Chapter Text
Enola was confident in her detective abilities. More confident that she could solve it before her brother, Sherlock, could.
Well, she supposed confident was the wrong word; desperate was preferable.
The truth was, now that she was married to Tewksbury, Sherlock believed she wasn’t cut out for “this life” anymore. He claimed that now—sporting a husband—she mustn’t put herself into danger. Enola hadn’t been able to comprehend it; she joined her brother on many snoopings and clue-gatherings before with no problem. Now, because she had a ring that meant something, a house shared with another, a partner with vows tied to it, suddenly she was weak and small again.
“Sherlock, I am still a lady detective, and you have no say in me giving up my line of work,” Enola had said.
“Regardless, I still won’t allow it,” was his response every. Damn. Time.
“Sherlock Homes! This is my life’s dream, and I am not letting it go because some ill-mannered brother of mine says otherwise!” the woman spat, trying terribly hard not to cry.
Sherlock watched her, a singular eyebrow raised.
”You’re being emotional,” he said at last. “Understandable, but unnecessary.” He stood up, pipe in mouth.
Enola had stormed out of his apartment then, but not before catching a glimpse of his cork board.
A new case.
And a devious one at that.
Enola wasn’t intending to memorize every detail of the board. She wasn’t planning on redrawing all of it later that night, back in her respective house, Tewksbury warming her favorite pot of tea.
Ah, well. Things happen.
What she saw was a mastermind at work. Organized crime, seemingly random and without pattern, but sharing one critical piece of similarity.
Rich children would be kidnapped and held for ransom, sometimes forcing the parents to pay thousands of pounds in payments, scattered around London.
Smart enough not to get caught, but established enough to keep the money flowing in. Enola had to nod at the ingenuity. All she needed now was the family that would be targeted next, and an eye on that child.
Immediately, the girl’s brain cut through all the little lies and webs of misdirections, her eyes zeroing in on the Losvenor family. They had a young boy who was about two, making for an easy victim and swift kidnapping. All signs pointed to it.
Enola began to iron her shirt and trousers, making the buttons shine, when she stopped to consider something. Her brother was Sherlock Holmes. Hell, that name was more well-known than half of these aristocratic families. Her eyes drifted back over to her drawn cork-board, remembering how the real one looked. Disheveled and layered, is if running in circles for a while.
Sherlock was stumped. If it was truly that simple; if the pattern was easy enough to uncover, then the world-famous detective surely would’ve figured it out ages ago. Enola leaned back, perplexed.
”You alright, my love?” Tewksbury asked, taking her now-empty teacup from the coffee table, settling in the seat next to her. His wife stared at the cracking hearth in front of them, thinking hard.
”Yes,” Enola responded. “I am helping Sherlock with a case, and it’s really got us stuck.” (She had, in fact, not told Tewksbury about Sherlock barring her from aiding him; some things were betting left unsaid, and it was the truth… mostly.)
”Well, I’m not sure I’ll be much help,” Tewksbury said with a chuckle, sipping his own tea. “You and your brother always see patterns I can’t; it is like your brains are wired to seem them and nothing else.”
Enola mulled those words over, considering. Then, she was struck by a bolt of understanding.
”Wait, Ernest! That’s it!” Enola gasped, springing up from her seat and dancing around the parlor. She let out a cry of joy, taking Tewksbury in her hands and spinning him around, the fire brightening her features. “Oh, sweet magnolias, you’ve solved it!”
”I have? Er, happy to help!” Tewksbury offered.
Enola laughed, throwing back her head, feeling quite silly.
Her brother—granted—was a bloody good detective. But his greatest flaw (besides from the stoic and arrogant nature of being an older sibling) was his inability to consider that sometimes the crime was beautifully chaotic. Sherlock loved patterns; scouring to the ends of England to find the pieces that connect.
But sometimes, it has to be accepted that there is no pattern, that the criminals thrive in the randomness.
Changing tactics, Enola set her sights for another family; the Tassoon family. They had a boy who was thirteen; an obnoxious and rudely teenager who would be a hell of trouble to kidnap; but Enola saw challenge in it. After all, if her hunch was correct, and it was just a goose chase, then that family would be a good start (and would certainly throw any detectives off the trail).
In criminal’s eyes, a game.
***
Enola was properly disguised. Her hair was muddled up in a worn brown hat, trousers and long shirt making her pass as a young boy. Better yet; a yard servant. After bidding her husband goodbye, assuring him she would be home by supper, she set off down the cobbled streets, keeping her hat down low and eyes on the ground beneath her.
The Tassoon residence was large and baroque, with sprawling greens and well-kept exterior. It reminded her of a familiar mansion; one of whom she knew quite tenderly.
She easily slipped onto the premise; there seemed to be hundreds of servants tending to the lawn, and the security took one look at her attire, then let her pass.
The security is relaxed, Enola though, a tiny drip of adrenaline starting to stir up in her bones. Perfect for a kidnapping.
“Excuse me, do you happen to know where Thomas Tassoon Jr. would be?” the girl asked another servant, intending to firstly, make sure the boy was safe, then secondly, try to prevent him from becoming a statistic.
“No, but I reckon you’ll see him soon enough,” the seedy man responded, returning to his busywork. Under his breath, he cursed and slouched away, clearly in no good mood.
Enola surveyed the grounds, her eyes easily picking out the boy. Unlike threadbare street clothes, Thomas was wearing a fashionable coat and shoes, strutting around smartly, barking orders at servants and yelling slurs to those who were slow.
The girl could not imagine anyone more pompous.
”Splendid,” Enola muttered, turning her eyes low as he passed. Once Thomas walked by, however, he turned and marched into a section of woods, chin stuck out in front.
“Where is he going?” Enola asked someone else frantically, not caring if she sounded weird or suspicious. Why was the boy wandering into the forest by himself?
”Second part of the estate’s through the little path in the woods,” the man responded, eyeing her now. “Don’t you know this?”
”Of course,” Enola lied smoothly. “I must give him a message, however. Good day to you.” Then she briskly walked into the little wooded path, clutching the cuffs of her sleeves like pearls. Once she made it ways into the woods, where the trees grew more wild and close together, she cupped her hands and shouted;
”Thomas! Thomas!”
No response.
Just the quiet buzz of nature around her.
Enola’s heart leaped to her throat. She ran more quickly now, praying that the boy had just walked faster than he had seemed to; that he had already emerged from the other side and was ordering more servants around.
“Thomas! Tho-”
A sharp crack filled Enola’s ears, then a slipping pain raced up her temple.
The girl hit the ground with a dull thud, everything moving slowly. She saw figures clothed in black looming over her, rope in hand. She saw Thomas slumped over one of the goon’s shoulders, bound and gagged.
Enola tried to get up, she really did, but none of her body was responding. It was as though she was encompassed in molasses.
So as a last-ditch effort, she drew out from her pocket an acorn-seed with twine on it, hoping Sherlock would understand and see it. A Holmes always leaves a clue for a Holmes.
One of the men hit her over the head again, and Enola was unconscious instantly.
***
Enola couldn’t tell if she was lying down or sitting up. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t move. Her hands felt like wet concrete; her eyes like black holes.
“Why did boss say to kidnap this one?” a voice said through the haze: something tangible pulsing around her.
“Said the girl was the brother of Sherlock Holmes,” another voice responded. “Boss said she’s smart, and she’ll be up our asses if we don’t get rid of her.”
”But shes a girl,” the first voice practically whined, enunciating the ‘girl’ part. “What is she going to do, needle-point us to death?”
”I know, I know, but boss said, and it’s not worth going to hell for refusing.”
Enola’s body shuddered involuntarily, goosebumps crawling her arms.
”Shit, she’s waking up, hit her over the head again.”
Dark.
***
Sherlock Holmes sat at his desk, ready to rip out his hair. Thomas Tassoon Jr. had been kidnapped in broad daylight.
”I don’t understand!” Sherlock spat, pacing to a concerned-looking Watson. “I follow the pattern, and I was stuck babysitting for a two-year-old whilst another boy gets kidnapped! It makes no sense!” He consoled himself, staring out the window, watching think drops of rain pelt from the black sky. “And a servant disappeared as well, but as far as the Tassoon’s are concerned, he wasn’t one of their staff. The police are unsure if he was apart of the kidnapping, or if a different motive was at stake.”
”Will you go tour the estate in the morning?” Watson questioned.
”Well, I supposed that’s my job, no?” the detective responded dryly.
At that moment, the doorbell rang. Sherlock sighed, walking over and opening it to see a sopping-wet Tewksbury, looking frantic.
“Is Enola here? he asked, his eyes wide. “She hasn’t returned home and I’m… I’m rather worried.”
”No, I haven’t seen her,” Sherlock said, feeling something drop in his stomach. Unidentifiable servant… who wasn’t apart of the Tassoon’s staff… showing up to catch a crime… oh dear lord.
Sherlock wobbled in his steps, the room spinning around him. Enola saw my board, she walked right by it. She knew. She tried to help.
”Enola,” Sherlock said, feeling sick. “Enola, what have you done?”