My Mr.Holmes

Chapter 3: Trouble finds us

Sofia's POV:

We had now spent nearly a week in London, and somehow, I was beginning to feel at home. The bustling streets, the market chatter, the bookstore's scent of old paper—it was all becoming familiar. Still, I missed Mother. Quietly. Constantly.

The bookstore kept me busy. There were customers every day, and Thomas, sweet, old Thomas, let me keep a few books for myself. He was a kind soul, and if I believed in angels, he might just be one.

"Alright, Thomas, I'm done for the day. I'll see you tomorrow, alright?"

"Yes, yes, dear. And thank you for the cake, it was delicious."

"You're welcome. Have a good evening."

"Good day, Sofia. Give my best to that brother of yours."

"I will. Bye!"

It was Sunday, which meant I was allowed to leave early, 1 p.m. instead of 5. I decided to visit Flower at his stall, just to check in.

"Hello, brother. When are you done today?"

"Oh, hello, Sof. I'm finishing early today, too, but I've still got a few bouquets left. Why?"

"No reason, really. I just thought we could go to the park or something. But it can wait."

He shrugged, already returning to his flowers.

"I want four yellow ones, two blue, and a red," said a voice behind me—sharp, certain, unmistakable.

We both turned, and I blinked. No. It couldn't be.

"I don't care about the breed," she continued. "Any flower will do."

Flower stared. "What are you doing here?"

"Why, if you're passionate about flowers," Enola said smoothly, "would you come to London of all places?"

"Because I can be lost here."

"And yet I found you," she replied.

Flower looked wounded, almost betrayed. "You came for the reward, didn't you? They've offered one, haven't they?"

That hurt to hear. I knew Enola would never stoop so low—but even suspicion leaves bruises.

"Have they? I didn't know," she said with a smirk. "Well then, I must tie you up and claim it!" She reached to grab him, laughing.

Apparently, she hadn't noticed me yet.

"Enola!" I said, stepping forward. "I can't believe it—it's so good to see you again."

She turned, eyes softening. "Sofia! It's good to see you too. I came because... you're still in danger."

⸻

We left the market, and as we walked, Enola explained. She had gone back to our family's manor, and it was Flower's old treehouse, with its collection of carefully pressed flowers, that had helped her track us down.

She brought us to her lodgings. The room was small, dimly lit, but cozy in its own odd way.

"Is this how you're living?" Flower asked, surprised.

"Did you just rent a room at the Ritz?" she shot back.

I burst out laughing. Compared to our cramped flat with one bed and a leaky window, this wasn't much worse.

Then, of course, Flower was caught staring at her undergarments drying by the window, so I smacked him on the head.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"You know what."

Trying to distract myself, I turned to the scattered newspapers. "These are old, are you looking for something?"

"Yes," Enola said quietly. "A message. From Mother. She hasn't written yet... but she might still."

"She will," I told her. "Soon."

⸻

Then came the truth: someone had hired a murderer—to kill Flower and our father. My heart sank. Somehow, I wasn't surprised. I was older than Flower, and I'd carried suspicions for years. But it didn't soften the blow.

"It's alright," I said gently, reaching for my brother. "That's in the past. Now we have to survive the future, okay?"

"Okay," he nodded, eyes downcast.

That was when chaos returned.

A man burst into the room—tall, hard-faced, and furious. Enola acted fast, hurling a kettle at his head with impressive precision. We ran, pushing past him, slamming the door shut behind us.

"Help me hold it!" Enola yelled. We shoved a chest against it, but it barely held. I could hear him battering against the frame. Enola's face turned pale.

"That's Lestrade," she muttered. "Detective Lestrade. He's worked with my brother before."

Brilliant, I thought grimly.

She tried to reason with him through the door, to convince him to let us go—but he wouldn't budge.

"See that window?" she said quickly, turning to me. "It leads to the roof. You'll have to climb out. Take Flower and run."

"And leave you?" I said, stunned.

"I need to hold the door."

"I can do that. You go with him—I'm older, Enola. It should be me. Please, let me help."

"If he catches you, your life is at risk. If he catches me, it's just a life I don't want. Go!"

"I don't want to leave you!"

The door creaked, Lestrade was close. Too close.

"Go! Go!" she shouted.

I turned to Flower, grabbed his hand, and helped him through the window. He looked back only once.

"Enola, please let them take me," I begged, still lingering.

She met my eyes. "Tewkesbury needs you, Sofia. You must go. Please. For him."

That broke me.

I climbed out after Flower, my chest aching, praying she'd follow.

⸻

I felt horrible leaving her behind. Every single day, I think about that moment and ask myself if I could've done more. But then I remember my promise to Father: to protect Flower. And I can't do that if I'm dead.

Flower, for his part, blamed himself, agonised over abandoning her. But I assured him Enola was safe. She had told me where her brother might take her. And even though she'd be miserable, I knew she'd survive.

She always did.