Special thanks to itsabeautifulmidnight (at tumblr) for checking this out and encouraging me to continue!
In the reviews I was made aware of the fact that I might seem pretentious regarding the title of the story, so for those of you who start reading from where you have left of, a short explanation: Aprés moi, le dèluge is a french expression that allegorically means 'After me, the flood', which is supposed to mean 'When I'm gone the disaster that may follow does not concern me'. It's attributed to Louis XV or Madame de Pompadour, apparently Louis said it shortly before his death and after his death the French revolution took place, killing both his grandson and successor. You see where I'm going with this? I took the phrase (the pretty french words ;))from the Regina Spektor song 'Aprés moi', so check that out! Thank you for your support and suggestions!
Après moi, le déluge
The house, better yet the mansion, lay in absolute silence. Crickets chirped, a side effect off the summer heat and only one window was open, the shutters were against the grey lime walls.
A light breeze let the oak leaves around the house sway.
No one was awake except for the girl in the room, with the open window, she lay in bed, awaiting the neon green clocks letters pass midnight so that she would age another year.
She sighed with desperation, Enola Holmes did not care for her age, except for the rare moments when she remembered what the doctors had said about ageing and the change that would come with it, the health improvement that would come with it.
Osteogenesis Imperfecta Type I has plagued her all her life. Her glass bones were not much of a sickness but more of a handicap.
She was not ageing but ripening like wine, her father would say, Like cheese, the housekeeper - Mrs. Lane say. Like a tree, Sherlock would say, explaining it to her in the simplest way he knows how.
Trees are planted with thin branches and frail leaves, but they grow and become stronger and stronger with the help of photosynthesis, he would dive into chloroplasts and assimilation which used to be far too complicated for her six year old brain .
If I am tree, I am an Oak, she would tell him, because she doesn't want to be Parmigiano or Bordeaux, Enola wants to be tall and strong and old.
He would ruffle her hair, an awkward try at affection but Enola likes it anyway. In the end she is not a metaphor but Enola, the girl of glass.
Sixteen years now, sixteen years of living with this, keep pestering her mind. She stares at the ceiling, where the reflection of the moon mirrored by the lake dances on it.
It's eerily calming and for a moment Enola breathes in and out waiting for the time to pass, feeling more and more sleepy.
That is until the door beneath Enola, a story lower, is opened.
Its distinctive noise makes her jump, heavily breathing she listens to careful footsteps that crush pebbles on the driveway.
Mindful of the noises she could possibly make, Enola creeps forward until the driveway is in plain sight.
She recoils when she realizes it's her mother Lady Eudoria, who is moving cautiously anxious to draw no attention to her person and not a burglar as Enola had expected.
Enola leans forward until her mother could see her if she would look back. She waits and waits, waits for her mother to turn around, as much as she was waiting for the clock to strike twelve just mere seconds ago.
Eudoria, tall dark haired, grey eyed Eudoria does not turn around. She carries a handbag, small but Enola knows that with the money the family has on its bank-account nobody would carry much with them.
Just before Eudoria rounds the bend, Enola realises that her mother won't turn around. It's a surprisingly lacklustre feeling. The certainty that her own mother will disappear without ever looking back gnaws at her, makes her dizzy, leaves her caught in a stream of conscious questions.
And all of them become an ineloquent no flourish, plain why.
Why would she leave in the middle of the night?
Why now?
Why not take Enola with her?
As much as Enola thinks - and she can hear Sherlocks voice telling her that she isn't thinking hard enough- nothing comes of it, Eudoria is gone and the shutting of a car door finalises it further.
Enola watches the red taillights disappear on the horizon and finally fully abscond behind the hill, towards Chichester.
On a whim, as if the vanishing taillights jolted her awake, she stumbles backwards haziness unfolds within her and she tumbles down the hallway, down the stairs onto the porch.
Because maybe, she's been dreaming all along, maybe her mind was just playing tricks on her, all these thoughts and doubts dissolve into nothingness when she sees the footprints on the driveway.
A warm gust of air makes reality, reality and Enola drifts back into the house. Her mind is not clear when she slowly walks up the stairs, there is a thin greyish veil over her vision, which lets everything appear dreamlike.
Enola certainly knows that whatever she does now cannot be called a conscious decision, but nonetheless does she retrieve an old ruck sack from the cupboard near the landing. She goes to her room and begins to pack everything in near sight.
In the back of her mind she knows that it certainly would have been wiser just to wait it out for a while, wait for her Mother to return and when all fails to text Mycroft.
Now Mycroft would surely be very displeased with her decision, he would be overbearing and decidedly brass with her.
Another reason to just mindlessly pack her things and then disappear out of the door.
The bag is heavy on her back and cuts into her shoulders but she treads down the stairs and to the garage anyway.
The garage where the old man's bicycle, has been corroding for years now, ever since Sherrinford had moved out.
It made an extremely unsafe impression, but Enola mounts it anyway, it was still dark outside and for a moment she thinks about turning the dynamo on but the place where it's supposed to be displays nothing.
Great, she thinks and begins to pedal. Down the driveway, the same way her mother had taken just an hour before.
For a while she just follows the tyre tracks her mothers car had made. Eventually the tracks faded in the sand and Enola began following earth roads.
The roads were unsteady and Enola had to grip the handlebar tightly to cross the pebbles and stones to prevent slipping and possibly breaking a bone.
The stupidity of her decision dawned more and more on her and the more she realized that she actually didn't have a clue as to how to find her mother, the more frustrated she becomes.
Especially because Eudoria had the advantage of a car, and the rusty bicycle did not help her move forward in anyway.
With much more force than before she pedaled onwards, tree after tree passed her. And bump after bump made her more determined, she would follow Eudoria up to Chichester and even further if that was possible.
If she was right, her mother was on her way to Heathrow airport, so London it was. She calculated that her trip with the bicycle would at least last for two and half an hour, mostly because her bicycle experience was not up to par.
Then she would take the train at 5:15 a.m to Kings Cross.
Chichester station was deserted, two of the ticket machines were out of order. She acquired a ticket at the last working one and paid almost forty pounds. Another thing she should've thought of, taking more money with her.
She could practically hear her own brothers in head saying how distracted she always was and that she should use her head more often.
But that was something she should deal with when Mycroft was actually there to be cross with her. She sat on the platform playing with her telephone.
One message alert was displaying on her screen.
Sherlock.
Panic struck her for a moment, she knew her brother was good at knowing what people would do next but that good?
Tentatively she opened it, to her relief it read happy birthday. Her throat tightened and a strangled half laugh, half choke escaped.
She was caught up in laughing and crying at the same time on the train station. Tears mercilessly ran down her cheeks and she was suddenly glad that the station was deserted.
She knew if she worked herself up any further she would be nearing hyperventilation. Embarrassed she buried her face in the crook of her arm, shielding her face from cameras Mycroft could later access.
Outside it was dawning and the train was most certainly on its way.
The train arrived early and Enola boarded it without hesitation, if she could not find her mother she had at least tried, which should count just as much.
The train too was empty and Enola quickly found a window seat, the bag was heavy and it was more than relieving to finally get rid of it.
The train ride was quiet and the train guard never appeared once for the whole journey.
Enola played with her phone for most of the two hours. Debating whether or not to text her brothers. and whom to text first, who to go to when she arrived in London.
After changing the train for the second time she decides to compose a quick text message, half an hour before she would reach her destination she tries more than one version but 'Mum is gone - EH', was the one she went for, her fingers hover over the send button for a few seconds before she sends the multimessage.
Then she begins typing a second message, for Sherlock.
'Will be at Kings Cross in twenty six - EH' is all it says, with her brothers she never has to elaborate, they understand the missing part of the message anyway.
Sherlock doesn't disappoint, he replies almost instantaneously with a quick and simple 'Yes - SH'.
Both Sherrinford and Mycroft take longer, but she knows although Mycroft doesn't reply immediately he is already checking passenger lists at various airports.
Eudorias passport is flagged and therefore Mycroft would've gotten a notification the instant Eudoria would book her flight.
She would have to use an alias to avoid sending Mycroft an red flag, Enola knows that Eudoria has other passports she could use whenever it strikes her fancy, so she doesn't put much trust in Mycrofts tactics.
The last fifteen minutes of the journey strain her patience considerably, a nervous itch works its way up her spine and into her hands and she can feel her blood pump faster, there's no telling if its from the excitement of the morning or if its the plain feeling of embarrassment.
She knows in a sense there is no need to be excited or upset over what happened. At first the journey she started had been a childish wish for her mother and in a second instance it was simply the need to do whatever pleases her in the long run.
The train comes to a halt, the platform is busy and people aggressivly shove and prod ways with their suitcases, Enola stumbles around for a while letting the crowd lead her.
She knows that if Sherlock has made to the platform in time he will find her, it has no use to look for him. She quickens her pace and moves up the escalator, the noise follows her and she feels a little lost but the signs lead the way to the main entrance.
For a few seconds she wanders around aimlessly, until a hand propels her to a stop. She had somewhat expected to meet Sherlock that way but she is startled anyway.
It must've looked as ridiculous as she felt because Sherlock smirked just a little, almost barely noticeable.
"Enola," He says with a nod, his hand clamped over her shoulder and then he guides her outdoors.
There is a cab waiting for them and she lets him walk her to it. She hasn't seen him in some time but she does see a change in his behaviour, she immediately notices that his mannerism has changed from flacy to much more considerate movements.
Enola knew all along that Sherlock had been a user for a while, cocain had made him irritable and most unfit to converse with his sister.
She knew that both Eudoria and Mycroft had been rather insistent when it came to who he was allowed to see.
She would never say it aloud but she thinks it did play a large part in him becoming clean that he wasn't allowed to see either her or his younger brother.
He takes the place opposite her and she knows that it would be false to assume that he does it out of courtesy, he is already analyzing every spot on her clothing.
She fixes him with an intense stare daring him to ask whatever is on his mind. It takes a few seconds but eventually he opens his mouth.
"What brings you to London?" She thinks for a moment and then shakes her head.
"You tell me." If he wasn't itching before with the need to share everything he has gathered about her he is now.
"Mummy -" She has to try and hide a smile at her older brothers use of the endearment towards her mother. "has left, obviously. You either decided that you should follow her or that you were of better use in London. I am guessing the first option because you have several little dirt spots on the hem of your jeans and you have little fragments of kautschuk on your palms, presumably from a bicycles handlebar.
You packed your bag but without structure, I can see from here that some items were carelessly chucked into it. I can only presume but I'm guessing you have neither thought your plan through nor was it a real plan and more of a faulty idea."
The 'am I right' lingers in the air and she shakes her head yes in conformation. She swallows the urge to roll her eyes.
"Correct." Is all she says growing quiet again.
"What do you know?" He asks, leaning forward. Enola tells him what she knows, realizing in the process that she does in fact know nothing.
Sherlock though grows quiet and mulls her answers over in his head, probably imagining Eudoria walking down the driveway, an image that has been playing in Enolas head for all the duration of her journey.
Her phone chimes the obnoxious first two seconds of Sherlock playing 'God save the Queen', signalizing Mycrofts call. She fumbles with it and then answers it, ignoring Sherlocks amused expression.
"Where are you?" Mycroft asks, tone clipped short, she feels intimidated almost immediately.
"In a cab." She answers truthfully, she had not anticipated the inevitable call from him, had not calculated that he would know as soon as she'd set foot onto the platform.
Which now left her feeling silly. He sighs presumably swallowing something biting.
"Where are you Enola?" She looks up to Sherlock for help, he stretches his hand out and she puts her phone into it.
"Mycroft," He says just as biting as Mycroft had done mere seconds ago. She can hear Mycrofts voice change from previously slightly aggravated to flat out angry.
After a few seconds of listening to Mycroft, Sherlock presses the conversation away, he turns around and then announces to the cab driver.
"To the Diogenes Club."
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