A/N: The internet's been spotty for the last few days (which isn't entirely surprising considering I live in Alaska) so to pass the time without web access I've been writing all sorts of nonsense. These little stories wriggled their way out of my head and I figured I'd share.
Reading Only Intelligent first might give a bit more context to these but it's not necessary.
Also I am not sure if I plan to continue this or leave it as-is. Depends on my mood.
:::
Mummy's shouting again and Dad's joined in now too, the both of them screeching at each other in a jumble of nasty words and foreign languages. Enola ducks her head low into the space between the sofa cushions and tries not to cry. They won't hurt her, she knows that - but the yelling is frightening and their insults sting even though they're not directed at her and sometimes they toss things. She just wants it all to stop.
Their argument's switched to German now, and the fact that she can't understand a word they're saying just seems to make it all the worse. A few sniffles escape her chest as she curls up tighter into a ball. Crying won't help in the slightest but perhaps she'll feel better if she gives in to the impulse to sob like a baby anyway.
Then suddenly a hand finds hers, grasps her small fingers tightly in comfort. She lifts her tear-streaked face to find her big brother crouched down next to her.
"Enny," he starts. In the other room Mummy throws a plate at Dad, causing a loud crash that reverberates through the walls, and Enola and Sherlock both jump.
"Shewwy tell them to stop!" Enola bursts out in a choked sob. She's too young to be able to pronounce R's properly, much less the L or the hard stop of her brother's name, so it comes out sounding all wrong. He's always let her call him by whatever sounds she can manage, though, and never gets angry about it.
Sherlock winces a bit. "Yeah... I'm not going in there. We should leave."
With that he straightens up, pulling Enola's hand with him, and she finds herself scooped off the sofa. Annoying that he can pick her up so easily, but then he is almost twelve. Her brother settles her weight in his arms, cradled securely against his side, and looks back over his shoulder through the entryway where they can still see their mum's blotchy red face as she shrieks foreign insults at Dad.
"Christ, she's like a bloody harpy," Sherlock mutters, doubtless to himself. Enola shouldn't know what the rude words mean but she's pieced together a lot more than most of the adults think she has - understands the intent even if she can't quite grasp the definition. Most of that is Sherlock's fault, of course. He likes to teach her things she shouldn't learn until she's older.
"Don't call Mummy names," she admonishes; the sentence comes out a bit of a mumble because she doesn't really want Sherlock to think she's angry with him. Not when he's in the middle of rescuing her, anyway. He's carrying her out of the room now and glances down with a bland, not-entirely-genuine smile.
"I'll call her whatever I like if she deserves it."
Enola gets jostled a bit as Sherlock shuffles around to free up a hand so he can open a door. South hall, going toward the staircase. She's been paying close attention to the pathways through the house over the last few months and so knows they're probably headed for his room. That's good, then. She likes Sherlock's room. It's full of interesting things and lots of colourful books.
That wing of the house is a bit of a walk, though, and halfway up the stairs Sherlock stops to set Enola down on her own two feet.
"Oof, okay, you're getting heavy," he huffs in explanation. Enola pouts, considers crying... but Sherlock fixes her with a look that says don't you dare and she instead decides to focus on climbing the steps. She's not very good at it yet but she's been practising whenever she gets a chance.
Six more steps later and she's feeling quite proud of herself for how smoothly she can move from one to another. Almost like a grown-up, she thinks. Then she trips, nearly falls, and it's only Sherlock's tight hold on her hand that saves her from a tumble down the stairs.
Enola glances up. Is he going to laugh? But her big brother's just smiling fondly.
"You're alright," he says. "Just a couple more."
The last few steps are easy with him supporting most of her weight, and they're soon walking down the hall toward the door at the very end. Enola's tiny legs are no match for Sherlock's long strides. With a glance down at her jogging gait he rolls his eyes slightly and slows his pace so she can keep up easier.
"Are Mummy and Da' gonna divorce?" Enola pipes up after a moment. She doesn't quite know what 'divorce' means, to be honest, but she'd heard two of the maids talking about it the other day and wants to try the word out. Something like never speaking to each other again, she thinks. And if that's the case it would probably be a lot quieter than their current arrangement.
Sherlock scoffs. "And ruin their precious social standing? Of course not."
"But they're always fighting," Enola points out with a puzzled frown. "The maids says they stopped being in love a long time ago so they should divorce."
They reach Sherlock's room and the older boy opens the door to let Enola go in ahead of him - up here they can barely hear the muffled crashes of Mummy throwing dinner plates.
"It's more complicated than that," Sherlock explains with a slight huff of a sigh. "For one thing they'd have to decide who has to take care of us, and neither of them wants to."
Enola blinks up at him as he shuts the door behind them. "Can't Myc'off?"
She scrunches her face up a bit in annoyance with herself - can't say that name quite right either. Ugh, why are R's so difficult? But Sherlock knows what she meant anyway so it's okay.
"Mycroft's busy with uni." He reaches out to pluck Enola up by the armpits and deposits her on the rumpled duvet of his bed, then goes over to the other side of the room to rummage through the bookcase. "Though, yes, the fat git's technically eighteen now so I suppose he could take legal custody if he had to," Sherlock adds over his shoulder. "I'd just as soon not have to sit through the court hearings though."
Enola's not entirely sure what her brother's talking about but she nods anyway when he turns around, just to make it seem like she's smart. Sherlock and Mycroft both like smart people best of all. Everyone says Enola's very smart for her age - a genius, even - but compared to her big brothers she never seems to know much of anything.
Feeling like a bit of an idiot's far better than how she feels when Mummy and Dad are around, however, so she quickly decides she doesn't mind that her brothers are so much cleverer than her. Being teased is more fun than finding oneself caught in the midst of a shouting match after all... though now that the topic's come up she realises she's never so much as heard Mycroft raise his voice. He's much nicer than their parents are. She wishes they could go visit him. Wishes they could visit him and never come back home at all, really.
On that note she speaks up again. "I want to live with Mycrf... mycuh... mywrof..." She cuts herself off and scowls, irked by her inability to say the name right. It's frustrating because she knows how the word should sound - her stupid tongue just won't cooperate.
Sherlock returns to the bed, sits down beside her with his long legs criss-cross and quirks an amused smile down at his baby sister.
"My-croft," he says slowly.
"Myggof."
Enola pouts while Sherlock sniggers. He waves a hand dismissively. "Never mind. Just call him 'Myc', then. It's easier."
"Myc," Enola repeats, and that finally comes out sounding proper so she says it again with a grin. Sherlock smiles too and ruffles her hair.
"There, see? Now maybe you can figure out a nickname for me that doesn't sound ridiculous and then we'll all be happy."
"You said to call you Shewwy," Enola says with a slight huff.
"No, I said you could call me Sherly if you needed to. And then you went and bungled it all up because you're three years old and apparently the letter R is a tremendous challenge."
"Arrrrrrrr!" Enola growls, to prove a point. Because she does not have a problem with Rs thank you very much she is perfectly capable of talking like all the grown-ups can even though she's only three. Unfortunately the noise comes out more like 'awwwwwwuh!' and that just makes her brother snicker again.
"Good try," he offers flippantly. Enola can tell he's not serious though and that annoys her. Before she can get into a proper sulk however he tugs her toward him, holding up the book he'd retrieved from his shelf earlier. Throwing a fit is still highly appealing... but, no, the prospect of reading wins out. She fixes him with a frown first however so he'll know she's not forgiven him for being sarcastic, then clambers into his lap as he opens the book in front of them.
Sherlock doesn't start the story right away.
"Would you really rather live with Myc?" he asks instead, voice gone a bit quiet. Enola cranes her neck to peer up at him. He looks sad for some reason.
She turns her gaze back down to the book (the caterpillar one - her favourite) and considers for a few seconds before speaking. Slowly and carefully, this time, so she can be sure the words form right.
"I think... Myc loves us more than Mummy and Daddy do. He was angry when you got hurt at school last month, 'member? But Mummy didn't care. And he always listens when I tell him stuff. So we should live with him instead."
Sherlock sighs slightly and leans forward to put an elbow on his knee, resting his chin on his fist so he can look down at Enola's face. She blinks up at him. He still seems sad.
"Mycroft's our brother, Enny, not our dad. It's not his responsibility to look after us."
Enola frowns. "Can't he anyway?"
Her brother huffs a sigh but doesn't answer. A long moment of silence stretches between them - Sherlock looks thoughtful, a bit stressed... definitely unhappy. Enola fidgets in his lap and hopes she hasn't done anything wrong.
Finally the older boy seems to shake himself and shifts his arm from his knee, flipping to the first page of the book. "Let's just read your book, okay? Mum and Dad'll get tired of shouting soon."
"Okay," Enola agrees quietly. She leans into Sherlock's chest and doesn't whinge when he rests his chin on her head. Together they make their way through the silly story about caterpillars. And then, because Mum and Dad haven't gotten tired yet, they move on to the one about the bears. And then the one with the ducks. And from there a chemistry textbook, because Sherlock doesn't keep that many children's books in his room.
Hours later the house is finally silent. Devoid once more of angry screaming or the crash of shattering dishes.
Enola doesn't notice, though. She's curled up in her big brother's arms, cradled to his chest under the fluffy duvet like a stuffed bear, with his face buried in her dark curls and hers pressed into his shoulder. Both of them are sound asleep.