Enola Holmes- The Fox In The Henhouse

Chapter 29

I open my eyes to find sunlight flooding the room, and the smell of firewood and old musty books filling my nose. I go to move my arms but bed sheets cling to them, weighing them down like snakes squeezing their prey. I start to panic, the haze of drowsiness blocking rational thoughts as I try to rip myself out of the bed.

As I try to twist my body I feel an unbearable pain force the air out of my lungs, and I cease up. As I try to escape my bed, I feel a force push down against my shoulders, pinning me there and stopping my movements. The panic soothes, as Sherlock looks over me as he holds me still.

'Calm down.' His tone is hushed and relaxed, but the slight tinge in his words show that my panicking has worried him.

'Sherlock.' I stay still, and he takes his hands away.

As he sits down in the chair next to my bed, I look around the room. My bed is centred in the middle of the back wall, with windows either side. Floor to ceiling bookshelves line the wall to my left, but everywhere else the walls are painted with a bland dark green. To my right, a large fireplace houses a dying flame, as the tired black logs spit out glowing embers from the cracks. Trinkets and dull paintings hang on the wall, and below it a brown fainting sofa.

I have never been inside this room before, but I'm almost certain I'm in Mycroft's Manor based on the decor. The only rooms in his house I've been privy to before are the dining room and foyer. How curious they brought me here.

Now my mind has begun to clear, I push the bed sheets back and slowly try to lift myself up. Sherlock jumps forward, trying to stop me, but I raise my hand and keep pushing myself up despite the
pain. I can't help but cringe as the deep throbbing ache consumes my body, but I desperately try to ignore it as I prop pillows up behind me and breathe a sigh of relief as I lean back.

I take a moment to breath and calm myself, and l look over at Sherlock. 'I'm guessing by your clothes that I've been unconscious for five or six days?' I ask with a slight smile, the best I can muster given the exhaustion and pain.

Sherlock looks down at his clothes before chuckling, realising how I reached my conclusion.

His shirt has some frills around the collar and sleeves, hardly the kind shirt Sherlock would willingly wear, but exactly the kind Mrs Hudson would think he would choose. Thus he asked her to bring him clean clothes, meaning I've been here for at least longer than 2 days. But the fact that he resorted to wearing it shows the clothes he had previously been wearing were no longer suitable (this is of course assuming he has been staying here the entire time i was unconscious, which I think is a reasonable assumption). But the shirt itself is wrinkled, meaning he's slept in this one too. Thus giving me the rough estimate of five to six days. Any longer, and he would have made the effort to get a more extensive wardrobe kept here.

'Five.' Sherlock responds. 'But apparently you did wake briefly yesterday. Do you remember that?'

I shake my head. The last thing I can recall is the attic...

NIGH!

The memories suddenly flood my thoughts. The tunnel, the bomb, the gunshot...

Sherlock must've seen my expression change, because he takes a hold of my hand. I flinch, startled by this unexpected gesture as I'm snapped out of the memories.

'Where's Nigh? And George, is George safe?'

'Nigh is in police custody, and George is recovering in his home.' I breathe a sigh of relief. 'Everything is alright.'

'Sorry. The last thing I remember was the gunshot...' I utter.

Sherlock looks down at his hands, taking a few seconds before he finally speaks. 'The bullet missed your organs, but you suffered a lot of blood loss. We didn't know if you would wake up again. I-' He gulps, taking his hands away from mine. 'I didn't check him for weapons. I'm so sorry.'

I place a hand over my stomach, and feel the large swaths of bandages wrapped around my waist. 'I'm sorry too. I-.' I trail off, unsure of what I should even say. Where to begin?

Sherlock sighs and leans back in his chair. 'Enola.' I turn to him, intimidated by his stern tone. 'What happened?'

I turn away, occupying my hands by fiddling with the bed sheets. 'I was kidnapped.' I reply. 'I thought you would have deduced that by now.'

His gaze stays fixed on me, and even though I'm not looking at him I can feel his eyes bore into my skin. But, I stay silent. Sherlock leans forward in his chair with his hands clasped in front of him.

'A cracked rib, a broken ankle, malnutrition and indications of trauma and beatings.' These words hang in the air, as I stay silent.

'Enola...' Sherlock gulps. 'Do I- Do I need to add... anything... else- to that list?'

Finally I look at him, unsure of what he's asking. I see the look of fear in his eyes, and I realise what he's trying so desperately hard not to ask. I can't blame him for wondering after what he must have seen before pulling Nigh off of me.

'No! No nothing like-' I trail off, and Sherlock lets out a sigh of relief. 'Also, the broken ankle wasn't his fault. At least not directionally. It got caught in between iron bars when I was trying to evade being kidnapped.'

Sherlock nods. 'And the other injuries?'

An awkward silence fills the room.

'How did you find me?' I ask.

Sherlock sighs, stands up and goes to the window. 'I saw your message, of course.' He sees me furrow my eyebrows in confusion. 'This surprises you?'

'No... Well, I suppose it does.' He raises his eyebrow at me. 'I saw your message too.'

'Ah.' He sighs. 'So the question you're asking is - if I had seen the code, what took me so long?'

'It had crossed my mind.'

'920 in 220.' Sherlock takes his seat next to the bed again. 'I admit it did take me a few days to solve it.'

'So you did find the article and signatures?' Just then, the realisation hits me. '... And you thought it meant I was a suffragette.' I laugh, shaking my head in irritation. I'm not mad at the insinuation that I might be a suffragette. I certainly agree with their ideology. It's more the idea that he would consider that I would run away without so much as a goodbye!

Sherlock stays quiet; out of shame I should hope.

'So what brought you to your senses?' I ask, my coarse tone a result of irritation and the constant pain erupting from my stomach and head.

He pauses. 'I simply knew you would never run away in such a manner.' Our eyes meet. 'At least not twice.'

I scowl at him, but still in a joking manner.

Just then, a knock on the door interrupts our conversation.

'Sherlock!' Mrs Hudson calls out in her usual sweet, singing tone. She pushes the door open with her hip, as her hands carry a tray bearing scones and jam. 'I've brought you some-'

She drops the tray with a clatter, sending cutlery and baked goods flying as she lets out a cry of joy. 'OH MY DARLING!' She quickly bustles over to the bed, pushing Sherlock out of the way, and draws me into a tight embrace. She holds my head to her chest as she rocks back and forth, slowly cutting off my oxygen supply.

Eventually she releases me, cupping my face in her cold hands as she sobs uncontrollably. 'Oh my darling girl I'm so glad you're awake!' She brings me back in for another embrace. 'I told John that he better do everything in his power to help you or I would never bake him anything again.'

Sherlock sighs while delicately trying to pry Mrs Hudson off of me. 'She is still in recovery.'

She steps back, whipping away a tear with the corner of her apron. She then takes me by the shoulder and looks me up and down, tutting. 'You poor lamb, you're so thin!' She turns back towards the door and looks at the mess of crumbs on the floor. 'Oh dear. Well I shall have to make you something else! I will make that sponge cake you love, that will make you feel better.' She continues to talk about various pastries and buns as Sherlock ushers her out of the room.

Once he finally closes the door, we both laugh. 'She missed you.' Sherlock muses.