Chapter 1 – The Morning Everything Changed
My name is Enola Holmes. Perhaps you've heard of my brothers—Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective, and Mycroft Holmes, the rigid man who always thinks he knows best. But I doubt you've heard of me. That's because, until I turned sixteen, nobody outside the countryside village of Ferndell Hall knew I even existed. My mother liked it that way.
Life at Ferndell was nothing like other girls had. While young ladies my age practiced embroidery, danced under candlelight, and learned how to pour tea correctly, I was running wild through the fields, climbing trees, and playing chess with my mother. Eudoria Holmes was no ordinary mother. She taught me to read ancient languages, to decode secret messages, to fight with sticks and even jiu-jitsu. She raised me to be clever, strong, and—most importantly—independent.
But on the morning of my sixteenth birthday, everything changed. I woke expecting gifts and perhaps a puzzle or two, for Mother loved puzzles. Instead, I found nothing. No breakfast waiting. No note. No mother.
I searched every room of the large house, calling her name, my voice echoing off the stone walls. She was gone. Her bedroom looked as though it had been packed away in the night: clothes missing, drawers half-empty, and on the floor, a single gift left for me—a small set of packages wrapped in brown paper.
Inside, I discovered strange things: books, charts, a notebook, money carefully tucked away. These were not ordinary gifts. They were supplies. Tools. Perhaps even clues. It was as if Mother had been preparing me for this moment.
Still, I could not believe it. Why would she leave me? Why vanish without explanation? I thought I was her greatest companion.
I had no answer.
Instead, I had to write to my brothers. Sherlock and Mycroft had left Ferndell long ago, making their lives in London. They rarely visited, and when they did, it was always brief and filled with arguments. But now, with Mother gone, I had no choice. They came at once.
And from the moment they stepped through the doorway, I knew my life would never be the same.
Chapter 2 – The Brothers Return
Two days after Mother disappeared, I stood nervously by the window of Ferndell Hall, waiting. The sound of carriage wheels broke the morning silence, and soon enough, they appeared—my brothers.
First came Sherlock Holmes, tall, composed, and watchful. He was the famous detective I had read about in the newspapers, the one people admired as the sharpest mind in all of England. His sharp eyes seemed to notice everything—the weeds in the garden, the dust on the stair rail, the nervous way I stood.
Then came Mycroft Holmes, the elder brother. Where Sherlock was calm and calculating, Mycroft was strict, demanding, and obsessed with order. His cane tapped against the stone steps as he climbed them, his mouth already curled in disapproval.
"Enola Holmes," Mycroft said, his voice heavy with disappointment. "What on earth have you done with yourself? You look wild."
I looked down at my dress—mud stains on the hem, hair untamed, shoes worn from running. Mother had never cared for appearances. But to Mycroft, I was a scandal waiting to happen.
Sherlock, however, studied me differently. His eyes softened, though he said little. He walked through the house, observing Mother's room, her belongings, and the empty spaces where things had been removed. He understood, in his quiet way, that she had left deliberately.
"She's gone by choice," Sherlock muttered. "And she didn't want to be found."
My heart sank. Why would Mother leave me? I needed answers, but all I got was Mycroft's decision:
"You, Enola, are my ward now," he announced. "And I shall see to it that you are sent to finishing school at once."
I gasped. Finishing school—the dreadful place where girls were taught to walk with books on their heads, to speak only when spoken to, and to smile politely while their futures were arranged for them. That was not the life Mother had raised me for.
But Mycroft was firm. Sherlock, despite his fame and intelligence, refused to interfere. And so, I realized, if I wanted freedom, I would have to take it myself.
Chapter 3 – The Finishing School Threat
The next morning, Mycroft dragged me to the train station. My belongings were packed without care, stuffed into an old carpetbag. I felt as though I were being shipped away like unwanted furniture.
Beside me, Sherlock remained quiet, lost in thought. For a moment, I thought he might defend me, argue that I should be allowed to choose my own path. But instead, he handed me a small smile. A sympathetic one. That was all.
"Stand straight, Enola," Mycroft barked. "No slouching. You'll learn discipline soon enough."
The train to London hissed and smoked at the platform. As I prepared to board, dread filled me. I could not—would not—go to finishing school.
Mother's voice echoed in my head: You must find your own path, Enola. Be clever, be brave.
And so, I decided. I would escape.
That very night, while my brothers slept at the inn, I took out the packages Mother had left me. Among them were money, a few disguises, and tools she had clearly prepared for such a moment. My hands trembled as I cut my long hair short and bound my chest with strips of cloth. With a boy's cap and oversized coat, I became someone else entirely—an ordinary young gentleman.
When morning came, Mycroft stormed into my room to wake me, only to find an empty bed. By then, I was already on the train to London, free at last.
Chapter 4 – Escape into the Unknown
London was not the place I had imagined. The moment I stepped out of the station, I was hit with the smell of smoke, coal, and unwashed bodies. The streets bustled with people—ladies in elegant dresses, men in tall hats, beggars with dirty faces, and children darting between horses and carts.
I clutched my carpetbag tightly, aware that anyone might try to snatch it. I had read about London, but to walk its crowded streets was something else entirely.
My plan was simple: follow the clues Mother had left and find her. She must have gone into hiding for a reason.
But fate had other plans.
As I settled into my train carriage that morning, a large brown travel bag sat opposite me. To my shock, it began to move. The lid opened slowly, and out popped a boy—messy-haired, pale, and gasping for air.
"What on earth?" I whispered.
"Please—don't shout!" he begged. "I had to hide. They're after me."
His name was Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether. A runaway, just like me. But unlike me, he was being hunted.
Chapter 5 – The Boy in the Bag
Tewkesbury explained in a rush: his family wanted him back, though he didn't trust their intentions. He wanted freedom, a chance to live differently, away from the weight of his title.
At first, I rolled my eyes. A rich boy complaining about his life hardly compared to my situation. But the desperation in his voice convinced me that his danger was real.
And then, danger arrived.
A tall, menacing man with dark eyes and a bowler hat walked through the carriage, his steps heavy. His gaze searched each passenger. When his eyes landed on us, my skin went cold.
"The man in the hat," Tewkesbury whispered. "He's the one trying to kill me."
I froze. This was no ordinary runaway boy. He was truly in danger.
The man lunged, and chaos erupted. Tewkesbury and I scrambled to the back of the train, clutching each other for balance as the train roared forward. The assassin cornered us, his hand gripping the door handle. With no other choice, we jumped.
The world spun as we tumbled into the grassy fields below, the train speeding away into the distance. My body ached from the fall, but we were alive.
For now.
Chapter 6 – Danger on the Train
We ran through the countryside, the sound of barking dogs in the distance. Tewkesbury struggled to keep up, clearly not used to running for his life.
"Do you ever run?" I hissed.
"Not usually from assassins!" he shot back, panting.
Despite the danger, a strange bond began to form between us. We were both escapees—he from the prison of nobility, I from the prison of society's expectations. Yet, unlike me, he seemed utterly unprepared for survival.
As night fell, we built a small fire in the woods. I scolded him for not knowing how to forage for food, and he scolded me for being too bossy. But beneath our bickering, trust grew.
I still had one goal—find Mother. But now, it seemed, fate had handed me another task: keep Viscount Tewkesbury alive.
Chapter 7 – A City of Secrets
London was overwhelming. The noise of the markets, the clatter of carriage wheels, the shouts of vendors—it all pressed in on me at once. For the first time, I felt small. Mother had always told me that the city was dangerous for a girl alone, and now I understood why.
But I wasn't helpless. She had trained me well. I disguised myself with the clothes from her packages—first as a young widow with a black veil, then as a boy again when I needed to move unnoticed.
Tewkesbury and I parted ways at first. He wanted to go back to his family's estate, and I needed to follow Mother's trail. But I couldn't shake the feeling that we'd cross paths again.
I began with the only clues Mother had left: the money, the books, and the hidden codes she had tucked away in the gift box. Using her notebooks, I discovered she had been secretly involved with groups of women fighting for change—suffragettes, demanding the right to vote. Could this be why she vanished?
London's streets offered few answers, but they were full of threats. Mycroft had already placed advertisements in the newspapers, offering a reward for my capture. Sherlock, meanwhile, was quietly investigating, watching from the shadows. But he never interfered. He seemed to want me to prove myself.
Alone in the bustling city, I vowed: I will find Mother. And I will decide my own life.
Chapter 8 – The Mystery of the Marquess
Days later, I stumbled upon news that made my blood run cold: Viscount Tewkesbury was missing, and the public believed he had been kidnapped—or worse, murdered. His family, the Basilwethers, were powerful, tied to Parliament itself.
Curiosity pulled me back into his world. I visited the great halls of London where his name was whispered in worried tones. I pieced together the truth—his seat in the House of Lords was critical to the upcoming Reform Bill, which would grant more people the right to vote. If Tewkesbury died, his uncle would inherit the seat, a man who opposed change.
And suddenly, everything made sense. Someone was trying to kill Tewkesbury to stop the Reform Bill.
I hurried to find him, tracing him through the streets of London until at last, I spotted him in a crowded market. He was disguised—poorly, with his messy hair hidden under a cap. He looked surprised but delighted to see me.
"You came back," he said with relief.
"You're hopeless without me," I replied.
From then on, we were a team. He told me about the attempts on his life, the man in the bowler hat who never seemed far behind. I told him about my search for Mother and the puzzle of her disappearance.
Though I tried to remain focused on my own quest, I couldn't deny it: saving Tewkesbury's life was becoming just as important as finding Mother.
Chapter 9 – Unraveling Plots
Together, Tewkesbury and I dug deeper. We uncovered that the man in the bowler hat—the assassin—was indeed hired by someone within Tewkesbury's own family. The question was: who?
I disguised myself again and sneaked into the Basilwether estate, while Tewkesbury watched from the shadows. The grand halls were cold and silent, filled with portraits of stern ancestors. His grandmother was there—a sharp-eyed woman with a voice like ice. She insisted that Tewkesbury was too weak to lead, too soft for the Basilwether name.
As I listened, hidden behind the curtains, the truth clicked into place. The assassin had not been working alone. Someone in the family wanted Tewkesbury gone.
The clues pointed to his uncle, who stood to gain the seat in Parliament if the boy died. His uncle, a man opposed to progress, who feared the future.
But as I pieced this together, I couldn't ignore another truth pressing in on me: Sherlock was also following the trail. More than once, I caught a glimpse of him in the streets, watching me from across the road. He never stepped forward, never offered help. He was testing me. And for once, I didn't mind.
I didn't want him to solve this case. I wanted to solve it myself.
Chapter 10 – Showdown in the Country
The trail led us back to the Basilwether countryside estate. Tewkesbury was nervous, but determined.
"This is my home," he whispered. "And I won't be chased from it any longer."
We crept through the halls, the shadows thick with silence. But before long, the assassin appeared, his footsteps pounding on the stone. The chase began—through corridors, up staircases, across the dusty attic beams.
At last, we found ourselves cornered in the great hall. The assassin raised his weapon, but I remembered everything Mother had taught me—how to fight, how to strike when your opponent least expects it. With swift movements, I disarmed him, my heart pounding with fury.
Just as I thought we had won, a shocking truth was revealed: it was not Tewkesbury's uncle behind the plot. It was his grandmother.
Her face was cold, her words cruel. She admitted that she wanted him dead because he represented change—change she despised. To her, progress was poison.
But Tewkesbury stood tall, defying her. "I will live," he declared. "And I will lead in my own way."
In that moment, I realized he was not just a frightened boy. He was a leader in the making.
Chapter 11 – The Choice of Independence
The case was solved, but my own path remained uncertain. Sherlock confronted me in London afterward, impressed but still distant.
"You did well, Enola," he admitted. "Perhaps you have the makings of a detective."
For the first time, I felt that he truly saw me—not as a child, but as an equal. Mycroft, of course, was furious. He demanded I still go to finishing school. But I refused.
"Ferndell is my home," I told him. "And my life is mine to decide."
I walked away, knowing that I had broken free of his grip forever.
Yet, as proud as I was, I still longed for Mother. Where was she? Why had she left me?
Chapter 12 – Mother's Message
One quiet evening, as I returned to my lodgings, I found her. Mother. She was waiting in the shadows, her eyes warm but sad.
I ran to her, anger and relief colliding in my chest. "Why did you leave me?" I demanded.
She placed her hands on my shoulders. "Because you didn't need me anymore, Enola. You needed freedom. If I stayed, you would always follow me. But now—you are becoming who you are meant to be."
I wanted to argue, to beg her to return. But deep down, I understood. She had raised me not to depend on her, but to stand on my own.
As she slipped away once more, her words lingered: "You must make the world what it ought to be, Enola. But you must do it in your own way."
And so, I chose independence. Not Sherlock's way. Not Mycroft's. Not even Mother's.
My way.
I was Enola Holmes—detective, adventurer, and a young woman who would no longer be ignored.