7New and improved. Edited in 2018-2019.
Chapter the First: In Which Enola Has a Lonely Birthday
When you search for the name 'Enola' online, the first result is Enola Gay. Enola Gay was the name of the American plane that dropped the first atomic bomb in World War II.
It's a name we share.
My name is Enola Holmes, which spelled backwards is alone-for most of my life I believed that was the most interesting thing about me. Ironically, alone can accurately describe my childhood.
Once, to be more logical, I made a list of reasons as to why Mum would name me such an odd name.
Mum had planned on being a distant parent, which if this was true, then I applaud her for consistency and dedication.
Mum had been inspired from the dropping of the atomic bomb, which killed millions. She named me Enola in hopes that I would too kill millions.
Mum was high on pain meds.
Whatever the reason, alone was exactly how she left me on my fourteenth birthday, never to be seen again.
"Enola."
I awoke slowly, stretching my legs underneath the warm blankets. I turned my head to see a woman with greying hair looking down at me, a sort of half-smile on her face. "Morning Mum."
She informed me that she was going out, as she always did—wondering around the grounds and setting up her easel and paints where ever she liked—and I inquired if she anticipated being late for dinner, to which she replied that Mrs. Lane had instructions to give me my birthday presents should she not be there. I had thought nothing of it and watched as Mum left without another word.
If I had known that that was the last time, I would see her… I'd like to think I would have said something like, "I love you."
The faint sound of the front door closing prompted me to leave my bed and get dressed for breakfast. When I left my room, I greeted my dog, Reginald, with head-pat. His tail thumped-thumped against the floor as he followed me downstairs. Reginald was a basset-hound, he was old, and he was the love of my life. As a child, I had professed that if I was to marry, I would marry Reginald.
I ate a small breakfast prepared by Mrs. Lane, our housekeeper. She had been with the family for years. She worked alongside her husband, Mr. Lane of course, who we kept as a sort of handyman. After eating and slipping Reginald a piece of bacon (Mrs. Lane scolded me, but I knew that she slips him some when no one was looking), I retreated to the library.
A library, if you have ever been in one, is a wonderful and terrifying place. It is wonderful for the endless afternoons it has given me as I fought dragons, saved princesses, and rode camels across hot deserts all while in the comfort of the soft chair by the fireplace. It is terrifying because I cannot help but think about how there are other libraries, some smaller, but larger, that contain more knowledge than I could ever hope to understand or remember. However, since it was my birthday, I decided to try even harder to forget that nagging thought in the back of my head and focus instead on rereading all my favorite books. I must have read for hours, because the next thing I knew Mrs. Lane was calling me for lunch.
"Is Mum back yet?" I asked.
Mrs. Lane didn't look me in the eyes as she shook her head. "Will you be taking lunch in here?"
"Uh, sure, yes I will." After a brief lunch, consisting of a ham sandwich and apple slices, I returned to my room.
I helped Reginald up onto my bed, grabbed my laptop, and settled in beside the old beast.
I opened to the website I was last on: Dr. John Watson's blog. He knew my brother better than I did. Which, of course, is completely understandable given that the two live together and Sherlock and I had only met three times. I did not know either one of my brothers and Dr. Watson's blog provided an insight that I found myself secretly craving.
"Sherlock Holmes," I whispered to myself, "What great adventures have you done today?"
I read the latest entry, once, twice, three times before closing the tab and moving onto various other sites. The update wasn't enough—I was bored.
I was often bored growing up. Boredom led to curiosity which to the internet. It wasn't long until younger Enola had stumbled upon Sherlock's website, the Science of Deduction. I had poured over it for hours, devouring information on my brother.
If my behavior surrounding my brothers is odd to you, dear readers, then allow me to explain. Sherlock is seventeen years my senior and Mycroft is seven years older than him. By the time I came along, they were out of the house. It was like I was an only child.
I've met Mycroft four times, once when I was born, another for when Father died, a third for the funeral, and a fourth in the hospital when I had broken my arm (I had been dared to climb a very tall tree. I climbed up with excellent dexterity. I climbed down with less). I do not have many memories of him, but I do remember him as a very tall figure.
As for Sherlock, we had met even less. Sherlock did not show up at my birth, nor any birthdays or holidays. The first time I ever saw him was at our father's funeral. Since I was four, I cannot recall every detail, however, I do vaguely remember Sherlock reaching down and fixing the collar of the dress I had been wearing.
And that sums up my interactions with my brothers. Not for lack of trying, mind you, I have always held a curiosity for my family.
For instance, when I had broken my arm and Mycroft showed up, a small look of distain on his face and a bouquet of flowers in his hand, I had asked whether Sherlock was coming. I think perhaps Mycroft hadn't learned tact or the art of dealing with children, because very bluntly he informed me that Sherlock would not be coming because he was in rehab for a drug addiction. This being the first time I had heard of my brother's dilemma, paired with the hospital's medication messing with my hormones, and overall a very distressing fall, caused me to burst into tears. I hadn't ever seen someone look as shocked as Mycroft when I let out my first sob. A nurse shoo-ed him off before attempting to comfort me.
Perhaps that is why Mycroft never showed his face again; my tears had scared him away.
Despite my limited contact, I never-the-less held a small affection for my brothers. I held an even smaller hope that they might have some sort of fondness for me in return.
Dinner time quickly made her appearance. Afterwards, Mrs. and Mr. Lane carried in my presents and my cake (a small circle, simply covered in white frosting and sprinkles). "Mum isn't back yet?" I asked.
No, she wasn't, they answered. But would I like to open my presents?
Holding back a sigh, I carefully opened the boxes before me. Mum's gifts to me consisted of:
A drawing kit: paper, pencils, and erasers all arranged in a flat wooden box that opened into an easel.
A rather old and fragile book entitled: The Meanings of Flowers: Including Also Notes upon the Messages Conveyed by Fans, Handkerchiefs, Sealing-Wax, and Postage-Stamps.
And finally, a very small booklet of ciphers with my name on the first page, written in Mum's flyaway handwriting.
The drawing kit was exactly what I was interested in. While I certainly wasn't the next Van Gogh, I had a knack for doodling. Mum had encouraged my drawing since I was young and sometimes in the summer, we'd go out together and sketch the wildlife.
For my previous birthday, Mum had given me a book about ciphers and how to solve them. I spent weeks pouring over it, writing secret messages. I pretended to write messages to my brothers, asking them about their childhood, how their lives now. Mum found those once, but she didn't say anything. I threw the messages away.
The Meaning of Flowers confused me. I couldn't figure out why Mum would give me that. She was the one who was obsessed with flowers. She loved painting them and gardening them, but I had no such relationship with flora. I was content with climbing trees and reading books instead.
I placed my presents down and made a note to go over them later. I had a different job that required my attention.
Mum had not been out so late in a while. I slipped out of the house quietly so that the Lanes wouldn't notice. I wandered the grounds for a bit, before realizing: my mother was nowhere near here.
I went back to Ferndell Hall to get my bicycle. Mr. Lane waved goodbye as I biked past the iron-wrought gates that surrounded our house and the woods. Our actual property was acres bigger, but apparently Father had the fence built about three decades ago, right after they moved here.
I had no reason to fear for Mum's safety. She never had an accident the entire time I had known her. The sick feeling my stomach only grew the closer I got the fields.
The fields were on the edge of our property. They were on top of an incline and looked out upon the entire small town below. There were wildflowers as far as the eye could see. I knew Mum liked to visit this spot.
I was the only person there that day.
I had been so sure that I would find her.
I could not find a single trace of Eudoria Holmes.
I made my way to my bike as the sky transformed into a dark grey mess, and the earlier pleasant breeze turned colder. As soon as I started pedaling, the raindrops descended. The rain was still pouring when I returned home, as Mrs. Lane fussed over me, as I retreated into my room, as I tried to rationalize Mum's disappearance.
I would wait until tomorrow, I decided. If Mum hasn't returned, then I would contact the authorities.
And my brothers.
Morning came after a night of restless turning and tossing. I had fallen into and out of sleep constantly, always waiting to hear the door open. You should have called the police yesterday; the dryness in my mouth informed me. What if Mum's lying dead in a ditch because you hesitated?
"Nope." I said out loud, "Don't think about Mum dying, Enola. Don't panic." Despite telling myself not to panic, I preceded to panic.
I sent a quick wish into the stars, hoping that I would walk into the dining room and see Mum eating breakfast while reading the newspaper. She'd be wearing her reading glasses and tucking her hair behind her ears, her mind entirely focused on what she was reading. Slowly, I descended the stairs and entered the dining room.
It was empty.
"Mrs. Lane?" I called out.
"Yes, Enola?" She called back from the kitchen.
Taking deep breaths, I walked over to the kitchen. I stood in the threshold and asked, again for the third time, "Has Mum returned?"
Mrs. Lane had her back turned to me as she chopped up fruit. After a long pause, she answered. "No."
For several moments there was only quiet and in that silence, the sense of being on the brink of something life changing.
Now that is was certain, Mum was missing and hadn't come home last night. She was out there, possibly injured, possibly dead, and here I was, frozen with indecision and panicking and-
You'll do very well on your own, Enola.
My mother's voice was like a flashlight in a darkened room. She'd say that often to me, trying to encourage my independence. Mum was right. I'll be perfectly fine. Fingers crossed, at least.
"The police need to be called."
"Mr. Lane went to fetch them a few minutes ago." Mrs. Lane informed me.
"Great." I replied, swallowing hard. That just left two more people to contact. "I'll reach out to Sherlock and Mycroft, then?"
Mrs. Lane finally turned around to face me and it became infinitely harder to keep a calm composure at the sight of her tear-filled eyes. "Enola," She began cautiously, "It might, and, they might not-"
"Mrs. Lane," I interrupted, "They are her sons. Of course, they'll come." I didn't want to think about the possibility of them ignoring me.
Without another word, I made my way back to my room, giving the empty dining room a lingering glance before rushing up the stairs.
Let's start easy, Enola. Contact Mycroft.
Mycroft had given me a number, written down neatly inside my tenth birthday card. The card included the usual message of happy birthday, along with an explanation to use the number for emergencies only. His handwriting was perfect, with loops that looked effortless.
Gingerly picking up the card, I typed the numbers into my phone and hit call.
The call was picked up by the second ring and a woman answered, "Mycroft Holmes's office. May I ask who is calling?"
Flabbergasted that the number had worked (I had a theory that Mycroft had given me a fake number to appease me) it took me a moment to answer her. "Uh, I'm Enola."
"Last name?" She asked politely, while sounding impolite.
I replied, slightly more confident. "Holmes. I'm Enola Holmes."
A pause.
"Please hold."
I hardly had to wait because almost immediately I heard a man on the other end of the phone say, "Enola?"
"Mycroft?" I said softly, almost in disbelief.
"What happened?"
I could scarcely believe it. Mycroft, my brother, right on the end of the phone. I had thought about the conversations we'd have for years. Imagining me ringing him and asking how his day went, he'd do the same for me, and eventually phone calls would turn into visits and Mycroft would show up at Ferndell and Mum—Mum. That one word floated through my head and I focused on the problem on hand.
I started with, "Mum's missing." and I intended to elaborate further but realized that nothing else would make its way out of my throat.
Stars and garters, I was choking. Here and now, I couldn't speak, in front of my brother, one of the smartest persons alive. My face felt hot and I was glad no one could see me.
"Enola, explain." The latter part of his reply seemed to kick me in the right direction, and I managed to inform him of the details. I hoped that my voice stayed as steady as I tried to make it. I finished, but Mycroft didn't respond. "Well?" I added, growing impatient.
"I'll be there tomorrow."
I paused. "Tomorrow? Bu-" My hands curled into fists, I tried taking deep breaths, but it didn't stop the red that started seeming into my vision. "But Mum's missing now." My mind pleaded with me, Enola, stop talking.
"Enola-"
"Why can't you come today?"
"I am a very busy man, Enola," Mycroft's voice was soft, as if I was a child. A stupid child. "I can't drop just because our mother… is missing."
He hesitated.
He hesitated.
"You don't think it's serious." It wasn't a question. "You think she'll come back, that she'll be fine." This was not the first time Mum had been late to dinner, but she had always told us she would be late, and she had never stayed the night somewhere.
Except, Enola, she had told you.
"I've told Mrs. Lane to give you your gifts if I'm not there."
Oh, Mum. Still, my heart was heavy, and I could not shake the feeling that something was wrong, that there was something more to this. "Mycroft," I needed to him to listen, to understand, to know. "There's something off—I don't know how to explain it, but something is wrong. Mum doesn't just disappear, at least, not like this."
Mycroft sighed, "Enola, I will arrive tomorrow, no later than 10. Is this agreeable?" He sounded as if this was some big inconvenience. As if I was an inconvenience.
"Bring Sherlock." I ended the call, placing my phone on my desk with more force than necessary. I stared at it, like it had committed a wrong.
"Enola?" Mrs. Lane called from downstairs. Her voice sounded distant. I heard the front door open and voices enter—low and loud voices.
The police had arrived.
Honestly, I cannot believe this is happening. Five years later and here it is. My final edition of Enola Holmes in a BBC universe. I just can't believe I got off my ass and wrote this.
I'll link the spotify playlist I've created soon. Also, I'm doubleposting this on AO3 soon.
Life has changed so much for me and even for this fandom! Enola is getting her own movie, which really inspired me to write this. But I cannot forget all my loyal readers who would remind me how much they love this story.
This is for you.
This is for me.
And most importantly, it's for Enola.
I hope you enjoy this. Thank you.
And for new readers, hello!
-Shelby