The instant her brain reached that conclusion, Charlotte couldn't help but find it a little absurd.
After all these years, she'd finally found a rival worth the name — and it turned out the contest wasn't in deduction at all, but in feelings.
If her younger self could see this, she'd probably laugh herself into a fit of anger.
"Oh, right, Charlotte." Russell spoke up suddenly, pulling her wandering thoughts back to the present.
"Hm?" Charlotte set down her teacup and looked at him. "What is it?"
"Do you have anything planned for the weekend?" Russell asked.
"The weekend?" Charlotte raised an eyebrow, running through her schedule out of habit, then shook her head.
"Nothing I absolutely have to do. Unless Vanessa calls, or Lestrade tracks down that killer."
She paused, then seemed to realize something, and looked over at Russell.
"Off to Phedon Tea Room with Mary Morstan again this weekend?"
"More or less." Russell nodded, not mentioning that he'd actually be going to Mary's house.
If he said that out loud, he was afraid tomorrow's headline in The Times would read:
[MAJOR CHEMICAL ACCIDENT AT 221B BAKER STREET — HOLMES'S ASSISTANT TRAGICALLY KILLED]
Some things were best avoided when possible.
Hearing his answer, Charlotte's face showed little expression — no frown, no displeasure, not even a carefully composed calm.
After what had happened yesterday, the relationship between him and Mary had changed quite visibly.
But between him and Charlotte... Russell could still clearly feel that unmistakable line drawn between them, though it only ran one way.
It was as if the two of them stood on either side of a door — a door that couldn't be opened from Russell's side, only from Charlotte's.
And Charlotte simply stood in front of that door. Sometimes she'd step closer, turn the handle gently, or knock — but she was never willing to actually push it open. Not until yesterday.
She'd pushed it open with her own hand, but she hadn't stepped over the threshold. The door had only opened a crack, and she still stood at the doorway, seeming to hesitate over something.
It felt a bit like a neighbor next door who occasionally knocks to ask if she can borrow some soy sauce because hers has run out.
In that moment, there'd be a bit of simple back-and-forth between you — and then, once she'd borrowed the soy sauce and returned it, everything would settle right back to where it started.
As far as Russell could tell, that was more or less the relationship he and Charlotte currently had.
A very delicate thing, nothing like what he had with Mary.
"That's good," Charlotte said flatly, her voice giving nothing away.
She picked the evening paper back up, eyes settling on the page, seeming to lose interest in the topic.
"Better to go out and about than sleep your days away at school."
"..." Russell fell silent for a moment. "You seem oddly... concerned about my time at school."
"Just your imagination," Charlotte said. "Let's eat. I'm hungry."
Dinner passed in a subtly strange atmosphere.
Mrs. Hudson had gone out to see a friend and wasn't home, so it was just the two of them at the table, and Russell had put the meal together himself.
Pressed for time, he couldn't manage anything elaborate, so he threw together two smoked-ham sandwiches to make do.
Charlotte ate slowly, chewing every bite with care — not out of any particular refinement, but because her attention wasn't on the food in her hands at all.
Russell glanced at her; Charlotte was clearly lost in thought.
Still no word from Vanessa, which meant Charles Brown's condition hadn't improved — at least not enough for another meeting.
The Professor's killer still hadn't been found either, and there was no point counting on Lestrade for that, not for now.
Which meant this weekend, she couldn't come up with a single reason to keep Russell around.
Mycroft's words from yesterday surfaced in her mind again.
Only the child who cries gets the candy.
She still hated that comparison, but she had to admit — Mycroft had a point.
That man poured at least seventy percent of his considerable intellect into studying human relationships.
Some things simply wouldn't fall into your hands unless you reached for them.
Like Russell.
Charlotte knew perfectly well — given his personality, if she didn't take the initiative, he'd probably never cross that line in his entire life.
He'd likely spend the rest of his days playing the role of the perfect, impeccable, loyal, and reliable assistant.
He'd keep looking after her daily life, making her breakfast, reminding her not to stay up too late, and lending just the right amount of help when solving cases.
And then?
And then, nothing.
Their relationship would probably stay firmly within the bounds of propriety, maintained at a polite distance for the rest of their lives.
Well — a lifetime might be an exaggeration. Given enough time, he might eventually take the initiative himself.
But that was only on the condition that there was no other woman in his social circle he was particularly close to.
And clearly, reality had already dashed that condition to pieces.
He and Mary Morstan had been growing closer and closer.
If things kept going this way, they'd end up going to the theater together, attending salons together, taking sunset walks together.
They'd already held hands and embraced — all that was left was a kiss.
A little further down the road, she might find herself receiving a wedding invitation from Mary Morstan, or even being asked to be godmother to their child.
At the thought, Charlotte's eyes darkened instantly.
This was a defeat she absolutely could not allow.
But how?
Charlotte couldn't help but frown. She couldn't possibly imitate Mary's pure, sweet manner.
Old methods, new methods — different hunters had different ways of hunting.
"Watson." Charlotte set down her half-eaten sandwich and looked up at Russell.
"Hm?" Russell, still chewing, looked up at her.
"What is it?" he asked, swallowing.
"Are you done eating?" Charlotte asked, eyes on the half-eaten sandwich in his hand.
"You could just say what you mean," Russell said. "It's only two more bites anyway."
"Come out with me once you're finished," Charlotte said.
"Where to?" Russell asked.
"Just for a walk."
"Oh."
Russell nodded and took another bite of his sandwich.
It really did take just two bites to finish it off. He picked up his cup, drank some water, and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
"Let's go," Russell said, setting down the napkin and standing.
Charlotte nodded and rose to follow, walking toward the door.
The two of them put on their coats, pushed the door open, and stepped out into the London night.
London's winter streets were growing colder by the hour.
Russell instinctively pulled his coat tighter around himself, then glanced at Charlotte.
"You doing all right?"
"Fine." Charlotte knew exactly what he meant — it was the kind of understanding they'd built between them.
Even so, she followed his example and pulled her own coat tighter.
She was wearing Russell's overcoat — one that fit him perfectly but hung a little loose on her, letting more of the cold wind slip in through the gaps.
"You should have brought a scarf," Russell said.
"It's fine. You get used to it if you just bear with it," Charlotte said, unbothered, her voice muffled from beneath her collar.
"So, where are we going?"
"Just follow me," Charlotte said, keeping her secret.
So Russell followed along, and the two of them walked without any particular destination through the winter night streets — at least, for Russell, this walk had no destination at all.
At this hour, the streets were nearly empty. It was too cold for anyone to want to be out, and even the street vendors had packed up early, unwilling to work for a little extra money.
They crossed Baker Street, turned into a narrow alley, and passed through a square.
Neither of them spoke the whole way, because opening your mouth just let the wind in.
This too was a kind of understanding — some things didn't need to be said right now, some things didn't need to be forced.
As they walked, Russell suddenly realized the street ahead looked familiar.
It looked like the same road he and Charlotte had walked before, on that other evening stroll.
The realization made him look up instinctively — and sure enough, the outline of that bridge in the distance was faintly visible in the night.
If the empty classroom at Imperial College was his and Mary's secret base, then this bridge was probably his and Charlotte's.
Counting this time, they'd only come here twice.
But some things establish their nature the very first time you encounter them.
It just takes time for that nature to settle in — like a boomerang endlessly flying forward, bound eventually to circle back.
The two of them walked onto the bridge and stopped at the same spot as before.
The River Thames still flowed beneath them, the wind passing over it with a soft rushing sound.
Russell braced his hands on the stone railing, gazing out at the water, saying nothing.
Russell stood beside her, gazing at the water as well.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked, breaking the silence first — someone had to.
"I'm thinking about... a certain problem," Charlotte said.
"What problem?"
"I'm thinking... about your relationship with Mary Morstan," Charlotte said.
"The papers always paint the two of us as so close, but I keep thinking — if it's closeness we're talking about, you and she might actually be closer.
At least, judging by what the two of you have done together."
Russell froze where he stood.
"I'm curious. How far have you two gotten?" Charlotte turned to look at him.
"Hand-holding, embracing, kissing — you haven't gotten that far yet, have you?"
Russell fell silent for a moment, and Charlotte's brow furrowed slightly.
"You've already kissed?"
"That depends how you define it," he said. "Does a cheek count?"
"I'll count it as a kiss on the cheek. At least that way I'll feel a little better about it," Charlotte said.
"A kiss on the cheek, huh..." Russell repeated the phrase, then couldn't stop himself from laughing.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothing," Russell shook his head. "Let's just call it a kiss on the cheek."
"So what are the two of you now?" Charlotte asked.
"Friends?" Russell offered tentatively.
"Mm-hm?" Charlotte made a doubtful little sound through her nose.
"Fine," Russell said, raising his hands helplessly. "We ended our friendship. We're not friends anymore."
Hearing this, Charlotte couldn't help but turn and look at him like he'd lost his mind.
"You expect me to believe that?"
"Believe it or not," Russell shrugged. "I'm not her friend anymore, that's all there is to it. Even if you went and asked her yourself, or sent someone from the papers to ask, you'd get the same answer."
Charlotte was silent for a few seconds.
"Why?" she asked. "I don't believe the two of you fell out over anything, and I've never known anyone whose relationship actually grew closer after they broke off a friendship."
"It's precisely because we broke off the friendship that it grew closer."
"That's not logical."
"Because it's causal, Charlotte." Russell said, looking into those grey-blue eyes so striking even in the dark.
"If you're friends, there are certain things you can never do.
So, she ended our friendship. We're not friends anymore."
At that, understanding dawned on Charlotte's face — so that was what he meant by breaking off the friendship.
She had to admire humanity's creativity and capacity for linguistic reconstruction.
"So then..." she paused, as if turning something over in her mind.
"What about us?" Charlotte asked. "What are we to each other?"
"We're..." Russell started, then stopped. "Assistant and partner. Neighbors too. And... do you want me to say we're friends?"
"Not particularly."
"All right then, we're not friends," Russell sighed.
"How is it that I've lived my whole life in London and it feels like I don't have a single friend."
"Isn't that entirely your own fault?" Charlotte laughed — the first time she'd smiled all day.
By the lamplight, Russell could just make out that smile, faint as it was — like the stars over London's night sky, veiled in fog, barely visible. Her smile was much the same.
"Russell," Charlotte said, letting the smile fade, calling him by name.
Most of the time, she preferred to call him "Watson." Only rarely did she call him "Russell" — and whenever she did, it meant she was being serious.
"What is it?" Russell asked.
"Do you believe in fate?" Charlotte asked — a question wildly out of character for her.
Russell blinked, caught off guard, then shook his head.
"No."
"Is that so." Charlotte nodded, seeming unsurprised by the answer.
"What about you?" Russell asked in return. "Do you believe in fate?"
"I never used to," Charlotte said. "But now, I think I might, a little."
"Why?" Russell asked, curious.
"Because..." Charlotte turned to look at him.
"If it isn't fate, then why does it have to be you, of all people?"
The night wind carried her soft words to Russell's ears.
He looked into her eyes, and in that moment they were full of confusion.
Like the first snowflake of a winter night — fragile, yet carrying a beauty that felt almost unreal.
This was a question with no logic or science that could answer it, and so she was lost — the only thing left to do was ask the one this question was about.
"Why... does it have to be you?"
She repeated it once more, her voice very soft, this time as if asking only herself.
"Charlotte—"
"Don't talk."
Charlotte cut Russell off. He looked like he had something to say, but she didn't want him interrupting what she was about to do.
Once you've made up your mind about something, it's best to see it through in one breath. If you're interrupted partway, there might never be a second chance in this lifetime.
Heaven has no mercy for someone who can't even seize the chance in front of them.
So she had to consider whether this might be the only chance she'd ever get.
Charlotte turned around, no longer facing the river that had flowed on for a thousand years, but facing Russell instead.
She stepped forward, closing the distance between them, then lifted her head and looked into his eyes.
The confusion in those eyes seemed to vanish in that moment, leaving behind something purely, simply clear.
"Russell."
"I'm here."
"What I'm about to say — just listen. You don't need to answer."
Charlotte said. "Nod if you understand."
Russell nodded.
Charlotte took a deep breath, as if about to recite something important — a thesis that would decide the course of her entire life.
Because this thesis mattered so much, she couldn't afford to be careless. Every single word had to be weighed with care.
"I don't know what I feel for you."
She began, her voice slower than usual, each word sounding as if it had been carefully considered before it left her mouth.
"This feeling is unfamiliar to me. I'm used to analyzing things with logic, with evidence — but this, I can't analyze."
She paused.
"I don't know exactly when it started, but when you're not at Baker Street, I miss you.
When you come back, I feel happy, even if nothing in particular happens afterward.
When I see you getting close to Mary, it bothers me.
When you're hurt, I worry, and I feel afraid."
Charlotte said.
"These are all facts — things I've observed, things I've felt. Undeniable."
Her voice sounded steady, but Russell noticed her hand trembling slightly.
One hand hung at her side; the other gripped the railing tightly. The railing was freezing on a winter night like this, but she held on anyway, just to make herself look more resolute.
"I can't use the deductive method to work out what this feeling is," she went on.
"There are too many variables involved — too many to list one by one, too many to analyze one by one.
Yesterday, Mycroft came by, and while you were downstairs helping Mrs. Hudson, he brought this up."
Charlotte took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, the white mist of her breath clearly visible in the dark.
"Mycroft told me this is called liking someone."
She lifted her head, looking straight into Russell's eyes.
"I've never liked anyone before, so I don't know if what he said is right.
But Mycroft — when it comes to human nature, he's far smarter than I am.
So... maybe what he said is right."
Charlotte looked at Russell.
"I like you."
She said it softly, her tone earnest, without any embellishment.
"I don't know if this is what people call love, because I have nothing to compare it to.
I don't know how long it will last either, because there's no precedent I can follow.
And likewise, I don't know what you feel for me, because you've never said.
In fact, I don't even know for certain whether what I feel for you is actually liking you.
It's only because Mycroft handed me a conclusion, and that conclusion happens to explain everything.
So, until I find a new answer that can overturn this one, I'll assume it's true.
I like you, Russell."
"Charlotte—" Russell tried to speak, but she cut him off again.
She reached out and pressed her hand over his mouth, then continued.
"I told you. Just listen."
Her voice had a touch more force than before, brooking no argument, yet at the same time it sounded almost like a plea.
Her eyes stayed fixed on him, unblinking, like two bottomless pools of water catching the light.
Charlotte took another deep breath, the white mist rising between them before the wind quickly scattered it.
"I don't know what to do next," she said, her voice returning to that familiar, calm tone.
"I have no experience, and no precedent to draw on.
My parents don't qualify as a reliable reference sample, and I can't do things the way Mary does."
She paused, her brow furrowing slightly.
"If I followed her approach, I suppose I should be embracing you right now, or asking you to embrace me, or doing something else...
Something that would make this moment feel more meaningful, more... ceremonial.
But I can't do that. I don't even know what kind of gesture would feel ceremonial enough for a moment like this."
Charlotte said.
"I just think Mycroft might be right — that this is probably what liking someone feels like.
Some things, if I don't act on them, might never have an answer in my lifetime.
So, I'm going to conduct an experiment."
Her voice suddenly dropped lower.
As she spoke, the hand covering his mouth slowly lowered, and settled gently instead against Russell's cheek.
Her hand was cold — like a piece of jade fresh out of ice water — pressed against his warm skin, drawing in his heat.
"An experiment about liking someone."
Charlotte's other hand rose as well, coming to rest gently against the other side of his face.
She cradled his face in her hands, as if holding something rare and precious.
Then, under Russell's gaze, Charlotte rose up onto her toes.
In his stunned eyes, that face — always carrying a touch of cool distance — slowly grew larger in his vision.
And then—
A soft, cold touch brushed against the corner of Russell's mouth.
It was a clumsy kiss.
So clumsy it didn't even fully land on his lips — just a light touch at the corner of his mouth before pulling away.
But that single touch was enough to leave Russell's mind completely blank.
Time seemed to stretch out endlessly in that moment.
The sound of the wind and water over the River Thames, the distant, faint toll of a bell, and even the pounding of his own heart nearly leaping out of his chest — all of it became strikingly, impossibly clear in that instant.
Charlotte pulled back quickly, so quickly it was as if the whole thing had been an illusion, a trick of his own mind.
She stepped back to her previous distance, returned to her spot, and let her hands slide off his cheeks and fall away.
Whatever small courage she'd managed to gather vanished the instant that fleeting kiss ended.
Her cheeks felt hot, burning almost as if they were on fire, and even her heartbeat had picked up to something abnormal.
"Experiment concluded."
It took Russell a long moment before he found his voice again.
"So... what's the conclusion?"
"The conclusion is..."
Charlotte paused.
"I'll provisionally go with Mycroft's opinion," she said.
"What does that mean?"
"It means I like you."
Charlotte looked at him, seeming much calmer this time.
"But that's Mycroft's conclusion. Not mine.
My instincts tell me it might not be that simple, but for now, I can't come up with a second, better conclusion.
So, I'll provisionally go with what Mycroft said."
She looked at Russell, her eyes returning to that dignified, composed look of hers.
"Only provisionally. Sooner or later, I'll overturn it, and come to face you with my own answer instead.
So, just like with Mary, you don't need to give me an answer — at least, not until I've found the answer I'm looking for. You just need to keep things as they are.
You need time to think this over. So do I — time to think, to analyze all of this.
Besides that—"
Charlotte's voice dropped low again.
"...I'll need more data, too."
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