"You'd think about his feelings, worry about whether he's hurt, even feel put out if he got too close to some other woman—"
"I would not!"
Charlotte cut Mycroft off almost the instant he finished, her voice rising higher than before, edged with impatience.
"Oh, really?" Mycroft arched an eyebrow, his tone as unhurried as ever.
"Then let's try a hypothetical. Suppose the person sitting beside you right now wasn't Russell, but Lestrade—someone who fits the definition of an 'assistant' far better."
"If you heard Miles asking him about his relationships with other women during an interview, how would you react?"
Charlotte said nothing.
"Would you care about Lestrade's love life? Would you feel a flicker of emotion if he got close to some other woman? Would one offhand remark from him ruin your whole day?"
Mycroft's questions came like a string of scalpels, peeling back, layer by layer, the armor Charlotte had built from logic and reason—and from something buried deeper.
"Obviously, if it were Lestrade, you wouldn't react to anything he did."
He answered the question for her.
"Because you simply don't care. Lestrade, to you... I don't like saying this, and it's a bit unfair to him, but to you, he's someone you can summon or dismiss at will."
"Russell is different. He weighs far more heavily on your heart than Lestrade ever could."
At that, Charlotte lowered her eyes, her gaze falling to the hand wrapped around her teacup.
The liquid inside rippled steadily—her hand was trembling.
"No... the two aren't comparable," Charlotte said. "You're twisting the argument."
"You see," Mycroft's voice carried a thread of amusement.
"You're starting to lie, Charlotte. Not just to me—to yourself."
"Have you forgotten the rule between us siblings? Whatever you've done, once it's exposed, you have to admit it."
"No lying."
"I didn't—" Charlotte tried to say more, groping for some way to salvage herself.
"Interesting, isn't it?" Mycroft cut her off.
"The Charlotte Holmes who once held logic as sacred, who believed everything must rest on verifiable evidence."
"Now she's resorting to denial and evasion—the least logical tools there are."
"You're not being yourself, Charlotte."
Charlotte's head snapped up, a flame kindling in those gray-blue eyes.
"What exactly are you trying to say, Mycroft?"
"Haven't I made myself clear enough?" Mycroft spread his hands, his face a picture of innocence.
"I was only complimenting your assistant. And besides, Charlotte, I haven't said anything at all."
"You're the one who keeps steering the conversation toward a place you clearly want to avoid, yet can't help probing anyway."
"...!" Charlotte was struck speechless.
The girl's face flushed and paled by turns, and finally all her feeling collapsed into one long, faintly self-deprecating sigh.
"You win, Mycroft." she said listlessly, sinking into the soft sofa.
"I never wanted to compete with you over something like this, Charlotte."
Mycroft shook his head, his tone carrying more sincerity than before.
"I only wanted you to see things clearly—to see yourself clearly—so you don't get hurt somewhere down the line."
Charlotte turned her face away, as if she no longer wanted to hear Mycroft's nonsense.
Seeing this, Mycroft smiled.
"Since you don't want to hear it, then, about what he did with that Morstan young lady after school—I won't mention it."
The moment the words landed, Charlotte's body went stiff.
The movement was brief, almost imperceptible, but it didn't escape Mycroft's eyes.
He saw her shoulders tense slightly, saw the face turned away nearly swing back—before she forced herself to stop.
Watching this, the smile at the corner of Mycroft's mouth deepened.
He didn't rush to speak.
He simply lifted his teacup and took an unhurried sip, as if savoring the quiet moment.
Or rather, savoring this rare glimpse of his sister so flustered.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth.
The seconds ticked by.
In the end, Charlotte couldn't hold out.
"...What exactly are you trying to say?"
Her voice came low, laced with a deliberate calm—so deliberate it was obviously fake.
"Nothing," Mycroft shrugged.
"I only said that I wouldn't mention what he did with that Morstan young lady after school."
Charlotte whipped her head around to meet his gaze.
Then she saw the mischief dancing in his eyes.
She knew she'd taken the bait.
But there was no taking it back now.
"Tell me."
She practically ground the words out through clenched teeth.
At that, Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"
Charlotte didn't answer, only glared at him with fierce intensity.
Seeing this, Mycroft set down his teacup and sighed.
"All right, all right," he said. "Since you want to know so badly..."
He paused, his gaze settling on Charlotte's face as though admiring some fascinating scenery.
"First, let me ask you a question—you smelled white tea on him, didn't you?"
Charlotte nodded. "That's the perfume Mary always wears."
"Good. Then our leading lady is confirmed," Mycroft nodded.
"First, we can be certain they spent no short amount of time together today."
"That kind of scent doesn't cling from a simple brush past someone, or from walking side by side and chatting."
"And Russell said he walked home. You know how windy London's been lately."
"If he'd really just walked, the scent would have faded long before he got back."
"So, all things considered, they were together for at least... an hour, would you say? And I don't mean sitting at neighboring desks."
He said, then let his gaze sweep across Charlotte's face.
Charlotte's expression didn't change, but something new seemed to surface in her eyes.
"Then, there are the wrinkles in his clothes," Mycroft continued.
"When he came back, there were some unnatural creases on his clothes—at the shoulders, the back, and around the collar."
He gestured to indicate the spots.
"That kind of wrinkling doesn't come from sitting or walking—it's the sort of mark left by direct physical contact."
"You know what I mean—an embrace."
Charlotte's pupils contracted slightly.
"And probably more than once," Mycroft went on.
"An embrace leaves wrinkles, but they gradually smooth out over time."
"The number of creases on him was fairly high, and their placement was scattered, so I'd estimate at least twice, maybe more."
He paused, the smile at his lips deepening.
"If it was only twice, then the second time must have lasted quite a while."
Charlotte still said nothing.
"Oh, and there's also his hair," Mycroft added, as though something had just occurred to him.
"His hair?"
"Yes, his hair," Mycroft nodded. "When he came back, it looked somewhat mussed."
"Not the kind of mess the wind makes—more like... someone had stroked it."
He extended a hand and mimed the motion of stroking.
"From the crown down to the back of his head, smoothed by someone's hand, like this."
"The motion was light, slow—like a comforting gesture."
Charlotte's eyes narrowed.
"How do you know it was someone else touching him?"
"From the direction and the pressure," Mycroft said.
"If he'd mussed it up himself, the pattern would look different."
"But this pattern was clearly made by someone else."
He paused, then added:
"And that someone should be a bit shorter than him."
"Judging by the angle of the touch, she'd need to stand on her toes, or he'd need to lower his head."
"Combined with the embrace conclusion from earlier—it seems our Mr. Phantom Thief has a soft side after all."
Charlotte pressed her lips tightly together.
Listening to Mycroft's description, an image began forming in her mind despite herself.
Then, the girl's fingers curled unconsciously, clenching tight.
"Since embracing has already happened, we might as well take a bolder guess."
Mycroft's voice rose again.
"After all, that's only what we could detect—the things that left traces."
"There could have been other interactions too—holding hands, even a ki—"
"Mycroft."
Charlotte cut off whatever he was about to say next.
"Hm?"
"...That's enough."
At that, Mycroft laughed.
"Fine," he said. "Enough it is."
Silence spread through the room.
Until Russell's voice drifted up from downstairs.
"Dinner's ready, Charlotte, and Mr. Mycroft too."
"Coming," Mycroft called back, then rose first and headed for the door.
Just as he was about to head downstairs, he suddenly stopped and turned back.
"Charlotte."
Charlotte didn't look up.
"Hm?"
"As a grown man and your older brother, for the sake of your feelings, I feel I ought to say one thing."
he said softly.
"Feelings aren't like deduction. They don't follow logic, and they have no fixed formula."
"You can't expect them to work like a math problem, where finding the right method guarantees the answer you want."
"If that were true, whatever answer you found, anyone else could find too."
He said, his gaze falling on Charlotte's face, which looked ready to speak but didn't.
"You have to try. You have to venture out. You have to make mistakes, even get hurt."
"That's what it truly is."
Mycroft said, then turned and left with one last line:
"The squeaky wheel gets the grease."
With that final piece of advice, Mycroft didn't linger any longer, and headed down the stairs.
His footsteps faded away, leaving Charlotte alone in the sitting room.
She sat on the sofa, still turning Mycroft's words over in her mind.
The squeaky wheel gets the grease.
She didn't like that comparison.
Because Charlotte Holmes wasn't a squeaky wheel.
All her life, whatever she wanted, she had gotten through her own abilities.
Getting a positive result through crying felt, to her, a bit like begging for scraps by wagging her tail.
She didn't like that.
But this time, of all times, she wasn't facing a case that could be solved with logic and deduction.
She was facing something she was utterly helpless against, yet desperately wanted.
Russell Watson.
No matter how hard she tried, Charlotte couldn't picture herself imitating Mary, approaching Russell the way she did.
Just entertaining the thought made her skin crawl, as if ants were marching all over her.
And yet she had to admit—that woman really did have a talent for this sort of thing.
She couldn't compete with her on that front.
"Tch." Charlotte's brow furrowed.
"Charlotte!"
Russell's voice rang up from downstairs again. "Come down and eat!"
"Coming!"
Charlotte called back, then pushed all her scattered emotions back down.
She stood, smoothed out her clothes, and headed down the stairs.
By then, Russell and Mycroft were already seated at the dining table.
"Sit down, sit down, everyone."
Mrs. Hudson emerged from the kitchen carrying a large pot of steaming stew, a satisfied smile on her face.
"I made lamb stew tonight. Mr. Mycroft doesn't visit often, so he really ought to taste my cooking properly."
"Of course," Mycroft said with a smile, taking up the thread. "Just from the smell alone, I've been dying to dig in."
The stew was set in the center of the table, steaming, giving off a rich aroma of meat and spices.
Potatoes, carrots, onions, and generous chunks of lamb had all been simmered tender in the dark gravy—the sight alone was enough to make anyone's mouth water.
Charlotte took her seat, and Mrs. Hudson promptly ladled her a large bowl of the lamb stew.
"Here, Charlotte, eat plenty. Look how thin you are—you clearly haven't been eating properly."
"I..." Charlotte quietly took the bowl and murmured a soft protest: "I have been."
Mycroft chuckled softly beside her, and was rewarded with a sharp kick from Charlotte.
"Ssh..." Mycroft's mouth twitched.
Russell, watching this, raised an eyebrow and remarked half-teasingly:
"First time?"
"I'm suddenly having some doubts about how the two of you interact."
Mycroft couldn't help but say.
"Reciprocity," Charlotte answered flatly, then glanced at Russell.
"Hm? Something on my face?" Russell asked curiously.
"Nothing," Charlotte said, looking away.
"All right, everyone eat up. The lamb's best while it's hot," Mrs. Hudson urged.
So everyone tacitly changed the subject.
The atmosphere at the table was livelier than usual, mostly thanks to Mycroft's presence.
He always managed to find just the right topic, keeping what might otherwise have been a quiet dinner light and pleasant.
He chatted with Mrs. Hudson about recent prices, with Russell about anecdotes from Imperial College, and every so often, quite casually, steered the conversation toward Charlotte.
Then, right at the edge of Charlotte's breaking point, he would skillfully shift the subject away again.
Charlotte spent most of the meal eating in silence.
The lamb stew was tender, nearly melting in her mouth, the rich gravy coating every piece of potato and carrot—it tasted wonderful.
But she ate somewhat absentmindedly.
Every now and then her gaze drifted, unbidden, to the person seated across from her.
Russell was chatting with Mycroft, a relaxed smile on his face.
The lamplight caught a soft sheen in his hair, and the line of his profile stood out sharply against the flickering light.
Charlotte watched him, and Mycroft's earlier, maddening analysis surfaced again in her mind, unbidden.
Holding hands, embracing, stroking...
Charlotte's fingers tightened slightly around her fork and knife.
"Charlotte?" Mrs. Hudson's voice sounded beside her.
"Your stew's getting cold."
"Oh." Charlotte snapped back to herself, lowered her head, speared a piece of lamb with her fork, put it in her mouth, and swallowed it down.
"Speaking of which," Mycroft set down his knife and fork, dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin, and turned his gaze to Russell.
"About Moriarty—"
At that, Russell and Charlotte both looked at him at the same time, though their reactions differed.
Charlotte frowned; Russell forced himself to look merely curious.
"What about Moriarty?" Russell asked first. "Hasn't he been pretty quiet lately?"
"Mm, only seemingly quiet," Mycroft said with a smile, then turned his gaze to Charlotte.
"Actually, last night, he made a rare appearance after a long absence."
At those words, Charlotte froze for a moment, then made a deliberate effort to keep her neck from turning toward Russell—though her eyes still drifted that way regardless.
"Last night?"
Russell took a sip of soup, his expression betraying no guilt whatsoever, looking instead like a curious gossip-hound.
"What did he do?"
"First he went to Kennington and pestered Inspector Lestrade, who was still asleep."
Mycroft smiled. "Then, he got Lestrade to dig up a file—an already-closed case from three years ago."
He recounted, in rough outline, what Russell had done the night before, his gaze occasionally sliding between Russell and Charlotte, watching for their reactions.
"In the end, he gave the second son of the the Douglas family a solid beating, then dumped the mess on me to clean up."
Hearing this, Charlotte's brow furrowed, her expression complicated.
Mrs. Hudson, on the other hand, spoke up on her own, her tone rather approving.
"That fellow finally did something good."
At that, Russell smiled but said nothing, quietly eating the stew in his bowl.
Charlotte couldn't help but glance at him, then pulled her gaze back.
"Why would he do that?" she asked.
"Hm... good question," Mycroft nodded. "According to what he told me at the time—too much pressure."
"Pressure doesn't justify beating people up," Russell said flatly.
"He also said that when the law can't uphold justice, private retribution is legitimate and reasonable."
Mycroft said, then turned to look at Russell.
"Russell, what do you think?"
At that, Russell looked up.
"Me... me?"
"Of course. I'd like to hear your thoughts," Mycroft nodded.
"Do you agree with that statement?"
Charlotte's gaze followed suit, turning toward him as well.
"I..." Russell thought for a moment, then said, "I'd say I'm neutral on it."
"Neutral?"
"Not opposed, but not in favor either," he said.
"The law does have its limits. It can only punish evil that's already happened—it's much harder for it to prevent evil from happening in the first place."
"And the fairness of the law is often compromised by outside factors—money, power, that sort of thing."
He said it very objectively, as though engaged in an academic discussion.
"So, in theory, Moriarty's actions are necessary."
"At the very least, his existence guarantees that when public authority fails, those who've been wronged still have some chance of righting the wrong done to them."
"Hm... you say neutral, but from your answer, it sounds like you actually lean toward supporting him," Mycroft said.
Russell gave no clear response either way.
"More or less. Who knows, maybe someday I'll run into something like that myself, and then I'd certainly hope for a Moriarty to help me out too."
The words landed, and silence fell over the table.
"Ahem..."
Mrs. Hudson coughed twice, then shot Russell a reproachful look.
"Here we are having such a lovely family dinner, and you keep bringing up such serious things."
"It's not like I brought it up myself..." Russell muttered.
At that, Mycroft chuckled, then obligingly took the blame himself.
"Sorry, that was me unconsciously slipping into work mode."
He paused, then continued:
"Mrs. Hudson's right—a family dinner like this isn't the place for such serious topics."
"So, let's change the subject, shall we?"
He said, his gaze fixed on Russell the whole time.
Russell suddenly had a bad feeling.
Mr. Russell—
incoming—
"Do you have any thoughts on your future partner?"
—it's aimed at me!
Russell's hand paused on his soup spoon.
The instant the words landed, Russell felt himself pinned by two very different gazes at once.
One came from across the table, carrying a look of mischievous delight at the prospect of a good show.
The other came from beside him—sharp, probing, as if it could see straight through anything.
Even Mrs. Hudson's face lit up with interest.
She paused mid-motion, the spoonful of mashed potato halfway to her mouth, her usually kind eyes blinking, clearly settling in to listen closely.
Charlotte said nothing, just quietly stabbed at the carrots on her plate with her fork—but her slightly perked-up ears gave away that she wasn't as indifferent as she pretended.
At this moment, every gaze at the table had converged on him.
Okay then, since everyone's looking at me, I guess I'll just announce something.
I'm Moriarty!
That absurd thought lasted less than a second in Russell's mind.
He figured that even if he confessed right now, it wouldn't do him any good.
What is this, some kind of inquisition?
"Why... why ask that all of a sudden?" Russell forced out a strained smile, trying to bluff his way through.
"Nothing in particular, just plain curiosity," Mycroft said, lifting his teacup and blowing on the steam.
"You're quite the celebrity in London now, Russell, and you're not exactly young anymore."
"I'm only twenty—"
"Plenty of nobles are already betrothed by sixteen or seventeen. Some even earlier."
"I'm not a noble."
"Doesn't matter. It's something you should consider eventually," Mycroft said. "Might as well think about it now."
Must I die today?
Russell fell silent for a few seconds, his mind racing as though he were genuinely mulling it over.
But no matter how he turned it over, all his criteria kept circling back to just two figures.
Mary. Charlotte.
There was no way around it.
Since childhood, the only women he'd had any real closeness with were exactly those two.
Surely Director Martha and Mrs. Hudson didn't count.
After turning it over several times, Russell finally sighed.
"No particular thoughts on it," he said.
"What do you mean, no particular thoughts?" Mycroft pressed.
"Just... haven't thought about it much yet," Russell shrugged.
"It feels a bit far off for me, honestly."
"Right now I'm just a student. I have classes, reports, research projects."
"Outside of school, I also help Charlotte with her cases, look after her day-to-day needs."
"My life's already packed full with all that. I don't really have spare time to think about anything else."
As he spoke, Charlotte's fork, mid-stab at a carrot, paused ever so slightly.
"Is that so?" Mycroft arched an eyebrow, his tone giving nothing away.
"But from what I understand, you and that Morstan young lady seem quite close."
"We're just..." Russell started to say friends, but then remembered that he and Mary had, in some sense, already parted ways.
"Just?"
"Just classmates," Russell said, then quickly added before Mycroft could respond:
"Standards like that can change, you know. They're not set in stone."
"Maybe I like a certain type now, but a year or two from now, I might not anymore. Who's to say, right?"
"That does sound reasonable," Mycroft said noncommittally.
"Well then, let's set the future aside and talk about the present, shall we?"
Ugh... this is never going to end, is it?
Russell grumbled inwardly.
"Right now... it's mostly about compatibility, I suppose," he said.
"If our values align and being together feels comfortable, that's enough. Everything else is secondary."
A deliberately ambiguous answer.
It was also meant as a hint to Mycroft—that pressing further would be rude.
At that, Mycroft smiled.
"By 'comfortable,' do you mean the kind of relationship where every day is the same, predictable from start to finish?" he asked.
"For instance, between lovers—the first thing they do every morning is kiss, and they embrace before leaving and upon returning home."
"In other words, you always know what's going to happen each day, and none of it ever bores you—is that what you mean?"
"That's... probably not it?" Russell thought about it.
"There should be the occasional surprise too."
"Is that so... I see," Mycroft nodded.
"You're a sharp man, Russell, and not one content to settle for the status quo—you're not afraid to chase excitement and challenge."
"You'd surely make quite a mark in politics, or anywhere else for that matter."
"Uh, thanks?" Russell tilted his head, sensing that this wasn't necessarily a compliment.
Mycroft didn't press further, only gave Russell one meaningful look before turning his gaze to Charlotte.
Charlotte kept her eyes lowered, absorbed in a battle with the carrot on her plate, seemingly deaf to the conversation that had just taken place.
That is, if one ignored the faint upward curl of her lips, and the slight redness at the tips of her ears.
After dinner, Mrs. Hudson took it upon herself to handle the dishes, leaving Mycroft and the others to sit and chat over tea.
In the sitting room, Russell boiled the water, warmed the pot, and brewed the tea with practiced ease—the whole sequence of motions flowing like something rehearsed countless times.
Mycroft sat on the sofa, watching Russell's practiced movements, a meaningful smile curling at the corner of his mouth.
Charlotte sat in the armchair on the other side, her eyes fixed unblinking on Russell.
She looked as though she were merely lost in thought, but in truth, her gaze never once lost focus.
Soon, the tea was ready.
Russell handed a steaming cup of black tea to Mycroft.
"I wasn't sure what flavor you'd prefer, so I didn't add anything."
Russell said, then turned and poured a cup for himself and for Charlotte as well.
"Plain is fine," Mycroft said, then took a sip.
"A bit different from what I usually have at the club, but it has its own charm."
"Glad you like it," Russell smiled.
The three of them sat there like that, chatting about inconsequential things, with Mycroft doing most of the talking, Russell chiming in agreeably, and Charlotte listening.
From start to finish, he never brought up Moriarty or the Professor again, instead talking about old stories from the Holmes family, and some of Charlotte's embarrassing childhood moments.
Though Charlotte occasionally flared up during the conversation, she forced herself to hold back whenever she caught sight of the smile on Russell's face, though the look she shot Mycroft grew darker each time.
Overall, the mood remained pleasant.
Until Mycroft glanced at his pocket watch and stood up.
"It's getting late. I should head back," he said.
"Won't you stay the night?" Russell offered, mostly out of politeness.
"No," Mycroft shook his head. "I still have some matters to attend to."
"Well then, Charlotte, Mrs. Hudson," he inclined his head slightly, "I'll take my leave."
Charlotte nodded, not rising.
Just as Mycroft was about to turn and go, he suddenly stopped and looked at Russell.
"Russell," he said.
"Would you mind seeing me out?"
Russell blinked, caught off guard.
It was only a few steps from the sitting room to the door—did he really need an escort?
And besides, wasn't it usually the host who saw off the guest?
But he quickly realized Mycroft must have something to say to him.
"Of course," Russell nodded, standing and throwing on his coat.
Charlotte glanced up at Mycroft, then at Russell, her brow furrowing slightly—but in the end she said nothing.
She watched the two of them leave the sitting room, cross to the entryway, and step out together.
The cold winter night air hit them at once. The street was nearly deserted, only the streetlamps casting their dim amber glow into the dark.
Mycroft walked ahead, unhurried.
Russell followed at his side, half a step behind.
The two kept the same pace, walking a stretch of road in silence.
Then Mycroft finally broke the quiet.
"Russell."
"Hm?"
"What do you think of Charlotte?"
At that, Russell's steps faltered.
"Think of her how?"
"Exactly what it sounds like," Mycroft said. "It's just the two of us here—no need to keep playing dumb."
Russell didn't answer right away.
He just kept walking, though his pace slowed.
"Which aspect are you asking about?" he asked.
"Any aspect," Mycroft said. "I want to hear what you honestly think."
Russell fell silent for a few seconds.
"I don't know, Mr. Mycroft," he said. "I honestly don't know. I'm not lying to you."
"Then let me ask a different question," Mycroft said, seeming unsurprised by that answer.
"You and that Morstan young lady are quite close, aren't you?"
"Mm... more or less," Russell nodded.
"More or less..." Mycroft savored the phrase.
"Holding hands, embracing, even kissing... I'm curious, what exactly is missing that makes it only 'more or less'?"
Russell stumbled, then whipped his head around to look at Mycroft.
"You know about that too?!"
Mycroft only smiled, saying nothing.
"Fine, I admit it..." Russell sighed, sounding a bit uncomfortable.
"Mary... she's the one who crossed that line."
"So you two are lovers, then?"
"No. If we were, I'd have said so at the table," Russell said.
At that, Mycroft showed his first look of genuine surprise all day.
"That, I have to admit, impresses me," he said.
"To think you got that Morstan young lady to compromise to that degree."
"Don't make it sound like I'm some heartbreaker toying with a girl's affections," Russell rolled his eyes.
"Anyway, right now our relationship is roughly... more than friends, less than lovers."
"And Charlotte?" Mycroft asked. "Where does your relationship with her stand?"
"She..."
"Never mind, that might be too complicated for you to answer," Mycroft cut him off.
"Let's do this instead—I'll give you a hypothetical. What happened between you and Mary Morstan—if it were Charlotte instead, would you have refused?"
"Uh... I can't even picture it," Russell said. "Charlotte making that kind of expression, saying those kinds of things."
"Russell—"
"Fine, fine," Russell raised his hands. "I wouldn't refuse."
"So you wouldn't refuse," Mycroft said with a knowing smile.
"What would you do if I told you Charlotte's been following us this whole time?"
Russell spun around at once.
There was no one behind him.
"Mr. Mycroft, my heart can't take this kind of shock."
He turned back, shooting Mycroft a look of complaint.
"My apologies," Mycroft said, smiling without a trace of remorse.
"One last question, Russell."
"Exactly how many 'last questions' do you have?" Russell couldn't help but grumble.
"Forgive me, this really is the last one, I promise."
Mycroft said, his tone carrying a rare note of sincerity.
"Go ahead, then," Russell sighed.
"If—and I say if—"
Mycroft's smile faded, his expression turning serious.
"If you had to choose between Charlotte and Mary, only one—who would you pick?"
At that, Russell froze in place.
"Your questions just keep getting trickier and trickier," he said with a wry laugh.
"I'm just curious," Mycroft said. "You don't have to answer."
Russell fell silent for a moment, gazing out at the distant night, tinted amber by the gaslights.
A night wind blew in from the direction of the River Thames, carrying a damp chill, ruffling Russell's hair.
Charlotte, Mary—the two names alternated through his mind, accompanied by countless images.
Mornings on Baker Street, afternoons at Imperial College, those gray-blue eyes, those sky-blue eyes.
Who to choose?
He'd never actually considered the question before.
Because deep in his subconscious, both of them were irreplaceable.
Losing either one seemed unthinkable.
Mycroft simply watched him, unhurried, waiting quietly.
"Mr. Mycroft," Russell said suddenly, "which do you think matters more—the sun, or the moon?"
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, apparently not expecting this kind of answer.
"That depends on who you ask," Mycroft said.
"To a traveler by day, it's the sun."
"To a wanderer by night, it's the moon."
"Exactly," Russell nodded. "So for me, this question has no answer."
"No answer..." Mycroft repeated the phrase, his tone giving nothing away.
"It seems you really are in a bit of trouble, Russell."
He paused, then reached out and patted Russell's shoulder.
"But it's fine. You've got the rest of your life to think about it."
He said, then withdrew his hand. "And you don't have to tell me the answer either."
Mycroft's voice softened. "I'll be looking forward to the day you finally make your choice."
He turned, his back to Russell, and walked toward the black carriage that had been waiting at the street corner for some time.
"Well then, good luck."
"You should save that blessing for your sister."
"She doesn't need my blessing."
He shook his head.
"She has you, Russell."
Mycroft's voice drifted back from ahead.
"By the way, the old the Douglas family matter is going to be reopened. Those forced letters of forgiveness will be voided, since they were signed under duress."
"And as for Agnes's situation, I've already had people take care of it."
"Next time you pull something like that, at least give me a heads-up beforehand."
"Understood, Mr. Mycroft—wait, what?"
Russell stood rooted to the spot, watching Mycroft's retreating back.
Mycroft stopped, turned back to look at him, a mischievous smile spreading across his face.
"What... what are you talking about?" Russell asked.
"I'm not like Charlotte," Mycroft said.
"There's something I never told you—Charlotte is actually the least clever one in our family."
"So much so that before I met other people my age, I genuinely wondered whether my little sister had some kind of intellectual impairment."
"..." Russell said nothing.
"Don't worry, I'm not going to do anything to you," Mycroft laughed.
"If anything, knowing that Moriarty is you actually puts my mind at ease."
He turned back once more, patting Russell's shoulder again.
"All right, I really can't waste any more time."
He said, then turned to go.
"I'll leave Charlotte in your hands, Russell."
"Is that supposed to be a threat?" Russell couldn't help but ask.
"A threat? No, of course not," Mycroft shook his head gently.
"It's simply a request from an older brother, that's all."
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