By the time Russell left Douglas's mansion, it was already very late.
He stood on the roof across from Eaton Square, glanced back at the brightly lit mansion, then withdrew his gaze.
Night wind blew, parting the clouds and mist, casting a sliver of moonlight on the place where he stood.
Russell looked up at the broken moon above his head, then glanced at his pocket watch.
2 a.m.
Now it really is time to sleep.
He took a deep breath, stretched his shoulders, and prepared to depart.
But at that moment, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a familiar figure not far away.
He stood under a streetlamp at the corner on the opposite side of the square, wearing a gray coat.
The man had his back to the streetlamp, his face hidden in shadow, so his features couldn't be seen.
But he stood with his back straight, hands clasped over the head of his cane, as though waiting for someone.
Russell paused for a moment. He stared at the figure for a while and sighed.
"Still out for a walk at this hour," he muttered to himself. "Aren't you afraid of catching a cold?"
He put away his hook-lock pistol, turned around, and walked in that direction.
The black shadow swiftly moved between the roofs, like a bird gliding across the night sky.
After several ups and downs, he found himself in the man's shadow.
"Good evening, Mr. Mycroft."
He didn't lower his voice.
Hearing this, Mycroft turned his face, but showed no surprise or astonishment.
"Good evening, Mr. Moriarty."
He said.
Those gray-blue eyes were the same as Charlotte's, falling on the white mask.
The two stared at each other from a distance of several steps.
"You're still not asleep at this hour," Russell spoke first, his voice relaxed. "It's not good for the liver."
"Likewise."
Mycroft said, "Coming to someone else's house at this hour isn't good for your reputation."
He paused in a slightly teasing tone.
"I thought you were a civilized person, but I didn't expect you to get rough."
"When the law cannot uphold justice, private retaliation is both justified and reasonable."
"But that isn't noble."
Mycroft said.
In response, Russell shrugged.
"Why talk about a thief and so-called nobles?"
Mycroft didn't reply.
He simply looked at Russell. In the shadow of the streetlamp, his eyes flickered with an elusive light.
"Did Lestrade sleep well tonight?"
He suddenly asked.
Russell was momentarily stunned, then smiled.
"You know everything?"
"Why do you think I'm standing here?"
Mycroft laughed.
He paused for a moment before continuing.
"You want to leave it to me."
It wasn't a question, but a statement.
"Are you refusing?"
Russell asked with a smile.
"As you said, no one would complain about having too many achievements, right?"
Mycroft answered.
"Abusing power and failing to properly raise his children—the Duke. And the supervisor who falsified work accident records and tried to evade taxes...
It couldn't be more perfect."
Hearing this, Russell was momentarily stunned.
"You met her again?"
"That maid?"
"You could call it a coincidence——I happened to run into her on the way here."
Mycroft said in a calm tone.
"Big trash is trash, small trash is trash. It's just a matter of convenience."
"Then you must be busy with countless errands every day."
Russell sighed.
"It's all thanks to someone," Mycroft said calmly. "Thanks to his position and his rule."
He withdrew his gaze from the brightly lit mansion and returned it to Russell.
"Well then, shall we stop causing a commotion?"
He asked.
"Not bad."
Russell shrugged. "It's not that tiring. It's just right as exercise before bed."
"Since it's just right, can I get some more sleep, Mr. Moriarty?"
Mycroft said in a gentle tone, yet carrying an unshakable sense of command.
"Of course. That's exactly what I was going to say."
Russell nodded.
"There's a carriage nearby. Shall I send you back?"
"The rabbit is finished. Your carriage probably isn't faster than mine."
Russell waved his hand and once again drew his hook-lock pistol, aiming it at the sky.
"Well then, good night, Mr. Mycroft."
Mycroft said nothing and simply gave a light nod, watching as the black shadow disappeared into the night sky. All that remained was the stolen letter.
The hook-lock spear drew an elegant arc. Russell's figure rose and fell several times under the moonlight before melting into the shadows of a distant roof.
The street corner fell silent.
Mycroft stood there, gazing into the darkness. After a long time, he finally let out a quiet sigh and picked up the scandal that might damage Douglas's reputation.
"What a troublesome fellow."
…
By the time Russell returned to Baker Street, it was already 3 a.m.
He landed on the roof of 221B, crouched beside Charlotte's window, and listened carefully.
Her breathing was still steady and long. She had fallen into a deep sleep.
Only then did he finally let out a sigh of relief and quietly return to his own room.
There were no signs that anyone had been in the room.
He stood by the window, thought for a moment, and the black phantom thief suit slid off like melted ink, flowing down into the shadow at his feet.
In an instant, he had returned to being that ordinary university student.
Russell stretched his shoulders and lay down beside the bed.
A faint fragrance still lingered on the pillow——coffee, tea, paper, and a trace of her scent.
Russell closed his eyes.
And a dreamless night arrived.
…
The next day.
Russell slowly woke from sleep.
When he finished getting ready and went downstairs to make breakfast, Charlotte appeared once again, sitting in that sofa chair.
"Staying up late again?"
Russell asked casually.
"No."
Charlotte said in a serious tone.
"This time I really went to bed early and woke up early.
"Which means last time was different."
"…"
Charlotte glanced at him. Russell casually whistled and began heading toward the kitchen.
The kitchen was very quiet, with only the sound of eggs sizzling in the pan.
He also added bacon to the pan. The fat melted at high temperature, releasing an enticing aroma.
Everything was as usual.
As though she had never entered his room, and as though he had never noticed he was being suspected.
Breakfast was prepared and the two enjoyed it quietly. Then Russell got up, left Baker Street, and headed to Imperial College London.
Just like any other weekday morning.
Imperial College London, lecture hall.
When Russell entered the classroom, he felt that the gazes directed at him were even stronger than yesterday.
This is something we have no choice but to do.
No matter how shocking the news is, there must always be a past to the heat.
But every day, one can't help but obtain it.
Moreover, the protagonist is the same person.
To be fair, the people from Phoenix are quite capable.
Yesterday's interview was printed today.
Russell felt that if this momentum continued, the people behind Phoenix wouldn't even know what they could write.
He had even heard that there were quite a few seniors in the Fleet Street newspaper offices.
Of course, those gazes didn't linger on him for long.
For the most part, Imperial College students were still very realistic.
Rather than chasing rumors about others, they cared more about their own final exam results.
Are you kidding? If others don't study hard, they'll have no choice but to inherit the Holmes or Morstan family fortune.
If they don't study hard, there's nothing they can do.
Work at the Morstan family company?
If they meet Russell, they'll probably have to politely call him "Master Watson."
There is already a sadly thick wall between us.