Chapter the Fourth: In Which Adventure Awaits Our Heroine

During the day, while Mycroft made the arrangements for me to move and live at some boarding school, I would be making preparations for my own future. And during the night, I would work on the cipher book, collecting more money.

Perhaps, somewhere in the book, there would even be a letter from Mum.

A girl can dream.

Five weeks later, I was ready.

Ready for Saint Catherine's School for Gifted Girls.

Ready for London.

Yes, dear reader, I have chosen London to run away to, and while this decision may confuse you, it is quite simple: it is the last place my brothers would ever look for me.

Sherlock resides in London and Mycroft frequents the city; point is, if my brothers know that I know where they spend their time, then they are going to deduce that when I run away, I will be running far away from them.

Instead, I'll be running towards them.

Of course, London has other uses. It's a huge city and it'll be easier to blend in (or lose a tail) in a crowded place. Plus, the resources there will aid me in my endeavors to find Mum—ah, modernity.

(To be completely truthful with you, readers, at this time, I actually had no concrete plans for when I arrived in London, except a couple of pre-made disguises to have on hand in case there was an unsavory encounter. I was determined and angry—two dangerous combinations—and ready to dive into adulthood far too early.)

Mycroft left three days after Sherlock. I attempted to avoid him to the best of my abilities while he was still at Ferndell Hall, but unfortunately, I was found on the second day.

I had hid in the library. Since Ferndell was a rather old household, there were a couple of hidden spots within its walls. I found solace in the alcove located the library; a small cupboard like nook, hidden by a swinging shelf.

"I had hoped you were not planning on moping the entire time I was here."

I glared at Mycroft. The eldest Holmes was crouched down to meet my eyes for I was curled up on the floor of the hidden nook, swarmed in blankets and with a good book in my hand.

I replied, "I'm not moping, Mycroft, I'm grieving."

Grieving for having to leave my childhood so soon and so abruptly. Not grieving for my lost mother. I wouldn't grieve for her. I would find her.

Mycroft heaved a heavy sigh, as if the world had handed him their problems in the form of a teenage girl, and to my utter surprise, sat down beside me and leaned against a nearby shelf. "Enola," he began, "I am not the villain in this story. I am your brother and I am trying to ensure that you have a structured and safe childhood… Excuse me for caring."

"If you really cared, you would have been here more often."

He remained silent.

I continued, "'A structured and safe childhood'? Mum has been raising me for my entire life—she taught me to be independent and to question everything and if you think that I am going to just turn into someone I'm not," I met Mycroft's eyes and finished, "You're wrong."

"Enola." Mycroft said softly.

"Mycroft." I mocked. I turned back to my book and pretended to read while I waited for him to leave.

My eyes still trained onto the page, Mycroft stood up and said, "You'll leave on the 15th of next month for Saint Catherine's School for Gifted Girls—I've read your school assignments and you'll fit into their advanced program just fine. Sherlock and I will continue the search for Mummy, and I promise you Enola, as soon as we find her, you can return to Ferndell."

Funnily enough, Mycroft did end up keepi talking ang his promise—just not in the way either of us expected.

EH

That encounter stayed with me for months after, especially because the next time Mycroft Holmes and Enola Holmes would meet, it would take place at a wedding. But I'm getting ahead of myself and I apologize, reader, it's time to continue the story of my escape from Ferndell Hall.

During my remaining five weeks, I spent my days being measured for uniforms and my nights solving Mum's ciphers. I stood still through being poked by pins and tutted at by the seamstresses (who, when measuring my waist commented, "much too wide," and for hips and bust added, "much too small,"—suffice to say, Sherlock and I shared more than a sharp nose and chin, but a similar figure as well) and I endured Mrs. Lane's sorrowful gazes.

I thrived in the night, where I would work on the ciphers. It made me feel somewhat closer to my Mum. The ciphers were not the only thing I worked on; I also worked on my escape plan.

I would need to throw my brothers of my scent. I already chose London as my destination and now I needed to choose a false one. Manchester seemed like a great option.

I dug out an old map from my desk and opened it. I traced the different ways to Manchester with a pencil, making sure that the marks were visible, but not entirely obvious. I wrote down the following on a sheet of paper, stuck that inside the map, and shoved them both into my dollhouse.

Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool, Cardiff, Scotland border?

Hair

Attic boxes?

Allow me to explain my notes.

I wrote the following cities because they are far away from London, and at least I could try to throw my brothers off my scent by listing several different cities. They'll conclude that I was considering those specific places to run away to.

Next, I wrote down the vague message of "hair." Hopefully, Sherlock and Mycroft will believe that as part of my disguise I cut my hair to a more drastically short length—it is one of my more defining features.

For attic boxes, I meant as to my wardrobe. Sherlock's and Mycroft's old clothes from childhood are gathering up dust in the attic. Cutting my hair and gathering masculine clothing are two major indications that I was going to disguise myself as a male—which is a common practice in many of the runaway fictions I had read (I left a particularly dog-eared one lying by my bed). Therefore, Sherlock and Mycroft would deduce that I will be disguising myself as a boy and running off to the other side of the country.

They could not be more wrong.

I am not going to Manchester, or Liverpool, or anywhere north. I would dive straight into the heart of London. I planned on taking several different trains and buses in order to reach my destination. I had hoped that the precautions I was taking with the different routes would be unnecessary, but they could be the only thing that was standing between me and boarding school.

I would keep all of my hair—despite how tired I am of the same muddy brown, thick, long strands. I could wear wigs for my various disguises.

And I was not going to dress as a boy.

I mean no offense to the multiple books that feature heroines disguising themselves as boys in order to infiltrate organizations, earn a living, and hide from villains, because I hold those stories very dear to my heart. They kept me company on lonely days and inspire me to this very day. However, their narrative is somewhat predictable if not the very least popular, and if I wanted to pull of what would be considered the greatest trick in the world, I would need to be the opposite.

There was another matter which I would need to carefully consider. Technology.

I had lived with the internet for practically my entire life and technology could be considered a vital part of my life. I had my phone (with very few contacts in it, as Mum did not have a cell phone) and my laptop—both I would need to get rid of. I figured that Mycroft would surely be able to trace those electronics, so I would need new ones.

I would also need burner phones (a concept I heard from my various shows I watched—how naïve I had been, looking back at those moments now. Burner phones? Ha!). I would copy everything necessary on my laptop to a flash drive and transfer those items unto the new laptop. Although, it should be said that most of my laptop contained scanned images of my best sketches, a few pictures of the grounds around Ferndell Hall, and a handful of writing exercises from school assignments. Mum tended to have me handwrite instead of type my work. While we are on the topic, I will add that I did go back and delete my internet history from my laptop, although I doubt that Mycroft wouldn't be able to somehow hack and see it anyway. There were only a handful of websites that I would be embarrassed for him to see and two of them were Dr. Watson's Blog and the Science of Deduction.

I placed my laptop into a desk drawer. I would keep my phone on me and leave it behind in the cab, on the chance that Mycroft would be tracking it. I made the quick decision to write down the number Mycroft had given me and slipped the piece of paper into my bags.

My bags were Mum's old ones, filled with all the necessary items I would need for my new life (most of the contents were of money and I knew I needed to deposit them immediately and discreetly.) I had to be careful with my clothes, and only chose the most versatile pieces and a few of Mum's that I couldn't bear to part with. As well, I had taken the gifts Mum had given me for my birthday and stashed with extra care into the outermost pockets.

"Enola?" Mrs. Lane called up to me. "Are you ready?"

"Yes!" I yelled back down, "I'm coming!" I grabbed my bags and took one last long look around my childhood room. The white wood of the furniture seemed dull.

As I walked down the stairs, Mr. Lane rushed to take my bags and we made our way to the cab outside. After placing my bags into the trunk, Mr. Lane gave me a quick hug before allowing Mrs. Lane grip me tighter than a snake.

"Be careful, Enola! And study hard," She began to fuss over me, an act that I wasn't quite familiar with. Mum had never done it. "Be safe, don't get into trouble, and write often!" She hugged me long and hard and gave me a kiss on the forehead, which I returned to her cheek.

"Thank you, Mrs. Lane." I said.

However strong I imagined myself, I was weak for the final goodbye.

I knelt on the grass and held onto the furry body in front of me. His cold nose bumped into mine and his long tongue licked away the tears on my cheeks.

Saying goodbye to my dog was one of the worst experiences of my life—at that time.

I tried not to focus on Reginald's howling as my cab took me further and further away from my childhood. I thought to myself, this was a symbolic moment that probably foreshadowed my future or something.

You'll do very well on your own, Enola.

EH

After the cab dropped me and my bags off at the nearest train station, I made my way to the toilets, taking note of any cameras I could spot. I thought myself quite smart at the time.

Once I was in there, I grabbed the biggest stall and began to undress. I opened up the smaller of my bags, grabbed the black bundle of cloth, and began to re-dress myself in my newest disguise. I had been dressed previously in a plain t-shirt and jeans, with some ballet flats and my hair pulled into a ponytail.

Now, I was dressed in all black, as was the custom for funerals. I wore a modest, long-sleeved, A-line dress that went just past my knees. It had been hanging up in the back of Mum's closet. I had pulled on some light black leggings paired with thick, sturdy, black boots—not exactly what one wore to a funeral, but I might need to make a quick escape. To top everything off (quite literally!) I had a rather demure black hat on with a small veil that blocked part of my face from any wandering eye. I splashed some water against my eyes in order to slightly smudge my mascara. Finally, I was ready. Enola Holmes, the youngest of the three Holmes siblings, was hidden.

Looking back at it, now, I feel slightly embarrassed at the theatrics I went through in my disguise. I had thought myself so clever for being detailed, and, while details are important, I wish I could go back and inform myself that sometimes, less is more.

I turned to my bags and grabbed the piece of fabric that has dangled down from on the seams. I pulled it and aloud ripping sound filled the air.

The previous patterned cloth that had covered the old carpet bags easily fell away to its original pattern that had been hidden underneath. You see, readers, in order to disguise any recognition of my bags, I knew I had to alter their appearance in some way. Before I left for the train station, I had spent a couple of hours painstakingly devising and enacting my idea for my luggage. I had sewed (very poorly, mind you) a piece of cloth that covered the original fabric. I had done my stitches large and sloppy. I needed them to be easily undone.

With a final tug, the last of the threads broke and fake fabric broke away completely and the rather tacky brown pattern prevailed. I stuffed my old clothes into the bags, grabbed my bags, took a deep breath, and then walked out of the bathroom.

Instead of exchanging my already bought tickets for different ones, I decided to buy an entirely new ticket. I needed to zig-zag on my way to London, so, I chose to first go to a town a little further out from London. Hopefully, it'll help throw Mycroft off my trail.

I assumed that I would have approximately five to eight hours until the Saint Catherine's School for Gifted Girls or whatever, realizes that Enola Holmes is nowhere to be found, they panic, and then they call Mycroft. Then, Mycroft must attempt to track me down (I use the word "attempt" here, reader, in good faith that I hadn't already been found out).

A loud train whistle nearly blows out my eardrums and I hear the conductor call for my train. As I headed over to the train, I feel a moment of guilt.

Mycroft and Sherlock had already lost Mum. Was I being selfish? I was dismissing their feelings and—

I nearly slapped myself at where my thoughts were going. Mycroft and Sherlock were the ones being selfish—they were enforcing their will upon mine!

I had no desire to go to a boarding school. More importantly, I needed to find Mum, and I could not do that locked up away somewhere.

I refused to be locked away in a box somewhere.

I was going to get on that bloody train.

EH

"Condolences for your loss, dearie."

I looked up immediately to see an older woman across the aisle staring at me. I had managed to grab a car where few people were and I was even luckier that no one sat beside me. However, obviously I wasn't completely lucky for this woman wanted to strike up some small talk.

I decided to humor her. "Thank you." I said. I intended for the conversation to end there, but she continued—

"If you don't mind me asking—"

Oh but I do.

"—who did you lose?"

I grappled on what to say. Who was this person grieving for? Who was I, dressed all in black? I stuttered when answering, "M-My aunt." Without further prompting, I continued, "She was estranged from the family for a while, it's why she lived in London, and when my brothers refused to go I knew I had to—even if I never really knew her." I stopped myself. I feared I spoke too much and too close to home.

Luckily, the elder didn't seem to make note of my awkwardness. She replied, "Family is always difficult, unfortunately."

I gave her a somber smile, nodded, and leaned back in my chair.

"Did she not have any children?"

For the love of—

"No," I replied a bit testily, "Not any that mattered, I suppose."

"No husband?"

I shook my head, "He died a little after I was born."

"Oh!" The old woman frowned and my shoulders tensed for some reason. "What a misfortune! No husband to help her? However did she survive?"

I bit back a retort and answered softly, "She had her ways," I glanced at the old woman's eyes. They weren't anything like Mum's. "She was clever." I added. "And brilliant. She didn't need a man to support her. W—she lived comfortably."

The elder leaned back in her seat as she 'hmm'-ed. "Ah, well, that's good to hear, always nice to hear of a capable woman like your aunt."

You'll do very well on your own, Enola.

I hope you do well too, Mum.

The old woman said softly, but loudly enough for me to overhear, "Shame about the children though, oh dear, what will happen to all of her things? Shame indeed."

Chills ran through my body. The sound of her voice. It was—

"What are you implying?" I inquired, turning my full attention to across the aisle.

"Hmm?" She said, glancing at me a little too quickly for my comfort, "Oh," She continued, "Just how said it is to see rooms filled with old things—staying and collecting dust—never getting any more use. It's a downright shame."

I asked her carefully, "What could be done with a room filled with things?"

Eagerly she answered, "Oh, my dear, I'm not quite sure…But, if you were curious or uncertain… You said London, correct? Well, I happen to know of a little shop where they can take care of things like this—"

I started to tune out the scammer. I couldn't believe—

"—takes care of almost any need! Just take this—" She practically shoved a withered down business card into my hands.

Culhane's Used Clothing

Saint Tookings Lane

SELL/BUY—Faire Prices

"Just clothing?"

She shook her head vigorously. "No, the business is expanding!"

"Ah. Thanks."

With that, our conversation ended and soon the only sound I heard was the bustling of the train.