𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚 ❀ ᴛᴇᴡᴋᴇꜱʙᴜʀʏ₁

❀𝐨𝐧𝐞❀

Bikes. Why did it have to be bikes?

Lord, that's no way to start this. Apologies.

~

First off, my name is Elowyn Marie Holmes. It's not an interesting name like my mother gave my twin sister Enola. Her name spelled backwards is alone, and she was given it because my mother thought she was only having one child.

Surprise! Out I come, twenty minutes later. There had to be some improvising done, but she picked Elowyn. It means "elm." She called me this because the tree symbolizes life, death, and rebirth. Don't know why this means so much to her, but it's an okay name nonetheless.

Anyways, our father died when we were very young, so we spent a lot of time with our mother as children. Enola, Elowyn, and Eudoria. The three E's, always in perfect harmony, like a newly tuned piano.

Mycroft and Sherlock, our brothers, were both many years older. Yes, Sherlock Holmes, I know. Get over it, cause he's not always as great as he seems.

Mother taught us many things. We learned to read, fight, play tennis, play chess, and other, well, untraditional things for "ladies" to do. I can't sew, or embroider, and I'm not even particularly proficient at stringing seashells. Oh well. Who needs seashell necklaces anyway? I could easily win against any boy my age in a fight if he ever tried to say anything.

Point is, we were free there. Life was simple, easy. I knew every day would be exactly the same, and yet different. I could learn different things, but it was still familiar. I trusted that it would stay this way for years to come.

My trust was misplaced.

One week ago, Enola and I woke, on our birthday nonetheless, to find our mother gone. Missing. Left. Run away. Gone. Didn't know where she went, didn't know if she'd be back. If she would ever be back.

How could she leave me? Leave us? Leave our home? She always told my sister and I we were the most important things in her life. Tell me mother- what was more important that your own daughters? Than the life you had built together?

Back to the present, though, at least for now. Enola's yelling and- whoops, she is no longer on her bike.

"Speed up slowpoke! Theres the train!" I yell over my shoulder, passing her. I can the snake of a train curling over the stone overpass on it's way to the station. Even without Enola on the ground, it still moves faster than us. Curse these bloody bikes, couldn't we have just left earlier and walked?

After a significant amount of additional slip-ups (all on Enola's part, may I add), somehow we made it to the station before our brothers got off the train. Did I mention we're doing all this to collect our brothers? No? Now you know.

I can spot that mustache from a mile away. I've seen too many pictures of Mycroft, and I know the one next to him is Sherlock. Enola worships him, keeps newspaper clippings of his solved cases and everything. She only ever sees the good in him.

I've read things that make me question it. Alongside the fact he has never answered one of our letters in ten plus years, or come home to see his mother or sisters, not even when our father died, make me believe he isn't as great as the world, and my sister, thinks.

And also- oh they just walked past us. Alright, I see how it is.

"Mr. Holmes? And, um, Mr. Holmes?" Enola questions. I can tell she's confused by their lack of recognition. Can't say I was personally surprised, honestly.

I decide to speak anyway. "You sent for us. You sent a telegram? Asking us to meet you here." I don't miss Enola's thankful glance. She definitely did not want to explain that to them. Especially since they still don't recognize us. Does she not understand they haven't seen us in over ten years?