The phone connected instantly. Lestrade's exhausted voice drifted through the receiver like a ghost.
"Hello?"
"It's me."
Charlotte's tone was crisp and direct.
"Charlotte?"
Lestrade sounded surprised at first, then let out a dramatic wail.
"What fresh discovery have you made this time? Can't you let a man breathe for five minutes?"
"Bilson's social circle," Charlotte said, ignoring his complaint. "I need a complete list of everyone who was close to him."
"Again?" Lestrade's voice cracked like he was about to cry. "Charlotte, it's ten o'clock at night. Normal people are asleep."
"Well then," she shot back, "choose between career glory and sleep. Pull this off and you might finally make inspector."
"..."
A long silence stretched across the line.
"…I'll do my best."
He caved.
"Tomorrow morning—at the latest by noon—I'll have someone deliver the files to Baker Street."
"Excellent." Charlotte nodded in satisfaction and hung up without another word.
She turned and met Russell's gaze. A faint trace of sympathy lingered in his eyes.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Charlotte raised an eyebrow.
"It's nothing," Russell said, shaking his head. "I just realized Lestrade must be suffering terribly right now."
"Once his paycheck arrives, you'll stop feeling sorry for him."
Charlotte spoke flatly and sank back into the armchair.
"Scotland Yard covers every part of London except the City, where trouble almost never happens. So whenever a case is solved anywhere else, all the credit lands on Lestrade."
"You only ever hear him whining to me on the phone. You've never seen the enormous grin that spreads across his face every time a case closes—the kind of smile so wide it would take ten carriages to contain."
"Fine. One side wants to throw a punch, the other doesn't mind taking it."
Russell shrugged.
"Win-win. I get my consulting fee. He gets fame and promotion."
Charlotte set her empty teacup down with a decisive clink.
"Well then," she said, rising and rolling her stiff shoulders, "that's enough for today."
She stretched, yawned, and added, "Don't forget breakfast and the newspaper tomorrow morning."
She started toward her room, then paused beside Russell, leaned in, and whispered right against his ear.
"And don't forget to wash my teacup, Mr. Assistant."
Her voice was soft; her warm breath brushed his earlobe. Russell's neck instinctively shrank.
Before he could react, Charlotte had already straightened and vanished through the door with light, quick steps.
Russell touched his ear. A faint warmth and lingering itch remained.
He glanced at the empty cup, then at the doorway she had disappeared through. With a helpless shrug, he picked up the cup and headed for the sink.
…
The next morning, the first pale sunlight pierced the thin fog and touched the familiar windows of 221B Baker Street. Russell had already been dragged out of bed by his alarm clock.
Hair still tousled, he moved through the kitchen with practiced ease, preparing breakfast for the three residents of Baker Street. Ever since the agreement between him and Charlotte, breakfast duty had quietly shifted from Mrs. Hudson to him.
Butter sizzled in the pan. The aroma of golden toast and caramelized bacon filled the air.
He had just set the beautifully plated breakfast on the table when Charlotte appeared downstairs in her bathrobe, yawning.
"Morning."
Russell slid a glass of warm milk toward her.
"Morning."
Charlotte pulled out a chair, sat down, glanced at the food, then reached for the newspaper beside her.
The front page still screamed about Moriarty's exile, but the frenzy had clearly died down. After so many dramatic reversals, public emotion was finally settling. People enjoyed the spectacle, but life had to go on.
Charlotte flipped through a few pages, then tossed the paper aside and focused on her breakfast.
"Why aren't you reading anymore?"
Russell sat across from her and took a bite of his sandwich.
"Nothing worth reading," Charlotte said, slicing off a piece of toast. "The circulation numbers for The Guardian and The Times will be out soon. Those figures are far more interesting than the actual articles."
"I distinctly remember someone saying, 'Who cares about meaningless win-loss records.'"
"I'm merely curious about the outcome."
Charlotte corrected him, then lifted the warm milk and took a sip.
They finished breakfast in comfortable silence.
Russell was clearing the dishes and preparing to leave for school when a loud knock rattled the door.
"Is Miss Holmes in?"
A young constable's voice called from outside. "Inspector Lestrade sent me with something."
Russell opened the door. It was the same officer who had delivered the previous package.
"Much appreciated."
"You too, sir."
The young man smiled and handed over a thick file.
Russell tested its weight, then carried it back to the sitting room.
"Delivery for the lady."
He placed the heavy folder on the coffee table in front of Charlotte.
"Faster than expected."
Charlotte eyed the thick file, one eyebrow lifting in rare satisfaction.
"Lestrade must be working himself into the ground."
Russell's tone was dry.
Charlotte didn't reply. She set down her steaming glass of milk, neatly broke the seal, and spread the documents across the table.
Yellowed pages scattered everywhere—military records, post-discharge connections, even dubious rumors from Bilson's days in London's underworld.
Charlotte picked up the top sheet and scanned it quickly, her gray-blue eyes moving rapidly across the lines. Sunlight from the window haloed her slightly messy black curls. A few loose strands framed her cheek, swaying gently as she turned the page.
She was so absorbed that the rest of the world seemed to fade away.
"Found anything?"
Russell sat beside her, leaning in with interest.
"Not yet."
Without looking up, Charlotte tapped one line of text with her fingertip.
"These files are poorly organized and mostly outdated. When Bilson was active in the underworld, Lestrade was still just an ordinary constable."
"So most of this list is ancient gossip?"
"A bit more than that," Charlotte said, tossing the page aside and reaching for another. "But not entirely useless."
"For example?"
"For example, I can at least confirm that Bilson is not working alone."
…
…
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