Enola Holmes- The Fox In The Henhouse

Chapter 1

I arrive at the home of Dr and Mrs Watson. As part of an agreement I struck with my brothers Sherlock and Mycroft, I am to make monthly appointments with Dr Watson, so he can assess my health and almost certainly report back to my brother with his findings.

I fear that when I turned 17, in my excitement to tell Sherlock how I solved all my cases during my first year in London, I had let slip about some of the dangers I had faced. In hindsight, telling him how I'd been almost strangled to death by a stranger a mere few hours after first arriving in London, might not have been the best idea; for soon after I could not go more than a day without my brother "bumping" into me to make sure I was alright. There was an incident where late at night, unbeknownst to me I was being followed by Sherlock, and upon seeing a man approach me with a knife he leapt out, disarmed and knocked him down. However, it transpired that the sinister looking man was, in fact, an old beggar woman; and the knife was a metal plate with a few coins in it.

So it was agreed that I was to attend these check-ups in return for my own privacy and personal space. Although, while I usually look forward to the visits, I did not today. I had made a promise to my brothers, that whatever the origin of my various cuts and bruises (and in one case, burns) I must always allow Dr Waston to inspect them and be truthful about how I got them. A promise I had kept, even when it resulted in me receiving a haranguing from Mycroft, telling me that it wasn't very lady-like of me to jump out of a cab going at full speed. But today not only was I going to break my promise, but lie to Dr and Mrs Watson. I have come to see them as parental figures, and I think they have come to care for me a great deal as well. I usually arrive early to the appointments, so that I may drink tea with Mrs Watson. However when she descended the stairs I explained that I lost track of time; this was of course a lie as I had purposefully arrived late (or I suppose on time) as to avoid talking.

It wasn't long before Dr. Watson returned home and greeted me, before we went into his office to begin. First he asks the series of usual questions. If I've shown any worrying symptoms and if I've had to seek any other medical attention after our last check up. After taking notes, we go into the small examination room off to the side of his office. Its considerably smaller than the one at his work and, apart from my appointments, he mainly uses it for emergencies. While he weighs me, and takes my measurements (on Mycroft's insistence) he shares details of Sherlocks latest cases. Usually I love to hear these stories, but today I couldn't help but have my mind drift onto my own case.

For the final part, I have to strip down to my undergarments. I was quite dreading this part. As soon as he sees the bandage on my arm I see his brow furrow in concern, making my stomach twist.

'What's this?' He asks, gently taking my arm. I resist the urge to pull it away.

'I cut myself on a fence I was climbing. It's really nothing to worry about. There wasn't much blood so I simply bandaged it myself.' I explained, keeping my voice rational and calm, even though I felt anything but.

'Let me take a look.' He goes to unwrap the bandages when I snatch my arm away. Taken aback, he stares at me 'Enola?'

'It really is nothing.' I say, trying to convince him, even though I know my hasty reaction has made doing so quite impossible.

His concerned stare stabs at my heart and against my better judgement, I hold out my arm. He carefully begins to unwrap it, revealing bandages that grow more and more bloody. When the gash is finally revealed, he gasps slightly. I suppress the urge to as well, for it looked much more swollen from when I bandaged it yesterday.

He quickly regains his composure. 'This is going to need stitches.' He says as he begins to go through his draws, grabbing disinfectants, more bandages and his needle and thread. 'You should have come to me after you sustained it.' His voice, while stern, contains a hint of disappointment and, dare I say, worry.

While he wouldn't say it, I know he very much doubts I got the injury through a climbing accident. I should have planned a better explanation, but perhaps now I can cover up my lie with another. I sigh heavily, 'I'm sorry. I lied.' He turns to me in surprise. 'I ventured out last night as the sister, and saw someone being attacked. There were too many of them, I shouldn't have intervened by myself. I saved her, but got cut in the process.'

Dr Watson lets his disappointment show while he stitches me up, and while I hate to let him down I do feel satisfied in feeling he believes me. 'It was a stupid mistake, and I should have come to you immediately and been honest. I was just... embarrassed.' I stare at him with dejected eyes, he sighs and smiles gently at me.

'I suppose there was no real harm done.' He finishes the last stitch and begins to bandage my wound. 'In 2 weeks, you can come back and I'll remove them. Until then, be sensible.' I schedule an appointment with him, and he insists on it happening at Baker Street. This so that my brother can scold me for taking unnecessary risks and lying. Hopefully by then, I will have solved the case and be able to properly explain myself to him. Even though that conversation is going to result in many more arguments.

I leave the house, after saying farewell to Mrs Watson and take a cab to Covent garden. I arrive at the launders just before they close, and hand them a bag containing my blood stained a broken dress. After having to lie to them too about the origin of the injury, I give them my address to send it back. The cabs were beginning to grow scarce in numbers, and I thought a walk may do me good; these past few weeks have been tumultuous at best.