The carriage started forward slowly, its wheels rolling over the cobblestone road with a steady clunk-clunk—
as if playing the final closing notes for tonight's lavish drama.
"Mary Morstan… is an interesting woman."
Charlotte's voice sounded beside Russell's ear.
Russell withdrew his gaze from the carriage as it receded into the distance and turned to look at Charlotte.
"What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I said." Charlotte didn't elaborate. Instead, she asked him a question.
"Do you know what other people look like to me?"
Russell froze slightly. He looked at Charlotte—at those gray-blue eyes that seemed even colder under the moonlight.
He'd never considered that question, and he'd never imagined Charlotte would ask it.
"Maybe… a composite built out of all kinds of labels and keywords?" he offered cautiously.
"That's how I am when I'm working a case," Charlotte said. "Not how I am most of the time."
"Most of the time—when I can't be bothered to think—most people don't even have faces to me."
She spoke lightly, her gaze drifting toward the empty street ahead.
"They're like walking bundles of data. A string of easily predicted behavioral patterns—transparent, unremarkable, never surprising."
"Their joy, anger, grief, and delight all rest on the shallowest physiological and social needs. Dull. Repetitive."
"Sometimes I even feel they aren't alive—just moving, noisy background props in this city."
She paused, then continued.
"But a small number of people are exceptions."
"Like who?" Russell asked.
"Like Mycroft. He's very intelligent—I have to admit that," Charlotte said.
"But he's different from me. He likes to stand above the board, look down on the whole game, and enjoy the beauty of rules and order."
"He tries to fold every chaotic variable into his enormous—disgusting—system. I don't like that."
"So what do you like?" Russell asked, following her lead.
"I'm only interested in the piece on the board that's in the wrong place. The one that doesn't make sense."
Charlotte turned to look at Russell.
"For example—Mary Morstan."
"Her?" Russell echoed.
"She's smart. And she thinks the world is boring. In that, she and I are the same."
"So I think she's interesting."
"Then what about me?" Russell asked reflexively.
"In your eyes, what am I like?"
"You?"
Charlotte tilted her head slightly, as if appraising a curious item in a collection.
"You, Russell Watson… are interesting."
She took a step forward, narrowing the distance between them.
"But you aren't interesting in the same way Mary Morstan is."
"So far, the people I'm willing to acknowledge as geniuses—or even simply as truly intelligent—are very few. Unfortunately, you aren't on that list."
"In my grading, you're about the same as the mediocre and boring crowd."
"But you're not the same as them."
"Not the same how?" Russell wasn't angry at the assessment. He simply kept asking.
"You're the only one among that crowd who works hard to make himself look less mediocre and less dull," Charlotte said, a rare trace of amusement in her tone.
"To be frank, I don't dislike it. I even like it. It's one of the few redeeming qualities you have."
"I'll take that as praise," Russell said with a small smile. "Should I be proud?"
"Of course. Keep it up. Try harder." Charlotte nodded.
They looked at each other, then—without planning it—both laughed, their voices echoing down the empty street.
"Let me ask one more question," Russell said, still smiling. "We've covered me, Mycroft, and Mary—so what about Mrs. Hudson?"
"Mrs. Hudson?" Charlotte repeated. Then she drew a breath.
"She's a good person. That's all."
"I agree," Russell said, neither arguing nor embellishing.
Silence fell between them again—but this time it wasn't awkward. It carried a clarity and calm, like the air after rain.
The lights of 221B Baker Street looked especially warm in the night, like a lighthouse guiding two equally lonely souls back to harbor.
Mrs. Hudson was already asleep, leaving only a dim wall lamp glowing in the sitting room.
They didn't speak again—only shared a look at the stairwell, perfectly in sync.
"Good night, Charlotte."
"Good night, Watson."
Russell returned to his room and changed out of the suit that still carried the party's scent.
He didn't go to bed right away. Instead, he went to his desk.
From his pocket he produced the stack of letters and photographs—enough to set off a political storm—and, by moonlight, read through them again.
Then he took out a kraft-paper envelope he had prepared in advance, slipped everything inside, and left it unsealed.
One last job before sleep.
Time to deliver a little "benefit package" to his journalist friends at The Times.
Russell pushed open the window. Icy night air poured into the room.
"Cold…" he muttered. "Finish quickly, then back to sleep."
He said it aloud, and then his figure—like a drop of ink dissolving into darkness—vaulted soundlessly onto the rooftop opposite.
Baker Street lay asleep under his feet. Only a few gas lamps remained on duty, casting faint yellow halos.
The Times building stood on Fleet Street—the very heart of London's news industry.
Even in the dead of night, a few windows were still lit, like a tireless one-eyed giant watching every secret this city tried to keep.
Russell stood across from the building and looked up at the fortress that seemed, at first glance, unbreakable.
In truth, he had already been here several times.
Aside from the first time—when he took an unconventional route—on later visits he always used the staff entrance.
The staff entrance The Times had specially "opened" for Phantom Thief Moriarty.
After all, who would hate a thief who occasionally delivered performance metrics straight to your desk?
You could say that on Fleet Street, if any paper dared not to leave him a back door, then that paper should forget about ever winning a London headline.
To Scotland Yard, Moriarty was a thief—a burglar who made Lestrade grind his teeth in rage.
But to the Fleet Street newspapers…
He was the patron who fed them.
No—patron wasn't the word.
He was their real father.
In print, you can call me "phantom thief" and curse me as a criminal. I won't argue with you.
But off the page, what do you call me?
However, Russell had no intention of using the back door tonight.
To protect the secrecy of his identity, he had set up two separate submission methods.
Method One: Use the phantom thief identity, go through the staff entrance, drop off the material, and leave.
Simple. Efficient. Fast.
Even if someone spotted him, they would pretend they hadn't seen anything.
But the problem was—there wasn't much reward.
So when he needed money, or when he simply had time to spare, Russell used—
Method Two.
After all…
Who doesn't want to get some fries?
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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