Here's the next installment in the Enola AU. I'm having a blast writing this. See how many nods to the original books you can find in this one!
I'm on Tumblr, if anyone wants to talk to me. Come find me at anakien!
Also, this still isn't Britpicked or beta'ed, so pardon any mistakes you see. I don't know where the nearest Tube station to Baker Street is, so let's just pretend it's a bit of a walk, lol.
Enjoy.
"Sherlock," John growls, slamming the fridge door shut and stomping out into the living room. "What did I tell you about not labeling body parts?"
Enola looks up curiously from Sherlock's chair, texting wildly without looking at the keys. Sherlock doesn't bother to turn around, his back to the kitchen as he types up a new ash study for his website.
"Not me," Sherlock mutters.
"Well, I didn't do it," John snaps. Enola squints a little at the bloody bag in his hand.
"Wait, are you talking about the pinkies? Those are mine," she says, giving him a sheepish smile.
John looks back at the bag and sighs, lowering it back down to his side. "Just, we have a word processor for a reason," he says, anger evaporated. He grunts an apology to Sherlock and walks back into the kitchen.
Enola waits a beat before throwing the nearest pillow at her brother. "Your welcome," she says sarcastically. "What's that, the fifth time I've covered for you?"
Sherlock grunts. "John would've gotten over it," he says, unbothered.
"It's called common courtesy," she says, annoyed.
"We did fine before you moved in," Sherlock says. Enola snorts and pushes up, shoving her phone in the back pocket of her jeans.
"Somehow I doubt that. I'm going out," she says. John pokes his head out of the kitchen.
"Grab some milk, will you?" he asks. "We're almost out."
Enola grabs her wallet and slings on her coat. She pulls open the door to the flat, revealing the familiar face of her other brother standing there, unamused, and holding a grocery bag and file.
She groans, and Sherlock looks up, face immediately darkening.
"Mycroft," Sherlock spits. The man in question walks in and stands by the fireplace. John sticks his head back out again, wiping his hands on the back of his pants. His face instantly stills, and he walks out and stands behind Sherlock's chair, arms crossed. Mycroft turns back to Enola and swings his umbrella to point towards her chair. She narrows her eyes, flounces over, and plops down.
"I was just about to go out," Enola says petulantly.
"This won't take long," Mycroft says, a small, unpleasant smile on his face. Mycroft turns to John and holds out the bag. Surprised, John takes it, and pulls out a thing of milk. He gives Mycroft a look with a raised eyebrow. "I noticed you were running low," Mycroft simpers.
John's eyes narrow and flicker to the bookshelf, immediately looking for hidden cameras. Giving up for the moment, he goes to put the milk in the fridge, and Mycroft hands Enola the file he brought. She flips it open and immediately screws up her face.
"Ugh, I still have to go to school?" she groans. Sherlock peeks over the edge of the file at a pamphlet with several smiling teens beaming up at him. He crinkles his nose, and Mycroft shoots him a look.
"Education is a non-negotiable," Mycroft says. "And if you refuse to attend a boarding school, public school is your next best option."
"Can't Sherlock just, I don't know, homeschool me or something?" Enola says, gesturing wildly at the brother in question. "They're wearing uniforms!"
Sherlock and Mycroft exchange a look, and Sherlock barks a laugh, sneering. "I refuse to demean myself to teach pre-algebra," he sniffs.
John walks back in and snickers.
"Your education would be severely lacking in knowledge on the solar system," John pipes up. "Can't have that." Sherlock twists his head around to frown at John, who winks at Enola from his position leaning against the kitchen doorframe. Enola giggles a bit, but still looks unsure.
"This is a compromise, Enola," Mycroft says. "I don't often partake in those." She deliberates on this for a few seconds.
"Will I still be staying here?" Enola asks. "How far away is it?"
Mycroft waves a hand dismissively. "South. You will have to take the Tube, or I can send a car to drive you every day," he says. "It is of no importance to me."
"Yes, please waste the taxpayer dime on chauffeuring your sister around to secondary school," Sherlock mutters. "She can take the Tube."
"Fine," Mycroft says, teeth bared in more of a grimace at his brother than a smile. "Done."
Enola shoots Sherlock a glare. He stares coolly back, and still making eye contact, she addresses Mycroft. "When will I start?"
"Two days." Mycroft says, rolling his eyes at his siblings' shenanigans. "They are only three weeks into the semester. You will have more than adequate time to catch up."
She grimaces. "Do I have to fill out any paperwork?" Enola asks. "I can probably phone my old school for my transcript."
"Anthea has taken care of the bureaucratic red tape of the matter."
Enola looks surprised. "Thank you," she says. Mycroft blinks, but smiles, more genuinely than usual. Sherlock rolls his eyes.
"Don't you have other people to inflict with your presence?" Sherlock says petulantly. Mycroft sighs and shifts his weight, pulling out his phone and checking the time. He raises an eyebrow and places his phone back in his pocket, angling his body towards the door.
"Until next time, sister mine," Mycroft says. He ignores Sherlock, nods once at John, and walks out, swinging his umbrella as he goes.
Sherlock scampers to the window to make sure he actually drives off, Enola tripping on his heels. She peers around his shoulder, and John watches the two of them fondly. As soon as Mycroft is out of sight, Enola scowls and punches her brother's arm.
"That was rude," she says. "He was just helping out."
Sherlock looks affronted and rubs his bicep with a wince. "It's Mycroft," he says, bemused. A look flashes across his eyes, and he sneers at her. "Don't tell me you're getting sentimental about him, now."
Enola shoots him a glare and pushes past him. John's still standing in the doorway, eyebrows now raised at their spat. She flounces past him to where Sherlock's coat is hanging up, reaching in one of the pockets and fishing out his wallet.
"I'm getting school supplies," she says. "Don't wait up." She slams the door shut behind her, and both men can hear her stomping down the stairs.
"Jesus, Sherlock," John says, shaking his head.
Sherlock tilts his head to the side and watches Enola stomp down the street, reaching behind her to flick Sherlock off. He winces imperceptibly. "Not good?"
Enola stomps back inside that night with a seemingly unlimited supply of bags. John gapes from his chair, the newspaper he's reading folding over so Enola can see he's reading the sports section.
"That's all school supplies?" he asks. "Seems a bit more than in my day."
Enola shrugs. "I picked up some other things, too." John squints at one of the heavier bags in her hand.
"Is that a wig?" he asks, looking up at her with a strange, curious expression.
"Gotta be prepared," she says simply, setting some of the bags on the ground to drop Sherlock's wallet back in his coat.
"Prepared for what, exactly?" John asks slowly. Enola just grins at him and waltzes off to her room, shutting the door quietly behind her.
John hmphs and flicks his newspaper straight again. Must be a Holmes thing, he decides to himself, shrugging and mentally approving of his excellent deduction.
Enola's lying in her bed at a tremendously early 8:45PM. During dinner, which was really just leftover Italian, Sherlock had given her pointed looks until she'd scampered off to leave him and John alone, making up some excuse about getting enough rest for her first day tomorrow. Even though, you know, she's a Holmes and can survive adequately on approximately 4 hours of sleep a night.
John, however, doesn't quite know that about her yet, and he smiles at her when she walks off to her room. She can still hear every word that they're saying out in the living room if she really tries, and boy, you better believe she's going to.
They talk absently about some case Sherlock's working on, John making positive humming noises whenever Sherlock says something pointedly brilliant in search of adulation. Boring. She thought they were going to make out or something.
The dialogue's almost enough to make her fall asleep, and she's about to drift off when she hears her name pop up in the conversation. She freezes where she lays, holding her breath for a moment. She hears it again and sits up to listening more closely.
"Do you think Moriarty's going to go after her?" she hears John say, and her blood runs cold. She's gotten the brief rundown of what happened at the pool from some of John's unpublished blog posts and from sneaking peeks at Mycroft's files on his desk when she was waiting on him to show up, and it almost frightens her. "Does he know she exists?"
"I don't know," Sherlock says finally. His voice is an even lower mutter than usual, for Enola can barely hear him. "I assume he is aware of her existence, but she isn't a part of the game."
"Yet," John says, and Enola can practically see him point. "She isn't involved yet."
"Mycroft will handle security matters at the school," Sherlock says. "I assume he has already forced the hiring of several new teachers that fit the security requirement." His reassurances do nothing for Enola, and she wonders if John is as unconvinced as she is.
Sherlock says something else, but her blood roars in a her ears, and she slowly sinks back down under the blankets, pulling them over her head and doing her best to tune him out.
She dreams that night of wicked laughter and sneering students, of a hallway of lockers that no matter how far she walks, it's endless, and of her brothers watching her struggle.
Enola frowns and tugs the hem of her skirt down to stay more closely to her knees. She's dressed in the neatly pressed school uniform Anthea dropped off the day before, her bag loaded and draped across her shoulders. She's still jittery from overhearing John and Sherlock's conversation from the night before, and it shows.
"Are you nervous?" John asks, leaning against the kitchen counter and sipping his tea. He watches her slowly and pushes a piece of toast on a plate in her direction.
"Of course not," she scoffs, looking at John like she's anything but. Her stomach flutters against her wishes, and she feels like she's going to throw up. She waves a hand in favor against the toast, knowing she won't be able to force it down.
John raises an eyebrow skeptically but doesn't call her out on it. His phone buzzes from next to him, and he scoops it up to read it.
"It's Mycroft," he says. The corners of his mouth twitch up. "He wants pictures."
Enola's scowl grows even deeper. "Tell him to just filch some from CCTV," she says.
John snorts. "You think he's not going to do that anyway?"
Enola sees his point. She sets her bag at her feet and grimaces at him.
"Make this quick," she says, forcing a smile. John does what she says and takes the picture, sending it to Mycroft. He doesn't respond.
Enola sighs, picking up her bag again. She checks the time on her phone and grimaces. "I guess I need to go," she says. She stands there, hesitant, and John takes a bit of pity on her.
"I have a shift at the clinic today," he says. "Want some company on your walk to the Tube?"
Enola carefully shrugs, acting like she doesn't mind, but a wave of relief washes over her. John grabs his wallet and medical bag and shrugs on his jacket.
"We're leaving now," he tells Sherlock, who's lying prostrate on his couch. Enola stands behind John, looking at her brother with annoyance. John pauses, waiting for Sherlock to respond.
Sherlock grunts.
John tilts his head toward Sherlock. "Aren't you going to wish Enola luck?" he prompts.
Sherlock grunts again and flaps a hand in her direction, shooing them to the door.
John rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "I don't know what I was expecting," he tells Enola, shooting an annoyed look over his shoulder to his flatmate.
She smirks lightly. "Me neither." John holds an arm out, gesturing for her to walk out first, and he shuts the door behind them.
The nearest Tube station is only a few blocks away, and the entire way there, John notices all of the CCTV cameras swivel their way. If Enola sees them too, she doesn't let up on it, instead focusing on scuffing her shoes on the ground and kicking rocks around.
"I'm kinda surprised Mycroft didn't show up," John says, clearing his throat and grabbing her attention. Enola turns to him and makes a face.
"Why?" she asks.
John shrugs. "Seems like the sorta thing he'd do."
Enola ponders that for a moment. "I wouldn't know."
John gives her a funny look. "He's your brother," he says.
"He's also twenty-seven years older than me," Enola says, looking rather amused and at slight 'o' John makes with his mouth. "You know, I'd only met him three times before Mummy ran away."
"Three times?" John repeats, incredulous.
Enola nods. "And Sherlock only once." John splutters for a moment, and Enola continues. "Mycroft dropped in once or twice at the estate. Technically, it was his, but he let Mummy run it for appearances. And I met Sherlock at my father's funeral. I was four. Mummy didn't want him around; the drugs, you know? She and Mycroft agreed he'd be a poor influence on me." She says this all matter-of-factly, as if it wasn't strange to never see your siblings. She shrugs. "I learned more about him from your blog than from Sherlock himself."
John blinks. "Oh," he says, simply because he doesn't know what else to say.
"I'm used to it," Enola says, shrugging her backpack higher up on her shoulders. She swings her arms, absently twirling a piece of hair around her finger. Her eyes, so much like Sherlock's, lock onto his. "What about you? Do you have any siblings?"
"Yeah," John says. "Twin sister. Her name's Harry."
"A twin?" Enola perks up and studies him curiously. "Are you two close?"
John barks out an awkward laugh. "Definitely not," he says.
Enola's shoulders slump. "Oh."
It's awkward for a few moments, but John asks a few questions about her old school and some of her interests, and Enola babbles away, beaming and gesturing about wildly. He's almost sad to get to the Tube station.
Enola turns and looks at him, slight nervousness in her eyes. John hesitates for a moment, then reaches out and pats her on the arm.
"You'll be fine," he says. "I'm sure you'll be smarter than all of your classmates and will find the whole thing incredibly boring and tedious."
Enola giggles, in spite of herself. "I'm not Sherlock," she says. "I like school!" She tugs her skirt down again and lowers her eyes. "Thanks for walking with me."
"It was no problem, really," he says. "I'll be happy to walk with you on days I have to go to the clinic." He holds up and shakes his medical bag, and she grins.
Enola takes a deep breath and looks down the stairs into the station. "Well, I better be off," she says.
"Have fun," John says drily. "Try not to blow anything up." She grins at him one more time and trots off down the stairs. John waits until she's out of sight and turns back the way they came.
Fifteen minutes later, when he trudges back up the stairs to 221B, Sherlock is still lying in the exact position as when they'd left. John sets his bag by the door and pulls off his jacket, heading into the kitchen to eat the piece of toast he'd made earlier.
"Your shift doesn't start for another two hours," Sherlock mumbles.
No shit, John thinks, sighing. He turns around and startles back at how intensely Sherlock is watching him.
"You told Enola it was now." Sherlock says, rolling over so he's sitting up, robe slipping off of his shoulders.
John shrugs and doesn't argue. "You going to tell her?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow like it was a stupid question, and John smiles at him innocently. "Thought so. Want a cuppa?"
Enola kicks a pebble in her way and scowls at the ground. Stupid Tewky, she thinks. Can't keep his nose in his own damn business.
In the week she'd been at her new school, Tewky was one of the boys she'd had the displeasure of becoming acquaintances with. He seemed to think they were friends, and Enola wasn't quite sure where he got that idea from. Today, he'd stolen Enola's pink fan, a gift from Cecily, one of her old friends. And he never gave it back, she moped, grinding her teeth together.
If I get into a fight, she wonders, can Mycroft erase it from my record? She muses on that thought for a moment, suddenly interested in just how far Mycroft's "minor position" could get her.
All of a sudden, the loud wailing of police cars zoom past, and she turns to look. The wind kicks up her hair into a wild, curly mess in her face, and she makes a face. She pushes it back and hikes her backpack up higher on her shoulders.
Case! She thinks, all thoughts of Tewky banished from her mind. Sherlock did promise her she could see one. Immediately, she turns around and begins running after the wail of the sirens in the distance. She ducks and jostles past people, throwing hasty apologies over her shoulder.
When she catches up to the police, she's completely winded, her skirt has ridden up, and her hair is even more of a mess than it usually is. The police have already blocked off an alleyway with yellow tape. She inches her way past the talking officers and squad cars until she's up against the building, peering around the corner. She can only see the faint outline of the body, legs unnaturally sprawled out, and she crinkles her nose. She's going to have to get closer.
Enola shimmies down, prepared to crawl under the tape, when a loud "HEY!" is yelled out from behind her. She freezes and looks over her shoulder.
A handsome, older man with greying hair is watching her, arms crossed. A younger woman with curly brown hair stands next to him, hands on her hips. She grins sheepishly at them and does her best to put on her most innocent expression.
"What are you doing?" the woman asks. "Are you trying to sneak in?"
"Oi, she's just a kid," the man says. He waves a hand towards the woman, dismissing her. "I'll handle this. Go supervise Anderson." The woman gives her another curious look but walks off.
Enola straightens up. "I was just looking," she protests, pulling down her skirt and trying to pat down her hair. "Honest."
The man sighs, rubbing a hand down the side of his face. "Yeah, I bet. Here, what's your name?"
"Enola," she says. The man's lips twitch to the side like he's fighting the urge to smile.
"I'm Greg," he says. "Look, let me call your parents to come pick you up."
Enola takes a quick glance at the cameras on the nearest building. They're swiveled in her direction, trained on her. She resists the urge to groan; Mycroft's probably already on his way.
"I already texted my brother," she lies smoothly. "He's on his way."
Greg nods, buying it. "I'll wait for him to show up. Do you want something to drink?"
Enola casts one last longing look at the crime scene over her shoulder and nods. Greg waves a hand for her to follow and leads her over to one of the patrol cars. A drink holder rests on the hood, and Greg pulls out one of the cups and hands it to her.
"All we have is coffee," he says apologetically. "It's for one of our... detectives; he's a bit of a nut about that sorta thing. He'll probably get here in a few minutes."
Enola drinks it and crinkles her nose. "Black, two sugars. That's how my brother drinks his. He's a bit strange about that, too."
Greg grins at that. "How many brothers do you have?"
"Two," Enola says. She leans back against the car and lets her backpack drop against her feet. "I'm the youngest. You?"
"Only child," Greg says, shrugging his shoulders. "It was great." Enola snickers at that, and mumbles out an "I wish."
Greg takes a swig out of his own cup and looks at her thoughtfully. "Do you want to be a detective?" he asks. She looks at him, an eyebrow raised, and Greg hurries to clarify. "You know. With the whole sneaking into crime scenes and all."
Enola thinks about that for a second. "I kinda want to be a Perditorian," she says. "I guess it runs in the family. My brother's a detective."
"Oh, really?" Greg says, looking at her with interest. "Is he on the force? Maybe I know him."
"Probably," Enola says. She takes another sip of her coffee and wrinkles her nose again. "He's a consultant."
"A consultant?" Greg repeats, frowning a bit. His eyes widen, and he swivels around to look at her even more closely. "Bloody hell, you don't mean-"
"Enola," a familiar voice smoothly interrupts. Both turn to see Sherlock stomping towards them, a scowl on his face. "What are you doing here?"
Enola sniffs and sticks her nose in the air. "I was investigating," she says petulantly.
"Sherlock's your brother?!" Greg says in disbelief.
Sherlock swivels towards him, looming. "Lestrade, what is my sister doing here?"
"Don't look at me!" Greg argues. "She was the one bloody trying to sneak into the crime scene!" He stiffens and shakes his head. "I should've known," he moans. "Sneaking onto crime scenes. Duh."
Sherlock ignores this and focuses on the coffee in her hand. "Is that mine?" he asks in further disbelief.
"Wait, you're Detective Inspector Lestrade?" Enola exclaims, turning to Greg and giving him an appraising look. "I thought your name was Graham, not Greg." Greg shoots Sherlock a look that says 'we have worked together for five plus years I cannot believe you still don't know my name'. Sherlock rolls his eyes, unabashed. "Oh, this is so cool!" she squeals.
Lestrade swipes a hand down the side of his face. "Jesus, Sherlock, you never told me you had a sister."
Sherlock shrugs. "It has always been a rather irrelevant fact." He reaches into the car between Enola and Greg and pulls out a pair of latex gloves, snapping them on. "Where's the body?"
Greg waves in the approximate direction of the alleyway, and Sherlock strides off, not bothering to look back.
"Where's John?" Enola calls out. Sherlock pauses for a moment, making a face.
"At the surgery. Working," he all but sneers. He turns around and studies her for a moment. "I do need an assistant," he says thoughtfully.
Enola's eyes grow wide with excitement, and Greg jerks back. "No way, Sherlock. John is one thing, but she's just a kid!" Enola gives him an affronted look, and he shrugs. "Nothing personal, Enola. Mycroft would kill me."
"Since when have you cared about procedure?" Sherlock scoffs. "You constantly let me traipse all over your cases." Greg bristles for a moment, but then deflates.
"Can't argue with that one," he says, looking entirely too much like a world-weary parent. "Fine. Five minutes." Enola grabs a pairs of gloves and scampers off after her brother. "But!" he holds up a hand, and Enola freezes, looking at him over her shoulder. "If Mycroft shows up, it's all on you, Sherlock. Not me."
Sherlock weighs the options for a few moments. "Fine. Come, Enola." He turns and stalks off, and Enola waits for Greg to catch up and matches his pace.
"My brother fancies you, you know," she whispers conspiratorially.
Greg blinks. "Sherlock?!" he says, looking at her with the utmost disbelief. He twists back to ogle the man in front of him, brow creased and jaw hanging slightly slacked.
Enola scoffs. "Please," she says. "Haven't you seen him around John? I meant Mycroft." She skips off to where Sherlock is waiting impatiently and holding up the police tape for her to cross. Greg follows after her, dumbfounded, and Sherlock lets the tape drop on his face.
These Holmeses are going to kill me, he thinks, and he follows them anyway.
Don't you just love John & Enola bonding? The next chapter continues with the crime scene, with Sherlock & Enola shenanigans.
R&R.