July, 1898

"The mystery of the dancing men was extraordinarily simple, in the end. I regret only that I did not solve it sooner. Mr. Cubitt's death, as well as the unfortunate condition in which his wife now lingers, might have been prevented."

The lines in the lean man's face seem deeper for the moment as he leans against the fireplace, gazing into the depths of the fire. Though, through the memoirs of his friend Doctor Watson, his stoicism has become as famous among polite society as his name, Sherlock Holmes is not entirely devoid of emotion. His expression has changed too subtly for most to notice, but the lady seated near him stares at his face unblinkingly for a moment before emerging from her armchair and pacing across the room. As she passes the great detective, their eyes meet and a reassuring look passes between the siblings. An almost smile crosses Sherlock Holmes' face and he straightens his stance.

"Mrs. Cubitt's prognosis is very hopeful," the stouter, mustached biographer says from his armchair, where he sits with his feet propped up and a glass of port in his hand. "Though it will take time, I'm almost certain she'll recover fully within a matter of months."

"From the head-wound, perhaps," the young woman replies, not looking at either of the men in the room, her eyes fixed on the shiny tip of Doctor Watson's boot. "There are other injuries less visible to the eye that will take far longer to heal. The emotional trauma of losing her husband, and that partly due to her own reluctance to inform him about the characters of her past…" She is silent for a moment before continuing, "I think that losing one so dear to her alone would justify any amount of emotional damage she could claim."

"What is this? My sister, the suffragist, waxing romantic? Perhaps you find the idea of marriage more desirable than you once did?" Sherlock teases gently, and the lady's cheeks flush with warm color.

"Of course not," she snaps and Sherlock raises an eyebrow. Steadying herself, she continues, more calmly, "One need not desire marriage to appreciate it. When both participants are willing, able and happy to spend a lifetime in each other's presence, by all means, it is to be celebrated. I meant only that, if this poor woman loved her husband as much as she seems to have done, then I pity her for the heartbreak she will have to live with when she wakes up to a world without him."

Sherlock Holmes, who has examined his much younger sister's face with curiosity throughout this speech, appears to have found something of great interest in her eyes. With a thoughtful expression, he removes his pipe from between his teeth and strikes a match to relight it, glancing occasionally at the young woman's face.

All too aware of this scrutiny, the woman shoots an obvious look at the clock before casually announcing her intention to leave the gentlemen for the night.

"Thank you for dinner and for telling me about this latest case, my dear brother," she says as she dons her coat and gloves, her hat already firmly attached to her head. "I'll see you again next week, perhaps, for tea? Yes? Good. Good evening Sherlock, good evening Doctor Watson," she says firmly as she shows herself out of the room.

Emerging onto the street, she sees the light is already beginning to fade, darkened by the smoke and shadows of London. Face still burning, the young woman hails a cab. As 221B Baker Street is whisked out of sight behind her, she settles back in her seat with a sigh and draws a letter from one of a number of pockets on her person. She has already read it enough to have all four pages of it memorized, but as her eyes come to rest on a passage on the last page, the meaning of it hits her anew.

"You have expressed your ideas on this subject often enough to me and you know that I entirely agreed with them once, but that was before I met my dear Diederich. It is obvious he cares for me and I have never been so certain I loved anyone than I am that I love him. Please accept my invitation. I cannot imagine this happiest of days without my dearest friend at my side. And I will admit the irony of being delivered from one, odious, marriage and into another, highly desirable, union by the same hands appeals to me greatly. My dear Enola, please reply as soon as possible and reassure me that you will come. I will not be at peace over the matter until I have received your affirmative answer.

"I am yours in friendship and spirit, etc."

Enola Holmes lets out a sigh through her long nose and tucks the letter away once more, staring out the cab window at the passing streets. She sent the awaited confirmation within an hour of receiving the letter, unable as ever to refuse anything to its author.

But now, on the eve of the ceremony, despite spending the entire six months of her friend's engagement preparing herself for the event, Enola Holmes, adventuress, spinster and the world's only Professional Perditorian, cannot help but wish, at least briefly, that some pressing case would steal her away from London and render her promise to attend Lady Cecily Alistair's wedding ineffectual.

Enola shakes her head and stiffens her spine as she alights upon the pavement before her lodgings at the professional woman's club. Her wish is vain. Cecily has asked it of her. And for those she loves, and those who love her in return, the woman who walks alone would pass through fire – or even attend a wedding ceremony – to appease them.