Chapter Text
Mornings had never really been Enola Holmes’ favourable part of the day. Especially the morning when she woke to find her mother missing from the house.
Now, Enola is quite a peculiar name, yes? Well, her mother insisted on naming the only Holmes daughter it. It spells ‘Alone’ but backwards. “You’ll do very well on your own, Enola,” her mother consistently ingrained the thought since her childhood.
Her childhood was quite different to other ladies’, she was not taught to embroider but instead to fight and was educated in various fields of literature, mathematics and science. Enola had but two people which she grew up with, Mrs Lane, the chief maid and Eudoria, Enola’s mother. Her father died when Enola was an infant and her brothers left soon after.
So imagine the shock for Enola to find that Eudoria had left, leaving behind only presents to be opened at tea time and thoughts that questioned many things.
Enola was alone. But she had hopes that she would no longer be as she cycled to the station, eager to meet her renowned brothers there.
Although, she had to admit that she would be lying if she didn’t say that she was nervous, anxious even. She hadn’t seen her brothers since her infantry and her memories of what they were like were scarce.
When she arrived at the train station, the noisiness of the hustle and bustle began to match the chaos in her thoughts. Rising to her tiptoes, she spotted her two brothers in the distance as they made their way against the crowd. As countless scenarios of their reunion began to stir in her mind, it was all shattered to pieces as the two men walked straight past her.
Enola raised her voice, “Mr Holmes? and, um, Mr Holmes?”
“Yes?” The man with long, tied-up hair turned around. Enola recognised this to be Sherlock. He looked exactly as he did in her newspaper clippings.
Enola began to step forward towards her two brothers, “You’ve sent for me?” they shared a puzzled look, “You sent a telegram. Asked me to meet you here?”
“Enola!” Sherlock exclaimed, he rushed forward and grinned, “Blimey! You’ve gotten taller!” Enola bitterly thought to herself, ‘Of course, I got taller. I was practically crawling when you last saw me.’
The other man, who must have been Mycroft, sighed, “May I ask why you’re in such a… frenzied state?”
Enola quickly looked down to find her dress all muddied. She quickly wiped a spot of dirt from her cheek.
“Where’s your hat and your gloves?” Her older brother’s gaze felt like it pinned her to the spot, full of judgement and scrutiny.
“Well I have a hat, it just makes my head itch. And I have no gloves.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow and turned to look at Sherlock, “She has no gloves?”
“Obviously not, Mycky,” Sherlock shrugged.
The two men began to stare at Enola and she realised that they had started analysing her. Their stares began to make her feel… small and she was dying to know what was running through their head.
Enola was broken out of her train of thought when Mycroft began his assessment of her, “Well, you’ve quite clearly been cycling to get here… no doubt off of any road tracks or pavement, most likely on the grass of some sort. Your hair is all tousled, most likely from the wind and your heartbeat is beating at an abnormally high speed indicating that you’ve recently been engaged in an exercise of some kind.”
“Plus, her dress’ hem is all dirtied and muddied up, same as her boots. ‘Tis impossible for that to happen in a fancy carriage. These facts also show that she’s ain’t that good of a cycle rider,” Sherlock chimed in. Enola took note of the contrast between the two brothers’ accents, Sherlock’s seemed to be in the same vein as the working class but still retained some wordings and a slight tone of Mycroft’s posh, Queen’s English.
Mycroft nodded at Sherlock’s additional input before looking back at Enola, “So that leaves to question, what of the carriage?”
Enola paused, confusion settling in, “What carriage would you be wanting? Because I have a few in mind.”
“The carriage I paid for.”
“Right… I think you may have us confused with another house.”
In contrast to Mycroft, Sherlock didn’t make that much of an effort to mask his emotions. “What do ya mean the ‘wrong house’? We were doing jus’ fine when I came here last!”
“Well many things have changed since then and maybe you’ve been gone for a bit too long,” Enola regretted it as soon as the words came out of her mouth but it was too late to take it back, it didn’t help that she meant everything of what she said.
The atmosphere suddenly began to feel more tense between the siblings. Sherlock looked to his feet and a few more awkward moments passed until Mycroft sighed. He turned around and addressed one of the station boys, “Fetch us a carriage.”
Aboard the carriage, the three siblings all sat in silence. Enola began to analyse her brothers and it sunk in how different she looked from her brothers. Her hair was unruly and curly which was often a pain to maintain. It was a stark difference from her brothers’ dark, navy blue hair, Sherlock’s curling around the edges of the tips in his tied-back ponytail and Mycroft’s gelled in place.
Her brothers supposedly shared the same deep blue eyes as their father.
Enola also observed how Sherlock and Mycroft’s noses, jawlines, and facial bone structure were harsher and more prominent.
She was never obsessed with looking in the mirror but she had spent quite some time wondering who her brothers took after, black and white photos could only show her so much. Now, as she stared at them, she could see that they both were a spitting image of their father in their own way.
It made her feel insecure.
Why did she have to be the sibling who didn’t look like the others? If Enola hadn’t known who they were, she wouldn’t have assumed they were her relatives. A bitter feeling settled in her stomach and she felt frustrated at her observations and more alone than ever.
Just as she was about to turn to look at the passing scenery, something glinting in the light caught Enola’s eye. How strange, Sherlock was wearing a skull ring that reflected a ray of sunlight.
How had she not seen it before?
Enola decided to push aside her thoughts and studied their forms closely. Their clothes were slightly baggy on them which suggested to her that they hadn’t been eating properly for some time. Dark eyebags were blotching the underneath of their eyes.
What was causing them to lose so much sleep?
Enola also saw how Sherlock’s hands kept holding out his hand on his lap as if he was expecting someone to take it. Enola didn’t think Mycroft and him had that loving sibling relationship so it might have connoted to Sherlock having a lover or good friend. Or maybe she was just reading into it too much.
Another ugly emotion crept up on Enola and she began to feel envious. Envious of their busy lives that she wanted. She wanted to run around and help solve cases, to be known for something. To go down in history.
Sherlock leaned over and whispered something in Mycroft’s ear. The latter sighed and both of her brothers’ faces turned solemn before Sherlock huffed and leaned back into his seat.
Enola inwardly sighed and tucked her observations away for a later note as Ferndell Hall came to view.
Stopping in front of the main door, Mrs Lane approached their carriage with her usual warm demeanour. “Gentlemen, welcome home. It’s been some time,” She rushed forward to collect their limited luggage. The brothers first stepped out of the vehicle and strutted into the building, Enola in tow.
Their first stop was what Enola dubbed, the tennis room. The worst place to start a tour with, in her opinion. And of course, Mycroft opened his judgmental mouth and commented, “What is this?”
“Tennis. Mother says I’m getting quite proficient!” Enola responded.
The brothers looked around the room, their gazes turned from the scoreboard to the broken statue. Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed while Sherlock visibly struggled to not laugh by hiding his mouth with his hand. He also muttered something about his landlady having his head on a platter if he did anything of the sort.
The brothers then proceeded to walk straight to their mother’s bedroom which should have been littered with various clues. Sherlock immediately began to list his findings.
“Her bed hasn’t been made,” He walked towards to flower vase
Mycroft wandered around the room as well, “Clothes haven’t been put away.”
“And Laurustinas, and Queen Anne’s lace.”
Mycroft dejectedly sighed, “Enough with the bloody flowers, Sherlock.”
“Brings back ol’ memories, I hope the flowers are safe an’ sound back home,” Sherlock shrugged as he smiled. Mycroft rolled his eyes at his lovesick, younger brother.
After a few more moments of investigation, both men concluded that no foul play was involved before continuing their investigation. Mycroft kickstarted the discussion, “Her regular supply of drawing pencils has dwindled to nothing. She clearly had decided not to replace them and you rarely find that kidnapped victims have planned for their own disappearance.”
“She wasn’t planning on returning. And yet, she disguised her intentions perfectly,” Sherlock added under his breath, “Reminds me of a certain someone…”
From outside of the room, Enola quietly walked to the bedroom entrance and watched as her brothers converse. She still couldn’t believe that they were here and that her mother was gone…
Mycroft picked up a book, the cover showed it to be covering the topic of feminism, and shows Sherlock, “How interesting… although not surprising, motive perhaps? Still, let’s entertain the idea that perhaps she was mad, or senile. Though madness, in our family? I would doubt it.” He glanced at the book Sherlock was holding and they both chuckled while giving each other a knowing look.
The famous detective was holding his friend’s book, ‘The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes’. Many of its pages were dog-eared and as Sherlock flicked through the contents, he noticed smudged water marks around the Reichenbach Falls. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that.
He snapped the book shut and gingerly returned it to the pile, “Yeah, nah. I think I can surmise by the way that she left leavin’ no clear lead that she still had her full wits ‘bout her.” He bent down in front of the fireplace and sniffed the ashes.
“Agreed. No madperson could compile the accounts she sent me over the last ten years. Perfectly clear and orderly, detailing a bathroom, a water closet and the constantly rising salaries of the household staff.” Mycroft turned to the doorway where he stared at the third party, “All of which seems to be false information, isn’t that right, Enola?”
Enola stiffened like a deer caught on a road before regaining her confident composure, “She wouldn’t like you in here. This is her private space.”
“Tell me, she at least saw that you had an education? She valued education.”
“She taught me herself. She made me read every book in Ferndell Hall’s library. Shakespeare, Locke, and the Encyclopaedia and Thackery and the Essays of Mary Wollstonecraft. And I did it on my own account. For my own learning. Which mother said was the best way to become… a woman,” The raw admiration in Enola’s voice made Mycroft internally smile, feeling proud of his sister.
Sherlock had a wistful expression on his face, “Self-taught? Just like him- OW!” Mycroft had elbowed him in the stomach and made the former double over.
“Well, what type of woman did she want you to become, specifically?” It seemed that the oldest of the Holmes children had not yet finished his questioning.
An uncomfortable silence fell upon the siblings before Enola spoke up, her words sharp and accusing, “I don’t know what she wanted me to be. She’s left me too.” Both men had the decency to look both guilty and solemn. “She will return, won’t she, Sherlock? Won’t she?”
Another moment of silence.
“…let’s take a break,” the middle child suggested.