The June Bug (Enola Holmes Fanfic)

Holmes, Sherlock Holmes

"I'll give you five pounds to swap clothes with me," A breathless, scraggly girl, wearing a fine gown stands before me. Looking up at her, I see the desperation in her eyes. Though I know nothing of her, I know I need to help her. 

"Behind here," I gesture to the stack of flowers and boxes at my stall. We get behind and I give her a spare pair of overalls that my boss has for emergencies. He would be gone for the rest of the day, so I have time to come up with an excuse for him. She takes them quickly and I turn as she changes faster than I was expecting. 

"Five pounds. Thank you." She holds out the crisp notes, smiling with her eyes. 

I shake my head, "Don't worry. Consider it a favour." 

Her face flashes with surprise, "I insist." She pushes the notes toward me again.

I smile, "You could always buy some flowers?" 

She glances at the rainbow array of flower selections in our hiding place, "Okay. I know someone who would love these." She picks up a handful of daisies. In the language of flowers they mean, I love you truly. 

"Ah, you have a lover." I take them from her and bundle them together with paper and string. 

She hands me the five pounds, "Something like that." She smiles at the thought of him, and I swoon internally. Who can despise young love? 

"So who are you running from?" 

"It's complicated."

"Try me."

She hesitates. Then she tactfully says, "It's better if I don't." 

Upon coming out from behind our hiding place, a gang of men spots her. I spot about three men; they look like bad news. They point and race toward us. One of them shouts, "Get the other girl too!"

"Uh, change of plan. Come with me," She takes hold of my arm and pulls me with her. We sprint through the market. I'm already out of breath and we've barely run 100 yards. I can't help but wonder if the mystery girl has done something like this before. By the way she paces and zig-zags through the crowd, I know she has. I briefly turn and see the six men gaining on us. My heart sinks. I rack my brain for a way to save us. 

Up ahead, I see some rose bushes; a light bulb goes off in my head. We must have the same idea because the girl changes course and heads for them too. We both grab them. I throw mine with every ounce of strength I have and it lands in the face of one of the pursuers, who was inches behind me. He yells in pain as the thorns sink into his face. I hear a similar sound come from a couple more of the men that were near the girl. 

Without hesitation, we continue running and push out of the crowd. We run in front of a carriage that nearly cuts my foot off. The driver protests us but we pay him no attention. I pull the girl to the side. We clamber into a cart filled with hay and bury ourselves. The smell of the hay tickles my nose. My hayfever threatens to reveal us. I internalise it and pinch my nose. It's wet and sticky. I don't mean to but I hold my breath too. My throat is coated. I try to hold in my tickly cough. My eyes prick with water as they begin to stream. 

For what seems like an eternity, we wait until the cart starts moving. I move my head to see through the straws and see daylight.  I gingerly poke my head out of the cart. There seems to be no sign of them anymore. I gasp for air as I start choking on the dust. 

The girl pops her head up like a bird in a nest. Pieces of straw are stuck in her hair and her eyes are wide with concern, "I think they're gone. Are you okay?"

I continue hacking as though I'm terminally ill. Watery eyes cloud my vision as my body attempts to avert all of the pollen dust. "Yes," I gasp for air, "Hay-" cough, gasp, "-Fever." 

She furrows her brow. Her deep chocolate brown eyes scan me for information, as though my face would tell her something I wouldn't. "Here, you need to rest." She took my hand again and pulled me off the moving cart. Landing with a thump, my knees screamed in a short burst of pain. She helps me up and guides me through the bustling streets. After a few minutes, we arrive at a black door. She raps a few times and the door swings open. 

I can't make out facial details, but in the doorway stands a tall, well-built man. He mutters a few things to her and they both help me inside. The sneezing and coughing are beginning to subside slightly. The gentleman helps me to my seat and hands me a glass of water. My eyes clear and I begin to make out some of his features. His hair parts to the left and is curled in messy waves that wafts on the outer corner of his thick brows. His eyes bored into my soul in the same way the girl did earlier, as though he was searching for answers, gazing into my intimate thoughts. I blushed at the notion he could read my thoughts, for he was rather handsome. 

"Are you alright?" He furrowed his brows, expressing his deep concern. 

I nodded. The pollen continued to lay wreckage to my throat, but I internalised it as much as I could.

He turned to the girl, "Enola, usually when people go to get flowers, they just get flowers. Why did you have to bring the flower seller too?" Enola. That must be her name. Wait. Did he just call me a flower seller? 

"How did you know I'm a flower seller?" I croak.

He is still crouched down in front of me. His cravat is slightly crooked I notice. He looks at me with a raised brow and a slight smirk on his lips. 

"You don't need to show off-" Enola interjected, but it was no use. He had already begun his explanation. 

"First, your dress and apron. Clearly, by the slight marks and dyed fabric it is from a natural source- plants that produce coloured pollen, such as Lillies. It's also on your fingernails and there's also some green from where you've cut the stalks. Speaking of cutting, your fingers are ridden with little cuts and pricks, the shape and depth indicate they're from thorns and cutting with a short knife meant for pruning." 

I blink in response, yet he continues, " Your shoes are dirty but not too dirty which means you haven't been gardening in mud. So flower it is. Not to mention, my sister has a bunch of beaten-up daisies, and a fresh pair of overalls, which have a flower embroidered into the lapel. Not many men would go through the trouble of embroidering such an insignia on to their overalls, so they must be from a flower seller. She has a habit of stealing people's clothes when she's running away from someone and but this time she comes to my home with a mystery girl, who I can only assume helped her escape from dangerous criminals by jumping into a hay cart. Hence, the hay fever. and straw in both of your hair."

I sit with my mouth agape. That was brilliant. He stands smugly, maintaining eye contact with me. 

"You know you can be so annoying sometimes. Not everything needs to be explained, Sherlock." She rolled her eyes and plonked herself down in the armchair opposite me. It was clear she felt very relaxed here. 

The man continued to stare. As though he was waiting for my response. I couldn't think of one except, "Wow."

 "What's your name?"

"Victoria. Victoria Lowell." I rarely give out my first name to a stranger, but this gentleman knows me so well already. I'm almost surprised he even had to ask.

He dips his head into a slight nod, "The name's Holmes, Sherlock Holmes. I'm glad to make your acquaintance, Victoria."