"Nothing is going on," Sherlock sulked, staring in aggravation at his nearly empty wall of papers, paying no attention to the fact that Mycroft – to whom he was speaking – had moved into the kitchen and taken a phone call. "I've never had to be inactive this long, not with Enola's disappearance, Moriarty – both times he was caught – and his network, Irene, A.G.R.A., my death and resurgence. It was all gloriously interesting! Now all that remains of those things is our little sister, and hers is such an old case that she's ceased to surprise me. Looking for her has become more of an idle hobby than anything else. Boring, boring, boring."

"Bite… your… tongue."

Sherlock's gaze snapped around to study Mycroft as the elder brother succinctly bit out each word in a slow, exasperatedly cranky snarl while he emerged from the kitchen.

"Why?" he queried.

"Enola."

"You have news of her?" Sherlock asked curiously, whipping around to face Mycroft, his dressing gown fanning out around him when he turned as the consulting detective's brother sank into what Sherlock would forever consider to be "John's chair."

Taking his brother's cue, Sherlock settled into his own chair, straightening up as Mycroft nodded and filled him in with an edge of weariness in his voice. "It would appear that our sister has married earlier this week – two days ago, to be exact – in Gretna, Scotland."

"Whoever to?" Sherlock yelped, because, despite his statement from a moment ago, this was a move from his little sister that did in fact surprise him.

Mycroft laughed humorlessly, declaring, "Marquess Tewksbury Basilwether."

"And who is he?" Sherlock asked, digesting the unusual name with a touch of distaste.

"A sixteen year old, for starters, born in the nearby countryside, who – though it's been kept very much under the radar – disappeared from his home four years ago, and, to my knowledge, had by now been presumed dead."

"Why on earth would a titled twelve-year-old just simply 'disappear' – at the very least without a great uproar?"

"I've known a little of his family over the years, and to be entirely frank, I believe that the reason he disappeared – in my opinion, ran away – is the same reason it was kept quiet; his home was not a happy one."

"Classic," Sherlock muttered to himself before launching up out of his chair, retrieving his laptop, and pulling up one of a number of photos. Turning the laptop so that Mycroft could see the face on the screen, he asked, "Is this your missing Marquess?"

"Yes."

Sherlock nodded, answering the unasked question when he said, "The boy's been a companion of Enola's practically since the day she ran away. Not a planned thing, I don't think, but it apparently turned out to be very fortuitous for the both of them."

"So you knew that she was living with a boy, and yet you obviously didn't see this coming."

"Not a sentimental thing like a marriage, no," Sherlock agreed. "Mostly because it didn't seem like she was just shacking up with this boy. Enola and Tewksbury are, so far as I can tell, also in the company of another vanished noble, twenty-year-old Lady Cecily Alistair."

"And you're saying that these three just came together by chance?"

"No, of course not. Yes, they came together, but you and I both know the universe is rarely so lazy as to rely on chance, brother mine."

"So why did the three of them remain together as a trio?" Mycroft asked. "And why in the bloody h*** did Enola go off and marry that marquess?"

Sherlock considered this for a second, hands steepling underneath his chin as he thought, before he suggested, "Monetary safety? No, not if they're both on the lam, so to speak. Social standing? She's only just barely managed that, again considering they're on the run which means that they can only just barely exist."

"But you would maintain that for her it means protection of some sort?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock nodded. "She's been so shrewd in how she's gone about staying off the radar, there's a very good reason that she's alright with getting back on it now."

"Is she okay with it because she's become of age?"

Sherlock suddenly sat up ramrod straight, eyes widening as he snapped, "What?"

"She's become of age, Sherlock," Mycroft said exasperatedly. "It's August, her eighteenth birthday was last month; don't you know that?"

"Why would I know when her birthday is?" Sherlock asked, nose crinkling before he shot to his feet and headed into the kitchen.

"Because she's your sister!" Mycroft replied, turning in his chair to look after his brother. "What are you doing?"

"Making tea; you might want to stay to have it with us."

"'Us'?" Mycroft repeated. "Enjoy this statement this once, little brother – because it's the only time you'll hear it – but I believe I missed something. Who's coming over?"

Sherlock poked his head around the doorjamb long enough to say, "Enola."

Eyes blowing wide, Mycroft surged to his feet and strode after Sherlock, watching his brother's back as tea was indeed prepared. "What exactly makes you think that our sister's just going to pop in for tea?"

Slamming the kettle down on the stove and setting the tea to brewing, Sherlock whirled back around to face Mycroft, explaining what he himself had just realized. "It is about becoming of age. That is exactly it. We can no longer control any or every move that she makes, which means that she no longer has any reason to fear us or to stay away from us. Our sister seems to have taken after our parents in a leaning towards utter sentimentality which, at its very heart, craves a family. This is, I suspect, why she's kept in the company of the two nobles, and it also gives me reason to believe that she will return to us very soon. In fact, I don't believe it remiss to expect her here within the day."

"You're kidding," Mycroft scoffed, trailing after Sherlock when the younger brother left the kitchen to go peer out the window in the front room. "Even if you are correct in that she will choose to return to us, it's been over a month since she could've done so; what makes you think she'll choose today?"

Sherlock smirked at something outside the window as he said, "It's in her timing. A marriage is something of a safety point to her, and beyond that it's a matter of mathematics. We've received no word indicating a change of address or relocation from London where she's concerned, which means that she went to Scotland simply to wed – a business trip of sorts – and will return at the earliest opportunity to her habitual lodgings in our home city. Allowing her time to do that and settle back in a bit, seeing to whatever means of support I suspect she has for herself, and whatever else she feels is necessary, I would say that two days is plenty of time. For whatever reason arose in her mind, marriage was the final layer of her armor before she approached us, and now all we have to do is wait."

"You cannot possibly know that about her! We haven't seen a glimpse of her in four years!"

"No, Mycroft," Sherlock corrected, still looking out the window. "You haven't seen her in four years. In my searching for her, I've spotted her numerous times."

"And yet you let her alone?"

"She seems to be doing very well on her own; I saw no real need to disrupt her happiness."

"I still say you cannot possibly be correct in the whole fiasco," Mycroft groused.

Mrs. Hudson interrupted them, shuffling a little nervously into the room to inform her boarder, "Sherlock, there's some young people downstairs who'd like to speak to you about a possible case."

"A case?" Sherlock asked, as if he'd never heard of such a thing… and then he muttered to himself, smiling depreciatingly, "Of course… a case. Silly." He nodded to Mrs. Hudson, saying, "Tell them to come on up," and to Mycroft, "I am correct about Enola. You'll see."