Enola Holmes- The Fox In The Henhouse

Chapter 8

'You can't possibly believe that, Mycroft.' Sherlock exclaims. Mycroft sits in a large leather armchair, reading various letters and documents from the police.

'Think logically about this Sherlock. It is hardly out of character for the girl.' Sherlock continues to pace across the study. He hadn't slept much at all last night. He had stayed at Enola's home, monitoring the police until the late hours. Even once they had left he stayed, unsure of what to do with himself.

He had been able to map out Enola's location on the day she went missing. She left home in the morning and went to her local library where she spent almost 3 hours. Then, she returned and stayed home until about 04:35 p.m when she departed for the Watson's residence. Sherlock had found the cab driver who took her there and they hadn't experienced any traffic as Enola had claimed to Mary as an explanation as to why she was late. Then she left the Watson's residence another cab took her to Covent garden. Sherlock couldn't figure out where she had gone next. No cab drivers had taken her anywhere else, but the dagger near her apartment would suggest someone must have taken her home.

Once he'd found this out, instead of returning to Baker Street, he simply sat at Enola's desk for hours, trying more and more combinations on that damn lock. And muling over the cryptic message of 920 in 220.

The numbers could be referring to letters. 9-20. IT. 2-20. BT.

IT in BT.

If they did, then why not simply write that. And why not write in as 9-14. Perhaps the clue is IT 914 BT.

That made no sense either.

But the numbers don't correlate to anything.

He had left upon seeing the gazette's article, describing the raids on suffragettes. An act he was certain had been orchestrated by Mycroft. They stood now in Mycroft's study, which Sherlock couldn't help but feel odd in. It was so rarely a place he went, despite how long Mycroft had lived here.

It had been Mycroft who insisted upon keeping the affair private, only allowing Lestarde and a few trust constables to investigate the crime. Sherlock agreed to these terms, but still believed their sister wouldn't have run away. 'But the dagger, Mycroft. And the message.' He takes a seat across from his brother, growing more and more frustrated.

'She has used misdirection before.'

'But she wouldn't leave behind a misdirection that would worry us like this. She cares about us too much to do so.' His mind was growing so tired he lacked the effort to hide his emotion.

Mycroft pauses, looking into his brother's eyes and seeing the pain in them. He put his documents aside and waved the butler to bring them some whiskey. They both loved Enola, obviously. But Sherlock and Enola had a bond that Mycroft couldn't help but envy. She had run away from Mycroft when she was 16, not Sherlock. And during the ensuing year had talked to and even helped Sherlock. The most contact Mycroft had had with her across that year was when she kicked him in the shins. But he realised in this moment that Sherlock wasn't insisting she had been kidnapped out of logic or deduction, but emotion.

Once the whiskey arrived, he calmly spoke. 'Sherlock, you need to look at the evidence. Other than the dagger and the code in the ground, all the evidence points towards her running away. The plans under her bed, the lies she's been telling us for god knows how long and her history. We knew she was just like her mother.'

Sherlock silently stares at the floor, considering what he's said. 'No. No the dagger proves she's been kidnapped.'

Mycroft sighs and picks up his papers and starts to read them again. Although he is better at hiding it than Sherlock, he too has had very little sleep.

'You keep harassing women, I'm going to find our sister.' Sherlock says, taking his jacket and sweeping out of the room. Mycroft worried about Sherlock, he had never seen him like this. But he forced himself to focus on Enola. Once he finds her, Sherlock will be fine.

Sherlock rides back to Enola's house and upon arriving at the door he spotted Lord Tewsbury, leaning against the gate waiting to besiege him. Sherlock had reluctantly written to him the night before, hopping he could help him to crack the codes.

Unlike Mycroft, Sherlock didn't dislike the Viscount. He just didn't particularly like him either. He was a nice enough boy, and Sherlock appreciated all he had done for Enola; but he was continually baffled by her affection towards him.

As soon as Tewksbury spots Sherlock he springs up. 'Sherlock, what's happened to enola?' Sherlock unlocks the door and starts up the stairs, ignoring his insistent questions as the two ascend. 'Do you know who took her? Have you any leads?'

When they reach the study Sherlock sharply turns to the boy, and he quickly falls silent. 'We don't know who took her or why.' He raises his finger, stopping Tewksbury before he begins to ask his insistent stream of questions again. 'I called you here, in the hopes that you would know the password to these locks.' He gestures towards the desk.

Tewksbury inspects it, his finger tracing over the locks. 'I didn't even know there were locks here.' Sherlock lets out a sigh, and begins to ask him of any combinations he could think of. When this yielded no results he asked if there were any codes or encryptions she mentions. She spent so much time with the boy, Sherlock was hoping something would come from it.

'She tells me about so many riddles, it's hard to say if any were significant.' Sadness now envelopes his entire being, as bittersweet memories begin to play in the young Lord's brain.

'Do you think she's ok?' Sherlock didn't know how to answer this question. If Mycroft was right, then the answer would be yes; but Sherlock felt that it was best not to tell him that she might have run away.

Eventually Tewksbury departs, and Sherlock collapses in her office chair in a fit of frustration and exhaustion. He looks around her room, but every object in there brings a pang of sadness to his heart. He stares at the chessboard, where he and Enola must have spent hours playing against each other. Initially he would always win, but in recent years the two of them seemed to take turns in winning. The pride in Enola's eyes when she first won, and the pride he had felt. Neither of them could beat Mycroft, of course.

Her home had been practically torn apart during the search by the police. One of the few womanly instincts Enola seemed to possess, was a need to tidy rooms. He would often find his own study tidier after her visits, one of the many reasons Mrs Hudson loved her. He turns to her bookshelf that spans the entire length of the back wall. She had even labelled each book according to the new dewey decimal system, although the books themselves seemed rather battered with their spines bent from reading.

All the books appear to have been read, except a rather large selection of bibles and religious books. How odd, Sherlock notes to himself. It isn't odd that they haven't been read, Enola isn't religious so would have no need to read them, but the small wooden foot-stool Enola uses to reach the top shelf is placed directly beneath them. Suddenly Sherlock snaps to attention. They're 220. On the Dewey decimal system the bible is 220!

Sherlock leaps up and grabs them. 920 is for biographies. His oh-so-clever sister. When he grabs the bible, all of the religious books come down as one, as they've been hollowed out and glued together to create the perfect hiding place.

Sherlock tips out the contents, revealing something even more confusing then the code itself. A letter with an article encouraging women to rise up, a list of names and addresses and several suffragette newsletters.

He stares. So many emotions stir within him he doesn't know which to focus on. The joy that remains from cracking the code, the ever present worry for his sister, the fear that Mycroft may be right and the sheer confusion of it all.

Where is his sister?