This time, Russell didn't go bother Mycroft again.
After digging through two case files from Lestrade, he went straight and dug up someone's dirty laundry, then ran off to Fleet Street to hand out the goods.
So the next day, the name Moriarty once again made the front pages of every newspaper.
Charlotte looked silently at the morning paper in her hands, then glanced at the figure busy in the kitchen.
Russell, looking utterly unconcerned, scooped the fried egg out of the pan, laid it flat on a piece of toast, and then topped it with a strip of fried bacon.
"How did you sleep?" Charlotte asked — the first time she'd ever turned that question back on Russell.
"Fine," Russell said, taking a bite of his sandwich, his expression giving nothing away.
"A little restless, at most. Nothing serious."
Hearing this, Charlotte withdrew her gaze, and along with it, any mention of what was in the paper.
Likewise, neither of them brought up what had happened the night before — an unspoken agreement between the two of them.
After breakfast, Russell set off from Baker Street, and after flipping through the paper for a while, Charlotte got up too and returned to her own room.
When Russell arrived at the lecture hall at Imperial College, all eyes once again turned toward him in unison.
Honestly, after three days straight of this kind of thing, he was starting to get used to it.
Not that he had much choice — nothing was going to change anyway.
And since nothing was going to change, he might as well just let it happen.
There was a saying for this.
When people suspect you of having a weapon, you'd better actually have a nuclear one.
The same logic applied to him.
When people suspected he was carrying on something ambiguous with that lofty Miss Morstan, he'd better actually be carrying on something ambiguous with her.
Otherwise, wouldn't all those envious glares have gone to waste?
This time Russell didn't even bother with the back door — he strode in through the front, in full view of everyone, walked all the way to the back row, and sat down beside Mary.
Mary was already in her seat, chin propped on both hands, greeting him with a sweet smile.
It was a smile no one else had ever seen from her — the kind a girl only wears for someone she truly likes.
He sat down under a wave of envious, jealous stares, and the other students watched as Mary leaned in even closer toward Russell's seat, practically pressing herself against him.
More than a few onlookers ground their molars nearly to dust watching the scene.
"Morning," Mary said, her voice thick with obvious delight, her sky-blue eyes shimmering like a pool of spring water catching the light.
"Morning."
Russell set his bag down and settled into his seat with perfect composure under everyone's watching eyes.
It was only then that he noticed today, instead of her usual book of poetry, Mary had a morning paper on her desk.
"Hm? This?" The girl noticed his gaze and, smiling, pulled the paper into the space between them, pointing at the headline.
"Look, Moriarty's back in business after all this time."
"Mm," Russell replied simply, without much reaction. "Probably finally had some free time."
"Is that so..."
Mary studied his reaction, as if trying to read something from that unreadable, still-water face of his — but she could make out nothing.
Never mind. Let him be happy about it, at least it proved he hadn't forgotten his roots.
The girl withdrew her gaze, folded the paper unhurriedly, and set it aside.
When the morning classes ended, she turned to Russell at once, eager, and gave a light tug at the hem of his sleeve.
Noticing this, Russell turned his head instinctively, only to find her small, fair hand open, as if waiting for something.
His gaze lingered on that open hand for a moment before shifting to the girl's eyes.
Stars seemed to flicker in those eyes, like a child anticipating a daily piece of candy.
Something about the sight stirred an inexplicable urge in him to tease her.
People were like that — always harboring some inexplicable urge to disturb something beautiful and lovely.
More intoxicating than a beauty is a beauty in tears.
So Russell feigned confusion and tilted his head.
"What's wrong?"
At that, Mary blinked, her hand still hovering in midair, fingers spread slightly, as if waiting for something that should have obviously fallen into it.
She looked at Russell's face, written all over with confusion and curiosity, and for one moment the anticipation on her own face froze.
But she quickly caught on — he was doing this on purpose.
So she just kept looking at him, her hand neither withdrawn nor lowered, frozen in midair.
She said nothing, only gazed at him with slightly wronged eyes, on the verge of tears.
That look sent a chill down Russell's spine.
"Ahem..."
In the end, he couldn't withstand the pressure — moral and otherwise — of that gaze, and gave in first.
"You win."
Russell said, and reached out to take the hand hovering in the air.
The moment their palms met, the smile returned to Mary's face, tinged now with a bit of mischief.
Her fingers slid between his, interlacing tightly, gripping hard as if to get back at him for leaving her hanging.
"Let's go." Mary rose from her seat and pulled him along, weaving through the students who hadn't all filed out yet, heading toward the empty classroom.
All the way there, those stares followed them like invisible nails driven into Russell's back.
If looks could kill, this trip would have been no less than death by a thousand cuts.
But the girl walking beside him didn't seem to care at all — if anything, she seemed to be enjoying it.
It felt rather like a king proudly announcing his queen to his subjects, making sure they'd remember her face and demanding they honor her as they honored him.
Except in this case, the "queen" was Russell, and the "king" was Mary.
The two of them made their way, step by step, under everyone's gaze, back to the king's chambers — the empty classroom.
Once the classroom door closed, that uncomfortable sense of being watched finally faded.
Mary let go of his hand at just the right moment, stepped forward, and turned gracefully like a ballerina to face Russell.
Her slender legs took a step forward, and amid the sway of her skirt, the girl fell into the boy's arms like a blossom carried by the wind.
The motion carried an easy, natural intimacy — she pressed herself against his chest, listening to his heartbeat quicken slightly.
Mary closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
The motion was subtle — just a faint twitch of her nose, just the slight rise and fall of her chest.
Like some unconscious instinct — to bury oneself in the scent of the person one loves, while embracing them.
Then she froze.
That familiar, comforting smell was still there.
But beyond it, there seemed to be something else, another scent entirely.
It was faint — so faint that if she hadn't been pressed this close, if she hadn't buried her face against his chest and inhaled deeply, she never would have noticed it.
It was the bitter aroma of coffee, mixed with something old, like books and paper, along with a hint of chemical reagents.
A scent that didn't belong to her.
A scent that didn't belong to this empty classroom.
A scent that didn't belong to the two of them.
It was Charlotte Holmes's scent.
Mary's body stiffened for a brief moment.
The discovery made her heart, already racing from the closeness between them, quicken abnormally once more.
She felt her face burning — no, not just her face, her whole body felt hot.
Mary was certain that if she could view herself from a third person's perspective right now, her skin would look flushed red.
Why?
Why did his body carry that woman's scent?
And so clearly, so strongly too — as if he'd spent a long time in that kind of environment, long enough that every fiber of his clothes, his entire being, had soaked it up.
The discovery stirred a thread of unease in her, an unease that far outweighed even the news that Charlotte had found a new lead on the Professor.
It meant one thing — one thing she really didn't want to see.
Charlotte Holmes.
That woman was now her enemy.
Mary was burning with curiosity to know just what had happened the night before, for that old iron tree to finally bloom.
But there was no point digging into it now — what mattered was that she needed to act quickly.
At the thought, a shadow flickered through the girl's eyes.
She released her arms from around Russell's waist and instead took hold of the hands hanging at his sides.
Fingers interlaced once more.
Her slender legs took a step back, like the wind-up before some move.
At the same time, she lifted their clasped hands, and Russell's arms followed, raised into the air.
"Mary?" He wasn't quite sure what was happening.
He didn't pull away, only looked at her with a hint of confusion, still indulging the girl's whims.
The two of them now stood as if about to dance a duet.
A duet dance in an empty classroom in the afternoon — what kind of flirting was this?
The girl didn't answer. Facing Russell's puzzled gaze, she only smiled faintly, then began to move.
It was a graceful turn.
Like the classic opening stance of a waltz at a ball.
Mary's body leaned gently back, like a white bird about to spread its wings.
Her hand still held his, drawing him forward a step, her skirt unfurling gently in the air.
Her toes tapped lightly on the floor, her body spun lightly, her skirt flaring outward like a blooming white camellia.
Russell, led along by her, couldn't help but fall into her rhythm, stepping forward — one, two, three.
As if they were really dancing.
The two of them, in that unattended classroom, under the afternoon sun, spun and leapt.
His body traced a smooth arc across the empty classroom, guided by hers.
The sunlight through the window was their spotlight, and the dust drifting in the air was the golden glitter scattered across a stage.
Russell's body was drawn along, and in his sight, the girl's silver hair rose with each turn, tracing graceful arcs, like blooming moonflowers.
For a moment he felt dazed, the sensation pulling him back to the Icebreaker Party several months ago.
Back then, too, they had held each other's hands and danced across the floor.
He looked at her, at that face flickering light and shadow, at the unconcealed possessiveness glinting in her eyes.
The spin stopped.
Momentum tipped Russell's body slightly backward.
Mary didn't let go.
She took the momentum forward and, with an almost overpowering stance, pressed him down into the empty chair behind him, at the desk.
With a thud, Russell's back hit the cold chair-back, letting out a muffled, dull sound.
He sat, and she stood.
Mary stood before him, still holding his hands, fingers interlaced, but now in a posture of something more controlling.
She leaned down slightly, and that face — delicate as a porcelain doll's — suddenly filled his field of vision.
Her silver hair cascaded down like a waterfall, brushing past his cheek, his shoulder, enveloping him entirely in her singular scent.
"Mary?" Russell spoke again, and this time Mary let go of their clasped hands.
Her hands slid free from his, then brushed past his cheeks, reaching toward the back of his head.
"I don't like the smell on you," she said, then wrapped both arms around his head, stepping forward at the same time.
The step brought her almost flush against him, her knee lightly pressing against his leg, her face right before his, close enough that their breaths mingled.
"So..."
"So, I'm going to cover it up."
The girl said nothing more.
She reached out, just as she had done yesterday afternoon after school, wrapped her arms around Russell's head, and gently pulled him into her embrace.
What's the easiest way to cover up a smell?
The answer: wrap it in another scent.
So, compared to the small-bird-like embrace she'd give by throwing herself into his arms, this maternal-style hold was the better choice.
Mary's hands cradled his head, like a mother soothing a frightened child, or like a girl claiming ownership over her favorite toy.
Russell's face pressed against her school uniform, and the only scent he could pick up was that white camellia fragrance, flooding in from every direction, so strong it felt inescapable.
His face was buried in her embrace, as if she meant to soak him through, inside and out, with her own scent.
"Mary," Russell's voice came out muffled, tinged with helplessness, from within her arms.
"Mm?" The girl's voice sounded from above, carrying a lazy, nasal tone.
"Are you trying to smother me?"
At that, she gave a light laugh, but her arms didn't loosen — she only adjusted the angle slightly, letting Russell poke his head out a little, to breathe some fresh air.
"How about this?" She looked down at him, her eyes full of teasing.
"Can you breathe now?"
Russell looked up at her, and from this angle, the girl's face was gilded with a soft glow from the afternoon sun.
It felt inexplicably sacred.
The corners of her pink lips curved with a hint of mischief.
"I can." Russell sighed.
"Good." Mary nodded, satisfied, then pressed his head back into her chest once more.
"Then keep it that way."
Russell gave up struggling.
Fine, so be it. After all, this wasn't the first time — plenty of people would kill for the chance and had no way to get it.
He closed his eyes and, resigned, let himself drown in this sea of white camellia, the girl's slightly rapid heartbeat in his ear, and that familiar, reassuring scent filling his nose.
He had no idea how long it had been.
Long enough that Russell's neck was starting to go stiff, and he felt like his entire body had been thoroughly marinated.
Only then did Mary finally let go.
She stepped back, putting a little distance between them, and looked down at him.
The sunlight poured in from behind her, outlining her figure with a soft golden edge, making her look like an angel descended to earth.
But Russell read something else in those laughing sky-blue eyes — the mischief of a devil.
"Now," she said, stepping forward, leaning in toward his neck, sniffing lightly like a cat.
That irritating scent had all but vanished, replaced by the symbolic fragrance of white camellia.
"Mm..."
Mary closed her eyes, breaking into a satisfied smile.
It was the kind of smile that seemed to crumble a whole afternoon of sunlight and fill it, piece by piece, into her heart.
"That's much better."
"Better how?" Russell looked at her, helpless.
"Have you not thought about what happens when I get back to Baker Street, and Charlotte marks you the same way to reclaim you?"
"If she does that, I'll just do this again," Mary said with a smile.
"We'll see who caves first."
She said it so naturally, so matter-of-factly, as if — should things really unfold the way Russell described — Mary would absolutely follow through exactly as she'd said.
Russell looked at her for a moment, unsure what to say, and in the end could only let out a helpless sigh.
"You..."
"What about me?" Mary straightened up, tilting her head, feigning ignorance.
"Nothing." Russell shook his head, then raised a hand, reaching toward the side of Mary's face to tuck a stray strand of silver hair behind her ear, his fingertip inadvertently brushing against the warm curve of her ear.
Mary's body stiffened for a moment, and her eyes — usually so composed — showed an obvious flash of panic.
She instinctively stepped back, putting distance between them, the smug smile on her face fading somewhat, replaced by a faint blush.
Seeing this, Russell couldn't help but let out a soft laugh.
"What are you laughing at?" Mary mustered her courage to glare at him.
"Even now," Russell said.
"Not even close," the girl muttered under her breath, then turned away, not daring to look at him.
During the brief intermission, Mary finally regained her composure, then pulled a chair over and sat down beside Russell.
With finals approaching, the schedule had shifted, and with several courses already finished, there was more free time than usual.
The two of them no longer had to rush back to the classroom the moment the lunch bell rang.
For Mary, this was a rare stroke of good fortune.
It meant more time she could spend with Russell — not the kind of time spent as classroom deskmates, but the more intimate, more private kind, time spent outside of class.
She didn't have to worry about the Professor finding out, didn't have to mind the stares around them, could act freely, could set aside the noble, elegant face of Miss Morstan.
If it were possible, she'd wish for this brief stretch of time to stretch on forever, until it became eternity.
But then again, if that wish were ever really granted, she'd probably come to regret it before long.
The reason this time felt so precious to her, precious enough that she wished it would freeze in place forever, was precisely because it was so brief.
Because it was so fleeting, it felt all the more worth treasuring — the moment it began was already the countdown to its end.
Like a terminally ill patient lying in a hospital bed.
When people are healthy, they rarely realize that being able to breathe freely, to run, to feel the warmth of sunlight on their skin, is itself a luxury of happiness.
Not until they lose all of it, until their entire world shrinks down to a small hospital room, until their life gets summed up by a doctor in a number, accurate or not, do they begin to feel fear, begin to cherish it.
Mary felt like she was that terminally ill patient.
And Russell was that luxury, that longed-for sunlight.
If only she had realized this sooner.
If only she had realized it sooner, and acted on it sooner — would things be different now?
"What are you thinking about now?" Russell's voice sounded beside her ear, pulling the girl back from her scattered thoughts.
Mary looked up, meeting those dark eyes full of curiosity and concern, then shook her head lightly.
"Nothing," she said softly. "Just letting my mind wander."
"Wander where?"
"Yeah." Mary nodded, then looked toward the window, letting out something like a sigh.
"People always feel happiest when they're approaching happiness, but grow anxious once they're actually in it."
"So are you feeling happy right now, or anxious?" Russell asked.
At that, the girl turned back and gave him a faint smile.
"Guess."
"I'd guess..." Russell looked into her eyes, pondering for a moment before saying, "Half and half."
At that, the girl arched an eyebrow, neither confirming nor denying it.
She only smiled faintly, then took a deep breath, as if she had something important to announce.
"This weekend," Mary said.
"Hm?"
"Are you free this weekend?" She looked at Russell, clear anticipation in her eyes.
"This weekend?" Russell thought for a moment. "Doesn't seem like I have anything special planned."
There was still no word from Vanessa, and Lestrade and Mycroft had both been busy lately too. If there was any wild card, it was Charlotte.
But judging by Charlotte's current state, she didn't seem to have any new leads or ideas either.
"Nothing," Russell repeated, as if confirming his own answer.
"Want to go to Phedon Tea Room?" he asked.
"No, not the Phedon Tea Room." Mary shook her head gently, her fingers tracing idle circles on the desk, as if bolstering her own courage while avoiding his eyes.
"Then... since you're free this weekend, would you like to come visit my house?"
"Your house?" Russell blinked in surprise.
"Mm..." Mary nodded. "You've never been to my place before, have you?"
Russell thought about it — had he really never been? Or had he been once or twice, though never through the front door.
"Go to your house..." he said, choosing his words carefully, "to do what?"
"Um..." The question seemed to stump her, or perhaps she simply hadn't thought that far ahead.
After all, when a woman invites a man over to her house, what else could there really be to do?
"Don't worry about that," Mary said, a touch of a pout in her voice. "Just say whether you'll come or not."
"I could, but your father..." Russell looked at her. "Don't you need his approval?"
"He has no objections." Mary answered on Arthur Morstan's behalf, directly.
"He's the one who told me in the first place that I could invite you over. What objections could he possibly have?"
Hearing this, Russell shrugged. "Well, since you put it that way, what reason would I have to refuse?"
He paused. "Besides, I've been missing your cook's cookies lately, anyway."
At this, Mary blinked in mild surprise, then quickly caught on.
"Don't worry," the girl said, hands clasped behind her back, smiling as brightly as a blooming flower.
"This time, I guarantee you'll have the most perfect cookies."
Perfect enough to steal your heart completely.
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