The carriage began to move slowly, its wheels rolling over the cobblestones with a soft "click." It was as if the curtain call of tonight's grand drama had just ended.
"Mary Morstan is a fascinating woman," Charlotte's voice echoed in Russell's ear.
Hearing this, Russell tore his gaze away from the receding carriage and looked at Charlotte.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Exactly what I said," Charlotte replied, without any further explanation, and instead asked Russell, "Do you know how other people appear through my eyes?"
Russell was a little taken aback by the question. He stared at Charlotte, whose gray-blue eyes looked colder under the moonlight than ever. He had never thought about this question, nor had he expected Charlotte to ask it.
"Maybe… as a combination of various tags and keywords?" Russell answered hesitantly.
"When I'm investigating a case, I'm not in my usual state," Charlotte said. "But when I'm idle and not thinking, most people's faces don't register in my eyes at all."
Charlotte fixed her gaze on the deserted street in the distance and spoke quietly, "They're like walking datasets, immediately recognizable, entirely predictable—nothing surprising about their patterns of behavior."
"All their joys and sorrows, stem from the dullest, least creative physiological and social desires—skin-deep and uninspired. There were times," Charlotte said, "when these people seemed barely alive, mere background noise moving through the city."
After a pause, Charlotte continued, "But, there are exceptions."
"For example?" Russell asked.
"For example, Mycroft. He's remarkably smart—I have to admit that," said Charlotte. "But he's different from me. He likes standing above the chessboard, surveying the whole game, appreciating the beauty of rules and order. He tries to pack all the chaotic variables into a massive, nauseating system. I don't like that."
"So what do you like?" Russell asked idly.
"I'm only interested in the illogical pieces that end up in the wrong places on the chessboard," Charlotte replied, turning toward Russell. "For instance, Mary Morstan."
"Her?"
"She's clever, too, and finds the world boring. In that respect, she's like me. That's why I find her interesting."
"So what about me?" Russell blurted out, before he could stop himself. "What do I look like in your eyes?"
"You?" Charlotte tilted her head slightly, as if examining an intriguing specimen. "Russell Watson, you're truly fascinating."
Charlotte took a step closer, closing the distance between them. "But your way of being interesting is different from Mary Morstan's. There aren't many people who can be called geniuses or particularly intelligent right now, and unfortunately, you're not one of them. My assessment of you is similar to those ordinary, dull people, but you're not quite the same."
"What's different?" Russell pressed, unfazed by the less-than-glamorous evaluation.
"You are the only person among all those people who actually tries not to seem ordinary or boring," Charlotte replied, a rare hint of amusement in her tone. "Honestly, I don't dislike it. In fact, I like it. It's one of your few good qualities."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Russell grinned. "Should I be proud?"
"Of course. Keep trying, aim for even greater success," Charlotte nodded.
The two exchanged glances, both bursting into laughter that echoed down the empty street.
"May I ask one more thing? What about Mrs. Hudson? We've talked about me, Mycroft, and Mary," Russell asked, still smiling.
"Mrs. Hudson?" Charlotte repeated, taking a deep breath. "She's a good woman. That's all."
"I think so, too," Russell agreed, somewhat vaguely.
Silence settled again—not awkward, this time, but calm and clear, like the air after a storm.
…
At night, the warm glow of 221B Baker Street's windows felt especially inviting, lighting the way home for these two somewhat lonely souls. Mrs. Hudson was already asleep; only the wall lamp in the living room was left dimly glowing. Saying nothing more, the two exchanged silent looks at the top of the stairs.
"Goodnight, Charlotte."
"Goodnight, Watson."
Russell went back to his room and changed out of his party-stained suit. He didn't go to bed just yet; instead, he sat at his desk. From his pocket, he took out a stack of letters and photographs—items that could stir up a political storm. He looked over them once more by moonlight.
Afterward, he found a kraft paper envelope he had prepared in advance, placed the items inside, but didn't seal it. There was still one more thing to do before bed: deliver a little bonus to his friends at The Times.
When Russell opened the window, the chill of the night air swept through the room.
"So cold… Let's hurry and finish this so I can get back to bed," he muttered, his figure vanishing into the night like a drop of ink, quietly leaping to the opposite roof.
Below, Baker Street slept, only a few gas lamps casting their dim yellow glow. Fleet Street's Times building was the heart of London journalism. Even late at night, some windows shone with light, watching the city's secrets like tireless Cyclopes.
Russell stood across from the building, looking up at what seemed like an impregnable fortress.
In truth, he'd been here many times already. Aside from the first—unorthodox—approach, he used the staff entrance after that. The Times had set up a special delivery passage for the great thief Moriarty. After all, who dislikes a thief that keeps delivering exclusive scoops? If any paper on Fleet Street dared deny him special treatment, making the headlines in London would be impossible.
For Scotland Yard, Moriarty was a thief, a robber, the bane of Inspector Lestrade.
But for the Fleet Street papers, he was like a benevolent godfather—a bringer of news.
No, he's not my godfather.
That would have to be his real father!
Call me a thief or a burglar in the newspapers—all the same to me. If I didn't read them, what would it matter?
But Russell wasn't planning to rely on his connections tonight. To protect his own identity, he'd come up with two delivery plans:
First, he could disguise himself as the thief, use the employee entrance, drop off the goods, and leave. Simple, efficient, and fast—if anyone spotted it, they'd pretend not to see.
But the problem was, the rewards weren't great.
So, when he needed money or had some free time, Russell used his second method. After all, who doesn't want some points?
…
Bonus chapter at 100 PS