Chapter Text
As you may have recalled, my name is Enola Holmes. If you remembered that, you might also recollect that Sherlock, my older brother, promised to spend more time with me on Thursday at 4 P.M.. As a proficient violinist, he is always fascinated in concerts, mostly on listening to his dominant instrument. Therefore, we decided on St. James Hall, one of the best places in London for those that adore music.
Honestly, I wasn’t one of them.
Nevertheless, I was looking forward to meeting him at the entrance at 4:30, since the performance would begin fifteen minutes later. If London could have a better road, I would not, definitely not, be late. Thankfully, or rather, surprisingly, Sherlock was unseen.
Among the crowds, to my right side, several pedestrians parted, revelling… Sherlock?
There was a shoe-shinning girl standing, stunned next to him. A man with golden locks was thrown up against the wall, his collar wrinkled; I could only imagine how Sherlock had grabbed him there. My brother seemed unsatisfied, throwing a punch at the stranger. The latter was lucky enough to sidestep away, only a corner of the face being rubbed. He tucked his cap lower, and slipped into the roaming people around.
That lad was better at running than fighting. By the time I reached Sherlock, we had both lost him.
“What happened?”
“His hands were all over that girl; I was uncomfortable being a bystander.”
I raised my eyebrows. I was glad Sherlock has done at least a bit damage to his visage, otherwise I would stay infuriated for a whole week.
“Do you remember what he looks like?”
“Approximately five feet six inches, blond, dark eyes, no apparent accent. His shirt was clearly made of crepe de chine, I think. The overcoat was deliberately distressed. His hat looked like it had been found somewhere, oversized and unsuitable for his head. His posture and tone of voice were also disguised.”
“So a rich scoundrel with no morals whatsoever.”
Next to me, Sherlock sighed. Straightening his coat, he nodded his head ever so slightly. As we walked back, I knelt down before the shoe-shining girl. She blinked.
“How old are you?”
“Twelve, going for thirteen next week, Miss.”
Good gracious.
“Enola, the concert is going to start.”
I rolled my eyes at the somewhat cold statement. Here goes the Detective Holmes I “grew up hearing”. Ugh.
I gave the poor girl a shilling and five pence.
“Miss! That’s…that’s…”
“Just take them.”
Her bright blue eyes were fixed to the money. She swallowed, as if taking all her will power, looking up, she smiled: “God bless you, Miss.”