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┕━☽【❖】☾━┙
IT HAD BEEN MONTHS since Adelaide's disappearance. Sherlock was slowly losing his mind looking for her. Her mother, Eleanor had completely given up, she had another child to tend to and it seemed everyone had just forgotten about her. Police assumed her dead, the missing posters were taken down one by one. It was like she had simply vanished.
All he had left was her letter. He had tried looking in places she seemed to enjoy. Flower shops, meadows, but to no avail. He had isolated himself for days on end, scraping anything for leads or clues. He had made frequent visits to her old home, the housemaid letting him in whenever Eleanor wasn't home. There was nothing he could do but get the feeling of nostalgia from the objects that seemingly described her. The flowers on her vanity, the violent punches to her wall. He couldn't feel happiness until she was there. He was the one thing he swore he would never become. A man in love.
A knock to his flat door pulled him from his thoughts. He stepped over in hope, twisting the handle. Enola stared back at him as he sighed in disappointment.
"You look a mess, Sherlock." She expressed her concern. Sherlock only scoffed and let her in, papers scattered around the messy and unkept building. "I am no closer to catching her than i was months ago." He sighed, rubbing his forehead. "You aren't looking at it from her point of view, Sherlock." Enola sighed. Her brother was an excellent detective, but a horrible empath. It was one of his weaknesses.
"What was her favourite pastime?" She asked. Sitting down on his armchair with her hands on her knees. "Reading, and daydreaming." He admitted. He sometimes heard her flipping through thousands of pages every night, then humming a song and staring out the window, dreaming of her dream life. He thought of her personality, what she would have dreamed of. He imagined her having a small home in a quiet countryside. A beautiful garden with colourful flowers, a chair outside for her to read while watching the sky.
"She has money, correct?" Enola questioned as she pulled Sherlock from his daydreams. He nodded as he remembered the fortune she had stolen from her mother and the way she hid it in various places thinking he wouldn't know. "She usually leaves clues, but this time I really believe she doesn't want to be found. I've torn the place apart looking for anything, only thing I have is a goodbye note."
Enola was concerned and saddened for her brother. He was distraught and depressed. He looked like he hadn't slept, or ate. "When was the last time you ate?" She raised her eyebrows and a frown encroached her face. "Why is that important? We should be focused on finding her!" Sherlock was now stressed. Enola only sighed and walked to the kitchen. Coming back with a plate of fruit and other sides. She slid the plate over to Sherlock.
"Eat. You cannot waste away because of some girl." She demanded. "You don't understand Enola. I love her." He admitted. Enola was a little surprised. Her brother, the man incapable of feeling any sort of sympathy, the man who called lovers deluded fools, was in love. Now, his love was gone, and he was spiralling. Enola decided she wanted to save this part of her brother, she would help him.
"Can I see the note?" She asked softly. Sherlock hesitantly pulled it from the inside pocket of his jacket. It was folded neatly but a little worn from how much he used it. She opened it carefully and read the contents.
"You imprisoned her?..." Sherlock only hung his head low in shame. Enola still scolded him. "This girl, who ran from her home because she was imprisoned, was took in by you and you did the exact same thing?" She went on. Enola didn't think the girl deserved it at all, sure, she was tantalising and unladylike sometimes. But so was Enola.
"We have a lot of work ahead of us. So eat that quickly."
••●••
Adelaide felt free. But at the same time she felt empty. She would walk around the streets and feel lonely as the couples and friends walked past her laughing. Since she left Sherlock's, she felt a piece of her missing. She missed the banter, the playful insults, but she couldn't go back.
She sat in her garden, she paid a farmer rent and extra money to keep quiet about her stay. She had a cottage in a small field on the outskirts of town. There was a quiet, little creek with a swing where kids used to go to. She would make the short journey down there and write for hours, she'd watch the birds cross her path across the blue sky, and when the night fell, she'd walk home and put on a record, daydreaming to the music and sweeping the floors. If she had went back to Sherlock, she wondered if it would be any different, would he lock her there again?
She shook off the idea. She was free now, it would be weak of her to go back. She'd meet someone eventually, she wouldn't be lonely forever. A slow and gentle knock at her door pulled her to reality. She slowly opened the door, a chain lock restraining it from opening any further. A face she didn't anticipate stared back at her, with manipulative brown doe eyes and dark hair.
"Enola?!" She shrieked. Then looked outside in case Sherlock was there. "Don't worry, it's just me. I haven't told Sherlock." She smiled nervously. "Can I come in?"
