Mycroft took a deep breath and downed his tea in one gulp. The teacup covered his face, making it impossible to read the anxious expression lurking behind it. Still, one thing was clear. There was no doubt he was in an extremely foul mood.
After finishing his tea, Mycroft set down the cup and slowly placed the letter he was holding onto the table. He kept up his calmness and self-control, but Russell could sense just how angry he really was. Russell was certain that if malicious intentions against him could be harnessed like energy, it would fetch a pretty hefty sum. Unfortunately, that wasn't possible.
"Sir Phineas Black," Mycroft's voice grew low.
"In view of his already distant relationship with Her Majesty, I could've overlooked his ridiculous club. Had this been nothing more than ordinary prostitution, sure, I could have left it until tomorrow."
But unfortunately, this isn't mere corruption—it's treason.
"Well then, Mr. Holmes." Russell rose, gently repositioning the velvet armchair.
"Are you ready for overtime?"
Mycroft didn't reply. Instead, he reached out, picked up a small silver rattle from the table, and gave it a gentle shake. In the quiet study, the clear sound of a bell echoed.
In less than ten seconds, the butler's voice quietly drifted from outside the door.
"Your orders, sir?"
"Anthony," Mycroft's voice regained its usual composure and authority.
"Bring a full pot of coffee—no milk, no sugar. And have it here within ten minutes."
"Yes, understood, sir."
Anthony, the butler, left to fulfill the order without asking any questions.
The study fell silent again. It was Russell who broke the quiet.
"Anyway, about our wager—"
"I'll honor the bet," Mycroft interrupted, moving his gaze back to the pile of letters.
"Until the countdown ends, only you and I will know about this."
He paused, then turned toward Russell.
"Did you leave him a letter?"
"Of course I did," Russell shrugged. "But whether he'll ever see it is another matter entirely. I placed it inside the box where he keeps his letters."
"I see." Mycroft nodded.
"The day the cancellation notice period ends, all of London will be your stage. Both Scotland Yard and the Royal Guards will lift the blockade just for you."
As he spoke and looked at Russell again, his eyes gleamed with something complex.
"Mr. Moriarty, I am extremely interested in what exactly you are planning."
"You'll find out when the time comes." Russell said nothing more, and bowed gracefully, like an actor at the end of their performance.
"I won't interrupt your work any longer, then."
He stepped back slowly, his figure gradually fading into the shadows of the French windows.
"Mr. Holmes, have a good evening."
As he finished, his silhouette dropped swiftly into the night outside and was gone.
Mycroft sat quietly in his high-backed chair for a long time, unmoving. It was obvious––tonight would be a sleepless night.
…
After wandering about for a while, Russell returned to Baker Street. He slipped back into his room through the window, changed from his thief's costume into his pajamas, lay down on the bed, and was asleep in no time.
He slept dreamlessly.
…
When Russell awoke the next day, he readily paid a few pence for a newspaper from a street vendor. The Fleet Street papers all reserved their biggest headlines for him, energetically promoting the upcoming theatrical event. Even if they had nothing fresh to report, they continued to display a giant countdown, lavishly listing his greatest exploits right beside it.
Russell settled into a chair with a glass of warm milk, musing with some curiosity over the path he'd taken.
Honestly, it was all quite moving.
Back then, I was so skinny, he thought.
He set the empty milk glass absentmindedly on the coffee table, picked up a cookie Mrs. Hudson had baked, and sank deeper into the armchair, idly leafing through the rest of the paper. The headlines might have been saturated with all things Moriarty, but the articles below still chronicled the unchanging daily life of London: parliamentary debates, stock market fluctuations, the scandal of a certain lady, plus everyday woes about the weather and prices.
Russell soon lost interest, tossed the paper onto the table, and said goodbye to Mrs. Hudson before going out again. Meanwhile, Charlotte had woken early, gone downstairs to find something to eat, and retreated to her own room.
"Every brother and sister has their own things to do," Russell sighed.
"Busy, busy—yes, it's good to be busy…"
As long as everyone's busy, no one's paying attention to you.
That's what it means for a truly clever person to live as a hermit in the midst of a bustling city.
He entered the lecture hall, took his usual seat in the back row. As always, he bantered with the girl who smelled faintly of white tea. As always, he napped during the lesson. At noon, he drifted into the cafeteria for lunch, racking up plenty of malicious points with his biting remarks and observations.
After class, he headed back to Baker Street, as usual, to monitor the great detective at work. To his surprise, when he opened the door, Charlotte wasn't standing in front of the information wall. Instead, she was sitting on the sofa in her bathrobe, nursing a coffee cup, gazing dreamily at the fireplace.
"Charlotte?"
Curious, Russell stepped closer and waved a hand in front of her face.
At last, the bright gray-blue eyes that had been fixated on the fire turned to him.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing," Charlotte murmured, "Just lost in thought, that's all."
Russell withdrew his hand, sitting beside her and gazing at the wall.
"Still no clues?"
"For the record, I wasn't daydreaming—I was thinking," Charlotte corrected, following his gaze toward the information board. "And second, that much should be obvious."
She took a sip of coffee, then, just before Russell could speak, continued in a frustrated voice.
"There aren't any more leads from the prisoners. We've already searched the Southwark hideout—nothing but burnt scraps of paper. Bilson has vanished without a trace, and Charles is either completely mute or just babbling nonsense whenever he does speak."
"All because of Moriarty," Russell said.
[Complaint from Charlotte Holmes, Malice Point +20]
"What does this have to do with him?" Russell lifted an eyebrow. "Maybe I should change my name to Moriarty."
"If he'd been wearing an ordinary mask instead of one made from human skin, Charles might never have gone so mad," Charlotte muttered.
"With a regular mask, you stick out too much. The human skin one is way more convenient," Russell defended.
"Maybe it's convenient for him, but it's inconvenient for me," Charlotte grumbled, stirring her coffee.
"When you're feeling unwell, you shouldn't hole up in your room," Russell said, getting to his feet.
"Clues won't magically appear just because you sit here all day."
He paused, then extended a hand to her.
"There's still time before dinner—how about a walk?"
…
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