The carriage started slowly, its wheels crushing the cobblestone road and emitting a rhythmic clatter.
It was as if the final curtain call was being played for tonight's magnificent drama.
"Mary Morstan is an interesting woman."
Charlotte's voice rang out beside Russell's ear.
Hearing this, Russell withdrew his gaze from the receding carriage and turned to look at Charlotte.
"What do you mean?"
"Literal meaning." Charlotte did not explain much, but instead asked Russell a question in return:
"Do you know what other people look like in my eyes?"
Russell was slightly stunned upon hearing this. He looked at Charlotte, gazing into those grey-blue eyes that appeared increasingly cold and clear in the moonlight.
He had never thought about this question, nor had he expected Charlotte to ask him this.
"Probably... a combination pieced together from various tags and keywords?"
He tentatively offered an answer.
"That is the state during an investigation, not the daily state," Charlotte said.
"Most of the time, when I am too lazy to think, the majority of people don't even have faces in my eyes."
Charlotte spoke indifferently, her gaze cast toward the empty street in the distance.
"They are like piles of walking data, a string of easily predicted behavioral patterns—clear at a glance, with no surprises.
"Their joys, sorrows, anger, and happiness are all built upon the shallowest physiological and social needs. Boring, and devoid of any novelty.
"Sometimes, I even feel they aren't alive, just background boards in this city that move and make noise."
She paused, then continued, "But there are a few exceptions."
"Such as?"
"Such as Mycroft. He is very smart; I must admit that."
Charlotte said.
"But he is different from me. He likes to stand on high, overlooking the entire chessboard, enjoying the beauty brought by rules and order.
"He attempts to integrate all chaotic variables into that massive, nauseating system of his. I don't like that."
"Then what do you like?" Russell asked, following the flow.
"I am only interested in the chess piece on the board that has moved to the wrong position—the illogical piece."
Charlotte turned her head and looked at Russell.
"For example, Mary Morstan."
"Her?"
"She is also a smart person. She also feels this world is very boring. On this point, she and I are the same.
"So, I find her interesting."
"Then what about me?" Russell asked subconsciously.
"In your eyes, what am I like?"
"You?"
Charlotte tilted her head slightly, as if scrutinizing an interesting collection piece.
"As for you, Russell Watson, you are very interesting."
She took a step forward, closing the distance between the two of them.
"But you are different from Mary Morstan's kind of interesting.
"So far, there aren't many who can be admitted by me as geniuses, or rather, smart people. And regrettably, you are not on that list.
"Your rating with me is about the same as those mediocre, boring people. But you are different from them."
"Different where?" Russell was not angry at this evaluation but continued to ask.
"You are the only one among that group of people I just mentioned who is trying hard to make himself look not so mediocre, not so boring," Charlotte said, her tone carrying a rare hint of a smile.
"Frankly speaking, I don't dislike it. I even like this point. This can be counted as one of your few redeeming qualities."
"I'll take that as a compliment." Russell smiled. "Should I feel proud of this?"
"Of course. Keep it up, make persistent efforts." Charlotte nodded.
The two looked at each other, then laughed in unison, their laughter echoing in the empty street.
"I'll ask one more unnecessary question. Me, Mycroft, Mary—we've finished talking about the three of us. So, what about Mrs. Hudson?"
Russell asked while laughing.
"Mrs. Hudson?" Charlotte repeated, then took a deep breath.
"She is a good person. It's that simple."
"I agree." Russell was noncommittal.
The two fell into silence once again, but this time the silence was no longer awkward. Instead, it held a kind of clarity and tranquility like the sky after rain.
The lights of 221B Baker Street appeared exceptionally warm in the night, like a lighthouse guiding two souls, who were both somewhat lonely, back to port.
Mrs. Hudson had already gone to sleep, leaving only a dim wall lamp in the living room.
The two did not say anything more, merely exchanging a tacit glance at the top of the stairs.
"Goodnight, Charlotte."
"Goodnight, Watson."
Russell returned to his room and changed out of the suit stained with the atmosphere of the evening party.
He did not go to sleep immediately but walked to the desk.
He fished out that stack of letters and photos from his pocket—enough to stir up a political storm—and looked at them again by the moonlight.
Subsequently, he found a kraft paper envelope he had prepared long ago and stuffed these things inside, but he did not seal it.
There was still one last job to do before sleeping.
It was time to send some benefits to his reporter friends at The Times.
Russell pushed open the window, and the freezing night wind instantly poured into the room.
"It's really cold... Let's get this done quickly and come back to sleep."
He said this with his mouth, then his figure leaped onto the opposite roof silently, like a drop of ink merging into the night color.
Baker Street beneath his feet had fallen into deep slumber; only sporadic gas lamps were still dutifully emitting halos of dim yellow light.
The building of The Times was located on Fleet Street, the heart of the entire London news industry.
Even late at night, a few windows in this building were still lit, like a tireless cyclops, constantly spying on every secret of this city.
Russell stood opposite the building, looking up at this fortress that seemed impregnable.
In reality, he had already been here quite a few times.
Except for the very beginning when he didn't take the usual path, the subsequent times he had used the employee entrance.
The employee entrance The Times specifically opened for Phantom Thief Moriarty.
After all, who would hate a phantom thief who delivered performance results to them from time to time?
It could be said that on the entire Fleet Street, if any newspaper office dared not to open a back door for him, then they shouldn't even think about grabbing a headline in London.
To Scotland Yard, Moriarty was a thief, a burglar who made Lestrade grit his teeth in anger.
But to the newspaper offices of Fleet Street, this was the Godfather who brought them food.
No, not Godfather.
That would have to be Biological Father!
In the newspaper, you can call me a phantom thief, curse me as a thief; I won't pick a bone with you.
Away from the newspaper, what do you have to call me?
It was just that the current Russell had no intention of using the back door.
To ensure the secrecy of his identity, he had specifically established two submission plans.
First, using the identity of the Phantom Thief to take the employee entrance, directly dropping the things off and leaving.
This method was simple, efficient, and fast.
Even if discovered, the other party would only pretend to have seen nothing.
But the problem was that there was no return.
Therefore, when in need of money, or when he was relatively free, Russell would use the second method.
After all, who doesn't want to get some chips?
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