So I’ve been working on a story idea for the past few years. I’ve written and re-written scenes, created and destroyed characters and ideas… This is a small snippet that I have decided to share so that I can get some honest feedback.
I decided to share it now because, any BBC Sherlock fans will have now been introduced to the mysterious “third Holmes” a sister.
As I said, I’ve been working on this for a few years. The main storyline focusing on the Holmes sister, Enola. I don’t intend to compete in any way with Moffat and Gatiss, they’re much better at this whole writing thing than I am! But I just wanted to share my own idea, because I’m proud of it and because I had this idea before the show…
So without further ado, I would like to introduce, the third Holmes, Enola..
She ran forwards, towards the men. She was not a tall girl by any means, but she was more powerful
than she looked. Se careered straight into the first man, knocking him to the ground with a well-executed rugby tackle. She quickly knocked his temple against the cement and sprang up to face her
second rival. He had his arms outstretched just about to enclose around her neck, she gave him a brutal side kick in the ribs. As he stumbled she kicked his temple, leaving both men in a heap,
unconscious in an alleyway in the centre of London.
She walked away slowly, limping slightly, but trying not to show it. As she reached the end of the
alley way she clicked her fingers and immediately, two ragged figures jumped out from beneath a
pile of rubbish and began to tie the hands of the two beaten men. She turned slightly towards the
figures and said, in a voice just above a whisper, “Mycroft, what have you been doing without me to
clean up you messes?”
Sherlock was bored. It was a Tuesday, and oh God how he hated Tuesdays. If there was anything he
hated more than Tuesdays he couldn’t think of it right now. He turned away from the window and
continued composing a tune on his violin. Mrs Hudson had been here moments ago, he thought, but
as he looked at the clock he realised than several hours had passed since he had last looked up for
the landlady. Oh well, he thought, shrugging, she was never much help anyway, always nattering on
about some politician or some TV personality. It really wasn’t very useful.
John entered downstairs. Sherlock knew it was John because he didn’t knock or ring, but used his
key. He took several short strides across the hallway- “new shoes” Sherlock noted- And then shouted
hello to Mrs Hudson. He had never quite mastered the art of subtlety…
“News for you Sherlock, from you brother”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and began to play a tune on his violin, “Really John you should close the door
quicker as you enter, strays get in and you know how Mrs Hudson hates swine… Oh, talking of
which, hello Mycroft”
Mycroft smiles from the doorway but says nothing.
“Sherlock, it seems interesting… and important”
“Oh please” he spat, dropping his arms to his sides, “if it were that important he would have come in
person straight away instead of calling you”
“Well he did call you first but you didn’t answer”
“Exactly, why would I answer a phone call from him?”
“Why indeed” Mycroft crooned from the doorway, “I knew that you wouldn’t take this quite as
seriously as John and I also knew that, owing to recent events…” he trailed off and studied the sword
stabbed into the wall above the mantelpiece beside a garish bear-claw, “I thought I would ask John
to tell you… However, having spoken to John I realised that he had not understood the matter nearly
as well as I had hoped,”
John looked briefly taken aback, offended even, but then shrugged and sat down on the sofa and
picked up a biscuit from the plate Mrs Hudson had left several hours ago. He was well used to the
brothers talking down to him and chose to pay no attention to the slander
She walked towards him, anger burning in her eyes. John was concerned, yes, she was a fairly small,
innocent looking woman- wait, woman? Girl? She looked in her late teens but something about the
way she carried herself led him to believe that she was older than she looked. Either way, she looked
harmless but the malice in her eyes was very concerning to him as she walked closer to Sherlock.
“Enola, please” Mycroft said softly from the door, “He is, of course, family”
“Family my ar-“
“Sorry what? Who is?” John interrupted
“She is,” Mycroft nodded toward the girl-woman
“Yes, and SHE has a name, thank you” she said, turning back to Sherlock, “But of course, my dear
brother, hasn’t told anyone about me at all has he? As far as anyone is concerned I never existed, or,
as the rest of my family are aware I DIED!” she ended in a shout that made John flinch, “Dead! Is that
what I am? What would that make me now? A ghost?”
“Can someone please explain to me what the hell is going on?” John shouted, interrupting the steely
glare of the girl and jolting Sherlock out of a trance- like state as he stared at his, his sister?
“Brother mine, would you care to…? No? Perhaps then-“Mycroft was cut off by a demonic stare as
the girl turned and hurled herself into a chair. “I see. Well, John, this is our… estranged sister,” he
gestured towards the girl, who shrugged and raised a hand lazily in greeting, “her name is Enola…
she is 22 if you’re wondering although clearly she looks much younger. The Australian climate I
would expect…” he smiled knowingly
John stared at Mycroft for a few seconds, his mouth slightly opened, as he tended to do when he
was processing a lot of information. Before switching his gaze to the 22 year old who was now rifling
through her pockets for her smart phone. “I don’t understand. How was she “dead”?”
Mycroft stiffened slightly “it is a complex matter…”
“But your parents. They never mentioned a daughter. They-“
“-thought I was dead” the girl, Enola, interrupted. “They thought I died in a Middle Eastern bombing
at the age of 6” she glared at Sherlock, “and why did they think that? WHY? BECAUSE MY BIG
BROTHER ABANDONNED ME IN THE MIDST OF A REBEL CAMP BECAUSE HE THOUGHT HE’D LOST ME
AND WANTED TO SAVE HIS OWN NECK! HE DIDN’T EVEN LOOK FOR ME AND JUST ASSUMED I WAS
DEAD!” she roared at the still figure of Sherlock Holmes, “AND WHAT HAVE YOU GOT TO SAY FOR
YOURSELF YOU… YOU… YOU-“her rampage was cut short as Mycroft grabbed the girl by the
“I think… our family has had quite enough death thank you” as he heaved her back into her chair,
she gave him a reproachful look before folding her arms and glaring at Sherlock
“However, Sherlock, she has a point… what have you got to say for yourself?” Mycroft paused for a
moment. Sherlock remained silent, “We all thought she had died, Sherlock. I didn’t believe her when
she contacted me…”he trailed off, continuing to look at his brother
“I trusted you” Enola whispered, “You were my big brother, taking me on an adventure across the
world and I trusted you to look after me… and I waited. I waited Sherlock, I thought you would come
looking, I thought you would come back but you didn’t ”she sounded close to tears as she said these
words, “YOU BLOODY DIDN’T AND I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU” she roared once again rearing up to
hit him but was once again resrained by Mycroft.
John was under the impression that the girl could have fought off Mycroft’s grip with one hand had
she wanted to, but perhaps she didn’t want to hurt her brother quite as much as she wanted him to
Mycroft kept his hand on Enola’s arm in a comforting brotherly way. Something John had never seen
before from Mycroft, a sign of affection. John was slightly caught off guard by this show of affection
from Mycroft and he stared for a little bit too long at the girls shoulder. Mycroft cleared his throat,
“Sherlock” it was not a question, but a demand for answers, spoken with the force of a politician but
the gentleness of a brother, “Please. Help us to understand. For Enola’s sake.” He said quietly before
speaking louder, almost in a shout, but worse than a shout, the voice a mother uses on her child
when she has gone beyond anger and on to disappointment, “Sherlock tell us what the hell
Sherlock sat still for a moment, looking down. Contemplating, perhaps. Or maybe planning a lie. This
is what Mycroft seemed to think as he eyed his brother with contempt, “the truth, Sherlock”.
Sherlock glanced up at his brother before shifting his gaze slowly to his sister. His hands, which had
originally been placed fingers together in front of his face, now slowly fell so rest on the arms of the
chair. He sighed softly, never moving his gaze away from Enola. He continued to look at the girl as
she lifted her gaze to meet his. They studied each other for a few moments in utter silence, drinking
in each other’s features, wordlessly speaking to one another about their years apart. A tender
moment shared between two siblings, broken only by the ticking of the clock and the traffic going by
Mycroft cleared his throat, “if you don’t mind, brother mine, I have got some urgent business to
attend to, so… hurry up”
Sherlock’s gaze snapped up to give him a reproachful look before looking once again at Enola. His gaze had become one of interest and acceptance. An open, almost eager look as she stared at
Sherlock and waited to hear his side of the story.
Sherlock took a deep breath, threw himself to his feet and began to pace as he spoke…
16 years earlier…
It was dark, there were people shouting and screaming everywhere. Sherlock was running and Enola
was by his side, running with him. He glanced down at her and she looked up at him, they shared a
smile. He had known she would enjoy this, the danger, the thrill of the chase. And Enola was
enjoying it. Spending time with her big brother, her best friend, her hero. Sherlock ran harder,
pulling his sister along with him.
Enola was loving this trip, her parents hadn’t wanted her to go, but she has snuck off with Sherlock
in the middle of the night and got a boat out to sea before smuggling themselves into a lorry with some refugees. She stumbled over something, a rock? A body? Everything was going so fast she
couldn’t tell anymore, it hurt though, whatever she had kicked, but she took a breath as she thought
about the pain in her leg, the pain in her lungs, pain would only slow her down, she didn’t need it.
Sherlock had taught her to hide the things she didn’t need, pain, sadness, fear, things that would
slow her down, to hide them in a special part of her brain, in a box, behind a door so that they
wouldn’t bother her or cloud her judgement. As she ran she also committed each turn to memory so
that she wouldn’t get lost if anything would happen, but Sherlock had promised that nothing bad
would happen as long as she stuck by him, and she believed him with all of her heart.
Suddenly and completely out of nowhere the screaming and shouting intensified. Fire exploded into
the sky in front of them as they ran. Buildings were on fire and bits of plaster were raining down on
top of them as they sprinted towards a gap in the fire. Running as hard as they could, Enola began to
fall behind but Sherlock kept a firm, almost painful grip on her hand as he kept running.
There was a shout from behind them as they ran. Suddenly, the whole world was on fire. Plaster was
tumbling down from every direction. The earth gave a jolt and they were sent sprawling across the
ground as the ground gave an almighty roar and everything in Sherlock’s world went dark.
Enola woke with a start. The world was pitch black and everything was quiet. She was lying on her
face. She looked up and saw a dark silhouette stumbling around in the dark, Sherlock? Before she
could open her mouth a hand was pressed over hers. She gasped and turned her head, Sherlock was
there, a finger to his lips telling her to keep her mouth shut. She nodded slowly and he removed his
hand and looked at the shadowy figure as it stumbled closer through the dust and smoke.
Suddenly he was on his feet, running towards the figure, he turned back and shouted “wait for me,
I’ll be back, I promise” before colliding with the figure and pushing it backwards out of sight around
the corner. Enola sat where she was, for a few moments listening to the sounds of the scuffling
going on around the corner before she heard a hard punch being thrown, a groan and then silence.
She got up slowly and moved quickly and quietly over to the corner, pressing herself against the wall
as she peered round. There was a body, the body of a man. It wasn’t Sherlock, he had blond hair and
an arrogant face. His nose was broken and he was unconscious. Enola looked up, Sherlock was
nowhere to be seen. She sprinted towards the next corner and turned it, she looked down the
alleyway and saw the unmistakeable silhouette of her brother running away.
“Sherlock wait for me!” she shouted, but he kept running. Enola struggled to keep up with him, even
though the fire was gone, her lungs still burned from the smoke. She reached the next corner and
looked around it, gasping for breath. Sherlock was gone. And he would never return.
He had put her in danger and it was all his fault. She was his sister and she was in danger because
they were after him. Every second she spent with him, her life was at risk. He hadn’t thought they
would follow him out this far, he thought they would be safe.
The JKcrew had been after him in England too, he had known that. That was the reason he had
fled. He thought that maybe if he went abroad, they would give up their search. He had busted several of their drug houses as well as an illegal weapons ring. He thought they were just another
London street gang but he was wrong, this went much deeper than the streets of London.
He looked around and saw that Enola had given up her chase. He had to leave her behind, he would
try and send someone to fetch her and bring her home, but he had work to do. He shut his feelings
in a box, behind a door in his head. His feelings for his sister, the love and worry he had for her, not
knowing that this door would not be opened for another 16years.
Sherlock had no emotions. He wasn’t capable of crying, tears, to him, were a sign of weakness,
crying a sign of brokenness and an inability to control oneself.
And yet, John Watson pondered, his eyes were glistening as he shared his tale. He barely looked at
any of them as he spoke rapidly, as though hoping to save himself from these feelings by telling the
story as quickly as possible. He kept pacing and looking either at the floor or the window. None of
the trio left sitting down could take their eyes off him as he spoke.
John snuck a glance at Enola and saw that her eyes too, were glassy as she watched her brother tell his tale.
Sherlock had just reached the point where the two of them were separated, explaining that it was
his fault- that he had put his sister in danger, that he had to get away so that she could stay safe,
“It’s my fault,” he whispered, “ITS MY FAULT!” he shouted this time, pulling at his hair as he spun
from the window to look at his sister. There was no mistaking the tears in his eyes now as he glared
at Enola, as though it was her fault for making him feel these things. His hands were shaking as he
moved them down to his sides, taking a deep, shuddering breath before composing himself and
sitting down once again in silence.
“You… You mean you didn’t just leave?” Enola queried quietly, timidly, in a shaking voice from her
chair. Her eyes were wide as she looked at Sherlock unblinking in the light of the dreary afternoon.
Sherlock snapped his attention up towards her and simply stared at her, again, unblinking and
It was as though they were communicating without words or movement. Can they mind read? Ae
they telepathic? He asked himself as he watched the interior monologue going on between the
The silence was broken by a stifled sniff from Mycroft as he looked at his sister and brother.
Everyone turned to look at him as he hastily wiped his nose and looked up.
“You were saying, Sherlock, that you had intended to send someone to pick up Enola… Did that
happen?” He looked now to Enola who looked back and nodded before pausing, with a look of
contemplation on her face. She turned slowly to face Sherlock once again,
“Yes… I mean… I think so…” she said slowly, “I mean, someone found me…” She continued to look at
her brother, who continued to look back in a static silence.
“Tell us what happened to you, Enola, tell us who collected you” Mycroft urged, and Enola obeyed.
16 Years earlier, a burnt out side street deep in the Middle East…
She had never felt this alone before. She had been left to loom after herself plenty of times at home.
She had spent many a day at her parents’ home by herself, she had never had any friends at school
so spent the majority of her days alone and had never felt loneliness like this.
She knew her way around London and much of the English countryside with no need of a map. She
knew the states of America and their location on a map, she could draw and label an entire map of
Europe from the age of 3 but she had never felt so lost.
Data. She needed Data.