"Where should I start?" Russell asked.
"Start from when you saw the gunman," Mycroft said.
"Oh... all right." Russell nodded, cleared his throat, and began to recall.
"Uh... things were pretty chaotic at the time," he said.
"Pilsen and I were fighting in the corridor. He'd completely lost his head by then, didn't care about anything else.
So it took me a good deal of effort to get him under control, enough to put him into asphyxiation shock.
Then, just as I was looking for something to restrain him with, the gunshot went off."
Russell said.
"My attention was entirely on Pilsen at that point, so I didn't notice the shooter's position right away.
By the time Pilsen was dead and I'd come back to my senses, I noticed the man was right behind the door facing me."
"Did you get a clear look at him?" Mycroft asked.
"No," Russell shook his head. "It was too dark to make out any features — just a rough outline."
"Describe it."
"He was dressed all in black. Judging by his height, he was about my size, maybe a bit leaner — he went out through the window, and fast."
Russell thought for a moment. "After he killed Pilsen, he didn't say a word. Just turned and left."
"His marksmanship?" Mycroft pressed on.
"Very precise. Only fired once, the whole time," Russell said. "Hit Pilsen dead between the eyes."
"The straight-line distance was roughly seven meters. The light was very dim — without an additional light source, hitting a precise target beyond five meters would be extremely difficult."
Charlotte added from beside him.
"So that man must be a professional killer." Mycroft nodded. "And with excellent night vision, too... that kind of person isn't common in London."
"Do you have a lead?" Charlotte's brow lifted slightly.
"Someone with that kind of marksmanship either has a military background, or was trained for it from childhood."
Mycroft said.
"The latter is usually managed and trained under some organization. They tend to be obedient, loyal, unwavering — they'd never expose their employer's information.
Retired soldiers, agents, spies... any of them are possible, and their moral bottom line tends to be more... flexible.
For an anonymous client, without worrying about the cost, the former would undoubtedly be the better choice.
But there's another possibility to consider — whether this so-called organization would even accept a commission from an anonymous party."
Mycroft held his teacup, stirring it gently.
"And based on my experience, the answer is — no."
"So?" Charlotte narrowed her eyes.
"So the man he hired was most likely one of those killers with a far more flexible moral bottom line — which is your opportunity."
Mycroft smiled.
"As for the circumstances of the incident, there are two possibilities. First, he entered the estate after the two of you.
At the time you were tangling with Pilsen in the cellar, so naturally no one noticed his arrival.
The second is that he was already in position, waiting for you and Pilsen to wear each other down, and then coming out to reap the reward.
But regardless of which possibility it is, both stem from the same starting point."
"He knew beforehand that Pilsen would be hiding at the Hannigan estate."
Charlotte picked up where Mycroft left off, her brow furrowing even deeper.
"Are you trying to say—"
"I haven't reached a conclusion yet, Charlotte," Mycroft cut her off.
"I'm just laying out the possibilities."
He continued, then asked: "How did you figure out Pilsen would be hiding at the Hannigan estate?"
"Deduction," Charlotte said, meeting Mycroft's gaze.
"Based on what?"
"Based on Pilsen's circumstances and Emily Collins's psychology."
Charlotte spoke slowly, though her pace quickened slightly — a habit peculiar to her when impatient.
"He'd already run out of options and needed a safe place to hide, but it couldn't be too filthy or run-down, or Emily Collins wouldn't accept it.
Pilsen needed Emily as his eyes and hands, so he had to consider her needs, while also accounting for the practical situation.
Taking everything together, the Hannigan estate turned out to be the best choice — no cost, comfortable surroundings, and nobody would go near a murder house."
"Correct," Mycroft said noncommittally. "So here's the question — the Professor, how did he figure it out?"
The room fell silent for a moment.
Charlotte said nothing, staring at the dark red liquid in her cup.
Russell looked between the two of them, utterly confused, and ventured tentatively:
"Maybe it's just a coincidence," Russell said, breaking the silence. "The Professor's people might have been tracking down Pilsen too, just a step ahead of us."
"Maybe," Mycroft nodded, not disputing it. "But the word 'coincidence' has never been particularly welcome with me."
"Is that because the Professor's thinking is... on the same wavelength as Charlotte's?"
"That's only part of it, Russell." Mycroft smiled at him.
"The important part isn't there."
"Then where is it?"
"The premise for two minds being on the same wavelength — that's what matters."
Mycroft gazed at Charlotte, smiling faintly.
Russell wanted to ask more, but just then, Mrs. Hudson's voice drifted up from downstairs.
"Russell, come down and give me a hand."
Hearing that, all three of them glanced toward the door.
"Coming!"
Russell called back, then stood up and walked toward the door.
"You two carry on. I'll go down and help Mrs. Hudson."
Russell pushed the door open, and his footsteps faded down the hallway, eventually vanishing at the staircase.
The door closed softly behind him.
The sitting room fell quiet.
Only the flames in the hearth flickered, giving off a faint crackling sound.
The light bathed the room in warm, soft glow, casting two silhouettes on the wall, one on each side, as if separated by an invisible boundary.
Mycroft raised his teacup and took a slow, unhurried sip before finally looking toward the door.
"He really is an outstanding young man, isn't he?"
At that, Charlotte's brow knitted. "What are you scheming now?"
"Don't tell me you haven't noticed it yourself, Charlotte." Mycroft looked at her.
"Do you honestly think this assistant of yours is just an ordinary person?"
"A university student with no professional training whatsoever, holding his own against a veteran soldier like Pilsen, and even turning the tables to subdue him into asphyxiation shock — do you really think that's normal?"
"He has talent," Charlotte said.
"Talent?" Mycroft laughed.
"Then what about his reaction speed? The instant Pilsen fired, he was able to anticipate it and dodge sideways to avoid the bullet — that's not something talent can explain."
"Coincidence."
"I just said, coincidence has never been welcome with me."
Charlotte fell silent for a moment.
"You have no proof," she said. "You can't prove he's connected to Moriarty."
At that, Mycroft began to laugh.
"But when did I ever say I suspected he was connected to Moriarty?"
"—!"
Charlotte's head snapped up, meeting Mycroft's eyes, which brimmed with amusement.
"I only suspected he might be some kind of secret agent," Mycroft said with a smile.
"I never suspected he had any connection to that Phantom Thief.
Though what you just said has given me quite an interesting angle to consider."
He paused.
"Looking at it from that angle, it seems like a lot of questions could suddenly be explained, don't you think, Charlotte?"
The flames in the hearth danced, casting a warm orange glow over the two of them.
Charlotte sat on the sofa, gripping her teacup tightly, her gaze fixed on Mycroft's smiling eyes.
Mycroft set his teacup down slowly, deliberately, producing a soft clink — like some kind of verdict being pronounced.
"No answer?"
He looked at Charlotte, his tone even.
"I rather expected you to argue back more forcefully, Charlotte."
Charlotte remained silent, until after a moment she finally asked:
"Since when?"
"You're asking me?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow, then took on a reminiscent expression.
"If I had to say, it was probably after Buckingham Palace.
Moriarty knocked him out, then went to all the trouble of moving him to the garden pavilion at Buckingham Palace before running back — don't you find that a bit absurd?"
He said, "Of course, at the time I only had an initial suspicion about his connection to Moriarty. I hadn't yet linked the two of them together.
Not until I heard the full account of the whole affair from you and from him."
Charlotte's fingers tightened around her teacup for an instant.
"So?" she said, keeping her voice steady. "What conclusion did you reach?"
"Conclusion?" Mycroft laughed. "I reached a whole set of rather interesting conclusions. For instance, your reaction—"
At that, Charlotte's brow furrowed slightly.
"What do you mean?"
"What I mean is," Mycroft said, pouring himself a fresh cup of hot tea before looking at Charlotte.
"From the moment we started this conversation, you've been defending him."
"I have not."
"You have." Mycroft set down his teacup, the crisp clink ringing sharply through the quiet sitting room.
"I said his skills weren't normal — you said he has talent.
I said his reaction speed wasn't normal — you called it coincidence.
I hadn't even started suspecting his connection to Moriarty, and you'd already blocked off that path for him."
He paused, the smile at the corner of his mouth deepening.
"Do you know, Charlotte — when a detective starts making excuses for a suspect, there are usually only two explanations.
Charlotte said nothing in response.
"The first is that she's genuinely found evidence proving that suspect is innocent." Mycroft held up two fingers. "The second is that she doesn't want to prove that suspect guilty."
The flames in the hearth flickered, casting dancing shadows on the floor between them.
Charlotte sat on the sofa, unmoving.
"Which one are you, Charlotte?"
The young woman pressed her lips tight, her fingertips around the teacup starting to whiten.
"I'll say it again — there's no proof."
"Of course," Mycroft nodded. "There truly is no proof."
"And since there's no proof, that means nothing can be proven."
"That's right. Innocent until proven guilty."
"Then you—"
"Charlotte."
Mycroft cut her off, his voice low, each word deliberate.
"We're not talking about Russell right now."
He said.
"We're talking about you."
Charlotte's whole body went rigid.
"Don't you think that with him, you've already crossed the line beyond partners — even beyond friends?"
Mycroft leaned forward slightly, his voice low.
"You wear his clothes. You defend him. You turned against me when I tried to bring him over to my side. And in that interview, you used all those ambiguous words to describe him."
With every sentence he spoke, Charlotte's face grew a shade paler.
"You instinctively shield him, find every possible excuse for him, and even refuse to consider any possibility that might be unfavorable to him."
Mycroft leaned back against his chair, lifted his teacup, and blew gently at the swirling steam.
"You're not the same as you used to be, Charlotte."
Charlotte didn't answer.
Her mind had gone completely blank; the only thing she could feel was her heart pounding as if about to spiral out of control.
"You know, your current situation is like someone standing at the edge of a cliff.
Terrified of falling, and yet unable to resist looking down."
Mycroft's voice was soft, yet it struck Charlotte's heart like a heavy hammer.
"Charlotte, you know better than anyone else that the scales of logic have already begun to tip.
You've just been using the counterweight of emotion, trying to maintain that laughable balance."
Mycroft took a sip of tea.
"The moment you made the first excuse for him, you'd already lost to the very thing you once looked down on most."
Charlotte looked at him, her lips moving, but no words came out.
Seeing this, Mycroft sighed softly.
"If you're worried I'm going to do something to him, there's no need."
He said.
At that, Charlotte blinked, startled. "What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I said," Mycroft replied.
"He's a rare talent. Even setting aside this business with Moriarty, he has enormous potential.
If he wanted to, he could become anyone he set his mind to — a general, a politician, even..."
He didn't finish the thought, changing tack instead.
"But what I value most about him has nothing to do with any of that, Charlotte."
Mycroft looked at his sister, his tone softening.
"He made you into a human being."
He said.
"That's what I truly admire about him."
The flames in the hearth flickered, casting shifting shadows across Charlotte's face.
Her pupils contracted slightly, and for one moment, her mind seemed to stop working entirely.
"A human being...?"
She repeated his words unconsciously, her voice barely audible.
"That's right." Mycroft set down his teacup.
"You weren't like this before. Do you need me to remind you?"
He said, a note of mockery creeping into his tone.
"You'd go days and nights without sleep over a single case, leaving aside the meals the servants carefully prepared.
You'd hang up the phone on people the instant you thought their questions were too stupid — mine included.
You treated everyone as pieces in your deduction game — Lestrade included."
"That was work," Charlotte reflexively countered.
"No, that wasn't work. That was your entire existence," Mycroft shook his head.
"Back then, aside from those tangled, complicated cases, you couldn't see anything else.
Your world consisted only of clues, motives, murderers, and that deductive method you took such pride in.
You needed no friends, no emotions, not even sleep.
All you needed was an endless supply of puzzles to feed that insatiable brain of yours."
His voice stayed level, as though he were simply stating an objective fact.
"But now, you've changed."
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