62Disclaimer: I do not own Enola Holmes or Sherlock. Don't sue me.
Prologue:
East End London, August
A figure, one cloaked in midnight black makes hast down the dirty streets. Here, deep in the East End of London, trash litters every corner. The figure hurries along, darting to shadow to shadow, hiding yet hunting. Fleeing, but searching.
Rats crawl around the bins and the stench of ripe garbage is almost too much, but the figure plunges on; for she mustn't stay long, anytime type of female alone in the darkness is a target. And she already has a big enough one already on her back.
She walks past pubs, homeless men and children, couples with the smell of alcohol still fresh on them, trash, broken glass and dirty animals that roam in the night. She must hurry because she is being hunted. She can trust no one, no matter how much her heart aches for some type of companionship, or comfort.
She must remain strong.
She must remain quick.
She must remain Alone.
The Case of the Missing Man
CHAPTER THE FIRST-
Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been if I had been named normally. I wonder if my life would have been the same as it is now. In my youth, I longed for a simple name, one of a flower. I was particularly fond of Lilly and Rose. Now, however, I see that my name suits me more than I could have ever imagined.
My name is alone backwards, Enola.
I wonder why my mother opted to give me such an odd name. Was it an ancient family name, or perhaps it had held a special meaning to her? Or maybe the painkillers from giving birth to me addled her mind and she called me Enola on a whim. Enola Eudoria Hedasa Holmes.
I have two brothers, both much older than me. I don't know them that well; both of them are much older than me, and by the time I was getting into double digits, they were far gone. My elder brother, Mycroft, would stop by every now and then to visit with Mum. I'd always eavesdrop on their conversations through the old floorboards of our house. Sometimes, although very, very, very rarely, my other brother Sherlock would visit. But for a long while, he left and I never heard from him again. Curious, as only a child could be, I had asked Mycroft about it when he stopped by.
Sherlock wasn't fit to be around children. That's what Mycroft said at the time. I still never understood what that meant.
However, after hours of searching on the internet, I found a small website labeled, "The Science of Deduction". Sherlock Holmes, the World' Only Consulting Detective. I was in awe, my brother was far more clever than I gave him credit for. But, alas, his sciences, while fairly exciting, were no match for the outdoors when I was a young child. I would often run around outside, hang from trees, or just generally run, instead of experiment.
Back to my mother, Eudoria Vernet Holmes. My dear old Mum, left. It was midsummer when she disappeared. In fact, it was July 31st, my birthday. She left like she always did every morning, her art book bag dangling by her side, heading off to paint whatever struck her fancy. It seemed like every other day, but that morning she didn't come back.
"You'll do very well on your own, Enola." She told me that morning. When I was little, I had separation anxiety and would fret until mother stayed with me. She would say that to calm me down, and it stuck. It strikes me now as ironic, the girl named Alone afraid to be so.
Mrs. Lane, the cook, maid, and main house servant gave me Mum's presents to me when she didn't come back in time for tea. I didn't think anything of it, at the time.
I wish I had.
Mum gave me the following:
1. A drawing kit that included, but not limited to, a sharpener, an eraser and charcoal. I could never make a career out of it, but mother had always urged my knock for doodling and sketching.
2. A book titled: "The Meaning of Flowers: Including also Notes Upon the messages Conveyed by Hats, Scarves, Sealing-Wax and Postage-Stamps" The pages were yellow and fragile.
3. A small cipher book that had little water-colored flowers on the front. I could tell that mother had made it. Little stitches lined the sides and the binder, it was easy to tell that she had put in work into it.
After opening my presents, (my mother was still gone) and eating the cake that the two servants, Mr. and Mrs. Lane served me, I went up to my room to try the new sketch pad. I was sprawled across my bed, with my dog Reginald lying in front of the fireplace.
I ended up falling asleep, with napping the rest of the day. The next morning, my alarm clock was the daylight filtering through the curtains and open windows. I had the bad habit of leaving my windows open. I stretched and sat up, rubbing my eyes.
I rolled out of bed and crossed my room to my wardrobe. I opened it and sighed. It was a mess as usual, and I tried to remind myself to organize it later, if I had the time. I grabbed an old sweater and jeans. I finished it off with a pair of tennis shoes and my hair up in a ponytail.
I looked at myself in the full-length mirror in the corner of my room. The clothes did not show off my figure, if I even had one. I was a beanpole, tall and gangly like Sherlock. I once tried taking ballet in my youth, and failed miserably. That doesn't mean I don't appreciate the art of dancing, it just means that I enjoy it from afar.
My hair was long and thick and the color of mud. It was very difficult to even put up in a bun, (another reason why I never succeeded in ballet.) My mother would remark on how I looked a bit like Sherlock sometimes. I tried to remember how my brothers looked, but it had been so long since I had seen them in person. I'm left only with a few childhood photos.
My brothers are brilliant. Brilliantly clever in every single way. I knew I could never live up to their status.
After I chose my outfit for the day, I set off towards the woods in our backyard, brushing off Mrs. Lane's attempts of me having breakfast.
I went out on my bike, dodging trees and big rocks. I followed an old path that I know my mother usually took to where the flowers are. I kept an eye out for any sign of my mother and her signature straw hat with a homemade flower on top of it.
Finally my journey was over, and I hopped off my bike. Before it even hit the ground I was off, running towards where my mother usually set up her easel to paint the landscapes. As I stood on the top of the hill, I took in the view. Flowers as far as I could see, and then the town starts, I could spot the people walking along the streets. I sighed and continued to take in the breathtaking view before I suddenly remembered the reason why I was there. To search for my mother, it was not a time to admire views.
I rush back and forth the trees, calling out her name.
BABOOM!
Thunder crashed above me and I instinctively ducked. Clouds had suddenly appeared overhead, appearing ominous and storm like. If I believed in such things, I would have said it was an omen.
I came to the conclusion Mum wasn't here, and I had to turn back. With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I turned back to try and find my bike.
It took a few minutes for me to come to an understanding.
I wouldn't be riding my bike back to my house.
I closed my eyes, and my jaw tensed. This was exactly what I had needed today. I sighed, and slumped a bit.
I set off in the direction that I came, and soon I was sprinting, pumping my arms up and down. Hopefully, I would get home before the rain started. I felt a drop of water land on my nose, and knew that the odds were certainly not in my favor.
I stood in the mudroom, taking off my sweater and wringing out my hair onto the floor. Mrs. Lane appeared by my side with a towel and I graciously took it. Mumbling a thanks and again waving off her attempts to get me to eat, I walked back upstairs to my room.
I kicked off my shoes and shut the door. I dragged off my wet jeans and dug in my closet for something a bit more comfortable. I dressed in old sweatpants and T-shirt. Finally, I was ready.
I sat in my chair at my desk, my laptop in front of me with my fingers ready. With my hair up in a towel I decided it was time to write an email to my dear old brothers.
Mycroft and Sherlock.
It was 3:03 am when Sherlock read the email Enola sent him. He raised an eyebrow, and clicked on the email that said: URGENT! FROM ENOLA
Dear Sherlock, its Enola, your sister.
Mum's missing. She left about a day and a half ago, hasn't returned. No body and no clues. Please come soon.
Sincerely,
EH
Sherlock sprang up, grabbing his scarf and coat on his way out.
It was only two hours after Sherlock left, that Mycroft was woken and read Enola's plea for help. He wasn't in a good mood, unhappy that his assistant woke him up two hours before his alarm did.
A bit groggily, he opened up his email and read the message.
Dear Mycroft,
I have come to the conclusion that our Mum's gone missing. A day and a half since she left. No clues or body. Please come.
Your sister,
Enola E. H. Holmes
Mycroft immediately felt more awake and stood up. Crossing the room he told his assistant, who was, as usual, typing away on her phone. "Pack my things, I'm taking a trip."
No one knew, that at the time, Mycroft, Sherlock and Enola's lives, were going to take a huge plunge into another adventure.
End of Chapter One
Another rewriting. Brilliant, Shirley, just brilliant. Man, I sometimes hate myself. Anyway... The next update will be for the sequel, I promise!
-GP2 OUT!