Charlotte and Russell were both startled to see Mycroft's outstretched hand.
What is this—granting me amnesty? Cutting ten years off my career path? Sounds pretty tempting…
Before Russell could reply, Charlotte broke his daydream:
"Mycroft—!"
She glared at her brother, pointing at the door. "Out."
Mycroft's smile didn't fade. Without so much as glancing at his sister, he continued to gaze at Russell—curiosity and insight flickering in his deep eyes.
"Well, Mr. Watson, your talents shouldn't be wasted at Imperial College."
"That's the first time I've heard anyone call studying at Imperial a waste," Russell muttered.
"In any case—thank you, Mycroft, but I'm not interested in being a bureaucrat right now. I'm not even good with people—I'm pretty isolated in my class as it is," he shrugged, politely declining Mycroft's invitation.
"That's a pity," Mycroft sighed, withdrawing his hand. From his suit's inner pocket, he discreetly pulled out an elegant business card and handed it to Russell. "Still, my offer stands—you have a place in the government if you want it."
Without lingering, Mycroft left straight away, his tall figure soon disappearing around the stairs.
Russell glanced at the card—only a phone number and the British government crest embossed in gold. Simple, and weighted.
"Stop looking," Charlotte said, sounding a bit irritable. "That card would just turn you into a boring, overweight bureaucrat in a gray suit. Even your brain would be stuck to your office chair, just like your butt."
Russell blinked as Charlotte snatched the card from his hand and tossed it into the fireplace. Flames quickly reduced the card to ash.
"Look what you did, Holmes. Thanks to you, I've lost my chance at a comfy government pension and paid leave," he joked.
"Trust me, you're better off," Charlotte snapped.
"He'd destroy the one interesting thing about you—your uncertainty. The moment you get dull, I'll throw you out the window like trash."
"How unfair," Russell muttered, "should I thank you for that?"
"You can repay me in a more meaningful way." Charlotte approached him, looking up despite being shorter.
"Like what?" Russell quirked an eyebrow.
"Like—starting tomorrow, you'll be in charge of my breakfast and the newspaper," she said nonchalantly.
"Absolutely not," Russell replied flatly. "Not everyone can skip class and graduate on a technicality, like you."
"Just a piece of paper. Can't fathom why you care." Charlotte shrugged. "If you really wanted a job with an Imperial College degree, you should've accepted Mycroft's offer."
"Already paid tuition—no sense not finishing." Russell shrugged. "At the very least, I get to keep the movie ticket stubs."
Charlotte rolled her eyes.
"If you're that bored, go out and find a case for me. I'm dying of boredom here!"
"Where am I supposed to find one?" Russell spread his hands. "Should I put an ad in the paper? Oh, right. Probably not going to be room in The Times for the next week or so…"
"Try going to university and asking if anyone's lost a family member or run into some unsolvable problem," Charlotte said.
"Not exactly eager to advertise my social isolation, thanks."
"You really do care about what people think," Charlotte tilted her head. "But Mary Morstan won't dislike you for that."
"Why drag Mary into this?"
"She's the only one who talks to you at Imperial College—that's why," Charlotte said.
Now it was Russell's turn to roll his eyes.
"Let's drop it. Let's be realistic—suppose someone showed up with a case right now. Would you take it?"
"Depends. If it's too stupid, straight to Scotland Yard. My brain doesn't waste time on trash."
"Figures," Russell pursed his lips. "And even if you did want to take an interesting case…"
Final question. The most important.
"Who does the legwork?"
Russell spread his hands.
"If I'm lucky, maybe we'll find someone almost murdered, or discover a treasure map in the library. Then what? Who does the investigation, the interviews, the Scotland Yard follow-ups?"
"Why not you?" Charlotte questioned automatically, as if obviously it was his role.
"I'm the mind—the thinking, reasoning, the entire logical palace," Charlotte said. "You're my eyes and legs, the one who gathers the building blocks I'm too lazy to fetch myself. It's the most efficient, perfect division of labor."
"The most efficient and perfect form of exploitation," Russell countered. "I'm a university student. I've got lectures, exams, a degree to earn—not a 24-hour on-call unpaid worker!"
"But your behavior already proves you don't care about those so-called courses," Charlotte said from the window, looking at the bustling crowds below. Her tone was mild but sharp. "Your mind doesn't crave old, outdated textbook knowledge."
"Watson, you and I are alike. You need me to make this world less dull, and I need you."
After a pause, Russell admitted—if only to himself—that in some ways, she had a clearer grasp on things than he did.
But he wouldn't say it aloud.
"Fine—even if you're right," he sighed, reluctantly conceding. "Even if I am your legs, sacrificing sleep to run all over London—let's get back to the first question. Where's the case?"
He paced the room.
"You rejected Mycroft—the city's best crime informant. You look down on Lestrade's dull thefts. So what, exactly, do you want? Do you expect a case to walk right through the door?"
As if on cue—
Knock, knock, knock.
The sound was clear and a little urgent—not too fast, not too slow.
…
Bonus chapter at 100 PS