Chapter Text
Sherlock was cold.
That was what brought his consciousness swimming back to the surface. The cold of his floor had seeped between his shoulder blades, freezing his back into a glacier.
A stark contrast to the burning sensation in shoulder.
That was what solidified his awakening. White-hot pain bursting outwards, lighting his arm and chest on fire in its wake.
Sherlock wished he could sink back down into the embrace of the darkness. Instead, he blinked, grunted a little, blinked some more. The ceiling swam into view too slowly. The tang of iron settled around him like fog.
He hadn’t the energy to rise yet. All he could do was tilt his head to either side - on his right, crumpled papers from his fall; on his left -
Sherlock choked back something that wasn’t a sob.
On his left was blood.
Soaked through his shirt. Pooled below his arm. Filling his vision until the world was tinged with red around the edges.
How had he allowed this to happen?
The wound had stopped bleeding. By the time Sherlock had slumped into the cab, the fabric covering his injury was dry - he was sure of it. He tried to think of what could have prompted the blasted thing to start spewing blood again, but the suffocating pain hovered over his cognitive functions, pressing him into the ground no matter how desperately he clawed towards the surface.
It was clear, though. Where Grail’s bullet had punctured his shoulder would drain him of his lifeblood soon enough, unless he pulled himself from the floor and did something about it.
Sherlock returned his unfocused gaze to the ceiling once more. His chest was rising and falling too fast, but he couldn’t hear his ragged breaths above the blood roaring in his ears. The pain was so much, too much - he could feel himself being dragged back under its infinite surface, feel his eyelids drooping closed -
Would it be so bad, to sink back into the painless oblivion?
Everything hurt so much. It would be easy for Sherlock to let his eyes slip closed and sleep without feeling the loss of blood. Easy to abandon the uphill battle of his life, between solving cases and apprehending murderers and somehow finding time to eat and drink and bathe in between - he wouldn’t need to concern himself with such petty struggles any longer, if he just closed his eyes.
And everything hurt so much.
Sherlock forced his eyes back open. The ceiling was even blurrier, now.
It would be simple to give in. But he was a Holmes, and he had not been raised to revel in simplicity. The thought of taking an easy path for the sake of spending less effort made him recoil in disgust.
And - he couldn’t abandon Enola again.
The thought of Enola spurred Sherlock to drag himself upright, leaning heavily on his good elbow. Enola, his brilliant, frustratingly stubborn little sister. Enola, who had escaped back to the match factory with a fucking concussion to start an uprising, knowing her.
Enola, who Sherlock had already abandoned twice.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Sherlock stamped down the part of his mind that coaxed him to lay back down. Sherlock didn’t feel feverish yet - but with an open wound this dire, there was no telling how long he had until sepsis set in. So, using his good arm, he half-crawled, half-dragged himself across the floor, wincing at the way every motion drove daggers through his shoulder, pointedly ignoring the mess he was leaving in his wake.
A few more pained gasps and excruciating shuffles later, Sherlock found himself staring at the first-aid basket he’d used for Enola and Lord Tewkesbury, bandages shoved haphazardly inside, shoved up against the wall where he’d left it. Mustering his strength, he twisted to press his back against the wall, and rummaged desperately inside. He left the sticks of silver nitrate - too small for his wound. He pulled out a wad of fraying bandages, and they fell half-unravelled over his legs - reached inside again, panic closing in as his shoulder burst again with pain, the corners of the room going grey - there!
He withdrew an unopened bottle, square-edged - a solution of carbolic acid Sherlock had picked up out of curiosity a year or two prior, the word ANTISEPTIC rearranging itself on the yellowing label. He fumbled with the cap - having only one arm in commission when trying to unscrew a bottle was extremely difficult, he was finding, not to mention the uncontrollable tremor in his good hand - and half the contents promptly splashed to the floor.
Sherlock cursed, setting the now half-empty bottle beside him, and grabbed for the bandages, setting them in position on his lap, bundled in a heap. Taking the carbolic acid bottle again, he tipped the rest of the liquid atop the bandages until the last drops spilt, and he cast it aside with a thunk of glass against wood. The bandages were almost fully soaked, damp through the fabric of his pants.
He struggled with his shirt, managing to unbutton it just enough to peel the blood-soaked cloth from the wound, then scooped up the sopping pile and pressed it firmly against his injured shoulder before he lost his nerve.
The effect was immediate. If Sherlock had thought his shoulder was burning when he awoke on the floor - oh, what a weak candle it was to the wildfire of the antiseptic.
Sherlock couldn’t suppress the scream that wrenched itself from his throat. His arm felt like it was melting off, bone and muscle dissolving beneath the bloodied bandages, the pain ricocheting through every inch of his body. Weakness washed over him, and his good arm released its hold on his shoulder against his will, flopping uselessly to his lap, but the acid-soaked cloth was packed so tightly that his fingers couldn’t drag them down. At least I won’t die from sepsis, Sherlock thought. Just from blood loss, probably.
His head was spinning. Sounds were distant, as if reality was in the next room over and Sherlock was locked out. If it weren’t for the searing pain to anchor him to the ground and the weight of his head on the wall, he was sure he would be drifting through the ceiling.
Sherlock’s vision darkened as time passed - minutes, seconds, hours, he couldn’t tell - and fear rose like bile in his throat. No, he thought dizzily. No, no, please- stay awake, Sherlock-
But all the fight had ebbed out of Sherlock along with his blood, and when the darkness took him in its fist, he couldn’t lift a finger to stop his body towing under.
A cry for help died on his lips, and Sherlock’s head lolled, unfeeling.
—
Sherlock dreamt of someone shouting his name.
No, that wasn’t right.
He dreamt of doors bursting open, first. The sound echoed through his bones, slamming on all sides.
He dreamt of voices after that. Voices high and low intertwined, weaving their song round and around until Sherlock felt like he was drowning.
Yes - then he dreamt of someone shouting his name.
The voice sounded inquisitive the first time it called his name. He dreamt of footsteps, of soles pressing into his skull like he was made of sand, leaving perfect imprints of clues behind.
The footsteps grew louder. Voices rose. Something raw and rough-edged slipped into the next shout of his name.
He dreamt of the intertwined voices again. This time, their melody was sharp and frenzied, and Sherlock flinched back from the cacophony. A hush fell over his dream at that motion.
He dreamt of someone’s arms slipping under his own, and he dreamt of being half-lifted, of being carried somewhere. He dreamt of another pair of arms to support the first, and Sherlock felt like a swaying pendulum.
He dreamt of a carriage: of a horse, blacker than tar, red eyes glowering at him from a bony face; of a faceless driver shrouded with mist and a tattered shawl; of the pairs of arms folding him to fit inside. The track of the wheels over the cobbles almost soothed his fear.
More pairs of arms unfolded him from what Sherlock dreamed to be Death’s carriage. Mist clutched at his ankles as the faceless driver regarded him coldly for a breath, then retreated as it trundled away.
He dreamt of being laid on a soft bed, and of whispers orbiting his skull.
He dreamt of something being fitted over his mouth and nose.
A sweet scent, somewhere between citrus and acetone, wafted through and lingered as he breathed.
Sherlock dreamt no more.
—
When Sherlock awoke, it was with another pounding headache. If he could really call it ‘waking’.
He was surrounded on all sides by silky white: extending endlessly upwards, encircling him, rippling softly every so often as though someone was pacing past.
Sherlock’s first thought was that this was Heaven. He’d succumbed to his wound, his soul had slipped from his flesh, and now he was lying suspended in a cage of clouds.
Didn’t explain why he felt as though he was nursing the worst hangover of his life, though.
And his shoulder was stinging like mad.
Sherlock was sure that if he’d really passed on, he would at least be given the grace to leave such sensations behind.
Sherlock blinked dizzily at the white ceiling, trying his best to ignore the rolling nausea rising in time with his headache. He found he couldn’t keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time, and it took an unreasonable amount of effort to keep his eyelids from falling once more.
And - beside the headache, his entire mind felt dulled, like it was stuffed with cotton. He couldn’t formulate coherent thoughts like usual. Instead, blurry and half-buried emotions were all he could grasp at, and even then, his reach was clumsy, and the world was spinning, anyway.
The weight of it bore down on Sherlock, even if he couldn’t dredge up the words for it. The murmur of pain in his left shoulder rose to a shout, his head pounded, and he squeezed his eyes closed with a pitiful whimper, hot tears pricking at his eyelids.
Something tugged in his gut, beating against his ribs and ripping at his neck. Something Sherlock thought he was unfamiliar with - until the theatre, where he watched Superintendent Grail’s goons threaten his sister. Where he watched his sister plunge from a beam, dazed and bleeding.
Sherlock Holmes was afraid.
The force of it was choking him. He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter.
Distantly, he heard a mutter and the sound of a curtain being drawn. Then, a light breeze on his skin made him shiver, and something pinched - no, stung his arm, and all sensation began to ebb away.
His fear drummed harsher through his veins as he felt himself sinking back beneath the surface of consciousness. He tried to stutter out a word - Sherlock didn’t know what - but his muscles went limp all at once, and he slipped back into that dreamless sleep once more.
—
Sherlock flitted from wakefulness to sleep in cycles. He would open his eyes a crack, then be instantly overcome with nausea so intense that his working hand would involuntarily come to clutch at his stomach with gritted teeth.
Each time, someone would press the rim of a glass against his lips, allow him a mouthful of blessedly cool water, and hold a hand against his forehead as he swallowed. Once the urge to empty his stomach abated, he would drift back away, soothed by a soft voice.
He could never quite understand the gentle whispers. They were always too distant, just out of his reach. But they swept away his agitation all the same - and for that, he was grateful.
—
When Sherlock opened his eyes again, it was too bright.
A fair amount of squinting later, he came to the conclusion that the tall white mass around him was a curtain that had partially been pulled back, allowing what could only be mid-day sun to stream through and assault his eyes.
This awakening was different to the countless before. For one, Sherlock could think again. Having control of his mental functions had never brought him such relief before.
For another, his headache was gone, the ache in his shoulder had dulled so much he barely registered it at all, and he didn’t feel like his insides wanted to be out. Excellent.
Sherlock was content to close his eyes against the bothersome sunlight and simply breathe. The murmurs of visitors and the light footsteps of nurses confirmed it: he was alive - he cringed inwardly at the memory of his loopy half-asleep impression that he’d woken up in Heaven - and what better way to revel in that fact than feeling the air in his lungs?
As Sherlock allowed his chest to rise and fall steadily, he noticed something curious. Was his hearing still impaired, or… was that someone else’s breathing he could hear beside him?
He turned his head a fraction to his right, flicking his eyes towards the source of the noise.
Slumped on the side of Sherlock’s hospital bed, tangled hair cushioned by folded elbows, was Enola.
Sherlock regarded her for a moment, but she didn’t stir. Enola was honest-to-God sound asleep on a rickety wooden chair in what must be the most uncomfortable position possible. Hair’s still a state, he thought fondly, resisting the urge to comb his fingers through a particularly large knot, lest he wake her. For Enola to fall asleep so deeply in the middle of the day of all the times, then she must need all the rest she could get. He would need to remind her of the importance of a good night’s rest…
But for now, he let his eyes drift closed again with a half-smile, and fell back into the rhythm of his breathing.
—
‘Enola?’ came a soft voice, and Sherlock awoke with a start.
Prying his eyes open, he watched as the young Lord Tewkesbury stepped gingerly towards Enola, holding a cup of water in one hand and a fresh mandarin in the other.
‘Enola,’ Tewkesbury tried again, when she showed no signs of waking. His eyes flicked nervously around the room, lingering on Sherlock for a brief second before darting back - then, he did a double take, staring straight at Sherlock’s open eyes.
Sherlock hadn’t the confidence to speak yet - he dipped his chin in greeting instead - but the show Tewkesbury made would have negated any attempts anyway. The young lord nearly dropped the mandarin in shock, and during his fumbling attempts to secure his hold on the round fruit, the cup of water tilted just enough to send a splash of water arcing onto Enola’s arm.
Enola’s head jerked upright from her folded arms with a grumble. ‘Tewkey?’ she asked, voice slurred from sleep.
Tewkesbury’s saucer-wide eyes made Enola’s brow crease. ‘What on Earth is the matter with you?’ she said around a yawn, rubbing one eye with the heel of her palm.
‘Um,’ squeaked Tewkesbury, rather unhelpfully.
Sherlock cleared his throat.
Enola’s head snapped around. ‘Sherlock?’ she breathed.
‘Hello,’ Sherlock tried. His voice was rough around the edges, as though it hadn’t been used in days. Tewkesbury and Enola both twitched, as though Sherlock had suddenly sprouted three heads.
‘He’s awake,’ Tewkesbury stammered.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. ‘It seems so.’
Before Tewkesbury could sputter a response, the weight of the sky descended upon Sherlock, and his vision was obscured by messy brown curls. Sherlock grunted as the wind was knocked out of his lungs, and bit back a cry when Enola’s elbow encroached on his injured shoulder.
‘Careful,’ he wheezed, his good arm held awkwardly in the air. Physical affection was not something that was taught in the Holmes household - at least, not while Sherlock had lived there - so, his hand hovered, unsure of whether to let it fall to his side or come to rest on Enola’s back.
Enola obliged and shifted herself a healthy distance away from the wound. This, however, caused a lock of hair to brush rather vigorously against Sherlock’s face, and he wrinkled his nose to halt a sneeze.
Enola’s breathing hitched, and Sherlock felt a quiver against his chest. Hesitantly, he drew his hand up, reaching around and carefully bringing it to pat her on the back with precisely measured motion. Sherlock hoped fervently that he was doing this right. When he heard a muffled sob, he paused, unsure of himself, the fabric of Enola’s dress trembling beneath his palm.
All at once, Enola drew herself back upright, scrubbing a sleeve across her eyes, which served only to redden them further. Sherlock exhaled, letting his shoulders relax, waiting for the stinging of his wound to recede, when Enola set her jaw and made purposeful eye contact.
‘You-’ she started, then halted when a stray tear slipped from the corner of her eye. She swiped it away instantly, and Tewkesbury’s hand hovered over her shoulder.
‘Me,’ Sherlock replied, while she erased the evidence of the tear.
Enola glared at him, then tried again. ‘You nincompoop.’
Sherlock made a non-committal noise, and the force of Enola’s scowl only intensified.
‘I hope you slept well,’ Enola said sharply. Sherlock blinked - how long had he been asleep? And Enola pressed on, her voice rising. ‘I do hope your mental faculties have recovered. It would be a shame if you remained as idiotic as you were beforehand. I mean, really, that was so stupid- ’
‘Enola,’ Sherlock rasped.
‘Don’t you try to lecture me, Sherlock,’ Enola hissed, her voice rising. ‘Might I remind you that while I was marching to Westminster with the match girls, you were perfectly content to doze off in a pool of your own blood?’ She was standing, now, unkempt hair bobbing with every gesticulation.
‘Enola-’
‘Stop! The only thing more perplexing than how you remain sane in that mouldy flat,’ spat Enola, ‘is how you were somehow unaware of a bullet lodged in your shoulder - great detective, indeed-’
‘Enola.’
Enola finally paused in her barrage, irritation sparking in her eyes. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, and quirked his chin to the rest of the hospital wing. Nurses were shooting withering glares towards Enola as they made their rounds, and other bed-bound patients were whispering to their own visitors in clear disdain. Enola’s cheeks flushed faintly, and she slumped back into her chair, all her anger having deflated and dissipated. She raked her eyes with the back of her wrist once more and leant towards Tewkesbury, who threw an apologetic glance towards Sherlock before curling an arm around Enola.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sherlock said quietly, after a beat.
Enola wouldn’t meet his eyes.
They sat in terse silence for a few drawn-out moments, the murmurs of nurses and other patients only cut above by Enola’s shaky breathing, and Sherlock’s own heartbeat drumming lazily in his neck.
Then, at last, Enola spoke up, voice wobbling. ‘I’m sorry for shouting.’
Sherlock huffed a half-laugh. ‘Don’t be. Sounds as though I deserved it.’ He sat straighter, sheets rustling. ‘Care to fill me in on what happened? Facts only, please,’ he added with a half-smirk.
Enola and Tewkesbury exchanged a look. The young lord inclined his chin in wordless support, and Enola drew in a shaky breath.
‘It was the morning after the… confrontation at the theatre,’ she began. ‘Sarah and Bessie and I, we went back to the match factory - told all the girls the truth about the phosphorous, and we walked out, all of us, to Westminster-’
At a nudge from Tewkesbury, Enola cleared her throat. ‘Facts. Sorry.’ She shifted in her seat, and Sherlock waited patiently for her to continue.
Another inhale. ‘When Tewkesbury and I returned to your flat, we found your door unlocked, so we let ourselves in - I called for you, but received no response - we thought maybe you were asleep - but -’ Enola cut herself off before her voice could crack.
Sherlock nodded, frowning. ‘I see.’ He brought his good hand to his injured shoulder, pain ghosting beneath his fingertips as he brushed the bandage. ‘And the surgery?’
Enola sniffed. ‘Well, you’re alive, are you not?’
Sherlock huffed in amusement. ‘Splendid deduction.’
As Enola shot another venomous look at Sherlock, Tewkesbury cleared his throat. ‘Er - the surgeon got the bullet out and stitched you up, Mr. Holmes, and -’
‘Just Sherlock, please,’ Sherlock interrupted.
Tewekesbury swallowed, bobbing his head. ‘Right. Um. So, Mr.- Sherlock. The surgeon said you were very lucky - something about the bullet missing your nerves and veins, I couldn’t tell you - and…’ He winced. ‘He said the carbolic acid stopped any infection, but…’
Sherlock grimaced. The core of Tewkesbury’s words were clear: what was left of Sherlock’s shoulder underneath the bandages was far from pretty.
‘There’s one more thing,’ Tewkesbury said, almost too quiet to hear. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. The young lord nudged Enola, who spoke up in a sheepish voice.
‘You’ve been asleep for three days,’ she said.
Sherlock jolted. ‘What?!’
—
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. Visiting hours came to a convenient close soon after that revelation, leaving Sherlock at the mercy of the nurses. At least Tewkesbury had had the decency to leave the mandarin at Sherlock’s bedside - three days of not eating had given rise to a ravenous hunger, one that wasn’t quite sated by the juicy segments (but, by God, it had been delicious).
On one chair, Enola had left the key to his flat. Sherlock pocketed it, fingers scraping at the flaking brass paint until his fingertips smelt of iron. (Until all he could smell was blood, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut against an onslaught of panic.)
He was to stay overnight - a nurse kindly and concisely explained the reason why, but Sherlock still itched to get the ever-loving fuck out of the hospital. It was beginning to feel like a prison for his mind, his thoughts restricted and starved.
Although, Sherlock mused to himself, the painkillers the hospital provided were doing a wonderful job indeed. He dreaded the time when they would wear off and leave his shoulder in agony once more - so, he settled into an uneasy sleep as the sun went down, Grail’s haunting laughter echoing throughout his mind.
The morning was more of the same. Sherlock scarfed down the light breakfast brought to him, nodded or shook his head when nurses asked him questions - his mind was far too busy elsewhere to bother with proper answers.
He thought about Enola, first and foremost. Was it unbelievable luck that he neglected to lock his door - such that Sherlock’s own life could be saved - or incredible misfortune, that his very own sister had to bear witness to his gruesome predicament?
Then, his thoughts turned to Moriarty. Sherlock had been unconscious for three days, and the nurses had refused to provide him with the papers, despite his best persuasive attempts - there was no telling if she had escaped prison yet - if she’d even made it there at all, the sly dog - nor could Sherlock elucidate from any hushed conversation whether Moriarty had caused any more chaos. The very thought of facing her again incited a horrible tightening of his temples, not in the least helped by his churning thoughts. He rolled his shoulders back in frustration, breath catching in his throat when a familiar stab of pain bored through his injured shoulder, and settled back into his pillows.
God, he needed a smoke.
After a good while of furrowing his brows and staring holes into the ceiling, the hour arrived at last for Sherlock to escape (with permission) from the ward. He tried his best to put on a purposeful stride down the corridors, but truthfully, his head was spinning so terribly from the movement that it took all of his strength and needle-sharp focus to walk in a straight line.
A mercy, in hindsight. It meant he hadn’t noticed that nobody was there to greet him at the doors.
(Not that he’d been expecting someone to.)
The cab ride back to Baker Street had required a similar level of concentration - but this time, to school his stomach into not upending its contents. With every lurch, Sherlock’s brain rattled in his skull, and his shoulder protested at the insult. Sherlock wondered, in the midst of a particularly jarring jostle of the carriage, whether cobblestones were really the best thing to construct roads with.
Stumbling out of the carriage, miraculously still in one piece, Sherlock half-tripped up the stairs and shoved the decrepit key into its lock. He braced himself for the inevitable metallic tang to wash over him, then pushed open the door, steeling himself -
It never came.
He frowned, inhaled deeply through his nose. No blood, no iron. That couldn’t be. He distinctly recalled seeing the pool of blood beneath him - and it wasn’t like Enola and the young lord found him immediately -
Sherlock stepped inside, caution softening his steps.
He wasn’t in such a state as to not notice the distinct lack of dust on his furniture.
It had been done with the utmost care, he deducted - not a paper out of place, not a paperweight shifted one inch since he had been away - it was as though someone had carefully lifted each item, cleansed the space beneath it of grime, and replaced it perfectly.
Sherlock’s frown deepened. Straightening from his inspection of the table, he paced towards the section of the wall he had collapsed against. Sure enough - the floor was spotless. Bottles and bandages strewn about in Sherlock’s delirium had been tucked back into their places, with not a rust-coloured speck to be found on anything but the papers he’d collapsed onto.
Sherlock’s shoulder pulsed, and he resigned himself to locating his couch and crumpling into the newly mould-free pillows. He lay there, blinking numbly at his light fixtures, trying and miserably failing to summon productive thoughts, for a good few moments. Then, flicking his eyes to scan the room once more, he noticed one thing out of place.
It appeared to be a corner of a small square of paper, peeking out from underneath a saucer. How curious. Sherlock rose, steadier now from the rest, and plucked it from its hiding spot.
Flipping the card over revealed an address - Edith’s, he immediately recognised - and there, printed above in bold typeface, read: ENOLA HOLMES DETECTIVE AGENCY.
Sherlock grinned.
He donned a coat without a bullet-hole, and locked the door on his way out.
—
The clack-clack of a typewriter greeted Sherlock as he creaked open the door, overpowering even the scuffles of the training session behind him.
There, in a pale blue dress, messy curls dangling over a concentrated expression, sat Enola. Sherlock doubted she’d even heard him enter; with a flick of his wrist, he set this morning’s paper down in her line of sight, and at last, she looked up.
‘Seems your boy has learned how to fight,’ Sherlock said instead of hello.
Enola took the paper, scanning the headlining story. ‘Indeed,’ she grinned, instead of it’s good to see you. Then, Sherlock’s words seemed to finish processing in her mind, and she gave him a cross look. ‘He’s not my boy,’ she retorted, handing the newspaper back.
Sherlock only smirked, pages crinkling in his hands. He sat the paper down on the windowsill, exchanging it for one of Enola’s fresh-printed flyers. He chuckled. ‘“Pay what you can”,’ he read out, a sparkle in his eye. ‘And what will people pay you in? Potatoes and gratitude?’
‘If that’s all they have,’ Enola said, interlocking her fingers and leaning back into her chair. ‘You can deal with the hoits and toits -’ her eyes were gleaming now, too, ‘- this is where I should be. Besides, Edith said she’ll be kind with the rent.’
Sherlock paced away from Enola’s desk. ‘You know -’ he cleared his throat self-consciously. ‘You are aware, should you wish some finer surrounds, I could, uh…’ He clicked his tongue. Enola waited expectantly.
Sherlock pushed himself to continue, turning back to Enola. He barely tried to conceal the hope in his voice. ‘I was thinking… Holmes and Holmes? A partnership?’
Enola’s eyes widened, and her jaw loosened ever so slightly. ‘That… is the kindest offer,’ she started haltingly. ‘But - if I did that - I would always be in your shadow.’
Sherlock lowered his gaze. ‘Hm. Yes.’ He turned his face away, schooling the crestfallen look off his face. It made sense, after all - society was not guaranteed to see his sister’s brilliance as he did, if they chose to see it at all.
But, still.
After an awkward pause, Enola spoke up. ‘Though, I do like this new version of you. No-one should be alone all the time.’
Sherlock looked up, met Enola’s eyes. ‘A friend would do you well,’ she said.
The warmth of her tone was not lost on Sherlock. ‘Perhaps I should write that down,’ he said, and the two smiled wryly at each other.
Sherlock breathed in. ‘I shall drop by to check on you,’ he declared, stepping towards the door.
‘I would like that,’ called Enola.
He paused at the door handle, searching for the right turn of phrase. ‘Perhaps you could come to Baker Street from time to time,’ Sherlock said. ‘To check on me,’ he added after a brief hesitation.
Enola’s eyes shone, but she glanced away too quickly for Sherlock to wonder if those were tears. ‘Perhaps we can fix on Thursday, four p.m.?’ she suggested, quirking an eyebrow.
Sherlock nodded. ‘Thursday at four it is.’ He reached for the handle, then halted as he caught sight of Lord Tewkesbury. ‘It seems I shan’t be the last to interrupt you today,’ he said, perhaps a little teasingly.
Enola almost spat out a mouthful of tea, and her teacup clattered to its saucer in her haste.
‘And he has flowers,’ Sherlock noted. Enola strode towards the door, standing beside him as Lord Tewkesbury opened the door.
‘Sherlock,’ greeted Tewkesbury.
‘Tewkesbury,’ Sherlock returned.
‘See you on Thursday,’ said Enola, as she shrugged on her coat.
‘Bye, Sherlock,’ said Tewkesbury.
The pair linked arms and set off, Enola already giggling at something the young lord had commented. Love, thought Sherlock fondly. What it does to people.
Sherlock was pulled from his residual disappointment at Enola’s rejection of his offer by Edith clearing her throat. ‘Sherlock? Your paper.’ She retrieved it from the sill, and Sherlock accepted it.
‘Thank you,’ he said, the paper creasing once more in his palms. ‘And… thank you. For everything.’
Edith sent him a knowing smile in response.
With that, Sherlock unfolded the newspaper, scanning the stories as he made his way through the training floor.
One headline was enough to stop him in his tracks.
MASTER CRIMINAL ESCAPES, it read. And below, in smaller print: ON THE RUN - MIRA TROY - AKA MORIARTY.
Well. That certainly answered most of his questions.
He closed the paper and made his way back to Baker Street. Of course, Sherlock could start searching for clues immediately - but where was the fun in that? Moriarty was clearly a worthy intellectual opponent, and one he would greatly enjoy defeating. The defeat would be all the more spectacular, all the more satisfying, once he could demonstrate his prowess.
It was not as though Moriarty was particularly subtle, regardless. The depiction of her escape served to reinforce this fact.
All Sherlock had to do now was wait for a thread to come loose.
—
Thursday swung around while Sherlock was reading the paper, pipe clenched firmly between his teeth.
The time ticked over to four. Every peal of Sherlock’s clock rang before a knock sounded at his door.
Sherlock set down his paper - he’d been scanning it for news of Moriarty - and hurried to open the door. But when the hinge swung open, it was not his sister looking back at him.
It was a man, short in stature, wearing a beige coat and similarly-hued hat. ‘Sherlock Holmes?’ the man asked. Soft-spoken.
Sherlock kept his expression neutral. ‘Yes,’ he said carefully.
The man’s shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. ‘I’m here for my appointment,’ he said, a nervous smile dancing across his face. ‘You’re seeking a flatmate?’
Curious. ‘You must have the wrong address,’ said Sherlock.
The man shifted, uncertain. ‘The young lady was very clear as to the place, a-and the time,’ he stammered. ‘Thursday at four, she said. You are Sherlock Holmes?’
Sherlock understood immediately what had transpired. Clever, he thought, and sighed. ‘Hm. Yes.’ He owed it to Enola to at least try to make a friend. ‘Please, do come in, Mr. …?’
‘Doctor,’ replied the man.
Oh, Sherlock thought.
‘Watson. John Watson,’ he finished.
Oh.
Sherlock could see. Yes, he could see exactly Enola’s train of thought.
Find Sherlock a doctor to be his flatmate, so Sherlock wouldn’t need to lie alone and bleed out. So Sherlock wouldn’t be alone with his thoughts or his injuries.
Two birds with one stone. Two worries with one Dr. John Watson.
Sherlock smiled, and ushered Watson inside.