Now, where to begin?
My name is Alexandra Thompson, my mother insisted I be named that for its strong meaning - protector of mankind. She would constantly tell me, "You were born to fight, to protect those who cannot protect themselves." and I live by that. My father was never really around, so my mother practically raised me, despite my father's persistence to simply get me a governess. My mother, sadly, passed away when I was 12, and as of her last wishes (which I did not know of until much later), I spent my days with Enola Holmes, my best friend, and her mother, and the evenings with my father, which were now worse than before, all things considered.
Between my mother and Enola's, I was taught many different things, such as reading, science, history, the basics, plus hand to hand combat, archery, sports of all kinds (I especially like tennis), and it was amazing. We did anything and everything we wanted, within reason of course. To avoid my father, I would wake up as early as possible and walk to Enola's home, which wasn't far considering we were neighbours. I would leave after supper, and my father made sure to pay her a decent sum of money every now and then for "keeping me out of his hair".
A week ago, on the July morning of Enola's birthday, I awoke rather early, grabbed the present I had made her, and walked to her house only to see it looking rather empty and less full of life. Her mother had gone missing, and on her birthday. She'd left Ferndell Hall, their home, at some point during the night. And she did not return. She had left Enola with little, bar some gifts that she instructed Mrs. Lane to give me at teatime.
Presently, Enola is on her way to collect her brothers from the train station, while I wait in the empty house. I wandered the halls, looking for anything that might help, though I know Enola already combed through everything for a sign of her mother. I went to the spare room, the one that I tended to stay in on days when I knew my father would be most hateful towards me. As I walked around, I noticed that my bedside table drawer, the one I always leave shut and had never truly used, was open a bit. Curious, I opened it further, expecting to see it empty, however there was a small envelope with my name on it. I opened it cautiously and read it aloud, knowing full well that my window overlooked the front door so I would notice Enola's arrival, and that Mrs. Lane was taking a short break in the kitchen. Inside was a small note.
My Lily,
Though you may not really be my lily, you will always have a place in my heart as though you are. There are many paths in life, so choose the one meant for you, not the one others choose for you. It's your life, how will you live it?
Best Wishes,
Chrysanthemum
Lily, a flower that stands for a mother-daughter relationship, is one that I was always fond of. Chrysanthemums are also beauties, and symbolise familial attachment, and just so happen to be Enola's mothers' favourite flower. I looked out the window and noticed Enola and her brothers approaching with a carriage. I put on my hat, one I didn't find that uncomfortable, a pair of super comfortable gloves, and left my room to greet everyone. I had always been polite and proper when I needed to be, the one good thing that came out of my father's "lessons". I walked down the stairs and noticed Mrs. Lane, and decided on following her. We walked outside and I noticed Sherlock Holmes, a face now very recognizable from the papers, and Mycroft, one I had only heard about.
"Gentlemen, welcome home. It's been some time." Mrs. Lane said. I walked a little in front of her and introduced myself.
"Hello, I'm Alexandra Thompson, I live next door, though I spend my days here learning. How are you two?" I asked as politely as possible.
"Well, thank you." Sherlock said, shaking my hand with a very sincere smile.
"Ah, well, at least you have some manners, Enola could learn from you. Now, please, answer me this, if you live next door why come here to learn?" Mycroft followed. We all began walking inside while continuing our conversation, Enola stepping beside me.
"My mother passed away a few years ago, and my father wanted nothing to do with me, so he sent me here when I was 12, just left me at the gate, and ever since then I've been coming here everyday. I even have a room here." I answered.
"I see. Well then, where might your father be now? I shall like to meet him." Sherlock responded with, again, a very sincere smile.
"I don't know where he is, only comes home to sleep and then off to work again, however I alerted him of the situation and he instructed me to give you two this envelope. Said you would know what to do." I handed Sherlock the envelope, and they both read it rather quickly. "If you don't mind me asking, what does it say?"
"Well, since you are currently missing a mother figure, and your father, as he puts it, can't deal with you all the time, he highly requests that you spend your evenings at home, as you did before, with you also being one of our wards, whichever is taking Enola. He also said that you are to spend more time at your home, leaving here earlier than usual, and leaving later than usual." A look of horror quickly filled my face as I rubbed a bruise from earlier, accidentally rubbing some of the makeup off that I used to cover them. Sherlock seemed to notice as he left looking at me hesitantly, and I quickly hid my bruised arm and tried to compose myself.
"If that is what my father wishes, then I will do as he asks, if that is alright with you." I turned to Mycroft, the only brother left.
"Yes, I'm sure we can work it out." Sherlock walked back over and used BSL (that's British Sign Language) to tell me to go to the bathroom. I quickly excused myself and walked upstairs, waiting outside the bathroom door.
A little bit later, after Enola, Sherlock, and Mycroft took a tour of the house, I heard footsteps approaching, and looked over to see Sherlock. "Sherlock, why on earth would you tell me to come here?"
"Because I need to know the truth. The bruise on your arm. Your fathers doing, am I right?" I slowly nodded, holding back some tears. I took a deep breath to stop myself from crying and looked back up at Sherlock. "Wait here." The fresh cut from earlier this morning was still bothering me, and I guess he noticed, he was sort of staring at my shoulder where the cut was, trying to figure out what was going on as I kept having to readjust my dress to not rub it. He came back a second later with a first aid kit, and walked me to the guest room, my room. He brought a chair over by the bed and I sat down on my mattress, grabbing a pillow and holding it to my stomach. "Where are the bruises? AND cuts. I know you have both."
"Uhm, there's the bruise on my arm you saw earlier, and there's a cut a little higher up. Father likes to throw things. It might be a few small ones, I can't really tell. And there's a few bruises on my other arm. And a cut on my left shoulder, a big bruise on the right. And a few cuts around my face, but the pain has gone away mostly, so I can't tell you where." He nodded and motioned me to take off my gloves and hat, and opened the first aid kit, laying it on the bed next to me. Last night had probably been the worst night in months, maybe years. Sherlock took my arm, careful not to make the bruising worse, and inspected it. He left to the kitchen and came back with a few cold washcloths a few minutes later. He set them down on my nightstand, grabbing some liquid that was in the medicine cabinet and one of the dry washcloths that he also had with him, currently in his lap as there was nowhere else to put it. He put the liquid on the washcloth, looking for one of the cuts. I usually let them heal naturally, which often left some scars. Thankfully the scars were always hidden by dresses or tops and skirts. After finding one on my arm, he looked up quickly, practically no emotions to be seen.
"This is going to hurt, but it will help." With that, he placed the cloth on my cut which hurt a lot. I squeezed the pillow as hard as I could to stop myself from yelling, and once he was done he put a small piece of cloth looking material over it and tied the ends together in a tiny knot, making a small bandage.
We went over this a few times, and once all of my cuts were healed, he packed up everything, leaving only the cold washcloths. I have to say, the most painful cuts to clean, for me at least, were on my face. Not directly, otherwise I'm sure someone else would have noticed, but right below along my jawline and left side of my neck. He went and put everything back in its place, somehow not alerting his brother or sister, and came back, instructing me to sit against the pillows on my bed as he placed the SUPER COLD washcloths on the bruises. He began getting up to leave, but I quickly stopped him.
"Thank you Sherlock, but why help me? I'm just your sister's friend."
"I've taken a few cases with situations similar to yours. I've seen how they end up. If I can help prevent those cases, I will. And as for Enola, you two are much more than friends. You two are family, which by extent makes you my family. I will tell everyone that you were feeling ill and went to rest in your room, and will be staying for the night." He quickly left, shutting the door behind him before I could say thank you again.
Once I was sure he was gone, I pulled a book from the small collection I kept in my bedside table, the small shelf below the drawer. I opened it and the room flooded with light for a slight second, but quickly went away again. I began reading the words on the pages, moving my hands to match, and practised my spells, trying to memorise all that I could. I had a feeling I would need to memorise at least a few in the next couple of days.