Enola Holmes- The Fox In The Henhouse

Chapter 5

I wake up, waves of pain punching their way through my deep sleep. I lay for a few seconds with my arm over my eyes to shield them from the piercing sunlight. When I eventually open them I try to register where I am, but the room feels like it's spinning and I'm blinded by the burning light.

My brain is being flooded by the events of last night, only intensifying the migraine. Anything that knocks someone out as quickly as whatever they gave me last night can be dangerous if you get the quantity wrong. You have to be very careful when taking into account the person's weight, height and tolerance. I know this of course from my own experience of using them.

Whoever guessed the amount to use on me must have miscalculated, because as soon as I try to sit up my stomach tightens and begins to vomit all of its contents. I'm just able to grab a chamber pot from underneath my bed in time to be sick, I then slide it onto the floor, lay back down and pass out covered in a sheen of sweat and trembling.

When I awake again, I feel much better. Physically that is, however now I'm able to grasp the true horror of my situation and I'm emotionally much worse off. I'm now wearing completely different clothes, a white flowing nightgown of sorts, and I no longer have my corset or enhancers. This comes with the disturbing realisation that someone must have taken them off me while I was unconscious.

I pull my knees to my chest when I notice the shackle on my left ankle, and the makeshift splint bandaged to my right. I hug my legs and breath deeply, trying desperately to push down the impulse to burst into tears. I'm injured, I'm imprisoned and... I'm alone. You will do very well on your own, Enola.

I shake my head, as if trying to shake out the hysteria. I need to think logically. Assess my situation. They seem to have transformed their attic into a make-shift prison for me. There are a few small windows with which I can see a section of a familiar garden, the garden I hide in but a few nights earlier. That confirms my suspicions; this is Lord Nigh's doing.

There are light patches of the wooden floor where I assume boxes of long-forgotten toys and clothes were stored; left to gather dust until they were cleared out to make room for me. There's my bed, a single with an elegant wooden headboard dusted in cobwebs. On one of the posts the name Albert has been crudely carved into it, and below it (slightly smaller and more delicately) the name George.

The roof of the attic is pointed, reminding me of a wizards tower, with beams running across the middle.

My thoughts are halted as I hear someone climbing the stairs and getting closer to me. When they stop, they slide back a cover in the door, revealing a horizontal slit they use as a peep hole. They make eye contact with me, before sliding the cover over it again and walking back down the stairs. I try to go up to the door, to see if i can slide the cover off from the inside, but the chain on my leg stops me halfway across the room. I hobble back to my bed and lay back down.

10 minutes later I hear the clanging of keys, and the door is unlocked and a boy enters with food. I assumed he was a servant, but his hair and clothes showed he was a lord. He looks to be the same age as me, but his tall stature and gaunt features give the illusion of age. He must be a son. How odd for them to send him in rather than a servant. He must have been sent as a means to "assess" me. He places down a bowl of soup and a plate with a hunk of bread onto a small wooden table by the foot of my bed. He then promptly gets out of my range and stands by the door. After doing so he looks at me as I struggle to get up, having to hold onto the bed to avoid putting weight on my foot. As I do he shuffles nervously, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Since he does not appear to be a threat, and he is here to "assess" me after all, I decide to test him a little.

'Thank you, George.' As soon as I say his name he freezes, his eyes wide with fear.

'How did- How did you know my name?' I don't respond, tearing off a piece of bread. I try my best to do so calmly, despite the sudden realisation of just how hungry I am.

'Did you know that or are you- you know- like Sherlock?' My heart pangs at the sound of my brother's name. Well at least now I know they know who I am, otherwise he would've just assumed I learnt it before I came here. But since he knows I'm Sherlock's sister...

Under these circumstances, I shouldn't show my hand as it were. But given that he already knows who I am, and the pride I always feel from being compared to my brother (also the slight urge to brag), I decide to explain how I deduced he was George.

'This is a child's bed. And it's probably been here for several years given the density of cobwebs and the marks on the floor that show, until recently, you stored several boxes around it. There are two names carved in the post, Albert and George. George was carved below Albert and smaller, implying that George is the younger brother.' I explain. I decide to stop there as, even though I should feel no remorse for him as he is one of my captors, I would feel rather mean telling him I knew he was George because of his nervous demeanor that matches the way the name was carved. Although, judging by his face, I think he connected those dots.

He stands in awe. Silence lingers between the two of us for a few seconds, before he turns, ready to leave. 'Wait.' His hand lingers on the door knob, tensing up at my command. 'I answered your question honestly. In return, I'd like to request a copy of the gazette and a book. To read.' I add quickly, as if reassuring him that I'm not going to use them to somehow escape.

He faces me again, looking at me quizzically. 'Why do you want to read the newspaper?'

'George Nigh, I don't know if you've ever been imprisoned before, but it is quite dull.' Which is true. Besides being terrified, there isn't much for one to do.

His cheeks turn read and he hurries out of the door, leaving me to wolf down my meal. Later, a maid comes up to retrieve my empty plates and leaves me with two copies of the gazette and 'A study in Scarlet'... Hilarious.

One of the copies is from the 15th and the other the 16th. So I was asleep for a full day. The 16th's headline reads "Police call for information on any Suffragist activity." Oh...

One would think that Mycroft and Sherlock would be attempting to plaster my face across all newspapers in an attempt to find their missing sister. It is possible they don't know I'm missing yet. It has only been two days since my appointment with Dr Watson, and while I did rather expect an extremely angry Mycroft to break down my door the next day it is also possible he could have not been as irate about the situation as I was expecting. Or possibly he did but presumed I was out on a case. I am the world's first Scientific Perditorian, a job that involves a lot of undercover work and "stake outs". Indeed, technically I'm not the world's first Scientific Perditorian, Dr Leslie Ragostin is. I am merely his assistant. But seeing as I invented Dr Ragostin, I end up doing most of his work.

No, its not the fact that they are making no public attempt to find me I'm bothered by. When I ran away at 16 they kept the incident out of the papers as much as possible then too; not wanting to have our private affairs publicised. No that's not what is bothering me, it's that the police want information on the suffragettes. This in it of itself is not odd, as the government despises them, and New Zealand legalising the female vote this summer has increased activity. But why now. The article goes on, but gives very little detail as to the cause of this bid for information. Given that it's on the front page, one would think it was crucial.

I feel sadness swelling in my throat, and tears pour from my eyes, for I realise the nature of this bid may not be unrelated to my disappearance. Say they knew I was missing, and discovered I hadn't been completely honest with them for sometime, maybe then the only logical explanation to draw is that, I had followed in my mother's footsteps. I wouldn't blame my brothers if they thought I had run away. But surely they trust me.

I allow myself to keep crying for a few minutes, cool tears rolling down my burning red cheeks. Eventually, I calm my breathing and dry my eyes. I can't let my captors see my cry. I must be strong. If my brothers do believe I've run away, then they'll be looking in completely the wrong direction. I'm going to have to get myself out of this.

You will do very well on your own, Enola...