Mary blinked, caught off guard for a moment.
Russell was watching her, those dark eyes holding a trace of laughter, seeming to catch the light in the sun.
Belatedly, she registered what he'd said, and the tips of her ears quietly flushed pink.
"Smooth talker," she murmured, her voice carrying a faint, barely noticeable mix of embarrassment and fluster.
The girl walked briskly to the little round table and patted the chair beside her. "Come sit down."
As she spoke, she began pouring the tea, then set one cup down in front of Russell.
"Try it. This is Darjeeling — you should like it."
"I can't really say I like or dislike tea," Russell said, lifting the cup and looking at Mary. "It mostly depends on who poured it."
Mary's hand paused briefly over the teapot. She looked up and shot him a glance, one that seemed to carry a hint of warning.
Russell shrugged, raised the cup, and took a gentle sip.
A fresh fragrance of tea spread through his mouth, carrying a faint hint of fruit — not overpowering, but with a lingering aftertaste.
"Well?" Mary asked.
"It's very good." Russell nodded and took another sip.
Mary smiled, pleased, and poured herself a cup as well. Then she picked up the small tongs, set a scone on her own plate, and picked up another to place in front of Russell.
"Try this too — it just came out of the oven."
The two of them stayed like that, in a world wrapped in sunlight and the scent of flowers, enjoying their afternoon tea.
They talked, but between the two of them, conversation had no boundaries or logic to it at all.
One moment they might be discussing gossip about some other student or teacher at Imperial College, and the next they'd leap to the scandal of some noblewoman splashed across the pages of Fleet Street, then from London's unusually stubborn rainy season this year, to whatever striking line was hidden on page thirty-seven of some poetry collection.
Anything could be talked about. Everything was worth talking about.
Mary was an excellent listener, and an excellent storyteller too. When Russell spoke, she sat quietly, like a sunflower turned toward him, the young man across from her its sun.
And when Russell's words paused for a moment, she would naturally pick up the thread, recounting little anecdotes she'd heard at salons. The small stories of the aristocracy, told from her lips, always came out just interesting enough — never too loud, never too dull.
In truth, in front of someone you liked, it didn't matter what you talked about — dull daily routines, gossip among the elite, or meaningless trivia. What mattered was never the topic, but having someone beside you, patiently listening while you spoke, or you listening while they did.
Mary had even already planned out the rest of the afternoon. Once tea was over, she'd find some excuse to go out — anywhere would do, the theater, a café, anywhere they could be alone together — and then have dinner with him. She had never eaten dinner with him before.
After dinner, she'd have the family carriage come collect them. They'd sit together in the cabin, drop him off first at Baker Street, and then she'd return home alone — by then her father likely wouldn't be back yet, and he'd have no idea what had happened today.
Even if he heard about it later from the butler and asked, she could brush it off with a few vague words.
The butler would only describe what had happened today — the finer details, they never spoke of.
That was how it was supposed to go. Today's outing was supposed to be as perfect as she'd planned.
After this one, she could find a chance to build toward the next, and the next after that, until the time was right — and then, perhaps, her bedroom would finally serve its true purpose.
While in her bedroom earlier, she'd wanted to pull Russell down to lie with her, but in the end she hadn't. Shame had won out, in the end — but there would always be other chances.
Without her noticing, the tea in the pot had run dry.
"Wait a moment, I'll have someone brew another pot." Mary stood and called for Mel.
But before she could speak, Mel got there first with bad news — news bad enough to ruin all of today's happiness and beauty.
"Miss, the master will be back shortly."
At that, Mary's brow furrowed slightly. "Why?"
"I don't know... the master sent someone to inform us. He plans to have dinner at home tonight," Mel said, her gaze then dropping to the teapot in Mary's hands.
"Would you like me to brew more tea? I'll go right—"
"No, that's alright." Mary shook her head, but handed the teapot to her anyway.
"That's enough for now," she said.
At that, Mel glanced at Mary — the smile had already vanished from the girl's face.
"Is your meeting today going to... end, then?"
"Mm." Mary nodded. "I'll take him for one last walk around. Remember to have someone clear away the tea."
"Yes, Miss." Mel nodded, and asked nothing further. As a servant, some things didn't need asking — only doing.
After Mel left, Mary turned and came back to Russell's side.
Russell looked up at the girl before him. Her face still held a smile, but that smile now carried something else in it — no longer as pure as before.
It was like a bright, clear sky suddenly gaining a few heavy clouds, blocking out the sun.
"What's wrong?" Russell set down his teacup, looking at her. "Did something happen?"
"Nothing." Mary shook her head, smiling. "It's just — I suddenly feel like it's a bit stuffy inside."
As she spoke, she naturally reached out and took Russell's hand.
"The weather's so nice — rare, really. Let's go for a walk."
Russell looked into those eyes, expectant yet tinged with urgency, and in the end chose not to point out what he'd noticed. He simply nodded along.
"Sure," he said with a smile. "I was thinking of stretching my legs anyway."
"Then let's go." Mary smiled, and pulled Russell up, leading him out of the glass conservatory.
She didn't take the corridor that led to the main gate. Instead, she led him around the main house, cutting through the garden by a side path.
"Where are we going?" Russell asked.
"Hmm... on an adventure." Mary glanced back at him, giving him a wink, her eyes sparkling.
"An adventure?"
"Mm-hm." She pulled him along, her steps growing lighter and quicker.
Russell watched her joyful figure ahead of him, her skirt and hair flying, and instinctively quickened his pace to keep up.
The two of them ran hand in hand like two children playing hooky, slipping out through the side door of the Morstan Estate, escaping that gilded cage.
The sky was still bright at this hour, winter sunlight spread across the streets of Kensington, chasing away the biting cold.
Mary walked ahead, her steps quick, her skirt billowing in the wind to reveal slender calves wrapped in black stockings, her boots clicking crisply against the cobblestones.
"So, where are we actually going?" Russell asked.
"I don't know," Mary said without looking back.
"You don't know?"
"Nope, I don't know!"
There was a wilful laughter in her voice, one utterly impossible to reconcile with the proper, flawless Miss Morstan.
What Russell saw before him now was, unmistakably, a young girl running and laughing wildly, a little unhinged with joy.
She ran across a square, startling a flock of pigeons pecking at the ground. They burst into the air with a flutter of wings, disturbing the people lazing in the sunlight around the square as well.
"Slow down—" Russell called.
"No way!" Mary turned back and stuck her tongue out at him, not slowing her pace at all. "If I slow down, they'll drag me back!"
"Who's going to drag you back?"
"My father! The butler! All those damned rules!"
She said this, running even faster.
The wind lifted the girl's long silver hair, carving free, sweeping arcs through the air.
"Where are you actually taking me?" Russell asked again.
"I told you, I don't know!" Mary laughed as she answered, her voice bright and clear as a wind chime.
She just kept pulling him along, with no destination, no direction — running purely on instinct, away from that gilded mansion.
They ran through a bustling shopping street, the display windows on either side crowded with all manner of goods.
A lady clutching a paper bag stepped aside, startled by them. A gentleman mid-conversation frowned at their retreating backs and shook his head. None of it mattered.
They ran past a small church, its bell tower ringing just as they passed, the deep tolling echoing through the air. Mary glanced up at it briefly, then kept running, her silver hair flying amid the chimes.
They ran through a park. The winter trees stood bare, but children still chased each other across the lawn. The children paused when they saw them, and one little boy waved.
Mary waved back too, the gesture so natural it seemed as though she'd done it countless times before.
But she had never once done such a thing before.
The whole world seemed to blur into a backdrop, rushing away behind them.
They were like two children skipping school, or two lovers eloping.
They ran for who knew how long — long enough that both of them grew breathless, long enough that the initial thrill began to fade.
Mary finally slowed to a stop. She braced her hands on her knees, gasping for air, her chest heaving violently.
Her heart was pounding, fast enough to feel like it might leap from her chest, though she couldn't tell if that was from the running, or from something else.
"I'm... I'm exhausted," she said, bent over, her hand still gripping his, refusing to let go.
Russell was breathing hard too, though not as badly as Mary — his stamina simply outmatched hers. Watching her like that, he couldn't help but laugh.
They sat down together on a bench by the street.
It was quiet around them, only the sound of their overlapping breaths breaking the silence.
"This is actually my first time running," Mary said suddenly, gazing up at the gray sky.
"Hm?" Russell turned to look at her profile.
"I was raised, since I was little, to be a lady.
A lady walks slowly, speaks softly, never bares her teeth when she smiles — and running is absolutely forbidden."
She said this at an unhurried pace. "So I've never run before. Never, like just now, thrown caution to the wind and just run — and kept running."
She said this, then turned her head and looked at him.
"Thank you, Russell."
"Thank me for what?"
"Thank you for running with me." She smiled. "Thank you for not asking me why, for not stopping me, and just running alongside me the whole way."
At that, Russell smiled too.
"You're welcome," he said.
They looked at each other, and then, slowly, Mary leaned toward him.
The distance between them shrank, until each other's figure was all that filled their eyes, leaving no room for anything else, their ragged breaths tangling together in that moment.
But at the very last moment, the haze in Mary's eyes cleared again, and she abruptly turned her head aside, sitting up straight.
Russell blinked, caught off guard.
"Sorry, Russell," Mary said softly, her voice full of apology.
"Not yet... it's not time yet."
She turned back, her deep blue eyes fixed on Russell — eyes that clearly held a longing a hundred, even a thousand times stronger than his own, yet that longing seemed pressed down by something.
"Give me a little more time," she said softly, as though making a solemn vow.
"Just a little more time, and then — I'll let you see it."
"See what?" Russell asked.
"See the real me."
As the girl's words faded, everything around them suddenly fell silent.
Wind blew in from the end of the street, lifting her silver hair, brushing past Russell's face, carrying the scent of white camellia.
Russell looked at her. Mary's head was slightly bowed, her breathing not yet fully steady, her chest rising and falling gently, the golden cat's-eye brooch glinting faintly with each breath.
Just as he was about to say something, he suddenly felt a coolness on his face.
Mary looked up, a raindrop landing right on the tip of her nose, bringing with it a faint chill.
Then came the second drop, landing on her forehead, then the third, the fourth—
Dark clouds had, without anyone noticing, gathered thick and heavy across the sky, and the sunlight struggled through the gaps in the clouds in a few thin threads, like a final farewell.
"It's raining," Mary said softly.
The moment the words left her mouth, rain began falling in dense sheets, as if her words had been the starting gun.
At first it was only a scattering of drops, but it quickly turned into a downpour.
Raindrops slammed against the cobblestones, sending up tiny splashes, a dense, urgent patter filling the air.
Pedestrians on the street scattered, covering their heads and fleeing — some ducking under eaves, others holding newspapers over their heads. The once-quiet street burst into sudden chaos.
Mary sat on the bench, letting the rain fall on her, unmoving.
The rain soaked her fluffy silver hair, her carefully styled waves plastering strand by strand against her cheeks and neck.
Her black blouse, soaked through with rain, clung tightly to her skin, tracing the slender lines of her figure. The red ribbon, drenched, had darkened in color, like a rose freshly bloomed.
She simply sat there in the rain, her face tilted up, letting the rain fall on her face and body.
Those deep blue eyes reflected the gray sky above, reflected the last few threads of light struggling through the gaps in the clouds.
Rainwater ran down her forehead, over her brow, gathering into glistening droplets along the edges of her lashes.
Those droplets clung trembling to her lashes, like tears — or like something even clearer.
Her lips parted slightly, catching a few drops of rain, her tongue flicking out lightly to taste them, as if savoring something.
The corners of her mouth curved, into the smallest, faintest arc.
"Look, Russell, it's raining," she said, turning to smile at him.
Then, suddenly, she felt herself being hauled forcefully up off the bench.
"You know it's raining and you're still sitting there?" Russell's exasperated voice sounded above her head. A moment later, Mary no longer felt the rain falling on her.
She turned her head — Russell had unbuttoned his coat and spread his arms wide, like a crow spreading its wings, keeping the rain from touching her — even though she was already soaked through.
Rainwater ran down his forehead, over his brow, gathering along the line of his jaw into droplets, falling one by one.
A few landed on her face, warm, carrying his body heat.
"What are you staring at," Russell said. "Come on, let's find somewhere to get out of the rain."
He said this, and pulled Mary along, running toward the side of the street.
In the curtain of rain, their figures dashed quickly across the road, Mary's boots splashing through puddles, the rising water soaking her skirt and stockings, leaving a sticky discomfort — but she paid it no mind.
She only held tightly to Russell's hand, refusing to let go, as though afraid that if she let go, she'd lose him in the rain.
There was a shuttered shop along the street, with a small overhanging eave by the door — hardly adequate shelter from the rain, but there was nowhere else to go now.
Russell pulled her over to it, had Mary press herself against the wall, and turned to shield her, bracing one arm against the wall beside her in a way that blocked most of the rain from reaching her.
Pressed against the wall, Mary found the chill of the rain fading quickly, replaced instead by a warmth born of the closeness between them.
The distance wasn't really that close — not by the standards of how close they usually stood together, certainly not close at all.
And yet, it was precisely this distance — a distance too far even for an embrace — that let them see each other clearly.
Mary could count the droplets clinging to his lashes, could make out every trace of rain on his face, could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, and the scorching warmth radiating through his soaked clothes.
Likewise, Russell could see that her blouse-dress had become completely soaked through, the black fabric clinging tightly to her body, rising and falling with her breath.
The lace trim now hung limp and soft, no longer light and airy, but carrying instead a raw, disheveled honesty.
Her long silver hair was plastered strand by strand against her cheeks and neck, water dripping steadily from the ends.
This distance was more dangerous than an embrace.
The thought rose in Mary's mind without warning.
As though possessed, she reached out and wiped the rain from Russell's face.
Her fingertips were cold and soft to the touch, damp with rainwater. She traced from his forehead down to his brow, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth, as though tracing the shape of him.
Her slender fingertips continued down along his skin, reaching his neck, then trailing further down toward his collarbone—
"Hey," Russell stopped her in time. "Any lower and it stops being polite."
Mary startled and snatched her hand back at once, though she muttered under her breath, as though complaining.
"It's not like a little touch would cost you anything..."
The eave was narrow. Rainwater dripped from its edge, forming a thin curtain of water in front of the two of them.
The rain kept falling, and the whole world seemed reduced to nothing but the sound of raindrops striking the ground and rooftops — noisy, and yet carrying a strange sense of quiet.
"Cold?" Russell asked, his eyes falling on Mary's rain-soaked hair.
"Not cold," Mary shook her head. Her voice was soft, half-swallowed by the sound of the rain, but it still reached his ears clearly.
At that, Russell looked at her, then sighed helplessly. "You're lying."
"Your hands are trembling," he said. "And you're actually more sensitive to cold than most people, aren't you?"
Mary blinked, caught off guard.
"You already had a scarf on by autumn, and by winter you'd switched to a fur-lined one. And whenever you hold my hand, I can always feel that yours are much colder than mine."
Russell said.
"..." Mary fell silent.
"We can't keep this up," Russell said. "This rain doesn't look like it'll let up anytime soon — we can't just stay here forever."
The girl's gaze drifted past him, out toward the gray sky beyond. In truth, it was exactly as Russell said — the clouds hung thick and dark, giving no sign of clearing anytime soon.
It wouldn't be so bad if the rain never stopped, she thought to herself. At least then she wouldn't have to go back.
"You'll catch a cold," Russell said, seeming to see straight through what she was thinking.
"It's not like this is our only day together, right? There'll be other chances. Once winter's over and spring comes—"
"Russell." Mary cut him off. "You're such a chatterbox."
She leaned against the wall, her voice carrying a note of wilfulness, like a child who hadn't had enough playtime yet.
"I just don't want to go back. Is that not allowed?"
Russell looked at her. There was still so much he wanted to say, wanted to reason with her about — but under the gaze of those eyes, none of it would come out.
When she looked at him like that, so pitiably, as though everything in her world rested in his hands, all his reason finally yielded to feeling.
"...Fine, I understand." He sighed, then took off his own coat — already soaked through on the back half — and draped it over Mary's shoulders.
The coat was well-made. Though the back had gotten thoroughly wet, the rain hadn't soaked all the way through, and it was still warm enough.
He draped the coat over her, but it was far too large on her — the hem hung all the way down to her ankles.
The coat still held traces of Russell's warmth, mixed with the damp chill of the rain, but Mary instinctively pulled it tighter around herself anyway, since she was especially sensitive to cold.
"What are you doing..."
"What do you think," Russell said, a little exasperated. "I can't very well let you catch a cold from standing in the rain — that would make me the guilty one."
He said this, then buttoned the coat closed for her, and took hold of her hand.
"Where are we going?" Mary asked. She could tell Russell meant to take her somewhere, but she didn't know where.
She even worried, for a moment, that he meant to drag her home by force, and instinctively dug her heels into the ground.
"To Baker Street," Russell said, and pulled her straight into the curtain of rain.
Mary blinked, startled, then stumbled after him.
They ran once more through the rain, the water blurring Mary's vision so she couldn't see the road ahead clearly — she simply followed Russell's lead on instinct.
From Kensington to Baker Street was about four kilometers — not too far, not too close, roughly thirty minutes at a running pace.
Mary never counted exactly how long she'd been running. She only knew her breath was growing ever more ragged, her heartbeat ever faster, and even her legs had begun to ache and weaken.
But she didn't stop. She didn't want to stop.
She wanted to keep running like this forever, on and on, to the end of the earth, to the end of time itself.
As long as his hand kept holding hers, it didn't matter where they went.
At last, Baker Street came into view.
Russell stopped in front of that familiar door, breathing hard, and turned back to look at her.
Mary stopped too, bracing her hands on her knees, gasping for breath, rainwater dripping from the ends of her hair and pooling in a small puddle on the ground.
"We're here," Russell said. Mary lifted her head and looked at the building before her.
221B Baker Street.
"What a mess we are," she said softly, glancing down at her soaked clothes, then looking back up at Russell.
She never imagined that her next meeting with that famous detective would happen in such a bedraggled state.
"Yeah," Russell nodded. "A real mess."
They looked at each other, then, without meaning to, both burst out laughing.
The laughter echoed in the rain, like two children who had finally escaped their cage, celebrating their victory.
Russell pushed the door open and pulled her inside.
Quick footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Then, a voice called down from above.
"Russell?"
It was Charlotte's voice.
Mary looked up, toward the stairwell.
A woman in a dark gray sweater, her hair somewhat disheveled, stood there looking down at them.
Their eyes met in the air between them.
Mary smiled and gave a little wave.
"Good afternoon, Miss Holmes."
She said it, her voice carrying a faint, barely perceptible note of provocation.
"I've come to your house to get out of the rain."
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