly, I descended the stairs and entered the dining room.

It was empty.

“Mrs. Lane?” I called out.

“Yes, Enola?” She called back from the kitchen.

Taking deep breaths, I walked over to the kitchen. I stood in the threshold and asked, again for the third time, “Has Mum returned?”

Mrs. Lane had her back turned to me as she chopped up fruit. After a long pause, she answered. “No.”

For several moments there was only quiet and in that silence, the sense of being on the brink of something life changing.

Now that is was certain, Mum was missing and hadn’t come home last night. She was out there, possibly injured, possibly dead, and here I was, frozen with indecision and panicking and--

You’ll do very well on your own, Enola.

My mother’s voice was like a flashlight in a darkened room. She’d say that often to me, trying to encourage my independence. Mum was right. I’ll be perfectly fine. Fingers crossed, at least.

“The police need to be called.”

“Mr. Lane went to fetch them a few minutes ago.” Mrs. Lane informed me.

“Great.” I replied, swallowing hard. That just left two more people to contact. “I’ll reach out to Sherlock and Mycroft, then?”

Mrs. Lane finally turned around to face me and it became infinitely harder to keep a calm composure at the sight of her tear-filled eyes. “Enola,” She began cautiously, “It might, and, they might not--”

“Mrs. Lane,” I interrupted, “They are her sons. Of course, they’ll come.” I didn’t want to think about the possibility of them ignoring me.

Without another word, I made my way back to my room, giving the empty dining room a lingering glance before rushing up the stairs.

Let’s start easy, Enola. Contact Mycroft.

Mycroft had given me a number, written down neatly inside my tenth birthday card. The card included the usual message of happy birthday, along with an explanation to use the number for emergencies only. His handwriting was perfect, with loops that looked effortless.

Gingerly picking up the card, I typed the numbers into my phone and hit call.

The call was picked up by the second ring and a woman answered, “Mycroft Holmes’s office. May I ask who is calling?”

Flabbergasted that the number had worked (I had a theory that Mycroft had given me a fake number to appease me) it took me a moment to answer her. “Uh, I’m Enola.”

“Last name?” She asked politely, while sounding impolite.

I replied, slightly more confident. “Holmes. I’m Enola Holmes.”

A pause.

“Please hold.”

I hardly had to wait because almost immediately I heard a man on the other end of the phone say, “Enola?”

“Mycroft?” I said softly, almost in disbelief.

“What happened?”

I could scarcely believe it. Mycroft, my brother, right on the end of the phone. I had thought about the conversations we’d have for years. Imagining me ringing him and asking how his day went, he’d do the same for me, and eventually phone calls would turn into visits and Mycroft would show up at Ferndell and Mum—Mum. That one word floated through my head and I focused on the problem on hand.

I started with, “Mum’s missing.” and I intended to elaborate further but realized that nothing else would make its way out of my throat.

Stars and garters, I was choking. Here and now, I couldn’t speak, in front of my brother, one of the smartest persons alive. My face felt hot and I was glad no one could see me.

“Enola, explain.” The latter part of his reply seemed to kick me in the right direction, and I managed to inform him of the details. I hoped that my voice stayed as steady as I tried to make it. I finished, but Mycroft didn’t respond. “Well?” I added, growing impatient.

“I’ll be there tomorrow.”

I paused. “Tomorrow? Bu--” My hands curled into fists, I tried taking deep breaths, but it didn’t stop the red that started seeming into my vision. “But Mum’s missing now.” My mind pleaded with me, Enola, stop talking.

“Enola--”

“Why can’t you come today?”

“I am a very busy man, Enola,” Mycroft’s voice was soft, as if I was a child. A stupid child. “I can’t drop just because our mother… is missing.”

He hesitated.

He hesitated.

“You don’t think it’s serious.” It wasn’t a question. “You think she’ll come back, that she’ll be fine.” This was not the first time Mum had been late to dinner, but she had always told us she would be late, and she had never stayed the night somewhere.

Except, Enola, she had told you.

“I’ve told Mrs. Lane to give you your gifts if I’m not there.”

Oh, Mum. Still, my heart was heavy, and I could not shake the feeling that something was wrong, that there was something more to this. “Mycroft,” I needed to him to listen, to understand, to know. “There’s something off—I don’t know how to explain it, but something is wrong. Mum doesn’t just disappear, at least, not like this.”

Mycroft sighed, “Enola, I will arrive tomorrow, no later than 10. Is this agreeable?” He sounded as if this was some big inconvenience. As if I was an inconvenience.

“Bring Sherlock.” I ended the call, placing my phone on my desk with more force than necessary. I stared at it, like it had committed a wrong.

“Enola?” Mrs. Lane called from downstairs. Her voice sounded distant. I heard the front door open and voices enter—low and loud voices.

The police had arrived.

Chapter Text

“Mycroft,” I needed to him to listen, to understand, to know. “There’s something off—I don’t know how to explain it, but something is wrong. Mum doesn’t just disappear, at least, not like this.”

Mycroft sighed, “Enola, I will arrive tomorrow, no later than 10. Is this agreeable?” He sounded as if this was some big inconvenience. As if I was an inconvenience.

“Bring Sherlock.” I ended the call, placing my phone on my desk with more force than necessary. I stared at it, like it had committed a wrong.

“Enola?” Mrs. Lane called from downstairs. Her voice sounded distant. I heard the front door open and voices enter—low and loud voices.

The police had arrived.

EH

The police were predictably unhelpful. They went about searching the grounds in teams of two, yelling for Mum, as if she were hiding in a bush, waiting to be found. Still, I offered my services, but was told that the best place for me would be at home, where I could be safe and sound. Eventually, the search party retired (as the sun went down, so did hopes) and I was informed to, once again, wait. I took dinner in my room and doodled on my new sketch pad.

I wanted to draw Mum as she was the morning she left. However, I couldn’t remember what exactly she had been wearing. I managed to draw the general structure of her face—the large nose, the wisps of brown-tinted-grey hairs that framed her face—but her eyes escaped me.

Were they sad?

Were they happy?

Were they conflicted?

Oh, what had Mum been thinking, leaving me?

You’ll do very well on your own, Enola.

Mum had encouraged my independence greatly as I was growing up. I would perfectly fine being by myself, I decided firmly. There was no reason to panic or to ponder. I knew exactly what I was going to do.

Clutching the pencil tight, I leant forward on my desk and closed my eyes. “I promise,” I whispered, to myself and whoever was listening. “I’m going to find you.”

 EH

I watched through a window as a sleek black car made its way up the rugged driveway of Ferndall Hall.

Oh, stars and garters!

“They’re here!” I called out as I walked from the window towards the front door. Deep breaths Enola, deep breaths. It almost seemed slow motion as I hurried down the steps. Unfortunately, the slow motion came to an abrupt stop when my foot slipped out from under me, causing me to crash down one step from the floor.

I gave out a pained noise. I had fallen in my eagerness to see my brothers—of which I was certain that they did not hold even a tenth of the same excitement to see me.

Reginald came up beside me and gave me a wet kiss on my face. “Thank you, Reginald,” I said, ruffling his ears.

The doorbell sang an annoying tune, and I quickly picked myself up. I brushed my hair back, hoping that it didn’t look as greasy as it felt. Oh, a pox on my brothers! I hated this feeling.

The doorbell continued to ring.

“I’m coming!” I yelled. I hurried down the rest of the hall, coming to a stop at the front door. I took a deep breath before I grasped the doorknob firmly and opened the door. I had been preparing for this moment for a while and debated on what to say.

How to greet someone who doesn’t even know you?

My brothers, tall and imposing, stood on the doorstep of my childhood home, staring at me. When I think back to that moment, I wondered what exactly they saw when I opened the door on that fateful day. Did they recognize me? What did they deduce about their sister?

Before I could get out a greeting, one of the men pushed past me immediately. I stumbled back, more shocked than hurt. I said, rolling my eyes slightly, “Oh, well hello to you to, Sherlock.”

The world’s only consulting detective turned around to look at me, “Ah, yes,” He said, “Hello.”

Well, that was better than nothing. I turned to face Mycroft, who had been still standing outside. “Mycroft.” I greeted. “Please, come in.”

Mycroft hadn’t changed much from when I was ten.

“Enola, it’s good to see you, despite the circumstances.” He replied coolly, stepping into the house and closing the door behind him. “Sherlock,” Mycroft said, “You remember Enola, our sister?”

Sherlock had gone back to observing the front hall, but he turned around at Mycroft’s question. He barely looked at me before saying testily, “Of course. Enola… you’ve gotten taller.”

“Funny, because you’re shorter than I remembered.” I turned back to Mycroft just in time to see him hide a smile. I moved past Sherlock to the staircase. “You’ll want to start in Mum’s room.”

I heard my brother’s whisper behind me as they followed me on the stairs. I wondered what they thought of their sister.

Mum’s room was a disaster. Clothes were littered everywhere, crumpled on the floor, on the dresser, on the bed. The trash can was overflowing; pieces of paper surrounded the floor around it. The bed was unmade. The closet doors left open and I could see that only a few items were hanging correctly.

I had gone in there yesterday, just to make sure she wasn’t there, and was quite shocked at the mess of things.

If you, the reader, are confused, I’ll allow an explanation. My description may be read as a simple messy room—and simple messy rooms are never scary—but it had been Mum’s room. Mum made me make my bed every day. She made sure that I never left my clothes on the floor. She hated messes and mourned any spilled drink like it was a death. She thrived on cleanliness and organizations. Everything had a place to belong. The few times I had entered her room—her sacred chamber—I remember it being spotless and airy. The windows were always open, the lavender curtains flowing gently in the wind, and fresh flowers adorned the nightstand.

That day, the windows were closed. The curtains hung limply. The vase of flowers by the nightstand were dead, the small pinkish buds collecting dust. Curious, I picked up the small vase. The dead flowers were sweet peas.

Wrapped in thistles.

Thistles?

“Sweet-peas and thistles?” I said, “That’s odd.”

 Sherlock rolled his eyes and moved to examine the closet and its innards. “Mum was odd.”

“Was?” I repeated through clenched teeth.

Mycroft said, in sorts of soothing tone, “and still is, presumably.”

I ignored him and asked Sherlock, who was flipping through the coats. “Do you think Mum is dead?”

“She appears to have left in great haste,” Sherlock said.

“Or, perhaps she has gotten lazy in age?” Mycroft replied. “Or senile?”

 “Mum wasn’t senile.” I sniffed. “If she was, I would have known.” Or, at least, I assume I would.

Sherlock poked his head of the closet, “Senility? Is that the most helpful you can be, Mycroft?”

“I am not the detective in this room. Whip out that lens of yours. Detect.”

Sherlock glared intensely at Mycroft. I observed all of this, still holding the vase. “Is this really the time to be fighting like children?” I said, “I would really like to know where my Mum—where our Mum is.”

“I can assure you, Enola, we are going to do everything we can to find Mummy.” Mycroft said.

“Dead or alive,” added Sherlock.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft scolded.

“She’s not dead. I would know if she was!” I gritted my teeth. “We’re close, you know, and unlike some of her children, I’m not going to just abandon her!”

Ever the cynic, Sherlock said drily, “Even if it appears as though she has abandoned you?”

I didn’t know what to say to that. He was right, after all, Mum had left me. Alone. There was a tingling sensation behind my nose and a soreness in my throat beginning to rise, so I quickly took my leave, informing my brothers that I would be waiting in the library once they were finished.

I had just fled Mum’s room when the first tear rolled down my cheek.

EH

Sweet peas and thistles. Two very different plants. It was odd that Mum had placed them together. I had never seen them in the house before, usually it was chrysanthemums, wild roses, posies, and others. It had to have held significance.

It was like that, how my brothers found me; sitting cross-legged in the armchair, staring at the vase of flowers with what I assumed could only be a long-off look in my eyes.

“What took you so long?” I murmured, not quite paying attention to my brothers.

Mycroft answered first. “Other areas in the house required our attention.”

“She’s not hiding in the laundry chute,” I gave him a side eye, “That was the first place I looked.”

They ignored my sarcasm. Sherlock approached the chair opposite of me and took a seat, staring me down coolly. “We spoke with the housekeeper—”

“And what did Mrs. Lane say?”

His eyes narrowed, “As well as the other one.”

“What other one, Mr. Lane? Jesus, Sherlock, aren’t you smart enough to remember people’s names?”

Mycroft interrupted, “Now, Enola, there’s no reason to have an attitude.”

“Mum is missing, that’s reason enough.”

“Enola,” Sherlock said sharply, “I’d ask you to stop behaving like a child, but obviously that’s not going to work.”

I should bite my tongue; I shouldn’t say anything else—

“Oh yeah? And how old am I Sherlock?” Not even allowing for an answer, I turned to my eldest brother. “Do you know, Mycroft? How old am I? Do either one of you know my age?”

Their silence was a definite answer.

I scoffed, “I don’t even know why I’m surprised. It’s been years since either one of you has contacted me—it took our mother, disappearing, for us to be even in the same with each other. You might not care about her, but she’s the only family I’ve known, so if you have anything important to say, spit it out.”

It was Mycroft, ever the eldest, who told me, quite plainly, what their theory was. You see, Mycroft said, while Sherlock spoke to the Lanes, he had walked around the house. Mum had written to him years ago, explaining how the house needed repairs, how the gardens needed tending, I needed teachers and new clothes, and more. All her requests seemed so reasonable that Mycroft didn’t feel the need to question any of them. He gave her the money. However, as he made his rounds around the house, he realized that none of the updates Mummy had told him about had taken place.

 I interrupted him, “Why wouldn’t Mum just use her own money for those things?”

Sherlock and Mycroft shared a look, as if to say, should I tell her or you?

Sherlock turned to me and asked, “What do you remember of Father’s funeral?”

Black horses carrying my father’s black coffin. A tight hand holding mine. A black tombstone, etched with a name, two dates, and some quote. Large hands fixing the collar of my dress. “Not much.”

“I suppose that’s for the best,” Mycroft mused, “It wasn’t a happy affair.”

“What funeral is?”

Mycroft shrugged. “At our Father’s funeral, Mummy and I had… a disagreement.”

“I seem to remember a battle royale.” Sherlock drawled.

Mycroft tensed, “It was hardly that, Sherlock.”

“Why were you fighting?”

“Because, Enola, it was a matter of Father’s will. It appeared that he had left everything—the properties, the money—to me, and not to Mummy. I have control over the family’s financial accounts. Mummy thought it fit that she would take care of the accounts, while Sherlock and I thought otherwise. We fought. Finally, I reminded her that, legally, I was in charge, and she,” Mycroft mulled over his next words, “Well, she made it quite clear that neither one of us would be welcomed back here with open arms.”

Oh.

It hadn’t been their choice.

Mum had shunned them; they didn’t shun Mum. A fluttering began in my chest—was this? Dare I name it?

Hope.

Hope that my brother’s and I could begin a relationship of sorts, that perhaps they did hold some affection for me, that it was Mum’s fault that we had been kept separate. Mum’s face flashed before my eyes; her half-smile, the sharpness of her eyes—warm and yet calculating. Part of me didn’t want to believe that she shared part of the blame for how our family came to be this parted, yet the other half found it all too easy to believe in Mycroft’s words. His story seemed reasonable.

Reasonable.

“Wait,” I said slowly, putting it together, “If you gave Mum allowances for these repairs, these gardeners and teachers and whatnot that don’t exist, then where’s the money?”

“Perhaps she’s not so hopeless,” Sherlock said, sounding bored.

Sherlock was saved from my retort by Mrs. Lane entering with a tray of tea and biscuits. She set them down on the table and casted me a concerned glance. I returned her look with a stiff nod to inform her that, yes, I was alright.

Mycroft waited until Mrs. Lane had left to speak. “Enola, it is out theory that Mum squirrelled away the money that was sent to her in order to fund her plan.”

He couldn’t be implying what I think he was implying.

“What do you mean?” My voice sounded far away to me.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, sounding as if he was inside a bubble, “Pity the size of her brain and be upfront.” Turning to me, the great detective said, “To be simple, Enola, Mum had been planning her escape for years, and she has left you.”

No.

“No.” The room was spinning. I had doubts, but they couldn’t be true. What kind of mother would just abandon her child? “It’s not true.”

 “Think, Enola,” Sherlock sounded eerily like Mum, “If she were injured, she would have been found already. There’s no ransom note, no call, no signs that point to foul play. However, if she left of her own free will and took the missing money—for which there has been no trace of—with her, then that can only mean one thing.”

The more Sherlock talked, the more my eyes burned with tears. I refused to cry in front of my brothers—stars forbid I scare off Mycroft again anyway.

Mycroft added, “Her disorderly bedroom would have been to throw us off track.”

“But,” My voice cracked, “If she could have left on any day, why would she have left on my birthday?”

My brothers froze, unaware and astounded. I had registered them both speechless. Mum would have been proud.

But, as Karma herself would have it, I realized that Mum had told Mrs. Lane to give me my presents even if she wasn’t there.

EH

“I need a moment.” I announced, getting up and heading to the door. I didn’t dare to look back at my brothers.

I walked quickly and furiously. I made my way out the library, out the front door, and out into the woods that surrounded Ferndell Hall. The trees were familiar to me; nature offering me her comfort often. Peace was something I was in dire need of.

I kept walking until I found the small stream that ran through our property. It was picture perfect; a babbling brook found only in stories with happily ever-after’s and charming princes who swept beautiful princesses off their tiny feet. But I was no princess, and there were no princes near me.

There was a tree near one of the bends of the creek. This was a large and magnificent tree with branches that expanded towards the sky, as if they were seeking freedom from their roots. It was here that I had built a special place.

After making sure both my shoelaces were firmly tied (the last time I didn’t do this, I broke an arm), I grabbed a low hanging branch and made my way up the tree. I had done these enough times that I barely had to think on where to place my feet. Once I made it to the small wooden platform, I lied on my back and let the tears run down my face.

The branches against the blue-gray sky made for a beautiful view, however, I could not appreciate it. Being in a tree, lying down and looking up, I felt as though I was truly, and utterly, alone. Alone. Enola.

You’ll do very well on your own, Enola.

“Fat lot of good you did for me.” I said out loud. “Running off, leaving me behind with Sherlock and Mycroft.” I rolled onto my stomach and placed by chin in my hands. “Why did you leave Mum?” I scanned my surroundings, as if she would magically walk through the brush and answer me. “Why did you not take me with you?”

More questions begin to make their way through my mind, and I decided to write them down. I sat up carefully and reached for a small metal tin that I had stashed away in a patch of smaller—yet sturdy—branches next the platform. The tin contained small treasures I had coveted: shiny rocks, a broken robin’s egg, a piece of old jewelry, dried flowers, and other things. Among the trinkets were a small pack of paper and a couple of worn-down pencils; I kept them here for doodling, if I wanted to.

Before making the list of questions (why did you leave me, why did you lie to me, did you ever love—), I felt the frustration and disappointment from my brothers’ behaviors bubble up inside me and without my permission, my hand grabbed the pencil and started to draw Mycroft.

—Tall and slightly balding, narrowed eyes above a big nose and even bigger sneer, stomach sticking out slightly and hands holding that ridiculous umbrella—

For Sherlock, I drew harsh lines depicting a skinny figure, all elbows and knees, with a pointy chin and nose and cold eyes, partly hidden by curly hair that I nearly broke the lead trying to darken—

I started to work on the list of questions. The sun showed her face from behind the clouds for a moment. The water from the stream sounded soothing. The breeze felt nice upon my skin and a nice breeze moved my hair away from where it had fallen in front of my face.

Why did Mum not take me with her?

If she had a great distance to go, why did she use her bicycle?

Surely, she couldn’t have gone far on her bicycle. What other transportation did she use? A train? A cab?

Why were there no witnesses?

What did she do with all the money?

Why did she not carry any baggage?

Why did she only take her art case? Note: not enough room to fit all her things

Why would she run away on my birthday?

Why did she leave without saying goodbye?

I set my pencil down. There were so many questions and not nearly enough answers.

I heard a sudden rustling and sat up quickly. I scooted to the edge of the platform and looked down.

“Reginald!” I called out, smiling. My old dog was sniffing at the base of tree and whined before letting out a deep bark. I laughed, “I’m sorry, but you’re not allowed up here.”

“Am I?”

I froze as Sherlock made his way towards the tree, walking slowly by the stream.

“Uh—” I scrambled to grab my pages, but as Luck would have it, that nice breeze from before came along again and plucked some of the pages from my grasp, depositing them in front of my brother.

Sherlock looked amused to see me fumbling. He bent down and grabbed the pages before the wind could push them into the water.

“Don’t look at those,” I started to say, my face turning red, “They’re just—”

Sherlock began to laugh, interrupting me. “Well done, Enola,” He said. I peeked over the platform and through the branches, feeling my face grow hot. I suddenly wished that the platform was higher. “You’ve got a knack for caricature.”

“Don’t tell Mycroft.”

Sherlock shook his head, “He would undoubtedly disapprove.” He studied my tree. “I would come up, but that platform doesn’t look entirely sturdy.” Gesturing around the base of the tree, he added, “And one day this tree will give out, and tumble right into the water. I do hope you’re not in it when that happens. It’d be a pity for you to drown.”

“You’re not invited anyway.” I told him stiffly.

Sherlock waved my art around, “Perhaps a trade? You come down and I’ll give this back.”

“Fine,” I agreed. I stashed my tin away but tucked my list of questions into my pocket. “I’m coming down.” I made my way down the tree quickly and efficiently, somehow managing not to embarrass myself.

Once I was on solid ground, I dusted myself off and then reached for the papers Sherlock held. He moved them away, holding them behind his back. “What’s that you’re hiding?”

I protested, “I’m not hiding anything.” He had already laughed at my art and I wouldn’t have him laughing at my thoughts.

“What’s in your pocket?”

“Give me back my things.”

“No.”

“Sherlock!” I said, annoyed. We stared at each other. I had no want to make a fool out of myself trying to grab the sketches and thus decided to comply with his childish demands. I thrusted the list of questions to him and Sherlock handed me the sketches.

I watched as Sherlock paid close attention to my questions. Indeed, he practically pondered it. Finally, he said, “She didn’t take the bicycle because she didn’t take the roads. If she used the roads, there would have been witnesses. Therefore, she has left us with no idea on which direction she went. Mycroft has people looking for her at every airport, but it might be better to assume she would use a train.” He paused for a moment, before looking down at me. “The art case was a blind, to make sure no attention was drawn to her. She didn’t take her things because she didn’t want to be weighed down. She has more than enough money to get what she needs, anyways.”

My heart was beating fast and a small, nameless emotion rose up inside of me.

I was not a genius, but Sherlock was not dismissing my questions as idiotic.

He folded the paper up and handed it back to me. I took it wordlessly. “As for your other questions, I hope to answer them soon.”

“Thanks.” I said softly.

“Enola,” Sherlock began, “You’ve spent time with Mum, where do you believe she would have gone?”

The great Sherlock Holmes? Asking for my help? I yearned to have the answers we both sought out, but I honestly didn’t know where she was. I shook my head.

“Ah, well, I’m off then. I must return to London. Mycroft will remain; sort out the business and such. Goodbye, Enola, it was…” He made a gesture with his hands, “to see you again.” Without another word, Sherlock Holmes turned around and walked away from me.

The next time I would see him, I would be sitting on a very uncomfortable bench, next to a very annoying boy, dressed in very different clothes.

Chapter Text

Chapter the Third: In Which Enola Becomes the Queen of Sneaks

“Ah, well, I’m off then. I must return to London. Mycroft will remain; sort out the business and such. Goodbye, Enola, it was… nice to see you again.” Without another word, Sherlock Holmes turned around and walked away from me.

The next time I would see him, I would be sitting on a very uncomfortable bench, next to a very annoying boy, dressed in very different clothes. Of course, I did not know that at the time, so I simply watched as he left, my hand petting Reginald as the old dog leaned on me for support.

My week was just getting better and better.

(note sarcasm, dear reader)

I stared at Mycroft from across the dining room table. “I’m not going to boarding school.”

“Enola, don’t be difficult.” He said, paying more attention to the mashed potatoes on his plate than to me, “You cannot stay here alone.”

After Sherlock left, I returned and retired to my room, staying there until Mrs. Lane called me down for dinner. Mycroft, of course, had joined.

As soon as the food was set down before us, my eldest brother informed me that he made some calls this afternoon (most likely when Sherlock was mocking my hideaway) and that I would be attending a boarding school, with a pretentious name, in some place far away from Ferndell Hall.

“The Lanes are here.” I protested. “I won’t be alone!”

Mycroft sighed, “They are not your caretakers, Enola. You need structure and…” Mycroft gestured, “friends your own age.”

“I need to stay here.”

“Staying here is not going to bring Mummy back, no matter what you—”

“What do you know about what I need? You don’t even know me!”

“Enola.”

I didn’t care. I wouldn’t leave Ferndell Hall.

“I’m not going to boarding school,” I said stiffly, “And you cannot make me.”

Mycroft spoke calmly, as if making the winning move in chess, “Actually, I can. As the eldest living Holmes, legally, I am your guardian. Your wellbeing is in my hands.”

My stomach dropped instantly. I managed to get out, “Mum isn’t dead.”

“No,” He acknowledged. “However, in the event that a parent goes missing, responsibility should fall upon the next available guardian, and Enola,” Mycroft smiled, “That is me.”

“But…”

“It does not matter what you want, Enola. What I say goes… Try to remember, I do have your best interests in mind.” He took a sip of water before adding, “You leave in three weeks.”

For a brief moment, my vision turned red. “I think I understand now.” I spat out.

“Understand what?”

I wanted Mycroft to hurt. That was all that mattered in that moment.

Staring down my brother, I said, “Mum never spoke about you and now I understand why… She must have thought you as horrid as I do now.” I stood up suddenly, “Dinner no longer appeals to me, I’ll be going to bed early.”

I didn’t dare look at Mycroft’s face as I fled the room.

I had told Mycroft I would be going to bed early, but I remained restless the entire evening. I couldn’t find peace in slumber. I ended up pacing around in my room, thinkingly endlessly on how to find a way out of my situation.

I could not go to boarding school, I could not!

But Mycroft was powerful. He had legal power over me, at least, until I was 18, and that was years away.

It was painful to imagine being forced away from Ferndell Hall, into an unknown place. Despite Mycroft’s assurances about wonderful classes and plenty of clubs to fulfill any and all my interests, I doubted that they would encourage tree-climbing or mystery-solving in any of them. I would be groomed into someone quieter, someone more obedient, someone… not me.

Someone the opposite of a Holmes.

Mum had always encouraged my independence with schooling. I’ve explained my fondness for the library, reading was a common enough pass time. Mum herself taught me mathematics, and, I had already finished advanced trigonometry and was halfway through geometrics.

The biggest problem with a boarding school would be not being able to search for Mum. I needed to find her. I felt as though it was my responsibility. Sherlock and Mycroft clearly weren’t concerned about Mum as much as they should be; they weren’t taking this seriously.

If I had paced anymore, I would run a hole through the floor. Flopping unto my bed, I once more ran over the questions I had.

Why had Mum left on my birthday? Of all the days?

And leave no note, no explanation, no farewell?

Of course, I could see why she didn’t want to confide in a young teenage girl, with a big secret like this. Still, had the woman no fondness for me? Leaving me with nothing—

Oh I’m an idiot.

I shot up like a rocket. Of course she left me a message. Like pieces of a puzzle, everything seemed to slide into place.

Mum had left me a note.

She left on a day where she could give me a present that no one would question.

My birthday gifts.

I scrambled to open the drawer in the desk. I had deposited my gifts there earlier, too depressed to even give them a second glance. As I placed each item on the desk, I heard the clocks in the house chime midnight.

I quickly and carefully scanned the art kit, pencils and papers. No note, not even hidden underneath all the pencils. I put aside The Meanings of Flowers: Including Also Notes upon the Messages Conveyed by Fans, Handkerchiefs, Sealing-Wax, and Postage-Stamps and set the small booklet of ciphers in front of me.

I took a seat and went to work, opening the book. On the front page was the first cipher:

ALO NEK OOL NIY MSM UME HTN

ASY RHC

I closed the book immediately and put my head into my hands. Curse my mother; she would not make this easy on me! Holding back tears of frustration I let a breath, trying to focus.

You’ll do very well on your own, Enola.

Very well then, a sentence cannot be contained entirely of three-lettered words. Rereading the cipher, I noticed that the first five letters spelled ALONE. Therefore, I grabbed spare paper and rewrote the cipher with no spaces.

ALONEKOOLNIYMSMUMEHTNASYRHC

Perhaps it was not alone, but actually Enola? I rewrote the cipher backwards.

CHRYSANTHEMUMSMYINLOOKENOLA

There, that looked somewhat like actual English. Still, I needed words and the order didn’t look quite right. I started at the end of the jumble with ‘ENOLA’ and precede to separate the line into words. After, I switched the order once more so that the end result was:

ENOLA LOOK IN MY CHRYSANTHEMUMS

There. I was not entirely stupid.

 I noticed now that little russet and gold chrysanthemums decorated the edges of the page. Mum must have hand painted them. I stroked the page gently. Each letter was written in her flyaway handwriting.

I pushed back the tingling feeling in my throat.

Now, what would Mum consider her chrysanthemums? The ones outside, by the front door? I despaired over having to sneak outside, find a shovel, start digging. It was an awful lot of work to do and to do quietly. Besides, I had a feeling that digging and burying something right outside the front door of the house would have attracted attention. Mum would need to be more subtle.

What would Mum consider hers, specifically?

I stared at the page and willed the answer to appear. The border of hand-painted flowers seemed to mock me—a reminder of Mum. She enjoyed painting, even had hand-painted portraits of flowers hanging up in her room—

Oh, Jesus, I really am an idiot.

“My” chrysanthemums, of course, referred to the water-colored painting that hung on the wall in Mum’s sitting room, outside her bedroom. The wall was full of her designs. I carefully set down my phone (I had used it as a flashlight) and grabbed the frame from the wall. I turned it around, but there was nothing behind it.

Perhaps I had been wrong? Maybe it truly was hidden outside, stuck in the ground.

I gently shook the painting and heard something shift in it.

I was hit with the memory of Mum showing and explaining to me exactly how she hung her paintings. First, she placed the frame on the table and then laid a glass pane down on it. Next, the canvas itself. A piece of white wood to protect the back the canvas, and then brown paper was tacked onto the back of the frame with tape—meaning, that there was a space left behind the canvas and the brown paper.

I peeled the brown paper off the back slowly. Something white and folded was inside.

A note from Mum!

A letter, explaining her departure, apologizing for her abandonment, a map for me follow her…

When I opened the envelope, it was not a note.

It was money.

A considerably large amount of money.

“Well,” I whispered to myself. “I know where the money went.” The money was disappointing—don’t get me wrong, reader, I do appreciate it, but I had expected some sort of letter from Mum. Still, I had taken the bills, replaced the painting back to its original position, and snuck back into my room, the clock chiming one.

I stashed the money in my old dollhouse that collected dust in the corner.

I briefly considered giving it to Mycroft. Briefly.

“I do have your best interests in mind.”

Well Mycroft, I have Mum’s best interests in mind.

The clock was striking an early hour as I stood in my room, deciding my fate. I couldn’t go to boarding school. I wouldn’t go to boarding school. However, Mycroft would never agree to let me stay at Ferndell Hall or go out and search for Mum, so I would need a plan to trick him.

I needed to trick one of the most—if not the most—brilliant men of the world. It wouldn’t be easy and I would money, disguises, lodgings, and most importantly, I would need enough plans to stay ahead of both my brothers.

I glanced at my desk, where my cipher book laid open, just waiting to be turned to the next page. If every page contained a cipher, and every cipher led to money, then I would have a substantial start in no time.

Or, I could leave it.

I could walk away from all of this. Be a good sister. Listen to my elders. Trust them.

But I might never find Mum again.

Then again, if both Sherlock and Mycroft are searching for her (however half-heartedly), then surely she’ll be found? After all, are they not two extremely intelligent men, experienced in mystery-solving and with readily available means to enact their plans? Who was I, a young and naïve girl with no real world experience, to solve a missing person case—faster or better, than the Holmes boys?

You’ll do very well on your own, Enola.

I walked over, sat down, and turned the next page to another cipher.

AOEOLIMESOK

LNKONYDBBN

I instantly noticed that painted ivy trailed around the edges of the pages and jumped up at once, rushing to Mum’s rooms. I grabbed two watercolor pictures of ivy and ripped of the backs without success before I rather sullenly returned to my room for the cipher.

This cipher confused me—if the ivy didn’t represent the watercolor portraits, then what was the ivy on the page meant for?

I opened my desk drawer and pulled out the second present from Mum: a fragile book named The Meanings of Flowers: Including Also Notes upon the Messages Conveyed by Fans, Handkerchiefs, Sealing-Wax, and Postage-Stamps. I looked up ivy in the book to see if there was some sort of definition regarding it, and low and behold, in small print: Ivy. This clinging vine represents “fidelity.”

What the bloody hell does fidelity mean?

I almost pulled out my phone to search, but stopped myself. What if, somehow, my brother could tap into my phone? He’s certainly affluent enough to have that power, even if he won’t admit it.

He could go through my search history.  I would need to be more careful. I went over to my bookshelf and pulled down an old dictionary and flipped to where “fidelity” was located.

Faithfulness, loyalty; truthfulness.

While that didn’t really provide any assistance regarding the cipher, I was more curious as to other meanings of flowers. I decided to look up what “chrysanthemums” meant.

“The bestowing of chrysanthemums indicates familial attachment and, by implication, affection.” I read aloud.

Implied affection was better than nothing.

Next, I looked up sweet peas and thistles, for the bouquet I had found in Mum’s room still sat in my thoughts. Sweet pea blossoms meant goodbye, and thank you for a lovely time. A gift made upon departure. Thistles simply meant defiance.

Departure and defiance.

Mum truly had left a message.

The clock struck two, reminding me that I was staying up far too late, and I dove back into the ivy cipher. I stared carefully at the pages and noticed how Mum had painted the ivy vines in an unnatural zig-zag pattern, growing from right to left. Rolling my eyes, I followed that same pattern and rewrote the cipher:

AOEOLIMESOK

LNKONYDBBN

KNOBSBEDMYINLOOKENOLA

KNOBS BED MY IN LOOK ENOLA

ENOLA LOOK IN MY BED KNOBS

Once more, I left my room and traveled to Mum’s to discover that an exciting amount of money could be stuffed inside bed knobs. I added the money to my collection, which I hid in my old dollhouse.

I decided to stop there for night, for I’d need my strength for planning tomorrow. I have the monetary aspect of being self-supporting, but now I’d need to come up with plans on how to outsmart my brothers.

During the day, while Mycroft made the arrangements for me to move and live at some boarding school, I would be making preparations for my own future. And during the night, I would working on the cipher book.

Perhaps, somewhere in the book, there would even be a letter from Mum.

A girl can dream.

Chapter Text

During the day, while Mycroft made the arrangements for me to move and live at some boarding school, I would be making preparations for my own future. And during the night, I would work on the cipher book, collecting more money.

Perhaps, somewhere in the book, there would even be a letter from Mum.

A girl can dream.

Five weeks later, I was ready.

Ready for Saint Catherine’s School for Gifted Girls.

Ready for London.

Yes, dear reader, I have chosen London to run away to, and while this decision may confuse you, it is quite simple: it is the last place my brothers would ever look for me.

Sherlock resides in London and Mycroft frequents the city; point is, if my brothers know that I know where they spend their time, then they are going to deduce that when I run away, I will be running far away from them.

Instead, I’ll be running towards them.

Of course, London has other uses. It’s a huge city and it’ll be easier to blend in (or lose a tail) in a crowded place. Plus, the resources there will aid me in my endeavors to find Mum—ah, modernity.

(To be completely truthful with you, readers, at this time, I actually had no concrete plans for when I arrived in London, except a couple of pre-made disguises to have on hand in case there was an unsavory encounter. I was determined and angry—two dangerous combinations—and ready to dive into adulthood far too early.)

Mycroft left three days after Sherlock. I attempted to avoid him to the best of my abilities while he was still at Ferndell Hall, but unfortunately, I was found on the second day.

I had hid in the library. Since Ferndell was a rather old household, there were a couple of hidden spots within its walls. I found solace in the alcove located the library; a small cupboard like nook, hidden by a swinging shelf.

“I had hoped you were not planning on moping the entire time I was here.”

I glared at Mycroft. The eldest Holmes was crouched down to meet my eyes for I was curled up on the floor of the hidden nook, swarmed in blankets and with a good book in my hand.

I replied, “I’m not moping, Mycroft, I’m grieving.”

Grieving for having to leave my childhood so soon and so abruptly. Not grieving for my lost mother. I wouldn’t grieve for her. I would find her.

Mycroft heaved a heavy sigh, as if the world had handed him their problems in the form of a teenage girl, and to my utter surprise, sat down beside me and leaned against a nearby shelf. “Enola,” he began, “I am not the villain in this story. I am your brother and I am trying to ensure that you have a structured and safe childhood… Excuse me for caring.”

“If you really cared, you would have been here more often.”

He remained silent.

I continued, “’A structured and safe childhood’? Mum has been raising me for my entire life—she taught me to be independent and to question everything and if you think that I am going to just turn into someone I’m not,” I met Mycroft’s eyes and finished, “You’re wrong.”

“Enola.” Mycroft said softly.

“Mycroft.” I mocked. I turned back to my book and pretended to read while I waited for him to leave.

My eyes still trained onto the page, Mycroft stood up and said, “You’ll leave on the 15th of next month for Saint Catherine’s School for Gifted Girls—I’ve read your school assignments and you’ll fit into their advanced program just fine. Sherlock and I will continue the search for Mummy, and I promise you Enola, as soon as we find her, you can return to Ferndell.”

Funnily enough, Mycroft did end up keepi talking ang his promise—just not in the way either of us expected.

That encounter stayed with me for months after, especially because the next time Mycroft Holmes and Enola Holmes would meet, it would take place at a wedding. But I’m getting ahead of myself and I apologize, reader, it’s time to continue the story of my escape from Ferndell Hall.

During my remaining five weeks, I spent my days being measured for uniforms and my nights solving Mum’s ciphers. I stood still through being poked by pins and tutted at by the seamstresses (who, when measuring my waist commented, “much too wide,” and for hips and bust added, “much too small,”—suffice to say, Sherlock and I shared more than a sharp nose and chin, but a similar figure as well) and I endured Mrs. Lane’s sorrowful gazes.

I thrived in the night, where I would work on the ciphers. It made me feel somewhat closer to my Mum. The ciphers were not the only thing I worked on; I also worked on my escape plan.

I would need to throw my brothers of my scent. I already chose London as my destination and now I needed to choose a false one. Manchester seemed like a great option.

I dug out an old map from my desk and opened it. I traced the different ways to Manchester with a pencil, making sure that the marks were visible, but not entirely obvious. I wrote down the following on a sheet of paper, stuck that inside the map, and shoved them both into my dollhouse.

• Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool, Cardiff, Scotland border?
• Hair
• Attic boxes?

Allow me to explain my notes.

I wrote the following cities because they are far away from London, and at least I could try to throw my brothers off my scent by listing several different cities. They’ll conclude that I was considering those specific places to run away to.

Next, I wrote down the vague message of “hair.” Hopefully, Sherlock and Mycroft will believe that as part of my disguise I cut my hair to a more drastically short length—it is one of my more defining features.

For attic boxes, I meant as to my wardrobe. Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s old clothes from childhood are gathering up dust in the attic. Cutting my hair and gathering masculine clothing are two major indications that I was going to disguise myself as a male—which is a common practice in many of the runaway fictions I had read (I left a particularly dog-eared one lying by my bed). Therefore, Sherlock and Mycroft would deduce that I will be disguising myself as a boy and running off to the other side of the country.

They could not be more wrong.

I am not going to Manchester, or Liverpool, or anywhere north. I would dive straight into the heart of London. I planned on taking several different trains and buses in order to reach my destination. I had hoped that the precautions I was taking with the different routes would be unnecessary, but they could be the only thing that was standing between me and boarding school.

I would keep all of my hair—despite how tired I am of the same muddy brown, thick, long strands. I could wear wigs for my various disguises.

And I was not going to dress as a boy.

I mean no offense to the multiple books that feature heroines disguising themselves as boys in order to infiltrate organizations, earn a living, and hide from villains, because I hold those stories very dear to my heart. They kept me company on lonely days and inspire me to this very day. However, their narrative is somewhat predictable if not the very least popular, and if I wanted to pull of what would be considered the greatest trick in the world, I would need to be the opposite.

There was another matter which I would need to carefully consider. Technology.

I had lived with the internet for practically my entire life and technology could be considered a vital part of my life. I had my phone (with very few contacts in it, as Mum did not have a cell phone) and my laptop—both I would need to get rid of. I figured that Mycroft would surely be able to trace those electronics, so I would need new ones.

I would also need burner phones (a concept I heard from my various shows I watched—how naïve I had been, looking back at those moments now. Burner phones? Ha!). I would copy everything necessary on my laptop to a flash drive and transfer those items unto the new laptop. Although, it should be said that most of my laptop contained scanned images of my best sketches, a few pictures of the grounds around Ferndell Hall, and a handful of writing exercises from school assignments. Mum tended to have me handwrite instead of type my work. While we are on the topic, I will add that I did go back and delete my internet history from my laptop, although I doubt that Mycroft wouldn’t be able to somehow hack and see it anyway. There were only a handful of websites that I would be embarrassed for him to see and two of them were Dr. Watson’s Blog and the Science of Deduction.

I placed my laptop into a desk drawer. I would keep my phone on me and leave it behind in the cab, on the chance that Mycroft would be tracking it. I made the quick decision to write down the number Mycroft had given me and slipped the piece of paper into my bags.

My bags were Mum’s old ones, filled with all the necessary items I would need for my new life (most of the contents were of money and I knew I needed to deposit them immediately and discreetly.) I had to be careful with my clothes, and only chose the most versatile pieces and a few of Mum’s that I couldn’t bear to part with. As well, I had taken the gifts Mum had given me for my birthday and stashed with extra care into the outermost pockets.

“Enola?” Mrs. Lane called up to me. “Are you ready?”

“Yes!” I yelled back down, “I’m coming!” I grabbed my bags and took one last long look around my childhood room. The white wood of the furniture seemed dull.

As I walked down the stairs, Mr. Lane rushed to take my bags and we made our way to the cab outside. After placing my bags into the trunk, Mr. Lane gave me a quick hug before allowing Mrs. Lane grip me tighter than a snake.

“Be careful, Enola! And study hard,” She began to fuss over me, an act that I wasn’t quite familiar with. Mum had never done it. “Be safe, don’t get into trouble, and write often!” She hugged me long and hard and gave me a kiss on the forehead, which I returned to her cheek.

“Thank you, Mrs. Lane.” I said.

However strong I imagined myself, I was weak for the final goodbye.

I knelt on the grass and held onto the furry body in front of me. His cold nose bumped into mine and his long tongue licked away the tears on my cheeks.

Saying goodbye to my dog was one of the worst experiences of my life—at that time.

I tried not to focus on Reginald’s howling as my cab took me further and further away from my childhood. I thought to myself, this was a symbolic moment that probably foreshadowed my future or something.

You’ll do very well on your own, Enola.

After the cab dropped me and my bags off at the nearest train station, I made my way to the toilets, taking note of any cameras I could spot. I thought myself quite smart at the time.

Once I was in there, I grabbed the biggest stall and began to undress. I opened up the smaller of my bags, grabbed the black bundle of cloth, and began to re-dress myself in my newest disguise. I had been dressed previously in a plain t-shirt and jeans, with some ballet flats and my hair pulled into a ponytail.

Now, I was dressed in all black, as was the custom for funerals. I wore a modest, long-sleeved, A-line dress that went just past my knees. It had been hanging up in the back of Mum’s closet. I had pulled on some light black leggings paired with thick, sturdy, black boots—not exactly what one wore to a funeral, but I might need to make a quick escape. To top everything off (quite literally!) I had a rather demure black hat on with a small veil that blocked part of my face from any wandering eye. I splashed some water against my eyes in order to slightly smudge my mascara. Finally, I was ready. Enola Holmes, the youngest of the three Holmes siblings, was hidden.

Looking back at it, now, I feel slightly embarrassed at the theatrics I went through in my disguise. I had thought myself so clever for being detailed, and, while details are important, I wish I could go back and inform myself that sometimes, less is more.

I turned to my bags and grabbed the piece of fabric that has dangled down from on the seams. I pulled it and aloud ripping sound filled the air.

The previous patterned cloth that had covered the old carpet bags easily fell away to its original pattern that had been hidden underneath. You see, readers, in order to disguise any recognition of my bags, I knew I had to alter their appearance in some way. Before I left for the train station, I had spent a couple of hours painstakingly devising and enacting my idea for my luggage. I had sewed (very poorly, mind you) a piece of cloth that covered the original fabric. I had done my stitches large and sloppy. I needed them to be easily undone.

With a final tug, the last of the threads broke and fake fabric broke away completely and the rather tacky brown pattern prevailed. I stuffed my old clothes into the bags, grabbed my bags, took a deep breath, and then walked out of the bathroom.

Instead of exchanging my already bought tickets for different ones, I decided to buy an entirely new ticket. I needed to zig-zag on my way to London, so, I chose to first go to a town a little further out from London. Hopefully, it’ll help throw Mycroft off my trail.

I assumed that I would have approximately five to eight hours until the Saint Catherine’s School for Gifted Girls or whatever, realizes that Enola Holmes is nowhere to be found, they panic, and then they call Mycroft. Then, Mycroft must attempt to track me down (I use the word “attempt” here, reader, in good faith that I hadn’t already been found out).

A loud train whistle nearly blows out my eardrums and I hear the conductor call for my train. As I headed over to the train, I feel a moment of guilt.

Mycroft and Sherlock had already lost Mum. Was I being selfish? I was dismissing their feelings and—

I nearly slapped myself at where my thoughts were going. Mycroft and Sherlock were the ones being selfish—they were enforcing their will upon mine!

 I had no desire to go to a boarding school. More importantly, I needed to find Mum, and I could not do that locked up away somewhere.

I refused to be locked away in a box somewhere.

I was going to get on that bloody train.

“Condolences for your loss, dearie.”

I looked up immediately to see an older woman across the aisle staring at me. I had managed to grab a car where few people were and I was even luckier that no one sat beside me. However, obviously I wasn’t completely lucky for this woman wanted to strike up some small talk.

I decided to humor her. “Thank you.” I said. I intended for the conversation to end there, but she continued—

“If you don’t mind me asking—”

Oh but I do.

“—who did you lose?”

I grappled on what to say. Who was this person grieving for? Who was I, dressed all in black? I stuttered when answering, “M-My aunt.” Without further prompting, I continued, “She was estranged from the family for a while, it’s why she lived in London, and when my brothers refused to go I knew I had to—even if I never really knew her.” I stopped myself. I feared I spoke too much and too close to home.

Luckily, the elder didn’t seem to make note of my awkwardness. She replied, “Family is always difficult, unfortunately.”

I gave her a somber smile, nodded, and leaned back in my chair.

“Did she not have any children?”

For the love of—

“No,” I replied a bit testily, “Not any that mattered, I suppose.”

“No husband?”

I shook my head, “He died a little after I was born.”

“Oh!” The old woman frowned and my shoulders tensed for some reason. “What a misfortune! No husband to help her? However did she survive?”

I bit back a retort and answered softly, “She had her ways,” I glanced at the old woman’s eyes. They weren’t anything like Mum’s. “She was clever.” I added. “And brilliant. She didn’t need a man to support her. W—she lived comfortably.”

The elder leaned back in her seat as she ‘hmm’-ed. “Ah, well, that’s good to hear, always nice to hear of a capable woman like your aunt.”

You’ll do very well on your own, Enola.

I hope you do well too, Mum.

The old woman said softly, but loudly enough for me to overhear, “Shame about the children though, oh dear, what will happen to all of her things? Shame indeed.”

Chills ran through my body. The sound of her voice. It was—

“What are you implying?” I inquired, turning my full attention to across the aisle.

“Hmm?” She said, glancing at me a little too quickly for my comfort, “Oh,” She continued, “Just how said it is to see rooms filled with old things—staying and collecting dust—never getting any more use. It’s a downright shame.”

I asked her carefully, “What could be done with a room filled with things?”

Eagerly she answered, “Oh, my dear, I’m not quite sure…But, if you were curious or uncertain… You said London, correct? Well, I happen to know of a little shop where they can take care of things like this—”

I started to tune out the scammer. I couldn’t believe—

“—takes care of almost any need! Just take this—” She practically shoved a withered down business card into my hands.

Culhane’s Used Clothing

Saint Tookings Lane

SELL/BUY—Faire Prices

“Just clothing?”

She shook her head vigorously. “No, the business is expanding!”

“Ah. Thanks.”

With that, our conversation ended and soon the only sound I heard was the bustling of the train.

Chapter Text

Chapter the Fifth: In Which Enola Climbs Several Trees and Earns Herself a Reputation

I started to tune out the scammer. I couldn’t believe my luck of something like this happening to me.

“—takes care of almost any need! Just take this—” She practically shoved a withered down business card into my hands.

Culhane’s Used Clothing

Saint Tookings Lane

SELL/BUY—Faire Prices

“Just clothing?”

She shook her head vigorously. “No, dearie, the business is expanding!”

“Ah. Thank you.”

With that, our conversation ended and soon I could only hear the bustling of the train.

MISSING CHILD

Uh—

SON KIDNAPPED

Oh stars and garters, thank the maker if she exists—

MOTHER BEGS TO ANYONE FOR HELP

Wait—

POLICE HAVE NO LEADS

I stared at the headlines on the various newspapers that littered the stand. Apparently, it was breaking news that there was a recent kidnapping in the area. Someone’s child was missing.

Would my own mother miss me if I had been kidnapped?

Mum had never been the most present in her parenting. Often, she would leave me to my own devices, allowing me to embrace freedom outside or in the library. She had homeschooled me for most of my entire life after a brief patch of bad luck at the local elementary school.

Perhaps she would have sent me to boarding school eventually—

Enola, you will do just fine on your own.

Once again, Mum’s words wash over me and soothed my nerves and I suddenly knew what I had to do.

I wanted, almost more than anything, to help this mother find her child.

But who was I to do such thing?

Sure, I had solved a mere handful of ciphers and riddles left behind from Mum, but I wasn’t a Consulting Detective like Sherlock nor did I have the resources like Mycroft.

I glanced around the train station to see if anyone had taken notice to the oddly dressed woman standing still next to the newspapers. (Perhaps my disguise was not as useful as I had thought.) I had gotten off at the second stop and was planning on taking another train or two before finally heading to London. I needed to keep on schedule and be reasonably and logical in my decisions. I couldn’t waste time dilly-dallying around some crime scene.

Still, my feet wouldn’t let me move from my spot. This case, I felt drawn to it for some reason. Just imagining the stress this poor mother must be feeling—

My hand reached out and I grabbed a copy of one of the many papers.

One look couldn’t possibly hurt anyone, could it?

Perhaps I had made a mistake.

I watched, silently panicking on the inside, as several policemen roamed around the outside of this grand old house. Their cars littered the street and the huge driveway. They were everywhere—like cockroaches. I tried not to act like a runaway (although I kept having to reassure myself that there was almost no way that they knew who I was and what I had done and that no, Mycroft was certainly not behind every tree) as I strolled towards the large group of people gathered around the main entrance of the mansion. Soon I was in eavesdropping distance and managed to get bits of conversations.

“I heard that there was no ransom—”

“No ransom? Poor Marlene, I can’t believe that this is happening right as her re-election—”

“She must be out of her mind—”

“Did you see that woman? Her hair!”

“This is what she gets for not—”

“I heard they brought Scotland Yard into this—”

I stayed around the edges of the crowd and listened to the gossip. I managed to get enough base information to begin a hypothesis. This woman was in politics, up for re-election or something, and right as her campaign is starting her son, her only son, had disappeared mysteriously and the police have practically no leads.

And there has been no ransom.

He disappeared three days ago.

I had to get into the house—but how to get past the police? I eyed the line of journalists, reporters, and bystanders who were clustered around the gate. Various police officers were walking around them, making sure that no one came in who wasn’t supposed to.

As I stared at the property, with its large house and iron-wrought fence, I was reminded of Ferndell Hall.

What else did this place have in common with my home?

I walked away from the property before I began to circle around carefully; making sure no one was taking notice of me. Eventually, I came to a back corner of the fenced-in house and found what I was looking for. A magnificent tree was growing closely by the fence; its limbs were growing strongly and proudly upwardly towards the sky and outwardly over the fence.

I headed over to the tree and was about to ascend when I heard voices coming towards me. Immediately I panicked and quickly looked around for a place to hide. I saw some bushes nearby and dove into them, hiding myself between the plants and the fence.

A pair of policemen strolled around the corner—no doubt patrolling or perhaps even searching? I couldn’t make out what they were saying as they passed me but soon enough they were gone and I stood up from my hiding spot. I had to be quick in climbing because who knows when the next patrol would come around.

I dug my hands and feet into the trunk of the tree and started to climb. The branches were low enough that I was able to latch onto one quickly enough and pull myself up. The most dangerous part would come next—I had to crawl along the branch until I was over the fence and then drop down to the ground. During my childhood, I often climbed trees, so I was confident in this task. (In hindsight, I may have been too confident.)

I managed to crawl far enough along a branch that I was over the fence. I was looking for a safe way to fall to the ground, but something in the trees caught my eyes. I was too preoccupied with looking at the strange sight to realize that I had missed stepped and put too much of my weight on the wrong part of the branch.

There was a loud crack and I slipped off the branch and fell in the dirt.

Suffice to say, it bloody hurt.

I didn’t yell as I fell, fortunately, but I did let out a groan of pain from the ground. I had fallen on my side so my shoulder took the brunt of the pain. The fall wasn’t terrible—I hadn’t been too high above the ground—but I knew my body would ache for a good couple of days.

I stood up slowly while I rubbed my shoulder and looked around the property to see if my fall had been seen. I breathed easy when no one came running out to confront the stranger who had just sneaked into their yard. Not even a full day of freedom and I was already breaking the law and trespassing.

What would Mycroft think of me now? Or Mum? I’m sure Sherlock could have just walked straight into the house.

Time was of the essence and I needed to get started. First things first, I would find what had caused me to become distracted and fall in the first place. You see, dear readers, I had seen an oddly familiar structure from my elevated position. Through the tree limbs and the leaves, I had spotted a square-ish shape that appeared to be a part of another tree on the property. I had seen a treehouse.

I made the assumption that this treehouse belonged to the son and not the mother. There were no other children who lived here and I’m sure being an only child he was somewhat spoiled. The well-kept garden and nice cars in front of the house prompted me to believe that this family was well-off. If the mother was indeed involved in politics, it was probable that she wasn’t always at home and to make up for missed time she would have spoiled the son; perhaps he had asked for a treehouse.

I wondered briefly if I could be considered spoiled in my upbringing. Although, I’m sure any rottenness would be forgiven given as my own mother abandoned me on my birthday. I shook my head to get rid of my negative thoughts. I needed to stay focus on the problem at hand. I carefully snuck around the back of the yard, keeping an eye out for any witnesses and for the treehouse.

The reason why I was focused on the treehouses so intensely, in case you were curious readers, is because they are a universal symbol of childhood and a representation of imagination and freedom. I cannot count the days I spent in my own hideaway. I figured that my fondness towards mine was not an outlier. There were bound to be something in there, I was sure of it.

I stumbled upon the treehouse soon after. There were a couple of odd pieces of wood planks that were nailed into the tree. They were painted a dark color in order to blend into the trunk—obviously, this was supposed to be a more private hideaway.

I began to climb up and up and up until I finally reached the underside of the platform. Carefully, as to not fall again, I raised my hand and pushed on the wood. It lifted quite easily and I opened the trap door wide open. I pulled myself up and grinned. I had been successful so far; I wasn’t completely hopeless.

Perhaps it will set a precedent for more adventures?

I carefully closed the trap door and started to have a look around. It was a pretty simple square box, about just enough room for me to lie down and have an inch or so of room at both ends. It was well-built and with actual shelves in the corners to hold various toys. There were two small windows cut out on opposite ends. The aesthetic was very pleasing and I ached a little for my own hideaway.

“I would come up, but that platform doesn’t look entirely sturdy. And one day this tree will give out, and tumble right into the water. I do hope you’re not in it when that happens. It’d be a pity for you to drown.”

“You’re not invited anyway.”

It had seemed like years ago since I had last seen Sherlock when in reality it was barely more than a month. I wondered if he would drop the cases he had to look for me. Would he find me? Would he care enough to even look?

On to more important matters, I started to carefully search the shelves. The most interesting booklet filled with chicken-scratch writing (I managed to make out what I believed to be some poetry. I have read numerous poetry books so I was familiar with the subject but I was not knowledgeable in the judging of quality,) and a small jewelry box.

I grabbed the box and settled down on the floor to examine its contents. Once I was comfortable, I gingerly opened the box. The box had the strangest combination of items inside it. Exactly what the hell was I looking at?

There was a bag filled with what appeared to be red string but when I opened it I saw that it was actually hair.

Please don’t let this be a serial killer trophy thing, please don’t let this be a serial killer trophy thing, please don’t let this be a serial killer trophy thing.

I pulled a lock out of the bag. There was a curl to it and it felt soft, indicating that before it had been shorn, it had been well-taken care of. Another thing I noted was how long the pieces were, however, some pieces were many different lengths, like the person had a hard time to cutting their hair. Most pieces were long enough that it made me wonder if they had come from a boy or a girl. I tucked away the bag for later.

The next item was a small ceramic boat. It was hand painted with delicate details. Compared to the other toys that littered the shelves, this one was more expensive and well-cared for. I guessed it was in the box to protect it from the elements. Gingerly, I placed the boat back into the box.

The final item was even more mysterious than the first two combined. It was a letter of some sort, I couldn’t quite make out what exactly it said because it appeared to have something spilled on it. The few words that hadn’t been washed away gave me enough hints to conclude that the letter had been addressed to this son, it was about some sort of contest, and finally, I made out a name at the bottom of the page, Terry J. Mosmai.

I placed all the things back into the box very carefully, but not before taking a lock of the red hair. I held it in my hand gently and then pocketed it.

While I had studied the items of the box I had also started to piece together some pieces of this puzzle. The next step was to climb down and see if I could make my way into the house. I’d like to visit the bedroom, where supposedly the lock had been broken and the room messed.

Just as I landed on the ground and began to brush off the dirt on my dress, I heard a loud shout. I looked behind me immediately and noticed someone marching towards me across the lawn. My first instinct was to run, but, my logical side reminded me how the home was surrounded by police and that it was doubtful I would get very far.  I had not, of course, put in all of this effect to be caught trespassing. So, instead of turning tail and running away, I strode towards the person. As I got closer, I saw that it was a man with gray hints in his hair, a determined set to his shoulders, and a badge. Definitely police, then.

Calm down, Enola, just act like you belong here.

“Hello officer!” I greeted. We soon met in the middle of the yard and I gave him a bright smile.

He paused, obviously thrown off, “Yeah, hello to you to,” He said, “But actually, it’s Detective Inspector.”

OH MY STARS AND GARTERS

“Even better!” I replied cheerfully. I stuck out my hand and smiled again, “Lovely to meet you Detective Inspector…?” I trailed off, waiting for name.

“Lestrade.” After looking me up and down and deeming me not a threat, he shook my hand. “Nice to meet you too, Mrs.…?”

Say something, Enola, say anything, and make a name—

“It’s Miss, now, actually.”

The detective looked at my funeral garb. There was an awkward pause before he said, “Er, sorry for your loss, then, uh, Ms.…?”

Again, he grappled for a name. He was stubborn.

“Thank you, Detective Inspector Lestrade, you’re very kind for saying that,” I started to walk towards the house and continued the conversation, “However, we’ve got more pressuring issues currently going on. A boy has gone missing and you have no leads.”

Lestrade began to follow me, “Now wait a minute, you’re not even supposed to be here—”

I didn’t stop walking to the house. I needed to check out that bedroom and in order to do that I had to act like I belonged. Sherlock worked with the police all the time and he could be a right prick; there was no reason why I couldn’t do the same right now.

Without looking back and with an air of confidence, I responded, “He wasn’t kidnapped, he ran away.”

I couldn’t hear footsteps behind me anymore, so I looked back to see that Lestrade had stopped.

“Come on now,” I said, motioning him forward, “We should inform the mother, should we not?”

Lestrade stared at me. “No.” He said.

“No?”

“No!” Lestrade huffed, “Now listen, ma’am, I don’t know who the bloody hell you think you are or how the hell you know that it wasn’t a kidnapping or even how you got in here, but I’m not going to let some civilian order me around. Now, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises, otherwise I will have to have you arrested—”

“Holmes.” I blurted out.

A pause, and then—

“Holmes? Like Sherlock Holmes? The detective?”

We both turned to see a young woman leaning out of the open doorway. She was wearing a uniform and was looking at me for an answer.

“Um.” I wasn’t sure on what to do. Sherlock would have already gotten into the house, but here I was stuck explaining myself. This whole adventure was a mistake. “Yes.”

The maid didn’t need further prompting. “Oh my God! Do you work with him? I thought he hadn’t gotten out messages but Mrs. Marlene kept insisting that we keep sending them even after he declined the first one!”

“Yes!” I replied eagerly. Here was a way out of this mess! “We’re actually related,” I added. I strode towards her, “He was unfortunately busy with another case, but sent me in his place. Can I meet the mother now? I have important news regarding her son, and I need to see his bedroom as well.”

The girl grabbed my hand eagerly and proceeded to drag me into the house. I didn’t hear Lestrade putting up any protests, but I had to assume he was still dumbfounded at my information. I needed to act fast.

I had no idea if Lestrade had Sherlock’s number, I could only assume he did and if that was true I needed to act as fast as possible. Who knows if Lestrade would inform Sherlock of a strange woman dressed in black, claiming to be related to him, and barging in on his crime scene?

Also, my disguise was ruined! I mourned the thought of having to get rid of the lovely black dress I was wearing. It was elegant and simple. I would need a new disguise immediately.

Back to the matter at hand, I followed the girl—whom I had now deduced to be a maid working for this household—into the living room, past the kitchen, past the dining room, and into another living room.

“Mrs. Basilweather!” The maid called out, gaining the attention of everyone in the room. An older woman with auburn hair was slumping on the couch while several people were gathered around her. “Sherlock Holmes changed his mind!” With that, she thrust me in front of her and into the spotlight.

I straightened my spine. I could absolutely do this.

“My name is Enola Holmes, Mrs. Basilweather. I’m here to help.”

Chapter Text

Chapter the Sixth: In Which Enola Makes Deductions and a Narrow Escape

“Mrs. Basilweather!” The maid called out, gaining the attention of everyone in the room. An older woman with brown hair was slumping on the couch while several people gathered around her. “Sherlock Holmes changed his mind!” With that, she thrust me in front of her and into the spotlight. I straightened my spine.

“My name is Enola Holmes, Mrs. Basilweather. I’m here to help.”

It was like the Messiah had come. Mrs. Basilweather jumped up. “You work with Sherlock Holmes?” She asked. “I wasn’t aware he had married!”

What the fu—

“No, ma’am,” I said, my teeth clenched. “We’re in-laws, actually.” At least, I reminded myself, that that meant my disguise had successfully changed me from a minor to a woman of legal age. I continued my explanation, “Sherlock couldn’t make it, so he sent me in his stead.”

 “Why?”

“We can have time for small-talk later on, ma’am, right now I have news regarding your son.” At that moment, I noticed Lestrade had entered the room behind me. He clearly heard my statement and opened his mouth to contradict me so I rushed to pull out the evidence from my pocket.

Mrs. Basilweather gave a small squeak when she saw the shining red locks dangling from my hands. She it from my hands. “This is Tewky’s!” She claimed, clutching the hairs to her face. “His hair has been cut!”

Tewky?

“Mrs. Basilweather, I have good reason to believe that your son wasn’t kidnapped, but that he ran away.”

“Ran away?” She repeated softly. She looked up and stared into my eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“I’d like to have a look at his room to be sure,” I lowered my voice and added gently, “Please.”

“Gertrude!” She barked. The girl who had brought me in jumped to attention. She continued, “Show Mrs. Holmes where Tewky’s rooms are.”

“It’s Miss now, actually,” I added. I was aware of Lestrade’s eyes on me. I needed to keep in character. I was a widowed Enola Holmes, still dressed in black from the funeral of my late husband.

Mrs. Basilweather’s eyes softened and she apologized as Gertrude showed me out of the room and took me upstairs. Lestrade followed. We made an odd trio as we trekked upstairs to Tewky’s room.

“Here it is,” Gertrude the maid said as she opened the door to an impressive bedroom.

I walked in. “How old is… Tewky, exactly?”

“14 years, Miss.”

I must have made some sort of noise because Gertrude added, “I know it may not seem like it, that’s because Mrs. Basilweather likes… er, she loves her son very much, he’s an only child and Mrs. Basilweather had trouble with having children, and er, well, she is very fond of him and, er, is in the habit, of, well…”

The bedroom I had entered in did not fit a boy of 14 years, instead, it seemed for a young child! The walls were a pastel blue with no posters only soft gold decals that crept down from the ceiling and crept up from the floor. The windows were large with lace white curtains that reached the floor. The furniture reminded me of my own. White wood with small hand-painted details—fit for a young child, not a teenager. The bed was a twin, tucked away in a corner.

The room would have been very nice too, if not for the huge mess that reached every corner. The bed had its sheets thrown off (they were baby blue with white clouds) and the pillows were messed up. There was no desk, instead, there was a small table low to the ground in the corner of the room.

I stood over it and made note that there were no chairs—to use this one had to sit on the ground. As well, there were crayons all over the table and the ground around it. Some of them were snapped in half, others were just crushed and the wax was being smushed into the carpeting. The dresser by the bed had half its drawers out, the clothes inside them spewed about the room. I gingerly picked up a shirt and nearly cringed child’s print of dinosaurs on it.

I felt fairly bad for Tewky now. A young boy, trapped inside childhood because his mother doesn’t want him to grow up.

I noticed something on the ground. “Is that him?” I asked, pointing to the framed picture. The glass had been cracked but I could still make out the picture.

“Yes, that was taken around six months ago.” Gertrude answered.

“What?” Tewky looked like he was ten years old. His soft baby face was framed by long, beautiful, red curls that added femininity to the photo. Blue eyes stared back at me and I felt a chill go down my spine. “He looks awfully young in this photo.”

Gertrude shuffled uncomfortably. “…Well, you see, Miss, uh, that is, um… Mrs. Basilweather likes to baby him.”

“Ah,” I said softly. I checked out the window, the closet, and the door lock before turning to Lestrade and nodding, indicating that I was finished with my inspection.

Gertrude walked us back down into the sitting room. Mrs. Basilweather was wringing her hands. The perfect picture of a distressed mother.

I wondered, briefly, are my own brothers distressed?

Did I look similar to her when Mum first disappeared?

“Well?” Mrs. Basilweather asked, voice wavering slightly, “What did you find? Where is my son?”

“Mrs. Basilweather,” I began, “Your son wasn’t kidnapped.”

This was the wrong thing to say, as she promptly burst into tears. My face turned hot as the tears rolled down her cheeks. Gertrude stepped forward with tissues in hand and I watched, uncomfortable, as the girl attempted to comfort her employer.

Mrs. Basilweather sniffed and then asked, “If Tewky wasn’t kidnapped, what happened?”

I pulled out another ginger lock of hair from my pocket. “I believe he ran away,” I cleared my throat, “Mrs. Basilweather, does your son have a treehouse?”

She stared at me, “I mean,” She said, “He does, I had it built for him a few years ago, but he fell off it one time and I forbade him to go up there again…”

“I believe,” I said softly, “that your son has run away. By forbidding him to use the treehouse, he was presented with a perfect hideout. He used the place as a planning center” I pulled out the other items from my pocket, the flyer and the boat. “I found the treehouse and I found those items inside. He most likely cut his hair as a disguise.”

“Alright, then,” Detective Inspector Lestrade broke into the conversation, “What about the broken window? And his room?”

I smiled, “The mess in his room was the nearest blind, he could have easily done it himself—that explains the lack of prints other than his own—”

“How did you know about the lack of prints?”

“If you had prints then you would have a lead, but instead you are here, listening to me.”

Lestrade frowned.

“Besides his room, as for the broken window, he could have done that himself as well. Was the glass lying inside or outside?”

Lestrade didn’t say anything.

Raising an eyebrow, I deduced, “From your silence, I will believe that it was outside, thus meaning the glass was broken from the inside. Why would kidnappers break the window from the inside to escape? Why not go the route they used to enter?”

“Maybe they couldn’t use that route?” Lestrade shot back.

“They’re smart enough to turn off the security cameras and delete the footage, but not smart enough to have a way out that doesn’t involve breaking anything?”

Lestrade’s eyes narrowed, “And I suppose you just guessed regarding the security cameras?”

“There are cameras all around the outside, plus the alarm system on the wall. I’m assuming no alarm was triggered?” I turned to Mrs. Basilweather, who nodded shakily. I turned back to Lestrade, trying to stifle a smile, “Detective Inspector, Tewksbury Basilweather was not kidnapped and here is my proof: The lock of hair found in his treehouse—identified by his mother to be her son’s—was cut off, and why would a kidnapped go through all the trouble of breaking into this household and then taking the child to the treehouse, which, as I might add, was not easy to spot, only to stop there, carrying another person up the tree into the platform to, what, shorn his hair as a disguise? Why not do that at the house, or at a secondary location? The next piece of evidence is the messy room, the missing prints, and the silence.”

“Silence?”

“Of course. From what I gathered from the papers, if the police were honest with the press, Tewky was not alone in the house that night. Mrs. Basilweather, as well as the live-in maid, were both at the house, when the so-called kidnappers snuck their way in. The room clearly as evidence of a struggle; the crushed crayons, messy bed, the ripped curtains, et cetera. Would it not make sense for that a struggle that produced that much chaos to create noise? If it did, then how did two different people not hear anything?”

Lestrade’s brows unfurrow and I could see his shoulders relax. He tilted his head as I continued on my deductions.

“The security cameras. Someone who was familiar with security alarms and quick enough to disarm it, as well as hack into the security cameras and delete the footage, that is quite a lot of work to be completed in one night, while trying to apprehend a struggling kid. Or, all of that could be done by someone who knew the code for the alarm, and the password to access the camera’s footage.” I paused, taking in everyone’s reactions before adding, “And there’s no ransom.”

Everyone was silent, including the detective and Mrs. Basilweather. The older woman stared at me, mouth slightly open. “What…” She paused, “What exactly are you saying happened to my son?”

To say simply, Mrs. Basilweather, your son has left you willingly. He ran away.”

“Why?” Her voice was broken.

“Because—”Suddenly, my skin felt itchy and hot. I felt everyone’s eyes on me. “Because—” I tried again, but the words wouldn’t come out.

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes at my stupidity. “Enola,” He said, “to put it simply, Mum has left you.”

Staring for a final time, I said, “Because he couldn’t stand to live here any longer.”

“Lies!” Someone shouted.

Detective Lestrade, Gertrude, Mrs. Basilweather and I all turn suddenly to see where the new voice had come from. None of us had even noticed someone enter the room.

I gaped at the newcomer. She was something else entirely!

A tall and solid woman stood in the center of the doorframe, arms crossed and legs apart. She held herself high which indicated she was confident and efficient. Cherry-red hair cascaded past her chin, down her shoulders, and curled gracefully around her waist. Her lips were painted the same color as her hair and when she opened her mouth her teeth were garishly white. The rest of her makeup was intense and it was hard to focus on anything else. She wore long, layered skirts and a long-sleeved shirt. Jewelry coat her hands and ears; her many necklaces dipped into her exposed cleavage.

I flushed and looked towards Detective Lestrade. He had a similar expression akin to my own. He opened his mouth but a police officer ran into the room before he could say anything. The officer put her hand on the fascinating stranger’s shoulder and exclaimed, “Ma’am! I told you—” Seeing Detective Lestrade, she interrupted herself to say, “Lestrade! I’m sorry, we tried to stop her but she just forced—” While she spoke, the officer tried to pull the woman’s shoulder in an attempt to bring her back, but the stranger wasn’t even moved. Clearly, she had hidden strength beneath her curves.

“Lies!” She repeated. “Madame, your son was kidnapped!”

Mrs. Basilweather dashed over to the doorway. She grabbed the woman’s hands. “Whatever do you mean?”

I heard Detective Lestrade curse behind me and silently I agreed. This stranger was ridiculous!

Mrs. Basilweather did not agree.

“Madame Basilweather,” She began, “Allow me to appease your nerves, for I have arrived to your home in order assist you in this difficult time! I am Madame Laila, Psychic Perditorian—a Spiritual Seeker.”

Not only was her appearance shocking, but this mystery woman’s title! A perditorian is defined as a finder of all things lost; a seeker. But she claimed to be a psychic? She would dare smother such a prestigious and scientific title with her fluff nonsense!?

“Your son has not run away, Madame,” Madame Laila announced, “He was stolen!”

“What?!” The detective and I said in unison.

“Mrs. Basilweather,” I began, “Remember, there’s no ransom, and—”

The mother fluttered her hand at me while not taking her eyes off the Madame Laila. I tried once more to remind her of what we had just discussed, the evidence I had just brought up, but I was shushed once more. Mrs. Basilweather was enraptured by Madame Laila’s words. The large, red-headed woman put her bag down and started to pull out various candles, small ceramic dishes, and rags.

I scowled at the pair’s irrationalness.  I knew that Mrs. Basilweather wouldn’t hear anymore and that I had to take my leave. My mouth felt sour. Even though I knew rationally I did as much as I could, I felt as though this whole pitstop was trash.

So, as everyone became distracted by Madame Laila’s shenanigans, I quietly made my way out of the room and towards the front door.

I had thought I was successful as I strode out the front door and towards the gate, however, I was interrupted by a—

“Ms. Holmes!”

I wanted to keep walking, but I knew that Lestrade would continue to shout after me and raise attention, so I turned around and greeted him. “Hello, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” I greeted coolly. “I thought I would take my leave, if you didn’t mind.”

He raised his eyebrows and asked, “Who are you?”

I hesitated, “Did I not say—”

He waved off my answer. “No, no, no. You said you were Enola Holmes, but I’ve known Sherlock Holmes for years and he has never mentioned a sister.”

I stood very still. “Sherlock and I have never gotten along. We, uh, we had a spat, many years ago.”

I could see in his eyes that Lestrade was not satisfied with my answer. I needed to convince this man that I knew Sherlock and that there was a reasonable explanation as to why Sherlock had never spoken about me.

I twitched my shoulders and rubbed the back of my neck. “Sherlock and I had a disagreement about his… recreational activities.”

By recreational activities, I was referring to his past (hopefully, I assumed. I truly knew nothing about my brothers) drug use. I was banking on the fact that this man, who claimed to know Sherlock Holmes, knew his past.

By the change in Lestrade’s eyes, I was correct.

“We don’t talk anymore. It was a very… very bad fight.” I allowed my eyes to get glassy by not blinking—it worked. Slight tears were building up in my eyes and I tilted my head in order to allow Lestrade to see them. “It was painful.” I continued, “It was painful and we both said things we regret and things we… things we don’t regret.” I glanced down at my hands and began to wring them together. “Please, Detective Inspector, do not tell Sherlock I was here. It wouldn’t do either one of us any good to bring up the past.”

The detective remained silent for a moment. He shifted, silent as he contemplated me. This interaction required careful manipulation. Teary eyes, uncomfortable body language, and soft-spoken words—make him believe that I am letting him in on a painful secret and he is more likely to be appeased.

“Alright.” He said slowly. “Yeah, alright, I won’t say anything.”

For now, were the words he left out. I was safe, for now.

Better than nothing, I supposed.

“Well, I’ll take my leave, Detective Inspector. I believe that I cannot be of any more use to either the police or Mrs. Basilweather.”

“Madame Laila seemed to have taken your spot.”

I wrinkled my nose, unable to hide my distaste. “She’s certainly, well, a…”

“Handful?”

“Liar.”

The detective raised a singular eyebrow at me. I sighed, “With all due respect, Detective Inspector Lestrade, I do not believe Madame Laila. Your best bet is taking these—” I took the lock of hair, letter, and ceramic boat out of my pockets and handed them to Lestrade who received them gingerly. “—I apologize for not turning them in sooner.”

“Are you like Sherlock?”

I paused before asking, “What do you mean?”

Lestrade scoffed, “Don’t be coy, can you think like him?”

I paused. I knew I was smart, I was clever, but Sherlock… I am not as adapt at deduction as Sherlock, but what I lack in skills I make up for in determination.

“There are some eerily similar qualities between you and your brother, Ms. Holmes.”

“Is that so?” I knew that Sherlock and I had physical similarities.

“But I think you’re a bit nicer.”

“I didn’t feel nicer when I told Mrs. Basilweather that her son hates her.”

He laughed, “Ms. Holmes, show me a kid who didn’t hate their parents at one point or another and I would be impressed.”

My silence proved his point and he continued, “Not even Sherlock Holmes could do that.”

Someone in the distance shouted Lestrade’s name, stealing his attention from me. I took that opportunity to turn around and quickly walk away.

“Ms. Holmes!”

“Goodbye Detective!” I didn’t look back and kept walking, past the police tape, past the bystanders, and towards London.