Chapter Text
“Oh, don't be absurd ,” Enola scoffs, swiping the newspaper from her desk and flicking it open. She'd been gracious enough to put it away when Sherlock first arrived, hopeful that he had something interesting to share, but after the utter idiocy he just spewed at her, she no longer cares to listen to anything he has to say. “I think that last case of yours may have knocked a couple of marbles loose, brother, perhaps you should see a physician.”
Or perhaps he should stop with the opium and cocaine he so adored partaking in- it would do wonders for him, she's positive. Although then again, perhaps not. Sherlock isn't exactly known for being the greatest of company at the best of times, least of all when he's bored or going through withdrawals.
Perhaps it’s best he doesn't, lest he finally anger the wrong person and find himself in a position he can't deduce his way out of.
A sad end for the great detective, and all because of his addiction to that silly white powder.
Tragic.
“If I had anyone else to ask, I would.”
“How lovely!” she says with a bout of false cheer, turning the page, “But perhaps you should be sure not to say that to the next woman you ask as they might not be so lenient in their response. Times are changing, and more and more women are turning to much more painful methods to get their point across to men such as yourself.”
There was a piece in the newspaper just the other day calling for a mandate on the banning of hatpins longer than a certain length due to the amount of stabbings in the passing months. Certainly most of those attacks were on men who couldn't keep their hands to themselves, but Enola can't deny that Sherlock could do with a light stabbing every once in a while, if only to remind him of his manners.
Perhaps Mother should have tried that method on Mycroft.
Perhaps Enola should try that method on Mycroft. No one could possibly say he doesn’t deserve it.
“Don't be so difficult, Enola,” Sherlock says, a hint of frustration in his tone not unlike how Mycroft always speaks to her, though hardly to the same extent. Of course, no one understands frustration quite like Mycroft, she's sure. “You are the only choice. I would trust no one else with this.”
And that's... well, that's a little better.
Sighing heavily, Enola drops the paper to her desk and gives her brother a shrewd look. He looks a little different to the last time she saw him- his hair a touch longer, face not as cleanly shaved, but still respectable enough to pass in polite society. The bruise that had covered his eye from his latest scuffle is almost completely gone, the split of his brow from where the man's ring caught him hidden away by a perfectly placed curl.
He looks as pristine and put together as always, and yet here he is, asking for her help. Enola can't deny that she's.. curious .
“You have one minute,” she allows, lacing her fingers atop her desk. “Explain.”
A minute turns to two, to four, to ten, and then to a carriage ride to Sherlock's flat wherein there are even more minutes spent explaining, and yet still by the end of it Enola is sure he's leaving things out as he is wont to do.
Still, it’s far more interesting than anything she's managed to find in the paper recently and she can't deny that she's intrigued.
The main points, she summarises, are these: One- there have been a number of murders.
Two- all of the murders have been committed in some little seaside town in Suffolk well known as a destination popular with newly weds.
Three- all the victims have been newlyweds.
And, arguably the most important point of them all and the reason she had almost laughed him out of her office earlier in the day, number four- in order to catch this man, Sherlock needs to go undercover and as such, requires a wife in order to do so.
Which is where Enola comes into it.
And well.. she can't say she's too enthused about being forced into a corset again and made to play at being an obedient little wife, but it's not the worst thing to happen. She's played at being a newsboy, a pauper, a widow, and an assistant- so adding wife into her repertoire of disguises is clearly the next move and who better to practise with than her darling brother?
That's a trick question, of course. The correct answer is anyone .
However, she supposes beggars can't be choosers- if she wishes to be part of this case and get her hands on some of the reward money, then she's just going to have to suck it up and play nice for a while. Which is fine. Obviously, she can do that. It's not like the person she has to play nice with is Mycroft . It's just Sherlock! He's not entirely terrible.
However..
“I do hope you know this is a terrible plan,” she tells him once they've boarded the train and found their carriage. The trip is going to be hell, she's sure- she's never had to be on a train for quite so long before and she worries for the state of her sanity by the end of it. Sherlock is, as she's mentioned, not the greatest of company.
“It will be fine.”
“Oh, yes, I'm sure,” she agrees dryly, adjusting herself in the seat. After the train, they'll need to take a carriage out of the city which means she could have very easily worn comfortable clothes and changed before arrival rather than wear the restrictive hell she's currently donning the entire trip, but Sherlock insisted . “You do realise that you'll have to be nice to me, don't you? Pretend that you actually care for me?”
A fine detective he may be, but Enola has doubts on his skills as an actor.
Sherlock's brow furrows, eyes the same icy blue as their fathers once were flicking up from his notebook to survey her.
“I do care for you, Enola.”
“The corset you've forced me into says otherwise.”
“The corset is part of the outfit.”
“An outfit I didn't have to wear yet,” she points out, falling back into the argument they've already had in the time since she agreed to accompany him. Twice. “I could have-”
“And if someone had seen you?” he interrupts, “Either getting dressed, or perhaps another couple on their way to the seaside? What then, Enola? We must keep character, lest someone see through our ruse before we even arrive.”
She huffs, slouching back as much as she's able in a very unladylike manner.
“ You get to be comfortable.”
“I can assure you, I am not ,” he says with a scowl and a twitch of his nose. She's noticed him do that quite a few times since they've been together, but she'd assumed it to do with his extra-curricular activities rather than anything else, though in all the time's she’s seen him reach for father's old snuff-box that he usually keeps in his breast pocket, he's not once pulled it free, nor can she see the lines of it hidden away there, so perhaps she's wrong.
“Is that what the moustache is about?”
Sherlock grunts, bringing a hand up to scruff a finger roughly under his nose where the wiry hair tickles him.
“Why else would I torture myself with such a thing?”
She shrugs, turning to glance out the window at the blur of trees and clouding smoke rushing past.
“A new look?” she says, “I'm sure Mycroft would love it.”
She doesn't bother to look, but she's sure his scowl only deepens at that. That is, quite possibly, one of the only things the two of them have in common other than their intellect and passion for deduction- neither of them seem to care for Mycroft's approval. In fact, Enola would wager that Sherlock goes out of his way in order to gain their older brother's criticism in most acts, if only for the amusement of watching him gripe and grumble.
Enola herself understands the pleasure of the action, however she doesn't need to act out for that- existing as she is is more than enough reason for Mycroft to dislike her.
“I didn't grow it out for Mycroft ,” he says, as if offended by the very notion, “And you may rest assured that the moment this case is solved, it will be gone .”
Hiding her grin behind her curtain of hair, Enola bites her lip.
“Strike a nerve, did I?”
Sherlock huffs, sinking back into his own seat.
“ Cheeky ,” he reprimands her, though not entirely seriously, “Best get that out of your system before we arrive.”
She snorts, rough and vulgar, flicking her gaze to him before suddenly falling into the perfect little posh caricature of a well-bred woman.
“Whatever for?” she asks in a prim voice, batting her lashes, “I have my doubts that the great detective Sherlock Holmes would care for a demure wife. Modesty has little place in the world of detectives, as you well know. The same is to be said for propriety or meekness.”
He eyes her, something she can't quite name flickering in his gaze.
“Perhaps,” he allows, “but I am not Sherlock Holmes for the foreseeable future, and Mister Edwards, as a completely ordinary man, would believe differently I should think.”
Mister Edwards. Given the choice, Enola would have picked something much more dashing for their new name but as it is, that probably wouldn't have worked as well. They're supposed to be just another couple out at the seaside to enjoy their honeymoon with the rest- they need to fit in, hide in plain sight. They need to not draw attention to themselves. And so it is not Sherlock and Enola Holmes investigating a case, but William and Henrietta Edwards on their honeymoon, a completely ordinary couple with completely ordinary lives.
How utterly dreadful.
“Perhaps Mister Edwards should not be so boring.”
“Perhaps Misses Edwards should not be so improper.”
“I told you, propriety has no place in our lives. If Miss Harrison could not beat it into me, what chance do you think you have? You’ve not even got a cane!”
Not that she wishes he did, of course. There are scars across her bottom from Miss Harrison's more vigorous teachings , and the knuckles of her left hand still smart every now and then when the weather is particularly cold. It's been less than a year since her escape, but she wonders if she'll ever fully recover- if the marks will fade and melt back into her skin. Wonders if her stomach will stop dropping at the sight of an older woman walking along innocently with her aid, or a mother reprimanding her child on the street.
Her hand clenches of its own accord, the shift of the gloves covering them doing little but dragging her deeper into memories she wishes she could forget. Months ago, Enola would have rather eaten her own foot than be forced to wear gloves day in and day out, but now she can't even leave the house without them. They're a guard- a protection she can't bear to lose.
Sherlock's eyes flick down, catching the movement, and Enola very carefully does not react despite how much she wishes to- tries to ignore the ire that builds in her chest knowing that Sherlock is trying to read her like she's little more to him than one of his cases.
She tries not to blame him for leaving her in that place, tries to stamp out the part of her that burns with fury when she thinks about it, because the fact of the matter is that it wasn't his fault, but still, it hurts. Mycroft was her guardian at the time and it was entirely his decision to drop her in that hell- Sherlock had little he could do to help her, and now that she's his ward, he'd not once tried to control her. He understands that their mother taught her differently to what other girls are schooled on- that she was brought up with independence and a pride reserved for her intelligence and what she can do for the world , not what she can do for her husband .
Marriage doesn't interest her, and nor do children much for that matter. For a split moment, she'd thought that she could ignore all that- Tewkesbury, being a Lord, would have to get married, have to have children to pass on his name and land and Lordship and Enola had thought she could shoulder her dislike of such things and push it to the side if only for a chance to be with him, but the longer she spends in London, living on her own and forging her path in life the way she wishes, she knows it's not something she'll be able to do. Not yet anyway.
She cares for him, more so than she's ever cared for anyone apart from Mother, but she refuses to give up her freedom when she's only just managed to wrangle it into her hands.
Tewkesbury won't wait for her, she knows. Even if he wished to, he has a duty. His mother will find him match after match, and as much as he may deny and disavow them, he'll give in eventually.
He may think Enola unique, may even believe himself to be in love, but the truth of the matter is that he'll find someone much more suited to his life than her. She is no Lady, and certainly no fit for a Lord. Her life is in London, pounding the streets and flitting through the filthy underbelly, solving crimes that Scotland Yard doesn't care about and her famous brother finds too boring to bother himself with.
She is a detective, not a noble woman, and as much as it may hurt now, she knows it won't be like that forever. Already the sting of it is fading- feeling like an aged bruise, rather than the ache of a broken bone from those first few weeks.
She will get over it and so will Tewkesbury in time.
It's for the best.
With more effort than she allows to be seen, Enola forces her hands to relax across her lap, fighting against the stress trying to settle itself there. Sherlock can only read what she lets him see, and so long as she's careful about it, he'll have no need to look deeper into his passing deductions of her.
“Tell me about the victims again?”
If he realises that she's trying to change the subject, he doesn't show it.
“Three couples so far,” he says after a moment, “A Mister and Misses Bennett, Evens, and Brown. All were attacked in their rooms, all beaten with a blunt object, restrained, stabbed, strangled, and gutted. Mister Evens survived the initial attack and managed to give a brief description of the assailant before he succumbed to his injuries, however I have doubts that it will do us much good.”
“Male, brown hair, stocky,” Enola recalls, “Did they have anything in common? Other than their newly-wed status?”
“Varying ages- one couple was older, remarried after their first spouses died, the other two were on their first marriages. None were particularly rich, but neither were they destitute, given they were able to afford the time away from work. Jobs were different, families, home towns, friends.” Sherlock counts off, “But I was able to identify a similarity between the three, after some discussion with the coroner.”
Enola nods. It makes sense that he'd have made contact already- letters are only ever as personal as you make them and if they're going to be undercover it'd be disadvantageous to waltz around in person asking questions about the murders. Sherlock probably has all the information he needs already packed away in that brilliant brain of his- all he needs now is to find the man responsible.
If only he cared enough to share with her.
“Well?” she asks after a moment when he doesn't continue, “Are you going to tell me or am I supposed to guess?”
“All the women were brunette, and the men all had a moustache.”
Enola pauses mid nod, turning an incredulous look on her brother. He stares back unperturbed.
“Are you mad?” she asks, “ This is the reason you brought me along?”
He wants them to catch the killer's attention. He wants the killer to come after them .
“What happened to laying low? ” she demands, “I thought we were going out there to catch him, not to try to become his next victims!”
“Is there a difference?”
“Yes! In one of these scenarios we are in unimaginable danger!”
Just because she can fight and is more than capable of handling herself should it come down to it, doesn't mean she enjoys it! That one bump to the head from Linthorn all those months ago had done more than a little damage to her mind for a good long while, and she isn't keen on reliving that! Her memory was all over the place, her stamina in the Thames.
Not to mention the fact that had he hit her any harder, he may well have killed her!
She understands that her job brings her closer to danger than the average person is comfortable with and that she will occasionally be forced to flirt with death, but that doesn't mean she's comfortable with essentially putting herself out on a tray for a murderer to pick at!
“Such is life for a detective.”
“I cannot believe this,” she says, shaking her head. Anger is simmering in her belly, low and cruel, and she knows it's well heard in her tone.
She'd thought- God help her, but she'd actually thought that Sherlock came to her because he believed in her. She'd thought that maybe he could see her potential, that he'd brought her along so she could help him catch this horrible man.
But no. Of course not.
The great Sherlock Holmes doesn't need help . All he wants from her is to stand by his side and play the soft spoken, demure little wife that Mycroft wants her to be because she fits the image of the woman the murder likes to go after.
Enola prides herself on her intelligence, but never in her life has she felt more stupid than in that moment.
The trip, after that, is silent. Enola retrieves a book from her luggage and settles in for the long hours before the sun sets, while Sherlock pulls a notebook from his jacket and starts scribbling away at heaven knows what. Every once in a while she will feel his gaze on her, but she pays no mind in indulging him- let him deduce what he wishes from that, but she simply doesn't care.
He may not have lied to her, but there's no denying that he twisted his words to hint at an intention he never intended to fulfil.
The book isn't exactly the sort of thing she would care to read of her own accord, much more interested in the scientific journals and medical diaries that had lined the shelves back home, but a good detective is one self-aware enough to admit their weaknesses and Enola understands that she's not exactly the most knowledgeable in certain aspects of life that most women are. Even if Sherlock deceived her about his purpose for bringing her along, she still agreed to come and she is nothing if not stubborn.
Sherlock may wish for her to stand back and let him do all the work, but Enola is determined to prove herself one way or another. She will play at being his wife, will show him that she knows how to act in a way that would indicate good breeding and modesty, and while doing that, she's going to solve this case and catch the killer before her brother even comes close to it.
She will show him that it's possible to be both a lady and a detective, and Sherlock will have no choice but to respect her.
The only problem with that being that she's not entirely sure how to be a lady or wife for that matter, hence the book .
Pride and Prejudice. Perhaps not the best choice for something like this, but it's the points on manners that she cares to study, with little interest for the rest of it. Although, she must admit if even only to herself, it's not entirely terrible. Mr Darcy is a right heel, to be sure, but the more she reads, the more she feels for the man.
He's not all bad, it's just that he's a little... inept, socially and emotionally, and clearly not the greatest at first impressions. Or second impressions. Or indeed even third impressions, for that matter. But Enola is positive that many would say the same about her! And Sherlock is certainly in the same boat.
Perhaps it's a family thing? She wonders, albeit briefly, if her mother has the same problem, before acknowledging that she and her mother are much too alike for her not to.
Mycroft doesn't get the same consideration- the number of bad impressions one can give can only get so high before it needs to be accepted that the person in question is just a wanker. She's sure Sherlock would agree, even if he too is a bit of a wanker.
Maybe that's a family trait, too, but she hardly remembers enough about their father to make that call.
If he was anything like his sons, however, the odds aren't exactly stacking in his favour.
They spend the night in town once they finally arrive at the station, taking advantage of their host's kindness and the meal she provides them before retiring to their room. Sherlock got them a two bed, but the flimsy little divider between them does little to offer any privacy and Enola is acutely aware of his presence so close to her as she strips out of her dress and corset and washes up before crawling beneath the starched white sheets.
“The carriage will pick us up in the morning,” Sherlock tells her once he's followed suit, his voice almost as low as the rustle of the sheets in the quiet of the room as he gets comfortable, “I'll wake you with time for breakfast before we depart.”
The flickering light thrown from the candle beside her scatters a parade of jumping shadows upon the wall and ceiling like a dance. Enola watches them for a moment before asking: “Is there anything else I should know about the case that you've yet failed to inform me of?”
Sherlock stays quiet.
Enola doesn't ask again.
Sighing, she leans over just enough to blow out the candle with a short puff of breath, before settling back down.
This was a bad idea. She should have stayed in London and looked into the case of Mrs Hardy's stolen cat. The monetary reward and the feeling of achievement that would have come from its successful closure would have been nothing in comparison to this, but at least she could have lived in her little fantasy world a little longer where at least one of her brothers believes in her abilities.
She sighs once more, shaking her head and closing her eyes.
All she has to do is get through this case and she can be on her way. Sherlock will have no reason to seek her out again. She can pretend to be an only child, just how they want her to be, and live her life without him and certainly without Mycroft.
Alone, just as her mother always expected.