Chrysanthemum

Chapter-3: I am

"I took a deep breath, and listened to the brag of my heart; I am, I am, I am."-Sylvia Path

I felt the breeze in my hair and sighed. It was the most peaceful I'd felt since Mother disappeared. I took a deep breath and started writing in my diary. As I wrote about what had happened in the past week, I felt the burdens slowly detach from me. I started drawing flowers, and people in the margins of the pages.

"I also enjoy a sketch." I heard Sherlock's voice at the base of the tree. "It helps me think. Process my thoughts."

"I was hoping to be alone." I exhaled.
"I'm glad to diminish them." He smiled.

I tore out one page, which had a small poem written on it. I started writing on the next one, but it flew out of my hand. I groaned, stretching my hand out to catch it, but it fell into Sherlock's lap. 

He was going to read my poem. 

The petals slowly fell.
By the wind, it was blown.
The only thing heard was the ring of the bell,
Never have I felt so alone.

"This is beautiful," Sherlock muttered.
I was silent. This poem was definitely not my best. I had to rearrange the words and add another verse. I had written this five minutes ago. Was this to gain my trust?

"Sadly I'd either have to pretend to be a man to publish it, or fight, and finally publish it a year before I die," I muttered.

"I'm sorry, El." He said.

"No." I could feel the anger bubbling in me, as I climbed down, and set things on the grass, and sat next to him.

"You have no right to say sorry. You left Enola and I as soon as Father died, and it took Mother's disappearance to bring you back?!" I said.

"Elayne. Please." He sighed.

"I wrote you letters." I felt tears sting my eyes.
"Enola kept every cutting of every case you've ever had. We studied them together. We read Mycroft's books on Law and cars. We did everything possible to be connected to both of you. But you did nothing. I have written and sent out a letter to both of you, every week for the past five years." A tear rolled down my cheek.

Sherlock was silent, taking it all in.

"Don't try mending a relationship with me. It's too late. Do it for Enola. She needs you." I said, picking up my things and walking away. Sherlock kept the poem.

"Elayne. Elayne." Enola shook me awake.
"What? What happened?" I whispered.

"I figured it out. Look at this." She said, handing me her lamp.
"She left us a gigantic amount of money, and this; our future is up to us." She said, handing me a piece of paper.
"She wanted us to run." I realised.
"Exactly." Enola beamed.

"We will need undergarments, dry food, gauze, soap, and clothes. We'll use Sherlock's old clothes we found the other day in his room. If we depart tonight, we can catch the early morning train."

"We'll need to go to the station in the next town so that they can't map our route," Enola added.

" But for that, we need to leave in the next half hour. Have a bath, if you can. You don't know when the next time might be. I'll pack our bags." I instructed.
"Yes, Miss Elayne." Enola mock-saluted me.

She then let out a small squeal and tightly wrapped her arms around me.
"We're going to find Mother." She trembled with excitement.

We're going to find Mother.