Charlotte Holmes sat on the sofa, eyeing Russell's offered hand with a frown.
"Why?"
What's the point of this?
"I have no idea," Russell replied honestly.
"But I think you could use some fresh air."
"I've already been out."
"Going downstairs to buy food doesn't count," Russell insisted, still holding out his hand.
Charlotte tilted her head, scrutinizing him. After a moment, she finally spoke.
"Five minutes." She extended her hand, placing it gently in Russell's palm.
"If I'm still bored after five minutes, I'm going back."
"Deal." Russell gave her a gentle smile and helped her up from the sofa.
They walked side by side down Baker Street. The evening air felt damp and chilly; the street lamps already glowed, casting a yellowish, hazy light over the wet cobblestones. Charlotte had swapped her warm bathrobe for a trench coat, hands in the pockets, matching Russell's pace.
Compared to Russell's easy, carefree manner, Charlotte seemed a bit reserved. Her gaze roamed ceaselessly, taking in every person they passed in detail.
"Look over there," Charlotte suddenly spoke, nodding at the street corner. Russell followed her eyes.
There, a neatly dressed middle-aged man was pacing back and forth anxiously, glancing frequently at his pocket watch.
"That man is about forty-five and married. You can tell from the wear on his wedding ring—he's been married more than fifteen years," Charlotte rattled off rapidly.
"He's dressed properly, but there's a faint ink stain on his cuff, which suggests he works in an office profession, like a lawyer or accountant."
"He's been waiting here at least ten minutes, checks his watch every thirty seconds, fidgets nervously, but keeps looking at the flower shop across the street instead of the road. That indicates he's not waiting for business, but for a lover."
"How do you know it's a lover? Maybe he's picking out a present for his wife, since he forgot their anniversary," Russell asked, raising an eyebrow.
"His tie is Windsor-knotted, and perfectly so. That means the person he's meeting today is especially important—he felt the need to look his very best. But look at his shoes: there are dried mud stains, all at the heels, patchy. That means he'd come in a rush—probably ran here."
"Hmmm…" Russell nodded earnestly. "So, why are you analyzing him?"
"No idea," Charlotte admitted, shaking her head. "Maybe it's instinct."
"Instinct?"
"I can't just wander through the city without thinking about people," she said.
"Who says that? I'm always thinking too!" Russell protested.
"Thinking about what Mrs. Hudson will serve for dinner isn't 'thinking'," Charlotte retorted.
"It'll probably be sandwiches," he guessed.
"Pasta bake with creamy meat sauce," Charlotte replied.
"Impossible," Charlotte shot that down.
"Mrs. Hudson serves smoked ham sandwiches for dinner at least four out of seven nights. Plus, I saw her slicing ham at noon."
"Bet on it? I'll stick to my prediction," Russell said.
"What's the wager?" Charlotte asked.
"If I lose, I'll pay for both breakfast and the morning paper next week," Russell offered.
"As an assistant, that's your job anyway," Charlotte retorted, but eventually agreed to the bet anyway.
"And what if I lose?" she asked. "I could help write your thesis proposal, if you want?"
"I wouldn't dare," Russell grinned and shrugged. "Even if you wrote it, I wouldn't have the courage to show it to Professor Fields."
"If I win, the stakes are simple," he said, letting a dramatic pause build as Charlotte watched, both confused and curious.
"Tomorrow, you'll spend a whole day attending classes at Imperial College. Just one day. Come on, what do you say?"
"Go to Imperial for a day of classes?" Charlotte frowned.
"Did your brain get damaged from the cold on our walk? What good could that possibly do me?"
"What good does Moriarty get out of stealing things and then returning them?" Russell shot back.
"Are you brave enough to accept the challenge?"
Charlotte was silent. She fixed her eyes on Russell's confident—no, almost provocative—smile, her mind awhirl. She'd personally witnessed Mrs. Hudson processing the ham, and all logical connections pointed to the same answer. There was no way she could lose this bet.
With that in mind, complying with a ridiculous request from the loser hardly seemed unreasonable. Besides, watching his disappointed expression when he lost would be entertainment enough. And a week's guaranteed breakfast and newspapers in the deal? Not bad at all.
Sooner or later, assistants had to be given proper responsibilities anyway.
"Deal," Charlotte said, her voice back to its calm, steady tone. She put her hands back in her pockets and kept walking.
"I'd suggest you set your alarm as soon as we get home. If I don't see breakfast and the newspaper by 7 a.m., you'll owe me an extra week's penalty for every day you're late."
"No problem at all." Russell smiled and followed.
They walked along, sometimes sketching quick portraits of passing faces, then arguing about trivial disagreements. As dusk deepened, the bustle of Baker Street gradually faded into stillness.
As they passed a newspaper stand, Russell saw the newsboy selling off his last few papers to midnight passersby.
On the front page, there still stood that giant countdown—and Moriarty's bold signature.
[Judgment Day, Countdown: 4]
"A meticulously staged public drama," Russell mused.
"He knows exactly what people need, and supplies it: riddles dense with suspense, heroes, villains, and a stage for everyone to vent their cheapest emotions."
Charlotte traced his gaze, a hint of disdain in her voice.
"Maybe he just finds it fun?"
"That only proves he has incurable narcissistic and histrionic personality disorders," Charlotte snorted.
"Superficial."
Russell only smiled, not bothering to argue.
They crossed the street and returned to 221B Baker Street. Before Russell could even reach for his keys, the familiar wooden door opened from within. The warm aroma of butter, cheese, and tomato instantly wrapped around them.
This isn't sandwiches.
That thought flashed, wordless and simultaneous, through both Russell and Charlotte's minds.
"Oh, welcome home!" Mrs. Hudson emerged from the kitchen, kindness in her smile, holding a plate topped with hot garlic bread.
"Go wash your hands—dinner's almost ready!"
Charlotte's face froze. Clumsily, she turned her head just enough to glance over Mrs. Hudson's shoulder—and there it was: on the kitchen table, a steaming golden gratin, cheese bubbling on top.
When Russell followed her gaze, a triumphant, dazzling smile spread over his face.
"Charlotte, don't be late tomorrow."
...
Bonus chapter at 100 PS