Chapter Text
Having been courting for a while was one thing, renting a flat together, entirely another.
Enola Holmes, named to be alone, walking next to a stupid, useless boy with four too many names, Lord Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether, whom she was about to rent a flat with.
The landlord leading them to his estate, while kind enough, did assume they were married already- which they were most definitely not- they had barely even held hands in public- partly because of Tewkesbury’s aversion to touch, if there’s one thing Lady Tewkesbury knew about her son, it was his particular sensitivities, which she did care for- but in privacy, up in Tewkesbury’s treehouse or in Enola’s rented room, they were lovers.
In private, when Tewkesbury isn’t as sensitive, he holds her hand, and she shows him how to fight while he prefers his sewing. He leaves flowers, she sharpens the knives.
A couple behind closed doors, while everyone else sees Lord Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether, and Enola Holmes the Private Investigator. Often a pairing of young adults in love is seen as such, but Enola preferred to be careful.
“I know it is a bit of an odd ask,” Enola began, “Especially for a couple who’s moving in together, if we are a couple, that is, but would you mind two bedrooms?”
Enola frequently did not know what she was getting into with Tewkesbury, but it always was exciting, always curious, to see how he enjoyed his thinking.
“Oh, Enola, I adore you so!” Tewkesbury grinned, and if Enola didn’t know him better, she’d call him absolutely mad.
Enola, blinking and unsure, must have reeled back visually in her own visceral way, staring at Tewkesbury with such unfiltered shock that the poor boy began to get scared.
“I’m sorry, I just… never would have expected such an ask.” Her partner cleared his throat, straightening himself and fixing his vest. “I would be delighted to have two rooms, I prefer having my own space.”
She nodded, eyes cut in a certain confused yet affectionate flair. “As do I.”
“Excellent.”
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The flat, as Enola had expected, was not the nicest but by no means awful. Quaint and pretty, the money they had amassed in order to get the place from Enola’s business and Tewkesbury’s family money was treating them well. Two rooms, a lovely, cozy kitchen, a sitting room with a plush loveseat that by no means forced them too close.
They liked it, the two of them, on the edge of London just close enough for Tewkesbury to visit his mother and uncle, while not straying too far from the city and Enola’s place of business. She made the executive decision to not disclose where the duo were looking to settle down to keep the both of them safe, Tewkesbury from potential political enemies, and herself from people who hate her.
As they entered, it was made clear, Tewkesbury wanted to set up his room on his own. With a kiss to his lover’s hand and cheek, he swiftly moved himself into his new space, peeking through every last object and searching nooks and crannies, while Enola set about preparing her own room. Making her bed and the sort.
She’d received housewarming gifts from her mother, and Tewkesbury one from his. Nothing from Mycroft, which Enola could frankly not care less about, but as well nothing from Sherlock. That, she did care about, especially as she thought she had been growing closer to him.
Right as she may be, the equally famous and infamous Sherlock Holmes was not the type to give presents.
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In a flat further into London, on a street named after a type of job involving bread or sweets, in number ten plus ten, plus fifty times four, plus one, plus the letter B, Sherlock Holmes paced before his corkboard.
He had a headache.
Sherlock Holmes never had a headache.
When he did, it meant something was wrong, And the fire in his head told him that it was Enola. The fool of a girl whom he was lucky enough to call his sister, although hardly a girl now. Almost a lady, strange as it was to think.
His cane tottered along on the floor in time with his feet, matching the rhythm pounding in his head as he thought of all the awful things that could be befalling his sister.
“It’s just a headache, Sherlock, I’m telling you it is,” sighed John, for about the eighth time that night in the span of about the same amount of minutes. “Now, for God’s sake, it’s ten past twelve and I cannot possibly sleep with that tapping of your cane.”
“Then fix my leg, Doctor Watson.” Sherlock gave his begrudging flatmate a look.
“Believe me, if I could, I would have a very long time ago. And I am a doctor, and as a doctor, I am telling you, it is nothing more than a Christ-damned headache!”
“Go to bed, Watson, it is not just a headache and it is very likely that my sister is in danger. I will not be going to bed until I am able to find out why.” The detective sighed. “Begone.”
“I know you care.” Watson stood, looking carefully at the man before him. “But you are tired, you have been drinking a little-”
“I am worried about my sister.” The words, strong, unforgiving, shot right at the doctor. “You of all people are well aware that I do not get headaches, however I do understand that you may not be interested in my familial affairs and I have not an issue if you would like to go about your evening.”
John took a long, deep breath, piling up the empty plates and cups surrounding his partner, before nodding and breathing out, “Sherlock, you must get to sleep. It’s hardly an unexpected blunder to misunderstand cases and events when you’re sleep deprived.”
“I will not be able to sleep with this pain,” Sherlock groaned, “and besides, sleep takes far too much time out of my day. I concede that rest is necessary for a clear mind, a safe state of mind, and for good physical health. Still, I am very much able to solve cases under-”
“This is not a case! Sherlock, you don’t even have her address, nor if she isn’t aware of this hypothetical danger. She is your equal in mind, and if you truly believe she is in danger, you can likely find her address and ask her yourself. Now, please?”
Sherlock did not move, but he gave John a weary glance. One look into his deep-set eyes can read that this is a man who is plagued with a discomfort that will not cease.
“Try? If you cannot sleep, truly, then we may go to a cafe- the one a stone’s throw away- and I’ll buy you something warm.”
Sherlock wavered, put down his candlestick, and nodded, breaking eye contact.
“The greatest thing one could ever do is try.”
Sherlock began cleaning as well, and, as John gets Sherlock ready for sleep, they, together, get the flat ready as well. Sherlock could not, and would not, shake his pain, but John was there by his side, so he could contact Enola as soon as possible… Which would be in the morning.
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Viscount Emrys Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether, quite enjoyed waking up to quiet, a tea kettle boiling, and a certainty of a muffin that he could warm and eat before his walk to the Lords. He sat and drank his tea while he listened to Enola brief herself about her case of the day. After slight sleeplessness, anger on politics, remembering on his days of running away, glory in the first days of his time with Enola, he took comfort in seeing her calm. Reciting information to herself, and allowing him to be silent, allowing him to have his moment out of the light of the political hellhole.
“Oh, oh, of course, of course!” Enola let out one of those gasps, the ones that made Emrys smile and her whirl to face him. “I’d best be off. I’ve figured it out.”
She paused, picked up her bag, kissed his cheek, and whisked away.
Emrys’ name was common knowledge to himself and himself only. Enola wasn’t even aware yet, solely because she hadn’t asked, only calling him Tewkesbury through the entirety of their relationship thus far. Signing papers was awkward, but worth dealing with in order to create a bettered world.
At points, he would completely forget about his name change in the first place, and forget that some people even cared.
Typically he’d forget that there was ever a time when he was a small child, an infant to be named Lady Viscountess Nellie, Marchioness of Basilwether.
After all, by the time he was six, he was Emrys already, of his own declaration. And yet- somehow!- no legal change had ever happened.
So as he sat with the Lords and read papers, he signed them with his proper name, and no one batted an eye. He avoided having his “legal” name printed for the public, everyone had been raised to know the Lord Viscount, not the girl he left behind.
He’d been told the story many a time, one of his favorite memories.
“Oh, you used to hate it when you saw it,” his mother still laughed, “the moment you learned to speak and read, it was Emrys this, Emrys that, the name given to you already sour in your throat.”
“Is it true that I scribbled it out everywhere?” Emrys always asked her.
“More than true. Emrys covered every page we gave you to write on, big blotches over anything that even slightly resembled that name. And what’s a mother to do besides give love? Your father had always yearned for a son. Even once he left us, I knew he’d detest me if I failed to raise you with affection.”
Emrys smiled to himself. “Thank you, Mother.”
Her love, while untraditionally unconditional, was some of the best he’d ever felt, ever gotten the grace of having. With a father gone, his mother became the light of childhood. She allowed him to garden, to roam, to learn.
Even though he detested all things “feminine”, he still grew with a love and affinity for certain things deemed feminine and enjoyed solely by his female cousins. His mother always fought to have him sew and cross-stitch, to learn the names of all his favorite flowers and be able to identify them, one by one, with love and care often deemed below an upper-class man.
Emrys was raised by his mother not to care what people thought.
So there he stood, in the House of Lords, skimming the proposal of his bill.
His eye caught a name.
Nell-
A pen flying into his hand, knuckles white on the grip of the thing, discomfort flooding his stomach. He wanted to get rid of it, eradicate the lack of himself on this document of such, such importance…
But he can’t.
He can’t risk ruining this.
He’ll take it to the press and have them print it again, reminding that that is by no standard his name. It never had been and never would be.
He was Lord Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether.
On the other hand, where did this come from? His documents had never included his name of choice, not since he was quite young, he was informed, as he developed a certain mindset around his teens that going more simply by just “{ Lord } Viscount Tewkesbury” was better than letting the entirety of a country who could cause his demise know his own first name. This had to have been pulled from some age-old document, perhaps from his infancy.
Scanning it again, no wonder. The quote including that came from a statement by his father, right after his birth.
He slowed himself down and put his pen back in its rest, taking a few solid deep breaths, and believing himself well again until he looked down at the page once more. He couldn’t understand why his reaction, to nothing but text on a page, led him to feel this level of upset and near-violence towards.. Something. It was never his name, it was never something he connected with himself, so why does he still possess this innate structure within him to blot it out as it comes into his sights?
He was only getting himself more upset with all this thinking. What was he really upset with? Where does this instinct come from, to kill something as harmless as a name unfit for himself? His hands began to shake, particularly his leading hand, of which the pen no longer sat. Something was swelling in his eyes and he wiped tears from them, but why? Where did all of this come from, why was he crying over a name? It was ridiculous for a person of such a rank to, to-
A land landed on his shoulder. It distinctly was not Enola’s, and so he jumped back, hand in a fist, ready to fight himself out of an unwanted interaction at such a point where he is this vulnerable.
He turned to see a face, one remarkably like Enola’s and yet entirely individual in its own right. Distinct, wide-eyed… Worried, even? He took two large steps back and raised his hands, almost in a kind of defeat, or a show of surrender. Emrys wiped his eyes and began to speak, because there was little else to do.
“Y- you- Mr. Holmes? I-” he began to stammer, taking a breath and fixing his face.
“I’m sorry to have startled you, Lord Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether,” Sherlock monotoned, so sure in it.
Yes. Yes, Lord Viscount, Marquess, that’s what was right.
“It’s.. fine.” Emrys blinked, hearing his name, the anger and despair leaving him, only dropping tracks and vague trails of ancient pain that seemed to ingrain themselves of their own volition. The noble remembered himself, and faced his lover’s older brother. “What brings you here?”
“Enola. Where is she, do you know? I haven’t gotten around to finding the address of your flat yet, and I’ve got this awful bloody headache, so I just know something’s wrong.” The older man sighed. “And now I seem to have stumbled across a secondary catastrophe of sorts. Something possibly… distressing? If I could be of any assistance, my Lord Viscount-”
Tewkesbury barely heard the words as he saw, as if in slow motion cannon-fire, Sherlock Holmes’ very own eyes creeping down to that paper, and he couldn’t see it, Emrys wouldn’t allow it, those pupils scanning so rapidly-
The paper was snatched away by none other than the Viscount, and those dark irises snapped back up, expression terrifying in its impossibility to be read.
“Private matter?”
“Very. Now, if you don’t mind.” Tewkesbury fixed his coat and hair, placing the paper facedown, protecting himself from the word that caused his demise. “Enola’s and my address is what you wanted? You can have it, but she’s at work, I believe. New case every day, as it is.”
“I’d like it anyway,” said the man with the cane, “for safekeeping.”
Internally, Emrys seethed with something bitter, something simmering, almost like guilt, but too raw and too blameless.
Embarrassment.
“Certainly.”
Tewkesbury copied words he knew so, so well, a street and number he’d memorized with love, and handed the slip- with his name, From the desk of Lord Viscount Tewkesbury, on the top.
Correct and stable. He’d have to ask for a few to take home.
“Thank you.”
With one last odd, attempt-at-comfort look, Sherlock Holmes turned and left, the click of his cane marking his steps.
Lord Viscount Emrys Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether, sat back down at his desk.
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Sherlock pinned the address to his bulletin board, slipping the orange string behind to lace it through every other thing he had discovered about his sister over the past week. John had called the smaller board dedicated to his sister’s safety obsessive, but she was out in the world. Besides, she’d had several attempts on her life starting from when their mother had disappeared. It wasn’t much, either. Notes about how the Holmes must have a family business now, how a new detective is arising. Scraps of newspaper, of her advertisements, of her flyers and cases solved. Not as many as Sherlock himself, of course, but enough to garner appreciation for her craft.
Mycroft hated it, but Mycroft was a stuck-up twat, and nobody listened to him anymore, anyway.
As for Enola, Sherlock wanted to have something.
Because the headache just would not go away.
There was something to be said about his distance, yet his connection, to his family. It’d always been like this- Mycroft finds himself in a great bout of legal trouble, and Sherlock finds himself with a sore throat. His mother, a disappearance, and him, an awful stomachache. Enola getting herself into bad trouble was rare, since she could very much handle herself, but this was not something he hadn’t seen before. He, for some odd reason, couldn’t escape this tense feeling in his brain, this constant ache that almost hindered his ability to fix it, to get her away from trouble and be done with the whole affair.
He found himself walking to the address on the slip when nobody would be home. He would not go in, nor peer through any windows. He would simply see if he could find anything that could lead him closer to what is causing his sister’s danger. Of course, he felt a bit weary of beginning a scout without consulting Dr. Watson, of whom he always appreciated the insight of, but Enola would not be busy forever, and her finding him at her home without having disclosed the address to her? She was likely aware of his ability to find the address, but would be in distress over the idea that Sherlock would appear while at her busiest hour. It would be nothing short of suspicious, and partially disrespectful on his part. But, still, he had no plans to actually enter or spy. He just needed something to put onto his board and to connect to his shreds of ‘evidence’ that were coming together like a dry pastry dough.
His savory interaction with Enola’s lover left an odd taste in his mouth, almost as though he made too many incorrect decisions. Though he possessed an innate line of abilities to determine fact from fiction, and decipher even the most elusive of puzzles, he was never sure where to lean on the basis of things that do not stem from tangible evidence. He understands, of course, the cause and effect that emotions can bring to a situation, but human interaction with people was a very difficult thing in many cases. Though he can read people’s faces and similarly keep his body language as expressionless as possible, reading itself did no good. Tewkesbury was upset, disturbed, or otherwise in upheaval, that he could tell, but there was nowhere to go next but the context of the surroundings.
In truth, he had read the document. Not all of it, of course, it was a fairly dense, yet short, legal thing that he had little to no interest in, as he found politics unfortunately necessary at best and eye-gougingly boring at its.. worse. Still, he found himself intrigued at the paper and began to read through it for any information that might attain to his skillset, but nothing seemed to pop out at him until about halfway down the page, when a familiar, yet entirely incorrect name popped out at him.
It stated that one Lady Viscountess Nellie Tewkesbury, Marchioness of Basilwether was to be signing this document, and yet nobody of the sort held the pen to the page. As far as he knew, the only person on that ladder of the familial hierarchy would be Enola’s lover, who was entirely the wrong gender. And yet, he was looking it over, ready to put his monogram on the fine line, which meant he must either be Viscountess Nellie, be her ward, or in some other way speak for her under legal jurisdiction. None of these ideas felt correct, however, considering if he had a ward, Enola would be very involved in this person’s life, and there was little else to mean he spoke on her behalf.
Him being Viscountess Nellie was the only plausible answer, but it didn’t feel possible in much respect until he remembered to ruminate with how Enola tied into this.
See, Enola, growing up, very much carved her own path through the world, uncaring for how anybody was to think of her. She did not wear the intricate, bedazzling embroidery of her mother’s scarves and handkerchiefs because it was the womanly thing to do, she wore them because they were beautiful and were made by her mother, of whom she loves dearly. She did not wear her skirts because that was how a lady should dress, she wore them because her dresses were far more comfortable than trousers some days, in where perhaps other days were not. Her shimmering jewelry and powder blushes weren’t worn due to her sex, but due to her nature and her respect, her love, for the beauty of the world and herself. She had no qualms whatsoever about the intricacies of gender in a modern society, and would simply scoff at it, because she had little reason to let it interrupt her life. She wore trousers if she wished, and paperboy caps, and all things manly if she so desired, which she often did. She wore her hair cropped as a child due to her frequent desires to sprint about the home without getting hair in her face, and she commonly addressed all people with the same manner of respect regardless of gender at all.
She wasn’t Enola Holmes because she was a woman, she was Enola Holmes entirely in her own right, and Sherlock did not doubt for a moment that Enola would not find somebody just as defiant as herself.
It isn’t too much of a surprise to know that Sherlock is well aware of Tewkesbury’s story from his disappearance to now, partly due to the fact that it was in the papers for far too long and partly due to the fact that they were family now, and so attended the same stuffy dinner parties and get-togethers. It is within his understanding that Tewkesbury was always defiant of the way things were, and he commonly saw a glint in his eye that he shared with Enola; one that you weren’t sure you could trust, but that you desired to be on the right side of. Sherlock did a shallow dive of his family history, just to be sure that his sister wasn’t getting herself into deeper trouble than she initially thought, he spoke with him many times about the past and future (of which he was a very skilled orator, though a little slow on the upkeep- he had a lot to say about the malpractice of burying ancestral wrongdoing) and he was very sure he knew about as much as he had to know. Yet, now, he wasn’t. He was, in fact, missing something.
His head still burned, but he turned to his memory to see if he could recall any Viscountess Nellie in his readings. He had a wonderful memory, of which he prided himself, and if there was one, they were either very much unheard of, or erased from the family history purposefully. Still, this Viscountess must be important if she is to be signing legal documents such as these.
He would have to talk this through with Dr. Watson. He always gave him that breath of fresh air that he sometimes loses, when he finds himself too stuck in his own exceptional mind and unable to think of how the average person would act in certain situations.
It was becoming increasingly more probable that Viscountess Nellie Tewkesbury was, in fact, Viscount Tewkesbury, simply under new, say, management. It wasn’t unheard of to change your life in such a way, but rarer for people so centered in on by the public eye, at least not without record. And, still, it was more likely there was some other cause, because even though it feels correct for Enola to find the most deviant man society could throw at her, there is likely another cause.
Still, it was a nonissue. At least, for the time being. For Tewkesbury, it seemed to be a very pressing matter, but for Sherlock it was not something he had time for. His mind blazed, with the stinging sensation of trouble in Enola’s way. The only lead he had, however, is this new flat. She had mentioned to him that she was in the market, and had found one she liked, and Sherlock supposed that, once the paperwork was signed, the trouble began, bringing a headache along.
He wasn’t all that sure why this happened to him. Mycroft, Mother, Enola, it didn’t matter, he always had a sense for when they were in serious danger, and that sense wasn’t in any way pleasant. Once, his mother had gotten stuck abroad in France with naught but a change of clothes and a handful of cash, and Sherlock had chest pains for a week. It didn’t happen frequently enough to consider it to be something unnatural, just disruptive enough to consider it to be reasoning behind his pursuit whenever he was caught following a trail of stale breadcrumbs. He didn’t just get headaches, he got headaches when hungover, and when Enola was in danger. When far enough away from his family as he was, he found himself rarely ill. During his regrettable period of noncontact with even his beloved sister he found himself to be in perfect health, but since his mother’s disappearance and, in turn, Enola’s adventuring spree, something had been twitching behind his eyes.
He was very upset the night he found Enola had been pinned up at knifepoint, and, though he was very intoxicated (which, at this point, he could now admit), a familiar burning came into his mind. It was to be expected with the excess alcohol, and went away soon after a period of immense drowsiness, but it did not just knock at his mind. It angered him, and that was something he frequently attempted to avoid. Distressing over an event, getting cross with no direction, it never brought forward anything of use. Yet, all he could think as he fell into an inebriated sleep that night, something entirely unlike a headache burned behind his eyes.
Of course, Enola could take care of herself. She was one of the strongest people Sherlock knew, which was absolutely saying something, so it wasn’t as though he was attempting what he’d tried in the past- push her away from danger, and fix it himself- but to lead her towards, and possibly assist her with, something that may cause her trouble. Yes, Enola could take care of herself, and she needed no Lord or brother to protect her.
He wouldn’t call it protection, he thought, as he came up to the building in question.
To enter the building, there was a locked door, and yet he found it to be no obstacle when he turned the handle ever-so-gently and found the lock pin clattering onto the pavement. Immediately, he didn’t very much like this choice of housing, as any petty bandit or unruly officer could come waltzing in, but it also meant Sherlock could easily enter, which amused him a bit. Still, if his flat didn’t have adequate security, he’d be raided by the police every other afternoon. John would have moved away eons ago if Sherlock didn’t know how to deter legal forces, Christ..
So, entering the building was easy, but it was finding the source of his worries that would be the issue. There were many different flats he could check, since it was a big building with fairly cramped, but still comfortable, living quarters, but he decided to begin his search surrounding Enola’s and Tewkesbury’s accommodation.
As far as he understood, this building had quite a few vacant rooms, considering the lack of lock on many of the doors, with some even being completely ajar. He looked into one, though he said he wouldn’t, and found nothing but unused furniture. Enola and Tewkesbury found themselves living together in an unpopular building, but why? Tewkesbury came from, and came with, quite a lot of wealth, and Enola no longer had blackened fingernails, meaning they could live in well put-together flats, definitely not something expensive, but nice. There seemed to be a reason for this vacancy, and for Enola’s decision on this place.
Or, perhaps, he was looking too far into the fact that he didn’t like the building all that much. John was right- he wasn’t exactly in a proper state of mind to be thinking things over on the spot.
He pulled out a small notebook from his back pocket, and his travel fountain pen, pinning it to a nearby wall as he began to jot down the thoughts that pass through his mind.
Building broken lock - police access?
many vacant rooms
odd smell of must and almond (NOT cyanide - not bitter enough)
There was a long moment of time where Sherlock realized, then let sink in, that he did not know Tewkesbury’s forename. Of course, he did know this, that Tewkesbury was not his first name, but it was just a little odd, is it not? It is understandable, though questionable, to keep a forename under concealment from the public, but, though him and Sherlock were not as close as brothers, they had seen each other semi-regularly. He saw Tewkesbury far more than he saw Mycroft, especially nowadays, after their, say, falling out. Let’s say he wasn’t too pleased with Mycroft’s treatment of their sister, nor his other escapades, and, after getting Enola’s money out of his hands and back to her (with force he wasn’t too upset he had to escalate to), he decided to keep his distance for a while. If nothing else, Mycroft can keep the rest of his teeth while Sherlock keeps his composure.
He and Mycroft never got along, but Sherlock had been acting under the unfortunate assumption that it was simply brotherly love for many, many years. He rarely gave the benefit of the doubt to anybody but his family, which was an exception he did not give lightly, and yet he was brought to the unavoidable conclusion that willful doubt led to pain. He gave Mycroft his affection and loyalty and, in return, Mycroft crumbled that affection in his hands, pushed their own teenage sister to tears, and destroyed a large sum of trust Sherlock had in all he knew. Growing up, they weren’t exactly joined at the hip, but they were absolutely and utterly brothers. But Sherlock knew, for a blatant fact, that a family bond can be broken through disrespect and idiotic decisions. Mycroft, always trying to prove something, that he wasn’t just the sibling with no gift but something more. Well, at least he had his family, at least Sherlock and Enola cared for him, appreciated him- until he got so caught up in his own ridiculous fantasy of tearing them down that he lost them and, with them, an insulting amount of dignity.
He had every opportunity to turn himself around and he did not. He had every opportunity to redeem himself, apologize for once in his life, and fix it all. Instead, he fell so deep into his twisted view of the world that he lost what was true. Even Sherlock, a man who accepts completely his lack of understanding on emotional affairs, knows when to stop.
What was he doing, again?
Oh, yes, the flat. This headache, it was making it exceptionally difficult to keep a steady train of thought. He continued writing,
Teweksbury’s name?
Who is Nellie???
He had to continue, find something, before Enola came back. He just needed something to write down and pin to the wall, to pull on this thread just a little bit more.
One floor up from Enola’s flat was a door with chipped- and scratched-off paint. It looked like it had been clawed at, but would not open, and, though Sherlock would not test it, in case somebody was inside, there was no doubt in his mind that this door held steadily locked after the desperate attempt at coming inside, as there was a distinctly shiny and new brass handle on the door as compared to the other doors, with patinated, dull sheens on the knobs. It was a handle meant for safety, and security, with a keyhole that had seen frequent wear for its age, meaning there was something inside that was to stay inside and someone outside that was being kept outside. This lock likely held steady, due to its brand-new appearance, as you wouldn’t claw the paint off a door for seemingly quite a long time, trying to enter, if it was as easy as taking a good knock to it. Sherlock has encountered door locks that only put up as much of a fight as Mycroft did; one good hit to the face, and pieces go flying. (The smile on Tewkesbury’s face when Sherlock showed him Mycroft’s teeth in a cloth was almost as bright as a sunrise. Sherlock understood that, if the two were put into a room, one would not leave, and he also knew exactly where he’d place his money.)
The floors were hardwood and the doors poorly constructed, allowing each and every door to leave a significant drag mark as it swung in and out, but this door had such a pronounced drag that Sherlock couldn’t help but take note. It was possible that this door could simply have more contact with the floor than the others but, as it is with the brass handle, something out of place in a line of uniformity is remarkable, but multiple inconsistencies in one lead starts to paint a picture. This door has likely been used quite a lot, possibly hosting entrances and exits at all hours of the day. Sherlock doesn’t envy Enola’s unfortunate fate of having noisy upstairs neighbors- he cannot stand it himself, and his aren’t all that bad in truth.
The hardwood, moderately discoloured in the area surrounding the doorway… All this wasn’t simply suggesting lots of foot traffic, but years and years of consistent, constant doorway usage. There was something there, open to many but not to those who do not possess the key, and there are some who demand entrance anyway and are met with nothing but cracked nails and chipped paint.
Locked door -peeling paint
significant hardwood damage
It would be of extreme importance to note that this is not the first door he’s surveyed, but it would be the first door showing inconsistency in this way. All others, whether left ajar or carefully shut, show similar patterns of wear as can be described for any aging building, with only minor discrepancies as some doors with alternate handles as well, but not ones this high-brow and secure. He’d surveyed many doors before this, and his careful search has led him to the address directly above Enola’s, which set off enough alarm bells in his head to ache at that pain once more.
Sure, yes, maybe it was just a headache. Or, possibly, there was something to be looked into, something about this building, something…
…something tangible, to convince John he isn’t as batty as he believes.
(Though he says he doesn’t think Sherlock is “batty in the slightest.” Just… “intriguing”.)
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Lord Viscount Emrys Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether, walked back home in a certain huff that made him want to cry, because Enola’s very, very popular, very, very smart older brother had just found out his most awful secret.
He walked, feet in his dress shoes pounding the sidewalk, and he blew into Enola’s business- he had a key, of course, and she was out investigating- and simply sat himself down in her chair. He always felt better after talking things through with her, though sometimes it was difficult to get the words out in a clear manner, which he knew would be the case now. And, with this, the question, the one that had been floating above his head for far too long now, one he’d avoided confronting for years and years, written in his mind like dark ink…
…Tell, or stay silent?
There was no reason to not keep it a secret. Every ounce of him said to stay quiet, act as though it was a nonissue, something irrelevant and nonexistent in one, but if it bothered him so, why would he not tell his lover? Would it be unacceptable as one in a relationship such as this to lie of something so grand, push it aside as though it were nothing? Should he not be entirely truthful to the one he holds so dear?
Guilt began to strum every fiber of himself, but he continued mulling it over. It wouldn’t be a lie, per se, simply a revokement of fact, an omission, and something unimportant to their relationship. She need not know of what lies behind the name, what lies behind his suit jacket and his dress shirt and his skin, what lies behind the present, as he was hiding from it all himself. It isn’t as though it was a selfish lie, as many are prone to being or becoming, it was just keeping what is hidden far, far away.
There was no Lady Viscountess Nellie Tewkesbury, Marchioness of Basilwether. He simply donned the mononym of his surname, leaving the past behind as though it was nonexistent.
The document, unsigned, still sat on his desk, and he had not thought to pocket it, nore file it away, as he simply wished for its disappearance without needing to interact with it whatsoever. Damn to Hell who had written this document, as a very painful mistake had been made, and one in dire need of rectifying. That begs the question, though, of how to rectify this? Simply state that there was a misunderstanding, possibly find himself the point of ridicule within the Lords?
No. He would simply bring up that he would like a reprinting of this page, as it had discrepancies he would like to go over with them. It was common, after all, to talk over a legal page many times before it is signed upon, and if he is present for the reprinting of the thing, he can keep a very close eye on its wording and possibly find the source of this problem while he was at it. The Lords must have a source, some kind of old letter or possibly a biography, in which his pre-changed name appears. If he is to find it, he may have some luck in editing or tossing it. After all, according to his mother, he had been scuffing it from the record since his ability to hold a writing utensil came to him. A misprint on their part, an agonizing reminder of the lies he frequently speaks on his, but no matter how it is spun, something must be done. Either way, as it is not addressed to him properly, he has no legal ability to sign it at all.
Yes, he must fix this. But it had been a very long day, and all he wanted at that moment was to sit with Enola and listen to her talk about her case. He sat back in the chair and got comfortable, though he knew it wouldn’t be long before her appearance. He wanted to speak to her, get that bad feeling out of his brain, but he was hard-pressed on finding a way to describe this to her without putting himself out in the open to her. It was tiring to think of, and for so long he could simply ignore it all, bind down his chest and keep the secrets within, but he seemed to have no outlet for when it becomes too much.
He was better off simply keeping all of this to himself, to get a reprinting of the document, to act as though Sherlock saw nothing out of the ordinary, and let it all move past him. He’d say nothing to Enola of the situation, he decided, only saying that he was disheartened with all the work he’d been doing. If there was a way around this situation, he would spill the truth out to her immediately, but there was none, and so he would continue to hide it as he had done for many, many years.
He was aware that this decision, as many others he had made in the past, and those he will continue to make as the future comes, will be biting him in the ass, whether sooner or later. But he felt as though this one, specifically, was important enough a decision, to where he had good reasoning. At least, he had good reasoning this time.
As time went on, he realized that Enola may be working on one of those cases that takes up far greater a deal of her time than was previously expected. He watched through the open window the sun beginning to set below the London cityscape, and he realized that there really was nothing he could do about this situation he’d gotten himself stuck in. If Sherlock were to ask of the document’s discrepancy, he would simply call it a misprint, as he would name it in front of the Lords when requesting a rewriting. There was no need to call attention to this, and, in a similar vein, there was no use in attempting to deter Sherlock Holmes. If he had an interest in this problem, he could likely solve it himself, which was beyond Tewkesbury’s control, because, again, he is Sherlock Bleeding Holmes.
He stood to lock up Enola’s office for her. If she needed to return, she had a key of her own.
Emrys needed Enola, but if he could not have her at the moment, he would take his tea in silence.
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Sherlock had other situations on his mind. The idea of the Viscount living through an alias was interesting to mull over, but prying forward would possibly cause needless emotional turmoil for the man and was unnecessary in the plights of confirming his hunch that his sister was, in fact, in danger. He had many things written down in his notebook, though most are things John would squint at and call a “stretch”, such as:
Have not encountered a single person in my search
Stain on floor- possibly blood? Possibly stew. Peroxide test?
Creaky stairs- suggests lack of skill on constructor’s end, or perhaps plausibly deniable trap
Lack of hall decor suggests ???
Nails hanging out of wall. Danger?
After a decent amount of time maddeningly attempting to string things together uninterrupted, he realized that the sun was beginning to set. As it was late in the year, it wasn’t too late at night, but he still decided to pack up and leave before Enola was to return home.
He passed by Enola’s door and couldn’t help but observe, for just a moment, that he had made a mistake. There was a different door handle on this one, as well, and Sherlock could spot his sister’s handiwork from yards away, her stylistic choices of never using the proper screw or tool for a certain job, yet having it all work out fantastically in the end, or acquiring a part just a bit too big and making it feel as though it was the rest of it that was too small, instead.
Enola had this funny habit of reinventing what perfect is considered to be. While Sherlock spent quite a long time in his study of what may or may not be considered correct, and what things mean as they stand, Enola takes what she is given and, instead of a lengthy discussion on it, she instead reinvents it, in a way. Only two rooms in this building had new, reinforced door knobs, with carefully installed keyholes for safety and easy entrance, and of course one of those would be Enola’s. It fit very well that the second one, however, would be the cause for her danger.
He knew he had a case, and now he just needed to put the pieces together. But first, he had to leave, before anyone was to see him loitering. He pocketed his notebook and left, with an odd new understanding on why things are the way that they are.
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The Viscount, true to his word, took his tea alone.
After watering the large collection of flowers decorating the flat, fixing himself a half-hearted dinner, and scooping sugar into his tea in attempt to aid his mood, he ate and drank, and settled in his bed, still cupping his mug in his hands, the soft comfort of his nightclothes failing for once to protect him against the oddities of the day.
He should have brought the paper home.
It was late by then, and as tiredness took his mind, the sweetness of his tea failed to keep him awake much longer. Stress and long walks exhausted him and he had no one to stay up for.
And so curled in his bed with his tea on his nightstand was how Enola found him, after quite a troubling day. She hadn’t managed to wrap the case until midnight, and the scratch of trousers against her calves really was beginning to get to her. But home safe and sound she returned, with near a thousand pounds to show for it because the lady whose case she was solving offered a bonus if Enola could influence Tewkesbury to pass a women’s rights bill he was already looking to pass, and who was she to turn down easy money from a woman who had enough already? The lady was quite happy to have her son’s murderer imprisoned, and had given Enola food and drink enough for both her and her beloved for at least two days, “to satiate her for the walk home”. Putting the things away in the kitchen, the silence and freshly cleaned plate is what clued her sleepy brain to realize she had not seen Tewkesbury all day.
As she thought, he lay in his bedroom, a mug from tea sitting on his nightstand- clearly he’d downed it quite fast, the mug sat still hot to the touch. At least by a glance, he didn’t look very asleep, more like he just was trying. Given this it gave her no surprise when a gentle touch to his shoulder and kiss to his head caused a murmur from tired lips and her lover slowly sat up.
“Enola.”
“Hello.”
He sat up, eyes still plagued with sleep, and Enola sat beside him, knowing something had to be wrong. Tewkesbury only waited up as long as he could when he truly needed to speak to her. But he was tired. Too tired.
“Are you alright?”
“Can I talk to you in the morning instead?”
Enola actually gave a slight smile at the sound of his voice, plagued by yawning. “Of course.”