Chapter Text
Winter creeps upon the mighty heart of London like a stealthy spirit, blanketing the city in frost. Enola Holmes stirs in her chair by the warm fire, engrossed in a novel about a mystery almost as thrilling as her most recent case. Sherlock is late to return home, not unlike many a time before this. She glances at the clock -- 11 pm. She knows he has been busy all day with tying up the Fawcett forgery details at the office of Mr Wembley, the solicitor. But what could be keeping him away so long this time, since he isn't chasing criminals or returning from travel away from London?
As Enola muses over what her brother's possible reasons for his tardiness on this cold night could be, she hears a key turn in the lock. "At last!" she exclaims as Sherlock walks in. "Did everything go all right?"
"Yes, yes," replies Sherlock, removing his coat and shoes. "I would have come back an hour ago, if it were not for Wembley's insistence that I dine with him and his wife tonight. I politely refused at first, but he pressed me so hard to come, saying how grateful he was for my help, that it was impossible to turn down."
Enola smiles to herself, feeling glad that her previously reclusive brother is becoming a bit more social these days. "Well, the forgery matter has been all cleared up, then? You shan't have to spend more time on it next week, right?"
"That's right, sweetie," replies Sherlock, coming over to her and kissing her forehead. His lips, cold from the frosty night air, feel refreshingly soothing on her skin. Enola closes her book and tousles her brother's hair lovingly with one hand.
"Say, Sherlock, how would you feel about accompanying me to the Laurentian Society's Masquerade Ball on Wednesday night? Mrs Demington, the wife of the vice-president of the Society, has sent a special invitation for myself and a plus one because I untangled that little disappearing money problem of hers last month, and succeeded in preventing her crafty housekeeper from absconding with her entire jewel collection in the end. I must say I was about to decline the invitation at first, but then I came to realise that I would actually like to go. I have never been to such an event before, and I daresay we might find ourselves privy to some interesting gossip of high society that could lead us to new cases!"
Sherlock raises his eyebrows in amusement. "A masquerade ball! Now that's a first! But I don't see why not, if you really want to. What will you wear, though?"
"Thank you, Sherlock!" exclaims his sister. "You know, I was thinking of that white dress I have -- the one that looks like a wedding gown. I had bought it when I was investigating the Millingford case last year, and had planned to wear it and pretend I wanted it altered immediately at Miss Millingford's dress shop so I could have a look around there, but as you may recall, there was no need since Miss Millingford's shop assistant literally shoved all the evidence in my face when I interviewed her. So I never got a chance to wear that dress...and I thought that since I have donned a widow's attire many a time before, why not try out a bridal one for once?"
Sherlock laughs, trying to imagine his sister in a bridal dress. For her, he knows it is just another costume, but for most girls her age, it is a lifelong souvenir of their most important rite of passage. Enola is different from the masses, just like he himself is, and that's what makes them perfect for each other. Ever since Enola came back to live with him in London after completing her Oxford degree, she has grown more adorable, more clever, more perfect in every way in his eyes. She is a part of his own soul, whom he loves and cherishes infinitely, and cannot bear to be parted from. "The white dress it is, then," says Sherlock with a grin, leaning down to plant a kiss on his sister's soft rosy lips, looking forward to cuddling with her to sleep under the warm covers on this chilly December night.