My Mr.Holmes

chapter 12: The game concludes

Sofia's POV:

The sound of clapping tore me away from Sherlock, and I couldn't help but cringe at how sharp and out of place it was.

"Congratulations."

"Lord McIntyre?" Enola turned, her expression tightening with confusion—and perhaps a little anger. "What are you doing here?"

Holding up a slip of parchment, he smiled. "I was summoned." He chuckled. "Your brother knew I'd want to see the right people brought to justice." I glanced at Sherlock, but his face remained unreadable. "And I don't know how to thank you for retrieving this government property and exposing a killer. A rot amongst our ranks. The world shall know the name Enola Holmes. I'll see to it."

Then he pointed, abruptly. "Lestrade, arrest that girl."

Sarah.

I looked at Sherlock in alarm, silently begging him to do something—anything.

But Enola was faster.

"She's done nothing wrong!" she protested.

Lestrade, ever the morally murky figure, hesitated. "On what charge, sir?"

McIntyre replied coldly, "Theft."

I could see the anger blooming on Enola's face as she snapped, "All she stole from you was the truth."

"She took personal information, which she used for extortion and blackmail. That is why she will serve her time."

Sherlock spoke at last. "Ah. But you are mistaken. She wasn't your blackmailer. I summoned you here to draw out the real one. The accounting was masterful—a tangle of roots, yes, but all pointing to one pocket. One person benefitting from it all, unnoticed."

Without missing a beat, Enola added, "Hearing everything. Seeing everything. Ignored for years..."

"Playing them all." I raised an eyebrow. Honestly, the two of them must've been telepathic—how else could they keep finishing each other's sentences?

"It's all a game," Enola said, so quietly I almost thought I imagined it. But the look on her face told me I hadn't. Something had shifted.

"Miss Mira Troy," she said clearly.

McIntyre scoffed, as if the idea were preposterous. "Absurd. I don't believe it."

From the shadows, a familiar figure emerged. I'd seen her before—at Will's ball.

"It's remarkable what can be done when people underestimate you," she said, smiling faintly.

"And then came the problem," Sherlock continued. "William stole the contract."

"He threatened to cut off your money train," Enola said, picking up the thread.

"And you couldn't have that."

"You hired Grail to retrieve the document, but things got out of hand."

"You tried to point us to Lord McIntyre. A rare misstep in your game... Moriarty."

That name—I'd seen it scrawled across Sherlock's notes, assumed it was a code of some kind. Apparently not.

Moriarty glanced up, wide-eyed, playing the part of the innocent. But I knew better. She murdered my friend. I wanted to tear her apart.

"Such a shame our divertissement must end, Mr Holmes," she sighed. "I was rather enjoying it. And you, Enola." The way Sherlock straightened when she said Enola's name made me snort. Inappropriate, considering the situation, but still.