Surprise, I'm back in this fandom again, after 3 years of absence. Miss me?
I recently read the Enola Holmes books and LOVED them. So take this crossover/AU thing I just had to write. If you haven't read those series, I highly recommend you do, but essentially, what you need to know is that Enola is Sherlock's and Mycroft' younger sister. Like, decades younger. The original books are set in the Victorian age, and Enola runs from her brothers when their mother runs away so she doesn't get shipped off to boarding school. I've tried to put as many Easter eggs from the original books as possible into this, but of course, this is a modern-day AU.
I have no beta, and this isn't Britpicked. Any mistakes are my own. I don't own BBC Sherlock or the character of Enola Holmes.
Tell me what you think!
The flat is eerily quiet, Sherlock observes, when John is not home. It's almost lonely, and Sherlock doesn't like it. He frowns and flips to press his face into the couch cushions, ignoring vapid musings of the talk show host on the crap show he'd been watching. His phone buzzes, and he lifts a hand to fumble for it, bringing it up to his face with interest.
Mummy's disappeared. Again. - MH
Sherlock's interest immediately fizzles out. Shifting onto his back, he taps out a quick reply.
Not my problem. - SH
He sets his phone on his chest and wonders where Mummy could have run off to. When he was a child, she always told him stories of traveling with the Rromani people. That's the first place he'd look.
Why are you telling me this? You're the one set to inherit the estate. - SH
Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. We have bigger concerns to worry about. - MH
Like? - SH
Enola. - MH
Ooh, Sherlock winces. He forgot about Enola. Sherlock taps his phone to his chest twice and scowls. He presses a button and lifts his phone to his ear, pushing up from his sprawl on the couch and dancing over to grab his coat.
The phone rings once before Mycroft picks up, the familiar weary sigh instantly grating on Sherlock's nerves.
"Why must I be involved in this?" Sherlock says childishly. He presses his phone in between his cheek and shoulder and shrugs on the Belstaff over his dressing gown. "Mummy made it very clear we were not to be involved in Enola's affairs. I've met the girl once!"
"Mummy always said you would be a poor influence on her," Mycroft says mildly. "I've personally met Enola three times."
Sherlock blows an annoyed raspberry into the speaker of the phone and listens to another one of Mycroft's annoyed huffs.
"Believe me," Mycroft says, the sneer in his voice evident. "I would prefer nothing else than to handle this... situation on my own."
"But?" Sherlock wraps his scarf around his neck and ruffles his hair, swinging the door to the flat closed.
"Enola requested for the both of us come." At Sherlock's stunned silence, Mycroft gives a little laugh. "Surprising, I know. I think she's a rather big fan of John's blog."
Sherlock groans, bounding lightly down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson is clanking dishes now in her kitchen, and he sniffs the air, idly wondering when she made the switch to off-brand detergent.
"How long will this little meeting take place?" Sherlock drawls, waltzing outside and pulling the door knocker crooked, the way John does it. "Busy. Clients. You know how it is."
"Get in the car, Sherlock," Mycroft says. The CCTV camera is pointed in his direction as a warning, and Sherlock swallows down the urge to ignore it and walk. He slides into the sleek black car waiting and hangs up the phone. Mycroft's assistant is already sitting there, typing away hurriedly on her BlackBerry.
"Sherlock," she greets, not bothering to look up. He sniffs, sticks his nose in the air, and doesn't deign to give her a proper response. She smiles to herself.
"You know, I hope your sister turns out to be much more charming than you," she tells him. He scowls, and the drive to Mycroft's office is tense.
Sherlock barges into Mycroft's office, already planning on shutting down any arguments his brother might use in defense. "I don't want the estate, nor am I interested in tracking down Mummy. I have no interest in taking a trip down to the house. You like control, Mycroft, and I'm giving it to you. What more could you possibly want from me?"
Mycroft stands behind his desk and clears his throat in a peeved warning. "Pay him no heed, Enola; he's just being his usual childish self."
Sherlock falters a bit. A little chair swivels around in front of the desk, and a mischievous looking teenage girl grins at him. Sherlock blinks. Was Enola a teenager already?
"Well?" Enola says, looking over her shoulder to Mycroft. "Aren't you going to invite him to sit down?"
Mycroft flaps a hand towards the seat next to her, a slight crease between his eyes, and Enola grins, pleased. Sherlock eases down, momentary shock at how grown up she's become fading away into the familiar beats of logic and observation.
Thirteen, no fourteen, years old now, obviously higher than average intelligence, bitten nails from worry at the situation - more of a one time thing, a childhood habit resurrected - scuffed clothes pants a tad too short for her age, leaves still stuck in her hair from climbing trees, scraped knees from bike riding, really now, does this girl act her age?
He shakes his head slightly to clear away the observations. He raises an eyebrow at her studying him just as intently.
"I've met you all of once," Sherlock says, not beating around the bush. "Why, pray tell, am I here?"
Enola tilts her head to the side. "You're my brother," she says, like it's obvious and Sherlock's the dumb one for not getting it.
Sherlock bites back the urge to make a face. Sentiment, he thinks. He doesn't disagree, but with one glance at Mycroft, he knows he's thinking the same thing. Enola observes the look between the two of them, a flash of envy flitting across her face.
Ah, Sherlock thinks. Jealous. Desires a close sibling relationship. More sentiment. Boring.
"Let's get down to business, shall we?" Mycroft says. He spreads out a panel of folders on his desk. Enola grabs one and flips through it, pleasant expression gone in a flash. "I've already gone ahead and gathered for you a list of the top boarding schools in the country," Mycroft says. "Cost is no expense. Your trust fund will do adequately. And I assume Mummy left you additional money, too?"
Enola ignores him. "I'm not going to a boarding school," she sneers, setting the folder back on the desk.
Mycroft blinks and smiles, the fakeness of which threatens to blind Sherlock. "Of course you are," he dismisses. "Your education prior to now has been rather... lackluster. Can you believe it, Sherlock? Mummy would never have dared to send us to a public sector school."
Sherlock rolls his eyes, not interested in backing Mycroft up in the slightest. He drags his fingertips over the nearest file, flipping it open and crinkling his nose at the cost of annual tuition.
What a waste of money, he thinks, a slight sneer on his face, for an education geared more towards molding her to becoming a proper lady than truly teaching the subjects that matter.
"Mummy must have been losing her touch," Mycroft continues, unaware to Enola's bristling. "We'll find her, don't worry. But of course, her guardianship has been transferred to me now," Enola's squawk interrupts him, and Sherlock looks up, eyebrow raised.
Enola's face is red with anger now, with her nails digging into the palms of her hands and both feet pressed against the floor, ready to spring up. "You can't just do that!" she spits, and Mycroft narrows his eyes. "I don't want you as my guardian!"
"It's already been done," he says coolly. "Mummy has proven to be unfit for guardianship; this is not the first time she's run off, leaving me, with the, ah, pleasure of caring for yet another of my younger siblings." He spits out pleasure the same way he would say burden, and the three of them know it. Enola lets out a strangled huff, trying to calm herself down and think of a plan; her eyes grow steely, and her hands curl into fists by her side. Sherlock notices this and can't help the way the corners of his mouth twitch up; in a way, it reminds him of John, just a little. It's the same pose John made when he accidentally grabbed that disembodied foot in from the fridge a few weeks back and was ready to fight.
The smile, however, does not pass by Mycroft unnoticed. "Is something funny, brother mine?" he says, unamused. Enola swings her gaze towards him, looking at him with something akin to desperation in her eyes. The desperate look in her eyes transforms into something calculating, and she appraises him with a new look. Sherlock processes this for approximately 0.89 of a second before sneering at Mycroft. He has a plan, both to get Enola what she wants and to shove it to Mycroft.
"221B has an open bedroom," Sherlock says casually, examining the back of his hand. He tilts his chin upward, prepared for battle.
Enola seems to know what he's planning, because her face lights up immediately. Mycroft's, on the other hand, becomes more guarded, and Sherlock leans slightly forward, opening his mouth to continue.
"Absolutely not," Mycroft says. Sherlock shuts his mouth with a click and meets his gaze evenly. "And last I checked, both rooms were still occupied. Alone." The dig cuts a little, but Sherlock ignores it.
"John can sleep on the couch," Sherlock says. Mycroft gives him another pointed look, and Sherlock sighs, rolling his eyes. "Fine, I will sleep on the couch."
"How very chivalrous of you," Mycroft simpers, and Sherlock makes a face.
Enola clears her throat, interrupting their glaring and drawing both of their gazes to her. "Sounds good to me," she says. Mycroft studies her evenly, taking in the way her chin points upward, the way her eyes shine bright with determination. Sherlock knows that Mycroft is seeing him in her face, and he knows that the battle is over.
Sherlock inclines his head in Enola's direction, a subtle way to back her up. Her eyes are fixed pointedly on their oldest brother. Mycroft flicks his gaze to Sherlock briefly and lets out a long, heavy breath through his nose. He presses a button on the inside of his desk, and the door opens to reveal Anthea, who's texting, as always.
"Sir?" she says, looking up from her Blackberry and settling her gaze on her boss.
"Take my sister to gather up her possessions, and go ahead and purchase anything else she needs." Enola looks a little shocked at that, and Mycroft turns towards her, eyebrow raised. "Sister mine, no matter what you believe, we are on the same side." He hands her a credit card and dismisses both her and Anthea with a wave of his hand.
Enola mumbles an awkward thank you, stands up, and turns to follow Anthea. Anthea gives her a once over with a polite smile before turning on her heel and walking out.
"I hope you know what you're doing, Sherlock," Mycroft warns as they watch Enola skip down the hall after Anthea. Anthea, as if she knows they're both watching her, looks over her shoulder and smirks at Sherlock. "Enola isn't another experiment you can just discard when bored with."
"You mean, like Mummy did?" Sherlock says, standing up and pulling his coat on. Mycroft shuts his mouth with a click, the corners of his mouth twisting down. Sherlock smirks briefly to himself. Check.
Mycroft tries another approach. "What will John say about this?" he presses his hands together and looks at Sherlock evenly, wheels obviously turning in his mind.
Sherlock winds his scarf around his neck and turns his coat collar up. He turns and raises an eyebrow. "John will be..."
Thrilled? Confused? Angry? A trickle of doubt pushes its way into Sherlock's mind, and he hesitates. Mycroft sees this and hands the files of boarding schools to Sherlock.
"Think about it," he says. Sherlock grabs the stack and tucks them into his coat. "It isn't too late." Without another word, Sherlock spins on his heel and walks out.
Enola is already neatly deposited in the flat by the time Sherlock arrives. She stands next to a small stack of boxes. Sherlock kicks one on his way past and peers inside - clothes and other essentials. Dull. Enola stares. A duffle bag rests at her feet, and she gives him a warning look, picking it up to avoid him kicking it.
Sherlock rolls his eyes, pulling off his coat in one fluid motion and leaving it dumped on the floor. He heads into the kitchen to check on some growing mold cultures he'd left in the warming drawer. He can hear her hesitating, shifting her weight on the floor, wondering if she should follow.
She deliberates for a few moments - taking the time to actually hang up his jacket, a typical John move - and pads behind him into the kitchen, watching as he takes one of the slides and puts it under the microscope. She's practically boring holes into his skull, and he feels the corner of his lips start to curl back in an annoyed sneer.
"You have questions," he says. The annoyance bleeds through in his voice, but at least he wasn't outright cruel. Enola picks up on it anyway.
"Where do I need to put my stuff?" she asks.
"Leave it. Next?"
She hesitates a moment. "Where am I going to sleep?"
"My room. Down the hall to the right. Unless you'd prefer the couch?" He hears her hair rustling as she shakes her head, and he mutters out a brief "Didn't think so."
She's silent again, and he turns his head and peers into the eyes so similar to his own. "Any other questions?" he asks, somewhat sarcastically.
"What are you doing?" she asks, nodding her head to his microscope. He studies her a moment. She's genuinely curious, not just asking in a vain attempt to make him like her more. He leans back and gestures for her to take a look.
She grins and scampers over, using one hand to keep her long hair pulled back away from the dishes. She looks a lot like him, he realizes. It's the curve of her nose, the high cheekbones, the long face. They both take after their father, in that.
She studies the experiment with narrowed eyes, ignoring his appraisal. "Well, it looks like you're measuring bacterial growth on... is this human flesh?!" she asks, jerking back with wide eyes.
"Yes," he says matter-of-factly. He blinks, a new thought flitting through his mind. Don't tell me she's squeamish, he thinks.
She's silent for a moment as her eyes dance over his face. "Cool," she says, breaking out into a grin. "How does the growth on skin compare to growth on other organs?"
Sherlock decides right then that he's going to enjoy living with her.
"So," Enola mumbles around a mouthful of noodles. Sherlock raises an eyebrow and presses the tips of his fingers together, eyeing the dripping grease from the take-out. "When's Dr. Watson getting back?"
"Two days," Sherlock says. He holds out a handful of napkins, and she gets up from the sofa to grab them.
"Where did he go?" she asks, sitting down across from him in John's chair. Sherlock opens his mouth to answer and blinks, watching her like she's crazy.
She freezes, looking down at her lap and patting her thighs. "What? Did I spill something?"
"That's John's chair," he says.
Enola just looks at him for a few moments. "He's not using it."
Sherlock gives her a suspicious look, but turns his head to the side, dropping it. "He's attending some medical conference for the surgery."
"Sounds boring," Enola says, making a face. Sherlock nods absently in agreement. She eats in comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching curiously as her brother sits in his chair and stares at the wall.
"You know, Mummy and I read his blog," Enola says. Her face flickers at the mention of Mummy, and Sherlock is suddenly apprehensive of the fact that she may start crying.
He watches her out of the corner of his eye and makes a vague humming noise. Enola seems to take that as a positive sign to continue.
"Did the police really not know he was the one to shoot that cabbie?" Enola asks, crinkling her nose. "Mummy thought that was obvious." The corners of Sherlock's mouth tip upward into the barest hints of a smile.
"Mmm. No. Lestrade suspects, but he's never going to act on it."
"Why not?"
Sherlock shrugs.
Enola taps her fingers onto the armrest. "Do you really not know that the Earth goes around the Sun?"
Sherlock audibly groans and shoots her a scathing look. "Well, nobody lets me hear the end of it now not to remain unaware."
Enola holds her hands up in mock surrender and tucks her feet up under her, setting the plate on the ground beside the chair. She watches him with a knowing look, and Sherlock grows instantly wary.
"You like John," she says. It wasn't a question, but a mere statement of fact. Sherlock's eyebrows shoot up, and he swiftly turns his head to look at her.
"What makes you say that?" he asks. "Don't tell me you deduced it?" he sneers.
Enola tilts her head to the side and studied his face. "Mummy and I have a bet going on it. It's okay, you know. If you do."
Sherlock stares at her impassively. "I know it's okay," he says. He hears the familiar words from his first dinner with John echo in his mind and ignores them.
Enola rests her chin in one of her hands. "I had a crush on a girl named Cecily at my old school," she says dreamily, eyes somewhere faraway. "She was one of the most talented charcoal sketchers I've ever seen. I thought we were soulmates."
Sherlock stares at her for a moment, gaze flickering between uncomfortableness and defensiveness. "Why are you telling me this?" Sherlock asks.
Enola sits back up and locks her gaze on his. "It's what siblings do," she says.
"Mycroft and I have never discussed this. Nor his strange attraction to Detective Inspector Lestrade."
Enola raises an eyebrow, and Sherlock knows she's filing that tidbit away for later blackmail. "I meant normal siblings," she corrects. Sherlock sneers.
"Dull. If you wanted to live here in order for you to have a 'normal' sibling relationship, you will be sorely disappointed." Sherlock says in a low voice. Enola squirms in her seat, and Sherlock decides to reveal what he observed earlier. "Ah, so that is the reason why you're here. You've placed your misguided affections on me. You think I'll be a good big brother."
Sherlock opens his mouth to completely refute the deductions, but instead he takes in how flushed Enola's face is, how she lowers her gaze to her lap, bracing for him to absolutely rip her apart, how she seems to curl in on herself just a little, and for some reason it stops him. He closes his mouth and inhales deeply, beginning to speak in a quiet voice.
"I cannot promise I will be successful. However, I am... not adverse to trying, as long as you make no future attempts to discuss your romantic feelings with me." Inwardly, he's horrified with himself. Where did that sentiment come from?
Enola's head snaps back up, and she immediately throws out her arms and hugs him around the waist. Sherlock grimaces, patting her on the shoulder awkwardly.
She peeks up at him and grins sheepishly. "No hugging either?"
"No."
"Seriously?"
"No!"
Enola still doesn't move. He taps her on the shoulder, and she presently ignores him.
"Yoo-hoo! Sherlock!" Sherlock turns his head to the door as Mrs. Hudson makes her way up the stairs.
"Ah, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock says with relief. His saving grace. Enola sits back, staring at the door curiously.
Mrs. Hudson sticks her head through the door and smiles, letting herself in. "Just checking in on you. It must be so hard without John here. No one to pick up after you." She frowns at the big pile of boxes in the middle of the floor and sidesteps them to tidy up the table.
Sherlock hums. He ignores the knowing look and snicker from Enola.
Mrs. Hudson's gaze lands on Enola, and she gasps. "Oh, I didn't know you had a client! I'll just come back later, then. I'm sorry, Dear." She turns to go, but Sherlock trots after her and twists her back around. Enola stands up, looking simultaneously excited and nervous.
"Mrs. Hudson, this isn't a client. This is Enola, my sister." Mrs. Hudson's eyes grow wide, and Enola smiles nervously.
"Oh, I didn't know you had a sister! Why, she looks just like you. I knew she wasn't a client. Same cheekbones and everything." Reflectively, Enola lifts a hand and brushes it against her left cheekbone. Mrs. Hudson hurries over to her and envelops her in a hug.
"Yes, yes," Sherlock says impatiently. "She'll be living here for a while. She takes her tea with milk and three tablespoons of sugar, for future reference."
Enola blinks a little in surprise, but doesn't question it. Mrs. Hudson gasps again, placing the palms of her hands on each of Enola's cheeks and beams.
"Finally, another woman in the flat!" she exclaims. Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns away to go pick up his violin and the cleaning polish.
Enola chats for a little bit, asking about the flat and how long she's had it, even managing to seem politely interested when Mrs. Hudson complains about her hip. Eventually, the subject turns back to Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson turns to him, waving a hand absently.
"Oh, Sherlock, what does John have to say about all this?"
Sherlock stops his polishing for a moment and lifts up the violin to the light, focusing on a tiny speck of dirt and directly avoiding her gaze.
"John is unaware of the present situation," Sherlock mutters.
Mrs. Hudson and Enola both gape at him.
"You didn't tell him!?" Enola whirls on him. She scowls at him, and oh, there's her resemblance to Mycroft. Sherlock knew it had to have been hidden there somewhere.
"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson frets. "You're supposed to communicate with your significant other." She says something else, scolding and chiding, but he turns away and tunes them out. Mrs. Hudson, seeing that he's not paying attention, scowls for a moment before turning back to 221B's newest inhabitant.
"Don't worry, dear," Mrs. Hudson says to Enola, patting her lightly on the hand. "John's going to love you, if you're anything like Sherlock." She says something else, but Sherlock is too busy reviewing potential reactions John might have in his mind palace to pay attention. She walks out, and immediately Enola stalks over to him. He sets down his violin, and she holds out his phone, snagged from behind the cushions in his chair.
"Text him," she scowls. "Now."
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Mycroft probably has already."
"Don't you think he would prefer to hear it from you?" Enola counters. Sherlock blinks. Can't really argue with that.
He delicately picks up his phone, flipping it over in his hands and bringing up his messages app. He types with one hand and sends it, setting it down and waiting for a reply.
Enola looks over his shoulder. "That doesn't sound quite like the news that 'Surprise! Your flatmate's younger sister is now staying with you' entails." She reads the message again, tilting her head to the side and furrowing her brow. "And technically, you didn't even do that; Anthea did."
I bought milk. - SH
Sherlock looks at the text again. "Just be glad I'm texting him in the first place." Sherlock says. His phone lights up with the response, and Enola snickers when she reads it.
Alright, what did you break?
Nothing. - SH
Somehow I don't quite believe that. Shall I text Mycroft then?
Unnecessary. I have a surprise for you. - SH
For me?
Well, it's something that's going to surprise you. - SH
Are we getting a dog?
Not quite. - SH
"Hey!" Enola protests. She lightly kicks Sherlock in the shins, and he wonders how such familiarity was already established.
I can't decide if this is going to be a good thing or a bad thing.
It's good. - SH
Would you like to know what it is now? - SH
Nah, gotta have something to get me through the rest of this conference. Thanks for thinking of me :)
Sherlock smirks and shows Enola the text proudly.
She rolls her eyes. "Fine. But if he blows his top, I warned you." She bends down and picks up her plate, depositing it in the trash can, yawning. "I'm going to bed. Night, Sherlock."
He doesn't reply, too busy thinking of a witty way to surprise John when he gets home.
Always. - SH
When Sherlock wakes up the next morning, Enola is sitting in his chair eating some cold sandwich Mrs. Hudson brought up, eyes fixed on the telly.
"'M bored," she mumbles. "I've been waiting on you to get up for hours."
"I'm sorry my unconscious state was such an inconvenience," Sherlock snaps, wincing at the crick in his neck from sleeping at an awkward angle. This, he realizes, is what John must feel like most of the time.
He gets up and stretches, pulling his dressing gown tighter across his shoulders and fumbles around for his phone. John never texted back, ah, but he got a text from Molly! Sherlock bends down and rummages around in one of Enola's boxes, still lying packed in the middle of the floor.
"Get dressed," Sherlock says, throwing a pair of trousers at her. "We're going to Bart's."
Sherlock strides into the morgue. Molly has already wheeled out the body. He casts a quick glance over it - male, roughly 60 years old, shot twice in the right-hand side of the chest, puncturing one lung, significant blood loss and trauma - and turns to Molly, who's standing by, holding his riding crop and the autopsy file, skimming over it.
"Molly," Sherlock says by way of greeting. She startles and turns pink, caught unaware in his presence. She stutters out a greeting, and Sherlock forces a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. He holds out a hand, and she places the file in it. One quick glance shows him that most of his deductions were right. He smiles to himself, satisfied, and Molly starts talking about strange metal flecks left in the wound that weren't from the bullet.
He's taking a closer look at the lower gunshot hole, Molly peering over his shoulder, when Enola trots in, ponytail swinging high and a bright smile on her face.
"Sorry, I got sidetracked. I met Mike! By the way, he wants to know how John is and says to call him and tell him how you two 'lovebirds' are working out." Sherlock opens his mouth, and Enola holds up her hands in mock surrender. "His words; not mine." Enola's gaze flits to Molly and she smiles politely. "Hi!"
Sherlock straightens, glancing at Molly. Molly's staring at Enola, mouth slightly slack-jawed. "Who's this?" she asks faintly. Her eyes flit from Sherlock's face to Enola's, obviously picking up on family relation, and judging from the slight disappointed expression, a parent-child one.
"This is Enola," Sherlock says. "Enola, Molly." He dismisses them both, turning back to the body.
"It's nice to meet you," Enola says politely. She's studying Molly curiously, and she extends her hand towards her. Molly strips off one of her gloves and walks forward to shake it.
"Are you Sherlock's...?"
"Sister, yeah," Enola says. Molly looks a little shocked, and Enola shrugs.
"But you're so..." Molly trails off, and Enola fills in the blanks.
"Young? I know; I'm only fourteen. I'm twenty years younger than him. Bit of an accident, little bit of a scandal. My poor mother."
"Oh," Molly says. She seems a little overwhelmed by Enola, and one glance towards his sister shows that she knows exactly what she's doing. She rambles on, asking Molly questions about her job, about the bodies, about working with Sherlock, and soon enough Molly warms up to her and they're both chattering away.
Sherlock loathes it.
He tightens his grip on his magnifier and scowls down at the dead man below him. He can't concentrate like this, with their mindless babbling, and he can feel his shoulders tensing up.
"Coffee," he spits out. Molly and Enola stop talking for long enough to look at him. "Get me some. I need some."
Enola shrugs. "I could go for some coffee," she says. Molly agrees, casting a doubting look at Sherlock, and they walk out, Enola talking about the insensitivity of the male population in regards to the Holmes brothers with an overly dramatic hair flip.
It's peaceful, after that. As it should be, Sherlock tells the corpse, who thankfully doesn't respond.
"What other colleagues can I meet?" Enola asks when they walk out of Bart's. Enola's already texting away on her phone, confirming the number Molly had given her to further discuss patterns of bruise developments post mortem. "Let's go to Scotland Yard!"
Sherlock shoots her a look of disdain. "Lestrade has no interesting cases," he says. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a video camera swivel and point in their direction, and he eyeballs it distrustingly.
"So?" Enola pleads. "I just wanna see it!"
"I am not taking you on a tourist's jaunt through London," he sneers. He steps off the curb and hails a taxi, pushing his sister in and climbing in after.
"Baker Street," he says, and the cabbie takes off. Enola looks disappointed, but she doesn't fight it.
She spends the rest of the day prattling on about Molly and her not-so-hidden crush on Sherlock. Sherlock thinks that he would have done better at Scotland Yard. Thank God for the fact that John comes back tomorrow; he'll be much more adept at entertaining the girl than he is.
John trudges up the seventeen stairs to his flat, his suitcase banging into the back of his legs. It's early, but all he wants is a nice, hot shower and to crash in his own bed for the first time in almost two weeks.
He fumbles his way into the flat, almost tripping over a pile of boxes stacked in the middle of the floor. He mutters a curse and grabs the table to steady himself. Sherlock, who's curled up on the sofa, stirs but doesn't wake.
"Careful," an unfamiliar female voice says with amusement. "There's a box there."
John freezes at the voice and jerks his head up, hand automatically going to the back of his trousers where his gun is normally tucked. It's a girl, he notices. A teenager. He relaxes marginally.
"Thanks for that," he says drily. The girl grins at him, and John takes the moment to really look at her.
She's younger than he initially thought, in sweatpants and a baggy tank top, curly hair pulled in a ponytail. She holds a bowl of cereal in one hand, Sherlock's laptop in the other, and she's curled up in Sherlock's chair.
"Kettle's boiled," she says, waving a hand towards the kitchen. "In case you want a cuppa. Help yourself."
John blinks and takes a quick look around. "Uh, sorry, am I in the wrong flat?" he asks, letting his suitcase drop on the ground.
"Nope," she says, letting the noise pop in her mouth.
"Are you a client?" John tries again. She shakes her head, a gleam in her eyes. "Who- Who are you exactly?"
"Please sit," the girl says. John trudges over to his chair and sits down, eyeing her warily. He glances over at Sherlock, silently willing him to wake up now. "I just have a few questions for you. If you don't mind."
"I mean, I kinda do, but-"
"Good!" she interrupts. "First, what is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"
John blinks. There was something about this that was almost familiar. "He's... literally on the couch over there; it's pretty obvious we live together. You could've just waken him up and asked." Suddenly, John barks a laugh, remembering just what this scene reminds him of. "Did Mycroft put you up to this?"
The girl smiles at that, and John frowns a bit. "Nope."
"Wait, you know Mycroft?" John asks in disbelief. "Who are you?!"
The girl's smile grows. "You could say we're acquainted," she says. "But hey, I'm asking the questions here." She regards John for a moment before leaning in and whispering.
"Although, he did tell me about your first meeting," she says casually. "But you didn't hear it from me. Next question, what are your intentions towards my brother?"
"Your... brother?!" John exclaims in disbelief. His mind screeched to a stop.
"Enola, stop toying with John," Sherlock says from the couch, eyes still closed and limbs sprawled everywhere. John whips around and stares at him accusingly, but Sherlock doesn't acknowledge it.
"Boring," Enola mutters, and suddenly, John is completely and utterly horrified.
My God, he thinks. There's another one of them.
"My name's Enola," the girl says, beaming at John. "And it's so nice to finally meet you. Sherlock's told me so much about you."
John looks at Sherlock hesitantly. Sherlock's head is turned in his direction, and he has what's as close to what he can get as a sheepish smile on his face.
"Surprise, John."
"So," John says, looking at both Holmes's with an incredulous look on his face. "You're telling me that your mother ran away, not even for the first time, to go join some traveling Rromani tribe? And she left her fourteen year old daughter?"
"Oh, do keep up, John," Sherlock drawls. "That is what Enola said, was it not?"
John ignores his flatmate, looking at Enola. "Why didn't she take you with her?"
Enola shrugs. "I don't know," she says, trying to look aloof about the whole situation and failing. "She said I could handle myself. She left money. I called Mycroft."
"And somehow you ended up here," John finishes.
Enola smiles. "Sherlock said he had an open room."
"I wanted to shove it to Mycroft," her brother corrects petulantly.
"Did you give up my room?!" John asks Sherlock, who rolls his eyes.
"Of course not." Sherlock says, offended. "She's in mine."
"He's on the couch," Enola says triumphantly. John snickers at that, and Sherlock shoots him a wounded look.
"Is this a temporary situation?" John asks. Enola raises an eyebrow, and he hastily tacks on a "I don't mean to be rude."
"Mummy's not coming back," Sherlock says. "Nor are we going to be able to find her. Not unless she wants to be found."
"Are you even looking?"
"Mycroft is," Sherlock replies. "But no, this is a rather... permanent situation."
"Oh," John says. Enola looks a little sad at the mention of her mother, so he does his best to smile reassuringly at her. "Welcome to 221B."
She beams, and John sits back, satisfied. She studies Sherlock for a moment before turning back to John with a devious grin on her face.
"Climbing is my forté, and I like riding bikes. Black Beauty is my favorite novel, and I'm particularly fond of old-timey ciphers and sketching. Occasionally I'm privy to little moments of drama, but I'm afraid you're quite used to that." She rattles all of this off with that smug little smile, and John blinks at her before getting it.
"I see," he says, grinning back at her. "Well, I'm secretly a fan of dogs, I keep an illegal gun hidden in my room, and I'm extremely lazy most of the time. Oh, and I follow your madman of a brother around London at his beck and call."
Her smile grows, and Sherlock watches them both, eyes narrowed. "What are you doing?"
"Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other," Enola finishes the dialogue, and Sherlock pauses for a moment, eyes faraway as he goes through his Mind Palace for the original memory.
Enola snickers under her breath, and John winks at her.
Sherlock comes back to life, scowling. "Hilarious," he says sarcastically. "Is this what this arrangement has come to? You two teaming up on me?"
Enola and John exchange another look.
"I don't see why not," John says. Enola nods rapidly, a devious grin in her face.
"What has my life come to?" Sherlock intones dramatically, flipping around on the couch so his back faces them and sulking. He can practically hear John roll his eyes as he shuffles off to go make himself tea.
"Your life, Brother Mine," he hears Enola murmur, "is never going to be the same."
I'm thinking about continuing this AU with more one-shots. Tell me what y'all think. R&R!