Chapter Text
Notes:
⚠️ Quick note to all artists and promoters:
I’m not looking to commission or collaborate on paid art for this fic. If I decide to include visuals, I’ll handle it myself — likely as a comic on my Tumblr.Fanart is totally welcome (and very appreciated!), but please don’t use the comments to pitch services, especially if you haven’t read the story. I’d much rather hear your thoughts, reactions, and unhinged theories. That’s what I’m here for. 🖤
Chapter 2: Impact
Summary:
Survival isn’t a miracle. It’s math.
After the fall, the ocean doesn’t care who you are.
Every breath is borrowed. Every second bleeds.
And when the fire fades and the wreckage sinks, all that’s left is cold water, broken bodies, and the will to swim.They survived the sky.
Now they have to survive the sea.
Notes:
🌊 Welcome to the surface.
This chapter begins exactly where Altitude ended—midair, mid-descent, mid-doom. It’s fast. It’s violent. And it doesn’t slow down until blood hits sand. Expect pain. Expect raw survival. Expect Enola in her element—and breaking under it.If Altitude was tension, Impact is consequence.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Notes:
🏝️ Landfall.
They’ve reached shore, but safety is an illusion. What comes next isn’t rest—it’s reckoning.
Injuries are real. Resources are limited. And for the first time in his life, Mycroft Holmes doesn’t have a plan.Next up: Triage.
Chapter 3: Triage
Summary:
The ocean didn’t kill them. The wreck didn’t kill them.
But now the real work begins.On a remote, unknown shore, Enola and Mycroft face the aftermath with torn flesh, shattered ribs, and no backup. The medical kit is intact. The jungle is closing in. And the sun is trying to finish what the sky started.
Triage isn’t about comfort.
It’s about who dies last.
Notes:
🩸 Welcome to the ground.
This chapter is what happens after the fall—the pain, the blood, the bone-deep fatigue that doesn’t care who you are or how clever your plan was. There are no medics here. No maps. Just Enola’s field kit, Mycroft’s stubbornness, and a hell of a lot of sand.Survival is not gentle.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Notes:
🌒 They’ve made it to shade.
Barely.
Wounds are closed—for now. Blood loss is slowed—for now. But night is coming, and with it, the jungle. The storm hasn’t even started.Next chapter: Jungle Protocol.
Chapter 4: Jungle Protocol
Summary:
The sun is up.
The pain is worse.
And the silence is not safety.Enola wakes broken, bruised, and calculating. Mycroft wakes confused, aching, and slightly impressed. Their supplies are minimal. The odds are brutal. The jungle has no mercy—and neither does time.
Survival begins with decisions.
Like when to move.
Who to trust.
And whether that shape in the trees was ever alone.
Notes:
🌿 Welcome to Day One.
The crash was violent. The ocean was cruel. But this part? This is what hurts. When exhaustion drags at your limbs and the world expects you to do something anyway. This chapter leans into strategy, paranoia, and the subtle unraveling of everything that once felt certain.If you're here for slow-burn survival and sharpened sibling dynamics: you're in the right place.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Notes:
🔥 Not all signals are for rescue.
Sometimes they’re bait.
Sometimes they’re warnings.
And sometimes, they’re the reason no one is coming.
Chapter 5: Night Logic
Summary:
When silence lasts too long, it stops being comfort. It becomes unknown.
As night falls, Enola takes the island for herself—one shadowed step at a time. She needs answers: Are they truly alone? Is someone watching? And how much longer can they risk standing still?
But when Mycroft wakes to find her gone, the question isn’t where she went.
It’s if she’s coming back.
Notes:
🌘 Night on the island.
This chapter trades adrenaline for unease, action for calculation. Enola goes scouting. Mycroft wakes alone. What follows is a quiet unraveling — one made of doubt, silence, and the kind of fear that doesn’t scream... it waits.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
21:47 GMT – Shoreline Camp
The jungle breathed around them.
Soft wind brushed through high leaves. Insects hummed somewhere unseen. The ocean whispered to itself — not angry, not calm, just there. Existing. Watching.
Beneath the tarp shelter, Mycroft Holmes was sleeping.
Barely.
He’d faded just after sunset, pulled under by exhaustion and the mild painkillers Enola had slipped into his water. Not enough to sedate him — just enough to take the edge off.
He hadn’t asked.
She hadn’t offered.
Now, hours later, he lay curled on his side, mouth slightly open, one hand loosely gripping the edge of a silver, ultra-thin medical blanket she’d tucked over him once he was out. It crackled softly with every breath, designed to reflect body heat in emergency conditions. He didn’t know it was there. He just held it like it might keep the island away.
Enola sat beside him.
Knees drawn. Elbows resting. Gun in her lap.
Watching.
Waiting.
Thinking.
22:12
Still no fire.
Too risky. Too visible.
She’d let them go one night without it. Long enough to confirm no one else was making one.
That was the real test.
The island had been silent since sundown. No lights. No smoke. No movement.
But that wasn’t proof.
That was absence.
And absence meant nothing until it had been tested.
She rose slowly. Quiet as breath. Her leg still ached from the gash — deep muscle twinges with every full step. But the pain was familiar. Contained. Calculable.
She strapped the gun to her side, slid her blade into the sheath at her back, and stepped into the dark.
22:35 – Edge of the Beach
The moon hung low — waning, soft, but clear. It painted the island in dull blue and silver. The waves rolled in gently, not quite lazy, but indifferent.
Enola crouched at the water’s edge, scanning the treeline inland and the crescent curve of the coast. She let her vision unfocus. Watched for contrast.
No flicker of flame. No vertical heat shimmer. No smoke.
That was good.
But not enough.
If someone was here — tribal, hidden, territorial — they’d be inland. Fireless at night if trained. Still, someone always slipped eventually. Smoke. Sparks. Movement.
She would find them.
Or confirm they didn’t exist.
She preferred the latter.
23:03
She moved like shadow.
Bare feet. Light contact. Knife close, but undrawn.
The island was larger than she’d first calculated. Not vast — but wild. Uneven. Ridge-heavy in places, thick with roots and brush. A full circuit in stealth would take all night.
So she gave the night to it.
She circled wide, keeping to shadows, pausing every twenty meters.
She listened.
Watched.
Nothing.
No footprints. No trampled undergrowth. No disturbed canopy. No tools. No traps. No sounds that weren’t alive.
She passed the same carved stone Mycroft described. Worn smooth. Old. A relic, not a warning.
She pressed on.
02:40 – South Ridge
Still nothing.
She climbed the rise carefully. Hand to rock. Pulse steady.
No fresh movement. No prints. No signs of paths carved by repetition.
The jungle had never been tamed.
Not by machete. Not by axe. Not by foot.
The island had once been used.
Briefly.
But now it belonged to the birds, the wind, and the salt.
And her.
05:03 – North Shoreline
The sky was starting to lighten.
Just barely.
Enola crouched at the edge of a ridge overlooking the beach. Her camp was still distant — a dark smudge beneath the trees. No movement. No fire.
No others.
She stood.
Stretched her arms. Winced.
And finally let the thought settle:
They were truly alone.
And, for the first time since the crash—
She let herself feel a flicker of relief.
06:00 – Shoreline Shelter
Mycroft woke to silence.
Not the gentle kind.
The kind that knew something was missing.
He sat up too fast. His ribs screamed. The tarp rustled sharply as he shifted.
“…Enola?”
No answer.
The pack was still there.
Her gun — gone.
So was the knife.
So was she.
He kicked free of the emergency blanket, half-falling from the shelter, bare feet hitting cold sand.
“Enola!”
The name cracked from his throat and fell flat against the air.
No wind.
No birds.
No waves.
Just stillness.
She was gone.
Not nearby. Not scouting. Not just “over the ridge.”
Gone.
He’d called her name twice. Loud. Clear. No answer.
He stood on trembling legs, one hand braced against the shelter post, eyes fixed on the early dawn haze spreading over the beach. The light made every shadow longer — but not clearer.
The jungle looked... emptier.
The ocean looked endless.
And Enola’s pack was missing.
That more than anything sealed it.
She hadn’t just stepped away.
She had left.
06:32
He checked the perimeter. Stumbled awkward circles around the shelter, half-hunched from the ache in his ribs.
A branch caught the side of his foot. He didn’t flinch.
"Enola."
He tried again — quieter now.
Still nothing.
The silver blanket lay crumpled beside the tarp. It shimmered faintly in the breeze, catching early light like a false signal flare — something artificial in a place that didn’t care.
He stared at it for a long time.
07:55
The sun was rising now. Stretching warmth into the sand.
His skin itched with salt and sweat. His stomach gnawed with hunger.
And she still hadn’t come back.
He sat beneath the tarp again — this time unmoving. Unblinking.
Just bracing.
What if she didn’t come back?
What if she’d been hurt?
Or had left on purpose?
That was the worst part — not knowing.
She was brilliant. Erratic. Engineered for survival.
She could be hunting. Testing. Watching.
Or bleeding out in a ravine.
And he’d never know.
08:12 – Footsteps
A soft crunch.
Measured.
Unhurried.
He looked up.
Enola Holmes stepped out of the trees like she'd only gone to stretch her legs.
Not even limping.
Her hair was pulled back. The blade was clean. The gun was holstered. Blood streaked her thigh — dried, ignored.
And she was smiling.
Not brightly.
But easily. Relieved.
Like something had lifted — not just from the island, but from inside her.
She spotted him and raised a hand.
“Morning.”
“You were gone for six hours.”
Her head tilted, half-squinting in the light.
“Roughly. Longer, if you count how long I was out of sight.”
“You left no note. You left nothing. You vanished in the middle of the night—!”
“I was back before heatstroke kicked in.”
She gave a light shrug.
“You’re welcome.”
“Enola.” His voice dropped — sharp, low. Not broken.
“You left me.”
She blinked. Confused. “…I left you sleeping.”
“Unconscious. From exhaustion. With no way to know if you were alive, or dead, or—”
“Or what?” she cut in smoothly. “Captured? Eaten? Gone feral and joined the crows?”
He stood abruptly. His breath flared.
“That’s not a joke.”
She smiled again.
Not mocking. Not soft.
Just flat.
“Sure it is,” she said. “We’re on vacation, remember?”
A beat of silence.
Wind through the leaves.
A gull far out over the water.
Then, finally still, she added — less light now, more steel:
“I had to know. If someone was here. If we were being watched. If we needed to sleep with knives drawn… or just with one eye open.
And night was the only chance I had.”
“You could have told me.”
“I didn’t want to wake you. You needed rest.”
“You knew I’d wake up and find you gone.”
“I knew you’d survive.”
“And if something had happened—if you hadn’t come back—what was I supposed to do?”
His voice cracked. Hoarse now. Real.
“What do I do with your body in a place like this, Enola?”
She smiled again.
But the voice wasn’t playful.
It was cold. Practical.
“…Bury me in the sand. Or eat me.”
He stared at her.
“Since we’re low on food,” she added casually.
“Just options.”
She wasn’t joking.
And that gave him pause.
He sank down into the sand, harder than intended. One hand scrubbed over his face.
She lowered herself beside him. Crossed her legs. Pulled the emergency blanket toward her like it was nothing more than a reflex. Brushed it off. Folded it neatly.
“…If I told you I understand,” she said at last, “I’d be lying.”
“But if I told you I’m sorry for worrying you—”
She glanced at him.
Quieter now.
“—that would be true.”
He didn’t answer.
He just sat there.
Beside her.
Not alone anymore.
But not safe, either.
Just breathing.
08:37 GMT – Shoreline Shelter
The quiet held.
Until Mycroft’s stomach growled.
Loudly.
Enola didn’t comment. She just reached into her pack, retrieved a dull silver wrapper, and held it out like a treaty.
He blinked. “…Is that a protein bar?”
“Technically it’s a military-grade nutritional unit compressed into brick form,” she said.
“But yes.”
He took it. Turned it over in his hands.
It looked like a block of dried cement wrapped in foil.
“Charming.”
“You’ll live.”
He bit into it.
Chewed.
And immediately spat it into the sand.
“Absolutely not.”
“You don’t get points for flavour.”
“This tastes like regret and drywall.”
She shrugged.
“I’m not entirely convinced it isn’t drywall.”
He looked at the bar, then broke it cleanly in half and extended the untouched piece toward her.
“Here. Share it. You didn’t eat.”
She didn’t take it.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Enola.”
“We need to ration,” she said simply. “We have five left. One each per day, max. Less if we can supplement. I ate yesterday. You didn’t.”
“You also didn’t sleep.”
She made a low, noncommittal sound.
He narrowed his eyes.
“You didn’t, did you?”
“I rested while walking. Micro-rests.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is if you train your body to do it.”
“Right.”
He folded the wrapper closed, irritation flaring.
“Because of course. You’ve been trained to survive on vapor and broken glass.”
She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t defend it. Didn’t deny it.
Just tilted her head and said, with complete calm:
“Yes.”
He stared at her.
“Is that supposed to be reassuring?”
“No,” she said.
“It’s supposed to be accurate.”
He looked away. The half-bar still in his hand.
“You know,” he muttered, “most people don’t train to survive starvation.”
“I’m not most people.”
“Clearly.”
She leaned back against the tree. Let her head rest lightly against the bark.
He kept watching her.
Too pale. Too still.
Her body was slowing down on the outside — but inside, he could tell she hadn’t stopped.
Her eyes kept scanning — horizon, shadows, treetops. Always calculating.
Always working.
“You’re still working,” he said quietly. “Even now.”
She didn’t answer.
Which was, in itself, an answer.
Notes:
🥄 Calories are currency.
Tension is survival.
And being “not dead” doesn’t mean being okay.
This chapter closes with a truce made of protein bars and unspoken apologies — the kind only siblings know how to give.
Chapter 6: Notification
Summary:
The plane is missing.
The ocean is silent.
And Sherlock Holmes is not grieving. He’s working.When the Ministry finally releases the information, Lestrade brings the worst news a brother can hear. But Sherlock doesn’t break — he calculates. Because no wreckage means no proof. And no proof means this isn’t an ending. It’s the beginning of a case.
They think it’s over.
Sherlock disagrees.
Notes:
How do you tell someone their family might be dead?
Not definitely. Not confirmed. Just… gone. Missing. Vanished without a trace, like smoke over water.This chapter pulls us back to London, to the people left behind. Lestrade. John. Sherlock.
And maybe you can tell me — when silence echoes louder than evidence, what would you believe?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Scotland Yard – Incident Desk – 05:47 GMT
Lestrade didn’t flinch when the internal line rang.
He was already up. Already tired. He’d barely slept since the Ministry debrief two days ago — the one where he’d been told nothing useful, just vague phrases and redacted files. Coffee in one hand, two unfinished reports glowing on his screen, and still no explanation for the unease gnawing at the edge of his thoughts.
The phone rang again.
He picked it up.
“DI Lestrade.”
“Sir. You’re being called to Briefing Room 3. Top priority. It’s about the Royal aircraft incident.”
His hand stilled.
“…They said there were no updates.”
“Not anymore.”
06:12 GMT – Briefing Room 3
Two men in suits.
Not Yard. Not welcome.
Government — the type that smiled without blinking, said things like containment and plausible deniability, and left a trail of sealed files and cold hands.
One stood. “Detective Inspector Lestrade. Thank you for your patience.”
“I wasn’t patient,” he replied.
They didn’t care.
The first opened a folder. The second folded his hands over the table like he was conducting a funeral.
“At 03:47, three days ago, a diplomatic jet registered to Mycroft Holmes vanished from radar. The last automated ping was a mechanical distress signal, sent from a failsafe beacon. The aircraft disappeared from all tracking systems shortly after.”
Lestrade frowned. “Three days ago? And I’m only hearing this now?”
“You weren’t cleared until we had confirmation of probable fatality.”
His stomach turned. “Probable?”
The second man nodded. “There’s been no contact. No flares. No transponder return. Search teams have combed the radius of the last signal. The ocean in that sector is volatile. They found nothing.”
“No wreckage? Not even oil?”
“Nothing.”
Lestrade’s voice dropped. “Survivors?”
The men exchanged a glance.
“…Unlikely.”
07:03 GMT – 221B Baker Street
Lestrade stood at the door for nearly a full minute before knocking.
He hated this part.
God, he hated it.
He knocked twice. Sharp. Firm.
“It’s open,” a voice called.
Sherlock Holmes didn’t look up when Lestrade entered. He was crouched near the floor, examining something in a petri dish, sleeves rolled, focus razor-edged.
Untouchable.
John sat at the table with toast and tea. He gave Lestrade a raised brow.
“You look worse than usual,” John said.
Lestrade didn’t smile.
He stepped in. Stayed standing.
“John,” he said. Then, more carefully: “Sherlock.”
Sherlock blinked once. Slowly. “You’re out of rhythm. You usually knock twice, then hesitate.”
Lestrade didn’t respond.
He reached back and locked the door.
Sherlock straightened.
“What’s happened.”
Not a question.
A diagnosis.
Lestrade’s throat worked around the words. He’d rehearsed them — John could see it in the way his knuckles turned white around the folder.
“I came as soon as I got the call.”
Sherlock was already rising. “Who.”
Lestrade met his eyes.
That was when John saw it.
The pity.
He’d never seen it on Lestrade’s face before.
And Sherlock did not take pity well.
“Lestrade,” Sherlock said, voice sharp. “Who.”
Lestrade opened the file. Didn’t read it. Just said the words.
“There was an incident. A private jet. Over the Pacific. It disappeared from radar. No trace.”
Sherlock’s pupils dilated. “Which jet.”
“MI6-registered. Black route. Off-grid. It was Mycroft’s.”
A pause.
John exhaled — long, shaky. He hadn’t noticed he’d been holding his breath.
Sherlock’s voice went ice-cold. “Who was on it.”
“Your brother,” Lestrade said softly. “And Enola.”
The silence cracked the room like glass.
Sherlock didn’t blink.
Didn’t move.
Even his hands stopped.
“They’re missing,” Lestrade continued. “No contact. No signal. No debris. Just the distress beacon, mid-route. Then nothing.”
John stood. “Missing?”
“Presumed dead,” Lestrade said.
Sherlock didn’t speak.
His expression didn’t change — not visibly — but the room shifted. Thickened.
“You’re lying,” he said. Calm. Flat.
“I’m not.”
“They wouldn’t go down,” Sherlock said. “Mycroft wouldn’t allow it. Enola would’ve survived.”
“They found a mechanical distress signal. Then—silence. Search crews deployed within six hours. They combed the fall zone and every possible drift.”
“And?”
“Nothing. No field scatter. No flotation.”
John’s voice sharpened. “So they’re just gone?”
“That’s the official report.”
John clenched his jaw. “That’s not possible.”
Lestrade’s voice lowered.
“It gets worse.”
Both men turned.
“The trajectory was logged. Tracked. Analyzed. But no debris. Not even a torn wingtip. No life vests. The water there is deep. Remote. Unmonitored.”
Sherlock stared at the wall.
Wordless.
“You okay?” John asked quietly.
No answer.
Lestrade hesitated. “They didn’t want me to tell you. Not yet. But I pushed. You needed to know.”
“Who else knows?” Sherlock finally asked.
“High clearance only. You. Me. A few in the Home Office.”
“Good,” Sherlock said.
John turned. “Sherlock—”
“Don’t.”
“Sherlock—”
“Don’t.”
He stood slowly.
Hands at his sides.
Expression unreadable.
The silence crushed in like deep water.
07:29 GMT – 221B Baker Street
No one spoke.
The room was too quiet — the kind that pressed at the edges of the lungs.
Sherlock stood by the window. Eyes unfocused. Hands still. He hadn’t moved since the conversation ended. Just stood there.
Like a statue with something cracked inside.
Greg — always Lestrade to Sherlock — hovered awkwardly near the armchair. Shifting his weight. Fidgeting with the hem of his coat.
John stood by the table. Watching Sherlock. Watching the room. Watching the stillness stretch.
Eventually:
“Sherlock,” Greg said, quiet. “I know this is—”
Sherlock turned, not sharply. Just enough to stop the sentence.
“I don’t need a eulogy,” he said. “Or a sermon.”
“It’s not—”
“And I don’t need comfort.”
His voice wasn’t cruel.
It was flat.
That was worse.
John tried again, gentler. “We’re not trying to console you. We’re just… here. Alright?”
“I don’t need anyone here either.”
Silence.
Sherlock walked to the mantel. Touched a glass slide that wasn’t there before. Set it down. Brushed the skull with two fingers like it might speak if he asked the right question.
“Three days,” he murmured. “Too much time. All evidence corrupted.”
John stepped in. “You’re not seriously—”
“They didn’t find the wreckage.”
“Right. But—”
“They didn’t find oil. Or seats. Or life jackets. Or luggage. Or a body.”
Greg said softly, “That ocean is deep.”
Sherlock didn’t look at him.
“It’s not about depth. It’s about absence. No drift. No radius. No scatter. That’s a clean extraction. Or a diversion.”
He turned. Eyes bright. But too cold.
“I want the flight plan. The black route logs. Wind data. Satellite passovers. Air traffic handoffs. All of it.”
Greg hesitated. “I don’t know if—”
“You can get it.”
“You’re not cleared.”
“You’ll fix that.”
“Sherlock—”
“I said get it.”
Greg didn’t argue again.
John tried a new angle. “Sherlock… you haven’t processed this.”
“I don’t process. I deduce.”
“You think you’re in control.”
“You think I’m in denial.”
John hesitated. “I think you’re reacting like someone who needs a case more than he needs answers.”
Sherlock walked to the bookshelf. Pulled out the aviation volume on emergency beacons. Dropped it on the desk.
“They’re not dead,” he said. “They’re missing.”
John’s voice cracked. “There’s a difference?”
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “One can be solved.”
Neither man replied.
Greg lingered a few minutes more, then left in silence.
John stayed.
Sherlock didn’t move.
But his mind already had.
Notes:
🕵️♂️ They’re not dead.
That’s not hope. That’s Sherlock Holmes doing the only thing he knows how to do: solve.So what do you think?
Is he in denial?
Or is he right?Drop your theories in the comments — I’m dying to see if you spot the clues he does.
Chapter 7: Line of Sight
Summary:
They built a signal.
Now they wait.As the sun turns brutal and time grows thick, Mycroft throws himself into building the SOS — and pays the price. Enola watches the horizon and the symptoms both. The island is still quiet, the device still blinking, and their hope… fraying.
But survival isn’t loud. It’s slow. Methodical. Stubborn.
Even if it costs you everything but the heartbeat.
Notes:
🔥 Hey, reader. Let’s talk.
You ever sit in heat so dense it makes your thoughts slow? That’s where we are now.
This chapter is quieter. But not safer.I want to know — if it were you out there, would you be more like Enola? Controlled. Surgical. Waiting for the signal.
Or like Mycroft? Burning under the pressure to do something, even if it kills you?Tell me in the comments. I genuinely want to know who you'd be in the jungle.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 3 – Midday – The island
The sun was heavier today.
It clung to the skin, dripped into the eyes, turned every movement into something sluggish and thick. The breeze from the sea didn’t reach past the first line of trees, and inland, the air hung like wet canvas.
Enola didn’t move from the shelter.
That, in itself, was unusual.
Mycroft was a few feet away, sleeves rolled up, dragging a long piece of bamboo across the sand. Slowly. Carefully. He was marking out the shape of a makeshift SOS.
The stalks were mostly hollow and dry — scattered between old palm growth and stormfall. There weren’t many, but they were long, clean, and straight enough for signal work.
He worked silently.
Rhythmically.
He hadn’t asked her permission.
Not today.
Enola was reclined beneath the tarp, propped against the pack, leg stretched and bound, the bandage already soaked with fresh blood. Her device — a slate-grey thing no larger than a fat calculator — rested on her chest, screen glowing faintly. No signal. No pulse. Just idle.
She had positioned it with surgical care. Angled to catch maximum sun — not that the sky was generous today. The interface blinked through passive scan mode: cycling Bluetooth, WiFi, radio, EM signals — anything even remotely resembling civilised frequency.
It blinked once.
Then stilled.
She exhaled.
Not disappointment. Not hope.
Just air.
“Nothing?” Mycroft asked, dragging another pole into place.
“No traffic. No satellites. No civlink.”
“Satellite should be global.”
“Should doesn’t mean is.”
“You’re not helping.”
She glanced at him.
“You’re sunburnt.”
He paused.
“I’m aware.”
“You’re working with your shirt off.”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“You’re very pale.”
He gave her a look. “Thank you.”
“You’re going to crisp like an overcooked prawn.”
“Would you prefer I sit beside you and slowly decompose in shared silence?”
She shrugged. “You do love to martyr.”
“And you do love to lecture.”
She shifted, teeth clenched against the pull in her leg. The flesh was hot now — red, swollen, irritated. Too deep to be dismissed. Not deep enough to kill.
Yet.
“You should be the one building it,” Mycroft muttered.
“You’d rather I limp around the jungle with a fever?”
“I’d rather not feel like dead weight.”
“You’re not,” she said before she could stop herself.
He looked over.
Surprised.
She didn’t repeat it.
“You’re good at this,” she added. “The building.”
“Hardly.”
“You’re meticulous. Methodical. People like you design things. Armies. Economies. Messages.”
He placed another stalk. Then another.
“Why not just say I’m good at tidying up other people’s disasters?”
“I’m trying to be nice.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re trying to be nice?”
She sighed. “Don’t make me regret it.”
The SOS was starting to take shape now.
Three clean lines. Deep in the sand. Each filled with dried bamboo for contrast. Not tall. But wide. Wide enough to throw shadow if the sun struck at the right angle. Wide enough to register on aerial scans — if any satellite passed directly above.
Wide enough to mean help, in every language.
Maybe even big enough to register in some neglected Google Earth scan — if the island was ever surveyed again.
They’d never know.
But that wasn’t the point.
Mycroft wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His shirt now tied at his waist. His shoulders were flushed pink. Sweat rolled down the back of his neck.
He moved slower now.
Enola noticed.
“You’ll overheat.”
“Hydrated.”
“Not enough. Not for this sun.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
“You’re saying worse.”
He placed another piece.
Stood.
Turned.
And swayed.
Just slightly.
But she noticed.
“Take the canteen,” she said, her voice sharper now.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
He picked it up anyway.
Drank. Sat.
And exhaled.
They sat like that for a while — two metres apart, on opposite edges of the tarp’s shade. Both half-listening to the device blinking beside her, still trying to whisper into a world that wasn’t listening.
Eventually:
“If someone sees the signal,” Mycroft said, “how long until they act?”
She didn’t look at him.
“Depends who sees it.”
“If it’s a satellite?”
“Six months. Maybe more. If the data gets processed. If someone flags the image. If anyone’s paying attention.”
“And if it’s a drone?”
“Immediate. But drones don’t fly here.”
“So that’s it,” he muttered.
She closed her eyes briefly.
“Not quite.”
She pressed two fingers to the device’s edge.
A soft tone lit the screen.
A new mode: active SOS beacon.
“This will broadcast a digital distress pulse every ninety seconds,” she said. “Shortwave bursts. Triggers any nearby network, ship radar, or aircraft scan system.”
“There is no range.”
“Not yet.”
A pause.
He looked at her again.
“You really believe someone’s coming.”
She didn’t answer.
She just pressed the device closer to her chest and whispered:
“Always assume the line is open.”
Day 3 – Late afternoon – Under the shelter
The sun had dropped past its peak, but the heat lingered like punishment.
Enola sat under the tarp with her device still against her chest, the screen dimmed now to conserve power. She was quiet. Eyes half-closed. Sweat drying in tight, salty patches against her skin.
Mycroft was across from her.
Shirt back on. Arms loosely wrapped around his knees.
He hadn’t spoken in nearly twenty minutes.
She noticed.
She also noticed the sag in his shoulders. The pallor. The way his eyes looked glassier now than they had this morning.
She said nothing.
At first.
Then he coughed.
Not loud.
But deep. From the chest.
He swayed.
She moved instantly.
“You’re overheating.”
He shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not. You’re flushed. You’re shaking.”
“I’m just—tired.”
“You’re sweating through your collar and your pulse is visible in your neck.”
He didn’t respond.
She crawled over — gritting through the stab in her leg — and slapped the canteen into his hands.
“Drink. All of it.”
“I already—”
“All. Of. It.”
He drank.
Barely.
She sat back and watched the tremble in his fingers. Watched the uneven bloom of colour over his face. Like the sun was burning him from the inside out.
“You should’ve stopped hours ago.”
“I had to finish the signal—”
“No, you didn’t.”
“It needed—”
“It wasn’t worth this.”
Her voice was cold now.
Quiet. Dangerous.
Mycroft looked at her.
He didn’t even try to argue.
“I didn’t want to feel… useless.”
“Then congratulations,” she snapped. “Now you’re sick and useless.”
He winced — not from the words. From the pressure behind his eyes.
She reached into the pack, yanked out the silver emergency blanket, and snapped it open. Threw it over his shoulders.
“Lie down. Under the tarp. Now.”
He hesitated.
“Do it or I swear to god I’ll sedate you.”
He blinked.
Then obeyed.
Enola sat beside him, jaw clenched, fury tight in her throat.
“People like you,” she muttered, “always think survival is about proving something.”
“It’s not?”
“No. It’s about staying alive. Not winning.”
He closed his eyes. The emergency blanket crackled with every breath.
“I was trying to help.”
“No. You were trying to perform. There’s a difference.”
Silence settled again.
Hot. Heavy.
She leaned back on her hands.
Looked up toward the canopy.
Voice low. Bitter.
“You’re not dead weight, Mycroft. You’re just not built for this. That’s not a flaw.”
He didn’t respond.
Didn’t need to.
His breath was shallow now — steady, but slowing.
A heat crash wasn’t fatal.
Not yet.
But close.
She pulled the canteen closer.
Sat beside him.
And waited.
Because she’d already lost too many people by assuming they’d pull through.
Not again.
Notes:
🛰️ Signals don’t guarantee rescue.
Sometimes, they just prove you’re still trying.Thank you for reading another breathless piece of their survival. I love hearing your theories and reflections — so let me ask you this:
What do you think Enola’s really expecting?
Rescue?
Interception?
Or nothing at all?Drop a thought below. I promise I read them all.
Chapter 8: Waterline
Summary:
Water is a luxury.
Survival is math.
And pain is the cost of both.Enola sets out to find water, because Mycroft can’t. What she brings back may save them—but the damage done in the process could cost more than it’s worth. Sunstroke, dehydration, and pain start to peel back even her sharpest edges.
And Mycroft, for once, is left to witness—not control.
Notes:
💧 Let me ask you something.
If your sibling gave you the last of the water, would you accept it?
Would you take it quietly, knowing they lied about having more?This chapter hurts in the way only realism does: slowly, then all at once.
No bullets. No villains. Just heat, thirst, and choices that feel right — until they don’t.Tell me what you think. Would you have made the same call Enola did?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Notes:
🛖 She found water.
But the cost?
Fever. Blood. Collapse.Sometimes survival isn’t about the strongest. It’s about the one who still moves when everything says stop.
So what do you think:
Did she push too far?
Or did she do what had to be done?Drop your thoughts below.
Chapter 9: Boiling Point
Summary:
She found the water.
He boiled it.
Now they wait.Day 4 brings firelight, filtered water, and something even rarer — rest. But it doesn’t last.
Because Day 5 doesn’t arrive gently. The storm does.And for once, it’s a good thing.
Notes:
🌧 Hey. You made it to Day 4 with them.
This chapter spans from the first true exhale to the first downpour — both physical and emotional.So here’s your question today:
Would you be the one who crawls for water… or the one who boils it when they can’t?Let me know in the comments.
I want to know which survival instinct you lean toward — push or preserve.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 4 – Late Afternoon – Shelter
She didn’t wake from sleep.
She woke from nausea.
A slow, rotting pull rose from her stomach to the back of her throat. Her eyes cracked open against the golden slant of late sun. Her body was limp, curled sideways on the silver blanket, soaked in sweat that had long since dried.
She didn’t remember when she passed out.
She wasn’t sure she hadn’t passed out again.
Her mouth tasted like copper. Her gut coiled and twisted.
And she was hungry.
Not idly hungry — not “complain-about-it” hungry — but brittle, skeletal, lightheaded-before-you-stand hungry.
Something moved near the trees.
She flinched.
Pain bloomed. Her whole body ached, deep and dull.
A snap. A clatter. A muttered curse.
Then Mycroft emerged — dragging a bundle of sticks under one arm, almost tripping on a root. He looked wrecked — sunburned, hair sticking up at strange angles, shirt open at the throat, eyes ringed with tension and sleepless grit.
She watched him drop the wood in a semicircle, reach for a mess of twine and bamboo, and begin building something with mechanical focus.
She blinked.
“…What are you doing.”
He didn’t look up.
“Fixing your mistake.”
“Which one?”
“The water.”
She closed her eyes again.
The world tilted slightly.
When she opened them, the fire was already catching.
He crouched low over it, fanning carefully. Like he’d done it before.
He hadn’t.
But he was trying.
And that was what actually shook her.
A minute later, he had a flame.
Five more, and the tin-can-turned-pot sat in the centre, bubbling with water.
She stared at it like a miracle.
He looked up and met her gaze.
“Boil first. Cool it. Then we drink.”
“…How long have you been up?”
“A while.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“You didn’t stir. Not even when you were sick.”
That landed.
She blinked again.
Oh.
He moved toward her, slowly. Passed her the filtered canteen — now cool.
“First sip. Small.”
She forced herself upright. Took it. Drank.
It didn’t burn.
Didn’t sting.
Didn’t fight her.
Her stomach still twisted, but not violently. Just warned.
She nodded.
“Mycroft.”
He looked over.
She met his eyes and said, hoarse:
“Thanks.”
His face didn’t shift at first. Then a slow exhale.
“...You were right.”
“Of course I was.”
“I’m not built for this.”
She tilted her head. “You’re adapting.”
“I’m surviving.”
“Same thing.”
He gave a small nod. Then turned back to the flame.
She leaned against her pack, eyelids fluttering.
“How long until the water’s safe?”
“Five minutes. Ten if you’re cautious.”
“I’m always cautious.”
“No. You’re not,” he muttered.
She smiled faintly.
Neither pushed the argument.
They let the silence settle.
And for the first time since the crash—
the fire stayed lit.
It cracked softly. Shifted. Let out a tired snap as one of the thinner sticks curled into ember. Light flickered up the tarp wall like it was trying to draw shadows on canvas.
Enola didn’t move much.
She was propped against her pack again, blanket over her legs, one hand loose in her lap. Eyes half-closed, but not asleep. Not yet.
Mycroft sat across from her.
Not close.
But near enough to share the glow.
The ocean was hidden, but they could still hear it — a slow, patient hush against stone. The wind had dropped. Humidity had settled like skin.
And for once, it wasn’t unbearable.
Just heavy.
They didn’t speak for a long time.
There was nothing left to say that hadn’t already been said with bandages, blood, and fire.
Enola took a bite of the ration bar she’d stashed. Chewed slowly. Swallowed even slower.
It stayed down.
Progress.
She handed the rest of the bar across the fire. Mycroft broke off a piece. Handed it back.
They chewed in silence.
Eventually, Mycroft leaned back on his hands and said, quiet:
“You didn’t wake up until the fire was already going.”
Her lips twitched. “And you didn’t pass out again. Growth all around.”
He exhaled — almost a laugh.
She looked up, watching the leaves sway overhead.
Then:
“The signal’s not getting out.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“But we leave it on.”
“Of course.”
More silence.
But this one was easier.
Shared.
She shifted slightly. Her leg twinged. She winced and muttered something under her breath — a curse, or a formula.
Mycroft watched her.
Not with pity.
With something harder to name — something like unspoken regret, the kind that would’ve insulted her if voiced.
He said nothing.
He remembered what Michael had told him.
Every word.
“You didn’t wake,” he said finally. “Even when you were sick.”
She nodded. “I know.”
“You didn’t want to?”
“I knew you were handling it. That was enough.”
He blinked.
“You trusted me.”
“I calculated you.”
That hit harder than he expected.
She noticed.
Softened just slightly.
“Same thing, when it counts,” she added. “Trust is instinct. Calculation is choice.”
The fire popped again.
The air shifted.
Enola leaned further into the pack. Her voice dropped low.
“Storm’s coming. Maybe not tonight. But soon.”
“How do you know?”
She opened one eye. “Sky’s holding heat.”
He nodded.
Tucked the blanket closer around her.
She didn’t stop him.
The wind moved again.
The tide changed pitch.
And this time—
when sleep came—
she didn’t fight it.
She let go.
And for the first time in days,
Mycroft didn’t feel the need to watch her every second.
Because the fire was warm.
The camp was quiet.
And she was still breathing.
Day 5 – Late Morning to Afternoon – Jungle Ridge
The air broke first.
It didn’t scream.
It didn’t howl.
It just shifted.
Stillness fractured — replaced by something tense and waiting. And then came the scent: not salt, not soil, but ozone. Cracked metal. The kind of sharpness that arrives just before lightning.
Enola smelled it from twenty meters away.
Her hand clenched around the root she was using for balance.
“We need to move,” she said.
Mycroft glanced uphill. “That soon?”
“Hours, if we’re lucky.”
He looked at the sky.
Not a single cloud.
He didn’t argue.
They moved slowly.
Deliberately.
Enola led. Mycroft carried most of the weight.
She insisted.
He didn’t push back.
The new camp wasn’t far — just a hundred meters from the pool she’d found — but the terrain twisted underfoot. Roots. Uneven ferns. Every step a calculation.
Enola stumbled once.
Didn’t fall.
Didn’t stop.
She gave no commentary. Just pointed: here, step, watch the moss.
Mycroft followed.
Quiet.
They reached the ridge clearing just before midday.
And it was better than he’d hoped.
A thick stone outcrop jutted from the slope like the shoulder of a buried giant. It formed a natural overhang, the ground beneath it soft and dry beneath layers of fallen leaves. Trees leaned inward, their branches tangled just enough to break rainfall but still let filtered light through.
Enola stood at the centre.
One hand on her hip.
Head tilted.
“This’ll do.”
Then she sat down.
Before she could fall.
They got to work.
Time folded.
The tarp was rehung, braced against rock. The silver blanket became the new floor. The bamboo frame from the last camp was dismantled and rebuilt. Mycroft did the lifting. Enola directed — sharp-eyed, pale, but focused.
“There,” she said. “Windbreak. Palm leaves. Angle down.”
“Raincatch?”
She nodded once.
He lashed another container beneath a bent branch, rigged with twine and rock bracing.
It wouldn’t catch much.
But it would be clean.
By mid-afternoon, the sky had changed.
Not gradually.
Just… all at once.
Color drained. Light flattened. Shadow moved in like surf.
Enola sat at the edge of the wall, tightening the strap on her boot to reduce swelling.
Mycroft knelt nearby, watching the pot bubble again.
“You’re favouring your right leg more.”
“I’ve lost count how many muscles are pissed at me.”
“You’re going to crash again.”
She didn’t answer.
He handed her a boiled ration root — one they’d tested that morning.
She sniffed it. Bit. Swallowed.
It stayed down.
Just barely.
Then the sound came — not a crack, but a question.
Thunder. Distant.
They paused.
Listened.
Then moved.
Faster.
Enola limped to the outer edge of camp, threading coloured cord around tree trunks. Territory markers.
Mycroft sealed the food pouch. Anchored the tarp tighter.
He double-braced the raincatcher with bark shims and buried rocks.
Lightning split the sky.
Silent. Distant. White-blue.
Then—
a breath later—
the wind hit.
Cold.
Fast.
New.
They ducked under the tarp as the first drops fell.
One.
Three.
Dozens.
Then the sky opened.
Not rain. Collapse.
A full-body sound — hammering tarp, pounding leaves, shaking rock. Water sank into the jungle like it had been waiting all week.
Enola didn’t flinch.
Just pulled the blanket tighter over her legs and leaned into the stone wall.
Mycroft dropped beside her, breath shallower than he wanted to admit.
“We made it,” he said.
She didn’t smile.
Just nodded.
Tilted her head back.
Let the rain echo through her skull.
Outside, the collector filled.
The ground churned.
The jungle washed itself clean.
Inside, they didn’t speak.
They didn’t need to.
The storm said enough.
And for the first time since the crash—
they had water.
Notes:
🔥 The fire stayed lit.
🌧 The sky finally broke.
💧And for the first time since the crash — they have water.We’re entering a new phase now. Less about the injuries. More about the strategy.
The environment is no longer passive.
The jungle is beginning to answer.
Chapter 10: Cold-Blooded
Summary:
Enola’s infection has begun.
Mycroft’s wound is tearing.
The jungle doesn’t care.Day 6 is quiet — but not safe. A viper visits camp. Hunger claws deeper. Pain settles in like a second heartbeat. They’re not dying.
Not yet.
But the island is watching.
And it always takes its toll.
Notes:
This chapter is about those smaller, quieter choices — the ones that feel like background until they cost you blood, or worse.
I wrote this with the rhythm of exhaustion and the bite of adrenaline. Let me know what you felt most while reading:Enola’s slow unraveling
Mycroft’s quiet recovery
The shift in their roles?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 6 – Early Morning – Ridge Camp
The world was wet.
Not storming.
Not loud.
Just soaked — like the whole jungle had finally exhaled.
Water clung to every leaf, every rock. Every thread Enola had tied between the trees now shimmered like glass veins, dripping dew in slow, rhythmic intervals. Even the tarp above her was still weeping, each drop falling with calm precision onto the earth below.
She blinked.
Slow.
Alive.
And for the first time in days — her head didn’t hurt.
Her stomach growled. Sharp. Real.
A proper hunger. Not the hollow, dangerous kind.
Her mouth was dry, but only from sleep.
She shifted beneath the blanket, peeling it back carefully.
Then paused.
Frowned.
Hissed.
There it was.
Not agony. Not fever.
Just a deep, coiled pulse under her skin — heat tugging in time with her heartbeat.
Her left leg.
The wrapped one.
The one she hadn’t properly cleaned in over twenty-four hours.
She pushed herself upright, wincing. Peeled back the bandage.
Slow. Controlled.
What she found wasn’t dramatic. Not yet.
Just wrong.
The wound’s edges had started to swell. Violet-tinged. The skin around it looked tight, shiny — strained like a drumhead. A faint line of heat radiated upward along her calf. Not aggressive. But present.
No pus. No red streaks up the thigh.
Yet.
But the signs were clear.
It had begun.
“Of course,” she muttered.
She reached for the first-aid kit. Fingers stiff, movements deliberate.
She cleaned it.
Again.
Boiled water poured over the open tissue. She gritted her teeth when it hit raw.
The pain wasn’t sharp anymore.
It was settled.
Low. Invasive.
Something that had moved in like it belonged.
She crushed a mild anti-inflammatory — swallowed it dry. Added the last of the topical antibiotics to clean gauze. Wrapped it tight. Tighter. Precise.
Her hands didn’t shake from fever.
They shook from anger.
At herself.
At the wound.
At all of it.
By the time Mycroft stirred on the other side of the firepit, Enola was tying the last knot on the new wrap.
The fire had died overnight, but the ashes were still warm.
He sat up.
Saw her leg.
Saw her face.
Waited.
Then, softly:
“…How bad.”
She didn’t look at him.
“Manageable.”
“Enola.”
Still not looking. “Not septic. Not yet.”
A pause. Then she met his eyes.
“You have the med kit?”
He passed it without a word.
She opened it. Checked expiration dates. Counted out the doses.
Did the math silently.
Antibiotics: five days’ worth. Maybe six, if she split them carefully.
She pressed her knuckles to her jaw. Exhaled slow through her nose.
“It’s going to slow me down.”
“Then we stay.”
“Too long in one place is a risk.”
“More than sepsis?”
She didn’t answer.
He leaned forward. Voice steady.
“We stay.”
She leaned back against the rock wall.
Nodded once.
Didn’t thank him.
Didn’t need to.
The air smelled like wet bark, old ash, and boiled water.
She let her head tip back.
Closed her eyes.
And even with the infection burning low under her skin—
she let herself rest.
Day 6 – Late Morning – Ridge Camp
She’d just begun to drift.
Not asleep. But close. That fragile hum of half-awareness where pain starts to blur and the body forgets it’s falling apart.
Then—
the silence shifted.
Not louder.
Just different.
Too still.
Too exact.
She cracked one eye open.
Mycroft was crouched at the firepit, prepping coals and setting the pot for another boil cycle.
Only—
he wasn’t moving.
His hand hovered over the lid.
His eyes were locked.
Wide.
Frozen.
“What,” she said.
He didn’t blink.
She sat up straighter.
“What, Mycroft.”
His jaw twitched.
Then — whisper-quiet:
“Don’t. Move.”
Her spine straightened instantly.
That tone didn’t come out often.
Carefully, she shifted her gaze.
Past him.
And saw it.
Coiled in the leaf debris just beyond the fire—
A green pit viper.
Still. Watching.
Not striking.
Not yet.
Mycroft’s breath was shallow.
If he moved, it would strike.
If he spoke, it would strike.
If she startled it—
She was already standing.
Limping. But steady.
Controlled.
She moved.
“Enola,” he hissed. “Don’t.”
She didn’t answer.
She saw it now. The glint. The slow tongue flick.
She didn’t break stride.
Didn’t blink.
“Good,” she muttered.
She moved behind the fire. Circled wide. Not threatening.
But not slow.
She reached her pack.
Grabbed the forked stick — long, carved into a clean V. Something she’d crafted days ago.
For walking.
Or this.
Mycroft’s throat clicked as he swallowed.
“Do you know—”
“Yes.”
She didn’t let him finish.
“Just don’t move.”
He froze.
She stepped behind the viper.
And in one motion—
Struck.
The fork pinned it just behind the head. It thrashed. Writhing tail. Body curling.
She didn’t flinch.
She leaned down.
Snatched the base of the skull cleanly. Thumb braced behind the jaw.
The snake hissed.
Fangs wide.
But trapped.
And Enola?
Smiled.
Mycroft exhaled hard. The kind of breath you don’t realize you’ve been holding until it claws out of your lungs.
She glanced at him, snake in hand like it was a coiled rope.
“You freeze like that in London traffic too?”
He dropped onto a rock. “No. Only when lunch hisses at me.”
She laughed under her breath.
“Don’t worry,” she said, walking past him. “I’ll do the hard part.”
“And what’s the easy part?”
She let the snake drop with a thud on the flat stone.
“Skinning it.”
Day 6 – Midday – Ridge Camp
The fire was burning again.
Clean. Low. Controlled.
On a spit made of sharpened bamboo, the snake turned slowly — skinned, gutted, coiled with methodical care. It roasted evenly, a faint hiss rising from the meat every time the fat caught a flame.
Enola crouched near it, hands steady.
Surgical.
Mycroft watched from a short distance. He eyed the meat like it might still move.
She tossed him the first piece.
“White meat. A little chewy. Tastes like frog. You’ll live.”
He sniffed it.
Bit.
Paused.
“…You’re not wrong.”
“I’m never wrong.”
She bit her own piece. Chewed slowly. Swallowed.
Then leaned back against the rock and closed her eyes.
Still hurting.
Still hungry.
But now?
Fed.
And for now —
that was enough.
Day 6 – Late Afternoon – Ridge Camp
The jungle had stilled again.
Rain-soaked, sun-damp, quiet in that loaded way that meant the storm had passed — but the weight hadn’t.
The wind had eased.
The fire was just embers now.
They hadn’t spoken in a while.
Not since lunch.
Mycroft had eaten more than she expected. So had she. Neither of them said a word about it.
Enola sat near the tarp edge, sorting through the med kit. Checking labels. Reinforcing the case. Her movements were slower now, but still precise.
Mycroft lay flat near the fire pit, one arm over his eyes, feigning rest.
She noticed the way he breathed — shallow. Not idle. Measured.
Protective.
She also noticed the slow spread of blood darkening the cloth near his side.
She didn’t say anything.
She stood. Crossed to him. Knelt.
Lifted the hem of his shirt.
The wound was leaking again. Not badly. But enough.
One of the stitches had torn. The skin was stretched from overuse, and a thin red smear lined the edge of the bandage where the suture had pulled free.
“Of course it did,” she muttered.
Mycroft didn’t flinch.
“If you’re looking for the part where I admit I overdid it—”
“Don’t worry,” she said flatly. “I already know.”
He exhaled through his nose.
“Is it infected?”
“No. Because I’m not you. I clean things.”
“Charming.”
“Efficient,” she said, already peeling the gauze back. “The edges are clean. Bleeding’s controlled. Stitch just tore from movement. I’ll redo it.”
“I don’t need—”
“You do.”
She didn’t look up.
“We can’t both die from sepsis.”
That silenced him. His face shifted.
Almost fear.
She caught it. And kept going with surgical calm.
“I mean, we don’t have the supplies to handle two infections. Not without real meds.”
He tried to sit.
She put a firm hand on his chest and pressed him back down.
“Lie still.”
“I’m fine.”
She pulled out the spray bottle.
He narrowed his eyes. “What is that.”
“Numbing agent.”
“I don’t—”
“Or I cauterise.”
He shut up.
She sprayed. He flinched. Just a little.
Then she worked.
Loop. Pull. Tie.
The new stitching was neater than before.
Not because the wound was better.
But because she was.
Calmer. Sharper. Back in control.
The ache in her leg never left. It pulsed low and steady beneath everything. But she compartmentalised. Always had.
Her hands moved like they belonged to someone else.
She felt his gaze.
“You’re quiet,” she said.
“You’re focused.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I didn’t have one.”
She glanced up. Met his eyes.
Held it.
Then tied off the last knot.
“There.”
He glanced down.
The stitching was cleaner. Closer. Reinforced.
“You could’ve been a surgeon.”
“I am.”
He raised an eyebrow.
She gave a faint smile. “Just not the licensed kind.”
She taped over the wound. Sealed it. Pressed the edges down carefully.
He didn’t wince.
She noticed anyway.
“No stretching for at least a day,” she said. “And if I see you lift another piece of bamboo, I’m tranquilising you.”
“Do we have tranquiliser?”
She didn’t blink.
“Do you want to find out?”
“…No.”
“Then lie down. Shut up.”
He did.
And for once?
He stayed there.
Notes:
🧵 Two wounds. Two caretakers.
One fire between them.Day 6 was about the line between alive and surviving.
What they’re learning is… that line moves.
Sometimes, it hisses.Let me know your thoughts.
What hit hardest for you? The viper? The moment Enola said “We can’t both die from sepsis”?
Or just the quiet way he let her stitch him — without question?
Chapter 11: Absence Pattern
Summary:
Sherlock has twelve maps.
John has twelve coffees.
Anthea has twelve reasons to scream.But no wreckage.
No signal.
And no time.As days pass without word from Enola and Mycroft, the ones left behind begin to fracture in their own ways — not from grief, but from the brutal silence of uncertainty.
Notes:
📍They’ve got a map.
📍They’ve got theories.
📍But no proof.
And the system?
It’s already preparing a memorial, not a mission.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
London — Day 6 — 03:12 GMT
The table at 221B was buried in maps.
Not one. Not two.
Twelve.
Flight charts. Ocean drift paths. Black route overlays. Wind trajectories from satellites that most of MI6 didn’t know existed.
Sherlock Holmes stood over them, rigid, eyes scanning like the truth was trying to hide.
It wasn’t.
That was the problem.
Behind him, John sat on the armrest of a chair, arms crossed, eyelids heavy with exhaustion he refused to admit.
Lestrade had passed out on the couch two hours earlier, coat draped over his chest, shoes still on. A mug of untouched tea sat cold on the windowsill.
Sherlock hadn’t sat in five.
“They didn’t crash where the signal came from,” he said suddenly.
John didn’t even look up. “That’s the fourth time you’ve said that.”
“I’ll keep saying it,” Sherlock snapped.
“Because it matters,” he went on, pacing now. “The signal wasn’t distress—it was automated. A failsafe. Triggered before the actual crash.”
He stopped.
“Which means the trajectory’s wrong.”
John pushed off the chair. “That’s why we shifted the search zone.”
“No,” Sherlock said, turning. “You curved it. But they didn’t curve.”
He pointed to the largest map.
“They disappeared.”
He tapped the blank space.
“No wreckage. No fire trail. No debris. Which means either they hit something that erased them instantly…”
Tap.
“…Or they didn’t crash. Not right away.”
John frowned. “You think… they landed?”
Sherlock didn’t answer. He was already scanning a second chart.
“A driftless blackout over 370 nautical miles. If they lost comms, they’d switch to manual descent. That gives them ten, maybe thirty minutes.”
John stepped closer. “So where does that put them?”
No reply.
Because Sherlock didn’t know.
No island. No charted landmass. Just ocean. Black holes in drone coverage. Bureaucratic silence.
He had theories.
None of them useful.
“They’re alive,” he said, quieter now.
John looked at him.
Sherlock didn’t meet his eyes.
“They’re alive,” he repeated. “It’s the only outcome that fits. No wreckage. No beacon. No bodies. No chutes. They didn’t explode. They didn’t burn. They just… vanished.”
“Sherlock…”
“I know she’s alive.”
His voice cracked—just a hairline fracture.
John stepped closer. “We’re doing everything we can.”
Sherlock didn’t answer.
The silence settled heavy.
Then, from the couch, Lestrade muttered without opening his eyes:
“If they’re out there—at sea—we’ve got days. Maybe.”
Sherlock turned.
John swallowed.
They all knew what came next.
Dehydration. Exposure. Infection.
Even the best didn’t last long.
And only one of them had survived hell before.
“They’re not at sea,” Sherlock said finally.
John raised an eyebrow. “You just said—”
“They’re not. If they were, we’d have something. Drift pattern. Signal. Flotsam.”
He stopped himself.
Because he didn’t know.
He knelt beside the table.
Stared.
Because the numbers didn’t work.
Because the maps didn’t lie.
Because for the first time in years—
Sherlock Holmes didn’t see the answer.
London — Day 7 — 14:06 GMT
Anthea hadn’t slept in four days.
She didn’t show it.
Her blouse was sharp.
Her heels clicked in perfect rhythm.
Her phone buzzed every twenty-three seconds, and she never missed a ping.
But her left thumbnail was split from biting.
And she hadn’t blinked naturally in over twelve hours.
Sherlock was already pacing by the time she reached the corridor.
“Tell them again,” he snapped.
“I did.”
“Tell them harder.”
She exhaled. “Sherlock. This is the Ministry of Defence. Not a bakery. They don’t respond to tone.”
“They respond to threat.”
“They respond to proof.”
He stopped walking. Faced her.
“There is proof.”
“There’s logic. Intuition. Data projections. But no signal. No heat trace. No chute. No ping. No debris. No landmass. Nothing.”
“They’re alive.”
“I believe you.”
“Then make them believe it.”
“I’ve tried.”
They stood like statues in a hallway too white, too clean.
Behind closed doors, analysts were finishing a report with three words:
Presumed Fatal Impact.
“They weren’t on route,” Sherlock said under his breath. “They were off-course. That’s the only thing that fits. The signal was a failsafe. Mycroft would’ve known. He’d change course. And Enola would’ve—”
He faltered.
Anthea waited.
“—She would’ve left a trace,” he said, slower now. “She’d leave something.”
Anthea’s voice softened.
“She might have. But the ocean might not have left it.”
They fell silent.
Then, absently:
“She’s tougher than he is,” Anthea said. “If anyone could survive…”
She didn’t finish.
Didn’t need to.
Voices rose in the room behind them — clipped, professional.
She checked her watch.
Then leaned in.
“Sherlock.”
He didn’t lift his head.
“I’ve pushed as far as I can. I’ve redirected drones. Falsified budget strings. Had four departments authorise wildlife research just to fly over restricted zones.”
She looked him straight in the eye.
“But they won’t give us the Pacific.”
“They’ll give it to me.”
“No.” Her voice dropped. “They won’t.”
He stared at her.
And saw it.
The crack.
Precise. Controlled. But real.
“They’re not refusing to help,” she said. “They’re just running out of reason to.”
He stepped back.
Not like he’d been hit.
Like he’d been out-calculated.
The door opened.
A man stepped out in a grey suit. Civilian. Useless.
“Mr Holmes.”
Sherlock didn’t respond.
The man nodded politely. “You’ve made your case. But the zone you’re requesting is the size of Portugal. Without evidence—”
“You waste money.”
“Yes.”
Sherlock tilted his head. Cold. Sharp.
“Better to bury the bodies than admit you’re afraid to look.”
“No one’s said that.”
“But you’re all thinking it.”
The man turned to Anthea. “I’m sorry.”
She nodded. “Your car’s in two minutes.”
He walked away.
Sherlock turned in the opposite direction.
Anthea followed him to the steps.
“Sherlock.”
He didn’t stop.
“Find me a specific region,” she said. “A grid. A theory. A signature. Something I can sell.”
She paused.
“I’ll make them move if you give me a reason.”
He paused.
Then kept walking.
She didn’t follow.
Not right away.
When she was alone, Anthea let her arms drop.
Her jaw trembled once.
She bit down on it.
Then turned back inside.
Her phone buzzed.
She didn’t answer it.
London — Day 7 — 23:39 GMT
The flat was dark.
Lit only by flickering monitors.
Six of them.
Sherlock sat cross-legged in the centre, jaw locked, shirt untucked, eyes moving in rhythm with data streams.
Currents. Wind shear. Drift velocity.
Ocean salinity. Satellite echoes.
Anthea’s files — filtered, stolen, coded through six departments.
It wasn’t helping.
John stood by the counter. Coffee long cold in his hands.
He hadn’t spoken in half an hour.
When he did, it was quiet.
“You’re going to burn out.”
“I can’t afford to.”
“You’re no good to them dead.”
Sherlock didn’t look up.
“I’m not dead.”
“No,” John said. “But you’re not exactly alive either.”
Ping.
New file: [AE-HOLMES/IRREGULAR-SAT-CROSS-XV-V].
Sherlock opened it.
Heat trace.
Turtle.
False positive.
He closed it.
John stepped closer.
“Anything real?”
“No.”
“Anything strange?”
Sherlock’s jaw flexed.
“They thought the turtle was a human.”
John didn’t even smile.
Then — softer:
“I always thought it’d be the other way around.”
John frowned. “What?”
Sherlock didn’t answer immediately.
Just stared at the red Xs on the map.
Then said it, quietly:
“I’m not worried about Enola.”
John blinked. “You’re not?”
“She’s hurt. Sick, maybe. Hallucinating. But she’s trained. Since childhood. She knows how to vanish. How to survive.”
He looked down.
Hands twitching faintly.
“Mycroft doesn’t.”
John said nothing.
Just sat across from him. Let it settle.
“Mycroft’s clever,” Sherlock added. “But not durable. He’s built for control. Not collapse.”
He exhaled.
“If it’s cold… if she breaks… if the infection gets worse—”
His voice dropped.
“Mycroft’s not trained to survive her.”
John didn’t argue.
Because he couldn’t.
Another ping.
Sherlock didn’t open it.
Just stared at the screen.
John said, barely above a whisper:
“We’ll find them.”
Sherlock didn’t answer.
But he didn’t disagree.
Notes:
🧭 This one’s for the searchers.
The ones who can’t sit still.
The ones who need answers — not closure.This interlude shifts back to London during Days 6 and 7 of the crash timeline, showing us what Sherlock, John, Lestrade, and Anthea are doing while our survivors fight tooth and nail for one more night on that ridge.
Tell me:
Who broke your heart more — Anthea’s cracked calm, or Sherlock admitting he’s not afraid for Enola… but for Mycroft?
Chapter 12: What She’s Leaving
Summary:
She teaches him how to tie knots.
He learns how to gut a boar.
Not because it’s efficient.
Because he might be the only one left.As Enola’s condition worsens, she starts preparing Mycroft to do more than help — she trains him to take over. And Mycroft? He’s starting to realise that the most terrifying part of survival isn’t pain.
It’s watching someone plan for their own death like it’s just another contingency.
Notes:
Welcome back to hell. 🪓🧵🐗
This chapter is what I call the training montage of doom — except instead of punching meat and blasting 80s music, it’s cordage, water filters, and the grim art of killing dinner.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 8 – Late Afternoon – Ridge Clearing
He didn’t remember falling asleep.
But he remembered waking.
The rain had passed. The jungle steamed. His bandages clung to raw skin. His mouth tasted like rust and boiled root.
Enola was gone.
Again.
But this time, he didn’t panic.
He knew what to look for now — twine tied around branches, a bent leaf shaped like a triangle, a root angled exactly forty-five degrees. Her silent code.
"If I’m gone, you need to know where I’ve been."
She’d said it like weather.
He found her near the snare line.
On her knees.
Soaked in sweat.
Silent.
Her left leg was stretched stiffly behind her, angled wrong. But her hands still moved — tightening line, resetting bait. Clean, sharp flicks of the wrist.
He stepped forward to help.
She didn’t look up.
Just handed him the next cord.
“Do it yourself.”
Day 9 – Late Morning – Ridge Camp
It started with rope.
“Cordage,” she corrected. “Not string. Not twine. Cordage. Braided. Knotted. Tight.”
She looped it with one hand — a clean figure-eight, her fingers moving too fast to follow.
“If you tie it wrong, it snaps. We don’t eat. Or worse.”
He tried.
Failed.
Again.
She corrected him silently.
Again.
Day 9 – Midday
Water filtration.
She cracked open a leaf pouch of charcoal beside him.
“Layered system. Gravel, sand, charcoal, moss. Top to bottom. If it doesn’t run clear, do it again.”
He frowned. “I have a degree in international systems analysis.”
She didn’t blink. “Cool. This is mud.”
Day 9 – Dusk
He cooked the roots.
Burned two. Ate one. Saved the rest.
She nodded once.
Didn’t smile.
Her leg was straight now. Wrapped tight. Skin shiny where it shouldn’t be.
He didn’t ask.
She didn’t tell.
Day 10 – Morning
She pointed to the prints in the mud.
“Two toes, cleft in the middle — boar. They pass through at night.”
He squinted. “How can you tell?”
She shrugged. “I used to track insurgents through Afghan valleys. You get good at dust.”
“You were nineteen.”
She didn’t blink.
“Yeah. I was.”
Day 10 – Afternoon
He carried firewood.
Just to the tarp and back.
She corrected his grip once.
Then said nothing.
When he dropped the bundle, she murmured:
“You’re not as fragile as you think.”
And after a beat:
“But you’re not ready yet.”
Day 10 – Nightfall
He cleaned his knife in silence.
She crushed her pills and dissolved them in warm, filtered water. Sipped them slow, head bowed.
Neither of them slept.
The jungle didn’t either.
Day 11 – Morning – Ridge Camp
He woke to a sharp snap outside — not panic, just deliberate.
The air was thick again. Steam clung to the canopy like a second skin.
Enola was crouched by the firepit.
Not snares today. Spears.
Bamboo stalks shaved to a point. Hardened in the coals. Angled like weapons.
She didn’t look at him when he sat up.
Her voice came hoarse:
“You’re going to learn to fish.”
“…Fish?”
“The other thing humans eat when they’re stranded.”
Dry. Clipped. The humour still there, just dulled by fatigue.
Her leg was stiff again. Bandaged too high. Too tight. Slowing blood.
But her hands kept moving.
He knelt beside her. Reached for one of the spears.
She passed him another.
“Start from the base. Clean angle. If it splinters, it’s useless.”
Day 11 – Midday – Streambed Clearing
Eighteen minutes from camp.
The stream was narrow. Clear. Shallow.
Fish flicked like mirrors under the surface — fast, silver, impossible.
Mycroft stood knee-deep, spear gripped in sweating hands. The shaft was warped. His footing worse. Moss. Stones. Constant pull of the current.
Enola sat on a log nearby, pale and still.
Watching.
Not speaking.
He raised the spear.
Struck.
Missed.
Again.
Missed.
Water splashed his shirt. His hand. His pride.
She said nothing.
He could feel her watching — not judging, not helping.
Just measuring.
Another strike. Another slip.
The spear twisted. Splinters dug into his palm. Blood trickled thin and red.
He looked at her.
Still silent.
Still calm.
Still maddeningly detached.
Something cracked.
“This is absurd.”
She didn’t flinch.
“I’m not a soldier. I’m not a tracker. I don’t kill things for food. I don’t stitch wounds or carve traps. I don’t—do this.”
Still, she said nothing.
“I’m not you.”
“I know,” she said. Simple.
That made it worse.
He turned to the water.
The current mocked him. His hand throbbed.
“…Then why are you making me do this?”
Silence.
Then:
“Because we need to eat.”
Not cruel.
Not kind.
Just true.
He looked down at the bloodied shaft.
Then sat.
Reset the tip.
And tried again.
Day 11 – Afternoon – Ridge Clearing
They caught a boar.
Small. Wild. Furious.
He stared at it through the branches — watched it slam against the trap, leg caught, eyes wild.
“What now?”
She handed him the knife.
He didn’t move.
“Enola—”
“You want meat, don’t you?”
He looked from the boar to her.
She wasn’t blinking.
“You kill it,” she said. “Or we eat moss again.”
The knife felt too heavy.
He crouched. Entered the enclosure.
The boar snarled. One leg twisted. Blood matted the fur. It was still breathing. Still fighting.
“Behind the jaw,” she called. “Base of the skull. Fast.”
He hesitated.
Sweat stung his eyes.
Then he struck.
It didn’t die cleanly.
Blood hit his hands.
His knees.
His mouth.
He stumbled away into the trees and vomited.
When he returned, Enola was already skinning it.
“Cut around the legs first,” she said. “Then the belly. Split the spine last.”
He didn’t reply.
He just sat.
Watched.
Ate the meat that night without tasting it.
Dark. Gamey. Tough.
She didn’t eat much.
Just stared across the fire.
Eyes glossy from the heat.
And something colder.
Day 11 – Evening – Ridge Clearing
That’s when it hit.
She wasn’t training him to help her.
She was training him to replace her.
He stood up abruptly, stumbled.
She didn’t flinch.
“Mycroft,” she said. “Sit down. You’ll tear your stitches.”
“Is that why you’re doing this?”
She didn’t answer.
He took another step.
“I said—is that why?”
Still nothing.
He stared at her across the firelight.
“You think you’re going to die.”
Finally, she looked up.
Didn’t lie.
“I’m preparing for the option.”
He dropped beside the fire.
Knees buckling.
“You can’t just—”
“I can,” she said. “And I am.”
“My leg’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“You haven’t.”
His voice shook.
She handed him the field knife.
“Practice carving.”
“Enola—”
“Do it.”
So he did.
With a bleeding hand.
With a sick stomach.
Because she was right.
And he hated her for it.
He couldn’t lose her.
Not like this.
Notes:
🧠 Enola's not giving up.
She's calculating outcomes.
Planning for handover.
Teaching Mycroft the difference between being ready and being chosen.This chapter was brutal to write — emotionally and morally. If you’re feeling raw after this one, you’re not alone.
📣 Let me know in the comments:
What was the hardest line to read?
Do you think Enola wants to survive?
Does Mycroft hate her, or just what she’s making him become?
Because pushing through pain is one thing.
But preparing for legacy?
That’s where it hurts most.
Chapter 13: Learn By Doing
Summary:
Mycroft is finally good at survival.
Which is exactly what Enola was afraid of.
The infection is spreading. The fire’s still burning. The snares are full.
But Enola’s calculations have changed.
This isn’t about getting rescued anymore.
It’s about preparing him to be the last one standing.
Notes:
This chapter broke me.
It’s soft. Brutal. Bleak.
And horrifying in the quietest way.💬 Let’s talk about it:
When did you first realize Enola was training Mycroft to survive without her?
How do you feel about her not telling him directly?
Was the hare scene worse than the boar?
You can scream in the tags if you need to.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Notes:
I warned you.
This chapter is the one where inheritance turns into resignation — and Mycroft, for all his diplomatic power, is just a man with a shaking hand and no idea how to stop someone from dying.
💡 Mycroft’s turning point isn’t dramatic. It’s quiet. A slow realisation that Enola’s entire survival logic has been exit planning. And now he’s holding the knife — not to hunt. But to cut.
He sterilises the blade. Prepares the field. And realises:
This is not her last surgery. It’s his first.Drop your thoughts, heartbreak, theories, or feral screams below 🖤
Chapter 14: Red Steel
Summary:
This was never a lesson.
It was a last resort.Enola’s infection spreads. Hallucinations come first. Then the shaking. The heat. The burn. She gives orders—sharp, surgical—and trusts Mycroft to do the one thing she never trained him for.
Cut her open.
Burn the rot.
And leave her alive.
Notes:
💀 This is it.
The chapter I promised would hurt. And it does.Enola is too sick to lie and too sharp to die quietly.
Mycroft is now the scalpel. Whether he wants to be or not.
🩸 I’ve written surgery before. But never like this. This isn’t medicine.
It’s desperation.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 12 – Midday to Early Afternoon – Ridge Camp
The world had narrowed.
No wind.
No birds.
No breath.
Just heat.
Just rust.
Just the sound of her own pulse—slamming against her skull like fists on iron.
Enola opened her eyes.
The trees were bleeding.
No—not trees.
Men.
Hands. Faces. Watching. Peeling out of the bark like they'd grown there—born from root and rot, their mouths stretched too wide, eyes replaced with smoke, skin blackened and cracking like fire-touched wood.
She blinked—hard.
The hallucinations flinched. Then stumbled backward into the underbrush like they’d been caught trespassing.
“Fuck off,” she muttered. “You’re not real.”
One of them leaned back into view—jaw yawning open, no eyes, just void behind the sockets.
“Fuck. Off.”
It vanished.
And when she blinked again—
Mycroft’s face slammed into view.
Real. Wild-eyed. Pale. Too close.
His hand gripped her shoulder. His mouth moved.
She couldn’t hear him.
White noise screamed behind her eyes.
She shook her head violently. Blinked again. Focused—
Mycroft wasn’t breathing right.
His lungs were spasming in shallow jerks, caught between a sob and a scream. His hands hovered mid-air—trembling, frozen. His voice didn’t come.
She lay on her side.
The blanket beneath her was soaked through. Her lips, too pale. Her skin, glowing—but not in the right places. The whites of her eyes had gone faintly yellow. Her thigh pulsed beneath the bandage—wet, swollen, fluid blooming around the gauze like floodwater.
“No, no, no—”
He dropped the flask. Crawled forward.
Reached—
She slapped him.
Hard.
The crack rang like a rifle shot beneath the tarp.
“FOCUS,” she snapped. “Or I will die.”
His eyes locked on hers.
Fevered. Filthy. Glinting.
Still Enola.
Barely.
“I need you to breathe,” she said, rough and raw. “You want to panic? Do it later. Right now, you're holding the last working brain in this clearing, and unfortunately, I need it.”
“I—” His voice caught.
“No more ‘I’. Listen.”
He nodded.
“Get the boiled cloths from the sealed tin. Not the hanging ones. Those are drying. The tin, Mycroft. The tin.”
He scrambled to the pack. Found it. Fumbled the lid open.
Inside—tight-rolled linens, still warm from that morning.
She’d known.
Of course she had.
“Water?” he croaked.
“Yes. Fresh. Filtered. Not the last batch—the new one. Backup container under the tarp. Wash your hands.”
He obeyed. Fingers trembling, he spilled half the water before even touching his skin. Rubbed hard. Nails. Wrists. Scraped grime off with a moss-rock shard. His knuckles bled. He didn’t notice.
“Knife,” she said. “The sharp one. Field blade. I honed it last night. Next to the tarp pole—tucked in the bark.”
He found it.
Black handle. Gleaming. Clean.
His vision blurred.
“I can’t—”
“Yes. You can.”
“Enola—”
“There’s no one else. You get that? No Lestrade. No John. No Michael. No surgeons. Just you. And me. If you drop that knife, you might as well dig two holes.”
He shut his eyes.
Opened them.
“Do I numb you?”
“Spray’s in the side pouch. Won’t do much. But go ahead. I’d rather not scream in your face.”
He grabbed the bottle. Shook. Sprayed. The skin sizzled slightly. Her body jerked.
She didn’t cry out.
Just nodded, short and sharp.
“Now take the blade,” she rasped. “Hold it over the flame. Not orange. Not dull. Cherry red.”
“That’ll cauterise as I cut.”
“That’s the point.”
“It’ll hurt.”
“No shit. Now move.”
He shoved a stick into the coals. Positioned the blade over the heat. Waited.
His hands shook.
His mouth was dry.
Behind him, Enola coughed. Once. Then again.
“Mycroft.”
He turned.
She had a small stick in her mouth. Notched. Chewed down. Probably from earlier.
She gave him a look.
Then a thumbs-up.
Her smile—cracked, crooked, fever-lit. But real.
“You can do it,” she said around the wood.
“Enola, I’m not a surgeon.”
“Good. Then you won’t freeze trying to be one.”
The blade began to glow.
Not fully.
But enough.
He took the flask. Moved beside her.
His fingers reached for the bandage.
It peeled away like a nightmare—
The skin underneath—black, glossy, yellow in patches. The smell hit him—not rot. Not yet. But close. The wound bulged. The seam had split. Something thick and green leaked from the edge, bubbling from the heat of her body.
He gagged.
Turned.
Almost vomited.
Didn’t.
Her voice came again. Delirious. Clear.
“Mycroft.”
He turned back.
She was watching him.
Stick still in her teeth.
“Cut only what’s discoloured. Not red. Not raw. Just dead. Cauterise as you go.”
He stared at her leg. The blade. His hand.
Her eyes found his.
Her jaw clenched. Her voice—razor-sharp.
“I will scream. I will cry. I’ll probably beg. But no matter what I say—you keep going.”
He nodded.
She blinked. Once. Twice.
Then gave her final order.
“Do it.”
He pressed the blade.
And sliced.
At first, she didn’t make a sound.
She arched—spine tense, fists clenched.
No scream.
No breath.
Just the hiss of steel.
The stink of flesh.
The cut of heat through rot.
He worked—one hand braced, the other guiding. Skin lifted under the blade, black to gold to red. The cauterisation hissed. No blood. Just smoke.
Then—
“Ah—!”
A soft whimper.
Then—
“Hh—nnn—fuck—”
Her body flinched.
“Enola—”
“Keep going.”
He swallowed bile.
Cut deeper.
And then—
The scream cracked the clearing.
“AAAHHH—!”
He flinched. Didn’t stop.
Hit soft decay—slick, yellow. Scraped it off with the flat. Cauterised as he went.
She thrashed.
“Shh—shh—I’ve got you—”
“FUCK—Mycroft—fucking hell—”
Her hands clawed the dirt. Her leg kicked, almost dislodging him.
He moved fast.
Let the blade cool just enough—then shifted.
Sat on her leg.
Hard.
“I’m sorry—”
She arched.
Screamed again.
“AHHHH—no—nononono—PLEASE—”
He turned away.
Sat with his back to hers.
He couldn’t look.
“It’s okay, it’s okay—just a little more—”
“DON’T LIE TO ME—AAAGH—!”
Her voice shattered.
The girl who didn’t cry—
Was crying.
Tears poured, silent and hot. Her jaw opened in a sob that turned to another scream, another growl, another—
“Please—please, stop—please—”
He had to reheat the blade.
Pulled it from her skin.
Shoved it back into the coals.
Waited.
Her body shook beneath him.
He returned.
“One more. Just one more.”
“NO—no more—I can’t—”
“You have to—Enola—please—”
“I hate you—”
“I know.” He pressed the blade.
“I HATE YOU—AAAHHH—MYCROFT—”
He kept going.
Tears fell.
Not his.
Hers.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
“STOP—it’s too much—I—I—”
Her voice broke.
And then—
One final twitch.
She collapsed.
Dead weight.
Gone.
“Enola?”
He dropped the blade.
Grabbed her face.
“Enola—!”
Nothing.
Her breath still came—fast, shallow, alive.
But she wasn’t there.
He leaned in.
Forehead to hers.
His hands coated in blood. Her skin raw. The rot—gone. Burned clean. No longer bleeding.
“You did it,” he whispered, trembling. “You stupid girl. You did it.”
She didn’t answer.
She was out cold.
And for the first time in his life—Mycroft Holmes sat perfectly still, holding his unconscious sister.
Too afraid to cry.
Too grateful not to.
Notes:
You’re still here?
Then I assume you’re bleeding with me.
Yes.
I enjoy torturing my characters.
And no,
I am not sorry.
Not even a little bit.Let them scream. Let them bleed.
Let them beg and break and burn.
Because that’s how we know they’re real.
That’s how we know they’re worth saving.If you're still reading—
welcome to the pain.
I built it for you.
And for them.
And for me.
Chapter 15: Aftermath
Summary:
When infection threatens Enola’s life, Mycroft is forced to do the unthinkable: cut into her flesh to save her. What follows is a brutal field operation, a breakdown so raw it splinters him, and a quiet reunion forged not from relief, but from the aftermath of surviving something unspeakable. Pain is no longer the price — it’s the language.
Notes:
God damn it, I hate myself.
Why am I doing this to myself?
Oh right — because pain is my love language and apparently I'm a sadist with a keyboard.
You thought things were bad before?
Buckle in.
This is Saltwater Logic — not Comfort and Cuddles.
You’re not here to be spared.
You're here to feel.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Notes:
I let Enola scream.
I let Mycroft bleed.
And I made you hold their hands while they did it.If you're reading this with tears in your throat and ash in your chest —
Good.
That means it worked.Now breathe.
Because they finally can.
Chapter 16: The Morning After
Summary:
The surgery is over.
But the aftermath has teeth.Enola wakes. Mycroft crumbles.
Day 13 begins in silence, soaked in blood and guilt, as both siblings try to find their footing in the new shape of survival.She lived. He made sure of it.
And now he can’t stop seeing what it cost.
Notes:
Yes.
I know this is not your usual Mycroft Holmes behavior.
The Ice Man. The man with the plan.
Mr “Emotion is a liability” himself.But the man just butchered his sister’s leg with a red-hot knife.
And let’s be honest:
I think Mycroft is exactly the kind of man who would blame himself for everything — even the things he was asked to do, even the things he did right.So no. This is not a character break.
It’s a character crack — finally showing what’s underneath all that control:
Grief.
Fear.
Devotion.And a man who doesn’t know what to do now that she’s still here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 13 – Early Morning – Ridge Camp
The world was still grey.
Not light. Not dark. Just the blurred hush of pre-dawn — that liminal hour when the fire has burned low and the sky hasn’t decided whether to rise again.
Enola was awake.
She had been for a while.
Mycroft lay beside her, one arm slung loosely over the blanket they shared, head tilted toward hers. Mouth slightly open. Chest rising and falling in the erratic rhythm of real exhaustion.
She could feel it in the weight of him. Not sleep. Not peace.
Just gravity.
His hand still touched hers. No grip. No tension.
Just presence.
She didn’t move.
Not at first.
She stared upward, past the tarp to the skeletal canopy, where stars had begun to fade behind cloud and ash. Her body pulsed with pain — a hot, dull throb packed into cauterised muscle and survival gauze.
But her mind was clear.
Sharp, even.
The kind of clarity that only follows the collapse of a fever.
Slowly, she turned her head.
Watched Mycroft’s face.
He looked—
Wrong.
Not in a way she could blame him for.
In the way grief carves itself into people when no one’s looking.
Blue rings under his eyes.
Lips cracked.
A smear of dried blood at his temple.
His posture, always rigid, had slumped completely — spine no longer steel, just slack.
He looked like someone who’d lost something
and was waiting to lose it again.
Her eyes drifted to the blanket.
Her leg pulsed underneath — not sharp, not screaming — just… changed.
Unfamiliar.
And she had to know.
She shifted one hand.
Lifted the blanket’s edge.
Cool air touched skin. She bit the inside of her cheek.
The bandage was tight. Clean. Carefully braced and sealed.
It was good.
Too good.
She blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then unwrapped it.
Deliberate. Silent.
Each fold of gauze came loose like a page turning.
One.
Two.
Three.
Underneath, a pad. Soaked through. Antiseptic and blood. Dried now — but recent enough to catch in her throat.
She exhaled.
Set it aside.
And looked.
The flesh was red. Swollen. Blistered at the edges.
The burn line — black and deep — seared through flesh no longer viable.
The surrounding tissue was raw.
Sliced.
Exposed.
But not careless.
Not brutal.
Precise.
“You didn’t hesitate,” she whispered.
No jagged edges. No evidence of panic.
The blade had been properly burned.
The cuts were tight.
No infection.
It was ugly.
But it was clean.
She stared at it like it belonged to someone else.
Like her own leg was a forensic exhibit.
She should’ve felt anger. Or fear. Or betrayal.
But all she felt was the raw weight of certainty.
You saved me.
And now she could see it.
What it had taken.
What he’d done.
What it cost him to do it while she screamed.
Enola Holmes — who didn’t cry.
Didn’t beg.
Didn’t trust anyone with a blade —
Had let her brother cut her open and burn her clean.
Because there was no other choice.
And he hadn’t run.
He hadn’t frozen.
He had made her live.
Her stomach turned.
Vision shimmered.
She folded the cloth back over the wound, hands shaking. Rewrapped it slowly, like she was putting away something sacred. Something secret.
Like she didn’t want him to know she’d seen it.
She tied off the last knot with an unsteady breath.
Then turned toward him again.
Mycroft hadn’t moved.
His hand still brushed hers.
His brow twitched once — a nightmare, maybe.
She watched his chest rise.
Fall.
Rise again.
Then whispered, so softly the leaves couldn’t hear:
“You’re not made for this.”
A pause.
“But you did it anyway.”
She rested her head against his arm.
Watched the last stars fade.
And for the first time since the crash—
She didn’t feel like the strongest person in the room.
And maybe that was okay.
Day 13 – Morning – Ridge Camp
Birdsong.
That slow, lazy kind that meant morning had arrived — and the jungle hadn’t noticed they were dying.
The air was cooler than it had been in days.
Damp, but not soaked.
The tarp rustled with the gentlest wind.
The fire had collapsed into ash and a single curl of smoke.
She blinked.
Her body felt—
Wrecked.
Not destroyed.
Just scraped down. Hollowed.
Her throat was dry. Her mouth tasted of copper and moss. Her leg throbbed under the bandage — a dull, deep ache.
And still—
She was breathing.
She turned.
Mycroft hadn’t moved.
One arm crossed his chest, the other near where their hands had touched.
His face slack.
Mouth parted slightly.
Hair matted to his temple.
But asleep.
Peaceful, almost.
Which was strange.
She watched him.
Didn’t touch him.
There was a kind of sacredness to it — this stillness.
No emergency.
No howling wind.
Just aftermath.
He had saved her.
And now he was still.
Not broken.
Just worn.
She closed her eyes.
Counted to twenty.
Opened them again.
Turned her head.
“You sleep like a corpse.”
Nothing.
“Seriously. Not a twitch. You sure you didn’t die of guilt in your sleep?”
Still no reaction.
She smirked.
“I mean, if you did, you owe me one water refill and a splint.”
A groan.
He shifted half an inch.
Raised an arm.
Covered his eyes.
“God, you’re annoying.”
Enola grinned.
Soft. But real.
“And you’re alive.”
“Barely.”
“Welcome back.”
He didn’t speak.
But he dropped the arm shielding his face.
Stared at the canopy — like the sky had betrayed him by not collapsing.
Then slowly — carefully — turned toward her.
Their eyes met.
Neither of them moved.
The weight of it all still sat between them.
Screams. Blood. Smoke.
But they were here.
Enola shifted. Winced.
He moved instantly. Not panicked. Just focused.
Not instinct.
Choice.
“You shouldn’t—”
“I know.”
“Let me—”
“Mycroft.”
He stopped.
She looked him dead in the eye.
“You did everything right.”
He looked away.
But nodded.
Once.
Then stood, stiffly, like he didn’t quite believe he was done being punished.
“I’ll boil water.”
“And I’ll lie here like a goddess.”
“That’s new.”
“Shut up and don’t forget the charcoal pouch.”
He turned.
And for the first time in days—
It didn’t feel like a countdown.
It felt like a beginning.
Day 13 – Mid-Morning – Ridge Camp
Breakfast was quiet.
Too quiet.
Which would’ve been fine—
If not for the boar meat.
It sizzled on the bamboo rack. Not burnt, just crisping.
Enola sat mostly upright, propped against a stone, her leg stretched, flipping meat with a bark strip.
“It’s not even bloody,” she muttered. “Hardly counts if you can’t feel the guilt staring back.”
Mycroft sat opposite her.
Holding boiled water like it was a cursed object.
Eyes flicking to the fire. Then away.
Then back.
Then away.
Again.
And again.
“You’re going to sprain your neck doing that,” Enola said.
He didn’t respond.
She flipped the meat. Held out two pieces on a leaf.
“Eat.”
He stared like she’d handed him a raw lung.
“Mycroft—”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
“I can manage.”
“You passed out in a tree on Day Four and nearly walked off a cliff on Day Six.”
“It’s not about hunger.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“You mean it’s about guilt.”
He said nothing.
She shoved the leaf at him.
“You saved my life.”
“I carved you open with a red-hot blade.”
“And now you’re sulking like you ran over my dog.”
“You screamed, Enola.”
That stopped her.
Just a second.
Then—
“Of course I screamed. I had a knife in my leg. That’s biology.”
He still wouldn’t look.
“You could’ve died.”
“And instead I got a field surgery and a brother with a martyr complex. Lovely.”
He clenched his jaw.
She sighed.
“Okay. Let’s simplify.”
She jabbed the bark like a pointer.
“You saved me. I thanked you. That’s the normal order of events. Now eat your damn pig.”
“I don’t want your thanks.”
“Well, you’re getting it. It’s compulsory. Eat the war pig.”
He stood, abruptly.
“I don’t want the meat.”
“You’re not getting mango sorbet!”
He turned toward the jungle — jaw tight, fists clenched like he was drafting a formal complaint to God.
Enola dropped the stick.
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t—”
“You saved my life and now you’re mad about it?”
“I hurt you.”
“I asked you to.”
“You screamed.”
“Would you rather I died politely instead?!”
He turned.
“I keep seeing it—”
“Yeah. So do I.”
“That’s not the same—”
“No. It’s not.
Because I’m alive.
Because you didn’t run.
Because you burned the knife.
And saved me.”
He blinked.
So she threw a piece of meat at him.
It hit his chest with a sad flap.
He looked at it.
Then her.
“…Did you just throw a pig at me?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not eating that.”
“You’re going to eat something.”
“You’re going to throw less pork.”
“Then stop acting like a Victorian widow whose lace cuff caught fire.”
He rubbed his face.
Sat back down.
Took a deep breath.
“You’re insufferable.”
“You’re impossible.”
“…You’re alive.”
She smiled.
Softly.
“And you made that happen.”
He looked at her.
Really looked.
Then picked the least offensive piece.
Bit it.
Chewed. Swallowed.
“This is terrible.”
“It’s boar.”
“You salted it like a war crime.”
“You’re welcome.”
They ate in silence after that.
Not looking at each other.
Not needing to.
For now—
It was enough.
Notes:
This chapter is quieter.
But it’s also crueler.
Because now we’re past the screaming.
Now we’re in the part where they have to look at each other and live with what just happened.This is Mycroft Holmes with blood on his hands and no excuse to keep pretending he’s fine.
This is Enola Holmes with her leg burned open and her voice still steady.
This is grief in recovery.
This is love, and guilt, and war pigs.If you’re still breathing —
you’ve already survived worse with them.
Chapter 17: Noise Before Silence
Summary:
Back in London, Sherlock Holmes spirals deeper into obsession, unraveling the sabotage that caused Enola and Mycroft’s plane to vanish. John and Lestrade work around the clock, but it’s Michael—Enola’s unpredictable, loyal ghost—who emerges as the one man able to track her down. As data fails and politics stall, Michael uncovers a chilling truth: the pilot was a Moriarty agent, and the disappearance wasn’t an accident—it was a message. The rescue shifts from search to war. If Enola is alive, she’s left a signal. And Michael intends to find it.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 14 — London
Undisclosed MI6 Satellite Analysis Hub
The hum of the fluorescent lights had become unbearable.
Not loud.
Just constant.
That brittle, teeth-on-metal buzz that haunted rooms built for data—not answers.
Sherlock Holmes hadn’t moved in hours.
He sat hunched at the terminal, one hand curled under his chin, the other frozen mid-air above the keyboard. His spine had caved inward, shoulders sagging like the screen had physically pressed him down.
The terminal glowed cold blue.
Flight data.
Trajectory overlays.
Comms logs.
And beneath all of it—a heatmap of static.
John Watson stood near the wall, holding two now-cold coffees.
He didn’t bother speaking again.
The last three times, Sherlock hadn’t blinked.
Across the room, a side monitor pinged softly—fresh logs decrypted from the Ministry. Still, Sherlock didn’t turn.
John cleared his throat.
“It’s been two weeks.”
Nothing.
“Sherlock.”
Silence.
“You’re barely sleeping. You’re not eating. And your ‘not caring’ face is starting to look a lot like panic… with a Harvard accent.”
Sherlock’s voice came at last—low, flat:
“They’re not there.”
John frowned. “What?”
“The satellite heat signatures. The signal echo. Trajectory vectors. None of it matters.”
His fingers twitched over the keyboard.
“Because they’re not there. Not anymore. They’re gone. Or they were never there to begin with.”
John stepped closer.
Sherlock didn’t blink.
“Which means it didn’t end in the air,” he continued.
“It started before they left the ground.”
That got John’s attention.
“You think it was sabotage?”
“Not think. Know.” Sherlock’s eyes flicked across the flight manifest. Two names. Holmes, M. Holmes, E.
No pilot logs.
No engineer clearance.
No flight crew roster.
No biometric data beyond a ghost passport ID.
“They scrubbed it. Whoever planned this—buried the pilot so deep MI6 couldn’t smell it.”
John exhaled. “Then how are you going to?”
Sherlock didn’t reply.
Because the door opened.
Anthea entered.
No heels. No phone. No tablet.
Just dark circles, a sealed folder, and a silence heavier than anything else in the room.
She walked straight to Sherlock and handed over the file.
“Aviation black logs,” she said.
Sherlock took it. Flipped through the first few pages.
“Not commercial.”
“No.”
“Not cleared through diplomatic registry.”
“No.”
He stared at the name.
Harris T. Grint
Alias: Theo G. Hartwell
Nationality: Unknown
Training: Classified
Former Affiliations: Redacted
John stepped beside him. “Seriously?”
Anthea nodded. “Went off-grid four years ago. Resurfaced under a false license two months ago. Hired through proxy to run diplomatic routing.”
Sherlock’s jaw clenched.
“This was orchestrated.”
“Yes.”
“By who?”
Anthea’s voice was quieter now.
“That’s the problem. They didn’t erase the data. They buried it—just deep enough to look forgotten. Just shallow enough that you’d find it.”
Sherlock stared down.
“A message.”
“Or a challenge.”
John rubbed his face. “Great. Love a good psychopath breadcrumb trail.”
Sherlock stood. Not abruptly. Just—precise. Measured. Too still.
“We’re not looking in the water anymore.”
Anthea blinked. “Then where?”
Sherlock tapped the map overlay again—not on the signal. Not on the heat.
On the blind spot.
That stretch of the Pacific corridor where surveillance just… failed.
“Wherever that leads.”
John hesitated.
“We don’t even know if they’re alive.”
Sherlock turned. Voice quiet. Sharp as a scalpel.
“They have to be.”
He looked at the file one more time.
Closed it.
And murmured, as if to himself:
“They wouldn’t let death happen that quietly.”
Café on Ebury Street, 10:34 AM
It was too bright for this kind of conversation.
A clean spring morning in London.
Sunlight on metal chairs.
Steam curling from takeaway cups.
Children shouting about lunch across the street.
Everything too normal.
John Watson stared into the sleeve of his coffee like it might reveal a clue.
Across from him, Lestrade nursed something that claimed to be tea. He looked like sleep hadn’t been an option in days.
“Still nothing?” he asked.
John shook his head. “Sherlock’s focused on the pilot theory now. Anthea dug up a file. Real ghost-level stuff. Clean enough to scream setup.”
Lestrade sighed, leaning back.
“So it wasn’t just a crash.”
“No. They were meant to vanish.”
Greg exhaled sharply through his nose. Stared at his tea like it might fix things.
“God.”
John looked up.
“I’m taking Sherlock lunch later. Not that he’ll eat it. Or blink. Or notice the sun’s out.”
“Still combing satellite feeds?”
“He’s memorised every thermal fluctuation across the South Pacific. By colour.”
Silence.
Not angry.
Not heavy.
Just… tired.
Greg stirred his tea. Didn’t sip it.
“You think they’re alive?”
John didn’t answer at first. His eyes tracked a pensioner walking a spaniel. A bus rounding the corner. A life that hadn’t paused.
Then, quietly:
“I think Enola’s trained for things we don’t understand. And I think Mycroft is…”
A pause.
“Stubborn. Resourceful.”
Greg gave a dry look. “He’s a bureaucrat, John.”
“He’s a Holmes.”
That landed.
Lestrade nodded once, tight and thoughtful.
“And Sherlock?”
John sighed. “He’s unraveling. Quietly. In that unique Sherlock way where he pretends nothing’s wrong until a wall collapses.”
“Yeah.” Greg’s smile was faint. Bitter. “I remember the wall phase.”
They didn’t laugh.
They didn’t need to.
“He’s only talking to Anthea and me,” John added. “And Anthea’s basically caffeine and contempt by now. She’s running on three hours of sleep and the sheer power of spite.”
Greg frowned. “MI6 still officially hands-off?”
“Officially, yes. Unofficially, she’s feeding Sherlock scraps through the cracks.”
He took a breath.
“Sherlock lives for cloak-and-dagger. But even this is starting to fray him.”
Greg's voice was softer now. “Do you think they’ll be found?”
John looked down at his shredded napkin.
“There are cases. Survivors found weeks later. Islands. Beacons. No contact, but alive.”
Greg leaned in. “And?”
John looked him in the eye.
“And Enola Holmes is not someone you kill quietly.”
Greg didn’t argue.
Didn’t flinch.
Just looked at his cup again.
“Funny,” he muttered. “Always thought Sherlock would be the one to vanish into nowhere. Not Mycroft.”
“Sherlock disappears all the time. That’s his trick.”
John sipped his lukewarm coffee.
“Mycroft brings the chaos with him when he goes.”
Greg smirked faintly.
“And Enola?”
John looked up.
Let the wind brush over him. Let the city murmur past like it hadn’t lost two ghosts.
“She is the chaos.”
They let that settle.
Two men.
Two coffees.
One hundred unanswered questions.
Then Greg spoke again.
“We need a better plan.”
John nodded. “Yeah. But I don’t know what it is. Sherlock’s squeezed every lead dry.”
Greg leaned back. Something shifted behind his eyes.
“Wait.”
“What?”
Greg sat forward. Brow furrowed. “This isn’t the first time she vanished.”
“No,” John nodded. “But the last time—wasn’t a crash. That was the Redfeed case, right? The cannibalism op.”
“Yeah.” Greg’s jaw tightened. “That was worse.”
John blinked. “You were there?”
“Most of it. Me and Donovan. Until…”
He hesitated.
“Until she knocked Michael out and vanished.”
“…She what?”
“Left a tracking signal. But only one person picked it up. Not me. Not Mycroft.”
John narrowed his eyes.
“Who?”
Greg looked at him.
Flat.
Deliberate.
“Michael.”
John sat straighter. “You’re telling me he found her? Alone?”
“No tech grid. No backup. Just him.”
“Sherlock doesn’t know this.”
“No.”
“Would he listen if he did?”
Greg snorted. “He’s not going to like it.”
John’s voice dropped.
“But he’s not wrong. Enola’s impossible to track. But if she trusted him—really trusted him—to find her…”
“Then that’s where we start.”
Greg pulled out his phone.
John raised a brow. “You kept his number?”
“Never deleted it.”
“And Sherlock?”
Greg stood.
Tossed the tea in the bin.
“Sherlock can keep chasing signals.”
He met John’s eyes.
“I’ll take the only person Enola trusted to follow her into hell.”
Day 14 — London
Enola Holmes’ Flat — 11:42 AM
The door swung open like it had no right to be part of a crisis.
Michael stood in the frame.
Hair unbrushed. Shirt half-buttoned. Mug in one hand.
One sock. No shoes.
Music hummed low from somewhere — something old, jazzy, almost cheerful.
Behind him: a half-eaten bag of crisps, a jigsaw puzzle half-finished, and a bottle of wine completely finished.
He blinked.
Once at the doorway.
Once at John.
Once at Greg.
Then: grin.
Easy. Tilted. Pure trouble.
“Bloody hell. A doctor and a detective inspector. What’d she do now — mail the Queen a ferret?”
Neither man smiled.
Michael’s grin faltered.
Just a notch.
“Not a ferret, then.”
He leaned against the frame, utterly relaxed.
“She’s not home.”
Greg: “We figured.”
John: “That’s why we’re here.”
Michael took a sip from the mug.
“Ah. Missing again, is she? Took the kettle and vanished into the mist?”
John and Greg exchanged a glance.
That silent exchange.
The “this is your last joke” look.
John cleared his throat.
“She’s not just off-grid this time.”
Michael squinted.
“Right. Properly off-grid, then.”
Greg: “She took a plane.”
Michael’s eyebrows rose.
“Oh, very on-brand. Where to this time? Tajikistan? Or did she finally buy that haunted church in Slovenia?”
John blinked.
“That’s a real thing?”
“Wanted to raise goats and install a trapdoor,” Michael muttered into his cup.
“She even named the parish.”
Greg cut in. Flat. Direct.
“Michael.”
The grin slipped sideways. Not gone. But leaning. Listing.
“Alright. What happened?”
John spoke first.
“She was on a plane.”
Greg: “It vanished off radar.”
John: “No signal. No wreckage.”
Michael blinked once.
Twice.
Then nodded slowly.
“…So not a church in Slovenia.”
Neither man spoke.
Michael sipped again.
Looked away.
“Could still be a vacation, you know. She disappears all the time. Usually comes back with a limp, a story, and someone else’s identity.”
Greg’s mouth twitched.
“This was a diplomatic aircraft.”
Michael took another drink.
“Still sounds like her.”
John studied him.
“You’re… taking this oddly well.”
Michael shrugged.
“She’s disappeared into worse. Places designed to kill her. She usually resurfaces with a plan and a black eye.”
John’s voice dropped.
“She might be dead.”
“Or she might be bored and catching coconuts.”
John turned to Greg.
Greg to John.
Michael caught it.
The look.
The other shoe.
His gaze narrowed.
“…Who else was on the plane?”
Silence.
John rubbed the back of his neck.
Greg didn’t blink.
Michael’s mug paused midair.
“Who else?”
Flatter now.
John: “Mycroft.”
Beat.
Michael blinked once more.
Looked into his mug like he’d just realised it was empty.
“…Oh.”
He set the mug down behind him with careful precision.
No pacing.
No shouting.
Just a shift.
Small.
Final.
“Vacation’s off the table.”
Greg raised an eyebrow.
“That’s what gave it away?”
Michael shot him a look.
“You think she voluntarily shares air with Mycroft outside national threat level four?”
“I don’t think she voluntarily breathes near Mycroft.”
“Exactly.”
He scanned the flat.
Empty doorway.
No boots.
No coat.
No sarcasm hovering in the air.
“So. Crashed plane. No transponder. No wreckage.”
John: “Last signal ping. Then silence.”
Greg: “Sherlock’s been combing satellite feeds.”
“And found nothing.”
John nodded.
Michael cracked his knuckles.
His tone dropped.
“Then it’s not Sherlock you need.”
Greg didn’t blink.
“We figured.”
Michael had thrown on a hoodie.
Enola’s hoodie.
He either didn’t notice or didn’t care that it read
PROPERTY OF THE CROWN’S PROBLEM CHILD
across the back in cracked vinyl lettering.
He’d also made coffee.
Real coffee.
Pitch black. Unforgivable. Brewed in a tin so scratched it looked like it had survived two wars and one apocalypse.
John and Greg sat at the kitchen table, watching him type with a speed that bordered on violent.
The laptop had emerged from under the sofa.
Military grade. Matte black. Terrifying.
Michael looked… different now.
His hair was still chaos.
But his eyes had narrowed. His shoulders had squared.
Focus restored.
“Alright,” he said, voice low. Measured.
“Tell me everything. From the top.”
Greg recapped—sharp, clean.
Flight path. Last signal.
No wreckage.
No transponder.
No visuals.
Sherlock losing his mind.
Anthea smuggling data off-books.
The government bailing.
“She vanished,” Greg finished. “Again.”
Michael nodded once.
Sipped his coffee like it was fuel.
“Flight path?”
John handed him a printed overlay.
Michael laid it flat. Scanned it once. Eyes tracking too fast.
Tap.
He marked the final signal.
“SOS came here.”
John: “Yeah.”
Michael dragged his finger along the projected route.
“If the plane kept flying—malfunction, power failure, whatever—it would’ve followed this arc.”
He traced the standard path.
“Predictable. Searchable. Recoverable.”
He sat back.
Sipped again.
“But it didn’t.”
Greg frowned.
“How do you know that already?”
“It took Sherlock nearly a week,” John added.
“You figured it out between two sips.”
Michael blinked, deadpan.
“It’s basic protocol. In an emergency, you stick to the corridor. If they didn’t... someone changed course. On purpose.”
He paused. Then added:
“Someone didn’t want them found.”
John scrubbed a hand down his face.
“You’re saying it was intentional?”
Michael shrugged, tone flat.
“If I wanted to erase two inconvenient liabilities, I’d stage a crash. Ocean eats the wreckage. Everyone grieves. No loose ends.”
Another sip.
“Smart plan.”
John stared.
“You’re terrifying.”
Michael nodded.
“Thanks.”
Greg pulled a folded slip of paper from his coat.
“Pilot’s name. Theo G. Hartwell.”
Michael didn’t look. He just typed. Fast.
Then retyped—with variations.
His expression changed.
Smile gone.
Eyes sharpened.
He turned the screen toward them.
A rust-coloured interface. Black background. Fragmented code.
Definitely not MI6.
“This isn’t Crown intel,” Michael said.
“This is hers.”
“Enola’s?” John asked.
Michael nodded.
“Her archive. Deep-mined. Tied to every system she ever broke into.”
“She called it her paranoia index.”
Greg leaned forward.
“Is that… Irene Adler’s system?”
“Merged with Enola’s. After the opera incident.”
Michael didn’t look up.
“Efficient. And deeply paranoid. Perfect.”
He highlighted the name.
Theo G. Hartwell
Logistics / Containment – Moriarty Circle
Last contact: REDACTED
Status: Embedded Operative
He sat back.
“He worked for Moriarty.”
The room froze.
John exhaled through his teeth.
“So it’s not just a disappearance.”
Michael’s voice was steady.
“It’s a hit.”
Greg narrowed his eyes.
“Target was Enola?”
Michael didn’t answer immediately.
He folded the screen closed. Soft. Final.
“Her. Mycroft. Or both.”
He looked up.
And for the first time, something behind his eyes looked dangerous.
“Either way, someone wants Sherlock isolated.”
John sat up straighter.
“You think this is about Sherlock?”
Michael didn’t blink.
“Everything with Moriarty is about Sherlock.”
Greg muttered, “But why go after the others?”
Michael leaned forward.
“Because Enola and Mycroft are the failsafes. The only two people who’ve never been broken by him. Mycroft’s control systems are airtight. Enola…”
He gave a humourless laugh.
“She ripped out her own emotional wiring years ago. There’s nothing left to manipulate.”
He folded his arms.
“So you don’t go through them. You erase them. You leave Sherlock with no net. No back-up. No blood.”
John swallowed.
“So what do we do?”
Michael cracked his knuckles.
“We get ahead of it.”
Greg’s tone shifted.
“You’ve got something?”
“If she’s alive — and she probably is — she’s left a trail. A fallback. A pattern.”
He stood.
“She always does.”
He grabbed his coat.
“I’ll call you when I find a signal.”
Greg stood, too.
“You really think you’ll get one?”
Michael was already moving.
“If she’s breathing, she’s broadcasting.”
He opened the door. Looked back just once.
“You just need to know what frequency she hides in.”
And then he was gone.
The door clicked shut.
And the war began.
Notes:
We’re officially in the war phase.
No more maybes. No more delays. The London side is mobilizing—and Michael is no longer the half-drunk romantic in a hoodie. He’s armed, furious, and laser-focused.
Sherlock might be the mind, but Michael? Michael is the one she trained to follow her into hell.
Chapter 18: Doses and Dull Blades
Summary:
Sixteen days after the crash, Enola is healing—but just barely. Her leg wound has sealed but remains angry and raw. She counts her remaining chemo pills and weighs the decision to begin a new cycle, knowing her immune system won't survive the hit without antibiotics. Meanwhile, Mycroft spirals through the domestic absurdities of survival: bamboo fights, jungle paranoia, and a sentient beard. A rare moment of humour occurs when Enola shaves his face in a gesture equal parts revenge and care. But as the day ends, she walks the shoreline alone, wrestling with the pills, the silence, and the mathematical truth of her mortality. For now, she makes her decision: not today.
Notes:
Enola is a control freak with a death sentence and a broken body. Of course she’s going to stare down a chemo blister pack like it’s a sentient nemesis.
We are past survival and deep into the emotional damage arc now. Welcome.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 16 – Mid-Morning – Ridge Camp
The jungle didn’t care that sixteen days had passed.
It still sounded the same.
Birds. Wind. That constant buzz of unseen things, living louder than they should.
But beneath the stone outcrop, a new rhythm pulsed—familiar now. Almost domestic.
Fire crackling. Tin boiling. Canvas snapping in the breeze.
And Enola Holmes, leg stretched out, hunched over the edge of the stone bench, re-wrapping her thigh.
The outer ring of the cauterisation site was healing. Red. Raised. Angry. But sealed. A slow seal. A costly one. Her muscle ached when she shifted, but the worst swelling had passed. No heat flare. No pus. Not today.
She tucked the final edge of bandage beneath itself and exhaled through her nose.
“Better,” she muttered. “Ugly, but functional.”
Ten feet away, Mycroft Holmes was at war—with bamboo.
He hacked at it with a knife that barely counted as a blade anymore. His beard, once regal in its defiance, now looked like it had surrendered to mildew and self-loathing. He scratched it with the same venom he used on the bamboo.
“I swear this entire island is a conspiracy against shaving,” he growled.
Enola didn’t look up.
“You said that yesterday.”
“And I’ll say it again. Until the Ministry bans me from tropical climates.”
“There’s no such list.”
“Then I’ll draft one.”
The bamboo rebounded. Smacked him in the shin.
“Bloody nature.”
A smirk tugged at Enola’s mouth. Faint. Almost reluctant.
She leaned back against the rock and unzipped her waterproof pouch.
Inside: the last two antibiotic tablets, a half-used blister pack of fever suppressants, and—
Temozolomide.
High-dose chemo. Seven capsules. Each one numbered. Counted. Final.
She tapped the blister pack against her palm.
Five pills for one full cycle. That would leave two. No second round. No backups.
At home, she would’ve started Cycle Two by now. Five days on. Twenty-three off. Supervised. Monitored. Controlled. With antiemetics and IV fluids. A bed. Oxygen. Sterile everything.
Here?
Here was rot. Salt. Rain. Heat. Infection. One bedroll and shared water.
She stared at the pills.
Then tucked them back inside.
No decision.
Not yet.
“You’re counting again,” Mycroft said, appearing beside her with a bundle of stalks and that peculiar brand of high-functioning sarcasm only a Holmes could master. “How many days left until I snap and declare myself king of the moss?”
Her fingers stilled. The pouch already zipped shut.
“Just thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
Mycroft dumped the bamboo by the fire, dropped beside it with a grunt, and resumed sharpening the blade with a rock.
“This place is getting to me,” he muttered, still scratching. “My skin feels colonised.”
“That’s just your personality rejecting sunlight.”
“Charming.”
Enola shifted slightly. Pressed her fingers near the bandage. Warm. But stable.
The silence that followed was heavier than usual. The wind ticked across the tarp. Insects hummed like static no one could tune out.
She closed her eyes.
And didn’t decide.
Day 16 – Midday – Ridge Camp
Enola opened her eyes again.
Same fire. Same breeze. Same ache.
Mycroft groaned behind her.
“It’s like something is living in my beard.”
“Then stop touching it.”
“I can’t. It itches. It’s become a feral sentient being. I expect it to apply for its own insurance.”
She stood.
Quiet. Slow. Deliberate.
“You’re right,” she said, voice even.
He blinked. “Wait. Really?”
She crossed to the tarp’s tool bag and pulled out the combat knife.
“I am.”
That should have been his first warning.
“What are you—?”
“Sit.”
“Why?”
“Because your face is now a threat to national morale.”
“I am not letting you near me with that.”
“You let me suture your ribs with a fish hook and numbing gel. And this is your limit?”
“That was life-threatening!”
“So is my patience.”
She grabbed his wrist. Pulled. Firm, practiced, final.
“Sit still.”
“You are clinically insane.”
“Thank you.”
The first swipe wasn’t bad.
She boiled the blade. Used moss for padding. Her fingers were cool, firm, trained not to tremble.
He flinched anyway.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
“This is revenge.”
“For a lot of things.”
Another pass.
“You look like a tax accountant who lost a bet with a badger.”
“I will have you extradited.”
“You already tried. Three times. Never stuck.”
She adjusted his jaw like he was made of wax. Examined her angles.
He glared. She smirked.
“Almost done.”
“I hate you.”
“You’ll miss me.”
“Not if I bleed out from your incompetence.”
“Try me.”
Another clean cut.
Then another.
Silence wrapped around them. The wind pressed lightly through the tarp. Birds chattered high above.
She leaned back on her heels and wiped the blade clean.
“There. Less cryptid, more disgraced aristocrat. Huge improvement.”
He ran a palm along his jaw.
And blinked.
“…That’s actually not terrible.”
“Told you.”
She turned, walked back toward the fire.
And for a heartbeat—just one—the island didn’t feel like it wanted to kill them.
Day 16 – Late Afternoon – Shoreline
The sun bruised the horizon in shades of gold and dying pink.
Enola Holmes walked alone.
She limped slightly, weight shifted to the right. Her leg burned beneath the wrap — persistent, not acute. The kind of ache that didn’t shout, just whispered constantly.
The sand clung to her boots. The ocean whispered beside her.
She held her device low in one hand—matte black, solar-fed, barely responsive.
No signal.
Not even static.
She stopped every ten paces to check.
Her thumb hovered near the emergency ping.
She didn’t press it.
Not because it wouldn’t work.
Because it had nowhere to go.
The beach here was clean. High elevation. Less drift. A clear view. She liked this stretch. Strategic. Controlled. Quiet.
She sat on a sun-bleached log and pulled the pouch from her waist.
Temozolomide.
Five-day cycle. Seven pills.
At home: routine.
Here: a gamble.
Chemo meant nausea. Vomiting. Fatigue. Immunosuppression. And no antibiotics left. No backup plan.
Her immune system was already hanging by threads. Gums sensitive. Skin bruising faster. Muscles slow to reset.
If she collapsed again?
There would be no recovery.
She hadn’t told Mycroft. Not about the tumour. Not about the pills. Not about the clock.
He was watching her more now. Quietly. Sharply. Noticing the limp. The way she checked her breath. The way she moved.
Michael knew. He always had.
But Mycroft…
If she started this cycle, he’d find out. And if she failed halfway through—collapsed from fever, vomiting blood—he’d have to choose between staying here or risking everything to save her.
And if they weren’t rescued?
No next dose.
No cycle three.
No second chance.
She stared at the pills.
Then whispered:
“Not yet.”
The wind didn’t argue.
She looked at them once more.
“You don’t get to win like this,” she told the blister pack. “Not quietly. Not while I’m still walking.”
She slipped them away.
Closed the pouch.
And turned toward camp.
Slower now. Not from fear.
From math.
From choice.
From control.
The device blinked once.
Still no signal.
Still.
Notes:
Yes, this chapter contains the famous Holmes sibling beard-trimming scene. You’re welcome.
No, Enola is not ready to start chemo yet.
Yes, she will keep lying to Mycroft.
Yes, the jungle still wants to kill them.
Chapter 19: Flotsam
Summary:
While tracing the coastline, Enola finds evidence of the crash — debris, a scorched satchel, and most importantly, a hand-marked deviation map. What should have been a mystery of absence is revealed as a calculated vanishing act. Someone tried to kill them cleanly and quietly. But Enola is still walking, still calculating, and now she has proof.
The crash wasn’t an accident.
It was an execution.
And she intends to answer it.
Notes:
So.
Enola’s alive. Pissed. And walking with purpose.
Mycroft’s still pacing like a man whose nerves are held together by bamboo and caffeine-free rage.
And yes — we are finally confirming what most of you already suspected: this wasn’t just a crash.
This was surgical.Buckle in. Because now she’s angry. And when Enola Holmes is angry, things tend to stop surviving.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 16 – Late Afternoon – Coastal Loop
She stood, brushing sand from her palms, and turned back toward camp — slower now, not from fear, but from calculation.
Each step was part of the math.
The device in her hand blinked once.
No signal.
Still.
She shifted inland, arcing wide instead of heading straight back. The tide had retreated, pulling ribbons of foam across the darkened shore and baring what the storm had spared.
She limped. Deliberately. Carefully.
Her thigh throbbed under the wrap — not urgently, just enough to remind her the damage was still there. So was she.
Twenty metres ahead, the coastline broke pattern.
Not driftwood. Not stone.
Too square. Too intentional.
She crouched. Brushed sand aside with one hand.
Plastic. Heat-warped. Melted at one corner, light enough to have ridden the current. Pale blue showed beneath grime and grit.
A tray table panel.
She flipped it. On the back, half-faded cleaning instructions clung to the laminate.
She exhaled sharply through her nose.
“Finally.”
Two steps later — another shape.
Buried deeper.
She scraped the edge gently with her boot.
Fabric. Nylon. Blackened by fire.
She crouched and pulled.
A satchel — or what was left of it. The zipper fused shut. The outer pouch intact.
She cracked it open with a flat rock, pried it apart.
A pen.
A field notebook.
A crushed tin of gum.
A folded plastic sleeve.
She sat in the sand. Opened the sleeve. Unfolded the paper.
A flight map.
Small. Tactile. Tactical.
A printout of an encrypted GPS track, standard backup in diplomatic craft.
She held it to the light.
The main flight line was printed in red. The departure point circled. The arrival point: blank. Sanitised.
Overlaid in graphite — faint, hand-drawn — a second line. Not digital. Manual. Jagged in places, corrected mid-course.
A deviation.
She traced it with her fingertip.
“So he didn’t just jump.
He had a pickup plan.”
Near the margin: a quick notation.
TH / T6Z
Coordinates.
Q-link confirmed.
No island. No terrain. Just a line. A vector.
The kind of path you leave for someone else to follow.
Her hand trembled slightly as she folded the map.
Not from adrenaline.
From rage.
They’d planned this. The jump. The crash. All of it.
But they hadn’t planned on her surviving.
Or Mycroft.
They were supposed to be ash and seawater by now.
Instead, she stood barefoot in damp sand, holding evidence.
She stuffed the map into her jacket. Took the panel. The notebook. The pen.
And turned toward camp.
The light was fading.
The jungle had started whispering again.
She limped faster.
Day 16 – Sunset – Ridge Camp
The fire was already lit when she stepped back into view. It flickered hard against the dark.
Mycroft was pacing — stiff, uneven — scanning the tree line like he could will her into existence.
When he saw her, he turned sharp.
“Enola—”
His voice cracked with restrained fury.
“You were gone for nearly two hours. Are you insane? If something had—”
She walked past him.
Didn’t stop. Didn’t sit.
She dropped the plastic tray beside the fire with a loud clatter and tossed the melted satchel toward the tarp.
“You’re welcome,” she said flatly. “Trophies.”
Mycroft frowned. “What—?”
“Tray panel. From the plane. Charred satchel. Notebook. One plastic sleeve with tactical flight data.”
She limped a slow, tight circle around the fire. Not angry. Burning.
“The pilot didn’t jump blind. He had a retrieval plan. You don’t pencil a route onto a classified map unless someone’s meant to follow it.”
She stopped. Turned.
“It was hand-marked. Pencil.
Corrected twice.”
“Why pencil?” Mycroft asked.
“Because someone was working from analog. No digital trace. No GPS logs. No satellite pings. It was meant to vanish.”
He stilled.
“You found a map?”
She pulled it from her jacket. Slapped it flat against a nearby rock.
“Deviation path. Coordinates. Handwritten vector. Not military issue, but tight. That was the drop zone.”
He crouched. Squinted at the paper.
“But this island... it’s not there.”
“Exactly.”
She pointed to the arc.
“He marked a new path — thirty-seven nautical miles north of the original. Not random. Preloaded. Meant to confuse impact predictions.”
Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “So this was meant to be...”
“A clean kill.”
“No fuselage. No beacon. No rescue. Just debris and plausible denial.”
She gestured toward the trees.
“But we’re here. This island is five clicks from the wreck site. You don’t accidentally glide a plane that close. He was steering. Even after bailing.”
Mycroft exhaled sharply.
“So they assumed we died.”
“No,” she said coldly. “They hoped we did.”
She stepped forward. Met his eyes.
“They knew who was on board. You. Me. And if this was a hit, it wasn’t sloppy. It was surgical.”
Her voice dipped lower.
“They knew I don’t go quietly. So they added redundancy.”
She crouched, pulled her device from the pouch, and unspooled the cord without looking down.
“So either they’re incompetent—”
Mycroft’s voice was tight.
“Or they’re waiting.”
“For confirmation. Not a rescue team. Not satellites. Just absence. They’re hoping we rot out here.”
She tapped the screen.
“Name: Hartwell. Theo G.”
The display blinked to life — solar-charged from the afternoon loop. Encrypted data shimmered across the interface.
Strings of numbers. Glyphs. Tags.
She pointed.
“THEO G. HARTWELL — Containment & Logistics — Moriarty Circle. Embedded status confirmed. Linked to Adler Cell.”
She clicked the screen dark.
“He wasn’t just a pilot. He was their pilot.”
Mycroft stared.
Then blinked. “So—are they watching us?”
She stood slowly.
“No.”
She turned toward the fire. Let the heat touch her face.
“Moriarty’s seen my tech. Doesn’t understand it — no one does — but he knows what it does.”
She held up the device.
“Constant sweeps. EM spikes. Bluetooth. Wi-Fi. Drone proximity. Satellite drift. If someone was nearby — twenty kilometres or less — this thing would’ve screamed.”
It remained dark.
She looked at Mycroft.
“They’re not watching.”
Her voice was ice.
“They just left us to rot.”
The fire hissed softly.
The wind pulled at the tarp.
And Mycroft Holmes stood still.
Silent.
Watching the embers flicker.
As if they were the only things left
watching them back.
Notes:
I warned you.
She’s found the map. She’s confirmed the pilot.
And she’s not the kind of girl who lets betrayal go unanswered.Also yes — I made Mycroft look like he was about to lecture her for being out after curfew and instead got hit with a tactical data drop and a slap of righteous rage.
And no, Moriarty is not watching them.
Because the plan was for them to already be dead.
Chapter 20: Princess of the Jungle
Summary:
After uncovering the evidence of their orchestrated crash, Enola confronts a grim reality—rescue isn’t coming. Mycroft spirals. He’s done the math, and it says they’re dead men walking. But Enola’s not done. Not even close. She doesn’t promise hope—she builds a plan. A brutal, long-term, practical blueprint for survival. Traps. Farming. Shelter. And eventually, escape.
As night falls, they don’t sleep. They scheme.
And by the next day, she’s rationing medication and he’s learning how to fish with a stick.
Because if they’re going to die—
It won’t be easy.
And it won’t be now.
Notes:
Yes, I know.
Mycroft Holmes having a full-scale statistical breakdown while Enola sharpens a spear and calls him Princess might not be canon Holmes family behaviour…
But this is survival canon, baby.You try butchering your sister’s leg, losing all hope of rescue, and getting bullied into jungle optimism by the terminally ill chaos goblin you accidentally raised.
This chapter is about despair.
And also about stubborn, unreasonable, defiant hope.
You know. Family bonding.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 16 — Nightfall — Ridge Camp
The fire spat gently.
Mycroft didn’t speak.
Not at first.
He stood with his arms slack at his sides, eyes fixed on the map like it might somehow reconfigure itself if he stared long enough. But it didn’t.
Because he understood exactly what it meant.
He exhaled—quiet, bitter.
“They’re not coming.”
Enola glanced at him. “Not unless we call them. Or find a way to be seen.”
He didn’t nod. Didn’t move. Just kept staring at the line that veered away from them. The one that carved a clean escape route for the man who left them to die.
“They’ve already closed the file,” he said, voice low.
“You understand that, don’t you?”
She raised a brow.
He didn’t wait for an answer.
“Day three, they initiate protocol: blackout release, internal report. Day five, the search becomes ceremonial. They issue statements, reassign coverage, pivot satellites. Day seven, the family gets letters. Memorials are planned. Funding reallocated. Day ten—we’re gone. Quietly. Strategically.”
His voice cracked, just slightly.
“And now it’s day sixteen.”
She watched him.
Still. Measuring.
“So you think it’s over.”
He turned to her, sharp.
“No, Enola. I know it’s over. I’ve written that policy. Signed off on closure reports for people I liked. Because dead people don’t file appeals. Dead people don’t trigger audits. Dead people don’t need rescuing.”
His hands curled at his sides.
“And if we’d done it properly—burned, sunk, erased—maybe I could stomach that. But we didn’t. We survived. And they’re still closing the file.”
His voice dropped to a whisper:
“We’re going to die on this island.”
The silence that followed wasn’t theatrical. It was flat. Settled. The resignation of a man who’d calculated every probability and come up short each time.
Enola looked down at the fire.
Then back at him.
“You finished?”
He didn’t reply.
She picked up a half-charred stick, stirred the embers.
“I’m going to eat. You can sit there and spiral into statistics, or you can help me sharpen something and trap a lizard.”
He blinked at her. Stared. Disbelieving.
“We’re not dead yet,” she added.
“We will be,” he muttered.
She met his eyes.
“Are you always this optimistic, or is this just a special performance for me?”
He turned, jaw tight.
“Do you not understand what this is?” he snapped. “We’re on a remote, uncharted island. No comms. No signal. No rescue. Half your leg is stitched together with fishing line. Our antibiotics are gone. Our water’s filthy. Our firewood is running low. The only resource we’re not short on is insects.”
She blinked.
“That was a lot of words for ‘I skipped breakfast.’”
His voice snapped tighter.
“This isn’t a joke. We have no food reserves. No irrigation. Our shelter won’t survive a real storm. If monsoon hits, we flood. If dry season comes, everything burns. If you get another infection—”
“Then we treat it,” she said flatly.
“With what?”
“With what we have. Or what we invent.”
“You think we can invent medicine?”
“I think,” she said evenly, “that people survived before antibiotics. Before refrigeration. Before helicopters and spreadsheets and diplomatic panic buttons. They survived because they used their brains, not because they fell apart like overwhelmed civil servants lost in the jungle.”
His nostrils flared.
“We are going to die here.”
“Why?”
That stopped him.
“Why?” she asked again, softer.
“Because we’re trapped!”
“That’s not an answer. That’s a headline.”
He stepped closer, tense. She didn’t move.
“We have no food.”
“We have wildlife. We’ve eaten boar. We’ve seen fowl. We can trap. Fish. Gather. I know thirty edible plants that grow in this climate—and eight poisons, which is less helpful but extremely motivating.”
“We have no water.”
“We’re boiling runoff. We’re filtering. It’s working. Wildlife exists—so there’s a freshwater source. I haven’t found it because I’ve been looking for people. Not streams.”
“You already searched the island.”
“At night. Quietly. Want a proper survival grid? Congratulations, Princess—you’re leading your first jungle sweep at dawn.”
His jaw dropped.
“So what, we just live here? Until we die of old age?”
Enola smiled—sharp. Unbothered.
“Alright. That’s it. I’m calling you Princess from now on.”
“Excuse me?”
“Only princesses sit around crying that no one’s coming to save them. You’re literally throwing a jungle tantrum because your helicopter didn’t show up.”
“This isn’t a tantrum. It’s realism.”
“No. It’s pessimism with a government budget. And your budget expired.”
He turned away, fists clenched. She didn’t let up.
“Worst case scenario? We build better shelter. We plant root vegetables. You learn how to sharpen bamboo without stabbing yourself.”
“This is madness.”
“Is it? People did this for centuries. We build tools. We find materials. We build a real boat—not a desperation raft. A real one. We aim for the trade corridor or a shipping lane.”
She stepped closer.
“Will it take a year? Probably. Two? Also possible.”
Her voice dipped, soft.
“But we’re not going to die on this island.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I do,” she said. “Because you know me.”
He looked at her.
Really looked.
“You think we’ll make it?”
“No,” she said honestly. “But I know we can. That’s enough for now.”
She turned toward the fire.
“But until then? This is a vacation.”
“A vacation.”
“I’m serious.”
“Enola—”
“Sun. Sand. Fresh air. And my big brother—who I am now legally allowed to bully for another forty-eight hours before you max out your sulking quota.”
He didn’t laugh.
But his shoulders eased.
Just slightly.
She prodded the fire.
“Now sharpen something, Princess. We’ve got traps to reset at sunrise.”
Day 16 — Night — Ridge Camp
The fire had burned low.
Ash crackled. Smoke coiled in lazy ribbons. Somewhere in the dark, something chirped once—then went silent.
Beneath the tarp, they lay in quiet—not touching, but not far. Just close enough that every shift had weight. Just far enough to pretend they were sleeping alone.
Mycroft wasn’t asleep.
Not yet.
He lay on his back, arms crossed behind his head, the stone at his shoulder still warm from the fire.
His mind, for once, wasn’t panicking.
Because Enola had spoken like it mattered.
Because her voice didn’t waver.
Because—despite infection, exhaustion, jungle madness—she’d looked death in the face and drawn a blueprint for survival.
It was impossible. Unbearable. A two-year campaign of farming and scavenging and ship-building with rusted junk.
But it was a plan.
And that—at last—was enough for Mycroft Holmes to breathe again.
We won’t die here.
He turned the phrase over like a coin in his chest.
Not “we might survive.”
Not “if we’re lucky.”
But: We won’t die here.
He shifted onto his side, stared at the shape of Enola’s profile against the orange glow.
She was still. Quiet.
But he knew better.
She wasn’t sleeping.
Enola’s eyes were half-lidded. Her body rested, but her mind raced.
Two years.
Shelter first. Reinforced. Sloped roof. Ventilation. Smoke escape. Stone wall for back support. Bamboo lash structure. Elevated platform for dry season. Enclosed base for rain season. Resin sealant—if she could distill it.
Interior: two bedding areas. Central fire. Trapdoor for medkit. Tools by entrance. South-facing for air. East-facing for light.
She blinked once.
Inhaled.
Water: four catchment points. Upper ridge, mid-ridge, lower base. Carved cisterns. Bark funnels. Rain cache. Monsoon runoff redirected with split-stone channeling.
Firewood: two zones. One dry stack. One green stack. Rotate every ten days.
Agriculture: chickweed. Groundnut. Bitterroot. Seed cycling. Use boar digs to predict crop clusters. Track grubs for soil depth. Patrol traps every three days.
Weapons. Fire-hardened spears. Rock blades. Bone hooks. Fish traps. Net weaving. Knife barbs. Mycroft could help. He’d need instructions. Diagrams. His hands weren’t killers. But he’d learn.
She shifted—barely—to ease her thigh.
And the boat.
Her heart caught.
Ten meters. Double outrigger. Hollow bamboo with resin seals. Deck grid. Sail rigging. Ballast stone. Navigation by constellation. Mark sun position. Tether tools. Lash cords. Reinforce tiller with bone.
She’d build it.
Or he would.
She blinked.
If I don’t make it…
He will.
Day 17 — Midday — Shoreline
The sky was clear. The tide was low.
Mycroft Holmes stood knee-deep in surf, clutching a carved spear with the concentration of a man trying not to be humiliated by a fish.
A flash of silver darted past his calf.
He missed.
Again.
But not as badly as yesterday.
He inhaled. Reset. Focused.
Back on the sand, Enola sat cross-legged. Her left leg wrapped tight, stiff. A flat tin lay open in her lap.
Seven pills.
Temozolomide. High-dose.
She stared at them.
Five-day cycle. Seven pills = one full course with two left over.
Or seven weeks — one a week.
Or fourteen — one every two.
Low-dose metronomic. Not official. But possibly effective.
She reached back into her pouch. Pulled two blister sleeves.
Neuroquelin-C. Vascanon-D. The stabilisers.
Eighteen. Nineteen.
Better than expected.
She tapped the tin rhythmically.
Temozolomide won’t kill it anymore. But it can stall it. Hold it.
Stabilisers prevent inflammation. Inhibit overactivity. Micro-seizure control.
Only take them on warning signs.
No fever, no dose.
No confusion, no dose.
No memory lapse, no dose.
She sketched a grid onto a dried palm scrap. Doses. Days. Events. Recovery. Delays.
Not a treatment.
A containment strategy.
A planned retreat.
A final delay.
Behind her: a splash. A curse.
She didn’t look up.
If she rationed properly—Temozolomide would last three and a half months. With fasting, maybe four. Stabilisers—another two or three.
After that?
She didn’t write it down.
Just folded the leaf. Slid it into the tin.
Her hand hovered over the pills.
She didn’t take one.
Not yet.
Not today.
Today was survival.
Next week—
Would be different.
Another splash behind her.
She looked up.
“Any luck?”
Mycroft scowled. “Define luck.”
“A fish.”
“No. But I nearly killed a suspicious-looking seaweed.”
“Was it armed?”
“It had a look.”
She smiled faintly. Tucked the tin away.
“You’re improving.”
“I’m getting wet.”
“Same thing.”
He trudged back through the sand, soaked and grumbling, but not defeated.
She watched the shake in his hands. The drag in his step. The weight in his shoulders.
Still standing. Still sharp.
Still hers.
She looked away.
Back to the tide. The sky.
He has to stay that way.
If the island eats her—
He has to get off it.
Notes:
So now we’ve got:
A plan that spans two years
Bamboo rage
Tropical beard tragedy
Jungle monarchy (Princess Mycroft is canon now, sorry)
And Enola, methodically plotting a containment protocol for her own death
Welcome to the part of the fic where the trauma has stopped being fresh and started becoming routine.
Don’t worry.
I’ll ruin everything again soon.
Chapter 21: Coordinates, Coffees, Collapse
Summary:
Day 23. Sherlock collapses. John holds him together. Michael snaps into surgical mode and declares war. As London frays under grief and silence, three pings confirm what no one dared hope: the pilot who left them to die is alive—and Rigan is coming for him.
Notes:
Hello chaos enthusiasts. Welcome to the part of the fic where London burns very quietly under fluorescent lights and grief hits like a chair across a bookshelf. No comfort. No resolution. Just three men unraveling in very different ways—and one of them plotting vengeance barefoot in an unlit apartment. You know which one. This chapter is where the war starts.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 23 — London — 03:14 AM
Michael – Enola’s Flat / MI6 Substation Access
Sherlock – 221B Baker Street
The lights had been left dim on purpose.
No overhead fluorescents. Just the low hum of monitors and the quiet churn of encrypted terminals.
Michael sat in front of four screens.
Three cups of coffee.
Zero leads.
No sleep.
He was barefoot again — jacket tossed over the back of a chair, hair a knotted mess, sleeves shoved up to his elbows like he’d gone twelve rounds with a database and lost.
The screens pulsed with data loops. Long-range sweeps. Heatmap overlays.
Nothing urgent. Nothing new.
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
Enola’s device had shut down the moment she boarded the plane.
Standard diplomatic protocol. Full stealth lock. No outbound signals.
Blackout mode. No breadcrumbs.
And now it had been twenty-three days since the plane disappeared.
Her satellite tracker was dead.
Sherlock’s network sweep had pulled only static.
Mycroft’s assets were silent — off-grid or unavailable.
Which meant Michael was on his own.
He leaned into the keyboard and started typing again.
Across London, in a flat that still smelled faintly of candle wax and rain-dust, Sherlock Holmes folded against the wall of 221B like someone had hit a switch and turned his spine to paper.
His knees didn’t buckle — they folded, slow and reluctant. Like his body had finally stopped pretending it could carry the weight.
John was at his side in seconds.
“Jesus—Sherlock—”
No answer.
Just a sharp, ragged inhale and a long, trembling exhale.
The kind that said: I’ve been holding it together with breath and arrogance. And I just ran out of both.
John helped him sit down. Right there on the floor. Back against the fireplace. Pulled the coat from his shoulders.
“You haven’t eaten in two days.”
“There’s nothing left to—” Sherlock rasped. “—to analyse. If the signal was clean, we’d have found the wreckage. If the signal was dirty, it was corrupted. And they’re already dead.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“You don’t,” John snapped, more sharply now. “And until we do, we keep working.”
Sherlock didn’t respond.
Didn’t blink.
Just stared at the fire like it might scrawl answers in smoke if he waited long enough.
And John — quietly, because what else could he do — stayed with him, until the adrenaline burned out and the silence no longer sounded like grief trying to scream.
Michael exhaled through his teeth.
“Alright, Hartwell. Let’s do this backwards.”
He reopened the flight manifest.
Theo G. Hartwell. Pilot.
Alias: Unconfirmed.
MI6 status: Erased.
Private status: Still breathing.
The plane was scheduled to go down over open ocean.
But it hadn’t crashed where they searched.
Which meant the pilot aborted. Escaped.
Michael traced the vector line again.
Overlaid it with the emergency ping coordinates.
Then projected forty-three minutes east — the exact deviation Enola had calculated.
She was ten days ahead of him.
He didn’t know that yet.
“If he bailed,” Michael muttered, “someone caught him.”
No one jumps from a diplomatic aircraft unless there’s a retrieval plan — or a net waiting in the dark.
He started checking private recovery firms. Black market exfil networks. Offshore evac contracts.
Then paused.
There.
A charter request. Anonymous.
Filed twenty-three minutes after the plane went dark.
Coordinates sealed.
He bypassed the seal.
An island. Not their island. But close.
Close enough that someone with a fast boat could’ve intercepted a parachute drift.
Michael’s hand stilled on the mousepad.
“He got out.”
He checked the timestamp.
Cross-referenced the call sign.
Ran the flight ID through two layers of shell corporations.
Then looked up at the calendar.
Day 23.
He sat back slowly.
Eyes narrowing. Focus sharp.
If the pilot got out... I can find him.
And if I find him... I can make him talk.
His hand moved for his phone.
But he didn’t call.
He recorded a voice memo instead.
“Target: Hartwell. Alive. Location suspected. Extraction priority one. Enola Holmes presumed alive but unmedicated. Chemotherapy cycle missed. Tumour active. Timeline compromised. Deadline—”
He stopped.
Rewound.
Deleted it.
Typed instead:
FIND HER.
That was all that mattered.
Not Sherlock’s collapse.
Not Mycroft’s silence.
Not the wreckage.
Because she had seven pills.
And he knew exactly how she thought.
She’d try to stretch them.
And fail.
And break.
And hide it.
She didn’t plan to survive.
She planned for someone else to escape.
Michael stood up — fast.
“Right. That’s enough thinking. Time to hurt someone.”
Day 23 — London — 04:41 AM
Michael – Enola’s Flat – Terminal Console
He didn’t need an army.
He needed a name.
Michael sat barefoot at Enola’s encrypted desk, second terminal booted beside him, hands moving like he was calibrating a detonator.
He wasn’t angry.
He was surgical.
ALERT ALL: RIGAN BLACK.
PRIORITY: FIND PILOT.
NAME: THEO G. HARTWELL.
STATUS: ALIVE. NEEDED IMMEDIATELY.
REWARD: ALLEGIANCE.
FAILURE: CONSEQUENCE.
The signal hit the darknet like a thunderclap.
Aliases flared to life across four continents. Brokers. Mercenaries. Former operatives. Nobody said the name “Enola.”
But Rigan? Rigan was legend.
Rigan was ghost.
Rigan was the codename whispered in post-Soviet backrooms and burned into exit protocols across half the continent.
Everyone in the shadows knew what it meant when Rigan Black came online:
The Queen’s monster is hunting.
Michael leaned back.
Cracked his neck.
Moriarty thought he built the biggest web in London.
But Michael didn’t build webs.
He pulled strings.
And anyone who had ever heard of Enola Holmes…
knew better than to ignore the pull.
221B Baker Street – Living Room
The water glass shattered first.
John hadn’t even made it to the stairs.
He’d just returned — glass in hand, sleep aid dissolved, dose measured — when Sherlock exploded.
Not figuratively.
A chair flew across the room, slamming into the bookcase. Paperbacks burst across the floor. The shelf cracked halfway down.
John blinked once.
“Sherlock—”
“DON’T!”
Sherlock’s voice was cracked and furious and raw. Not just anger.
Despair.
The kind that came from a genius who always saw the edges and now couldn’t find the shape of the world.
He turned. Fists clenched. Breathing fast.
“I can’t—do it—John—I’ve tried everything.”
John set the glass down. Calm. Controlled.
“They’re GONE—”
Sherlock grabbed a framed photo from the mantel. Smashed it.
Glass sprayed across the rug like shattered ice.
“I recalculated the vector. I reversed the flight path. I mapped the goddamn currents by hand—”
“Sherlock—”
“—and it doesn’t make sense! NOTHING MAKES SENSE!”
He kicked over a stool. Shoved the side table. His whole frame shaking — like he was trying to crawl out of his own skin.
“I’m supposed to see it. That’s what I do. I solve things. I find people. I know things. And I—”
His voice cracked.
“I can’t find them. I CAN’T FIND THEM.”
John stepped in.
Careful. Measured. Like approaching a wounded predator.
Sherlock paced in tight, erratic circles, muttering to himself.
“Too many variables... falsified logs... no debris... redacted signals... just nothing—”
He froze.
Looked up.
Eyes wide. Distant.
Then whispered:
“He’s dead.”
John stopped. “What?”
“Mycroft.” Sherlock’s voice was hollow. “He’s dead.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” Sherlock looked at him — and for once, there was no deduction left in his eyes. Just loss. “Because if he were alive, he would’ve found a way. And she—”
He cut off. Bit his lip.
John saw it.
The tremor.
“She’s... gone.”
“Sherlock—”
“I failed.”
Quiet now. Flat.
“I failed them both.”
John grabbed his shoulders.
“Stop.”
“I didn’t see it, John. This was Moriarty. And I missed it.”
Sherlock collapsed into him.
Didn’t cry.
Not like most people.
But the shaking was worse than sobbing.
The breath that stuttered like it couldn’t reach all the way in. The way his eyes locked on the floor like it was supposed to open and offer absolution.
John eased him onto the couch.
“I need to find him,” Sherlock whispered. “I need to find them.”
“You will.”
“Will I?”
John didn’t answer.
Just handed him the water.
Sherlock stared at it.
“You drugged it.”
“I might have, yes.”
A pause.
Then finally—
He drank.
Across town, in a windowless apartment lit only by code, Michael’s terminal pinged.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Three pings.
Three hits.
Theo Hartwell was alive.
And someone had seen him.
Michael smiled.
And it wasn’t kind.
Notes:
If you were waiting for the moment someone snapped, congratulations: you now have three. Sherlock’s falling apart, Michael’s assembling a kill list, and John is once again parenting two emotionally unstable geniuses before sunrise. And yes—someone finally found the pilot.
Chapter 22: The Line That Isn't on the Map
Summary:
Day 24 to Day 30 — Enola and Mycroft shift from temporary survival to long-term planning. They relocate near a freshwater spring and begin constructing a permanent shelter. Enola confirms the crash was orchestrated and identifies a possible extraction island northwest of their location. While her health declines, she prepares Mycroft to build a real escape boat — and if necessary, to leave without her. She begins her final chemotherapy cycle.
Notes:
Alright, listen up you swamp gremlins —
This chapter is not about action. It’s about calculation.
This is Enola Holmes with one leg half-stitched, no signal, and a whole storm of death breathing down her neck — deciding she will not go out quietly.
She maps escape routes with drift math and bird migration patterns.
She draws boat plans while bleeding from her gums.
She starts her chemo like it’s war.Mycroft? He’s building a shelter, yes. But more importantly — he’s starting to realise she’s not recovering.
Not really.
And she’s not planning for both of them to leave.Not unless he builds the way out.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 24 – Late Morning to Evening – Island Interior
The air had changed.
Not like the storm — not violent. But something had shifted.
The wind tasted cleaner. The birds had moved east. Even the insects had quieted near the old camp.
So they packed up.
Quietly. Deliberately.
They didn’t say it aloud. But both knew — the ridge shelter had been temporary. A bruise. A lesson. A fracture in the plan.
Now they needed permanence. Water. Shelter.
And they had it now.
A spring.
Enola had found it two days earlier — hidden uphill, buried beneath moss and hollow stone. Shallow, but clean. A thin vein cutting down from the mountain, pooling into a basin framed in drinkable algae and soft clay.
It meant they could stop rationing.
Which meant they could start building.
She was moving slower today.
Not dramatically. Not visibly.
But Mycroft noticed.
She wasn’t eating the wild boar anymore — said it was too fatty. She’d buried her salt-root without comment. Her steps weren’t confident anymore — they were calculated.
Her blinks were longer. Her pauses sharper. And once — just once — she dropped a bamboo beam and didn’t catch it.
That told him more than any words.
But he said nothing.
Instead, he helped her move stone. Measured tarp lengths. Laid a rope foundation with the cord she’d taught him to braid.
“Here,” she said, pointing to a flat outcrop near the water. “Sun in the morning. Shade by afternoon. Protected on three sides. Good wind angle.”
He nodded.
Staked it in.
She didn’t correct him. Didn’t praise him.
Just moved to the next task.
When they paused for water, he watched her pull out the notebook — not the medical log.
The ship plans.
Her hand shook as she flipped the pages. Only once. Then steady again.
She marked the hull line with a charcoal nub.
“We’ll need resin,” she murmured. “Tree pitch. And a mould for ribwork.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You’re designing a boat.”
“We’re not staying here forever.”
She didn’t look up.
“Can you build it?”
“If I have to.”
“You will.”
She handed him the page.
It wasn’t a sketch. It was a blueprint. Annotated. Measured. With flotation balance calculations tucked between margin lines.
She’d written it from memory. Probably in the last 48 hours.
“You could’ve done something useful with your life,” he muttered.
“I am.”
Later that afternoon, she climbed.
Not far — just high enough.
Northern ridge. Where the trees thinned and the stone rose like a broken tooth. She used her knife to anchor her steps. Her leg burned — the sutured one — but she didn’t stop.
Higher ground hears more.
At the summit, she pulled her device from her jacket.
Still nothing.
No signal. No satellites. No static. Not even the whisper of EM drift.
But she set it down anyway.
Face tilted upward.
Screen dimmed to save battery.
Passive sweep mode: activated.
If a signal passed — even for a second — the device would catch it.
And she’d know.
Dusk.
The new shelter stood half-framed.
Mycroft was sharpening a stake when he noticed her staring.
“What?”
She blinked. Looked away. Rubbed at her temple.
“Nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing.
It was fatigue. Bone-deep.
Not the kind that shows up in fever or bruises — but in micro-pauses.
In slow-tracking eyes. In the way she hesitated after each decision, as if recalibrating.
That night, she scratched numbers into the dirt.
7 Temozolomide
16 Neuroquelin-C
14 Vascanon-D
0 Antibiotics
∞ Silence
She tapped the dirt once.
Then erased it with her palm.
And went to sleep with her blueprint rolled beside her pillow.
Because she knew.
The pills wouldn’t outlast the plan.
But maybe Mycroft would.
🗺️ Enola’s Deductive Log – Day 24
She'd studied the map again. And again.
Overlaying drift vectors, seabird patterns, and the black-op extraction routes she'd learned long ago.
Facts:
-
The plane was rigged.
-
The pilot jumped before detonation.
-
A boat must have picked him up.
-
Boats don’t retrieve from chaos. They need shelter. Predictable surf. Medical proximity.
Conclusion:
-
Drift estimated from the flight's deviation vector: 43 minutes off-course.
-
Crash point ≈ 5–6 km from visible island landmass.
-
Add wind and tidal drag — retrieval likely occurred within 30 km of the crash.
She marked the radius.
“If I were extracting a pilot,” she muttered, dragging her stick through sand, “I’d want cover. Medical. Comms. Nothing near a flight path.”
Birds Don’t Lie.
Seabirds. Same direction. Daily. 3:30 to 5:00 PM.
Not migration — foraging.
They returned. Fed. Repeated.
Northwest.
From the peak, she watched them again.
They weren’t flying out to sea.
They were flying home.
But her map showed nothing in that direction.
Which meant one of three things:
-
Uncharted
-
Removed
-
Hidden
She ran the math.
~18–22 km northwest. Not visible from sea level. Hidden by curvature or mist.
She drew a triangle: Crash Point → Their Island → Retrieval Island.
Then circled the center.
“That’s where they waited,” she whispered.
“That’s where he was taken.
And if we want out—
That’s our blueprint.”
She saved the vector into her device’s backup memory. Left it blinking on the ridge.
Still no signal.
Then turned — slower now — and descended.
Not with dread.
With resolve.
Day 30 – Late Afternoon – New Shelter Clearing
The jungle no longer sounded hostile.
Just loud.
Cicadas shrieked. Birds wheeled above. Leaves whispered like they knew secrets.
But the fear had dulled — not gone, just… absorbed.
The shelter was nearly whole.
Bamboo walls. Thatch roof. Hammocks. Rain catchers. A bench carved from trunk and twine.
A fire pit ringed in scavenged rock.
It wasn’t civilization.
But it wasn’t survival either.
It was something just shy of living.
Enola sat at the edge of the frame, map across her lap like scripture.
A tin cup beside her.
One pill down.
Temozolomide. The first of seven.
Her stomach curled. Her temples pulsed. Colours around the edges of her vision shifted — too sharp, then too soft.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
It had to pass.
Mycroft crouched beside her with a woven basket of roots and leaves.
“Third time you’ve stared at that map,” he said. “You trying to intimidate it?”
“There’s something missing.”
He frowned.
“Besides half the world?”
She didn’t look up.
“This is the flight trajectory. This is where we veered. This—” she pointed, “—is where we went down. Not where we were meant to crash. Where we did crash.”
He nodded. “So?”
She tilted the page. The lines caught evening light.
“That’s our island. Six km off target. The pilot didn’t jump blind. He aimed for drift. He accounted for wind. Tidal drag.”
Mycroft sat.
“You’re saying it was deliberate.”
“I’m saying there’s another island.”
She pulled out charcoal. Drew two clean lines — one for flight. One for drift.
“I’ve watched the birds. Same vector. Every day. Seabirds don’t guess. They go home.”
She circled the zone.
“Pickup boat came from somewhere. And it wasn’t the sea.”
Mycroft studied her.
“And you think Michael’s looking for it.”
She said his name without hesitation.
But her hand shook.
Just slightly.
“If we build the boat,” she said quietly, “you sail northwest. Nineteen degrees from sunrise. Let the current help. Don’t correct.”
A pause.
Then:
“Me?”
She blinked.
Then caught herself.
Straightened.
“Sorry,” she said quickly. “We.”
Mycroft didn’t answer.
But he noticed the pause.
The recalibration.
The slip.
She hadn’t done that two days ago.
Not even yesterday.
Now her face was sharper. Her hands curled when she forgot to unclench them. Her eyes tracked slightly slower.
“You’re tired,” he said carefully.
“You’re observant,” she bit back.
He stepped closer.
“You were supposed to be getting better.”
She turned to the clouds.
“Storm’s coming. Off-axis. By morning.”
“Enola.”
“I’ve already shifted the hammocks—”
“You’re not listening.”
“No,” she snapped, “you’re not listening.”
Silence.
She breathed.
“We’re not out yet. That map gives us a heading, not time. I’m working with what’s left.”
Mycroft stared at her.
Hard.
“What do we have?”
“Options.”
“And what are you not telling me?”
The tarp stirred.
Distant thunder rolled.
She didn’t look back.
“You build the boat,” she said. “I’ll chart the stars.”
Then softly:
“Before they start going out.”
He stood still as the fire crackled.
Above, on the ridge — her device blinked once.
Still dark.
But the wind had changed.
Notes:
If this felt like a slow burn — good. It’s meant to.
This is the quiet horror of knowing the world forgot you.
Of watching your own systems fail while pretending you’ve got another plan.
Of preparing to hand someone you love a map — and not be on it.But Enola Holmes is not going to rot on this island.
She’s going to build the blueprints to burn it down.
And Mycroft?He’s not just surviving anymore.
He’s learning.
Let me know if you want blood next chapter.
You know I’m not sorry.
Chapter 23: Bones Beneath the Signal
Summary:
Day 30 — A fracture opens wider than a bone break. Enola falls into a pirate cave, physically wrecked but still calculating. Meanwhile, Mycroft discovers her hidden chemo stash, her survival math, and the truth: she’s been dying this whole time, and every step, every trap, every plan has been for him. In the pirate cave, Enola uncovers a map pointing to two other islands — one potentially holding human contact. She begins planning a last-ditch signal beacon. But time is not on her side.
Notes:
So... this is it.
Yeah. The that chapter.
The one where Mycroft finally puts it all together — and realises he’s not the reason she’s surviving.
He’s the reason she’s dying slower.
She trained him. Built him a home. Drew him a map.
And never once planned to be on the boat with him.
It’s brutal. It’s quiet. It’s sickeningly logical — which, of course, is exactly how Enola Holmes would orchestrate her own exit strategy.
Meanwhile, she falls into a pirate cave like some feverish myth — re-breaks half her body, bleeds into silk from the 1600s, and still somehow walks away with a better escape plan than MI6 has on a good day.
If this chapter makes you want to scream?
Good.
It should.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 30 – Nightfall Approaching – Ridge Bluff
The wind had shifted.
Not just stirred—shifted.
It came in low and sideways now, dragging the scent of rain, crushed leaves, and something darker from the horizon. The jungle felt restless. The canopy shivered in advance, like it already knew what was coming.
Enola Holmes climbed anyway.
Her body protested with every step—the bandaged leg dragging like it resented her all over again, the deep ache behind her eyes blooming into a rhythmic pulse with each footfall. The Temozolomide she’d taken earlier had settled like chalk in her gut, nausea throbbing beneath her ribs.
But she had one task left before the storm hit.
“You don’t leave a signal flare out in a lightning field,” she muttered. “Even amateurs know that.”
The ridge wasn’t steep, but her coordination was slipping. A flicker of blur in the corner of her eye. A missed root. A dizzy tilt when she turned too fast. She paused near the top, one hand on the rock, breathing sharp through her teeth.
Focus.
Math.
Pressure.
Just another equation.
The device blinked gently in the crook between two stones. She reached out—
And her foot slipped.
One heartbeat.
Two.
Then the world dropped out from under her.
She crashed through brush and stone. A root gave. The dirt collapsed. The rock ledge crumbled—
And Enola fell.
Not far.
But fast.
A two-meter drop—just enough to land wrong. A sickening crack snapped through the air like bone on ice.
Her shoulder took the brunt.
Then her leg again.
Then the back of her skull clipped stone.
She lay still.
The world blinked—not with light, but with silence.
Then the pain came.
Hot. Radiating. Real.
She opened her mouth. No scream.
“Ow,” she whispered. That was all she had left.
The cave was cold—a sudden contrast to the humid suffocation above. She blinked slowly. Felt blood at her temple. Rolled to her uninjured side with a hiss.
Her arm was wrong.
The right—the one that caught the fall—was bent. Not cleanly broken, but close. Her leg was worse. Not newly injured, but re-wounded. Bruised. Swollen again.
Fantastic. Very scientific.
She turned her head.
And saw it.
The glint.
Metal? No. Not modern.
Worn.
Carved.
Ship-iron. Bones.
Engraved silver coins.
A rusted pistol.
Lantern frames.
A half-collapsed chest bearing a mark she’d seen in exactly one book in one obscure museum archive.
“Contrabandists,” she breathed.
A cough rattled out of her chest—but a laugh escaped with it.
Pain was still blooming hot across her body. The drug fever wasn’t helping. Her vision ghosted.
But she smiled anyway.
Because here she was—half-conscious in a 17th-century pirate cave, on a jungle island, with a fractured arm and a tumour she wasn’t telling her brother about—
And she’d still won.
At least a little.
Day 30 – Ridge Camp – Evening Storm Incoming
Mycroft had long ago learned that panic served no one.
But standing inside the makeshift shelter, rain clawing the tarp above, wind howling at the edges—and Enola still gone—his hands were shaking.
He told himself she was fine. That she was retrieving her device. That she’d calculated the timing.
But it wasn’t her calculations he doubted.
It was her body.
Because she wasn’t improving.
And he was going to find out why.
He crouched beside her pack—the black one, waterproofed and reinforced—and unzipped it.
No more secrets.
Everything inside was wrapped in cloth. Tightly wound sachets. Vials capped with symbols. Her system.
A hard case, wedged between the water pouch and ration kit.
He cracked it open.
Inside: empty syringes. A blister pack of tablets. Scratched labels. Etched codes.
T-200. 5-day cycle.
DO NOT SKIP.
He stared.
T-200?
Another note—her handwriting:
"Five days on. Twenty-three off.
Seven = full cycle.
Seven weeks = one per week.
Fourteen = one every two weeks.
Low-dose metronomic suppression.
Not curative. Cage only."
Cage?
His pulse caught.
Another entry—lighter ink, nearly faded:
“Stabilisers space: every six days.
Triggered by aura, fever, drift.
No spike = no dose.
Hold line. Do not compound.
Neuro-inflammatorics only on early signs.”
He flipped another pouch.
Neuroquelin-C. Vascanon-D.
Thirteen left.
He knew those names.
Not painkillers—neurostabilizers. Experimental. Dangerous in the wrong ratios.
He’d seen them in Marcus Vale’s file. The poison case Enola cracked. Because she’d recognized it.
Because she’d been taking it.
Not for experiments.
For herself.
He stood slowly.
T-200.
The number flashed in his mind.
Then so did the image—six months ago, Victoria Embankment.
Her scarf. Her skin. The tightness under her makeup.
And the most important detail:
She had no hair.
It wasn’t a style.
It was survival.
That hadn’t been fatigue. Or burnout. Or post-field exhaustion.
It was chemo.
Temozolomide.
His knees buckled slightly.
That night came flooding back—the cauterization, her voice through the pain, her body failing.
He opened a waterproof notebook tucked beneath the case.
Her writing.
Not emotional.
Not clinical.
Just designed.
“If cycle skipped: 28-day delay.
Rebound risk: 7.2% per week.
Immune suppression: elevated post-infection.
Chemo delayed = survival window narrowed.”
A newer entry. Shaky hand:
“Current: 7 left.
Doses spaced tactically.
Goal: delay bloom. Not destroy.”
She wasn’t fighting to survive.
She was buying time.
Enough to get him off the island.
To build a boat.
To train him.
Mycroft stared.
His knees locked. Notebook limp in his hand. Firelight licking the page like it wanted to speak the truth aloud.
She hadn’t written “tumour.” Or “cancer.”
Because if she did—she’d have to admit it.
And he’d try to save her.
She couldn’t afford interference.
Every dose. Every footstep. Every calorie. Calibrated to stretch her life long enough to get him out.
He looked at the blister pack again.
Seven left.
That wasn’t treatment.
That was math.
She was rationing her existence like fuel in a sinking ship.
One pill at a time.
Not for herself.
For him.
He covered his mouth—not to muffle a sob.
To stop himself from screaming.
She’s dying.
She’s known.
And she’s doing it for him.
He pictured her—mocking his beard. Sketching blueprints. Setting traps. Not because she believed they’d escape together—
But because she already knew she wouldn’t.
That was the secret.
Not fear.
Not pain.
Certainty.
Written in her own hand.
She’s just holding the wall.
He wanted to smash something.
Instead, he sat.
Not in defeat.
Just because the weight was too much.
His eyes scanned the shelter.
Not for comfort.
For truth.
Bamboo walls braced to drain rain. Hammocks hung—**his hammock—**double-knotted. Hooks carved from wood. Fire pit vented precisely.
This wasn’t a camp.
This was a home.
His home.
She didn’t need any of this.
She could survive in mud. In snow. With nothing but a knife and a root.
But she built this—for him.
Because she wasn’t planning to stay.
His mind flashed to her words:
“If we can build a boat,
you sail northwest.
Nineteen degrees from sunrise.
Don’t correct for drift.”
You.
Not we.
Not us.
Just you.
Now he understood why.
It wasn’t a slip.
It was the plan.
She was training him to survive.
So he could leave.
Alone.
He stood. Too fast.
His knee protested. He didn’t care.
He paced. Breathing hard. Thought circling like blood in a broken heart.
“Six months,” he muttered.
She’d come back six months ago. Quieter. Thinner. Always hiding under scarves.
And he hadn’t asked.
Not really.
Because he’d assumed she would tell him.
Because he thought she trusted him.
He looked down at her notes again.
“She knows the bloom will win.
She’s just holding the wall.”
She trusted him to bury her.
But not to help her live.
He slammed his hand on the bamboo frame.
Then:
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered. “Why didn’t you—damn it—you stupid girl—”
He ran a hand through his hair. His voice low.
“Did you think I wouldn’t help?”
He swallowed hard.
“I could’ve… I could’ve given you everything. Specialists. Private wards. Counteragents. Every last thing—”
But he broke off.
Because the truth hurt worse than rage.
“…But you didn’t trust me.”
It wasn’t yelled.
It was quiet.
True.
Too late.
He slumped back against the frame.
“You didn’t trust me,” he said again.
“Because I don’t listen. Because I manage. Because I contain.”
His voice cracked.
“And you knew the moment I found out,
I’d try to stop you.”
He looked at the blister pack again.
You don’t build someone a boat
if you’re planning to sail it with them.
You build it for them.
Then disappear.
He pressed his hand over his mouth.
Stood there.
Breathing.
The storm winds picked up, brushing the tarp like fingers tapping a clock.
And in his mind, her voice again:
“We’re not dead yet.”
No.
Not yet.
But she was preparing for when she would be.
And this time—
He wouldn’t let her face it alone.
Day 30 – Nightfall Approaching – Inside the Pirate Cave
Because lying half-conscious in a forgotten 17th-century pirate cave on a jungle island in the middle of the Pacific, with a fractured arm and a tumour she wasn’t telling her brother about—
She’d still won.
At least a little.
But it hurt.
God, it hurt.
Her right arm was practically humming—not with adrenaline, but with a hot, bone-deep pain that vibrated through cartilage and made the edges of her vision strobe with static. Her thigh pulsed like a drumhead being kicked from the inside. Her head throbbed behind her eyes, pressure tightening from temple to nape.
She couldn’t pass out.
Not yet.
She blinked hard. Tried to sit.
Failed.
She swore under her breath. “Come on, Holmes. Not now.”
Her device—by some miracle of cruelty—had landed nearby, undamaged. Still glowing faintly from ambient energy harvest.
She dragged it closer with her good arm, cradled it tight to her ribs like a wounded animal guarding its last heartbeat.
Then she set to work.
The med kit was still strapped to her cargo belt.
Limited supplies. More limited now, after too many “emergencies” she’d kept to herself.
Working one-handed wasn’t ideal.
But she’d done worse.
Faster. Bloodier. Louder.
She splinted her arm first—cinching it to her torso with a stripped loop of cloth and her own belt. It held. Barely.
The leg was trickier. Swelling again. No time to wait.
She made a small incision.
Drained it.
Wrapped fast.
No numbing spray left.
No morphine.
Just muscle memory and grit.
“No audience,” she muttered, teeth gritted. “No excuses.”
The head wound was shallow. Sharp. Sticky. She dabbed it clean with gauze until her vision stopped swimming.
Only then did she move.
She limped through the cave’s dark, leaning left—compensating for everything her right side had abandoned.
The torchlight barely held, but enough to trace outlines.
The air was dry. Cool. Still.
This cave had been sealed for centuries—cracked open recently by rot, quake, or time.
The first thing she registered?
Bones.
Human.
Some arranged—ceremonial. A skull in a salt pit, flanked by silver coins.
Others scattered. Dumped.
She knelt by one—examined the curvature of the jaw.
Young male.
Malnourished.
Colonial Portuguese insignia half-fused to a rusted button near his clavicle.
Smugglers. Contrabandists.
Possibly enslaved crew.
“You brought your secrets here to die,” she whispered.
But not all of them had stayed dead.
One crate was cracked open.
Blackened rope still clung to the handles. She peeled it back with her boot.
Inside:
-
Scraps of old silk
-
Waxed paper bundles
-
Copper tools
-
An iron pistol—pitted but intact
-
A satchel, rotted leather, almost dissolved
She eased the satchel open.
Inside, sealed in brittle wax:
-
A hand-drawn naval map, inked waterproof
-
A leather-bound logbook, warped, water-damaged, but salvageable
The map came first.
She spread it across a dry rock shelf. Weighted the corners with coin stacks.
And stared.
Not just a map.
A solution.
Her island was clearly drawn—not labelled, but recognizable by reef and ridge.
But more than that—there were others.
Two more.
One, twenty kilometers west.
Another, larger, maybe fifty beyond that.
And near the westernmost island:
“Missione Avançada.”
Marked first with a Dutch flag.
Then overwritten by a Portuguese seal.
A trade post?
**Or a refuel station.
Either way—
human contact.
Her mind went still.
Then it activated.
She ran the checklist in silence.
Her device—broadcast radius 30 kilometers.
Strong. Adaptive. Tactical.
But still not enough to reach that far from here.
But… she had materials.
-
Metal from coins, lanterns, and old tools
-
Wiring from the pistol’s hammer
-
Waxed cloth from silk bundles
-
The device itself, blinking, intact
She could build a relay antenna.
Not a drone. Not yet.
But a powered glide beacon. Launched from the second island. Directed toward Missione Avançada.
If she and Mycroft could get to that nearer island—
Twenty kilometers—
Her chance of catching a live signal would triple.
And if that outpost still existed?
Maybe more.
Maybe people.
Maybe help.
She blinked again.
Nausea surged.
Her good arm twitched with cold.
“Not yet,” she muttered.
She slumped against the cave wall. Map in her lap. Fingers trembling over ancient ink.
It would take days.
They’d need to:
-
Build the raft
-
Ration supplies
-
Carry the device
-
Time the signal
And she had to live long enough to reach it.
Her pulse throbbed, slow and hard.
She touched the corner of the map—right where Missione Avançada was written.
And whispered:
“Don’t be a ghost.”
Notes:
Congratulations.
You just watched Enola Holmes splint her own arm, drain her own leg, decode a colonial-era pirate map, and calculate a multi-island signal relay… all while not telling her brother she’s actively dying because she didn’t want to slow him down.
And Mycroft?
He finally sees it.
Not because she said it.
But because she never needed to.This chapter is the heartbeat of Saltwater Logic.
The quiet truth that everything she’s done — every hunt, every cut, every step — was for someone else.Not because she’s selfless.
Because she’s logical.
Because death is inevitable.
But failing him wasn’t.
Let me know when you’re ready for what happens next.
Spoiler: It’s not mercy.
Chapter 24: Storm Level: Red
Summary:
Day 30.
The truth shatters. Mycroft finally uncovers the secret Enola’s been bleeding herself to keep hidden: she’s dying.
As the storm outside reaches a crescendo, the storm inside their shelter explodes into one of the most emotionally devastating confrontations of their lives.
And then—
The ocean disappears.
Because, of course, it gets worse.
Notes:
So. Yeah.
They survived 30 days of hell.
But this is the moment they stop surviving separately and start trying to survive together—
—right as the world tries to kill them again.We’re not done.
The island’s not done.
You might want to breathe before you start.
You might forget how halfway through.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 30 — Nightfall — Ridge Base Trail
The sky cracked.
Not with light — with sound.
A low, rolling bellow — like some forgotten god clearing its throat. The rain came next. Not falling. Slamming. Sideways. Thrashing through the jungle like it had a vendetta.
The tarp snapped above the shelter. Bamboo groaned.
And Mycroft Holmes —
— was done waiting.
He shoved his way out from under the canopy, rain slicing across his face like needles. Every step downhill caked in thick red mud. He didn’t care. Not that she was late. Not that the storm was getting worse. Not even that his shoes were full of half the island’s topsoil.
She wasn’t back.
And that wasn’t acceptable.
His breath came ragged. His hair plastered to his forehead. He’d tied back the shelter’s flap with one arm and belted on his knife with the other. His thoughts were sparking — torchlight and adrenaline fencing across his brain.
“Unbelievable—”
He shoved through a cluster of palms. Nearly slipped. Regained balance by sheer will and a tree root.
“Absolutely—unbelievable—”
He stormed toward the ridge path.
The cliff trail.
The one she said she’d follow for “twenty minutes.”
It had been ninety-six.
“Holmes!” he bellowed into the jungle. “ENOLA!”
No answer.
Only the wind.
And then—
A figure.
Staggering forward from the undergrowth below the trail. Limping. Soaked. Mud-streaked up to the knees. One arm bound in a makeshift sling. Hair matted, face dripping. But upright. And grinning like a lunatic.
“Hi,” Enola panted.
Mycroft froze.
The rain didn’t.
It smashed between them like a wall of hammers.
His voice, when it came, was low.
And livid.
“Where the hell have you been.”
She wiped water from her mouth, squinting up at him through the wind.
“Inside a pirate cave, mostly.”
“You—what?”
“Also fell down a hole. Broke a few things. Found a treasure map. Might save us all.”
She started up the slope toward him, stumbling slightly.
“So, you know. Productive night.”
“Are you—” he threw his hands wide “—completely demented?”
“Only partially. Right now, mostly dislocated.”
“You are injured, it’s a red-level storm, your device was unshielded, your leg isn’t healed, your brain isn’t healed, you were gone for an hour and thirty-six minutes—”
“Ninety-six,” she corrected, wheezing.
“—and you’re grinning like a rabid scout leader!”
“I’m allowed. I found something.”
“You found—” He dragged both hands through his soaked hair. “You could have died!”
Enola winced — not at his words, but at the lightning bursting overhead, casting his furious silhouette in white.
“I didn’t.”
“That is not the point!”
They were face to face now — or as close as the wind would allow.
Mycroft’s eyes were wild. “I thought you were dead.”
“I told you where I was going.”
“You didn’t tell me you were going to fall into a cave!”
“That part wasn’t in the plan.”
“Of course it wasn’t. Because you don’t make plans. You make chaos and duct-tape them to instinct—!”
“And you’re welcome!” she shouted back, sharp and sudden. “Because if I hadn’t, we wouldn’t have a plan!”
Day 30 – Ridge Shelter – 21:42
Category: Monsoon. Mood: Mutiny
They burst through the tarp entrance like shipwrecks crashing ashore.
The rain roared on the roof — louder now, amplified by the bamboo ribs like a war drum. Mycroft shoved the flap shut behind them, water pouring off his sleeves, his breath coming in quick, furious bursts.
Enola was shivering, but upright. Mud-streaked. Clothes torn. Her right arm was wrapped in one of her spare shirts — now a makeshift sling, knotted with her teeth and one working hand. She kicked off a boot and half-collapsed onto the hammock frame — then sat up just enough to yank a sodden pouch from her belt.
“I found a naval log,” she said through her teeth. “Old. Seventeenth-century. Shows this island — and two more.”
Mycroft blinked, still dripping. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious.” Her lips were pale. Her voice steadier than it had any right to be. “One of the islands is marked as a port. Missione Avançada. Not just land. A hub. A signal point. Maybe people. Maybe ships.”
He stared at her, rain still dripping from his collar.
“You can’t even walk.”
She glared up at him.
“I don’t have to walk,” she said.
“I just have to build.”
Lightning flashed — and for one surreal second, they looked like carved portraits of themselves.
Her: wrecked, but incandescent.
Him: soaked, jaw clenched, drawn in angles and exasperation.
Then the thunder came — low, long, and close.
Enola swayed.
Mycroft stepped forward on instinct, sliding an arm around her. She let him. Not out of sentiment. Out of survival.
“…I need to sit down before my ribs vomit,” she muttered.
He didn’t speak at first. Just tightened the sling knot — checking it with practiced care.
Then finally — flatly:
“You’re grounded.”
Her head snapped up. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“No, I did — I just assumed you were having a mild stroke.”
“You’re grounded,” he repeated, jaw locked.
“In what world do you think you have the authority to ground me?”
“In the very real one where I’m your older brother.”
She blinked at him. “Are you serious? You think that’s a legal credential now?”
“I think it’s more than enough,” he said icily, “given the current state of your risk assessment, physical condition, and complete disregard for basic self-preservation.”
She groaned and flopped back against the hammock’s edge. “Mycroft, you can’t even tie a reef knot. Or light a fire in the rain. Or — I don’t know — fish.”
“I can tie a reef knot,” he snapped, visibly offended.
She raised her good arm like a schoolteacher mid-scold. “I taught you that. I taught you how to tie it, how to filter water, and which berries wouldn’t kill you.”
“I retained the knowledge,” he said stiffly. “Which is more than I can say for you and your so-called risk evaluation.”
“Oh, don’t turn this into an exam you think you passed. You nearly ate nightshade two days ago.”
“That was one time.”
“One potentially fatal time,” she growled.
“Point remains,” he fired back, “you’ve spent the last two weeks pretending you’re not about to fall apart — physically, cognitively, medically. So yes, Enola, I think the person who isn’t currently hallucinating pirate's caves through a broken arm might be the better option for leadership right now.”
“Oh, that’s rich.”
“You’re injured.”
“I’m always injured.”
“You’re hallucinating, Enola!”
“I am not—”
“You fell down a cliff, broke your arm, and started describing seventeenth-century maritime navigation like it was a bloody postcard!” His voice rose with the storm. “You are not medically sound. And therefore — by every logical metric — you don’t get to make the decisions anymore.”
She froze.
Not because she didn’t follow.
But because it landed. Right in the gut.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just stared at him.
“You think I’m not thinking clearly,” she said — quiet now. Not uncertain. Just… cold.
“I think,” he replied, just as quiet, “your brain is running on half-battery and borrowed time. And I’m not going to stand here and let you die from delusion just because you say it’s part of a plan.”
She didn’t answer.
The thunder rolled again, dragging tension across the ceiling like a blade.
Then, flatly — almost incredulous:
“…You’re trying to revoke my autonomy.”
“I’m trying,” Mycroft said, voice trembling, “to keep you alive.”
“No,” Enola snapped, eyes flaring. “I’m trying to keep you alive. And let me tell you, it’s a hell of a job.”
Mycroft stepped back like she’d slapped him. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” she hissed. “You wouldn’t last two days without me. You’d try to dry socks over an open flame and burn the shelter down.”
“I have not—”
“You’ve been trying to fish with a knot you knew was wrong, just to see if I’d correct you.”
“That’s called tactical observation!”
“That’s called being a pain in my broken arse!”
The storm howled louder outside — but they didn’t move.
“You’re reckless,” he growled. “You risk everything, every second—”
“Because someone has to!”
“No, someone doesn’t! Not when they’re half-limping through fever, slurring navigation terms like bedtime stories!”
“Don’t pretend you care now—”
“Don’t pretend I haven’t!”
“Then where were you?” she shouted. “Back when I needed a buffer between me and a Crown that wanted a monster? When they asked if I’d bleed for Queen and Country, you said ‘Yes please — and can she wear a dress this time?’”
“Oh, don’t you dare—”
“Don’t I dare? I wouldn’t even be in this situation if your bureaucratic ass hadn’t dragged me to that idiotic security summit! ‘It’s a closed-circle diplomatic exchange, Enola, I need someone who won’t panic under pressure!’ You needed a bodyguard — and you chose me!”
“That was before I knew you were dying.”
Silence.
Not from the storm — that still raged.
But inside the bamboo ribs of the shelter, everything stilled.
Even Enola.
She stared at him.
Unmoving.
Unspeaking.
Her soaked hair stuck to her temples. Her breath caught, sharp and quiet.
“…How,” she said — each word deliberate, low, lethal —
“Do. You. Know. That. I’m. Dying?”
Mycroft didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
But his throat bobbed. Just once.
Enola stepped forward, limping — but unflinching.
“Did he tell you?” Her voice trembled. “Michael? John?”
“No.”
“Then how?”
He swallowed.
Finally — quietly, all the fury gone:
“I went through your bag.”
Silence again.
Then:
“You—”
“You wouldn’t tell me,” he said, softer now. “You still won’t. You think it’s noble. You think it’s strategy. But it’s cowardice, Enola. It’s the one thing you’ve always hated being.”
She stared at him like she didn’t recognise him. Then shook her head — once. Slowly.
“You had no right.”
“And you had no intention of surviving.”
The wind screamed.
So did Enola.
“You think I want to die?” she snapped, voice hoarse.
“I think you expect to. And you’re planning around it!”
“I have to!” she shouted, stepping forward. Her whole body trembled — part fury, part fever.
“Someone has to survive — and you—!”
“Me? I didn’t ask to—”
“Well I didn’t ask for a goddamn tumour either!” she screamed.
“I didn’t ask to spend my last months dragging your imperial arse through jungle mud while calculating how many weeks I’ve got left on a dying brain and five pills—!”
“Don’t you throw that at me!” he bellowed. “You’re the one who kept it a secret! You made the choice to come here. You made the choice to fake your medical discharge. You chose this, Enola!”
“I chose to protect you!”
Her face was wet — from the storm, not tears. She didn’t cry.
She never cried.
“You don’t get it. You never have. You still think you’re the one holding everything together — when I’ve been holding you. From the second we crashed, it’s been me.”
“You didn’t tell me you were dying!” Mycroft roared, pointing now, desperate. “You let me believe we’d get out of this together. You lied to me. Every day — every goddamn day—”
“BECAUSE IF I TOLD YOU, YOU WOULD’VE GIVEN UP!”
That shut him up.
The rain hammered the roof.
Lightning flashed — their shadows thrown huge across the tarp wall.
Two silhouettes.
Two wolves.
Two disasters, locked in a stalemate.
Enola was panting now. So was he.
Her voice came lower — but still molten.
“If I told you, you would’ve tried to save me. And you can’t. Not this time. So I did what I had to. I gave you a chance.”
Mycroft stared at her. Furious. Wrecked. Completely undone.
“You gave up on yourself,” he said — quieter now, like it hurt to say it.
“You decided I was worth saving… but not you.”
Enola laughed.
It wasn’t humour.
It was rage.
Blistered and blistering, spat through her teeth like venom.
“Of course you are! You’re the British fucking government! The whole damn country depends on you! Sherlock depends on you! Mum and Dad—”
“AND I DEPEND ON YOU!” Mycroft exploded — louder than the thunder, voice breaking like the sky overhead.
She froze.
Just for a second.
And then she snapped.
“I KNOW YOU DO!” she screamed.
“BUT I AM FUCKING DYING, MYCROFT! AND THERE IS NOTHING YOU OR I OR ANYONE CAN DO TO STOP IT!”
Her knees gave out.
Not fully — not yet — but her body stuttered.
Her chest locked.
Her eyes flared wide.
She stumbled backward, crashed into the hammock frame, fists clenched around the bamboo struts.
Her entire body shook.
Mycroft surged forward — frantic now, arms reaching—
“Enola—”
“DON’T!” she shrieked, jerking back.
“Don’t you DARE try to calm me down! Don’t tell me ‘we’ll figure it out.’ Don’t you fucking LIE to me!”
He flinched.
Actually flinched.
Because he’d been about to say that.
And she knew it.
She pointed at him — that trembling, useless arm — but it was still enough.
“You should’ve seen it WEEKS ago! MONTHS! You—Mr All-Knowing—should’ve known! But you didn’t want to look, because if you did, you’d see me breaking — and then you’d have to CARE — and then you’d have to FIX it—AND YOU CAN’T!”
“That’s NOT TRUE—”
“IT IS! I’ve done the math, Mycroft! I’ve run the protocols! I’ve STRETCHED the cycles! I’ve HALVED the doses! I’ve BLED it as far as it’ll go—AND I’M STILL LOSING!”
He looked like she’d stabbed him.
But she wasn’t done.
She staggered upright — barely.
Soaked to the skin. Face ashen. Eyes burning.
“I decided one of us had to make it.”
Soft.
Small.
Spoken like a funeral.
And then—
“And it’s not gonna be the one with a FUCKING BRAIN TUMOUR EATING HER ALIVE!”
Mycroft reached for her — not as a brother, not as a strategist — but as something desperate.
“Enola, stop—please—just breathe—”
“NO!” she screamed.
“Don’t touch me! Don’t PITY me! I am NOT DONE FIGHTING, DO YOU HEAR ME?”
“I don’t care if I have to crawl through MUD, or WIRE UP A DEAD SEAGULL TO GET A SIGNAL OUT—”
She staggered again — breath heaving, teeth bared.
“I will fucking SWIM UNTIL I DROWN if it gets you off this island!”
Lightning tore through the sky behind her.
Mycroft looked like she’d torn something out of him — like she’d reached in and crushed whatever organ made him hope.
“Stop,” he said hoarsely.
It wasn’t a command.
It wasn’t even sharp.
It was raw. A word dragged across broken glass.
But Enola just laughed — low, breathless, cracked wide open.
“Oh, we’re stopping now?” she spat, arms flung out like mock surrender.
“Well, fantastic, Captain Holmes, please — take control of the wreckage!
By all means, tell me to sit quietly while my brain liquefies and we both DIE!”
He took a step forward, slammed a fist into the shelter’s bamboo frame.
“SHUT UP!” he bellowed.
The storm screamed back in answer.
“You want to drown?” he shouted. “Fine! You want to tear yourself apart on your last fucking week of survival? GO AHEAD!
But do NOT make me watch you build your own grave and call it a strategy!”
Enola flinched.
And then —
The earth shivered.
“No,” she whispered. Voice flat. Distant.
“No, no, no—”
She limped to the flap. Threw it open.
The ocean was gone.
Not completely — not far — but the shoreline had vanished.
Pulled back over a hundred metres.
The trees at the edge were bending inward now — drawn toward the sudden emptiness.
The jungle went silent.
Even the rain paused — like the sky was holding its breath.
Mycroft’s voice came behind her. Hoarse. Terrified.
“What is that?”
“It’s the tide,” Enola muttered, dragging herself forward.
“It’s the fucking tide—”
And then she stopped.
Just past the trees — dark against the roiling clouds — the wave began to form.
A wall of black water.
Rising.
Fast.
“Oh fuck—” she breathed.
Her brain kicked in.
Reflex.
Calculation.
Height. Speed. Wind. Drag.
She turned, voice snapping into command — soldier-mode, clean and cold:
“Pack. Now. Get everything you can — top shelf only. Fire gear. Rations. My meds. GET IT!”
Mycroft hesitated.
“MOVE!” she screamed.
He bolted.
She stumbled toward the slope — the cave mouth half-buried, eyes already scanning for elevation.
“We go high,” she snapped as he reappeared — pack slung over one shoulder.
“To the ridge. The tall bluff. Don’t argue — RUN.”
The thunder returned — but it didn’t matter.
The only sound now was the roar of ocean reclaiming its silence.
And behind them —
the trees began to fall.
Notes:
So... this chapter.
Look, I told you it was going to get worse.
You thought I was joking when I said pain was the point? No.
I enjoy torturing these characters.This is the moment everything shifts.
Secrets are ripped open.
Plans collapse.
And right when they think it can’t get any worse—
Did someone say tsunami?
Chapter 25: The Third Wave
Summary:
Day 30 ends not with quiet — but with cataclysm.
Moments after a brutal emotional confrontation between Enola and Mycroft, a tsunami hits.
They flee to higher ground, seeking shelter in a massive banyan tree. The first wave tears through the jungle. The second shreds them apart. The third tries to erase them entirely.
Bones break. Blood floods. And when the ocean falls silent again, Enola is gone.
Notes:
You thought the emotional breakdown was the climax?
No.
This is Saltwater Logic, and logic says:
The worst-case scenario comes with waves.This is where the island stops being a prison and starts being a monster.
Enola runs. Mycroft breaks. The shelter is gone.
And the sea?
The sea doesn’t care what they’ve endured.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 30 – The Ridge – 21:56
Category: Monsoon + Tsunami. Mood: Survival Mode.
They ran.
Or rather — Enola ran.
Mycroft barely registered the motion at first. His brain hadn’t caught up.
All it could do was loop one single, furious, surreal question:
How the hell is she running.
Her leg was half-dead. Her arm was in a sling. Her ribs were bruised, her shoulder fractured, and she’d collapsed not twenty minutes ago like she could barely stand.
And now—
Now she was tearing uphill like hell itself was clawing at her heels.
“Faster!” she shouted, voice ragged, alive, the wind whipping the words sideways.
Mycroft stumbled after her — pack bouncing, lungs heaving, boots slipping in the mud.
Behind them, the roar of the sea was no longer a sound.
It was a force.
A freight train of water ripping trees from the earth.
Enola’s mind ticked between gasps — sharp, mechanical:
Wave height: 9 to 11 metres, maybe more.
Speed: 50–60 km/h over a shallow island slope.
Lead time: Seconds.
No high ground = no survival.
No stable structure = no chance.
Ridge = maybe.
Tree line? Slope clearance?
Unlikely. But better than nothing.
They veered off the path.
The cliff was too far. The water — too fast.
“Left!” Enola shouted, gesturing wildly with her good arm. “Higher tree—find height, not distance!”
They reached a dense stand of roots — a banyan, massive, ancient, twisted with vines, half-grown into the ridge.
Mycroft skidded to a stop, stared up, and said something between a prayer and a profanity.
Enola didn’t stop.
She leapt.
Her knee slammed into the trunk. She scrambled up, gritting her teeth, pulling with her good arm, using knots in the bark like a ladder.
Her foot slipped — she cursed — but caught a branch.
Six feet. Eight. Ten.
Mycroft hauled the bag over his shoulder — and threw it up after her.
Then the wave arrived.
Not at the base.
Not with warning.
It smashed the treeline sideways — a living wall of black water that swallowed everything beneath it.
“HOLD ON!” Enola screamed.
The tree bent — not broke, but close — swaying like a blade of grass in a hurricane.
Mycroft’s arms locked around a thick fork in the trunk.
Enola had one elbow hooked, her body dangling, sling soaked and useless.
Then the water slammed into them.
Hard.
Like being hit by a collapsing house.
Mycroft’s grip tore free.
The bark shredded his palms as he slid down — smashing into Enola as he fell.
They tumbled — bodies colliding, branches raking skin — and then they were underwater.
They were underwater.
Not in water — under it.
Spun. Flipped. Ripped from every anchor.
Enola’s ribs struck a branch. Her vision exploded white. Her lungs screamed. Her legs kicked blindly — twisting sideways — and then—
She surfaced.
For one second.
One single second.
She gasped.
Then went under again.
The world became noise. Teeth. Pressure.
Roots and sky and no sky. Black. Endless.
Then—hands.
Mycroft’s hands.
His fingers gripped her shoulder—the wrong one—pain flared white-hot through her chest—and then he was gone again, torn backward by the surge.
Enola screamed underwater.
No sound. Just air exploding from her chest as a branch smashed into her ribs.
She twisted, flailed—her bad arm completely useless now—and managed to snatch hold of a vine coiled around what used to be the banyan’s upper trunk.
No stability.
Everything moved. Everything shifted.
The wave was no longer water.
It was gravity wearing a skin of liquid.
She surfaced again—gasped—just in time to see something slam into her from behind.
A plank? A limb? She didn’t know. It knocked her forward. Her shoulder clipped a root.
She went under again.
Spinning. Choking. Burning.
A flash of movement — a blur of white fabric.
“Mycroft—!”
She saw him.
Or thought she did.
He hit a tree downstream — hard. His body snapped around it like a ragdoll.
His foot caught, twisted at an impossible angle—
Then he vanished beneath the current.
Her heart seized.
She kicked, hard. Her leg shrieked in pain. Her arm — dead weight.
Still, she dove.
Branches clawed her face. Something sliced open her calf. Salt stung her eyes.
She plunged toward where he’d vanished — lungs burning, brain screaming —
But it was like chasing a ghost through ink.
Nothing.
No silhouette.
No hand.
Just bubbles and black.
She surfaced again — spitting water — whipped her head around, blinking wildly.
“Mycroft—!”
Another surge hit.
It dragged her back.
Slammed her sideways into a rock.
The sling tore.
Her head cracked the edge.
Her vision shattered.
She tasted copper.
And then—
He surfaced.
Floating.
Face up.
Barely.
She swam.
Not well. Not strong. But enough.
She reached him — grabbed his shirt — hooked her legs around a drifting branch — and hauled with everything she had left.
He wasn’t breathing.
His lips were pale.
A gash split across his forehead, blood fanning into the foam.
“No no no no—”
She straddled the branch.
Wrapped her good arm around his chest from behind.
Locked her hand.
Pressed. Compressed. Slammed a fist into his sternum.
“Breathe—”
Nothing.
Again.
“Breathe, damn you—”
He convulsed.
Coughed.
Water poured from his mouth.
She choked on relief.
But the wave wasn’t done.
Another swell rose — taller than the last.
There was no shore left. No land.
Only water and treetops and shattered bamboo.
The branch slammed into a fallen trunk.
Her grip slipped.
Mycroft slid forward — bounced — rolled off.
“NO—!”
She launched after him.
Her fingers brushed his coat — too wet, too slick —
Then a side current caught them both.
Wrenched them apart.
He was gone.
She spun.
Flipped.
The world turned sideways.
Her ribs screamed.
Her ears rang.
The water turned red.
She didn’t know whose blood it was.
Then—
Silence.
Stillness.
Not peace.
Just absence.
Her body slowed. Drifted.
Vision flickered.
She clawed for the surface.
One last time.
She broke it.
Air.
Thin and sour.
But enough.
She floated.
Half-conscious.
Tasting salt. Blood. Old rot.
“Mycroft…” she whispered. “Please…”
But there was no answer.
Second Wave - POV: Mycroft Holmes
There was no up.
There was no down.
There was no air.
There was only pressure — crushing and infinite — and sound, the kind that didn’t just ring in your ears, but carved through your chest like wire.
Mycroft couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
Couldn’t feel his body.
Until he could.
Pain hit first.
Blinding. White. Too sharp to understand.
His arm twisted behind him at an unnatural angle—then snapped.
He didn’t hear it.
He felt it.
A scream surged toward his mouth — but salt water rushed in, choking it off.
His legs kicked on instinct. One connected with something solid.
A tree trunk.
Too fast.
Too late.
His shin struck first — and broke.
The crack was clean. Horrifically clean.
It registered as wrong before it registered as injury — then pain followed, tearing his vision like lightning.
He blacked out.
Only for half a second.
Then:
Upside down.
Spinning in the surge.
His coat dragged like an anchor.
The strap of the pack caught on something behind him.
Pain pulsed everywhere.
His arm — useless.
His leg — numb and bent wrong.
His head — bleeding.
And still, he was underwater.
Instinct kicked in. Primitive. Brutal.
Find up.
He twisted toward the faintest shimmer — a hint of light — maybe moon, maybe fire, maybe nothing.
He reached.
Pulled.
Something sharp cut his palm — coral? bark? metal?
Didn’t matter.
He clawed toward the surface, lungs screaming, throat locked tight against the urge to inhale death.
He broke through.
Air.
A single gasp—
Then the second wave hit.
Worse than the first.
Bigger.
Colder.
Meaner.
It didn’t surge — it collapsed, sideways, ripping roots and trunks from the jungle floor.
Mycroft went with it.
Slamming into something — a ridge rock, maybe — his ribs cracked.
He didn’t know how many. Maybe all of them.
This time, he screamed.
The water swallowed the sound.
He tried to swim. Couldn’t.
Tried to kick. Nothing.
His body was a sack of broken parts.
His vision narrowed — the edges went white.
He wasn’t going to make it.
This was it.
Buried beneath the Pacific.
Lost in the dark.
And Enola—
Enola.
Was she dead?
Was she alive?
Did she see the wave?
Did she know?
His thoughts short-circuited. Fragmented.
All he could see was the way she looked when she screamed at him — not in hate, but in rage. Grief.
That last moment—
"I will fucking swim until I drown—"
Was she still swimming?
Or had she already—
No.
Not Enola.
If she was alive, she was already planning her next goddamn move.
And if she wasn’t—
He couldn’t be either.
Someone had to make it.
Something snagged his leg.
Not a tree.
Rope.
Tension wrapped around his calf — tight — and pulled.
Dragged him back until his spine slammed against something half-floating and buoyant.
A piece of the shelter.
He hooked an arm around it.
His vision ghosted. Fog rose behind his eyes like steam off boiling water.
He didn’t pass out.
Not fully.
But he did scream.
Long. Cracked.
Soundless in the storm.
His body was broken.
His mind — breaking.
And the only thought left — circling like a drain:
"Don’t die before you see her again."
He didn’t know where he was.
Just that water still churned beneath him.
Above him.
Around him.
And the sky —
was still roaring.
She heard the scream.
Sharp. Raw. Familiar in the worst possible way.
“Mycroft—!”
It cracked the air like a fault line.
Not just pain — agony.
The kind that doesn’t come from injury alone.
The kind ripped out of a soul.
And for the second time in her life, Enola Holmes felt fear.
Not strategy. Not calculation.
Not survival instinct.
Fear.
Real. Hollowing. Acidic.
But not for herself.
For him.
It spread through her like sickness — thick, slow, impossible to stop.
She kicked harder, limbs screaming. Her good arm burned, her bad one crushed against her chest, wrapped in the ruined sling.
Her shoulder howled. Her leg spasmed.
She didn’t stop.
Couldn’t.
Because that sound—
That sound—
It was the same one she’d heard on the cannibal island.
The one Greg had made when the freezer opened.
The one that never left her nightmares.
She didn’t scream this time.
She swam.
Through debris. Through rot. Through wreckage.
Through a body that wanted nothing more than to sink.
And then she saw him.
Not fully.
Just a hand.
His hand.
Clutching something — vine, rope, maybe the shelter line.
Dragged halfway under a massive, splintered root — still half-attached to the ridge, just above floodline.
“Mycroft—!” she gasped.
No answer.
No movement.
Her gut dropped.
She pushed forward — ducked under a branch — fought through weeds and leaves and the relentless drag of the current — and finally found his face.
Pale.
Bloodied.
His eyes half-shut.
His leg—
She gagged.
The femur had snapped.
White bone gleamed through soaked fabric and skin.
His arm was worse — visibly fractured, shoulder fully dislocated.
And he wasn’t screaming anymore.
He wasn’t even awake.
“No, no, no—” she rasped, gagging on salt and panic. “Not now, not now—”
She grabbed the harness loop of his shirt — tied it to the root with what was left of her belt. Her fingers trembled violently. Her body jerked with every pulse of the water.
The sea pulled again.
Hard.
Her grip nearly gave.
She wrapped her legs around the root, locking herself around him like a human carabiner.
She held on.
But the ocean had other plans.
The third wave didn’t roar.
It didn’t crash.
It rose.
A silent, seething wall.
Not water — wrath.
It didn’t come to flood.
It came to erase.
It hit.
The tree groaned like a creature dying.
The root twisted.
Mycroft’s body slammed into hers, limp and heavy, dragging them both sideways.
Her fingers slipped — belt, bark, skin —
And then she was gone.
Ripped backward.
Like a thread torn from cloth.
“Myc—!”
The wave took the rest of the name.
Enola didn’t scream.
She didn’t have time.
The sky vanished.
The world spun.
Her last thought — stupid, feral, desperate:
He’s still on the island.
He’s still breathing.
That has to be enough.
Then—
The current devoured her.
Her body slammed into something solid — bamboo? driftwood? the remnants of the shelter —
Her shoulder shrieked. Her ribs collapsed.
Something cracked.
She tasted blood.
And then—
Nothing.
Salt.
Silence.
Dark.
Notes:
Did someone say tsunami?
Yeah.
I heard it too.Three waves.
Three chances to die.
No room for speeches.
No room for strategy.Just fear.
Just blood.
Just two siblings torn apart in the dark.
Chapter 26: Thread, Severed
Summary:
Day 30. The hunt tightens.
Michael chases a ghost through Tangier, follows the scent to Split, Croatia, and finally corners the pilot who abandoned Enola and Mycroft. Theo Hartwell — ex-MI6, now a traitor, maybe a pawn.
But just as answers surface—
So does a bullet.
Theo dies mid-confession. His encrypted phone wipes itself clean.
And Michael loses everything. Again.
Except the one thing that matters.
Enola is alive.
And now it’s personal.
Notes:
Okay.
So you thought Day 30 couldn’t get worse.
That maybe, maybe, someone on the outside would make progress while Enola’s getting eaten by waves and Mycroft’s collecting broken bones like seashells.
You were wrong.
This is the other half of Day 30. The one with black ops, smuggled leads, and the man who would level countries to get her back.Michael doesn’t get catharsis.
He gets blood.
And silence.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Notes:
I told you not to get comfortable.
This chapter is one long inhale before the scream.
And Michael?
Michael just cracked.
Properly.He’s done playing by rules.
Done waiting on leads.
Done being a ghost.He’s going full predator now.
And next time he finds a trail?No one’s leaving alive.
And someone should be scared.
But it’s not Michael.
Not anymore.
Chapter 27: You Don’t Get to Die First
Summary:
Day 31.
The ocean was supposed to be the end.
Enola wakes alone—adrift, shattered, stitched together with fury and jewelry. The island she returns to isn’t the one she left. It’s been razed, drowned, gutted.
No signal. No shelter. No Mycroft.
But the mission isn’t over.
Because she hasn’t seen the body.
And Enola Holmes doesn’t stop for despair.
She drags herself back through wreckage and ruin—chasing a thread, a whisper, a pulse.
And finds him.
Barely alive.
Still tethered.
Still hers to save.
Notes:
You thought the tsunami was the climax?
Sweet summer child.
This chapter is what happens after the waves.
After you break.
After the hope slips.
After the silence answers back with nothing.And still—Enola moves.
She doesn’t believe in miracles.
But she does believe in rules.
And if she didn’t see the body,
She’s not done.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 31 – Open Ocean – 06:17
She awoke to daylight.
But not to warmth.
The sun blazed overhead, diffused by salt and fever, slicing through her lashes like a blade of white heat. Her vision blurred. Her lips cracked. Her skin burned—but she shivered.
She didn’t know where she was.
Not right away.
She was cold. Despite the sun’s cruel insistence, she was soaked through—not just wet, but saturated. The sea had infiltrated her, swallowed her skin, and set up camp in her bones. Her limbs trembled. Her breath tasted like metal and brine.
Then something beneath her shifted.
Cracked bamboo. Splintered tarp.
She blinked.
Slow. Sandpaper on her eyes.
Recognition crawled in.
The roof.
Her roof.
The shelter. The platform. Her goddamn invention. Floating now—a corpse of survival.
She was lying atop it. Alone.
Aboard a raft of memory and wreckage.
And then it came rushing back.
The wave.
The scream.
Mycroft’s scream.
His hands—gripping hers.
His leg—the bone exposed.
The sea—ripping them apart.
She exhaled.
Not a cry. Not a sob.
Just air.
As if her lungs had forgotten how to make noise.
She didn’t move.
She couldn’t.
There was pain—but not the kind with a name.
Not sharp. Not dull.
Just white static where her limbs used to be.
Her shoulder felt loose—possibly out again. Her side throbbed. Her sling was gone. One leg refused all commands. Skin split in places she hadn’t seen.
It didn’t matter.
None of it mattered.
Because Mycroft—
He’d still been tied to that banyan when the third wave hit.
She’d calculated it, barely conscious:
First wave: destabilisation.
Second: destruction.
Third: burial.
That tree wasn’t a miracle.
It was an anchor.
And anchors drown.
She didn’t scream.
Didn’t cry.
Didn’t blink.
Just stared up at the sky.
Mind hollowed.
Breath shallow.
Somewhere between prayer and paralysis.
Maybe she was dead.
She hoped she was.
A raft made of her own plan. Her own hope. Her own failure.
And now?
Her funeral pyre.
This is it, she thought.
This is all that’s left.
No signal.
No map.
No plan.
No future.
Just absence.
Not panic. Not peace. Just white.
A brain flipping the off switch.
Because if she couldn’t save him—
If he died tied to that fucking tree—
Then what was the point of her?
Then—
A memory.
Sharp.
Hard.
Commanding.
“If you don’t see the body, the mission’s not over.”
Drilled into her in extraction drills. A rule for enemies.
But now?
A reason to keep breathing.
And then—
Wings.
A weight.
Small. Sharp. Real.
A bird had landed on her forearm. Black. Hook-beaked. Eyes focused.
It tilted its head at her.
She stared at it.
For one second, it felt like the universe was laughing.
But then the bird’s claws pressed down. Not painfully. Just—present.
Alive.
Enola didn’t speak.
Didn’t breathe.
She moved her fingers.
One by one.
Until she could lift her hand, just barely, and whisper:
“…Hi.”
The bird stayed.
And Enola Holmes—bleeding, bruised, broken—didn’t cry.
But she curled her fingers around the edge of the raft.
Because the mission wasn’t over.
And she hadn’t seen the body.
07:02
“—aaagh—!”
The sound tore from her like fabric ripping down the grain.
Unintentional. Raw.
Her body had shifted without warning, and now—
Fire. In glass. Through every nerve.
Her leg.
She dared to look.
Oh.
Oh, no.
From mid-thigh to knee — split wide.
Flesh torn sideways. Skin flapped like a book’s spine. Blood darkening through the soaked fabric.
Her stomach — worse.
Splinters. Hundreds.
Long. Sharp. Wood from the shelter—now buried in her.
She blinked.
Her brain wasn’t thinking anymore.
It buzzed.
Like a radio tuned to ocean static.
No emotion.
No fear.
Just math and motion.
“Right,” she rasped. “Seal it. Seal it—”
Her hand groped for her belt. Missed. Found her earring instead.
“…Fine.”
She yanked it out.
Flashes of white. Then black. Then white again.
The roof creaked beneath her—still afloat. Still drifting.
And her leg—
She tore the last dry corner of her shirt, twisted it into a knot, pressed the flaps of skin together.
“Okay. Okay. Like sutures. Just bigger.”
She lined the wound. Hands shaking. Took the earring—curved, silver—and drove it through both layers of flesh.
“AAAGH—!”
The scream ricocheted over empty water.
She did it again.
And again.
Each pierce was lightning. Each pull was molten fire.
But the skin closed.
Not clean.
Not pretty.
But sealed.
The blood slowed.
Not stopped.
But slowed.
She gasped. Each breath a knife. Her stomach swelled with pain.
The splinters.
Grey-black wood.
Some shallow. Some buried.
She had no tweezers.
She had fingers.
“No choice,” she growled.
And began.
Dig. Pinch. Rip.
“Fuck—”
Splinter.
“God—”
Splinter.
One drove deeper. She nearly blacked out.
Nearly.
Then—the bird.
It flapped once. Circled overhead. Then turned.
Flew forward.
Direction.
It meant something.
It meant land.
She rolled to the raft’s edge.
Dragged. Pulled. Slid.
One arm forward.
One leg trailing.
Her lungs wheezed.
Her ribs screamed.
She didn’t stop.
Forward.
“I don’t need to make it back,” she croaked. “Just need to know you’re there…”
The sun burned her skin. Salt peeled it raw. Her shoulder hung limp, the bone screaming.
She reached the side of the raft.
Dipped her hand.
Pushed.
One stroke.
Then another.
Not swimming.
Crawling through water.
One breath at a time.
The raft creaked behind her, bobbing slowly. It shifted with her motion.
But she moved.
After the bird.
Because Enola Holmes had nothing left.
No logic.
No proof.
No plan.
Only one rule.
If you don’t see the body…
The mission isn’t over.
Day 31 – Shoreline, Return Island – 12:48
She washed ashore like wreckage.
Face-down. Motionless.
The tide pulled once, then left her — as if even the sea had decided she’d had enough.
The surf didn't spit her out. It abandoned her.
Her fingers twitched.
Salt coated her like a second skin. Her lips were cracked wide open.
Her shoulder — still broken — hung dead at her side. The sling? Gone. Shredded.
Her abdomen looked carved. Torn. Bruised.
The earrings still held her leg together. Barely.
She coughed.
Choked.
Spat out sea and blood.
But her eyes opened.
Sluggish. Blurred. Grey.
Land.
Somehow—some-fucking-how—
She’d made it back.
But the island...
The island was wrong.
The jungle had been flayed.
Trees stripped. Roots clawed up from the ground.
What had once been lush and dark was now raw and wounded—like skin peeled back from bone.
The air reeked of salt rot and splintered life.
Nothing moved.
No birds.
No monkeys.
Not even wind.
Just silence.
Absolute. Mute. Final.
She tried to stand.
Failed.
Tried again.
Collapsed.
“Shit—”
One breath.
Then two.
She crawled.
The sand felt sharp — not soft, not gentle.
It scraped inside her clothes, ground into every wound.
It whispered like a thousand tiny knives.
But still—
She crawled.
Back.
If it could still be called that.
12:59 PM
The shelter was gone.
Not damaged.
Gone.
The roof — vanished.
The platform? Splintered and scattered.
She found one board jammed into a tree trunk like a spear.
No supplies.
No meds.
No flare.
Just—mud. And brokenness.
And then—
Something glinted.
She stopped.
Crawled forward.
Dug.
Her fingers shook.
Pulled it free.
The device.
Cracked.
Screen spidered. Antenna bent. Waterproof seal torn.
Dead.
Her breath caught.
Then stopped.
She stared at it for a full five seconds—
Then slammed it into the dirt.
“FUCK!”
Again.
“FUCK!”
Her knuckles split open. Blood ran across the already-bloodied metal.
The device didn’t crack further.
It just lay there. Dead. Dumb. Empty.
She dropped it.
Sat back.
Looked at the ground like it had personally betrayed her.
“Fine,” she whispered. “Fine. I’ll do it myself. Again.”
But her voice cracked.
And even she didn’t believe it.
13:14 PM
She searched.
Or tried.
The forest was flattened.
Every path they’d carved—erased.
The ridge? Unrecognizable.
The cave? Buried.
The banyan?
Nowhere.
She called.
“Mycroft!”
Nothing.
Again.
Weaker now.
“MYCROFT!”
The trees didn’t echo.
The wind didn’t carry it.
Nothing answered.
The storm had taken everything.
And—
She stopped walking.
Because that’s when hope slipped.
Not shattered. Not screamed.
Just… slipped.
Like it had waited until she could feel the full weight of its loss.
13:27 PM
She collapsed beside the firepit that wasn’t.
Just a crater now.
Blackened. Half-filled with ash and water.
She didn’t cry.
Couldn’t.
She sat there.
Leg extended.
Arm limp.
Hair clumped with salt and blood.
Face expressionless.
Sunburnt.
Empty.
Flickering.
The bird was gone.
The signal was gone.
The trees were gone.
He was gone.
And Enola Holmes — government ghost, miracle of precision, engineered survivor —
Was still alive.
Somehow.
Alone.
But buried deep beneath her rage and rot—
One thread remained.
Not hope.
Not belief.
Discipline.
If you didn’t see the body…
The mission wasn’t over.
She gritted her teeth.
And turned toward the ridge.
Not to bury.
To find.
Day 31 – Ridge Base, Impact Zone – 14:12
Enola Holmes didn’t scream.
She didn’t sob.
She didn’t beg.
But she spoke.
Not to anyone.
To everything.
To salt.
To blood.
To silence.
To the broken air of a world that should have ended.
“It’s not fair,” she rasped — voice cracked, shredded.
“It’s not fucking fair.”
She dragged herself through the muck.
One hand clawing forward.
The other limp.
Her leg stitched shut with jewelry.
Her stomach flaring with every breath.
Her ribs — splintered scaffolding threatening to collapse.
The air stank of rot and copper and exhaustion.
“I have a fucking tumour,” she snarled at the clouds.
“I’m dying. And I’m still here. How the fuck am I still here?”
No reply.
Not from the wind.
Not from God.
Not from the bones of the island.
But that didn’t stop her.
She’d blamed training before. Blamed the routines. Blamed that violent resilience embedded in her muscles.
But this?
This wasn’t reflex.
This was defiance.
“Tell me it’s not some bored bastard deity,” she hissed. “Tell me this isn’t fate. Tell me—”
She stopped.
Because the next word—
Was his name.
And she couldn’t say it.
Not yet.
Not until she knew.
Not until she saw.
So she moved.
Not fast.
Not clever.
Not clean.
Just forward.
Through broken palms. Over roots turned jagged.
Past the wreckage of what had once been their life.
Their maps.
Their food.
Their bed.
Their shelter.
Everything shredded.
Everything drowned.
But she crawled. Limped. Dragged.
Because there was nothing else.
No backup.
No signal.
No flare.
Just the mission.
And the rule.
Find him.
14:25
At first, she saw the tree.
Split. Angled. Gutted.
Its base half-buried in debris, roots twisted like snapped tendons.
The vines they'd once used—gone.
Branches shattered.
Then—
A boot.
Just past the base, almost swallowed by the mud.
She froze.
Breath caught.
Heartbeat stalled.
Then:
She moved.
Hand over fist.
Dragging herself like a corpse returning from the sea.
And then—
She saw him.
Still tied.
Still anchored to the broken trunk.
Cord intact—miraculously, impossibly.
His body slumped.
Half-buried in leaves and wet debris.
One arm twisted wrong.
His head tilted, streaked in dried blood.
His chest — smeared with mud and silent breath.
He looked—
No.
She refused that word.
Not until she reached him.
Her body screamed with every movement.
Her leg nearly gave.
But she pushed.
Closer.
One metre. Then another.
“Mycroft,” she whispered. “Please—”
Stillness.
She reached his wrist.
Fingers numb.
Shaking.
She found skin.
Pressed.
Slid inward.
Felt.
Pulse.
Weak.
Thin.
But there.
“Fuck—”
She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.
Collapsed forward.
Didn’t even notice the sob until it ripped through her.
Hit her ribs like a hammer.
“Don’t do that to me,” she whispered into the air.
“Don’t you ever do that to me.”
He didn’t move.
But he was alive.
Barely.
A miracle.
No—a second miracle.
And this time?
She didn’t credit discipline.
Didn’t credit odds.
Didn’t credit any god.
This was something else.
Something ruthless and furious and unwilling to die.
Two people.
Broken.
Refusing to leave each other behind.
She collapsed beside him.
Laid her forehead against his chest.
Listened to the beat.
That soft, stubborn rhythm.
Then whispered—
“…you owe me so many apologies when you wake up.”
Her body surrendered.
She passed out.
But not before curling one arm over his chest.
A broken shield.
A silent promise.
Daring the world to try again.
Notes:
She found him.
She found him, and that should feel like a win.
But this isn’t a victory.
This is what’s left after you’ve been erased and still crawl back.
They are broken.
Barely breathing.
But together.And that?
That’s enough to burn the whole goddamn world if someone tries to take it again.See you in the next chapter.
(…Oh, and in case you thought this was healing time—
It’s not.)
Chapter 28: Not On My Watch
Summary:
Day 31.
Enola wakes beside a body she refuses to lose.
Mycroft is alive—but barely. His shoulder is dislocated. His leg shattered. His lung possibly collapsing.
And there is no help. No tools. No rest.
So Enola does what only she can.
Because the mission isn’t over.
And she isn’t done saving him.
Notes:
You’re here again.
You knew what this chapter was going to be.We’ve had the ocean.
Now comes the aftermath.
Resetting bones.
Tying arteries with copper wire.
Stitching your own leg closed with a bobby pin because you can’t afford to bleed out.This isn’t survival porn.
It’s what happens when you have no choice.You save each other.
Even if it kills you.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 31 – Island Interior – 15:04
She didn’t stay unconscious for long.
Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe two. It was impossible to tell beneath the bruised sky and shattered canopy. But when Enola’s eyes cracked open again, her arm was still wrapped around him.
And he hadn’t moved.
She blinked once.
Twice.
Then surged upright with a ragged gasp—
“Fuck—”
The world spun. Her side screamed. Her hands trembled.
But Mycroft was breathing.
Barely.
She lunged for the knot, fingers slick with blood and seawater. The vine tangled. Her grip faltered.
“Shit—c’mon—”
It came loose with a snap. The vine slithered away in wet loops.
She shifted beside him, bracing his head with one hand, the other gripping his shoulder.
“Mycroft. Mycroft—wake up. Please—wake up—”
He groaned.
Then jerked awake like he’d been hit with lightning.
“Get—off—!” he gasped, thrashing. Every muscle fired at once—reflexive, panicked.
“Mycroft!” she yelped, catching his shoulder—
“AAAHHH—!”
The scream was pure nerve. He collapsed back, clutching his arm, body convulsing with pain.
“NO, no, no—hey—HEY!” She dropped to her knees, holding his head in both hands. “It’s me—it’s me, Mycroft—look at me!”
His eyes darted wildly—
Wide. Disoriented. Drenched in pain.
Then:
“Enola?”
His voice fractured.
And he broke.
No control. No restraint. Just sobs—sharp and silent and vicious—through gritted teeth. His fingers clutched her wrist, white-knuckled, desperate.
“It’s me,” she whispered, leaning close. “I’ve got you—I’ve got you—I’ve got you...”
“Hurts—” he choked out. “My arm—AAHHH—”
“I know. Don’t move. Please, just stay still—”
He curled on his side—not by will, but by pain.
Her hand locked around his shirt like a tether.
“Hold. Just hold.”
He let out a strangled sound. Not a scream. Just raw noise.
The kind made when the body can't take more.
His leg shifted—bone grated against earth—and he cried out again.
“Mycroft—breathe,” she begged, brushing hair from his temple. Her own tears were mixing with the dirt.
“Breathe. Stay with me. Stay—”
He tried.
God, he tried.
But his body had begun to shut down.
And she felt it.
Not death. Not yet.
But that other thing—
Shock.
The place where people stopped coming back.
“Hey—HEY!” she snapped, slapping his cheek lightly. “Look at me.”
His eyes fluttered.
Half-lidded.
Glazed.
“You don’t get to tap out, you smug bastard.
Not after all that shit about me staying alive.”
He whimpered.
Actually whimpered.
Then whispered, slurred:
“I’m gonna be sick—”
“Turn your head—NOW—”
She rolled him onto his good side just as he heaved.
His stomach was empty.
His body wasn’t.
She caught him.
Held him up.
Rubbed his back while he gagged and coughed.
When he collapsed again—
She caught him again.
Cradled him like she had that night in the clearing.
Only this time—there was more blood.
“Mycroft!” she gasped, kicking a root out of the way. “I’ve got you—I’ve got you—”
He whimpered again. His eyes fluttered—then rolled.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” she breathed. “Don’t you dare black out on me—”
His body twitched—
Then arched.
The scream that tore out of him was almost inhuman.
“NNNNGH—FUCK!”
“Hold,” she whispered, pressing down on his shoulder to stop him from thrashing. “You hold.”
Another scream—sharper now:
“AARRRGH—! GOD—!”
“Mycroft, hey—” she leaned over him, frantic, “focus. Look at me. Right here. Focus.”
He coughed wetly.
Spit.
Red.
She didn’t flinch.
“Your arm’s out. I need to fix it. I can’t do that if you pass out again, you stubborn bastard—”
He sobbed. No words. No breath. Just a sound that made her bones vibrate.
“Hey. Hey. It’s me,” she said again. “Enola. I’ve got you. Just—just stay with me.”
She tore at what was left of her shirt, rolled it into a wad, and forced it into his good hand.
“Bite it.”
He stared at her like she’d given him a live grenade.
“Bite or scream. But don’t let go.”
She braced her knee.
Gripped his dislocated shoulder.
“Okay. Arm first.”
His eyes widened.
“No—no—Enola—please—don’t—AAAHHHHHH—!”
The joint popped.
The bone shifted.
The world cracked.
His scream ripped through the trees.
She held him down.
Felt the tremors ripple through him.
“I know,” she whispered. “I know.”
He sobbed. “Hurts—hurts—hurts—”
“I know. Don’t move. You’re safe. You’re going to be okay—”
“I c-can’t—Enola—oh god—please—please stop—”
Her own voice shook.
“We’re not done.”
She moved to his leg.
“I need your leg next.”
“No—”
It came out half-growled, half-begged.
“Yes.”
She pressed down on his thigh, just above the break.
The skin was hot. Swollen. Angry.
“Mycroft, I need you to breathe.”
He grunted. Shuddered.
“Breathe with me. Now.”
He couldn’t.
She leaned in, forehead pressed to his.
“Look at me.”
His eyes opened. Barely.
“You’re not dying today,” she whispered. “Not today.”
She braced herself.
And pushed.
The bone moved.
He screamed so loud it stole the air from the trees.
“AAAAHHHH—KILL ME—JUST—FUCKING—KILL ME—”
“You don’t get to die,” she hissed. “Not on my watch.”
The blood pulsed out.
Her clamp barely held.
She tied the tourniquet tighter.
He howled.
A sound pulled from the beginning of the world.
And then—
He went still.
Fainted.
She didn’t stop.
Her hands were shaking. Her vision was tilting.
But she set the bone.
Wrapped it.
Splinted it with a broken arrow shaft and soaked gauze.
Her heartbeat was a hammer.
Her lungs burned.
But still—she worked.
Because when someone you love is dying in your arms—
You don’t quit.
You hold.
Even when your own body is failing.
Even when you’re broken too.
She stitched his arm.
Cleaned the gash at his temple.
Whispered to him, even though he couldn’t hear:
“Mycroft… you better come back from this.”
She pressed her hand to his chest.
Felt the rise.
The fall.
“Because I’m not doing this alone.”
Then she slumped beside him.
Bleeding.
Breathless.
Broken.
But still tethered to him.
Still alive.
Day 31 – Island Interior – 15:37
She crouched over him for what felt like hours.
Not moving.
Not thinking.
Just hovering — hands trembling, eyes locked on the steady rise and fall of his chest.
She couldn’t look away.
Because if it stopped — even once — she needed to know.
She needed to be ready.
And then —
He coughed.
Wet.
She froze.
“Mycroft...?”
Another cough — harsher, deeper.
Then a spray of red, spattering the corner of his mouth.
She caught it in one palm.
Foamy.
Bright.
Too bright.
“Shit.”
She tilted his head carefully, thumb under his chin, her pulse hammering.
Checked his lips. His tongue. His throat.
His jaw was slack. His tongue bruised, swollen, probably bitten during the procedure.
But this—
This wasn’t tongue blood.
She wiped his mouth with the edge of her sleeve. Checked again.
Still red. Still frothing.
Her eyes flicked to his ribs.
The right side barely moved.
The left rose and fell shallow, fast.
Uneven.
“No. No. No—”
She shook her head like she could knock the thought out.
“You dramatic fucking bastard, you better be biting your tongue,” she hissed. “Because if that’s your lung—”
Her voice broke.
She didn’t finish the sentence.
He didn’t answer.
Still out.
Still breathing.
But labored.
She dragged her hands down her face.
Salt, blood, tears, all one now.
Then — pain.
Her leg.
Sudden, sharp, blinding.
She looked down.
The earring-stitches were gone.
Torn. Swollen. Oozing.
Her thigh was soaked in blood, flesh red and angry, heat radiating off it like a stove. The wound had split open again when she pulled Mycroft free.
“Fuck—” she gasped, grabbing a nearby root to steady herself.
Her whole leg pulsed. Not just pain — fever.
“Infected.”
It wasn’t a guess.
It was certain.
She tried to stand — failed.
Tried again — stumbled sideways into the mud.
The adrenaline was gone.
Now it was just her.
And pain.
No gauze.
No antiseptic.
No morphine.
No kit.
She turned in place — scanning the ground like it would magically cough up a solution. But the tsunami had swallowed everything.
Her pack. Her med case. Her gear. Gone.
“Okay. Think.” she muttered.
“Improvise.”
Her eyes landed on her device.
Dented. Fried.
But intact enough to matter.
She pried it open with a rock.
Cracked the casing.
Stripped the inner lining.
Thin copper threads spilled out — insulated, flexible, intact.
Wiring.
Classified. Military-grade.
Now: sutures.
“Sorry, darling,” she muttered to the device as she snapped its core.
She coiled the copper around her fingers.
Fine. Resilient. Enough to hold.
Now: a needle.
There wasn’t one.
She searched the dirt. Her pockets. Nothing.
She reached behind her ear —
Found the black bobby pin she always kept tucked there.
Pulled it free.
Bent. Blunt.
She bit it.
Snapped it in half.
Used a rock to grind one end to a point.
Crude. Savage. But sharp.
She tied the copper wire through the loop. Twisted it tight.
“Okay,” she whispered. “We’re doing this. You and me, bobby pin.”
No disinfectant.
No mercy.
She didn’t even try to brace.
She jammed the pin through the edge of her thigh.
“FFFFUUUCK—”
Her scream shattered the jungle silence.
She kept going.
Pierce.
Pull.
Pierce.
Pull.
Twelve stitches.
Uneven.
Ugly.
But they held.
She tied off the last loop with shaking fingers, then wrapped the rest of the wire around her thigh like a pressure band.
Bit it closed with her teeth.
Collapsed back.
Gasping.
Vision greying.
Heart stuttering.
Every limb screaming.
But she was still upright.
Still alive.
“You better start writing your apology list.” she panted at the sky.
She didn’t pass out.
Not completely.
But she stopped fighting to stay conscious.
Her fingers curled toward Mycroft’s chest. Two of them rested just barely on his ribs.
Still rising.
Still falling.
Just in case.
In case he left again.
In case she needed to pull him back.
Because Enola Holmes did not stop.
Not for blood.
Not for pain.
Not for death.
And sure as hell not when it was him.
Notes:
She stitched her own leg shut.
She forced a dislocated shoulder back into place.
She braced a shattered femur.
With nothing.
With nothing.She bled beside him and still kept one hand on his chest—
Because if he stopped breathing, she needed to know.This chapter isn’t about strength.
It’s about obsession.
Love. Fury. Discipline.
And the absolute refusal to let him go.She didn’t stop for the wave.
She won’t stop for the fever.
And she will never stop for pain.So if you think this is her limit—
It’s not.
Chapter 29: The Breaking Point
Summary:
Day 31 — Afternoon.
Enola stitches her own leg shut with copper wire and a bobby pin, laughing hysterically through the agony as her mind begins to splinter from trauma, fever, and exhaustion. Mycroft wakes just in time to witness her unravel.She spirals. Jokes. Screams. Collapses into laughter so violent it borders on madness.
And then—
Silence.When Mycroft begins to cough blood, Enola snaps. Not outwardly, but inwardly.
The laughter dies. The spark vanishes.What remains is a girl gone hollow.
She becomes cold, robotic, emotionally absent. Mycroft begs her to stay, to talk, to come back—
But she walks away.Leaving him injured. Alone. Screaming her name into the jungle.
Notes:
This chapter was always coming.
All the pain, the surgeries, the screaming, the sacrifice—
It doesn’t come without a price.
And now we’re paying it.Enola doesn’t cry.
She doesn’t beg.
She walks.Because the mind can only take so much before it checks out to save what’s left of the body.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
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.
Notes:
I think I broke her, guys.
And yes—I was laughing so hard while writing this.
Because when in doubt? I spiral into dark humour and chaos.
So does she.Enola is basically me in every stressful situation.
You're welcome.
Chapter 30: Anchor the Breath
Summary:
Day 31 — Jungle interior.
After walking away from Mycroft in a state of psychological shutdown, Enola vomits, collapses, spirals—and then resets. She slams her head into a tree to shock her brain back into triage mode.Diagnosis: probable pulmonary contusion or hemothorax. No meds. No aid. No signal. No help.
But she builds a plan.
Because if she can’t fix it, she’ll out-think it.Returning to Mycroft as a medic, not a sister, she stabilises him with military coldness and ghostlike precision. Emotionless. Detached. Brutal. But present.
She builds a shelter. She forces his body into a survival posture. She doesn’t let him speak.
He begs. She commands.
Notes:
This chapter is Enola in full meltdown-to-medic pipeline:
Panic → Vomit → Trauma Spiral → Slam Head Into Tree → Become God.Brain says “we are not okay,” body says “too bad, we’re doing this with wire and spite.”
Enjoy.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
She didn’t stop walking.
Not until the trees swallowed her whole.
Not until Mycroft’s voice faded into nothing but wind through the leaves.
Then—
She dropped to her knees.
Clutched a low-hanging vine.
And vomited.
Hard.
Dry heaves first. Then bile. Then nothing but fire and spit.
She coughed.
Spat.
Wiped her mouth with the back of her trembling hand.
Her pulse roared in her ears.
And then—
It started.
The thoughts.
The spirals.
The collapse.
He’s gonna die.
Internal bleeding.
Bright red. Frothy. From the lungs.
That’s fatal.
That’s always fatal.
He’s gonna die.
No medkit.
No antibiotics.
No blood bags.
No stretcher.
No rescue.
He’s gonna die.
No flare gun.
No tracker.
Not even her fucking device—it was dead. Fried. Wires snapped.
She’d used part of it to stitch her own leg shut.
No uplink.
No beacon.
No trace.
He’s gonna die.
She curled forward.
Pressed her forehead to her knee.
Breathed. Shook.
No no no no no—
THINK.
He’s gonna die.
FOCUS.
He’s gonna die.
She tried to slow her thoughts.
Failed.
They just kept slamming into the same unbreakable wall.
She could rebuild a radio from jungle scrap—
If she had copper.
If she had circuits.
If she had time.
She didn’t.
Because—
He’s gonna die.
She could go back. Try to stitch him up better.
But with what?
Wire?
Dirt?
Hope?
Nothing left.
Nothing works.
Everything hurts.
And—
He’s gonna die.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
Her nails dug into her scalp.
“Just fucking THINK—” she snarled aloud. “THINK, you useless bitch—!”
But her brain wouldn’t obey.
Wouldn’t plan.
Wouldn’t fix.
Just circled.
Tight.
Louder.
He’s gonna die.
He’s gonna die.
He’s gonna die.
And for once in her brutal, trained, war-forged, storm-scarred life—
She didn’t have a plan.
Not yet.
Just the scream in her throat—
And the curse in her skull:
He’s gonna die.
And then—
She stood.
Not because she felt ready.
Not because she was calm.
But because something primal shoved her upright.
Something old and furious, carved into the root of her spine.
She staggered.
Grabbed a tree.
Shoved herself off it again—hard.
And then—
CRACK.
She slammed the side of her head into the nearest trunk.
Not hard enough to knock herself out.
But hard enough to see stars.
To jolt her synapses.
To shock her brain back into line.
She slumped against the bark, panting.
Then blinked.
Once.
Twice.
And focused.
Okay.
Diagnosis: Pulmonary contusion. Maybe hemothorax.
Rib likely pierced the lung and retracted. Bleeding internally.
Still breathing = lung is functioning. Not collapsed. Yet.
Signs of improvement = hope.
Signs of pressure or choking = action.
Priority One:
Keep the lung from drowning itself.
Keep the chest from caving in.
She can’t go in. Can’t cauterise.
But she can out-think the bleed.
She began to list it out—aloud this time. Voice low. Trembling.
“Keep him still.
Keep the lung expanded.
Keep blood out of the airway.
Keep infection away.”
She swayed where she stood.
But the plan began to form.
Not elegant.
Not clean.
Not even good.
But hers.
-
Immobilise the ribs: wrap tight. Palm fibre. Vines. Torn fabric.
-
Elevate the chest: slope him up. Rock under the back. No flat sleeping.
-
Mouth care: boil water. Rinse mouth. Prevent clotting. Stop red foam.
-
Breathing checks: every hour. Make him speak. Make him count. Keep him lucid.
“Anchor the pulse,” she whispered. “Anchor the breath.”
-
Fire: clear air. Disinfect zone.
-
Boil herbs: if any bark, root, or resin is antibacterial.
-
Food: liquid only. Root starch. Mush. If she can make broth, she will.
Objective:
Stabilise for 72 hours.
Then reassess.
If the lung holds...
If the blood stops...
If the fever doesn’t climb—
Then he might live.
She let out a breath that trembled on the way out.
Her hands still shook.
Her jaw clenched so tight it clicked.
But her spine?
Straight again.
She touched the tree once more.
This time—gently.
“Thank you,” she whispered to it.
Then turned.
And walked back through the jungle.
Toward Mycroft.
Toward the blood.
Toward the body she refused to bury.
Because if the jungle wanted him—
It was gonna have to get through her.
He was still calling her name.
Not yelling.
Not anymore.
Just gasping it, broken, between shivers and shallow breaths.
“Enola—”
“Enola—please—”
“I don’t—where—”
His voice cracked like glass.
Then he sobbed again—quiet this time, exhausted.
More sound than strength.
One hand scrabbled weakly through leaves, like he was trying to follow her on his stomach.
She emerged from the trees like a shadow.
Silent.
Controlled.
All the panic was gone.
She wasn’t crying anymore.
She wasn’t shaking.
She wasn’t anything.
“Mycroft.”
Her voice was flat. Sharp. Direct.
He flinched at the tone—somewhere between command and scalpel.
His head twisted toward her. Eyes wide. Still wet.
“I thought you left,” he croaked. “You—”
“I didn’t.”
“You—were gone—”
“I’m here now,” she said simply. “Stay still.”
He tried to nod.
Winced.
She was already kneeling beside him.
Hands on his chest. Calculating.
Feeling the rise and fall.
Listening—for fluid, for creaks, for shifting ribs.
“You’re not dying today,” she said.
Her face was blank.
Eyes narrowed.
Entirely emotionless.
Not out of cruelty—
But because she didn’t have time to feel.
And if she cracked again, they’d both drown in it.
“My Enola—” he whispered, reaching—
She caught his hand mid-air.
Not gently.
Not cruelly.
Just stopped it.
“I need you calm,” she said.
“But—”
“Calm.”
Her tone left no room for argument.
And something in her face—still, cold, unflinching—
Froze him mid-protest.
He blinked up at her, lips trembling.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Focus,” she snapped. “Can you breathe?”
He tried.
Shallow inhale.
Winced.
“Hurts.”
“Where?”
He gestured weakly to his ribs.
“Left side. Deeper when I—cough—”
She nodded once.
“Good. That tells me the lung’s holding.”
“You’re—talking like—”
“Military triage,” she said.
“You’ve heard me like this before. You just didn’t know what it meant.”
“I don’t like it.”
“I don’t care.”
That shut him up.
She reached for his arm.
Began checking his pulse.
Counting aloud.
“Seventy. Irregular. Weak, but not crashing.”
“My Enola…” he mumbled again.
She didn’t look at him.
“Stop calling me that. Right now I’m your field medic. And if I’m lucky, your ICU nurse.”
He chuckled softly—
Then coughed hard.
Blood hit his lip.
She was already there, cloth in hand, wiping it away.
He stared at her as she worked.
This wasn’t the girl who laughed in the dirt.
Wasn’t the woman who screamed in the jungle.
This was something colder. Harder. Dead-eyed and surgical.
But beneath it all—
She was still here.
Still holding him together.
Still refusing to let him go.
It took her fifteen minutes to build a shelter.
Another twenty to modify it into a makeshift medical bay.
Not because the jungle offered much.
Because it didn’t.
The tsunami had stripped everything.
The canopy still dripped.
The ground still shifted.
The air was soaked in rot and salt.
But she worked anyway.
She found a natural dip between two twisted roots — half shelter, half trap — and cleared it bare-handed.
Slapped broad leaves against angled branches to form a roof.
Used vines to lash branches that wouldn’t hold.
Layered palm thatch until it stopped dripping.
It wouldn’t keep out the rain.
Or the cold.
Or the wind.
But it was structure.
A place to breathe.
Then she turned to Mycroft.
He was watching her.
Still pale.
Still half-drenched in blood and seawater.
Still too broken to stand.
But awake.
Breathing.
Alive.
She walked back over to him with steady steps.
He opened his mouth.
“Don’t.”
He blinked.
She crouched beside him.
“Listen carefully,” she said, voice like cold steel. “You can’t lie down tonight.”
He looked confused. “I—”
“You stay upright. Chest elevated. Forty degrees minimum. If you lie flat, the fluid in your lungs will drown you while you sleep.”
He swallowed hard. “Can’t—sleep upright.”
“You can and you will.”
“My back—”
“You’ll live.”
“But—”
“No. Arguing burns oxygen. I need every molecule staying where it belongs.”
Her hands moved while she spoke — slipping under his arms, adjusting the bindings around his chest with impersonal efficiency.
When he flinched, she didn’t react.
“Breath rate is still irregular. Pulse low. Any deeper compression could collapse the lung entirely. So you don’t move unless I move you. Understood?”
“Enola—”
She tightened the sling around his bad arm, cutting off his words with a single pull.
“Do you understand.”
He stared at her.
Then, finally, nodded.
She exhaled. Clipped. Controlled.
Then got to work on the bedding.
There was no bedding.
No blankets.
No mats.
No jackets — all ripped away in the water.
So she layered leaves. Flat, wide, broad-veined ones.
Pressed them into the driest patch of ground she could find.
Then laid Mycroft’s body against them in a carefully controlled incline.
One side braced with a half-rotten log.
The other with a stack of mud-packed fronds.
He groaned as he settled.
She didn’t flinch.
“You’ll sleep propped up,” she said.
“Leg slightly elevated to slow the bleed. Chest inclined. No turning.”
He grimaced. “That sounds…”
“Miserable? It will be.”
She placed her palm on his sternum — firm. Controlling.
“But you’ll wake up. That’s the goal.”
He looked up at her.
This time, something softer flickered through his expression.
“You’re not going to sleep, are you.”
She didn’t answer. Just stood.
“Mycroft.” Her voice didn’t change. “Close your eyes.”
He didn’t move.
“Now.”
Still nothing.
She leaned down, inches from his face.
Her expression was unreadable.
But her tone?
Unforgiving.
“Do you trust me?”
His throat worked. His jaw clenched.
“…yes.”
“Then obey me.”
And for once in his life—
Mycroft Holmes did exactly that.
He shut his eyes.
Didn’t speak again.
And let his sister guard him like the last war still wasn’t over.
Notes:
This chapter is pure duality.
She spirals.
She falls.
She feels.Then she erases herself, becomes the field kit, and goes full metal medic.
And what kills me most?
Mycroft still sees her as his sister.
Even when she’s gone full war-machine.
Even when she tells him to shut up, sit still, and obey.Because somewhere under all that clinical calculation—
She’s doing this because she loves him.
Because she refuses to let the island have him.And now she’s the only thing keeping his lungs from drowning him in his sleep.
Buckle in.
We’re not done breaking yet.
Chapter 31: Raft Logic
Summary:
Day 31 — Enola doesn’t sleep. Mycroft doesn’t improve. The island has gone silent: no birds, no bugs, no life. The tsunami has scoured it clean.
With no food, no fire, no supplies, and a festering leg wound, Enola spirals — hard. For one heartbeat, she considers ending it for them both. But then comes a single, growled “No,” and the shift is seismic.
Michael appears in hallucination once more, guiding her toward an old plan: the second island. Twenty kilometers away, it might hold food, water, life.
She becomes motion and method. Scavenges wreckage. Builds a raft with vines, sailcloth, fire-splintered bamboo, and a surgeon’s memory.
At nightfall, she straps Mycroft to the raft. He’s barely conscious. She’s bleeding. Her arm is broken, her leg infected and wired shut.
But still—
She pushes them into the tide.Because forward is the only direction left.
Notes:
This is the chapter where survival stops being theoretical.
She doesn’t have a plan.
She builds one from scraps.She’s limping. Fractured. Starving. Hallucinating.
And she still builds a seaworthy raft with her teeth.Because Enola Holmes doesn’t stop.
Not when she’s bleeding.
Not when she’s breaking.
Not even when she thinks she’s already dead.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
She didn’t sleep that night.
Didn’t even sit.
She crouched beside Mycroft like a statue — spine straight, eyes dull, muscles twitching only when the wind shifted.
The fire had gone out hours ago.
Too wet. Too shallow. Too much to do.
Mycroft slipped in and out — sometimes breathing too fast, sometimes not at all.
He muttered once.
Gasped twice.
Sank under again.
She watched him.
Listened.
Measured.
But there was no improvement.
His chest still rattled.
His skin stayed cold.
The blood had stopped pooling — but she knew it hadn’t drained.
It was still in there, trapped behind bone and bruised air sacs.
If he made it to sunrise, it’d be a miracle.
And even if he did—
They were still going to die.
She knew the signs.
Too well.
The island was dead.
The birds hadn’t returned.
No insects buzzed.
Even the crabs were gone.
The tsunami hadn’t just hit.
It had emptied the island.
Swept it clean.
What was left?
No edible plants.
No fish in reach.
No clean water — not anymore.
Their gear? Gone.
Her device? Dead. Cannibalised. Just wire and memory.
Her strength? Cracked at the seams.
And her leg—
She looked down at it.
The makeshift stitches were swollen. Red. Burning.
She could smell it.
The infection was coming back.
It always came back.
And if it hit her bloodstream this time—
She wouldn’t crawl out.
Neither of them would.
She stood without meaning to.
Just… moved.
Step by step, away from him.
Not far. Just to the edge of the ruined clearing.
Where the trees broke into ash and shredded palm.
Where the wind smelled of brine and rot.
She stood there in the dark.
And let it hit her.
Not the pain.
Not the fear.
The logic.
The raw, clinical calculus.
She couldn’t move him.
She couldn’t heal him.
She couldn’t build a stretcher, or a flare.
She had no signal, no route, no rescue, no chance.
He would die in hours.
Days if she was lucky.
And she—
She would follow.
Starved. Infected. Wasted.
Or—
She could end it now.
Quickly.
Cleanly.
A knife to the throat.
A rock to the skull.
He wouldn’t suffer.
She’d make sure of that.
She knew exactly how to do it.
Where to press.
Where to cut.
How long it would take for his breath to stop.
It would be mercy.
A kindness.
A choice.
She stared at the jungle.
Eyes dry.
Lungs full of rot.
And then…
“No.”
Just the one word.
She whispered it like a curse.
“No.”
She would not be that person.
Not for him.
Not for herself.
Not for this fucking island.
She turned back.
Walked to him.
Sat down.
And stayed there.
Motionless.
Watching his chest rise and fall.
Just a little.
Still alive.
Still hers.
And she would not let go.
Not tonight.
Not like this.
Not ever.
The night stretched on like a wound.
Breath by breath.
Heartbeat by ragged heartbeat.
The moon had dipped below the treetops,
and still Enola didn’t move.
Mycroft slept — if it could be called that.
He slumped more than rested.
Every few minutes, his chest would hitch.
A sharp breath. A groan.
Then stillness again.
And she sat beside him.
Unmoving.
Barely blinking.
One hand on her leg, near the pulsing infection.
The other on a stone — cold and wet — clenched so tightly it had started to shake.
Everything hurt.
But nothing hurt enough to matter.
Until the silence started pressing in.
No rustle.
No flapping.
No chirping.
No birds.
And it was then — in that awful, hollow moment — that someone sat down beside her.
She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t even look.
But she knew.
“I was wondering when you’d show up,” she muttered.
Michael didn’t answer.
Not right away.
He just sat. Not close. Not warm. Just… present.
“Little late, aren’t you?” she said, voice dry. “Usually you pop up when I’m bleeding out. Thought you were getting lazy.”
“I was waiting,” he replied. Calm. Crisp. The voice she knew.
“You needed to break first.”
She let out a soft laugh.
Not amused.
Not sane.
“Well. Congrats. You win. I’m broken.”
He didn’t argue.
Didn’t say she wasn’t.
Just:
“You noticed the birds.”
She stilled.
And finally turned her head.
He wasn’t looking at her.
He was staring into the trees.
“You’ve been quiet,” she said.
“I’ve been patient.”
Enola let the words sit between them like coals.
Then:
“They’re gone.”
He nodded.
“Not scared. Not circling. Just… gone.”
“Because they left.”
“They always do. Unless they can’t.”
She closed her eyes. Gritted her teeth.
“So they found somewhere better.”
His tone didn’t change.
“Of course they did.”
“And that means…”
“You already know what it means.”
She exhaled through her nose.
Harsh. Shaking.
“…the other island.”
Michael’s head tilted.
She could feel him watching her now.
Not comforting.
Not scolding.
Just waiting.
“It’s twenty kilometers,” she whispered.
“Exactly.”
“It might have food.”
“It will.”
“Water?”
He said nothing.
So she answered herself.
“Yes. It has to.”
“You’re almost there,” he said quietly.
She opened her eyes.
And saw the map in her mind.
The hand-sketched arcs.
The angle of the drift.
The curve of tide.
The triangle.
“Secondary island,” she said. “Closer than the mission port. Probably used by the pilot.”
“And not underwater.”
“No tsunami fallout.”
“Which means…”
“Life.”
She sucked in a breath like it was fire.
Birds don’t return to graveyards.
Birds follow instinct.
And instinct only leads to survival.
She stood abruptly.
Michael didn’t.
He just sat there — quiet and pale, like fog.
“If I go, he dies,” she said aloud.
“If you don’t, you both die.”
“I have to take him.”
“Obviously.”
She pressed her fingers to her temples.
“I need to build a raft. Reinforced. High enough to avoid spray. Balanced.”
Michael said nothing.
She turned away from him, facing the sea.
“I can lash the remaining shelter beams. Use vines. Float with debris for stabilisation. Maybe carve paddles.”
Still no response.
And still — he was beside her.
“Michael?”
She turned.
But he was gone.
Just the empty ground.
Just the fire ash.
Just the jungle breathing.
And the silence.
Still pressing.
But now—
It had direction.
She looked back toward the clearing.
Toward the weak rise and fall of Mycroft’s chest.
Then toward the edge of the world.
Twenty kilometers of black water.
But it wasn’t death anymore.
It was a plan.
Day 31
By dawn, the fire was out again.
The embers had drowned under dew and ash,
and Enola stood alone at the edge of the clearing —
not blinking, not breathing deeply, just… watching
the light seep through what was left of the canopy.
Behind her, Mycroft wheezed softly in his sleep,
propped upright in the makeshift lean-to.
His splinted leg was elevated,
his shoulder strapped tight,
his skin clammy — but coloured.
He was still alive.
But it wasn’t enough.
Not if they stayed.
She turned.
And got to work.
Scavenge first.
It was the only thing she had time to think.
No food. No signal. No backup.
Just fragments — of what they’d lost,
of what she remembered,
of what she might still claw back from the wreckage.
She started where the ridge shelter had once stood —
or rather, where it had been ripped apart.
The path was barely passable.
Fallen limbs, shredded vines, muck and ash lined every step.
She moved slow, limping, favouring her wired-shut thigh.
Her left arm was braced to her chest —
cradled useless in a sling,
throb pulsing in her collarbone like a snare drum.
But she moved.
Because there was no one else.
When she reached the ruin—
It was worse than she remembered.
The roof had landed thirty metres downslope —
crumpled, soaked, half-folded over itself like an origami coffin.
The hammock frame? Gone.
The fireproof stash box? Split open.
The cooking stones? Scattered like bones.
But the beams—
The bamboo frame had survived.
Split in places, yes, but buoyant. Strong.
She nudged each length with her boot,
sometimes catching the end beneath her sole
and lifting carefully with her good arm.
The ones that flexed, she kept.
The ones that cracked, she discarded.
Three lengths survived.
One crossbar.
A rusted hook still embedded in a corner joint.
It was a start.
Then came the rest —
The items she’d salvaged from the pirate cave before the tsunami.
They’d been scattered in the wreckage,
tossed across brush and coastline like toy debris.
But now—
They surfaced.
Flintlock shards.
Tarp fragments.
Stiff scraps of sailcloth.
And finally:
The bird migration log, sodden but intact,
curled beside a banyan root like something alive.
She unrolled it with her fingers and teeth.
Didn’t need to read it.
The coordinates were already in her skull —
burnt in by fever and need.
She tucked it into her waistband.
Compass, not data.
Near a shattered trunk, she found the knife — the real one.
Black-handled. Steel-backed. Caked in mud.
Still hers.
Still whole.
She bent — hissing sharply as her thigh pulled —
and slid it back into the thigh bandage
where the copper wire sutures pulled tight against her skin.
“You’re not moving fast enough,” said a voice behind her.
She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t turn.
Just closed her eyes.
“You always show up when I’m half-dead.”
Michael’s voice was low. Familiar. Warm.
“You’re always half-dead, darling. You just refuse to stop.”
A dry laugh scraped out of her.
“I’m working.”
“Not fast enough.”
“You’re imaginary.”
He stepped closer — or the illusion of him did —
and said, “You need two outriggers. Minimum.
Your buoyancy frame has to offset Mycroft’s angle —
if he lies flat, he’ll drown in his own lungs.
Use the longest beams.
Reinforce with dry vine.
Double-lash everything.
Your left arm’s useless.”
“I noticed,” she muttered, flexing her wrist and instantly regretting it.
“Then use your feet. Your teeth. Improvise. You always do.”
“And if I can’t?”
“You will.”
She looked up.
He wasn’t fading yet.
Not a ghost. Not a dream.
Just a memory she still trusted enough to lean on.
“You think I can do this?” she asked, voice rough.
Michael’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“You didn’t crawl out of the sea to sit here and rot.”
And then—
He was gone.
Not vanished. Just… folded away.
And she turned.
Back at the clearing, the light had fully broken.
Mycroft stirred weakly.
Groaned.
Tried to shift—
and hissed — sharp and guttural.
She crouched beside him, lowering the first bamboo bundle with her knee and one hand.
The other arm stayed pressed to her ribs.
“You’re building something,” he rasped.
“A raft.”
He blinked slowly. “You’re serious.”
She didn’t look at him.
Just began slicing vine lengths with the knife clenched in her teeth.
“We leave at sunset.”
“Can I vote against this?”
“No.”
“…Didn’t think so.”
She worked all day.
One hand. One leg. One bad shoulder.
But she worked.
Two stabiliser beams.
Crossbar secured.
The tarp — reinforced with woven sailcloth strips.
Stretched taut with knots tied by teeth and boot-edge.
She shaved slits for drainage.
Rigged a tilted sling bed using what was left of the hammock.
Folded the melted fire-shelf metal into a rudder, bound it with copper.
Cut wrist loops and belt tethers.
Hammered tight binding knots around Mycroft’s chest harness with one hand, one knee, and the edge of a firestone —
mindful of his ribs,
of his breath,
of every twitch of pain.
Every move was fire.
Every breath a war.
But by the time the sun dipped red across the wrecked tree line—
She’d built something seaworthy.
And now—
It was time.
The stars had risen like silver bones across the sky.
Quiet. Cold. Watching.
The wind was still.
The tide low and beginning its gentle pull.
She knelt by the fire — long dead now — and checked the bindings one more time.
The raft sat just beyond the brushline, half in the sand, half in the dark.
It would float.
Probably.
Maybe.
No room for maybes.
Her left arm, useless in its sling, hung tight across her front
as she awkwardly cradled the gourd in her right —
the last of the clean water.
She’d found it pooled inside the wrecked carbon filter shell, wedged between two rocks by some miracle.
Only a mouthful.
But it wasn’t for her.
Enola limped toward Mycroft’s frame — slumped where she’d braced him upright, double-lashed into a makeshift sling with every vine and strip of cloth she had left.
He was awake.
Or something like it.
His head lolled slightly.
His eyes half-open.
“Hey,” she whispered, crouching slowly.
Her right thigh protested viciously — the copper wire pulsing hot under her skin.
“You with me?”
His gaze shifted.
Didn’t focus.
“…En…?”
“Yeah.”
She lowered to one knee — bit her tongue as her leg screamed — and unscrewed the cap with trembling fingers.
“Water. Just a sip.”
He made a sound between a grunt and a groan and tilted toward her hand.
The first swallow made him choke.
He coughed.
Hard.
A full-body convulsion.
His ribs seized.
His shoulder jerked.
His head snapped back against the lean-to.
“Shh—shh—easy—”
She pulled the gourd away fast.
“Okay. That’s enough. That’s all we had anyway.”
He gasped.
Mouth open.
Breath wheezing in and out.
A thin thread of water slid down his jaw, catching in the hollow of his throat.
“Wha…” His voice cracked. “What… time…”
“It’s night.”
He blinked slowly.
Eyes dull.
“…Stars?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
He didn’t really understand.
Couldn’t.
And maybe that was a mercy.
Because what came next—
She drew a breath that hurt.
Her ribs ached like splintered glass.
She reached for the sling loop under his arm, wincing as her shoulder shifted — still broken, still cradled, still screaming with every heartbeat.
“Okay,” she muttered, voice shaking.
“Okay. This is going to hurt.”
He whimpered.
She clenched her teeth.
“I know.”
And then she pulled.
His body arched.
His shoulder twisted sideways with a ghastly crack of wet tension.
His ribs buckled, grinding against one another.
His femur shifted inside the bindings with a meaty, sickening crrk — like wet rope under tension.
“GHHHHH—!”
The sound that left him wasn’t a scream.
It couldn’t be.
He didn’t have the air.
It came out as a hiss — bloody, sharp, desperate.
“Just—just hold on,” she gasped, stumbling sideways.
Her leg gave.
The wired flesh yanked.
A fresh bleed burst open below the thigh dressing, warm and fast.
She collapsed to her knees beside him, her right hand gripping the raft frame.
The other — limp in its brace — swung uselessly as she bit back a cry.
“…no more…” Mycroft whispered, barely conscious.
“No more, Enola, please—please—”
“I know,” she rasped. “But we have to. We have to.”
She pressed her forehead to his.
“Don’t talk. Don’t move. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
And she dragged—
Inch by inch, with her hand and knees,
shoulder locked, thigh pulsing,
she dragged him from the lean-to into the cradle of the raft.
He cried out once.
Then went terrifyingly quiet.
She checked his pulse.
Faint.
But there.
Still there.
She couldn’t stand anymore.
Couldn’t even kneel.
So she crawled.
Crawled to the stern of the raft, her legs half-dragging behind her,
shoulder spasming with every breath.
She strapped on the wrist tethers with one hand, teeth, and the edge of her knife.
Secured the harness on his chest — again.
Checked his angle — again.
Everything hurt.
Everything was on fire.
And she didn’t stop.
The stars wheeled overhead like silent compass roses.
“Northwest,” she murmured.
“Ride the current, keep the wind at three o’clock, aim for the dead branch constellation…”
Her voice trembled.
She swallowed.
“…twenty kilometers. Just twenty.”
And she pushed.
With one last broken breath—
She pushed them into the tide.
The water welcomed them like a grave.
Cold.
Silent.
Unforgiving.
And still—
They floated.
Shaking.
Bleeding.
Breathing.
Stars above.
Death behind.
Forward.
Only forward.
Because even if she drowned—
She’d drown trying.
And trying was the only thing left.
Notes:
She’s dragging a man with pneumonia and a shattered femur through the ocean on a floating jungle splint.
And she’s doing it on hope, rage, and half a swallow of water.Because "trying" is the only thing left.
And she’s not going to stop trying until either the tide or the stars give up first.
Buckle up.
Day 32’s gonna hurt.
Chapter 32: Just Keep Swimming
Summary:
Day 31 into Day 32.
Enola builds a raft and hauls Mycroft into the sea, armed with nothing but her teeth, a broken arm, and the last sliver of strength.
Michael returns as a fever hallucination singing Finding Nemo jingles while she paddles them across twenty kilometers of open ocean with a shredded leg and one functional limb.Hour after hour, she drags them forward — until her body finally gives out.
She collapses on the raft just as land appears on the horizon.
Mycroft, delirious and broken, becomes the only thing between her and the tide.
In a last surge of pain and instinct, he anchors her to the frame and keeps her alive until she wakes.The island is real.
Survival is possible.
But they have to hold on just a little longer.
Notes:
They should have drowned.
By all logic, they should have died at sea.But Enola Holmes does not stop —
Even when she passes out cold with her arm in the tide.And Mycroft Holmes?
He finally steps up.Broken bones. Crushed lung. Barely conscious.
And still—he keeps her alive.This is not a victory.
Not yet.
But it’s survival.
And for them, that’s the hardest thing of all.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 31 – Night – The Open Sea
Hour 1
The island shrunk behind them, swallowed by mist and memory.
The raft creaked with every wave.
The sky—black and bone-pale with stars—stretched in every direction.
And Enola—
She was still moving.
One arm. One leg.
Right shoulder braced against the lashline, wrist loops biting deep.
Left arm pinned and braced, fingers blue.
Right thigh leaking slowly through copper sutures.
Push. Drag. Glide.
Push. Drag. Glide.
The rhythm was monotonous.
The pain—unrelenting.
Salt scoured raw skin.
Wind howled past her ears.
The swell rose beneath like a beast that breathed.
And then—
Off her left shoulder:
A voice.
🎵“Juuuuust keep swimming…”🎵
She blinked.
No.
🎵“Just keeep swimming…”🎵
It warbled. Off-key. Too light. Too familiar. Too much.
“…Michael,” she hissed through her teeth.
Hallucination-Michael was lounging across the port outrig, bare feet dangling, arms folded behind his head, grinning like a sea-ghost bastard.
🎵“Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming…”🎵
She nearly punched the sea.
Instead, she growled, “I hate you.”
“Liar.” His grin widened. “You love me. I’m the motivational soundtrack of your fevered descent into madness.”
“I’m not mad.”
“Right. That’s why you’re hallucinating me singing Pixar jingles on a bamboo death raft.”
“Shut. Up.”
🎵“What do we doooo? We swim! Swim! Swi—”🎵
“SHUT UP!”
A groan—behind her.
She froze.
Mycroft stirred weakly, head tilting in his sling.
“…Enola?” he rasped. “Who… who’re you shouting at…?”
She didn’t turn. “No one.”
He blinked, sluggish. “You were yelling.”
“I know.”
“You… yelled at the sea.”
“Shut up and conserve oxygen.”
“…Are we dead?”
“No. And stop talking.”
She dropped her head, eyes on the stars, breathing shallow, teeth locked.
Michael hummed beside her.
Off-key. Maddening. Real only in her brain.
Mycroft whimpered again as the raft lifted beneath them.
Then another swell—
A wave slammed from below — not enough to capsize, but it rattled the rig like a freight train through bone.
Mycroft cried out.
Sharp. Wet. Real.
His ribs twisted. His leg jerked involuntarily against the sling.
“Enola—!”
“I know!” she snapped, dragging them up the crest. Every tendon on fire.
“I know, I know—just breathe—”
He did. Barely.
And then—
🎵“When life gets you down, you know what you gotta do?”🎵
“Oh my god, Michael—”
🎵“JUST. KEEP. SWIMMING.”🎵
“I will murder you in my own brain.”
Michael grinned, stretched—
Then blinked out like mist on a wave.
She exhaled. Hard.
Salt, blood, and fury thick in her throat.
Silence fell again.
Except the sea.
And Mycroft’s breath—shuddering, uneven, alive.
The stars wheeled.
The raft groaned.
The world tilted forward.
And still—
She pushed.
Day 31 – Night – The Open Sea
Hours Two, Three, Four...
Time lost meaning.
The sky began to grey near the edge of the world.
And still—they moved.
One arm. One leg. One breath.
At a time.
Day 32 – Just After Dawn – Hour 10
The sun cracked over the rim of the sea like it was bleeding.
Gold light spilled across the waves — soft, forgiving — but Enola didn’t see it.
Not clearly.
She saw halos. Fractured shapes. Flickers of something warm and unreachable.
The stars were gone.
Michael had gone quiet sometime after the eighth hour.
And now?
There was only breath.
And waves.
And blood in her mouth where she’d bitten down to keep from screaming.
Her right arm trembled violently with every pull.
Her left — still bound in its brace — had gone blue at the fingertips.
She couldn’t feel it.
Didn’t care.
Salt crusted the open gash at her thigh like a wound forgotten by time.
Her stomach had stopped hurting hours ago. That was worse.
She blinked.
The horizon tipped. Slurred.
A shape—
Out past the foam.
Dark. Green. Angular.
She squinted, eyes stinging.
No.
No, it couldn’t be—
But it was.
Land.
Distant. Blurred.
But there.
An island.
Not the one they left.
Sloped. Strange. Ringed in birds and broken light.
Her breath caught.
She tried to sit straighter.
“Mycroft,” she rasped.
Nothing.
“Mycroft—”
A groan. Barely.
His head lolled in the sling, too weak to hold upright.
“…still here…” he mumbled.
She exhaled.
A laugh, maybe. Or a sob.
She couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
“There,” she croaked. “Land. We’re—we’re close—”
His eyes didn’t focus.
She didn’t blame him.
Because then—
Her vision spun.
Too fast.
Too hard.
The sky slid sideways. The ocean turned to static.
Her grip on the tether slipped.
Her body pitched forward—
Crashing against the raft’s back beam.
Hard.
“Enola—?”
No answer.
She didn’t hear him again.
Didn’t feel the salt.
Didn’t taste the light.
Just—
Gone.
Slumped. Motionless.
Eyes open but unseeing.
Mouth half-parted.
One arm dangling overboard, blood dripping into the tide.
Her body had said no more.
The world was only—
Water.
Waves.
Light.
Salt.
And her silence.
“...Enola?”
Mycroft’s voice cracked like a paper match.
He blinked, vision blurred by pain and wind.
Enola didn’t respond.
She was slumped forward, draped over the front rig.
Unmoving.
Her right arm — the only one still working — was dangling into the sea, skin shredded, red leaking into blue.
“Enola—?”
Still nothing.
His brain stuttered.
Refused to compute.
He tried to move—
Mistake.
Pain detonated.
Thigh. Ribs. Shoulder. Chest.
A full-body scream.
He gagged.
Coughed.
Iron in his mouth.
The raft tilted beneath him.
His wounded shoulder slammed into the lash cradle.
He nearly blacked out.
Didn’t.
She was unconscious.
That had to be it.
Not dead. Not dead.
He leaned forward.
Gasping. Failing. Trying.
An inch. Maybe two.
But the straps held.
He was tied upright, pinned like a dying scarecrow.
He couldn’t reach her.
Couldn’t lift her arm.
Couldn’t check her pulse.
Couldn’t do anything.
A breeze hit the wound at his leg.
He vomited.
But—
There.
On the horizon.
A smudge.
Green. Rising. Real.
“God…” he whispered. “We made it…”
He closed his eyes.
Just for a second.
Then forced them open again.
Not yet.
Not while she was out.
Not while he was the only one awake.
He turned his head inch by inch.
Looked at her.
“You… don’t… get to quit now,” he whispered, voice tearing.
“Not after all that. Not after dragging me through hell…”
The raft rocked.
The current changed — faster now.
More forceful. Off-angle.
Enola’s body slumped farther.
Forehead nearly in the water.
Mycroft saw it.
Saw her slipping.
Saw her falling.
And something ancient cracked loose inside him.
“No—no no no—”
His voice was raw. Weak.
But it came with fire.
He braced. Pulled.
One hand on the lashline behind her shoulder — a twisted loop of vine not meant for leverage.
Didn’t matter.
He dragged.
Agony exploded.
Ribs grinding. Thigh detonating. Shoulder tearing apart.
He didn’t care.
The pain was nothing.
Only her.
“Up—!”
His fingers slipped. The lashline cut into his palm, reopening the wound from the tree split days ago.
He sobbed.
Dragged again.
“Come on, Enola—!”
This time — he got her.
Her shoulder hit his collarbone.
Her weight collapsed into him.
Too much. Too heavy.
He couldn’t breathe.
But he didn’t let go.
She sagged into his chest.
Bleeding. Unconscious.
And for one terrifying second—
They both nearly went overboard.
“No—no no—stay with me—!”
He shifted his leg—
Mistake.
Bone ground against bone.
He choked.
The sky dimmed.
His mouth filled with blood.
But still—
He threw his weight sideways.
Just enough to hook her tether into the lash bracket beside him.
She jerked upright.
Still slumped. Still out.
But safe.
Still here.
Still on the raft.
He collapsed backward, pinned to the vertical frame, lungs on fire.
Everything hurt.
His thigh pulsed with volcanic heat.
His arm—gone. Useless. Phantom.
But she was alive.
He blinked through a veil of salt and sweat.
The island was closer now.
Close enough to see the curve of the beach.
To smell the wind changing direction.
And Mycroft Holmes —
The Crown’s Keeper of Secrets, brother to two of the most dangerous people in England —
Did the only thing he could.
He stayed awake.
He clenched his jaw.
And he held on to her.
“Enola—”
His voice cracked.
“Enola, wake up—”
No response.
Her skin was far too pale.
Her face, salt-streaked and slack.
Her head slumped forward in the sling, mouth half open.
Not dead.
But close.
“No. No no no—” His voice was more breath than sound.
The raft pitched again.
A shallow wave slapped in from the left, splashing high.
Her hair soaked deeper.
She tilted.
He grunted. Twisted.
Agony.
His thigh screamed. His ribs crunched.
He coughed hard — once, twice — bile and blood catching in his throat.
Didn’t matter.
He reached for her again.
His left arm was dead weight, but the right — the fingers — still moved.
So he moved them.
His hand shook.
But it reached her temple.
Brushed gently.
Trembled.
Insisted.
“Enola.”
Softer now.
“Come on, little sister. You bloody menace. You lunatic.”
Her head lolled.
“Don’t do this.”
The island was right there now.
Two hundred metres, maybe less.
He could see trees.
The jagged outline of rocks.
A tidepool, shimmering white.
They were close.
Too close.
If they hit the shallows and she didn’t wake—
If he couldn’t steer—
She would drown.
Right in front of him.
And he couldn’t stop it.
So he did the only thing left.
He leaned forward.
Forehead to hers.
Ribs blazing.
Leg locked.
Vision darkening.
Her skin was burning.
Fever.
Not sweat.
Too hot. Too fast.
“No.” His voice shook. “Not after all that. Not after the crash. And the tsunami. Not after you sewed yourself shut with wire, you madwoman—”
She didn’t stir.
He swallowed hard.
Thought fast.
And then — with the last flicker of clarity —
He slapped her cheek.
Not hard.
Just enough.
“Enola!”
A gasp.
Then a twitch.
A low groan, ragged and raw.
“…mmh…ngk—”
“Come on. You want to kill me later? Fine. You can do that once we make landfall.”
Another twitch.
Her fingers moved.
And then—
Her eyes opened.
Just a sliver.
Red veins burst. Pupils slow.
She blinked at him like he was a hallucination.
“W…what—”
“Raft. Still on it. Still alive. You passed out. I fixed it.”
“You…?” she croaked.
He gave a huff of breath — part laugh, part sob.
“Don’t sound so surprised. You’re not the only Holmes left with a functioning brain.”
She blinked again.
And then — slowly — her head turned.
The island.
Right there.
Close enough to touch.
“…we made it?”
“Not yet. But almost. Current’s pulling us in.”
Her breath caught. Then hitched.
She tried to sit.
“Don’t—” His voice sharpened. “Don’t move. You’re slung in. You’ll fall out again.”
She froze.
Breathing.
Just breathing.
He looked at her again —
Face drawn. Lips cracked.
One eye bloodshot.
But awake.
Alive.
“Hold on,” he said.
The tide was lifting them now.
Pulling faster. Stronger.
“Just a little longer.”
Because they weren’t done yet.
But they weren’t dead either.
And right now—
That was everything.
Notes:
This chapter is 75% pain, 20% delusion, and 5% Finding Nemo.
Yes, I made her hallucinate Michael singing "Just Keep Swimming."
No, I’m not sorry.She’s bleeding out. He’s half-dead.
And the only thing pushing them forward is stubbornness and saltwater spite.This is a raft chapter. A fight-for-every-breath chapter.
Chapter 33: Salt, Steel, and the Sound of Breathing
Summary:
They make landfall. Barely.
Enola hits the surf face-first, hauls Mycroft out by sheer force of trauma and profanity, and collapses beside a tree that probably deserves a medal.But the real work isn’t done.
With Mycroft on the brink of septic collapse, Enola goes inland—bleeding, hallucinating, and three minutes from total system failure—to find out where the hell they are.
What she finds?
A ghost dock.
A buried sub.
A sealed comms relay.
And the proof: someone was here. Recently. And they left fast.There’s no rescue.
But there’s equipment.
There’s power.
There’s data.And in Enola Holmes’ world, data means hope.
Even if it comes wrapped in blood, static, and hallucinated boyfriends.
Notes:
Okay so:
They are not safe.
Mycroft is going septic.
Enola’s thigh is actively trying to murder her.
The raft is dead.
The jungle is watching.
And Enola just found a ghost facility with power but no signal.
This was supposed to be the “relief” chapter.
Oops.She’s got fifteen minutes to make it back before she collapses again.
Place your bets.“Don’t die,” she told him.
And now she’s daring the island to stop her from keeping that promise.Let’s go.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 32 – Shoreline – Just After Landfall
The wave hit without warning.
One moment the raft was drifting in the tide, calm as breath.
The next—
CRACK—
A sharp breaker slammed the left side, tipping them hard.
Mycroft shouted—tried to grab her—
But it was too late.
Enola hit the water.
Full-body. Full shock.
Salt in her mouth. Sand in her wounds.
And the cold—
Not freezing. But deep. Brutal. Sobering.
She surfaced with a gasp and a snarl, kicking hard as the raft twisted under the force.
“Mycroft!”
He was still strapped in—upright—but the raft was spinning, caught in the undertow.
Enola lunged.
The current dragged her sideways—
But she swam.
One arm. One leg.
Shoulder screaming. Thigh on fire.
Didn’t matter.
She reached the raft, slammed her good hand onto the sling ropes, and hauled up just enough to grip the rear strap.
“Enola—!”
Mycroft coughed, spitting seawater, voice raw.
“Don’t you dare drown—”
“Shut up,” she growled, kicking behind the raft.
“If anyone dies first, it’s you.”
She spat out another mouthful of salt.
Wiped her eyes.
Drew breath.
The island was right there.
Thirty metres.
Twenty.
“Come on—” she hissed, guiding the raft with everything left in her battered body.
“Come on, come on—”
Another breaker hit—
This time from behind.
The raft surged forward.
Sand scraped her knees.
She pushed again.
And again.
Until—
The base of the raft caught bottom. Skidded.
She collapsed forward, half in the surf, half on the sand, arms outstretched like a crucifixion.
Mycroft slumped with a groan, eyes wide and unfocused, breath hitching.
They were on the beach.
They’d made it.
Enola rolled to her side, chest heaving.
Hair plastered to her face.
Clothes soaked.
Bruises flaring like live fire under her skin.
“…bath achieved,” she mumbled through a cough.
“Someone should invent a worse way to wake up.”
She turned her head.
Mycroft was still upright. Still lashed to the rig.
Alive. Barely.
Enola closed her eyes. Just a beat.
No more.
Then she pushed up, limped through the surf, and grabbed one of the rope tethers.
No time.
They were alive. But not safe.
Not until she dragged him past the tide line.
And then?
Then they could collapse.
But not before.
Not until the ocean stopped reaching.
The raft shifted again—nudged by another swell.
Enola dropped to her knees in the surf and reached for Mycroft.
His skin was grey.
His lips—blue at the edges.
Still tied upright. Still breathing. Barely.
But she heard it—
That sound.
Wet. Shallow. Like tearing.
Like drowning slowly from the inside.
“No—no no no—”
She stumbled forward, teeth clenched, shoulder spasming.
Her fingers shook but didn’t stop.
One loop. Two.
She braced against the frame—
Dragged.
He groaned—low and guttural.
His body folded like wet paper.
“Stay with me,” she hissed, hauling him inch by inch across the sand.
“Don’t you fucking check out now—”
A cough tore through his chest—violent, bubbling.
Froth. Pink.
Shit.
“Internal again—” she breathed.
“Damn it, damn it, it’s worse—”
He choked.
She knelt beside him, heart hammering.
Wiped his chin. Tilted him sideways.
“Shhh—breathe shallow. Slow. Easy—”
His hand shot out—gripped her wrist.
Sudden. Fierce.
Eyes wild.
“Hurts,” he rasped.
“I know.”
Her voice cracked.
“I know. Just—stay still. You’re okay.”
She checked his ribs.
Fingers moving with brutal care.
Flinches.
Two cracked at least. Maybe more.
But worse—
The lung.
The rhythm was wrong.
Not collapsed. Not punctured straight through.
But after that raft…
The hours.
The position.
The salt.
The cold.
He was going septic.
The tissue hadn’t healed.
Couldn’t.
Every wave had been a hammerblow.
And now—
He was falling apart.
She ripped the remaining tarp from the raft and wrapped it over his back.
Knelt beside him again.
Held his hand to the sand.
Steady. Grounded. Real.
“You made it.”
His eyelids fluttered.
“…hurts.”
“I know.
Just stay here.
I’ll fix it.
I swear to god, Mycroft—
I will fix it.”
He didn’t answer.
She leaned in—checked his pulse.
Still there.
Still fighting.
Still his.
She kissed his temple once—fast.
Mechanical.
Then stood.
Her body howled.
Thigh blazing.
Ribs tightening.
Shoulder useless.
She moved anyway.
Because there was no choice.
Not until he was safe.
The tide was creeping.
Fast.
Already licking at the edge of the raft like it wanted to take it back.
Enola swore under her breath.
Gripped Mycroft beneath the good arm.
And heaved.
He cried out — sharp, half-choked — as his leg shifted.
“I know,” she hissed, teeth bared.
“I know.”
The sand was soft.
Unforgiving.
It gave no leverage.
But ahead—
A tree.
Twenty feet, maybe less.
Thick-rooted.
Gnarled at the base — like it had been waiting.
A brace.
A breath anchor.
A place to keep him upright.
“Hold on,” she muttered, dragging his arm over her shoulder.
The weight almost dropped her.
Her knees buckled.
Her bad arm hung limp.
Her ribs stabbed at every breath.
She pushed anyway.
Mycroft wasn’t screaming anymore.
He just groaned.
Slumped.
Going too still.
Too still.
“Come on—come on—”
They hit the tree with a thud.
She pivoted fast, lowering him as gently as she could.
Not gentle. But not a drop.
His back hit bark.
His head lolled.
His mouth twitched.
“…tree,” he rasped.
“Yeah.” She collapsed beside him.
“Congratulations. You survived the ocean.”
He didn’t laugh.
Didn’t blink.
She propped him on his good side.
Angled his chest.
Carefully — just enough to ease the bubbling in his lungs.
Then she folded over, forehead to her knees.
Just a minute.
One.
Then she’d look for shelter.
Water.
Anything.
But for now—
They were off the raft.
They were on land.
And for one breathless second—
It almost felt like they’d made it.
Almost.
But Enola Holmes didn’t do delusion.
She sat back.
Pulse pounding like war drums in her ears.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
One minute.
Then she exhaled—sharp, controlled—and stood.
No groaning. No wincing.
Pain acknowledged. Filed. Moved through.
The tree would hold him.
His back was supported.
Chest angled.
Breathing wrong, but functional.
She adjusted the tarp once more.
Wrapped it around him down to the knees.
Ran the cord from her thigh brace across his sternum—looped and cinched to stop him listing.
Then knelt.
Tested the knots.
“Stay here.
Stay upright.
No movement.
No panicking.
No shouting.”
His eyelids twitched.
Voice thin. Barely air.
“You’re not seriously—”
“Leaving?” she cut in.
“Of course I am.”
He tried to push upright.
Failed.
“You passed out—barely four hours ago—”
“And yet I’m the one standing.”
His hand curled into the sand.
“You need rest. You’re infected. You’re—”
“I need intel.”
Her voice went flat. Surgical.
“You want me to rest in the middle of a blind perimeter with no cover and a dead signal device?”
He swallowed.
His ribs spasmed.
Blood rimmed his lips.
“You’re hallucinating.”
“And still more useful than you.”
His jaw clenched.
“You’ll get lost. Or drop.”
“If I drop, I’ll crawl.”
She wasn’t bluffing.
“But if this island isn’t empty—
If I don’t find out now—
We’re dead by nightfall.”
His breath stuttered.
“You think Moriarty—”
“I think this island was on my map.”
She adjusted the strap on her leg, eyes already scanning the treeline.
“That makes it a liability. Whether he’s here or not.”
“I need elevation. I need eyes. I’ll be back in forty minutes. An hour, maximum.”
“Enola—”
“There’s nothing else to discuss.”
Her voice didn’t shake.
Her face didn’t soften.
It wasn’t cruelty.
It wasn’t coldness.
It was control.
It was war mode.
She reached into her belt.
Pulled out the last strip of clean cloth.
Dipped it. Folded it. Pressed it gently to his lips.
“Stay calm.
Stay upright.
Don’t talk.
Don’t follow.
And above all—
Don’t die.”
Then she stood.
Again.
Shoulder tight.
Thigh burning.
Vision fraying at the edges.
Didn’t matter.
Day 32 – Inland Jungle – Midday
She stepped into the brush.
Every sound catalogued.
Every shape weighed.
Every movement tracked.
By the time the leaves swallowed her, she was nothing but breath and calculation.
Leaves brushed her hips.
Mud clung to her boots.
Her shoulder throbbed with every forward shift.
Her thigh—wired shut, infection simmering—burned like a brand.
But she moved.
Because pain wasn’t permission.
And calculation wasn’t feeling.
She moved.
The jungle was denser than the main island.
Older. Untouched.
The air—heavy with silence, not rot.
The kind of silence that remembers.
She angled northwest.
Past hollow-stemmed palms.
Past a torn footprint — too large to be hers.
Past half-buried plastic glinting under leaves — not natural.
Thirteen minutes in—
She found it.
A track.
Not animal.
Not storm wash.
A groove. Deep and straight.
Crushed soil.
Wheeled. Heavy. Not recent — but not old.
She crouched.
Balanced her weight on a log.
Her bad leg trembled. Vision swam.
Still, she reached out—ran her fingers along the rim of the indent.
Clay. Compacted. No tread.
Too clean.
Too exact.
Something heavy had passed—once. With purpose.
A resupply?
Extraction?
She looked left.
A broken branch—cut, not torn.
She followed.
The terrain sloped gently, then steepened.
The light filtered like old blood through the canopy.
She climbed—careful, methodical—balancing against low boughs.
Then—
“Rough day?”
Michael’s voice. Smooth. Unbothered.
She didn’t turn.
“You again.”
He appeared beside her, arms behind his head, thorns ignoring him.
“You always call me when you need me.”
“Not true.”
“You’re pushing a fever,” he said calmly, eyeing her leg.
“Your thigh’s septic. Arm’s dead. Vision’s off.”
“Any other cheerful observations?”
He ignored it.
“You’re compensating well. Still upright. Still logical.”
She turned from him.
“Go away.”
“No.”
She gritted her teeth.
“You’re a projection.”
“And yet here I am.”
He matched her pace, voice low.
“You’re looking for signs they pulled the pilot here.”
“I don’t need help.”
“You do. You’re smart. But dying. So let’s do this together.”
She didn’t reply.
She crested a ridge—
And stopped.
Below—
A clearing.
Not natural. Flattened.
Gravel laid out. A long rectangle.
At the far end—
A concrete slope. Angled. Vined over.
A ramp. Leading underground.
Michael fell silent.
She descended.
Every step laboured.
Sweat stung her jaw.
Her ribs locked tight.
At the base of the slope:
A door.
Metal. Reinforced.
No rust.
No lock.
Just a bolt. Recently used.
She pulled.
It groaned.
Opened.
Inside—
Fuel drums. Coiled tubing. Water filters. Oxygen tanks.
Three were still full.
A solar rig blinked orange.
A disassembled field phone.
Emergency schematics on the wall—Portuguese and English.
She stepped inside.
Michael appeared behind her.
“No ships.”
“No.”
“But they were here.”
She nodded.
“They extracted him here. Then left.”
“Month ago,” he said.
She scanned again.
“They left supplies. Contingency stock.”
“This is a ghost dock,” Michael explained.
“Used once every few years. Smugglers. Spies. Not a base. A staging point.”
She ran her hand over the tanks.
Still turned. Still live.
“We could build a signal.”
“If the batteries hold. If your device handshakes. If they didn’t jam the band.”
She didn’t answer.
Her device was dead.
Salt-wrecked.
Then cannibalized for copper.
But her mind ticked forward anyway.
There was no antenna. No bunk. No tower.
No map. No relay.
This wasn’t a command site.
It was storage.
She turned toward the door.
“There’s another location.”
Michael said nothing.
She stepped out into the light.
Squinted.
Her skull throbbed. Her leg twitched. Her vision pulsed.
Still—she scanned the treeline.
“They had to confirm extraction.”
Michael nodded.
“Shortwave.”
“This island is too far for satellite signal.”
“Unless there’s a line-of-sight repeater.”
“Which would be shielded.”
She paused.
Her scanner hadn’t picked up anything here.
Not a blip.
That wasn’t coincidence.
Michael nodded.
“They shut the grid down. EM-shielded. No signal in. No signal out. Looks invisible when dark.”
She clenched her jaw.
“So even if I had the device—”
“You’d still be blind.”
She didn’t respond.
Just turned—limped back into the forest.
The incline was sharper now.
Not steep.
But intentional. Hidden. Defensive.
She slipped twice.
The third time she fell to one knee.
Didn’t rise right away.
Michael crouched beside her.
“You should go back.”
“No.”
“You’re overheating.”
“I’m tracking.”
Pause.
Then—
“There might be meds.”
She stilled.
“If the pilot was injured,” he continued,
“they’d have left something. Even basic injectors. Antibiotics.”
She stood. Slowly.
“Don’t hope,” she muttered.
“It’s inefficient.”
“You’ve run on worse.”
“I run on logic.”
“You’re bleeding.”
She didn’t respond.
Didn’t need to.
She crested the final slope.
Stopped.
Listened.
Wind in the trees.
Normal.
Cicadas—
One call, cut short.
Not normal.
She turned toward the break.
Tracked it.
And then—
She saw it.
Or rather—didn’t.
A gap in the trees.
Too symmetrical. Too clean.
The soil—disturbed.
But masked.
Leaf litter arranged too neatly.
A cut mark on bark — low and deliberate.
A marker. A map for those who knew.
She crouched.
Used the toe of her boot to shift debris.
There.
Metal.
Rounded.
A hatch.
Not flat — domed.
She knelt lower. Cleared more space.
Frowned.
The contour wasn’t right.
The rivets were marine-grade.
Not bunker steel.
Not surface military.
Pressure-resistant.
Subsurface.
Her hand slid across the surface.
Cold. Real. Recent.
She spotted the recessed valve—
Not a latch. A seal.
“Not a bunker,” she muttered.
Michael cocked his head.
“Go on.”
She didn’t indulge him.
Just twisted the handle.
The seal hissed.
Then broke.
She pulled the hatch open.
A tunnel.
Steel-lined.
Tapered.
A submarine.
Buried.
Half the hull, maybe more, buried in the hillside.
Repurposed.
Smart. Invisible. Waterproof.
She descended the ladder.
Boots thudding on the rungs.
The air shifted.
Cool.
Filtered.
Old iron and plastic and old air.
She moved slowly.
Fingers on the wall.
Body protesting with every inch.
A second hatch.
She opened it.
Inside—
Bunks. Two. Fold-down.
Galley unit stripped.
First aid shelf—open. Empty.
She stepped closer.
Fragments.
Broken syringe caps.
Blister pack seals.
No morphine.
No antiseptic.
No antibiotics.
Someone had been here.
Recently.
She turned—
And saw it.
In the corner.
A comm station.
Analog.
Short-range.
Manual pulse.
Still wired. Still live.
She sat down.
Fingers trembling.
Switched it on.
Flicker. Then hum.
Orange light. Static.
Clean.
Sharp.
No signal, but not dead.
Michael watched her from the wall.
“Somebody maintained it.”
“They were here a month ago.”
Her voice was hoarse.
“Picked up the pilot. Scrubbed the site. Left just enough.”
Her eyes scanned every knob. Every dial.
No voice contact.
No antenna extender.
But the system had juice.
The wiring was intact.
This wasn’t survival.
This was extraction.
Nothing more.
Michael didn’t speak.
And for once—she was grateful.
She memorized the console.
Noted every wire.
Every node.
Then stood.
Her back locked.
Leg spasming.
Head pounding.
But she moved.
She had to.
She had fifteen minutes, maybe less, before Mycroft would start to spiral.
Fifteen minutes until the fever caught her again.
But she wasn’t done yet.
Because she had data now.
And data meant survival.
And if they were going to live through the next twenty-four hours—
It would start here.
With this.
With her.
Enola Holmes.
Alone.
Half-dead.
But still moving.
Notes:
This one is hell.
Physical hell. Mental hell. Jungle hell.
I nearly drowned Enola in the intro and then made her hike uphill with a fever and a shredded leg because I’m nice like that.Also — yes. That was a buried submarine.
Also-also: If Michael sounds smug, it’s because hallucinations don’t have to hike with infected legs. Bastard.
Chapter 34: We Are Not Dead Yet
Summary:
Mycroft is left behind in a half-lashed fever sprawl against a tree, coughing pink and whispering regrets, while Enola limps deeper into the jungle and discovers not only hope—but infrastructure. A buried submarine turned covert medical bay offers antibiotics, oxygen, food, and filtered air.
But she’s already unraveling.
Dehydrated, septic, with her leg wired shut and her brain cooking from fever, Enola is held together by rage and tactical instinct. Her hallucinations manifest as a full house: Michael (loyal delusion), John Watson (battle medic), Dr. Wilson (oncologist), and House (the asshole diagnosis she needs).
They argue. She doesn’t flinch.
Because Mycroft’s dying.
And she has one more run in her.
Notes:
This chapter is half fever dream, half med prep, half trauma therapy.
Yes, that’s three halves. Shut up.Anyway—
The submarine is real
The meds are real
The ghosts are (probably) not
And the plan is now actually viable
But Enola is not okay.
And Mycroft is seconds from going under.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 32 — Early Afternoon — Jungle Perimeter
The world shrank after she left.
Not in distance. In depth.
The jungle didn’t loom — it pressed. Flat. Colourless. Too loud in some places, too quiet in others.
Mycroft Holmes drifted.
Awake. Sort of.
Enough to feel.
Not enough to escape it.
The bark at his back dug into his shirt. Damp. Warm.
It shouldn’t have been warm.
But maybe that was him.
The fever was back.
He could feel it in his gums. In the sweat stinging his eyes.
In the way his heart throbbed in sync with the pain in his thigh.
The leg was the worst.
No—the shoulder.
No—the ribs.
He couldn’t choose. Every breath was a choice between agony and suffocation.
In. Pain. Out. Pain.
Too shallow, and he wheezed. Too deep, and his lungs screamed open.
So he hovered.
Somewhere between the two.
He licked his lips.
Cracked. Dry.
Blood.
The cough started low — a nudge behind his sternum.
It built.
Broke free.
He turned his head.
Spat pink into the dirt.
God.
His fingers trembled.
He tried to shift. Just a little. Maybe sit straighter.
Bad idea.
His femur screamed — white-hot. The pressure shifted like a crowbar turning in wet cement.
“Gh—!”
The sound escaped before he could stop it. He clenched his jaw, grinding until his molars ached.
Left arm? Gone.
Nothing moved.
He was half-lashed in place — not tight, but firm. Angled. Braced. Still.
Enola had done that.
It probably saved his life.
But now it felt like rubble.
Another breath. Shallow.
Still pain.
Still wet.
Still him.
“…fuck…”
He didn’t swear often. Not aloud. But it slipped out like a prayer.
And then—
He looked up.
Branches.
Blurred sunlight.
No movement. No rustle. Just wind, birds, and that damn ringing in his ears.
“Enola…” he rasped.
Nothing.
Another cough tore through his ribs — serrated.
His good hand fisted in the dirt. Nails full of gravel.
He needed—
What? Water. Painkillers. Mercy.
His mind wandered.
Not far.
Just enough to imagine maybe none of this was real.
Maybe he never left London.
Maybe this was a coma.
Maybe she never got him off the raft.
No.
She had.
She pulled him.
Dragged him.
Screamed at him to breathe.
She kissed his temple.
That happened.
Didn’t it?
He blinked up at the canopy — eyes dry, stinging — as his chest hitched on another broken breath.
Wait.
She kissed him.
On the temple.
That wasn’t fever. That wasn’t imagined.
That happened.
And that… that wasn’t like her.
Enola Holmes didn’t do tenderness.
Not real tenderness.
Not while anyone could remember it.
So what the hell was that?
He coughed again. Swallowed bile. Tongue pressed behind his teeth.
What was she like before that?
Laughing.
Crying.
Gone silent again. Steel.
And now—
Now she was out there. Alone.
Fevered. Wounded.
Armed with a knife. A wire in her leg.
Talking to hallucinations.
Kissing him like she thought it might be goodbye.
“Shit,” he whispered.
He tried to lift his head. Couldn’t.
She hadn’t slept.
He did the math — slow.
Because slow was all he had left.
She passed out after the crossing — four, five hours ago.
Before that? Awake all night.
Before that? Dragging him.
Before that? Patching him. Screaming. Stitching her leg.
Two days. Three. No sleep. No food. No meds.
Fever. Infection. Tumour.
His stomach turned.
Not from pain.
From dread.
Because if he could see her clearly now—
Then she was worse than she let on.
Much worse.
She wasn’t running on fumes.
She was running on instinct.
Military reflex.
Everything else — logic, control, focus — was fraying.
He exhaled carefully.
“…you can’t keep this up, Enola…”
Day 32 — Early Afternoon — Bunker Interior
The corridor deepened.
Not in length. In silence.
That dense kind of quiet that presses against the skull.
Like the world holding its breath.
Enola stepped through a reinforced arch—then stopped.
The floor beneath her boots had changed.
No longer steel.
Not dirt, either.
Composite padding. Rubber-lined.
Medical-grade.
For sterilisation. For spills.
The kind they used in mobile surgical chambers.
She turned her head.
There.
A door.
White once. Now dulled with dust. No signage. No symbol.
Just a long vertical handle, and a patch where the label had been scraped clean.
She reached out with her good hand.
The door gave with a hiss.
Inside—
Not large.
Not clean.
Not bright.
But unmistakable.
A med bay.
One wall lined with sealed crates. Another with colour-banded drawers — faded, but legible.
Antibiotics. Painkillers. Antiseptics. IV kits. Plasma units.
Cool air flowed across her face.
Circulated.
Preserved.
Alive.
A shelf stood by the counter, stacked high with MREs — ration foil packs, stencilled, sealed.
Military issue.
Survivable until 2032.
And in the centre—
A surgical table.
Foldable. Adjustable.
Field-ready.
Covert op grade.
She froze.
The second she saw it, she knew.
They had a chance.
Michael exhaled beside her — half-laugh, half-sob.
“Oh my god—oh my god, Enola, look at this—”
She didn’t move.
He surged forward, suddenly animated. Alive.
“That cabinet—grey band? Ceftriaxone. Yellow? Ibuprofen suspension. Morphine—real morphine, not powdered paste—injectables!”
He spun toward the corner bin. “That’s not gauze. That’s compression wrap. And this—this—!”
He opened a drawer. Held up a sealed packet of glinting scalpels.
He laughed. Loud. Triumphant.
“I could kiss the bastard who stocked this place!”
Enola dropped to her knees.
Slow. Controlled.
Not from relief.
Not from gratitude.
Just gravity.
Her leg pulsed. Her shoulder screamed.
Her ribs barely lifted when she breathed.
But it didn’t matter.
Because they weren’t going to die.
Not yet.
Michael kept talking — half-choked, rattling off every useful item like a man unearthing treasure.
But Enola?
She stayed silent.
No smile. No blink.
Just stillness.
Because for the first time in weeks—
she could see it.
Not survival.
Not just that.
Recovery.
A future.
Michael wiped at his face — even as he shimmered slightly, flickering like a ghost.
“You did it,” he whispered. “You fucking did it.”
She didn’t reply.
She was already calculating.
How to carry a dying man
with one good arm,
a wired leg,
and a body full of broken parts
into a room that might actually be hope.
She stared at the med bay a moment longer.
Then braced her arm. And tried to stand.
Pain shot up her thigh — electric. Blinding. White.
She collapsed sideways. Caught herself on the surgical table.
Michael dropped beside her, face pinched with worry.
“Easy.”
“We need to get Mycroft here,” she snapped.
Michael cocked his head. “We?”
She froze.
His voice had changed.
Still warm.
Still him.
But the word — “we” — hit like a pin to the chest.
“I’m just a hallucination, love,” he said gently. “Remember?”
Right.
Right.
She was still alone.
The pressure behind her eyes surged, but she forced it down.
Didn’t matter.
Mycroft needed this place.
The antibiotics.
The fluids.
The oxygen.
She ground her teeth, tried again.
Her knees buckled.
She hit the floor hard. The oxygen lines rattled.
Michael winced. “Enola—”
“I don’t have time!”
And then—
Another voice.
Lower. Clipped. Calm.
“You should treat your wounds first.”
Not Michael.
Not hers.
She froze.
Turned.
A figure stood near the hatch.
Rolled sleeves. Tactical vest. Tired eyes.
John Watson.
But not really.
She knew that.
But there he was.
“You’re not real,” she said.
“Nope.”
“Then get out of my way.”
He didn’t move.
She stood again — shoulder clipped the med rack.
“I have to go—”
“You can’t carry him like this,” he said. “You’re running a fever. Your leg’s septic. Your shoulder’s immobile. If you try to drag him—”
“I have to.”
“He doesn’t need you breaking yourself worse.”
She glared. “You’re not him.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re bleeding. You’re crashing. If your fever spikes again, you’ll seize up.”
“I can’t wait.”
“You can wait ten minutes.”
“I can’t!”
He stepped in front of the hatch.
Michael said nothing now — watching from the shadows, still and unreadable.
She tried to slip past. John blocked her again.
“You’re not used to backup. I get it. But right now?
You’ll be no use if you collapse.”
“I’ve done worse.”
“Not like this.”
She hissed through her teeth. “Why now? Why you?”
“You know what I sound like when I’m right.”
Silence.
Her breathing rasped.
Her vision swam.
And she knew—
He was right.
If she fell dragging Mycroft?
There’d be no second try.
No next breath.
No one coming.
She exhaled.
Long. Slow.
Then stepped back from the door.
John didn’t smile.
Just nodded.
“Good. Sit. Disinfect. Bandage. Eat something. Then move.”
Enola didn’t argue.
She dropped to the floor, knees to steel, head swimming.
One breath.
Two.
Then she started pulling supplies off the shelves.
She gathered supplies with her good arm:
Antiseptic. Gauze. A scalpel. Alcohol wipes.
A cracked saline spray bottle.
John remained standing, arms crossed, radiating battlefield calm.
“Start with the thigh,” he instructed. “The wire’s holding, but the surface is red. You need to flush it. Now.”
“I know,” she muttered.
“Then do it.”
She pulled the blade.
Not to cut—just to pry up the crusted blood.
Her breath caught as she wedged it under the top sutures.
“Easy,” John warned.
She didn’t reply. Just sprayed saline into the wound.
White fire.
She hissed.
Her leg jerked.
“Worse is coming,” John said calmly. “Antiseptic next.”
She poured the liquid.
It burned instantly.
She bit her wrist to stay conscious.
“Keep going. Top layer first. Deep flush. Then wrap it.”
“Shut up,” she rasped.
But she obeyed.
Hands trembling.
Measured pressure.
Tight, efficient wraps — tight but not too tight.
When she finished, she sat back, shaking.
“Shoulder.”
“Can’t reach it.”
“I’ll talk you through.”
She turned, wedged her back against the bulkhead, and slipped the sling off.
Her arm dropped like dead weight.
“Fracture’s misaligned,” John noted. “You need stability. Not motion.”
“Talk less.”
“Wrap around the ribs first. Anchor there. Then brace the bicep. Keep the wrist high.”
“Improvised support?”
“Bottom shelf. Metal bar. Hook it under the elbow. Tape it in place.”
She followed.
Each movement sent shocks up her spine.
The pain wasn’t the worst part.
The sound was.
Bones clicking. Ligaments tearing.
She finished the wrap.
No motion.
Stabilised.
Usable.
“Good,” John said. “Now antibiotics.”
“No.”
His brow twitched. “What?”
“All of it goes to Mycroft.”
“Enola—”
“He’s dying. I’m not. That’s the math.”
“That’s not medicine. That’s madness.”
“Same result.”
She reached to stand.
John blocked her path — not by force, just by presence.
“You’re feverish. If you collapse—”
“I’ve collapsed before.”
“Not with someone depending on you.”
She said nothing.
John sighed. “Fine. No antibiotics. But you’ll take something for the fever. Acetaminophen. Ibuprofen, if your stomach holds.”
“I haven’t eaten.”
“Then eat.”
She didn’t argue.
Not because she agreed.
Because her hands were shaking,
and her jaw was locked so tight her back molars throbbed.
She grabbed a ration bar. Bit. Chewed.
Hard.
Stale.
Didn’t matter.
She swallowed three mouthfuls, washed them down with filtered water.
Then took the pills.
No hesitation.
No drama.
Just function.
John watched. Nodded. “Ten minutes. Let them kick in. Then move.”
“I need to—”
“You need to not collapse halfway down a cliff.”
She didn’t argue.
Didn’t stand.
Just leaned her head back.
Cool metal.
Filtered air.
Not peace.
But pause.
Michael still sat across the room, arms over knees, quiet.
John stayed by the shelf, unmoving.
She watched the ceiling.
Counted breaths.
One.
Two.
Three.
The buzz behind her eyes began to spike — high, thin, tight like wire.
Then—
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she muttered.
Because now—
A third figure stood near the bunks, hands in pockets, eyebrows already raised.
Dr. James Wilson.
Her oncologist.
Real. Once.
Not anymore.
“You skipped a cycle, didn’t you?” he asked, voice low.
She didn’t answer.
“Missed a dose. Maybe more. Rationed the Vascanon-D. Saved Neuroquelin-C for emergencies. Threw the schedule when the infection hit.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“You had options. You just didn’t like any of them.”
Michael murmured from the shadows, “It’s getting crowded in here.”
Enola ignored him.
Wilson pressed on.
“I warned you. Tumour growth. Dosage skipping. Especially under stress. You’re hallucinating now. You’re crashing.”
“She’s septic,” John cut in. “Fevered. Bleeding. That’s why she’s hallucinating.”
Wilson turned. “She’s also got a tumour in her frontal lobe. That’s not a paper cut.”
John didn’t back down. “She’s starving. Dehydrated. Sleep-deprived.”
“She’s relapsing,” Wilson snapped. “Visual anomalies. Auditory bleeding. Mood instability. Pain deregulation—”
“She’s dying,” John snapped. “That’s the reason. She’s running triage on her brother after crawling out of a flood zone with a leg wired shut.”
“You’re not an oncologist.”
“No, I’m the one in the room.”
They were talking about her like she wasn’t there.
She almost admired the gall.
“—loss of executive clarity—”
“—sleep loss, oxygen shock, blood starvation—”
“Are you both done?” Enola muttered.
They didn’t stop.
Until—
Another voice.
This one was dry. Sarcastic. Familiar.
“Maybe it’s both.”
She turned.
Gregory House.
Standing near the surgical rack, cane in hand, face half-lit.
“You know,” he said, gesturing to them, “they’re both kind of right. Which means you’re kind of screwed.”
“No diagnosis?” she asked.
“Oh, I’ve got one. It’s called ‘You’re Being Held Together by Spite and Wound Adhesive.’”
“Helpful.”
“Not my job to be helpful.” He sat on the cot with a thump. “My job’s to be right.”
He pointed to Wilson. “That’s compassion.”
Then to John. “That’s urgency.”
Then back at her. “And you? You’re a bloody wreck with a saviour complex.”
Enola didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Three hallucinations.
All bickering.
And Michael.
Still quiet.
Still watching.
House leaned forward, elbows on knees.
“You know the real question, right?”
She stared at him.
“No.”
“Can you do it again?”
She didn’t flinch.
“No,” she said. “I can do it once.”
“Once?”
“Long enough to get him down.”
“And after that?”
“Whatever works.”
Wilson’s voice came quieter. “This won’t stop. Even if he lives. You’re still on a clock.”
“I’ve always been on a clock.”
House nodded. “That’s fair.”
John stepped forward.
“Fever’s breaking. Good. Focus — it’s time to move.”
Enola didn’t move.
Just sat.
Back against the bulkhead.
Elbows on her knees.
Eyes tracking the rivets on the submarine wall like they were data points in a collapsing equation.
“Painkiller first,” John repeated, checking off protocol in her mind’s voice. “Not too much — he needs to stay alert.”
“Antibiotics,” Wilson added. “Inject. Faster delivery. Broad-spectrum. Ceftriaxone if you’ve got it.”
John nodded once. “Right. Straight to muscle. He won’t like it — but it’ll work.”
“Food,” Wilson continued. “Liquid only. High protein, low grit. Soup, if it’s sealed. Or filtered packs.”
She nodded once.
Michael still sat in the corner, watching her with that unreadable look he always had when she did something reckless but effective.
“You should rest first,” he said quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I’m going.”
No one argued.
They knew better now.
She rose — slower than before, but steady. The leg screamed. The shoulder tugged. Her skull thrummed with pressure.
But she moved.
John stepped aside.
Wilson vanished without comment.
Only House lingered by the hatch, cane in hand.
“You know,” he said, tilting his head, “most people wait for help before dragging half a corpse through jungle with a shoulder taped together and a leg stitched with copper.”
She didn’t look at him. “Good thing I’m not most people.”
House smirked. “You really should talk to someone about that superiority complex.”
“I did,” she said, climbing the ladder.
“You.”
And with that—
She was gone.
Notes:
Okay so listen…
This chapter?
Yeah. I broke her.Because Enola Holmes being halfway dead, hallucinating Dr. House, and still chewing ration bars like a war criminal is exactly the kind of thing that happens when you write your trauma avatar with no adult supervision.
Also:
Michael. John. Wilson. House.
All in one scene. All in her head.I’m sorry to her. I am. But, like…
Get up, darling. You’ve got a brother to save.
Chapter 35: Drag Me to Hell (and Then Build a Sled)
Summary:
Enola returns from the jungle with a plan, a pain threshold far beyond sane, and an increasingly fractured grip on reality. Mycroft is barely breathing. The jungle doesn’t care. Neither does she.
It’s time to move.
Notes:
If you're asking “how is she still standing?”
She’s not.But that won’t stop her.
See you in hell, aka the next chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 32– Afternoon
Location: Edge of Secondary Bunker – South Slope Jungle Ridge
Mycroft had counted.
Not precisely. Not with logic. Not anymore.
Just sun angles. Shadow shifts. The crawl of his own agony.
And by the fact that every second she was gone felt like five.
She’d been gone too long.
He knew that because he’d passed out.
Twice.
Woke both times to silence. The same pressing, breathless quiet. Jungle still. Surf faded. No birds. No voice. No Enola.
Then—
Crack.
The brush shifted.
He forced his eyes open. Just a sliver.
And there she was.
Limping. Bloodied. Drenched. Dragging something behind her like it owed her a life.
He exhaled through his nose.
Mistake.
It rattled. Triggered a cough. Which triggered pain.
Fire lit his ribs.
Still, he found his voice.
“You—took your time—”
“Shut up.”
Sharp. Immediate.
He blinked.
“You shouldn’t—leave me—”
“You’re not helping your lung,” she replied, crouching.
“I was busy,” she continued, already tearing open the ampoule pouch. “Painkiller. Antibiotic. Water. Liquid calories. Don’t argue.”
He barely got out, “Enola—” before the first needle went in.
Burn. Shoulder. Then spreading cold.
The pain didn’t vanish. But it relented.
Just enough.
She drove in the second dose.
“Ceftriaxone. Broad-spectrum. Twice a day.”
She shoved the water pouch against his mouth. He coughed, swallowed.
Then came the calorie gel. Viscous. Warm.
She squeezed it between his teeth like fuel.
He choked. Gagged. Managed to rasp, “Disgusting.”
“Good.”
Then he saw it — the roof panel she’d dragged back.
“Why—”
“You can’t walk. I can’t carry. No stretcher. I’m building a sled.”
She knelt. Knife flashing. Shaving tarp. Cutting it into a compact rig.
Behind her, John Watson folded his arms. “Respiration shallow. Cyanosis present. But improving.”
Wilson nodded. “Still critical.”
House rolled his eyes. “You’re literally still in the woods.”
“Shut up,” Enola muttered, eyes fixed on her work.
Michael crouched beside her, calm. “Brace the lower spine. Use the fuel line — I marked it.”
She reached for it without hesitation. Tied. Anchored. Tested. Her shoulder screamed. She didn’t flinch.
Then turned to Mycroft.
“We’re moving you.”
“…We?”
“Don’t start.”
His voice cracked. “Who is we, Enola?”
She said nothing.
She just braced the board beside him, propped his good leg, strapped his chest. Each movement brutal, fast, efficient.
He cried out — once.
She didn’t pause.
“Worse if we stay.”
“I—know—”
She pressed a hand to his forehead. Cool. Controlled.
“Save your air. I’ll do the rest.”
She dragged.
Boots dug. Rope burned. Blood seeped. Her ribs screamed.
Behind her, the hallucinations stirred.
“Well,” House said, “she takes direction after all.”
John shoved him. Michael walked in silence.
The jungle blurred.
The drag took years.
Then—
The bunker.
Steel. Hidden. Waiting.
Not far now.
They didn’t get ten meters before the ghosts started arguing.
“She’s pulling too far left,” John noted.
“Because the thigh’s giving,” Wilson hissed. “If she compensates—”
“She’ll rupture her artery,” House concluded cheerfully.
Enola gritted her teeth.
She didn’t reply. Didn’t even blink.
Just pulled.
Another root. Another scream. Another drag.
Mycroft watched her, silent. His lips moved, but no sound came. He was too far gone for that.
Michael cleared vines ahead.
“You’re almost there,” he said softly.
She kept going.
Until—
A voice.
“Well now,” it drawled. “This is a sorry sight, innit?”
Enola froze.
There he was.
Leaning against a tree, grinning.
Jack Sparrow.
“Oh, absolutely not,” she whispered.
Jack twirled. Sang.
“Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me…”
“Nope.”
“We pillage, we plunder, we rifle and loot—”
House cackled. “Musical hallucinations. We’ve hit a new tier.”
John groaned. “This is—concerning.”
Wilson just muttered, “Cognitive threshold breached.”
Jack danced. Sang louder.
And Enola, cracking at the seams, snapped.
“Fine.”
Then—sang with him.
“Drink up, me hearties, yo ho!”
Her voice cracked. Dry. Raw.
“We kidnap and ravage and don’t give a hoot—”
Mycroft jerked. “Enola?!”
“Shut up and enjoy the concert!”
She dragged harder.
“Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me—!”
Blood slicked her thigh again. Her breath caught. Her lungs rattled.
She didn’t care.
“We’re devils and black sheep and really bad eggs—”
“ENOLA—”
“SING OR SHUT UP!”
He did neither.
She didn’t slow.
Jack tipped his hat. “Bloody good form, darling.”
She didn’t answer.
She kept going.
Until the bunker yawned before them.
Steel hatch. Shadowed descent.
She dropped to her knees. Rope fell from her hands.
Every nerve screamed.
But they were here.
She looked back. Mycroft blinked. Alive. Wrecked. Confused.
“This it?”
“Bunker.”
“How—do we—get down?”
She didn’t answer.
She stood. Limped to the hatch. Steel ladder. Narrow. No way to carry.
She looked around.
Found a root. Anchored the rope.
Then turned.
“We’re lowering you.”
“What?!”
“Like a supply crate.”
“You’re insane—”
“Hold still.”
“You can barely stand—”
“Then I’d better hurry.”
Jack grinned. “Inspired. Gravity’s free.”
She lashed him tight. Double wrap. Figure-eight. Every knot surgical.
Michael nodded. “She triple-anchored.”
House leaned in. “Worst case, you die fast.”
“You ready?”
“No—this is madness—you’re hallucinating, delirious—”
“Now.”
She didn’t shout. Just moved.
Board to hatch.
Rope to waist.
Foot braced.
She began to lower.
Slow.
One meter. Two. Three.
Then—
Jerk.
Slack caught. Rope creaked.
She nearly dropped him.
Burned palms tore again.
Michael: “Don’t flinch.”
She didn’t.
Four. Five. Contact.
The rope went slack.
Mycroft was down.
She collapsed to the dirt.
Panting.
Burning.
Done.
He was inside.
And for once—
Silence.
The hallucinations said nothing.
Because she’d done it.
She let go.
The rope slid through her fingers, sticky with blood.
She swayed.
Then dropped.
Hard.
One breath.
Then another.
Still alive.
But not conscious.
Not anymore.
Below, Mycroft twitched.
He heard it.
The fall.
The silence.
“En—”
Cough.
“Enola—!”
No answer.
He tried to move.
Agony flooded him.
He gasped. Pressed his head to the floor.
Panic.
Real panic.
She’d never not answered.
“Enola…”
Still nothing.
Still jungle.
Still dark.
He waited.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Each one a scream.
Each one a prayer.
Until finally—
He whispered.
“…please.”
And waited in the dark.
Notes:
So, uh.
…I built her a medical bunker so she could finally rest.
And then immediately made her drag a half-dead diplomat across a jungle with one arm and a failing leg while arguing with Jack Sparrow.Yes.
I absolutely laughed while writing this.
(Also: Enola singing “Yo Ho Yo Ho” while bleeding from the thigh is now my Roman Empire.)
Chapter 36: Residual Echo
Summary:
Back in Enola’s flat, Michael and Sherlock collide over the fallout of Hartwell’s assassination. The last lead is dead, the data corrupted, and both men are unraveling under pressure. But a single fragmented coordinate—“48–”—might be the crack that breaks open the second island. And if Enola’s alive…
They’re not losing her again.
Notes:
Back to London. Back to the chaos.
We’re picking up the thread from Sherlock and Michael’s end of the timeline, and it’s—uh—tense.
Also: if Sherlock’s the storm, Michael’s the eye of it. Quiet, furious, dangerous.—
(Also also: if anyone’s wondering, yes—Sherlock was this close to punching him. Again.)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 32 – 19:18 GMT
Location: London – Enola’s Flat (Michael’s Current HQ)
The hallway outside Enola’s flat reeked of burnt coffee and broken sleep.
Sherlock Holmes didn’t knock.
He slammed the door open hard enough to rattle the coat hooks.
“You were supposed to report two days ago.”
Michael didn’t look up.
He was crouched on the floor, back against the couch, laptop balanced on one knee, fingers twitching through three overlapping terminals. A tray of untouched food sat beside him. The flat was a disaster. Curtains drawn. Lights off. Only the glow of monitors gave him shape.
“Nice to see you too,” Michael muttered.
Sherlock stepped forward, coat still wet from the storm outside.
“Don’t test me.”
Michael’s laugh was dry. Broken.
“Bit late for that.”
Sherlock’s voice sharpened.
“You vanished. No signal. No intel. No message.”
Michael didn’t blink.
“I was busy watching the last human link to your siblings get his brain blown out.”
That stopped Sherlock.
Only for a second.
Then:
“The pilot’s dead.”
“Shot. Right when he was about to break.”
Michael tossed a USB across the table. It skidded, hit Sherlock’s coat.
“This is all that’s left. The phone wiped itself. I watched it. Real time. Someone scrubbed him while I was holding the code.”
Sherlock’s jaw clenched. He didn’t pick up the drive.
“What’s on it?”
Michael snorted. “Noise. A startup line. Part of a bootloader. But I got something else before the bullet.”
He stood, walked over to the far wall, and pointed at a dry-erase map riddled with pins.
“He said he saw boats. A bay. No flags. Just masks. One of them spoke English. Maybe. He was stitched up. Sedated. Dumped. Before he got out, they gave him extraction coordinates.”
Sherlock’s focus snapped to him.
“Coordinates?”
Michael nodded. Dragged a sticky note from the wall. Scribbled in all caps:
48—DASH—[REDACTED]
“He couldn’t remember all of it. Just that number. A dash. A marker on the wall of some dock or shack. Said it looked like a designation. Military? Commercial? He didn’t know. But it wasn’t a full location. It was the beginning of one.”
Sherlock crossed the room and finally plugged in the USB. Lines of code blinked across the monitor—jagged, redacted, scrambled.
Michael dragged himself upright.
His eyes were bloodshot.
His shirt was inside out.
He looked like hell. Sherlock knew the look.
Because he’d worn it for a week.
Sherlock turned slowly.
Cold.
“You let the last lead die.”
Michael’s laugh cracked. “Oh, fuck you.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.
“You think I let him die? I had him in the chair. Bleeding. Begging. He was halfway to telling me where he’d been picked up—and then bang. Back of the skull. Surveillance dead. Door locked from the outside. Whoever killed him was already in the building.”
He stepped in close.
Chest to chest with Sherlock.
“I was four goddamn seconds from the rest of that coordinate. And they deleted him before I could finish the sentence.”
Sherlock didn’t flinch.
But he didn’t speak.
Michael turned away. Ran both hands through his hair, pacing the perimeter of the chaos.
“His phone wiped itself while I was jacked into it. No backups. No cache. It didn’t just delete the data, it killed the whole file system. The bastard died clean.”
Sherlock’s voice dropped. Still sharp. Still cold.
“What do we have?”
Michael pointed at the screen.
“That.”
Sherlock squinted.
“It’s not a cipher. It’s… a startup string?”
Michael nodded.
“Fragmented bootloader. Custom. Might be tied to a relay system or blind uplink. I’ve seen similar formats in deep state defense contractors—nothing civilian. Could’ve been a relay ping from an encrypted satellite bounce or buried drone. But it’s a trace. And it starts with ‘48–’.”
Sherlock’s gaze hardened.
“You said you found an island before. Why track the pilot?”
Michael finally looked at him.
“Because I was wrong.”
Sherlock raised a brow.
Michael clarified, quiet now. Focused.
“The first island I found—the one from the evac logs—that was ‘Missione Avançada.’ Enola had it on her pirate map. I had it checked. Empty. No signs of anyone. Not them.”
Sherlock’s jaw ticked.
“So?”
“So it wasn’t the extraction site. It was something else. I needed to know where Hartwell actually got pulled from.”
He pointed to the monitor.
“This code? This coordinate? That’s the second island. The real one.”
Sherlock turned away from the screen.
Stared at the wall.
Then back at Michael.
Really looked at him.
Saw the stains on his shirt. The bandaged hand. The coffee burns on the desk. The thousand-yard stare of a man two days past breaking and still building maps in his head.
Sherlock didn’t say it.
But something shifted.
Michael noticed.
He laughed. Tired. Bitter.
“What? Expecting me to fall apart? Cry into the wallpaper? You should know by now, Sherlock — I only break things, not myself.”
Sherlock crossed his arms.
“You’re worse than I thought.”
Michael smirked.
“And you’re exactly what I expected.”
Silence.
Thick.
Ugly.
Then, Sherlock said:
“Two heads.”
Michael blinked. “What?”
“Two heads are better than one,” Sherlock said, jaw tight.
“And right now, I’m out of angles. So are you.”
Michael stared at him.
“You’re actually asking for help?”
“No,” Sherlock replied.
“I’m acknowledging this is bigger than either of us. And we’re out of time.”
Michael let that sit.
Then finally—
“…Alright.”
He walked back to the desk. Pulled up a secondary monitor. Loaded the startup string again. This time, he parsed it against every known frequency for relay drones in the 40–49 MHz band.
“We rebuild the ping. Find the fragment. Trace the bounce.”
Sherlock leaned over the desk.
His voice barely a whisper.
“And we triangulate the second island.”
Michael nodded.
“Because that’s where they dropped him.”
Sherlock’s voice was low. Controlled.
“And Enola might’ve found it.”
“And if she did…”
Michael didn’t let him finish.
He looked him dead in the eye.
“Then we find her first.”
Sherlock nodded once.
Quiet.
Agreeing.
Just this once.
Notes:
Yes, I know this chapter is short.
The fic’s already done—I’m just cleaning it, correcting inconsistencies, and untangling a timeline snarl between Enola/Mycroft’s survival arc and Sherlock/Michael’s investigation arc.Bear with me a sec while I patch the wires and drag these idiots toward convergence.
We’re close now.
Really close.
Chapter 37: What Survives Us
Summary:
Enola wakes on the dirt, wrecked and burning—but alive. Mycroft is barely conscious, still strapped to the surgical table. What follows is mechanical triage, stubborn hallucinations, unspoken grief, and Enola operating like a ghost in her own skin.
She doesn’t pause. She doesn’t rest.
Until Mycroft finally demands it.
And for once—
She listens.
Notes:
If you've made it this far, congratulations—you're as emotionally gutted as I am.
This chapter is less about action and more about aftermath. About the cost of survival when there's no room left to crash.
Also yes, the bunker does echo.
That’s not a metaphor. Probably.
Chapter Text
Day 32 – Afternoon to Night – Bunker
Her breath returned like water in the lungs.
Fast. Choking. Blunt.
She jolted awake — hand clutching dirt, jaw clenched so hard her molars ached.
Sunlight slanted through the broken canopy, hotter now. Afternoon.
Her back burned. Her muscles screamed. Her knees were bleeding.
It took thirty full seconds for the rest to come back.
Who she was.
Where she was.
Why she couldn't feel her left arm.
Then—
Mycroft.
"Shit—!"
She twisted upright, pain lancing down her spine and into her thigh. Her vision blurred, her head spun, but she forced herself upright, clawing at the bunker hatch.
Still open.
Still quiet.
No movement.
"Mycroft?"
Nothing.
And then—faintly:
"…you’re alive."
It wasn’t a question.
She half-fell, half-crawled to the ladder. Every rung ripped fire through her leg, but she didn’t stop.
Hit the floor like a thunderclap.
Dragged herself through the corridor — one working arm, one locked jaw, one heart in freefall.
He was there.
Exactly where she left him.
Strapped to the table.
Pale.
Soaked in sweat.
But awake.
Barely.
His eyes met hers. Sharp. Furious.
And full of something else.
Relief.
"Don’t," she snapped, stumbling forward. "Don’t say anything."
He didn’t.
She collapsed to her knees beside him, hair stuck to her face, breathing hard.
She couldn’t look at him.
Not like that.
"Come on." She unhooked the straps. "We’re going to the med bay."
He didn’t argue.
He couldn’t.
He groaned — a rasping sound, thin as tissue — as she pulled him upright, his weight sagging against her shoulder.
"What…" he managed. "What’s in the bunker?"
"Everything," she said flatly. "Oxygen. Fuel. Water. Rations. Comms."
"…and?"
She hesitated.
Then: "Morphine."
His breath caught. "Thank… fuck."
They reached the med bay — a recessed alcove with a folding surgical table, steel drawers, and a cold sense of purpose.
To Enola, it looked like sanctuary.
She hauled him onto the table with the strength of sheer refusal. He twitched. Shivered. Gritted his teeth.
And then—
"Start with fluids."
John was already there.
Standing beside the wall.
Arms crossed. Sleeves rolled. Gaze sharp.
"He’s dehydrated. Febrile. Hypotensive. Antibiotics next."
"I know," Enola muttered, opening drawers, grabbing IV packs, searching with trembling hands.
Mycroft blinked.
At her.
Then at the space where John stood.
"…Enola."
"Shhh."
"You’re hallucinating again."
"Obviously," she snapped, threading the IV tube. "But he’s a better medic than you, so hush."
Mycroft blinked again. Didn’t argue.
She found a vein. Her fingers were shaking, but her aim was steady.
The needle slid in clean.
He hissed.
"That’s the worst part," John said calmly. "Now morphine."
She fumbled the vial. Dropped it. Swore. Retrieved it.
"You’re sure it’s real?" Mycroft asked as she prepped the syringe.
"Painkillers usually are. If not — enjoy your placebo."
She injected it slowly.
His muscles loosened. His jaw unclenched.
"Better," he whispered.
John nodded. "Antibiotics. IV. Full course."
Enola was already setting up the second line.
"Fluids stay in him all night," she said under her breath.
"You won’t make it all night," Mycroft rasped.
Enola met his eyes. "I’ll make it to morning."
John faded into the background, silent again, watching from the corner.
She slumped into the seat beside the table. Forehead pressed to cold metal.
Not resting.
Just pausing.
Just still.
But it didn’t last.
The second her breath stopped scraping, she got up.
Moved. Collected tools.
Clean gauze. Scissors. Saline. Antiseptic. Forceps.
She laid them out in perfect order.
Surgical. Cold. Unshaking.
Mycroft watched her in silence.
Not because he couldn’t speak —
Because he didn’t know what to say.
Her face…
It wasn’t angry.
Or scared.
Or even calm.
It was just—absent.
Like the Enola who’d survived the raft and the island and the storm was no longer here.
Just this: a medic. A ghost. A war protocol in human skin.
She pulled the tray beside him.
"Superficial first," she said.
"Enola—"
"No."
She didn’t raise her voice.
She just said it like a command code.
She started at his temple, dabbing at the crusted cut in his hairline. It had dried hours ago. Barely bleeding now.
Still, she cleaned it.
Rinsed it.
Pressed gauze.
Secured it with tape.
Moved on.
The sling at his shoulder—she didn’t remove it.
Just shifted the edge to inspect the bruise blooming from clavicle to elbow.
Blue-purple. Mottled. Sick.
"I can’t set this alone. We’ll need traction. Splints. Later."
"Enola…"
"I said no."
She cut the remains of his shirt down the center, peeled it back to expose the gauze over his ribs. It dissolved between her fingers — soaked through with blood and seawater.
She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t pause.
Just replaced it.
Clean layer. Tighter bind.
When she reached the leg—
She stopped.
The wound was worse.
The old bandage had held — barely — but the flesh was swollen, red, angry.
Too hot. Too raw.
She flushed it.
Repacked it.
Wrapped it with precise, sterile tension.
"You’re good at this," Mycroft whispered. "Better than I remember."
No reply.
She reached for the next wrap.
"Do you… ever think about what comes next?"
Her hands didn’t stop.
"After all this. After you’ve saved me. What then?"
"Don’t care."
"Enola—"
"You don’t get to ask me that."
He fell quiet.
She tied the last strap. Stood slowly.
Moved to the sink.
Washed her hands.
Above the basin, a steel panel offered a reflection.
Not a mirror.
But enough.
What she saw:
Sunken eyes. Temple bruised. Lips cracked.
Skin drawn tight across the bones.
Hollow. Unmoving.
Gone.
And then—
"You’ve been talking to people who aren’t here."
Mycroft’s voice. Gentle. Real.
She didn’t look up.
"First you laughed," he continued. "Then you talked to the air. Then you kissed me like it meant nothing. And now… this."
Her hands paused.
Just for a second.
"I’m not accusing," he said. "I’m trying to understand."
She exhaled.
Then turned.
Smiled.
Cold. Controlled. Almost tender.
"You don’t get to understand."
She crossed to the IV stand.
Checked the pressure.
"I’m saving your life."
"That’s the only variable that matters."
She turned again.
Back to the cabinet.
Back to labels. Vials. Charts.
Still bleeding.
Still silent.
Still moving.
"Enola," Mycroft said. "Sit down."
She didn’t.
Opened another drawer.
"Enola—"
"I’m working."
"You need to stop."
"I can’t."
"Yes, you can. You just won’t."
She stilled.
"What do you want, Mycroft?"
"I want you to eat something."
She laughed once. Dry. Broken.
"Eat? Now?"
"Yes. Now. Drink. Patch your leg. Do something to stop your organs from giving out."
"I’m fine."
"No. You’re not. You’re dying slowly and pretending it’s strategy."
"I’m alive."
"For now."
She still didn’t answer.
"You haven’t slept in two days. You’re infected. Dehydrated. Delirious."
Silence.
Then:
"You’re the priority."
"Wrong," he snapped. "We are the priority."
She looked at him.
Not angry. Not sad.
Just—calculating.
"I’m not trying to be noble," he said. "I’m being logical."
She opened her mouth—he cut her off.
"You die, I die. No one else can do what you can. No one else can hold this together. And if your body quits before mine recovers—"
"I wouldn’t let it."
"You might not be awake to stop it."
That hit her.
A small breath escaped.
Not a gasp. Not a sigh.
Just… data input.
"You’ve done more than enough," he said. "But now I need you to save yourself."
Stillness.
And then—
"If our positions were reversed," he added, "would you let me burn out like this?"
"…No."
"Then don’t insult me by making me beg you to do the same."
She blinked.
Turned.
Picked up the smallest ration pack.
Tore it open.
Swallowed a pouch of protein gel like a machine.
No expression.
Just obedience.
Then water. Three slow gulps.
Measured. Mechanical.
Mycroft exhaled.
She cleaned her hands.
And finally—
Her leg.
She peeled back the binding again — this time slower, more methodically.
The skin was worse now.
Angry. Shining with heat. Partially re-opened.
She didn’t wince.
Poured antiseptic over the exposed edge.
"Tourniquet again?" John asked softly from the shadows.
"No. Need perfusion. I’ll drain it."
She took a blade.
Sliced a shallow cross. Let the fluid bleed.
"Tell me when I pass out," she said.
"What?!"
"I need to finish first."
"No—Enola—"
Too late.
She flushed the wound.
Packed it.
Left the drain line open.
Moved to her arm.
Cut the sling.
Checked the joint.
"Fracture’s old. Re-aggravated. Not displaced."
John nodded.
"Splint it," Wilson murmured.
"Later."
But she pulled the board anyway. Strapped it to her ribs.
Her breathing shortened.
Then steadied.
She sat. Finally. On the floor.
Functional. Not resting.
"Done?" Mycroft asked.
She nodded.
"…For now."
And in that quiet, between the flickering fluorescents and the scent of antiseptic, Mycroft Holmes realised something that hit him harder than the fever or the injury or the pain—
She was holding herself together
by holding him together.
If he died—
So would she.
Not with fire.
Not with sound.
But with silence.
Methodical. Inevitable.
And there’d be no one left to stop her.
Chapter 38: The Only Logic Left
Summary:
In the belly of the bunker, Enola works like a machine on the verge of collapse—holding herself together by keeping Mycroft alive. Feverish, hallucinating, and barely breathing, she refuses to stop.
Meanwhile, in London, Michael and Sherlock have officially become one singular hyperfixated brain cell. With John and Lestrade playing sanity support, they begin piecing together the ghost signal—tracking the source of the extraction and plotting their next illegal satellite heist.
Notes:
Enola’s version of “self-care” is not dying while soldering broken military tech.
Michael’s version of “therapy” is hugging Lestrade and hacking space.Truly, it’s all going terribly well.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 33 – The Bunker
The bunker had no clocks.
No sun.
No time.
Just the hum of old machines, the tick of her boots on metal, and the laboured rhythm of breathing from the corner.
Enola sat cross-legged on the med bay floor.
Wires coiled in her lap. Radio parts scattered across a dented tray.
Her hair was damp with sweat. Again.
The fever hadn’t broken.
She hadn’t mentioned it.
Didn’t see the point.
One hand soldered a coil. The other—her fractured one—twitched in her lap, fingers curled against a phantom ache she refused to acknowledge.
John’s voice murmured from somewhere behind her.
Something about signal gain. Copper wire. Grid patching in buried structures. She didn’t respond. Didn’t look up.
Didn’t even blink.
But the ghosts talked anyway.
Michael sat on the edge of the empty bunk, elbows on his knees, watching her with something between concern and quiet pride.
“You moved all of it in here,” he said, nodding at the tray. “Smart.”
“I’m not leaving him alone.”
She didn’t look up.
Didn’t need to.
Wilson stood near the med cabinet, arms crossed.
“You’re not treating the infection.”
“No.”
“Fever’s high again.”
“I know.”
“Delirium’s next.”
“Already there,” she muttered, switching the capacitor.
Behind her, Mycroft groaned.
She was up in a second.
All wires forgotten.
He’d curled slightly—an instinct, not a choice.
His arm twitched. His breathing had changed. Shallow now. Quick.
A small gasp between each pull.
“Still with me?” she asked, her voice soft but unwavering.
His eyes opened. Flickered. Clouded.
“Hard to breathe,” he whispered.
“I know. Lung’s getting worse.”
He nodded once.
Barely.
His lips were dry. His skin, pale.
She reached for the water dropper. Let a few drops fall between his lips.
He coughed.
Wet.
Turned his head—and there it was again.
Pink.
Just a trace.
On his mouth. On the pillow.
She exhaled through her nose. Quiet. Controlled.
Set the dropper down.
John was watching from the corner, his expression like stone.
“She’ll have to—”
“Not yet,” she snapped.
Wilson didn’t speak.
Mycroft blinked again, dazed. “What… time?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“…you’re burning up.”
“I’m working.”
“Enola—”
“I said I’m working.”
He didn’t argue.
Just let his head fall back.
Chest rising. Falling. Struggling.
House appeared beside her, flipping through an imaginary chart with one finger.
“You’re delaying.”
“I know.”
“Waiting for what?”
“Anything.”
He shrugged. “That’s a plan.”
She didn’t reply.
Just turned back to the radio.
One eye always on him.
One hand always steady.
The fever blurred the edges of the room.
The ghosts no longer followed rules.
Jack whispered shanties from the hallway. Wilson cursed under his breath.
Michael stared at her like a man memorising the silhouette of a ship about to vanish.
And Enola?
She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t cry.
Didn’t stop.
Because this was the only logic left:
Keep him alive.
Fix the radio.
Ignore the blood.
Deny the ghosts.
Obey the mission.
Work.
Until something breaks.
Or something answers.
Day 33 – 08:42 GMT
Location: Enola’s Flat (Still Michael’s HQ)
The knock was soft.
Then louder.
Then ignored entirely.
Greg Lestrade sighed, balanced two paper trays of coffee in one hand, and nudged the door open with his shoulder. Behind him, John followed, arms loaded with bakery bags, one eyebrow already twitching at the dim light bleeding from under the blackout curtains.
The flat smelled like someone had been inventing new types of madness.
Caffeine. Sweat. Dryer-lint ozone from overclocked laptops. Three extension cords snaked like vines across the floor. One monitor was held together with duct tape. An entire wall had been turned into a pinboard of string and barely legible handwriting.
In the far corner, hunched like gargoyles, Sherlock and Michael were wordlessly passing a keyboard back and forth, speaking only in burst phrases:
“No, that offset curve’s wrong—he’d never route a ping through Kiribati unless it was double-bounced—”
“Unless it was hidden under a blanket relay—there’s no way Moriarty paid for civilian traffic masking—”
“Unless he didn’t pay. Unless it was military. Borrowed tech. Disguised.”
John cleared his throat.
No response.
Greg raised a hand.
Still nothing.
Finally, he raised his voice.
“Oi. Morning, zombie cryptologists. I brought bribes.”
Michael blinked.
Sherlock flinched.
Both men turned slowly. Their pupils were pinpricks. Their stubble had evolved into actual beards. Neither appeared to have moved from that exact quadrant of the flat in over twelve hours.
Michael made a sound that might’ve been gratitude. Sherlock just stared at the coffee like it owed him rent.
Greg shook his head.
“You two look like rejected extras from a post-apocalyptic spy movie.”
John lowered the bag of pastries to the table, then gently moved a screwdriver off a printed circuit board that had been converted into… possibly a transmission filter. Or a shrine. He wasn’t sure.
“Please tell me you slept,” he said.
Michael and Sherlock replied at the exact same time:
“Define sleep.”
Greg rolled his eyes and handed Michael a coffee.
“Okay, well. Drink before you start running on pure hatred again. I don’t even want to know how many shots you’ve had today.”
Michael accepted the cup like it was holy. He drank half in one go. Sighed.
“Eight. Give or take. Not including the two cans of Raid in the fridge I considered snorting.”
Sherlock was already back at the screen.
Greg glanced at the board, the blinking maps, the scrawled figures trailing across every flat surface — coordinates, oceanic drift charts, low-frequency band ranges, power loss curves.
He gestured with his coffee.
“Alright, then. What's the plan?”
Michael didn’t look up.
Sherlock answered first.
“We rebuild the ping.”
Michael jumped in.
“Break it into signal fragments.”
“Match the timestamp pattern to known relay schedules.”
“Rule out static satellites, start cross-referencing for blind windows—”
“—anything outside standard orbital telemetry.”
“Then we triangulate from the bounce.”
“Not the signal origin—”
“—the last confirmed redirection.”
Their voices overlapped seamlessly. Like one mind split across two caffeine-fueled bodies.
John blinked slowly.
Greg just stared.
“Oh God,” John muttered. “There’s two of them now.”
“Christ, don’t let them fuse,” Greg added. “The world doesn’t need Sherlock 2.0 with trauma muscles.”
Michael kept typing.
“If we map out the tail-end scatter and match it to the existing vector offset, we can isolate a transmission bounce that passed within 300 nautical miles of the original deviation corridor.”
Sherlock nodded sharply.
“It won’t give us an exact fix, but it’ll narrow the radius enough to rule out open ocean.”
“And give us a footprint to search. A real one.”
Greg exhaled, watching them trade unfinished thoughts like air.
Then he muttered into his cup—
“At this rate, it’d be easier to just build a satellite and launch it over the Pacific ourselves.”
Silence.
Sherlock and Michael stopped.
Turned.
Looked at him.
Then at each other.
Then back at him.
Greg blinked.
“That wasn’t a suggestion, you lunatics—”
Michael stood abruptly.
Walked straight over.
And hugged him.
Full-body. Smelled like solder, static, and espresso.
“You’re a fucking genius,” he whispered.
Greg froze, horrified.
“Oh no. What did I do.”
Sherlock had already pulled up another window.
“We don’t need to launch anything.”
Michael grinned.
“Just hijack something that’s already up there.”
John looked from one to the other, eyes narrowing.
“Please tell me you’re not about to hack a military satellite.”
Neither of them answered.
Which was answer enough.
Greg threw his hands up.
“No. Nope. I’m out. I am not being named in any intelligence tribunal. This is above my paygrade and your mental health.”
Michael smirked.
“Relax. We won’t get caught.”
Sherlock added:
“We never do.”
John just groaned into his pastry.
And the madness continued.
Notes:
Thank you for reading, enduring, and decoding all the layers with me.
Next chapter? Signals. Failures. And choices that don’t come with undo buttons.
Chapter 39: Margin of Error
Summary:
Mycroft’s lung begins to fail. Blood and fluid signal the onset of pneumonia and systemic infection. Enola, sleep-deprived and running a fever near 40°C, performs an emergency chest drain with makeshift tools while hallucinations guide her. But the ghosts aren’t the only ones watching.
Mycroft sees her perform surgery on herself—mechanical, unblinking, and utterly alone in her mind.
And for the first time since the plane crash, he realises:
She may not survive the rescue.
Notes:
⚠️ Content Warnings:
Graphic medical proceduresSelf-surgery
Blood, infection, and wound care
Fever hallucinations
Psychological breakdown
Surgical trauma
Delirium and dissociation
Brief reference to Eurus Holmes and past trauma
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Notes:
This one hurt to write.
Not just because of the gore, but because it’s a turning point in silence.
Enola has passed the point of coping — now it’s pure survival on a knife’s edge.And Mycroft?
He’s finally seeing what she’s had to become.
Not a soldier. Not a sister.
Just a ghost who hasn’t died yet.Let’s keep going.
The worst isn’t over.
Not yet.
Chapter 40: The Ghost and the Satellite
Summary:
In the depths of MI6’s undocumented wing, Anthea finally breaks. Stripped of clearance, direction, and her anchor to Mycroft, she isolates herself in a forgotten comms room, trying to stay useful for a team that hasn’t noticed her absence. When Sherlock and Michael track her down, the moment becomes both confrontation and quiet redemption. They don’t fix her—but they do show up. As the COSMO-9 satellite trace begins, the three fractured minds align for a final push toward the second island. Grief, exhaustion, and quiet loyalty take the stage. Anthea’s fall doesn’t go unnoticed. And Michael makes damn sure she doesn’t fall alone.
Notes:
We’ve seen Enola burn.
We’ve seen Mycroft nearly drown.
But Anthea?
She’s the one who stayed behind and held the storm at bay.
And now?
Even iron rusts.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 34 — 01:47 GMT
Location: MI6 Substation Gamma – Undocumented Communications Wing
The keycard beeped against the reader.
Once.
Twice.
Then again — harder.
“Oh, for fu—”
Anthea kicked the reader.
The door clicked open anyway.
The room beyond was dim and humming. Chrome server towers. Low-lit terminals. No clocks. No cameras. Just air too still to be breathable and a silence calibrated for secrets.
She stepped inside.
Dropped her bag on the nearest chair. Didn’t sit. Just stood — coat half-off, posture folding beneath a weight no one else could see.
Her phone vibrated.
One message from Sherlock:
“We’re hijacking COSMO-9.”
One from Michael:
“Need bounce-path access on a low-orbit 37° relay. Classified uplink. Can you?”
And one from her own reflection in the server glass:
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
But she was.
Not as Mycroft’s gatekeeper. Not anymore.
Not since the internal review. Not since the quiet, surgical reprimand. Not since she was reassigned to “Departmental Floating Status” — bureaucratic slang for exiled by clipboard.
Mycroft Holmes was presumed dead.
And so, officially, was her position.
Unofficially?
She hadn’t stopped.
Not for a second.
Because someone had to keep them alive.
Her hands hovered over the terminal.
She didn’t type.
She couldn’t.
Her clearance was gone.
She could still walk in. Still pretend.
But without the backend codes? Without the whispered phrases Mycroft used to recite over tea while she typed with one hand and texted Downing Street with the other?
She was just… here.
A ghost in her own war room.
Her fingers curled into fists.
Pressed flat against the console. Willing it to recognize her anyway.
It didn’t.
A single error flashed in blood-red text:
ACCESS REVOKED.
Her breath caught.
Her knees didn’t buckle.
But it was close.
She backed away from the desk. Slowly. Mechanically.
Her coat slid from her shoulders. Hit the tile.
She didn’t pick it up.
Her phone buzzed again.
Sherlock:
“You there? Link didn’t go through.”
Michael:
“Still waiting. Anthea?”
She stared at the screen.
Then — sat down.
Back to the cold wall. Legs folded.
Phone still in her hand like it weighed a hundred pounds.
And for the first time since the crash. Since the silence. Since the ghost pilot and the blackout over the Pacific—
She let the silence in her own chest catch up.
“You’re not sleeping,” she whispered.
“You haven’t slept in four days. You don’t even have a desk.”
Her vision blurred.
But the tears didn’t fall right away.
They waited.
Like she always did.
Like she had for Mycroft.
For orders that would never come.
For people who never noticed when she vanished.
The first tear hit. Hot. Unfairly hot.
Like it wanted to make a point.
Then another.
And then she cried.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just real.
Tears with nowhere to go and no one left to hide from.
Minutes passed.
Another buzz.
Michael:
“Anthea. Please tell me you’re okay.”
Sherlock:
“We lost the window. Was that you?”
She let the phone slip from her hand.
Let it slide to the floor like smoke.
Laid her head back.
Stared up at the ceiling — blank, white, humming with secrets she no longer had the right to touch.
And whispered:
“No. I’m not okay. I’m in a basement pretending I still matter because none of you can stop dying long enough to notice I’m gone.”
No one heard her.
Not yet.
But soon, Michael would call again.
And when she didn’t answer?
He’d come.
And this time?
Maybe she wouldn’t tell him to go away.
Day 34 — 02:01 GMT
Location: MI6 Substation Gamma – Perimeter Gate Access
“She didn’t answer,” Sherlock said flatly.
Michael didn’t reply.
He was already moving — boots hard against the pavement, coat flaring like a storm front, slicing through the shadows of Substation Gamma’s access perimeter.
Sherlock followed, tugging his scarf tighter, voice low.
“They shut down your clearance days ago.”
“And yours,” Michael snapped. “Don’t pretend they didn’t.”
“They gave me a warning.”
“And I gave them my middle finger.”
They reached the first gate. Black glass. Steel frame. Motion scanner.
Michael tapped his old MI6 badge.
ACCESS DENIED.
Sherlock tried his.
Same.
“Brilliant,” he muttered.
Michael rolled his shoulders. Stepped back.
And kicked the scanner. Hard.
The wall shuddered.
Sherlock arched an eyebrow.
“That’ll help.”
“Didn’t say I was helping.” Michael’s voice was clipped. “Just buying time.”
“For what?”
No answer.
Michael stepped to the side, fingers searching the frame. Found it — a hidden fibre-optic tether tucked behind the panel casing. Old. Frayed. Not supposed to be there.
Sherlock blinked.
“That wasn’t supposed to be visible.”
“Neither are we,” Michael muttered.
He opened the end casing. Pulled a bypass transmitter from his wrist strap — not standard. Likely banned.
Very much illegal.
He jammed it into the connector port.
The gate clicked. Unlocked.
Sherlock gave a low whistle.
“You really are a criminal.”
“Thank you for noticing.”
They pushed inside.
Location: Substation Gamma – Inner Corridor
The walls narrowed. Older here. Reinforced. Meant to hold secrets no one ever meant to retrieve.
Sherlock’s coat caught on a conduit.
Michael didn’t notice. He was already moving fast, breath tight, eyes flicking to each corner mirror like he’d memorised the threat geometry.
They reached the second checkpoint.
“Locked,” Sherlock said, reading the keypad.
Michael didn’t break stride.
Just pulled a pen from his jacket, snapped it in half, and touched the exposed metal to the inner nodes of the panel.
Pop. Whine.
Click.
Door open.
Sherlock tilted his head.
“Do I want to know where you learned that?”
“Kandahar.”
“Ah. Of course.”
One last stairwell.
Down — deep.
Into the undocumented wing.
The lights changed. Fluorescent. Blue-tinged. The air got colder.
And there it was.
The comms door.
Shut.
No handle.
No key.
Sherlock placed a hand flat on the surface.
Cool. Still.
“This is the comms wing.”
Michael’s jaw clenched.
“This is where she is.”
He stepped forward.
Knocked once.
Nothing.
Again.
Still nothing.
He turned to Sherlock, voice low and clipped.
“She should’ve answered by now.”
Sherlock nodded, grim.
“We’re not getting in that way. Not without triggering internal alarms.”
Michael stared at the keypad.
Then the wall.
Then backed up three steps.
“Cover your ears.”
“What are you—”
Too late.
Michael pulled a breacher charge from his belt.
Small. Black. Hockey puck-sized.
He slapped it next to the panel. Hit a switch underneath. Turned away.
BANG.
The lock assembly exploded — directional. Concentrated.
The relay casing hissed smoke.
Michael pried it open. Yanked the deadlock.
The door creaked. Opened. Just a hair.
Sherlock looked at the smoke drifting sideways.
“You always carry those?”
“You don’t?”
They stepped through.
The hinges groaned.
Michael went first.
Sherlock followed — coat trailing, eyes scanning.
Then he stopped.
She was there.
On the floor.
Back against the wall.
Legs crossed.
Coat beside her like a shed skin.
Phone dark.
Her eyes were rimmed red.
Not chemicals.
Grief.
Sherlock’s voice lowered.
“Anthea—”
She looked up.
Too fast.
Smiled. Too sharp. Too clean.
“Gentlemen,” she said. Her voice clipped. Efficient. Like a department line that had never cracked.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
Michael didn’t stop.
He crossed to the uplink terminal. Dropped to one knee like it was a bomb defusal.
“No time. I need the COSMO satellite directory. LEO rotation group 12. I’m ghosting a bounce trace before they reallocate the node.”
Sherlock stayed by her.
Crouched. Careful. Like she might shatter.
“Anthea,” he said again.
This time it wasn’t a greeting.
It was a reach.
She blinked at him.
Almost — almost — managed it.
Almost sat straighter. Almost tucked her hair behind her ear like nothing was broken.
But the smile trembled.
Just once.
And that was all it took.
Sherlock saw it.
Didn’t speak.
Just tilted his head.
Waited.
Anthea inhaled.
Shaky.
“It’s fine,” she said too quickly. “Everything’s fine. He needed bounce access. I was going to redirect COSMO through a civilian node, delay the registry until rotation—then I’d forward the—”
She stopped.
Mid-word.
Her voice cracked.
She hadn’t planned for that.
Her hand rose to her face like she could crush the crack out of the air.
Sherlock reached.
Two fingers.
Not touching.
Just close.
Anthea flinched.
Michael, still coding, didn’t look. But his voice was calm.
“She’s not fine, Sherlock.”
Click. Tap. Line of code.
Signal redirect.
“She hasn’t been fine for days.”
Anthea turned away.
“I’m still helping.” The words were sandpaper-soft. “I’m still useful.”
Michael didn’t stop.
“Yeah. That’s what we all say. Right before we pass out on a bathroom floor.”
Sherlock held her gaze.
“What happened?”
She hesitated.
Then:
“They demoted me.”
Her voice was flat. Clinical.
“Technically I’m still employed. Floating staff. No department. No clearance. They called it a reassessment period.”
She smiled.
But it wasn’t a smile.
“Apparently saving your lives wasn’t a billable objective.”
Sherlock’s jaw locked.
Michael swore under his breath as the terminal pinged.
“Uplink active.”
“Masked the request under three firewalls. No one sees it unless they’re paranoid or me.”
He paused.
“Ten minutes. Then we ghost.”
Sherlock looked back at her.
Her eyes were glassy.
But she was upright.
Pretending.
“You should’ve told us,” he said.
She laughed once.
Static.
“You’ve got a dead brother. He’s got a dying girlfriend. I figured I’d take a number and wait in line.”
That hit.
Sherlock didn’t hide it.
He reached out.
Hand to her shoulder.
She didn’t flinch.
But her breath caught.
Michael stood.
Watched her like a perimeter breach still holding.
Then — something rare.
He walked over.
Sat beside her.
Like it meant nothing.
Like it didn’t cost him.
Like she hadn’t just shattered.
He didn’t look at her.
Just said:
“Alright. Enough.”
She didn’t move.
“You’re not broken,” Michael said. “You’re exhausted. There’s a difference.”
Sherlock blinked.
Even he hadn’t expected that much mercy.
Michael braced his arms on his knees.
Voice quiet.
Firm.
“Here’s what’s going to happen.
We get the signal.
We run the passcode.
We find the bounce.
We find the island.
We get Mycroft.
We get Enola.
And when your favourite iceberg crawls back from the grave, he’ll kick the Ministry in the balls, give you your desk back, and you’ll pretend this never happened.”
Anthea let out a breath.
Michael looked at her.
“Until then, you’re still on my team. Which means you don’t get to collapse yet.”
She almost laughed.
It caught in her throat.
He tapped her temple with one finger.
“Focus. Last favour. I need the old comms passcode. The decommissioned MoD relay. The one that ‘never worked properly.’”
She breathed.
Then nodded.
“Fine. But after this—”
“You go home,” Michael said. “You shower. You sleep. You wake up and tell the new department chief he’s got the leadership skills of a stapler and to refile your suspension.”
She blinked.
He raised a hand.
“No argument. I don’t need you bleeding caffeine and trauma across my uplink. I need you alive. Mycroft’ll kill me if I let you collapse. And I don’t plan on ghosting two funerals this quarter.”
She opened her mouth.
He cut her off.
“Don’t. Just don’t.”
She wiped her face once.
Steadier.
“You still need that final passcode?”
Michael nodded.
“Five-digit unlock. Second relay. If we don’t get it, the trace dies.”
“You’ll have it in sixty seconds.”
She reached for the console.
Michael leaned back. Just a moment.
Closed his eyes.
Anthea whispered the sequence — letters, numbers, burnt into her like scar tissue.
He entered it.
“Good girl.”
He stood.
Typing again. Fast. Precise.
The terminal pinged.
The satellite locked.
Ghostlines of data poured in.
Sherlock rose. Silent.
Anthea sat a moment longer.
Then — stood.
Her voice rough.
“I hate you.”
Michael didn’t look up.
“I know.”
She grabbed her coat. Walked to the door.
Paused.
“You’d better bring them back.”
Michael’s fingers never slowed.
“That’s the idea.”
She left.
Sherlock exhaled.
Michael kept typing.
“Nine minutes left.”
Just enough.
Notes:
Anthea has been running on autopilot for too long, and here — finally — she crashes.
This was her breaking point, but also her proof of value, and I wanted it to feel like someone who hasn’t been allowed to shatter because everyone else was too busy bleeding.
Michael and Sherlock are chaos in different suits — but when they walk into her quiet, it’s not to fix her. It’s just to show up.
And sometimes? That’s enough.
Chapter 41: The Signal That Wasn’t
Summary:
The COSMO-9 satellite comes online, and with it, Sherlock and Michael launch a final scan to locate Enola and Mycroft. As data from the Pacific quadrant feeds in, they realize a catastrophic storm has wiped out their last confirmed coordinates. Island fragments remain, distorted and empty. No signal. No device. No sign of life. And no time. As hope begins to dissolve, MI6 descends on Substation Gamma. Sherlock and Michael are arrested mid-uplink, charged with treason and orbital breach. But behind the noise and protocol, one thing is clear: they were too late.
Notes:
This is the chapter where the sea wins.
Where logic cracks.
And even Sherlock Holmes and Michael are made to watch helplessly…
as the ocean says no.
Chapter Text
Day 34 — 02:02 GMT
Location: MI6 Substation Gamma – Undocumented Communications Wing
Time Remaining: 00:08:47
The satellite feed came online with a low, rising hum.
Sherlock leaned forward, hands gripping the desk edge.
Michael crouched beside the terminal, keying in the final filter array. His voice was barely audible.
“Geographic sweep initiated. Zone: 1301–1314 Pacific quadrant. Vertical inclination locked. Filter on signal flares, encrypted transponders, military tech pings. Code tag: Enola-721.”
The satellite began to scan.
Across the globe, in a dark corner of orbit, COSMO-9 tilted its lens toward the sea.
A vast swath of open water came into view. The clouds parted. The black curve of the Earth gleamed beneath them like something ancient and indifferent.
Sherlock exhaled.
Michael watched.
This was the moment.
They would find the bounce. The echo. A digital gasp in the void.
They would find her.
The screen flickered.
A feed of weather patterns layered over satellite imaging began to parse across the secondary screen.
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.
Michael tapped a corner of the data.
“Something’s wrong,” he muttered.
Sherlock blinked.
“What?”
Michael pointed at the edge of the sweep.
“There. The target sector. It’s—”
The screen shimmered.
A red zone flared.
A deep curve in the cloud pattern. Pressure markers. Wave impact simulation.
Sherlock paled.
“That’s a storm track.”
Michael froze.
The screen registered timestamps.
Overlayed heat patterns.
Color-coded destruction.
The data was… recent.
Four days ago.
A massive tropical anomaly had swept through the sector exactly forty-eight hours prior — a pulse of wind, water, and force that would’ve obliterated any exposed body, boat, or structure.
The coordinates they had triangulated — their best guess — were right in the center of it.
Michael’s hand dropped from the keyboard.
Sherlock spoke quietly.
“If they were in open water—”
Michael didn’t answer.
The scan swept again. Adjusted resolution. Re-centered.
Nothing.
No signal.
No ping.
No device.
No heat.
No flare.
Just the echo of a storm and the vast, empty ocean stretching on for miles.
Sherlock’s voice cracked slightly.
“There has to be something.”
Michael didn’t speak.
He adjusted the feed, turned the satellite slightly east.
Zoomed in on a landmass barely peeking through the cloud cover — a blot of jungle barely discernible.
“Missione Avançada.”
Or what might’ve been.
Barely visible.
Cloud-wrapped. A grainy mess of dark mass and broken shadows.
No confirmed activity. No lights. No roads. Nothing that looked like life.
He swept again.
Shifted north of the storm radius — toward the coordinates they thought the pilot might have been extracted from.
Still cloud-covered.
Still silent.
Sherlock's voice came again — almost a whisper now.
“They’re not there.”
Michael didn’t move.
The final sector.
Sherlock keyed in the coordinates manually — the best guess, taken from a crash path, wind drift, and hopeless calculations.
Michael aligned the lens.
The screen went black.
Then blinked.
Then returned… with a shadow.
Just a faint, misshapen curve.
A warped topography where land might once have been.
No certainty. No edges. Just a smear on the map — as if the island had been broken apart and smeared across the ocean like ash.
The jungle? Gone.
The waterline? Wrong.
No heat signals.
No movement.
No signs of life.
Michael sat back, slowly.
Sherlock stood frozen, like the air had been punched out of him.
“That’s it?” he said quietly. “That’s all we get?”
The uplink ticked down.
00:01:34
Michael stared at the faint blip.
That distorted corner of the world.
The only place left.
His throat bobbed.
“Her device should’ve caught the satellite ping.”
Sherlock didn’t respond.
“Even if she was buried under jungle, even if the island collapsed—she would’ve triggered it. She would’ve known.”
Still, no answer.
The terminal ran the last scan.
Sherlock looked away.
Michael’s voice cracked — flat, hoarse, stunned.
“It’s just gone.”
“Not gone,” Sherlock murmured. “Eaten.”
Michael stood.
Turned from the monitor.
Hands on his head.
“We were too late.”
Silence.
No one said the words.
But they were there.
They’re dead.
Michael leaned on the edge of the desk.
Eyes glassy. Not blinking.
Sherlock reached out — not to comfort, but to steady them both.
His hand gripped the back of the chair, white-knuckled.
“She would’ve fought to the end.”
Michael didn’t answer.
“He would’ve stayed with her.”
Still nothing.
The scan completed.
No matches found.
No signals active.
Session terminated.
Uplink disengaged.
The room went still.
The satellite blinked off.
Just the empty sea.
Just static.
Just the sound of two men — genius, furious, and powerless — watching the last thread snap in their hands.
Michael wiped his face once.
Not tears.
Just failure.
Sherlock didn’t move.
The monitors dimmed.
And the Pacific, impossibly large and infinitely cruel, spun on.
Behind him, Michael slowly lowered his hands from the console.
Not in defeat.
Just… empty.
The silence in the room was suffocating.
Static from the final scan hissed like distant waves in the speakers — all echo, no content.
Sherlock closed his eyes.
Michael didn’t.
They didn’t speak.
Not when the secondary panel lit red.
Not when the floor sensors activated.
Not when the override doors slammed shut behind them with the finality of a gunshot.
A calm, mechanical voice filled the comms bay.
“Unauthorized orbital access detected. Internal breach protocol engaged. Please remain where you are.”
Sherlock looked at the speaker like it had interrupted a funeral.
Michael just chuckled.
Low. Dry. Dead.
“Took them long enough.”
The door burst open.
Boots.
Weapons raised.
Standard tactical formation.
MI6 internal security.
No nonsense.
No negotiation.
“Hands where we can see them. Step away from the terminals.”
Sherlock didn’t raise his hands.
He turned slowly. Carefully. Calm.
“We’re not armed.”
Michael stepped back from the console, hands half-raised — not surrender, not threat, just done.
Wrist still raw from the satellite terminal grip. Shirt stained with coffee.
Eyes hollow.
One of the agents reached for cuffs.
“You are under arrest for unauthorized use of orbital intelligence systems, breach of national security protocol, and misuse of Ministry encryption networks—”
Michael cut him off.
“Yes, yes. Treason, espionage, and bad manners. Get on with it.”
The agent hesitated, caught off guard.
Sherlock stepped forward as another set of cuffs clicked shut behind his back.
“For the record,” he said, tone glacial, “if Enola Holmes and Mycroft Holmes are dead, you’ve just arrested the only two people who gave a damn enough to try and stop it.”
No one answered.
Because protocol didn’t have a page for grief.
Or fury.
Or two broken men who had burned the rules just to look for ghosts.
Michael let them lead him out of the comms wing in silence.
But as he passed the terminal, he glanced once — just once — at the shadow still frozen on the screen.
That faint curve. That ruined smear of land no one could name.
His jaw locked.
Not over.
Not yet.
Not until he saw a body.
The door slammed shut behind them.
And the lights inside flickered out.
Chapter 42: The Ghost Surgeon
Summary:
The fever breaks, but Enola does not. As her body recovers, her mind begins to slip. While Mycroft stabilises for the moment, a deeper injury remains — a rib lodged too close to his lung. The ghosts return with full force, especially Lieutenant Selwyn, who died under Enola’s hand years ago in a field operation gone wrong. His presence haunts her with hard truths: that she missed the real injury, that time is up, and that if she doesn’t act, Mycroft will die. Trapped between guilt, trauma, and surgical precision, Enola refuses — until Mycroft wakes and looks at her with fear. For the first time, Enola falters not because of pain, but because of care. The war inside her shifts — and the decision looms.
Notes:
There’s a kind of silence that comes after the worst.
But silence isn’t peace.
It’s the sound your ghosts make when they’re waiting for you to move.
And Enola?
She’s out of time.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 35 – Bunker
The fever had broken.
Not cleanly — not gently — but shattered, as fevers do. A tide receding from the edge of death, dragging pain and heat in its wake. It left her drenched in sweat, bones hollowed, breath thin — but hers again.
Enola blinked slowly.
The med bay ceiling was still there.
The ghosts were quieter.
And for the first time in days — she could think.
Her gaze shifted.
Mycroft.
He lay still, jaw slack, colour marginally improved. His chest rose and fell with a shallow but steady rhythm. The rattle was there, yes, but slower now. Not gone — but no longer clawing for breath. His arms were still bound, but the tension had ebbed. Not safe. Not healed.
But not dying. Not yet.
She sat up.
Winced.
Her leg throbbed like a war drum.
Of course it did.
She peeled back the makeshift wrap she’d secured the night before. John's voice echoed from memory — “No stitches this time. Let it drain.”
And she had. She'd obeyed the hallucination with a precision born of desperation. Let the fever crest. Let the wound purge.
But that phase had passed.
The wire had been removed. The drainage had run its course. The fever had peaked and fallen back. Somehow — impossibly — her body had held the line.
Now it was time to close.
Not tightly. Not completely. Just enough to keep the damage contained.
She cleaned the wound again — slow, meticulous, the kind of care a battlefield rarely allowed. The exposed muscle gleamed, slick with the last of the infection. The gap wasn’t as inflamed as she feared, but deep enough to split wide if left unsupported.
That wasn’t an option anymore.
She retrieved a sterile needle kit from the bunker shelf, snapped open antiseptic gauze, sterilised the curved suture tip in open flame.
There was no time for hesitation.
With a breath—
She began to stitch.
Loose. Measured. Deliberate.
A surgeon’s rhythm. Controlled. Familiar.
The kind of rhythm they taught her at fourteen.
The kind not meant to be used on yourself.
But she’d done worse.
And as the edges drew together, packed and cradled in gauze, a fragile, trembling relief crept into her chest.
Then she looked at Mycroft again.
And stopped.
Because something—
Felt off.
Not wrong. Not urgent. Just… skewed. Like a line drawn slightly crooked. Off by a degree, but enough to shift the whole balance.
She stood — carefully — bearing her weight on the good leg.
Watched him breathe.
Steady. Unlaboured. No foam, no choking. No cyanosis.
Everything looked right.
And still, her stomach coiled.
Her fingers twitched.
She stared harder.
And then—
“That’s not what killed me.”
The voice came from the hallway.
Calm. Informative. No emotion. Just correction. Like a footnote from a long-forgotten training manual.
Her blood chilled.
Enola turned her head—
And saw him.
Lieutenant Aaron Selwyn.
Tall. Lean. Grey fatigues faded from sand and age. Tactical med patch on the right shoulder. Boots soaked to the ankle in dried mud and dust. A man five years dead, who had once stood behind her with a calm voice and an iron spine.
He looked almost bored.
“Everything you’re treating — the infection, the pneumonia, the contusion — that’s not what killed me,” he said.
She didn’t blink.
“Then what did?”
His expression didn’t change.
“Secondary cascade. Patient improves. You think it’s over.”
He took a step forward.
“It’s not.”
Her throat was dry. “You’re not real.”
“No,” he said, softly. “But that doesn’t make me wrong.”
Behind her, Mycroft stirred faintly.
And something inside Enola clicked into gear—a different kind of calculation.
Because ghosts didn’t lie.
Not the useful ones.
And something had been missed.
She turned back to the table.
Not panicked.
Just cold.
Precise.
If she’d overlooked something—
She needed to find it.
A shadow shifted in her periphery.
Not sudden.
Not frantic.
Just present. As if the air had decided to remember it had weight.
She didn’t look.
Didn’t want to.
But silence dragged.
And then—
“You know it’s wrong,” he said.
Enola’s hands stilled on the cabinet. Her breath faltered.
She didn’t speak.
Then—quietly—“No.”
But her eyes rose.
Selwyn stood at the far end of the medbay, calm as if this were a lecture.
“If you didn’t,” he said gently, “I wouldn’t be here.”
She stared like she was watching a wolf cross a battlefield.
Not afraid.
Just aware.
“I drained it,” she said.
“I know.”
“I stabilised him.”
He didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
He turned—just slightly—his gaze shifting toward Mycroft.
Toward the ribs.
Enola followed his line of sight.
Her eyes locked on the fourth rib line. Left side.
The place she’d wrapped. Avoided. Protected.
Her breath caught.
“No,” she said again.
Selwyn’s brows lifted—almost sad.
She didn’t want to.
But her hand rose.
Shaking.
She pressed just beneath the tape.
What she felt made her blood go still.
Too sharp. Too deep. Too wrong.
The rib hadn’t missed the lung.
Hadn’t retracted.
It was still there. Still inside.
Her stomach turned. Her mouth tasted metal.
She’d known.
God, she’d known—on the beach, in the raft, in the tree.
Some part of her had always known.
But she’d hoped.
She had hoped.
“I did the draining,” she whispered again, like repetition might ward it off.
Selwyn’s gaze didn’t shift. “That bought him time.”
“Then I’ll buy more.”
“That’s not how this works.”
She stood frozen.
He stepped closer.
“You know what happens next.”
“No.”
“If you don’t take it out, the bleeding will restart.”
“No.”
“Air builds. Pressure rises. His lung collapses—”
“I SAID NO!”
Her voice shattered the stillness. Raw. Cracked.
Mycroft stirred.
The room fell silent.
Selwyn didn’t move.
Didn’t react.
He just looked at her.
Exactly like he had at nineteen.
After she’d collapsed next to a cadaver with her gloves still on.
Like it was a lesson.
Not a punishment.
“If you wait too long,” he said quietly, “he dies.”
“I can’t.”
He tilted his head.
“I can’t,” she repeated, staring at Mycroft. “I’ve done everything—I’ve held him together with wires and spit and I can’t—I can’t be the one who—”
“You can. You know exactly how to do this. I taught you -”
“I killed you.”
The words landed like shrapnel.
Selwyn didn’t flinch.
He stood at ease beside the table. Boots planted. Hands clasped behind his back. Shirt half-unbuttoned. Same as before.
And that look.
Not judgment. Not anger.
Just the quiet patience of someone who already knew the ending.
“You tried,” he said.
Enola shook her head—the motion jagged.
“I wasn’t ready.”
“You were nineteen.”
“I still did it.”
“You followed orders.”
Her jaw clenched until the bones in her face ached.
“And I broke you open like a tin can. You screamed for seventeen seconds.”
Selwyn didn’t blink.
Didn’t react.
“And then I died.”
Silence.
Behind her, Mycroft exhaled — shallow, ragged.
Still breathing.
Still here.
Enola’s hand curled over the counter edge. Her knuckles went white.
“I’m not doing it again.”
Selwyn looked toward the table. Toward Mycroft.
“So he dies instead?”
“He’s not you.”
“No. He’s worse.”
His voice was calm, but the words hit like shrapnel.
“Because you care. And you’ll feel every goddamn second.”
She turned her face away.
Stared at the stainless panel on the wall.
Her reflection stared back — gaunt, sunken, fever-glossed, haunted.
Selwyn didn’t press.
Didn’t need to.
“You’ve got the morphine,” he said. “You’ve got the tools. The light. The time.”
“I said no.”
Her voice was flat steel.
“You’re not doing this for him,” he said.
“I am doing it for him.”
“No.”
“You’re doing this because last time—”
“Don’t.”
“You think it means you’ll fail again.”
“Shut up.”
He stepped closer around the table.
Not looming. Not threatening.
Just there.
“You didn’t kill me, Holmes. The war did. The waiting did. You did what I asked you to do.”
She didn’t answer.
“I asked you to try.”
“And I ripped you open like meat.”
Selwyn looked down — not at her.
At Mycroft.
The rasp in Mycroft’s chest was louder now.
A hollow gurgle. Wet.
Like cracked glass filled with water.
“Then maybe you’ll save this one,” Selwyn said.
“I’m not doing it.”
“You’re wasting time.”
“I know!” she shouted. “I’ll buy him more. I can keep him stable—”
“For what?”
Selwyn’s voice sharpened — for the first time.
“More days of fever? More pain? You think you’re helping him by dragging this out?”
“I have to try.”
“No. You have to act.”
“There’s still a chance. Michael—”
Selwyn’s head tilted slightly.
“Michael is not coming.”
Enola’s spine straightened.
“No.”
“There’s no signal. No grid. No backup. No one’s coming.”
“He’ll find us—”
“In how many days?” he cut in. “Six? Ten? He doesn’t know where you are. You think you’re on a clock, but the clock already ran out.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re scared.”
“I said shut up.”
“If you loved him—”
“SHUT UP!”
It ripped out of her like metal tearing.
Raw. Broken.
The bunker trembled with silence.
And then—
“…Enola?”
Her head whipped around.
Mycroft.
Awake.
Barely.
His voice was sandpaper. His lips cracked. Eyes cloudy and red-rimmed.
Afraid.
Not of his pain.
Of her.
She froze.
Everything—Selwyn, the medbay, the blood, the ghosts—snapped into stillness.
He looked at her like he was watching a thread snap.
His throat bobbed.
Then—gently, slowly—he reached out.
His fingers brushed her wrist.
“Hey,” he rasped.
“What… what happened?”
It wasn’t an accusation.
It was confusion.
Concern.
His hand trembled against her skin, trying to ground her.
Enola stared at it.
Then at him.
At the raw, exposed panic behind his fevered eyes.
She didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Just—slowly—pulled her arm away.
He tried to follow the movement. Tried to sit up.
Failed.
Groaned. Fell back, gasping.
Her legs moved on instinct.
Out of the medbay. Down the corridor.
Cooler. Narrower. Darker.
She didn’t stop.
Past the bunk. Past the comms. Past everything.
Until the wall curved and the corridor ran out.
Only shadow ahead.
There she stopped.
Shaking.
Teeth clenched.
Fists white-knuckled at her sides.
Selwyn didn’t follow.
But his voice echoed in her skull. Quiet. Final.
You know what you have to do.
And somewhere, beneath the shaking, beneath the rage, beneath the spiraling logic—
She did.
Notes:
This chapter is the fulcrum.
The breath before the blade.
The moment when survival turns from a task to a choice — and Enola has to decide if she’ll save him… or break herself trying.But to understand why this moment breaks her, you need the backstory:
When Enola was nineteen, she was sent to Kandahar as part of her training under the Duke's military programme. Her assignment was to study under Lieutenant Aaron Selwyn, a decorated field medic known for performing battlefield surgery under extreme conditions. He taught her everything—triage, field improvisation, chest tube placement, surgical prep without tools, what infection smells like, and when to lie to keep someone breathing.
But then things went wrong.
They got trapped — cut off behind enemy lines, with no extraction window. Three days. No painkillers. No reinforcements. Just silence and bleeding.
Selwyn had a punctured lung, just like Mycroft. And after trying everything else, after stabilising for as long as humanly possible, he told her the only way he might survive was if she cut him open. Removed the rib. Sutured the lung.
And she did it.
With trembling hands, soaked in sand and blood and heatstroke, she followed every instruction he whispered — until he couldn’t whisper anymore.
She killed him.
Not from carelessness. Not from violence.
But because she wasn’t ready.
Because it was her first time doing thoracic surgery on a conscious man with no morphine.And he screamed.
Seventeen seconds.
Then silence.She never forgave herself.
That’s why she hesitates now.
That’s why she says no.Not because she doesn’t know what to do — but because she knows exactly what it might cost.
Chapter 43: The Bird Protocol
Summary:
Enola breaks. And then rebuilds herself into something colder.
Haunted by the memory of Selwyn and overwhelmed by the weight of choosing whether to operate on Mycroft again, she flees — into the jungle, into the ocean, into herself. What starts as collapse becomes clarity when she sees a frigatebird with a limp — and realises: it didn’t come from here.
In that moment, the logic returns. The cold kind. The tactical kind.
She storms back into the bunker and begins constructing a gut-stable transmitter from the broken pieces of her radio, intending to feed it to a migrating bird that can cross thousands of kilometres of open sea. It’s mad. Desperate. Brilliant.
And it’s all she has left.
Meanwhile, Mycroft — barely able to speak — watches what she’s become with growing horror. She doesn’t hear him. She doesn’t rest. She’s beyond that now. The ghosts guide her in silence. The transmitter is built. The bait is ready. And as the frigatebird flock circles the ridge, Enola steps into the dusk to make the sky her signal.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 35 – Ridge
The hatch slammed shut behind her.
Not loudly. Not theatrically.
Just a dull, metallic clank.
But it may as well have been a detonation.
Enola stormed up the ridge trail like she was chasing something — or being chased — boots skidding, breath ragged, every step a refusal to stop.
Branches clawed her arms. Thorns bit at her legs.
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t slow.
She didn’t feel anything anymore except—
“NO!”
It tore from her throat like an animal.
She slammed her fist into a tree trunk.
Then again.
Then again.
Flesh split. Blood bloomed. She didn’t stop.
“I won’t do it—!”
Her voice cracked.
“I won’t— I won’t kill him!”
She kicked a fallen log so hard it tumbled, smashing through the underbrush.
She scraped her bandaged arm against bark.
She screamed so violently her voice fractured — broke in the middle like a splintered rib.
“I killed you!”
Her hand hit the earth.
Then her knees.
Then her fist again.
And again.
And again.
It wasn’t logic.
It wasn’t reason.
It was feral.
A circuit shorted.
A machine that could no longer compute the right answer.
“I did everything right! I followed protocol! I sterilised! I stabilised! You told me—you told me it would work!”
Her scream cracked into a sob.
Not tears. Just sound — pulled from a hollow throat like dead air.
“And you died anyway.”
She gasped.
“I won’t do it again. I won’t. I won’t. I—”
The world tilted.
Heat collided with nausea.
The jungle smeared sideways.
And before she knew it—
She was running.
Downhill.
Blind.
Past trees. Past vines.
Toward the water.
Toward the only thing in this world that didn’t ask questions.
The ocean.
She hit the shore like she’d been flung.
And didn’t stop.
She kept going.
Boots crashing through wet sand, past driftwood and tide lines, through slick kelp and seaweed wreckage, straight into the surf.
The water swallowed her knees.
Her hips.
Her waist.
And still — she didn’t stop.
She dove.
Not gracefully.
Not intentionally.
Just gone.
Under the waves.
Salt burned her eyes.
Her wounds shrieked.
Her lungs roared.
But she stayed there, face tilted toward the blur of sky, body drifting like wreckage. Like she belonged to the tide now.
Everything was muffled.
Peaceful. Almost.
Except the pressure in her chest.
The need to breathe.
The sound of her own pulse, drumming through bone.
He’s going to die.
She heard Selwyn’s voice again.
Not cruel. Not angry.
Just a fact.
“You’re going to kill him if you don’t act. And you’re going to kill yourself trying to live with that.”
She screamed underwater.
No sound.
Just bubbles. Just salt. Just pressure.
And when she finally broke the surface—
It wasn’t to live.
It was because her body wouldn’t let her die.
Not yet.
She coughed once.
Then again.
Vomited seawater and bile into her mouth.
And gasped.
Time passed.
She didn’t know how long she sat there.
Eventually, the tide began to recede.
Her clothes dried in stiff patches.
Her hair hung around her face like soaked kelp — tangled, salt-heavy, too tired to push away.
She was soaked through to the bone.
And didn’t move.
Knees drawn tight to her chest. Arms locked around them. Chin resting on her forearms.
Her eyes… saw nothing.
Just sand.
Salt clung to her lashes.
Her hands trembled again. She didn’t notice.
The sky had shifted from fire to iron.
Sunset bled out slow — like it couldn’t be bothered to finish properly.
Another night was coming.
Another day Mycroft wouldn’t survive.
And she had done all she could.
Everything.
She had nothing left.
There were no ghosts anymore.
Not even Michael.
Not even John.
They’d left her too.
Even hallucinations know when to quit.
Her stomach twisted.
Not from hunger. That had stopped meaning anything hours ago.
It twisted from the silence.
From the clean, cold quiet of giving up.
“He’s going to die,” she whispered.
Not to anyone.
Just to the sand.
To the air.
To herself.
And maybe — maybe — to Selwyn.
She dug her fingers into the beach.
Pressed them deep. Like roots. Like maybe if she held on hard enough, she could stop existing.
Then—
A shadow moved.
She blinked.
Another.
Then two.
Above her, birds wheeled.
Frigatebirds.
Sleek. Black. Indifferent.
Unaffected by the storm she carried in her skin.
They landed near the far end of the beach — eight, maybe nine — drifting downward like they owned the sky.
One came closer.
She didn’t look.
Almost didn’t care.
But—
It limped.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
Enough to catch her attention.
She frowned.
Watched.
The leg. It wasn’t right.
She leaned forward — slow, not loud, not sudden — but locked in now.
Her eyes narrowed.
It was nothing.
Probably.
A trick of the light. A scar. A scrap from the wreck.
But—
The shape.
The edge.
Something…
Her brain clicked without permission.
No change in breath.
No change in her face.
Just a flicker. A narrowing of her jaw.
The birds shifted.
Flapped.
Settled.
And then, finally—
Her voice broke the stillness:
“…Bird.”
Day 35 – Bunker Interior
Time: Sunset Approaching
She hit the steel with her full weight.
Fumbled the latch with bleeding, shaking hands.
Then slammed the bunker door open so hard it rattled the frame.
Inside, Mycroft jolted upright on the med bay table, his head snapping sideways.
His eyes wild. Confused. Scared.
“Enola—?”
But she didn’t hear him.
Didn’t see him.
She was already moving.
She shot across the room like a weapon mid-fire — tray in hand, soldering iron snatched from the shelf, dragging everything she’d built straight onto the floor in a chaos of wires and stripped microboards.
“Enola,” Mycroft tried again, coughing. “What—what happened—?”
“Shh.”
She was kneeling now.
Not trembling.
Not manic.
Not emotional.
Just sharp.
Precise.
Cold.
Like something ancient had fused with the military training in her blood and declared: this is the moment.
This is the out.
“I need the radio base,” she muttered. “The casing. Switchboards. The beacon core. Cut the transmitter from the antenna array—”
“Enola—”
“I’m going to gut it. I need a shell small enough to swallow.”
He froze. Stared.
Pale. Mouth slightly open.
“Swallow?”
She glanced up — just once — eyes fever-bright, but terrifyingly focused.
Then turned back to her work.
“It’s the only option.”
“Mycroft,” she said, slicing a wire free with shaking fingers, “frigatebirds don’t roost here. Not normally. They’re transient. Coastal. Long-range.”
She worked faster now, stripping leads, binding nodes.
“Frigatebirds can fly 3,000 kilometers without touching land. If one of them flew here…”
Her voice flattened.
“…it came from somewhere.”
Her fingers blurred, sliding copper against exposed threads, solder hissing faintly in the back of her throat.
“We can’t signal out — but they can carry something away.”
Mycroft struggled to rise.
He couldn’t.
“You want to… feed it?”
“I want it to eat it.”
She grabbed what was left of her hidden transmitter — the hollowed Casio she’d once used for needles, later for sutures.
“I can patch the ping. A burst pulse. Short-range. Even once. Just long enough for triangulation. Michael will be sweeping the coastline—”
“Michael…” Mycroft echoed, weakly.
She didn’t respond.
Didn’t break rhythm.
“I’ll convert the board. Strip the surge cap. Use the beacon core to boost burst-to-burst. Needs a power spike. Temporary. Has to trigger post-ingestion.”
She was already prying off the transmitter casing, steam curling from the tip of the soldering wand.
The scent of ozone filled the bunker.
Mycroft watched her. Speechless.
“Enola.”
No response.
She was mid-strip on the circuit resin when she stopped.
Looked up.
Saw him.
Really saw him.
Pale. Damp with sweat. Breath rattling. But eyes fixed on her.
Fixed on what she’d become.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Her expression didn’t shift.
She blinked.
Then said—softly, almost kindly—
“I’m saving you.”
And turned back to the tray.
The ghosts were back now.
Michael crouched beside her, watching with intensity — not fear.
“You’ll need a chemical trigger,” he said. “Stomach acid. Delay it just enough to pass the crop.”
“Polymer wrap,” she nodded. “Antibiotic blister foil. Single layer. Digestible.”
John appeared near the cabinet, arms crossed. “If it gets stuck in the upper gut?”
“Then we don’t get found,” she said, tone flat as concrete. “But we weren’t going to be found anyway.”
Mycroft murmured, “You’re not well.”
She didn’t hear him.
She was already wiring the trigger node.
“We have one shot. One bird. If it fails—doesn’t pulse, doesn’t fly far enough—”
She didn’t finish the sentence.
Instead, she looked down at the half-built device in her hand — blinking, sparking, dangerous.
And smiled.
Not warmly.
Not wildly.
Just certainty.
Cold. Absolute. Calculating.
And for the first time since the crash—
There was a plan.
She didn’t sleep.
Didn’t need to.
The part of her that slept — that collapsed, that burned out, that begged for rest — was no longer in charge.
What was left?
Calculation. Execution. Silence.
Even the ghosts had gone quiet.
Even Michael.
Even John.
Maybe they understood now.
Maybe they were watching what Mycroft saw:
A woman turned machine.
She crouched by the ration shelf, the pirate’s old logbook open in her lap.
The same one she’d almost burned for warmth — before she’d realised it wasn’t nonsense.
The scrawl across its margins?
Flight maps.
Every year. Same season. Same arc.
Rough counts. Winds. Feeding paths. Return loops.
She flipped through.
Back and forth.
Old weather notes. Draft curves. Bird tracks.
She smiled again — soft, almost broken.
“They’re directional,” she muttered.
Michael leaned forward. “What?”
“The frigatebirds. They’re not here to rest. They’re not fishing. Just passing.”
She tapped a drawn wind-current path.
“The wind’s northwest right now. They feed low here—” her finger traced along the ridge line, “—then catch the thermal over the reef and ride it out.”
“Out where?” Michael asked.
She didn’t answer.
Not aloud.
Just closed the logbook.
Reached for the chip.
The transmitter was smaller now. Sleek. Stabilised. Heat-proofed.
She’d wrapped the power cell in ration foil, reinforced with sling thread, then padded it in wax paper.
She coated it in the sugary remnants of her last mango ration.
“Bait.”
John appeared beside her, skeptical. “And how exactly do you plan to catch one?”
“I’m not catching that one,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow.
“The limping one’s too weak. Won’t make the journey. But she’ll follow the flock. They’re flock-driven. She’ll track them.”
She limped to the supply crate.
Dug out a net.
“Target one of the healthy. Tag it. Let it go.”
Michael crossed his arms. “And pray it doesn’t crap it out mid-flight?”
She actually glanced up at that.
And smirked.
“No. Frigatebirds don’t digest mid-flight. They store food. Efficient. Like me.”
She turned toward the exit hatch.
Transmitter in one hand. Net in the other.
Eyes on the sky — already darkening with circling wings.
“The wind’s still shifting,” she said.
Michael looked up. “What?”
She didn’t answer.
She was already gone.
Through the hatch.
Into the wind.
To catch a bird.
To send a signal.
To gamble survival on one chance, one gut-wrapped signal, and the memory of the sky.
Notes:
This chapter is Enola at her lowest. But also at her most dangerous.
Because when she breaks, she doesn’t fall apart.
She recalculates.The idea for the transmitter-bird hybrid came out of a simple line:
"Even if she can’t call for help, maybe something else can.”So she weaponised logic.
But also grief.
Also rage.
Also guilt so old and sharp it has names now — like Selwyn.
For anyone confused: Yes. Frigatebirds are real. Yes, they can travel thousands of kilometers without stopping. Yes, some species store food in their crop for long periods. So if you want to smuggle a signal out of a blackout zone with no long-range beacon?
Feeding it to a bird that follows predictable wind arcs?
Terrifyingly plausible.This is also the chapter where Enola stops trying to survive for herself.
And starts surviving to win.She's no longer trying to escape.
She’s trying to broadcast.
Trying to force the universe to notice what it tried to bury.You’ll want to breathe before the next one.
Because the operation is coming.
And she won’t walk away from it the same.
Chapter 44: The Dead Don’t Answer
Summary:
After COSMO-9’s failure, MI6 detains both Sherlock and Michael for orbital breach. Anthea breaks them out with forged clearance, fire in her voice, and nothing left to lose. They regroup at Enola’s flat. But grief hits differently in silence.
Sherlock tries logic. Michael tries fury. John tries to hold them both together.
But nothing can stop what follows — Michael’s full collapse behind a closed door, Sherlock’s quiet mental fraying in the living room, and the devastating truth neither will say aloud: they think she’s gone.
The ghost of Enola’s absence has begun to haunt them in very real, very destructive ways.
And if someone doesn’t pull them back soon, there won’t be anyone left to save.
Notes:
This is the collapse chapter.
No blood. No injuries. Just the sharp, silent impact of absence.Because losing someone isn’t always about knowing they’re dead.
It’s about the not knowing.
The silence.
The waiting.
The not-finding-a-body and still mourning like they’re already cold.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 34 — 23:16
Location: MI6 Holding Bay – Sublevel C
Sherlock sat on the bench like it belonged to him.
Michael lay on the floor, one arm over his eyes, humming softly — some post-war ballad that hadn’t been relevant since 1974.
They hadn’t spoken.
Then the lock clicked.
Footsteps.
Heels.
Fast. Determined. Sharp.
Anthea.
She didn’t knock.
Didn’t hesitate.
She just walked in with a clearance badge that wasn’t hers and a face that dared someone to stop her.
The guard stepped in behind her.
“Ma’am, you can’t be down he—”
“Tell your supervisor that unless he wants a seven-hour internal review on why holding two civilians without counsel is a very bad look for the agency, he’ll unlock the cell and bring me their personal effects. Now.”
The guard hesitated.
Anthea gave him one long, unblinking stare.
He moved.
Click.
The door slid open.
Sherlock raised a brow.
Michael didn’t move.
Anthea stepped in. Arms crossed. Eyes bloodshot. Voice flat.
“If either of you say thank you, I’ll have you arrested again.”
Michael cracked one eye open.
“How’d you get clearance?”
“I didn’t.”
“…You forged a state badge.”
“No.”
Beat.
“I borrowed one from a man who’s currently asleep and deeply in love with me.”
Sherlock stood.
“And they let you in?”
She held up a small drive.
“No. But COSMO-9 now thinks the Prime Minister has a secondary phone line registered to a Tesco in Wandsworth. They’re very distracted.”
Michael finally sat up.
“You’re a menace.”
Anthea didn’t smile.
“You’re welcome.”
She tossed him a pack of headache tablets.
Tossed Sherlock his phone.
Then turned to leave.
“You have ten minutes before anyone upstairs notices this isn’t an authorized release. If I were you, I’d vanish.”
Sherlock blinked.
“And where do we go?”
She paused.
“You’ve burned London. Burn something else.”
She paused at the door.
Half-turned. Just enough to ask it quietly:
“Did you find anything?”
Sherlock didn’t answer.
Not right away.
Michael looked up at her from the bench, eyes tired, bloodshot, still too wired to collapse.
Sherlock’s voice, when it came, was quieter than it should’ve been.
“There was something. A shadow. A warped landmass. Could’ve been the island.”
Anthea’s brow furrowed.
“Could’ve been?”
Sherlock exhaled.
“It wasn’t stable. Storm cut it to pieces. The topography was unrecognisable. There were no heat traces. No signatures. Just a smear where land used to be.”
Anthea swallowed.
“So that’s it.”
Sherlock’s jaw clenched.
Shoulders stiff.
Everything in him wanted to say something brilliant — anything cutting or precise.
But all that came out was:
“That was all we had.”
Michael stood.
Slowly. Deliberately.
“No.”
Anthea and Sherlock both looked at him.
He stared at the far wall like it had insulted him.
“We didn’t find bodies.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.
“Michael—”
But Michael just kept going. Flat. Measured.
“No flare, no heat signature, no signal. Yeah. But no wreckage. No corpses. No confirmation.”
He turned to Anthea, gaze unreadable.
“That was the rule. First thing they taught us. No body, no death.”
Anthea’s eyes flicked to Sherlock, then back to Michael.
“You don’t believe they’re alive.”
Michael didn’t blink.
“Doesn’t matter.”
He stepped forward. Voice low.
“What matters is they’re not confirmed dead. Not by satellite. Not by eyes-on. And I don’t bury ghosts.”
Sherlock looked at him — for a long time.
And in that look was both resentment and reluctant admiration.
Michael had already made his peace with the worst-case scenario.
And still refused to quit.
Anthea exhaled slowly.
“Then what now?”
Michael grabbed his coat.
His phone.
The burner drive with the last ping coordinates.
“Now?”
He looked at Sherlock.
Sherlock looked back.
No words. Just the tiniest nod.
Michael zipped his coat.
“We go underground. And start over.”
And he walked out.
Sherlock followed.
A half-step behind.
Anthea remained in the doorway.
Alone.
Watching two men step into the dark, not because they believed—
—but because someone had to.
Day 36 — 01:43
Location: Enola’s Apartment
The front lock clicked softly.
Then again—harder.
Michael slid the key in the last inch and pushed the door open like he expected it to scream. It didn’t. Just groaned, old hinges and cheap repairs echoing louder than they should’ve in the stillness.
Sherlock stepped past him without a word.
The flat smelled like burnt wires, cold coffee, and dust. Curtains were drawn. Screens still flickering low in the corners. Sheets of notes covered every flat surface—some ripped, some stained, some crumpled in fists of wasted theory.
John Watson sat on the arm of the couch.
Arms folded.
Eyes rimmed red.
He looked up when they entered.
Didn’t speak.
Not right away.
Sherlock stood in the doorway, coat half-open, rain-slicked at the edges. Michael dropped the bag on the floor and leaned against the wall like it was the only thing keeping him vertical.
John stood slowly.
“So?”
No answer.
Sherlock’s eyes didn’t even reach his face. They were stuck somewhere between the carpet and the peeling paint beside Enola’s desk.
John’s jaw tightened.
“You said you’d have something. That the scan would—”
“It didn’t.”
Sherlock’s voice was barely audible.
Two words.
Like bricks.
John stepped forward.
“Nothing?”
Sherlock didn’t move at first. Then:
“A shadow.”
He sat stiffly on the edge of the desk.
“Could’ve been their island. Could’ve been a reef. Could’ve been nothing.”
John blinked.
“So that’s it?”
“Yes.”
Michael swore low under his breath and turned sharply toward the kitchen.
He gripped the cupboard like it might punch back. Didn’t open it. Just leaned forward, head down.
John turned toward him.
“Michael—”
“Don’t.”
A snap. Controlled, but serrated.
John held up a hand, gentler.
“You need to stop. Breathe. Just—”
Michael spun around.
Eyes burning.
“They’re gone, John. You get that? We hijacked a military satellite. Broke half a dozen international laws. Burned every resource we had and got nothing. Not a ping. Not a trace. We’re chasing ghosts in the blind sea.”
John didn’t flinch.
But Sherlock did.
Just barely.
Then:
“I can’t do this.”
Michael stilled.
John turned.
Sherlock stood — straight-backed but splintered, voice low and distant:
“I can’t. I’ve lost them. I’ve lost him.”
Michael frowned.
“Him?”
Sherlock didn’t look at him.
Didn’t blink.
“Mycroft was never meant to die like this. He’s not—”
A pause.
A tremor.
“He’s not the one who runs. He stays in the room. Behind the glass. At the desk. He was always safe. Always ten steps ahead. He was—my brother.”
John’s chest tightened.
Sherlock kept going, like something cracked open and wouldn’t stop leaking.
“Enola… she trained for storms. She chose the fire. I thought—I thought if one of them made it—”
He cut himself off.
Michael stepped forward, jaw clenched.
“She’s not a machine.”
Sherlock turned slowly.
His expression sharpened.
“Excuse me?”
“You talk like she’s a weapon.”
Michael’s voice was quiet. Firm. Cutting.
“Like she was built for this. Like it’s somehow easier to picture her dying because she’s got scars and combat boots and a bloodstained resume.”
Sherlock didn’t speak.
Michael stepped closer.
“She wasn’t just prepared, Sherlock. She was alive. She had tea preferences. She liked stupid riddles. She made me put extra garlic in everything. She laughed when I couldn’t reach the top shelf.”
A breath.
“You don’t get to write her off just because she knew how to fight.”
The silence was sharp.
Sherlock’s hands curled into fists.
John glanced between them, watching the two men circle around each other without moving.
“You think I don’t care?” Sherlock said finally, his voice low.
“You think I don’t know what this means?”
Michael didn’t flinch.
“No. I think your brain’s protecting you. I think it’s easier for you to bury her than to feel this. And I think it’s killing you, slowly, and you won’t say it out loud because if you do, it’ll be real.”
Sherlock’s mouth twitched. Once.
But he didn’t answer.
Michael’s shoulders fell just slightly. The fire retreated.
He turned to John.
“Stay with him.”
John nodded.
Michael headed down the hall, toward the dressing room.
“I need to change. And I need a gun.”
He didn’t slam the door.
Just closed it softly behind him.
The door closed behind him with a click that sounded louder than it should’ve.
Michael didn’t turn the lights on.
He didn’t need them.
The moon was enough — a sharp grey slash through the gauzy curtain, casting long shadows across the room he knew far too well.
Their room.
The dresser was still open from the last time she’d stormed through it looking for socks. Her boots were still near the foot of the bed, one knocked over, laces tangled. A cup sat half-finished on the vanity table — tea, cold now, dried to the edges. Her scent was still there. Pepper, ash, something citrus.
Michael stood in the center of it like a man waiting to be shot.
His hands hovered — unsure where to land. His coat slipped from his shoulders. Landed on the floor.
He stepped toward the vanity.
Touched the edge of the mirror.
A photo was still tucked into the corner. A snapshot she’d hated. Blurry. Half-blink. Hair wild. She’d called it stupid.
He’d kept it anyway.
Michael let out a sharp breath.
It wasn’t enough.
He shoved the photo off the table.
It hit the floor. Skidded. Face-down.
Still not enough.
He grabbed the chair and flung it sideways into the wardrobe.
The crash echoed.
A drawer burst open.
Something shattered.
Michael grabbed at the shirts on the bed — hers, his, both — and ripped the pile off. Threw them hard across the room. Kicked the dresser. Swore like something was tearing its way out of his chest.
He backed against the wall and sank — knees crashing to the carpet — hands in his hair, back curling in like his ribs had caved.
And then—
The sound came.
Raw.
Human.
The kind of noise that wasn’t words. That wasn’t pain. Just pressure. Just grief, scraping its way out of a body that never learned how to let it go gently.
He didn’t sob.
Didn’t shake.
He raged.
Quietly. Violently.
Fists pounding once—twice—into the side of the nightstand until his knuckles split.
Breath ragged. Chest heaving. Eyes stinging.
And still, her scent.
Still, her boots.
Still, the memory of her standing here — arms crossed, eyebrow raised, telling him to put on a real shirt if he wanted her to take him seriously.
She was here.
And she wasn’t.
And the not-was was worse than the not-is.
He curled tighter.
Pressed his forehead to the side of the bedframe.
And whispered — just once — like a man begging a ghost:
“Come on. Please. Just—be anywhere.”
There was no answer.
Only the buzz of the flat’s old wiring.
And the way the silence swallowed everything else whole.
Meanwhile — Living Room
The crash echoed from the back of the flat.
Wood splintering. Something slamming into a wall. Then another sound—softer, worse. The kind of sound grief makes when it tries not to be heard.
John stiffened.
His head turned instinctively toward the hall.
“He’s not alright.”
Sherlock didn’t move.
He was seated on the desk edge again, hands clenched around a chipped mug of cold tea he hadn’t touched. His knuckles had gone white.
“John—”
“I should go to him.”
John was already half-risen when Sherlock said it.
“No.”
That stopped him.
John looked back.
Sherlock’s eyes hadn’t moved from the spot on the wall he’d been staring at for the last five minutes. Blank. Sharp. Hollow.
“He’s breaking.”
“So am I.”
The words were dry. Blunt. As if they surprised Sherlock as much as they did John.
“And I need you here.”
That landed heavier than expected.
John sat back down.
Watched him for a long second.
“Talk to me.”
Sherlock didn’t blink.
“There’s nothing to say. Not anymore.”
Another crash from the back. Glass this time. Followed by silence so sharp it hummed in the baseboards.
John tried again.
“You’re not built to handle loss like this.”
“I’m not built for any of this.”
Sherlock’s voice didn’t rise. It thinned. Hollowed out.
“Not for brothers who bleed on beaches. Not for sisters who vanish in storms. I wasn’t meant to need anyone.”
John leaned forward.
“That’s not true.”
Sherlock finally turned to look at him.
Eyes dark. Flat. Not furious—just gone.
“Then why does it feel like my mind is closing one door at a time? Like it’s… folding in on itself.”
John opened his mouth.
Then closed it again.
Sherlock set the tea down carefully. Too carefully.
“Michael can scream into pillows all he likes. You stay here. Anchor me. Because if I lose this thread, John—”
A pause. One flicker of something close to panic.
“I won’t come back.”
That did it.
John reached forward—hand on Sherlock’s wrist. Not pulling. Just pressure.
Steady.
“Alright. I’m here.”
From down the hall, silence finally settled.
But the damage was still being done.
To all of them.
Notes:
Michael’s grief hits loud.
Sherlock’s folds inward.
John’s just trying to hold the ground steady under both.No signal.
No flare.
No plan.Just one apartment and three men breaking in real time.
This was hard to write.
Not because of what’s happening — but because it’s still not over.
And they don’t know that.But you do.
Because the bird is flying.
Because Enola is not done.
Hold that tension.
Because next chapters —
We cut.
Chapter 45: The Weapon and the Wake
Summary:
Michael emerges from grief with a weapon in his pocket and a storm behind his eyes — Enola’s pendant. He pulls Sherlock and John underground, into the shadows of London’s black market, where the name “Morren” still carries weight. There, he does the unthinkable: puts a bounty on Enola Holmes.
It’s not surrender. It’s strategy.
Because if she’s alive, she’ll use it.
As the bounty ripples across mercenary networks and illegal brokers, Michael calls in debts from ghosts of war and allies who still wear their scars. The myth of “Rigan” returns — not as a soldier, but as a saviour.
And for the first time, Sherlock understands how much of Enola he never saw.
By the end of the chapter, the war has begun — a dozen elite operatives headed for the Pacific, not just to find her… but to follow her.
Notes:
This chapter marks a turning point.
The grief isn’t over. The loss isn’t resolved. But now — there’s a war plan.
Michael isn’t just trying to survive Enola’s absence. He’s weaponizing it. Using her methods, her logic, her legacy — because he knows that if she’s alive, she’ll exploit whatever tool she’s given.
Even if that tool is a kill order.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 36 — 03:12
Location: Enola’s Apartment
The bedroom door opened with a soft click.
Michael emerged.
Clean shirt. Tactical trousers. Boots. Coat zipped halfway. A firearm under one arm. Knife clipped discreetly at his side. His eyes were clearer now—focused in a way that set John on edge.
But it was the thing in his hand that froze Sherlock.
Enola’s pendant.
The small silver one. The one she wore under uniforms and beside knives. The one Michael had once mockingly called “sentimental camouflage.”
He tucked it into his jacket pocket.
Didn’t explain.
Didn’t have to.
John stood slowly.
“So that’s it, then? You’re leaving?”
Michael nodded.
“We’ve wasted enough time.”
Sherlock watched him like he was studying a machine he used to understand.
“You’ve got nothing. No flight plan. No coordinates. No map.”
Michael looked at him.
Eyes unreadable.
“I’ve got a sea full of answers and a list of names who owe me things. I’ll find a chopper or a boat or a bastard airship if I have to. But I’m not waiting around for a goddamn memorial service.”
John stepped between them slightly.
“Where do you even go from here?”
Michael grabbed his duffel.
“Below.”
“What does that mean?” John pressed.
Michael paused at the door.
“Black channels. The market under the market. Places no one above-ground talks about. I’ll find a pilot. I’ll get out past port control. And then I start walking the waterline. Foot by foot. Grid by grid.”
Sherlock frowned.
“That’s irrational.”
“So’s grief,” Michael snapped.
“But this isn’t that. Not anymore.”
John looked between them, uneasy.
“You said yourself. No signal. No sign.”
Michael turned, voice flat and furious.
“Exactly. If they died there, we’d have found something. A flare. A body. A blackened bit of wreckage. But there’s nothing. That means they moved. That means they escaped. Or hid. Or were taken.”
Sherlock stepped closer, voice colder now.
“Or it means the ocean is what it’s always been: wide, cruel, and hungry. And you’re inventing theories because you can’t face what’s likely.”
Michael leaned in, eye to eye.
“And what’s likely never found a single survivor.”
Sherlock held his gaze.
Michael didn’t blink.
“You think she’d let death be neat? Tidy? That she would just vanish quietly and make it easy for you?”
A beat.
Then:
“If she’s alive, she’s hiding. If she’s hiding, she has a reason. And if she has a reason—”
“She’d have signaled,” Sherlock cut in.
“Not if she couldn’t.”
“Then we’d know.”
Michael’s jaw tightened.
“Would we?”
Sherlock didn’t reply.
John stepped between them again.
“You’re both out of time, and this argument solves nothing.”
Michael grabbed his coat fully.
Shouldered the bag.
“I’m going.”
He looked at Sherlock.
“You coming or not?”
Sherlock stared at the floor.
Then at the map still pinned to the wall.
Then finally—
“If I don’t come with you, I go back to the house. Tell the parents what we didn’t find. Sit in their garden and pretend I don’t hear my mother crying every time someone sets the table for three instead of five.”
John’s throat bobbed.
“Sherlock…”
Sherlock straightened.
“I’m not ready to bury a shadow.”
Michael’s face didn’t change—but something flickered.
Sherlock looked at John.
“And you?”
John shrugged.
“You know me. I don’t let you go chasing corpses alone.”
Michael didn’t smile.
But he turned and opened the door.
“Good.”
He glanced back, voice level, unreadable.
“Let’s go wake the dead.”
Day 36 – 04:02
Location: London Catacombs — Black Market Hub
Codename Active: MORREN
The stench hit first.
Rust, wet stone, old fuel. Sweat. Fear. The underground train tunnels had long since been abandoned by Transport for London — but not by the city.
Not by its ghosts.
Sherlock stepped lightly down the iron-grated stairs, John close behind him. Both men silent, coats brushing damp brick walls as they descended.
Michael — no, Morren now — was already ahead of them.
Too far ahead.
Too loud.
The market thrummed with heat and tension. Shadowed stalls, soldered crates, weapons wrapped in rags, passports that didn't exist. Vendors speaking a dozen languages behind reinforced booths. Deals sealed with nods and knives.
John glanced around, wary.
“What is this place?”
Sherlock muttered, eyes scanning movement.
“The other London. The one with teeth.”
“You’ve been here?”
“Heard of it. Enola brought Lestrade through once.”
A pause.
“He still has nightmares.”
They rounded the last corner into the heart of the hub — an open space carved out of old rail lines, roofed in rusted scaffolding, lit by busted fluorescents and portable heat lamps.
John spotted Michael heading straight toward the main console platform — a raised steel dais at the centre of it all.
Sherlock tensed.
“You said you had contacts,” he called after him.
Michael didn’t look back.
“I do.”
“So why are we here?”
Michael stepped onto the platform.
The crowd shifted.
Someone whispered:
“Is that—?”
“Morren?”
“Shit. Move.”
Michael reached the central bounty console.
Without ceremony, he slammed the heel of his hand into the terminal, activated the global broadcast relay, and raised a gleaming datachip like a priest brandishing sacrament.
“Attention.”
The market didn’t stop.
Until it did.
They turned.
All of them.
Some recognised him.
Most didn’t.
None interrupted.
“Codename Rigan. Unknown identity. Female. Last seen in Pacific sector. Possibly injured. Possibly hostile. I want her found.”
He held up the chip, voice cutting like steel.
“Coordinates of last trace are embedded. Full payout for location. Dead or alive.”
A low gasp rippled across the chamber.
One bounty runner muttered:
“Ghost chase.”
Another:
“Who the hell pays for phantoms?”
“Morren,” someone replied. “Morren does.”
A man stepped forward. Vest. Cybernetic eye. Scarred lip.
“Why the fanfare, Morren? You usually slit throats quiet.”
Michael smirked.
“This time, I want everyone to see.”
John swore under his breath.
“Sherlock—”
“I know.”
“He just painted a target on her!”
They pushed forward as Michael turned from the crowd, stepped toward a broker with a titanium wrist and dead eyes.
“Broadcast it. Twelve systems. Tag all bounty-hunters, merc field contractors, off-grid smugglers. Payout offshore, untraceable. This key unlocks the ID beacon.”
The man accepted the chip wordlessly.
“If they find her?”
Michael’s voice dropped.
“Seventy-five thousand for confirmed coordinates. Double for a live extraction.”
John was practically vibrating.
“You’re putting a dead or alive bounty on your own girlfriend—your missing girlfriend?”
Michael turned slowly.
“Exactly.”
“That’s psychotic.”
“That’s strategy.”
“You’re turning her into bait!”
Michael’s voice chilled.
“I’m turning her into a weapon. You think Enola Holmes gets killed by a bounty hunter? You think she doesn’t kill first and steal their comms? She’s got a better chance signalling me through a hijacked uplink than from an island grave no one can find.”
John looked to Sherlock for backup.
But Sherlock was silent.
Calculating.
And then — quietly:
“…It might work.”
John reeled.
“You’re agreeing with him? He just weaponised your sister.”
Sherlock’s voice was low. Tight.
“He’s not wrong. If anyone can turn a kill order into a rescue call…”
He exhaled.
“…it’s Enola.”
Michael looked down at his tablet. Watched the bounty disperse into encrypted channels and hunter feeds.
Then closed the screen.
“I just rang the dinner bell for every vulture in the hemisphere.”
He looked at Sherlock.
“Now we wait for the wrong one to find her.”
Sherlock didn’t answer.
Day 36 – 04:26
Location: Hidden Black Market – The Dry Chamber Pub
The metal door creaked inward.
The Dry Chamber wasn’t listed on any blueprints. It was carved out of a disused train refueling station beneath the old Jubilee extensions. Heat lamps buzzed. Ducts rattled. The ceiling sweated. But it was safe—at least for those who earned it.
John stepped through first and stopped dead.
Sherlock paused behind him, scanning the room. The tension was immediate.
A dozen men and women—most built like tanks, scars like stories, hands still twitching near sidearms—looked up from their drinks. Some wore camo. Others, faded civilian gear that still sat too straight on their spines.
But it was the eyes that did it.
They knew him.
They knew Rigan.
One man squinted at Michael.
“Morren?”
Another muttered under his breath, almost laughing.
“No. No, no way. Last we heard, Rigan was your girl.”
A tall woman—arm like a steel cable and a Ranger insignia tattooed on her neck—folded her arms.
“You postin’ a bounty on her, or did I hallucinate that announcement in twelve languages?”
Michael stepped up to the bar like it didn’t matter that half the room wanted to deck him.
He nodded once to the barkeep.
“Same tab.”
Then turned to face the veterans.
“I need transport. Boat, plane, chopper—anything that flies or floats.”
The woman snorted.
“You came here for a search party?”
John found his voice. Still stunned.
“Some of these men… I served with them. In Afgan. You—”
He pointed at one.
“You pulled two of our guys from a burn-out Humvee.”
The man gave a dry nod.
“And your girl, Rigan, covered the airlift with one rifle and six bullets. I still owe her my spine.”
Sherlock stood stiff, watching.
Michael dropped the last piece.
“She’s missing. Might be dead. But not confirmed. We’re going after her.”
Another voice:
“You turned every merc in the northern hemisphere loose on her.”
Michael looked up. Calm.
“And if she’s out there, she’ll survive it. But I don’t want to wait for luck. I want boots.”
He tapped the bar.
“I pay for fuel, crew, gear, flight time, extraction if needed. But I also need something else—eyes. Yours. Every one of you who owes her, respects her, or survived because she didn’t flinch.”
The room went silent.
Then the Ranger woman nodded.
“You got my team.”
A few others followed.
One grunted:
“I’ll fly low and lie if needed. Rigan once took a bullet meant for my brother. We’ll find her.”
Sherlock blinked.
Then paused.
Because something shifted.
He looked around the room—not just at the people, but into them. At the way they spoke her name. At the way they didn’t flinch saying it. Not like civilians. Not like bureaucrats. Like soldiers do when they remember the person who didn’t leave them behind.
“Rigan” wasn’t a codeword to them.
It was a banner.
A shield.
A myth etched in blood and loyalty and reckless, impossible grit.
A man with a split lip and prosthetic fingers leaned on his cane, murmuring,
“She carried me five clicks after my leg went. Didn't even ask my name. Just said, 'You'll owe me a beer if we live.'”
A younger merc—barely more than twenty—held a chipped dog tag between his fingers.
“She sent this back to my unit after Kabul. Said to tell my mum I wasn’t coming home, but she made sure someone else would. Still haven’t lost it.”
Another added:
“Rigan never missed a shot. But the one thing she never aimed for was glory.”
Sherlock's throat felt… tight.
It wasn’t like him.
But neither was this.
He had known her genius. Her violence. Her volatility.
But not this. Not the echoes she left in the people still standing.
He’d known the soldier. The weapon.
But not the saviour.
Not the one who made others believe they could live.
He stood perfectly still.
And the weight of that silence fell on him like truth.
It was then he realized—every plan so far had revolved around Enola.
Only Enola.
Not a whisper about Mycroft.
He didn’t say anything.
But Michael caught the flicker in his expression.
So when he turned back to the small cluster of trusted allies, his tone shifted just enough.
“Search for a second heat signature too. Older male. Civilian, likely injured. They may have gotten separated after the storm.”
Sherlock looked up.
Michael didn’t glance back at him.
But he’d said it.
For him.
A beat passed.
Sherlock stepped up to the bar. Quiet.
“Thank you.”
Michael shrugged.
“Someone has to think of your brother. You’re a bit busy falling apart.”
Sherlock said nothing.
But John saw the tightness in his shoulders ease—just slightly.
The pub didn’t erupt.
It didn’t toast.
But one by one, heads nodded.
Gear was packed.
Old radios tuned.
And the ghosts of wars past stood, once more, to follow a madman into the sea.
Notes:
This chapter also flips perspective.
For so long, Enola has been defined by what she does. What she survives.
But here we see what she leaves behind — the soldiers who owe her their lives, the war stories tattooed in blood and memory, the way people still rise at her name.
Even Sherlock feels it.
He finally sees the version of his sister not born in deduction or violence — but in sacrifice. In the people she saved.
And for the first time, someone says Mycroft’s name.
Because this search isn’t just about Enola anymore.
It never was.
Chapter 46: Pulse Line
Summary:
The bird is gone. The signal is sent. But inside the bunker, Enola faces the consequence of every minute she's bought: Mycroft is still alive — and still deteriorating.
Through fever and exhaustion, she stabilizes him, shaves him, cares for him with a devotion wrapped in iron. He wakes — bruised and barely coherent — and begs her not to leave. She listens. Sleeps beside him for the first time since the crash.
By morning, his lung is drowning again.
And Enola has no choice but to drain it herself, no morphine, no room for doubt.
He survives.
But barely.And if he tries to sacrifice himself again for her sleep —
she will kill him.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Med Bay, Day 37 – Duskfall
The birds were gone.
The message had flown — literally — and for once, the air around the bunker wasn’t heavy with panic. Just the slow-drip dread of what still might come.
Inside, the med bay held a dim, metallic hush. The air smelled faintly of salt, sweat, and something sterile underneath. Her infection hadn’t healed — it was clawing back under her skin — but there was no time to stop. Not really. Not yet.
Enola stood by the cot. Sleeves rolled. Hair tied back. Soaked in sweat, exhaustion, and something softer — something she refused to name.
Mycroft had bled again yesterday.
She’d drained his lung last night.
And this morning… he was still here.
Not dying.
Not well.
Not gone.
That was enough.
He was half-draped in a blanket, shivering faintly, pupils slow to focus. Antibiotics coursed through his veins. So did the morphine. He drifted — mostly silent — but alive. That line mattered. That line mattered more than her leg, her fever, the ghosts still perched at the edge of her mind.
“Shhh,” she whispered, smoothing the fabric of his fresh shirt — one of the ones she’d found sealed in plastic under the crew locker. “It’s alright. You’re clean now.”
He murmured something — a slurred string of syllables and pain. She didn’t ask him to repeat it.
Instead, she turned back to the bowl of water — warm now only from the heat of her hands — and drew the cloth through her fingers, dabbing it gently across his collarbone. Careful. Rhythmic. A lullaby with no lyrics.
His skin twitched.
Still responsive. Still breathing.
The medical book she’d propped on the bench — Triage and Surgical Emergencies in Hostile Environments — remained open. She hadn’t touched it in hours.
But she didn’t need to.
She knew the steps now. Every incision. Every risk.
Everything—except whether she could live with it.
His beard was starting to return — fine and uneven. She’d shaved him using the razor she’d found in the crew kit. He hadn’t asked. She hadn’t mentioned it. But he looked more like himself now. Almost.
Less like a corpse.
He stirred again. Murmured, “Home is… where my socks… match…”
“Shhh,” she said, brushing his hair back. “You’re delirious. And drugged.”
“’M always drugged. Just… usually better tailored.”
His words tumbled like dice — some coherent, most not.
She wiped his face again.
“You’re going to be okay.”
She didn’t believe it.
She said it anyway.
House was in the corridor, muttering to Wilson about radio conductivity. John stood by the supply shelf, reviewing stitched dressings like an academic critique. Michael leaned against the doorway, one hand braced on the frame — watching her with a half-smile that never quite reached his eyes.
Selwyn had not returned.
Mycroft coughed. Wet — but not choking. Not yet.
She shifted him slightly, propping a towel beneath his shoulder. Then she leaned in and pressed a mechanical kiss to his forehead. Quick. Familiar. Unnatural.
“Easy,” she whispered. “I’ve got you.”
He blinked up at her, and — through the haze — managed a crooked Holmes smile.
“Y’know… you’d make a half-decent nurse.”
She snorted. “Don’t push it.”
His eyes fluttered shut again.
But his hand — bruised, trembling — found her wrist.
“Don’t… go.”
Her throat closed around the words.
“I’m not,” she whispered.
She sat down beside him on the floor. The radio remained silent. Her leg burned under the wrap. Her ribs throbbed with each breath. The infection pressed heat behind her eyes.
But his pulse?
Steady.
His colour?
Pale — but holding.
He was here.
She was here.
And for now, the ghosts were still.
Only silence met her eyes.
Med Bay, Day 37 – Late Evening
Enola sat curled beside the bench. Knees drawn up. The manual open again across her lap. Triage and Surgical Emergencies in Hostile Environments.
Her fever had settled — somewhat. But her hands still trembled as she turned the pages.
Not from illness.
From calculation.
From the thousand thoughts grinding like gears behind her eyes.
She wasn’t reading anymore. Not really. The diagram on the page looked back at her like an accusation.
Rib exposure. Pleural entry. Hemostasis. Closure.
She tracked every line. Every tool. Every margin of error.
Behind her, the cot shifted.
Mycroft stirred — awake again. Propped higher on his good side. A fine sheen of sweat glistened at his temples. But his breathing had evened out. He’d eaten earlier. Drunk water. Fever still simmering — but steadier.
He looked at her first. Small and sharp. Bent over that field guide like it was Scripture.
“You need to rest.”
“I’m fine,” she muttered, not looking up.
He exhaled through his nose. “I’ve heard that before.”
He watched her hands.
They were shaking.
Not from adrenaline.
System failure.
He knew the signs. He’d been watching her long enough.
“If you don’t sleep,” he said gently, “you’ll crash. You know that.”
Her jaw clenched. “I can’t afford to crash.”
His eyes darkened. “And I can’t afford to lose you to exhaustion.”
She slammed the book shut. The spine struck the floor with a dull thud.
“If I sleep,” she said, flat and low, “you could go downhill again.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You’ll hear me.”
She didn’t answer.
“You always do.”
Still nothing.
He nodded to the space beside him. “Lie down. Just for a while. You’ll still be close.”
“I’m not tired.”
“You’re swaying.”
She blinked. Her pupils were too wide now. Too clear.
“I’ll stay awake,” he added. “Two hours. Maybe less. Just close your eyes. You can keep your hand on my pulse.”
She didn’t argue.
She didn’t speak.
But she rose.
Set the manual aside.
And slid in beside him.
Carefully. Not fully. Her bad leg extended. Upper body tucked against him. One arm curled. Her cheek pressed to his chest.
Her fingers found his pulse.
He shifted — slightly — then let one arm settle across her shoulder.
“Shhh,” she whispered.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Her eyes closed.
“Mycroft?”
“Hm?”
“If you stop breathing while I’m asleep,” she murmured, “I will end you.”
He laughed — hoarse, faint — and she felt it under her cheek.
“Duly noted.”
Her grip softened.
Her breathing slowed.
Within minutes — four, maybe five — her rhythm matched his.
Shallow.
Steady.
She was out.
And Mycroft Holmes — bruised, broken, sinking in his own lungs — lay perfectly still.
Watching the ceiling.
Not sleeping.
Just breathing.
Because for the first time since the tsunami…
she was finally letting herself rest.
And he would not let that be the moment she lost everything.
Med Bay, Day 38 – Early Morning
The bunker had no sunrise.
No golden slant across the walls. No birdsong. No warmth. Just the sterile hum of recycled air. And the sound of breathing.
Or the absence of it.
Enola stirred. Slowly. The kind of slow that meant her body had forgotten sleep was allowed.
Her cheek rested on warm cotton.
A heartbeat pulsed beneath her.
But the breath beneath it… was uneven.
Not clean.
“…Mycroft?”
No answer.
She jolted upright.
The room tilted with her. Her ribs screamed. Her leg throbbed. But her hand found his chest. Then his neck. Then the wrist — still warm — beneath her fingers.
Alive.
Awake.
Eyes cracked half-lidded.
Pale. Too pale.
“You stayed awake,” she snapped, voice razor-sharp.
He blinked. “You needed sleep.”
“You promised to wake me—”
“You were drooling on my chest,” he rasped. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”
She ripped the blanket off him. Palms on his ribs. Feeling the bindings. The heat.
The pressure.
The cough building beneath his skin.
“Goddamn it—” she whispered. “You idiot—”
He didn’t respond. Not with words.
Just with that look.
Quiet. Stubborn. Infuriating.
That look that always said: I’m right, and I’ll die being right.
And maybe this time… he meant it.
His chest rose. Uneven again. A wheeze beneath it. Wet.
“Of course,” she muttered. “Of course it’s pooling again—”
Michael stepped in. “It started about an hour ago. He didn’t want to wake you.”
“Idiot,” she growled, already moving.
She snapped on gloves. Grabbed the tubing. The sterilized reed. Gauze. Clamps.
John flickered to the cabinet. “Same spot. Same angle. Faster now.”
Wilson from the shadows: “Oxygen’s crashing.”
“I can hear it,” she snapped. “Shut up.”
“No morphine,” she muttered, pausing near the vial.
“You sure?” Michael asked.
“He’ll pass out. Better that way.”
Mycroft didn’t argue.
He couldn’t.
His lips were turning grey.
She propped him higher. Checked the bandages.
Wet. Dark. Wrong.
“Son of a—” she swore and tore them off.
Same location.
Same precision.
Desert-learned detachment clicked into place.
Gloves on. Incision cleaned. Reed ready.
She pushed.
Not fast.
But deep enough.
Mycroft twitched.
Then coughed — violent and sudden — as a gush of dark blood hit the gauze.
She held him firm. Braced the tube.
Let the pressure release.
His lung moved.
Barely.
But enough.
His hand clenched the sheets.
No scream.
Just breath.
Broken. Stubborn.
“Almost,” she whispered. “Almost there—”
Michael beside her. “You’re doing fine.”
Wilson nodded. “Drain’s steady.”
John: “Now elevate. And cover.”
She wrapped. Secured. Stabilized.
Then — only then — sat back.
Gloves dripping. Vision blurred.
And let herself breathe.
Mycroft coughed again — weaker.
Less blood.
“Next time,” she hissed, fury cracking in her voice, “you wake me up.”
He blinked at her. Half-gone.
But smiling.
“You needed sleep,” he murmured.
She nearly punched him.
Instead, she grabbed a blanket, balled it up, and shoved it under his arm.
“Sleep now,” she muttered. “Before I actually kill you.”
Notes:
This was a quiet kind of brutality.
There are no guns. No storms. Just exhaustion — heavy, creeping — and the kind of care you give someone when there's no one left to help you give it.
This chapter was about the pause between collapses.
The stillness in the med bay.
The soft violence of love under pressure.Enola rests for the first time — only to wake up to another near-death.
And Mycroft, stubborn as hell, let her sleep — even though it nearly killed him.
Because for once, he wanted to protect her back.
Chapter 47: No One’s Coming
Summary:
Enola stands at the edge of choice and collapse.
Mycroft is dying — slowly, steadily, quietly. The bird has flown. The signal is gone. Rescue, if it comes, won’t come in time. The ghosts know it. So does she. And so, finally, does the hallucinated voice of Sherlock Holmes.
Pushed by memory, haunted by failure, she prepares for the surgery she swore she’d never do again: the same one that killed Lieutenant Selwyn in Kandahar. But this time, there is no backup. No morphine. No certainty.
Only thread. Fire. And will.
Notes:
It’s time, folks.
This is the surgery scene. The one I’ve been building toward for thirty-eight days and god knows how many near-deaths.Enola is exhausted. Injured. Fevered. And completely alone — except for the ghosts she’s kept on a leash.
No morphine. No clean exit.
Just thread, bone, and spite.Let’s crack a rib.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Med Bay – Day 38, Nightfall
Enola didn’t move.
She stood perfectly still beside the cot, one arm braced on the metal frame, eyes fixed on the slow, uneven rise and fall of Mycroft’s chest.
Not fast.
Not desperate.
Just wrong.
The way it lifted with effort. The way his mouth twitched between shallow breaths. The faint creak of gauze against ribs that weren’t healing anymore — just holding.
He was slipping.
She didn’t need the ghosts to say it.
But they did.
Selwyn was first. Standing on the other side of the bed, arms crossed, back straight — the same stance he’d taken before giving orders he didn’t want to give.
“His time is up.”
Enola didn’t answer.
Didn’t blink.
She just kept watching Mycroft. Watching the way the sweat pooled at his collarbone. Watching the way his fingers twitched like he was still fighting — even in sleep.
Selwyn stepped closer.
“If you don’t do this now, he’ll be dead by tomorrow.”
Her jaw clenched.
Her pulse thundered.
She swallowed hard.
“I sent the bird.”
“I know.”
“Maybe they got it. Maybe they’re tracking it now.”
Selwyn didn’t reply.
She turned — just enough to glare across the dim room, voice low but shaking.
“There could be a team already inbound. Michael could be halfway here. I don’t—”
“He’s not,” said another voice.
Calm. Cold.
Sharper than Selwyn’s.
More surgical.
She froze.
Turned.
And there he was.
Sherlock.
Or what looked like him — standing in the corner like he’d always been there. Coat crisp. Collar turned up. Eyes unbearably clear.
She stared at him like a child stares at a fire. Like a desperate little sister who never wanted this kind of responsibility again.
“Please,” she whispered. “Not you too.”
“I’m not here to judge,” he said softly, stepping forward. “I’m here because you can’t keep lying to yourself.”
“I’m not lying—”
“You know the math. You calculated the odds. You released the bird nearly two days ago.”
“I know that—”
“They wouldn’t have picked it up until it breached the outer grid,” he continued, voice even, precise. “Best case? Twelve hours to cross into range. Another six to be noticed. Four more to verify, mobilise, and plan.”
She winced.
Turned her back to him.
“That’s twenty-two hours,” Sherlock said. “And that’s assuming perfection.”
“They still could’ve—”
“They’ll need fuel. Coordination. Real-time intel.”
“Stop.”
“They’re over three hundred kilometres from the nearest stable satellite corridor. Even if they deploy right now—by air, by sea—”
“Stop—!”
“—they won’t reach you in time.”
Silence.
Her hand clenched against the wall.
Her shoulders trembled.
Her breath hitched once — hard — then again.
But still, she didn’t cry.
She just stood there, hollow and shaking, cracked open from the inside by a grief too large to hold.
Sherlock’s voice softened.
“You’re out of time.”
Her fist hit the wall.
Hard.
“Then he dies.”
“No.”
She turned, sudden and furious. “You think this is mercy?”
“I think this is logic,” he said. “And logic is what you trust. What you’ve always trusted.”
“You don’t get it. If I do this—”
“If you don’t do this,” Sherlock cut in, eyes flashing, “he will die.”
Her throat tightened.
Her head shook.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I can’t!”
Her voice cracked, splintered open like glass under pressure.
Sherlock didn’t flinch.
His voice lowered — no longer sharp. No longer precise.
Just… honest.
“If he dies,” she whispered, “you’re the one who’ll suffer. Not me. Not really. My emotions—they’re… fractured. Synthetic. Temporary. I’m not—”
“You love him.”
“I don’t feel love—”
“But you know what it looks like. You act like it. You protect like it. You risked everything for him. That’s what matters.”
She stared at him.
Really stared.
And he stared back — not with analysis.
With understanding.
With faith.
“I don’t want him to die,” she whispered.
“Then save him.”
She trembled.
“No one’s coming,” he said.
She closed her eyes.
“If I fail…”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“How?!”
“Because you already did the impossible,” Sherlock said. “You kept him alive through fire, ocean, storm. Infection. Collapse. You sailed him across hell, Enola. You survived it. And he’s still breathing because of you.”
Her lips parted.
But nothing came out.
He stepped forward.
Held her gaze.
“Do it,” he said, low and even. “Not because you’re a Holmes. Not because it’s expected.”
He reached out.
Pressed a ghostly hand to her shoulder — not felt, but known.
“Do it,” he repeated, “because I want you to.”
Her breath caught.
“I want you to save his life.”
Silence held them.
Then she nodded.
Once.
Sharp.
Precise.
She turned toward the tray — the gloves, the wires, the fire she’d kept burning behind her ribs for days.
Back into calculation.
Because Sherlock Holmes — even as a hallucination — had given her permission to try.
The med bay looked cleaner than it ever had.
Not sterile.
Not untouched.
But ready.
The tray was laid out.
Metal tools boiled and cooled. Gauze folded with deliberate order. Thread. Alcohol. Cloth. Tape. The full inventory of a warzone hospital made from scavenged parts.
Everything she had.
Not enough.
But it had to be.
Enola stood with her weight on one leg. The other still wrapped, still pulsing with heat beneath the bandage. Her right shoulder hung low beneath her shirt — tight, bound, fractured. Useless to anyone else.
But she’d need it.
She couldn’t do this one-handed.
So she moved it.
Flexed it.
Again.
And again.
Until the pain lanced up her neck and made her see stars.
Until it moved.
Selwyn stood near the far wall. Silent. Watching.
Sherlock — seated now, steepled fingers resting beneath his chin — said nothing. But his eyes followed every movement.
Michael stood near the door.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t flinch.
Just stood there like a shadow that refused to break.
The ghosts weren’t gone.
But they were quiet.
Enola adjusted her grip on the last tool — a bent pair of forceps, shaped to serve as a clamp. Not elegant. Not surgical. But sharp.
She would have to feel for the rib.
Feel for the tear.
Selwyn’s voice broke the silence, even and low:
“You’ll have to work by feel. No margin for guesswork. No second pass.”
He didn’t need to say more.
He never did.
She turned toward the oxygen tanks she’d dragged from the cave.
Secured one upright.
Fitted the tubing to the valve — improvised, salvaged — enough to flood the air around the cot, enough to buy her seconds when seconds would matter.
She tested the seal.
Wiped her brow.
Breathed in.
Then held it.
Because if she let herself feel any of it — she’d stop.
And she couldn’t stop.
Not now.
Not again.
Across the room, Mycroft slept.
His chest rose. Faint. Uneven.
His skin glistened with fever.
His jaw twitched with every breath.
She looked at him — really looked — and whispered:
“I’m sorry in advance.”
Then turned.
Stepped toward the tray.
Gloved fingers closed around the scalpel.
“Sherlock,” she said flatly, eyes never leaving the tools, “get out.”
The hallucination tilted his head.
Not insulted.
Not hurt.
Just… waiting.
“You don’t need me?”
“No.” Her voice didn’t shake. “Not for this.”
Sherlock studied her one last time.
Then nodded. Once.
Slowly.
Like a man who understood what it meant to be dismissed because things were about to break.
Then he vanished.
Only Selwyn remained — to her left, spine straight, field uniform crisp in memory.
John stood at her right — sleeves rolled, jaw set, voice unreadable.
The surgical ghosts.
The only kind she trusted.
“Knife,” she murmured.
She reached for the scalpel.
Not sharp.
Not clean.
But boiled. Soaked. Air-dried. Ready.
She moved to Mycroft’s side.
His chest was too still. His skin nearly translucent.
A fever sheen glistened above his brow. But he was under. Barely.
Just enough morphine left in his system to keep him from waking.
Any more would’ve killed him.
No monitors. No alarms. Just her hand on his chest. Her eye on every shift in breath.
Selwyn’s voice — calm as ever:
“Same position. Same depth. Fifth or sixth rib. Mid-axillary line.”
She nodded.
No hesitation.
She’d cleaned the site earlier. Charcoal marks lined the ribs. This time, there would be no doubt.
Incision.
Steady.
Controlled.
Through skin. Subcutaneous tissue. Into fascia.
Her shoulder screamed at the angle.
Her ribs threatened to buckle.
But she didn’t stop.
John’s voice, firm: “Retraction next. Spread the intercostals. Don’t cut the pleura blind.”
“I know.”
Scalpel down.
Forceps up.
She eased the ribs apart — just enough. Not too wide.
Steam rose. Fever heat. Not blood — not yet — but the kind of heat that meant something inside was dying.
Selwyn stepped closer.
“You’ll feel the rib before you see it.”
She reached in.
Gloved fingers searching.
Her shoulder trembled. Her vision blurred.
Then—
There.
A jagged edge.
She gasped.
It wasn’t lying on the lung.
It was in it.
Embedded. Moving. Tearing with every breath.
Selwyn’s voice turned low, dark:
“That’s where I failed. I told you to suture blind. I thought we could seal it.”
Her voice cracked. “You said it would work.”
“I hoped it would. You were nineteen. I wanted to live.”
A long pause.
“But now,” he said, voice like bone, “you don’t suture. You knot.”
She nodded.
Forceps down.
Extractor up — an improvised clamp, bent and brutal.
She gripped the rib shard.
It slipped.
She reset.
Harder.
Mycroft twitched.
“Hold him,” she snapped.
John reached across — not real, but solid in her mind — and pressed down at the shoulder.
“Now.”
She twisted.
Gently. Precisely.
The rib came free.
The lung bled — not violently — but steadily. A sponge wrung out too fast.
Still breathing.
Still pulsing.
But torn.
She found the edge.
Held it.
Felt it pulse beneath her fingers.
It felt like tissue paper.
Like silk.
Like fire.
Selwyn’s voice was razor-thin:
“Twist.”
She did.
The torn edge folded.
Began to spiral.
“Now tie.”
She grabbed the suture — silk thread, old, antiseptic-soaked.
Looped once.
Twice.
Pulled tight.
Another knot.
Another.
It held.
No gushing. No sputter. Just slow, saturated air. Breathing again.
Selwyn whispered, proud:
“That’ll hold.”
John: “Flush the cavity. Drain. Close fascia, loose. Wick in place.”
She moved like a machine.
Saline.
Charcoal gauze.
Wide-set sutures for the muscle. Looser for the skin.
Drainage visible.
She wrapped his side with cloth — thick, clean, tight enough to support.
Then she pressed one palm flat to the site.
And listened.
Mycroft inhaled.
Not strong.
Not deep.
But better.
Her shoulders slumped.
Her legs buckled.
She steadied herself on the edge of the table.
Her arm spasmed.
Her ribs ached.
Her lungs screamed for breath.
But her hands — her hands were steady.
She looked at him one last time.
Still rising.
Still alive.
She stepped back.
Stripped off the gloves.
Dropped them into the tray.
Selwyn looked at her — just once.
Proud.
“Not bad,” he murmured.
Then turned.
And walked into the dark.
Notes:
She performs the lung operation one-handed, the other half-healed and screaming. Ties the knot instead of suturing blind — a second chance written in blood and breath.
It holds.
He lives.
And Selwyn, silent in the end, leaves her with something like peace.
Chapter 48: The Knot That Held
Summary:
The operation is over.
But the danger isn’t.Enola works through blood, fever, and failure’s shadow to stabilise Mycroft after surgery. She adjusts oxygen. Monitors breath. Refuses rest.
Meanwhile, Sherlock, Michael, and John arrive at “Missione Avançada” — a silent black-market port where the rescue operation begins in earnest. The sea is still too large. The signals still missing. But the movement has started. And none of them are ready to stop.
Notes:
We’re past the impossible surgery — and into what comes after.
This chapter is equal parts burnout, heartbreak, and brute force CPR. Enola’s at the edge of collapse. Mycroft is slipping. The rescue team is finally moving. And when the heartbeat stops?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Med Bay — Day 39 (Post-Surgery) - 4:28 AM
The tray was bloody.
So was she.
Her hands shook as she peeled off the gloves—wet, ruined, and sticking to her fingers like second skin. Her breath scraped in and out, faster than it should have. She didn’t notice. Didn’t care.
Mycroft wasn’t moving.
But he was breathing.
Shallow. Fast. But regular.
She watched his chest rise once. Waited.
Again.
Not even, not strong—but real.
She knelt beside the table, dizzy, her own fever boiling behind her eyes. Her vision fuzzed at the edges, pulse hammering. Everything ached—her arm, her leg, her ribs—but none of it mattered.
Because the worst was done.
Almost.
“Oxygen,” murmured John’s voice near her shoulder. “Now.”
Enola nodded.
More to herself than anyone.
She staggered to the side unit — dragging one foot, half-blind, fighting the tremor in her healing arm. The oxygen tank loomed in the corner, tall and silent like it had been waiting for this.
She knelt beside it, pried the valve free with her fingers.
Too tight. Her shoulder screamed. She grunted. Twisted harder.
It gave.
The tubing—clear, slightly yellowed from heat—was already pre-fitted. She’d done that days ago. Just in case.
Now it was time.
On the floor beside the tank was the modified rebreather mask. Not a medical one — this had come from the port storage, maybe scuba gear, maybe emergency evac. She’d cleaned it. Fitted a seal from rubber tape. Cut a slit for the tube. Padded the inside with gauze where it would sit over his bruised cheekbone.
She fitted the mask to her face first — tested the draw.
Cold, dry air hit her mouth.
Not perfect. Not warm.
But clean.
Rich.
Survivable.
She turned back.
Mycroft’s eyes were fluttering now — barely open, dazed. His lips were pale again. His breath hitched.
“Shhh,” she said, voice cracked and low.
She eased the mask over his face — one hand behind his head, cradling. The other guiding the strap.
He jerked once — groggy instinct.
She held firm.
“Easy,” she whispered. “It’s oxygen. Just breathe.”
He didn’t respond. But his chest twitched again — a deeper breath. The mask hissed faintly as the tank fed the flow. The sound filled the silence like a heartbeat.
She watched him.
One second.
Two.
Three.
His color deepened—barely. The skin around his mouth pinked again. His hand flexed once on the table, limp but not lifeless.
Michael leaned against the cabinet now, watching from behind her.
“It worked.”
Enola didn’t speak.
Just adjusted the flow valve. Then again.
One liter. Two. Not more.
Slow. Careful. Measured.
Mycroft would never know how close he’d come to dying. Not the act—he’d felt that—but the aftermath. The body’s attempt to collapse. To shut down, now that the crisis was over.
But she knew.
So she knelt there, beside the table.
Watching.
Waiting.
She couldn’t afford sleep. Not now.
But for the first time since the scalpel touched skin—
She exhaled.
Day 39 – 05:41 AM
Location: “Missione Avançada” – Black Island Port Station
The docks groaned with the weight of returning engines and the churn of salted air.
“Missione Avançada” wasn’t a welcoming place.
It was a scar on the sea, an ex-military outpost turned into a hushed stopover for illegal fuel, forbidden goods, and the kind of people who didn’t ask questions.
But it had three things they needed:
-
Fuel.
-
Silence.
-
Access to every current heading west of the wreck zone.
Sherlock Holmes stood at the edge of the jetty, a hand wrapped around the rusted rail, wind pressing into his coat. He stared at the sea like it was mocking him.
Michael moved past him with purpose, directing ex-soldiers, pilots, and mercenary scouts now operating as a makeshift fleet. The coordination was surgical. Cold. Focused.
John, standing just behind Sherlock, held a battered thermos and a set of wet charts they’d salvaged from one of the boats.
“They’ve mapped four quadrants. Six more to go.”
Sherlock didn’t look at him.
“It’s not enough.”
“It’s all we have.”
Sherlock’s fingers twitched on the railing.
“Debris moves with current, but also with sub-surface undertow. Everything drifts east after a storm surge—unless the shelf interrupts it. The island base is a ridge, so detritus should accumulate here, here—”
He pointed at the map.
“And here.”
John nodded slowly.
“You’ve already told them that.”
Sherlock flinched, only barely.
Then:
“They forget. I remind.”
Below them, three boats peeled away into the morning grey. One had been painted fresh with untraceable tags. Another was running on illegal fuel. The third was a lifeboat retrofitted with sensor rigs.
Michael watched from the lower deck, his jaw tight, his radio buzzing with fragments of hope.
Sherlock glanced sideways at him.
He still didn’t believe they were alive.
Not fully.
The scan had said nothing. The storm had erased the coordinates. There was no signal, no flare, no heat signature.
Only a shadow.
Only absence.
But now—now the ocean was full of motion. Vessels diving into sectors. Radios crackling. Men and women shouting codes and drop-points. Maps adjusting.
It was too much activity for a ghost chase.
And somewhere under the weight of it all, Sherlock felt a crack.
Tiny. Barely there.
Hope.
The word hit like nausea.
He closed his eyes briefly, as if denying it would help.
John was watching him.
“You want them to be dead,” he said quietly.
“Because it’s easier.”
Sherlock’s jaw locked.
“I want to stop looking.”
“But you won’t.”
“No.”
He swallowed hard.
The wind shifted.
One of the returning boats raised a flare — yellow — meaning fuel only, no find.
Michael muttered something to a passing pilot, then climbed back onto the platform beside them. He didn’t speak at first.
Just handed Sherlock a slip of drenched paper.
A chart.
Hand-marked.
Currents. Debris vectors. A few half-melted GPS dots someone managed to pull off a plastic float.
Sherlock stared.
Then, almost against his will, took it.
Michael looked past him, out to the sea.
“We check again at 12:00. Three shifts. No gaps. If she’s out there—”
Sherlock cut in, flatly.
“If.”
Michael turned.
Stared straight into him.
“You feel it too. Don’t lie.”
Sherlock didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
John watched them both.
He didn’t say what he was thinking.
That Mycroft had likely drowned in the first wave. If he was alive to begin with. That Enola, if she was out there, might have no reason left to call for help.
But he didn’t speak it.
Because Sherlock was silent.
And Michael was in motion again.
And somewhere far out to sea—where the clouds still churned over fractured reef and broken tide—
something waited.
Notes:
Of course I was going to make his heart stop.
Like—what did you expect from me?But seriously, after everything he’s been through—saltwater lung, surgery, infection, adrenaline, fever, zero rest—his heart was bound to freak out. This wasn’t cruelty. This was realism. (…Okay, and a little cruelty.)
The important part?
She got him back.
Chapter 49: Breath by Breath
Summary:
Enola fights through fever, injury, and exhaustion to stabilize Mycroft in the hours following surgery. With his lung sealed and his body struggling to recover, she monitors him relentlessly—through oxygen, through adrenaline, through cardiac arrest. As her condition deteriorates, Mycroft stirs for the first time... only to code under her hands. And she brings him back.
Meanwhile, on Missione Avançada, the search team recovers a charred fragment of Mycroft’s SOS signal. Sherlock and Michael realize: they weren’t lost at sea. They were on land.
Hope returns—but time is still against them.
Notes:
We're in the aftermath—the part where your body starts to fall apart after the crisis ends. Enola should be unconscious. Instead, she's holding someone else's life together with shaking hands and spite.
This is the heartbeat chapter. The silent one. The quiet war.
Also: bamboo SOS signal, one (1) hallucinatory diagnosis roast, and Michael getting feral over drift patterns.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Med Bay – Post-Op Hour 7
Day 39
The oxygen mask hissed in soft intervals. Barely a sound.
Mycroft’s chest rose, slow and shallow, under the bindings.
His lips were chapped. Pale. His hair stuck in limp curls to his temple, still damp from fever. The bruises at his ribs had deepened to a sick mottled purple, and a faint line of blood still trailed from the bandage where her incision had gone in.
But his pulse was steady.
Enola’s fingers stayed on it.
One hand, clamped lightly around his wrist, her own body folded like a discarded doll at the edge of the cot.
Her head rested against the mattress, eyes half-lidded. Not asleep.
Just…
Gone.
Drained past exhaustion. Past fear. Her arm hung awkwardly in the sling. Her leg was extended and shaking slightly. But she didn’t move. Not even to blink.
Then—
A twitch.
A flutter of movement under her fingers.
She stirred, barely, her hand tightening.
And again.
The pulse kicked. Stronger. Steadier.
A breath rattled beneath the mask.
Then—softly:
“…Enola…”
She froze.
Lifted her head — not fast. Not with any triumph. Just a dull, instinctive response. Like something half-dead remembering how to breathe.
His eyes were open.
Glassy. Confused. But open.
“…Enola.”
He tried to lift his hand.
It barely twitched.
The panic came next. Fast. A flash in his eyes. The kind of alarm that comes when a body remembers pain before the mind does. His chest hitched—shallow, broken gasps that fought against the bindings and the still-raw wound in his side.
She moved instantly — not with urgency, but precision.
“Shh.”
She reached for his hand. Gripped it. Firm and warm.
“Hey. Look at me. You’re okay.”
His brow furrowed. He tried to speak again, but the mask fogged with each exhale, too fast, too weak.
“Breathe slower,” she murmured, her voice stripped to nothing. “Don’t fight it.”
His eyes locked on hers.
Still frantic.
Still afraid.
“Lung’s okay,” she said softly. “You’re on oxygen. Antibiotics are in. I’ve got you.”
His fingers twitched against hers.
“I’ve got you,” she repeated, quieter.
The panic dimmed.
Not fully. But enough.
His hand stilled.
The tension in his eyes faded.
His breath, though shallow, began to settle under the mask’s whisper. The panic drained out of him like water through cracked stone — not all at once, but enough.
Then, slowly…
He closed his eyes again.
Sleep took him.
Not unconsciousness. Not collapse. Just rest.
She just held his hand — forehead brushing the edge of the bed — and stayed there, unmoving.
Watched the rise of his chest. The faint pulse beneath his skin. Her fingers still pressed to his wrist.
Still.
Day 39 — 13:07
Location: Missione Avançada – Base Dock Return Point
Med Bay – Nightfall - Day 39
Time fractured.
Light dimmed.
Enola didn’t move.
She sat curled on the floor with her back to the cabinet, one leg stretched stiffly, the other drawn up to cradle her broken arm. Her fingers — blistered, reddened, shaking — never left his wrist.
Mycroft didn’t wake.
But he didn’t code again either.
The pulse beneath her hand was slow. Weak. Uneven.
But there.
She didn’t blink.
Didn’t flinch when Wilson sighed from the med shelf: “That fever’s going to take your kidneys offline if you don’t drink something.”
Didn’t argue when John told her to elevate her leg and re-bandage the thigh.
Didn’t respond when Michael crouched next to her and gently reminded her she hadn’t eaten in eighteen hours.
Only House got a flicker of movement — when he stepped between her and the bed and muttered, “The hallucinations are watching you. Bet that’s fun.”
Enola exhaled slowly.
Then went still again.
Med Bay – Dawn - Day 40
The morning arrived unseen.
No windows.
No sun.
But the hum of power returned. A shift in the stale air. The sense that something had changed.
Enola blinked awake in the exact same position.
Her spine screamed. Her shoulder had stiffened to the point of numbness. Her entire body felt soaked in rot and sweat. Her fever had climbed again — 39.5 or more, judging by the tremble in her hands and the metallic taste in her mouth.
She reached blindly for the thermometer.
Didn’t bother reading it.
Wilson said nothing this time.
But his look — arms folded, mouth tight — said everything.
Mycroft coughed in his sleep. Just once.
But it was wet.
Less laboured.
His chest rose easier.
And Enola closed her eyes for half a second — not to rest, not to pray.
Just to mark the data point.
Progress.
Then: more antibiotics.
More IV.
Her hands shook so badly she dropped the bandage tray.
John picked it up for her — or he would have, if he’d been real.
Med Bay – Late Afternoon - Day 42
The worst was over.
For him.
The bruising had faded just slightly along his ribs. His fever had broken — subtly, then completely. His pulse had steadied. Respiration smoother. His chest no longer hitched on every breath.
But he hadn’t opened his eyes again.
Three days now.
Three days since the surgery.
Three days without rest.
Enola sat slumped on the floor beside the cot, her body folded into itself, knees bent beneath her, spine crooked like a rusted hinge. Her head rested lightly against his arm. Her own pulse fluttered — too fast, too thin. Her eyes were glassy. Every few minutes she shifted, just enough to feel the beat under his skin.
Still there.
Still steady.
The ghosts whispered behind her — familiar now. Part of the room. Part of the pattern.
Wilson: “You’re septic, you idiot.”
John: “You need IV fluids yourself.”
Michael: “I can’t carry you both, love.”
House: “Don’t worry. If you die, I’ll get the last word.”
But she didn’t answer.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t even blink when Mycroft’s breathing changed again — a soft exhale, a twitch of his fingers.
She didn’t dare believe it yet.
Not until she saw his eyes.
Not until he said her name again.
Not until she could sleep knowing he’d live.
Instead — she watched.
And kept her fingers on his pulse.
Because that was the promise she’d made.
Notes:
Get ready for the next drop, because it’s not over. We’re only just beginning.
Chapter 50: No Body, No Death
Summary:
Sherlock, Michael, and John reach the storm-devastated island Enola and Mycroft once inhabited. They find the remnants of shelters, tools, and evidence of survival—even a note dated Day 22. The island shows clear signs of habitation and loss, but no bodies. As they search, John discovers two fresh blood traces on the beach. Sherlock uses a custom biometric scanner to confirm both belong to Enola and Mycroft. The team now knows: they survived the storm and left the island alive. The chapter ends with renewed purpose and proof—this is no longer a rescue mission. It’s pursuit.
Notes:
No more signals. No more theories. This is the moment we walk into their ghost story—and start proving they were never ghosts.
Welcome to Day 42. The island talks now. And it bleeds.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 42– 14:41
Location: Unnamed Island
The boat slowed.
Too much silence.
No radio chatter. No shouts. Just the hiss of water against the hull as it cut through debris-stained tide.
Sherlock stood at the bow, staring ahead with a clenched jaw.
John sat beside the pilot, hands locked around his knees.
Michael was already up—shoulders tight, hand resting near his holster even though they weren’t expecting a fight. It wasn’t instinct. It was grief. Wearing a gun felt like remembering her.
The island came into view through the morning mist.
Or what was left of it.
What had once been jungle was now a graveyard of shattered trunks and exposed roots. The shoreline—once hidden beneath green—was a grey scar. Waterlogged. Cracked. Ashen.
The silence wasn’t just unsettling.
It was wrong.
John’s voice broke it.
“That storm…”
Sherlock didn’t reply.
He couldn’t.
He was staring at the bones of a home.
The boat beached with a dull scrape.
They stepped out.
No one spoke as they moved inland.
The first thing they found was a snapped bamboo pole—splintered at the base, half-buried in silt.
Then came the cord.
Salt-bleached. Twisted. Human-made.
Michael crouched, fingers ghosting over it.
“They were here.”
It wasn’t hope in his voice.
It was fact.
Sherlock scanned the area. Too fast. Too focused.
He saw:
The blackened crater of what had once been a fire pit
A scorched patch of earth where tarp had burned away
The collapsed frame of a platform, shattered boards wedged in tree trunks
He stood over it all like a coroner.
“This was a shelter.”
John moved toward a ridge—then stopped, eyes wide.
“Oh my God.”
They followed his gaze.
Half-collapsed against the slope: a wall. Handmade. Tied with vine. Reinforced with bark.
A house.
Or what had been one.
Michael’s jaw locked.
He stepped closer.
Found:
A rusted blade
The bent frame of a medical kit, shattered
A long copper wire — scorched at one end, still curled with intent
He touched it—and recoiled slightly.
Still warm from the sun.
But colder in memory.
Sherlock’s voice was brittle.
“This isn’t old.”
Michael nodded, silent.
Then knelt.
And found something else.
A plastic-sealed slip of paper, wedged beneath debris. He peeled it open.
On it, barely legible:
Day 22 – Water rationing starts. Mycroft stable.
His throat closed.
John stepped behind him.
Read it.
And sat down.
Hard.
“They were alive. They made it past three weeks.”
Sherlock didn’t move. His eyes traced the ruin.
“But not the storm.”
Michael rose.
“You don’t know that.”
Sherlock turned, sharp.
“Look around you. This place was erased.”
“But not before they survived,” Michael snapped.
He held up the note.
“This was protected. On purpose. It wasn’t swept here. It was kept. If they didn’t survive—why is this still here?”
John looked between them.
Saw both truths.
The devastation was absolute.
But so were the signs of life.
Sherlock’s voice cracked—not loud, not weak, just… human.
“If she died here… if he did…”
A pause.
“Would we ever really know?”
Michael looked up at the shattered canopy.
Then whispered:
“They would’ve left something.”
Sherlock exhaled slowly.
“Then we find it.”
For the next four hours, they searched.
They found a snapped platform beam—dark with something old and reddish.
A waterproof bag half-buried, long since emptied.
Two cracked bowls. A broken spear.
A dried flower—pressed beneath a flat stone like someone had tried to preserve something beautiful.
John found a strip of medical tape.
Michael found three nails hammered into a branch — enough to hang cloth or signal.
Sherlock found nothing that bled certainty.
And yet—
The silence was different now.
This wasn’t just an island.
It was a battlefield.
Of will.
Of pain.
Of survival.
John collapsed beside the ruins. Head in his hands.
“They were here. They were real.”
Michael crouched by a patch of disturbed mud.
Picked up a rock.
Then froze.
Sherlock moved toward him. Watched as he overturned it—
And saw it.
Just a faint print.
Three fingers.
A drag.
A crawl.
Alive. After.
Sherlock swallowed.
“They were still moving when it ended.”
17:14
They’d split up hours ago—grid-searching the terrain from the wrecked cliffs down to the soaked rootbeds of the former jungle. Michael combed through the upper ridge, still trying to reconstruct a wind direction. Sherlock traced collapsed structures with surgical precision, looking for patterns in damage that might hide a trapdoor or stash. But nothing had spoken louder than the silence.
Until John reached the shoreline.
He hadn’t expected anything—just driftwood, uprooted coral, and the acidic scent of salt and decay.
But halfway down the beach, something shifted under his boot.
Soft. Wet.
He crouched.
And saw it.
Blood.
Not old.
Not storm-washed.
Not diluted.
Fresh enough that the wind hadn’t dried it completely.
His pulse spiked.
“Sherlock!”
He shouted it so loud the gulls scattered. No answer.
“Michael!”
Still nothing.
He pulled out his phone. Snapped three pictures. Then traced the edges of the pool. Not massive — just enough for someone badly wounded. Enough for someone alive.
There was a second pool two metres away. Smaller. Fainter. A smear dragging toward the tree line.
Footprints? No.
Too much debris.
Too much erosion.
But the blood had stayed.
And that meant someone had bled here — after the storm.
John grabbed his medkit scanner — not for treatment, but analysis. It didn’t carry DNA logs, just type identifiers.
AB negative.
And A positive.
Two donors.
He stared down at it. Gritted his teeth. His breath hitched.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “They made it.”
17:32
Sherlock was the first to reach him.
Michael moments later.
John didn’t move, just pointed down at the sand with a wordless hand.
Sherlock blinked. Stepped closer.
His gaze caught the darker line of the blood against the pale grain. Then the second trail.
Two people.
Still alive—at least recently.
Michael crouched beside it like he was afraid to breathe wrong.
“That’s her. It has to be.”
Sherlock didn’t speak.
Didn’t blink.
Just removed his glove. Reached for the watch on his wrist—the one Enola had given him last Christmas.
He hadn’t taken it off since she vanished.
Not once.
Not even in the shower.
It looked ordinary from the outside—sleek, black, a standard faceplate.
But the back had been custom-built with a micro biometric scanner.
It was the kind of thing she built when she was bored.
And because she knew him.
Now, for the first time, Sherlock twisted the casing, opened the microdock, and keyed the scan mode.
The needle flickered green.
Ready.
He bent down—hands unsteady—pressed the sensor near the congealed edge of the blood.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep—
Match.
“Subject: Holmes, Enola. Match confirmed.”
John swore under his breath.
Sherlock’s hands trembled.
Michael stood frozen.
But the scan wasn’t done.
Sherlock moved to the second patch. Ran the scanner again.
Beep.
Beep—
Match.
“Subject: Holmes, Mycroft. Match confirmed.”
Sherlock staggered back one step.
Michael exhaled like he’d just come up for air after drowning.
John said it first.
“They’re alive.”
The words broke the silence like thunder.
Michael turned, fast, teeth bared in a grin so sharp it hurt.
“They made it through the storm.”
Sherlock sank to his knees.
Didn’t cry.
Didn’t shake.
But for a moment, his whole body stopped fighting.
Because this wasn’t a theory. This wasn’t a hope.
This was evidence.
Blood that should not be here, but was. Blood that meant they were still moving, still trying, still alive.
He looked at the scanner again, hands white-knuckled.
“She bled here.”
Michael nodded. “So did he.”
John crouched beside them, glancing toward the tree line.
“They got out. That’s what this means. They got off the ridge, past the destruction. Maybe inland. Maybe… to another island.”
Michael grinned.
Then punched the air like a soldier announcing a victory.
“I told you. No body, no death.”
Sherlock stared at the watch—now blinking green.
The little screen glowed faintly in his palm.
He could still hear her voice:
“Try not to break it testing explosives.”
And he smiled.
Just a crack.
But real.
“We find them.” he whispered.
Michael tapped his comm.
“Redirect all scouts. We’ve got live trace. Start combing the shorelines. Check drift patterns. They left this island.”
John’s voice broke just slightly as he stood.
“They’re alive.”
Michael stared out at the open water.
Sherlock rose beside him.
The wind hit them like a message.
Somewhere out there, Enola Holmes and Mycroft Holmes were still breathing.
Notes:
After fifty fucking chapters—now they start digging for answers.
Holy shit, I did not expect this fic to go this long.
And no.
It’s not done yet.
Unfortunately for me, I can’t see shit anymore (thanks, dehydration and eye strain), so you’ll have to deal with a few mistakes.
But hey—they’re alive. And we’re finally, finally catching up.
See you in hell.
Or, you know. Chapter 51. 🔥🩸🦴
Chapter 51: Birdsong and Blood
Summary:
A storm-drenched silence settles over the search camp—until something unexpected drops onto the command table. As new coordinates force the team into motion, one final lead changes everything. Meanwhile, deep in the bunker, Enola’s grip on reality fractures beyond repair. When help arrives, it’s too late for reason. What follows is chaos, blood, and a choice no one wanted to make.
Notes:
It’s time.
We’ve hit Day 43, and the ghosts aren’t whispering anymore—they’re screaming.
The search team has coordinates. The bunker has a body count.
It’s no longer a survival story. It’s a recovery mission.
Welcome to the chapter where everything breaks, then bends toward rescue.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 43 – 14:23
Location: Missione Avançada – Temporary Command Tent
The tent was hot.
Too hot.
Sherlock had removed his coat. John had unrolled the map again. Michael paced in tight, sharp arcs—agitated beyond speech.
“If they left the first island,” John muttered, tapping the western quadrant, “and the storm hit that hard, they couldn’t have gone far without a boat.”
“Unless they had one,” Sherlock said, brows furrowed, tracing potential drift paths.
“And built it?”
“They’re Holmeses.”
Michael snorted. Then stopped pacing just long enough to stab a finger toward the upper grid.
“Here. If they followed the reef shelf, then the southern current would’ve taken them this way. But we searched it. Twice.”
“Unless they moved.”
Sherlock flinched.
Because that was the worst part—knowing they were alive, but not knowing where they were now.
The whiteboard was filled with madness: maps, possible routes, bird migration overlays (don’t ask), half-legible notes in multiple languages, and a coffee stain that had been outlined in red as a possible omen by John during a 2am breakdown.
And then—
A bird landed.
Just like that.
Right in the middle of the table.
A frigatebird—sleek, long-winged, grey-black plumage with a hooked beak and an absolutely smug demeanor. Its feathers ruffled slightly, but otherwise, it looked perfectly at home in the middle of a tactical war room.
Sherlock swore.
Michael flinched backward instinctively.
“Shoo!” John waved a folder at it.
It didn’t move.
Just blinked at them. Once. Twice.
Then pecked at the edge of the map—right on quadrant 48-07.
Michael opened his mouth to yell at it.
And then his device pinged.
One ping. One green light.
The room went still.
Sherlock froze.
Michael looked down, very slowly.
His tracker, which had been dormant for nearly two full days, was now glowing green.
“What… what did you do?” John whispered at the bird like it had personally offended reality.
The bird blinked again.
The device pinged a second time.
Coordinates began scrolling across Michael’s screen. Slowly. Precisely. Like someone had programmed them in advance.
48-07-223.
Island designation: Unknown.
Tag line: EH + MH.
Michael screamed.
Actually screamed.
“OH MY FUCKING GOD.”
Sherlock flinched so hard he knocked over a canteen.
John grabbed the table to steady it. “What the hell is happening!?”
Michael spun toward them, half-laughing, half-panicking.
“It’s them! It’s them it’s them it’s them—”
He turned to the bird.
The bird stared back, vaguely insulted.
Sherlock recovered first.
He narrowed his eyes at the animal, voice low and sharp.
“…What are you?”
The device chirped again.
Then the full transmission came through.
Coordinates. Message. Verified.
“Homebase compromised. Second island secure. Medical stable. Waiting. EH.”
The initials hit harder than anything.
Sherlock’s knees almost gave out.
John grabbed his shoulder.
Michael, on the other hand, was tearing through the med-kit and grabbed a scanner.
He pointed it at the bird’s belly.
“Jesus Christ, she implanted a tracker in the bird.”
John reeled.
“She what?”
Michael laughed like a lunatic.
“She made it eat the chip!”
“Are you hearing yourself?!”
“YES! AND SO IS THE WORLD!”
He held the scanner up triumphantly.
“This is real. This is Enola’s bird. She trained it. Programmed it. Stuck a GODDAMN COORDINATE CHIP IN ITS GUTS—AND SENT IT TO US.”
Sherlock had gone pale.
Not weak. Not broken.
Just… stunned.
“The pilot,” he said slowly. “Forty-eight dash—”
Michael whipped his head around.
“Exactly.”
Sherlock exhaled like a man struck in the chest.
John stared at both of them.
“They’re on the second island.”
Michael was already throwing gear in a duffel.
“We’re leaving in twenty minutes. I’m calling the medical helicopter—there’s a medic bay on board. She said they’re injured.”
John’s voice cracked.
“They’re alive.”
Michael paused.
Turned back.
“They’re not just alive.”
He lifted the tracker.
“They’re waiting for us.”
Sherlock closed his hand around the map.
Not shaking anymore.
Focused.
And, for the first time in days—
He smiled.
Just a little.
But it was real.
Notes:
Welp.
They’re finally reunited.
And it’s not good.
I genuinely hope I didn’t disappoint anyone… and that I successfully ripped your soul out in the process.
Because mine?
Mine is gone.See you in the aftermath.
Send eye drops. And snacks.
Chapter 52: The Things That Survive Us
Summary:
After a brutal rescue and narrow escape, Mycroft and Enola are finally on board the evac helicopter. But the reunion is far from peaceful. Enola's mental and physical condition collapses in real time, culminating in a seizure that leaves everyone rattled. Sherlock breaks. Michael anchors. Mycroft whispers the truth. And through it all, they hold on — because there’s nothing else left to do.
Notes:
The helicopter’s up. The ghosts are quiet.
Now all that’s left is to deal with the aftermath.
(No pressure.)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Med Bay – Day 43 – 16:27
Location: Secondary Island – Hidden Bunker Facility
The sedative hit hard.
Enola collapsed in Michael’s arms, her body folding like a marionette with the strings cut.
Her breath slowed. Lashes trembled once, then settled against sweat-paled skin.
Michael held her like glass.
One arm tucked beneath her shoulders, the other anchored across her ribs — steady, grounding. His forehead pressed lightly to the back of her skull, breath warm against her tangled hair.
His voice dropped to a near-whisper — soft murmurs, rhythmic nonsense syllables spoken more for comfort than comprehension.
“You’re alright… I’ve got you… it’s over now… just rest… it’s alright…”
Across the room, Sherlock hadn’t moved.
Still crouched.
Still staring at the space she’d occupied like her absence left a crater.
His breathing shallow. One hand flexed once — then went still.
“Sherlock,” John said gently.
He didn’t reply.
Not until Mycroft stirred — a ragged, half-swallowed sound escaping from deep in his throat.
John was already moving, med kit in hand, snapping on gloves as he approached the bed.
With calm, clinical precision, he peeled back the bloodstained blankets and scanned the injury.
“Oh God. His lung’s reinflated, but poorly. Sutures are improvised… external trauma, scarring—bruising here, like someone tried CPR with their fists.”
He looked back at Sherlock.
“I need your help. Now.”
Sherlock didn’t move. Not right away. Just stood there, like wading through a flood of thought.
“You’re still here,” John said, not unkindly.
“You’ve done everything you can for her. Now help me do the same for him.”
Slowly, Sherlock moved to the other side of the bed.
He exhaled, low and uneven, before letting his gaze fall to Mycroft’s chest.
The skin was grey. Waxen. Breathing thin. His shirt had been half cut open — soaked in iodine, stained with blood old and new.
Sherlock’s fingers hovered over the bruised sternum.
Not touching.
Just trembling.
“She… she did all this?”
John nodded as he adjusted the tubing.
“Yes. She drained the lung. Anchored the line with copper wire. Look at the incision—clean. No hesitation.”
“He’d be dead without it.”
Sherlock blinked.
“She… no. She couldn’t have…”
But even to his own ears, the words rang false.
John didn’t glance up. He was busy checking swelling along the lower ribs.
“She did. Likely used morphine. Everything she needed was already here. This med bay’s old, but stocked. And she’s been managing infection. The wound’s clean. Rebandaged. Probably daily. Even with a fractured arm.”
The door burst open.
Boots stomped through rainwater. Flashlights sliced the dark.
Voices shouted. Orders barked.
The team had arrived.
Two medics rushed to the cot. One clipped oxygen to Mycroft’s face, the other set up vitals.
“Stable for evac,” one confirmed.
“Let’s get him loaded.”
John stepped aside to make room. Sherlock remained frozen.
“Sherlock,” John said again, quieter this time. “We need to check her too.”
But Sherlock didn’t move.
“She shouldn’t have had to do this alone,” he murmured. Not to John. Not to anyone. Just... aloud.
John paused. His voice softened.
“Well… she did.
As alone as someone can be with a ghost for company.”
No one argued.
Because it was true.
Med Bay – Day 43 – 16:32
Location: Secondary Island – Hidden Bunker Facility
“Let’s prep for transport,” one of the medics called, already wheeling in the stretcher — sleek, compact, military-grade. The kind used when time is short and survival uncertain.
They lifted Mycroft with practised care.
He didn’t stir.
Oxygen mask secured. IV feeding into his arm. His head rolled slightly toward Sherlock — but didn’t wake.
Sherlock swallowed once.
Then looked away.
Michael rose slowly, still holding Enola. Her weight didn’t shift. Her face remained slack against his collarbone, lips parted slightly in breath.
She looked carved from wax.
One of the medics stepped forward.
“We can take her.”
Michael didn’t respond.
He only shifted his grip and kept walking — cradling her like something sacred.
They didn’t ask again.
The storm had broken hours ago, but the air outside still reeked of salt, mildew, and burnt jungle.
Bootprints stamped the mud.
Gear bags soaked through.
The undergrowth flattened by wind and flood and boots.
The helicopter waited just beyond the trees, blades beginning their heavy churn.
Floodlights flickered across the clearing in disjointed strobe.
Each flash caught a piece of them:
Mycroft on the stretcher.
Pale. Motionless.
Enola in Michael’s arms.
Blood-slick. Barely breathing.
Sherlock walking behind them.
Eyes blank. Spine straight. Like if he let anything loosen, he’d fall.
John brought up the rear.
Med bag on one shoulder. Grief riding the other.
They were going home.
But it didn’t feel like victory.
In Transit – Above the Pacific, Day 43
Location: Medical Evac Helicopter
The interior of the helicopter felt like a pressure chamber forged from steel and sweat and everything they couldn’t say.
Straps shuddered against vibration.
Blades chopped the sky in violent rhythm.
Oxygen tanks hissed in the corner, slicing through the scent of salt, antiseptic, and scorched survival.
Enola lay across the aisle.
IV line steady. Oxygen mask misting faintly.
Not unconscious — sedated.
For her safety.
For theirs.
Michael sat beside her.
Body curled into a half-shield.
One hand over her ribs.
The other wrapped gently around her wrist.
Silent.
Still.
John crouched at the second cot — Mycroft’s. His movements fluid, precise, calm under fire.
Vital signs. Strap adjustment. Reflex check.
The monitor beeped steady.
But Mycroft’s face didn’t match.
Then—
A twitch.
The faintest tremor in one hand.
John straightened instantly.
“Sherlock. He’s waking.”
Sherlock was there in two steps — crouching low, too fast, too close.
His hands hovered like they wanted to touch but couldn’t risk it.
“Mycroft.”
The name cracked on his tongue.
“Can you hear me?”
Mycroft’s eyes opened slowly.
Fogged. Straining.
He blinked up at the ceiling light.
“…Then this isn’t Hell,” he rasped.
Sherlock let out a breath — rough, strangled, half a laugh.
“No. Not yet.”
John gave a curt nod.
“Orientation, Sherlock. Run it.”
But Sherlock didn’t move away.
He just reached forward.
And took his brother’s hand.
Mycroft flinched.
“Where is she?”
“She’s here.”
Sherlock’s voice was tight.
“Alive. Sedated. Stable. She’s here.”
That wasn’t enough.
Mycroft tried to sit up. Failed.
“I need—”
“She made it,” Sherlock said, firmer now.
“You both did.”
At that, Mycroft went still.
His chest hitched — a breath, a flinch, a sob he didn’t let become either.
“I heard her scream,” he muttered.
“Thought we were dying.”
“You almost did,” John said.
“Both of you. But not today.”
Silence settled in.
Then Mycroft turned his head, eyes half-focused.
“You got the bird?”
Sherlock huffed.
“Eventually.”
“She said it would work.”
“It did. Eventually.”
“I left a record,” Mycroft said.
“In the mud. On the wall. Thought you’d want to know how many days she kept us alive.”
“We found it,” Sherlock said.
“We saw the shelter. The wire. The blood.”
Michael finally spoke.
“The ration log. The raft. We know what she did.”
Mycroft blinked toward him.
Eyes glassy but sharpening.
“She saved me.”
Michael’s throat bobbed.
“I know.”
Sherlock was still gripping Mycroft’s hand like a rope in a flood.
“I should’ve gotten there sooner.”
Mycroft didn’t contradict him.
Didn’t forgive him either.
He just said:
“She waited for you.”
Sherlock’s eyes flickered.
Jaw clenched.
Then, softly:
“What do you remember last?”
Mycroft answered without hesitation.
“Her hand.”
Sherlock frowned.
“What?”
Mycroft’s gaze didn’t waver.
“On my pulse. She held it. She wouldn’t let go.”
Michael’s voice broke the silence, quiet but unshakable.
“She was still holding it when we found her.”
“I know,” Mycroft whispered.
Sherlock’s voice came smaller this time.
Less Holmes. More brother.
“Why?”
Mycroft’s answer was blunt. True.
“She thought I was dead.”
The cabin went still again.
The weight of it — the survival, the suffering, the cost — crushed the space like gravity.
John’s voice, soft and clinical, sliced through the silence.
“Anything else?”
Mycroft’s eyes moved — slow and deliberate — locking on Sherlock.
“You came.”
“We never stopped,” Sherlock said.
And finally, Mycroft let his head fall back against the stretcher.
His voice came soft. Barely audible.
“Don’t tell her I said thank you.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“Why not?”
“She’ll never let me live it down.”
For the first time in what felt like hours, Sherlock smiled.
Just a little.
“Vitals holding. ETA nine minutes. Prep landing gear,” the pilot’s voice crackled through comms.
None of them answered.
Not yet.
Sherlock looked down — his and Mycroft’s hands still locked together.
Knuckles white.
Palms slick with shared adrenaline.
The wind battered the hull.
The blades above thundered like a clock counting down.
Nine minutes.
Mycroft turned his eyes to the dim overhead panel, blinking slow and hard.
“…We’re actually going to make it.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was a declaration. A ward against fate.
Sherlock nodded — one, tight motion — but Mycroft kept staring at the ceiling.
Like it might fall at any moment.
Then — something shifted.
Not the cabin.
Her.
Across the aisle, Enola twitched.
Michael noticed first.
His posture straightened. Eyes narrowing.
“Shoulder just spasmed.”
John’s head snapped around.
“Michael?”
“Neck tremor. Pulse spike.”
Mycroft turned his face sharply, trying to rise again.
“She’s sedated,” Sherlock said, confused. “She can’t—”
Enola’s fingers curled.
Not like sleep. Not like dreams.
Like a system locking from the inside out.
Michael was already moving.
“Spasm climbing. Full body tremor incoming.”
John was across the cabin in two strides.
“Okay. Everyone hold. No sudden movements.”
Sherlock didn’t move.
He couldn’t.
Enola’s leg jerked.
Then the other.
A soft click of her teeth.
A tremor crawled across her jaw.
“She’s seizing,” Michael confirmed, unclipping the oxygen mask. “Prep for convulsion. Now.”
“No—” Mycroft whispered.
“Febrile seizure,” John snapped. “Fever spike tipped her system. She’s crashing.”
“She was stabilizing—” Sherlock muttered.
“She was. Now she isn’t,” John cut him off.
The seizure slammed into her like a tidal wave.
Her spine arched. Her arms locked. Eyes rolled back. Foam slicked her lips.
The IV line yanked taut as her body writhed against the restraints.
Sherlock froze.
His breath stopped.
He couldn’t move.
“Sherlock,” John barked. “Hold your brother. Do not move.”
But Sherlock was already locked — unmoving — watching her fall apart.
Michael had cut the straps. He was holding her jaw gently between both hands.
“Secure the line—tongue’s clear—forty seconds in.”
“Diazepam,” John snapped. “One millilitre. Now.”
“Breath rate?”
“Still there. Shallow. Weak.”
Enola convulsed again — harder this time.
The cot shook.
Her heels pounded the metal frame.
Mycroft turned into Sherlock’s shoulder — not collapsing, not crying.
Just bracing.
“She was fine—she was fine—”
“She’s been septic for days,” John ground out. “Morphine. Fever. This happens.”
Sherlock still hadn’t let go of Mycroft’s hand.
He couldn’t.
He just stared.
Enola — cold, brilliant, terrifying Enola — was seizing in front of him.
Teeth clattering.
Ribs heaving.
Limbs spasming like a broken machine.
“No,” Sherlock whispered.
“Sherlock—”
“No.”
“She’s not dying,” Michael said, firm and clear. “She’s seizing. It ends. Then we stabilize.”
But Sherlock wasn’t hearing them anymore.
His eyes were fixed.
His fingers white-knuckled around Mycroft’s hand.
The seizure peaked.
One final brutal arc.
Then stillness.
The whole cabin went silent.
Even the wind outside felt muffled.
Then — a twitch.
A breath.
A low choking gasp.
Enola collapsed back into Michael’s arms.
John leaned in.
“Heart’s good. Breath shallow, but consistent.”
Michael exhaled through his teeth.
“Told you.”
Sherlock still hadn’t blinked.
He couldn’t feel his legs.
Couldn’t speak.
“…Is she—”
“Alive,” John confirmed. “Postictal. Give her a minute.”
Mycroft turned his head to the wall, hand still gripping the rail.
Tears clung stubbornly to the corners of his eyes.
He didn’t cry.
But he couldn’t un-hear it.
The sound of her body failing.
Sherlock finally turned to him.
“She’s not dying.”
“No,” Mycroft rasped.
“But she looked like she was.”
The quiet that followed wasn’t silence.
It was weight.
Sherlock leaned forward — forehead pressing against his brother’s temple.
Their hands still locked.
Neither of them spoke.
But both of them watched her.
Eyes wide.
Breathing light.
ETA: six minutes.
No one said a word.
Notes:
Welp.
They’re finally in the air. Reunited. Safe(ish).
And it’s already falling apart.
Seriously — we’re at Chapter 50-something, and only now are we digging into the trauma recovery arc??
I didn’t mean to write a novel. But here we are.
Hope you’re as destroyed as I am.
See you next chapter.
Chapter 53: The Price of Breathing
Summary:
The surgery is over—but nothing feels resolved. Mycroft stabilizes, thanks to a field operation no one thought was possible. Enola, however, remains critical. The infection in her leg is worse than feared. As doctors warn of amputation, the three men left outside—Sherlock, John, and Michael—grapple with the truth of what she endured to keep Mycroft alive. Her survival isn't just medical now. It's personal. It's the price of everything they never said in time.
Notes:
This is the part no one talks about.
The surgery ends. The questions begin.
And the cost finally comes due.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Recovery Wing – Makua Bay Regional Hospital, Pacific Island Chain
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering just enough to feel intentional, like they were part of the punishment. The linoleum floor stank of antiseptic and mildew. Somewhere behind the wall, a fan ticked unevenly, blades scraping the edge of rusted metal.
They’d cleared the emergency triage wing for them.
Two stretchers had gone in.
Neither had come out.
Sherlock Holmes was pacing.
Not with purpose. Not even with frustration. Just… moving. Like stillness would break him. His coat was gone. His curls damp with salt and sweat. Every third step, his fists clenched and released as if syncing to some invisible rhythm.
Michael sat hunched in a plastic chair, one foot tapping a slow, syncopated beat against the frame. His shirt was still soaked with Enola’s sweat. His wrist was speckled with blood from where her IV tore free during the seizure. He hadn’t spoken since they landed.
John leaned against the wall between them — the steady point of a storm still unraveling.
“Pacing won’t make the surgery go faster,” he said for the third time, gentle.
Sherlock didn’t respond.
Just pivoted mid-stride and walked the same twelve tiles again. And again.
Michael’s voice broke first. Raw. “You saw her. When you got there.”
John nodded. Slowly.
“Was it really that bad?”
John paused — not for lack of answers, but too many.
“She was alive,” he said. “But only just. The fever was brutal. Vitals collapsing. And she still fought us. Called us fakes.”
Sherlock flinched.
“She wouldn’t let us near Mycroft,” John added, quieter. “Not until we sedated her.”
Michael’s jaw tightened. “She’s been alone in her head too long.”
Sherlock’s voice was low, almost a whisper. “Not alone.”
Michael looked up sharply.
“She wasn’t hallucinating strangers,” Sherlock said. “She was hallucinating us.”
John’s brow furrowed.
“She fought because we were the ones she couldn’t trust to be real.”
The silence that followed thickened like fog.
Michael’s knee bounced once, twice.
John crossed his arms. Exhaled hard. “It doesn’t matter now. She’s in surgery. So is Mycroft. We got them here. That counts.”
“We don’t know how much time she bought them,” Sherlock snapped. “We don’t even know how much damage she took on herself.”
“We know she drained his lung,” John countered. “Primitive setup, but effective. Tubing. Wire. Morphine. She didn’t just try to save him. She did.”
Sherlock nodded faintly. “One arm broken. The other stitched shut.”
John didn’t argue. He didn’t have to.
Michael leaned forward, elbows on knees. “And she would've died beside him. No hesitation.”
“They were holding each other when we found them,” John confirmed.
Sherlock froze mid-step.
“He was unconscious,” Michael said. “She was cradling him. Like if she let go, he’d vanish.”
Sherlock collapsed into a chair. Quiet. Abrupt.
John crouched in front of him. “She pushed past every line. But she’s not invincible.”
“Did she say anything before the sedation?” John asked gently. “Anything strange?”
Sherlock shook his head. “Just kept calling me fake.”
Michael finally looked up, eyes glassy but locked. “She didn’t plan to survive.”
Neither John nor Sherlock spoke.
“She built the raft. Sailed broken. Carried him. Set up a med bay. Long enough for a bird to reach us.” He looked down. “That’s not a rescue plan. That’s a goodbye.”
Before anyone could respond, the red light above OR 2 flicked off.
All three men stood at once.
The door opened seconds later.
A surgeon stepped out — tall, lined, blood-specked scrubs. His eyes had seen war.
He exhaled. Lowered his mask. Glanced at them.
“Mycroft Holmes?”
They all nodded.
“He’s stable.”
Three exhales filled the corridor. None were relief. Just… release.
“Vitals are holding,” the doctor continued. “Better than we expected. Lung expansion’s resumed. Oxygen uptake improving. Sutures are intact.”
Michael’s voice cut in. “The lung?”
“Pulmonary contusion. Multiple fractured ribs. One splintered inward and pierced the left lung — caused a hemothorax and pneumothorax. He was suffocating slowly.”
Sherlock’s voice was hoarse. “But you repaired it.”
The surgeon shook his head. “Didn’t have to.”
The silence snapped like a tension wire.
“Your report suggested field drainage. That wasn’t what we found.” He checked the chart. “The cavity had already been opened. Rib fragment removed. Bleeding controlled with… a pressure-tension balloon. Not textbook. But it held.”
John’s voice dropped. “Jesus.”
Sherlock’s face drained of colour. “She… cut into his chest?”
“Performed a thoracotomy. Non-standard incision, but accurate. No nerve damage. No ragged edges. Pleura stabilized with an external anchor.” The doctor looked up. “She even retracted the ribs. Manually. No spreader. Morphine only.”
He flipped the chart again. “Residual antibiotics present. Likely rinsed post-op. Field tube drainage earlier. Tissue flushed, packed. She controlled the infection. Under impossible conditions.”
John dropped into the nearest chair.
Sherlock stood frozen.
“We just reinforced the closure. Cleaned. Sutured over. But the hard part?” The surgeon’s voice dropped. “That girl saved his life.”
“How?” Sherlock whispered.
The doctor blinked. “I was hoping you’d tell me.”
He paused. Flipped to a final page.
“The leg is splinted. Pneumonia’s retreating. Fever’s coming down. Ribs will mend. Burns were superficial. He's weak — but recovery is expected.”
Another silence.
Then the doctor looked at Michael. “She’s still in OR 1?”
Michael nodded.
“Then go. Wait there. If her surgeon needs anything, you let us know.”
He walked away.
And none of them sat.
The door to OR 2 clicked shut behind the surgeon.
No one moved.
Sherlock stood like a man still falling, unaware the ground had already hit. Michael was leaning against the far wall, hands clenched behind his back, jaw locked. John just stared at the floor, as if the tiles might offer more clarity than the facts in his head.
It was John who broke the silence.
“She performed a thoracotomy.”
Not a question.
Not even awe.
Just truth. Heavy and brutal.
Sherlock blinked once. “Yes. We heard that.”
“No, Sherlock. You don’t get it.” John looked up, voice rising—not in volume, but intensity. “She opened his chest cavity. Alone. No surgical suite. No sterile field. No retractors. No ventilator. No suction. Not even proper light. She sliced through her own brother’s ribcage—and kept him alive.”
Sherlock didn’t flinch.
But his hands curled tighter in his lap.
“That’s not battlefield triage,” John said. “That’s trauma theatre under fire. That’s something we don’t even let fifth-year trauma surgeons do without supervision.”
Michael’s voice came quietly. “She’s done worse.”
Sherlock turned to him.
Michael shrugged once. “Different wounds. Different stakes. Same instinct. She’s wired to fix what’s dying—even if it kills her.”
John didn’t argue. Just muttered, “That’s not instinct. That’s insanity.”
Michael’s lips twitched faintly. “And she’s brilliant at it.”
Sherlock sank back into his chair, spine slumped, face grey. “She was hallucinating. When we got there.”
“And she still did it,” John said, sharp. “With a broken arm.”
The silence wasn’t reverent.
It was shattered.
Michael leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. “She’s going to be pissed when she wakes up and finds out she didn’t die.”
John let out one sharp breath—almost a laugh—but nothing followed.
Sherlock stared at the OR 1 door.
“She’s been in there too long.”
“It’s been four hours,” John said, gentle.
Sherlock shook his head. “Already too long.”
Three Hours Later
They’d migrated from chair to wall to chair again. None of them had left the corridor.
Sherlock no longer paced. He sat perfectly still, but everything in him vibrated with tension. Michael hadn’t slept. Not even blinked too long. John had dozed for minutes at most, waking in a cold sweat every time.
And then, without warning, the red light above OR 1 went dark.
Michael was upright instantly.
John followed, his body stiff with dread. Sherlock didn’t move until the door itself shifted—and even then, it was like something inside pushed him forward.
A woman stepped out.
Navy scrubs. No clipboard. No soft expressions.
Just clean gloves, tired eyes, and authority etched into every line of her face.
She looked at them like a judgment waiting to be passed.
“She’s alive.”
Michael inhaled sharply.
Sherlock didn’t exhale at all.
The surgeon continued. “She’s stable. Airway clear. Bleeding controlled. We closed three deep lacerations—layered sutures, muscle involvement. The fractured arm’s been plated. Several smaller wounds cleaned and sealed. She’ll survive this surgery.”
Still, no one moved.
But her face didn’t soften.
“There’s an infection.” Her tone sharpened. “Deep. In the right thigh. Old scar tissue. Burn marks. Cauterization. Field stitching with copper wire. It’s been reopened—repeatedly. And partially debrided by hand. There’s necrosis. Pockets of it. Swelling near critical levels.”
Sherlock’s voice cracked. “What does that mean?”
John answered. “Compartment syndrome.”
The doctor nodded. “If it spreads, it will kill the muscle—and could cut off circulation to the rest of the limb. We cleaned what we could. Started her on IV antibiotics. But if she doesn’t respond in the next 24 to 48 hours…” She looked straight at Michael.
“We’ll have to consider amputation. Above the knee.”
The silence was total.
Michael stepped forward. Slow. Controlled. Lethal.
“No.”
The surgeon didn’t blink. “We don’t want that either. But if sepsis sets in—”
“You’re not taking her leg.”
“Then help me keep her stable.” Her voice sharpened. “Because we’re out of moves. If her blood pressure drops, or her fever spikes again, there will not be time to argue.”
Sherlock sat down hard. His hands shook.
John caught himself on the wall. “Are we sure it’s that bad?”
“You didn’t see it,” the doctor replied. “She’s not just infected. She’s mutilated that leg over and over to keep it functioning. She cauterised, reopened, scraped out tissue—and then kept moving.”
No one spoke.
Michael whispered, “It was her.”
“What?”
“She did it to herself. To save him.”
The doctor stared at him.
No one elaborated.
Sherlock buried his head in his hands.
John swallowed air that wouldn’t stick. “We need options. Any alternative.”
“There are none,” the doctor said, lower now. “But if she starts to respond—if the antibiotics hold, and the swelling decreases—we’ll know within twelve hours.”
John’s voice cracked. “And if not?”
She didn’t answer.
“Can we see her?” Sherlock asked quietly.
“Not yet. She’s still under. Once she’s in recovery, one of you can sit with her.”
She turned and walked away.
The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful.
It was grief holding its breath.
Michael’s pacing returned. This time sharp. Measured. Angry.
Sherlock stared at nothing.
John rubbed at his face.
“She carried him with that leg.”
“She built the raft,” Sherlock whispered. “Rowed. Dragged him. Cut him open. And never said a word about herself.”
Michael turned toward the far wall like it had personally insulted her.
“She did all of that on a dying leg. Carried him. Crawled through coral. Crawled through fire. She rowed with a shattered arm and that leg.” His voice dropped, shaking. “That leg is hers. Don’t ask me to choose between her story and her survival. She already chose.”
John’s voice stayed quiet. “We have to be ready. If she crashes, we may not have a choice.”
“Then we fight it. Every second. Every drop. But we don’t cut it off unless she says so. Herself.”
Sherlock still hadn’t moved.
Hadn’t blinked.
Just sat there with his hands curled in his lap, jaw locked like it was the only thing holding him together.
John looked over.
“You know I wouldn’t bring this up unless it was real.”
Michael stepped forward again. “We don’t cut it. Not tonight. Not without her word.”
John turned to Sherlock. Quiet now.
Because no matter what they thought—
No matter what Michael had seen, or what John knew—
The choice wasn’t theirs.
It was Sherlock’s.
The brother.
The anchor.
The only one who hadn’t spoken.
Until now.
His voice was hoarse. Guttural.
“No decisions tonight.”
Michael blinked.
Sherlock looked up, eyes rimmed red but unshaking.
“We wait. We give her time.”
“And if she doesn’t—” John began.
“She will.”
Sherlock’s fists curled tighter.
“She has to.”
Notes:
So… yeah.
Thoracotomy. Necrosis. Threat of amputation.
I warned you recovery wouldn’t be clean.
No, we’re not done.
No, she’s not out of danger.
And yes—Sherlock finally said “no.”God help us all.
See you next chapter. 🩸🛌🔥
Chapter 54: The Discharge Directive
Summary:
Enola wakes. Mycroft learns the truth. The threat of amputation hangs heavy in the air, but Enola has no intention of letting anyone else decide her survival strategy. Against medical advice and every logical protest, she discharges herself from the hospital, dragging her broken body toward a future she intends to own—even if it kills her. Again.
Notes:
It’s time, folks.
Enola wakes up—and nobody’s ready for what comes next.
Least of all the hospital.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Makua Bay Regional – Recovery Ward – 09:52 AM
Room 3 – Mycroft Holmes
Sherlock lingered in the doorway longer than necessary.
Mycroft was awake—pale, sunken, but lucid—propped against a pillow with oxygen tubing in his nose and tape lining both forearms. He looked like hell. But also—irritatingly composed, as if trying to hold court from a hospital bed.
He noticed Sherlock’s silhouette, gave a dry, brittle smile.
“I assume this is the part where you tell me it wasn’t as bad as it looked.”
Sherlock stepped inside without returning the smile.
“No. It was worse.”
He sat beside the bed. Didn’t touch anything. Just watched.
Mycroft’s brow pulled slightly.
“Where is she?”
“She’s alive.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Sherlock’s tone didn’t change.
“She’s unconscious. Post-op. Stable—for now.”
Mycroft stared at him for a moment, then leaned back slowly into the pillow.
“What happened?”
Sherlock hesitated. Brief, sharp. Then—
“She performed the surgery.”
Mycroft blinked. “The—what?”
“She cut you open. Removed a rib. Tied off the laceration in your lung using a balloon-tie knot.”
Silence. Stunned. Solid.
“She saved your life.”
Mycroft’s lips parted, then closed again. His throat moved once. A hard swallow.
“She told me… she drained it. Said it was just a tube.”
“She lied.” No judgment in the words. Just fact.
“You were dying. She knew it. So she did what she had to.”
Mycroft closed his eyes. “Jesus.”
Sherlock exhaled. Then quietly—
“That’s not the worst of it.”
Mycroft looked at him sharply.
Sherlock’s tone flattened. “Her leg is necrotic. The wound from the crash—it never healed. Old cauterisation. Reopened sutures. Wire stitching. Infection’s deep.”
“…How bad.”
“They’ve tried everything. But if she doesn’t respond—”
“How bad, Sherlock.” His voice cracked.
Sherlock met his gaze without blinking.
“They’re talking about amputation.”
The room didn’t fall silent.
It shattered.
Mycroft froze, as if the sentence had struck bone. It took him a moment before he could speak again.
“After everything she did?”
Sherlock didn’t answer.
Mycroft’s voice dropped, raw.
“She carried me. Up hills. Through rivers. Across cliffs. Through a tsunami. Two islands. She dragged my broken body—on that leg.”
“She did.”
“And now they want to cut it off?”
Sherlock’s jaw tightened.
“If the infection spreads again—if she goes septic—yes.”
“No.”
“Mycroft—”
“No,” he snapped. “That leg is why we’re alive. It fought for us. You don’t repay that by cutting it off the first time it frightens you.”
“She might die if we don’t.”
“And she might never come back if we do.”
Sherlock stilled.
“I would’ve signed the paper,” Mycroft said quietly. “Yesterday. Before I knew. I would’ve done it.” He looked down at the blanket. His fingers twitched slightly.
“But not now.”
Sherlock exhaled slowly. “She wouldn’t want it. She’d never forgive us.”
“She shouldn’t,” Mycroft whispered. “Not if we let them do it.”
A long beat passed.
Then Sherlock, almost reluctant:
“They’re waiting on me. To make the call.”
Mycroft’s eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
“Because I’m the only one she doesn’t scare.”
That earned a cracked, half-laugh.
“She should. You’re the easiest target.”
Sherlock smirked faintly. “I’m not making the call.”
“Good,” Mycroft said. “Because if it comes down to that—we wake her up. And she decides.”
Their eyes locked.
And for once—they agreed.
Makua Bay Regional – ICU Recovery Room – 12:14 PM
Day 47
The beeping changed first.
Not loud. Just a flutter in rhythm. A stutter of pressure in the pulse feed.
John noticed it before the machines did.
His hand hovered over the oxygen valve as Enola’s eyelids twitched. Then fluttered. Then opened.
Not wide. Not in shock.
Just enough to remind the world she was still here.
“Enola,” he said gently. “You’re safe. You’re in hospital. Just take a minute.”
Her eyes moved first. A slow, mechanical sweep—clinical, not confused. Ceiling. Fluorescents. IV stand.
Her fingers flexed once beneath the blanket.
Then her voice—barely gravel:
“Where is he?”
John smiled.
“Alive. Stable. Talking. And, frankly, annoying. You did it.”
Enola exhaled. Her eyes drifted shut, just for a second.
“Good.”
Michael was already there.
He didn’t touch her. Not yet. Just dropped to his knees beside the bed, meeting her at eye level.
“You’ve been unconscious for almost thirty hours,” he said softly. “They gave you a central line. You lost a lot of blood during the surgery.”
Her gaze slid downward—bandaged thigh, elevated slightly. She already knew.
“…How bad.”
Silence.
She looked at Michael.
“Tell me.”
He hesitated.
John stepped in.
“We stopped the spread. For now. But the necrosis was deep. Layered. Your body’s holding—but just.”
The door opened. Sherlock entered. Hands clenched.
John’s voice lowered.
“If it starts again—”
“Amputation?” Enola cut in.
Silence answered.
She turned to Sherlock, slow and deliberate.
“You too?”
His voice was tight.
“You nearly died.”
“And now you want to take my leg?” Her tone: flat. Surgical.
From the foot of the bed, the attending surgeon spoke.
“We’re trying to save your life. The infection is deeper than we can contain. Your body’s burning itself out. The leg is becoming toxic.”
Enola didn’t look at him. She stared at the ceiling.
“I can walk.”
“Not for long.”
“Then cut more muscle. Strip it out. Debride everything. Leave the bone. I don’t care.”
The surgeon shook his head.
“We’ve already done two rounds. What you’re asking is barbaric.”
Enola turned her face toward him. Voice like a scalpel.
“So is cutting off my limb while I’m unconscious. What’s your point?”
“It won’t work.”
“Because it’s hard? Or because you’re not used to people telling you no?”
Michael’s voice was calm.
“She knows what she’s saying.”
The doctor’s brow furrowed.
“Yes. And it’s still suicidal.”
Michael glanced at her.
“She’s Enola Holmes. That’s not new.”
John cleared his throat.
“If we do what she wants… healing will be limited. Function might not return. She’d need hardware. Pain will be constant.”
“Then get a saw,” Enola muttered. “And I’ll do it myself.”
“Don’t joke,” Sherlock snapped.
“I’m not.” Her voice had no temperature.
“Unless you want me to try it with copper wire again. Third time’s the charm.”
Michael’s lips twitched—not a smile, but close. Almost.
The surgeon looked at John. Then Sherlock. Searching for backup.
But Enola shifted.
Sat up with a groan.
“If you’re not going to do it, then I’ll leave.”
“You’re not leaving,” the doctor said.
“I’m not staying.”
“You’re still on IV antibiotics.”
“Then take them out.”
“You’re on oxygen.”
“I’m breathing, aren’t I?”
John stepped forward.
“Enola—”
“I’m not negotiating.”
Her legs swung over the side of the bed. Pain twisted her face—raw and immediate—but she moved anyway.
“Where’s the discharge form?”
Sherlock was at her side in an instant.
“You’re delirious.”
“I’m awake. More than I was when I rebuilt Mycroft’s thoracic cavity with dental floss and nerve.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“I’m being precise.”
Michael moved beside her, hands gentle on her waist, steadying her as she fought gravity.
The surgeon tried again.
“You can’t walk.”
“Then crawl.”
Sherlock snapped.
“For once in your life, let someone help you!”
Enola turned her head. Slowly.
Her voice sliced deep.
“Help? Like when I screamed in that bunker and no one came? Or maybe when I had to suture my own leg with wire while hallucinating ghosts?”
Sherlock faltered.
So did John.
Only Michael stayed still, hands never wavering.
The doctor made one final attempt.
“You’ll be signing your life away—”
“I’ve already done that.”
She reached for the pen.
“Give it to me.”
And to their horror—she meant it.
Makua Bay Regional – Discharge Desk – 14:01 PM
Day 47
The hospital hallway reeked of overcooked soup and antiseptic failure.
Enola sat—barely—on the edge of a wheeled chair that some well-meaning nurse had insisted on. Her IV was gone. Her leg was elevated and wrapped in fresh bandages, taut beneath layers of gauze and tape. A bottle of oral antibiotics sat in her lap like a party favour nobody wanted.
Michael returned from down the hall with a canvas bag.
He didn’t say a word as he dropped it into her lap.
Inside: black combat trousers, a faded grey T-shirt from a disbanded ghost unit, thick socks, and a hoodie that still smelled faintly of his aftershave.
Enola blinked once.
“That’s either love,” she murmured, “or premeditated escape.”
Michael smirked.
“I figured if you’re going to rupture your stitches, you might as well look good doing it.”
She didn’t smile—but the corner of her mouth twitched.
Sherlock stood behind her, arms crossed, jaw set like flint.
John sat by the nurses’ station, pinching the bridge of his nose like it owed him money.
“Last chance,” John said flatly. “You sign that form, you’re out. No readmit. No legal coverage. You spike a fever in three hours, they’ll treat you as a walk-in. Not a patient.”
“I won’t spike a fever,” Enola replied, rummaging through the bag with one hand, the other braced against her thigh as she winced.
“I’ve outlived two of your projections already. I’m due a streak.”
Sherlock’s tone was brittle.
“Enola. Stop this.”
“Why?” She pulled out the hoodie. “So I can lie here while they amputate what’s left of me? I’ve had better hospitality in Afghan field camps. And at least they had espresso.”
“They saved your life.”
“No,” she corrected. “I saved my life. They just tried to schedule follow-up murder.”
John stood up, exasperated.
“Enola—please. You don’t even trust your own vitals right now.”
“Of course I don’t. Did you see this place? The monitors beep on delay. Someone used gauze tape on the defibrillator. I asked for lidocaine—they gave me clove oil.”
Michael winced.
“That one’s on me. I asked for antiseptic—they handed me mouthwash.”
Sherlock exhaled sharply through his nose.
Like a volcano doing its best to be polite.
“And where, exactly, do you think you’ll go?” he snapped. “Back into the jungle? Another bunker?”
Enola pulled the elastic band from her wrist with her teeth.
“Somewhere with actual physicians. A trauma specialist. A reconstructive surgeon. Hell—Michael would be better than this.”
John’s voice finally cracked.
“I am a doctor.”
She didn’t look up.
“You’re a field doctor.”
John froze.
“A good one,” she added.
“Trustworthy. Steady hands. You’ve kept people breathing through gunfire and dust storms. But you’re not the one who’s going to rebuild me.”
The silence that followed wasn’t angry.
It was honest.
Then Michael, gently—
“She’s right.”
Sherlock’s eyes slid shut.
John ran a hand through his hair.
“I’ll make calls. If you let me—”
“Let me go,” she said softly. “Then we’ll talk.”
The nurse returned with the clipboard.
Enola took the pen. Steadied it in her hand.
And signed.
Sherlock didn’t stop her.
Not this time.
Makua Bay Regional – Discharge Corridor – 14:17 PM
Day 47
Sherlock followed two steps behind her, as if deciding whether to argue or catch her if she collapsed.
Enola was halfway into the hoodie, the sleeve dragging awkwardly over the bruised IV site. Her leg was braced tight and stiff, but she was on her feet—or close enough. Limping. Focused. Teeth grit. The discharge form was folded in her hand like a declaration of war.
Michael had the duffel slung over one shoulder, already scrolling through his contacts.
Sherlock finally broke.
“What exactly is the plan here?”
Enola didn’t slow.
“Depends. Is Mycroft still technically the British government?”
He blinked.
“Why is that relevant?”
“Answer the question.”
He hesitated, then admitted:
“They declared you both dead. Officially. State ceremony. Death certificates.”
“Of course they did.”
“And what, precisely, does that matter now?” Sherlock demanded.
She didn’t answer him. She turned to Michael.
“I need a plane.”
Michael didn’t miss a beat.
“On it.” He stepped away, already on the line.
Sherlock’s voice sharpened.
“This is madness. You’re not even fully out of sepsis. You can’t travel.”
“Watch me.”
“Where are you going? What do you want?”
“To see Mycroft.”
“You’ll see him in his room—”
“Not like this.” She gestured vaguely at the flaking ceiling.
“If I’m going to have the most desperate limb salvage attempt in modern medical history, it’s going to be somewhere with coffee and a helipad. Not a vending machine with expired trail mix.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“No,” she said, pulling the hoodie over her hips, face drawn with pain.
“I’m being accurate.”
Michael returned, phone pressed to his ear.
“Lukas says we can have the jet by 18:00. Diplomatic retrieval. Just need clearance.”
“Good.” Enola reached into the bag for her boots.
Sherlock stared, blinking.
“What is happening—”
“Did you call Mum and Dad?”
“…What?”
She shot him a flat look.
“We’re not dead, Sherlock. Or hadn’t you noticed?”
“I was going to wait,” he muttered. “Until I was sure you’d survive.”
She stared at him for a full second. Then—
“Call them, you moron.”
“They’ll have questions.”
“They’ll have a stroke if you don’t.”
She bent slightly to adjust her hoodie, lips tightening as pain spiked through her torso.
Her face was bone-pale, but focused. Ice behind the eyes.
“I want to see him,” she said quietly. “Before we go.”
Sherlock gave a short nod and pointed toward the nurse’s station.
“They’re prepping for afternoon vitals. He should be awake.”
Michael offered her his hand.
She didn’t take it.
But she let him walk beside her.
Sherlock followed—still stunned, still half-processing.
And somewhere down the corridor, a stunned intern whispered,
“Who is that woman?”
John, still slumped at the nurses’ desk, eyes closed and headache worsening, didn’t lift his head.
He just muttered,
“The apocalypse. Dressed in combat boots.”
Notes:
She woke up. She walked out. She’s not done yet.
And yes, Michael brought her clothes because he knows her better than anyone.
See you next chapter.
Chapter 55: A Body in Motion Stays in Motion
Summary:
Enola discharges herself against medical advice. Mycroft refuses to be left behind. The Holmes siblings board a private medical jet, held together by stitches, defiance, and a plan no one truly understands but them. As they lift off, trauma simmers beneath composure, but neither sibling will admit it. And so begins their flight—into London, into reconstruction, and into the aftermath of everything they refused to die from.
Notes:
They’re back.
They’re upright.
They’re pissed.
And no one can stop them.Godspeed to the cabin crew.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Makua Bay Regional – Recovery Ward – Room 3
14:42 PM
Day 47
The door clicked open.
Softly. No grand entrance. No dramatic flair.
But Mycroft looked up like the air had changed. Like the light hit differently.
Enola stood in the doorway.
One hand braced against the frame. The other clutching the discharge clipboard like a warning. Her hoodie hung loose over one shoulder. Her leg brace peeked out beneath military-issue trousers. The IV site on her arm was still taped. Her skin was pale and clammy.
But her eyes—
Her eyes were sharp.
He exhaled—too fast, too hard—and tried to sit up straighter.
“You’re not supposed to be up.”
“You’re not supposed to be alive,” she said dryly. “Yet here we are.”
She stepped inside.
It wasn’t graceful. Every movement cost her. But she walked—unaided—across the room and dropped into the chair beside his bed like she’d claimed it from fate itself.
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
Mycroft’s gaze drifted to her leg. To the stiff brace. To the exhausted tremble in her fingers.
She noticed.
“No, they’re not taking it,” she said.
“Enola—”
“I didn’t drag you through two islands and a tsunami just to wake up one limb short, thanks.”
He swallowed.
“They said it’s spreading.”
“Which is why I’m leaving.”
“…You’re what?”
“Michael’s getting the plane. Sherlock’s panicking. John’s stuffing antibiotics into Tupperware with the elegance of a war widow. It’s very professional.”
Mycroft stared. Processing nothing.
“You’re not stable.”
“I’m vertical. That’s good enough.”
He laughed—once. A broken sound. Then shut his eyes.
“I didn’t want this.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know how to repay you.”
She tilted her head.
“You can start by not dying again.”
His throat bobbed.
“I didn’t know what you did. With the surgery.”
“You weren’t meant to.”
“You removed a rib.”
“You needed room. I didn’t have a suction pump.”
“You tied off my lung.”
“Well, you weren’t doing anything useful with it.”
Silence, again.
Then:
“It hurt,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
“I remember… hearing you. Your voice. Screaming at me to breathe.”
“Good. At least I was memorable.”
He opened his eyes and met hers.
“You should’ve let me go.”
Enola’s face didn’t twitch.
But her voice cut cold.
“Say that again, and I’ll unplug your oxygen with my teeth.”
He choked on a sound that might’ve been a laugh. Or grief. Or both.
She looked away.
“You’re not allowed to say that. Not after everything.”
“You lost everything trying to save me.”
“I didn’t lose,” she said. “Not yet.”
He studied her. Long and quietly.
“You’re not alright,” he murmured.
“No.”
“You’re still feverish. Your leg—”
“Is mine.”
“And your mind?”
She paused.
“Still fractured. But holding.”
“You hallucinated Michael.”
“Frequently.”
“And John?”
She shrugged.
“He was helpful.”
Mycroft blinked.
“We’re not going to be the same after this.”
“No,” she agreed.
Then, softer—
“But we’re still we.”
That broke him.
Not visibly. Not dramatically.
But something in him gave way, quietly.
And when she leaned forward and rested her forehead to his, he let her.
Makua Bay Regional – Recovery Ward – Room 3
Day 47 – 16:18 PM
Mycroft sat upright now, vitals stable enough to warrant the removal of the nasal cannula. He still looked like death on sabbatical, but he was breathing without help, and his fingers were steady as they turned the page of the medical report on his tray.
Enola leaned against the window ledge. Hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows. Her leg braced and propped on a stool she refused to acknowledge.
“You’re not coming,” she said flatly.
“Yes,” he replied, eyes still on the paper, “I am.”
“You’ve had invasive lung trauma. Rib resection. You’re on antibiotics for ten more days and—”
“You’re barely upright,” he cut in. “Yet you’re planning a transoceanic flight like it’s a school run.”
“I’m not dragging you across the Pacific while your lungs are still healing.”
“You dragged me across the Pacific while they were collapsing.”
She narrowed her eyes.
He reached out, tapped a clipboard beside him.
“Discharge instructions. Oxygen portable approved. Doctor’s note. All signed.”
She snatched it. Squinted.
“Pulse sat hovering at 93, cleared with oxygen support. HR stable. Respiration shallow but even. No fluid retention.”
She muttered, “God, you're still annoying.”
“And you’re still bossy.”
“You could do it. With precautions. But you’ll need a pressure-stable cabin, onboard concentrator, and vitals monitored every two hours.”
“Meaning you,” he said quietly.
Before she could reply, the door swung open.
Sherlock entered with a cup of something that might’ve once been coffee but now looked like despair in liquid form.
Enola raised a brow.
“How’s that coffee taste?”
Sherlock took a sip. Winced.
“Like petrol.”
“Exactly.”
He frowned at them.
“What are you plotting now?”
“We’re leaving,” Enola said.
“We?”
Mycroft glanced over.
“I’m going with her.”
Sherlock froze.
“You’re not cleared for travel.”
“He is,” Enola said, flipping the clipboard. “I checked. Twice.”
“You’re not cleared to fly either.”
“And yet I’m walking. You do the math.”
Sherlock’s face contorted like he’d aged five years in ten seconds.
John appeared in the doorway, mid-sigh.
“You’ll need a full crew,” he muttered. “At least one doctor. Portable oxygen. IV access. Risk of clotting, dehydration—”
“Good thing you’re a doctor,” Enola said.
John blinked.
“That’s not what I—”
“You’ll be on the plane anyway,” she continued. “Michael’s flying with us. Sherlock won’t stay behind because of his control issues. And you—are the only one of us qualified to remain calm mid-air.”
John opened his mouth. Closed it again.
“…Brilliant.”
Sherlock flailed.
“You’re flying to London? In your condition?”
“Yes, Sherlock. Because this hospital doesn’t even have clean coffee. And if we stay another day, I fear Mycroft will contract a fourth-world virus from the call button.”
“She’s not wrong,” Mycroft added, straight-faced. “They microwaved my lunch in the IV kitchen.”
Michael stepped in then, flipping a phone closed.
“Fueling confirmed. Cabin sealed for pressure. Lukas has the oxygen rig and the galley’s stocked.”
He paused. Noticing Mycroft.
Then Enola.
Then the clipboard.
“…He’s coming?”
“Apparently.”
Michael blinked.
“Right.”
Then calmly: “I’ll update the manifest. Add a second oxygen kit and more med packs.”
Enola gave him a slight nod.
“You’re a saint.”
Sherlock looked around at the group—outnumbered by sheer stubbornness.
“This is madness.”
“No,” Enola said, slinging her duffel over one shoulder.
“This is logistics.”
“And family,” Mycroft added, slow and final.
Sherlock opened his mouth.
No words came.
John sighed.
“I’m going to need a nap before we take off.”
“Sleep on the plane,” Enola muttered, limping for the door. “Next to the IV kit.”
Michael followed.
“You ready?”
She didn’t look back.
“No.”
Then:
“But let’s go anyway.”
Makua Bay Regional Tarmac – Private Jet “Eos”
Day 47 – 19:22 PM
The sun hung low over the sea, casting long shadows across the tarmac. Heat shimmered off concrete, but the wind carried a sharp tang of jet fuel and salt. The aircraft waited—nose tilted toward the horizon like it had somewhere it needed to be.
Enola climbed the ramp last.
Her leg throbbed. Her shoulder ached. But her steps were steady—not because she was healed, but because she refused to walk like prey.
Inside, the air was cooled, filtered. The jet had been retrofitted for med-evac: one side lined with deep reclining seats and secured storage, the other fitted with two stretcher beds strapped to the floor like medical thrones. Oxygen tanks clicked into rails. IV hooks dangled overhead like skeletal arms.
John was checking the central med unit.
Sherlock sat slouched in the jump seat, scowling at his tea like it had insulted his intellect.
Michael was at the rear, speaking to the flight engineer in low tones.
And Mycroft—
Mycroft lay in the stretcher near the window. Flat. Composed. Dressed. Buckled in.
But Enola could see it. The tension in his jaw. The shallow breath. The way his fingers hovered near the edge of the blanket but didn’t grip.
He was pretending.
Pretending the hum of the jet didn’t sound like a countdown.
Pretending the whir of oxygen lines didn’t echo like alarms.
Pretending this cabin didn’t resemble the moment he’d nearly died.
Enola said nothing.
She limped past the galley and dropped into the chair beside his bed.
Clipped her harness. Rested one hand on her thigh.
“You alright?” she asked, casual as sunlight.
“I’m fine,” he replied too quickly.
Too calmly.
She didn’t look at him.
Just nodded.
Michael appeared beside her, crouched to check her seat belt tension.
“You sure you want to do this?” he murmured.
“I’m not dying on a plane twice.”
“Didn’t think so.”
His smile was small, private.
Then he glanced at Mycroft.
“But he might.”
Enola followed his gaze.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s scared.”
“Of flying?”
“No. Of crashing.”
Michael didn’t make it a joke. He didn’t soften it.
“That kind of trauma doesn’t scream. It waits. Then it tries to crawl back into the thing that broke it, hoping it’ll be different the second time.”
She watched Mycroft. Saw how still he was. How perfectly still.
“The plane?” she asked.
Michael nodded.
“Clean. Triple-checked. No sabotage. No hidden overrides. No pressure flaws. Lukas ran diagnostics three times. I ran it once. The engineer’s clean. Manifest’s clean. Fuel lines were sealed with evidence tape.”
She didn’t smile.
“Good.”
She turned to Mycroft. Leaned slightly forward. Her voice dropped low.
“If you pass out, I’m stealing your watch.”
He blinked.
“You hate my watch.”
“Exactly.”
A pause.
“That’s why it’s a punishment.”
The turbines outside began their rise—low, even, powerful.
Mycroft’s breath shortened.
“You can still back out,” she added.
“No.”
“No one would blame you.”
“I would.”
A pause. Then:
“So would you.”
“Not for the reason you think.”
She didn’t elaborate.
The cabin lights adjusted automatically—transitioning to flight-ready mode. The comm crackled:
“Final systems check complete. Cabin sealed. Liftoff in ten.”
The engine whine deepened.
Enola watched him.
His jaw clenched.
She reached for the blanket at his waist and tugged it higher.
“I dragged you out of the ocean,” she said.
“I think I can get you through takeoff.”
He didn’t answer.
But he didn’t stop her.
She folded her arms. Settled back.
“If you faint, I get your credit card.”
“…Absolutely not.”
“Too late. I already forged your signature.”
The engine roar was climbing now—steady, relentless.
Mycroft closed his eyes.
And then—quietly, almost imperceptibly—he reached for her hand.
He didn’t grip. Didn’t pull.
Just… found her wrist.
And held it.
Aboard “Eos” – Altitude: 0 Feet, Tarmac Hold
Day 47 – 19:32 PM
The safety lights dimmed. The engines surged again, louder this time. The cabin vibrated, a deep, dense rumble that settled in the teeth.
Enola felt it—the way Mycroft’s hand, still on her wrist, went rigid.
She looked over.
He was facing forward. Perfect posture. Neutral expression.
But his eyes—
His eyes were somewhere else.
Watching fire. Water. The sky breaking apart.
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“Alright. Listen to me.”
He didn’t respond.
She leaned closer.
“No bomb. I checked the avionics myself. Michael verified the fuel. No tampering. No overrides. No black box edits. No missing failsafe. They’re strapped in up there. Both of them. No ejectable pilot seat.”
The jet began to roll.
His fingers clenched.
She didn’t move.
“No chemical residues. No breached access panels. No fluctuation in pressure flow. No malware on the diagnostics. And no one’s overriding the emergency locks.”
He still didn’t speak.
So she kept going.
“No breach. No ghost pilot. No sabotage. This bird is clean.”
Still nothing.
So she did the only thing she could.
She let him hold her hand.
And then—without looking—
“Did you talk to Anthea?”
His eyes flicked. One movement.
“Briefly. Encrypted.”
“What’d you say?”
“Alive. Returning. Prepare asset firewall.”
She stared.
“Wow. You really let your emotions fly.”
“I panicked.”
She gave his hand the faintest squeeze.
“You’ll see her soon. You’ll have real coffee. And you’ll stop smelling like iodine and sadness.”
His breath shivered. Just once.
“Don’t let go,” he whispered.
“I won’t.”
And she didn’t.
Forward Cabin – Crew Galley Seating
Day 47 – 19:34 PM
Sherlock had taken the jump seat beside the galley and was now slouched like a man enduring both a migraine and a mutiny.
John stood across from him, arms folded.
“This isn’t normal,” John muttered.
“Do I look unaware?” Sherlock snapped. “Two trauma patients, one barely out of septic fever, the other held together by morphine and string, and they’re coordinating the flight plan.”
“It’s not just coordination,” John said. “It’s strategic evacuation. She’s running a field op from a chair.”
Sherlock dragged a hand over his face.
“Technically, we are within med-evac protocol.”
“Technically,” John echoed, “we’re also insane.”
Sherlock glanced toward the curtain.
“And yet here we are.”
John raised an eyebrow.
“You could stop it.”
“No, I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
Sherlock’s eyes were hard.
“Because she’d break her other leg just to win the argument.”
Silence.
The cabin tilted slightly.
Takeoff.
Sherlock exhaled through his nose.
“God help the world when they land.”
John buckled his seatbelt.
“God help us.”
Notes:
What do you mean they're on a plane again?!
Yes. Yes, they are.
And no, I didn’t plan for it to happen this fast—but you’ve met them. Did you really expect them to sit quietly in matching hospital gowns?
This chapter broke me in the best way. I love writing the Holmes siblings when they’re all traumatized and tactically delusional.
Chapter 56: Not Dead. Not Done.
Summary:
Enola and Mycroft return to London—alive, defiant, and still bleeding. As they step off the plane, the storm of survival gives way to the reality of recovery. Anthea takes charge. Sherlock fumes. John manages logistics. And Enola, stubborn to the marrow, demands her leg be saved at any cost. Over days of pain, prep, and surgical evaluations, the Holmes siblings begin rebuilding—not just their bodies, but the bonds between them. But the road ahead is brutal, and the worst-best option might still break her.
Notes:
Two Holmes siblings walk off a plane.
Not dead.
Not done.
And London has no idea what’s coming.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Notes:
Fifty six chapters. Fifty six.
And now they start digging for answers.
Holy shit, I did not expect this fic to be this long—and no, it’s not done. Not even close.
Unfortunately for me, I can’t see shit anymore. So you’ll have to deal with some typos.
Hope you enjoyed the emotional sledgehammer. More incoming.
Stay unhinged.
Chapter 57: The Leg, The Flight, and The Parents
Summary:
Enola undergoes radical limb-salvage surgery while the rest of the team holds their breath. Recovery is slow, but she makes it through—and wakes to a world waiting. As Mycroft regains strength, Enola begins to weigh what comes next. The family finally reunites, and not just the siblings—because Eudoria and Lionel Holmes arrive with all the grace of a polite hurricane. Truths are avoided. Tensions crack. But for a brief moment, all five Holmes are in the same room—alive, stitched together, and still hiding everything that matters.
Notes:
We made it to surgery, folks.
The leg lives. The trauma gets worse.
And the parents?
Oh yes. They showed up.
Strap in.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Secure Medical Estate – Surgical Wing, Theatre B
Day 55 – 21:34 PM
The lights above the operating table were mercilessly bright — silent, clinical, sharp as scalpels.
Enola lay motionless under their glare, her body cloaked in sterile drapes from chest to ankle. Only her leg was left exposed — pale, shrunken by trauma, the muscle warped under bruises and scars, the skin marked with faded copper-wire stitches. A bold line had been inked along the limb, tracing a harsh route from her upper thigh to mid-shin.
Michael stood beside the anaesthesiologist, masked, arms folded. He hadn’t spoken in ten minutes. He didn’t need to. His eyes never left her vitals.
She knew he was there.
Dr. Watanabe’s voice broke the hush:
“Scalpel.”
No hesitation.
The procedure began.
Secure Estate – Isolation Ward 2
Day 56 – 02:11 AM
Her leg was bound in layers — biofoam, synthetic mesh, and sensor-linked compression wraps — wrapped like a secret, like something precious and broken. A quiet hum rose from the micro-pump assisting blood flow. The grafts had taken. For now, there was no sign of rejection.
Enola hadn’t woken.
Not yet.
Michael was still at her side, scrubs untouched, a thermos beside his knee he hadn’t drunk from. The monitor beeped softly, rhythm steady. Her pulse was holding. Fever low. Oxygen consistent.
John entered quietly, the weight of exhaustion in his step, a folder tucked under one arm.
“She made it through the worst,” he said. “They cleared the necrotic tissue. Revascularised more muscle than we thought possible.”
Michael looked over, jaw tight. “And?”
John glanced toward the IV line. His expression thinned.
“She’s got a fever. Low-grade. If it spikes—”
“She won’t,” Michael said flatly.
John didn’t argue.
He set the folder down and left without another word.
03:37 AM
A twitch.
Just the barest flicker — fingers curling against the blanket, lips parting.
Michael straightened instantly. “Enola?”
No answer. Her brow furrowed. Her mouth moved.
He leaned closer.
“…how… many hours?”
He exhaled. Relief cracked through him like a bone giving under pressure.
“You’re awake.”
“Not really,” she mumbled. “Just calibrating.”
A weak smirk buried in sleep — her version of I’m still me.
His throat tightened. “Welcome back.”
“…did you keep the leg?”
“You did,” he said softly. “You stubborn, brilliant lunatic. You kept it.”
Her eyes fluttered halfway open. No smile. Just a breath.
“…good.”
And then she slipped back under — not from pain this time.
But from earned exhaustion.
Secure Estate – Recovery Room 2
Day 56 – 11:12 AM
Soft daylight filtered through the blinds, striping the bed in quiet beams. A tray of broth sat untouched on the table. The monitors pulsed steady — a lullaby of near-normalcy.
Enola was awake.
Propped against pillows, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her leg was elevated, swaddled in protective dressings. The painkillers were working — barely. Enough to keep her still. Not enough to quiet her mind.
The door opened.
She looked up immediately.
Sherlock entered first — composed on the surface, but visibly tense beneath. Mycroft followed, pale but upright, posture composed, suit pristine. One hand braced his side discreetly.
She raised an eyebrow. “Did I die and no one told me, or is this just a Holmes parade?”
“Unfortunately,” Sherlock muttered, “neither.”
Mycroft shut the door behind him, face unreadable — too calm to be comforting.
She narrowed her eyes. “What.”
“You need to prepare yourself,” he said, voice even, diplomatic — always a warning sign. “There’s been an update.”
Her expression flattened. “What update. Did I start another war without noticing?”
“It’s about the hallway,” Sherlock said, sitting stiffly by her bed.
“…The hallway.”
“They’re in it,” Mycroft said.
“Who?”
A beat.
Sherlock winced.
Mycroft exhaled. “Our parents.”
Silence.
Enola blinked once. Then again.
Then scoffed. “They’re what?”
“They arrived this morning,” Mycroft explained. “They were notified after our extraction. It couldn’t be avoided.”
“And instead of a phone call, they just flew here? Personally?”
“Apparently,” Sherlock said, “Mum wanted to verify that you weren’t ‘exaggerating for effect.’”
Her mouth fell open.
“I have a post-surgical leg, an active infection, partial nerve death, and I sutured my own thigh shut with copper wire while hallucinating. How does that qualify as ‘dramatic’?!”
“Mother doesn’t believe in nuance,” Mycroft sighed.
“Oh for—” Enola’s hand jerked as if she might throw something, but even breathing too hard hurt. She collapsed back against the pillow.
Sherlock gestured toward the door. “They’re waiting. We figured you deserved a heads-up.”
She groaned and flopped harder against the cushions.
“Fantastic. Cue the ‘how could you do this to us’ monologue. One of you can transcribe it.”
Mycroft hesitated, then stepped closer and placed a hand gently on her forearm.
“I’ll handle it, if you want.”
She looked up.
“I’ll handle it,” she repeated. “But I might need sedation after.”
Mycroft smiled faintly.
Sherlock deadpanned: “Tea, morphine, or a tranquilizer dart?”
“Bring all three,” she muttered.
He turned toward the door with a sigh. “Brace yourselves.”
Sherlock followed, muttering something about hereditary trauma.
Enola stared at the ceiling.
“Fuck.”
Because if there was one Holmes constant — it was this:
Never tell the parents everything.
Especially not this.
The knock was light. Polite.
Enola barely had time to adjust her posture — hands folded, shoulders square, expression calculated: not warm, not cold. Just enough.
Sherlock cracked the door open. “Alright. Go easy.”
Then stepped back.
Eudoria and Lionel Holmes entered.
They looked older. Not frail, but time-marked. Eudoria moved like logic incarnate in a linen blouse, her grey-streaked curls twisted into submission. Lionel followed behind, rumpled and gentle, cradling a paper coffee cup like it might solve something.
“Darling,” Eudoria said briskly. “We came as soon as we were cleared.”
Lionel hovered at the bedside. “You look… well, alive. That’s a start.”
Enola offered the smile she’d perfected at eight. “You should see the other guy.”
A pause. Then Eudoria gave a short, surprised laugh — almost fond. She reached for her daughter’s hand.
Enola let her. Carefully. Like handling something that might shatter.
“You’ve lost weight,” her mother noted sharply. “And colour. Are they feeding you properly?”
“Sort of,” Enola replied. “Taste buds aren’t a priority. But I’m fine.”
Eudoria turned to Mycroft. “And you?”
“Recovering,” he said calmly. “Stitches holding. Mobility… situational. I can walk if there’s a threat.”
She gave him a look that could curdle milk.
“We’re just relieved you’re alive,” Lionel added, eyes on Enola. “We heard the crash was—intentional?”
“Sabotage,” Sherlock said from the corner.
Lionel stiffened. “And you were stranded?”
“For a while,” Enola said. “We managed.”
Eudoria’s eyes narrowed. “And your leg?”
Enola glanced down. “Complicated. But under control.”
“Permanent damage?” Lionel asked gently.
“Not if I have a say in it.”
“She does,” Mycroft muttered. “Extensively.”
Enola shot him a sugary smile.
“We’re simply glad you’re safe,” Lionel murmured. “It’s been a scare.”
Eudoria sighed. “Though, frankly, I always suspected one of you would crash a plane eventually.”
Sherlock folded his arms. “Unnecessary.”
“Inevitable,” she replied. “And she was always the wild one.”
“I’m literally in the room,” Enola muttered.
“And miraculously, alive,” Eudoria said, squeezing her hand. “You’ll forgive a mother for verifying.”
“I’ve had worse,” Enola replied.
“Which is hardly reassuring,” Eudoria noted.
Lionel tried to lighten the air. “We’re not here to interrogate. We just needed to see you.”
“It’s appreciated,” Enola said. “But I promise I’m well. Rested. Drugged. Harassed regularly by these two. It’s practically spa treatment.”
Sherlock sniffed. “Her sarcasm’s recovering faster than her immune system.”
“Expected,” Eudoria muttered.
They all chuckled. Even Mycroft.
The visit lasted ten minutes. Just long enough for Lionel to adjust her blanket, for Eudoria to critique the lighting, and for Enola to charm her way out of any deeper inquiry.
“I’ll return tomorrow,” Eudoria said at the door.
“I’ll be here,” Enola replied.
The door closed.
Silence returned.
Enola waited. One breath. Two.
Then muttered:
“…Fuck.”
Sherlock sighed.
Mycroft shut his eyes.
And all three Holmes siblings echoed together:
“They can never know.”
Notes:
Welp. They’re finally reunited.
And it’s no good.
Hope I didn’t disappoint anyone.And no, they still haven’t told their parents the whole story.
Because obviously, that would be too easy.
Chapter 58: Stand Again
Summary:
Four weeks after surgery, Enola begins physical therapy to recover the use of her salvaged leg. Painful, punishing, and near-constant, her efforts are marked by a vicious blend of rage and determination. Despite collapsing, bruising, and pushing herself beyond reason, she refuses to give up. Mycroft, Michael, Sherlock, and Elise all witness the process in different ways—supporting, arguing, and failing to stop her. In private, Enola continues her attempts alone. On Day 101, Mycroft returns to the physio wing and offers quiet defiance against her self-destructive drive, but still refuses to leave her side. In the library, he and Sherlock acknowledge the truth: she won’t stop.
Notes:
And so begins the battle that comes after survival.
The standing. The failing. The fury.
It’s not pretty.
But it’s real.
And she is not done.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Secure Estate – Rehabilitation Wing
Day 84 – 08:42 AM
Four weeks post-surgery
The physio room was warm with filtered light and smelled faintly of eucalyptus and industrial-grade hand soap. Someone had tried to make it welcoming — a potted plant by the window, soft music playing somewhere in the background — but nothing could cover the scent of effort and frustration.
Enola sat in a reinforced chair built more like a launch pad than a seat. Her leg was encased in custom braces, pressure monitors, and neurostim electrodes that blinked like slow, indifferent Christmas lights. The stitches had healed, but the skin was still inflamed. So was she.
Sherlock stood to her left, arms folded, expression unreadable. Michael flanked the right, watching with the stillness of someone ready to intervene the moment she dropped.
The physiotherapist — a very kind, very tired woman named Elise — crouched in front of her, her tone gentle, her words wrapped in soft clinical optimism.
“We’re going to stand today.”
“Bold of you,” Enola muttered, adjusting the strap across her thigh. “Considering the last time I tried, I passed out and punched someone.”
Michael raised a brow. “He ducked.”
“I wasn’t aiming for him.”
Sherlock cleared his throat. “Focus.”
“Don’t make me throw this boot at you.”
“You’d fall before you could lift it.”
Elise smiled like someone used to defusing landmines with praise. “Enola, you don’t have to push beyond your pain threshold. We’re just testing tolerance today. Transfer weight. That’s all.”
Enola exhaled sharply through her nose. “Right. Transfer. Not walk. Not dance. Just… vertical suffering.”
Michael crouched beside her, voice low. “Are you sure you’re up for it?”
She didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes flicked to the braces. Then to her hands. She flexed her fingers — not in readiness, but in defiance.
Then said flatly, “Yes.”
Michael studied her face, then nodded once.
Sherlock didn’t speak — but his hand settled lightly on the back of the chair.
Elise clipped in the support straps. “We’ll brace you from both sides. On three, you lean forward, and I’ll cue the lift.”
“Don’t count,” Enola snapped.
Elise paused.
“I mean it,” she added. “Just do it.”
Elise looked to Michael. He gave a short nod.
They moved together.
Elise triggered the mechanism under the chair. Michael supported Enola’s right side. Sherlock positioned himself on the left, just in case.
Enola’s body rose with agonising slowness.
The pain hit instantly — pressure behind her kneecap, fire streaking through her calf, a deep tearing pull through the remnants of her thigh muscle that made her vision pixelate. But she stayed upright.
Shaking. Breathing hard. But upright.
Michael’s arm was firm beneath her elbow. “You’ve got it.”
“I don’t want to ‘have it,’” she hissed through gritted teeth. “I want to use it.”
Sherlock, uncharacteristically quiet, said, “Then you’re already ahead of where we feared you’d be.”
Her jaw clenched.
Her legs trembled.
And then—she shifted her weight.
It was subtle. Barely a lean. A careful redistribution of pressure from the brace to her muscles.
It hurt like hell. But she did it.
Her eyes shut tight. Her fingers dug into Michael’s arm.
He didn’t flinch.
Elise said softly, “Let’s lower you now. You’ve done it.”
Enola didn’t speak.
Not until she was seated again.
Then, finally:
“…I hate everything.”
Michael crouched in front of her. “You’re standing again. That’s not nothing.”
“It feels like nothing.”
Sherlock leaned in. “It isn’t.”
She looked between the two of them.
“Tell John I didn’t cry.”
Michael smiled. “You didn’t.”
“Also tell him if he shows up with a ‘pain management plan,’ I’ll test it on him.”
Sherlock muttered, “Noted.”
Enola closed her eyes.
“…Again tomorrow?”
Elise blinked. “You want to try again?”
Enola opened one eye. “Yes. Unless you’ve got a better way to teach dead nerves how to obey.”
Elise smiled slowly.
Michael stood, gently tapping the back of Enola’s hand.
“You’re doing it.”
She didn’t answer.
But she didn’t pull away.
Sherlock stepped back as Elise prepped the braces for removal.
The room quieted.
Recovery had begun. In earnest.
Secure Estate – Rehabilitation Wing
Day 85 – 21:13 PM
She waited until everyone was gone. No Michael. No Sherlock. No Elise.
Just her, the braces, and the bars.
She wheeled forward. Locked the brakes. Pulled the straps tight.
Tried to stand.
She made it halfway before her leg buckled and she hit the floor hard.
The security cam caught it.
She disabled the camera the next morning.
Day 87 – 06:48 AM
Michael found her mid-attempt.
She snapped at him when he tried to help.
So he sat on the floor and waited while she trembled with exhaustion.
“You done?”
“No.”
She wasn’t.
Day 89 – 18:02 PM
The bars looked farther apart than they were.
She dragged her leg forward, wincing with every shift.
Two feet.
Then one.
Then the floor caught her again.
Harder this time.
Sherlock arrived late. Found blood on her palm wraps.
“I told you not to do this alone.”
“I wasn’t alone.” She met his eyes. “I had gravity.”
He didn’t laugh.
Neither did she.
Day 91 – 13:27 PM
Elise set new parameters.
“We don’t have to walk. Let’s pivot. Just stand and stay up.”
Enola stood. Counted to five.
Then ten.
Then fifteen.
She passed out cold on seventeen.
Day 94 – 11:39 AM
Michael held her under the arms while she dragged one foot. She snarled when he slowed down.
“I had to run once. You know that, right? I was fast.”
“You still are.”
“No,” she whispered. “I’m angry. That’s different.”
Day 96 – 22:11 PM
The brace was adjusted again. More support. More restriction.
She hated it.
She threw the smaller one at the mirror that night.
Shattered the glass. Refused painkillers for twelve hours.
Day 98 – 07:08 AM
Two steps.
Then three.
One collapse.
No shouting.
Just her quiet, broken breath in the silence.
She didn’t cry.
But Michael did. Silently. In the hallway where she couldn’t see.
Day 99 – Early Morning
The camera was still disabled.
She stood alone at the bars.
Her hands shook. Her body burned. Her vision swam.
She looked at her reflection in the window.
Pale. Bruised. Braced. But standing.
Just for a second.
And that second mattered.
Secure Estate – Rehabilitation Wing
Day 101 – 14:21 PM
Mycroft hadn’t returned to the physio wing since Day 84.
He’d made excuses. Reports. Medical meetings. A Prime Minister’s call.
But today, he came.
He stood inside the doorway, watching her brace herself between the bars. She didn’t see him at first — too busy swearing at her calf muscle for its mutiny.
Then she fell.
Hard.
Mycroft flinched.
But Enola didn’t yell. Didn’t cry.
She just lay there, staring at the ceiling.
Then:
“If you’re going to judge, at least bring a clipboard.”
He stepped forward. “I wasn’t judging.”
“Oh?” she said, dragging herself upright. “Was that pity, then?”
“Not quite,” he said quietly. “It was awe. With a dash of self-loathing.”
That made her pause.
He knelt slowly, ribs protesting. Reached for her hand.
She didn’t slap it away.
“Why self-loathing?”
“Because I should’ve died on that island. You saved me. And now I’m watching you bleed for it.”
“You’re watching me walk for it,” she corrected. “Which is harder.”
He smiled faintly. “Noted.”
She stood.
He stood with her.
There was a beat of silence.
Then Mycroft said, “Let’s try again.”
She didn’t answer.
Just shifted her weight. Gritted her teeth.
Moved.
Or tried to.
Her leg buckled halfway. Her shoulder clipped the bar. She caught herself, barely.
Mycroft stepped in — and she batted his hand away. “Again.”
“Enola—”
“I said again.”
He exhaled. Readjusted. Stayed beside her.
She tried.
Failed.
Again.
Her knee gave. Her hands hit the bar hard enough to rattle it. Pain bloomed in her ribs, but she didn’t cry out.
He reached.
“Don’t,” she warned.
His hand hovered… then settled gently on her back.
“That’s enough for today.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Enola—”
“I need to make it work.” Her voice cracked. Just slightly.
She gripped the bar like it was her anchor to the world.
“I need to move again. Be faster. Stronger. Better. Ready for the next mission.”
Mycroft’s jaw tightened.
“As hell you are.”
She turned to him. Eyes sharp despite sweat and tremor.
“You don’t get to decide.”
“No,” he said. “But I can damn well oppose it. And I will.”
“This is what I’m for, Mycroft.”
“You are not a weapon.”
“No,” she said bitterly. “I’m a survivor. Which means I need to be ready.”
“You’re recovering.”
“I don’t have time.”
“You nearly died. I watched you stitch yourself back together with copper wire and rage. You can’t live on that forever.”
“I can try.”
“And if you fail?”
She looked away.
He stepped closer. Not looming. Just steady.
“You’re allowed to live without bleeding for it.”
“I don’t want rest. I want capability.”
“Then give yourself the time to earn it back.”
She didn’t reply.
Just stared ahead, white-knuckled on the bar.
Like there was a war waiting just beyond the window.
Mycroft didn’t push.
He simply stood with her.
And this time—he didn’t catch her.
He let her fight.
And stayed close enough to help if she asked.
Secure Estate – Rehabilitation Wing (After Hours)
Day 101 – 21:47 PM
The physio room was dark, save for the soft flicker of ceiling strip-lights left on low.
Everything else was still.
But Enola wasn’t.
She was back at the bars.
Alone.
No therapist. No Mycroft. No clipboard.
Just her. The tremor in her thigh. The weight of a body that didn’t trust itself anymore.
She braced her good foot. Aligned her hips.
Pushed.
The leg caught. Held. Then buckled.
She slammed into the bar, ribs jolting hard.
No cry.
No breath.
She slid down to the floor, shirt soaked through with sweat.
Her eyes burned.
Not from pain. From fury.
“…Fucking hell,” she muttered.
But she didn’t move.
Just sat there, panting, forehead pressed to the metal.
And slowly—began flexing her foot again.
Once.
Twice.
Because even now—
She refused to give up.
Secure Estate – Upstairs Library
Day 101 – 22:03 PM
Sherlock sat in a high-backed chair, a file open in his lap, tea long cold beside him.
Mycroft entered without knocking, one hand to his temple.
“She’s impossible.”
“Good evening to you, too,” Sherlock said dryly.
“I told her she’s not going back on missions. She said she doesn’t care.”
Sherlock raised a brow. “Surprised?”
“She’s four weeks post-surgery and already plotting her next tactical assault.”
“That’s how she copes.”
“She doesn’t cope. She reloads.”
“Same thing, to her.”
Mycroft dropped into the opposite chair with a sigh. “I told her she wasn’t a weapon.”
“And?”
“She didn’t believe me.”
Sherlock was quiet.
Then: “She probably hasn’t believed that since Kandahar.”
Mycroft flinched.
Silence.
Then Sherlock said, “If she won’t stop, she’ll need backup.”
“You offering?”
“I’m saying—we’d better be ready. Because she’s going to stand again.”
He closed the file.
“And when she does—God help the next person who tries to knock her down.”
Notes:
Four weeks post-op and she’s already trying to run.
Because of course she is.I didn’t think this fic would get this far.
I didn’t think she would.But here we are.
See you in the next chapter.
She’s going to walk.
…And after that?You’ll see.
Chapter 59: Thirteen Laps and a Warpath
Summary:
Enola’s recovery enters a new phase—less medical, more war. Determined to walk on her salvaged leg, she begins daily rehabilitation with a mix of pain, fury, and unrelenting grit. After John finds her collapsed at dawn, he shares a quiet, honest moment of solidarity. Days later, a tense encounter with Sherlock ignites her rage into progress. She walks—angrily, painfully, defiantly. Michael joins her as an unhinged, over-caffeinated personal trainer, pushing her through laps like a drill sergeant. On Day 114, John and Mycroft arrive just in time to witness the impossible: Enola walking unaided, pure rage keeping her upright.
Notes:
It’s rage time.
She’s walking — not because it’s easy, but because she’s pissed off.
No cheerleader arcs. No soft montages.
Just pain. Progress. And profanity.
This is the Holmes version of a comeback.
Brace yourself.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Secure Estate – Rehabilitation Wing
Day 102 – 06:17 AM
The hallway lights were still dim. Most of the estate was asleep.
But John Watson had always been an early riser. Blame the army. Blame trauma-laced insomnia. Or just the simple truth that mornings were quieter.
He stepped into the rehab wing with a fresh cup of tea in hand, intent on checking the day’s rotation chart—
And stopped cold.
There, slumped against the physio bars with her head resting on her crossed arms, was Enola.
Still in yesterday’s clothes. One leg stretched out. The other braced awkwardly beneath her like she'd dropped mid-attempt and refused to admit it.
John exhaled through his nose. “Bloody hell, kid.”
Enola stirred, just enough to glare at him through half-lidded eyes.
“Before you say anything,” she croaked, “I already know this is a terrible idea.”
“Good,” John said, crossing the room. He crouched beside her. “Because it is. Terrible idea. Textbook. Gold star for self-sabotage.”
“I didn’t fall,” she added, defiant.
He tilted his head. “You look pretty horizontal for someone who didn’t fall.”
“I... sat down.”
“Gracefully collapsed, then.”
She didn’t answer. Just stared at the bars like they’d betrayed her in the night.
John handed her the cup.
She took it wordlessly. Sipped. Winced. “Too much sugar.”
“Tough. It’s got electrolytes.”
“Now you’re poisoning me.”
He sat down cross-legged beside her, back against the wall.
They shared the silence of two people who’d seen too many floors like this.
Then, gently:
“You think I don’t understand,” John said.
Enola turned her head slightly.
“I do,” he continued. “That feeling that if you can’t stand up, you’re nothing. That healing is just weakness in bandages. That if you’re not moving, you’re a liability.”
“…I’m not weak.”
“No,” he said. “You’re just afraid that resting makes you look that way.”
She stared at the floor. “I can’t afford to rest. Not with everything that’s happened. Not with what I’ve done. Not with what’s coming.”
John leaned forward.
“You survived a crash, a tsunami, a surgery you performed on yourself, and an infection that nearly cost your leg. You saved your brother’s life. Now you’re here, pushing your body to its limit less than eight weeks post-op.”
He met her gaze.
“You’ve already proven you’re not weak.”
“…I don’t feel like it.”
“Neither did I,” John said. “Not after Afghanistan. Not after my leg.”
Enola blinked. “You?”
He nodded. “Mine was a clean shot. Surgery. Pins. Weeks of therapy. But I still flinched when I stood. Still felt broken even when I was technically healed. You think you’re failing because you can’t run? That’s not failure, Enola. That’s recovery.”
She didn’t respond.
But her grip on the tea cup eased slightly.
John tapped the brace lightly.
“You don’t have to win today. Just stand later. Walk eventually. Run when you're ready.”
“…And if I’m never ready?”
“Then you’ll fight on different terrain.”
She tilted her head. “You’re annoyingly good at this.”
John smiled faintly. “I’ve had practice.”
They sat together for a while longer.
Then John stood, offering his hand.
“You want to try again?”
She looked at it. Then at him. Then nodded.
“…Yeah.”
Secure Estate – Rehabilitation Wing
Day 109 – 10:03 AM
Another morning. Another attempt.
The physio room was quiet except for her, the parallel bars, and Sherlock Holmes.
He leaned against the far wall like he was watching a case unfold. No pity. No disappointment. Just… analysis.
Like she was an experiment.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Enola snapped, adjusting her brace for the third time that hour.
“I’m here to support you,” Sherlock said mildly.
“By staring at me like I’m unsolved?”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were.”
A pause.
“Then perhaps,” he said, “you should solve it.”
That did it.
She turned, calm and sharp.
“Get. Out.”
“Enola—”
“No. You don’t get to stand there watching me struggle and pretend it’s helpful. Go deduce a goose murder or whatever it is you do when you’re not being an insufferable bastard.”
He opened his mouth.
She raised a finger.
“Out.”
Sherlock exhaled, like he wanted to argue.
Then he left.
The door clicked shut.
Silence hit like a slap.
She stood shaking — not from fear.
From rage.
Because she couldn’t do it.
Because she had survived war and fire and blood and storms — but she couldn’t stand on her own leg.
She gripped the bars hard.
Then snarled through clenched teeth:
“Fuck. This.”
The words lit something inside her.
Her good leg braced.
Her injured one dragged behind like dead weight.
She moved.
Not gracefully. Not smoothly.
But forward.
Each step burned. Her body screamed. But she didn’t stop.
Drag. Plant. Drag. Plant.
By the twentieth step, she wasn’t dragging.
She was limping.
Controlled. Shaky. But hers.
Tears stung. She didn’t wipe them away.
She whispered:
“Finally.”
Not to anyone else.
Just to herself.
To the world.
Secure Estate – Rehabilitation Wing
Day 113 – 16:19 PM
She was doing it again.
One end of the bars to the other. And back.
Drag. Limp. Adjust. Turn. Repeat.
Her brace was damp. Her tank top soaked. Her palms red.
Every breath was a hissed curse or a held growl.
Twelve sets. Maybe thirteen. She’d lost count.
The door opened.
“I swear to God, if one more person tells me I’m pushing too hard, I will throw this fucking bar.”
Michael’s voice answered, warm and amused:
“Damn, babe. You’re sweating like you robbed a gym.”
She blinked. Then turned slightly.
There he stood — coffee in one hand, admiration in his eyes.
“Alright, killer. You’re on lap…?”
“…Lost count.”
He whistled. “That’s what I like to hear. Pain’s just weakness leaving the body, yeah?”
She glared. “Are you seriously gym-rat coaching me?”
Michael grinned. “Absolutely. Post-op or not, you’ve got beast mode written all over you.”
She winced mid-step.
He stepped beside her, calm. Not grabbing.
“Core tight. Shoulders back. You’ve got this.”
She met his gaze — furious, exhausted, but not defeated.
“Don’t you dare quit now. Show that leg who’s boss.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re still walking,” he murmured. “Which means you’re winning.”
She exhaled.
Then pushed forward again.
Step. Limp. Push.
Michael walked beside her like a shadow — a coach with too much heart.
“You got this.”
She reached the end.
Then turned.
Again.
Secure Estate – Rehabilitation Wing
Day 114 – 09:38 AM
Footsteps echoed in the corridor.
John Watson looked anything but calm.
“I still can’t believe he just left her.”
Mycroft followed, limping slightly. “You can’t believe Sherlock bailed the moment emotions got involved? That’s his brand.”
John shot him a look.
The door was ajar.
Inside: Enola.
Walking.
Not well.
But walking.
Sweat clung to her spine. Her brace gleamed. Her hands gripped the bars with white-knuckled fury.
One leg moved with defiance.
The other — not quite.
Michael paced behind her like a manic personal trainer.
“THAT’S IT. HALFWAY THERE. DIG IN.”
“Shut up, Michael—”
“DON’T BREAK FORM, HELLSPAWN.”
John gaped. “Is he—”
“Yes,” Mycroft deadpanned.
Enola reached the end.
Michael slapped the bar beside her. “TURN AND BURN.”
“Oh my God,” John muttered, stepping in. “You’ve been doing this again?”
“Hi, John,” Enola said through clenched teeth. “Yes. Walking. Bleeding. Screaming. Living the dream.”
“Thirteenth lap,” Michael added proudly. “She beat her last time by two seconds.”
“She’s not a Navy SEAL,” John snapped.
“THANK YOU,” Mycroft added. “The boot camp energy is... vivid.”
Enola hissed, “Don’t you start too.”
John approached, scanning her gait. “Your pulse is probably spiking. That leg isn’t ready. Your sutures—”
“…Are fine,” Enola shot back.
“No, they’re not. Or you wouldn’t be snapping like that.”
“I’m walking—”
“You’re risking everything—”
“You think I don’t know that?” she snapped. “You think I didn’t calculate every nerve path and load tolerance before I stood up today?”
“That’s not how recovery works!”
“Well maybe it should be.”
She let go of the bar.
“Enola—” Mycroft’s voice faltered.
Michael’s coffee hit the floor.
She walked.
Straight toward John.
No brace. No rails. No fallback.
“You keep telling me what’s safe. But you weren’t there.”
John stepped back. “That’s not what—”
“No?” Her voice was low, shaking with fury. “Because it feels a lot like I’m being punished for surviving.”
“Enola—your leg—”
“Is. Still. Mine.”
Another step.
Then another.
Her gait was uneven. Limping. But it held.
“You’re not even supposed to stand unaided yet,” John murmured.
“Well,” she rasped, “someone forgot to update the calendar.”
Michael had gone silent.
Mycroft had frozen.
Enola walked.
“I know what it cost to keep this leg. I know exactly what I earned.”
Her knee faltered.
She caught it.
“I’m not fragile. I’m just—” breath “—tired of pretending I’m not furious at how slow this is.”
She stopped.
Right in front of John.
No bars. No help. Just defiance.
Silence pressed in.
She was still upright.
Michael stepped forward. Lifted his hands.
Clapped.
Once.
“That’s my girl.”
Enola didn’t smile.
But she didn’t fall.
Mycroft swallowed hard.
And Enola?
She stood in the silence she’d created — not trembling. Not weak.
Alive. Upright. Victorious.
John lowered his hands.
“…Bloody hell,” he said softly. “You actually did it.”
Enola’s jaw relaxed. Her eyes burned.
She whispered:
“I told you I would.”
Notes:
Okay.
Thirteen laps. Screaming. Victory. And no Sherlock in sight.I think I blacked out while writing this.
But hey — she’s walking now.
Sort of.Hope your spine’s still intact because mine isn’t.
Next chapter’s not gonna slow down.
Sorry.
(I’m not sorry.)
Chapter 60: Contingency Plan: I Survived
Summary:
Two weeks after the storm, rain still falls—but the world has changed. Enola walks again. Slowly, painfully, but on her own terms. As she navigates recovery, Michael remains beside her, while Sherlock and Mycroft drift in and out—never far, but rarely close. When a private neuroimaging scan reveals that her tumour has shrunk, the impossible becomes possible: Enola is no longer terminal. What follows isn’t a celebration, but recalibration. Life doesn’t wait for clarity—it demands movement. This final chapter traces that shift from survival to something Enola has never known: the possibility of living.
Notes:
It’s time, folks.
The war’s not over, but the battle’s shifted.
This chapter doesn’t explode — it exhales.
Welcome to the end of the storm.
(Or maybe just the eye of it.)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Notes:
After 60 chapters, we made it to peace.
No explosions. No cliffhangers. Just a woman, a storm, and a little bit of silence.I didn’t think we’d get here.
But she did.I hope this ending hit you like a soft train — slow, inevitable, and emotional as hell.
Now I’d love to know what you think.
Drop your thoughts, screams, theories, or just your favorite line.
Did it wreck you? Heal you? Leave you strangely hungry?I’m open to feedback, questions, chaos — all of it.
Thank you for sticking with me this far.Final note: if you’re reading this and still breathing,
congratulations.
So is she.
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