The call connected quickly, and from the other end, Lestrade's utterly exhausted voice drifted out of the receiver like a ghost.
"Hello?"
"It's me." Charlotte's voice was brief and to the point.
"Charlotte?" Lestrade was startled for a moment, then let out a wail.
"My God, what have you found now? Can't you let me catch my breath?"
"Pilsen's social circle," Charlotte said, ignoring his complaints. "I want a list of everyone who's had close dealings with him."
"Again?" Lestrade sounded on the verge of tears. "I'll remind you, it's ten o'clock at night, Charlotte. Normal people are supposed to be asleep."
"So?" Charlotte shot back. "Performance record or sleep—pick one yourself. Wrap up this job and maybe you'll finally make inspector."
"..." A long silence fell over the other end of the line.
"I'll do my best." In the end, he caved anyway.
"Tomorrow morning, or by tomorrow noon at the latest, I'll have someone send the files over to Baker Street."
"Very good." Charlotte nodded with satisfaction, then hung up without the slightest mercy.
She turned around and met Russell's gaze, which carried a hint of sympathy.
"What are you looking at me for?" Charlotte raised an eyebrow.
"Nothing," Russell shook his head. "It just suddenly struck me that Lestrade has it pretty rough."
"You won't think so once his pay stub comes out."
Charlotte said it as a matter of course, then settled back into her armchair.
"Everywhere except the City of London falls under Scotland Yard's jurisdiction, and the City hardly ever has anything happen.
So, whenever something happens elsewhere and the case gets solved in the end, all the credit goes to Lestrade.
You only saw him moaning and groaning to me on the phone, but you didn't see the way, every time a case is closed, the corners of his mouth turn up so wide that not even ten carriages could hold them down."
"Fine, one's willing to strike and the other's willing to take it," Russell shrugged.
"It's called a win-win partnership. I take my consultant's fee, and he earns the reputation and the performance record."
Charlotte set her empty teacup down hard on the table, producing a light "clink."
"Well then," Charlotte stood up and worked her somewhat stiff shoulders, "that's enough for today."
She stretched lazily, then yawned.
"Tomorrow morning, remember my breakfast and morning paper." She gave the reminder, then turned to head back to her own room.
Charlotte walked over to Russell, bent down, and suddenly leaned in close.
"Also, don't forget to wash my teacup for me, Mr. Assistant."
The girl's voice was very soft, her warm breath brushing lightly across the curve of Russell's ear, making him instinctively shrink his neck.
Before he could react, Charlotte had already straightened up and, with brisk steps, vanished at the doorway.
Russell touched his ear, where a faint, ticklish warmth still lingered.
He looked at that empty teacup, then glanced in the direction Charlotte had gone.
In the end, he could only shrug helplessly, pick up the cup, and walk toward the sink.
·
Early the next morning, when the first rays of sunlight pierced through the thin mist and fell gently upon that familiar window of 221B Baker Street, Russell had already been mercilessly roused from his sleep by the alarm clock.
With a head of messy hair, he walked into the kitchen with practiced ease and began preparing breakfast for the three residents of 221B Baker Street.
Ever since the agreement between him and Charlotte had been struck, the job of making breakfast had changed hands from Mrs. Hudson to him.
The butter in the frying pan sizzled, and the golden-brown toast and crisply fragrant bacon gave off an enticing aroma.
Just as he was setting that beautifully presented breakfast down on the table, Charlotte happened to come down the stairs, draped in her dressing gown and yawning.
"Morning." Russell pushed a cup of warm milk in front of her.
"Morning." Charlotte pulled out a chair and sat down. Her gaze lingered on the breakfast for a moment, then fell on the newspaper beside it.
Today's headline was still dominated by Moriarty's "exoneration," though the heat around it had clearly cooled considerably.
The citizens' emotions, after several reversals, had gradually settled into calm.
Gossip and spectacle were all well and good, but life still had to go on.
Charlotte flipped through it casually, then tossed it aside and turned her full attention to the breakfast in front of her.
"Why'd you stop reading?" Russell sat down across from her and took a bite of the sandwich he'd made.
"There's nothing worth reading," Charlotte said, cutting off a piece of toast.
"The sales figures for The Guardian and The Times today should be arriving soon. Those are far more interesting than the papers themselves."
"I seem to recall a certain someone saying she didn't care about that sort of trivial win or loss."
"I'm merely curious about the result," Charlotte corrected him, then picked up the warm milk and took a sip.
The two finished their breakfast in silence.
Just as Russell had cleared away the dishes and was preparing to head out for school, a burst of hurried knocking interrupted his movements.
"Is Miss Holmes in?" came the voice of a young constable from outside the door. "Inspector Lestrade sent me to deliver something."
Russell stepped forward and opened the door—it was still the same officer who had come to deliver things last time.
"Thanks for the trouble."
"You too."
The young officer smiled at Russell, then handed over the thick file in his hands.
Russell took the rather weighty file, hefted it, and turned to walk back into the sitting room.
"Your delivery, madam." He set the file on the coffee table in front of Charlotte.
"A little faster than I expected."
Charlotte glanced at the thick envelope and raised an eyebrow, her tone carrying a rare note of satisfaction.
"Feels like Lestrade pushed himself too hard," Russell teased from the side.
Charlotte didn't respond. She set down the still-steaming cup of milk in her hand and, with crisp motions, tore open the seal of the envelope, dumping out all the material inside.
Stacks of yellowed papers scattered across the tabletop, densely filled with records of everything in Pilsen's past—
from the files of his time in the military, to his social connections after discharge, to the rumors—true or false—he'd left behind while knocking around London's underworld.
Charlotte casually picked up the topmost one and skimmed it rapidly, those grey-blue eyes darting swiftly across the pages.
Sunlight streamed through the window, falling at a slant upon her, casting a soft halo around her somewhat tousled black curls.
A few disobedient strands of hair fell against her cheek, swaying gently with each dip of her head as she read.
She read with utter concentration, as though the entire world had been shut out in that moment.
"Found anything?" Russell sat down beside her and leaned over curiously.
"Not yet," Charlotte said without turning her head, her finger tapping lightly on a certain line of text.
"This material is too scattered, and much of it lacks timeliness.
Back when Pilsen was active in London's underworld, Lestrade was still just an ordinary patrolman."
"So most of the names on this list are ancient, moth-eaten old history?"
"More or less," Charlotte tossed the file in her hand aside and picked up another.
"But it's not entirely without value."
"Such as?"
"Such as, I can at least confirm that Pilsen is a lone wolf."
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