"Let's drop this topic for now," said Mycroft, raising his hand to interrupt Russell, then pulling a newspaper from his pocket and setting it on the table. "Simply put, Ethan Roy is finished."
He pushed the paper toward Charlotte. "Phantom Thief Moriarty visited his home and stole everything. Bribery, orgies, sex trafficking—every bit of it was exposed overnight by The Times."
"So, isn't this a win-win for you?" Charlotte picked up the paper and skimmed over it.
The headline, in massive font, screamed:
[Cabinet Collapse: From Ethan Roy's Bedroom to Westminster! Moriarty's Fatal Blow!]
Below the headline were photos: transaction records between Ethan Roy and a Chamber of Commerce, a picture of Roy cozy with a female celebrity in a hotel suite, and a feature on Timmy Roy's embarrassing performance at the icebreaker party—naming specific noblewomen present, as if the paper was enjoying the spectacle.
"Crude, but effective," Charlotte said, putting the newspaper back. "But why would that thief do all this? Did you bribe him?"
"I have no ties to him, Charlotte," Mycroft replied seriously. "Nor do I care about his motives. If anything, this just forces me to clean up even more headaches."
"Still, you can't deny you're the biggest beneficiary," Charlotte took another sip of coffee. "And listening to you complain, I can tell you're secretly excited. For all I know, you're hoping Ethan Roy kills himself out of guilt, so you can frame it as yet another suicide."
"I'm just stating facts," said Mycroft. "But Moriarty clearly overstepped."
"Where did he cross the line? I don't see it." Charlotte retorted. "He broke in, exposed a corrupt minister's shameful deeds—how is that a problem? Now Londoners know where their tax pounds went."
"He escalated from theft and privacy to interfering in national politics," said Mycroft. "His old minor crimes were tolerable, but this—the government can't allow it again."
Charlotte rolled her eyes.
"See, Russell? That's why I can't stand him," she said, glancing at Russell.
Mycroft also looked at Russell, prompting him, "What do you think, Mr. Watson?"
"Why are you looking at me?" Russell blinked, giving a helpless expression.
"About Moriarty's actions," Charlotte prompted.
"Mr. Mycroft claims it's political interference, but to me, that's the funniest joke I've heard all week," Russell shrugged. "Nothing he stole had to do with state secrets."
"Well said, Watson. Happy to see you read that book," Charlotte said, snapping her fingers and then looking at Mycroft. "Hear that? Even he can tell you're lying."
If, say, Moriarty had anonymously sent Ethan Roy's dirty secrets to Scotland Yard, it would simply be the behavior of a civic-minded citizen. But that wasn't what happened.
"He chose the most dramatic route—publishing it all in The Times. He enjoys the process, not the result. He likes seeing you all panic and scramble. From start to finish, it's all sheer provocation, satisfying his own pitiful performative cravings," Charlotte said, rising and walking over to Mycroft with a mocking look. "So how is this political interference? If an actor berates a corrupt king on stage, do you accuse him of plotting a coup?"
"Don't bring that jingoistic rhetoric to me. You only care because you're afraid if he could break into Ethan Roy's house, he could break into yours and dig up your shameful secrets."
"Charlotte, that's enough," Mycroft said darkly. "I've never betrayed Britain."
"So, what are you afraid of? If you're really that clean, what could he possibly steal from your house—your savings?" Charlotte shrugged. "You just want to control the uncontrollable. Don't give me that state security speech."
She paused, then continued:
"Likewise, I know why you came to me today. So before you even open your mouth, I'll give you your answer: No."
"I'm not interested in performance artists obsessed with performance. If you want to catch a thief, go to Scotland Yard—Lestrade will be happy to help."
Mycroft's expression didn't change, as if Charlotte's refusal was expected. "It seems," he said calmly, "you're as stubborn as ever, Charlotte."
"As are you," Charlotte shot back.
Mycroft just nodded, ending the debate. He turned and looked at Russell, who'd been reduced to background character.
"Mr. Watson,"
"Uh—yes?" Russell snapped to attention.
"You're even more interesting than I expected," Mycroft said, the tone almost approving. "I used to think only two types of people could tolerate Charlotte: fellow weirdoes as logical as her, or oblivious ordinary people who wouldn't notice how abrasive she can be. Clearly, you're neither."
Mycroft said slowly, "Mr. Watson, you have remarkable talent. My sister truly is lucky to have a neighbor like you." After a brief pause, he smiled lightly at Russell.
"You study at Imperial College London, right?"
"Uh—yeah?"
"What's your major?"
"Materials science… If you're gonna ask about my grades, kindly refrain."
"It doesn't matter. Major isn't what's important," Mycroft shook his head. "Do you know what you want to do in the future?"
"I haven't even been in college a week yet, Mr. Mycroft."
"One should always be thinking ahead about their future," Mycroft said meaningfully, offering his hand. "Are you interested in civil service?"
…