"Scared insane?"
Mary's eyes widened slightly; this time, the shock within them was not an act.
"They went so far as to rob a bank, yet their psychological resilience is that poor?"
Just what kind of trash did Billson find to do the job?
The young girl couldn't help but wonder in her heart.
"Charlotte said the same thing. That guy was acting like he was possessed. If you asked him questions, he wouldn't answer; he just kept repeating the crazy phrase 'Moriarty's face melted'."
Russell shrugged.
"Consequently, Charlotte's leads were cut off just like that. Now we can only place our hopes on the psychotherapist Lestrade found to be effective, or pray that Scotland Yard can catch Billson quickly."
He spoke, then stretched his back lazily.
"Otherwise, I think it will be difficult to find any clues for a while."
"Is that so," Mary responded softly, the last trace of tension in her eyes dissipating along with her words.
As long as suspicion didn't fall on her.
She didn't know if that crazy guy was at risk of recovering. If necessary, perhaps she needed to deal with him along with Billson...
A gloom flashed through Mary's eyes, quickly concealed.
The class bell rang, like a rest note, ending the noisy atmosphere in the classroom.
It was time for class.
The curriculum at Imperial College was as dry and boring as ever.
The old professor's voice sounded unhurriedly from the podium, like the drowsy tolling of a church bell in the afternoon.
Russell lay on the table, propping his chin up with one hand, yawning every now and then.
Facts proved that Mycroft might be right.
Compared to his lazy posture, Mary, sitting aside, formed a sharp contrast with Russell.
The young girl sat upright, the fountain pen in her hand gliding smoothly across her notebook, recording every point of knowledge.
She was looking at the blackboard, while he was looking at her.
It could be called a pleasing scenery.
Just as Russell was preparing to close his eyes again and accept the invitation to play chess from the Duke of Zhou, a fair hand entered his line of sight without a sound.
Following it came an open notebook.
Russell's gaze first fell on that arm, then slowly moved up along it to meet the young girl's side profile.
Mary was still looking at the blackboard, not looking at him, only tapping the notebook gently with the tip of her pen.
Thus, Russell cast his gaze upon the notebook.
On it, written in elegant handwriting, was a line of words:
[What does 'melting face' mean?]
Russell took a look, then picked up his own pen. Below that line, he wrote in a scrawled script:
[Charlotte guesses it is a visual effect produced by the mask under the corrosion of some chemical agent.
By the way, theories about clones and the like are due to Moriarty's movement technique. Through silent movement, he achieved an illusion similar to a clone.
In short, Charlotte attributes these to the bandits having too little experience.]
After writing, he pushed the notebook back.
Mary looked down at the reply, her eyebrows raising slightly.
She stared at that reply for a while, appearing to be thinking about something.
A moment later, Mary lowered her eyes slightly, seeming to end her contemplation.
The rustling sound of the fountain pen rubbing against paper rang out again, and the classroom returned to its previous rhythm.
No.
The handwriting doesn't match.
Although her reason and analysis had told her more than once that the guy beside her had absolutely nothing to do with Phantom Thief Moriarty.
But for some reason, intuition always forced her not to let go of any possibility.
However, every time, the intuition's speculation would be overturned by reason and reality.
Sometimes even Mary herself couldn't figure out what the point of doing this was.
Even if Russell is Moriarty, so what?
Even the young girl herself couldn't hypothesize what reaction she might have under that premise.
Would she be happy? Or angry? Or perhaps sad?
As her train of thought began to slide, Mary found that she seemed unable to brake.
Seeing that this couldn't go on, she hurriedly shook her head, forcing herself to focus her attention on the content the professor was explaining.
However, just as the more one wants to forget something, the clearer the outline of that thing becomes,
Although her gaze remained on the blackboard, her peripheral vision always unconsciously glanced toward the guy beside her who had thoroughly entered dreamland.
Sunlight shone through the window, dyeing his short black hair with a layer of shallow gold. The sound of even breathing echoed softly in the quiet back row.
This made her think, for no reason, of a cat dozing by the fireplace—lazy and serene.
Really...
Mary sighed helplessly in her heart, but the fountain pen in her hand involuntarily landed on the blank space of the notebook once again.
This time, she didn't write any questions about the case. She just used the tip of the pen to sketch gently.
After a few strokes, a simple stick figure sleeping on a table leaped onto the paper.
After finishing the drawing, she felt it was a bit monotonous, so she drew a pair of small, fluffy cat ears on top of the stick figure's head.
Mn, this looks much more pleasing to the eye.
The corners of the young girl's mouth hooked up into a shallow smile that even she hadn't noticed.
Time passed slowly during the boring course. The daylight outside the window also gradually turned from bright to dim yellow.
As the old professor's voice announced the end of class, the students felt as if they had been granted a great pardon, and the classroom instantly returned to its due noisiness.
Russell also slowly raised his head at this moment, blinked his somewhat hazy eyes, and then habitually looked at Mary beside him.
"Class is over?"
"Mn," Mary responded softly. She quietly flipped over the page where she had just drawn the stick figure, and only then pushed the notebook in front of him.
"Today's notes."
"Thanks." Russell yawned and unceremoniously packed the notebook into his schoolbag.
The two walked out of the classroom one after the other. The sunlight at sunset was warm but not piercing; spilling onto the ground, it stretched their shadows very long, looking just like a roll of unfolded, yellowing film.
Just as Russell thought today was about to end as usual, the young girl walking beside him suddenly stopped in her tracks.
"Mn, what's wrong?"
Russell turned his head sideways to look at Mary.
The young girl stood where she was, hands behind her back, gently clasped together, fingertips unconsciously intertwining.
The light of the setting sun hit obliquely from the side of the teaching building, outlining a fluffy, warm contour around her silver hair.
It also dyed her well-tailored school uniform with a soft color between orange and crimson.
She didn't answer immediately, only lowering her head slightly, her gaze falling on her spotlessly polished black leather shoes.
The toe of her shoe drew circles gently and rhythmically on the stone path covered with fallen leaves.
A gust of wind blew past, rolling up a few withered sycamore leaves, swirling between the two of them before quietly drifting into the distance.
The air was excessively quiet, with only the vague noise coming from the distant playground sounding like remote background audio in a movie.
Russell didn't rush her; he just stood there patiently, looking at her, waiting for what followed.
Finally, appearing to have made some sort of determination, Mary slowly raised her head.
In those azure eyes, there was no longer the usual calculation or probing, nor the teasing from the classroom.
At this moment, that deep Aegean Sea only reflected the glow of the evening mist and the figure of the young man before her.
Her voice was very light, as if afraid of disturbing the tranquility of this moment.
"That..." she began, the tail of her voice carrying a trace of hesitation that was imperceptible even to herself.
"This weekend... do you have any plans?"
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