A brusque, slightly mocking voice rang out.
Mycroft's fingers paused midway through turning a page.
The fireplace flickered, reflecting a gentle glow against his gold-rimmed glasses, concealing for a moment the subtle flash of surprise in his eyes.
He didn't turn around immediately, nor did he show the slightest hint of panic.
This man—the so-called Walking British Government—leisurely placed his bookmark into the page he'd just read.
Then, he closed the book and set it flat on the desk.
The sequence was unhurried, as if the greeting from behind had come not from an uninvited guest but from a servant, asking whether he cared for more tea.
"Good evening," he finally replied, his tone astonishingly calm and placid.
"Mr. Moriarty."
Mycroft slowly rotated his high-backed chair to face the figure standing in the shadows of his study.
The phantom thief seemed to melt into the darkness by the large French windows, as if he'd been there from the beginning.
Clad in a well-tailored black trench coat, the white mask upon his face—illuminated by the fire's glow—appeared even paler, more mysterious.
"You don't seem the least bit surprised."
Russell's voice held a hint of amusement.
He took two steps forward, stepping out of the shadows and boldly into the light.
"Why panic when there's nothing to hide?"
Mycroft sat deeply back in his chair, fingers steepled before his stomach, and smiled.
"Besides, I'm curious—what gave you the nerve to appear so calmly in my study? You must know that security on this street is much tighter than in those so-called Kensington mansions."
"And I suppose you imagine a few baton-wielding policemen and half-blind hounds could actually stop me? I'd like to know what gives you that confidence."
Russel replied with equal sharpness, not giving an inch.
He dragged a velvet armchair closer and sat down casually across from Mycroft.
Mycroft's gaze lingered for a time, eyes full of undisguised scrutiny and assessment.
"Interesting," he finally concluded—the same judgment Charlotte had made.
"So then, Mr. Moriarty, what brings you here at this hour?"
"If you're looking to find some leverage over me, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed.
If it's money you want… There are a few paintings hanging in the hallway; if you wish, take them—just make sure to return them."
"Relax. I didn't come to take anything," Russell replied, his voice smiling.
"Actually, I came here to deliver a gift."
As he spoke, Russell reached into the inner pocket of his trench coat.
The motion made Mycroft's eyes narrow for a split second, but his posture remained relaxed.
Russell produced the stack of letters he'd stolen from Phineas' club and tossed them nonchalantly onto the beautiful mahogany desk.
"And these are?"
Mycroft eyed the yellowed letters, but didn't immediately reach for them.
"As I said, they're a gift," Russell laughed. "But not the whole story."
"To be honest, I first thought you might be up late working overtime."
"Overtime is a sign of inefficiency. I never do overtime," Mycroft stated.
"Is that so?" Russell nodded thoughtfully. "That's quite a saying. But someone as busy as you… I find it hard to believe you take regular days off."
He stretched out, sinking deeper into the soft velvet chair.
Mycroft ignored the gentle sarcasm. His gaze stayed fixed on the stack of letters lying on the table.
"A gift is a gift. Surely, I can open it?"
He reached out, slender fingers lightly poised on the pile, though he did not immediately turn a page.
"Of course." Russell nodded. "But before you do, I'd recommend some psychological preparation."
"Preparation? For what?"
Mycroft frowned.
"Oh… for overtime, actually," Russell said.
Mycroft's frown deepened.
Are you certain I'll be working late?
"Care to bet?" Russell grinned.
"What's the wager?" Mycroft showed interest, leaning forward a bit.
"If you look inside, and still want to leave everything as it is, only to deal with it tomorrow—then I'll admit defeat," Russell declared.
"As the price for losing, I'll remove my mask before you, right here."
"How intriguing. And if I lose?" Mycroft asked, slightly smiling.
"If you lose, you just have to do something very simple," Russell's lips curved beneath his mask.
"Mr. Holmes, surely, you've read the papers lately?"
"The invitation for that grand performance? Yes, I saw it. The calligraphy was excellent. Have you studied it?"
"Thank you. I practiced a bit," Russell shrugged.
"But back to the matter at hand—if you lose, you don't have to pay any price. All that's required is that you do what must be done. My only condition is that you assist me—in fact, cooperate with my advance notice."
"To cooperate with your announcement?" Mycroft echoed, finding it intriguing.
"It sounds very much like a one-sided bet, Mr. Moriarty.
You're staking your identity, your mystery, and your freedom. The only thing I risk is my long-held principles—and a peaceful night."
He paused, as if savouring an entertaining play on stage.
"Tell me—in what world could a slip of paper make me forsake my convictions and lose this wager so easily? If all you wanted was an exit route, there's no need to go through all this trouble."
"Because the game is worth the price."
Russell placed his elbows on the armrest, steepling his fingers to mirror Mycroft's posture perfectly as he replied calmly.
"And besides—I don't plan to lose."
Mycroft said nothing.
He stared at the pale mask before him, as if trying to pierce the disguise and see the eyes smiling behind it.
"An expert provocation," Mycroft finally commented after a long silence.
He reached out and pulled the stack of letters closer.
"I accept your wager."
"A wise choice," Russell said with a slight nod.
"Then," Mycroft said, taking the top sheet,
"let's see the gift that claims it could shake the very British Empire."
A brief silence filled the study.
The only sounds were the fire's gentle crackling and the faint rustle of turning paper.
Mycroft read quickly, his eyes at first calm and analytical—like a chess player surveying the board.
But as time passed, that calmness shifted, and gravity set in.
The smile vanished from his face.
Russell watched silently from across. He made absolutely no sound to disrupt the moment, calmly observing as the representative of the British government shifted from composure to somberness.
Finally, after turning over the last page, Mycroft laid the volatile stack of documents down on the table with slow deliberation.
He didn't speak right away, just stared at the letters—as if they were Pandora's box, not mere paper.
"It seems," Russell spoke just then, breaking the heavy silence at the perfect moment,
"that I've won."
....
"Yes."
Mycroft slowly raised his head.
There was no hint of playfulness in his eyes anymore—only a deep, solemn seriousness.
"Mr. Moriarty… you win."