Archive of Our Own ^beta

summer.

The air was sticky with humidity the day they parted, the feel of her hand beneath his lips already burned into his memory. Enola Holmes walked away, and Tewksbury was left standing around wondering if he would ever see her again. 

She had declared he had not seen the last of her and he wanted to believe her more than anything. But he knew Enola was not someone to be strapped down—by a single location nor person. So he took it upon himself to accept it could be years or longer before they crossed paths once more.

But Enola was as unpredictable as she was wonderful. 

She arrived at midday, standing with a smile and clasped hands as she bounced on her heels. Tewksbury nearly pinched himself, unsure if he was dreaming or perhaps hallucinating from the summer heat. It had been three days and two hours since he had last seen her—not that he had been counting, of course—and he was not quite sure how to proceed.

“Hello, Viscount Nincompoop Tewksbury.” She grinned, tilting her head, and he huffed a laugh. 

“Hello, Miss Enola Holmes.” Predictably, she wrinkled her nose and smacked at his arm, only succeeding in making his heart beat all the more as he grinned. Turning his face away so she wouldn’t see his reddened cheeks, he asked, “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I did say you weren’t rid of me, didn’t I?” He shook his head as he tried to clear his thoughts, words of how much he missed her jumbled in his head. Enola tilted her head, raising both brows when his only response was to stare and gape. 

What a fool he must’ve looked like.

Enola tutted a laugh, shaking her head as she began to walk out of his foyer. He could do nothing but remain rooted in place, frozen despite every nerve in his body begging to be beside her. 

She turned her head back his way, eyes sweeping over him from head to toe. Tewksbury felt bare beneath her gaze, stripped to the bones for her and her alone. Only Enola had the power to render him so completely useless with just a few words. 

“Aren’t you coming?” She asked, brow raised. Tewksbury nearly fell in his rush to race to her side. 

“Of course I am. Lead the way.” He offered his arm with a grin, knowing she would scoff and shove it away. He received her elbow to his side instead, and Enola rolled her eyes in such a fashion that he was sure she saw the back of her skull. She was quite good at doing so. 

He allowed her to set the pace. He took the time instead to take in her appearance, despite having seen her just days ago. Under the gentle sun, her hair was given a golden glint, her eyes seemed to shine, her entire being seemed to glow.

Enola was made for daylight it seemed, for the flowers to bloom beneath her fingertips and the earth to move beneath her feet.

You were made to fight. 

He had said those words to her, hadn't he? She had been streaked with blood and beaming despite it, her hair falling across her face and looking close to tears. He had stroked his hand along her cheek, and his hand twitched now with the desire to repeat the motion.

“Do you still come out here often?” Tewksbury blinked, smiling easily as he looked around. She was leading them out to the woods beside his home without him even realizing it. It was such a familiar path to him, but one he had never taken with Enola before.

“Not as much, but now that it's summer I may.” She nodded, her hand reaching out to trace along one of the large trees alongside the forested path. Her hand snagged on a low branch, leaves rustling and shaking as she moved. 

“You should. It’s quite extraordinary out here.”

Tewksbury took a long moment to watch her. She appeared quite content amongst the trees, as self-assured as she would have been anywhere else. 

“I’ll be sure to come out often,” he said. Enola nodded in approval, a playful quirk tilting up her lips. He laughed quietly to himself, rubbing his fingers together as his treehouse came into view. He knew she had been inside before, using his flower pressings to find him in the flower market, but a rush of nerves surged in his chest anyway.

His palms felt hot and he rubbed them against his legs, desperately hoping to wipe away any sweat that may have accumulated. Enola paid him no mind, still looking out at the trees. 

“After you, Miss Holmes,” he said. Enola sighed and he prepared himself for her to shove at him with a snicker.

“Don’t make me hit you again,” she warned, raising a finger and pointing it at him. He raised both his hands, signaling peace, and she shook her head in exasperation. 

She climbed up the ladder slowly, and he followed after her, both of them settling a foot apart once inside. Enola immediately set her sights on each of his trinkets, handling each with gentle care. She traced her hands along his set of tools, trailed a finger along his books, reached a hand to his hammock to feel the fabric. 

With each touch, she was taking in another minuscule piece of him, just with each brush of her fingers and scan of her eyes. The thought was terrifying, was marvelous. The thought brought a flush to his cheeks, made his heart pound and his breath catch.

Tewksbury blinked and shook his head, reaching for a book beside him to avoid staring at her any longer. He grasped the first one he could find, barely able to resist groaning as he saw it was London as it is Today. 

He knew exactly what was to be found within the pages. 

He flipped through the worn pages anyway, willing the blush to fade from his cheeks. It did, eventually, but increased tenfold when the first forget-me-not fell from the pages and to his lap. It was pressed flat, still tinged bright blue. 

Enola paused from where she had been reading one of his books, eyes moving to him. Tewksbury froze as well, the feel of her gaze on him turning his bones to lead. A caterpillar crawled across the floor next to Enola’s knee. She tilted her head, curious. 

She moved towards him, careful not to harm the caterpillar, who was beginning to inch over one of his books. Tewksbury’s heart stuttered as their elbows pressed together, thighs brushing as she settled beside him.

“I remember these,” she said. His head shot up. She leaned over and took the flower from where it had fallen on his leg. The warmth of her fingers pressing against his made his head spin. 

Enola twirled the flower gently between her fingers, holding it up to the sunlight streaming through the windows. 

“You remember them?” His voice was quiet. Much too quiet. Enola turned her gaze to him, perplexed, fingers freezing in their motion of spinning.

“Yes,” she said slowly. Her voice was steady. His throat felt dry. “You are aware it wasn’t that long ago that I was here?”

She sounded amused, which was better than disturbed or baffled. Tewksbury was quite familiar with an amused Enola, though not as familiar as he was with a frustrated one. 

“Yes, of course. I just didn’t think you would remember flowers of all things.” Tewksbury felt a smile grow despite the continued thumping of his heart. “I thought you didn’t care at all about flowers.”

“Honestly Tewksbury, how terrible do you think my memory is?” He chuckled softly, but Enola only waved him off. “I mean it’s barely been a month since I was here, I wouldn't just forget they existed, never mind that they’re flowers. I used them to find you for god’s sake, of course I know of them and remember them—are you laughing?” This only served to make him laugh harder, eyes crinkling and body shaking. She sounded so truly offended at him believing she had forgotten the pressed flowers. “Why are you laughing? Honestly, Tewksbury, pull yourself together!”

Tewksbury’s chest ached with the force of his laughter, tears welling up in his eyes, and Enola was staring at him with her hands on her hips. He sucked in air, trying to regain his composure so she wouldn’t hit him. He failed. Miserably.

“I’m sor—I deeply apologize Miss Hol—” He could barely choke out the words before she was on him, shoving him over and smacking his arm. His eyes were wet with mirth and she had begun to laugh, though he could see she was trying to contain it. 

She stopped hitting him long enough for him to wipe away his tears and breathe normally, both breathing heavily. 

Tewksbury looked down to see the caterpillar on his knee, having inched up while they were laughing. He shrieked, and this time it was Enola who cried with laughter.

—

She arrived next a week later when he was already seated in the treehouse. Tewksbury looked over as he heard rustling from below, then the distinct sound of someone climbing up the rope.

Enola’s head popped through the opening of the treehouse and Tewksbury dropped his book to his lap. 

“Enola? I didn’t expect you here.” He hadn’t expected her last time either, but she was always surprising him. Not that he minded, of course. He just wished she would give him a warning so he could present himself better. 

As Enola rose up into the treehouse, Tewksbury brushed his hands across his legs, smoothing out invisible wrinkles. He righted his book as soon as he was done, clearing his throat and pretending his head was clear and not swarming with thoughts of wrapping his arms around her and never letting go.

“Well, I thought I should stop by and visit. I have some exciting news that I wanted you to hear about,” she said, grinning. He felt his lips curve into a smile. 

Her’s was a bit infectious.

“I’m intrigued, then. What news?” Enola ripped his book from his hands, setting it down beside her—gently, more gently than he had anticipated based on how she had grabbed it. “What was that for? I was listening to you!”

“Well, I need to make sure I have your full, undivided attention for this!” She always had his full, undivided attention. Tewksbury rolled his eyes and huffed while she grinned.

“Yes, yes, dear, now get on with it.” Enola raised a brow. He hadn’t meant to slip that in. He felt his cheeks burning so hot it felt as if he had a fever. Tewksbury cleared his throat, preparing to apologize but only succeeding in staring helplessly. 

Enola, thankfully, took pity on him for once. Her cheeks looked a bit pink, but she didn’t appear to be sick. Strange. “I have an official case! From the police! Isn’t it wonderful? They’ve asked me to work with my brother on finding those missing girls.”

Tewksbury blinked. Took a deep breath. Blinked again.

It was wonderful, and he was, of course, immensely proud of her.

He was also terrified on her behalf.

He knew exactly what case she meant, which missing girls she was speaking of. How could he not, when it was all anyone had been discussing for months. Three girls had gone missing: one a few months prior, and two in the last month. Nothing had been found of the girls yet, even with some of London’s best operatives on the case.

Now, however, they were turning to their best possible detectives: Sherlock and Enola Holmes.

Which was wonderful. But, also dreadful.

Tewksbury knew all the girls that had gone missing were close to Enola’s age, and his heart dropped to his stomach at the thought of her going missing the way they had. His blood chilled and ribs ached, even while knowing she was entirely capable of handling herself.

He forced himself to breathe and mustered up a grin. 

“That’s fantastic, Enola, honestly. I know you’ve been dying for a case for a while now.” His voice sounded steady. His heart twisted uncomfortably in his chest.

She nodded rapidly, strands of hair falling from her updo and into her face. “Yes, I have. And I wish they hadn’t assigned me to work with Sherlock, I am completely capable of working through this case alone—”

“Of course you are.” Enola sent him a blinding smile, and his heart untwisted ever so slightly.

“Thank you.” Her voice was noticeably quieter, her cheeks pink. The next moment the color was gone as she shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes. Tewksbury knew she was thinking of Sherlock again, of the absurdity of being paired with him. “I’m thankful for a case, I am, but Sherlock? I solved the case of your grandmother without any of his help, and I don’t need it now.”

Tewksbury was glad her brother would be around to keep watch over her in case anything went wrong. Not that he would ever say so. He didn’t have a complete death wish.

“Well, you did have my genius help then.” He gave her a slanted grin as she paused and looked his way. She seemed to consider his words before she poked his cheek with her finger, pushing it away gently. 

“Yes, yes, I couldn’t have done it without you.” Enola teased, but her smile had softened just as his had. 

They stared at one another for a moment, gazes locked. The next, a leaf blew into the treehouse, obscuring Tewksbury’s vision of her as it passed by his eyes. Both laughed softly and stared down at their laps.

“Enola?” She perked up at the sudden shift, his voice hesitant even to his own ears.

“Yes?” Hers was soft too. He didn’t know what to make of it.

“Be careful. On the case. Please?”

She stared at him for a moment, peering his way with gentle eyes. She swallowed, cleared her throat, and sat straighter.

“Of course I will be. I always am, aren’t I?” Her voice lacked the softness it had before, full only of its usual certainty. 

Tewksbury laughed at her words. He remembered her jumping off of a train, his arm in her grip. “Yes, of course, you are.”

His heart beat steadily.

—

When Enola arrived on his doorstep next, Tewksbury was prepared.

Well. Close enough, anyhow.

His palms felt sweaty and his cheeks warmed every time he looked her way. But, he could almost pretend the sight of her didn’t make him dizzy. Tewksbury counted that as an accomplishment, silently applauding himself.

He led her their path this time, tired of the treehouse. 

“Are you going to murder me and leave my body for my brother to find?” She quipped, flicking his arm. He turned her way so fast he heard his neck crack. He knew she was joking, obviously, but still felt himself growing rather offended.

“No! Just trust me Enola, please.” He flicked her in the shoulder, despite how childish it was. It made her wrinkle her nose in annoyance, a look he was particularly fond of. She batted his hand away and nearly smacked him in the chest in the process.

“Fine. Lead the way.” He thought that was the end of it. But it was Enola, so of course, it wasn’t. “I’m just saying, this seems like a good trail for dumping someone’s body.”

He threw his hands up in exasperation, wisps of her hair grazing his hand. She giggled, which was such a rare occurrence that he stumbled. She laughed harder and righted him with her hand on his shoulder. He had to force himself not to completely fall over at the feel of her hand on him.

He could see the field up ahead and quickened his pace, Enola’s hand falling from his shoulder. “See, here we are.”

Tewksbury stood at the edge of the field, his eyes flitting to Enola’s as she made her way to his side.

It was large and wonderful and covered in flowers. It was practically Tewksbury’s favorite spot to be. He had found it months ago, and the idea of sharing it with Enola made him warm inside.

“I can see that,” she said, amused. Her lips were quirked up and her hands went to clasp behind her back. “Now I understand why you’ve dragged me here.”

He hummed but didn’t say anything more for a moment. 

A moment passed, then another, where the two stared out at the expense of the field. Sunshine shone down across the flowers and grass, and the golden sheen made Tewksbury grin. 

“Come on, let's go then.” He began to walk forward, smile only growing as Enola began to protest.

“Tewky, there are so many flowers! You know I don’t like them,” she groaned.

“You said you didn’t care for them. That’s very different from disliking them,” Tewksbury said. He didn’t need to turn to know she was rolling her eyes and smothered his laughter by biting his lip. 

She followed after him anyway, matching his stride.

Their hands brushed as they walked inwards. Tewksbury kept his gaze set forward.

They eventually sat near the middle of the field, surrounded by flowers and plants of all kinds. He looked around at all of the different types, his chest already feeling lighter at being surrounded by such greenery.

“Look, over there are wallflowers.” He pointed to a nearby cluster of orange flowers, and Enola turned to see. He could see pansies close to the wallflowers and named them as well. Daisies surrounded them among the grass, and the occasional agaricus bisporus mushroom. 

Tewksbury brushed his finger over one, feeling the bumps and ridges of the skin. They were safe and edible, but near-identical to the agaricus xanthodermus mushroom, which could cause nausea if ingested.

He opened his mouth to tell Enola but promptly shut it. His teeth clacked together. He knew she didn’t care about any of this. She didn't care about flowers or plants. She had said so not five minutes ago. 

The last thing he wanted to do was bore Enola Holmes with botany. 

“What’s wrong?” He glanced up at her gentle voice. Her brows were furrowed. He wanted to smooth away the crease between her brows. His fingers twitched at the thought, but he forced them to remain still in his lap.

“Nothing,” he breathed. Enola raised a brow, and he sighed. “You don’t care about any of this. I shouldn’t have brought you here, I didn’t mean to—”

She placed a hand on his atop his knee, and his teeth may as well have chipped with how fast he shut his jaw. Her hand was warm atop his, and so much smaller in comparison. 

“I do care. I promise, I do. Flowers aren’t something I find particularly interesting, but they matter to you a great deal, and so I do care.” Enola squeezed his hand and he stared down at his lap, unable to meet her eyes anymore. “You can tell me about these things anytime, and I will listen. I promise.”

To his horror, Tewksbury felt his eyes grow hot with tears. He blinked them away, rubbing furiously when that wouldn’t work, turning so Enola wouldn't see. She squeezed his hand once more, and he twisted his hand to entwine their fingers. She didn’t blink. Another time she would have smacked him, but she only pressed her fingers down against the back of his hand.

“Now, tell me about the mushrooms.”

He laughed, eternally grateful for Enola Holmes and her endless goodness. He breathed in and told her about the agaricus bisporus mushroom.

—

Summer dwindled to an end, as did Enola’s visits. 

Tewksbury learned as much as he could of Enola Holmes under the warm sun, soaking up any information she provided him. She told him stories of her brothers, and where she had been after their very first parting. How she had grown closer to Sherlock and further from Mycroft, and she suspected that would continue as she and Sherlock worked together on the case.

She never mentioned her mother. He never asked, refusing to step over an invisible boundary she had set. 

With the absence of her mother came the absence of stories of her childhood, ones Tewksbury desperately wished to know. What had shaped her, what helped her grow, what were her favorite memories.

What was she like as a child? What did she do when she was small and young and knew nothing of him or Lord’s votes or murderous relatives? Who was she before?

But such stories involved her mother, and so he did not ask, and she did not tell.

The other stories were more than enough.

He shared pieces of himself in turn. 

His childhood, what memories of his father he had, the good things he could still associate with his grandmother even after everything. Of how he had grown closer with his mother ever since returning home, and he was more than thankful for it. He recounted the Lord’s meeting for her, even if she had heard sparing details, telling her every little word that had been spoken and movement that had occurred.

They had learned each other, but Tewksbury knew it would not be enough. Having these small pieces of her, having learned her, would drive him mad. She would leave for her case and he would be left wondering when she would return so they could sit in their field or his treehouse.

He had thought he knew what it felt like to miss her. That first separation, driving away and watching her disappear from view. The second time even, escaping out a window as she allowed herself to be sent away for him. 

Tewksbury hadn't yet known then what it would be like, to feel as if his bones were hollow when she left. Like a part of him had disappeared when she had.

He sat in the parlor, watching out the window. 

The leaves had begun to turn yellow outside. With autumn came the absence of Enola.

Tewksbury wasn’t quite sure what to do with that.

autumn. 

Tewksbury had expected her visits to dwindle, but it wasn’t something he could prepare himself for. Enola’s absence left a gaping hole in his chest, one that couldn't be healed or fixed by anything but her.

She had filled his days with stories and light. There was only silence with Enola gone.

The few times she did visit, Tewksbury spent each moment memorizing every detail of her, as if it would be the last time he would ever see her. It could be. Enola may very well disappear in a cloud of smoke, never to be heard or seen from again. 

In the long, quiet weeks between her visits, he remembered her as much as he could. The way the fading sun glinted in her hair, her careful and quiet footsteps, the lilt of humor in her voice. They were small details, but he held them close to his chest.

He noticed more in the fall, but it still wasn’t enough for him. Not enough to ease the ache of her absence. Not enough to ease his fondness for her. 

But Tewksbury knew he couldn’t ask anything more from her, whether it be visits or stories. He couldn't be selfish with her. Refused to. Once a year would be more than enough (it would never be enough). Any company she provided him with would be treasured. 

He would stay silent in his longing, no matter if there were a dozen visits or one. He would stay steady by her side.

He tried, as hard as he could. But it was harder than he had anticipated with the current display of flowers behind her, wilted as they were. Their colors had faded and their petals had drifted to the cobblestone ground as the air had chilled into autumn, but it only stood to make the green of Enola’s eyes more prominent.

The flower market had closed as summer had drawn to its end, and so Tewksbury and Enola found themselves walking along the streets of London instead. Enola’s cheeks were flushed pink under the chilly breeze, despite her dress’ sleeves covering her arms and coming down to her ankles. 

When she had arrived at his home, her hair down and dress red and showing just the slightest hint of cleavage, he had tripped over his own two feet. She had laughed and tugged him along, groaning as she saw the stock of lilac in his hand. 

With the flower markets closed, Tewksbury was determined to find her flowers elsewhere. His backyard worked well enough, and he had picked them an hour before her arrival. She didn’t need to know about his panic over whether he should bring her lilac or another rose, as he had in the market weeks and weeks ago.

Lilac wasn’t precisely the most traditional flower to gift someone, but he couldn’t resist. It wasn’t as if she knew the meaning behind them, and she likely never would.

For someone as genius as Enola, she was entirely oblivious when it came to flower imagery. Deliberately oblivious, it seemed, considering her understanding was strong enough to send her mother messages using them, but still. It worked in Tewksbury’s favor more often than not. 

Perhaps she knew only some flower meanings, only the ones her mother had taught her for their newspaper discussion. Perhaps that was for the best, lest Tewksbury attempt to confess through another rose.

Enola had grasped the lilac with a decisive hand, biting her lip to hide a smile. It had brought one to Tewksbury’s face.

“You know I don’t care about flowers, Tewky.”

He had bumped her shoulder with his own. “And you know I can’t resist giving them to you.”

Her fingers brushed over the petals delicately now, just as they had the forget-me-not in his treehouse. Strange. Delicate wasn’t a word he had ever thought he would connect to Enola Holmes, but it was true enough.

Her fingers ran up and down the stock gently, rubbing over the small blossoms and petals. He wondered what she would do if he took her hand in his own. He wanted to, more than anything.

Tewksbury cleared his throat and shook his head. 

“Tell me about the case. It hasn’t been very long, but are there any developments you can tell me about?” he asked. Enola grinned, spine straightening. 

Her shoulder knocked into his arm, her hair spilling over her shoulder and grazing his collar bone. She wasn’t exactly tall enough for her shoulder to hit his, not that he would ever say so to her face.

Tewksbury tried to focus on how furious she would be if he ever called her short, rather than the silky feel of her hair on his skin. Her hair had touched him for barely a moment, barely a second, before she had steadied herself, and her hair was righted over her shoulder. 

Still, he failed to focus on anything but the split-second feel of it. It had been smooth, soft in a way he had never let himself even begin to imagine. He willed himself to think about something else, anything else. He failed, miserably, as the wind gently blew her hair over his collarbone once more. He wanted to sink his fingers into her strands, push them over her shoulder and away from her face. He couldn't possibly do either of those things.

“Are you alright?” Enola laughed. She was staring his way, brow raised.

He smiled shakily. “Yes, sorry. Go on.”

She nodded once, seemingly unconvinced, but entirely unaffected by the brief contact.

“Right. As I was saying, we searched the old warehouse where we suspected the girls to be held. And we found blood. It’s enough to believe it isn’t a superficial wound—”

Someone knocked into them from the side, and Enola wasn’t given enough time to steady herself before falling into Tewksbury. He steadied her immediately, her shoulder digging into his chest and his hand on her forearm. The man who had knocked her over barely spared them a glance as he continued on, and Tewksbury glared after him.

He froze and inhaled as her head cradled in the juncture of his neck as she attempted to balance against the uneven cobblestone. She did so eventually, but the damage had been done. At least, to Tewksbury.

He wasn’t quite sure how to breathe. 

Enola stepped back, muttering an apology and brushing a hand down Tewksbury’s chest. He choked on his spit. Her eyes shot up in alarm, seeking his out.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! Sorry.” 

Enola tilted her head, brushing her hair away from where it had fallen over her shoulder. His eyes flew to the strands, then back to her eyes.

“You seem tense,” she said. She pressed a gentle hand to his arm, curving it around his elbow as if to hold him steady. He did feel quite a bit faint. “Did I do something?”

She sounded worried, and the last thing he wanted was for her to blame himself when he simply couldn’t handle her touching him. 

“No!” She didn’t quite look convinced, and his gaze softened. Quieter, he said, “No, I promise. I was just surprised when you were knocked over.”

The uncertainty bled away from her expression, turning to one of understanding. 

“Right, of course. Well, we can always move to a less crowded street if this one is too challenging for you, Viscount Tewksbury.”

He laughed, and she did too. But he could hear the lingering unease beneath the humor in her voice. He wasn’t sure if she was worried she had done something or worried for him. Enola led them to a quieter street, one that only allowed Tewksbury to breathe steadier as she dropped her hand from his elbow. 

Enola continued to discuss the case, just as quiet as she had been on the road packed with people, always worried someone might be listening. Tewksbury let the sound of her voice wash over him, memorizing every hushed word she spoke.

—

“Well, what are we to do instead?”

“Tea, Enola.”

“But tea is so boring!”

“And all the trees are dead and it's cold. I’m not going outside.” Enola huffed and rolled her eyes at Tewksbury’s refusal. She had been trying to persuade him for what felt like hours to spend their afternoon outside, perhaps walking to his treehouse or in the streets of London.

But it was properly autumn now, which meant it was growing colder and colder each day. And there weren’t even flowers for Tewksbury to admire, because they had all wilted as the leaves of the trees had fallen. 

He had nearly given in a dozen times since saying no to Enola Holmes was no easy feat. But a breeze from the still-open door blew across him, and he remembered exactly why he didn’t want to spend time outside.

Enola could call him fragile all she wanted. At least he would be warm and fragile.

Tewksbury raised a decisive brow, clasping his hands together and moving to shut the door. She groaned once more. He tried not to smile and failed miserably. 

“Follow me, Miss Holmes. Your tea awaits.” He barely managed to sidestep her fist, but he wasn’t able to miss the calculated, albeit light, shove as she brushed by him. The fact that she knew her way to the parlor made his chest a bit warm. He desperately hoped his cheeks weren’t warm as well.

Enola began discussing her case straightaway as they sat down and waited for the tea. Tewksbury was more focused on her than her words, as hard as he tried to listen. Every time he did focus, it was just as she was recalling some horrid and brutal detail of those poor missing girls. 

And Enola was neck-deep in the case, and the same age as those girls. 

It was better for Tewksbury not to listen, honestly. Otherwise, he would spend every waking moment worrying about her. 

If she knew, she would scoff and say she could take care of herself. And she could, better than anyone he knew. But he still worried, still cared. He just didn’t know how to say it without receiving an eye roll.

Tewksbury didn’t know if she maybe thought he was being insincere, or if she truly just didn’t like hearing about his concern. He didn’t mean to underestimate her. He just spent most of his time thinking about her, and the majority was bound to be worry when she was off working on such dreadful cases. 

The tea arrived as Tewksbury began to fully listen to Enola again, just in time for her to tell him that another girl had gone missing. She went quiet as the maid stepped into the room, offering her a smile and folding her hands together in her lap.

Tewksbury was a moment away from screaming his bloody head off. He instead thanked the maid as the tea was placed in front of him, jaw clenched.

Another girl had gone missing? It was as if he was being mocked, as if he wasn’t worrying enough about Enola already.

He knew it was rude and ridiculous to be more worried about Enola than the girls who were actually already missing, but he couldn't help himself. He had sudden visions of Enola, blood coating her body and her corpse left in an abandoned warehouse for her brother to find. 

His face paled, and he desperately shook those visions away. 

Enola was there, in front of him, breathing and safe. She was fine. And she would continue to be fine. 

“We’ve found one of the girls as well.”

Tewksbury found himself smiling. “Oh, that’s wonderful. Is she alright?”

Enola sipped at her tea, nodding the moment her cup was away from her lips. “Yes, for the most part. She’s been a tremendous help to the case already, and I’ve been working to befriend her to help her feel safer.”

“That’s good. Do you think she’ll help you catch whoever the kidnapper is?”

“I believe so,” she said, smiling at him. His heart stuttered. “It might take some time, but we’re working to help her work through any clues she has.”

Tewksbury nodded, joy at one girl being safe easing the tension in his shoulders. But he was in no way prepared for her next words.

“I had suspected this case would take several months—I mean missing persons cases are so tricky. But with us having found this girl, I suspect it’ll be over before we know it.”

Tewksbury’s face split into a grin at the prospect, and said, “That’s fantastic, Enola.”

She laughed lightly, tracing the rim of her cup with her thumb. “Thank you, Tewksbury.”

A moment of silence reigned over them. Tewksbury hesitated, leaned forwards, and spoke. 

“What will you do when the case is done?” Enola looked up at him. She inhaled. Exhaled. 

“I don’t know, truth be told. I suppose wait until I have another case.”

Tewksbury nodded. Her words made sense, and he could have predicted them. He couldn't help asking, “Where will you go?”

“When?”

“In between this case and the next. Will I—” He paused, heart beating furiously and chest tight. He would not allow himself any sort of hope that Enola would be near him for however long it took for another case to come her way. He couldn’t. “Will I see you?”

Enola remained quiet. When he looked up, he couldn't catch her eye. She was staring at the table between them. 

“I don’t know.”

He closed his eyes. He knew that was the best he would receive. He wasn’t even sure if Enola herself knew where she would be. It wasn’t fair to expect her to stay for him, or to force her to make any sort of decisions on his behalf.

“But it’s as I said before.” His eyes shot open, finding her already watching him. “You haven’t seen the last of me, Viscount Tewksbury. That, I promise.”

His heart soared and his gaze softened. That was enough for him. The prospect of seeing her again would get him through the coldest of nights and the hardest of days.

“Then, I suppose I will see you again, Detective Enola Holmes.” Her gaze softened at the title, and she leaned forward to place her hand atop his. She squeezed gently, and time stilled. 

Tewksbury watched her leave from his doorstep only minutes later. Enola did not turn around to look his way, and he had not expected her to. He did not look forward to the days she would be gone on a second mission, possibly one more dangerous than the one she was on now.

But at least he would see her again. She had promised, after all.

winter.

Some promises were made to be broken, however.

Enola visited him at the beginning of winter before snow had even begun to fall. He hadn’t seen her in weeks, not since she had visited for tea. Tewksbury allowed the week's absence to settle over him. She could be gone for weeks more, until the snow began to melt again. 

But she arrived on his birthday, as the only gift that truly mattered.

He hadn’t expected her, especially in winter when travel was difficult and her case was increasing in magnitude. But he stood at the top of the stairs, jaw dropped as she strolled about without a care. Her hands were behind her back and a smile was in place, one that grew into a grin as she turned to see him standing on the steps.

His mother smiled fondly and turned into the kitchen to allow them some privacy in time for Enola to say, “Well, don’t just stand there, Tewksbury. You look ridiculous, really.”

She was surely about to spout more insults, probably about to tell him how noisy he had been coming down the stairs, but he didn’t give her the chance to speak. He rushed down the remaining steps, ignoring all forms of propriety. 

He tugged her to his chest the moment she was close enough, wrapping his arms around her. He’d never been happier to see anyone, even if it had only been a few weeks since he had last seen Enola Holmes.

She laughed into his ear as she wrapped her own arms around his neck. He resisted the urge to spin her around. He pulled back, hands moving down to her upper arms, trying to regain some sort of balance. Enola never failed to leave him feeling all sorts of unsteady.

She tugged her arms from his hold immediately, moving her hands back behind her back as they had been when he had first seen her. 

He laughed, confused but happy nonetheless. “What exactly are you doing?”

She shrugged playfully, cheeks flush as she said, “I have a gift for you.”

Tewksbury’s eyes widened at her words. “You do? How—Why—”

Enola threw her head back in a laugh, and he chuckled at himself and closed his mouth. He sounded a bit foolish, but she always left him that way. 

“Happy birthday, Tewksbury,” she said once she had stopped giggling. His laughter froze in his throat. 

“How did you know it was my birthday?” His voice was far too soft, too breathless. 

Enola cocked a brow, looking almost offended. “I’m a detective, remember? Birthdays are one of the easiest parts of the job.”

He laughed. “Of course. I should have known.”

“Yes, you absolutely should have.”

She was still grinning, so he was too. She allowed him to pull her off into the parlor, and only then did she pull the gift out from behind her back. Tewksbury took it with gentle hands, as if it was the most precious thing he had ever received. It was close to it.

He unwrapped the cloth gently. Underneath the wrapping was a book, one on the extended meaning of flowers that grow across the world. Atop the book was a forget-me-not, blooming and blue and beautiful.

It was as if his world had been tilted entirely, made off-center by Enola’s endless sentiments.

Tewksbury knew she did not truly care for the meaning of the flower and had likely chosen it after seeing it in his treehouse. He tried to tell himself she did not mean anything by it, but could not help the way his heart sped up nor the sudden flush to his cheeks.

He looked back to Enola, the flower still laying on top of the book's cover. Her smile was bright and wonderful. 

“Is it alright?” She asked.

As if anything from Enola could be anything less than lovely. 

He nodded, and quietly said, “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

He plastered on a grin despite the shaking of his fingers, the hammering in his chest. She returned it readily, sitting down on one of the couches and patting the spot beside her.

Tewksbury’s limbs shook as he sat. Enola still couldn’t see how shaken she left him. It was for the better, he told himself. There was no possible explanation he could give her for the tremble of his hands.

“How’s the case coming along?” That was somehow safer to hear about at this point. Anything to distract himself from the forget-me-not in his lap.

“I can’t say good, because it’s quite dreadful what’s happened to these girls. We found another of the missing girls, did I tell you already?” He shook his head and she nodded, more to herself than him. “I’ve befriended the first, and now I’m trying to help the second, but she’s a bit trickier. But, unfortunately, it’s moving a bit slower than Sherlock and I had hoped.”

“How come? I thought with the girls it would run smoother.”

“They don’t remember as much as we had hoped they would. And if they do, they’re keeping it to themselves.”

“Oh. Even the first, who you’ve befriended?”

Tewksbury didn’t know their names still, and Enola hadn’t supplied them. He was sure he could find them if he looked through the papers, but he understood Enola’s desire to keep them anonymous. He was sure he would want to be if he went through a kidnapping.

“Well, that’s why I’m more inclined to believe she’s telling the truth and doesn’t remember much. I’ve picked up on her tells and such, and haven’t noticed anything, but I could just be completely missing her lying to my face.” She rubbed a hand over her brow, sweeping her hair away from her face.

 She looked truly, incredibly tired. And the doubt in her voice was unmistakable, even as she tried to hide it.

“You wouldn't,” he said. Enola turned her face towards him, brows furrowed.

“Wouldn't?”

“You wouldn't miss it. You’re a good detective, Enola, you would see it if she was lying.” She shrugged, limbs stiff with disbelief.

“I haven’t been a detective very long,” she muttered. He swallowed his urge to shake her shoulders and scream that she had solved his case, that she was the best detective in London and was wonderful and beautiful and—

He settled for, “You’ve been a detective your entire life, Enola.” She raised both brows. He hurried to explain himself. “Maybe not trained, but your entire life you’ve been working with riddles and puzzles. You’ve been training for this the moment you were born.”

Enola scoffed. It was a bitter sound, one that left him feeling as if his heart had been hollowed out with a rusty spoon. “Because I’m a Holmes?”

“Because you’re Enola.” Surprise forced her eyes to widen. He hadn't ever seen her startled, hadn’t known it was even possible for her to be. He wondered if she had ever only been compared to her brothers, and cursed himself for calling out her name the first time he had discovered it. “It’s not about your brother being Sherlock, or you being a Holmes. It’s about you being Enola. You’re capable of anything, and I believe in you more than I believe in anyone else.”

She stared at him, a veil of emotion hidden in her eyes. Hidden enough that he couldn’t dissect it, hard as he tried to.

She toppled towards him, suddenly, desperately. Wrapping her arms around him and clutching him to her chest. He didn’t hesitate to wrap his own around her, tucking her head to the juncture of his neck. Her nose brushed against his skin, and she breathed gently. As she exhaled, he felt a warm rush of air against his collarbone and shuddered.

Tewksbury held her close anyway, despite the thrumming in his blood and the prickling of his skin.

Enola was more important than whatever he was feeling. She was more important than anything else. More than anyone.

They stayed embraced, silent and devoted to each other. The edge of the book dug into Tewksbury’s hip. The forget-me-not slipped into Enola’s lap.

—

She remained absent for the remainder of winter. Days passed slowly, weeks slower still. The first full month felt like a knife lodged in his chest. It was the longest he had gone without seeing her. A month wasn’t very long in the grand scheme of time, but when it came to Enola Holmes, it felt close to eternity. 

The second month was colder, hollowing his bones and caving his chest in. He spent hours writing letters he knew he would not send. Each was addressed Dear Enola, and each was shoved into a box below his bed. None could be seen by Enola, or anyone else for that matter.

But especially Enola.

She would never speak to him again if she read the dozens of different ways he confessed his love, sometimes with talk of flowers and sometimes without. She would surely gut him alive.

He wrote his thirty-first letter the day three months had passed since seeing her last. It did not contain a confession, but instead a plea for her to be careful. Tewksbury knew there was no way to get in contact with her or her brother. He had no idea where she was, if she was safe or even alive. 

He asked her to return to him soon, begged for her to return home. He placed a primrose inside the envelope and placed the closed envelope under his bed, beside the thirty other letters he had written.

Looking out the window, Tewksbury wondered where Enola was for the thousandth time since he had last seen her. He had to believe he would see her soon. He would lose all sanity otherwise.

Nearly four months had passed. It was almost April, the snow steadily melting and spring showers beginning.

Enola was still gone. 

Tewksbury sat in his room, watching out his window. The forget-me-not from his birthday sat in his palm, wilted and missing most of its petals. He kept it close anyway.

It was one of the only reminders he had of her.

spring.

Enola returned to him in the spring, as the flowers began to bloom and the sun returned from behind the clouds. She appeared first in the paper, her name stark amongst the daily news. She and her brother had solved the case, placing the kidnapper behind bars and having sent the four girls home. 

He was sure she made each girl promise to stay in touch with her. He wished desperately that he had made her promise the same to him back in the summertime.

Tewksbury brushed his thumb over the paper, trailing his finger over her name etched into the paper. His heart twisted and untwisted. He had the utmost faith in her, had known she was entirely capable of solving the case no matter the cost. Seeing the proof in paper only brought a smile to his face, because now everyone else would see how she had solved it.

And the end of the case meant that maybe, hopefully, she would be returning home. 

Tewksbury hummed and smiled at the thought, thumb tracing over the E in her name.

—

She returned a week later. The sky was clear, the sun finally peaking through the clouds after being hidden for the past several days. The flowers down the path to his treehouse had begun to bloom again, and grass was peaking through the dirt.

It was as good a day as any for her to return home. To return to him.

He hadn’t known she was arriving, of course, as he was almost always caught unaware.

She always seemed to show up whenever she pleased, which Tewksbury found both endlessly frustrating and the tiniest bit endearing. He would have preferred some sort of warning. Her sudden presence always left him feeling all out of sorts.

As always, when she arrived next, Tewksbury was left breathless and flummoxed. 

“You have a package, Tewksbury,” his mother called. He stood from his bed, Enola’s gift of a book in hand, and made his way to the parlor where a large trunk sat, waiting for him to open. Tewksbury titled his head, curious and hopeful.

He placed the book gently on the table beside the door, shutting the parlor door without turning his gaze from the chest. It sat innocently beside the table in the middle of the room, and Tewksbury stepped closer. Inhaled gently. Exhaled.

Inhaled again. On his next exhale, he opened the top with gentle hands.

“Tewksbury! Finally. Took you long enough, truly,” Enola said as she stood from the center of the trunk, already stepping out and brushing herself off.

Tewksbury laughed breathlessly and threw his arms around her, clutching her to his chest as he near sobbed. Just a moment in her presence and he was ready to cry. He was truly, incredibly, wonderfully pathetic. 

He clutched her tighter anyway, breath caught in his chest. She giggled against his chest, pulling away to look him in the eyes.

Tewksbury wasn’t sure where to begin. What to say, or do, or feel.

Her hair fell into her face, and he gently brushed it back, delighting in the sudden flush of her cheeks.

“I missed you,” she said, fond and breathless and elated all at once. Those three words rendered him speechless, and Enola gave a little laugh as she saw the astonished look on his face.

“I—I’ve missed you too. So much,” he managed. She smiled, eyes everywhere but on him. She seemed almost nervous. Her fingers were tapping against her legs, brushing through her hair, and he nearly choked as he realized she truly was nervous. Fidgeting, even.

Tewksbury opened his mouth, but her entire form had frozen, gaze included. 

Her cheeks were pink once more when he glanced at her. He furrowed his brows and frantically followed her gaze, finding it locked on the book she had gifted him, still placed beside the parlor door on the table. 

“You read it?” He turned back. Enola still hadn't met his eyes, but her fingers were frozen against her legs. 

Tewksbury balked at the suggestion that he had just tossed her gift aside as if it was some common item, some useless piece of waste. As if anything from Enola could ever be. “Of course I read it, Enola. I love it, honestly.”

Her eyes were endless pools of warmth as she finally met his gaze. She looked more vulnerable than he had perhaps ever seen her. 

“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it. Did you… like the flower?”

Tewksbury remembered the forget-me-not vividly. He wasn’t exactly about to tell her he had spent the long winter nights clutching it to his chest because it helped him to feel as if a part of her had still been with him. He still had it in his bedroom, as wilted as it was. 

She’d throw him clear out of his own home, should he say so.

In an attempt at sounding casual, he shrugged and said, “Yes, it was nice.”

Enola furrowed her brows. Had he sounded too casual? He usually was rather excited about flowers, maybe he needed to try again.

“I appreciated it, honestly.”

Her face was drawn, lips curved down. “You appreciated it?”

“Yes?” Had he said something wrong? “Are you alright?”

She seemed to realize the expression she was wearing and it cleared instantly, a smile appearing. “Yes, sorry. So, as you know, the case is over.”

The sudden change in conversation made Tewksbury’s head hurt. What had just happened?

“Yes…” he said slowly, “I saw it in the papers.”

She nodded, seemingly oblivious to the way Tewksbury was watching her in bewilderment. But he let it go when he reassessed her words, because there were more important things to discuss.

“Where were you? In the winter?” The maid arrived with tea as he finished speaking, clearly having heard him and Enola speaking. Enola gave her a warm smile and quiet thanks before sitting down on the sofa with a cup of tea. He did the same opposite her.

The moment the maid left, Enola said, “I was too far into the case to come and visit. I’m sorry.”

“No, I understand, of course. That’s what I expected. I just missed you, is all.” Enola met his eyes and smiled, and Tewksbury prayed his cheeks weren’t pink. “I wish I had made you promise to write to me, at the very least. It would have been nice to hear from you, but I understand you were busy.”

Her brows furrowed, and she gave a small laugh. “Oh, I wouldn’t have been able to write to you at all.”

He must have looked as confused as he felt because she instantly clarified.

“Well I was sort of underground if you will. Writing or visiting would have been impossible due to the predicament I was in for the case.”

Tewksbury still didn’t understand. He said so, and she nearly rolled her eyes.

“I allowed myself to be kidnapped, in a way,” she said with a sigh. Tewksbury choked on his sip of tea, nearly spitting it all over his lap. She had let herself be kidnapped? What did that even mean? 

“I’m sorry, what?” he asked the moment his throat stopped burning.

Enola huffed and said, “I really can’t make it any more obvious, Tewksbury. I placed myself strategically so the kidnapper would take me like he had the other girls.” He couldn't quite comprehend what was happening. “So we could gather more clues on the kidnapper.” 

He was moments away from throttling her. He also felt a bit like hugging her and never letting go. She must have seen the former on his face, in the sudden hanging of his jaw and the clenched hold he had over his teacup.

“You—you… what?”

“I don’t know how many times I can say it, Tewksbury.”

“You allowed yourself—”

“To be kidnapped, yes.”

“...to gather clues. And evidence. On the kidnapper.”

She took a nonchalant sip of tea and said, “Yes. That’s what I said. Pay attention.”

Tewksbury slumped back in his seat with a groan, rubbing a face over his eyes. Enola Holmes. A stupid, brilliant, wonderful hurricane of a girl.

She gave him such a headache sometimes. 

He didn’t allow himself to think of the details of her being kidnapped, for now, only the sheer dangerous stupidity of it. He knew his mind would force him to return to it late at night when Enola was gone and he had no idea if she was safe. No point dwelling on it now.

“We caught him and solved the case, so I’m not sure what the matter is.” Tewksbury shot up in his seat. Enola had said the entire ordeal the same way she would the weather, as if it was entirely mundane and tedious. Being kidnapped for months was worth it in her opinion, was uneventful even, all because she had solved the case.

Tewksbury didn’t know how to wrap his mind around it.

“What's the matter is that you could've been hurt or died, and you don’t even care! For months I was worried sick about you, no idea where you were, and it turns out I was right to be because you let yourself be kidnapped,” he seethed.

Enola looked taken aback. Shaking her head, she said, “Sherlock agreed to the plan. He followed me and knew where I was almost the entire time—”

“That’s not good enough. This man kidnapped four girls. There's no telling what he did to them, or what he could have done to you.”

“We solved the case. That's what's important.” Her voice had turned to steel.

His hands were shaking. He felt close to tears.

“What's important is that you stay safe!” She opened and closed her mouth. Tewksbury turned teary eyes to his lap, vision blurring. He kept his gaze firmly on his shaking hands until Enola placed one of her own atop his over the space of the table. 

His eyes sought out hers. They met, and held. 

A moment, an eternity, passed in silence.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. Her voice was colored in shades of sincerity and sympathy.

He shook his head. Not at her words, not at her apology, but because he knew she still believed it was necessary for the case. “You could have died,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered once more. He shook his head again. He didn’t brush away his tears, only gasped for breath as sobs overtook him.

Months Tewksbury had spent unaware that she was with the kidnapper. She could have been tortured or died. She could have been a body left in a ditch or under the cover of the snow, and he would never have known what had happened to her. 

He sobbed harder, folding in on himself.

Enola joined him on the sofa, pressing herself to him. He collapsed against her, wrapping his arms around her as best he could, clinging to the warmth of her body. He was drowning in his thoughts, but she was his lifeline. He held on to her tighter.

“I’m sorry. I’m here. I’m alright, I promise. I’m so sorry.”

Tewksbury desperately wanted to cling to her for eternity. But they didn’t have it. Not when Enola had a habit of walking away and putting her life on the line. He held her now, because he knew he might not get another chance.

—

His dreams were filled with the thought of it. Losing her to that faceless man who had held her captive for who knew how long. Blood coating her cheeks, her hair, her hands. Limbs crooked and bent, eyes lifeless. 

He jerked awake to the sight of her dead more times than he could count, more times than he would like to admit. It haunted him throughout the morning and burned his vision behind his eyelids.

Tewksbury knew it was rather irrational, considering he had just seen Enola the day prior, safe and sound. But the mere idea of it was too much to bear. 

And Enola could be gone at any moment, whisked away on another case or sacrificing herself in the name of the greater good. It was impossible to say if she was ever safe, all things considered. He could never fully be sure of it unless he could see her, feel her skin, make sure her heart was beating.

It was a hidden blessing that he would be seeing her again that day, then, and wouldn’t have to spend increments of time wondering where she was. They had agreed to meet at her own home, despite the impropriety of him entering without any sort of chaperone. He was, truthfully, surprised that she had invited him. 

Tewksbury remembered sitting beside her in her lodging house and being shouted at to not look at her in a certain way. 

It seemed neither cared for any sort of propriety now, considering the distance and time they had endured. Not that they had ever cared all that much. The thought of jumping off a train and cutting his hair crossed Tewksbury’s mind and he grinned. 

Still. This felt different in a way he could barely fathom.

This was her house. Maybe not home for her, not yet at least, but she had paid for it and was staying there and he was entirely unprepared to enter it. He shook away his nerves and knocked anyway.

The door swung open, and behind it stood Enola.

“Tewksbury! Finally.”

He frowned. He was pretty sure he was actually earlier than their agreed set time. “Am I late?”

She rolled her eyes and tugged him in by the sleeve. He nearly tripped into her, righting himself only at the last moment. “I was kidding. You’re rather early, actually.”

“Right.” He allowed himself a moment to glance around. She was still most packed, her suitcase open on the floor. Clothes were strewn about in and out of the bag, and small nick-nacks from her travels were placed atop the table in the middle of the room. In the center stood a vase, one with freesias in red, purple, and white. 

Tewksbury smiled, moving closer to drift a hand over the petals. 

“Of course the flowers are the first thing you’d notice.” He turned at Enola’s voice to find her smiling at him, her eyes softer than he would have expected.

“I first noticed your atrocious packing job, actually.”

She giggled, moving to the other side of the table. His eyes followed her as she did, unable to stray.

“They mean trust and friendship,” he offered. Enola glanced his way, and he clarified as if it wasn’t obvious that he meant the flowers, “The freesias.”

She nodded slowly, a small smile pulling at the edges of her lips. “Right. Ida gifted them to me before we parted.”

Tewksbury tilted his head. Enola shook hers and said, “One of the girls from the case. We all became quite close, and she gave them to me before she went home.”

“I’m glad you were able to make friends with them.”

“Even if you aren’t glad I went?” Her tone was a mix of amusement and genuine curiosity. His jaw tightened.

“Yes. Even if.”

Silence reigned. 

She looked down at the freesias, as did he. 

“Enola?” 

She looked up, meeting his desperate gaze. Her brows furrowed as if sensing whatever he was to say would be crucial. 

“Yes, Tewksbury?”

Another moment passed, where Tewksbury could only look into her eyes. This close, he could see them so clearly. He had always thought they were so warm, but they weren’t just brown, he could see. There were bits of green near the edges, just a few flecks here and there as the sunlight drifted across the room.

He wanted to step closer, press his hand to hers, but the table was between them still. The flowers were as well.

“Tewksbury?” She asked, voice a near whisper, “What is it?”

He blinked heavily. “Well, I. I just wondered if you were alright? I can’t imagine it was entirely… pleasant, being kidnapped. And there’s no need at all to share anything with me that you don’t wish, but I just wonder if you’re alright?”

Enola wet her lips, eyes flitting between his. She seemed unsure as to what to say.

Finally, she nodded slowly. “I’m alright, Tewksbury. I meant what I said yesterday. I’m alright.”

Right. What she had said while he sobbed into her shoulder when he should have been comforting her. He truly was awful. His cheeks flushed red and he looked down at his hands, wishing he could abolish his act of humility. He had meant to be there for her and instead had wept into her arms. 

Tewksbury froze as Enola’s hand was placed atop his on the table. His eyes shot up to meet hers, finding only tenderness. 

“It’s okay,” she nodded. “We’re okay.”

Tewksbury smiled weakly, wholly and irrevocably in love with Enola Holmes.

—

His dreams were full of the same terrible fantasies, of blood and limbs and Enola until he once again jerked awake. It had been a week of nightmares, of horrors, and he thought maybe the absence of Enola was to blame. 

But they were to see each other the next day, and so maybe he could finally sleep without the sight of her tortured and dead and—

Tewksbury slumped back in bed, slamming his eyes shut and willing himself to forget the sight of it.

—

They met in the flower market in the afternoon, because Tewksbury had begged until Enola had finally conceded so long as he didn’t plan to give her another flower. A complete lie, of course, but he was sure she already knew it to be one. Oh well.

He remembered the previous year with her in the flower market. Remembered the pinkerbelle tea rose he had given her while they were still in hiding and on the run, her from Harrison’s Finishing School and him from his Grandmother. Not that he had known it at the time, but.

But this year was different. There was still a rose in his hand, ready to be given to Enola, but they were no longer hiding or on the run. Things were different. They were different. 

Tewksbury pressed himself to the length of one of the market columns, waiting for Enola to arrive. He twirled the rose as he looked around, refusing to look down at it. He knew exactly what it looked like.

Beautiful and blooming and red. 

Tewksbury knew exactly what a red rose was set to symbolize. He wasn’t naive enough as to believe Enola wasn’t aware either, but he could not quite resist. He has never been so bold with his choice in flowers before, even with his lilac in the autumn months.

But he couldn’t quite help himself, not when Enola had finally returned after being gone for so many months. Not when he had seen her dead every night for the past week. He was willing to be bold in such a state.

Enola would scoff and roll her eyes but accept the flower nonetheless, just as she had done for all the others, never mind its meaning. Perhaps she would be so drastic as to stomp on it or rip it apart, appalled at its meaning, but he was sure it would be alright no matter what.

She had said herself they were fine a week prior, the last time he had seen her, and they would continue to be fine.

“Tewksbury!” His thoughts faded away as Enola called his name, turning in time to see her practically sprinting towards him. She rammed into his side, jostling him as he laughed and she giggled. 

Passers-by stared and sneered, but neither Enola nor Tewksbury paid them any attention. Tewksbury was too busy trying to stay steady on his feet, laying a hand on the column behind him in his effort to do so. 

He could barely breathe at the sight of Enola. Her dress was pale pink, lighter than it had been the previous year when they had visited the market. Her hair was the same glorious shade of brown, pulled back haphazardly from her face with strands already falling into her eyes. He resisted the urge to push them behind her ears. 

Enola was messy and unorthodox and completely wonderful.

It was entirely inconvenient how fast Tewksbury’s heart was beating just at the sight of her. She had barely arrived ten seconds ago. 

They both straightened eventually, catching their breath and fixing their clothes. Enola pushed her hair from her face, grinning all the while. It seemed she was entirely unbothered by her disheveled state, which Tewksbury was not at all surprised by.

He remembered the flower and grinned with a raised brow, tilting it out towards her. “For you, Miss Holmes.”

Enola looked down at his hand. Tewksbury prepared himself for scoffing, and laughing, and rolling of eyes. She did nothing of the sort. She only stared, her hand outstretched and ready to take it. Her mouth dropped open a bit, fingers twitching and still in midair.

He opened his mouth, about to ask if she was alright or if something was wrong, but her eyes shot to his and he froze. 

Enola appeared—well, she appeared quite angry.

He wasn’t quite sure why.

“Are you alright?” Tewksbury wondered aloud. He tilted his head at her, and her own eyes widened as they flickered between his and the rose. 

“Am I alright?” Her voice had lowered in volume, lacking any sort of warmth or affection.

He blinked, unsure of how to proceed. “Yes?”

“How can I be? When you’ve done this!” She dropped her hands to her side, both fists clenching against the fabric of her dress.

Tewksbury wondered if she was playing some sort of practical joke, but Enola wasn’t exactly the sort for pranks. “Done… what?”

He truly wasn’t trying to sound daft. He just wasn’t sure Enola had looped him in on what was happening. 

To Tewksbury’s complete and utter horror, Enola’s eyes had begun to well with tears, just at the edges. “I can’t believe you, Tewksbury, honestly. After everything, using—” She thrust her hand forward, pointing absently at the rose still in his hand and cried, “that, of all things against me.”

Tewksbury gaped, eyes flickering between the rose and Enola, unable to remain on one for more than a second. Shifting, as if looking at the rose would give him an answer, but praying Enola would first.

His eyes settled on her eventually, reaching his free hand out towards her. She stepped back as he reached for her, even as he spoke, “Enola—Enola, please. I don’t understand—”

“Right, of course, of course you don’t.” She was crying outwardly now, a few stray tears making their way down her cheeks. Passers-by held their hands to their chests, likely assuming a heartbreak or a broken engagement. 

“I don’t understand—”

“But I did!” Her voice reached his ears and he stopped, confused and miserable. He tilted his head, unable to make out the meaning. Desperate too, and utterly unable. 

“What?” he breathed.

She looked so small. Tears down her cheeks, arms folded across her chest. He had done that. Even if didn’t know how, didn’t know why, he had done that. He cursed himself silently.

She sniffled, wetted her lips, and spoke, “I understood.”

A beat. A moment. A world about to collapse, already fraying at its edges.

“I understood the lilacs, what they meant.” Tewksbury was frozen in place. The rose’s thorns dug into his palms and he found himself completely unable to care. This revelation was inconceivable. One made for nightmares.

Enola was never meant to discover their meanings, despite it all. 

“I knew. So you had no right to give me this, after everything,” she said, a cry ripping from her chest as she raised a hand to her mouth, smothering it away. “It’s cruel, Tewksbury.”

She knew. She knew about the lilac, that it meant beginning of love, and here she was telling him that it was wrong for him to give her a red rose. And she was right. He had no right after everything she had gone through to expect more than friendship from her.

Her friendship had always meant everything to him. It was inhuman and unfair to ask for more, and they both knew it.

“To use the flower of love, and passion, and intention of marriage of all things,” she reprimanded, ignoring his choke of air at the mention of marriage. Heat flooded his cheeks, but she avoided his gaze and barreled on. “It’s cruel,” Enola repeated.

He nodded, keeping his gaze low. He was near ashamed of himself. 

But then she spoke again, and Tewksbury’s world split apart once more.

“I’ve been nothing but respectful of my unrequited feelings, especially after my rather specific declaration. And for you to use a red rose of all things… it’s just. Unbelievable, truly.” She pressed a hand to her forehead, unable to speak further.

Tewksbury understood the feeling. He felt rather tongue-tied himself. 

“Your what?” He asked quietly, gently. Careful not to spook her. Careful not to break what was already so fragile between them. She turned wet eyes his way. Her brows furrowed and she raised a brow in questioning. “What do you mean, unrequited feelings?”

Enola froze. She looked quite the spectacle, perhaps. Jaw dropped, eyes wide, one fist clenched at her side and the other raised to her hair, ready to push away a pesky strand. 

He took a half step towards her, just enough so he could see the green in her eyes more clearly. “What feelings? What rose, Enola?”

She was entirely speechless. Entirely uncertain as to what to say or do.

He raised his hand, brushing away the strand of hair still in front of her eyes. She swallowed, looking terrified. But there was a minuscule shred of hope in her eyes, buried beneath it all. She murmured, terrified and hopeful, “The rose. In my book. The one I gave you for your birthday?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know about any rose.”

The hope shriveled to nothing, replacing itself with grim fury within a second. 

She pushed away his hand, stepped back, and said, “You’re cruel, Tewksbury. You said you read the book. The rose was right there. So either you lied then, or you’re lying now.”

“No, Enola—” She turned, refusing to listen to his desperate pleas. He refused to follow after her, refused to chase and hunt her down. He watched her walk away instead, fists clenched and shoulders trembling with sobs. He watched until she was gone from his view, and then he too turned and left. 

He would not chase after her. Instead, he would find that rose.

—

Tewksbury found himself desperately leafing through the book she had gifted him on his birthday. He had done so a million times before, but never with such intent. Never to find a red rose buried between two pages. 

He searched and searched, and found nothing. 

He had placed the book atop his bedside table, and so he looked beneath it, and then beneath his bed, coming up short of one red rose. It was nowhere in his room. Not in his dresser, or in his desk drawers, or even in the book when he looked for what must be the hundredth time. 

Tewksbury closed his eyes and paused. 

Where else could it possibly be?

When Enola had arrived the day of his birthday, they had first gone to the parlor, and so it was possible for it to still be there. If not, he would search the rest of the house, the rest of the entire estate if need be. 

He would not rest until he found it.

The parlor felt closer to a million miles, rather than the one, as he hurried towards it, bypassing the servants and even his mother. He ignored their questioning gazes, their polite smiles, and continued on.

The parlor was lit by the sun when he entered, curtains drawn to let in the light. At least he would be able to see. He looked beneath the cushions first, under the couch where he had sat, and then Enola’s pushing aside the memory of her arms around him. 

Under the table in the middle of the room, behind the curtains, beside the door. 

There was nothing. No rose, no other possible declaration of feelings or cause of misunderstandings.

Tewksbury rubbed a hand down his face, chest caving in as each minute passed. What was he to do? How was he to fix this with Enola?

He turned to leave, standing from the sofa, and—

There. There. Finally.

A flash of red beneath the opposite sofa, where Enola herself had sat on the day of his birthday. Tewksbury kneeled gently, reaching a hand towards it slowly, willing it not to disappear, not to be a figment of his imagination. His hand caught around dry petals and sharp thorns.

His eyes nearly welled up at the feel of it, the sheer relief brought by this one, singular flower.

Tewksbury pulled it from beneath the sofa, cradling it between two fingers as he sat back on his heels. In the palms of his hands sat a single red rose, pressed to perfection. Its age had caused it to darken in coloring, a multitude of reds surging over the petals as he delicately turned his palms.

Enola Holmes had gifted him a red rose.

Months ago. For his birthday, even.

It was too much for Tewksbury to wrap his mind around.

He felt close to fainting, to weeping, to declaring his own devotion.

He remembered Enola, the flower marker, her anger and the conversation and jumped to his feet so fast he stumbled. His mother was still staring as he staggered out of the parlor and to the front door, rose in his grip.

“I have to go! Goodbye, mother!”

She only laughed and laughed, and through her giggles, “Goodbye Tewksbury! Good luck with your Enola!”

—

Enola Holmes was, decidedly, nowhere to be found.

She was not in the flower market, or the streets, or by his treehouse. She did not answer when he knocked on her door and did not appear when he searched for her. She was good at disappearing, it seemed, because she did not want to be found.

But Tewksbury could not help but continue to search for her. He knew she would not be found, not unless she wished to be, but what else was he to do?

He had hurt her, betrayed her, even if he had not meant to. Even if it was the last thing he had ever wished to do. And he must fix it. 

He would find her, and he would fix it.

—

Tewksbury did not find Enola.

He did not find her, because he was positively useless at searching for someone who did not want to be found, and also because she found him first.

He sat in his field, his favorite place to be, the one he had shown to Enola months ago before his birthday and her case and everything. Back in the summer when things between them had still seemed alright, albeit fragile and tentative, as if one wrong move on his part might shatter the entire perfect illusion of it all.

The flowers were beginning to bloom again under the spring air, tulips having already done so in lavish arrays of pinks and white. Tewksbury brushed his thumb over the petal of one, sitting down amongst the grass and flowers with a hollowed chest. It turned downwards under his grip, drooping into his leg.

Gentle footsteps approached from behind, and he turned so fast he heard a crack in his neck.

Feet away, limbs stiff and inscrutable expression set, stood Enola.

“Hello,” Tewksbury braved, allowing his voice to barely lift above a whisper. Any louder would surely tear apart the seams of their already frail relations. Enola nodded her acknowledgment, but said nothing.

She did not sit, and so Tewksbury stood, brushing off any possible dirt from the backs of his legs. He did not move any closer, instead letting the space between them linger. The last thing he wished was for her to feel caged, especially after how he had hurt her before.

He only kept his gaze on her, ready for her to speak or scream or walk away. She shuddered a breath, set her chin, and asked, “Did you mean to tease me?”

She did not mention the rose. There was no need to. Both knew exactly what she meant, but guilt churned deep in the pit of his stomach anyhow.

“No. I swear.” Enola raised her chin ever so slightly. Near breathless with trepidation, Tewksbury softly admitted, “I only found your rose yesterday, Enola.”

She blinked slowly, turning it over in her head. She did not ask him how that could be. Did not ask him to expand or embellish. Simply waited for him to speak once more.

“It was lost under the sofa. I searched and found it there,” he uttered, begging her to believe him. For her to trust him. 

She nodded, clasping her hands behind her back. “I’m sorry I believed you would be so cruel.”

He shook his head, unwilling to let her speak on it further. This was not her fault. “No, no. It’s my fault for making you feel so awful. If I had found your rose in the winter—”

Both paused. If he hadn’t been so careless, what could have happened? This conversation would have occurred months earlier, perhaps the day of his birthday? Perhaps it wouldn’t have happened at all, perhaps there would have been no tears or misunderstanding.

It didn’t matter. It had happened, and they only had now. 

Enola gave her own shake of her head, shrugging her shoulders. “It’s alright. You didn’t mean to.”

“Right.”

They watched one another. The breeze blew warmly over them, ruffling the tulips across the field, drifting across their hair and clothes. Enola watched Tewksbury, taking in his twitching fingers and uneven breaths. Tewksbury, in turn, watched Enola, the flecks of green and the curl come loose across her forehead, the pale blue of her dress and set of her jaw. 

He breathed in. Breathed out.

It could ruin everything, asking. But he had to. He would never forgive himself if he didn’t. He had to know.

Softly, tentatively, “Did you mean what you said, about having feelings for me?”

Enola looked back at him, face betraying nothing.

Every bone in his body, every nerve and vessel, every part of him, begged for her to say yes. The wind shifted over them. The tulips swayed. 

Enola lifted her chin, steeling herself, and declared, “Yes.”

She gave him no time to respond, only straightened her back and said, “I understand if you do not feel the same. You’re my friend, and that’s what’s important. I care about you, even if you are a complete nincompoop.”

He did not say anything. Couldn’t, not when it was impossible to breathe, to move, to speak at all. He wanted to tell her he loved her, shout it, whisper it, breathe it into her bones. 

He lifted a careful hand instead, cupping her jaw gently. Enola froze, meeting his gaze steadily. 

“I don’t want you to be just a friend. You’ve never been just a friend. You never could be.”

Enola swallowed. Said, “I am not a conventional woman. I will not embroider, or wear corsets, or cling to you as an accessory.”

“Good,” uttered Tewksbury.

Her next breath was such a clear exhale, one of relief and delight, and he surged forward to crush his lips to hers. Her hands rose, one coming up behind his neck and the other trailing over his jaw, thumb rubbing over its smooth skin. He couldn’t help but carry his own down her lower back, folding her into his chest, breathing her in.

She made a small noise against his lips and he made one of his own, hand curling around the curve of her waist. Minutes passed, maybe hours. Time was utterly frivolous compared to Enola Holmes.

He pulled back to lean his forehead to hers, breaths unsteady and chest heaving slightly. She giggled, tilting upwards on her toes to press another kiss to his lips, then one more. He grinned against her lips, giddy and enamored. 

Her hand had moved to his shoulder, the other resting against the hair at the nape of his neck. He felt close to passing out. She was so close he could feel her breath against his lips, and couldn’t resist gently kissing her once more.

He finally pulled back enough to fully see her, just to say, “I love you.”

She grinned and nodded as she said, “I love you too.”

His breath caught in his chest. He was entirely unable to combat the urge to pull her in, to kiss her breathless. Unable to resist loving her.

summer ii.

Spring turned to summer, and with it, Enola became a constant. She returned to him often, much more so than she had in any previous month. Hours were spent in the parlor, drinking tea and conversing. In the treehouse, reading and looking over his books and trinkets. In her own lodging house, even, albeit not often due to the lack of chaperone.

Best, Tewksbury thought, were the hours spent in the field.

Hours spent in the grass and flowers with privacy they couldn't elsewhere find, privacy they lacked in his house or public. Tewksbury kissed Enola each day amongst the flowers and underneath the warm summer breeze, pressing her down in the grass. He allowed hours to be wasted each week tracing her jaw, her hands, her skin. 

Enola would roll them over soon enough, shoving him down to the blooming wild cosmos to do the same to him, uncaring of the time as the sun beat down across them for all hours. 

Time was trivial. It was completely insignificant. They had an eternity of it.

Tewksbury pressed his forehead to Enola’s, a crown of red roses resting upon her head. She had shrieked and refused at the sight of it, but had been persuaded with kisses and tender words, and eventually allowed him to place it atop her head. She had woven him his own crown of baby’s breath, the crown already falling apart amongst his hair. 

Their crowns tilted down as he pressed their lips together, sun warming their skin, Enola warming his heart. The wild cosmos shifted gently around them in the breeze, and Tewksbury let his eyes slip shut.