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The moment Enola woke, she could feel the intense heat radiating off the surface of her skin. Her mind was quite muddled, and she found that it was difficult to think with the piercing headache that took residence in her temples. When she sluggishly lifted a hand to her forehead, she could feel a bandage plastered above her right eyebrow. Her fingers ran over the material, which ended just above her cheekbone. When had she hurt herself?
She couldn’t remember where she was or what happened, however, her primary concern at the moment was immediately removing herself from the suffocating sheets that were thrown over her body.
Slowly, she opened her eyes, ignoring how they stung in favor of surveying her surroundings. She was in a bedroom, tucked comfortably under the covers, meanwhile, the rest of the room was in disarray. Papers were strewn all over the place, the walls covered in notes and strings and tacks, and piles of files were stacked in large piles on the tables. It could be no other mess than Sherlock’s.
But what was she doing in her brother’s room?
Enola promptly closed her eyes, sighing heavily. The heat was really starting to get to her, but she simply couldn’t muster the strength to get out of bed. Nevertheless, Enola was stubborn as always. She carefully pushed herself up to a sitting position, wincing at the pain that shot through her head. For a few seconds, she sat completely still while she waited for the pounding ache to dull before moving again.
She looked down at herself and noticed the heavy blue dress she wore. It was stained with dirt and specks of what appeared to be blood, but she still couldn’t remember what had happened. But it was no wonder she was so hot: the thick, long-sleeved bodice and the multilayer skirt certainly didn’t help. She would have to locate a change of attire once she was out of bed.
Her limbs felt frustratingly heavy as she attempted to scoot herself off the bed, and swinging her legs to meet the floor almost sent her tumbling to the ground. While she gradually shifted more pressure onto her feet, a part of her mind wondered why she couldn’t just stay put for once. After all, her legs were like jelly the further she attempted to stand, so much so, that her knuckles were turning white from clenching the mattress to keep her upright.
Enola had finally gotten to her feet, when a violent rush of pain nearly sent her back down again. She stood shaking at the bedside, doubling over from her intense headache and shaky limbs. Despite finally being free from the sheets, Enola didn’t feel any cooler than she had a minute ago. She clenched her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut from the overwhelming sensations filling her body, not even noticing the bedroom door open to reveal the slightly peaked face of her brother.
Sherlock was clearly exhausted, but upon seeing his little sister out of bed, he quickly rushed to her side with frantic energy. “Enola!” he burst, running forward to support her from falling over. “You shouldn’t be out of bed yet.”
He helped her sit back down the moment she began swaying too dangerously for comfort. Enola looked up at him with confusion visibly present on her flushed face. “Sherlock, what-,” she swallowed, “what happened?”
Her eyes wandered his appearance, stopping in shock at the sling that held his left arm. “Your arm! Are you hurt?” She squeezed his good arm tightly, looking up at him with panic in her features.
“Breathe, Enola. I will tell you everything,” Sherlock promised as he gently tucked her back into bed. Enola was so confused, that she forgot that she was even desperate to escape the suffocating sheets in the first place. Nevertheless, she begrudgingly allowed her brother to guide her comfortably against the pillow, a true testament to how horrible she felt. The adrenaline from her little adventure onto her feet was draining away now, and she felt her eyes fluttering sleepily.
She must’ve passed out for a moment, for when she opened them again, a cold compress had found its way onto her forehead, and Sherlock’s worried face hovered above her.
“You have quite the nasty fever,” he informed her, lightly pressing his hand to her forehead. It must have developed after the strain of last night. There shouldn’t be an infection; the doctor patched up your forehead quite nicely.”
“I don’t understand, what happened? Why can’t I remember?” Enola whispered, playing with the bed sheets with her fingers. Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed in concern at her lack of memory, and Enola was quickly reminded of why she didn’t allow anyone to fret over her health.
“You had a case; you were looking for a young woman named Sarah Chapman. The clues led us to the Paragon Theatre, but Superintendent Grail and his men had ended up there as well. Does this sound familiar so far?”
Enola pondered the beginnings of his story. A theatre…Sarah Chapman…Grail…
It took a few seconds, but what was before an unidentifiable blur, suddenly became a clear picture in her mind. She sat up in a haste, immediately regretting it as she almost blacked out once more. Sherlock darted forward to gently force her back down, wincing at her whines of pain.
“Please, Enola, you need to rest.”
“What about your arm, then?” Enola demanded weakly.
“I-erm, I was shot in the shoulder,” Sherlock reluctantly supplied.
“You were what?!” Enola immediately attempted to sit back up, but her older brother kept his hand on her shoulder to keep her down.
“It was a minor wound. The doctor saw to it and assured me it would heal fine.”
She wanted to press on, however, there were still so many questions she needed answers to, and she was quickly beginning to fade.
“But what happened to them all? And Tewksbury!”
“All fine. Grail was taken into custody, Sarah and her sister left the theatre safely, and Tewksbury went home shortly after you fainted from exhaustion. He was awfully worried about you.”
Enola’s already flushed cheeks grew an even brighter red, if that was possible. “Oh, he was?”
“Very much so. I had to insist that he return back to his home, instead of accompanying us back here.”
Suddenly, there was a rather loud and frantic knocking at the door, followed by a familiar voice. “Mr. Holmes? Are you home?”
Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut in annoyance, while Enola’s tired heart managed a small flutter.
“Well, it seems your boy has made his way to us regardless. If you’ll excuse me. And don’t let me find you out of the bed again, please.”
While Sherlock went to fetch the door, Enola thought back to her kiss with Tewksbury in the carriage. It was their last true moment together, as the rest of the night consisted of fighting and brief interactions. Truthfully, Enola wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep, escaping the horrible headache that persisted in her temples. Yet, the promise of Tewksbury was too difficult to ignore.
He walked into Sherlock’s room hesitantly, though his face instantly brightened the moment he saw her. “Enola!” The Viscount hurried to her side, a fresh bouquet of red roses in hand. Sherlock watched him from the doorway like an eagle.
“I got these for you. A get better soon, if you will?” Tewksbury chuckled slightly, though Enola could see the concern clouding his eyes.
“Oh, they’re lovely Tewksbury,” she smiled, feeling her cheeks heat up in embarrassment at her brother’s watchful eye. Any warmer, and she felt like she would die of a heat stroke.
“I’m so glad you’re okay after last night. You had me worried.”
“I’ll be fine, don’t you fret over me.”
Sherlock stepped forward, “Well, I would be fretting over you too, seeing how red you are, one would think you have a fever that exceeds even a standard thermometer.”
“Sherlock!”
“Would you look at that? You just about match your roses now.”