Enola Holmes

Chapter One - Enola Holmes

Prologue - Two Years Previously

"Hello?" I answered my phone on the third ring.

"Enola." Ah, Mycroft, my oldest brother. I was wondering when he'd call (as he never texts) and now is a time for dire need. Sherlocks situation seemed... Unfortunate to say the least. "He needs your help."

"Clearly, you both do." I scoffed, interrupting him mid-sentence while slipping on my boots and snatching my favourite leather jacket from the wooden chair.

"We have a plan of action -" Mycroft tried to continue without me stopping him, at the same time I stepped outside, locking my apartment door behind me and summoning a cab.

"Again, that was obvious Mycroft. I may be younger than you but I'm not an idiot, and I wasn't the one that sold Sherlock out. I'll leave now." Holding the phone away from me for a moment, I gave the cabbie directions.

Once I placed the phone back to my ear, I heard Myrcoft sigh, clearly feeling troubled by what he'd done to our brother. I knew instantly that I'd hit a nerve by calling Mycroft out for giving Sherlocks secrets to Moriarty. What can I say, I'm angry at him. He knows better; there are other ways to make a person talk - even when that person is James (Jim) Moriarty.

"You know which airfield? The plane should be waiting, meet him there."

"I always know, I'm in the car now." I answered bluntly, before we exchanged quick goodbyes.

Airfields. Cold, empty, bland of all colour, except from the tall man in a long black coat who was looking up at the sky. Strangely, I'm still proud to call him my brother.

"Enola." Sherlock said quietly, without turning to face me.

"Hey." I muttered while checking my watch. The small aeroplane would be arriving in moments, taking Sherlock to wherever he wanted to vanish.

"I need to take down Moriarty's network. Eastern Europe, amongst other places."

"Got it." I said with a few seconds delay as I texted the pilot our flight plans. We'd land in Paris where Sherlock could make his own way and I could get a train back to Brussels, where this aircraft was originally taking me.

I watched my older brother out of the corner of my eye, today was one of those days where it was better to leave Sherlock to his silence. He needed to think, he was leaving his friends (shocking, I know) behind to protect them - one of the most valiant actions you can do. There was no need for me to intrude on his private thoughts.

The plane landed with a huge gust of wind and noise like a small hurricane. Doors were opened hurriedly and Sherlock was smuggled aboard before anyone could notice the 'dead' detective standing perfectly well fifty feet away on the edge of a runway. Thank God all of the workers had signed the Official Secrets Act.

(Two years and several months later)

I sat on the cold carpeted floor, my back pressed against the wall, throwing the red darts absentmindedly at the back of the plain wooden door, when the ringing of my phone snatched me out of my bored trance.

"Hello?"

"We need you back." Darn, I only had five darts left.

"Oh Mycroft, how lovely it is to hear from you after such a long time." I muttered sarcastically, grabbing the fifth dart and throwing it with such force it bounced off the door. I didn't bother to ask Mycroft how he got my, supposedly, unknown mobile number as Mycroft is practically the British government.

"Apologises, but you need to come home, now, Enola." He replied firmly.

"If you haven't realised, I am in the middle of a case Mycroft. Underground, out of site and undercover." I couldn't help but snap, my bother knows everything about my job, he knows the responsibilities I hold. Mycroft was expecting me to drop everything, again, because Sherlock had come 'back to life'. In anger, I shot another dart perfectly into the door.