Russell silently met the girl's gaze. Somehow, he saw a glimmer of pity and sympathy in her eyes. The thief she once despised now seemed to evoke other feelings within her.
"If he's a tool trained by Mycroft, why give me a love letter?" Russell asked. "And why did he provoke you?"
He probably shouldn't have asked that. But for no particular reason, Russell found himself wanting to hear Mary's explanation. He wanted to know how Moriarty appeared in her mind.
"Maybe... because a tool can have thoughts of its own," Mary said quietly.
Without waiting for Russell to speak, she continued her soliloquy. "Moriarty is a thief, a shadow, a tool—but he's still human, isn't he?"
"Perhaps, the reason he gave you a love letter was, as you said, like wanting a double bacon sandwich—it's just a basic human impulse."
She paused, then looked at Russell again.
"He was a lonely thief. And so are you."
"So maybe he saw something of himself in you, and that's why he gave you the letter—even if it wasn't part of his assignment, even if it was just some irrational impulse."
"And you?" Russell asked. "If his intent was to protect me, then what was the point in being so hostile to you?"
At that, Mary lowered her gaze, no longer looking at Russell but at the ground, or perhaps something else.
She was silent for a moment, then forced a rueful smile and whispered, "That must have been... an ironic remark." Her words were quiet, and her sigh so gentle it would have been blown away by the wind, except that Russell caught it at the last moment.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing..." Mary shook her head, glancing his way with a vaguely melancholy expression. "Just suddenly... I think a few of my illusions shattered."
"What illusions?" Russell asked with a gentle smile. "That Moriarty was really a performance artist?"
"Not that," Mary laughed, then lowered her voice again. "I used to think Moriarty was interesting. Not exactly... polite, but at least his soul was fascinating."
"And he's not fun anymore?"
"Not anymore." Mary shook her head. "Now he just seems ordinary to me."
"Conventional?" Russell raised his eyebrows. "Why?"
"It's hard to explain. Maybe... just disappointed," Mary said. "Like someone who's never been to the city, only heard that the Thames is beautiful, and seen a few pretty photos—then goes there and discovers the river is actually covered with trash and reeks."
She explained, "I used to think Moriarty was unpredictable and wild, but now it turns out he's just Mycroft's shadow, a tool."
"Everything he ever did was traceable, even orchestrated. It's like a supposedly free bird suddenly discovering it's been living in a larger cage all along. Can such a bird still be called free?"
Russell didn't answer. That was enough.
He was no philosopher, and he wasn't going to launch into a major meditation on the subject. The entire point had just been to nudge Mary off track, to distance her mentally from the character of Moriarty.
That was all.
Perhaps sensing the heavy mood, Mary took a long breath, gathering her scattered thoughts and feelings. In the blink of an eye, she transformed back into the serene Miss Morstan.
"Of course, Moriarty is boring now," she lightened her tone, finally speaking in the teasing sing-song of a little girl. "But Russell, you wouldn't do that, right?"
She looked at him; her blue eyes glinted with a mocking smile, but it was a look that also seemed to beg—Please, don't become like him. Don't follow the crowd. Don't bore me. Don't make me hate you.
Russell still didn't answer, just quietly meeting her eyes, watching the complex play of emotion flickering in the blue.
How was he supposed to answer? How could he meet this kind of expectation?
Plenty of replies came to mind, but none were particularly satisfying—at least, not for himself or for her.
So after some thought, Russell gave up on thinking. Just say whatever comes to mind.
"I don't think it's so bad to be a bird in a cage," he said lazily.
Mary's brows drew together a little, and it seemed the Aegean Sea in her eyes froze over.
"You know?" Russell drawled, reclining and bathing in the warm sunlight, "every day you don't have to do anything. Someone feeds you, cleans for you, you never have to worry about three meals a day or looking for a job."
He looked enraptured. "That's exactly the retirement life I've always dreamed of."
Mary just stared at him, silent; watching his lazy, spiritless demeanor and the pure, clear darkness of his eyes.
There was neither ambition nor desire there... barely even curiosity.
The thin ice she'd imagined on the sea surface shattered soundlessly.
In its place was a helpless sigh, as if everything was futile against him.
"I take back what I said before," she said, rubbing her brow gently. "You really won't turn out like everyone else..." Too lazy even to follow convention—can someone that lazy even be caged at all?
But... that's fine.
She thought to herself.
That was enough.
"That's good," Russell echoed, accepting her judgment without a thought, as if there'd never been any deep discussion about life or freedom, and slumped across the table.
An undisturbed silence fell between them. Only the professor's lecture, a lullaby of sorts, flowed through the classroom.
Several minutes later, as Mary finished jotting down notes and slid her notebook to Russell, an idea seemed to strike her.
"Oh, by the way," she asked softly, watching Russell rise slowly, "What were you going to say to me earlier?"
…