Mycroft's silhouette vanished into the carriage before long, leaving only the steady clatter of hooves fading into the quiet street.
Russell stood rooted to the spot, watching the carriage grow smaller, unable to move for a long while.
The evening wind carried the damp chill of the River Thames, cooling the heat that had built in his mind during their conversation.
It wasn't that he'd never considered his identity being discovered — he'd even braced himself for it.
But he hadn't expected that the first person to expose him would be Mycroft.
And not just expose him — he'd done it with zero warning, not giving Russell so much as a second to react.
There was no dodging a blindside like that.
Still, if he looked on the bright side, at least Mycroft held no ill will toward this side of him.
In Mycroft's eyes, it seemed, Russell's greatest value wasn't being Moriarty — it was taking good care of Charlotte.
So these past few months of diligence hadn't been wasted after all.
Russell sighed, then turned and headed toward 221B Baker Street.
When he got home, the lights in the sitting room were already off, save for a single small night lamp.
Seeing this, Russell climbed the stairs and glanced toward Charlotte's room.
The door was ajar, warm firelight spilling through the gap.
"Come in," Charlotte said.
Hearing this, Russell raised an eyebrow, then pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Charlotte was seated in the armchair, a cup of hot black tea cradled in her hands.
At the sound of the door, she glanced up at him, then looked away again.
"You're back?"
"Mm." Russell nodded, shrugging off his overcoat and sitting down beside her.
"What did Mycroft say to you?" she asked, her tone offhand.
"Nothing much." Russell poured himself a cup of tea as well. "We just talked about you a bit."
"Such as?"
"He said you're the dimmest one in the family."
Russell relayed Mycroft's words without so much as a flicker of expression.
At that, Charlotte fell silent, and the softness in her eyes gradually turned dangerous again.
"And?" she asked.
Russell lifted his cup and took an unhurried sip, as if stalling for time.
Charlotte's gaze stayed fixed on him, patient, just as it had been on the bridge yesterday.
"He also said..." Russell set his cup down, choosing his words carefully.
"He said I should take good care of you."
Charlotte's brow arched slightly.
"Take care of me?"
"Mm." Russell nodded.
"What kind of care?"
"How would I know? He didn't say." Russell shrugged. "The usual, I suppose — making breakfast, reading the morning paper, brewing coffee..."
"And assisting with cases and cooperating with experiments," Charlotte added.
"Right, more or less. That's about it," Russell said.
Satisfied with the answer, Charlotte lifted her cup and took a small sip.
"Well then, let's start now," she said, setting the cup down.
Hearing this, Russell turned his head, utterly baffled, watching Charlotte rise to her feet.
"Doing what?"
"Cooperating with an experiment," Charlotte said. "You admitted to it yourself."
"So?"
"So, I happen to have an experiment to conduct right now."
Charlotte looked at Russell and added, "Right now."
Russell looked back at her, undisguised confusion in his eyes.
"An experiment?" he echoed. "What experiment?"
Charlotte didn't answer.
She simply stood before him, looking down at him from above.
Though the so-called looking down seemed somewhat strained, she was clearly working hard to project an air of control over the situation.
The only trouble was, the faint red creeping up her ears and the awkward set of her posture undercut the effort more than a little.
"What experiment?" Russell asked again, his confusion deepening.
Charlotte took a deep breath.
The squeaky wheel gets the grease.
But she was Charlotte Holmes. She didn't squeak.
She only ever did things her own way.
"Stand up," she said.
Russell blinked, then obediently rose to his feet.
The distance between them closed in an instant.
Close enough that Russell could smell the scent clinging to her — coffee mingled with the paper-and-ink smell of books.
Charlotte tilted her head up, looking into Russell's eyes.
Something flickered in those gray-blue eyes.
Then she raised her hand.
Her pale fingers hovered in the air a moment, as if confirming something — or as if saving herself one last sliver of hesitation.
Then those hands crossed that pitifully small distance between them and settled gently on Russell's shoulders.
"Charlotte?" Russell ventured, testing the name aloud.
At the sound of it, the girl's body trembled — almost imperceptibly — but the hands on his shoulders didn't loosen.
If anything, they tightened.
And then, before Russell's startled eyes, Charlotte leaned forward.
She rested her head gently against his shoulder.
Her soft curls brushed against his cheek, leaving a faint, ticklish sensation.
At this distance, he could even feel the unsteady rhythm of her breathing.
Russell froze completely where he stood.
He looked down at the girl in his arms — at her head buried against his chest, at her ears burning red, at her shoulders trembling faintly.
His mind went utterly blank.
What was going on?
What day was it today? Why was it one thing after another—
"Don't move."
Charlotte's voice came muffled from against his chest, carrying a deliberate calm.
Deliberate enough that anyone could tell it was forced.
"And don't talk, either."
Russell didn't move. He didn't speak.
He simply stood there, feeling the faint tremor of the body in his arms, feeling the warmth radiating through the fabric of her shirt, feeling the heart beating rapid-fire right beside his chest.
The room was silent.
There was only the crackle of the fire burning wood in the hearth, the occasional whisper of wind outside the window, and the sound of heartbeats.
He couldn't tell whose was whose — or which one was beating faster.
He didn't know how long passed. Long enough that Russell thought he might stay frozen like this until dawn.
Then, finally, Charlotte moved.
She slowly lifted her head, her gray-blue eyes shining brightly in the moonlight.
Her voice finally sounded again, muffled even more than before.
"That was... the experiment. It's over now."
She said it as though deliberately trying to define the nature of the embrace.
"So..." Russell paused, then asked, "What's the conclusion?"
Charlotte fell silent for a moment.
She stared at Russell, her eyes full of things that had nothing to do with reason.
She looked at him like that for a long while, and then, suddenly, she smiled.
The smile was faint, fleeting — like a night-blooming flower unfurling briefly in the dark before vanishing.
"The conclusion is—"
She said this, and then, without any warning, threw herself into his arms again.
This time there was no hesitation. She wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder, the gesture carrying a willful, unreasoning possessiveness.
"—I hate Mycroft."
Her warm breath fell through the fabric onto his shoulder, one breath at a time.
The scent of coffee and old paper had never been so sharp.
And likewise, at this distance, Charlotte caught a whiff of something from Russell — an unpleasant scent of white tea.
That pungent fragrance seeped out from his collar, from the shirt he'd worn all day without washing, from every part of him that had come into contact with Mary, thread by thread drifting into the girl's nose.
Charlotte's brow furrowed, and her arms tightened around him without her meaning to.
As if trying to smother that scent through sheer force, to mark him with her own instead.
The fire flickered gently in the hearth, painting the room in warm orange light.
Russell stood ramrod straight, looking down at the fuzzy head buried against him, his mind still trying to process everything that had just happened.
The embrace, the experiment, hating Mycroft — was there any logical connection between these three things, direct or otherwise?
He felt like his brain cells weren't quite up to the task — the instant Charlotte's words left her mouth, it was like taking a sucker punch straight to the gut.
Charlotte held onto him tightly, her whole body buried in his arms, like a cat that had finally found shelter from the storm.
He didn't know how long passed before Russell finally found his voice again.
"Charlotte."
He spoke tentatively, his voice a touch lower than usual.
"Are you sure the experiment's over?"
At this, the head against his chest shifted, as if adjusting its position.
"It can be extended."
Her voice came muffled from his chest, and more than a little stubborn.
"The experimenter has the authority to adjust the duration of an experiment based on circumstances. That's just common sense."
Russell fell silent for a few seconds.
...
"You're right about everything."
As long as she didn't suddenly lift her head and say something like they weren't friends anymore, anything else was fine.
Twice in one day he'd run into something like this — he was worried that if he squeezed too hard without meaning to, he'd burst the tumor of a heart currently pounding in his chest.
As long as she didn't bring that up, he'd let her do as she pleased.
It wasn't like a hug would cost him a pound of flesh, and holding her all night wouldn't hurt either... at worst his legs would go numb and he'd need to nap through tomorrow's classes to make up for it.
Russell looked up toward the window, half-hidden by the curtain.
The empty street, the dim streetlamps, and the cold moon hanging in the sky.
He suddenly remembered his conversation with Mycroft on the street.
— The sun or the moon, which would you choose?
He hadn't answered at the time.
Because the question was, frankly, meaningless.
But now, feeling the warm, slender body in his arms, feeling the heart beating steadier and steadier against him...
He suddenly wondered — why couldn't he have both?
It was greedy, sure. How could a man have both sunlight and moonlight at once?
But he hadn't murdered anyone or burned down any buildings in his life — so what was the harm in being a little greedy?
A person only lives so long; they're bound to indulge in at least one of the vices somewhere along the way.
Untouched by any of them — was he supposed to become some kind of monk?
He didn't know how long passed before Russell noticed his legs had gone numb.
He wanted to ask Charlotte whether the experiment was really over, but the moment he looked down, he noticed the girl's slow, even breathing.
She seemed to have fallen asleep.
"You could've said you were falling asleep sooner," Russell murmured with a quiet sigh.
Then he bent down, shifted his hold, and lifted Charlotte into his arms, carrying her sideways.
He carried her into the bedroom. The lights were off, only moonlight slanting in through the window, laying a silver frost across the floor.
He carried her to the bed, then gently set her down on the less-than-tidy sheets.
He slipped off her shoes, pulled the blanket over, and tucked it around her, his movements careful, afraid of waking her.
Charlotte rolled over with the motion, burying her face in the pillow, mumbling something.
Russell didn't catch it — or maybe it was just that Charlotte's words weren't very clear at the moment.
In any case, he stood by the window and watched her for a while in the moonlight.
Only once he'd confirmed she was truly asleep, with no signs of anything wrong, did he finally relax.
But just as he turned to leave, he felt his coat tugged gently by a hand.
Russell's steps halted.
He turned back and saw that Charlotte's eyes had opened at some point.
Her gray-blue eyes were unusually clear in the moonlight — no trace of drowsiness in them at all.
She simply looked at him, not speaking, her hand still gripping his coat, showing no sign of letting go.
"What is it?" Russell asked softly.
"The experiment... isn't over," Charlotte said quietly. She'd been feigning sleep from the start, just to see if Russell would do anything.
But in the end, he hadn't done a thing — and, frustratingly, she didn't have the nerve to make a move herself the way Mary would have.
She was convinced those things must have been Mary's doing, because if this man didn't dare do something like that to her, then surely he wouldn't dare do it to Mary either.
"But the subject under observation is tired," Russell said helplessly. "We can pick this up tomorrow, alright?"
Hearing this, a flicker of reluctance crossed Charlotte's eyes, but she let go of his coat all the same.
Seeing this, Russell studied her for a moment longer, then finally sighed.
"Charlotte."
"Hm?"
"Get up."
Russell said, gesturing toward the door.
"What for?" Charlotte looked at him, confused, as if she hadn't understood.
Russell took a deep breath, as though arriving at some important decision, and told her:
"Go sleep in my room."
At these words, Charlotte blinked, her heart involuntarily quickening.
"Then... then what about you?" she asked instinctively, a hint of anticipation in her voice that she herself hadn't noticed.
"I'll sleep here," Russell said. "I can't very well sleep on the floor, can I?"
The anticipation in the girl's eyes vanished.
"Oh," she said simply, and obediently climbed out of bed.
Russell watched her go, out of his room, across the sitting room, into his own room, and finally into his bed.
Charlotte didn't hesitate — she pushed the door open and walked straight in.
The gesture was far more confident than when she'd snuck in secretly during the day.
She walked to the bed, kicked off her shoes, pulled back the blanket, and lay down.
The soft bedding enveloped her instantly, that familiar, comforting scent wrapping around her once more.
Charlotte rolled onto her side, burying her face in the pillow, and took a deep breath.
This time, she didn't think about anything at all.
No Moriarty, no Professor, no complicated case, and no infuriating face of Mycroft's.
Her mind was blank, filled only with that familiar, comforting scent, and the sound of her own heartbeat gradually settling.
This time, she truly fell asleep.
Next door, in what had once been Charlotte's bedroom.
Russell lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
This was a bed he'd never slept in — though he'd come in countless times, though he'd tidied it countless times, this was the first time he'd actually lain down in it.
The bed was a little firmer than his own, the pillow's height not quite right, and the blanket carried a faint mix of coffee, book pages, and some faint chemical reagent — the scent that belonged to Charlotte.
He closed his eyes.
Sleep refused to come.
So he opened his eyes again and sat up.
Well, since things had come to this—
Time to pay Lestrade a visit.
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