Disclaimer: I do not own Enola Holmes, or any of the Sherlock Holmes characters. No profit is being made

Summary: Getting Mycroft to transfer guardianship of their teenage sister to Sherlock had been easy. It was everything else about Enola's disappearence that was proving somewhat harder.

CHAPTER ONE

Getting Mycroft to transfer guardianship of their teenage sister to Sherlock had been easy.

It was everything else that was proving somewhat harder.

Mycroft had been all too willing to wash his hands of her, ever mindful of his image and position as lynchpin of the British Government. Sherlock wasn't a fan of small children, unless you counted the urchins he paid to keep him upraised of happenings in low places, and both of them were equally lost in how to handle a girl on the cusp of womanhood. Still, shuffling her off to a boarding school had been a mistake, and a costly one.

Miss Harrison's school had the reputation of churning out bland copies of every reason Sherlock despised socialising with the fairer sex in general. A girl with Enola's spirit, even if she hadn't been raised exclusively by their eccentric mother, would have hated any place that tried to crush her spirit in such a way.

Sherlock had expected Enola to react like the teenage daughters that Mycroft's friends complained about; sulk and throw a tantrum and forget about it after being given something they wanted. Enola had been angry and a little petulant, but all was not forgiven after Sherlock had treated her like a detective to advise. Much like Mother, she'd vanished off the face of the earth, although unlike Mother, she left the occasional clue to let Sherlock know she was alive and probably in acceptable condition.

But Sherlock still hadn't seen his sister in the flesh since he left her at Miss Harrison's Finishing School.

He'd thought she'd be grateful for the visit, but she'd resented his part in putting her there, and assumed that he'd only come to extract information, and not 24 hours after he left Enola had vanished into thin air. This was why Sherlock didn't socialise! If you cared about people then you started being concerned for them, and in no time at all you were keeping yourself up at night thinking about all the horrible things that could befall a sheltered sixteen year old on her own in London!

And then you started thinking about mistakes, and what you could have done differently, and constantly second-guessing himself was not a pass-time that Sherlock Holmes enjoyed.

Folding the paper, Sherlock finished his brandy and left the club, returning to Baker Street. He needed advice, and there was only one person that Sherlock trusted for answers.

Dodging Mrs Hudson was an art-form, one of many that Sherlock had perfected. The sound of a kettle boiling came from inside, indicating that at least one of his two co-inhabitants was home.

That didn't make the prospect of having to admit to his imperfections any easier. Sherlock hung up his greatcoat and walking stick. "Still no luck."

John Watson, with the dual benefits of sisters rather closer to his own age, but also rather less intelligent and resourceful than Enola, merely ruffled his newspaper, managing to convey the tone of "I told you so" without saying a word. Sherlock sighed. "Just say it, Watson."

Watson lowered the paper. "You broke her trust, Holmes. You and Mycroft both. Declaring that you did it because you care about her and dropping a few bits of advice isn't going to just fix that."

Sherlock was careful not to sigh, fetching the kettle off the stove as it started to whistle. He fixed a cup for Watson, as well, and after a moment's thought, poured the last of the water into Mary's coffee pot. Watson's wife, daughter of a British father and East Indian mother, had a number of strong opinions about tea, and wasn't shy about voicing them, though she allowed the men in her life their indulgences. It was possibly the main reason why Watson was so attracted to her.

Setting the teacup down at Watson's elbow, and settling into his own chair, Sherlock thought over his options. "You know me, Watson. I'm not practiced at," he gestured vaguely, "people… emotions… that sort of thing."

Watson knew that first-hand: he'd spent weeks dropping the subtle hints common to men attracted to other men, and it hadn't been until he had to explain how normal people managed emotions on a case that the doctor realised a more straightforward approach might be necessary. That had been… rather an experience.

Perhaps Sherlock should have brought Watson and Mary with him when he and Mycroft went to fetch Enola; they might have had more success in reaching her. Watson took a thoughtful sip of his tea as the door opened. "You remember the first rule, Holmes: people are not toys. You can't pick them up and put them away at your convenience."

Sherlock grimaced slightly. Yes, Enola had made that clear, too. As had the formidable Edith Greyson, and Mrs Lane, the housekeeper. Not to mention two different Stationmasters, who both demanded to know what his sister was fleeing, to go to such lengths to escape her home (Sherlock had appreciated that insinuation even less than the others) and refused to speak to him further. Even mother, whose entire plan for Enola hinged on Sherlock not bothering to look for his little sister when Mystery beckoned, hadn't expected him to prioritise a person over a case.

The door closed again, and a lightly-accented voice joined the chorus. "No sign of young Enola, then?"

Mary greeted Watson with a kiss and Sherlock with an arch look, her thick blonde hair a marked contrast to her brown skin. She'd been helpful in explaining Enola's possible motivations, but rather less so with suggestions of the places a young woman on her own might go to ground. Some nonsense about female solidarity and how it was good for Sherlock to actually work for the answers sometimes.

Sherlock had no idea what she could mean by that, honestly.

He got up to pour her a cup of coffee, "No. I suspect that Viscount Tewksbury's ignorance is by design, but he's become very good at avoiding me."

There was a touch of concern in his posture when he spoke of the conditions in the slums, where Lestrade had found Enola the first time. Rumour had it that he was courting a young country lady, though that could be a ploy to avoid being swamped by every eligible woman in London. He was intelligent enough to be aware that Sherlock didn't need a confession to deduce what he wanted to know, and the value of ignorance.

Watson and Mary exchanged amused looks. "You mean he isn't intimidated by your reputation, and knows that you have to listen to Mycroft complain at length every time he sees you talking to the young Lord?"

Young Tewksbury had also become very good at pitching his voice to catch Mycroft's attention whenever he spotted Sherlock coming his way. No wonder Enola was fond of him. He wasn't lying about not knowing where she was, but they had to be in contact somehow.

There was no one else who could have schooled him so well on how to frustrate both of Enola's brothers quite so effectively.

Sherlock employed the time-honoured diplomatic tactic of saying nothing.

Mary laughed, and Sherlock very nearly with-held her coffee, before thinking better of it. The former Miss Morston had known something about defence before her father went missing, and she'd been visiting Miss Greyson's tea shop ever since Sherlock had made the fatal error of complaining about the woman to Watson within her hearing. Edith wouldn't have taught Mary purely to make Sherlock's life harder, but he had little doubt that it was a contributing factor.

Mary wasn't an unappealing woman, in a purely aesthetic fashion, and her sharp mind and quick wit was certainly something to appreciate. He'd appreciated the same traits in Irene Adler, during their brief acquaintance, and it had been just as vexing in the thief as it was in his boyfriend's wife. "Regrettably."

Watson stifled a smirk. "Well, you'll be pleased to know that there's a message for you in the personels."

He handed over the newspaper. Sherlock, in a frustrated effort to either provoke Enola into shouting at him in person, or at least confirm whatever was going on with Tewksbury, had left an advertisement to May Beatrice Posy: "How is your boyfriend?"

Reading the reply, he resisted the urge to swear. Mary had opinions on foul language, too, and nothing brought Mrs Hudson to the door faster than raised voices and foul language. "To Shirly: How's yours? My compliments to his wife."

Someone had been teaching Enola how to couch a veiled threat, and Sherlock was fairly certain that it hadn't been him. He would never have threatened Mary and Watson's reputations in such a fashion. Come to think of it, Sherlock almost hoped that Enola didn't fully realise what she had implied in her rebuttal. Pray let it have come from one of those dreadful romance novels at Miss Harrisons…

It was a good disguise; anyone who didn't know the details would see it as two women being catty, uninteresting except for the potential scandal. Lestrade, who did know the details, was going to be insufferable.

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A/N: Saw the movie on Netflix. Loved it. Wanted more. Until I discover who I need to throw money at for a sequel, I'm limited to fanfiction.

Questions, comments and critiques can be submitted via the review button.

Thanks,

Nat