THREE HOURS LATER

The two brothers stood on the pavement outside the station, coats bundled closely against the cool fall air. The three-hour train ride had not been uncomfortable, due to Mycroft's influence, but there wasn't much you could do on a cramped train compartment with (to Sherlock) your archenemy sitting on the seat across.

"Where is she?" muttered said archenemy, ever-present umbrella open against the slight sprinkling of rain. "I distinctly told her the five o'clock train."

"Have a little faith, brother," said Sherlock, not bothered at the least by the rain. "How old is she, fourteen?"

"Fifteen as of yesterday," came the reply. "The 'tea' she mentioned - it was her birthday tea."

"Ah," Sherlock murmured, uncertain of what to make of that fact. He chased away the uncertainty with a snort. "I see Mum continued with the birthday teas."

"Indeed," Mycroft said wryly. "I believe the last one was on your tenth, before you declared them 'childish' and refused to have another one."

"They were childish," Sherlock replied peevishly, glaring at his brother. "All the guests were a bore, and Mum always insisted on inviting everyone in my class, including that wretched Frank What's-his-name-"

"Disregarding the fact that you yourself were the source of most of the problems," smoothly cut in Mycroft, a faint smile lingering at the edges of his mouth as he dared to think of older, happier times. A brief moment later, the smile vanished, and in its place was the man's usual thin-lipped line. "His name was Frank Stewart, by the way."

Sherlock noticed the switch, but only muttered, "Details," and turned away, choosing instead to send a cursory glance over the area. Nothing has changed much since we were last here, he decided, taking in the familiar sight of the worn cobblestones and evening traffic. Perhaps a new sign or two, but relatively the same. His eyes wandered over the populace – a couple hand in hand, with their heads close together as they ambled towards the coffee shop around the corner (newlyweds), a harassed-looking woman hurrying in the opposite direction with a phone held to one ear and a suitcase dragging haphazardly behind her (late for her train), a tall, hesitant figure with a bicycle that seemed to be gathering up the courage to do something (gender hard to determine, probably meeting someone), and the occasional glances and whispers from old-timers who weren't used to new faces –

The detective's observations were cut off by a female voice. "Mr Holmes and, er, Mr Holmes?" Turning in surprise, Sherlock and Mycroft stared at the speaker.

It was the tall figure with the bicycle (ah, so it's a girl) who had addressed them. The girl was thin, and had no major developments to indicate her age (one of the reasons Sherlock had been unsure of her gender). She looked like a rather tall, skinny beanpole with dark brown hair - hair that was gathered into a messy ponytail, with a few wisps curling around her face. Dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans, with a pair of ratty trainers on her feet, she rather looked like a wandering vagrant; only the condition of her clothes, well-worn as they were, suggested that she was well-to-do. The girl handled the bicycle with the air of someone who knew how to ride it; indeed, its tires were virtually caked with mud. A hat and scarf sat in the wire basket, heaped into a slightly dirty and messy pile. Her gray-green eyes were guarded, tinged with slight wariness and apprehension, set in a long, oval face with sharp cheekbones. She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, gaze flickering from both men to her shoes.

"Yes?" said Sherlock, raising an eyebrow.

The girl stopped worrying her teeth, and took a deep breath, saying, "You asked me to meet you here."

Comprehension dawned, and Sherlock exclaimed, "Enola?" A sound like a bad echo made him realize that he and Mycroft had spoken at the same time.

Ignoring the fleeting irritation that came with being in unison with Mycroft, Sherlock remarked, "It would have been easier to send a cab."

Mycroft rolled his eyes at his brother's curt remark and let out another long-suffering sigh. "Pardon our rudeness, Enola," he said, smiling down at his sister. "I hope you're doing well?"

"As well as possible, I suppose," she replied faintly, slightly taken aback at Sherlock's blunt comment.

"Good," Mycroft said. He paused, taking in Enola and her current state. The girl fiddled with her hands under his gaze, twisting and untwisting her fingers.

After a moment a corner of the man's mouth turned up again in a rare half-smile. "I should have known it was you," he mused. "You look exactly like Sherlock at that age."

Both younger siblings turned to look at the eldest, identical looks of surprise on their faces – Sherlock's at the sheer sentiment of that statement alone, and Enola's at the strangeness of the comparison mentioned.

For a millisecond Mycroft seemed to be lost in his memories, eyes gazing beyond, not at, Enola. Sherlock thought he saw a brief hint of sadness cross the older man's face, but Mycroft's expression was as smooth and expressionless like usual before he could confirm it.

The British Government coughed again, clearing his throat. "That aside, Enola," he began, all hints of emotion gone from his voice. "What are you doing here alone, on a bicycle? Ferndell's at least two miles from the station."

His sister blinked, then said, rather absently, "Oh – I guess I could have called for a cab, but I was in a hurry, so…"

"That is no excuse, Enola," chided Mycroft. "You're a young woman now – you can't go gallivanting out in the countryside on your bicycle. You should have just sent the chauffeur to pick us up." He looked up at the rapidly darkening sky. "You should probably call him now – it seems like the rain is about to pour."

Enola's face turned puzzled. "Chauffeur? We haven't had a chauffeur in years."

At that Mycroft's forehead wrinkled into a bemused scowl. "Whatever do you mean, Enola? Of course you have a chauffeur! I've been paying Jonathan Edwards, your chauffeur, a monthly payment for at least five years now. Do us a favor and call him before the rain starts to pour."

"I don't understand," said the girl, brow drawn down in a way that was reminiscent of Sherlock.

Exasperated, Mycroft turned to lecture her, but Sherlock interrupted, saying, "Do leave her alone, Mycroft. As you can tell, her head, in proportion to her body, is rather small. I wouldn't be surprised if she had a limited cranial capability to remember trivial matters such as the existence of a chauffeur." He turned away to scan for a cab, completely missing the brief surprise and hurt that crossed Enola's face. Mycroft failed to notice as well, letting out a long sigh as Sherlock raised an arm, calling, "Taxi!" A cab across the street swerved and made a swift U-turn, headed towards the group.

"Come along," the detective said over his shoulder.

"But - what about my bicycle?" questioned Enola.

"Leave your bicycle here - we can send Dick for it later." Sherlock paused, frowning. "It is still Dick, I'm to assume?"

"Yes," stammered Enola, still confused over the chauffeur. "He came back from uni to help Mr and Mrs Lane about the house."

"Dull," intoned Sherlock as the cab stopped where they were standing.

"I don't know what Mum was thinking, letting that simpleton come back," Mycroft sighed with a grudgingly sentimental tone of voice as he folded his umbrella and shook the excess rainwater off. "Her and her humanitarian values."

Sherlock gave a snort. "Perhaps she's gone over entirely to the humanitarian effort," he said snidely. The detective had never understood his mother's passion for humanitarian rights. Opening the cab door, Sherlock turned and raised a questioning eyebrow at Enola. "Well, sister? Did you ever know what Mum was thinking?"

Ready to respond, Enola opened her mouth, and then closed it again. Scowling, she said, "I never knew what she was thinking." The girl blinked. "I don't even know where she's gone." With that, something in her face crumbled, and the fifteen-year-old promptly burst into tears.

AN: Hey people! I'm back, and with a new chapter... So yeah, I'm on a roll with this one.
Just for clarification, if anyone needs it - I'm trying to find a good balance between the TV series and the books, so if you've only read the books (or only watched the series) and find discontinuities, here's why! I've also made Enola slightly older... You'll find out why in later chapters :P

I'm thinking of updating every week (Sat or Sun), since I already have the third chapter lined up, so... You can expect more from this :)
However, I need some help with the plot (this is mainly for the book readers): Can anyone think of a really good reason for Eudoria/Enola to run away? I have one, but it's not essentially life-threatening, so... Help? Please review! It helps me write XD

Thanks for reading!