Enola Holmes- The Fox In The Henhouse

Chapter 12

A wave of warm air embraces Sherlock as he enters 221b Baker street, and while he was grateful for the heat he winced at what he knew would follow. It had been 3 weeks since Enola had disappeared, and yet Mrs Hudson would still begin crying hysterically at the slightest mention of her. John had thankfully let her stay at his residence, but after 2 weeks she insisted upon returning after seeing how thin and pale Sherlock was growing. When she did return, it's unclear whether she was crying about Enola, or the mess. Warm air meant she was home and had lit the fire.

Although his freezing hands and aching feet called him to sit in front of the fire with a lit pipe and cup of tea, he could not allow himself. It had been 16 days since his message was posted in the gazette, and there had been no response. While Mycroft insisted this was to stop us from finding her; Sherlock worried it meant she truly was in danger.

As Sherlock climbed the stairs, shaking off his wet hat and coat, he was surprised to find a dark figure sitting in his armchair. And even more surprised upon realising who it was.

Her dark curly hair had developed wisps of grey, and her face had deep creases under the eyes where years of stress had made their mark. But despite this, she still looked as warm and youthful as she did the day Sherlock had left home.

His mother looked up from her book at the sound of Sherlock's cane hitting the floor, and stood up. Her eyes scanned him, quickly taking in the man he had become. 'Sherlock dear, please sit down. You look exhausted.' Without taking his gaze off of her, he shuffled over to the chair and rigidly sat.

After his mother's disappearance, he had spent weeks searching for her, within England and other countries that one might seek refuge in. But no matter what he tried, his efforts yielded no results. So why come to see him now? Only extremity could drive her to such lengths.

He wanted to shout at her, scold her, for leaving Enola. For leaving him... Did she leave him? He hadn't been home for quite some time when she disappeared... Where was she living now? What did she intend to do with the explosives at Limehouse he had discovered so long ago?

He had so many questions that demanded answers, and yet, no desire to ask them.

Once they both sat down, she spoke. 'I've no doubt you're surprised to see me. To be perfectly candid, so am I.' She briefly chuckles, not out of any form of joy; but a desire to break the silence. 'You have grown a lot since-'

'You're here because of Enola, I'm assuming.' She meets his cold glare, and shifts; smoothing out her dress as she tries to hide the blush coming to her cheeks.

'Yes. Your message caught my attention.' Sherlock nods stoically. 'I would've come sooner, but your brother has made that rather impossible.'

'Is she safe?'

Eudoria frowns. 'She didn't run away Sherlock. At least not to any suffragette group I can assure you.' She chides, and waits for him to respond, but he doesn't. 'What makes you think that she did?'

Sherlock goes on to expound the lies, the schematics and the article. At the last one, Eudoria turns to him in confusion. 'What article.'

He goes into a pile of documents on his desk, and draws out a copy of the magazine the article was published in.

Eudoria sits in silence for a minute, carefully examining every word. 'We will gather in position A this saturday.'

'You see. Enola has been a part of some group and helped use these articles as a message to the other members.'

'Enola didn't write these.'

Sherlock begins to correct her, 'The letter wasn't in her hand but we found it in her apartment-'

'No Sherlock. I'm saying she didn't write these. No woman did I guarantee you that.'

Sherlock turns to his mother, taking the article from her and scans it again. Although he hardly needs to as he has it memorised. 'No woman would speak like that I assure you. It's too... Brash. Callow.' She explains in the matter-of-fact sort of way she always spoke in, even when Sherlock was a child.

They sit in silence, Sherlock processing what his mother said. If this was true, then Mycroft was wrong; and Enola was in danger. It's possible his mother was lying, but why risk being caught just to further confuse him. No, the only reasonable conclusion is that she is being honest. But then where is Enola. If she has been taken, then where. It had been a month since she disappeared. There's been no ransom, no more clues. Who's to say, if she had been kidnapped, that she's still...

'Then where could she be?' Sherlock murmured, his voice timid. He felt like a child again, wanting his mother to make the problem go away.

'I don't know.' She spoke softly, and Sherlock couldn't help but feel soothed.

'She admired you so much, you know?' Eudoria muses. 'She would collect every article of every case she could find.' Sherlock felt a bittersweet happiness; a strange relief from the weeks of worry. Enola had told him this, although when she did it was in the context of her scolding him for neglecting to write.

'She was so similar to you. I used to worry that she would grow up and leave me too. How ironic.' A sad smile on her face.

Sherlock felt a sudden burst of anger at this, at his mother joking about how she left Enola. 'Why did you leave her?' He snaps, startling Eudoria with the change in temperament. She hesitates, puzzling over how to answer. A simple enough question, but such a complicated one too.

Finally, she speaks. 'This world looks at Enola, and all it sees is a problem.' she stands from her seats and begins to pace; a habit Sherlock shares. 'Her intelligence and passion being something that needs to be fixed.' She turns to him, 'She deserves so much more.'

'But then, why leave her?' Sherlock asks coarsely, his patience giving way to the frustration of not understanding what she means..

Eudoria looks at Sherlock, the stern look on her face melts and turns to sadness. 'I can't make you understand why I left, but I can say... I knew you would take care of her.'

Sherlock considers this, and while he's not satisfied by this answer, he can't think of an answer that would appease him. He stands from his chair, and walks over to his dear mother. In his faded memories of her, she had always seemed so tall, but now, he towers over the woman.

'She is brave. But more than that, she is kind. The world has an awful habit of destroying that part of people.'

'I will find her. I swear.' A tear rolls down Sherlock's face, and his mother delicately wipes it off his chin; resting her hand against his cheek.

'I have always been proud of you, my son.'

Sherlock had so many more questions that were unanswered, but he knew they would remain that way. For, as quickly as she had appeared, she left. She gave Sherlock a kiss on the cheek, and gracefully swept out of the room.

Sherlock felt tempted to try and see where she would go, wanting to find where she has been hiding all these years. But he doesn't; for reasons he himself doesn't completely understand.