In the Imperial College London Faculty Office
"Here?" Russell asked, a little surprised as he looked at the firmly shut oak door.
"Professor Fields' office is at the end of the second floor," Mary replied. "He should still be in the faculty dining hall at this hour."
"What if we get caught?" Russell asked.
"If we do, I'll just say I had an urgent matter and needed to call home for confirmation," Mary answered with a mischievous wink.
The three of them slipped quietly into the small building. The corridor was deathly still; the only sound echoing through the empty space was their own footsteps.
The door to Professor Fields' office on the second floor was unlocked. Mary gently pushed it open, and all three quickly slipped inside.
The office was furnished simply: a large desk, a few guest chairs, and a wall entirely covered by bookshelves stretching from floor to ceiling.
Mary went straight for the desk, pointing to a black telephone quietly resting in the corner. "Go ahead, please," she signaled to Charlotte.
Charlotte didn't bother with any formalities. She strode forward, lifted the receiver, and deftly dialed a number she'd memorized.
After only two rings, an answer came: the voice of an operator. "Please transfer me to Mycroft," Charlotte said. "Just tell him Charlotte Holmes needs to speak with him."
There was a pause on the other end, as if the operator was trying to verify Charlotte's identity. Then, with unmistakable politeness—accompanied by tension—the operator responded, "Please wait a moment, Miss Holmes."
The wait wasn't long. After about thirty seconds, a calm, steady man's voice came through the receiver, the sort of voice unshaken by anything.
"Charlotte?" Mycroft's words betrayed a mix of surprise and unease. "I never thought you'd actually call of your own volition."
"I wanted to remind you of something," Charlotte replied, leaning back in Professor Fields' oversized office chair and speaking casually.
"It's about Moriarty."
"Moriarty?" Mycroft faltered for a moment.
"I recall the last time you said that you had no interest whatsoever in performance artists who crave attention for the sake of performing," Charlotte reminded him.
"He's planning to go to Buckingham Palace."
Without much elaboration, Charlotte tossed the bomb into his hands. "Those so-called teasers in the newspapers are nothing more than distractions to draw attention and conceal his true intentions. The very day the countdown ends will be the day he sneaks into Buckingham Palace."
After she spoke, the receiver was met by a long, almost deathly silence. The atmosphere was so quiet that Russell felt he could hear the birds chirping on the treetops outside the window.
The two could only try to gauge Mycroft's reaction from Charlotte's demeanor, but she kept her poker face throughout, and Russell had no clue what was unfolding.
"Where's your evidence?" Mycroft finally asked. "Don't tell me you just deduced this out of thin air?"
"In the end, it's just speculation," Charlotte admitted without fuss. "He needs a stage big enough and a goal weighty enough. In all of London, there's no place more suitable than Buckingham Palace."
"That's a very interesting conclusion," Mycroft's tone returned to normal, as if that earlier moment of speechlessness was only imagined. "However, it's only a hypothesis, and only viable if the suspect's actions are mostly improvised."
"That's why I called you—to give you a heads-up." Charlotte ignored his teasing. "Believe it or not, it won't be me who brings shame to Buckingham Palace and the Royal Family in the end."
"I'll consider your suggestion." Mycroft offered a typically non-committal response. "If there's nothing else, I'll return to my work."
"Whatever you wish," Charlotte said, and with no hesitation, hung up. Click. The receiver landed back with a resounding snap.
The room fell silent again.
"How did it go?" Russell finally broke the silence. "How did he react?"
Mary also fixed Charlotte with a curious look.
"He panicked," Charlotte replied directly, not teasing them. "But that wasn't an answer he could give."
Rising from the chair, her hands slipped back into the pockets of her trench coat—not with satisfaction from having her deductions confirmed, but with a certain gravity.
"So he really is connected to Moriarty…" she murmured, then turned to Mary. "You're much smarter than I gave you credit for."
"Thank you for your kind words," Mary accepted the compliment with a smile.
"And now, one of our suspects—those who own thermal underwear—can be ruled out," Mary continued lightly. "If Mycroft is connected to Moriarty, then any ties between Moriarty and the professor must be severed as well."
Charlotte took the conversational baton. "I don't know what Mycroft is scheming, but he'd never ally himself with someone like the professor."
"So, what should we do next?" Russell asked.
"I don't know." Charlotte shook her head, ruffling her hair in irritation. "What on Earth is that Mycroft guy thinking…?"
"We should leave for now," Mary said from the side. "By now, Professor Fields might already be on his way back. It's no use staying here any longer."
"What about the professor?" Russell pressed.
"Put that on hold," Charlotte waved a hand. "Until Lestrade sends me someone like Bilson—or a sober Charles—I can't think of any other way to pursue this matter."
"Mary's right. My perspective has changed. Now, I'm more interested in what's going on inside Mycroft's mind."
With that, she turned and walked toward the door. Mary and Russell exchanged glances, shrugged, and silently followed her out.
…
The days that followed were eerily quiet, like the calm before a storm.
Moriarty's declaration rippled through London like a stone thrown into a lake, the rings spreading ever wider with every passing day.
Every paper on Fleet Street tracked the countdown, dedicating their most prominent space to record day-by-day changes until the number finally hit zero.
Panic and anticipation twisted together, swirling ever higher.
The nobility grew increasingly nervous; some hired extra security, others spent fortunes on mercenaries. Meanwhile, the common people were almost feverish, treating Moriarty as a dark hero standing up to the powerful.
London, it seemed, had become a vast theater, everyone awaiting the protagonist's entrance.
Amid all the tumult, Russell—the man who started it all—seemed almost detached. He kept his own pace: lazy by day, searching for money by night.
'I took advantage of the opportunity to sneak into Buckingham Palace and set up an anchor for teleportation.'
'As for Charlotte, she had completely set aside the matter of the professor, and began focusing on the newspaper stories about Moriarty.'
Saturday passed innocuously—the day we'd agreed to have afternoon tea, and the day the curtain finally rose.
…
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