Chapter Text
Enola wasn’t thinking like her usual self. Sure, she should’ve checked to make sure she knocked out Moriarty the right way, but she didn’t. Enola didn’t restrain her; didn’t tie her arms together or throw her down a ditch or really, do anything to prevent the evil maniac from chasing after her.
Enola was more focused on the fact that that Moriarty had led her to the secret hideout; the place she kidnapped both Sherlock and Lady Tewksbury.
Enola ran into the dirty, spacious, holding cell-rooms, trying to find her brother. Her heart nearly stopped when she saw him leaning up against a wall, hands bound and shackled, cuts and bruises spreading his face.
She still would shout “Sherlock!” over and over, halfway convinced he was dead. She would still run over and begin untying his bounds and gag, muttering that everything would be okay, that they both were going to be fine. Sherlock would still urgently tell his sister to free Lady Tewksbury before him, leaving Enola to run over to her soon-to-be mother-in-law. Her thoughts would loop over and over, wondering how her brother hadn’t been able to escape, how Sherlock Homes couldn’t free himself from a simple roped knot around his wrists.
What was hidden was the sheer cleverness Moriarty had put into keeping the world-famous detective captive.
Usually stationed in Sherlock’s cell were three of her henchmen, sleeping in rotations and never shying their eyes away from him. The knots were also not simple nor easy to untie by oneself; they were tied in such a complex way that trying to pull against would cause them to tighten and cut off circulation; a fact Sherlock had figured out instantly but still tried to blatantly ignore, evident by the bruising around his wrists and slight pinkish-purplish hues of his fingers.
Moriarty also crippled Sherlock mentally, striding into his cell at weird hours, abruptly waking him and bashing his head into the brick wall until he either passed out, or she got tired and bored. Sherlock’s mind wasn’t half of what it could be; his concussed thoughts were desperately trying to think of a way out, trying to scrape together a semi-baked escape, but everyone noise and sound hurt. Even yelling for Enola to help lady Tewksbury, to “free her! Free her, Enola!” sent knives racing down his skull.
Enola wouldn’t know any of this. She set to work untying Lady Tewksbury’s weak bonds (for they weren’t nearly as complex as Sherlock’s), reassuring her and pulling out the gag. Then she stood up, sweeping her clothing and starting across to room to her brother once more.
Moriarty still awoke in a blinding fury, snatching a gun and running into her carefully constructed prison. She still arrived to see Enola freeing the prisoners she worked so hard to capture and contain, control and jest.
Only, in this universe, her aim didn’t drive a silver bead harmlessly into the back wall.
One bullet was all it took.
For Enola, everything seemed to buffer, like sunlight flashing through the trees, where one moment, she was standing and running to Sherlock, and the next, she was sprawled on the ground, pain coursing through her back. Moriarty was standing over her, weapon in hand, cackling like a madman.
To Sherlock, it felt as if the moment had frozen in time, suspended in space, like everything stopped and held its breath. Moriarty with her stance and gleeful expression, Enola’s mouth open in an oval as the shot connected. It dragged on endlessly, seconds moving like molasses, seeming to be stuck like that forever.
But time simply doesn’t work like that; no matter how much one wants it to pause. It marches forwards in a steady hum, unchangeable and undaunted.
Enola hit the ground.
Moriarty laughed.
Sherlock screamed.
Moriarty was too preoccupied to care about her prisoners. She tapped Enola with her toe, laughing as she did so. In the back room, Sherlock was fighting with everything he had, pulling the binds around his wrists until his fingers were black from oxygen deprivation. He slumped against the wall, his head pounding and spinning from the loud crack, taking a quick breather. Then he saw movement.
Lady Tewksbury had a fire in her stomach, angry and livid and wanting to help. She crawled into Sherlock’s cell, sharp rock in hand. She bashed his restraints—rock on rope on brick wall— until it frayed to pieces. For a moment, Sherlock sat there, freedom dancing on his lips. Then he pulled himself up, his head turning round and round and round.
In this universe, Moriarty is still caught by surprise as Sherlock smacked the weapon out of her hand and shoved her to the ground. Sherlock still picked up the gun, anger shaking in every fiber of his being.
Moriarty laid paces away from the girl she shot, grinning and cackling still. In her head, Sherlock wouldn’t actually pull the trigger. She was confident in that fact, and it was evident on her face.
Maybe in a different timeline, Enola would keep Sherlock in check. She would lay his morals at feet, begging him not too, telling him that’s not what they did.
Sherlock would listen.
However, there was no Enola to stop him here.
His sister was stretched out on the floor, sticky red pooling around her, unconscious and unmoving. When Sherlock looked at Moriarty, all he saw was the person who attacked his sister.
No hesitation. No wavering morals.
A squeeze of his fingers, and Moriarty was gone.
The shot’s sound vibrated the halls. Sherlock fell to the floor with his head in his hands, a violent headache tearing his brain apart. He attempted to shuffle over to Enola, but everything was twisting and hazy. He could tell she was loosing a lot of blood; her skin was pale and thin, chalky and unhealthy.
”Enola, you need to stay alive!” he muttered urgently, a desperate cry from a brother watching his sister drain from life.
As he said that, her eyes opened.
And she winked.
“Tis I,” she whispered, her breathing labored and shallow. Then her eyes closed and she went still.
”No. NO! ENOLA!” he screamed, despite his shattered brain protesting at the noise.
Sherlock Homes is a detective. He knew that she was still alive; her chest was still rising and falling, the pain probably rendering her unconscious.
But he also knew that meant her time was running out.
In this universe, Lady Tewksbury didn’t get to bash Moriarty’s head with a boulder. However, she—ever still brave and surviving off of burning fury—ran to get help.
Sherlock didn’t remember his partner, John Watson, and Ernest Tewksbury, Enola’s love, arriving to the holding cells with a stampede of people.
He didn’t remember Tewksbury crying and screaming, Dr. Watson shaking and calling for backup, the strong Maltese and British men that boosted Sherlock up and walked him out of the dungeon. He couldn’t recall Eudoria Homes beating Moriarty in the face after she was already gone, cursing her name.
He couldn’t remember the first time he saw his mother cry, the reason being that Enola was unconscious and Sherlock wasn’t sensible enough to respond, wobbling like a shell of a human being.
People would later tell him that he rambled like a broken record, begging anyone near him to save his sister, until he collapsed into darkness.