On a freshly turned, brand-new page, an equally simple stick-figure doodle lay quietly.
He stood with his back to the viewer, bent slightly forward before what looked like a kitchen sink, a water glass in hand, letting the stream wash over it and rinse away the coffee stains inside.
Beside him, another stick figure—clad in a dressing gown, long hair draped down—sat in an armchair, watching him with keen interest, clutching a few sheets of paper that resembled case files.
The lines were simple, yet they captured an atmosphere both ordinary and warm.
It was as if a moment had been frozen in place—a domestic silhouette belonging solely to 221B Baker Street.
Mary stared at the doodle that had appeared out of nowhere, and in that instant, the smile on her face vanished completely.
If the previous picture could still be interpreted, or forgiven, as harmless mischief—
then this was open provocation, plain as day.
No, that wasn't right. It couldn't be called mere provocation.
It wasn't that veiled.
This was a declaration of war.
The Sarajevo incident, belonging exclusively to two geniuses.
The girl's fingers tightened despite herself, gripping the fountain pen in her hand.
The nib pressed hard against the smooth surface of the paper, leaving a dark smear of ink—like a wound that would never heal.
A moment later, she slowly eased off the pressure, and the poised smile resurfaced on her face.
"Interesting."
She said softly.
"Truly interesting."
Mary drew in a deep breath, gradually reining in the lapse she had just shown, then picked up her pen once more and began to sketch on the paper.
You want war, then war it shall be.
Let's just see whose hand holds the most cards.
"Achoo—!"
221B Baker Street.
Charlotte, absorbed in her concentration, suddenly sneezed without the slightest warning.
The girl rubbed her nose, frowned in mild puzzlement, then pulled her dressing gown tighter around herself.
She didn't dwell on it, simply chalking it up to the drop in London's temperature.
That sneeze had just broken her train of thought, so Charlotte set aside the documents in her hand altogether, picked up the warm milk beside her and took a sip, then rose to her feet and shut the window.
After a morning of sifting, the pool of suspects had been narrowed down to a range that, for her, could be called quite manageable.
And yet Charlotte kept feeling that something was still missing.
Perhaps it was because Scotland Yard's efficiency wasn't high enough, or perhaps because Hannigan had buried his unsavory side deep enough.
In any case, the existing list alone was not yet enough for Charlotte to convict any single one of them.
"I still need to take a look at that ledger…"
Charlotte murmured to herself.
"Never mind. A trip to Fleet Street it is."
The girl stood up, drained the milk beside her in one go, then shrugged off her dressing gown and changed into a trench coat.
But just as she headed downstairs and was about to step out, Mrs. Hudson stopped her.
"Charlotte, where do you think you're going, dressed like that?"
"To Fleet Street. I'll be back soon," Charlotte said without turning her head.
Just as she was about to push the door open, Mrs. Hudson hurried after her.
"Wait, child!"
She seized Charlotte by the arm. "You intend to go out like this?"
"I don't see anything improper about these clothes," Charlotte said, glancing down at herself.
"This isn't about proper or improper—do you have any idea how thin that trench coat is?" Mrs. Hudson said, tugging Charlotte back up the stairs as she spoke.
"I won't stop you from going out, but at least put on something warmer. Have you seen how cold London's gotten?
Good heavens, I truly can't imagine how you ever managed to go out in winter before."
"I didn't go out before…"
"Well, it's a good thing you didn't." As she spoke, Mrs. Hudson walked into Charlotte's room.
"Change out of those clothes and put on something warmer."
"But…"
"No buts."
Mrs. Hudson's tone left no room for argument.
"Otherwise, don't even think about going out. Whatever it is, wait until Russell gets back and have him handle it for you."
"No… what I mean is…" Charlotte scratched her head. "I don't have any thicker clothes."
"Are you joking with me?"
Mrs. Hudson didn't believe it for a second. She walked straight over to the wardrobe standing alone against the wall and yanked the doors open.
And then she froze.
The clothes hanging inside the wardrobe were pitifully few—one glance took them all in.
Aside from a handful of identically styled shirts, the rest were all dressing gowns.
Dressing gowns of every color, every material, every thickness, hung there in neat rows, taking up nearly eighty percent of the wardrobe's space.
"..." Mrs. Hudson fell silent.
She turned back in disbelief, looking at the utterly innocent-faced girl, then back at the wardrobe full of dressing gowns.
"Charlotte, tell me the truth," she said, drawing a deep breath. "Do you have some special fondness for dressing gowns?"
"No," Charlotte shook her head as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "It's only that dressing gowns are more convenient than other clothes, and more comfortable, that's all."
"Even so, you can't wear nothing but dressing gowns!" Mrs. Hudson felt her blood pressure rising a little.
"I have a trench coat," Charlotte corrected.
"Can that thing even count as clothing?" Mrs. Hudson retorted crossly. "At most it counts as an overcoat!"
She pressed a hand to her forehead, pacing back and forth across the room, muttering "dear God" and "how can this child be so utterly incapable of putting my mind at ease."
At last she stopped, looked at Charlotte, and let out a resigned sigh.
"Fine. You wait here for now. I'll go find you something to wear."
With that, she turned and walked out of the room.
Before long, Mrs. Hudson came back carrying a thick, dark-brown wool coat.
"Here, try this on." She held the coat out in front of Charlotte.
Charlotte looked at the coat—clearly not to her taste, and carrying a rather stodgy, old-fashioned air—and her brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, but she obediently put it on anyway.
Then the two of them looked toward the mirror together.
The coat was very warm, but also very oversized.
On Charlotte's frame it looked as though a child had snuck into an adult's clothes—the sleeves ran a good deal too long, the shoulders hung loose and slack, giving her a somewhat comical appearance.
"Ahem," Mrs. Hudson could see the problem too.
She gave an awkward little cough. "It doesn't quite fit, does it."
She peeled the coat off Charlotte and began rummaging through the wardrobe again.
"I should have something else…"
"Mrs. Hudson," Charlotte finally couldn't help speaking up.
"Why don't we just forget it? I'll go out in this trench coat. I'll be back very soon."
"Absolutely not!" Mrs. Hudson's stance was unusually firm. "If it were Russell, that would be one thing, but with that frail constitution of yours—what if you catch a cold from the chill? How would I ever answer to Mycroft?"
"I'm not that fragile."
"Even so, no."
Mrs. Hudson dug through the wardrobe for a good long while, but in the end came up empty-handed.
She looked at the resignation written all over Charlotte's face, then at the gloomy, overcast sky beyond the window, and for a moment found herself caught in a dilemma.
Suddenly, as if something had occurred to her, her gaze traveled across the corridor and settled on the tightly shut door across the way.
"I've got it." She clapped her hands.
"That child's clothes—there should be something in there you can wear!"
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