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1. In pursuits
Tewkesbury was keenly aware when he married Enola that his life was going to be rather different. Though he adored her, he didn’t always understand the way her mind worked, and the stories she told of how she had grown up sounded more like fantastical stories than anything he could imagine actually happening. Then again, he had met her brothers and her mother briefly at the wedding. When he stopped to consider it, he found it rather easy to envision the small but fierce woman teaching his wife chemistry, physics, archery, and any number of unusual skills that she always seemed to pull out whenever it most suited her.
Not dancing though. Dancing he had taught her, and he would hold onto that with smugness.
It resulted in an unusual life however. Not content to be Marchioness Basilwether and simply pass time the way his family would have her do it, Enola had maintained her agency and continued to help those without the means to approach Sherlock for aid. Privately, he thought Enola the more capable one, but he knew better than to say it where anyone could hear him.
It did result in some interesting work days though.
He was walking through the House of Lords with two of his peers, debating a motion they were set to take to the floor the next day. Tewkesbury was trying to convince two of the peerage closest to him in age to support the motion he was suggesting for the preservation of woodland in the country, but they were hesitant to throw their lot in with his. It was always this way - in order to get anything done, one had to compromise endlessly. This had been continuing for almost a week. He was getting edgy as he knew without their support he likely had no chance of getting the motion passed.
Tewkesbury heard a yell, which ordinarily would not have caused any interest - the yelling from the peerage was continuous and often very spirited. However, this was a very familiar yell.
“Stop that man!”
Without his permission, a smile spread across his face a moment before a man in a ratty coat rounded the corner, barrelling towards Tewkesbury and his companions. A step behind him was a small woman dressed in blue, her eyes focused on her target as she gave chase.
Tewkesbury stuck his foot out at precisely the right moment, tripping the man and sending him careening into a wall. The man attempted to right himself, but his feet went out from under him and he landed on his back, winded and dazed.
The woman gave a bright smile as she rocked forwards on her toes, kissing Tewkesbury on the cheek. “Hello, my love. Thank you for your help.”
“Always a pleasure, darling. I’ll see you at home this evening.”
The men standing with Tewkesbury looked on in astonishment as the woman forced her prey to his feet, keeping a strong hold on his wrists as she frogmarched him out of the passageway.
“Who was that?”
Tewkesbury couldn’t tell if it was fear or admiration in the man’s voice as he watched Enola march out. He knew, however, that it was pure love in his own when he answered.
“That was my wife.”
“Your wife?!”
He grinned. “Indeed. Shall we discuss the motion more, gentlemen?”
The motion passed.
2. In investigation
Sherlock was a frequent visitor to their home, to the point where Tewkesbury had a room made up for him whenever he was over. Despite the prestige attached to his name, Sherlock often came to ask his little sister for help when a case was particularly vexing. Enola tried not to show it, but she always preened a little when their footman announced him.
The other side of the page however, was that Enola and Sherlock fed off of one another with startling speed. Tewkesbury was used to feeling a step behind in their conversations, but usually he could overlook it.
The one time he could not was when their brains led them in circles.
Sherlock had been at their home for almost five days, pacing in the least formal of their parlours as he wrote notes and drew connections that seemed to lead nowhere. Enola spent most of her time there trying to help find connections, though he didn’t know how much of it was helping and how much was his wife trying to one up her older brother. He hadn’t seen her in two days, and he was beginning to grow somewhat concerned.
He entered the room softly, afraid of disturbing the siblings at work. He needn’t have concerned himself with that, however - Enola was sleeping curled up in an armchair, Sherlock’s coat covering her aside from her head poking out. Sherlock was stretched out on the floor, his eyes shut, his mouth open as he softly snored.
Tewkesbury was sure he considered his brother-in-law for a decent amount of time before deciding to leave him on the ground. At least five seconds, maybe even six. He rationalised it by silently pointing out to himself that Sherlock weighed at least twice what Enola did, and Tewkesbury had no idea if he could carry that much. Edith had been working with him, per Eudoria and Enola’s personal requests, but Tewkesbury had remained rather slender and lean.
Enola was easier. He slid his arms in underneath her legs and back, picking her up in the same bridal hold he had done on their wedding day, when she had giggled and told him he was a nincompoop who was going to throw out his back, and she could walk over the threshold perfectly well on her own, thank you very much. He had ignored her, merely kissing her as he kicked the door shut, and she had forgotten her protests fairly quickly after that.
“Hmph?” she murmured now, shifting in his grip. “‘Lock?”
“No, it’s me, darling,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
She shook her head before snuggling into his chest. “Can’t leave my brother. The case.”
Tewkesbury smiled. Once upon a time her single minded focus on the case would have frustrated him, but now he knew to love the passion she showed everything she truly cared about. “The case will be there tomorrow, and you will have better focus if you sleep in a bed instead of an armchair.”
“I like the armchair,” she grumbled, nevertheless linking her arms around his neck and allowing him to proceed towards the residential areas of the house without further complaint. “Smells like you.”
He thought his heart might burst from tenderness, but he managed to keep his reaction under wraps. “I know somewhere that smells more like me and won’t put a crick in your neck. And it even has bedding that did not start life as your brother’s ridiculously tailored coat.”
“As though you have no ridiculous coats,” she murmured, a smile in her voice. He manoeuvred the door to his bedroom open with a little difficulty. Officially it was his and decorated to match - plants all over the place, his botany books in the shelves against the walls, his notes on the writing desk. Unofficially, this was their room. Enola had no use for the room that adjoined this, other than as a space to conduct research into her cases, and the bed lay dusty and unused most of the time.
He set her gently on the bed, but she refused to break her hold on his neck. Tewkesbury was pulled down into a gentle kiss that spoke of reassurance and love. He smiled and kissed her cheek after pulling back.
“Come on,” he murmured. “You need to get layers off, otherwise Mycroft will be after me with a teaspoon for letting you ruin your dresses.”
As expected, her eyes flew open with the mention of her oldest brother. He laughed at the indignant look on her face.
“Oh, that was simply rude,” she declared, popping off of the bed and retreating behind the modesty screen, presumably to put on her nightgown. “You are a disgrace, sir.”
He grinned as he dressed for bed, leaving his clothes in a pile on the ground without concern. The maid was always complaining about Enola’s things; let her complain about him for once. “And yet you still married me.”
“And yet I still married you, though I’ve no idea why when you are so vexing.”
He knew it was all talk and it was confirmed a moment later. Enola, dressed in a plain nightgown, marched across the room still muttering about his lack of sense, and climbed into bed to cuddle directly into his side. He felt rather a lot like he was being embraced by a particularly friendly python.
“I love you,” he reminded her, reaching out to blow out the lamp.
He didn’t need to see her smile when she returned the sentiment, but it was nice that it was there.
(Slightly less nice was having Sherlock burst into their bedroom the next morning without a regard for propriety, announcing that he had found a lead, just when he and Enola were becoming somewhat more acquainted after their nights apart. He was left feeling as though his brother-in-law had thrown a bucket of ice water on his head as his wife pulled on a dressing gown and dashed out of the room.)
(The lead panned out, and Enola was sure to show him her appreciation later that night.)
3. In sickness
Enola had a habit of acting before she thought everything through. Though her mind worked faster than Tewkesbury had any chance of understanding, she tended to forget smaller details, such as the fact that if she went swimming in the Thames and then chased a criminal around the greater part of London in the late autumn, she would likely get rather ill.
Enola was livid, naturally. She hated being stuck in bed while Sherlock spoke to the police about the man they had caught, and Mycroft’s commentary that if she was a proper wife this would not have happened was not helping the situation. More than once, she had muttered that she would tell him a thing or two about what being a wife was like. Though he knew she did not mean it that way, Tewkesbury could not help imagining what she could tell her older brother, and it never failed to turn him bright red. It was extremely embarrassing, especially given that the last time it had been when Sarah and Bessie were paying a social call to check on Enola’s health, and Bessie had voiced her concerns that Tewkesbury might have caught the same illness as his wife, as clearly he was flushed from fever. Sarah and Enola had tried to hold back their laughter as he tried to assure Bessie that he was merely flushed from the unseasonably warm day. The rain pounding on the window had not helped his case.
Sherlock, on his last visit, had brought Dr. John Watson with him. The good doctor had suggested that Enola return to her childhood home to ride out her illness, possibly with one of the household maids to tend to her, lest her husband catch the same illness due to proximity. Enola had uncharacteristically smiled and nodded, agreeing with him. The moment the door was closed on their visitors, she had told Tewkesbury very seriously that their carriage was now horribly broken, the axle quite beyond repair, and that she would have to remain in their home until it could be fixed. He grinned at her. Their carriage was in perfect condition.
“I suppose you shall have to remain on the other side of the house from me,” she said melodramatically. The effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that her nose was congested, making her sound like a cat stuck under a tea service, as well as the way her cheeks were flushed, colour sitting high on her cheekbones as though she had caught too much sun.
“Oh, quite,” he agreed, settling on his side of the bed and drawing her in so that his arms could fit around her blanketed form. “We can’t risk me missing a meeting of the Lords, now can we? And there’s my uncle’s visit to think of, and Mother taking you shopping.”
“I wouldn’t want to miss that,” she agreed, her face pressing into his chest. He kissed the top of her head gently and closed his eyes, feeling the tension release from his shoulders. Tewkesbury was positive a mere chill could not take Enola away from him. She would probably look Death in the eye, laugh, and then carry on strolling like it was merely another day. But he would be lying if he said he hadn’t been concerned when he could feel her burning up, and when she begrudgingly ate soup with no appetite. This teasing meant a small return to normal.
He did not resent playing nursemaid to his wife, feeding her soup and pressing tea she did not want upon her, reading to her from one of the many books or playing cards with her, which she infuriatingly kept winning despite barely being able to go between turns without sneezing. If she knew how much he enjoyed being able to ignore the world and just focus on her, Tewkesbury rather suspected he would never hear the end of it. But in his normal fantasies of ignoring the world, they were usually both in perfect health, and they were somewhere rather more pleasant than London.
“You know,” he murmured, playing with one of her curls by wrapping it around his finger, “I don’t believe I have ever seen your home.”
She made a low noise in the back of her throat. “You are sitting in it, you nincompoop.”
“No, I mean your old home,” he tried to explain. “Where you grew up.”
“Oh, good,” she said, relaxing against him. “I thought I was going to have to explain to you that you inhabit your own body, and that was not how I pictured our morning progressing.”
She reached for the book abandoned on the coverlet, humming happily and apparently not noticing how widely he was grinning.
He was her home.
+1. In health
Enola Hol- Enola Tewkesbury, Marchioness of Basilwether, was a perfectly respectable detective, thank you very much. The policemen of Scotland Yard spoke her name with quite as much respect as they did Sherlock’s, and while Mycroft may not have been content to leave her to live her life, he was at least interfering less than he had before. Sherlock teamed up with her frequently, did not overshadow her, and with things looking the way they were, Enola was quite sure she would be meeting the Queen some day soon.
All that is to say, Enola Holm- Tewkesbury, Enola Tewkesbury, did not get flustered by young men. Certainly not by young men she had called nincompoop several times, whom she had only recently decided were men full time, and whom she had punched in the face several times. And certainly not one she was married to. She prided herself on being above such foolishness, thank you very much.
And yet.
Eudoria had been the one to suggest it, appearing out of the blue one day for tea with her daughter. Tewkesbury had been at the Lords, and Enola had been so surprised she had rung for tea and they were halfway through their visit before it occurred to her that Sherlock may have wanted to see their mother as well.
“Jolly good tea, this is,” Eudoria had said, pouring a second cup for herself and waving off the parlour maid. “Now, Enola. Your young man.”
Enola fought the urge to say Tewkesbury was not her young man. Her wedding ring said otherwise, as did a few fading marks that she had been careful to cover, lest there be any awkward questions. One cannot explain away every bruise on oneself as a startled donkey kicking out after having a sack of flour thrown onto its back to trigger a pulley system after all.
(Tewkesbury had snorted wine rather interestingly when she had made this claim at the last ball they had attended together, and they had spent ten minutes giggling in the bathroom together while he tried to sop up the liquid dripping down his coat.)
“He is going to be involved in the detective side of things whether you like it or not,” Eudoria said matter of factly, examining one of the biscuits closely. “It is too late for him to reach your level of proficiency, but Sherlock told me the boy fought bravely on several occasions, so I feel it a sensible course of action for him to undergo some instruction in the fighting arts.”
Enola had almost snorted, a very unladylike noise. She couldn’t help remembering how Tewkesbury had baulked at the thought of hitting a girl, though she supposed he had been rather brave in the theatre when he knocked out his attacker.
“I’ve spoken to Edith and it’s all taken care of,” Eudoria finished, before abruptly rising to her feet. “I’d best not linger. Take care of yourself, dearest. You’ll see me again soon enough.”
Enola had been left feeling rather as though she had been neatly manoeuvred into a corner. She wondered if this was how her opponents felt when she outwitted them during a case.
Tewkesbury had been almost too enthusiastic for his lessons, which happened twice a week at Edith’s premises. It might have been suspicious, save that Enola still held her office there, and had to go in at least that often to check on her cases, if not moreso. She quickly got used to the sound of Tewkesbury learning the moves that were now second nature to her, though she had never been a part of helping him to clean up afterward. And their… activities usually happened in the darkness. Touch was a lovely sense, perhaps one of her favourites, but it could not substitute for the evidence her eyes were showing her.
He had muscles in places she did not remember him having them. He was cursing as he pulled off his shirt, the bandage around his arm fluttering free.
“I thought I felt something give,” he muttered in exasperation. Enola gulped quietly, suddenly thankful that they were in their bedroom, alone. This was the least dignified she had been in quite some time.
Tewkesbury’s arms swelled gently with muscles as he rummaged through a drawer to find a new bandage. Though the cut on his arm was bleeding, it was shallow, and she knew it would heal up very soon. His torso dipped and curved in interesting ways, coming to a stop at the line of his breeches. She tried to swallow again, but her mouth was dry.
“Enola?” he called, his head still down. “Do you know if we have more?”
She blinked. “More what?”
Tewkesbury turned, his brow furrowed in confusion. “More bandages. Are you okay? You never miss when I speak. Is the fever returning?”
That shocked her from her stupor. She laughed softly, brushing past him to open a different drawer. “I’m in perfect health, thank you dearest. Here you are.”
Enola turned, bandages in hand, only to find her husband rather a lot closer to her than she had expected. She felt her face flush with colour when her hands brushed against the indentations along his midriff.
Tewkesbury examined her face closely, before looking down at her hands. An infuriating grin began to spread across his face.
“Enola, are you flustered by me?”
“What? Of course not,” she replied briskly, shoving the bandages into his hands and taking a much needed step back. “I simply wasn’t expecting you to stand so close to me.”
“It’s alright if you are,” he teased, throwing the bandages behind him without looking. They landed on the bed in a white heap. “We have been married almost two years, you know. You’re allowed to look at me upon occasion.”
She felt a reluctant grin stretch her mouth. “Upon occasion?” she queried, taking a step forward to match the one he was taking. “What occasions would those be?”
“Christmas,” he said seriously, arms reaching out to snake around her waist. Her hands settled on his shoulders. “Easter. Your birthday and mine. The anniversary of the day we met, the anniversary of our first kiss, the anniversary of the day you saved my life-”
“Hang on, I’ve saved your life multiple times,” she objected. “How on earth are we to remember them all?”
His eyes were sparkling as he spoke. “I suppose we shall have to assume that every day is a celebration of my ongoing health.”
“And what remarkable health that is,” she replied drily, though her eyes came to settle on his arm. It had stopped bleeding, but there were small bruises up both arms, and across his chest and abdomen. “Are you really okay though?”
He kissed her, kissed her so enthusiastically that she quite forgot her question when the two of them came up for air. He leaned his forehead against hers.
“I assure you, darling, I am in outstanding health.” His eyes were bright. “Would you like me to prove it?”
She jutted out her chin, her grin breaking through despite her best effort. “Why yes, yes I would.”
Those lessons really had done him the world of good.