𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐎𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘. Enola sometimes found this to be true, especially in certain situations that are odd enough that it would be impossible not to ask what could have possible happened to lead up to present events, but she often found it to be slightly different — the greatest distance two people can travel in the shortest amount of time is by asking someone their name. Who people decided to name themselves was a reflection of who they are, and seeing as how her own name was anagrammed to spell alone, it made her think it was time for a change, not to mention she was still hiding from her brothers.

As much as she didn't want to let go of her identity as Enola Holmes, she knew there was no way she could go about her business in secret with her real name; she'd have to come up with one her brothers — or rather, Sherlock — wouldn't think of tracing back to her. The many scribbles and crossed out ideas on the paper in front of her was proof that it was difficult to choose a new name for oneself, even more difficult than choosing a name for a child. After all, an infant has no place in the world, being newly born, whereas for one there is the frustrating spectacle of intimate confusion.

Although the large gash near her ear had faded, the bruise upon her feelings had not. It had only been a few days since her mother had turned up in her room, leaving just as quickly as she'd arrived, and despite the reassurance that she had left for her own reasons, it was still a difficult thing to grasp. Their moment of reunion had not been the one she'd imagined, and here she was, sitting alone and wondering what her next move would be.

Perhaps there was some truth in her name after all.

Despite the visit leaving her with more questions than it did answers, she did understand one thing: she was a dedicated person, a finder of lost souls. Perhaps there were people that needed such a person for such jobs, and she would have been more than happy to help, if only such a case turned up. So far, there had been little for her to do other than wallow in self-pity and try to come up with new names for herself, all the while doing her best to try not to think about her mother.

Paper and pencil in hand, Enola sat on the bed of her new lodgings, often becoming distracted by the comings and goings of the street from her reclined view. The sun shone brightly above like a polished shield, as if it could shelter her from the past she wanted to outrun, the various coal wagons and donkey carts and wheelbarrows competing for space on the filthy narrow street, the drivers having no problem with shouting obscenities at each at the slightest instant of wait, men and women of all classes and ages hurrying along with whatever errands they needed to attend to.

They, unlike her, had somewhere to go.

It was only until she shifted her leg onto the paper she was writing did Enola bring her attention back to the task at hand. She had folded the paper sideways until there was nothing else written, all her crossed out ideas hidden, waiting for a fresh start. The only words left on the page were ones she knew all too well, and, unfortunately, had no choice but to cast aside.

Enola Holmes.

Using her own name, of course, was simply impossible, for it would be far too easy for Mycroft and Sherlock to become aware of her whereabouts, and the last thing she wanted was to be sent back to Mrs. Harrison's Finishing School for Young Ladies, and she'd be damned if she allowed them to do just that. Legally, Mycroft, as the elder, could have even sent her to an insane asylum for left, should he choose to, seeing as the only thing to make it happen was the signatures of two medical doctors — one of whom would be the "mad doctor" that was only interested in the money that allowed him to run such a place. Coupled with Mycroft's signature, those would be all he needed to deprive her of the freedom she had worked so hard to achieve.

Ivy Meshle.

Tapping the pencil against her chin in thought, Enola wrote down the next name that came to mind, before shaking her head and crossing it out immediately. Ivy was far too obvious, and Sherlock knew she and her mother used it to communicate through newspaper personal columns, so that was out of the question. The last name, Meshle, was something she had quite enjoyed playing around with, and had decided it was safe enough to use to secure lodgings, but elsewhere it was as easy to decipher as it had been to come up with — a play on "Holmes", Hol mes, mes Hol, Meshle — Sherlock would see right through it.

What else did her brothers — once again, the statement leaned more towards Sherlock, the genius deductive — know about her? Aside from reuniting when her mother first left, they hadn't seen each other in years; the only truly solid memories they had of her were old, outgrown. She had revealed her hand in front of Sherlock once before. This time she'd be more careful. What had he learned in the course of their most irregular dealing?

Her list was short enough and completed fairly quickly, much to her delight. He knew she climbed trees, rode a bicycle — although it was most certainly not one of her more revered talents — disguised herself as a widow and a boy, and was quite adept at finding missing persons, if she did say so herself, thinking of her quest with Tewkesbury. Her mood fell once again, thinking of the boy and wondering what he could be up to in her absence, but she forced herself to put him out of her mind and focus. He was safe, but she wouldn't be unless she came up with a new name.

It was not just the choosing of a new name that stumped her; it was the broad and extensive problem of who to become. It was too dull to hide as a commoner, in her opinion, and the flower names she loved were not an option, nor could she fall back on her middle name, for it would be far too easy for Sherlock to spot. Her full name, Enola Eudoria Hadassah Holmes, didn't contain even a semblance of an idea, each being too obvious and recognizable. Her initials —EEHH— seemed to convey exactly how she felt. Another idea came to mind, but was even worse than the first.

Violet Vernet.

No, that wouldn't do either. Vernet was her mother's maiden's name, which, again, Sherlock would recognize at once. Even spelling it backwards did nothing until she tried her hand at playing with the letters — Netver, Never, Every, Ever.

Ever what?

Ever alone came to mind, and a bitter chuckle escaped her lips before she could scold herself, thinking back to how purposeful and willful she'd felt after thinking about her mother's message that day in the streets. Ever defiant, Enola told herself sternly, ever to go on being what she was — a deductive, a rebel, and a perditorian, a finder of the lost. Whether what she was be a product of her upbringing and environment or whether it had to do with the idea of destiny remained to be seen, but it was comforting to know she might do some good in the world. After all, she liked to think she did quite a good job protecting Tewkesbury, so perhaps it was a sign for her to continue onward.

The world may not have been ready for such change, but it was coming, whether people liked it or not. They might not have appreciated Enola's opinions or behavior or choices, but none of that mattered at the moment. Her mother approved; that was all the validation she needed.

Other than herself, of course.

The thought of her mother was just beginning to cross her mind again when she heard the landlady's heavy steps on the stairs, and the distraction was all that she needed to push the thought away. The older woman, Mrs. Tupper, was deaf and, as she had explained during one of their first interactions through pen and paper, reading lips was tiring, one-sided, and far from easy, so she preferred to use sign language whenever possible and offered to teach her some basic phrases to help them communicate. Although she meant to take the woman up on her offer, Enola had stayed in her room since her mother's visit, hardly even coming out for meals, and learning how to talk with her landlady wasn't exactly at the top of her priorities.

"Newspaper, Miss Meshle!" Mrs. Tupper announced, after rapping briefly on the door, her voice an octave louder than general society would find appropriate; but then again, it wasn't as if she could tell, so Enola simply settled for wincing at the timing, getting up and crossing the room to throw everything she'd written into the fire, opening the door just before the woman went to knock again.

"Thank you, Mrs. Tupper," Enola said, despite her not being able to hear, and she remembered to sign her words, touching her fingers to her chin and moving her hand forward toward the woman, hoping she could also see her lips move in what she hoped was a grateful smile as she took the paper from her hands.

But the woman didn't leave, raising an eyebrow at the girl's less-than-enthusiastic expression as if something about their brief interaction had been unsatisfactory, placing a hand on her hip and asking pointedly, "Is there something wrong, Miss Meshle? You look a bit down, if you don't mind me sayin'."

Enola didn't want to be rude, but there was no way she was going to discuss her jumble of feelings with the landlady, even if she was in the mood to talk, so she took the opportunity to accept the excuse handed to her on a silver platter. "Yes, I'm feeling a bit under the weather, unfortunately."

At this, she raised a hand, her middle finger bent at the large knuckle and positioned the tip of her finger at her chest, moving it upward, followed by placing the finger of her right hand against her chin, but this time moving it downwards onto her flat palm. The older woman seemed to get the message, but still did not make a move to leave. Instead, she straightened her short figure to its limit and fixated her watery gaze.

"Miss Meshle," she declared, her voice thick with the manner of someone performing a civic duty, "Whatever 'appened, and it's none of my business, it's no use gittin' pale over, shutting yerself up like this. Now, it's a nice day out, so why don't you git yer bonnet on an' go out for a walk?"

"You're right, Mrs. Tupper, perhaps I will," Enola replied, nodding, agreeing with the woman if only to get her to leave, and, satisfied with her advice, she bid her farewell, approaching the end of the hall to speak with someone else.

The suggestion was not lost on her, but all thoughts about her mother and her new name and Tewkesbury were quickly forgotten when she caught sight of the headline of the newspaper, shutting the door rather loudly in her hurry to get a closer look to see if she had read it correctly. All noise from the street and the lodgings house and, if she was being honest, from the turmoil of her thoughts subsided as her gaze fixated on the broad letters encompassing the front page of the Daily Telegraph.

SHERLOCK HOLMES ASSOCIATE MYSTERIOUSLY DISAPPEARS
DR. WATSON'S WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄

This was a bit of a shorter chapter than usual but I hope it was still interesting even if all it included was a look into Enola's thoughts, writing this was a bit awkward because it's not in first person (I might even try this on my own to see if it works and flows more smoothly, who knows) and the style is a bit different from the movie, but I do like where it ended as it wouldn't make sense to continue on with the events of the next chapter, you know?

Also, keep in mind that this is like the very beginning of the 20th century and in the books, Enola is actually pretty rude to Mrs. Tupper (she gets annoyed at her when she obviously can't understand her, raising her voice at her, etc) so I changed that here and had her know at least a couple basic signs to communicate. Ableism was around then and it's still around now, folks

Thanks for reading!