Sherlock
The last time Sherlock saw his sister was on her thirteenth birthday in London. She had found him sitting on a bench in the dark night, watching the glowing London Eye from a distance away. This was six months before Sherlock met John. He was still utterly alone. But even now, he still remembered. Because that was the last meeting he had with her.
He remembered how she had come up behind him sitting on the bench. How she paused as if questioning her decision then walked around and sat down on the far side; as far away from him as possible. He knew it was her, but he wanted her to start talking first. So he sat, facing forward, not looking at her, and waited.
"I've come to say goodbye."
Sherlock sat up a bit straighter at her words; a minute movement. That was not what he was expecting.
"You can't run from me, it that's what you're thinking." The words came out harsher than intended.
He heard a short huff of air blow our of his sister's nose. She was amused.
"Even if I were trying to run from you, you would never be able to find me. But I'm not running, so you won't need to find me. I'm leaving. And I'm telling you where I'm going."
"I would still look for you. I personally don't care about your whereabouts, never have, never will, but Mycroft has always seemed to want to know. When you were hiding with your old private school friend, when you were living near the subways- shall I go on?"
There was a long pause before his sister replied in a low voice, "You… You knew where I was; all the time?"
"Wasn't it obvious from the number of times Mycroft hauled you back to Ferndell Hall in the past two years? I swear one more time and he was going to put you under house arrest. Of course I always knew where you were. I just didn't always tell Mycroft. And whether it's because we are related or because we have been around Mycroft too much, we do share a common hatred on some level for how insufferable he can be."
Sherlock knew his words would only make his sister more determined to become invisible. He knew what went on in her mind. She was just like him. And who knew? Perhaps she would be a bit more careful this time. Regardless, he would find her. But he loved the thrill of the chase.
"So I came to say goodbye." She started again.
"I thought I had made this obvious." Sherlock interrupted. "With me, there is no goodbye. Just until we meet again."
She sighed heavily. "Where I am going, you cannot follow."
Now Sherlock was amused. "Try me." He glanced over at her for the first time, but she was staring straight ahead. She shared the same features as him. Dark hair, sharp features, but in a more feminine way that was uniquely her own.
Before she could notice him staring, he turned to look straight ahead again.
"I'm leaving tonight; as soon as I finish talking with you. I know what I'm getting myself into. It's dangerous, but The Doctor will take care of me."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "Who?"
"The Doctor."
"Doctor who?"
"Yes, that is the question, isn't it?"
"I don't understand."
"You wouldn't." She said wryly. He could still see some of the innocent child she had been in her. "Look I've stayed too long," she continued, "It's time for me to go."
She got up to leave, wrapping her black coat tighter over her thin body. It was a cold night, but Sherlock never minded. "Sherlock," she glanced back, their hazel eyes matching, "There's a chance I might not see you again. So Sherlock, have a good life. Give Mycroft my best. And don't look for me; because you will not find me." She said these words with finality, then turned and walked off toward the corner of the block, her boots making a quiet thud with each step. Then she turned the corner and was gone.
He hadn't tried to stop her. He couldn't have, even if he had wanted to. Her mind was set, and he couldn't change that. He knew that all too well. Because he knew what went on in her head. She was his sister, after all.
She frustrated him, yet amazed him, although he would never admit it. And when he finally uttered her name for the first time in a long time, he wasn't sure if he was cursing it, or feared it.
"Enola…"