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Forcing the one and only man she’d ever loved into increasingly dangerous situations was probably not Enola’s best idea.
She knew she should’ve stopped getting Tewksbury involved the second he was safe from his grandmother. She shouldn’t have watched him walk to the lords every day, and she certainly shouldn’t have asked him for help.
But, counterpoint, she had needed his help.
And, even more importantly, he had told her he loved her. And she loved him back.
And then she took him to the theater, and nearly got him killed. Again.
She had made the decision before she asked Sherlock. She was going to take him back to Baker Street. She was going to take care of him.
Sherlock was talking to the police. Enola had been pacing nervously, and Tewksbury was sitting on one of the theater chairs, biting his nails and staring into oblivion. Sarah and Besse had left from their spot on the stage, walking home after the devastating events of the evening.
The only sign that any of the case had ever happened was the pile of ash left on the stage.
“Tewksbury,” Enola said, sitting down next to him.
He looked up at her, brown eyes shining. She really did love those eyes.
“Do you need a doctor?”
He shook his head. “No, I— no.”
They sat for a second, Sherlock’s voice softly ringing through the theater. It sounded to large, too cold, and far too distant for the events that had just happened. Enola took a breath.
“Come to Baker Street with me.”
“Why?”
She didn’t say anything, rather, examined his face. For injuries, of course. He wasn’t short on those. His nose was still trickling blood, although most of it had dried a path down his mouth and neck and into his collar. There were the faint outlines of bruises hiding just beneath the skin on either side of his face, but he still managed to look so—
“Enola? Please, I cannot handle another mystery tonight.”
“No more mysteries. For today,” She promised. “Sherlock!”
He looked down at her from the stage. “Yes?”
“Might I borrow your key?”
He gave her a look as she hopped back up onto the stage. “How long will you be staying?”
“Just for the night.”
“And will your boy be joining you?”
They both looked over at Tewksbury.
“Yes,” Enola said firmly, unable to prevent a smile from spreading across her face.
Sherlock dug through his pocket, then handed her a key. “You will let me in later.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Of course,” Enola said, then jumped back off of the stage.
“And you will keep things civilized!” Sherlock called to her as she pulled Tewksbury out of his seat.
“Yes, thank you!” She yelled back, nearly dragging the lord out of the theater. Her lord.
She couldn’t stop herself from looking behind them every few paces on the way to Baker Street. Too much had happened in the past days. To think of all that she’d seen— but no, it was better not to think of it. Not yet.
She had to worry about Tewksbury, first. He seemed calm, but she knew he was by no means alright. It had been a trying evening, to say the least, and he was the least prepared for it.
“What are you looking for?” His voice was soft, mostly directed at the wet cobblestone street, but a shock enough from the silent London night to make her jump.
She let out a breath. “Nothing. Just paranoia.”
“From the case, or something else?”
Enola hesitated, then gave in. “A few nights ago, the inspector was following me. I was alone, and I kept hearing his cane, and—“
“Why were you walking about alone? And at night?”
He looked so concerned. She wanted to despise him for it, but she couldn’t.
“I was trying to find Sarah,” Enola said, rather exasperated. “Mystery does not wait for the light of day, Tewksbury.”
She led him to turn onto Baker Street as she talked, making their way to 221. She had started to tune him out. She didn’t mean to, it just happened sometimes. When her thoughts seemed to overpower the rest of the world. They were roaring in her head at the moment, the result of thousands of details trying to fit themselves into the mostly-solved puzzle at the center of her brain.
“You need to take better care of yourself,” Tewksbury was saying. “I keep having to constantly worry about you, you know that?”
She walked up the steps of Sherlock’s building, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. Tewksbury stepped in behind her, closing and locking the door. “Are you hearing me?”
“Trying to,” she said quietly. She laced her fingers in his, walking up the stairs, then through to 221b.
Sherlock’s apartment was as much of a disaster as it had been the last two times she’d seen it. Papers, books, pipes, and random objects were strewn in seemingly miscellaneous fashion across every available surface. Although, she thought she could see, or begin to see, what Sherlock could when he told her to stop moving things. There was an element of organization within the chaos, though unraveling it was another mystery entirely.
She closed the door, watching Tewksbury closely as he examined the apartment.
“God, it’s…”
“A mess,” she finished. “It’s just like your residence, but replace the plants with… other things.”
Tewksbury feigned offense. “I beg your pardon, my dear? My residency is quite wonderful.”
They sat down on the couch in the middle of the room, the only thing not covered in clutter.
“Wait here,” Enola said, getting back up just as soon as she had taken a seat.
She made her way into the bathroom, rifling through cupboard after cupboard before happening upon a small cloth. She managed to get a small bowl of water, then returned to the sitting room, where Tewksbury was reading some of Sherlock’s papers.
“He’s going to kill you for touching those, you know,” She said as she entered.
Tewksbury looked up quickly, face full of guilt. “I— sorry, I’ll put them back…”
“Might as well finish your reading,” She said, setting the bowl on a small table. “He’ll be able to tell either way.”
Enola sat down beside him, brushing a hand against his face. He didn’t pull away, and she gently tilted his face towards her.
“Hold still,” She said quietly, then pressed the cloth to the underside of his nose, rubbing the blood off as gently as she could. “What were the papers about?”
“You do realize—“ Tewksbury’s voice was muffled by her use of the cloth— “that I can’t talk to you while you do this?”
“Sorry.” She did not stop her work. “I am more worried for you than I am for Sherlock’s papers.”
“It— it wasn’t very interesting, anyways. Some research on the effects of chords on flies.”
“Chords?”
“Indeed. Using your brother’s infamous fiddle, I believe.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve been reading up on my brother.”
“He makes the headlines too often to be avoided, Enola.”
She loved the way he said her name. Setting the cloth down next to her, she moved closer to him, pulled by the magnetic force that had been acting on her all day.
Their kisses were electric, the release of volts of pent-up energy, the long overdue resolution to what felt like years of waiting. Enola had never wanted to be in the company of anyone by herself. Now, she couldn’t seem to imagine spending time with anyone else. Anyone but Tewksbury.
He winced a little, at some point in their connection, and she pulled back.
“Sorry! Are you alright?”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to smash the face of the person with the bleeding nose,” he quipped, bringing a hand up to his face.
“I’m sorry! Caring for others is not in my core strengths!” She protested, but he was already laughing.
“I know. You’re rather terrible at it. But you’re trying. And, you’re trying with… me.”
He was blushing fiercely, and she couldn’t help the heat from crawling into her cheeks, either.
“Lord Tewksbury, I will learn to take care of you better.”
“And I will make sure you take care of yourself,” He vowed in return. “And not just in winning fights.”
Enola smiled a little. She couldn’t see him being very successful in that endeavor, she had the tendency to fixate on a singular problem, the same way Sherlock always had. But he was here, and he was hers, and that was all that mattered.
“Hey!” He exclaimed.
“What?”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Your cut,” he said, almost exasperated.
He pushed her hand away from his face, moving even closer to her, and brushed his thumb against her cheek, skimming over the cut along her hairline.
“Oh, it’s really fine,” she said.
He didn’t seem to hear her. “I don’t know much about this sort of thing, do you need medicine?”
“I don’t think so.” She had no idea, but figured it was fine. “Best to just let it heal.”
“That’s a terrible idea!”
“What would you propose we do instead?”
He paused. “I— I don’t know, but at least let me help you get the blood off.”
Her face was bleeding a lot. It had stained a stripe down her head and neck, now drying sticky on her skin and clothes. It was uncomfortable, and washing it off was probably in her best interests, for comfort, if nothing else.
“Lie down,” Tewksbury instructed, guiding her head onto his lap, her face turned away from him.
“You really don’t have to—“
He shushed her. “If you won’t take care of yourself, Enola, I will.”
She rolled her eyes at him, but didn’t protest. He brought the cloth to her neck, starting to take the blood off with gentle strokes. The water wasn’t warm, and taking the blood off left raw, stinging skin behind, but she couldn’t help herself from melting into his touch.
“Don’t get too close to the cut,” she warned as he worked his way upwards. “It's already clotted.”
He heeded the advice, leaving a radius around the injury, and continued washing the blood off.
She felt overwhelmed by exhaustion, then, in a way she hadn’t in the past weeks. When her mind was set in a problem, she had difficulty getting it to shut off, which almost always meant a lack of sleep. She seemed to finally have wrapped her brain around all of the details of the case, though, and that missing sleep hit her like a train. She felt herself drifting off, still laying on Tewksbury.
There was some desire in her to stay like that, to let herself fall asleep on him. The other part knew better. She sat up quickly, nearly knocking herself out on Tewksbury's arm in the process.
“What’s wrong?” He asked.
“Nothing, nothing. Just got tired all of a sudden, and it seemed inappropriate to—“
He cut her off, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I’d rather have someone near me tonight anyways.”
She let herself fall back into his lap. He moved the cloth and bowl to an end table, then curled against the side of the chaise, letting her fall asleep with him.
“Do I want to know how many days it’s been since you’ve slept?” He whispered, tracing a finger through her hair.
She shook her head a little, a smile creeping onto her face.
“Has it finally caught up to you?”
She didn’t answer the question. She didn’t even open her eyes.
Instead, she said, “You feel safe.”
It was the best way to describe it. For the first time in weeks, she felt protected. She could let her guard down. Tewksbury was warm and soft and he cared about her, and for a moment, nothing bad could happen to them. They were safe, curled up in Sherlock’s chaise, in the warm glow of 221b Baker Street.