By the time Russell left the Fairchild estate, the night had grown very late.
Standing on a rooftop across from Eaton Square, he glanced back at the brightly lit mansion, then looked away.
A night breeze swept past, parting the clouds, and moonlight spilled faintly over where he stood.
Russell glanced up at the waning moon overhead, then checked his pocket watch.
Two in the morning.
It really was time to sleep.
He took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders, and turned to leave.
But just then, a familiar figure caught the corner of his eye, not far off.
The man stood on the other side of the square, beneath a street lamp on the corner, wearing a grey overcoat.
His back was to the lamplight, his face hidden in shadow, features indistinct.
But he stood perfectly straight, hands crossed atop his cane, as though waiting for someone.
Russell paused mid-motion. He studied the figure for a moment, then sighed.
"Out for a stroll at this hour," he murmured to himself. "Not worried about catching a chill?"
He put away his grappling-hook gun, turned, and walked toward him.
A black silhouette slipped between rooftops, like a bird skimming the night sky.
After a few leaps, he landed in the shadows behind the man.
"Good evening, Mr. Mycroft."
He didn't bother lowering his voice.
At the sound, Mycroft turned his head. There was no surprise on his face.
"Good evening, Mr. Moriarty."
he said, his grey-blue eyes—identical to Charlotte's—settling on the white mask.
The two of them stood a few paces apart, regarding each other.
"Still up at this hour," Russell said first, his tone light. "Bad for the liver."
"Same to you," Mycroft said. "And you, paying a visit to someone else's house at this hour—bad for one's reputation."
He paused, his tone turning teasing.
"I always took you for a civilized man. Didn't expect you to resort to rough methods."
"When the law fails to uphold justice, private retribution becomes both legitimate and reasonable."
"But it isn't noble," Mycroft said.
Russell only shrugged at that.
"Why bother talking about nobility with a thief?"
Mycroft didn't respond.
He simply looked at Russell, his eyes glinting with an unreadable light in the lamplight's shadow.
"Did Lestrade sleep well tonight?" he asked suddenly.
Russell blinked, then laughed.
"You even know about that?"
"Care to guess why I'm standing here?" Mycroft said with a smile.
He paused, then continued:
"You want me to handle this matter."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement.
"Would you refuse?" Russell asked with a smile.
"As you say, who'd turn down more credit to their name?" Mycroft replied.
"A duke who's abused his authority and raised his son so poorly, and a foreman trying to falsify workplace injury records while dodging taxes... couldn't be more fitting."
Hearing that, Russell paused.
"You ran into her too?"
"The maid, you mean? Call it coincidence—I happened to run into her on my way here."
Mycroft said, his tone even.
"Large trash is trash, small trash is trash too. No trouble at all to deal with both."
"You really are a busy man," Russell remarked.
"All thanks to a certain someone," Mycroft said flatly. "Simply doing my duty for the post I hold."
He drew his gaze away from the brightly lit manor and settled it back on Russell.
"So, had your fill of mischief?" he asked.
"It'll do," Russell said with a shrug. "Not too tiring. Just right for a bit of exercise before bed."
"If it's just right, then perhaps you can go home and sleep now, Mr. Moriarty?"
Mycroft said, his tone still gentle but carrying an unmistakable edge of command.
"Of course. That was the plan," Russell said, nodding.
"My carriage is just around the corner. Would you like a ride?"
"No need. Your carriage is hardly faster than I am."
Russell waved a hand, then drew out his grappling-hook gun again, aiming it skyward.
"Well then, good night, Mr. Mycroft."
Mycroft said nothing, only nodded slightly, watching the black figure vanish into the night sky, leaving behind nothing but a folded letter.
The grappling-hook gun traced a graceful arc, and after a few leaps in the moonlight, Russell's silhouette melted into the shadows of a distant rooftop.
The street corner fell silent.
Mycroft stood where he was, gazing into the darkness. After a long while, he let out a quiet sigh and bent down to pick up the evidence damning enough to ruin Douglas completely.
"What a troublesome man."
By the time Russell returned to Baker Street, it was already three in the morning.
He landed on the roof of 221B, crouched down, and listened carefully outside Charlotte's window.
Her breathing was still slow and even—deeply asleep.
Only then did he let out a breath of relief, slipping soundlessly back into his own room.
There was no sign anyone had been in the room.
Standing by the window, he let his thoughts shift slightly, and the black Phantom Thief outfit melted off him like liquid ink, flowing down his body into the shadow at his feet.
In the blink of an eye, he was an ordinary university student again.
Russell rolled his shoulders, walked to the bed, and lay down.
A faint scent still lingered on the pillow—coffee, black tea, paper, and a trace of something that belonged to her alone.
Russell closed his eyes.
Then, a dreamless night.
The next day.
Russell woke slowly from sleep.
By the time he'd gotten himself ready and come downstairs to make breakfast, Charlotte had once again materialized in the armchair.
"Up late again?" Russell asked idly.
"No," Charlotte said, even adding with mock seriousness:
"This time I really did go to bed early and get up early."
"So that means last time you didn't."
Charlotte shot him a glance. Russell, looking unconcerned, whistled his way into the kitchen and got busy.
The kitchen was quiet, save for the sizzle of eggs frying in the pan.
He added the bacon to the pan too; the fat melted in the heat, sending up a tempting aroma.
Everything was as usual.
As if she had never gone into his room. As if he didn't know he was already under suspicion.
Breakfast was served, and the two ate in quiet, after which Russell got up, left Baker Street, and headed for Imperial College.
Just like every weekday morning before.
Imperial College, lecture hall.
When Russell walked into the classroom, the stares that landed on him seemed, if anything, to have multiplied since yesterday.
There was nothing to be done about that.
Even the most explosive news eventually cools off.
But not when it keeps coming every single day.
And damn it, the protagonist was the same person every time.
Credit where it's due—the Phoenix crew worked fast.
Yesterday's interview, printed and out today.
Russell had a feeling that if things kept going this way, he didn't even want to imagine what the Phoenix crew would write next.
He'd even heard that quite a few of the newspapers on Fleet Street were staffed by his own seniors.
Of course, those stares didn't linger on him for too long.
Imperial College students were, for the most part, quite practical-minded.
Rather than dwelling on other people's gossip, they cared more about their final exam grades.
Seriously, if someone didn't study hard, their only fallback was inheriting the Holmes family or Morstan family fortune.
What could they themselves do if they didn't study hard?
Go work for some company under the Morstan family?
And when they ran into Russell then, they'd have to bow and scrape and call him "Lord Russell."
A sad, thick wall had already risen between them.
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