November, 2015
It was a cloudy day in November when the news came.
It came in the visage of an extremely distressed Mycroft Holmes.
"He's back Sherlock." There was a different nature to Mycoft Holmes's voice as he relayed this latest information to his brother. A nature of emotion that Sherlock did not miss.
"Who's back Mycroft? Do be more specific." Sherlock chided his brother anyway, suspecting that it must have been another of those Moriarty imposters, they had an entire forum for it on the internet, and one of their latest stunts that had the British Government so worked up. But he was not ready for the reality of Mycroft's next words.
"Joseph Coriello." Mycroft said seriously, "He's back, Sherlock. And he wants to speak with you."
December, 2005
Sherlock knocked on the door of his childhood home one unhappy Christmas Day. He could smell the turkey roasting in the stove and his father and brother speaking in hushed tones in the next room over some secret they did not wish Mummy to hear about.
Sherlock's mother, the woman herself, must have had her hands full with something because her yelling voice was quite audible even from outside the front door.
"Enola! Be a dear and see who is at the door, won't you?" Sherlock's mother called into the house. Whether there was a reply or not was unknown to Sherlock, who obviously couldn't hear everything, and so he simply waited for the ultimate result. This came when the door opened to reveal the perhaps not-familiar-enough fourteen year old face of a blue eyed girl with brown curls on her head and thick eyebrows.
"Will!" She cried, rushing towards the twenty-seven year old man and hugging him tightly. Sherlock brushed aside an errant curl from Enola Holmes's eyes fondly and returned his little sister's embrace.
He lowered his head so that his mouth was level with the girl ear and muttered softly into it.
"Happy Christmas Enola."
"Happy Christmas to you to William." Mrs. Holmes said from the doorway causing the two to turn to look at her.
"Come inside you too, you're letting in the cold."
Obligingly, sister and brother followed their mother into the house, Sherlock closing the door behind them with a soft click.
Mrs. Holmes lead the two into the sitting room where Mycroft and Mr. Holmes's conversation had changed into one about the weather and the flight of local Aviaran wildlife.
"Alright you two." Mrs. Holmes said, demanding her husband's and eldest son's attention, "William's finally back home, just in time for Christmas. Now, you should all settle yourselves down while I finish up with the turkey." She almost left the room before doubling back as she remembered something, "And Siger?"
"Yes Violet?"
"Do remember you promised to make William's favourite for dessert."
"Oh Mummy please." Sherlock laughed, "I don't need-"
"William." His mother shushed him, "Your father and I are talking."
"Yes Mummy." Sherlock sighed, turning to look at Mycroft who seemed to be feeling dreadfully out of place during this whole engagement.
"Oi." Enola said, getting Sherlock's attention, "Do you want to see my room?"
Sherlock nodded, feeling suddenly much better to be able to get away from the ever looming eyes of his parents and brother.
Enola lead him expertly out of the sitting room and up the stairs to the part of the house Sherlock used to think of as the "nursery".
He couldn't remember being in this part of the house since he was at the very most twenty two years of age. That would have been about five years ago, when Enola was nine and he was still majoring in Chemistry at Cambridge.
Back then the room had been painted a soft pink colour, a shade his parents had been told was all the rage for baby girls' rooms. There had been a twin bed with a black duvet with planets and stars covering it. There had been framed posters hanging on the walls featuring Billie Piper and the young Daniel Radcliffe and a small bookshelf featuring The Garden Gang series and other such monstrosities.
This room was different.
The walls were painted white and had posters of Lily Allen and Girls Aloud taped across them. The bed had a simple black duvet and the bookshelf had been replaced with a large Macintosh desktop computer and monitor.
"Mummy bought you a computer." Sherlock said as he noticed this fact.
"She relented." Enola grinned, flopping back down on her bed.
"So." She said finally after a moment's silence, "You're clean now, right? Off the drugs."
Sherlock was temporarily taken aback but pushed himself to respond, "Yes, I've got them all out of my system."
"Good." Enola said, "That's good. Really good. Brilliant even." She sighed, "I'm glad for you, Will."
"Thank you Enola." Sherlock smiled back at his little sister as he sat down beside her on the bed, offering his hand for her to hold. She took it gratefully, holding tightly to his fingers as they lay beside each other looking up at the white painted ceiling of he
November, 2015
"What's going on Sherlock?" John Watson was asking the consulting detective as the two walked the long hallway that lead to St. Bart's morgue.
eed to know is that the matter is of great importance." Sherlock said, pushing open the double doors of the morgue. He then turned to the Pathologist on duty, "Molly-" he began, but the look on her face cut him off.
"A man came in today, Sherlock." Dr. Hooper said seriously, "He said this was a present, for Will. He said to tell his 'good friend Will Happy Christmas.'"
"Will? Sherlock isn't that your name?"
"My name is William. No one ever called me Will. No one except-"
"Enola." Mycroft walked through the door of the morgue, his usual stride noticeably off.
"Mycroft's in on this too?" John asked, "Sherlock, you've got to tell me what is going on."
"Joseph Coriello." Said Sherlock, he spat out the words as if they left a bitter taste in his mouth.
"Whose that?" John asked him crossing his arms across his chest.
"A drug lord turned fugitive after kidnapping and allegedly killing a fourteen year old girl ten years ago." Molly said, "I remember him from the papers, it was a big topic back then. I always wondered about the girl, though. Who she was."
"Her name," Mycroft said, "was Enola and if there is any chance, no matter how slim, that she could have survived, we will do anything in our power to find her."
"What?" John asked, "Why? Is she important? If she was kidnapped ten years ago and the police think she's dead, then she's probably not going to show up alive and kicking anytime soon."
Molly looked over at Sherlock whose face showed an expression of fear and uncertainty that seemed so foreign on the face of the consulting detective.
"Shut up, John." Molly hissed at the man who began to protest but then thought better of it after meeting Molly's glare.
"Isn't it obvious?" whispered Molly into John's ear after Sherlock left them alone in the morgue, "Enola Holmes."
December, 2005
"Enola! William!" Sherlock's mother called from the base of the stairwell, "Come down to the sitting room. It's almost three o'clock. The Queen is about to speak."
When there was no answer Violet Holmes sighed in frustration before adding, "And after that it will be time for dinner!"
The sound of her two younger children clamouring to get down the stairs was almost humorous to the mother of three who had to fight to keep her composure as the two pushed at eachother, both trying to be the first to get down the narrow stairwell. Mycroft, who had come to stand nearby his mother rolled his eyes at the two and muttered, "goldfish" under his breath.
"Prat!" Enola replied as she punched Sherlock in the stomach.
The young man laughed, "It isn't as if you are any better! Hitting people isn't nice Enola."
"I wasn't even talking to you Will."
"Would you both just shut up?" Mycroft finally moaned, "You're utter insolence and wasted potential is putting me off." Mycroft turned to his mother and offered her his arm, "Come along Mummy. Father is waiting for us in the sitting room, the Queen's message is being broadcast by ITN this year."
Enola and Sherlock watched silently as Mycroft led their mother towards the sitting room before slowly turning to look at each other.
"I am not insolent." Enola said.
"Neither am I, but he was spot on with one thing." Sherlock cocked his head thoughtfully, "I am stock full of wasted potential."
November, 2015
"Will! Willie Holmes!" The man had black hair and black eyes, his smile was large and toothy. "Look at you! You're all grown up, aren't you?"
Unimpressed, Sherlock looked the man over, taking notes. Nicotine stains on his fingers but only on his right hand. Likes to hold a burning cigarette or cigar but his teeth are extremely white, probably does not smoke as much as use such things to keep his hands busy. Also, right handed. Mainland European, slight Italian accent. Upper-clchrome_find class="find_in_page"ass Venice. Polluted by frequent, long stays in Great Britain, mostly lower clchrome_find class="find_in_page"ass parts of London, England from his pronunciation style and either New York City, New York, United States of America or somewhere just outside of the city.
Also an atrocious man who kidnaps young women and murd-, no, keeps them hidden away from the world for a decade.
"Do not even attempt to act as if this were merely a social call, Coriello." Sherlock said, "Now, tell me why you are here and what you want with me."
"William-"
"My name is Sherlock Holmes."
"I would rather call you Will."
"I would rather you call me by my name, Sherlock Holmes."
"But that isn't really your name. Is it William?" Coriello paused as he looked Sherlock up and down thoughtfully, "Did you change it to Sherlock out of grief?"
"Shut up." Sherlock shot back, anger floating just below the apathetic surface.
"She's alive 'Sherlock'." Coriello said with a smile.
Sherlock's eyes widened.
"At least, that's what you're hoping for." Coriello shrugged, "I'll tell you where she is . . . for a price."
"That's why you're here. To get money." Sherlock realised.
"Oh yes, now you know my terrible secret." The man frowned, "I'm broke."
"New York City didn't treat you as well as you had hoped it would?" Sherlock asked him, already knowing the answer.
"No one wants the poisons anymore, Will. Not like you and you're peers did." He smiled wryly, "I used to cater to the elite by selling the cleanest poisons around. It isn't in my nature to sell my wares off to just any homeless junkie."
"You were your own ruin."
"Just so, I suppose." Coriello's face then broke into a grin, "But you'll help me, won't you Will? Because you want to find your little baby sister. Dead or alive. And big brother will pay for it all, and do you know why?"
Sherlock cursed himself as he gave in, "Why?"
"Because no matter what either of you say, you both care." Coriello turned to look at the wall of the New Scotland Yard interrogation room, "Don't you remember what I told you two that day ten years ago? Caring is not an advantage William."
December, 2005
Sherlock felt a buzzing in his pocket and pulled out his phone, looking at the text he had just received. Mycroft looked over at his brother from across the table warily. He put down his knife and fork and held out his empty hand.
"What?" Sherlock asked him innocently.
"You know 'what'." Mycroft replied, unamused, "Give it to me William."
"What's the problem boys?" Asked Siger Holmes.
"Mycroft is trying to take my phone." Sherlock told him.
"You know the rules, Will, Mike." Violet Holmes saides at the table."
"You're in trouble." Enola smirked, not looking up from her plate.
"It just went off." Sherlock argued, looking towards his father for support, "Father?"
"I'm sorry I said anything." Siger said, hands raised in surrender, "I don't want any part in this."
"William." Mycroft said, snapping his fingers, "The phone."
"Fine!" Sherlock said, handing it over to his brother and slouching back in his chair to brood silently.
Mycroft then flipped it open and narrowed his eyes at what he found.
"Get out." He hissed.
Enola looked up, eyes wide at her brother, "Mike?"
"Out!" It was a rare occurrence to see Mycroft like this. But now the man's voice was approaching a roar. He stood, pushing his chair over as he did. His arm was outstretched, finger pointed at the door.
"What's going on Mycroft?" Violet asked the man what it was; knowing but not wanting to believe it.
Siger was staring down his younger son with a silent look of helpless fury.
Sherlock stood slowly, "I haven't. Mycroft?" He turned to his mother, "Mu-"
"No, William."
"Enola, I haven't-" he turned to his younger sister who was just sitting in the chair beside his, looking up at him with shock and bewilderment.
"Do not bring her into this!" Siger said, "Enola, go to your room."
"But, what's going-"
"Oh for heaven's sakes, can you not simply do as you're told for once?" Mycroft cried, slamming his hands down against the table rattling the glchrome_find class="find_in_page findysel"assware, "Or are you too stupid to know when it is not your place?"
"I'd rather be an idiot then be like you freaks!" Enola shouted, "At least I get to be normal. Maybe I'm not a genius with scary brain powers but I'd rather be normal then be a freak like you, Will, and mum! Yeah, mum! You're a grownarchrome_find class="find_in_page"se man! Stop calling her Mummy like you're a two year old."
Throwing down her silverware, Enola stood up in a fury and stomped out of the kitchen, leaving through the front door which she slammed angrily behind her.
"Now look what you've done." Sherlock muttered, rushing out the door behind his sister.
At the sound of yet another slam, Mycroft Holmes hung his head in frustration, squeezing his eyes shut as he remembered his words.
"Damn." He cursed, swinging around to follow his siblings'' leads out the door.
"What was that, Mycroft?" Violet asked the man with anger in her voice, "Why would you say such things?"
"I am sorry for my actions, Mummy. Father." Mycroft said, addressing his parents in turn, "I swear, I will do everything in my power to make this right."
November, 2015
"He wants money." Sherlock said dryly the moment he had left the interrogation room. He was met with his brother's tired sigh.
"Yes, I suppose he would." Mycroft said, "Any information would be as an exchange for such capital."
Sherlock nodded silently, forcing himself not to look back through the one way window at the man who had single handedly changed his life forever.
"How much Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, chequebook in one hand, a pen in the other.
"Five-million pounds sterling." Sherlock replied grimly.
"I will draw the cheque."
"Brilliant."
For one glorious moment the only sound in the room was that of Mycroft's pen scratching against the paper. But then came the tearing noise and Mycroft was standing up and making his way towards the door of the interrogation room.
He paused, "Sherlock."
"What if it's no use Mycroft?" Sherlock asked him, turning to look his brother in the eyes. His sockets red and shimmering with the threat of tears, "What if she's dead? We could be paying off Enola's murderer."
"I know, Sherlock. But we must try to find her. If there is any chance." He paused, his breath shaking slightly, "I never was able to make things right."
December, 2005
"Enola!" Sherlock called out, his voice beginning to go hoarse, "Enola! Please! Come out!"
"It is no use, William. We have been searching for hours and it is beginning to get dark." Mycroft said as he caught up with his brother, panting as he tried to catch his breath. Maybe he shouldn't have eaten that extra helping of- oh! What does it matter now. What's done is done. There is no use dwelling in the past.
"It's your fault this happened!" Sherlock said, turning on Mycroft angrily. "She wouldn't have left if it weren't for you!"
"I was trying to keep her out of the world you live in. It ruins people. It ruined you." Mycroft hissed back.
"I promise, I don't know why Joseph sent me that message. I'm clean, Mycroft."
"How can I believe you?"
"You can't." Sherlock said dryly, "But I swear on my life: I am telling you no lies."
"That does not help your standing much, brother." Mycroft said darkly.
"Yes, but it is quite a relief on my conscience."
"At least there is that."
They stood there, in the field, three kilometres away from their childhood home, in silence as they tried to process the events of the day.
Finally Sherlock spoke.
"I forgot my coat."
"What? Oh yes. It is rather cold out here." Mycroft said, "Here." The older man wriggled his arms out of the sleeves of his long, dark coloured Belstaff, "Where this."
"But won't you-"
"I will be fine, William. I have the jumper Mummy made for me."
"Yes." Sherlock said, putting on the coat all the while noting the very strange look of his older brother in a garish green and red woollen jumper with an oddly squished looking Father Christmas on the front, "I suppose you do."
Then there was the scream. That scream. The one that would change the Holmes' lives forever.
November, 2015
"Aww! Mycroft. Finally come to your senses and writing me a cheque I presume." Coriello grinned at the older man.
"I notice, Joseph, that your price hasn't changed at all." Mycroft replied, calmness strained.
"Well, back then you couldn't even scrounge up a measly three million pounds. Now you're writing cheques for the full price without a second thought."
"If there had been anyway-"
"You would have if you could have." Coriello said, brushing off the British Government with a flick of his hand, "Believe me," he plucked the cheque from Mycroft's hand, "I understand."
"You have what you want. Now it's time for you to hold up your end of the bargain." Sherlock said hastily, "Where is Enola Holmes."
"Last I saw her was in New York, New York." Coriello shrugged, "She was alive, not going to say she was well, but she looked like she was having a ball so-"
"Where. Is. She." Mycroft asked him through clenched teeth.
"Alright! Alright!" Coriello said, "She ran away in NYC in 2008. But she sent word to me pretty recently actually. About a month ago. She said she needed a ride home and she could not think of anyone else who could help her."
"Tell us where she is, Coriello, or I swear I'll-" Sherlock grabbed the front if the man's shirt and was holding it so tight that the man almost rose out of his chair.
"She sent me an address. 3211 South Maple Drive New Orleans, Louisianna."
Letting go of the man Sherlock was off. Mycroft paused, giving Coriello one last look before following after his younger brother.
The two were met by Detective Lestrade when they reached the hallway.
"Let him go." Mycroft ordered.
"Let him go? What?" Lestrade asked in confusion, "He's a criminal! He-"
"Let him go, Lestrade." Sherlock said, "and get my brother and I a police car to take us to the airport. We need fast as possible and that means sirens."
Mycroft was on the phone, "Anthea, ready my private jet. I need a ride to New Orleans. We are departing for America the moment my brother and I reach the airport."
"Sherlock!" A voice called out the moment the Consulting Detective and his brother had reached the lobby.
"What are you doing here Molly?" Asked Sherlock, not faltering in his step.
Hurrying to keep up, the pathologist answered him as quickly as she could, "John sent me. He can't be here because of Mary and the baby. But I can help you, Sherlock."
Suddenly she had grabbed the tall man's arm, stopping him momentarily.
"You're going off to find her, right?" She asked him, but didn't wait for a reply, "Sherlock, I have to tell you something. You won't like it but I have to help."
Sherlock turned, going to join his brother in the police car.
Molly sighed, turning to leave when Sherlock shouted her name expectantly.
"Molly! I thought that you wanted to come with. Get in then, or we are leaving without you."
"Wha-"
"Do try not to prolong this, Ms. Hooper." Mycroft said, covering the mouthpiece of his phone, "Time is of the essence."
Obediently, Molly did as she was told, sliding in beside Sherlock as the engine roared to life and the sirens began to shriek.
December, 2005
"Good of you to come find me, Will. And this must be the older brother! Mycroft! I've heard so much about you."
"I have not had the same honour." Mycroft said, "Who are you?"
"I'm certain you've heard my name! I'm a friend of Will's."
"Awww," Mycroft realised, "Now I see it. You are the dealer."
"I prefer 'intenditore di veleni'."
"'Connoisseur of poisons'." Sherlock muttered.
"Either way, I would be most grateful of you to leave." Mycroft said primly.
"But I have not even been able to tell you the good news!" The man complained with a grin.
"And what would that be?" Asked Mycroft.
"I found the little girl."
"You found Enola!" Sherlock said springing to life, "Where is she? Is she alright?"
"Well, that would be for you to decide. She's alive but . . . Who knows what that might be."
"What do you want?" Mycroft asked the man darkly. "Anything you ask for we will give. All we wish for in return is the girl."
"Anything!" The man exclaimed, "My! That is generous. Let's see, business has been bad lately. I think five million pounds sterling would do the job."
"Five mil-" Mycroft breathed.
"That is a bit much. How about I let you off with simply a cheque right here, right now for three million pounds."
"I-"
"Mycroft!" Sherlock said, "You must! Please."
"I- I can't William." Mycroft said, "I, I can make some calls. I can."
"Time's up Holmes boys." The man said, "no cheque, no girl."
"Please! There must be something else you need!" Mycroft begged.
"Not really, no." He said, turning to leave, William, I was simply going to take you. But Enola is so much better. And those breasts, so pert and young."
"Don't!" Sherlock cried, "Mycroft, do something!"
Mycroft was on the ground on his hands and knees, his head hanging low.
"I- I can make a call. I have contacts." He was murmuring to himself.
"Oh come now Holmes boys. Caring is not an advantage." And with that, the man was gone.
The sound of a helicopter taking off was all the brothers needed to affirm that Enola Holmes was indeed gone.
November, 2015
Sherlock had filled her in on the plane ride. The whole story of that Christmas Day ten years ago. Molly had listened and she had known.
"She isn't going to be there in New Orleans, Sherlock." Molly had told him after a long silence, "I don't believe that Coriello even had her back then."
"What are you saying Molly?" Sherlock asked the pathologist, a look of tired distress across his face.
"The case, I was in my late twenties at the time, finishing medical school. This case, I was obsessed with it. My cousin was around the same age when she had disappeared on Christmas Day one year before. I thought she must have been kidnapped, perhaps by Coriello." She pulled some files out of her bag. "I never thought it could have really been her but . . . "
She handed them to him with shaking hands.
"I put these together. Five years ago I was working in an internship position at Homerton University Hospital in Hackney when a body came into the morgue matching the description of the victim." She looked down, "I never connected Enola Holmes with you and Mycroft until earlier today. I, Sherlock. I'm sorry for your loss."
And as he looked at the photos of the young woman, for once he did not deduce. If he had, Sherlock Holmes would have seen a body, female, around eighteen at time of death. He would have seen a tattoo of three goldfish on her left arm and the signs of undernourishment in her cheeks. He would have noted how her elbows were speckled with irritated bumps and there was a rash, dermatitis?, on her hands. He would have seen the irritation on her cheeks and nose. The dilated pupils. He would have known then. But he didn't see these things. And all Sherlock could do as he looked down at the pictures of the dead woman was gasp. Then choke. Then sob. And suddenly he was exhausted.
Arms were around him then, consoling him, hands stroking his hair. A voice saying it would all be alright. But it was a lie. Because Enola Holmes was dead, and she hadn't even been taken away. She had left and had not even gone far.
"Hackney." Sherlock choked out. And then Mycroft was standing over him.
"What are talking about Sherlock? Why are you-"
Sherlock handed Mycroft the file. "That's where she is. That's where she's been the whole time. Mycroft."
But Mycroft wasn't listening anymore as he called for the plane to turn around.
July, 1991
It was, perhaps, the worst summer holiday of William Sherlock Scott Holmes's thirteen years. He had come home from Eton in early July to a sadly deceased dog and a younger sibling growing inside of his mother. Mycroft said that it had been for Redbeard's own good that they put the dog down. He had been twelve years old, ancient for a dog, and had hardly been able to get back up after lying down. Still, Sherlock blamed the inferior tumour quickly approaching time of birth within his mother's ever expanding stomach.
And now, at the culmination, the little boy waited, almost alone, in the hospital waiting room with only his older brother to keep him company, though whatever company it was did not seem like much.
"Mike?" Sherlock began, garnering the nineteen-year-old's attention.
"Mycroft, William. My name is Mycroft." The redhead sighed before turning to his brother, "What is it?"
"I don't want it."
"The baby?"
"Of course the . . . thing." Sherlock said, an ill look on his face, "It is like a bad omen. Ever since it came, bad things have been happening."
"Oh dear William. Is this about Redbeard?" Mycroft asked, a hand on his head in weary frustration.
"No!" Sherlock said much too abruptly.
"William, there is no such thing as a spiritual sort of omen, good or bad. You know this. Did I not explain to you the nonexistence of Father Christmas, god, or any of that utter rubbish when you were about to begin Key Stage Zero?"
"Yes, I know Mike- I mean, Mycroft. But this, this thing. It shouldn't be coming. It isn't right. You're finally moving away for University. You have a flat in Oxford for the Summer Holidays and Winter schooling. Mummy and father and Redbeard and I. We were finally all alone. Now I will never have them to myself."
Mycroft's eyes softened at the sight of his younger brother in such a state. It was all that pain, that internalised stress over the loss of his best friend. The fear of these new developments in a life that he seemed to have no control over that were now rising to the surface.
"William, I- " Mycroft paused, wondering if he should truly say those next words, "I believe it would be best for you if Mummy and Father were to send you to the state school in town."
Sherlock looked up at his brother aghast, "Leave Eton College? Mycroft, you aren't serious!"
"I believe it would be best for you if you were to stay close to Mummy and Father." Mycroft said, "If you are set on staying in a public school you can find a similar education at somewhere else nearby. Winchester College perhaps?"
"But, I've only just begun Mycroft! And I can't stop now. Eton College is the best place for a Holmes to be." Sherlock was frantic and utterly flabbergasted that his older brother, house captain of Oppidon House his senior year and undoubtedly a future grand investor in the institution, would make such a suggestion.
Mycroft sighed, taking a handkerchief out of his breast side pocket to dab unnecessarily at his forehead. This was one of Sherlock's older brother's common tells that had turned into a simple habit. It usually meant he was disappointed, most commonly in Sherlock, or upset.
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes." Mycroft said and Sherlock was surprised to see him give a slight smile as he spoke his name.
"Mycroft Conan Eldon Holmes?" Sherlock asked back in kind.
"A Holmes is not made by his education. Nor is it the speed and skill through which you show the knowledge that you have accumulated. It is not the way you speak or the awards you recieve. To be a Holmes, and mind you I will only say this but once. William Sherlock Scott Holmes, what makes a Holmes is heart, persistence, and an incredible sense of survival. You have all the skills you need to live up to your potential instilled within you already." Mycroft paused momentarily before clearing his throat and continuing with a single, soft spoken remark, "Our only difficulty is that we tend to reject the world and instead gravitate towards expansion of our minds, information. One thing that the both of us must always keep in mind is that we cannot allow ourselves to be isolated in this world."
Mycroft smiled wryly to himself, "And that is what it means to be a Holmes. That is who we are and that is what we are made of."
The brothers shared a look in silence while in the background were the sounds of scurrying feet, high-pitched alarms, and the ringing of telephones.
"Alright, you two?"
The woman's voice moved the boys to turn their attentions towards the direction of the door leading to the delivery rooms. The doctor smiled at the two before speaking again.
"Are you the Holmes boys?" She asked.
Mycroft stood stiffly from the waiting room chair, "We are."
"Good." The doctor said, "Well then, would you like to meet your new baby sister?"
Sherlock looked up at Mycroft before turning to the woman and shaking his head yes.
"Follow me then." She motioned to the door.
Sherlock stood up hastily and hurried to keep up with the doctor and his brother as the three made their way through the double doors and down the white, sterile hallway. The doctor led them to a door and motioned for them to be quiet as she reached to open it.
"Mum's been through a lot today and she'll be needing her rest. Alright boys?"
Mycroft and Sherlock looked at eachother, up at the stark white ceiling, and then back at the woman. Sighing in unison the brothers shook their heads yes.
Then, the doctor opened the door.
There was Violet Holmes looking as alert as ever, sitting up on the hospital bed with a couple of pillows brought from home to prop up her back. Siger stood by the window, there was something in his arms that he kept rocking gently in one arm while he used his other to point out different things on the other side of the glchrome_find class="find_in_page"ass.
It was the boys' mother that noticed them first and she gave a great shout to her husband.
"Siger! Come over here and show your sons their sister!"
When his father finally turned around, Sherlock was astounded. He had not been expecting the tiny creature he saw in Siger's arms.
"Would you like to hold her?" Sherlock's father asked, looking from brother to brother.
Mycroft was standing stock still, hands stuffed inside his trouser pockets and lips pursed tightly as he stared at the wrinkly newborn human.
Sherlock decided to respond in his brother's stead.
"I thought the doctor said it was a boy."
His mother gave a snort, "The doctors made a mistake."
"She a bit ugly, don't you think?" Sherlock said next, causing both of his parents to laugh this time and fostering a stern look from his brother who had finally come out of his trance, of sorts.
"I- I will take her Father." The oldest Holmes child said finally. He held out his arms, expertly using them to hold the body and support the infants head when his father placed her carefully in his care.
"What is her name?" Sherlock asked, peeking over Mycroft's shoulder to get a better look.
"We thought it would be best for the two of you to decide." Violet smiled, "Just don't choose something she cannot live with. Last time this happened you almost ended up with the name 'Sherlock' by the will of your brother."
"It is my name though." Said Sherlock, "At least, a middle name." He turned to Mycroft, "What about him? Mycroft isn't even normal."
"Family name of a good friend who passed away a month or two before your brother was born. It's his choice that we do not call him Mike anymore." Violet said pointedly.
"I presume 'Eudora' is already a chosen middle name." Mycroft said, ignoring the conversation.
"Yes, of course, you're right Mycroft." Siger said.
"Of course it will not be her primary title." Violet said.
"Of course." Echoed Mycroft in terse agreement.
"I like Enola." Whispered Sherlock almost too low for his bother to hear.
"Enola?" Mycroft asked, "That is not even a name."
"No." Their mother said suddenly deep in thought, "Enola Eudoria Hedasa Holmes. I like it William. It has a nice ring."
"Just as long as she is always Enola, I suppose." Mycroft conceded, "I simply loath the name 'Nola'."
"So it's done." Said Violet, "Good, good. Now Mycroft. Give me my baby."
As the two spoke in their usual kind of discourse Sherlock watched in silence until he turn at the feeling of his father's hand on his shoulder.
"William." Siger said with a smile, he was the normal one out of the Holmes. A business student who had met a young Oxford elite over one of her longer breaks in a London pub where she was revising the final draft of her first maths textbook before sending it into her professor to read over pre alerting a publishing company. Now he was married to her with two - no - three children and a somehow ever-calm and collected disposition and incredible ability to openly care for those around him.
"William. Would you answer me one question?"
"Yes Father." Replied Sherlock, "Of course."
"Why Enola? Really. Why choose this name?"
For a moment Sherlock was silent thinking, and then, slowly, he answered, "I could say it is a name, and that would be true. It is Native American in origin, meaning 'magnolia'. But that is not why I suggested it. Intriguingly 'Enola' spelled backwards, is 'alone'. I chose Enola because it carries with it a very specific meaning. No matter where she goes, no matter what she does, no matter what she becomes, Enola Eudoria Hedasa Holmes will never be one thing. She will never be alone."
November, 2015
Sherlock stood in the Homerton University Hospital morgue in Hackney, London, England between Mycroft and Molly. There was a body on the table, one that, under the explicit request of Doctor Molly Hooper, had been kept in the morgue and had been left untouched after autopsy for the past five years.
Just this morning there had still been hope. Sherlock had still been able to pretend that the girl named Enola was still alive. Just this morning there had been a villain, a man to blame when worst came to worst.
Now there was nothing but abstract ideas, and emotions, and pain, and death.
And Mycroft was crying, really truly crying.
"It can't be her. There has to be something else. Something we missed."
"It's her Mycroft." Sherlock spoke and, as he did, he tasted the salt on his lips, "But there is still something we can do for her."
"Are you entirely certain you wish to do this, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked warily.
"It's all I can do." Sherlock said, reaching out his hand to hold the cold, dead fingers of his sister, so different in their still-frozen state, "I have to know what happened. I cannot let her be alone any longer."
It was a cloudy day in November when the news came.