"Good morning, Russell."
Mary's voice landed beside him, bright as always.
"Morning." Russell lifted his head and met those blue eyes.
She looked unusually energized today. Curiosity sparkled in her gaze.
"In a good mood?" he asked casually.
"Am I?" Mary smiled and set her books down. "Maybe the weather's nice."
Then her eyes fell to the newspaper stack on Russell's desk.
"That man really pulled off something big."
Mary picked up the paper, reading the notice printed on the front page.
"A performance…" she murmured. "What do you think he's going to do?"
"Who knows?" Russell said. "Nothing good, probably."
Then, with deliberate mischief, he added:
"If I were Mycroft, I'd use this window to keep a tight watch on every enemy I've got. The moment any of them makes a move—snap, arrest, done. Honestly, Moriarty's probably Mycroft's subordinate anyway. Might even be Mycroft's plan."
Russell tried very hard to dump the blame onto Mycroft.
Mary considered it for a while—serious, thoughtful, recalling their conversation the night before.
Then she shook her head.
"No… it shouldn't be Mycroft."
"Why?"
"Too conspicuous," Mary said. "Lloyds gets hit, then immediately Moriarty starts digging up scandals on half of Parliament and the nobility? Mycroft may be capable, but he can't manage the political fallout of that many people collapsing at once."
She continued, calm and precise:
"Besides, if he wanted to do it, he wouldn't need to announce it to the entire city. Quietly exposing them one by one—like with Ethan Roy—would make far more sense."
"So he's not the adventurous type," Russell summarized.
Mary nodded. "He isn't."
Tch. Didn't fool her.
Russell clicked his tongue inwardly.
"Then why do you think Moriarty's doing this?" he asked.
"Executing justice?"
Mary hesitated, then answered slowly, as if testing the idea aloud.
"Maybe… he's just doing it because it interests him."
"Because it interests him?" Russell repeated, then chuckled like he'd heard a joke.
He didn't press the topic further. Instead, he pivoted.
"By the way—how come you're free this weekend? I always assumed you were the locked-in-a-manor type."
"Normally I wouldn't be," Mary said with an easy smile. "But thanks to someone, my father will be busy for the next week or two. He won't have time to monitor me."
"Someone?" Russell raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me—Moriarty?"
Mary blinked. "Classified."
She tilted her head, playful but careful.
"Let's just say he's busy dealing with people who've made him unhappy."
"Dealing with who?" Russell asked reflexively. "Not me, right?"
"Why would you think that?"
"Because he didn't look like he liked me much at the bank," Russell said.
He still remembered the way Duke Morstan had looked at him.
Mary fell silent for a moment. The smile on her lips thinned, as if something unpleasant flickered through her mind.
After a beat, she looked up again, the teasing grin returning—light, almost careless.
"You?" she said, amused. "You're a poor boy. Why would he bother targeting you? He has a long list of people he hates—so long that if you tried to write it out, you'd run the ink out of your pen before it ever reached your name."
"Good," Russell said, visibly relieved. "That's a load off."
Mary's mouth twitched. Watching his completely sincere, near-tearful gratitude, her eyes grew… complicated.
"You really aren't curious at all?" she asked despite herself.
"Curious about what?" Russell shot back. "Curious how long Duke Morstan's blacklist is?"
"I mean the performance." Mary sighed. "You don't want to know what Moriarty is really planning? This isn't his usual style. He's making a deliberate spectacle—why?"
"Nope." Russell answered cleanly and decisively, then melted back into his chair like a man whose bones had been removed. He basked in the sunlight with blissful laziness. "Not interested."
"Charlotte isn't interested either?"
"She says it's just his need for drama flaring up, and analyzing his motives is a waste of brainpower," Russell said solemnly. "On that point, I agree completely."
Mary stared at him.
"Sometimes I honestly wonder if you have any ambition at all," she muttered, rubbing her forehead.
"My ambition is to graduate peacefully, then find a job where I sit all day, commute is short, I don't have to show my face, and my boss is an idiot," Russell declared with unwavering sincerity.
Mary rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't fall out.
"Quick reminder," she said, half serious, half amused. "Before that, we have a final report together, Mr. Watson. I don't want my partner dragging me down."
"Relax. Finals are ages away." Russell waved a hand. "When the time comes, I'm counting on you, Professor Mary."
"Don't even think about slacking," Mary warned, her tone teasing but sharp. "At Saturday tea, I'll be checking your prep."
"My contribution is to eat the scones and nod enthusiastically at every point you make."
"Dream on."
She shot him an annoyed look—yet her blue eyes carried a smile she didn't seem to notice.
Just as their lazy banter continued, the lecture hall door opened. Professor Fields entered, holding a thick stack of notes.
The room fell silent instantly.
Russell closed his mouth, dropped his head onto the desk in one smooth, practiced motion—like a man who had rehearsed it a thousand times.
Mary watched him, helplessly exasperated.
"Why do I feel like you sleep through every lecture?" she whispered. "What do you even do at night?"
From inside the crook of his arm, Russell replied, muffled:
"If I said I'm actually Moriarty, and I spend nights leaping across London's rooftops… would you believe me?"
"Please." Mary rolled her eyes and turned to the blackboard. "As if."
"If you were Moriarty," she added, "then I'd be the Professor."
....
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