When the bell rang for the end of the last class, the professor closed his lesson plan and announced that the day's lessons were over.
Before he left, he even cast a rather gratified glance in Russell's direction.
That look seemed to say:
This kid has finally come to his senses.
Even though, several times during the lesson, when he'd glanced over at Russell's seat and found the fellow awake, he'd very nearly been on the verge of dismissing class right then and there.
The classroom had gained one attentive student, and lost one living alarm clock that kept perfect time.
Only after the professor left the room did Russell finally let out a breath, slumping his whole body over the desk.
"I feel more exhausted than if I'd spent the whole day running around outside," he complained weakly.
"You've worked hard." Mary closed the notebook she'd just finished writing in and handed it to Russell, a teasing note in her voice.
"Just hold on a few more weeks and you'll be free—though it'll be a bit of a shame, I suppose."
"Don't say such wicked things," Russell said, reaching out to take the notes.
"I'm being quite sincere, you know," Mary said, staring into his eyes.
At that, Russell paused, then recalled the words she had spoken to him last Saturday at the Phedon Tea Room.
After a moment of silence, he casually stuffed the notebook in his hand into his bag and remarked offhandedly,
"It's not like we won't see each other once the holidays start—and we won't even be tied down by the class bell anymore. What could be better?"
"Will we really get to see each other?" Mary rose to her feet, walking alongside Russell, tilting her head to look at him.
"If my father found out I'd sneaked off with you, he might just lock me up in confinement."
"He's only being so smug for now," Russell said, entirely unconcerned.
"Once he reads Saturday's exclusive interview in the paper, if he can still keep his current attitude toward me, then I'll acknowledge him as a real man."
"That confident?" Mary raised an eyebrow. "Have you got your draft ready?"
"Not yet." Russell shook his head. "But as for what to say, and what I'm allowed to say—I've already got a rough idea in my head."
He said.
"All I'll need is for The Times to polish it up a little, and by then—forget about just your father—all of London will have to think more highly of me.
The man standing before you right now is—Charlotte Holmes's assistant, Moriarty's messenger, a promising young talent in the eyes of Mycroft Holmes, an honored guest of Buckingham Palace, a friend of Princess Louise, Inspector Lestrade's personal Charlotte-translator, and a perfectly ordinary university student who got into Imperial College in three months.
With all those people standing in front of you, I ask you—aren't you dazzled?"
"Then I'll just wait and see," Mary said with a soft laugh.
The two of them walked side by side through the corridor stained gold by the setting sun, all the way to the school gate.
"Well then," Russell said, stopping in his tracks, "see you tomorrow."
"Mm, see you tomorrow."
Russell returned to Baker Street and pushed open the door; Mrs. Hudson was busy preparing dinner.
Charlotte, unusually, was not holed up in her room but sitting on the ground floor, a cup of coffee in her hands.
"What a rare sight," Russell said curiously, sitting down across from Charlotte, and glancing up at the ceiling while he was at it.
"Did your chemistry experiment up in your room end up causing a toxic gas leak?"
At that, Charlotte's hand holding the coffee paused slightly, and then she lifted her head to shoot Russell a glance.
"If that's what you'd like, I can make it come true."
"Then I'd rather ask you to let Baker Street enjoy a few more days of peace, Lady Holmes."
Russell shrugged and poured himself a glass of water.
"I don't particularly fancy tomorrow's Times headline reading: 'Famous Detective Charlotte Holmes and Her Assistant Russell Watson Tragically Perish in Chemical Accident.'"
"Tch." Charlotte pursed her lips, crossing her legs as she looked at the newspaper in her hands.
"What makes you so sure your name would even be in the headline?" She threw Russell a glance.
"For all you know, it might read: 'Renowned Detective Charlotte Holmes Tragically Perishes in Chemical Accident, Neighbor Caught in the Crossfire.'"
"That's just too hurtful," Russell said with a sigh. "As your assistant, am I really not even worthy of having my name?"
"So now you realize you're the assistant?" Charlotte set down her coffee cup and let out a soft snort through her nose.
"You act as though putting you to work was some grave injustice done to you."
"All right, enough of this." Russell picked up his glass and took a sip. "Has there been any progress on Lestrade's end?"
"As if." Charlotte shook her head, sinking back into that lazy posture of hers.
"It's only the first day. If Scotland Yard's efficiency were really that high, there'd be no need for detectives."
"Fair enough," Russell said noncommittally, then took another sip of water.
Charlotte lifted her gaze from the newspaper and fixed it on Russell's face, then furrowed her brow.
"If you've got something to say, say it," she said. "Don't sit there looking like you're holding something in that you want to say but don't dare."
"How on earth did you tell that?" Russell looked at Charlotte in surprise.
"If you've got something to say, say it." Charlotte didn't answer his question.
"Fine, it's not exactly a big deal anyway." Russell paused. "I just wanted to ask—when I go to The Times this weekend for the interview, is there anything I should watch out for?"
"What do you mean... watch out for?" Charlotte shot back.
"..." Russell fell silent for a moment, then heaved a sigh.
"I've suddenly realized that asking you this question was rather pointless."
As he spoke, he stood up. "Do me a favor and give Mycroft a call."
"Call him for what?"
"I need to know which things can be said and which things can't, don't I? That way I can avoid any problems cropping up during the interview."
Russell looked at her.
"Or do you intend to answer the reporters' questions yourself when the time comes?"
"That's not entirely out of the question." Charlotte uncrossed her legs and sat up straight.
"As long as the questions they ask don't strike me as too stupid."
"Then you might be giving those reporters a bit too much credit," Russell said.
"Let me give you an example—suppose they asked you, 'Miss Holmes, what is your greatest hobby at home in your spare time?'
How would you answer?"
"Doing chemistry experiments in my room," Charlotte replied without a moment's hesitation.
"That becomes: conducting dangerous experiments in an environment devoid of safety regulations, with utter disregard for the safety of the other residents."
Russell said.
"Here's another one. What if they asked you, 'What are your plans after graduation?'"
"Continue being a detective."
"That becomes: 'Still undecided on her post-graduation path, Holmes confesses to feeling utterly lost about the future, content to simply drift along with the status quo.'"
"...?" Charlotte knitted her brow and lifted her head to look at Russell.
"Are you serious?"
"I guarantee you—as long as you dare to say it, they'll dare to write it."
Russell said with conviction.
Not waiting for Charlotte to answer, Russell paused, then tossed out a fresh question.
"Tell me, Miss Holmes, when it comes to choosing a partner, what are your standards?"
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