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Chapter Text

The name her mother gave her was unusual – much like the recipient, though that was largely owed to her upbringing at the hands of said mother. ‘Enola’ she was called – her mother was rather fond of word games and ciphers, and her name spelled backwards meant ‘Alone.’

“You’ll do very well on your own, Enola,” was what mother would always say to her, though surely, she couldn’t have meant this. Surely, that phrase meant that she would grow up to be an independent young woman, and not that she would find herself abandoned on the morning of her birthday.

Unfortunately, that was precisely the situation that young Enola Holmes found herself in. Newly sixteen she spent the pleasant July day of her birthday with only Mrs. Lane the housekeeper for company and though her birthday presents from mother were lovely – a drawing set, a book on flower language and a handmade cypher-wheel – she would have much preferred the company of mother herself. Said Lady departed their home of Ferndell Hall with nary a word to anyone, not even her own daughter.

Eudoria Holmes did not return home the following day, nor the one after that.

The last, and only time her mother had departed Ferndell Hall, was five years ago when they got the news of her brother’s supposed death. Enola had been eleven back then and though she could barely remember the brother who had left for university when she was five, the news had still left her shaken. She could remember crying herself to sleep and as soon as her mother thought she could be left alone she had departed for London to support Mycroft and ‘get some answers out of him.’ Even then, with the presumed death of one of her children, she had taken time to bid Enola goodbye.

Enola spent the days following her mother's mysterious departure looking through the nearby countryside for clues. No underbrush went unexamined, no rock not overturned – still nothing. By day four, she had to admit defeat.

In the face of such circumstances, the first thing she did was have a good cry in the privacy of her room. The second thing she did was pen a letter to her brothers – she sent only one, since it was more efficient and because 221b Baker Street was a known address, and she would have to rummage through her mother’s personal things to find Mycroft’s, which she disliked the thought of. There were benefits to having brothers, one of whom was known far and wide for his brilliance and the other who could not be any less brilliant – at least according to her mother’s tales – and who held an important position in the government to boot. Surely, they would be able to help her and, anyway, three heads were better than one. It also occurred to her, as she finished addressing the envelope, that since Eudoria Holmes was also their mother, they deserved to know of her disappearance and promptly felt a sliver of guilt rise in her at forgetting that tidbit of information. Well, no harm, no foul, right?

This was how, one week after her unfortunate birthday, she found herself cycling through the countryside to pick up her brothers from the train station. Since the nearest train station was rather far, she had to get up before dawn to meet her brothers, which in addition to everything else, put her in a rather foul mood. Despite the grim situation, a part of her was excited. She hadn’t seen her brothers since she was either four (Mycroft) or five years old (Sherlock). Apart from five years ago when they thought Sherlock dead and then two years back when they got a letter announcing his miraculous rise from the grave, they had precious little correspondence with the two men. Would they even recognise her? They should – according to mother, she resembled them greatly. Sherlock more than Mycroft, apparently, who favoured their father a tad more than his younger siblings.

The bicycle ride served to lift her spirits a bit. Even the worst tempers, she suspected, could be soothed by fresh air and a beautiful sunrise. Whatever the case, by the time she arrived at the train station, she felt as though she was ready to meet her brothers for the first time in over ten years.

In the hustle and bustle of the station, she could immediately spot her brothers, as they stood out among the crowd. Both were rather tall and dressed in black three-piece suits. Though where one wore his impeccably – alongside a coat, a hat over his neat hair and gloves even, Enola observed, something only the gentry wore in the summer – the other’s clothing seemed somewhat dishevelled. Additionally, his hair – which seemed to have the same untameable quality as hers and mother’s – was long enough to be tied into a ponytail. That would be Sherlock, she knew from pictures. Alone, they would have stood out, but the contrast between them made them impossible to miss.

Unfortunately, she did not seem to share the same quality, since they passed her by without even a glance.

“Uh, Mr Holmes and um, Mr Holmes?” her voice was slightly hesitant but still coloured with light indignation.

The pair swirled around and looked at her with matching puzzled looks.

“Yes,” answered the one she presumed to be Sherlock. His tone spoke of poorly hidden impatience, as if he had something terribly important to get to and had no patience to entertain strange young women on train stations.

“You sent for me?” more puzzlement, though Enola could see the cogs turning in their brains, “You sent a telegram. Asked me to meet you here?”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose to meet his hat’s brim, comprehension, and shock dawning in his dark blue eyes a brief moment before–

“Enola?!” yelped Sherlock, sporting an undignified sort of gaping expression, which would under different circumstances have been amusing.

“Enola,” Mycroft’s expression betrayed none of the shock that was on his face just a moment ago. Instead, gave her a scrutinizing gaze that made her want to squirm but did not betray any of his thoughts. “I see you have the same issue as Sherlock with your hair.”

“Hey!” came the indignant shout from her other brother, “It’s not like yours is any better. You just stand in front of the mirror for half an hour every day.”

She found she shared his indignance. There was nothing wrong with her hair, it was like mother’s. It might have gotten a tad windswept on her ride to the station, but she had brushed it that morning and had not needed half an hour to complete the task.

The two of them exchanged a glare. Sherlock was clearly the more agitated one, but even Mycroft showed some irritation.

Enola cleared her throat, bringing their attention back to her.

“Never mind that,” said Mycroft, “You clearly cycled here-”

“How- “

“Your hair is windswept and your face still rosy, presumably from both the exercise and the cold air.” He easily deduced.

“Also,” continued Sherlock, “the hem o’ your dress is slightly worn and, jus’ like your boots, has mud on it. None of that coulda been from a carriage ride. What ya wearing is not suitable for horse riding either, so that’s out.”

Enola was stunned. So, that was what it was like to be subjected to the power of deduction by the famed Holmes brothers. She gathered herself quickly, though. The way she was brought up left little room for dumbfounded staring.

“Indeed,” she replied to her brothers’ observations. Her tone was deliberately placid in an effort to seem collected. Whether it had the desired effect was debatable.

“The question is, ‘why?’ Is the carriage broken? If so, why did you not hire one?” Mycroft kept on going with his cross-examination, which not only served to stoke the aggravation within Enola, but also her disappointment. They hadn’t seen each other in over a decade, and this was to be their first interaction? No How nice to see you again dear, or how have you been all these years? Instead, there were insults to her hair and interrogations about the mode of transport she had taken to meet them. These were the people she had gotten up before dawn and missed her breakfast for?

“To answer your question brother, there is no carriage,” she responded perhaps more tartly than the subject matter called for, but as mentioned, she was rather peeved by her supposed family’s behaviour.

Once again both their eyebrows shot up and once again Mycroft was the one to collect himself first, “What do you mean…there is no carriage?” his voice betrayed no emotion, but Enola could hazard a guess that he was not best pleased.

“What?” exclaimed Sherlock, who was clearly the more animate brother, “Last I was ‘ere, we ‘ad a fully functional carriage at Ferndell,” where she was previously stunned by his interrogation, Enola noticed now that Sherlock carried an accent that did not match Mycroft’s crisp Queen’s English – it did sound like something Mother would slip into on occasion, though. Later on, she would come to understand that it was the Cockney accent of London. At that moment, though, she shoved that observation aside.

“And when was that?” Enola only meant to murmur it to herself, but Sherlock caught it and looked so stricken for a moment that she couldn’t help but feel remorse for her words.

An uncomfortable silence ensued. What was there to say? She took no pleasure in hurting her brother, but the question and the accusation that came with it had merit, and they all knew it. Though she was happy with mother, she couldn’t help but occasionally contemplate what was so objectionable about them that one half of her family kept their contact to the absolute minimum. She wasn’t one for meaningless platitudes or empty apologies, and she supposed neither were they, so the silence persisted (at least amongst their little group).

It was Mycroft who (once more) steered them back on topic, and never before was Enola so glad to be discussing carriages and the lack thereof. They ultimately decided that there were more pressing matters to attend to, which – much the carriage issue – should not be discussed in train stations.

After properly introducing themselves – Enola was right about which brother was which - they had ended up hiring a carriage to transport them to Ferndell Hall. Enola could say without an ounce of exaggerating that it was the most awkward experience of her entire life. Mycroft and Sherlock sat across her, occasionally shooting her furtive glances as if wanting to say something, but then deciding against it – though Mycroft was more subtle about it. She couldn’t blame them, as she did much the same.

All in all, the ride, though awkward and largely silent, gave her the opportunity to observe them properly. They looked strikingly similar, and Enola couldn’t understand what her mother had meant when she said that they each took more after a different parent – maybe if she knew her father beyond a handful of photographs and portraits, she would be able to see it, but alas. The Holmes family seemed only capable of producing one model of person, and if one were to put the three of them side by, there would be no doubting their relation. There were differences, of course: Mycroft’s nose seemed a tad straighter his siblings’, Sherlock’s brow a little softer than his brother’s – both these factors, alongside his general stoicism, served to make Mycroft look more severe. Their hair was also darker than hers, which brought their resemblance to mother into stark relief – especially Sherlock, with his long hair that seemed determined to escape his ponytail. She felt something tighten in her chest at the sight. She willed away her thoughts from familial resemblance and forced herself to notice something else about them. That’s when she noticed it – they looked tired. Both had dark circles under their eyes and carried a certain tension in their shoulders. Upon closer inspection, Sherlock’s suit did not only look rumpled, but also like something he might have worn for a while now. Even Mycroft’s clothes – though infinitely more put together than Sherlock’s – didn’t look like something he put on freshly this morning. She also spotted a tremor in Sherlock’s hands, reminiscent of the one she got after staying up too late and having to down too much tea to stay awake the following morning.

She paused in her thoughts. What could have possibly caused them to look so worn. Sure, the disappearance of their mother was shocking, but so much so that they carried signs of haven’t had slept at all in the night?

Her musings were interrupted by Mycroft clearing his throat, “So Enola, can you perhaps tell us what happened?”

The tight feeling in her chest was back, but Enola did her best to relay what had happened in the last days. How mother had left the morning of her birthday without a word to anyone, how she had combed through the countryside surrounding their estate for days. No, there was no sign of struggle or forced entry, nor had she noticed any strangers around. No, mother had not mentioned anything that might point to where she might have gone. Yes, she had asked the staff – they were just as clueless. Yes, she had told the constabulary – they were of no significant help. Sherlock had snorted at that, but quickly collected himself at the sharp look from Mycroft.

Somewhere during the recounting of her tale, Enola had torn up somewhat, crying for the second time since mother’s vanishing. One of her brothers had gently pressed a handkerchief into her hand. They must have thought that she was crying over mother, but that was not entirely true. She had done that a few days ago in the safety of her bedroom, but now she was also crying for herself.

Even with her family in close proximity and Mrs Lane at home, she felt as though her name fit her more than ever.

Enola.

Alone.

Did mother plan this when she had named her? Was that what all the education and training had been for? To leave her alone at the end of it without too much of a bad conscience? The thought brought fresh tears to her eyes, and she used the handkerchief – which faintly smelled of chemicals – to hide her face.

As she calmed down silence once again descended onto the carriage and stayed there until they arrived at Ferndell Hall.

Chapter Text

The last half a year of Sherlock Holmes’ live was stressful. Not the worst he's ever lived through – that would have been that agonising stretch of time when it was uncertain whether Liam would live or die – but far from pleasant.

MI6 had been running on war footing – hurrying to and fro, putting out metaphorical and literal fires, preventing assassinations – all whilst trying to maintain the secrecy befitting a covert intelligence agency.

Everybody was worn. Louis was practically living at his desk, and his brothers were right there with him, planning and commandeering. Albert – with what little spare time he had – could be either found with a glass (or bottle) of Alcohol or cleaning something – both at the same time on an alarming occasion. Sherlock himself was going through packets of cigarettes at an alarming pace and downing coffee at a rate that had John concerned for his heart. Most nights he and Liam would stumble into bed, lacking the energy for anything that wasn’t curling up together – if they were lucky, they would manage to change into nightclothes, but even that wasn’t guaranteed. Even the ever-indomitable Mycroft showed signs of stress.

In hindsight, they should have seen this coming.

Liam’s sacrifice – despite having brought so much grief to his loved ones – had the desired effect. Ever since that time five years ago, the pace of social progress had sped up. Worker’s rights, women’s rights, and children’s rights, amongst others, were expanded. People went on strike for better working conditions, and their voices were heard more and more. An increasing number of people were given the ability to vote. It was great – slowly but surely the world they had been fighting for came to be.

Unfortunately, there would always be those who saw the growing rights of the lower classes as a threat. To tradition. To moral decency. To their own wealth and power. Those people saw it as their right and duty to bring the nation and its people back under the wing of tradition – and sooner rather than later they had grown tired of using only politics to achieve their goals.

That was where the MI6 had come in, using the resources at their disposal to counteract the conservative backlash. It wasn’t easy – whenever they had taken care of a group, another five would pop up. Not just in London either, that would be far too easy – no, they would pop up all over the damn United Kingdom. He could remember how the usually cheerful Bonde had let loose a screech better suited to a demon from hell than a man, when he had been told he’d have to go all the way to Ireland. When Moran had made a remark about how he had nothing to complain about, since his assignment at least wasn’t in far away India, Bonde had thrown a paperweight.

With the new bill about expanding voting rights coming up, their opposition had only grown more restless and with that, their workload had increased.

They had just about gotten a handle on the situation when the letter had come.

When Miss Hudson had told him he’d gotten a letter, he didn’t think much of it until he saw the return address on the envelope.

Enola Holmes

Ferndell Hall

Kineford XXXX XXX

He had alarmed Miss Hudson and John, first with how he had stared at the envelope motionlessly for a good moment, then the franticness with which he had torn that envelope open and finally the speed at which he had departed 211b Baker Street.

On the cab ride to Mycroft’s office, he had taken the time to read the letter once more. For all that the contents were alarming, it was no-nonsense, short and to the point. The handwriting was plain – in contrast to his ‘chicken scratch’ and Mycroft’s elegant hand – and steady. Not at all indicating a young girl who had lost her only parent.

According to the letter, Lady Eudoria Vernet Holmes had departed Ferndell Hall on Tuesday the 8^th of July 1884 with no word as to where she was going, when she would return or that she was going at all. It was addressed to both Mycroft and him, asking for their help in locating mother. God, mother was gone.

The letter had been written on Friday the 11^th and had been delivered with the Saturday morning post, marked Express. Considering the subject matter, the fact that she hadn’t immediately written them, indicated that she had first undertaken the search for mother by herself and only once she had reached the limits of her resources and/or capabilities had she contacted them.

Your Sister,

Enola Holmes

The sign-off had been plain and to the point, much like the rest of her writings.

The letter – its contents and how and when it was delivered – had disclosed stubbornness and independence on her part, as well a certain efficiency and coolness in the face of crisis. Not unexpected of a Holmes.

God, she was his sister and what he knew of her personality he had to deduce from the single letter she had sent in a decade, which was written during a crisis. A familiar feeling of guilt and longing pooled in his gut, but he repressed it in a well-practiced manner.

Soon enough, he had arrived at Mycroft’s place of work.

Mycroft had not been best pleased at Sherlock’s bursting into his office without knocking – he never was. Though it probably had been exacerbated by the position, he had found Mycroft and one former Earl Moriarty in. Sherlock couldn’t blame his brother. That had likely been the first time in quite a while he had found some time with his lover. Another indicator that the stress had been driving him crazy was that he hadn’t only been filled with disgust at the sight of his brother canoodling – though that had been most of his reaction – but also with envy and a longing for his Liam.

After he had sufficiently expressed his revulsion – accompanied by a copious amount of retching, of course – and everybody was presentable, he finally showed the letter to Mycroft.

His brother had reacted much the same as Sherlock, though he had been as always more collected, but the slight shake in his hands and his widening eyes had betrayed him.

Albert, who at this point probably knew Mycroft better than Sherlock did, had been rightly alarmed at the reaction.

His soft, questioning “Love?” and his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder had brought the older Holmes back to the present.

The brothers had exchanged a glance – Mycroft seeking permission to share this information – rare, but since they were dealing with a family matter, things were slightly different. Sherlock had given a nod; Albert was practically his brother twice over at this point – him and Mycroft were as good as married, but that particular reform probably wouldn’t come in their lifetime.

Sherlock had originally thought that one of them would go hurrying off towards Ferndell, whilst the other held down the fort, since they really couldn’t afford to go without even one person in the current situation, but Albert had been rather insistent that they both depart as soon as possible and wouldn’t hear any objections on their part. He had kept reiterating the importance of family. (Entirely understandable with how close the Moriarty brothers were.) and how MI6 would be fine without them for a while.

Unfortunately, as soon as possible had meant a couple of days later, so by the time they had boarded the train towards Chaucerlea (the station closest to Ferndell) it was already Tuesday – a week precisely after mother’s disappearance.

The train ride was uneventful – the dullness of it contrasting starkly against the turmoil inside him.

They barely spoke.

“There is no point in speculation. We have gleaned all we could from Enola’s letter. We should wait until we arrive at Ferndell to continue this investigation,” said Mycroft, and Sherlock found himself agreeing with minimal grumbling. Neither of them was in the mood for an argument.

In the silence of their compartment, he found himself thinking of mother and Enola once again.

He would like to think, that the idea of anyone making mother do anything against her will was preposterous, but no one was infallible, and Eudoria Holmes had turned 61 that year.

The last time he had seen her and his sister, he had been eighteen – a year after his father’s death – when he had gone off to university with promises to visit and write – so much for that! Nary a visit on his part, even after the debacle five years ago and his subsequent return. He did write at first, but even that fell off and even mother eventually gave up after piles of unanswered letters. And now there was a not insignificant chance that he’d never see her again...

Sherlock forcefully smacked down that train of thought; his shame and guilt would not help anyone, least of all their younger sister.

‘Nelly,’ they had called her, alongside their own ‘Mycky’ and ‘Sherly.’

Sherlock had been thirteen when she was born. He could remember sitting all alone in the hallway of their house listening to his mother’s agonised cries, more terrified than ever before in his life. Father had been with mother – it went against propriety, but Ernest Holmes had been determined to be by his wife’s side. The pregnancy had been as surprising as it was difficult for Eudoria Holmes, who had been 45 years old at the time, and the baby had come prematurely. No one in the Holmes family had ever been religious – just enough to maintain a semblance of propriety – but at that moment, Sherlock could remember praying to anyone who would hear not to take his mother away. Wondering whether it was horrid to think that he’d be fine with his younger sibling dying if he could only have his mother back hale and whole.

Mycroft – only twenty at the time and having not quite assembled his unflappable facade – had rushed in frazzled at the four-hour mark, not even having taken the time to take his coat or hat off. Any words they had exchanged were a blur in Sherlock’s mind, but he could well remember how he had thrown himself at his older brother and buried his face into his shoulder. At that point in time, they had already begun to drift apart, but Mycroft had still enveloped him into a tight hug.

By the time they were called in, it was nightfall and Sherlock had dozed off on his brother’s shoulder. They had both been tense but seeing as neither the doctor nor the nurses had looked particularly grim, the situation could not have been that horrid. Still, he had felt a wave of relief when he had stepped into the room and observed that everybody involved was alive and not in critical condition. His mother had clearly been exhausted but smiling, and his father had been glowing with pride and relief – remarkable for such a stoic man.

Any thoughts of being alright with the baby’s death had vanished the moment little Nelly – mother had insisted on Enola, what a peculiar name – had been placed into his arms. She had been the sweetest thing – any other newborn he would have dismissed as a wrinkly meat potato, but not her – with her baby-blue eyes that would later darken into the same colour as her brothers’ and father’s and her adorable cooing. Even Mycroft had looked mushy when Sherlock had – reluctantly – handed her over. Their parents had laughed at their expressions.

It was to date one of the happiest memories of his life.

He wondered how she had grown up. She would have just turned sixteen-

Sherlock abruptly sat up, drawing the eye of his older brother.

“What is it, Sherlock?”

“I jus’ realised-“

“Yes?”

“When Mother disappeared, it was Enola’s birthday, yeah?” He did not know what to think. One’s mother suddenly leaving was bound to be upsetting enough but on one’s birthday? Ouch. Even he – someone who people described as lacking in sensibility – could see that.

“Did you only realise that now? Not to worry. I went through the trouble of procuring something for her, on your behalf, as well.” Mycroft answered in his familiar smug tone.

The younger begrudgingly bit out a short “Thanks,” as a reply, not feeling like explaining that that was not what he meant, brother. And he was the one who had no sensibility, yeah right.

Their first meeting with Enola served to prove that both of them lacked such qualities, as every word out of their mouths seemed to irritate her further. Granted, completely overlooking her presence, and then immediately interrogating her about carriages of all things might not have been the best way to go about things, but at least he was not the one to immediately insult her hair, Mycroft. It might have been meant playfully, but if Miss Hudson, Moneypenny or indeed anyone from their social circle with an ounce of social grace had been present, they would have immediately hit the eldest Holmes over the head and made him apologise.

Over the course of their disastrous first conversation, Sherlock found out the following things about his sister: She said brother like him when annoyed at Mycroft, and she did not hold her tongue, at all. The little, resentful “And when was that?” stopped him in his tracks. What must have been a passing comment from her, probably not meant to be heard, felt as if she had stuck knives directly into his heart.

He would never admit it, but when his brother brought the conversation back to carriages, he felt relief.

After that topic was put away for the time being, silence descended upon them once again as they were waiting for the hired transport to Ferndell. None of them were looking at each other – or rather, they were stealing glances when they thought no one was looking.

Once again Sherlock found himself yearning for Liam, who would have surely known what to say in this situation, or at least would have handled it better than either of the Holmes brothers.

They complemented each other so well – Liam brought the social graces and the ability to not offend people left and right, and Sherlock brought (an approximation of) mental stability.

Finally, he decided he could not bear the awkwardness any longer. He cleared his throat and turned towards Enola, who looked surprised and apprehensive, “Sherlock Holmes, pleased ta meetcha...again.”

“So I was right!” she exclaimed with a satisfied glimmer in her eyes, then caught herself, “I mean- Enola Holmes. It’s...it’s nice to see you again,” she seemed to be as wrong-footed as he felt, but still met his eyes with an unwavering gaze.

His older brother followed suit. “Mycroft Holmes,” efficient and to the point as ever, but then, “It’s nice to see how you have grown.” This inspired a small smile on her face, and Sherlock was briefly of little Nelly and the way she always smiled up to a younger Sherlock.

The moment was interrupted by the carriage arriving, plunging the siblings back into awkwardness. Thus began the second time that day, Sherlock Holmes had to endure a near silent ride with one or more family members. At least it gave him the opportunity to look at Enola properly. The first thing to catch his attention, even on the platform where he had barely recognised her, were her eyes. Dark blue, imbued with the same sharp intelligence that greeted him in the mirror or whenever he saw Mycroft. Those eyes were scanning them, assessing them. Even now in this carriage. His eyes slid over the rest of her. Inappropriate comment or no, Mycroft was right – her hair was just as unruly as theirs, though not quite reaching the level of untamedness of Eudoria Holmes. Her dress was neat enough apart from the mud at the hem, a fetching blue that complemented her eyes, probably one of her better ones, but it still bore some singe marks on the cuffs – an experiment gone awry? Sherlock knew – vaguely in the back of his head – that, girls at that age usually started wearing dresses in the fashion of grown-up women – long skirts and more elaborate decorative elements – but hers was rather simplistic and didn’t quite cover her ankles. A sign of childishness or unconventionality? Considering that he himself didn’t start buttoning up his shirts, let alone wearing any sort of tie until a few years ago, and the fact that mother never bothered him about it, he would place his bet on the latter. Those were just details that he used to distract himself, though – she looked like the spitting image of her brothers. More importantly, with her softer features and in a dress, she looked so much like mother it was painful. The way she had unflinchingly met his gaze on the platform, the way she had carried herself, the way she now sat. And no wonder – after all, mother had raised her all alone for the last decade, of course Enola would have picked up some of her habits. 

When at Mycroft’s prompting Enola started to relay in more detail what had happened to Eudoria Holmes, he did his best to distract himself from his musings, by asking her some rather routine questions, which she answered in an efficient manner reminiscent of the letter she had sent them last week.

And then…and then she started crying. He wouldn’t be able to tell when it had started, but sometime during his questioning Sherlock noticed tears falling down his little sister’s cheeks. Oh hell, him and Mycroft exchanged a panicked glance. He had no idea how to go about consoling a young girl, and it seemed neither did his brother. The only person Sherlock knew how to console was Liam, but that was different. Meanwhile, Enola just kept crying quietly, looking deeply miserable – at that point in his career he knew well the difference between sadness and misery and the look in her eyes was an example of the latter. In the end, he fumblingly fished out a handkerchief and gave it to her.

By the time they arrived at Ferndell Hall home, she had thankfully calmed down, though their arrival brought a new wave of…excitement.

“What happened to the grounds?” Demanded Mycroft, uncharacteristically flustered.

“Nothing!” Enola, clearly still riled up, sounded offended, as if their elder brother had insulted her personally.  

“Yes, I can see that,” Mycroft replied tartly, “and when was the last time anything at all happened?”

Sherlock ignored his siblings’ bickering over how everything was overgrown and the merits thereof in favour of taking in the sight of Ferndell Hall and its surroundings.

His older brother was right – in the last eleven years since he had departed for university, seemingly nothing had been done to maintain the grounds. Wild roses were growing on the lawn and ivy had successfully climbed its way to the roof. Untamed would best describe it. Sherlock found he didn’t mind it all that much. In fact, he was not sure how he would have handled it if Ferndell was unchanged – as if someone had come by and stopped time at the moment he had stepped into the carriage, that would carry him towards what was to be his future – it might have been too painful. Of course, the changes had stung as well, they made him realise that this was not his home anymore, but that was alright – in the years since his departure he had found a home all of his own.  

“Are the two o’ you done?” Sherlock asked. That caught his siblings’ attention. The exchange had apparently gotten a little heated by the looks on their faces.

“If by ‘done’ you mean Enola has adequately explained why the house and its surroundings have turned into a glorified forest, then no-”

“Well, apparently Mycroft isn’t ‘done’ insulting my home, yet-” she crossed her arms.

“This is my home as well-”

“And when were you here last, huh?” she demanded. It was the second time she brought this up, but where before she had muttered it under her breath, now she flung the question at Mycroft – at the both of them, really.

After a long moment of silence – rendering both the Holmes brothers speechless twice on the same day, quite the achievement – their elder brother neatly sidestepped the issue, “Regardless, this is my house and I deserve an explanation regarding its state. What of the gardener? What do we pay him for?” The question was likely a futile one – considering the state of the grounds and the apparent lack of carriage Sherlock realised that there likely was no gardener and Mycroft had probably as well.

Enola’s answer confirmed their suspicion, “What gardener? We don’t have one. We only have Mrs Lane.”

Sherlock considered what he knew; the gardener they had was getting on in his years. He had most likely retired or died and mother never bothered to find a replacement. The Holmes family never had many servants – at least by the standard of a wealthy upper-class family – but in his lifetime father had liked to keep everything neat and tidy, once he had died – well. He could remember how the estate had become a tad more unkempt after Ernest Holmes’ passing, but unlike her husband and eldest son Eudoria Holmes was never bothered by a little mess – a quality she seemed to have passed on to her two youngest children, at least according to Enola’s attitude towards her home.

It was at that moment that the beforementioned Mrs Lane exited the house to greet them. Sherlock found himself lighting up. Their housekeeper might not have been as close to them as their parents, but she was always kind – if not a little exasperated – and he found that he still held fondness for the woman in his heart. Even Mycroft turned to smile at her.

“Oh, it’s been so long,” said Mrs Lane. There was genuine gladness on her face, but also relief – she must have worried for her mistress.

After ushering them in for a cup of tea that they drank a little quicker than was polite they finally proceeded to the rest of the house, and it was…something.

The drawing room was – to put it mildly – a complete and utter mess. Books were lying around every which way, the bust of some great-grandfather was missing its nose and there seemed to be a variety of athletic equipment including rapiers, bows and arrows and-

“What is this?” Mycroft held up a tennis racket. It seemed mother had turned this into an exercise room.

“Tennis? Mother says I’m getting quite proficient.” The tone in which his brother asked the question – the same tart inflection he used when inquiring after the grounds and the one Enola used to inform them about the lack of carriage – and the way his little sister answered “Tennis?” as if she thought Mycroft didn’t know what a tennis racket was. Sherlock couldn’t help it – he burst out into loud, uproarious laughter. He had to lean on a nearby table to remain upright. The expressions of the people around him didn’t help in the slightest. Enola was clearly confused, but not dismayed, Mrs Lane looked plainly resigned – clearly used to the Holmes insanity, whereas Mycroft…Mycroft looked as if he’d like to beat his irritating younger brother with the racket in his hand. Seeing his usually composed, unflappably smug brother so clearly vexed only set him off once again. The annoying little brother within him was thanking mother for all…this, if it meant seeing those expressions on Mycroft. Enola, having noticed the oldest Holmes’ face, started giggling as well. He turned away in a huff, but Sherlock caught a light twitch in his lips.

After they all had, more or less, calmed down, they eventually proceeded with their investigation and by the time they had reached mother’s rooms all levity had faded.

The good news was that Eudoria Holmes had still all wits about her when she left, the bad news was that it meant no clues to her whereabouts could be found in her room. Such things did not come about naturally – people, no matter how fastidious always left something that would let someone with sufficient intelligence connect the dots. The only way something like that would come about was if someone with even greater intelligence were to purposefully obscure any evidence. It was especially vexing if that person knew the thought processes of her would be investigators rather well.

The Holmes brothers each took an opposite side of the bedchamber to investigate.

Sherlock wandered over to her drawing corner, where, as usual, a collection of drawings hung on the wall. Some of them he recognised from before his departure for university, but others he noticed were replaced by new ones. The collection of drawing pencils that could usually be found on the table had dwindled. One of the few outright clues in the room that she had planned on leaving.

As continued their investigation in silence, with Enola watching from the entrance, something on her bookshelf caught Sherlock’s eye. It was the Sherlock Holmes books. All four novels and even some of the short stories, clearly well-read – one of the short stories especially. He picked it up and leafed through the pages. There were annotations – some humorous remarks such as of course he would do something like that or just like Summer 1865, some deductions such as when the narration of the book did not line up with reality, which were more often than not scarily accurate, but towards the end of the book the annotations became fewer and fewer, and it was as if someone had gripped the pages vigorously. There was also a single newspaper article tucked into the back of the book; from five years ago, describing The Fall. Without a doubt, the other books were given the same treatment. He couldn’t help it, the sign that his mother had followed his career along, the fondness expressed in her annotations, made unbidden emotions, that had no place in an investigation, swell up in him.

The sounds of Mycroft asking Enola about servants or rather the lack thereof brought him back to reality.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake Mycroft, why are ya going on about servants?” demanded Sherlock, who was at this point exasperated, “So they decided ta live modestly, so what? What’s this have to do with mother’s disappearance?”

“Because – Actually, how about you tell us Sherlock? Why am I going on about this?”

Ooh, how Sherlock hated this. That condescending tone that had the ability to make him feel like a stupid little boy even at the age of twentynine.

Still, he kept his indignation in check and considered. After a moment he spoke, “Because they had no reason ta live modestly. You had no doubt sent an amount of money more than large enough to maintain this estate, and like a clockwork, too, if I know ya at all,” at that Mycroft nodded, “So, if mother didn’t spend it on that, where’d the money go? She probably took it with her when she left, but if Enola here can only remember Mrs Lane, this has been going on for a while. She’s been planning this for years!” Somewhere in the background someone sucked in a sharp breath, but Sherlock caught up in the excitement of an investigation didn’t notice.

“Exactly,” said Mycroft, “this,” he gestured around the room, “was not a whim. Not only did she leave on her own accord, but her departure has been a long time coming.”

“But why?” they whirled around to the youngest member of their group, “Why did she leave me?” Enola’s voice was quiet and thin compared to the way she had argued with Mycroft earlier, she sounded so lost.

“I don’t know, Enola,” their eldest brother tried to soften his tone, “I do have some guesses, but as of right now they are nothing concrete, and I would rather not give you potentially false information on this.”

For a moment Enola looked as if she wanted to protest, but then just nodded.

Later, after Enola had shooed them out of the room “She wouldn’t like you in here. This is her private space,” and they had examined the rest of the house and grounds – Mycroft had used his older brother and ‘head of the family’ privileges, to send him to investigate the outdoors, while he stayed inside, warm, and dry – they had reconvened inside the pool room. Sherlock was still in the process of fishing out leaves and branches out of his hair whilst Mycroft was setting up the game. It was something of a favourite amongst the Holmes men. Father had taught them when they were younger and whilst mother had occasionally indulged them in a game, they had mostly played amongst each other. The both of them still rather liked it – they even had recently drawn in their significant others into it and as it turns out Liam gave them all – even Mycroft, the previous champion – a run for their money. That sharp look in his red eye and that smirk on his face as he achieved victory...ah, he had quite a few fond memories of the aftermath of such occasions.

Sherlock was interrupted in his reminiscing by his brother pressing a pool cue into his hand, a knowing smirk on his face. “I know that look on your face Sherly, and though I cannot blame you, this is hardly the occasion.”

“Oh, screw off, as if you’re any better.”

Mycroft stayed smugly silent, neither denying nor confirming anything.

“I just wish Liam was here. He’s so good with children, ya know.”

“And that is relevant how?”

“Oh, are ya bloody kidding me? We keep accidentally upsetting her left an’ right, and you keep getting into tiffs with her.”

They started playing as Mycroft refuted Sherlock’s claims. ‘Reasonable questions’ his arse.

“To come back to the issue,” said the younger, “where’d ya think mother has gone?”

For a moment, they just kept playing as the elder considered his words.

“I do have a suspicion, and it has to do with the lack of servants.”

Indeed, the moment Mycroft said it, a light went on in Sherlock’s mind. “’cause there are signs of several people having been here – recently even, but no one lives here apart from mother, Enola an’ Mrs Lane, an’ mother has always been averse ta society, so who were those people? Ya think they have something to do with mother’s disappearance?” It was indeed suspicious and might have been a factor in the lack of servants – mother had always been fond of privacy. Still, a there was something missing. “You know something I don’t, dontcha?”

“Quite right,” said Mycroft as they kept playing. “Sherlock, what do you know about mother’s life before she married father?”

That question caught him off guard. “Youngest daughter of an Earl, yeah? It’s why she is Lady Eudoria Holmes, not just plain old Mrs Holmes. Not particularly close to her family, though, can’t remember ever meeting a single cousin on that side.”

“Indeed. Did that ever strike you as odd? Daughter of an Earl and yet she never participated in society. Not ‘hardly ever’ or ‘avoided it if she could’ never. She never ventured out either.”

Now that he said it, it did sound odd. “Not ‘til now,” Sherlock confessed, “Father didn’t like society much either.”

“But to never venture out at all? Sherlock, in the nearly 40 years since she had married father the only time she left Ferndell Hall – apart from now – was when she had thought you dead.” He couldn’t believe that it never occurred to him. Father had not been the kind of man to restrict his wife’s freedom like that nor was mother the kind of woman who would let him.

“You know the reason, dontcha? Spit it out already,” he sent the ball rolling in a slightly too firm fashion. He was not in the mood for Mycroft’s cryptic bullshit.

His brother propelled a ball into a hole. As he got up, he sighed and answered, “It’s both the reason for why she had so little contact with her natal family and why she never left Ferndell. She was under house arrest.”

Sherlock sent a ball crashing into some decoration or other. “What?!”

Distracted by the crashing ball, the revelation (Sherlock) and Sherlock’s exclamation (Mycroft), they didn’t notice the gasp from just outside the room.

“What d’you mean she was under house arrest? What for? And how come you know of this and I don’t?”

“In short, mother was something of a revolutionary back in her youth. Her group mostly championed women’s rights but also occasionally dabbled in other causes. According to father, there were rather a lot of explosives involved. They were also quite slippery, always fading back into the shadows after the deed was done and unpredictable to boot – quite a headache for the government. Mother was one of the ringleaders and as I was made to understand the reason for said slipperiness and unpredictability.” At that point, they had stopped playing. Sherlock was gaping at his brother in what was probably quite a moronic expression. This was the first time he had heard about any of this. It did make an inordinate amount of sense. Why else would the daughter of an aristocrat know how to throw around a man twice her size or how to make explosives or sew up a wound?

“So that’s why we’ve got no contact with her side of the family.”

“Of course. An Earl could not have a daughter who ran around exploding things and beating people up, so he disowned her.”

“But ya said they never got caught,” at this point Sherlock (and unbeknownst to them Enola) was hanging unto every word from his brother’s mouth.

“They didn’t for the longest time, but eventually luck ran out. They blew something up and killed someone important in the process and Lady Eudoria Vernet was apprehended for the crime.”

Wait a second... “Only her?”

“Indeed, what terrible luck don’t you think, brother?” Mycroft’s tone was amused now.

Ha! Terrible luck his foot! So, they were responsible for the death of someone important and only one of them was arrested for it. He always knew that mother was fiendishly intelligent – more so than Mycroft and him – but to hear about such a large-scale demonstration of said intelligence, ha! So, for the second time that day Sherlock Holmes burst out into uncontrollable laughter.

His brother watched on, seemingly content with watching him lose his marbles over the information presented. This went on for a while. The realisation that their stoic, straitlaced father had married someone who could very well be called a terrorist, the image of their eccentric but practical mother running rings around the government back in the day – it was too much to handle for Sherlock’s poor, sleep-deprived brain. He was set off once again by the thought that both sons of Ernest Holmes had followed his footsteps in their romantic pursuits.

After some minutes of continued laughter Sherlock had finally calmed down enough for rational thought he said, voice still wheezing, “So you think she’s with that group, that they’ve been meeting up here, and she’s now properly joined them again, but why? ’s been decades since she’s been active, so why now? Why would she leave Enola?” The last question was sobering enough to banish the last vestiges of laughter from his system.

Mycroft had turned back to their game, seemingly trying to find a way to put his thoughts into words. “Well, as I told Enola, this is just speculation, but…I do have a hunch.”

Sherlock had also resumed the game, but still waited expectantly, patience never having been his strong suit.

The girl just outside the room, unnoticed by the men inside, was similarly impatient – listening in with bated breath.

Eventually, Mycroft continued, “Mother…she loved us. She made sure we knew it. She always wanted what was best for us, to give us a good life.”

“Yes, so why-”

“I’m getting there,” said Mycroft as he scored a point. His brow was pensive. “She already did that for us, but for Enola…I suspect that for someone who was so radical in her feminism, the idea of what a good life for a woman consists of, might differ a tad from society’s viewpoint.”

“So what? She ran off to- to change the world for Enola?”

“I would like to remind you that this is just speculation, but…yes, that is my suspicion.” He adjusted the scoreboard. “Nevertheless, whatever her motives might have been, we still have a duty to track her down, not only as sons, but also- “

“But also because she is an escaped criminal,” Sherlock let out a put upon sigh, “Be honest – how likely is it that we’ll be able to find her, let alone catch her, if she’s determined ta not be found?”

The look Mycroft sent him was answer enough.

“Yeah, that’s wha’ I thought.”

For a while they returned to their game in morose silence.

“The question remaining is what to do with Enola.” Said Mycroft. His expression was focused, but Sherlock knew full well that it wasn’t the game of pool that held his attention.

“What ‘bout her?”

“Oh, don’t be daft Sherlock,” his brother sent him a sharp glance, “We cannot possibly leave her here, not with the way things are right now.” He scored again.

Sherlock had to agree with him. The sister of Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes all alone…If anyone caught wind of that – especially with how they both rushed to Ferndell Hall, when it was well known that that Mycroft Holmes rarely left London – it couldn’t end well. “So, what’d you propose we do?” Taking her with them to London was not much better than just leaving her alone, considering that that was where the people who would pose a danger to her were and that anyone who had ever met them would immediately recognise that she was related to them.

“I do have an idea.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that, “Do ya now?”

“Let’s just say…I have an old acquaintance who owes me a favour or two.”

Mycroft’s ‘idea’ turned out to be moronic and his acquaintance insufferable.

Miss Harrison – headmistress of Miss Harrison’s School for Young Ladies – embodied everything Sherlock hated about high society – the ‘harmless’ parts at least. She was no monster of course, elsewise Mycroft wouldn’t have let her within ten miles of their younger sister. Still.

“Finishing school?” asked Sherlock while they were sitting in the parlour, Miss Harrison upstairs with their sister, “Really Mycroft? What were ya thinkin’?”

“What I was thinking,” Mycroft said as he turned the page of his newspaper, “Is that Miss Harrison’s school is a discrete establishment, which is also rather out of the way. She owes me and I have impressed upon her the need for safety. There she will be just one girl among many, and Holmes is not that rare of a name. It is as good of a plan as any,” he finished.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Sherlock forcefully lowered the newspaper his brother was hiding behind, “Do ya honestly think a girl raised by mother – someone who according to you used to blow shit up in the name of feminism – would be able ta stand even a day at a finishing school?”

Mycroft tugged his paper back up. “Do calm down Sherly,” God, he only used that nickname when he wanted to be either affectionate or condescending and it was not the former in this situation, “It’s not like we will be leaving her there forever, just until things have calmed down a bit.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of someone running down the stairs. Indeed, a moment later Enola stormed into the parlour.

“No!” She screamed at them, “Please don’t do this to me! Let me remain happy. I am happy here!” Her voice was full of desperation and for a moment Sherlock was reminded of little Nelly who used to come to him for comfort when she had a bad dream, and he was filled with a desire to assure her that she would not have to go anywhere she did not want to. Unfortunately, as the head of the family and her guardian as long as mother was gone, Mycroft had the last say on this matter.

“Enola. This is not up to debate. We are sending you there for your own safety and-” as he lowered his newspaper to look at her his eyebrows shot up, “Why are you dressed like that?” he demanded, “Or rather, why are not dressed?”

And lo and behold, their younger sister was wearing nothing but a chemise and drawers. Now Sherlock was by no means a prude (and neither was Mycroft for that matter), but that did not mean he was prepared for the sight of his sister in nothing but undergarments.

Mycroft continued, “You are acting like this is the end of the world. We are not sending you to a torture chamber.” Enola scoffed. “Take the chance to learn something new, make some friends.”

Sherlock was thinking how bloody likely that was if she was anything like her brothers, her recluse mother, or her father who in his lifetime was said to have the sensibilities of a brick wall, when he noticed something. “Enola, what’s that on your cheek?” he interrupted his brother. Her left cheek was slightly red in a way that did not occur naturally.

Mycroft having noticed it as well, folded the paper and slowly rose out of his chair. He made his way over to her and gently turned her face to examine it. “Did Miss Harrison do this?” he asked. His demeanour was placid and his voice deadly calm. She nodded. “Well in that case I will have to have a conversation with her at some point.”

Anger returned to her face. “You saw what she did and yet you still want to send me off with her?” she demanded. “If safety is so important to you, why don’t you take me with you? I’m sure there is no place safer than with the two of you.” She turned to her other brother. “Sherlock, please. Don’t let him do this to me.”

Unable to bear her pleading eyes he turned away. “’m sorry Enola, this is out of my hands.”

“That is enough,” Mycroft looked at her warningly, “You are going, and this is final.” That earned him the full force of Enola’s glare. She opened her mouth, about to retaliate when Miss Harrison cut their little stand off short by barging into the room. She was about to say something when she saw the stare that the eldest Holmes was levelling at her. Enola’s gaze was hardly kinder, but not nearly as intimidating as Mycroft’s. “Miss Harrison could we perhaps have a little chat?” he phrased the question in a way that made it clear that it was nothing less than an order.

“Ah…of course Mr Holmes,” she squeaked.

Enola took that opportunity to rush out.

Sherlock found her in a tree. It was a large thing – old, with several branches wonderful for sitting. That, combined with the relative distance to the house made it the perfect place for a sulk. Probably safer than the one he had preferred, which was on the roof and had earned him a good scolding whenever he had been caught up there. Now that he was close enough, he could see how Enola was scribbling something onto a small sketchpad. “I also enjoy a sketch on occasion,” he said as he settled at the bottom of the tree, “Helps me think, process my thoughts.” He hoped she would recognise it for the olive branch it was.

After a beat, “Helps me do the same,” she muttered.

A grunt, a gasp, then the fluttering of a paper. He caught it and promptly began to chuckle. It was a rather unflattering drawing of Mycroft with his finger wagging and a silly expression on his face. His dark hair was also in complete disarray. “A caricature. Perhaps best if Mycroft doesn’t see it.” Even though the little brat within him was sorely tempted to run back and shove the sketch under his brother’s nose, just to see the irritation on his face. “He’s not that bad ya know. Smug and convinced he knows best, but not malicious. He isn’t doing this to spite you, ya know?” She didn’t respond. “We are not exaggerating. There’s a whole lotta unrest right now.” Especially, now that there was a new faction running around that apparently had a penchant for explosives. More silence. “If you are worried about that Harrison lady, don’t be,” he tried to reassure her, “Mycroft had a talk with her and let’s just say she won’t lay a hand on you ever again.” No answer.

After a while he decided to switch tactics. “You know last, I remember you were a very sweet child,” he smiled to himself at the memory, “always running after me, cryin’ ‘Sherly, Sherly, Sherly,’” though it was less running and more toddling, considering she was less than five years old at the time. “We used ta call you Nelly ya know-“

“Mycky, Sherly, Nelly,” she said to herself, barely loud enough to hear.

“Hm?”

“There is a photo of all three of us. On the back is written ‘Mycky, Sherly & Nelly’” she said, “Mother never called me that and nor you when she mentioned you, so I was wondering…”

“Ah yes, I can remember that photo,” it was the only one with all the Holmes children in it. Sherlock had been sitting in a chair with little Enola in his arms and Mycroft standing beside them, arm on the back of the chair. “You kept wriggling so much I’d been afraid I’d drop you. Mycroft said I deserved it, since I did the same ta him when I was a babe and apparently kept laughing all the while.”

“What did you tell him?” she asked.

“Nothing – just stuck my tongue out a’ him.” She giggled at that.

Sometime during his story, she had migrated down from the tree and settled next to him. They sat there in companiable silence just taking in nature and enjoying the first quiet moment they had in the last ten years.

“Why did you never visit?” she asked eventually.

He considered his words for a moment. What could he say? That he couldn’t stand to face them? That when he found himself in the throes of chemical dependency, he could not bear the thought of his mother and little sister seeing him like this? That Mycroft’s disappointment brought him enough shame and any more he wouldn’t have been able to handle? In the end he only said, “I lead a busy life.”

“Why did you never write?” It wasn’t quite the same accusing tone as before, but it was harder than before.

“Would ya have cared for my letters?”

She turned to face him. The look in her eyes took on a certain intensity. “I have kept every clipping of every case of yours I could ever find.”

He couldn’t help but smile again. “That’s flattering.”

“And yet it took our mother’s disappearance to bring you home.” Enola turned her head away again. “She’s not coming back, is she?”

“No.”

He waited until she was looking at him once more. “But the truth is, Mother always had a reason for everythin’. Her own way of doin’ things.” It was one of those qualities her sons inherited and looking at Enola he had a hunch that she hadn’t left her daughter out of that particular inheritance. “And those mysteries are always the most satisfying ta unpick.”

That seemed to set her off again, “I don't want a mystery, Sherlock. I want my mother back here and my life as it was.”

“I know,” he sighed, “But Enola,” that got her attention, “you should look for what's there, not what you want to be there. You'll see the truth soon enough.”

With that they returned to silence as Enola seemed to mull over what he had said.

They eventually returned to the house for supper and no more arguments broke out that evening.

When they went to wake her up the next morning she was gone.

Chapter Text

Having to get up before sunrise twice within a week did not put Enola Holmes in any kind of good mood. To be entirely fair, she had not been in a truly good mood for a while, what with the disappearance of her mother and the behaviour of her brothers but getting up at some unholy hour was really the rancid cherry on top of a horrid cake made from awful ingredients. It was necessary, though. The earlier she set off, the larger her advantage over her brothers – anything she could do to get an edge on them was valuable – especially with the way her plan worked.

Having already cycled in the opposite direction of her destination, discarded her bicycle (what a pity, she was just beginning to master it) and covered her tracks, she was trekking through the countryside. Not on the way to the Chaucerlea Station, obviously – that was where anyone with a brain would look first – no, her destination was one of the train stations farther away, which was running a completely different train line.

Enola was travelling lightly. She hadn’t taken any bags with her, and the clothes she was wearing – Sherlock’s own from when he was a boy, packed away in a trunk in a storage room – did not have a lot of room to stash possessions. All she carried were the money mother had left her, her letter tiles, and the birthday presents from her family. She supposed that was all they had given her in the recent past: disappointment and nice birthday presents. Her mother’s was her favourite – beautifully hand painted and useful to boot – but she found she also quite liked the one’s her brothers had given her. An exquisite brooch from Mycroft – a delicate silver frame with a dark sapphire that matched her eyes at its centre – and Chemistry by J. H. Appleton, from Sherlock – with coloured illustrations even! She had rather enjoyed The Young Chemist by the same author, so she looked forward to reading this book. She couldn’t help but have mixed feelings. On the one hand, the items she received clearly showed that they did not lack thought for her – her mother’s present had been carefully crafted, having evidently been long in the making, and her brother’s presents, though surely acquired on short notice, were far from generic baubles – and yet. And yet Mother had left, and Mycroft and Sherlock had been eager to get her out of their hair.

At least her mother had a reason – that is, if Mycroft’s hypothesis was true. The revelation she had received that evening just outside the pool room was shocking, thought Enola as she traipsed through a field, the sun climbing in the eastern sky, but not unbelievable. It made quite a lot of sense, in fact – like a puzzle piece, the new information fit perfectly into the picture she had of mother – and not at the same time. Eudoria Holmes had always taught Enola that there was no reason whatsoever that a woman should be inferior to a man in ability or social standing, and she had brought up her daughter that way – giving her an extensive education in science and literature and both modern and ancient languages, that was in no way less than her sons’. The idea that, in the past, she had gone out and fought for those ideals was in no way surprising. That she was capable of outwitting the government back in her day was not bewildering either. On the other hand…mother having actually killed someone…it was a lot to stomach. The woman Enola knew could be stern, certainly, and she was definitely a demanding teacher – but killing someone? She was not sure how to feel about that. The same could be said about Sherlock’s reaction to all of this – laughing at the prospect of their mother being a murderer – she could not understand it. Maybe he was more used to the notion of someone ending a life, given his profession, but still.

Another troubling piece of information from that evening came to Enola’s mind as she continued her trek; Eudoria Holmes had been on house arrest. She did not know what might be more upsetting – her mother being a killer or the headstrong woman who had raised her, having been a prisoner in her own home. Mycroft had said that she hadn’t ventured out of Ferndell Hall and its grounds for four decades. She couldn’t imagine it – she loved her home, of course, but to never be able to leave? The more Enola thought about it, the less she could blame her mother for her departure. A terrible thought rose up in her – it had started the night she had overheard the conversation in the pool room – she had tried to brush it off, but every time her mind went back to the subject, it was there like a malicious whisper in her ear; if mother was the prisoner, had father been the warden? Could it be? Her rational mind countered with the usual reasonings; mother had never spoken with anything but fondness of her late husband, and she had worn mourning for far longer than was necessitated – extending the usual two years into six, only casting it off fully when Enola had been ten. (Unfortunately, she had to take it up again only a year later when her younger son had ‘died’ – that too she had worn for longer than the prescribed period, only stopping when Sherlock had ‘returned to life’.) What prisoner would mourn their captor so? Mrs Lane had always told a young Enola how much Eudoria Holmes missed Ernest Holmes and how in love they were. She shook her head. There was no use for speculation – she would simply have to ask the woman herself when they eventually reunited – and they would reunite! Enola would make sure of it. If mother had left to create a better world for her daughter as Mycroft had speculated – and she held onto that hope with a fierceness that belied desperation – then surely, surely, she would not spurn said daughter when she wanted to see her. Surely.

After a while, Enola banished her grim thoughts. Our future is up to us, Mother had written. She did not plan on letting sombre assumptions about the past keep her from it.

Around 10 a.m., she had arrived in Langhall. After buying herself a ticket to the next train to London, she sat down to have a bite to eat. The train would leave soon, having already been delayed, and that was alright with her. Her brothers were probably noticing her absence now if they hadn’t already, and they were capable of getting to Langhall far quicker than her. She wanted to be on her way to London as soon as possible. Despite the presents they had given her yesterday during supper – probably as a means to appease her (ha! As if she mollified that easily) – there was still anger simmering low in her stomach when she thought back to their plan for her. Finishing school – as if! Mycroft’s condescending instruction to “take the chance to learn something new” – like there was anything they could teach her there, that was of value – and Sherlock’s “This is out of my hands” – he hadn’t even looked at her when he spewed that rubbish – rankled her. How dare they? Still, something inside her couldn’t help but be uneasy when she thought of their reason. They did not plan on her off to boarding school for ‘education’ or to learn to be a proper lady or any such nonsense – they wanted to send her there for safety. Enola had not been terribly interested in the paper except when one of her brother’s cases was reported, but mother had been frowning more and more at it in the last few weeks. Combined with how exhausted her brothers had looked when they had arrived at Chaucerlea…She supposed she would have to be more careful than she had already planned to be when she arrived in London.

London, Enola thought as she made her way towards the platform; that was where Mother must be. There was hardly a place better for rebellion and revolution than the heart of the British Empire – or at least that was where all the important government buildings were, and the revolutionary organisation Mother was in would surely have a sizeable group in the capital. That was just logical.

Having shown a porter her ticket Enola was about to enter the platform when she had to avoid being run over by uniformed men.

“No sign of him anywhere, sir,” they shouted. Enola took a moment to observe them as they were running towards a small group of well-dressed people. Certainly, upper class, but that was all she could deduce from the distance she stood at. Three people, a man in military uniform and two women, one of them a widow, whereas the other one was dressed in lighter colours. Something inside her that she couldn’t quite place told her that this was important. Later on, Enola would look back and think this is where it all truly began. At that moment, though, she turned away and walked to the train.

She couldn’t help but keep looking back at the trio. Not just because of the nagging feeling within her but also because they kept making a ruckus.

“-my son,” she caught one of the women saying in a desperate sort of distraught tone.

“He’s not on the train,” someone else countered exasperatedly.

“Of course, he’s on the train!” The man in military garb shouted, “You simply haven’t looked properly.”

“Sir,” the second voice apparently belonged to a police officer, “I’ve had my officers search this train from top to bottom.”

“Darling, perhaps we should just-” the second woman, the widow.

The uniformed man interrupted her, “Quiet, Mother.”

“He had the carriage drop him here this morning,” the first woman asserted, “He must be here somewhere.” On a closer look, Enola could see how the dress she wore was very finely made and, if she could hazard a guess, probably followed the latest trends. The widow’s dress, too, seemed to be of high quality. Aristocracy? Likely, especially with how they were ordering the policeman around.

“Well, we’re not even sure the darling boy is on the train.” Again, something inside Enola told her to pay attention. “I’m so sorry. This is such a fuss.”

She kept looking at the group even as she boarded the train.

They were now arguing with the station master, who insisted that the train was late already and that it had to leave. The younger woman kept insisting that this was about her son.

“It leaves now.” The station master’s words carried a finality that reminded Enola of Mycroft when he had told her that there was nothing she could say or do to make them reconsider sending her off.

The whistle blew, and the train was set into motion.

The woman in the light-coloured dress did not take it well. “Don’t let this train leave without someone on it!” she continued desperately, “I insist!” The last part was almost a scream.

On the other side of Enola, farther up ahead by the train, something caught her eye. Even though the train was already in motion, a man in a long coat and what seemed to be a bowler hat boarded the train. He signalled to the family on the platform, which finally seemed to quieten the woman in crème.

The scene on the platform stuck with the girl even as she went to find a compartment. Something had just seemed…off, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She tried to brush it aside. Whatever was going on was none of her business. She already had her hands full enough with trying to find her mother and escaping her brothers without missing people from aristocratic families.

And then a boy in a bag fell onto the floor.

The boy in question was wearing a crème three-piece suit with a neat tie. His hair was long – not nearly as long as Enola’s or Sherlock’s, who she supposed was the most apt comparison – but still a good deal longer than most men’s. Apart from the rumpled look, he must have gotten from being stuffed in a bag, he looked well-groomed and the suit of fine make. In short, he looked like a fop. For a moment, she was too stunned to speak. Then-

“Please get out of this carriage.” She was proud of her restraint because her first instinct was to use some of the colourful language she had read in certain books. They might not have been exactly appropriate for a child, but Mother believed that knowledge was power and even let her swear when the situation called for it.

“I can’t,” said the strange boy, “I’m in hiding,” she supposed his tone was meant to be conspiratorial. “Bit of a to-do,” he continued, “Bribed a porter to put me in this and get me on board. Very daring.” He smiled in a way that he probably thought was charming and sat himself down on the seat across from her. Enola was not impressed.

Considering that a polite request had not worked, she stated her wish a bit firmer, “Get out of this carriage right now.”

The boy ignored her demand. His eyes scanned her up and down. “You’re a…a strange-looking gentleman.”

Internally Enola let out some choice words, and she shot back, “You think you look normal?”

Realisation dawned in his eyes. “You’re not a boy at all.” He was sharper than he appeared.

“I might be a boy.” She was no stranger to the concept of people being a different gender than the one they had been born with. She was not one of them, but it was still a rather rude assumption.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“What are you?” she gave him in lieu of an answer.

He – being quite clearly an aristocrat, from the way he dressed to the way he enunciated his letters – did the polite thing and introduced himself, “Viscount Tewkesbury, though I suppose it’s the Marquess Basilwhether now...” he seemed momentarily subdued when he said the last part. The Tewkesburys, if she recalled correctly, were distant neighbours of the Holmeses. The Marquess Basilwhether had died a couple years ago. His son was a few years older than her, but considering the Holmeses did not participate in society in any way, it was all she knew or cared to remember.

“You’re a nincompoop,” she said instead of doing something stupid like giving him her name.

Tewkesbury, as he was apparently called, withdrew his hand, seemingly offended. “I’ll have you know; I have just undertaken a particularly daring escape-”

“You have not escaped,” Enola interrupted him, “There is a man in a brown bowler hat currently on this train searching for you, and once he finds you, he will think I helped hide you, and I will be endangered by this,” she relayed this information forcefully, so as to make sure he understood, “Therefore, I ask you to get out of this carriage.”

A moment passed as they exchanged a look, neither of them quite willing to back away. His eyes were brown, she noticed – they were not the kind someone would praise in a poem or a novel, but at that moment, there was a kind of intensity to them that could only be appreciated in real life in an instance like this.

He ended up backing away first. He tried to smile, “You remind me of my uncle. I’ve left him at the station.” The man in the military uniform then, “He’s bossy, too,” despite his words, there was a measure of fondness in his voice, “Left them all: my mother, my grandmother.” He said that in a deliberately indifferent tone, “But I’m fine. I’m free.” And at that, his brown eyes briefly lit up. Enola supposed she could understand that sentiment.

“Good. Get out of the carriage then.”

“A man in a brown bowler hat?” He took a steadying breath. As he opened the compartment door and looked around – presumably for a sign of his pursuer – he kept muttering, “It’ll be fine,” under his breath. And finally, he left.

Thank heavens, thought Enola. In the first scant minutes of their acquaintance, she had determined that the boy – the Marquess of Basilwhether, Viscount Tewkesbury (he must have acquired that title recently considering that he was unused to introducing himself by it, but not so recently that he or his mother for that matter couldn’t wear cream. That fit in with her information on the family) – was far too much trouble. And with her situation being what it was, Enola Holmes could not afford any additional trouble.

The relief about his departure did not last long; for less than a minute later, he burst back into the compartment.

“He’s coming!” the trouble she could not seem to get rid of exclaimed.

“Of course,” was the only thing she said in return. Did she not just tell him that the man was searching for him?

“He’s checking every carriage!” The franticness in his voice reminded Enola of his (presumed) mother on the platform.

“Wonderful.” She picked up her jacket.

“You have to help me,” he implored. As if. “He didn’t see me,” that made her question any impression of sharpness he had given off earlier.

“Of course, he did,” if anyone were to watch this, the scene – his panic and her nonchalance – would appear comical. “Therefore, I say good day to you, Marquess of Basilwhether, Viscount Tewkesbury.”

They shared one last look as he compared her to his uncle once again, and then she closed the door into his face. Enola went off towards the front of the train, picking up her pace, determined to get away from the Marquess and his issues as far away as soon as possible. In the corridor, she bumped into the man with the bowler hat, who hardly seemed to notice her during his single-minded stride towards his target. Once more, something within seemed to insistently whisper that something was very wrong.

She had just turned away and resolved to walk away when she heard muffled screaming from within the compartment she had left. She stopped. This was none of her business. Her first and foremost priority was to find Mother. She remembered how Eudoria Holmes had always told her to not let other people throw her off course, especially men.

Her mother had been right, so of course, she immediately turned back and strode towards the compartment.

The scene inside was rather alarming, especially the part that wasn’t happening within the train. There, in the compartment, the man in the bowler hat had thrown the door leading outside open and was dangling Tewkesbury out of it. The Marquess was holding on for dear life, desperately screaming for help. What the hell? Why was someone in the employ of the Tewkesburys trying to kill the family’s only son?

Using the fact that the man hadn’t noticed her, Enola grabbed the cane that he had left on a seat and used it to hit him over the head with all of her (not inconsiderable) strength. He fell down. Unfortunately, that left Tewkesbury dangling in an even more precarious position – the door being the only anchor to the train he had left. Whilst the attacker was still recovering, Enola did her best to pull her unfortunate acquaintance back into the train, managing just seconds before they entered a tunnel. So that’s what the man had been planning. Using the train and the tunnel to dispose of his victim without much effort of his own. Smart. Utterly terrifying.

Using the darkness of the tunnel, the two of them scrambled out of the compartment and fled towards the front of the train.

Tewkesbury had not let his near-death experience rob him of his voice. As they ran, he was asking questions that she had no hope of answering, “Who is that?” and stating the obvious, “He was trying to kill me!” He then proclaimed, “I’m not ready to die on a train!”

“I’m not ready to die at all, and I wasn’t going to before I met you.”

They kept running, but they both knew that they couldn’t do so forever. The train was only so long.

“Where are we going?”

“I don’t know yet. Let me think,” she shouted as they passed by compartments full of people sitting peacefully. If they only knew that a murder had almost happened on this train.

What to do, what to do. They were running out of time, the assassin surely on their heels.

By the time they had reached the end of the carriage, she did not have any ideas. Well, that was not strictly true; she just didn’t have any that did not end in the death of one or both of them.

They threw open the carriage door and were welcomed by the sight of the coal car. The wind was rushing past them, and the steam whistle was screaming.

Well, no way but forward.

“Is this truly the best way?”

“Can you think of a better way?”

And so, they climbed out of the (relative) safety of the passenger carriage. Tewkesbury closed the door behind them as Enola’s brain scrambled for ideas. She had to come up with something, else both their lives were forfeit. Why, oh why, did she let herself get dragged into this mess, she asked herself, completely ignoring that she wandered into it herself against her better judgement. Then, like divine revelation, like Archimedes crying Eureka in his bath, an epiphany struck.

There in the rapidly approaching distance, was the solution to all their problems.

“Do you trust me?” she had to scream for her question to be heard.

“No!” he shouted back. How rude. She had just saved his life and was about to do so again. She briefly looked back at the bridge.

“If we time it correctly, we can leave him stranded.”

“Time what correctly?”

“Listen, Tewkesbury, we have two choices.”

“And which one involves me not dying?”

At that exact moment, the man in the bowler hat ripped open the door. His expression was triumphant, like a predator that had finally cornered its prey.

They had run out of time, so she grabbed him, screamed, “This one!” and jumped.

They tumbled down the slope painfully. The impact of a human body on soil was clearly not to be underestimated, especially when jumping out of a moving vehicle. Her plan worked, though – they landed safely and left their pursuer behind.

Once they had ascertained that they had all limbs still attached and nothing of too great an importance was bruised, they were on their way – that was not to say there were no bruises, though – it turns out hardcover books stashed away in one’s clothes hurt a great deal when one took a hard tumble. They walked in the general direction they presumed London to be. Since their rough landing, Enola concluded that the boy was even more of a nincompoop than she previously thought, especially with the way he had complained about losing a button. A godforsaken button. Honestly. She was also rather cross with him.

“You know you’ve entirely ruined phase three of my plan?” her voice was tart, and she spouted that sentence less as a question and more as an accusation.

“Phase what? Who the hell are you?” Again, he asked that question, and again she gave him no answer. “Look, I believe our recent brush with death deserves me at least a name.” It seems she wasn’t the only person here that was annoyed.

He did have a point, so she relented, “Enola Holmes.”

Of course, the first thing he said in response was, “Holmes? Like Sherlock?” She was about to say how she was undercover and that he was not to say anything when he continued, “Now that you say it, you do look an awful lot like him.”

She muttered some uncouth words under her breath. “You can tell?”

“Well, I met him - though ‘met’ is a strong word - saw him once or twice at a social function more like, and the family resemblance is most certainly there.”

This was not good, not good at all. She knew that they looked alike, but if someone who only saw her brother in passing could recognise their relation, this would become a huge problem. What in tarnation was she supposed to do about her face?

“Hey, are you alright?” Tewkesbury must have noticed her troubled expression.

“Quite alright, just…something I will have to figure out once I’m in London.” Dressing as a boy was now even less of an option – it would only reinforce the familial resemblance. She turned her gaze back to him, trying to imbue it with all the fierceness she could muster. It seemed to have at least somewhat of an effect. “You are to say nothing, do you understand?” she said as she grabbed him by his collar.

After trying and failing to get some sort of gratitude out of him – whilst his voice did not abandon him after near death and falling off a train, his manners seemingly did – they kept on going. Their journey was largely a silent one as they traversed field upon field. There was something almost artistic about the landscape they were travelling through, but Enola was in no state of mind to appreciate it. She had to reconfigure her plans after the escapade on the train and the revelation that she would have to somehow hide her face whilst in London, lest she be recognised.

They kept walking for hours, the almost leisurely pace they took not mandating breaks. Eventually, the sun started to sink in the sky.

“We should think about sleeping soon,” said Enola. Despite their pace, she felt exhaustion creep in, and her companion was surely no different. They both had a rather…exciting day. She herself had also been awake since before sunrise.

“We should think about eating soon,” replied Tewkesbury.

After a beat, Enola retorted, “We have nothing to eat.”

“Of course we do!”

And then he went off, excitedly pointing out the edible plants all around them. Burdock and Clover and Mushrooms. He was like a child in a candy shop. It was – dare she say – endearing. His entire face lit up, and what a sight it was – he wore an easy, confident smile and his eyes were illuminated – not just by the setting sun but also by an assurance in his knowledge and the ability to share it with someone. The evening sunrays and the way they seemed to reflect on his crème suit and his hair bathed him in gold. He was evidently in his element, and it was as if she were seeing him for the first time. As he confidently promised them a feast (so long as she could start a fire), Enola Holmes couldn’t help but smile.

By the time Tewkesbury had gathered all the necessary ingredients and Enola had set up a suitable campfire, dusk had set in fully and the trees in the forest they had made camp in barely let any light through. They had made themselves comfortable and were enjoying the meal that Tewkesbury had prepared. While it was not the best thing she had ever tasted, it was surprisingly delicious and filling.

They were eating in companionable silence. Enola was still contemplating the kind of disguise she would have to use in London – she already had some ideas – when her eyes drifted to the boy beside her.

“I’ve been thinking. You need to disguise yourself a little.” She looked at his head. “How do you feel about your hair?”

“I’ve never cared for it.”

She picked up his knife, the one he had used to cut himself out of the bag on the train and also to cut up their dinner and looked around for a suitable stone. Once she found one, she started to sharpen it, striking the blade against the stone in a practised, precise manner.

“Who taught you to sharpen it like that?” Tewkesbury asked.

“My mother,” Enola couldn’t help the wistfulness with which she said it. She had only seen her mother a little over a week ago, and yet it already felt like a lifetime. She also couldn’t help the pride-filled smile she sent her companion.

He answered her smile with an amused one of his own. “Your mother is very different to mine.” It seemed he, too, could not keep some wistfulness out of his voice.

She returned to her knife sharpening. “Who taught you about flowers and herbs?”

“My father.” Ah, the one whose death she read about in the local newspaper a few years ago.

“I never really knew my father,” she admitted. And in the last few days, with Mycroft’s revelation…she did not know whether it was for better or for worse. How curious – up until recently, she had hardly ever thought of him.

“My father is dead, too,” he said, confirming her knowledge. It must have hurt him a great deal more, considering how fondly Tewkesbury spoke of the late Marquess Basilwhether.

“I’m sorry,” they spoke in unison. It was both an expression of condolences and an apology for bringing the topic up.

“I…ah…I knew already,” Enola confessed. Tewkesbury looked up at her, a tad surprised. “I’ve read about it in the paper, and when I went out to town, the people spoke of it.” After all, in the rural area they had lived, any hint of exciting or unusual news travelled like wildfire. Also…his father’s death and her brother’s ‘demise’ were not too far apart. It was one of the things that had retained her attention back then.

A moment passed before realisation lit up his eyes. “Of course! I completely forgot that your family lived nearby. That’s why we were on the same train.” Nearby was a strong word. Ferndell Hall and Basilwhether Hall were a few hours by carriage apart, but for anyone in the upper class, that was not far apart enough to not call each other neighbours. He continued, “You know my family does not much like yours – they think you Holmeses are frightfully rude, never accepting an invitation or giving out one of your own. Grandmother said that was the case even before the two of us were born.”

Another person might have been offended by such an insult to one’s family, but Enola was shaking with how hard she had to suppress her laughter.

Tewkesbury was apparently alarmed by this. “Oh no, no. I’m so sorry. I did not mean to- forget I said anything, please-” His frantic apologies over quite accurately describing her family’s behaviour did not help. In the end, she lost the fight and broke out into snickers. After realising he had not accidentally dealt her a mortal insult, he broke out into chuckles himself. Their mutual laughter eased the tension caused by the topic of death, and for perhaps the first time that day the both of them felt true levity.

They finished their meal, and as they did, they shared some amusing and slightly embarrassing anecdotes about their respective families. She found herself surprised by how easy it was to talk about her mother – she had once been so focused on the book in her hand that she had walked into a bookshelf, bringing down some of the tomes onto her head. He, in return, shared how his uncle had once thrown out some of his father’s plants by accident, thinking them weeds, and the truly awe-inspiring row that had caused – “I think that was the angriest I had ever seen him – uncle was downright frightened. Grandmother had to step in.” The thought of the stout, glaring military man she had seen on the platform being scared of his (apparently fairly mild-mannered brother) over some plants was rather amusing. So was the thought of two grown men having their mother resolve an argument as if they were still boys.

Eventually, as their conversation wound down, Tewkesbury asked her, “Why have you run? From home, I mean.” Ah, so they were back to mildly heavy topics.

“I didn’t want to go to Miss Harrison’s Finishing School for Young Ladies.” Her answer seemed to amuse him. Evidently, he found the picture of her at such a school suitably absurd.

“Why have you?” She had just finished sharpening the knife and moved closer to him.

“Well, uh,” he found his words as she grabbed his hair and started to do her utmost best to cut it without completely ruining it, “a tree branch broke above me while I was collecting wild mushrooms. It should have crushed me, but I managed to roll out of the way, and I realised that...” he paused.

She momentarily turned away from her first foray into being a barber and looked at him. “What?”

“You’ll laugh at me.”

“I won’t.”

And so, he returned to his tale, “My life seemed to flash before my eyes,” for a beat, he turned his face towards hers, and there was a certain gravity there, “I was just about to take my seat in the House of Lords. I had these ideas about how we might progress the estate, but my family were set on me joining the army and then going overseas, just like my uncle.” He briefly halted again, “And I realised I was scared,” he confessed, “scared I would hate every second of the rest of my life.”

“Why would I laugh at that?” Why would I laugh when I know exactly how you feel?

“Don’t I sound pathetic?” There was a kind of self-deprecating amusement in his voice – it didn’t suit him.

“No.” And she meant it. What he did – looking at his life, realising he could not live it and then doing something about it – was the farthest thing from pathetic she had ever heard. Pathetic was Miss Harrison panting after Mycroft (she might not know anything of the world, but some things were just too obvious), it was herself crying helpless tears in light of mother’s disappearance, it was Sherlock turning away from her when she had been pleading with him. No, what the Marquess Basilwhether, Viscount Tewkesbury, had done was brave.

When he asked her why she was to be sent off to finishing school, Enola found she could not answer. It had not been anything personal on her brothers’ part, which almost hurt as badly as, say, them telling her that she was an embarrassment and had to be moulded into a proper young lady. How they – mostly Mycroft – had decided her fate with cool calculation in spite of her repeated objections, as if she wasn’t a person – it had stung. She had no desire to be a princess in a tower – locked away for safekeeping. She would find her mother, with or without them, and when she succeeded, she would rub it in their faces. None of those were thoughts she was willing to voice, so she just changed the subject. Tewkesbury got the hint.

When they talked of destinations, and he asked whether they should stick together, she was tempted for just a moment. They had just gone through a life-or-death situation together, and he was not entirely a nincompoop. In the end, she just told him, “No.” She had already let him throw her off course enough. She then continued to cut his hair, taking no small pleasure in his pained hissing about whether she had to be quite so brutal.

The following morning Enola Holmes, once again, had to rise before the sun did. She hoped it would not become a trend since, although she did not need that much sleep, she did enjoy a lie-in on occasion.

After she had woken up Tewkesbury – “Five more minutes, Charles,” he mumbled sleepily. (“I’m not your butler, you great lump.” “He was a valet.” “As if I care.”) – and they had managed to forage some breakfast, they set off. Luckily, they managed to snag a ride with some farmers on the way to the morning market with their pigs, so they didn’t have to walk as much as they did yesterday.

Eventually, they did arrive in London proper. It was…something. Loud, with more people than she had ever seen in her entire life and it- well, if one wanted to put it politely, it had a distinct scent. Enola Holmes was not interested in empty pleasantries, though – London stank something fierce. All sorts of smells that she had no desire to identify mingled until they created a truly horrid mixture. She supposed she would have to get used to it, though. The city did have its charms – with life emanating from its every crevice, this was truly the beating heart of England.

As the cart stopped, she hopped off. Tewkesbury stayed on board.

“Oh, so this is where we part?”

“Yes.”

“Then, thank you, Enola Holmes, for helping me here.”

“You were supposed to have forgotten that name,” she said, with no real reprimand in her voice.

“Then you’ll have to find another.”

They shared one last smile, and then the cart was off, taking Tewkesbury away with it.

Overnight and during her ride to London, a plan had solidified for her disguise, so as she slipped between the crowds and numerous carriages, she knew exactly what she was looking for. On the street, with a man shouting a speech about some sort of vote and the future of the country, Enola found a Ladies' Garments shop. Bingo.

Even before she was confronted with the reality that the Holmes family resemblance was far too great, she knew that dressing as a boy was hardly an option; it was the cliché that happened in every single book about runaways. Even if her brothers weren’t geniuses, it was simply too obvious. Originally, she had thought of disguising herself as a lady – something completely unexpected, but the idea she had now was a stroke of genius.

She entered the shop, and though, at first, the owner had wanted to throw her out, the show of money had pacified her.

“Do you perhaps have something for a widow?”

Indeed, a widow was her chosen disguise. Luckily the deep black mourning dress made of crepe fit Enola reasonably well, as she tried it on in the changing room. Why she had not thought of it sooner, she did not know. Her attire had the implication that she had once been married, which added a few decades to her assumed age, and the dense black fabric of her veil did a good job of hiding her recognisable face. Furthermore, people were always anxious to avoid conversations about death, so her get-up also ensured most people would leave her alone and not ask too many questions. The black gloves were also a necessity since she had no wedding ring.

She used her underwear to stash her possessions – into her corset went her money, the letter tiles and mother’s and Mycroft’s birthday presents. The book Sherlock had gifted her would sadly not fit in there, so she hid it in her bustle cage. Female undergarments were truly more practical than she had previously given them credit for. Once she made sure everything was properly secured, she stepped out of the changing room.

The owner was stunned into speechlessness by her transformation.

“Now, where might I find a lodging house? I’ll pay handsomely for good value.”

Chapter Text

His beloved’s arms were truly the best place to be, thought Mycroft Holmes. The moment he stepped through the door of his home, he enveloped Albert into a hug and was loath to let go. The man in question hugged him back without complaint and let himself be held like this for what must have been at least five minutes, relishing in the warmth of the body in his arms and burying his nose in that soft chestnut hair.

Eventually, Albert spoke up, “Not that I mind holding you, my love,” he said in that gentle, amused tone reserved for his nearest and dearest, “But how about we take this somewhere more comfortable?” They migrated to the sofa in the sitting room, where they reclined and indulged in holding each other some more – a simple pleasure that had been sorely lacking in the last few weeks. There in the arms of his love, he let the weariness of the previous days melt away. At some point, Albert had taken to combing his hands through Mycroft’s hair, gently running his fingernails across his scalp, causing the dark-haired man to groan in pleasure. They stayed like that for a while, listening to each other’s slow breaths and heartbeats – a symphony finer than any orchestra could string together. “Want to tell me what happened?” asked Albert, voice drowsy – evidently, the soft sofa beneath them and the warmth of his lover’s body had relaxed him to the point of near sleep.

All Mycroft did in response was to let out a sigh so deep it might rival the oceans covering their world.

“That bad, huh?”

“I swear, my family – particularly those two – will be the reason for me going grey before I turn 40.”

“Problems with your sister then?” Albert inquired mirthfully, “She has just turned sixteen, no? I can remember when my brothers were that age – William’s dramatic tendencies had come out full force, and he had just started university to boot. Louis was also even more ready to stab someone back then, if you would believe it. He was such a passive-aggressive little thing, too.” Usually, Mycroft would be more than happy to hear his lover reminisce about his brothers – if not for the men themselves, then for how Albert emitted fondness and love during those little anecdotes. Younger siblings were terribly cute (the emphasis alternated between terribly and cute), even if they turned to menaces during adolescence. Unfortunately for Mycroft, unlike Albert’s well-behaved brothers – if one ignored the murders – both of his siblings were still menaces. One had never grown out of it, whereas the other was just at the right age to be a terror.

“She ran away,” he groaned into the junction of Albert’s neck.

His lover stilled. “Your mother?” he asked tentatively, hopefully, for the alternative was worse, “So she left of her own accord then?” It was never much of a question – at least in Mycroft’s mind. The woman who had raised him was headstrong and self-determined. She had never let anyone dictate anything about her – even under house arrest; Lady Eudoria Vernet Holmes had given the distinct impression that she stayed because that was how she liked it and not due to something silly like the law or an order from the Queen. The visit home had just confirmed it.

“No,” he groaned once again, “I mean, yes, but that’s not the problem.” For all that her disappearance had been alarming, Mother was a woman grown who had previously given the government the run around – she could handle herself. On the other hand, “It’s Enola,” just thinking about it renewed his headache, “She has run off.”

“Oh dear.”

For a while, Mycroft refrained from saying anything more, content with letting Albert keep stroking his hair. The last few days had been…emotionally exhausting in a way he was not used to. Seeing his childhood home for the first time since his father’s funeral, the way it had…transformed. For a man such as himself who had always liked things neat and orderly, the state of Ferndell Hall was vexing enough, but to see how the place he used to call his home had fallen into such disrepair, how mother had not bothered at all with its upkeep – it had stung. And then there was his sister. Sweet little Nelly – the last he had seen her was at father’s funeral. She had been four, and in her white dress, she had looked like a little doll. More than anything, she had been confused by the goings on and kept occasionally asking where ‘Papa’ was – in the end, it had been Sherly who had gently explained it to her. Twelve years later, on that train platform, Enola had looked nothing like a doll at all. In the time they had been parted, she had grown into a wild thing with a spirit to match. The most obvious comparison would have been to mother, but in truth, upon first seeing her, Mycroft had thought how much she resembled Sherlock. The unruly hair that she took little effort in taming, the clothing that most of society would deem inappropriate and most of all, that spark of defiance in her intelligent eyes.

Meeting her again had been a disaster, to put it mildly. His interactions with her had felt awkward at best and hostile at worst – he seemed to irritate her with his every action and word. Another point of comparison between his younger siblings, he supposed – sweet children who had looked up to him with adoration or at least curiosity and admiration in Enola’s case, having grown up to be young adults who held animosity for him in some form or another. Mycroft would be hard-pressed to admit it, but it did make him…sad. His improved relationship with Sherlock after his return meant more to him than he would ever likely tell his brother.

“May I ask…why?”

Mycroft contemplated that for a second. On the one hand, he had little desire to rehash his failures as an older brother and guardian. On the other hand, Albert was likely the most qualified person in his entire social circle to talk to about this. Not only was he an eldest brother himself, but also one who had a largely harmonious relationship with his siblings. So, Mycroft told him everything. Their first meeting on the platform, the state of his childhood home, and the way nearly every interaction with his sister was a blunder of some sort. Albert listened patiently, humming and hawing at the appropriate points – that was until he revealed his plan.

Mycroft felt his lover gently cup his face, making him look at him. The smile Albert gifted him was…unsettling would put it mildly. It was like looking a predator in the eye, a reminder of when they first started working together – usually wildly attractive, except this time, Mycroft felt as though he had deeply displeased his lover. “My dear, could you perhaps repeat what you just said?” The – request was the wrong word - order was laden with the same energy that permeated his smile, sweet to the point of toxicity.

“I…could not leave her alone, especially with how things are right now?”

“Sound reasoning, dear, but what did you say after that?”

“I was going to send her to...finishing...school...”

“Mycroft, darling, light of my life. From everything you ever told me about your family, specifically your mother, what made you think that your sister, who she raised, would be at all at home at a finishing school?”

“God, you sound just like Sherlock,” muttered Mycroft.

“Then maybe he was right.”

Mycroft just scoffed at that. Albert gave him an unimpressed look. “Fine. I admit, it might not be ideal, but I was hardly sending her to be locked up in a cell.”

That seemingly did little to impress Albert, either. His reaction only served to remind him of this morning. Finding Enola’s bed empty (with only that- that doodle in it. Sherlock had found it so funny he was momentarily distracted from the fact that now both women in their family were missing, so Mycroft had no choice but hit him) and the way Sherlock seemed in turns amused and distressed by Enola’s disappearance. And now apparently, she had money. A lot of it. At least half of what they thought Mother might have had if not more. Sherlock, of course, had laid the blame for their sister’s absconding at his feet as if he had offered a better plan to ensure her safety. As if he could ever understand. Mycroft was the oldest. In the absence of their parents, his younger siblings were his responsibility – their safety and, to a lesser extent, their happiness. So, he sacrificed. His freedom and his future to Queen and Country, so that Sherlock did not have to (not that he was dissatisfied with his life, only that before there was The Government, there was Mycroft Holmes who had dreams and ambitions of his own – at least there would be no more after him who would have to do the same – marriage and children were out of the question for him. The matter of Albert was one of the things he refused to budge on, and Her Majesty knew it well.) Any good opinion his sister might have of him so that she might be safe. The little terrors might not see it, but he had their best interests at heart. He had failed once before, and he would not do so again.

Mycroft continued defending his plan, “The headmistress owed me some favours. I informed her of the need for security and discretion.” The woman in question, despite being his mother’s age, was also quite taken with him and was not subtle about it, but he neglected to inform his lover of that particular piece of information. Miss Harrison was certainly aggravating, but Mycroft had no desire to subject her to the former Earl Moriarty’s temperament. Despite having laid down the mantle of the Lord of Crime, the James Moriarty brothers were still fully capable of the viciousness that had served them so well as England’s nightmare. Louis might have been the one most ready to use a blade and William the mastermind behind their plans, but Albert had a certain cruelty to him that seemed inherent. It was such a curious contrast to his kindness, which seemed just as much a part of him.

The man in question still looked at him like he was missing something incredibly obvious. Albert, at some point, must have rung for tea – most likely when Mycroft had been trying to escape the world in his neck – since Anne, the maid, entered the room with a tea tray, interrupting the conversation. She seemed to pick up on the tension in the room, putting the tray down as quickly as possible without spilling anything.

“Thank you, Anne,” said Albert kindly and gave her a smile far more sincere than the one he had just graced his lover with, “You can just leave that here.” The girl was obviously relieved and left the room as hurriedly as manners permitted.

When he looked back at his partner, the smile once again took on a predatory quality, and the look in his eyes conveyed how much of an idiot he thought Mycroft Holmes – one of the smartest men in the Empire – was at that very moment.

As they took their tea, Mycroft further explained the merits of his scheme – hiding her as one would a tree in a forest in a relatively unknown and discreet institution. His explanation failed to assuage Albert, who eventually sighed and put his teacup down in a decisive manner, having apparently reached the conclusion that it was time to lay out his mistakes in plain words.

“Darling,” he somehow made it sound like you idiot, whilst his voice was filled with patience, “Your plan and its strategic merits are not the issue here.”

“Then what is, pray tell?”

“Think about it from young Enola’s perspective,” said Albert, “Her mother has just vanished into thin air, on her birthday no less. Her entire world has been upended. Then the brothers who she called on for help come in, insult her, her home, and her way of life,” Mycroft went to defend himself, but Albert merely held up his hand, silencing him before he could get a word out, “I know you did not mean to, but I also know how you are. Human interaction is not your strong suit. You are oftentimes too direct. The people around you know that you do not mean to injure, but your sister has not seen you in over ten years. The last few days are likely the only proper recollection she has of you.”

Mycroft had admittedly not thought of that. He was used to his sibling relationship with Sherlock – the needling and teasing and bantering underpinned by the knowledge that, ultimately, they loved each other, though they were both loath to admit it – his relationship with Enola had no such foundations. “Is that it? I should have conducted myself in a more courteous manner, and all would be well?” He had to admit, at this point, that he was growing a tad irritated, which was largely not Albert’s fault.

“No. Your interactions could have benefited from a more mannerly conduct on your part, but that is merely one of the many straws on the camel’s back. It’s the fact that not only would your scheme have uprooted her whole life more than it already was, but that you concocted it without consulting her about it.”

At that, the schemer in question scoffed, “Oh, please. She was determined to remain at Ferndell Hall, and no amount of talking around the subject matter would have swayed her, nor would any meaningless platitudes make her like the idea any better. I simply chose the course of action with the least amount of fuss.”

“Pardon me, I was under the impression that I was talking to one of – if not the – smartest men in this country. Has that changed?” His tone was mild as milk, and moments like that truly reminded Mycroft that his lover was a born and bred aristocrat – barely uttering an unpleasant word yet conveying exactly how little he thought of a person. He was not used to being on that side of his lover. “You completely disregarded her agency as an individual. From her perspective, you might as well have imprisoned her, and believe me, I know a thing or two about being a prisoner, no matter the state of the cage.”

Laid out like that, Mycroft could see how his actions could have driven his sister to do what she did.

“Very well. I admit my approach might have been...less than ideal.”

Albert hummed as he poured himself another cup of tea. He made a gesture offering Mycroft some as well, which the eldest Holmes accepted. They sat like that for a while, just sipping from their cups.

“What do you suggest I do?”

“You mean after locating you’re her?”

Mycroft hummed affirmatively.

“An apology would be appropriate.”

“For what, trying to keep her out of harm’s way?” He knew he was being deliberately obtuse, but the visit to his childhood home and all that had occurred there had fatigued him in a way not even the workload brought on by the recent political unrest had managed to accomplish – it made him peevish. That and the anger he was trying to swallow down – anger that was not directed at Enola.

In response to Mycroft’s utterance, the former Earl Moriarty sent him an annoyed glance and used his aristocratic upbringing to accomplish the feat of expressing exactly what he thought of said utterance by sipping his tea in a particularly passive-aggressive manner.

He sighed and picked his words with a little more care, “I shall apologise for disregarding her opinion on her own life.” The sipping turned a little bit more approving (how did he do that?). “I still doubt that it will appease her much. Sending her to that place is still the best course of action from a strategic standpoint, and she will hardly appreciate some empty platitudes any more than anyone else in our family.” He and Sherlock obviously did not like receiving nor dispensing them, and neither did mother – nor father when he had still been alive. Such opinions had given the Holmeses the reputation as the rudest family in Kineford and the surrounding area, not that any of them had minded.

“You would be surprised,” said Albert as he took a biscuit from the tray to delicately nibble at. “Oh, Mrs Hall has truly outdone herself with these,” exclaimed. “When time comes, you will find a solution, I am sure.” The smile he followed that statement up with was no longer unsettling but rather a sweet, reassuring thing that never failed to do something to his heart that could not be considered healthy. “Or if all else fails, you could always commit a couple of murders together. It certainly forged a bond between my brothers and me.” Mischief danced upon his lips, and even the ever-stoic Mycroft was unable to refrain himself from chuckling along. In the end, he could not help but lean in, pressing their lips together. The weeks of deprivation must have truly driven him insane because the taste of his lover’s lips – tea and sugar and something uniquely Albert – was enough to derail his thoughts completely. Following that, precious little talking occurred that evening.

The time they spent together that eve was nothing short of blissful – it was longer than either of them found acceptable since they had time to spend together, let alone an entire evening like that. Alas, all good things must come to an end, though Mycroft, as he spared his lover one last glance and a tender kiss before he exited their shared bedroom, all the while careful not to wake the brunet. Albert would surely be cross with him for not having woken him up, but Mycroft was determined to let the poor man get all the sleep he could. Unlike for him and his brother, sleep was a necessity for the former aristocrat…especially in the last couple of years. Although he was doing much better than when he had just been released from the tower, the man was…not quite well just yet – prone to bouts of melancholy and fits of exhaustion. The situation being the way it was, he was already pushing his limits, and Mycroft could clearly see that a crash was inevitable.

Despite having stepped down from his role as M and never having rejoined MI6 officially, he still helped out as much as his health permitted – mostly as an adviser – consulting the current M on strategy and assisting in organisational matters. Still, he rarely went out – the Universal Export’s Office and Dorms, their house in Berkley Square and on occasion, Mycroft’s own office in Whitehall – letting himself be ferried between those places by carriage. The director of MI6 lamented losing such a capable field agent. Mycroft Holmes worried over the man who held his heart. Albert’s habits had started to resemble his own, too much for his liking – though there were improvements, seeing as he had recently started taking the occasional stroll through the parks in the vicinity of the aforementioned locations.

His and Sherlock’s absence in the last few days had also surely taken a toll on the people who stayed behind to keep business running as smoothly as possible. That and the concern for his health persuaded Mycroft to let him sleep in today. It was a good decision, and yet he could not help missing Albert’s usual company at the breakfast table as he tucked into a simple breakfast of toast and beans.

Missing his usual dining partner, he found himself alone with his thoughts, and the anger that was able to distract himself from last night trickled in – gradually as if a light drizzle that one would not notice until it developed into a torrential downpour. In his mind’s eye, he could still see his sister’s crying face, her devasted expression as she asked, “Why did she leave me?” Though the girl clearly possessed intellect and strength of character, she was still only sixteen years old – a child by all accounts – and mother had- mother had abandoned her. Left without so much as a warning. On her birthday of all days. He could understand the rationale behind it – no one would expect a mother to leave on her daughter’s birthday – but it still struck him – a man unaccustomed to coldblooded actions – as…callous. Cruel, even. He could hardly help his anger – above all (above his position and his duty to Queen and Country, even), he was an older brother. Though his relationship with Sherlock had seen better days (worse ones, too), and he had hardly seen Enola since their father’s demise, he still felt the protective instinct inside rear its head when the occasion called for it. And so, as he ate his breakfast in a way that would make an onlooker question what those poor beans and the innocent toast had done to enrage him so, he had to suppress a strong urge to find wherever his mother was at the moment and ask her what exactly she had been thinking when she abandoned her youngest child and whether the attempt at changing the world was truly worth the pain his sister had have to endure. Alas, dual matters of the country’s future and finding said sister took priority – Eudoria Holmes was, after all, a grown woman with enough crafty tricks under her belt to live up to the Holmes reputation, whereas Enola was a sixteen-year-old girl who had never before left the general vicinity of Ferndell Hall and Kineford. The possibilities of what might befall her out there, all on her own, were nightmare-inducing.

So as he was getting ready to depart the house – giving himself one last once over in the entrance hall mirror, instructing the staff not to wake Albert – his mind was already swirling with ideas as to how to locate Enola, how to combat the conservative backlash and how to successfully juggle the two since, as much as finding his sister was a priority, the country not going up in flames (again) was also rather critical.

The latter inched into the foreground as he sat in the cab that would transport him to the Universal Export’s Office. There was to be a meeting about the current situation – in general, Mycroft did not attend such meetings; he merely relayed his orders and advice to M, who would then pass it on to the agents as needed, but seeing as how things were reaching a boiling point in light of the upcoming vote, he felt behoved to adopt a slightly more… hands-on approach than was typical of him, furthermore there was the situation with Enola… Although he should not use the agency’s resources on such personal matters, it could not hurt to have some extra eyes and ears on the ground and besides, said resources had been used for far more nefarious reasons than simply locating a missing relative.

Stepping outside of the carriage, he paid the driver whilst trying to steel his nerves as he always did in situations involving large gatherings of people. Though he could privately admit to being a tad fond of the eclectic bunch that comprised the MI6’s top brass, he had never been one for socialising, and though he did not regret letting Albert rest, for even a second, he could not help but miss his presence by his side, as the more extroverted man usually acted a social buffer.

Furthermore, there would surely be questions as to where the eldest Moriarty brother was. At least Louis and William would undoubtedly approve of him letting Albert sleep in, though they hardly had a foot to stand in regard to sleeping habits.

After knocking at the door, he was let in by a girl in a maid’s attire.

“Good morning, Mr Holmes,” she greeted him with her usual serious demeanour and proceeded to tell him that everyone else was already in M’s office. Quietly, of course, so that all the people milling about the ground floor – lower ranked agents, staff who were merely part of Universal Exports and not the agency behind it, customers – did not overhear her. She was a wiry, somewhat tall thing with blonde curls that were neatly tied into a bun.

“Good morning, Missy.” Officially, Melissa Williams was merely a Maid of all work, employed by the Universal Exports Company to help maintain their dorm and occasionally their office. It was not entirely a farce – with the ramping tensions, the housework, which was generally divvied up between the occupants of the dorm, had been falling to the wayside, so hiring extra help was a necessity. Unofficially – and much more importantly – Melissa – or Missy as she was called by everyone – was the newest MI6 recruit. Not an official agent, of course. Not yet, anyway. She was much too young – merely sixteen years of age – and though she had potential, she still had ways to go before being allowed in the field, outside of maybe some reconnaissance. So, between the dusting and the sewing, she was being tutored on all kinds of topics – combat, gun handling, espionage, alongside more conventional ones, such as languages and dance – by the menagerie of agents living at the dorms. All necessary parts of being an effective and versatile agent. It was a new endeavour with MI6 being very much a first-generation agency – most members, upon joining, were already experienced in some manner or other, with many being former military, having already been part of a similar agency or something along those lines – picking out some young person to train specifically for the purpose of her one day becoming an MI6 agent – a double O if things went well – was rather novel. 

After some pleasantries, they both proceeded to the office. The room in question was laid deep within the building on the top floor, facing the walled-off garden rather than the street, and – much like Missy said – was already filled to the brim with people. Missy closed the door behind them both and took her seat on a free chair.

M’s office was, by all accounts, a spacious room. On top of the MI6 leader’s desk, several filing cabinets, and bookshelves, it also contained plenty of sitting space, including a couple of armchairs, two sofas and several chairs. More than enough for everyone – unless, of course, the entirety of the double O division plus M and Q were currently situated there.

Everybody straightened up at the sight of him. Clearly, Louis neglected to mention his attendance.

Bonde had clearly been conversing with Moran, as there were still traces of mischief on the blond man’s face, and even his arrival had not managed to dispel the Colonel’s flustered expression. Young Mr Porlock, who was sitting next to them, seemed to find the exchange amusing despite his ever-stoic expression. Von Herder was still talking Renfield’s and Patterson’s ears off about something or other – merely having lowered his volume at Mycroft’s entrance. Moneypenny and Louis had mostly likely been discussing some organisational matter or another. The youngest Moriarty – not having to recover from any sort of shock – was the first to greet Mycroft, which triggered a series of “Good mornings” of varying degrees of politeness and enthusiasm – from Bonde’s and Antrim’s cheery exclamations to Moran’s gruff greeting and Sherlock’s grudging acknowledgement – that he returned in his usual cordial matter.

“Might I inquire as to where Brother Albert is?” asked William, who was sharing a coach with Antrim and his husband, pressed up against Sherlock with said man’s arm draped around him, “I was under the impression he would be arriving with you.” In moments like this, the Moriarty family resemblance was brought into stark relief – his expression was placid, and his tone was mild, but there was something sharp in his eyes, though tempered by the knowledge that Mycroft was no threat to Albert. The other members of MI6 had similar reactions, and he knew immediately that nothing productive would be happening there unless he answered the question.

“Indeed, Director,” continued Louis, “has something happened?” Anyone who knew him could hear the worry emanating from the question.

“Not at all,” he answered evenly, “I simply noticed how exhausted he was and saw fit to let him get some more rest.”

The relieved and approving smiles on the brothers’ (indeed most everyone’s) faces made something deep inside of him swell with warmth.

Mycroft Holmes could confess to being rather fond of both of his brothers-in-law (though he could hardly call them that around most people), if not for their own merits (of which there were many), then for how important they were to his brother and his lover. Albert loved his little brothers more than anything else in the entire world, and William and Louis reciprocated that love fiercely and devotedly – finding time in their busy schedule to visit him and fretting whenever the situation called for it (and sometimes when it did not). All in all, he was certain that if he ever dared to bring harm to Albert – however unlikely that was – they would kill him slowly and painfully – and vice versa, as Albert had once cheerfully informed him.

And Sherlock…well, Sherlock adored William with every fibre of his being, and William adored him in turn with equal fierceness. With the former mastermind behind the Lord of Crime at his side, his younger brother was happier than he ever was before and not just that – he was settled. His previous erratic behaviour had mellowed out, and his recklessness had been vastly reduced – these days, Mycroft had fewer reasons to worry for Sherlock than ever. That was to say, a lot, but there was that saying about gift horses and their mouths.

William’s smile became more sincere. “He will not like that.”

“I suspect he won’t.”

Louis – despite being prone to a serious demeanour when acting as M – hummed, amused, “As long as he is brought up to speed about any relevant information, I see no issue with that. Now then, since everyone is here, onto business.” and then he was M once more. “I am certain most of you remember the case of Baron Merryweather and the incident with Viscount Cecil. Miss Moneypenny, if you could?”

“Certainly, M,” replied the ever-reliable Moneypenny, “Baron Merryweather perished two weeks ago. His death was made to look like an accident, but thanks to the efforts of Mr Holmes – the younger,” she briefly amended, “the culprit has been apprehended. Viscount Cecil contacted the Scotland Yard about a month ago, convinced that someone meant him harm. We were alerted to that through Mr Patterson,” she nodded at him in acknowledgement, a gesture which he returned, “and were able to protect him,” she summed up the two incidents with enough detail to be comprehensible without being exhaustive.

“Thank you, Miss Moneypenny,” here Louis took over, “What our two victims had in common was their political leanings. Namely their general support for progressive causes. With the situation being the way it is, we have reason to suspect that these two cases were connected.”

It was at that point that Sherlock interrupted, “But you think there’s more to it than just that. Otherwise, you wouldn’t’ve called us all here. Ow, Liam!” Evidently, William had used his position to drive his elbows into his husband’s ribs.

“Yes,” replied Louis tersely, “As I was about to say before Mr Holmes interrupted me, our informants have alerted us that more and more of those cases have been occurring and not just with members of the House of Lords. Members of the House of Commons have been targeted as well. All had progressive political leanings.”

“So, this is the direction these people want to use to turn back the country to their ideals?” mused Bonde, hand on his chin, “How despicable.” ‘These people’ referred to the group of individuals who were not thrilled by the social progress taking place in the United Kingdom. At this point in time, it was…questionable how loosely or tightly organised they were, but they were a direct and present threat to the stability and future of the nation.

“Indeed, Mr Bonde, though recently…the focus has shifted to members of the Lords.”

At this point, William chimed in, “And if I were to hazard a guess, this particular targeting of House of Commons politicians would have started at the end of February of this year? Along with the other general unrest?” February of that year was when a particular Reform Bill was introduced. An effort to bring more equality to the country. Whilst not perfect, it was a step forward, but to the more conservative members of society, it was akin to blasphemy. More uneducated voters? More of the dirty masses with a say in the running of the country? Perish the thought. The nation would surely once again descend into the flames.

“Quite right, brother. And it tapered off roughly when the upcoming reform bill had passed in the Commons, which is also around the time House of Lords politicians began coming under threat. However, fewer Lords have been targeted than MPs, even amongst the progressive ones. It seems whoever is instigating this is more reluctant to kill aristocrats than commoners.” The way Louis uttered the last sentence was dripping with disgust.

“So that’s what this all has been about?” Moran cuts in, indignation practically emanating from him, “That vote? Some assholes couldn’t stand the thought of not having all the power, so they started assassinating politicians?” No one said anything about how, five years ago, most of the people present were engaged in similar endeavours, albeit with differing motivations. “So, all that other shit that’s been happening was what? A distraction?”

Louis shot Moran a withering look (whilst acting as M, he did not even give his lover any slack), causing the ordinarily brash man to shut his mouth so quickly his teeth could be heard, but answered, “Yes and no, Mr Moran. Whilst these incidents did serve as a distraction from their goal of assassinating politicians and presumably send us running all across the country, they in themselves furthered that group’s goals.”

Unlike everyone else who simply shouted their ideas into the room, Porlock politely raised his hand and waited to be called upon.

“Yes, Fred?”

“Now that we have this information, is protecting these people a priority?”

Louis nodded in response, at which point Mycroft cleared his throat. “If I may, M?”

“Certainly, Director.” In truth, the two of them had already discussed this in private.

Once more, the attention in the room was on him. “The situation, as described by M here, has also come to the attention of Her Majesty. She finds such a state of affairs completely unacceptable, of course. No matter how opinions differ, we cannot have someone running around dispatching politicians,” No one jumped to point out the irony of such a statement, “Such interference in the proceedings of the state is tantamount to treason, especially on such a large scale. As such, your assignment as MI6 is to protect anyone who might be a target of these assassinations. You can take this as a direct order from the Queen.” At that, everyone straightened up, each with a determined expression on their face.

The rest of that meeting proceeded smoothly, with the group discussing potential targets, how to best protect them and who would be doing the protecting. It was at that point that someone finally freed up a chair for him – Bonde surrendered his gracefully by joining sofa Moran and Porlock on the sofa. Following that, a battle of politeness ensued between Mycroft and Miss Moneypenny over who would get the last chair and who would squeeze alongside Moran, Porlock and Bonde on the sofa that was only meant to accommodate three. At some point, Missy offered to give hers up but was immediately shot down by both parties. In the end, Moneypenny ended up winning, by simple logic: with her build, she would far more easily fit onto the sofa than Mycroft. By the time everyone was seated, some other occupants of the room – amongst them Sherlock and Antrim – had begun giggling over the situation, at which point Louis had to call them back to order.

Various documents were passed around the room, which descended into a low buzz of murmuring between the several agents.

“Hey...” Antrim called out from where he was leaning over some papers with MI6’s newest recruit.

Louis turned himself away from the conversation he and Mycroft were having over some detail or other, “Yes?”

“So, Missy and I were thinking...” said Antrim, his tone considering, “That Marchioness that has been missing since yesterday-”

“Marquess, Mr Antrim,” interjected Missy quietly.

“Thanks! And I already told you to call me Billy! Anyway, do you think his disappearance has something to do with all this?” When saying ‘this’, he made a sweeping gesture, presumably referring to the situation at large.

Mycroft hummed as he mulled the situation over. The young man in question, Florian Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether, had gained his title fairly recently following the death of his father about four years ago. The Tewkesbury had been the Holmes’ distant neighbours for some generations, and though the current and previous generation of his family had had little to no interest in such relations, Mycroft could remember that the current Marquess’ father had been rather progressive in his political endeavours. And young Florian Tewkesbury was the right age to take his seat in the Lords, hmm.

“I remember his father,” said Louis eventually.

“Me as well,” added William a little sombrely, “If I recall correctly, his and Brother Albert’s goals in the Lords often aligned, so they were quite friendly.”

“Yes, we made his acquaintance at one point,” the youngest Moriarty, too, seemed somewhat subdued by the topic, “He was as courteous towards me as he was towards my brothers,” an unfortunately rare occurrence, seeing as in the eyes of society Louis was merely the adoptive brother, no true Moriarty, no true aristocrat. Louis continued, “Even after...everything, he was kind to me, where most were not. He even expressed his condolences when...well...” Immediately, the late Marquess shot up in his esteem, and he could see how that was true for most occupants in the room, “When I heard of his death, I could remember thinking what a pity it was, since even amongst the decent ones he was a rare breed in the aristocracy.” He shook his head slightly, and in the blink of an eye, he was M once more. “In any case, the two of you are right – his disappearance might very well have something to do with – as you so eloquently put – ‘all this.’ Miss Moneypenny, please put his name on the list.”

“Of course.”

In the end, they narrowed down a number of names – all varying degrees of presumably endangered.

It was…not a small number. Although they had narrowed the list of potential targets down, at the end of the day, any politician liable to vote in favour of the reform bill might be in danger – in other words, more or less half of the House of Lords. Even with the entirety of MI6 – not just the double O division – they would be hard-pressed to protect all of them. The Prime Minister, as the man who introduced the bill, would warrant extra protection, of course. Apart from him, all of the potential targets had to be ranked in order of priority. Unfortunately for the young Lord Basilwether, he was not high up on that list. For one, all information they had on him was mere speculation. Another issue was that to protect him, they would have to locate the youth in question in the first place, which under normal circumstances would not have been an issue, but as of right now, it would take up too much time and manpower. Mycroft could see how the more…soft hearted amongst their group were vexed by it, especially on account of his youth. Even he could confess that young Tewkesbury being so close in age to Enola gave him pause. It ultimately did not matter, though – this was the country's future at stake, and the people here knew what it was to sacrifice for it.

As the meeting came to a close – it had dragged on into the early afternoon – and Louis was about to dismiss everyone to go about their assignments, Mycroft stood up and cleared his throat. “If I could have your attention for a moment?”

Louis gave him the go-ahead with a knowing look in his eyes. There was precious little that the Moriarty brothers did not share with one another – a fact that Mycroft, Sherlock, and Colonel Moran were painfully aware of – so he was more likely than not already aware of the Holmes’ familial situation, or at least partially.

“As you all are aware, Sherlock and I had some urgent business in the countryside from which we returned yesterday.”

“Yes,” interjected Bonde, “Sherly sure was tight-lipped about it, though. Are you going to enlighten us?” His expression was, in turn, amused and intrigued – clearly curious as to what could send both Holmes brothers in a mad dash out of London – especially at such a crucial time.

He looked over at Sherlock, who was quite obviously still disgruntled with him but seemingly content to let Mycroft do the talking for now. “Astute observation, Mr Bonde,” he then went back to addressing the room, “I am about to ask a rather…personal favour relating to Sherlock’s and mine familial affairs.” At that, everyone (apart from William and Louis) visibly perked up, clearly curious about any ‘Holmes familial affairs.’ He sighed, seeing no point in beating around the bush, “The long and short of it is that about a week and a half ago, our mother disappeared.”

Immediately, there was an outcry. Even Porlock, Moneypenny, Renfield and Patterson, who were rather more collected than their colleagues, wore an expression of shock on their faces.

“You have a mother?!” cried out Moran.

“Of course, ya idiot,” shouted Sherlock back, “What’d you think? That we sprouted from the ground like trees?”

“It’s not like you ever mentioned her!”

“Why would we? It’s not like anyone else here mentions their mothers!”

“I mention my mother…” murmured Missy in the background.

“And so do I,” said Patterson under his breath.

Once more, Louis had to call everyone to order, and he seemed to grow rather tired of it.

“Right, as I was saying. A week and a half ago, on July 8^th, our mother went missing. We got the message last Friday from our sister-”

More outcry. “There is another one?!” someone shouted. Apparently, them having any relatives apart from each other was something that begot disbelieve. The only ones who did not seem to be under the impression that he and Sherlock had indeed sprouted out of the ground like some sort of sentient plants, were Louis and William, who, in turn, looked more and more irritated and amused by the second.

The youngest Moriarty’s “For heaven’s sake, let the man speak!” shut the noisy crowd up. That and the look on his face, which was usually accompanied by a knife in his hand.

“To answer your questions, yes, we have a mother. Her name is Eudoria Holmes. And yes, we do, in fact, have a sister. Her name is Enola, and she is a good bit younger than us. She is sixteen.” The group was clearly itching to shout once more at the revelations, but Louis’ glare kept them under control. “Now, if this were only about our mother, I would not be asking this of you. She is an adult woman, and even if we were unable to locate her, she would likely be fine. The far more pressing problem here is-”

“Enola has run off.” He was interrupted (rather rudely) by his younger brother. “Probably t’look for mother an’ unlike her, she’s a sheltered sixteen-year-old who’s never been farther from home than the nearest village.” The more he talked, the more worked up he got, seeking comfort in his husband like a child would with a favoured toy. Said husband responded with grace by pulling him closer. Billy patted Sherlock comfortingly on the shoulder whilst everyone else was seemingly at a loss as to what to say. Sherlock being dramatic was nothing new – a good chunk of the people present had a penchant for dramatics – but him being distressed? That was a lot rarer.

It was Bonde who broke the silence, “So do you want us to look for them?” he kept his voice sympathetic, “I mean, we’ll do it. This is your family after all and – Enola, was it? – is quite young, but with the way things are right now, that might be a bit difficult.”

“I will, of course, tell my officers to keep an eye out, but that is about it,” Patterson spoke up.

Mycroft nodded, “That is all I can ask of you. With the current situation, there is no justification to use MI6’s resources to track down wayward relatives, but - both of us would appreciate it if you could keep your eyes open and alert us if you see any clues to their whereabouts.”

“Yeah,” said Sherlock eventually, straightening up a little (though he was still clinging to William), “We’d both be really grateful,” he rather obviously took care to put as much sincerity as possible into his voice. “Also, trackin’ down Enola is more important cause like we said, she’s a kid and a sheltered one at that.”

One would think asking personal favours on top of giving them a strenuous, near impossible assignment would displease these people, but quite the opposite. Even the more practically minded amongst them were eager to help. It was in part out of gratitude – towards Sherlock for saving William, who was so important to them all and making him choose life and towards Mycroft for taking care of Albert. Yes, those actions had bought both the Holmes brothers a great deal of goodwill in that group, but it was not just that. Mycroft, in general, had a hard time connecting with people – truly understanding them except for a handful of outliers, but in the years of working with this group, he found there was a throughline in all of their characters – the reason why they all followed the William on his dark path. They all wanted to change the world for the better. Though their past means were…questionable, it all originated from the belief that said world should be a certain way – that justice and goodness should prevail, that someone should not be treated as lesser because of circumstances of birth. Indeed, at their core, they were all kind people, and though a good portion of them had hardened their hearts for the sake of practicality and survival, it went against their nature to not help someone in need – especially if that person was perceived as innocent by them. That was why most of them had been disappointed in not being able to help the young Marquess and why they would not refuse to help Sherlock and Mycroft find their sister – however minimal that help was.

Mycroft could not help the smile that found its way onto his face, and neither could Sherlock, it seemed. “Thanks, really!” his younger brother’s mood seemed to have improved. Then something awkward crossed his face. “But…ah…”

“Hm? What is it, Mr Ponytail?” asked Antrim.

“Well, regardin’ to our mother- I mean, this could become relevant for MI6 as well-”

“Just spit it out already,” growled Moran.

So, Sherlock – with Mycroft’s help – relayed the information he had first learned in that pool room mere days ago to the room at large. Their mother’s activities before marriage and how she seemingly returned to them.

Once more, shock permeated the room, but instead of shouting, there was just stunned silence, which was only broken by Moran’s mutter of “Why am I surprised?”

“Hang on!” Antrim shouted into the room. He was leaning forward and perhaps a little too excited by the subject matter. “Does that mean that the Holmes men have a type?” he crowed, “Was it the arson?” He then promptly burst out in laughter, which seemed to infect the group.

In response, Sherlock kicked his friend repeatedly, “It was not the arson!”

“What was it then, hmm, Sherly?” asked Bonde, barely containing his laughter enough to speak, “Revolution?”

“A form of hybristophilia, perhaps?” mused Herder out loud.

As the theories were bandied about the room, poor William was hiding his face in his hands, though whether that was to hide his shame, a smile or both, Mycroft could not make out.

Mycroft did not enjoy having his love life speculated about, nor the love life of his parents, even by people he might consider something akin to friends. He looked over to Louis, who could usually be relied upon to quiet any nonsense down, but he seemed to be too torn between amusement and annoyance to call everyone to order.

Every other sensible member of the group seemed to be either in need of time to process the revelation or else were also of the opinion that said revelation was the pinnacle of hilarity. Sherlock was of no great help either, seeing as he was busy tussling with Antrim and Bonde simultaneously.

As Mycroft’s gaze flitted around the room in annoyance, the expression on Renfield’s face caught his eye. Whilst it was also humorous, there was also something contemplative in his eyes. Ah, yes-

“I believe I have made the acquaintance of the lady in question,” hummed Renfield, resting his chin on his fingers. Indeed, of all the people present, Jack Renfield was the only one old enough to have been around when Mother had been…active, seeing as he was only two years older than her. The next oldest person in the group was Patterson, who, at the time of the happenings, would have been an infant.

The speed at which everyone turned towards him was so impressive Mycroft could almost hear their necks crack. Sherlock even paused in his scuffle with Antrim and Bonde – at an inopportune moment, seeing as all three of them lost their balance and tumbled down, with poor Antrim caught at the bottom of the pile – and apparently the recipient of someone's elbow judging by his protestations. Though seeing as he instigated the theorising upon Mycroft’s family’s amorous tastes, he could not bring himself to feel sorry.

“Master, could you perhaps elaborate on that?” Louis took the opportunity to restore some order both to himself and the room at large.

“A little over forty years ago, when I was still a young man and had just returned from the war but was still in service, there was some sort of protest in front of the residence of a politician. We were sent out to suppress it alongside the Scotland Yard,” Renfield told the story in plain words and no embellishments. Yet, everyone was hanging on to his every word – even Mycroft and his brother, for they had few stories of their mother growing up, seeing as neither of their parents were very forthcoming individuals, “When we were first informed of our assignment, I was not expecting the crowd consisting mostly of angry women we would encounter. By far the angriest was your mother – she was right at the front of the protest, up on a pedestal, making the groups’ demands known, megaphone in hand. She was also the first to spot us approaching. Later, I would come to know that groups’ propensity for getting into altercations with Scotland Yard and any others who would oppose them, but that did not happen that day, as your mother called for a retreat. Presumably, judging that they were not fit to go up against professional soldiers.”

“And then what happened?” Demanded Bonde, still on the floor, like a child being told a bedtime story, “Did you just let them go?”

“Of course not,” replied Renfield, “We were ordered to arrest them all, or at least as many as we could – alas, it seems that Lady Eudoria was prepared for such an eventuality, as shortly after calling for retreat, she proceeded to hurl several handmade explosives at us. I do recall her having an impressive aim. A small group of her companions followed suit, covering their comrades’ retreat. They then took us on a wild goose chase across all of London. I ended up being one of the men pursuing Lady Eudoria and even ended up cornering her. Still, though my martial prowess outweighed hers, at this point, she evidently knew London better than I and used that knowledge quite effectively. We encountered each other a handful of times following that incident – each of those encounters involved some sort of explosive on her part. A few years later, when she – as Mr Holmes said – ‘killed someone important,’ she was arrested. I saw her in the papers.” he paused his tale and hummed thoughtfully and, after a moment, continued, “I must confess, I was always mildly curious about her fate. Marriage and children are somewhat…unexpected.”

At his desk, Louis made a contemplative sound, a sharp look in his eyes. “Director, would this organisation your mother was part of be the group known as the Women’s Liberty Union?”

Mycroft nodded, “Though they were called something else back then.”

“They have recently become more active, most likely in response to the conservative backlash happening right now. If your mother – who has been, or still is a leader amongst them – has now, once again, joined their ranks, they are most likely planning something.”

“Why’d you have that troubled look on your face, Louis?” asked Moran. His tone was still gruff, but something in it had softened, “So there are feminists running around making life harder for our enemies. I say we let them. Isn’t that what we all want here? What, Willi- what that whole business five years ago was about? Societal progress?” Though his voice recovered from the crack in the middle of that sentence, it still caught the attention of most everyone in the room. The incident five years ago – otherwise known as The Fall or The Final Problem – was by no means a taboo subject, but bringing it up suddenly or worse, how William and Sherlock had almost perished during it, was still avoided.

Louis sighed, betraying his exhaustion for the first time that day, “In principle, yes, but…”

William interjected on his brother’s behalf, “What Louis means is that, though our ultimate goals are not so dissimilar, in our current situation, they are an unreliable factor, at best. We can never be sure as to when or how they might do something, which might end up creating more work for us than before.” And they could not afford any more work was the sentiment that went unsaid.

“We did try to set up communications with them, but they were…less than enthusiastic,” said Moneypenny from beside Moran and Porlock – likely enjoying the space that Bonde freed up through his childish tussling with his colleagues. The man in question was now sitting on the floor. Luckily for him, the carpet in M’s office was quite plush.

“So, what now?” asked Antrim, now sitting on William’s other side to separate him from Sherlock, still rubbing the place where the elbow met his flesh.

Louis took a deep breath, and a moment later, M’s steely determination graced his features. “There is no change of plans.” He proclaimed, “We will do our utmost best to protect the politicians in the House of Lords, as Her Majesty commands. On the side, we will keep an eye out for Enola Holmes to assist the Director and Mr Holmes in their endeavours. On the topic of the group known as the Women’s Liberty Union, we will not interfere in their business so as long as said business does not interfere with ours. If the opportunity for cooperation arises, we will give that idea our due diligence. Any more questions?”  

Heads were shaken all around.

“In that case, I officially call this meeting to a close. You will get your new assignments later. Until then, try to rest up.”

At that, Mycroft breathed an internal sigh of relief. These were good, reliable people, but by God, they were exhausting. He was just about to bid everyone a good day and retreat to his office, where more work awaited, but at least no more socialisation, when-

“Hang on,” exclaimed Moran, “If your mother is called ‘Lady Eudoria,’ does that mean she is a noble?”

And Sherly, the stupid child, replied, “Huh? Yeah, she’s the daughter of an Earl. Never met the guy, though.”

More outcry.

Mycroft Holmes was by no means a religious man, but at that moment, he found himself praying to the Lord Almighty to release him from his suffering.

Chapter Text

And the day was going so well, thought Albert James Moriarty, as he was on the ground, struggling against his assailant. Usually, such an occurrence would not be a problem for him. Though he was long retired (dishonourably discharged) from the military, and it was quite some time since he had last taken a field mission, he had been taught the art of killing since adolescence – such instruction was not simply forgotten. To add to that, such attacks were not uncommon. Many people still held a grudge against the Lord of Crime, and with him dead in the eyes of the world, Albert was the next best target for any revenge. He should have been able to fight this fellow off without a problem if not for the weapon of choice: a garrotte of coarse rope that was wound around his neck, cutting off precious air from Albert’s lungs. The man on top of him was cursing at him, his tone filled with hatred, though Albert could not make out any of the words. Black was encroaching on his vision, and his head felt like it might just explode. He was still struggling, but his movements lacked the strength it would require to push his assailant off.

God, would this be how he died?

In his darkest days, he had dreamt of death – he deserved it for his multitude of sins, few of which he actually regretted, and when that was not the subject of his dark contemplations, then his mind dwelled on how wrong the world was, how maybe in death there could be relief. But in this moment, he did not want to die. Not when things were finally getting better. He did not want to leave his brothers behind, nor his lover, nor the rest of the people he had come to regard as family. It was that thought that gave him the strength for one final push against the attacker, but even that did nothing to deter the man from his revenge. What would this do to his family? They would not let this go. Would they once again descend upon the dark path that had brought them so much misery? Those were his final thoughts as darkness overtook him, when suddenly…he could breathe again?

The rope around his neck loosened, and he greedily gulped in the air he had been deprived of just seconds ago, coughing painfully all the while.

****************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

When he finally regained some of the wits required to take in and process his surroundings, he bore witness to a most unusual scene. The man who had been so determined to end his life was lying prone on the ground, seemingly unconscious and over him stood someone. In truth, upon first seeing that person – draped in all black with only the lanterns of the park illuminating the silhouette – he thought it some sort of apparition – a demon from hell or a grim reaper. Once his near-death delusions had finally taken leave, he recognised the figure as something a little closer to the earthly but no less strange – a widow?

His saviour was a woman of average stature, wearing a black dress made of crepe. Her face was concealed behind a widow’s veil that did not allow anyone to make out her features, and in her hand was a large purse that she held as if ready to strike at any time. Underneath her veil, she seemed to be panting from exertion. Once, she asserted that the man on the ground was indeed unconscious (by first prodding him with her foot and then, with rather more force, kicking him, to which he only replied with a weak groan but did not otherwise stir) she hurried over to Albert and knelt down by his side.

“Goodness, are you alright?” she asked. Her voice was frantic and a tad higher pitched than would be expected of a matron, though that was probably from panic, “Silly question. Of course, you aren’t.”

He would have loved to answer, but unfortunately, any attempts to do so resulted in more coughing on his part.

“No, no, don’t try to speak,” she admonished him, “Take your time. You’ve just gotten strangled, after all.”

He had little choice but to do as he was told, and eventually, his coughing did subside enough for him to croak out a hoarse “Thank you.”

She was about to respond before (going by her body language) she spotted something in the distance and jumped up to her feet. “Police!” she bellowed at the top of her lungs. With the panic gone from her voice, it seemed lower pitched.

Her shouts attracted two officers who had seemingly been patrolling that part of the park and not a moment too early since the man who had been so keen on strangling the life out of him mere moments ago had begun to stir.

The two seemed to be stunned by the unusual sight. Eventually, one of them managed some words, “Ma’am? What- What seems to be the problem here?”

“Take that scoundrel away!” she said imperiously, “He was attempting to kill this gentleman here by means of strangulation. The murder weapon is here!” The widow bent slightly to grasp the rope still hanging loosely around his neck, showcasing it to the officers.

“Certainly, ma’am!” replied one of them, gesturing for his companion to help him pick the assailant up. The man in question had just come to and was struggling against their grip. He had little success, seeing as he was probably still disoriented from being hit on the head with whatever in that widow’s purse was heavy enough to knock a grown man out.

“Let me go!” he demanded.

“Certainly not!” replied the more talkative police officer, “Especially not after you tried to murder that gentleman.”

“Gentleman? Pah!” the man spat, vitriol spraying from his mouth, “That- that monster deserved it! Don’t you recognise him?! The Lord of Crime! That’s his brother!”

The officers’ eyes glanced down at where Albert was doing his best to remain upright, still coughing in between his halting breaths. They scanned him, and even in his frazzled state, he could see the immediate shift in their expression once recognition set in. Disgust was evident in their less-than-subtle sneers. No longer was he some poor, upstanding citizen befallen by misfortune – no. He could see it in their eyes – venomous and accusing – “Monster!” they seemed to scream. For one moment, he was certain those two would let the man between them go and perhaps even join him in his endeavours.

It was then that the strange widow proved to be his saviour once again. Having likely sensed their intentions, she took a step forward, situating herself in front of him protectively, obscuring his vision with her black skirts.

Perhaps they did not want to commit murder in front of a lady, or maybe it was the effect of an unspeaking, faceless figure wrapped entirely in black, illuminated only by lamp light casting ominous shadows standing in their way. Whatever the case, they backed off, dragging the unsuccessful assailant along with them.

As the three men disappeared from view, Albert and his saviour clad in black, remained alone. There was no one else at the park due to the late hour. It was undoubtedly a strange time of day for a walk, with it being already dark on a July night, and usually, Albert would not be out and about at this hour (if he was out and about at all), but he could not stand the empty house that evening. Mycroft was at his office and would likely spend the night. Well, empty was a strong word. The staff were all still there, but he could hardly prevail upon their time for his own amusement, so in the late afternoon, he bid them farewell and took an unusually extended walk, even by the standards of those more active than him. Where else was he to go? Unlike Mycroft and Louis, he had no club where he could spend his time – he had no desire for one, and even if he did, none would grant him admittance. He considered paying his friends at the Universal Exports Dorm a visit, but they would surely ask why he was there and not at home, and he had no desire to disturb Mycroft at his office either. And so, he took several leisurely turns around Hyde Park, and when he got bored of that, he walked along the surrounding city, including Belgravia. Finally, his little (or not so little) excursion took him towards The Green Park and eventually St. James’s Park, where he had run into his almost murderer.

And apart from that, his day had been going well. Since by the time Mycroft had returned from work the previous evening, Albert had still been huffy about being excluded from the meeting that morning, his lover had been sure to pay extra attention to him that night, and by the end, Albert had been suitably mollified. The morning after, they had shared breakfast, and despite the exertions the night before, Albert had felt unusually energised. It was reminiscent of the time before. Before William had plunged to his ‘death’ along with the younger Holmes brother, before the tower, when – despite everything – he had been able to face each day (or at least most of them) with full strength. Maybe it was the two nights of sex and full sleep in a row. Whatever the case, Albert took to his domestic duties full force, pleasantly surprising Mrs Baker, the Housekeeper, who tended to worry about him (at least once she got used to her employer having a male lover so flagrantly, and such a criminal one at that). Mycroft liked to tease him about how he was nesting aggressively, and it was not untrue. He had enjoyed the bloody battlefields as a lieutenant colonel and the violent reformation of the country as a part of the Lord of Crime. Unlike William, he had never minded a little bit of blood on his hands. But…there was something about the simple contentment of running a home that brought him…peace. He felt it that day as he went over the menus and groceries with Mrs Baker and Mrs Hill (the cook), made sure to check the household's finances and ensured that everything was up to his standard of cleanliness (poor Anne and Jane were always a tad anxious whenever he looked over their shoulder – Mrs Baker joked that it would prepare them well for a family household and that no mistress could be as exacting as Lord Albert). And when, even after all that, he still had the energy to feel restless, he found himself rather pleased by such a rare occurrence. He had known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that after such a high, there would come a low, but he did not think that it would take the form of being nearly strangled to death in St James’s Park.

He did not look forward to the reactions of his family, who, he knew, would scold him and fuss over him in turns and not let him go anywhere alone for at least a week, as they were wont to do these days. And apparently not only family since his mysterious defender had again knelt down beside him and appeared to be using the lamplight to examine his neck.

“Well, the good news is that the skin doesn’t seem to be broken,” she told him, voice steady and even, the panic from earlier wholly gone, “But there are some nasty marks.” At that point, Albert’s breathing had evened out, and the frequency of coughing had been reduced, so she took the opportunity to ask him, “Are you feeling any better?”

“A tad, thank you,” replied Albert. His voice was still hoarse and his throat painful, but he could say it without immediately coughing afterwards, so that was an improvement.

“Well, that’s wonderful since I wouldn’t be able to help if otherwise was the case. I am no medical professional, you see.”

He resisted the urge to laugh, seeing as that would be less than helpful in this situation.

She turned her head, “Do you think you might be able to move?”

“If I had to. Why?”

“Because there is a bench right there, and we should probably get you off the ground. You could lie down on it if need be.”

He, too, turned his head – carefully – towards where hers was facing and then – just as carefully – nodded.

They eventually managed to get onto the bench – an unusually challenging endeavour, thanks to Albert’s light-headedness. Still, his companion in black proved to be stronger than her stature betrayed and was able to support his weight.

“Are you sure you don’t need to lie down?” She asked.

“No, thank you, this is quite alright,” he refuted for perhaps the third time. “And besides, I would not dream of stealing a lady’s seat.” He gave her a charming smile that he had used to disarm many a society lady back in the day. Unfortunately for Albert, this particular lady did not seem to be impressed, and he could tell, despite the veil covering her every feature. It was all in her body language, and for a moment, he could almost see Mycroft’s no-nonsense expression, raised eyebrow saying, “And what is that supposed to be?” and all. He really must be out of sorts if he was seeing his lover’s face and demeanour in strangers.

“Are you saying propriety is more important to you than your own well-being?” Her tone was painfully dry, “Moreover, lady or not, I was not the one being strangled to death less than a quarter-hour ago.”

“I concede your point,” he replied sheepishly, “Though I’d still rather remain upright, seeing as I am unsure that I would not immediately drift off if I were to lie down.”

She took a moment to consider his words but eventually grumbled a “Fine.”

A moment of silence passed between them. The air was slightly awkward now that it had dawned on both of them that outside of Albert’s brush with death and her pulling him out of reach of that grim reaper (perhaps even more than once, if the expressions on those men’s faces were to be believed) they were complete strangers.

“So,” the widow eventually spoke up, “What do you plan on doing now?”

“Well…my house is rather less than a mile away in Berkeley Square. If I take it slowly…” He could get a cab, of course, but he was not convinced he would not throw up within moments, and he would really rather not deal with that on top of everything, thank you.

“What, on your own?”

“It really is not that far. I’ll be quite alright.”

“Oh, please. You need me to keep you upright on this bench.” Indeed, there were several times during which he felt lightheaded, and she had to hold him steady to prevent him from falling and hitting his head. Was that how William felt?

“I would not want to inconvenience you-”

“More than you already have, you mean?” She snipped back, “And don’t worry about that. You are by far not the man who has inconvenienced me the most this week. At least this time, there are no trains involved.” What? Under normal circumstances, he would have asked, but right now, he had rather more pressing matters to worry about, and really, she was by far not the strangest person he had ever encountered.

He sighed, “A compromise then. Though my home is in Berkeley Square, my brother’s club is on Pall Mall, and he is there that evening. You will be ensured of my safety, and I shall not impose on you as much.” Louis – when he found himself tired of the office but unwilling to take his work home, where he inevitably would have to face concerned looks and enjoy little peace and quiet – would occasionally take some of his least confidential papers, lock himself into a private room at the club and enjoy the serenity of a place where any and all talking was forbidden. And so – he had informed his brothers and lover duly – he would spend his evening.

“Alright,” she nodded, then, after a moment of thought, added, “So, your brother, huh? Not the ‘Lord of Crime,’ I presume?”

Albert smiled a little, somewhat glad that his new acquaintance preferred joking about the matter rather than condemning him and his entire lineage. “No, no. I am referring to a different brother. The youngest one.”

“Of course not. Unless the aforementioned club is a cemetery and there are none on Pall Mall.”

Albert had to, again, do his utmost best to resist laughing. It will make your throat worse. Show some self-control. Even Mycroft’s most enthusiastic ministrations had not been able to ruin it so.

The widow hummed thoughtfully and crossed her arms, “But it really is a silly name.”

“The ‘Lord of Crime’ you mean?”

“Yes. It makes him sound like the villain in a children’s tale. Did you help him come up with it? Were you twelve?”

And that was when Albert lost the fight and burst out laughing. He could not help himself. There had been countless reactions once people figured out the identity of the Lord of Crime – most of them markedly negative. But that? Joking about the matter, mocking the moniker that still struck fear into the hearts of many and interrogating Albert as to whether he helped come up with it? That was new. It truly was something out of a dark comedy. Less than half an hour ago, he had almost been killed, and now he was laughing himself silly about a decidedly sombre subject matter. That revelation only made him laugh harder. Unfortunately, his previous assessment had been correct, and the nigh-uncontrollable laughter was accompanied by painful coughing and darkness encroaching on his vision. At some point, he felt someone grab his arm and an accompanying jolt, making him realise that he had almost slipped off the bench. It took him a while to calm down again and even longer to regain any sort of regularity of breathing – all the while, his saviour had to keep holding his arm lest he fall off. Eventually, he did manage a reply – interspersed with coughing and laughter – “You’re right. It is a bit silly. And to answer your question, no, we did not come up with that. It was a title assigned to him by the press.”

Even after he stopped laughing, it took some time before his coughing and light-headedness had receded to manageable levels and even then, his companion did not deign to let him go.

(“You do not need to keep holding me.”

“Oh really? So, if I were to unhand you, you would not fall to the ground, potentially hit your head, and get a concussion on top of everything else?”)

Eventually – once they both were confident that he could stand up without toppling over – they began to make their way towards Pall Mall. They traversed the park slowly, with the widow matching his gait, walking closer to him than might be proper, but – as she had said already – there were more important things to consider than propriety, and Albert James Moriarty was hardly one to shy away from the scandalous. With both of them upright, he noticed how…small she was. Rather less than five feet and five inches. Strange. She had seemed so imposing when she had rescued him from death and had sent three men packing with nary a word. Of course, Albert was no stranger to short people being formidable (Fred and Moneypenny came to mind), but still.

Somehow, they managed to make it out of the gates of St James’s Park, where it faced the gardens of Marlborough House. The club was less than a third of a mile away, and though he was feeling a tad better already, the distance seemed nigh insurmountable. He found himself glad that the mysterious widow had insisted on escorting him despite his earlier protestations.

They had been taking a small break before the gates when he cleared his throat and turned to her. “I’m afraid my near-death experience has made me forget my manners. Lord Albert James Moriarty, at your service. It’s a pity we did not meet under better circumstances.” He lifted his hat – a tad dirty and dented after the ordeal that evening – in a greeting.

“Posie. May Beatrice Posie,” she replied, “And, well- If we hadn’t met under these circumstances, there would not have been any other opportunities, Lord Moriarty, since you would have been dead, and I confess necromancy is not within my purview.”

“Right again, Mrs Posie,” he found himself ever more fond of this strange widow and her cutting wit the more he spent time with her, “And, I’m afraid nowadays it is only Lord Albert.”

“Oh, right. You lost your titles during the whole debacle.”

“You really do not mince your words, do you, Mrs Posie?"

“I am not in the habit, no.”

Indeed, despite having managed to surrender the title of Earl (with Mycroft’s assistance, bless the man), he had not been able to rid himself of being his father’s son. Before said man’s death, Albert had been, by courtesy, afforded his father’s lesser title, but with all of them stripped off him, he was merely Lord Albert now. The people who carried out the ‘punishment’ seemingly could not bear to call a born-and-bred aristocrat something as pedestrian as ‘Mister’. Even William, had he still been alive in the public’s eye, would have been The Honourable William James Moriarty no matter his crimes.

Albert regarded the road before him and braced himself for the journey he ordinarily would have no issues with, even on a particularly bad day. “Well, then…Shall we?” He tried to inject some confidence in his tone, some levity, but his painfully hoarse voice would not permit it.

He got the distinct impression that Mrs Posie – if that was her real name – was scrutinising him despite being unable to see her face. In the end, though, she relented.

The walk was – as predicted – not an easy one. As they walked along Marlborough Road, there were several instances during which he had to lean on Mrs Posie, and if he ever thought to increase his pace, his body punished him by making him feel faint. It all made him glad that it was dark, and few people were out on the streets, and the ones that were seemed content to mind their own business.

As they finally reached Pall Mall, Albert breathed a sigh of relief. Almost there.

Pall Mall – even at that time of the night – was a lively place – certainly livelier than Marlborough Road – with gentlemen hurrying to and from their clubs and carriages that transported said gentlemen.

“Please…” her voice was faint, causing him to turn to her in surprise and concern, “Please don’t tell me your brother’s club is on the other side of the street.”

 “Not to worry, no street crossings will be necessary here,” he gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“Thank heavens,” she muttered under her breath. “Lead the way then.”

As they arrived at the club’s entrance, Mrs Posie – likely having read the banner hanging off the flagpole – asked, “Your brother is a member of the…Diogenes Club?” Her voice was as high as it had been when they had first met, and there was a mix of disbelief and trepidation in how she posed the question, making her sound…young.

Later, he would smack his forehead in disbelief as to how he could have missed it, but at that moment, the dizziness that had still not dissipated left him with limited access to his wits, so he simply answered her question, “Yes. Is there a problem?”

In the moments between her inquiry and his reply, she had seemingly collected herself somewhat, but her answer was still a tad frazzled, “Ah- no- It’s just a little funny – the brothers of Professor Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes being part of the same club, no?”

Even in his dazed state, he did not believe her for a second, but he felt that after being rescued by her and then escorted to safety, he owed her the right to keep her secrets and merely nodded.

After she had knocked on the door for him (“I do not trust you with stairs right now.”) and he had kindly asked the doorman to get his brother for him, as they were waiting, he turned towards her, fully took his hat off and did his best to bow formally without falling over. “I know I have already thanked you, but I would like to, once again, express my utmost gratitude for saving my life and ensuring my safety in the aftermath.” He made sure to say it with as much sincerity as he could. “If there is anything you might require assistance with in the future, my family and I will do our utmost best to aid you.” It was not a promise to be given out lightly, but he did owe her his life. And he did grow to like her, despite their brief acquaintance and the fact that he did not know her face (nor her name, most likely).

A moment passed. Another one. She did not say anything. Maybe she was stunned?

Then, eventually, she replied, “You’re welcome, Lord Albert. I’ll keep your words in mind.”

Before either of them could get another word out, the door to the club opened and out came Louis, looking distinctly tired and a tad harried, holding a briefcase, which presumably contained the papers he was working on. He would not be the leader of MI6 if he left even the most inconsequential of documents unattended.

“Brother, what-” Whatever question Louis was about to ask died on his lips as his eyes fell to Albert’s neck, “Have you been strangled?” he almost hissed the question, immediately moving closer to his brother to inspect his neck. His frantic manner and murderous expression stood in contrast to his gentle, careful touch.

Albert patiently endured the barrage of questions such as: What happened? Was he alright? Did he need a doctor? What of his attacker?

He answered them all to the best of his abilities. When he got to the last question, he turned to Mrs Posie to introduce his brother to the strange widow who had saved his life, only to find the spot where she stood…empty.

“Where did she go?”