221B Baker Street.
When Russell pushed open the door, Mrs. Hudson was busy in the kitchen.
Hearing the noise, she poked her head out.
"Russell, you're back later than usual today," she said.
"Mm. The tram was delayed." Russell lied without so much as a flicker.
"But isn't dinner running a bit late on your end too?"
"I meant to start earlier, but I saw Charlotte hadn't woken up yet, so I thought I'd put it off a while longer," Mrs. Hudson said.
"Good timing, now that you're here. Go and wake her, it's about time we ate."
"Right."
Russell nodded, then got up and headed for the stairs.
He walked the familiar route to Charlotte's door, pushed it open, crossed the sitting room, and came to the bedroom.
"Great detective, time to get up for dinner—"
Russell's voice cut off.
The bedroom was empty.
Where was she?
Russell stood in the doorway of Charlotte's bedroom, blank for a few seconds.
The room was very quiet, the curtains drawn, the light dim, the bed unoccupied.
Hadn't Mrs. Hudson said she was asleep?
Russell's brows drew together slightly.
He turned and walked out of Charlotte's room, ready to go down and ask Mrs. Hudson what was going on.
Then his gaze landed on his own bedroom door.
Out of nowhere, a thought surfaced that struck even him as faintly absurd.
"She wouldn't... surely?"
He muttered it to himself in a doubtful tone, then reached out, took hold of the handle, and turned it gently.
The door swung open, and Russell stepped into his own quarters.
The sitting room was neat and spotless, with no sign that anyone had been there.
Without thinking, he softened his footsteps and moved toward the bedroom.
The bedroom door was ajar, open only a crack, and through that crack came a faint glow — the last of the sunset.
Russell stood at the door, looking at that sliver of light in silence.
He had definitely shut the bedroom door before he left.
Which meant the present situation could only prove one thing.
He drew a deep breath, reached out, and eased the door open.
Sure enough, there was someone lying in his bed.
More precisely, her posture wasn't so much lying as curled up.
Her sleeping habits had always been terrible.
Charlotte was bundled up entirely in his blankets, with only half a face and a tangle of curls showing.
Her eyes were closed, her breathing light, calm and slow.
One look was enough to tell that this was the rarest sort of sleep, the kind you can't chase down on purpose.
Russell stood in the doorway, watching, and for a moment had no idea how to react.
Mrs. Hudson had been right: Charlotte had indeed slept all day.
What she hadn't mentioned was that Charlotte had slept all day in his room.
Russell almost called out to wake her.
But the words stopped at his lips, and he swallowed them back down.
Charlotte was sleeping soundly.
More soundly than at any other time.
The permanent knot between her brows had smoothed out, the lips she always kept pressed together had parted a little, and there was even a trace of a smile on her face, as though she were having a lovely dream.
Russell leaned against the doorframe and quietly watched that sleeping face.
He watched for a long time. Or perhaps not so long.
Either way, he let out a soft sigh, turned, and walked out of the bedroom.
Russell went into the sitting room and sat down on the sofa.
Two seconds later he stood up again, went out to the balcony, and brought in the overcoat that had finished drying.
Then he sat back down on the sofa.
Two seconds after that he stood up again, went to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, took one sip, and set it down.
Then he sat back down on the sofa.
He didn't know what he was doing. He also didn't know what, exactly, he was supposed to be doing.
Not until the smell of cooking drifted up from downstairs did a faint rustling finally come from the bedroom.
Russell glanced over.
The bedroom door opened.
Charlotte stood in the doorway, hair even messier than before, eyes still half-lidded, wearing the dazed look of someone freshly woken.
When she saw Russell sitting in the sitting room, she froze.
Russell froze too.
The two of them looked at each other for two full seconds.
Then Charlotte looked down at what she was wearing — his sweater.
Then she looked up at her surroundings — his room.
Then she looked down at the bed she had just been lying in — his bed.
In the space of an instant, the girl's face ran through an extraordinarily rich sequence of expressions.
A flush like evening cloud burned its way up from her neck to the tips of her ears.
"..."
Charlotte started to say something, wanting to explain, and then had no idea how to explain it.
She could hardly say: I came into your room looking for evidence, then noticed your bed was comfortable, so I simply went to sleep in it.
"That is..."
While Charlotte was still brainstorming, Russell's voice drifted over from the side.
"Sleep well?" he asked. No blame, no interrogation, just a plain inquiry into the quality of her rest.
It came across rather like a hotel receptionist conducting a customer satisfaction survey.
Charlotte's face went redder still.
"All right," she said, her voice tiny, thin as a mosquito's whine.
"Good, then."
Russell nodded, glanced out the door, and stood up.
"Come on, it's time for dinner."
"Mm..."
Charlotte followed behind Russell and walked out of the room without a word.
She kept her head down, both hands worrying at the hem of that grey sweater, her cheeks so hot they felt as if they had caught fire.
This was quite possibly the most awkward, most mortifying experience of Charlotte Holmes's life to date.
If word got out that she had sneaked into someone else's bed and slept like the dead in it, her career as a detective would be finished, surely.
And raising her voice about it didn't seem likely to cover anything up either.
Charlotte buried her head lower still.
She didn't even dare lift her eyes to look at Russell's back, so she kept them down, fixed on his heels, and went down the stairs one step at a time.
In this fashion, one ahead and one behind, they arrived at the ground-floor dining room.
Mrs. Hudson had already set dinner on the table, and when she saw the two of them come down, a gentle smile spread across her face.
"Awake, are you, Charlotte?" she said with a laugh, her tone carrying that particular concern of an elder, as though she had no idea what had just happened upstairs. "Did you sleep well? You were out cold today."
"It's all—"
Charlotte's voice was still very low. She pulled out a chair and sat down at the table, and never once raised her head.
Russell sat down across from her.
Dinner was roast chicken and mashed potatoes, giving off an inviting smell, but Charlotte had no appetite at all.
She only prodded at the food on her plate with her fork, over and over, looking entirely elsewhere.
Now and then the girl would flick her eyes up, take a quick glance at Russell sitting opposite, and just as quickly look away again.
Russell was his usual self, eating at an unhurried pace, occasionally lifting his head to say a word or two to Mrs. Hudson, occasionally glancing in Charlotte's direction.
Their glances always missed each other by exactly the right margin; through the whole meal, their eyes never once met.
Charlotte was seized by a feeling she couldn't name.
She didn't know whether to be grateful that he hadn't pressed her about it, or bothered that he hadn't.
Mrs. Hudson seemed to sense the delicacy of the atmosphere. She looked first at Charlotte, silent with her head bowed, then at Russell, calm as ever beside her, and a knowing smile flickered at the back of her eyes.
The old lady asked nothing further. She simply poured them each a bowl of hot soup, then found some excuse and left the dining room, leaving the space to the two young people.
After Mrs. Hudson left, the atmosphere in the dining room seemed to ease a little — and then again, seemed not to.
Without her there, the two of them no longer had to keep up appearances; but without her there, neither of them would open their mouth first to break the silence.
In the end it was Russell who drew a deep breath and, in the most natural tone he could manage, broke the awkwardness.
"No appetite?" he asked.
At that, Charlotte's fork paused mid-prod in the potatoes.
"It's all right," she answered glumly.
"That's the third time you've said 'all right,' Charlotte."
Russell sighed, then pushed the bowl of soup, still steaming, over toward her.
"Have some soup."
"...Mm." Charlotte lifted the bowl and sipped at it in small mouthfuls.
The warm, thick soup slid down her throat, bringing a little satisfaction to a stomach that had gone nearly all day without food.
"That is..."
She set the bowl down, gathered her courage, raised her head, and looked at Russell.
"How was school today? Anything interesting happen?"
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