Mary closed the poetry collection with a hint of irritation.
Then she glanced sideways at Russell beside her once more.
After a moment's hesitation, she gave his arm a light poke.
Russell slowly opened his eyes and turned his head to look at the girl beside him.
"What is it?" he asked quietly.
"Nothing." Mary shook her head. "Tired?"
"Not really," Russell said, yawning. "Just resting my eyes."
"Is that so." The girl nodded and looked away again.
"That article in the Phoenix... what do you think of it?" she suddenly asked.
"I haven't read it," Russell said.
"All I can say is, with that piece to your name, you could probably walk into Fleet Street and get hired on the spot."
At that, the girl couldn't help but laugh softly, then coughed lightly a couple of times.
"Ahem... the Professor doesn't seem to be here yet. Shall we talk for a bit?" she suggested.
"About what?" Russell didn't refuse — he had nothing better to do anyway.
"Hmm..." Mary thought for a moment before speaking. "How about we talk about you?"
"About me?" he couldn't help but ask. "What's there to talk about?"
"Well, just about what's in the papers," Mary said, chin propped on her hand, smiling sweetly.
"For instance, the paper says you and Charlotte are a well-matched pair, a golden duo, and even claims your relationship goes beyond ordinary partnership..."
She paused, the corner of her eye flicking to Russell's face, her tone carrying something that was half probing, half teasing.
"So, I'm curious — what exactly is the relationship between you and Charlotte?"
Russell froze for a moment at that.
He looked into Mary's deep blue eyes, filled with curiosity, and something else he couldn't quite make out.
"Just partners and neighbors," he answered easily. "We work together on cases, and otherwise we go about our own business.
She lives right across from me, and Mrs. Hudson asked me to look after her a bit in daily life. That's all.
You already know this — I've been asked this question to death, I'm sick of answering it."
"Is that all?" Mary tilted her head, the strand of silver hair swaying with the motion.
She paid no mind to his complaint and pressed on:
"Looking after her — what exactly does that involve?"
Her voice was soft, carrying a curiosity that seemed almost childlike and innocent, as if she genuinely just wanted to know the answer.
But in those eyes, something seemed to flicker faintly, an undercurrent stirring.
Russell didn't answer right away.
He glanced at Mary, at that exquisite face so close to his, full of curiosity, and suddenly felt this question wasn't as simple as he'd thought.
"Just... ordinary looking after," Russell said, choosing his words carefully.
"Like waking her up for breakfast in the morning, reminding her not to stay up too late at night, occasionally making coffee or tea, or tidying her room, that sort of thing."
"Tidying her room?" Mary's brow rose slightly. "You... tidy her room for her?"
"Er, not exactly tidy, it's just—" Russell suddenly realized he might have said too much, and hurried to backtrack.
"Her room's a bit of a mess, so I sometimes help pick things up, otherwise Mrs. Hudson nags about it.
And honestly... if her room isn't tidied up now and then, it's really not fit to live in — you'd understand if you ever saw it for yourself."
As he spoke, he seemed to fall into a rhythm, launching into an endless complaint about Charlotte's laziness and slovenliness.
He never noticed that the girl beside him was growing more and more subtly displeased.
"Oh—" The girl drew out the sound, her tone impossible to read — whether she believed him or not.
"And what about her?" she asked again. "Does she tidy your room too?"
"As if." Russell shook his head. "Do you really think Charlotte's diligent enough for that? It's a miracle she doesn't come sleep in my bed."
At that, the girl froze slightly.
"She sleeps in your bed?"
"I was joking, just a figure of speech," Russell said quickly.
But Mary's gaze had grown sharper.
Not a joke — she was certain of that.
Some jokes simply couldn't be invented without having lived through them first.
"So this is what you meant by 'that's all'?" she asked, her tone complicated.
"Making breakfast, waking her up, tidying her room, making tea, making coffee... that's hardly just 'that's all,' is it?"
Russell was momentarily at a loss for words.
"...Guess I'm used to it," he said instinctively.
"Used to it?" Mary tilted her head. "Used to looking after her?"
"Not exactly..." Russell thought about it. "It's just, we live close by, and she can't really take care of herself.
Mrs. Hudson's getting on in years, we can't have her worrying about everything.
Besides, Mr. Mycroft's done a lot for me too — helped broaden my horizons, gave me access to the royal circles and all that...
So in fairness, helping look after his sister seems like the least I can do."
"I see, so that's how it is..."
Mary rested her cheek on her hand, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on Russell.
"Mr. Mycroft..." she repeated the name softly.
"So you look after her because you feel you owe Mycroft a debt of gratitude?"
"Not entirely," Russell thought about it. "At first it was because of Mrs. Hudson's request. Later on it just... became habit."
At that, the light in Mary's eyes dimmed slightly.
So it was still just habit, then.
He could have simply nodded and admitted it.
That would have ended the topic, and she'd have gotten the answer she wanted.
So why did he have to go and say more than necessary?
Why did he have to set a fire in her heart, of all things?
"Habit, huh..." she said quietly. "Habit really is a terrifying thing.
Her gaze drifted away from Russell, settling on the blackboard at the front of the room.
"Getting used to having someone around, used to taking care of someone, used to knowing the moment you open your eyes each day who you'll see...
Used to it, until your mind starts treating it as something taken for granted, and then you can never quit it."
She said it softly, as if speaking to herself, or perhaps to the dense fellow beside her.
Russell paused, looking at the girl's calm profile.
"The way you're talking... it's like you've got some experience with this yourself."
At that, Mary turned her head, meeting his gaze, and smiled mysteriously.
"Who knows?" she said.
A delicate silence settled between them.
It was a while before Mary spoke again, breaking it.
"About what the paper said — Charlotte's opinion of you. What do you think of it?"
"Hmm?"
"That you're a 'necessary nuisance,'" Mary said.
"In Charlotte's eyes, to her, you're a necessary nuisance.
What do you make of that? Why do you think she'd describe you that way?"
"That... you'd have to ask Charlotte," Russell shrugged. "How would I know."
"I don't think asking Charlotte would get you an answer either," Mary said, then deliberately drew out her words: "So..."
"So?" Russell looked at her curiously.
"So, let's make an assumption," Mary said.
"Perhaps, in Charlotte's eyes, you really are a nuisance."
"That sounds pretty hurtful..."
"But at the same time, Charlotte can't do without you," Mary went on. "So she calls you a necessary nuisance."
As she said this, her tone carried something faint and unnameable.
"And then there's what the paper wrote about the two of you as a pair — what do you make of those words?"
She counted them off on her fingers one by one, her eyes lingering on Russell's face with each count.
"Well, papers..." Russell felt a bit uneasy under her gaze. "They always exaggerate a little, otherwise nobody reads them. Don't take it too seriously."
"Is that so?"
Mary blinked. "But it doesn't seem like you're trying very hard to deny any of it."
"Probably because..." Russell thought about it, "there's no real need to deny it.
I can't exactly have the reporter praising us one moment and me suddenly chiming in with 'actually, we're not nearly as in sync as you think' — that would just kill the mood."
"I see..." Mary nodded quietly, then turned her gaze back toward the front of the classroom, as if she'd lost interest in the conversation.
Russell watched her profile, sensing something wasn't quite right in the air.
"What's wrong?" he asked cautiously. "Upset?"
"No."
The girl shook her head gently.
"I just suddenly felt... a little envious."
"Envious?"
Russell raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah.
Mary turned to face him, smiling — the smile still warm, but as if a thin layer stood between them.
"Envious of how much you two have that's worth recording, worth being written down."
She said it, then turned her gaze back to the front of the room.
"By comparison, I don't have anything worth recording.
Every day of mine is basically the same, repetitive and dull."
She paused, her voice growing quieter.
That was why she felt envious.
That was why she felt this yearning.
That was why she wanted, so desperately, for that line to blur just a little more, and then a little more.
The bell rang, right on cue, forestalling whatever silence might have come next.
"Let's go." Mary stood, smiling at Russell.
Without giving him a chance to reply, the girl had already slipped past him and taken hold of his hand.
Openly, in full view of everyone, she pulled him up from his seat.
The corner of her mouth curved upward, into a shape that held a hint of possessiveness.
That curve hid a great deal.
Words left unsaid a moment ago, envy and jealousy buried in her heart.
And just a little — only a little — of a child's stubborn wish to leave some kind of mark.
Perhaps, in the eyes of all London, Russell Watson and Charlotte Holmes were bound together.
But here, at least here at Imperial College, she meant to change that.
She wanted people, when they thought of Russell Watson, to think first not of Charlotte Holmes.
But of her — Mary Morstan.
The girl's hand was soft, with a faint coolness to it.
Her slender fingers slipped between Russell's, gently, yet with a grip that would not be refused.
She moved slowly, as if deliberately, so that the classmates still lingering nearby could see more clearly.
Look — Charlotte Holmes's assistant is being led by the hand, right now, by me.
Mary's thumb brushed lightly over the back of Russell's hand, faint, but impossible to ignore.
Russell glanced down at the captured hand, then looked up at Mary.
The girl wasn't looking at him.
She kept her face slightly turned, her gaze fixed on the classroom door ahead.
He let himself be led by her, unhurried, through the crowd that hadn't fully dispersed yet.
"Sorry, coming through."
Mary even called out, as if afraid the moment wouldn't draw enough attention, pulling more eyes their way.
The classmates around them turned to look, their eyes sweeping back and forth between the two, carrying all sorts of meaning.
Curiosity, surprise, ambiguity, suspicion... and envy and jealousy too.
Stepping out of the classroom, the corridor held even more people, and the stir the two of them caused only grew louder.
"Look, it's them!"
"Are they a couple?"
"Isn't Russell Watson that Holmes woman's assistant? How could he—"
"That sinful man..."
The murmurs washed over them from every direction.
Mary paid it no mind at all — or perhaps she did mind, in her own way.
It wasn't the emotions in those gazes that concerned her.
What she cared about was simply the fact of being watched, in and of itself.
Look, then — look as clearly as you like.
Let this scene sear itself into everyone's memory, never to be forgotten.
For that, she deliberately slowed her steps, giving those curious eyes more time to see clearly.
She was going to make sure everyone knew Russell Watson belonged to no one.
That he might be drawn to Charlotte Holmes, become her assistant — fine, that was fine.
But that was only a genius's admiration for him, the mutual respect between two people of talent.
At the same time, though, he could also be drawn to Mary Morstan.
Sharing a headline with a genius was confined to the pages of a newspaper — but sharing this moment with her was real, tangible reality.
The paper was the paper; reality was reality.
The former was just idle chatter over tea, while the latter was something the students of Imperial College lived and breathed every day.
Russell walked behind her, led by the hand, feeling the soft, cool touch of her palm.
He felt a bit helpless about it, but couldn't quite pull away.
Because the girl's grip on his hand was firm, as if she were afraid he'd bolt the moment she let go, refusing to allow him to break free.
The two of them walked out of the lecture building this way, in full view of everyone, and made their way to the dining hall.
Even while buying sandwiches, Mary never once let go of his hand.
Not until they reached the familiar empty classroom, not until there were no more witnesses around them, not until her pounding heart could barely take it anymore —
only then did the girl finally let go.
Even so, her ears had by then turned as red as the evening glow on the horizon.
The moment the door closed, all the outside noise was shut away.
All that remained was the sound of the wind blowing in through the window, and the girl's uneven breathing.
Mary said nothing. She walked straight to the window and stood with her back to Russell.
The cold wind struck her face, cooling some of the heat.
"What's with the sudden change?" Russell walked over to stand beside her.
"Are you embarrassed?" Mary turned her head, looking at him teasingly.
"I couldn't say who's embarrassed," Russell said helplessly.
At that, the girl turned her face away again, looking out at the view beyond the window.
"I just think," Mary said, her voice still calm, "that some things need to be seen.
She said it, then turned to face Russell again.
"Don't you think so?"
Russell looked at her, at the stubborn light still lingering unspent in her eyes, and for a moment didn't know what to say.
"Are you angry?" he asked carefully.
"No," Mary shook her head. "Why would I be angry?"
"Then... jealous?"
"And why would I be jealous?" The corner of Mary's mouth lifted slightly, but her eyes stayed calm.
"You and Charlotte are partners, companions. You work cases together, live through stories worth being written down together.
Your relationship is printed in the papers, talked about by all of London.
Everyone who thinks of you thinks of her too, and everyone who thinks of her thinks of you.
And me — I'm your friend, your deskmate. What grounds do I have to be jealous?"
She said it softly.
"Every time I see those stories, those descriptions of the two of you, I find myself wondering — if it were me instead, what would that be like?
If I were the one standing beside you, the one the reporters wrote into their papers, how would that feel?"
She looked at him, something flickering in those deep blue eyes.
"But I can't imagine it, because I have no grounds to imagine it at all.
I don't like that."
Her voice trembled faintly, though she tried hard to keep it steady.
"Russell."
She said his name.
"Please..."
she said, her tone almost pleading.
Even if we're not lovers.
Even if there's nothing confirmed between us.
That would be fine.
"But at least — at least let me know I have the right to be jealous.
Let me know I'm allowed to feel upset when you get close to other girls.
Let me know I'm allowed to feel uncomfortable when you take care of someone else.
Let me know—
—that I'm special to you.
"Give me a position I can stand in, from which to be jealous over you."
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