Chapter Text
Sherlock Holmes did not think Edith would be quite so generous on the rent as his sister seemed to think, but when he had approached Edith with a fistful of pounds to make up the difference, it appeared not to be so. The rent was paid, Edith had said, though not a single case of Enola's could have brought such funding; of that he was sure.
There had been two missing children safely returned, a runaway bride who was now happily married and off in the country somewhere, an explosion that did not need investigated so much as covered up (being the work of Eudoria Holmes, naturally) and another occurrence which was not a case but certainly his sister's work anyway. That had been another factory shut down after hundreds of little children and young women marched out. If it was not Enola, she was certainly inspiring others.
But whatever her triumphs and failures had been, it was not enough to pay rent. Eudoria had no money, being involved in the constant destruction of property, and so it could not be her work. Edith was kind, and supportive, but she was also beholden to a landlord, who did need paid. She also treated Enola like a real person in her own right, and so who her mother was and what work she was doing would mean little in an economical sense. Edith would not cover the rent.
"She won't want you looking into her," John observed one morning on the other side of the paper. Sherlock had merely been staring at a wall, and so how John knew that he was thinking about Enola he did not know. Sherlock sighed.
"It is my responsibility to look out for her- and she'd much prefer that than my brother Mycroft doing it."
John folded the paper and laid it on the table between them. Enola had been the one to send him to Baker Street. Sometimes, he thought it had been a kindness, and at other times he was not so sure. But she had certainly been thinking of her brother when she'd followed him, cornered him, and insisted he needed a change in accommodations, and he would not soon forget it.
"She seems to think looking after you is her responsibility," he pointed out. Sherlock knew John had a point, and so he resolved to let it go outside of the usual times he wondered about it, namely, when he was visiting his sister's office.
He looked about. It was certainly much brighter and cleaner than her last office. There were fresh flowers in a vase, and light coming in through the windows, and not a single piece of paper and string. He smiled at that. Enola had always preferred to organize her notes in neat stacks, tied with ribbons, sorted into various categories. She liked her evidence to be more easily transported. Her detective work often involved less sitting, and more running.
But how she afforded an office, when she was barely even using it, was still the mystery that eluded him. She had always been fiercely independent, stubbornly private, and annoyingly set in her ways. Mycroft would certainly never support such an ambition, even if she had asked him for help.
"Are you here to stare or do you have something for me?" She asked, with the bossy tones only a little sister could have for the famed detective Sherlock Holmes. He grinned. No matter how many times his name appeared in the papers, to Enola he was Sherlock Holmes, terrible older brother. That was not true. She loved him. She cared greatly for him. She found it amusing to simply not admit to it.
"Consulting? No, not today," he shook his head. In truth, Enola was far busier than he. Even if he had needed her help -and he really did try not to need her help, or at least not admit to it- he could not imagine when she would find the time.
"Well, I am not in need of help either," she said, rather proudly, leaning forward in her chair as if sharing with him a great secret. He tried to smother a smile. Most of her cases were not terribly complex affairs. The people she helped did not have time to be involved in dangerous conspiracies or complex mysteries. They were good, simple folk. And what Enola could not solve for them, someone else was busy trying to fix.
In the corner of her office, Bessie sat at a small table and chair. When a mystery needed solved, people came to Enola. But when a person needed justice that could not be found in quite the same way, Bessie would take their name and their story, and bring it to the private secretary of the Marquess of Basilwether, England's most prominent Reform Lord. The Viscount of Tewksbury was always attempting to pass bills for the common folk of London and the surrounding counties. As Bessie's sister was the private secretary, this arrangement worked well. And perhaps, he thought, studying Bessie, that was where he would find his answer as well.