Enola Holmes- The Fox In The Henhouse

Chapter 2

The sun has long since set by the time I make my way to my home. The winds of winter are beginning to blow, and puddles from constant drizzle pool on the side of the roads. I walk along, enveloped in thought, when I hear a splash followed by footsteps. I whisk round, my eyes scanning the smog covered streets. I wait a few seconds, but after seeing nothing I continue on my path.

It's just your imagination Enola. Don't be so silly. Or it's a beggar woman, or perhaps street-children. I had only just begun to relax, when I sensed I was being watched. I don't stop walking, but I slowly reach into my corset, ready to grab my dagger. When all of a sudden I see several large silhouettes descend from the shadows. They quickly surround me, their hands grabbing me before I have anytime to react. I go to scream but it's muffled by a gag they shove into my mouth. Dear lord!

I quickly jerk my right arm, landing it bellow the rib cage of one of them. As he doubles over I grab his arm, swinging him round and bowling over several others. Then man holding my left arm yanks it, trying to pull it behind my back and my scream is stifled as I feel my stitches rip. Nevertheless, I whip round and punch him in the face with my right hand before grabbing his shoulders and pulling him over my right leg that I plant in front of me. His whole weight falls forward and he spills onto the ground.

I see one of them get up in time for me to draw out my dagger that I keep concealing in the bosom of my corset and plunge it into his side, before slicing it across the arms of another two men who have since gotten up. Howling, they leap back holding their wounds, and I seize my chance to run. One of them is able to grab my elbow but I bend backwards and aim for his leg. Reaching my mark the dagger is plunged into his thigh. I pull it out, but the handle is slick with warm blood, and while turning to run it slips out of my hand. I hear it clatter down a gutter as I run.

I scan my surroundings, I realise I'm so close to my home. My thoughts start racing.

Who are they?

How did they know where I live?

I hear more footsteps up ahead of me, so I double back. Ye gods, how many are there?

I approach something I recognise, and upon realising what I race over the fence of my own garden, but in my haste my foot slips and I tumble over, catching my other foot in the railing and twisting it. I let out a loud scream, making me glad I hadn't yet removed the gag they placed in my mouth, but tears began to stream down my face as I dislodge my foot and cradle it in agony.

'We have the place surrounded. She must be here.' I hear a gruff voice barking orders. Trembling with pain and fear, I start trying to pull the gag out of my mouth, but no matter how I claw at it the blasted thing won't budge. I feel the strap wrapped around my head, and at the back there is a lock. Were I to have my dagger, I could simply cut the strap but I've no idea where I dropped it and the leather is too thick for the penknife in my shoe. They have the area surrounded. I can't scream for help. I can barely walk.

I begin to stand up, but the second I put any weight on my left foot, my whole body doubles over in pain. I hear footsteps approaching.

Silly girl. You will do very well on your own, Enola. I quietly curse mother and myself, for maybe if I hadn't of tried to do it on my own I wouldn't be in this mess.

That's when a thought struck me. For I was alone now, but that doesn't mean I always am. I look up and clearly see my study window.

It rained all day today, but judging by the clouds and temperature, I'm willing to bet it won't again tonight or tomorrow. The perfect conditions to leave a message in the mud!

But what to write. I can't risk anything too specific. If they see it after finding me, they'll erase it and it will all be for nought. But it must be something Sherlock understands. I only have a short amount of time before they find me! Think, Enola

My thoughts twist and turn, running through the different codes both I and Sherlock know.

Suddenly I know what to write, and while I'd rather not lead him to it, I know I must. I take a stick out from the ground, and while leaning some of my weight on it to ease my foot, I begin to carve into the fresh mud. It takes a few seconds, but once I'm finished I step back, ensuring it's readable. I hesitate, for even though I know it's necessary, I still cringe at the thought. Once I'm finished, I begin to hobble away still using the stick as a cane; I prey that Sherlock will see and understand my message. But I must lead them away from it.

I limp through the gate as quickly as I can, and as soon as I do they shout and hurry towards me. I try to resist, and let out a muffle yelp when I further twist my ankle. Three of the goons lift me up, and even though I know it's futile, I twist and scramble trying to break free. Eventually I'm hoisted into the back of a large cab and I feel the sharp prick of a needle in my neck.

The world begins to soften, and the sound of doors slamming in front of me plunges my jail into darkness. As the cab jutters into a start, I lay back, weeping as the world spins and fades into silence.