Chapter Text
She lay there, half-curled in the filth, her leg stitched shut with espionage-grade wire and a weaponised bobby pin, shaking from blood loss, hunger, and the kind of pain that carved songs into bone.
And then—
A sound escaped her throat.
Not a sob.
Not a scream.
A laugh.
One, sharp, stupid little puff of air that cracked her ribcage and made her flinch.
Then another.
And another.
Until she was full-body laughing — hysterical, breathless, half-crazed, gasping between bursts like a drowning woman trying to snort oxygen.
“Of course—of course that’s how we’re doing this—” she wheezed. “Sutured with spy wire. A fucking bobby pin needle!”
She slapped the dirt beside her. Muddied her hand. Didn’t care.
“My leg’s made of MI6 and hair clips. He’s coughing blood. We’re brilliant.”
She turned her face toward the canopy, started giggling again.
“I went to war school. War school. For this.”
Another laugh tore loose — jagged, ragged, wrong.
“Mycroft, I swear—” she choked, voice warping into something sharp and cracked, “—you die on me now and I’m sewing you back up with my own hair, you bastard—”
She wheezed. Coughed. Nearly vomited from the force of it.
Tears streamed down her face. From the laughter. From the agony. From everything.
And still—she laughed.
Because the world was absurd.
Because they should’ve died.
Because she was going to keep laughing until either the universe gave up or her lungs did.
Then finally—
A hiccup.
A groan.
She curled around the pain again, chest heaving.
“…oh god,” she laughed, broken and breathless. “I am so fucked.”
The laugh kept going.
Sharp. High-pitched. Stuttering.
Half-gasp, half-howl.
She pressed her hands to her face like that might stop it—
It didn’t.
Her shoulders shook. Her ribs protested. Her stitches pulled.
Still—she laughed.
Somewhere beside her—a groan.
“Enola…?”
She didn’t register it at first. Just curled tighter, giggling like she’d swallowed nitrous oxide and irony.
Another voice, hoarse:
“…what happened…?”
That did it.
She lost it.
Laughed harder, clutching her side now, breath wheezing like a broken kettle.
“Oh—Mycroft—oh my god—what happened?! You—HAHA—you absolute dick—”
He blinked slowly. Confused. Bleeding. Flat on his back.
“Why are you—what—Enola?”
Her face was muddy, bloody, wild.
“You looked dead!” she shrieked, tears streaking down her cheeks. “I wired my leg shut! You threw up blood! I stitched myself up with Crown tech and hairpins and—oh my god—you asked what happened?”
She gasped for breath, nearly tipped sideways from laughing.
Mycroft winced, trying to move his arm—groaned in pain.
“Please—” he croaked. “Stop—laughing—it hurts—”
“Ohhh, does it?” she howled. “Welcome to the fucking club, dear brother!”
He blinked at her, wide-eyed.
“…Are you okay?” he asked slowly, like speaking to a feral animal.
“I might have a concussion,” she cackled. “Or a brain bleed. Or the tumour did a somersault during the tsunami and now I’ve officially lost it, but otherwise? Just peachy!”
She slapped a hand over her mouth to stop the hysterics—
And snorted instead.
Another fit. Another wheeze.
“Enola,” he begged, chest rising too fast. “Enola, please. I think you’re having some kind of—neurological—event—”
She giggled so hard she choked.
That’s when he panicked.
“Enola—! Look at me! What’s two plus two?! What’s my middle name?! How many brothers do you have?!”
“One!” she shrieked.
“You’re not funny!”
“You’re not helping!” she howled.
Which only made it worse.
“My god,” Mycroft muttered, grimacing. “You’ve actually gone mad.”
“I have!” she sang, still cackling. “It’s glorious!”
He tried to sit up—bad idea.
Pain lanced through his side and he hissed, clutching his ribs.
“Enola, stop.”
His voice cracked.
But she didn’t.
She was gasping now—laughing like it hurt. Laughing because it hurt. Because everything hurt.
“You were tied to a tree like a sack of potatoes!” she cried. “I used a bobby pin! Oh my god, we’re going to die here—”
“Enola.”
Mycroft’s tone shifted.
Sharp. Tight. Grounded.
“I’m serious—stop. Something’s wrong with you. You’re not—”
“‘Course something’s wrong with me,” she snorted. “Look at us! We’re a disaster! My leg’s a horror movie, you’re bleeding out, and I’ve got the giggles? Peak Holmes resilience—”
“Enola—”
His voice trembled.
And then—
He coughed.
Wet.
Sharp.
Red.
Her laughter stopped.
Mid-breath. Frozen.
He coughed again.
Hunched forward.
Blood hit his lips.
His chest.
The dirt.
Too much.
Not spit. Not from the tongue. Not survivable.
Her breath caught.
“…Mycroft?”
He blinked. Eyes glassy.
Another cough—
This time, he choked on it.
She was already scrambling toward him.
The laughter gone, like someone had yanked the plug from her lungs.
“Mycroft—no no no—”
She caught him as he fell sideways.
His mouth was crimson.
His breath? Shallow. Rattling.
“Shit—shit, no—breathe for me—”
Her hands flew to his back. His pulse. His chest.
“You don’t get to scare me! Not you!”
No answer.
Just another ragged, wet choke.
And her hands—
Covered in red.
She shook.
Frozen.
Her eyes locked on the blood slicking his chest.
Still warm. Still his.
And then—
He stopped coughing.
The gasps stilled.
The choking, the sputtering—ceased.
He just… looked at her.
Still breathing. Barely.
His eyes—wide, glassy, rimmed with pain and fear—met hers.
He was waiting.
For a word.
For movement.
For her.
But she didn’t blink.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t breathe.
And somehow—that made it worse.
“Enola…?” he said again, softer this time.
But she didn’t answer.
The laughter was gone.
Ripped out of her like wire from flesh.
And in its place—
Nothing.
No fury.
No fire.
Just the wide-eyed stillness of someone who had reached the end of something—
—maybe her rope,
—maybe her mind,
—maybe just her ability to pretend.
She looked at him like she was seeing a ghost.
Like she wasn’t sure if he was real—
or she was.
He licked his lips. Tasted blood. Grimaced.
“…Say something.”
Silence.
He shifted slightly, winced, tried to push himself up—
One hand slipped in the mud.
That broke the spell.
She caught him again. Automatically. Reflex.
But her eyes—still didn’t change.
Her grip was steady. Her body, rigid.
And Mycroft—aching, dizzy, frightened—stared at his little sister and thought:
Something’s wrong.
Not just her body. Not just the tumour.
Something inside her broke.
And he didn’t know if it would come back.
She held him up without looking at him.
No tremor in her grip.
No hesitation in her posture.
But her eyes—
Vacant. Fixed.
Like her soul had taken one step back. Maybe two.
“Enola,” he tried again, voice low. Careful. “Look at me.”
Nothing.
“Say something.”
Still nothing.
He shifted—groaning from the movement—and reached out with his good hand, fingers curling around her wrist.
It was warm.
Bloody.
Steady.
But she didn’t flinch.
Didn’t react.
“Enola,” he tried again, louder now, forcing his voice past the rasp. “Talk to me. Please.”
Her gaze flicked down for half a second—maybe toward the sound, maybe toward the blood—
But then drifted back to the middle distance.
That emptiness in her stare made his stomach twist.
“This isn’t funny anymore,” he said. “This isn’t some joke. You’re scaring me.”
Nothing.
“Enola, you were laughing ten seconds ago—screaming, practically—what the hell happened? What—what is this?”
He tugged her wrist gently. Desperate.
“I need you to come back now.”
Still nothing.
“You said I wasn’t allowed to die,” he snapped, voice catching. “Fine. I didn’t. I’m here. I’m still breathing, so now it’s your turn. Come back.”
Her hand tightened slightly under his fingers.
Reflex?
Or recognition?
He couldn’t tell.
“I know what shock looks like. I know when someone’s gone too deep. But that’s not you. You don’t break like this. You bend. You scream. You bite.”
His grip on her wrist tightened.
“You’re not like this.”
Still nothing.
A breeze stirred the trees around them.
The jungle, almost peaceful.
Mocking.
“Enola,” he said again, quieter this time. “Please. Say anything. Insult me. Tell me to shut up. Spit in my face.”
Her eyes flicked. Just barely.
He held onto it like a lifeline.
“I’m serious. Scream at me. Call me names. Blame me for everything. Just don’t go quiet on me, not you—”
She blinked once.
No change.
He swallowed hard.
“You have to talk to me. Because I don’t know how to help you if you won’t talk. And I can’t do this alone.”
Her lip twitched. Not quite a response. Not quite emotion.
He felt panic rising again—tight, sharp, hot.
“Enola,” he begged, voice cracking. “You dragged me through hell. You saved me. You sewed yourself shut and laughed like a maniac and now you’re—what? Gone?”
No answer.
“No. No, I don’t accept that.”
He let go of her wrist. Reached for her face instead.
“You look at me. Right now. Please.”
But when his fingers brushed her cheek, her head tilted—
Not toward him.
Just… away.
Like she was fading.
Like the world he was speaking from wasn’t hers anymore.
And then—
She moved.
Not a flinch.
Not a startle.
Just stood.
Slowly. Stiffly.
Every muscle protested.
Every joint locked in trauma and exhaustion.
She rose like something mechanical—
Wound too tight and still somehow running.
“Enola…” he rasped.
She didn’t look at him.
She didn’t see him.
She just turned.
And walked.
One limp step at a time.
Past the tree.
Past the blood.
Past him.
“Enola—”
She didn’t stop.
Didn’t wobble.
Didn’t glance over her shoulder.
‘Enola’ was no longer an anchor.
Just a sound in the dirt behind her.
And he—
He panicked.
“No—wait—”
He tried to sit up—
Failed.
Tried to roll—
Screamed.
The pain flared white-hot in his chest,
And he fell back, gasping,
Arm curling instinctively around his ribs.
But he saw her.
Saw her dragging that ruined leg into the trees,
Stitches bleeding through wire,
Walking like a ghost with too much left to burn.
“Enola!” he screamed.
His voice cracked.
Ripped through the jungle.
Echoed off the broken canopy.
But she didn’t stop.
Didn’t look back.
Didn’t answer.
“Please—!”
He tried again—shoved himself up,
Made it to one elbow—
Collapsed.
Useless.
“Don’t leave me!” he roared.
“Don’t you dare fucking leave me!”
But the only response was the sound of her footsteps.
Unsteady.
Fading.
And then—
Nothing.
She was gone.
Swallowed by the green.
And Mycroft Holmes—
Bloodied.
Broken.
Alone—
Screamed her name again.
But this time—
Only the birds answered.