Charlotte turned and headed for the stairs.
Lucian hurried after her, notebook pressed to his chest, looking as if he might be abandoned at any moment.
"Lestrade—seal the scene. I want the complete access log for the dispensary," Charlotte said without looking back.
"Yes, ma'am…" Lestrade sighed in resigned misery.
The crowd began to disperse.
Lucian followed behind Charlotte, but his peripheral vision kept drifting toward the coat rack by the office door.
A corner of black fabric was peeking from the lowest gap.
About two centimeters.
He had to retrieve it.
The nightwear itself wasn't special—cheap cotton-linen blend, the sort any dockworker in London could afford. He'd worn it precisely to avoid drawing Charlotte Holmes's attention to "Phantom Thief Moriarty."
But the problem was—
Charlotte hadn't gone far.
If Scotland Yard found a set of black clothing under that rack tomorrow, the famous detective would re-evaluate everything about tonight—and start wondering whether she'd reached her conclusion too quickly.
And for her, once you eliminated all impossibilities, whatever remained—no matter how absurd—became the answer.
So how?
Charlotte was walking right in front of him. He couldn't just stop.
"Miss Morstan, you're coming too," Charlotte's voice floated back from ahead. "I said I still have questions."
"Y-yes, Miss Holmes." Mary responded and quickly followed.
Footsteps of three echoed in the empty corridor.
Lucian's mind spun.
He needed a reason—a goldfish-compatible reason—to peel away from the group for a moment.
"Miss Holmes!" Lucian suddenly clutched his stomach. "Sorry, I… I need one minute. My stomach's acting up—probably the fried fish at noon…"
Charlotte stopped and glanced back at him, disgust dripping from her eyes.
"A goldfish digestive system—just as fragile as its intellect."
She turned and continued forward.
"One minute. One second more and I leave. Miss Morstan, come."
"Yes, Miss Holmes."
Mary followed, but after two steps she turned back and looked at Lucian again.
"Senior Grey, are you all right? Your face looks rather pale…"
"I'm fine," Lucian forced out. "Please go ahead—don't keep Miss Holmes waiting."
Mary nodded and hurried after Charlotte.
Their silhouettes disappeared at the stairwell.
Lestrade was arguing with a constable about something, his back turned.
Now.
Lucian pretended to stumble.
"Oof—"
He lurched toward the coat rack, his left hand slipping into the bottom compartment. His fingertips touched the familiar fabric.
That was enough. With the speed of Magician's Hand—
But.
At that exact moment—
Mary, somehow, had doubled back. Emerald eyes full of worry.
"Senior Grey! You fell—"
Her voice overflowed with sincere concern.
She crouched, reaching to help.
And so—
In that narrow shadow beneath the coat rack, two hands met in the dark, fingertips brushing through a crack in space.
Mary's gaze dropped to the black fabric. She blinked.
"There seems to be something here… Is it yours?"
Cold sweat prickled down Lucian's spine.
"Miss Morstan," he whispered, lowering his voice and wearing the most mortified expression he could summon.
"Could you keep this secret for me?"
"A secret?"
"It's like this…" Lucian's voice shrank to a mosquito's whine. His face reddened violently.
"I often take dock work—carrying cargo. Tonight I came straight from work to return a book for my roommate. I didn't have time to go back and change, so I took off my work clothes, balled them up, and stuffed them inside my coat. When I heard the scream, I ran over… I panicked…"
"The clothing slipped out without me noticing."
"I don't want people to know. I finally—finally managed to… in front of Miss Holmes… and if the police pull it out and interrogate me in public, I…"
Mary looked at him.
Then she remembered how he'd grovelled before Holmes just now, babbling about "selling for a good price."
It fit.
It fit so perfectly it almost looked useful.
"Senior Grey."
Mary gently closed her fingers around Lucian's hand and tucked the black fabric into his coat.
"There's only a button that fell. No old clothes."
She blinked at him. In her emerald eyes: nothing but understanding and tolerance.
"This afternoon you helped me carry that heavy suitcase, and you encouraged me—said I could fly far… This is a small repayment."
She smiled softly.
"Poverty isn't a sin, Senior Grey. People who work hard to live deserve respect."
It sounded like an angel's gospel.
If Lucian truly were an ordinary student, he might have been moved enough to offer her his heart on the spot.
"Thank you, Miss Morstan," he said hoarsely, as if kindness itself had lodged in his throat.
"You really are a good person."
"Miss Morstan?"
Charlotte's impatient voice rang out again.
"I don't like repeating myself a third time."
"I'll go now, Senior Grey," Mary said quickly. "You should catch up too."
She turned and hurried away, golden hair drifting under the gaslight.
Lucian stuffed the black fabric deeper into his coat, steadied his breathing, and followed.
Hah.
Every segment of tonight had been pushed to the edge.
First a murder scene. Then being treated as a suspect. Then performing a deranged worship routine in front of Holmes. And now nearly losing everything because of a single nightwear bundle.
Thank God for Mary.
Last night he'd saved a poor girl trembling beneath the shadow of violence.
Today she'd become his savior.
A strange kind of karmic profit, perhaps.
…
In the stairwell, the gas lamp flickered unsteadily.
Charlotte led.
Mary followed.
Lucian brought up the rear.
Charlotte suddenly stopped and asked without turning her head:
"Miss Morstan. Why did you go back just now?"
Mary's expression didn't change. Her voice remained that gentle, frightened-fawn softness—natural to the ear.
"Senior Grey fell. His face looked truly unwell. I was worried he might faint at the scene and cause trouble for the officers… so I went back to check. I only helped him up."
Charlotte turned. Her blue-green eyes pinned Mary in a direct, unwavering stare.
There was something strange about this Mary.
Her words, her posture—even the slightly rapid breathing that came with "nerves"—all fit perfectly the image of a well-bred lady who was kind, timid, and cautious.
The problem was—
It felt like she'd stepped straight out of a textbook template.
Goldfish were creatures of flaws and mess.
But Mary Morstan was too perfect.
Uncanny valley.
Yet Charlotte couldn't find a single piece of evidence to justify the instinct.
No logical gaps. No behavioral anomalies. Even micro-expressions were immaculate.
"Unnecessary emotion."
At last, the silver-haired girl withdrew her scrutiny and tossed out her verdict coldly.
"Especially toward a goldfish that has no value beyond increasing carbon dioxide emissions."
"Y-yes, Miss Holmes," Mary murmured, lowering her head and following behind.
In the shadow covering her face, the corner of her mouth lifted slightly.
In that instant just now, she had clearly felt Holmes's gaze.
Interesting.
The Holmes family's young lady might be mildly antisocial, but her intuition was terrifyingly sharp.
She could sense discord by instinct alone.
But intuition wasn't evidence.
As long as Mary didn't want her to see it—
Holmes would only ever see the "Mary Morstan" Mary allowed her to see.
Meanwhile, Mary continued calculating the man behind her.
Ashamed of poverty. Afraid of being laughed at for old clothes. Owed her a favor.
A perfect tool.
"Pitiful," Mary whispered silently inside her mind.
"But precisely because of that…"
"He's even easier to use."
Better still, he seemed to harbor a strange protective instinct toward her.
The attentiveness while carrying luggage, the gratitude when she helped him, that "You're a good person"…
Maybe she had acted too weak?
It didn't matter.
Whatever the cause, one-sided emotional projection was the easiest handle in the world.
Live well, Senior Grey, Mary told herself, watching the light at the end of the stairwell.
When the time is right… I'll come for you.
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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