For a moment, Russell was at a loss for words.
He looked at Charlotte, curled up and fast asleep on the sofa, breathing evenly like a delicate porcelain doll.
After a brief silence, Russell turned around and went into Charlotte's bedroom.
Compared with the living room, Charlotte's bedroom was surprisingly tidy.
Of course, part of that was because there simply wasn't much in it.
A bed, a wardrobe, and a quilt—that was all.
Russell picked up the blanket. There was still a faint trace of Charlotte's soap on it, a clean, subtle scent.
He carried the blanket back to the living room and walked over to the sofa, intending to drape it gently over Charlotte.
But the moment he leaned down and caught sight of her defenseless sleeping face, his movements involuntarily stilled.
The remaining glow of the fire softened her features, which were usually sharp and distant.
The cold indifference that kept people at arm's length was gone, as was the awe-inspiring focus she wore when deep in thought.
In this moment, she no longer looked anything like the famed detective who had made Scotland Yard's reputation soar. She was just an ordinary girl, utterly exhausted, who had curled up on the sofa and fallen asleep. Her sleeping posture was terrible—like a cat that had lost its sense of security, huddled into a small ball.
Russell sighed.
If you slept all night on the sofa under a blanket, you'd definitely wake up tomorrow morning with neck and spine all twisted to bits.
"Assistant? If anything, I'm more like her babysitter," he muttered.
Casually hanging the blanket over the back of a chair, he bent down and slid his arms carefully under Charlotte's knees and back.
All the while, Russell did his best to move as gently as if he were trying not to wake a usually well-behaved cat.
Once again, skillful technique played a critical role.
Lighter than I expected.
That was his first impression when he lifted her into his arms.
At that moment, the girl in his arms seemed to sense something.
Charlotte shifted unconsciously and rested her head against his chest.
Russell's whole body froze at once.
He lowered his gaze to the sleeping girl cradled in his arms, feeling the soft, warm brush of her breath seep through his shirt and skim across his chest.
Fortunately, she still hasn't woken up.
He let out a quiet sigh of relief, then walked toward the bedroom.
Russell approached the bedside and gently laid the girl in his arms onto the soft mattress.
He pulled the blanket over her, carefully tucking it in. He even folded the corners snugly, leaving no gaps at all.
Once he had finished, Russell turned, slipped out of the room, and quietly closed the door behind him.
Good night, Sherlock.
His voice was so soft that only he could hear it.
In the living room, the fire in the fireplace had completely gone out. Only a few faintly glowing embers still quivered in the darkness.
Russell did not turn the lights back on.
He walked over to the information wall, which was densely covered with leads and notes, and stared at the memos and mind map. He stood there in silence in the dark for a long time. At last, he let out a small, almost inaudible chuckle.
Then he moved again, and his figure slowly faded into the darkness.
…
By morning, the soundly sleeping Charlotte furrowed her brows slightly and murmured hoarsely.
The girl slowly woke from her slumber.
The sunlight pouring in through the window was unpleasant to her eyes, so she turned over and pulled the blanket over her head.
Even so, though her body instinctively wanted to stay in bed for just a little longer, her already-awakened brain refused to allow it.
"..."
Charlotte clicked her tongue in annoyance, flung the blanket aside, and sat up abruptly.
The slanting sunlight illuminated her profile, giving her dark, curly hair a warm, golden sheen.
"I remember falling asleep on the sofa…"
Murmuring to herself, Charlotte ran a hand through her hair.
Her mind was working furiously, trying to piece together a clear, logical chain from a mess of scattered fragments.
"Sofa. Sandwich. Violin. And then…"
And then everything had gone black.
The last thing Charlotte remembered was the sound of running water coming from the kitchen.
She kicked off the quilt, got out of bed, and casually pulled on a warm bathrobe. Then she left the living room upstairs and headed down.
"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson."
"Morning, Charlotte. You're up later than usual today."
Mrs. Hudson turned to look at Charlotte and then set breakfast on the table.
"I've run out of coffee. There's only milk left—will that be all right?"
"That won't be a problem."
Charlotte accepted the hot milk, took a sip, and then asked, "Where's Watson?"
"Russell? He's already gone to school, Charlotte. It's nine o'clock now."
"I see…"
Charlotte paused a moment, then asked:
"Did you come into my room last night?"
"No, why? Did you lose something?" Mrs. Hudson asked.
"No, it's nothing."
Charlotte shook her head.
"Everything is in order."
After finishing breakfast, Charlotte went back upstairs.
She poured herself a cup of coffee, dragged a comfortable armchair into place, reclined in it, and gazed at the information wall before her.
On it, she had written down all of Moriarty's targets from his various actions as reported in the newspapers.
Initially, she had planned to investigate the identities of these victims and look for any connections or common traits among them. She divided the victims into two categories: those whose stolen possessions had been returned, and those whose hidden secrets had been exposed.
Charlotte's main hypothesis had focused on the latter group.
But that idea was soon discarded.
The man had committed his crimes in a completely capricious way.
The only things the victims had in common were that they were all either extremely wealthy or thoroughly filthy.
"About one-fifth of these people belong to the party opposed to Mr. Mycroft," Charlotte muttered to herself.
"But that proves nothing. None of these people pose any real threat to Mycroft, nor would he need to go to such lengths to bring them down. In other words… this isn't Mycroft's doing?"
She frowned.
"But if he truly has nothing to do with Mycroft, then why would he cover for Mycroft?"
Her gaze fell on the line connecting Moriarty and Mycroft.
On that line, Russell's cross mark from the day before was still clearly visible.
Charlotte thought for a moment, then stood up and picked up a marker.
She hesitated briefly, then added a question mark beside it.
"There's no way there's absolutely no link between these two… but am I overthinking it?"
She murmured to herself.
Her eyes then moved to the line connecting the Professor and Moriarty.
Likewise, she reached out, uncapped the marker, and added a question mark there as well.
Everything went back to how it had been.
But in Charlotte's eyes, it was as if a new, never-before-seen path had suddenly opened up before her.
"Watson always manages to come up with something new."
...
PS: Read at least 75 advanced chapters at patreon.com/ASCodeX