Even the longest lunch break has to end eventually.
By the time the bell rang for class, the two of them — having already settled their plans for the weekend — stood up and walked toward the door.
Mary paused at the doorway, waiting for Russell to catch up, then took his hand and led him back into the classroom.
The two of them spent the entire afternoon sitting in the back row, looking rather distracted.
Mary stared at the blackboard, at the notes crowding every inch of it, but her mind was elsewhere — on what to do when Russell came over this weekend.
What kind of black tea should she prepare, what desserts, what should they talk about over afternoon tea, and what should they do afterward?
She'd done all this many times before — those literary salons she found so dreadfully dull, or visits to Buckingham Palace to see Princess Louise.
Every single time, hadn't it been her, Mary Morstan, steering the conversation, keeping the whole gathering afloat?
On busier occasions, she'd had to juggle more than five guests at once, remembering each one's preferences and the topics that suited them.
But this time — this one time — there was only a single guest to entertain, and he happened to be remarkably easygoing. And yet, of all times, she found herself at a complete loss.
Precisely because he wasn't picky, because anything would do for him, it somehow felt like nothing would do at all.
Whatever she brought up, he'd listen attentively and go along with it. If he knew something about the topic, he'd offer his own thoughts.
If he didn't, he'd play the perfect listener, tossing out questions now and then, giving her all the encouragement she could want.
But would that make him happy? No — well, if it were him, maybe it would.
The real question was: would it make her happy?
Mary frowned.
She wanted, right then, to grab him by the collar and demand he tell her exactly what he wanted, what he wanted to talk about — a straight answer, for once.
But she already knew, without even trying, exactly what kind of answer she'd get if she actually did that.
The thought made her sigh, and her gaze drifted to Russell beside her.
He was half-leaning against the wall at that moment, looking on the verge of sleep, apparently fighting a losing battle against drowsiness.
She slowly looked away. Up at the podium, the Professor was still talking on and on.
None of the notes or knowledge on the board could find their way into her head — like a set of useless reins, she could only watch her thoughts slide, bit by bit, toward the weekend.
What kind of black tea should she prepare? He didn't seem to have any particular preference — every time at the Phedon Tea Room, he'd simply gone along with whatever she chose.
But Mary remembered once she'd ordered Darjeeling, and after drinking it, Russell had said, "This one's pretty refreshing."
Darjeeling, then.
With that decided, she picked up her pen and wrote the name down in her notebook.
Dessert, then?
Besides cookies, there ought to be something else.
Scones were a must, of course — clotted cream and jam, the standard fare for afternoon tea.
She'd originally planned on macarons too, but those were too sweet for him, so cake might work better instead.
Beyond that, she'd have the kitchen prepare some sandwiches — sweets alone probably wouldn't fill him up.
She quietly listed everything out on paper, fingers tapping lightly on the desk.
The afternoon tea preparations seemed thorough enough now.
But what should they do after tea?
She couldn't just send him off the moment they finished eating — that would be such a waste.
Oh, right — she could show him around the estate. The Morstan residence wasn't on the scale of some hereditary noble's manor, or Buckingham Palace, but it still had its charms.
The paintings, the antiques — though he probably wasn't particularly interested in things like that.
Oh! And her glass conservatory!
Mary's eyes lit up. If they could have tea in the conservatory, that would be wonderful.
She could imagine sitting beside him there, sunlight pouring through the glass roof, falling over the two of them.
She could lean close, pretending it was nothing — passing him a pastry, pointing out some flower — and any accidental contact along the way would seem perfectly natural.
Just thinking about it made her cheeks warm.
She quickly ducked her head, pretending to be absorbed in taking notes, letting a fall of hair hide her reddening ears.
That was probably enough planning for now — there was still plenty of time; she didn't need to decide everything this instant.
Mary took a deep breath, closed her notebook, and tried to focus on the lesson.
She failed.
In the end, lost in a swirl of uncontrollable thoughts, she made it to the end of class.
Russell was woken from his doze by the noise of chatter and footsteps.
He yawned, lifted his head groggily, and the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Mary sitting beside him.
Her cheeks looked a little flushed — whether from the sunset or just naturally so, he couldn't tell.
Noticing his gaze, she smiled — that same pure, sweet smile she always wore.
"Awake now?"
"Mm." Russell rubbed his eyes. "Class over?"
"Just ended. Let's sit a bit longer," Mary said, "until most people have cleared out."
The moment he heard that, Russell understood exactly what she had in mind, and whatever drowsiness remained vanished instantly.
"I feel like we already did this at lunch," he said, trying to salvage a bit of dignity.
"That's a separate matter," she said, her tone brooking no argument. "The lunchtime one was punishment for having someone else's scent on you. This one is so you get used to it."
"That's not really something I need to get used to, is it?" Russell looked at her.
Mary didn't answer. She simply waited until the people around them had thinned out, then held out both hands toward Russell, a tender smile on her face.
The meaning was obvious.
Every time before, she had been the one to initiate. This time, it was Russell's turn.
Russell looked at those outstretched hands, then at her face, full of anticipation and quiet amusement.
Her hands hung there in midair, like a passage waiting for something to fall into it.
Russell suddenly realized — from yesterday until now, every single embrace had been her doing.
She was the one who'd pulled him into her arms, who'd drawn him into that sea of white camellia scent, who'd wrapped him up in that motherly warmth.
She had never once asked anything of him.
He'd only ever been on the receiving end, never once thinking to give first.
That did seem a bit unfair, when he thought about it.
A person ought to return kindness in kind.
After a moment's hesitation, Russell took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for something drastic, and reached out with both hands.
He wrapped his arms around her waist — soft to the touch, like a fragile willow branch that might snap if he pressed just a little too hard.
Then he lowered his head. It took a fair amount of courage, but he managed it.
He pressed his face against her chest, listening to her heart beating faster and faster, the scent of white camellia enveloping him once more.
Mary froze completely. The smile on her face seemed to have been captured mid-motion.
She just sat there, hands braced on Russell's shoulders, her whole body stiff as an exquisite statue.
This... didn't feel quite right somehow.
Her heart was pounding.
This was, admittedly, exactly what she'd wanted — but something about it felt off.
Where Russell couldn't see, her pale face had flushed a deep crimson.
This wasn't good... this was far more devastating than she'd imagined.
She never felt like this when she was the one initiating — so why did it feel so different when he did it?
Mary's breathing quickened; she felt as if she were running out of air. Without meaning to, her hands wrapped around his neck and tightened.
Her blue eyes could barely focus anymore, the usual glint of amusement now clouded over with a shimmering mist.
No... this couldn't go on.
Right at the edge of losing all reason, Mary found her strength again.
She pushed hard against Russell's shoulders, pulling him away from her.
"Wait... wait a moment, Russell." Mary kept her head down, unwilling to let him see her like this.
"What's wrong?" Russell looked at her, a little surprised by her reaction.
"This..." Mary took a deep breath, her words coming out jumbled.
"This isn't... good for the heart," she said. "From now on... don't do this again."
"But you were fine at lunch, and yesterday too — and wasn't it you who said I needed to get used to it?"
"That... that doesn't mean you have to do it like that!" Mary's cheeks burned even hotter.
She reflexively raised a hand, pressing the back of it against her cheek, trying to cool the heat there.
"I... I just wanted..." she stammered, unable to find the right words.
"Wanted what?" Russell pressed.
Mary looked up, her misty blue eyes glaring at him — a mix of embarrassed anger and something like wounded pride.
"You did that on purpose!"
"I was just doing what you asked," Russell said, shrugging.
She looked at his innocent expression and ground her teeth silently, unable to do a thing about it.
Who would have thought something like that could be so overwhelming.
She turned her face away, using silence to voice her protest.
Russell watched her stubborn profile, the edge of her ear glowing faintly pink in the sunset light, and his smile deepened.
"Let's go," he said, standing up and glancing out the window. "It's getting dark."
Mary didn't move, didn't say a word.
"Are you actually mad?" Russell asked cautiously.
She still said nothing.
"All right, all right, I was wrong, is that good enough?" Russell sighed, raising both hands in surrender.
Mary finally turned to look at him, a trace of lingering indignation still in her blue eyes.
"Know what you did wrong?"
"I know."
"What did you do wrong?"
"I shouldn't have taken the lead like that," Russell said, sounding genuinely contrite. "Next time, I'll definitely wait for you to go first."
"..." Mary felt her cheeks heating up all over again.
"Don't say another word!" She reached out and covered his mouth with her hand, refusing to let him keep saying things that made her face burn.
Her hand was soft, faintly cool to the touch, her palm pressed against his lips, and the scent of white camellia was suddenly close again.
Russell looked at her — at those eyes so close to his, so full of flustered indignation — and said nothing more.
Mary looked back at him too. Their eyes held for a few seconds.
Then, as if scalded, she snatched her hand back and stepped away.
"L-let's go!"
She left those words hanging and turned, walking hastily out of the classroom.
Russell watched her retreat — something close to a flustered escape — and couldn't help laughing.
He stood up and followed after her, unhurried.
The two of them walked down the empty hallway, one after the other.
Mary walked ahead, her steps a bit quicker than usual, as if she were sulking.
Russell trailed behind her, keeping a distance — not too close, not too far.
It all felt just like yesterday.
Different time, but the same place, and once again he'd managed to rile up the girl in front of him.
Then she stopped a short distance ahead, turned back, and held out her hand to him, pouting as she looked his way.
It really did feel like yesterday all over again.
Russell shook his head with a helpless laugh, stepped forward, took her hand, and walked out through the school gate.
By the time they reached the school gate, Mary's pace had finally slowed.
She stopped in front of the carriage, took a deep breath, and turned around.
Most of the flush had faded from her face by now, her blue eyes restored to their usual calm — though a faint, barely noticeable shyness still lingered somewhere deep within.
"See you tomorrow," she said.
"Mm," Russell nodded. "See you tomorrow."
Mary looked at him, then suddenly took a step forward.
Just as Russell thought everything was about to repeat itself like yesterday, Mary abruptly stopped short.
"Not today," she said slyly. "This is your punishment."
"Punishment?" Russell raised an eyebrow.
"Whoever it was that riled me up on purpose," she said, her tone carrying a mock-fierce edge.
But her bright, sparkling eyes gave away exactly how she really felt.
"All right," she said, stepping back to put some distance between them. "I'm off."
With that, she turned and walked toward the carriage.
The curtain fell, shutting away that slender figure.
Russell stood where he was, watching the carriage slowly pull away until it vanished around the corner.
He lifted a hand and touched his chest — his heart was still racing.
"That kind of thing really isn't good for the heart..."
He shook his head, murmuring the thought to himself.
When he got back to Baker Street, Charlotte was sitting at the dining table, an evening paper in her hands.
"You're back?" She looked up at the sound of the door and let her gaze sweep over him.
Her eyes were sharp, like she was examining a suspect, determined to dig out every last shred of suspicious evidence.
Russell felt a chill under her scrutiny, but he forced himself to appear calm as he shut the door and sat down across from her.
"White camellia again," Charlotte said suddenly.
Russell froze.
"What?"
"On you," Charlotte said. "There's a scent of white camellia — that's Mary's scent."
Hearing that, Russell instinctively glanced down at himself, then looked away as if nothing were wrong.
"We were sitting a bit close. It must have rubbed off."
"Mm." Charlotte nodded, seemingly unbothered by it.
After a full night and day of rest and thought, she seemed to have settled into a state of clarity.
Russell went to Imperial College, and Imperial College was Mary's territory.
Whatever happened there was beyond her reach, beyond her control.
But it didn't matter — Russell always came back to Baker Street eventually, and Baker Street was her territory.
Compared to Mary, she had more time, more freedom, a more comfortable setting to work with.
Charlotte lifted her teacup and took an unhurried sip, then suddenly paused.
She realized she was thinking about the matter in a way that felt entirely unfamiliar to her.
Not deduction. Not reasoning. Not analysis built on evidence and logic.
But a comparison.
She was comparing herself to Mary.
Comparing who treated him better, who understood him more, who had more right to stand beside him.
This way of thinking felt foreign to Charlotte, even uncomfortable.
But what unsettled her even more was realizing that she was, somehow, actually enjoying it.
As if she'd finally found someone worth competing against.
Someone worth taking seriously.
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