Enola Holmes- The Fox In The Henhouse

Chapter 20

'Sherlock?' Watson stood over the slumbering detective, shaking his shoulders to wake him.

Sherlock looked, and smelt, like a mess. His black hair was dishevelled, and his usually immaculate black suit was crumbled and stained. He slowly opened his eyes, and his headache was immediately intensified by the bright light from the morning sky, and the sound that erupted from every movement Watson was making. He groaned, swaying slightly as he tried to sit up in his stupefied state as Watson faffed around, trying to sober him up by pouring tea down his throat. He wafted Watson away, standing up and stretching his sore muscles. Only now, while he was looking around, did he realise where he was. He was in Enola's house, and had apparently slept on her sofa in her library. He doesn't exactly remember how he got here, or the last few days in fact.

Watson placed a fresh set of clothes next to Sherlock, and leaned against Enola's desk with his arms crossed and the same disappointed expression that Sherlock was accustomed to seeing when waking up in this state.

'Have you come here with any news?' Sherlock asked in a terse tone.

'No.' Watson admits. 'Mrs Hudson was worried about you.'

Sherlock grumbles in response as he goes into the next room.

Since his unexpected meeting with- Well, he hasn't exactly been emotionally stable. Not being able to solve a case is frustrating at the best of times, but with all these implications and his own sister's safety in jeopardy...

Sherlock gets changed into the fresh, nearly identical suit Watson had given him, and sat back down in the study.

'Sherlock, I'm speaking to you now as a doctor and a friend. This isn't healthy. You need to eat and sleep, and drink something other than wine!'

Watson sighs, frustrated with his friend's ignoring of his pleas. 'I know you are worried about Enola-'

'I can't rest until she's safe. You should understand that.' He snaps.

Watson, alarmed but not surprised by this outburst, gets up from the sofa and sits across from Sherlock. 'If Mycroft is correct, then surely she is safe?'

'She didn't run away.'

'Yes, but how can you be sure?'

'I JUST KNOW' Sherlock shouts. He pauses, already embarrassed and ashamed for raising his voice in such a manner to his friend.

He hasn't told anyone of his meeting with Eudoria. How could he? Mycroft would go on the warpath. And Watson? He just couldn't face answering any questions about it right now.

They sit in awkward silence, before finally Sherlock speaks; talking in a hushed tone. 'There are so many things that don't add up, I can't make sense of them.' Perhaps it's the weeks of stress and little sleep that have made him so emotional; but Sherlock now finds himself close to tears. 'We don't know how long she has been lying to us about her whereabouts, or how long she has been attending these secret meetings, or if she even has been attending these secret meetings. Why would she leave me a clue to find the letters and articles? And do they have anything to do with the code on her desk?'

'You haven't been able to open the desk?' Watson asks in surprise, and Sherlock shoots him a disgruntled look causing him to try and back track this statement. 'I simply mean- well, it's Enola! How many options can there be?'

'Forty thousand, three hundred and twenty.' Sherlock responds. Watson walks over to the desk, stunned by the number.

Sherlock continues 'It's made even more complicated by the fact that Enola set the code.'

'What do you mean, Holmes?'

Sherlock lays back on the sofa pinching the bridge of his nose, already tired of being conscious. 'Enola would've chosen a code specifically designed to stop Mycroft and I from guessing it. Whatever the combination is, it's probably the last thing I'd expect it to be.' He goes on to detail various years and numbers he's tried when a sound, as clear as day, rings out throughout the room.

A click.

A click.

Sherlock bolts up, to see Watson standing next to the desk, with the lid hinged open. He sits in stunned silence, gawking.

Instantly, he strides over and stands besides Watson. 'How on earth...' His voice fades into silence as he looks to see what the combination was.

0601 and 1202

Sherlock and Mycroft's birthday...

'I thought of the combination that you were the least likely to think of...' Watson replies, his voice fading to silence as he's as surprised, if not more, then Sherlock is.

His sister! His oh-so-very-clever sister! Sherlock can't help but laugh and cry at the same time. Of course Enola chose this! So elegantly simple, yet he would never have thought of it!

In a daze, he slowly opens the desk, looking at the treasures his sister so fiercely protected.

What lay before him wasn't a clue, or a piece of evidence as he had hoped for, but something much more valuable. Now he understood his sister's desire to hide this from him, for what lay before him were simply memories.

The first thing to catch his eye was Dash, the pine cone she had turned into a pet as a child, and next to that, the book mother had given her on her 16th birthday entitled "The Meaning of Flowers". She had also kept the ribbon from Sherlock's gift on her 17th birthday, and what looks to be over a hundred letters. Sherlock took out her journal, which she predominantly used as a sketchbook. He couldn't help but laugh at the caricatures of himself, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson and Watson, amongst many others. The majority were rather unflattering, which didn't surprise him as he knew Enola would usually draw when angry with someone, as a way to calm down. There were several of Mycroft looking as pompous as ever, and of himself looking arrogant. But near the back, there were some drawings that weren't caricatures.

Sherlock admired the swift thin lines, and marks where she had clearly erased bits repeatedly, showing she must have spent a lot of time trying to perfect these. There was Tewksbury, smiling brightly with flowers dotted about the border. And on the next page, himself and Mycroft. Both of these drawings were so accurate and detailed. So filled with love.

Now, more than ever, Sherlock was certain she didn't run away.

He took out some of her letters, unable to stop himself from rifling through them, when his heart stopped. It was as if the world fell silent as he lifted out a letter written in Mycroft's hand. He paid no attention to the actual contents of the letter. It was the paper itself that Sherlock was interested in.

Watson stared in confusion, as Sherlock bolted across the room and started to frantically search through the loose paper that now covered the floor. Finally he stopped, finding what he was looking for. The original article Enola had hidden in her bookcase- written on the same paper as Mycroft's letter. The article was written in the Battersea Club!

Sherlock's thoughts were racing wildly. Somehow Enola must've obtained this letter, and almost certainly spotted it was the same paper as the one Mycroft had used to write to her. So she knew the author was a member of the Battersea club. And how to find out who? She used the petition!

Sherlock grabs the petition, and scans through the handwriting to see which matches. His oh-so-clever sister would then have the name and address of the author, and with the code "920 in 220", she led Sherlock to it too.

Lord Michael Nigh.