Archive of Our Own ^beta

How Enola ended up back at 221B was somewhat of a mystery. 

After the mess at the theatre, a hazy grey settled over her mind, with only small islands of memories popping up.

Her, stumbling off the stage. Tewksbury, with his arms wrapped around her waist. He smelt like old books and quill ink. 

Sherlock, watching them with a purposefully stoic mask on his face. Sherlock, who had cuts all over his face and arms, and almost a trace of wistfulness in his eyes.

Who smells of gunpowder and blood.

Sherlock, her brother, was shot in the shoulder.

And at that moment, the grey fog cleared, to be replaced with a red alert of blaring panic. She jerked out of Tewksbury’s hold, half-ran, half-stumbled over to her brother. 

Unfortunately, the minute she didn’t have another stable being to rely on, the world dipped and spun in her vision.

But then she blinked, and suddenly she was under Sherlock’s right arm. 

He spoke a few words to a disbelieving Tewksbury, and to Enola’s horror, flung her over his right shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“ Sherlock Holmes —” She cut herself off, more caught off guard now , than at Moriarty’s reveal.

Quick reflexes run in the Holmes family, and she didn’t let herself get caught too off guard. “Hey—let me down this instant.” She pushed herself up from his shoulder, looking rather like one of those drawings of mermaids fishermen swear up and down are real.

The moment she moved her head, her vision filled with black spots, and her limbs, those traitors, gave out. 

Sherlock hummed, the vibrations lulling her to sleep. Still, she persisted through temptation.

“You need medical help. You’ve been shot , for heaven's sake,” she said, hoping her voice came out steadier than how she felt.

“Merely skimmed. Don’t struggle too much, I’m afraid my legs might give out, and then we’ll both topple into the sewers.” He said this with an air of humour, but an undercurrent of…something else Enola couldn’t name.

“But…your arm…” 

There was something that urgently nagged at her but try as she might, she’d used the last dregs of her energy hours ago. 

She was running on pure fumes, and the warm embrace of sleep was too much too hard to resist. The grey haze was settling back in.

“Hush. I’m fine. Rest.”

Enola finally let her head drop.

————

“—nola, it may be testing my limits to carry you up the stairs, wake up.”

Enola blearily opened one eye, immediately squeezing it shut when bright light flooded her vision. She tried to shift away from the light, but she was then met with a faceful of floor. 

An amused huff from her right. Well, that simply would not do. With newfound energy, she— (rather gracefully, if she did say so herself) —rose from the floor, to be met with the entrance hall of 221B.

She got halfway up the stairs before glancing down. “Are you in need of assistance?”

Another huff, much less amused this time. “I was skimmed in the shoulder, not the leg. There’s no need to coddle me like an invalid.”

What a prat. Rolling her eyes, she opened the door to Sherlock’s flat. More of a mess than usual. She didn’t even know that was possible.

“Keep your judgement to yourself,” he muttered, displeasure evident.

“I didn’t say anything,” she said sweetly.

He pushed past her, mumbling something unintelligible. 

She stood in the open doorway, alone. “Did I say anything?”

A voice, from deep within the room, “Bugger off.”

Ah, it was just too easy. She strolled inside, a smirk present on her face.

And immediately tripped on a—what was that? Sprawled on the floor, she stared at the offending object. A tiny stool. 

What would Sherlock even need a stool for? 

Perhaps it was deliberately placed in order to make a complete fool out of her in front of her former idol.

Her musings about the obvious conspiracy against her were cut off by the feeling like her head had been run over repeatedly by a locomotive. 

She didn’t cry. She wouldn’t cry. Not on the floor of her brother’s flat, not when she just earned his approval. Imagine that—working so hard on her case, solving it, side by side with Sherlock, only to collapse into a snivelling mess after a slight trip.

Pathetic. She will not turn back into the delicate , fragile girl he once thought of her as.

So she gritted her teeth, shut her eyes, and pushed herself up from the hardwood. Quite blindly, since her vision was filled with black spots, she stumbled around until— thank God— a small couch for her to—not faint on—just…let her eyes take a brief rest.

Footsteps— why was everything so loud— startled her awake. Bandages in hand, Sherlock looked bemusedly upon her. 

She chose to ignore the wave of affection that crashed over her, instead focusing on the roll of bandages. “Good, you found some. Now sit down,” she patted the space beside her, “and let me dress your wounds.” She reached out for the bandages, grabbing the roll before Sherlock could react.

Despite sitting down, he cocked an eyebrow at her. “These are for you , you do realise?”

Enola paused. 

“Why?” she asked, genuinely confused.

When she craned her head to stare at Sherlock, he had an unreadable expression on his face. He hesitated, “Because of your…injuries?” The slight tilt at the end of his words made his statement feel more like a question. “What else would they be for?”

“ For —” She cut herself off, gesticulating wildly. “You! Of course for you! A bullet wound—or scrape, whatever you want to call it—requires more attention than a slight head trauma!”

“You’re saying you aren’t currently experiencing severe enough medical difficulties to justify the use of bandages? ” Sherlock looked her over, something different in his piercing sharp gaze. “I’m sure there are some obvious facts that point to the contrary.”

Oh no. Enola groaned. Internally, of course; on the outside, she kept her face completely blank, but Sherlock narrowed his eyes anyways. Figures.

It seemed that “The Great Detective” was making a reappearance.

“Firstly, your hands, holding the bandages that were supposed to be for yourself , are trembling. When you first entered my lodge, motor functions were obviously compromised, by the way you collapsed onto my floor,” he said smugly, ignoring her sharp inhale.

Some very inappropriate words were making reappearances in her mind. For a split second, Enola revelled in a fantasy where she told Sherlock exactly where she’d put those bandages if he didn’t close his jabbering mouth and get medical assistance like a normal person.

It was completely beyond proper etiquette, even with siblings, but she could dream.

Never one to take a stance without dramatic flair, he stood up, pacing while he continued. “Face is pale, most likely due to the extreme blood loss you’ve endured.” He pointed at her eyes, which narrowed. She could very much understand his point without visual assistance, thank you very much.

Something nagged at her, something not quite right.

“Your pupils are dilated, and with that blow to the head, you likely have a severe concussion. As well as—“

“Do you think I don’t know these things? I am perfectly aware of how battered I am. You are aware that I can feel it, aren’t you?” 

Lowering his finger, his eyes softened a fraction of an inch, before slipping back into smug superiority. 

“And that is precisely why you shouldn’t be fussing over me. You require medical aid that—“

“I am not fussing!”

He raised an eyebrow. How could Sherlock simultaneously express incredulity, exasperation, and a multitude of other emotions with a twitch of the eye was beyond her.

They were both standing now, the roll of gauze abandoned on the sofa. A wave of nausea crashed inside her skull, but Enola would rather black out than sit down and prove her brother right.

Why was it that whenever Sherlock appeared, all her mental facilities seemed to leave at the same time?

“You’ve had your fun—Oh, do shut up for a moment, brother.”

He raised both eyebrows now. 

“Did I say anything?”

Of course he would. Sometimes, it felt like every action and word Sherlock chose was purposefully picked based on what would irritate Enola the most. She closed her eyes, momentarily praying to a God she didn’t believe in to give her strength. 

If anyone was to make her convert to a religion, it would be Sherlock. 

Judging by the small twitch of his lips, he knew it too. What a bother .

That small smirk ignited a flame of ire in her heart, and she managed to mutter through gritted teeth, “Sit. Down.”

Against all reason, Sherlock seemed to become even more amused.

“Ladies first.”

How dare he. How dare he be such a stubborn, insane nincompoop! For all his intellect, could he not see how pale he was, how his hands had a subtle tremor run through them, how he looked on the verge of collapse?

“I am not some fainting maiden in need of rescue, Enola. The same isn’t quite true for you. The fact you thought you said that inside your head is a testament to that.”

If she had not been in perfect control of her body, and she was , thank you, she might have yelped. 

Hopefully, she’d lost enough blood in her head to squash the blush rising to her face.

Faking purposefulness, as she has found herself increasingly doing, she continued.

“The fact that you were shot says otherwise.”

Wait. Shot. Not skimmed. But then—

“I believe we’ve already established that, dear sister. You must be further gone than I thought.”

His words were purposeful, like each and every one of his actions. They were obvious bait. But then, what was he hiding? Yes, he was shot, but then why was there no exit hole in his clothing? In fact, why was he not bleeding heavier? 

The evidence was glaring, plain for all to see. Why hadn’t she noticed them sooner?

(Symptoms of concussion: headache, nausea, balance issues, fogginess, concentration or memory problems. Of course, the one time Sherlock hides something from her, she had to be brain-damaged enough to miss the obvious.)

She was muttering out loud now, but that was the least of her worries. 

She had been operating on the assumption that he had only been skimmed by a bullet, otherwise, he would be barely lucid by now. And he promised her!

(It wouldn’t be the first time he’d broken a promise, she thought with a bitterness that surprised even herself.)

An amateur mistake. One of the common sayings Sherlock is famous for suddenly invaded her mind. 

“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

And her brother was a paradox of improbabilities.

For the entire time, he had only been using his right arm, to gesture, to hold her, not even lifting the other for bandaging.

Sherlock was left-handed.

“My God—” she cut herself off, horror rising like the bile in her throat. 

“Do you mean to tell me you still have a bullet in your shoulder, and conveniently neglected to even mention the fact?”

She was staring at Sherlock now, who looked like he would’ve rather jumped out the window than answer.

“My dear sister, I assure you-”

“Do not condescend to me. Answer the question, my not-so-clever brother.”

He eyed the window longingly again.

“It avoided all major arteries, any bones and nerves. I timed it so the bullet would leave little lasting impact. This was the best possible outcome.”

Enola couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. Sherlock, her brother, stood in front of her, clearly uncomfortable, but more importantly, hiding extreme pain. And if he was hiding this from her, what else was he hiding?

He sat back on the couch. Collapsed, more accurately. 

“Could we get back to your injuries now? I know you feel very strongly—“

“ Feel?” she repeated, outraged by the sheer stupidity of his words, “Sherlock! You will go to a medical professional right now. ”

A sigh. “And you wonder why I chose not to tell you. You always overreact to the slightest thing—”

That was enough. Enola grabbed the sleeve of his uninjured arm— (God, he was such a bastard) —and pulled . Sherlock, with the option to either pull Enola on top of him, risk her losing her grip and falling backwards, or follow, was forced to choose the latter. Not without the appropriate complaining, of course, which she promptly ignored.

Of course, that only made him redouble his efforts in trying to verbally dissect her. Again, they were disregarded.

Until finally, she snapped. “You are such a child,” she muttered, whilst raising an arm to call a cab. 

She might as well have called his entire character into question, with the way his face turned comically offended.

“I take a bullet in the arm, and these are the thanks I get? Might as well throw myself in front of a carriage, maybe you would utter a word of praise at my funeral —”

Her fingers tightened against the soft fabric of his sleeve. 

“You wouldn’t dare. I would drag you back from the clutches of death myself.”

That was apparently enough to silence Sherlock. He didn’t utter a single word from the carriage ride to the infirmary, even when he entered the room for surgery.

Thank the heavens, she thought sullenly.

She sat outside on the steps, taking no notice of the stares. A gentlewoman, doing something unseemly like taking a simple rest? God forbid.

The hours passed by, the grey haze that overtook her back at the theatre settling over her mind once again. She was thinking too much, too little; painstakingly analysing every detail she had missed before, or staying frozen in one spot, senses closed to everything around her.

If she could focus hard enough, the sound of her mother’s voice came back to her.

Enola, you will do quite well on your own.

Mum was right. She did well on her own. She solved cases the whole of Scotland Yard couldn’t, outsmarted criminals and villains alike; all in all, she was quite accomplished, if she did say so herself.

Then, she had a taste of companionship. Sherlock and herself, side by side, working on a case? Her younger self could hardly have dreamt of more fantastical tales.

Despite her knack for it, she didn’t want to be alone. 

Sherlock may never feel the same depth of emotions she felt towards him, and it—it wasn’t alright , it never would be, but she could live with it.

(Could she?)

So she stayed there, watching the people go by without really seeing anything. It was only when she blinked, and suddenly the sun had set and the lamps had been lit, did she realise how much time had passed. 

Quickly, she brushed the city grime off her dress and rushed into the ward her brother had been placed in, nearly bowling over a nurse in her haste. She didn’t bother with an apology, choosing instead to burst open the thin wooden door to the sight of Sherlock lying in a small cot, bandages wrapped around his left side.

The doctor inside announced something unintelligible, but all she heard was that he was fine . At least, he would be. The surgeries experienced no complications, Dr. Whoever performed with Nurse Unimportant, whatever, merely chatter.

Then, the doctor left, whispering something about time alone, and Enola threw herself towards the metal railings that lined the bed. 

She wouldn’t believe anything until he had undeniable proof. A quick press against his neck, and she could breathe again, in sync with the rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest.

“Wha—‘nola?”

Sherlock raised his head, and when that seemed to take too much effort, collapsed back onto the pillow. “S’alright. M’okay.”

That choked a teary huff from her. The doctor had said something about pain medication, didn’t he? Wonderful, if he wasn’t a pain already, a high Sherlock was something she’s never experienced before.

“S’rry, ‘nola. My fault.” 

“…What?” Enola strained her ears, struggling to decipher what her brother meant.

“Wait, you're talking about the theatre —Sherlock, everything that happened was my choice. I was too—”

Impulsive, naïve, hasty, inexperienced, et cetera. The list could go on. Her mistake could have cost Sherlock his life. Why in the world was he apologising?

“You warned me, I didn’t follow. It was you who fought off all those attackers,” she said incomprehensibly, “I would be dead without your help. You were shot , for heaven's sake.”

“L’cky. Fell off the ceiling. ‘lmost stabbed, too. Should’ve...shoulda protected. But—” 

Enola grabs his hand. It’s cold, but that’s alright. She has enough warmth for both of them. 

“No. Sherlock, look at me.” Impossibly grey eyes meet her own, pupils having nearly eclipsed his irises. There was no chance he’d remember this in the morning, but she had to make him see sense, at least at this moment.

“I-I care deeply for you. Whatever happened, there’s no way you could have convinced me to drop the case, or stop endangering my life. It’s just my way.”

Eyes closed shut, the man hummed in—agreement? Disapproval? She couldn’t tell.

“Go rest. You need to be fully healed to annoy the living daylights out of me.”

She made no move to leave. Instead, she toyed with different pieces of the case in her mind, her eyes occasionally checking with her brother's limp body.

Time ticked by. It could have been hours or merely minutes before a voice derailed her train of thought.

‘nola!” She jerked up, body tense, expecting some kind of terrible scene. 

Did she nod off somehow? Was the wound infected? Complications the doctor missed? 

“Is something wrong? What do you need—“

Instead of whatever she expected, a grisly murder scene, perhaps, she was met with Sherlock, eyes wide.

“Love you.”

Silence.

“What?” She must have misheard—all this time—

Partnership was something she had settled for. It was never enough to fill the gaping hole in her chest, the ache of just wanting to be loved, but it just hurt too much to keep hoping for something that would never happen. The feeling had been carefully stored inside her chest, pushed down so she would never reveal how much she truly— admired? Chased? Yearned for? 

Whatever it was, no one could ever know how far gone she was. Unrequited affection stung less when she ignored its very existence.

But now —did she even dare to dream? She couldn’t afford another heartbreak; best to keep her expectations low before someone inevitably disappoints her once again.

To her surprise, this time it was Sherlock who clutched her hand.

“M’never say it. Don’t show it, too. But—” 

A pause. Enola clenched her fists so hard; they made crescent-shaped cuts in her palm. He carefully mulled over his words, like it didn't matter every second that ticked by made it just that much more difficult to breathe.

He said, with his voice surprisingly clear, “Doesn’t mean I don’t feel it, m’kay?”

Oh.

“Need to ‘nderstand,” he repeated, eyes fluttering shut.

As quickly as he woke, his head hit the pillow, light breaths filling the room.

Well, it was good he was asleep. If Sherlock saw her, eyes shining and undoubtedly smiling, he would never let her live it down.

“I—”

She didn’t bother finishing the sentence. How could she even begin to express the depth of her emotions? Words, which normally fell off her tongue like silver, and were her greatest weapons, failed her. 

Love felt too small, too insignificant to compare with a single drop of this feeling in her chest. She adored him with every nerve and bone of her body, wanted to weep and cry, would bleed out in a hundred different ways just so he would live a second longer.

These feelings had never been allowed to exist anywhere but the deepest part of her subconscious; how humiliating it was to be so devoted to someone. Emotional attachment was a weakness that skewed thoughts and blinded the mind; it was not a Holmes-worthy trait.

At least, that’s what she had thought.

A visceral reaction that overtook every part of her body, consumed and drowned her in its pure energy. It was too much and too little at the same time.

She hoped that he could see behind it, see how much he meant to her, see how every moment in her life had somehow been changed by him. 

It was always him.

So she doesn't say anything, preferring to rest her head next to his chest, letting the rhythm of his inhales and exhales lull her to sleep in a room full of unsaid words.

When Enola wakes up, in the dawn of a new day, she’ll find some way to show him everything.

She couldn’t move the sky and mountains, but for Sherlock, she would try her damn best.