221B Baker Street
Charlotte, sprawled limp across the sofa, heard the one phone in the flat that never rang suddenly start ringing.
Not many people knew that number.
Lestrade was one.
Mycroft was another.
And after that… Russell Watson also counted.
But considering that guy should still be in class right now, it wouldn't be him.
And Mycroft… probably not either. He was busy dealing with Ethan Roy.
Which meant there was only one possibility left—
Lestrade.
He'd probably run into another case he couldn't solve.
Charlotte pinched the bridge of her nose, pushed herself up off the sofa, and walked over to the telephone.
But before she could even speak, the voice on the other end came through first.
A familiar voice.
A voice that absolutely should not be showing up at this hour.
A voice so punchable it was practically an art form.
"Hello. Is this Miss Charlotte Holmes, residing at 221B Baker Street and currently enrolled at Imperial College London?"
"...…"
Charlotte went silent.
After a moment, she finally spoke—her tone carrying a rare trace of genuine confusion.
"Why is it you…?"
She asked.
"At this time you should still be in class."
"For various reasons," Russell's voice sounded downright cheerful, "I skipped."
"And then?" Charlotte said flatly. "Did you call just to show off?"
"Aren't you curious where I am?" Russell shot back.
"I have zero interest in your truancy itinerary. If you don't say something meaningful within the next three sentences, I'm hanging up."
"See? You're impatient again."
"You have two sentences left." Charlotte lifted her teacup.
"At lunch, Mary and I discussed some things—about… dynamic spatial connections, and some kind of gear box mechanism."
"Last sentence."
"I'm at Holly David's place."
…
The line went quiet.
Russell leaned against the phone table, smiling, as if he could picture Charlotte's expression perfectly.
One hand held the receiver. The other idly twirled the pen on the table.
"What are you doing in Holly David's apartment?" Charlotte's voice came through the earpiece.
"Don't tell me you're the pervert."
"That's a bit hurtful, Charlotte." Russell shrugged.
"Didn't I just say it? At lunch, Mary and I talked about… dynamic spatial connections."
"Speak human."
"Fine. In simple terms—we suspect the reason that 'ghost' can move in and out of Miss David's place so freely is because he's using some kind of mechanism."
Russell explained, relaying the entire lunch conversation with Mary.
After listening, Charlotte fell into a brief silence.
Then she spoke.
"Your discovery isn't far from what I was thinking."
"Oh?" Russell raised an eyebrow on the other end of the line. "So you guessed it too?"
"I just checked the archives for that area and found the building was remodeled," Charlotte said.
"To maximize usable space, the contractor demanded that the architect put up an internal wall and split one unit into two—so a single apartment could be rented out as two."
"They really know how to make money," Russell said. "And?"
"And then I started thinking about how plausible a mechanism would be—and then you called. So… what's the outcome?"
"The outcome is: your line of thinking is right. I'm now pretty sure the bedroom bookshelf might be part of the mechanism."
"But the problem is—I just realized that doesn't really make sense."
"Mm?" Charlotte prompted.
"Those books were bought and placed there by Holly David herself. If even she doesn't know the mechanism exists, how could the ghost know?"
Russell continued.
"Also, the mechanism can't be on my side."
"It's on the other side."
"Looks like your brain hasn't rusted so badly it needs oil," Charlotte said.
"So if you already figured it out, why call me?"
"To report progress," Russell said, "and because I still have a problem."
"Say it."
"I can't exactly break into someone else's apartment, can I?"
"If you truly intended to do that, it wouldn't really be a problem," Charlotte replied.
"If you catch a parasite hiding in an elderly woman's home—someone living alone—I imagine she'd be very grateful."
"But what if the ghost isn't home and she mistakes me for a burglar?"
"No need to worry. I'll go to Scotland Yard and bail you out."
"I don't want a criminal record, thanks." Russell rolled his eyes.
In truth, getting into the neighboring unit wasn't difficult at all.
A smoke bomb would do it.
The real issue was:
What if someone was inside?
How would he explain that?
The lady was seventy. If he pulled a "now you see me, now you don't" in her living room, he'd scare her into becoming her own grandson.
Instant rejuvenation.
"Then knock politely," Charlotte said, "and tell her your purpose."
"If she agrees, problem solved."
"And if she refuses?"
Charlotte countered smoothly:
"If I told you there's a pervert hiding in your home, and that your apartment is secretly connected to the unit next door by a hidden door…"
"And that for your safety, I want to search your apartment—if not to catch him, then at least to confirm where the hidden door is…"
"Then tell me—under what circumstances would you refuse?"
"…Uh," Russell hesitated. "Because I've got something to hide."
"Mm-hm. So—go on, Mr. Watson."
"Remember your manners. Say hello."
"I don't need you to teach me that."
Russell rolled his eyes, then hung up.
He took a deep breath, set the receiver down, turned, stepped out the door, and went next door.
Knock, knock, knock—
A steady, unhurried knocking sounded.
"Coming. Just a moment."
From behind the door came a faint shuffling—slow footsteps unique to old age.
Russell reflexively straightened his collar, cleared his throat, and tucked away the usual lazy, half-amused look.
He replaced it with a harmless, polite smile.
Creeeak—
The door opened from the inside, revealing the same kindly elderly face he'd seen yesterday.
"Oh, it's you, young man."
The woman clearly remembered him. Her cloudy but friendly eyes warmed with genuine kindness.
"How's that poor girl? Is she doing better?"
"Thank you for asking. She's much better—more stable emotionally," Russell replied politely, voice gentle.
"That's good. That's good." The woman nodded, visibly relieved.
"If you need help, you can always come to me. Poor child."
"Actually, ma'am," Russell put on the perfectly measured expression of mild embarrassment and apology.
"I did come today because there's a small favor I'd like to ask."
"Oh?" The old woman looked curious. "What is it, dear?"
"Well…"
Russell began the speech he'd already prepared in advance.
"I'm a materials science student at Imperial College. After I left yesterday, I mentioned Miss David's situation to my supervisor."
"Mhm." The woman listened attentively.
"My supervisor thinks that since this building is quite old, some of the pipes or wiring inside the walls might have aged."
"At night, when everything is quiet, thermal expansion and contraction—or water flow—can sometimes cause… well, certain sounds or phenomena that are… hard to explain."
Russell paused, watching her reaction.
She seemed a bit lost, but worry had already crept into her gaze.
"You mean… this building is dangerous?" she asked.
"No, no—please don't misunderstand." Russell waved his hands quickly in reassurance.
"It's nothing that serious. Just normal aging, completely within safe limits."
"I'm here today to do a simple check, confirm the source. That way, both you and Miss David can feel at ease—right?"
Understanding dawned on the elderly woman's face.
"Oh, I see. Then of course that's fine."
She agreed without a second thought, stepping aside to let him in.
"Come in, child. Do you need me to do anything?"
"You don't need to do anything at all, ma'am." Russell exhaled in relief and stepped inside.
"I can handle it myself. I won't take too much of your time."
....
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