Hearing the girl's words, Russell was slightly stunned, then gave a relieved smile.
"Of course you can."
he said with a smile.
"Let's just say... Moriarty's picking up the tab."
At that, a thoroughly satisfied smile spread across Mary's face.
"Then it's settled." She took two steps back. "Saturday afternoon, same time as last time. Don't be late."
"Mm." Russell stood up and followed behind her, leaving the empty classroom together with her.
The afternoon class was as dull as ever, the professor's voice as hypnotic as always.
But for some reason, today Russell couldn't fall asleep no matter what he tried.
He lay slumped over his desk; though his body was exhausted to its very limit, his mind was unusually clear.
He could distinctly hear the rustling of leaves stirred by the wind outside the window, and could smell the faint scent of white tea drifting from the girl beside him.
He could even feel that gaze—tinged with amusement—that fell upon him every now and then.
He silently shifted his posture, burying his face a little deeper.
And all of this was taken in completely by the girl beside him.
Mary watched him tossing and turning over his desk, the smile at the corners of her lips growing ever deeper.
She picked up her pen and, in the blank space of her notebook, once again began her own little creation.
This time, what she drew was still a stick figure slumped over a desk.
But unlike before, around this stick figure there was now an added ring of swirling lines, representing irritation.
Once she'd finished, still not quite satisfied, she added a pair of drooping, fuzzy cat ears atop the stick figure's head.
Mm, perfect.
The girl admired her masterpiece with satisfaction, then unhurriedly closed the notebook.
The instant the notebook shut, the smile that had filled the girl's eyes vanished in a flash.
In its place was a layer of ice that seemed as if it had never melted since the dawn of time.
Why is it that some people always love to make a drama of themselves?
Is it really so hard to just live properly?
The afternoon class came to an end, each of them lost in their own private thoughts.
The two of them rose as usual, gathered their things, and left the academic building.
The setting sun stretched their shadows long and slanting, swaying gently over the leaf-strewn flagstone path—sometimes parting, sometimes overlapping—until at last, before a fork in the road, they came to a complete halt.
The dusk light slanted across the junction, neatly carving the road's two branches into a sharply divided light and dark.
"Well then," Russell said, stopping in his tracks and being the first to speak.
"See you tomorrow."
"Mm."
Mary stopped as well. She stood on that shadow-shrouded little path, looking at Russell.
Those eyes reflected the afterglow of the setting sun, like a sea ablaze.
"See you tomorrow," she answered softly, her voice as gentle as ever.
Russell nodded with a smile, turned, and walked into that warm road home, paved all over with sunlight.
Mary stayed where she was, watching his receding figure until it disappeared entirely around the street corner—only then did she slowly draw her gaze back.
She turned around, stepped forward, and walked toward that deep, cold road that belonged to her.
The smile on her face, too, vanished without a trace the moment she turned, leaving behind only a stillness as deep as stagnant water.
Russell returned to Baker Street.
Mrs. Hudson was bustling about in the kitchen; there was no sign of Charlotte on the ground floor.
So Russell strode up the stairs and pushed open the door to Charlotte's room.
The unkempt girl was nestled in the armchair, flipping through one file after another in her hands.
That morning's newspaper had been pressed into service as kindling, tossed into the fireplace and burned down to a single charred corner.
Russell looked at the newspaper gradually warping and burning to nothing in the flames, then looked at Charlotte.
For some reason, he seemed to read a hint of... anger on that face.
Russell's mind spun at high speed in that moment, and in the end he made the most correct—and also the safest—decision for the present situation.
He didn't speak right away, but instead skirted around Charlotte with practiced ease and came to stand before the tea table.
Then Russell picked up the Buckingham Palace teapot and gave it a gentle shake.
After confirming there was no water inside, he turned, took up the kettle to fetch water, and then quietly waited for it to boil.
Throughout the entire process, he didn't say a word to Charlotte, and Charlotte never once raised her head.
The room was excessively quiet, with only the faint sizzling of the kettle as it was set over the fire, and the rustling of pages being turned.
Now and then the firewood in the fireplace crackled once or twice, sparks flying, devouring the ravaged remains of the newspaper entirely and reducing them to drifting ash.
Russell leaned against the tea table, arms crossed, quietly waiting for the water to boil, his gaze settling on Charlotte's profile.
The girl's brow was smooth and relaxed, her eyes resting on the file in her hands, her posture easy and languid, as though she were enjoying a leisurely afternoon read.
If one set aside the fact that her reading material happened to be other people's private files, it could even count as quite a pleasant sight.
For an instant, Russell even doubted whether he'd seen wrong just now.
At this moment, there was no sign of anger to be found in Charlotte at all.
The kettle's whistle sounded right on cue, shattering this oppressive silence.
Russell lifted the kettle and, with a gentle motion, poured the scalding boiling water into that white porcelain teapot stamped with the royal crest.
The tea leaves unfurled and tumbled in the water, giving off a rich, mellow fragrance.
He didn't pour the tea right away, but simply stood there holding the kettle, quietly waiting.
Sure enough, in no more than a few seconds, Charlotte's voice rang out, level and even, betraying not the slightest fluctuation.
"Do you intend to just stand there being a pillar forever, Watson?"
"I'm waiting for you to speak first." Russell set the kettle back on the stove, turned, and ambled over to the sofa, sitting down at his leisure.
At this, Charlotte finally deigned to lift her gaze from those tedious files.
The girl raised her head, her gray-blue eyes seeming to hold back an oncoming storm.
"Are you the type who feels uncomfortable all over unless someone's ordering you around?"
"Much as I'd hate to admit I have any quirks, for some reason, after hearing that tone of yours, I suddenly feel a great deal more comfortable."
Russell said this, then handed the freshly brewed tea over to Charlotte's side.
"So, any findings, great detective?"
"Does discovering that the neighbor living next door is actually a psychopath who enjoys being cursed at count?"
Charlotte picked up her teacup, blew on it gently, then took a sip.
"Fabricating facts doesn't count." Russell shrugged indifferently, pouring himself a cup of black tea as well.
"Then there's nothing," Charlotte said, then pinched the bridge of her brow.
"A list of twenty-seven people—that's no small number. I do hope you can understand."
"Of course; I haven't been rushing you, have I?" Russell replied noncommittally.
"But you haven't helped me either," Charlotte grumbled, then drew her conclusion: "This sort of thing simply can't yield results in a short span of time."
"So?"
"So all we can do is take it slow," Charlotte said.
"By the way, I asked Lestrade about the timing for the next visit."
"Visit whom? Charles Brown?"
"Who else would it be," Charlotte said.
"Lestrade told me that the fellow has already pulled through. Barring any surprises, this week should work.
So, if you've got nothing on, we'll go on Saturday—"
"Sunday."
Russell cut her off.
"We'll go on Sunday."
____
________________________________________
If you want more chapters, please consider supporting my page on (P). with 50 advanced chapters available on (P)
👻 Join the crew by searching Leanzin on (P). You know the spot! 😉