𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚 ❀ ᴛᴇᴡᴋᴇꜱʙᴜʀʏ₁

❀𝐭𝐰𝐨❀

What has she done?

The same question runs through my mind over and over as I wonder why Mycroft and Sherlock arrived with such urgency.  I don't see them for ten years, and they show up the moment word reaches them of our mother's disappearance.  I can't tell if my mother is doing something good, something bad, or something good viewed as something bad.  Especially in my brothers' minds.  What they think is bad probably benefits everyone except them.

As I follow my siblings into my mother's bedroom, I look around to see anything Sherlock might notice.  I like to think like him sometimes, just to validate myself, to see if I can notice things before he can.  In fairness, I'm trying to solve this mystery too.  

Mycroft is looking at material things.  He notices her bed hasn't been made, and her clothes haven't been put away.  I'm sure Sherlock recognized this too, but I don't think he felt the need to put it to words.  Instead, he's looking at the flowers in her vase.  I think back to the cards Enola and I received on our birthday.  I forgot to mention that, didn't I?

My mother's gift to myself and my sister was a stack of cards with flowers and their meanings.  I remember reading the top card: a rose with the words use these gifts wisely.  They must have some value; otherwise we wouldn't have received them.  Mother likes to give gifts with meaning, with value.  No use for something intended merely for pleasure.

There are chrysanthemums in the vase.  Also included are lauristinus and Queen Anne's lace.  These have to mean something, otherwise Sherlock wouldn't have spoken at the same time I recognize the flowers, saying the names.  

"Enough with the bally flowers, Sherlock," Mycroft groans.  He has the attention span of a seven year old boy.  About the brain of one too.  Makes you wonder how the other three kids turned out perfectly fine.

"Huh. But it wasn't foul play," Sherlock concludes.  I was just about at this answer myself, but Sherlock has more practice at this than I do.  Mycroft barely has time to question him before the younger of the two starts explaining himself.  "Her regular supply of drawing pencils has dwindled to nothing.  She clearly had decided not to replace them, and you rarely find that kidnap victims have planned for their own disappearance.  She wasn't returning, and yet she disguised her intentions perfectly."  Sherlock finishes with a questioning tone.  He picks up one of Mother's shoes and wipes the bottom with his thumb.  It comes away black, with a layer of soot over it.

I leave the room and hear Mycroft complaining about something or other behind me.  I need to take a moment to compile my thoughts.  Also, I'm hungry.  And I do not want to listen to Mycroft's groaning.

The soot.  The soot on her shoes shows she spent time wearing them near the fireplace.  But she never used the fireplace in her room, what need has she to stand in front of it?  Unless - there is something hidden in the fireplace.  That must be it.  The flowers too.  The flowers will mean something once I get my hands on those cards again.  But if Sherlock intends something bad to happen to our mother,  I must keep them a secret.  He might find out on his own, but anything to make his little game a tad harder.  

I return to a tense silence settled over the room.  After a few everlasting moments, Enola finally asks Sherlock if our mother will return.  He doesn't respond.

~

Since then, I have been sitting on my bed in my sister and I's shared room, writing down all the clues I can remember.  I can't think of anything else to write, so I make my way downstairs to find Enola eavesdropping on our brothers' conversation over a game of pool.  She motions for me to be quiet and join her by the door.  We listen, completely silent, to the back and forth to the sound of cue hitting ball.