Enola Holmes- The Fox In The Henhouse

Chapter 31

I don't want to admit how long it took me to get dressed this morning. Not just because of the bullet wound, but because of the amount of ridiculous and inconsequential decisions that I spent hours thinking about. Usually when I think about clothes, it's within the context of a disguise. You'd truly be surprised the effect small things can have on how the public perceives you. The best disguises are uniforms, for the simple reason that when people see a nurse or an officer, the attention is drawn by the uniform; not by the person themselves. People make quick judgements all the time, categorising strangers in their minds. And I often use this to my advantage.

But today my intention was not to be ignored, but to be seen. Not seen by just anyone, by Tewksbury. I bet my mother would roll her eyes if she saw the amount of effort I was putting it. I probably would too if I weren't the one doing it. And usually I don't care about these kinds of things. But after having everyone look at me like I'm fragile and a step away from death for over a month now, I find myself truly missing the way Tewksbury looks at me. Like I'm beautiful.

After a steady diet of Mrs Hudson force feeding me soup and cake, I don't look as skeletal as I did when I first woke up. But I still use some makeup and blush to hide my remaining gaunt features. While getting dressed did take quite some time, the thing that took the longest was convincing Eliza that I was perfectly capable of doing so alone.

As I slowly make my way out of my room and down the corridor with my crutches, I find Sherlock waiting by the front door. He quickly ushers me to sit in a comfy, wicker chair while I wait for Tewksbury before disappearing into another room. When he reappears, he's carrying several items of fur clothing which he begins to wrap around me.

'Sherlock stop! I'm perfectly fine.' I protest.

'Watson made it clear that your immune system is still weak.' Sherlock says as he hands me a muff.

'I think this is a tad too much.' I laugh as I take off two of the scarves. 'And I can't even wear the muff.'

'Why?'

'Well, I need both my hands to use the crutches.' I say, chiding him for his moment of stupidity. However, when he pulls out a wheelchair from the other room, I realise he was being stupid in an entirely different way.

'I am NOT using the wheelchair.' I huff, crossing my arms.

Sherlock sighs. 'Why ever not.'

'I am perfectly capable of walking around myself. I do NOT need to be pushed about like a baby in a perambulator!' I exclaim.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at me as I stare him down. Out of the three Holmes' siblings, I'm the most stubborn. Mycroft is a close second. Yet I'm embarrassed to admit that what Sherlock said next was more than enough to make me yield to his demands.

'Enola Holmes! If you wish to be allowed to go out, you will stop acting like a spoilt child this instant. You know very well that you're not allowed to use the crutches for an extended period yet, so you either use the wheelchair or I will carry you back to your room!' Sherlock exclaims.

I can only stare at him in shock, as this is the first time he's shouted at me in such a manner. My eyes fall to the floor, and I nod.

He puts the chair next to me and helps me into it. Neither of us say anything. Me, because I'm hurt by his shouting. And him, because I know he's beginning to feel bad for hurting my feelings.

Finally Sherlock speaks. 'I'm sorry, but you are aware that Mycroft doesn't even know about this?'

I look at him in surprise.

'He still doesn't want you going out. Or see Tewksbury.' He admits.

So Sherlock is doing this all behind our brother's back? I'm almost proud!