Chapter Text
Present Day
MYCROFT HOLMES’ PRIVATE RESIDENCE
The fireplace crackled.
Not in a comforting way—more like it was mocking Mycroft’s mood by being the only warm thing in the room.
The decanter on the sideboard was down two inches since Michael had arrived.
He’d made himself comfortable—sprawled across Mycroft’s antique chaise lounge like a housecat that had personally conquered the Ottoman Empire.
Mycroft, meanwhile, stood stiff by the window, watching London like it might confess something.
“We searched everywhere,” he muttered, half to himself.
Michael didn’t even look up. “You said that already.”
“No, I mean everywhere. Every embassy. Every black site. Every one of Her Majesty’s little spiderwebs. We ran eyes through Syria, the Gulf, Thailand—”
“She doesn’t like Thailand,” Michael cut in, sipping. “Too humid. Hair goes funny.”
Mycroft shot him a long, flat stare.
Michael wiggled his eyebrows. “You don’t have to believe me. I just know her.”
Mycroft’s grip tightened around his glass.
“There was no trace. No surveillance. No chatter. No bodies with her signature. Nothing.”
“Well, yeah,” Michael said, stretching like a man enjoying this far too much. “That’s because she didn’t want to be found.”
“I gathered that much, thank you.”
“No, no.” Michael held up a finger. “You thought she’d gone to ground like a fugitive. Or a weapon out of rotation. But you were looking in all the wrong places.”
He leaned forward.
“You searched barracks. Field offices. War zones. You thought she’d signed up for another kill-list.”
“That is what she does,” Mycroft snapped.
Michael grinned. “And that’s why you’re terrible at hide-and-seek.”
Mycroft stared at him. “Then where the hell did she go?”
Michael tapped the rim of his glass.
“Mexico.”
Mycroft blinked. “…What?”
“Yup.” Michael kicked his feet up. “I had a mission outside Puebla. Minor diplomatic blackmail job. I’m sneaking past this cartel guy’s compound—real quiet-like. Shadows. Thermal goggles. The usual.”
He paused.
“And who do I find inside the main office? Eating street tacos in the dark?”
Mycroft said nothing.
Michael beamed. “Enola fucking Holmes.”
Mycroft set his glass down.
Hard.
“She found you?”
“Oh, yeah. Walked in like it was a dinner invitation. Sat down across from me, took my drink, and said—‘I need you. I’ve got a mission.’”
Mycroft exhaled through his teeth. “She vanished off the grid for a personal errand?”
Michael raised a finger. “Correction: off your grid.”
Mycroft sat down slowly, tumbler forgotten on the table.
Michael leaned forward, elbows on knees, mischief gleaming in his eyes.
“Her mission. No orders. No flags. Just a hunch, a map, and a trench coat that smelled like sea salt and mutiny.”
Mycroft gave him a wary look. “So where did you go?”
Michael grinned wider.
“The Caribbean.”
“…The Caribbean.”
“Yep.”
“What in God’s name was she doing in the Caribbean?”
Michael leaned back, hands behind his head like the smug bastard he was.
“Some modern pirate crew was smuggling weapons through fishing fleets and bribing customs. Nasty buggers. Smart, though. Took us months.”
Mycroft didn’t speak.
Michael went on. “Fake names. Fake papers. Real rum—”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“—We became pirates. She got very into character. You should’ve seen her, Holmes. Full Jack Sparrow. Stole a hat. Bought a monkey. Grew attached to it.”
Mycroft’s soul visibly exited his body.
Michael chuckled. “She got drunk, Mycroft.”
That made Mycroft freeze.
“Drunk?”
“Like, actually drunk. Singing sea shanties at 2 a.m. with a parrot on her shoulder kind of drunk. Called me seaweed brains for a week. I had to carry her off a dock twice. Nearly fell into the ocean the third time.”
“She doesn’t even like rum.”
“She doesn’t even like feeling things, Holmes. But she did it. For fun.”
Michael tilted his head.
“And before you ask—yes, we won. Got most of the smugglers arrested. A few boats blown up. Classic heroism with a side of hangover.”
“…Dear God.”
“It was the first time I ever saw her drink for fun. Not a cover. Not a seduction. Just… because she could.”
Mycroft rubbed his temples. “She could’ve been shot. Or arrested. Or worse.”
Michael raised his glass in toast. “But she wasn’t.”
He grinned.
“We stayed a year.”
Mycroft choked. “A year?”
“She wanted to see how long it would take for you to stop actively hunting her.”
Mycroft turned to the fire, muttering, “I should’ve hired more agents.”
“You should’ve checked the beach bars.”
Michael took another sip, then asked, far too casually:
“So… how did Sherlock react when you told him?”
Mycroft stared into the flames.
Then drained his glass in one go.
“How do you think?”
Michael grinned wickedly. “Did he punch a wall?”
“He punched me.”
FLASHBACK – THREE YEARS AGO
Location: Scotland Yard – Task Briefing Room B
Sherlock’s coat hit the back of the chair like a thrown gauntlet.
Lestrade didn’t flinch—he’d seen that coat do more dramatic landings—but the look on Sherlock’s face wasn’t theatrics. It was war.
“You’re looking for her,” he said, voice low and lethal, eyes scanning the open file on the table. “Why?”
Lestrade frowned. “What are you on about?”
Sherlock jabbed a finger at the photo. Grainy CCTV. A woman in a hoodie. Sharp jawline blurred in motion—still unmistakably her.
“I asked,” Sherlock repeated, “why the Yard is suddenly on red alert for this woman.”
Lestrade folded his arms. “Classified. Orders from upstairs. Apparently she’s dangerous.”
“Who gave the order?”
“MI5.”
Sherlock’s jaw clicked. “Mycroft.”
“Dunno the name. Just the clearance code.”
Sherlock was already gone before Lestrade could blink.
Location: Mycroft Holmes’ Office – MI5 HQ
Time: 11:34 PM – One Year Ago
The doors burst open like they’d been kicked in by a hurricane.
Mycroft didn’t look up.
He didn’t need to.
“You sent Scotland Yard after her.”
Sherlock’s voice could’ve melted steel. Mycroft remained still, eyes fixed on the file in front of him.
“I did.”
“You lied to me.”
“I compartmentalised the information.”
A photo slammed down on the desk. Blurry. Shadowed.
Enola.
Hood up. Mid-stride through a London alley.
“You said she was abroad. Working. Fine.”
“She was.”
Sherlock’s eyes burned. “Then what the fuck is this?”
Mycroft finally looked up.
Calm. Icy.
“She returned. Unannounced. Injured. From a mission I assigned.”
Sherlock narrowed his gaze. “And?”
“It was meant to be clean. Surveillance only. Quiet dismantling of a child trafficking network outside Adana.”
Sherlock didn’t move.
“There were children in the compound. Our intel said it would be empty.”
Mycroft faltered—just for a moment.
“She breached alone. No coordination. The children—”
He looked away.
“They died.”
Sherlock’s face went still. Like he’d been shot.
“You’re saying she killed children?”
“I’m saying she blamed herself,” Mycroft snapped. “And half the department blamed her too.”
A breath. Sharp. Bitter.
“The other half thought she’d gone rogue. That I’d lost control.”
Sherlock stepped forward, voice clipped. “Did you?”
“No,” Mycroft said instantly. “But I had to act like I had. The optics were catastrophic.”
“She came back bleeding. Didn’t say a word. Walked into my office, looked me in the eye, and said: ‘Do it. You know what I’ve done.’”
Sherlock’s voice cracked.
“She came to be punished.”
“She came to die, Sherlock.”
Mycroft’s voice broke.
Just a fracture.
“I couldn’t do it. So I had her detained.”
“Where?”
“That’s not your concern.”
“Where.”
“I said—”
“WHERE DID YOU PUT HER?!”
Mycroft snapped, “Somewhere secure. Monitored. Isolated.”
“YOU PUT HER IN A FUCKING CAGE?!”
“She was a danger to herself, to others, and—”
Sherlock lunged.
The punch hit mid-sentence.
Square across Mycroft’s jaw.
A sickening, echoing crack.
He staggered, slammed into the desk edge, blood already forming at his lip.
Sherlock stood over him, breathing hard.
“You locked her in a box and called it protection?!”
“For five days,” Mycroft hissed, hand at his jaw. “While I stabilised the situation. She was fine. Quiet. Reading. Cooperative.”
Something flickered in his expression.
“She wasn’t alone.”
He didn’t elaborate.
Sherlock caught the shift—but let it go.
For now.
“And then?”
“One night, she collapsed. No noise. No cause. Just… dropped.”
He moved behind the desk, pulling up a scan.
“Stress-induced coma. Brain trauma. Fourteen days.”
He looked suddenly older.
“I sat at her bedside. Watched the machines stop. Told myself it wasn’t the end.”
Sherlock’s voice barely rose above a whisper. “You thought she was going to die.”
“I thought I’d killed her,” Mycroft whispered.
And then—
Sherlock exploded.
“WHY THE FUCK DIDN’T ANYONE TELL ME?!”
The windows shook.
Mycroft stared at him.
“Because you would’ve made a scene.”
“OF COURSE I WOULD’VE MADE A FUCKING SCENE! She’s my sister!”
“She was fragile—”
“You locked her in a black site. YOU NEVER EVEN LET ME SEE HER!”
“She vanished,” Mycroft said, cutting him off.
Sherlock blinked. “She what?”
“She woke up. Pulled out the IV. Walked out. No words. No sound.”
“You’re telling me she just... left?”
“I’m telling you she vanished. No footage. No alarms. No DNA. No residual heat. Gone.”
He gestured to the monitors.
“Ghosted.”
Sherlock let out a dry, empty laugh.
“You mean to tell me: she survived a black mission, blamed herself for dead children, came to you to be executed, got locked in a cell, went into a coma, woke up, and then disappeared—and no one knows where she is?”
“That is correct.”
“No note?”
“No.”
“No plan? No tracker?”
“She ripped it out. Even the subdermal one. She knew.”
Sherlock stood still.
Fury simmering cold.
“She came to you. She trusted you. And you buried her like a threat.”
“I was trying to protect her.”
“No. You were protecting yourself. Your office. Your image.”
“She was unstable.”
“No. She was hurting. And you locked her away like a rabid dog.”
“I couldn’t let her spiral—”
“YOU SENT HER TO THAT MISSION.”
Mycroft went still.
“You put her in that position. And now you’re surprised she broke.”
Silence.
Sharp. Final.
Sherlock stepped back.
“You never deserved her trust.”
He whispered, “And now we’ve both lost her.”
He turned. Left.
The door didn’t slam.
It clicked shut.
Mycroft sat back in his chair, hand trembling slightly against his jaw.
Across the room, the monitor blinked:
NO SIGNAL DETECTED.
Present Day – Mycroft’s Residence
Michael laughed—wheezing, doubled over.
“I deserved it,” Mycroft muttered. “And then he refused to speak to me for two weeks.”
“Oh, come on. That’s practically affection.”
“He left a decapitated mannequin in my office wearing a wig and an MI5 pin.”
Michael blinked.
“…Okay, yeah. That’s fair.”
Mycroft sank back into the armchair, rubbing his jaw like it was an old scar still echoing with pain.
The fire crackled low.
The room felt colder without her name in it.
Finally, Mycroft spoke—dry, measured, but weary around the edges.
“So she just… disappeared. Played pirate with you for a while. And then what?”
Michael’s smile returned—lazily predatory.
“Not much. Took down some traffickers. Cartels. A couple of experimental facilities doing very illegal things.”
Mycroft gave him a look.
“She started building weapons for a while,” Michael added, swirling his glass like he was describing the weather.
He nodded toward Mycroft’s umbrella.
“You bought one of them.”
Mycroft stilled. Slowly—like dread blooming in his spine—he turned to look at the umbrella in the corner.
“…Excuse me?”
“Custom reinforced carbon alloy. Retractable blades in the shaft. EMP burst in the handle if you press it the wrong way. That little snap it makes when it opens? Not decorative.”
Mycroft stared.
“You’re holding one of her prototypes.”
“She sold it to one of your subsidiaries, genius. Not like she forged it in your garage.”
Michael waved a hand, amused. “She was testing things. Building. Trying to keep her hands busy. Not killing, for once. Mostly.”
“Mostly,” Mycroft echoed.
Michael stretched again, catlike. “Then she got bored. You know how she gets. Chaos withdrawal.”
“And?”
“And then she went back to war.”
“You mean—” Mycroft’s voice caught. “She let me find her.”
Michael’s grin sharpened.
“She let herself be tracked. Sent you a postcard from the front line. Real subtle. Bloodstain in the corner, just to make sure you’d take it seriously.”
Mycroft exhaled slowly. “I thought that was wine.”
“Cute.”
Mycroft looked over, narrowing his eyes.
“Why?”
Michael’s voice dropped—calm, but final.
“You know why.”
The fire hissed low.
Mycroft’s brow furrowed. “No, I don’t know why. That’s why I’m asking.”
Michael tilted his head, eyes locked—like a predator tired of waiting for prey to catch up.
“You really don’t remember?”
Mycroft’s tone sharpened. “Remember what, exactly?”
Michael leaned forward, elbows on knees.
“That you fired her.”
Mycroft blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Michael didn’t let up.
“You handed her a sealed discharge file. Told her it was over. No more orders. No more ties. No more punishment. You pushed her out of your world like that would save her.”
Mycroft’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“She didn’t even respond. I thought…”
He faltered.
“I thought she couldn’t hear me. She was still in the coma.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed.
“She always listens when it’s about the things that matter.”
A pause.
Mycroft leaned back, staring into the middle distance like it might rearrange his memory.
“She was really listening.”
Michael gave him a look. “Well, duh. We established that.”
“But she never signed it,” Mycroft murmured. “The file. She never picked up the pen.”
Michael blinked.
Then laughed—dry and sharp.
“Are you serious right now?”
“She didn’t. I watched the file sit untouched for—”
“You’re Mycroft Holmes. King of surveillance. Master of systems. And you never thought she might’ve signed it when you weren’t looking?”
Silence.
Michael sighed theatrically. “Check the file, you posh blind walnut.”
Mycroft hesitated.
“It’s buried.”
“In your library,” Michael said with a roll of his eyes. “Because of course it is.”
Mycroft rose like a man heading into battle with his own denial.
Michael waited.
Waited longer.
Then—
From the other room:
Silence.
Drawer. Papers shifting.
A stillness.
Then—
Mycroft’s voice.
Quiet.
Disbelieving.
“…She signed it.”
Michael smirked into his glass.
“Told you.”
A pause.
Then, softly:
“She’s been letting you go for a while now, mate.”
And you’re the last one to notice.
Michael stood.
No flourish. No toast. Just the soft clink of an empty glass on wood.
He reached for his coat—light, neutral, the way Ghost Assets were trained to disappear.
Mycroft hadn’t moved.
Still holding the file like it burned through his skin.
He didn’t look up as he spoke.
“What does it mean.”
Not a command.
Not an order.
Just a question.
Small. Human.
Michael paused in the doorway, hand on the frame.
“It means exactly what you said.”
He stepped back into the room.
Soft. Steady.
“It clears you of liability.”
“Seals her psych record.”
“Ends her contract.”
A beat.
Then—his voice dropped:
“And it ends her ties to you.”
Mycroft’s fingers twitched.
The words hit harder when spoken aloud.
Michael didn’t stop.
“She doesn’t owe you anything now.
No more missions.
No more protocol.
No more punishment.”
Silence bloomed.
Mycroft’s chest barely moved. But something behind his eyes cracked.
Michael took a step closer—just near enough to make sure the words landed.
“You really don’t get it, do you?”
No answer.
Michael’s voice sharpened.
“It means she’s choosing what she does now.
She picks the missions.
She decides where she goes.
Not you.”
A breath.
“You don’t get to use her like a scalpel and lock her away when she cuts too deep.”
Mycroft’s mouth parted.
Nothing came out.
Michael kept going.
“She’ll still help you.
Still fight. Still protect the things that matter.
But you’ll have to ask.
Not order.”
He turned toward the door again.
“She doesn’t want to be your operative, Mycroft.”
The words cut clean.
Deliberate.
“She wants to be your sister.”
Michael paused, fingers brushing the handle.
Turned his head slightly.
One last glance.
“Maybe you should try being her brother.”
And then he was gone.
The door didn’t slam.
It just clicked shut.
Gentle. Final.
Mycroft didn’t move.
Not at first.
Then he stood slowly, legs too stiff, too careful.
Walked to the window like someone chasing smoke.
Outside, across the street, Michael crossed under a streetlamp.
Paused.
Lit a cigarette with one hand.
Looked up.
Their eyes met.
For half a second—no more.
Michael offered a slight nod.
Not mocking.
Not cruel.
Just… knowing.
And then he vanished into the dark.
Mycroft stood there, still holding the file.
The name on the cover had faded a little from touch.
Holmes, Enola.
DISCHARGE: SIGNED.
Location: Enola & Michael’s Flat
Time: 04:47 AM
The door clicked shut behind him with the kind of silence that came from muscle memory, not caution.
Michael didn’t turn on a light.
He didn’t need to.
He moved through the flat like someone who belonged to its shadows—shoulder brushing a coat hook, toe nudging aside one of her boots.
The bedroom was dim, the curtains barely holding back the earliest thread of light.
She was already in bed.
On her side.
Facing the wall.
Still.
But he knew she wasn’t asleep.
Not really.
He peeled off his jacket. His boots. The weight of the night.
Climbed in behind her.
He didn’t speak at first.
Just curled up close—one arm across her waist, face tucked behind her shoulder like he needed to feel her breathe to remember how.
They lay like that for a long while.
Breathing. Not speaking. Letting silence say what it could.
Then—
Softly:
“Why did you do it?”
Her voice wasn’t accusing.
Just quiet. Careful.
He didn’t pretend not to know what she meant.
He sighed against her hair. “Mycroft had to know.”
“No,” she whispered. “Not about me.”
A pause.
“Why did you tell him about you?”
She turned then. Slowly. Not fully—just enough to look at him over her shoulder.
Eyes open. Dark.
Unreadable.
“You made a mistake, Michael.”
No venom.
No judgment.
Just truth.
“You never let anyone know.
So why him?”
Michael stared at her.
Blank.
Like the answer should’ve been right there behind his eyes—but it wasn’t.
It just… wasn’t.
Finally, he said the only thing that felt real.
“I don’t know.”
And he meant it.
Completely.
She studied his face for a moment.
Then turned back around.
Tucked his arm tighter around her.
And neither of them said another word.
Outside, the sun began to threaten the horizon.
But inside, the only thing that mattered was the steady rhythm of her breathing against his chest.
And the question neither of them would ask again.