The abrupt voice, tinged with mockery, cut through the stillness — and the fingers turning Mycroft's pages stilled, just for a moment.
The firelight danced, catching the lenses of his gold-rimmed glasses and making them flicker between bright and dim. It also served to mask the flash of surprise in his eyes — minute, almost imperceptible, there and gone in an instant.
He did not turn around. He showed not a trace of agitation.
The man known as the [British Government] in human form simply, unhurriedly, slipped his bookmark into the page he had been reading.
Only then did he ease the book shut and lay it flat on the desk.
The entire sequence was unhurried and composed — as though the voice behind him belonged not to an uninvited intruder, but to a servant politely enquiring whether he wished for a fresh pot of black tea.
"Good evening," he said at last, his voice as level as still water, betraying nothing.
"Mr. Moriarty."
Mycroft slowly swivelled his high-backed chair to face the figure standing in the shadows of his study.
The Phantom Thief leaned there in silence against the tall floor-to-ceiling window, as though he had always been there — as though he were simply part of the darkness the room had always contained.
He wore a well-tailored black trench coat, and the white mask on his face looked all the paler, all the more enigmatic, in the amber glow of the firelight.
"You don't look particularly surprised," Russell observed, a note of amusement in his voice.
He took two steps forward, out of the shadows and into the light — entirely unabashed.
"I have a clear conscience. Why would I be flustered?"
Mycroft settled back against his chair, fingers laced together over his stomach, and smiled.
"Besides, I find myself rather curious — what gave you the confidence to stroll into my study as though you owned the place.
You should know, the security on this street is considerably tighter than those so-called grand houses over in Kensington."
"And I'm equally curious," Russell shot back without missing a beat, "what gave you the confidence to think a handful of constables with truncheons and a few hounds with defective noses could stop me."
He pulled over a velvet guest chair and settled himself across from Mycroft with easy, unhurried nonchalance.
Mycroft's gaze lingered on him for a moment, frank and unguarded in its appraisal.
"Interesting," he said at last — the exact same verdict Charlotte had given.
"So then, Mr. Moriarty — to what do I owe a visit at this hour of the night?
If you've come looking for leverage, I'd advise you to save yourself the trouble.
If it's money you're after, however... there are a few paintings in the corridor you're welcome to take — so long as you return them."
"Rest assured, I haven't come to take anything this time." A smile crept into Russell's voice.
"On the contrary — I've come to deliver a gift."
As he spoke, he slipped a hand into the inner pocket of his trench coat.
The movement caused Mycroft's eyes to sharpen — almost imperceptibly — though his posture remained perfectly relaxed.
Russell produced the sheaf of letter-paper he had stolen from Phineas's club and tossed it casually onto the desk of fine mahogany.
"What's this?" Mycroft glanced at the yellowed papers on the desk but made no move to reach for them.
"I told you — a gift." Russell smiled, offering nothing more.
"Speaking of which, I half-expected you to still be working overtime."
"Working overtime is proof of poor efficiency. I never work overtime." Mycroft said.
"Is that so." Russell inclined his head slightly. "I rather like that philosophy. Though I'd have thought someone as perpetually occupied as yourself wouldn't have anything resembling office hours."
He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back against the soft velvet of the chair.
Mycroft paid no mind to the teasing in his words.
His gaze remained on the papers lying on the desk.
"Since it's a gift, I assume I'm permitted to open it?"
He extended a hand, his long fingers resting lightly on the edge of the sheaf — but he did not yet turn it over.
"Of course." Russell nodded. "Though before you do, I'd recommend bracing yourself."
"Bracing myself?" Mycroft's brow furrowed. "For what, exactly?"
"Well... for overtime."
At that, Mycroft's frown deepened.
"You're that certain I'll be working overtime?"
"Why not make it interesting — shall we have a wager?" Russell smiled.
"What are the stakes?"
"If you read what's inside and still manage to set it aside, go to bed, and leave it all until tomorrow — then I lose," Russell said.
"And as the price of my defeat, I'll remove this mask in front of you with my own hands."
"Intriguing. And if I lose?" Mycroft's interest was piqued; he leaned forward slightly.
"If you lose, what I ask of you is quite simple." The corners of Russell's mouth curved beneath the mask.
"You've seen the papers, I take it — the announcement letter for the Grand Performance?"
"I have. Impressive penmanship, by the way. Trained hand?"
"Kind of you to say. A little practice here and there." Russell shrugged.
"But to the point — if you lose, there's no price to pay, as such. Simply do what you would naturally do.
My one condition is that you cooperate with me — or more precisely, cooperate with the terms laid out in my announcement letter."
"Cooperate with your announcement letter?" Mycroft repeated the phrase with evident interest.
"That does sound rather like a lopsided wager, Mr. Moriarty.
You're staking everything — your identity, your mystique, your freedom.
While I stake nothing more than a principle I've long since grown comfortable with, and one quiet evening."
He paused, the smile at the corner of his mouth deepening — like a man savouring a piece of particularly good theatre.
"Tell me — what makes you so certain that this little stack of papers is enough to make me abandon my principles and willingly lose this wager?
If you're merely looking for a graceful way to unmask yourself, you needn't go to quite such lengths."
"Because they're worth it."
Russell's voice remained perfectly light. He settled both elbows on the armrests and mirrored Mycroft's pose exactly — fingers laced together.
"And I have absolutely no intention of losing."
Mycroft said nothing.
He studied the pale mask before him as though he could see straight through it — straight through to the smiling eyes behind.
"Not bad," he said at last, slowly. "As provocations go."
He reached out and drew the sheaf of papers a few inches closer.
"I accept the wager."
"A wise choice." Russell gave a small nod.
"Then," said Mycroft, lifting the topmost sheet.
"Allow me to examine this gift — the one apparently capable of shaking the British Empire to its foundations."
A brief silence fell over the study. Only the fireplace crackled and spat, and the soft, dry whisper of paper being turned page by page.
Mycroft read quickly. At first, his face still held the composed, assessing look of a chess player surveying the board.
But as the moments passed, that composure was being replaced — displaced — by something heavier. Graver.
The smile faded from his face entirely.
Russell sat quietly across from him and said nothing. He did not interrupt.
He simply watched — watched, with unhurried patience, as the embodiment of the British Government's expression shifted from serene to overcast.
At last, when the final sheet was turned, Mycroft slowly — very slowly — set the documents back down on the desk. Documents that carried the weight of a coming storm.
He did not speak immediately. He only stared at the papers in silence, as though they were not paper at all — but Pandora's Box.
"It would appear," Russell's voice arrived at precisely the right moment, breaking the heavy quiet.
"That I've won."
"...Yes."
Mycroft raised his head slowly. The trace of amusement from earlier was entirely gone. What remained in his eyes was a gravity as deep and still as the ocean floor.
"You have won, Mr. Moriarty."
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