Staring at the hand Mycroft had extended, both Charlotte and Russell froze for a beat.
What was this?
Recruitment?
A "come to the right side and skip ten years of grinding" offer?
Honestly… it didn't sound terrible.
But before Russell could even open his mouth, Charlotte cut his fantasy short.
"Hey, Mycroft."
The young woman narrowed her eyes, hostility plain as day. She jabbed a finger toward the doorway.
"Out."
Mycroft's smile didn't change at all. He didn't even look at his sister—his gaze remained fixed on Russell, deep eyes carrying a hint of amusement and quiet certainty.
"Well then, Mr. Watson? Your talents shouldn't be wasted at Imperial College London."
"This is the first time I've heard someone describe studying at Imperial as 'wasting your talent,'" Russell said, lips twitching.
"In any case… thank you for the compliment, Mr. Mycroft, but for now I… don't really want to become a civil servant."
"I'm not very good at dealing with people. To be honest, I'm kind of… isolated in my class."
He shrugged and politely declined.
"I see. What a pity." Mycroft withdrew his hand, a trace of disappointment passing through his eyes.
Then he reached into the inside pocket of his suit, produced an exquisitely made business card, and slipped it smoothly into Russell's hand.
"But my offer stands indefinitely, Mr. Watson. The British Empire needs people like you."
With that, he didn't linger. He walked straight out of the room, his upright silhouette disappearing around the bend of the stairs.
Just as when he arrived, he made no unnecessary ripples—yet somehow left behind an invisible undertow.
Russell lowered his gaze to the card. It held only a phone number and a gold-stamped British government crest—minimal, and heavy with implication.
He stared at it, suddenly unsure what he was even supposed to do with something like this.
"Stop gawking."
Charlotte's slightly irritated voice snapped him back.
"That thing will turn you into a boring, bloated bureaucrat in a gray suit. Your brain will end up fused to an office chair the same way your backside will."
Russell looked up in time to see Charlotte stand, pluck the card from his hand, and toss it into the fireplace.
The flames swallowed the bank-card-sized paper almost instantly, reducing it to ash.
"So you were saving me just now?" Russell teased.
"Then I should really thank you, Miss Holmes. You made me miss an opportunity with stable pensions and statutory holidays."
"You should be grateful." Charlotte stopped, turned, and glared at him.
"He would destroy the only interesting thing about you."
"Your uncertainty."
"And the moment you become boring, I'll throw you out the window like trash."
"That's harsh," Russell muttered under his breath.
"You can repay me in a more meaningful way." Charlotte stepped right up to him.
She was shorter than Russell, yet still managed to look down at him like he was the one standing below.
"For example?" Russell arched a brow.
"Starting tomorrow, you handle my breakfast and my newspaper," she said as if it were the most natural arrangement in the world.
"I refuse," Russell replied just as crisply.
"Not everyone can skip classes like you and still graduate with a degree."
"A piece of paper," Charlotte scoffed. "I don't understand why you care about that sort of thing."
"If you really want to rely on an Imperial College diploma to find a job, you should've accepted Mycroft's offer on the spot."
"Well, I paid the tuition," Russell spread his hands. "I can't exactly graduate with nothing to show for it."
"Even going to a movie, you at least get the ticket stub."
Charlotte rolled her eyes.
"If you're that bored, go out and find me an interesting case. I'm dying of boredom."
"Where am I supposed to find that kind of thing for you?" Russell shot back.
"You're the one who told Lestrade not to publicize your name when he takes interviews."
"In the whole of London, I'd bet fewer than ten ordinary people even know the genius detective Charlotte Holmes exists."
"Don't give me that. I'm not listening." Charlotte waved him off.
"Bottom line: I'm bored. Extremely bored."
"And you—as my neighbor and assistant—have the obligation to fix that."
"I'll say it again: I'm not your assistant," Russell corrected.
"You live next door. You appear in my room at random times. You provide key case information. You serve as my 'common sense' reference sample."
"Functionally, you're my assistant, Watson. It's just a title—don't be so precious. Being overly pedantic doesn't make you likable."
Charlotte, as ever, did as she pleased. She carried her empty coffee cup to the table and refilled it.
"So how am I supposed to look?" Russell challenged.
"You want me to run an advertisement in the paper?" He paused, then smirked. "Oh right—I forgot. The Times probably won't even have space for ads for the next three days. Maybe the next week."
"You can ask around your university. See if anyone's got a dead person at home, or some problem too stupid for their brains to process."
"You want me to get isolated even harder?" Russell groaned.
"Please. Like you actually care about your relationships with those people." Charlotte tilted her head and shrugged.
"Mary Morstan isn't going to think worse of you because of that."
"Why are you bringing Mary into this?" Russell asked.
"Because she's the only person at Imperial who actively talks to you," Charlotte said matter-of-factly.
This time it was Russell rolling his eyes.
"Fine, let's not talk about that." He sighed. "Let's talk practicalities."
"Hypothetically—purely hypothetically—if a case really did land in front of you, would you take it?"
"Depends," Charlotte answered instantly. "If it's too stupid, it goes straight to Scotland Yard. My brain isn't for those."
"Exactly." Russell pursed his lips.
"And even if there's a case you find interesting—something you'd actually bother thinking about—there's still one final issue."
"The most important one."
"Who runs the errands?"
Russell spread his hands, mercilessly pinpointing the core problem.
"Say I get lucky and bump into someone about to be murdered. Or I find a treasure map in the library."
"Then what? Crime scene inspection. Interviews with neighbors. Dealing with Scotland Yard."
"Who does all of that?"
"It can't be me, right?"
"Why not?" Charlotte countered, as if Russell had asked something as foolish as why humans breathe.
"I'm the brain, Watson. I think, I infer, I build the entire logical palace of the case."
"And you are my eyes and my legs. You collect the bricks I can't be bothered to look at—so I can build the wall."
"That's the most efficient, most perfect division of labor."
"That's the most efficient, most perfect exploitation," Russell corrected flatly.
"I'm a university student. I have classes, exams, and a degree to graduate with. I'm not your free labor on permanent standby."
"But you've already proven through your actions that you have no interest in those so-called courses."
Charlotte walked to the window and looked down at the bustling crowds on Baker Street. Her voice was calm, but it carried a quiet force.
"Your brain doesn't crave that stale, textbook knowledge that's been validated a thousand times over."
"You're like me, Watson. You also think this world is boring."
"So you need me."
"And I need you."
Russell fell silent for a moment, unable to deny it.
This woman, in certain respects, saw through him more clearly than he saw himself.
But he wasn't going to concede out loud.
"Fine. Even if you're right." He let out a breath—his last concession, and his last struggle for dignity.
"Even if I'm willing to be your legs—sacrificing my precious sleep to run all over London—before any of that, let's go back to the original question."
"The case."
"An interesting case—one worthy of your noble brain—where is it?"
Russell paced two steps around the room.
"You rejected Mycroft. He's the single biggest data source for crime intelligence in all of London."
"And you look down on Lestrade's petty thefts as domestic trivia."
"So what exactly do you want?"
He asked it outright.
"You can't seriously expect us to just stand here until someone comes to the door and says they have a problem that needs solving."
The moment Russell finished that sentence—
"Knock. Knock. Knock."
A clear, slightly hurried rapping sounded at the door, unhurriedly precise.
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