"The probability is far too low."
Charlotte shot back without the slightest hesitation.
"Especially because the timing was so precise."
"It's fine. Let's go over Mycroft again."
Russell didn't continue to dig deeper into the issue, but simply went on:
"As Mary speculated, I think he only wanted to use Moriarty to eliminate his political enemies, and that's why he chose to protect him."
Does this have anything to do with the Professor?
No.
This time, Moriarty had been planning to head for Buckingham Palace.
The reason Mycroft concealed this might have been because he wanted to see how far Moriarty could go, to weigh exactly how much of a threat he really was. As you said earlier, Mycroft already knew of the Professor's existence, but to him, the Professor posed almost no threat at all, so he never took him seriously.
Russell analyzed the various possibilities and presented them to Charlotte in a concise and accessible way.
Charlotte did not interrupt, simply listening quietly.
As she watched Russell's serious, analytical demeanor, the irritation that had been faintly visible in her eyes slowly shifted into something more complex.
"So, your conclusion is"—after a long silence, she finally opened her mouth and spoke slowly—"that it was all just a coincidence?"
"Real life doesn't need to be logical. It's not a novel or a stage play."
Russell shrugged.
"In any case, the trail for the Professor has gone cold, and Moriarty won't get any results before Sunday either. No matter how much we rack our brains, we won't find any new clues."
He stopped, walked over to Charlotte, and said in a tone one would use to soothe a child:
"So for now, how about you just forget everything and get a good night's sleep?"
"Lestrade might catch Bilson first thing tomorrow morning."
Charlotte simply stared at him.
The crackling of the fireplace cast two long, overlapping shadows of their figures across the wall.
She didn't know how much time had passed, but at last she let out a sigh so soft it was almost inaudible.
"I'm hungry."
"...Huh?"
Russell was caught off guard. He hadn't even noticed how quickly the topic had shifted.
"I'm hungry, Watson," she said.
Charlotte repeated herself, but her tone had returned to its usual flat calm.
"It's already dinnertime. You're my assistant, so could you prepare something?"
Russell looked at her, and at the sight of the light returning to her gray-blue eyes, he couldn't help but smile helplessly.
"Baked pasta with creamy meat sauce, or a smoked ham sandwich?"
"Sandwich."
Charlotte didn't hesitate.
Russell turned around and headed downstairs, leaving the door open behind him.
Before long, the kitchen was filled with the sizzle of butter melting in a frying pan and the warm, toasty aroma of bread. Charlotte sat quietly on the sofa, gazing at the copied photographs spread across the table and listening intently to the ordinary sounds drifting from the kitchen.
The clack of a spatula against a pan, the twist and shut of the faucet, the faint clink of plates being taken from the cupboard…
These sounds were utterly mundane—so mundane, in fact, that they almost bordered on boring.
And yet, when combined, they somehow formed a gentle lullaby that miraculously soothed her anxiety, an anxiety stirred up by the sudden loss of any leads.
"Your sandwich."
Russell's voice pulled her back from her brief daze.
He brought over a plate, on which a beautifully arranged smoked ham sandwich was set.
The bread was toasted to a crisp, golden brown. From between the two slices peeked a leaf of bright green lettuce. Red tomato slices and pink ham were layered neatly inside, with just the right amount of mayonnaise drizzled across the whole thing.
The Dexterity buff applies not only to lockpicking, but to any task that involves manual dexterity.
"It looks far more professional than anything Mrs. Hudson makes," Charlotte commented.
She picked up half of the sandwich and carefully examined the perfect cross-section before giving her verdict.
"When I was in the orphanage, I'd sometimes sneak into the kitchen to help with the cooking. That's how I learned."
Russell offered the explanation casually, then sat down on the sofa beside her, grabbed his own portion, and took a hearty bite.
Charlotte said nothing more.
She simply took small bites of her sandwich, eating slowly.
Before she knew it, the sandwich was gone.
Charlotte took a tissue, wiped her mouth, and pushed the plate aside.
The feeling of a full stomach brought with it a pleasant, languid fatigue that she hadn't felt in a long time.
She set the empty plate aside without much thought, remained where she was, leaned back against the sofa, and let out a satisfied sigh.
"Dopamine, endorphins, and the pleasant sensation caused by elevated blood sugar…" she muttered to herself. "Just dull chemical reactions."
"Well, in that case, you're all filled up now," Russell teased from the side as he gathered up his own plate.
Charlotte shot him a brief glance, but did not bother to argue.
She stood up and walked over to the fireplace, where a violin had been carelessly propped against the wall. She picked it up.
Russell had just begun to worry that she might start using those painful sounds again to help her think, but this time, Charlotte did not unleash those fast, chaotic notes.
She tucked the violin between her shoulder and chin, closed her eyes, and let her slender fingers dance lightly over the strings.
From the friction of bow and string flowed a quiet, gentle tone—melodic and soothing, like a small stream running under moonlight.
Russell had never heard this piece before, and it was unlike anything Charlotte had ever played.
It held none of the anxiety she wore when she was thinking, none of the thrill she felt while solving a puzzle, and none of the restless boredom of her idle moments.
It was calm, and faintly languid.
It was like a person who had been tense all day finally letting their guard down at night, feeling the weight of their fatigue and letting themselves fall, completely and lazily, into a soft bed.
Russell did not disturb her.
He simply sat quietly, tidied away the dishes, and glanced over from time to time at the girl lost in her own world.
The flames in the fireplace flickered without cease, casting her long shadow on the wall, swaying gently in time with the violin's rhythm.
The piece ended.
Charlotte slowly lowered the violin and opened her gray-blue eyes. In the glow of the fire, they seemed more luminous than ever.
"So you finally know how to play something from this century," Russell called over.
"Then I suppose I owe you an apology for your utter lack of musical talent," Charlotte retorted.
"Thanks to you, I don't think I can think straight anymore."
She stretched out on the sofa and stared up at the ceiling.
"It feels like my mind has gone completely blank."
We usually call that phenomenon "being tired."
"The best solution," Russell said, "is to lie down in bed and sleep soundly."
"Take a nap?" Charlotte repeated. "Sleep is a compromise with physiological needs and a waste of time. My brain doesn't need such an inefficient way to reset itself."
"But your body does."
Russell stacked the empty plates together and picked them up to take them back to the kitchen.
"Besides, didn't you just say you can't think right now?"
What's the difference between a brain that can't think and a sponge that's been soaked in water?
At least you can still dry out the sponge and use it again. If you just leave the brain as it is, one day it might simply short out.
Charlotte didn't argue with him.
She merely watched him carry the dishes off to the kitchen and listened to the soft, comforting sound of the faucet being turned on.
She sank deeper into the sofa and turned her gaze back to the dancing flames in the fireplace.
The flickering light was reflected in her gray-blue eyes, making them seem uncertain, unpredictable. When Russell finished drying his hands and came out of the kitchen, she was still in the same position, motionless, like a beautiful statue lost in thought.
"You're still not going?"
Russell walked over to her.
But Charlotte gave no reply.
She had fallen asleep.
…