Russell brushed his fingers lightly over the petals, feeling the chill and dampness clinging to his fingertips.
Judging by the soil's moisture and how much water had already evaporated, it hadn't been watered long ago.
Probably less than half an hour.
"How thoughtful," he said to the empty air, then turned and headed into the bedroom.
The books on the shelf had been scrambled out of order—though that was something Holly David herself had done yesterday when she'd panicked.
As for whether anything had changed in the meantime, Russell couldn't be sure.
His gaze landed on the desk.
There was nothing remarkable there: just Holly David's "idea notebook" and a fountain pen.
Russell picked up the notebook and flipped through it. Most of it was just fragmented keywords only Holly herself would understand.
He had zero interest in it—so he kept turning pages until he reached the newest blank one.
Then his brows knit slightly.
There were traces of writing on the newest page.
Or rather—someone had written something on the previous page, and the indentations had pressed through, leaving a faint mirrored imprint on the next page.
The strokes were blurry and broken, but with his upgraded senses, Russell could still make out that it was probably a passage.
Or more precisely—
A letter.
He tilted the notebook back and forth, trying to decipher it.
But unfortunately, it was too difficult.
No matter.
This was exactly the moment for a magical, wonderful tool.
Russell set the notebook down and opened the system shop.
[Trace Rubbing Powder: With a single gentle wipe, even invisible secrets will be revealed.
One-time item. Price: 50 Malice Points.]
[Confirm purchase.]
He didn't hesitate for even a second.
[Item purchased successfully.]
[Current balance: 1400]
The follow-up malice from the Roy family was still trickling in, and the wallet that had dipped back into the triple digits was full again.
Clearly, Mycroft had started applying pressure.
As the prompt chimed, Russell reached into his pocket—and a small silk-textured pouch had appeared out of nowhere.
He took it out and opened it. Inside was a fine black powder, delicate as graphite.
He sprinkled it onto the blank page, then smoothed it with his finger.
And on the page that had been empty a moment ago—
Line by line, neat and graceful handwriting emerged, like a ghost being summoned into view.
Just as he'd predicted: it really was a letter.
But what surprised Russell was this—
It wasn't the ghost writing to Holly David.
It was…
Holly David writing to the ghost?
Russell's frown deepened.
He stared down at the notebook, reading those lines of concerned greetings and vaguely intimate phrasing, confusion climbing to its peak.
[It's getting colder at night again—did you remember to close the window?]
[Something really interesting happened at the studio today. I wanted to tell you about it…]
[I put away the coffee cup you left last time. I know you like that brand—next time I go out, I'll buy more for you.]
[Don't worry. I meant what I told Miss Holmes. I really do think you're like a ghost, but I didn't mean that as an insult.]
[I'm going to stay at a friend's place for a few days. Don't worry about me. Please take care of the flowers—and there's milk in the fridge from yesterday. Remember to drink it.]
Russell read it one word at a time. His expression shifted—from confusion, to something he could only describe as incomprehensible absurdity.
This… is right?
Had Holly David developed Stockholm syndrome from being "tormented"?
Or—
Had he and Charlotte just been a prop in some bizarre relationship "play" between these two?
Were there just… too many weirdos in London?
Unconvinced, Russell tore the letter page out, then compared it against Holly David's earlier notes.
It didn't take long for him to spot the issue.
"I knew it," Russell exhaled in relief. "London still has normal people."
The handwriting was almost identical—but under the scrutiny of [Investigation C++], there were subtle differences.
Holly David's handwriting carried a casual, fluid artistic quality, just like her profession.
But the handwriting in this letter was clearly a deliberate imitation of her style.
At first glance it looked convincing—but if you looked closely, every stroke transition felt too tidy, too intentional.
Like someone dancing in the rain overseas for no apparent reason while insisting they were "totally relaxed."
In summary—
This letter was written by the ghost to himself.
He'd copied Holly David's handwriting, wrote himself a letter, and tried to treat it as if Holly David had written it to him.
"Self-deception."
Russell set the letter back on the desk.
"Sure, fooling other people is one thing. Just don't fool yourself too."
His contemptuous, mocking voice echoed in the small room—whether it was self-talk, or meant for that "nonexistent" ghost, it was hard to tell.
Russell walked to the bookshelf.
He measured it with his hands, confirming the dimensions.
At this size, a person could absolutely squeeze through—no problem.
Now came the practical part.
Practice was the only true test of truth.
He rolled up his sleeves and moved in, trying to lift the bookshelf—or shove it aside.
But the shelf was heavier than he'd expected. Russell alone couldn't move it.
And whether he pushed left or pulled right, it didn't budge.
"So it's not the bookshelf?" Russell frowned. "Or do I need to trigger some mechanism before it'll move?"
He gave up on brute force.
Taking two steps back, he stood in front of the shelf and examined the book arrangement.
As Mary would put it: bold hypothesis, careful verification.
Could it be triggered by placing certain books in a specific order?
With that thought, Russell pulled over a chair and sat down facing the shelf—like a student in a library picking out a book.
He began to observe.
The shelf held everything: design theory, classic poetry collections, popular novels—an eclectic mix.
Most books were neatly arranged according to Holly David's habits, grouped by publisher and size—pleasing to the eye.
But a few books were conspicuously wrong.
A heavy Collected Shakespeare had been jammed into a row of small-format pulp novels, sticking out like a sore thumb.
Another, Stray Birds, sat alone on the very top shelf, utterly out of place among oversized design portfolios.
There were also a few books Russell didn't even recognize the authors of, but judging by the worn covers, they'd been handled often.
"The order's been disrupted…" he murmured.
He stood, stepped forward, and pulled out the out-of-place Collected Shakespeare.
Then he returned it to where it "should" go—lined up with other similarly sized classics.
Next, he climbed onto the chair, took down Stray Birds, and placed it back with the poetry section.
One by one, he returned every mis-shelved book to where he believed it belonged.
He wasn't sure if the method was correct, but at least the categorization made sense.
When he pushed the last misplaced book in, aligning the spine perfectly with the others—
Nothing happened.
"Alright. Guess that's not it," Russell said with a self-deprecating shrug.
"In that case… Plan B it is."
Everyone knows detectives and assistants are a two-person unit:
One does the brain work.
The other does the muscle work.
Russell didn't want to admit he was Charlotte's assistant, but…
Well.
His surname did include Watson.
Russell stood, left the bedroom, and walked to the landline phone in the living room.
Then—
"Hello. Is this Miss Charlotte Holmes, residing at Baker Street 221B and currently enrolled at Imperial College London?"
....
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